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Authors: Elie Wiesel
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violinist Isaac Stern; the editor Jim Silberman; and Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel. Assimilated intellectuals and militant Zionists. And, of course, special emissaries from the Lubavitcher Rebbe, who, fromhis residence in Brooklyn, writes me that his heart and soul are overflowing with joy. Saul Lieberman calls from Jerusalem to tell us just how much he participates in our celebration: I have never heard him so excited.
The mother is in an adjacent room: Tradition, with the intention of protecting her, ordains that she not be present when her son gives his blood to enter into the Covenant. A messenger shuttles back and forth to keep her informed.
The father seems elsewhere, lost in thought. Whom is he trying to reach, to assuage? “Don’t,” says one of the Hasidim, shaking him. “Do you hear me? You cannot give in to melancholy, not today! Don’t forget, we have recovered a name, that of your father. Now your son will bear it! That is what we must celebrate!” The celebration continues for hours, and the melody of that ceremony still resonates inside me.
The Hasidim are shouting: Open yourselves to joy! Easily said. For my generation, no joy can be whole. I look at my son, who will never know his paternal grandparents. Silently I beg them to protect the one who has been called upon to assure their continuity. Protect him, beloved ancestors. Thanks to him, the line will not become extinct. It is a line that goes back far, all the way to the Sh’la. And to the Tossafot Yom Tov. And to Rashi, thus to King David.
Protect your descendant Shlomo Elisha ben Eliezer ben Shlomo Halevi. Guide him to the right path. And may he make you proud of what his soul becomes. Mother, protect your grandson. I don’t know where you are resting, but please lean over his crib and help me sing him lullabies. Tell him your wondrous and strange tales that made me sleep peacefully. And you, Father, protect his dreams. Help him live his child’s life. Help me.
“May this little one grow up and enter the world of study, marriage, and good deeds.” It is Heschel who recites this customary prayer.
Beloved ancestors, please say: Amen.
So here I am, responsible for a family. A father. Even more than before, I think of my own father. Will I be able to follow in his footsteps? All his life he strove to help the needy, the anguished, the humiliated. And when the end came, nobody came to console him, not even his son in whom he had placed such hope.
He had done everything, within the limits of his meager possibilities, to save his brethren and sisters and to make the world around them warmer, more welcoming. I feel sorry for you, Father. I admire you; I love you; but I feel sorry for you: How naive you were, how innocent. Did you really believe that mankind would cease denying itself by denying you? That man could, that man would, transcend his condition?
The failure of my father and of all he symbolized long made me fear having a child. I was convinced that a cruel and indifferent world did not deserve our children. When I expressed this fear during a radio broadcast, I was violently reprimanded by Georges Levitte, the wonderful intellectual humanist to whom so many French writers, both Jewish and Christian, are deeply indebted.
It was Marion who persuaded me otherwise. It was wrong to give the killers one more victory. The long line from which I sprang must not end with me.
She was right.
And now? Because of my father and my son, I choose commitment.
*
All Rivers Run to the Sea
(New York: Alfred A. Knopf), 1995.
* See
All Rivers Run to the Sea
, pp. 150–1.
Scars
S
TOP DREAMING ,
a voice in my dream tells me this morning. It is time to act. The voice repeats the last words: to act. I want to ask: Can one not act and dream at the same time? But I don’t dare open my mouth. I am afraid to wake up. I prefer to dream. Where is this voice coming from that breaks down the walls protecting my slumber?
Whose voice is it? It has fallen
The mother is in an adjacent room: Tradition, with the intention of protecting her, ordains that she not be present when her son gives his blood to enter into the Covenant. A messenger shuttles back and forth to keep her informed.
The father seems elsewhere, lost in thought. Whom is he trying to reach, to assuage? “Don’t,” says one of the Hasidim, shaking him. “Do you hear me? You cannot give in to melancholy, not today! Don’t forget, we have recovered a name, that of your father. Now your son will bear it! That is what we must celebrate!” The celebration continues for hours, and the melody of that ceremony still resonates inside me.
The Hasidim are shouting: Open yourselves to joy! Easily said. For my generation, no joy can be whole. I look at my son, who will never know his paternal grandparents. Silently I beg them to protect the one who has been called upon to assure their continuity. Protect him, beloved ancestors. Thanks to him, the line will not become extinct. It is a line that goes back far, all the way to the Sh’la. And to the Tossafot Yom Tov. And to Rashi, thus to King David.
Protect your descendant Shlomo Elisha ben Eliezer ben Shlomo Halevi. Guide him to the right path. And may he make you proud of what his soul becomes. Mother, protect your grandson. I don’t know where you are resting, but please lean over his crib and help me sing him lullabies. Tell him your wondrous and strange tales that made me sleep peacefully. And you, Father, protect his dreams. Help him live his child’s life. Help me.
“May this little one grow up and enter the world of study, marriage, and good deeds.” It is Heschel who recites this customary prayer.
Beloved ancestors, please say: Amen.
So here I am, responsible for a family. A father. Even more than before, I think of my own father. Will I be able to follow in his footsteps? All his life he strove to help the needy, the anguished, the humiliated. And when the end came, nobody came to console him, not even his son in whom he had placed such hope.
He had done everything, within the limits of his meager possibilities, to save his brethren and sisters and to make the world around them warmer, more welcoming. I feel sorry for you, Father. I admire you; I love you; but I feel sorry for you: How naive you were, how innocent. Did you really believe that mankind would cease denying itself by denying you? That man could, that man would, transcend his condition?
The failure of my father and of all he symbolized long made me fear having a child. I was convinced that a cruel and indifferent world did not deserve our children. When I expressed this fear during a radio broadcast, I was violently reprimanded by Georges Levitte, the wonderful intellectual humanist to whom so many French writers, both Jewish and Christian, are deeply indebted.
It was Marion who persuaded me otherwise. It was wrong to give the killers one more victory. The long line from which I sprang must not end with me.
She was right.
And now? Because of my father and my son, I choose commitment.
*
All Rivers Run to the Sea
(New York: Alfred A. Knopf), 1995.
* See
All Rivers Run to the Sea
, pp. 150–1.
Scars
S
TOP DREAMING ,
a voice in my dream tells me this morning. It is time to act. The voice repeats the last words: to act. I want to ask: Can one not act and dream at the same time? But I don’t dare open my mouth. I am afraid to wake up. I prefer to dream. Where is this voice coming from that breaks down the walls protecting my slumber?
Whose voice is it? It has fallen
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