are you? Five years already? Go and play over there, go quickly, like a big boy.” One tear, one shove later, my mother found herself separated from her husband and son. Forever
.
“I should have rushed forward, gone with him. He was so small, so far away.”
“Try not to think about it any more,” said my father
.
“I can’t.”
“Make the effort; you must. You can’t go on like this. You have no right to. What you did, others have done. By accusing yourself, you condemn all the mothers who did what you did. You are unfair to them.”
Her head was tossing on the pillow. “No, no,” she said. “I did not behave well. I should have understood. And refused to be separated from my little boy.” Though awake, she was stillfollowing her ghost and her breath was halting. “He is five years old. He has not grown up. He will be five years old forever.”
I should have liked to know this little brother, both younger and older than myself. Whom did he resemble? My mother? I should have liked to see her the way she must have looked that night, surrounded by barbed wire. But even while I listened, I could not help thinking: And I, where do I fit in? I suffered with her and for her, but I could not understand. Where do I fit in, where?
Woe to those nameless orphans who believe in nothing but the brotherhood of the dead. Woe to those ghosts we keep expelling from our memories. Woe to this generation which sees everything and understands nothing. Woe to those who, like yourself, await death and expect nothing else. You have not yet lived and already you hate life. You have not yet confronted your fate and already you are bored. You want to die and you don’t know the reason. How can one help pitying you?
At your age I went from wonder to wonder, despite the ghosts pursuing me relentlessly, despite the proximity of the abyss. I fought with life every morning and with darkness every dusk. I explored every direction and intercepted every call. I spoke and I listened, I taught and I learned, I received and I gave, I yielded and I stood fast, I laughed and I cried—often for the same reasons—and I regret nothing. I could have not lived any of these experiences; I am glad I did. I could have not met any of my companions; I am glad I did. People, events, discoveries; I could have arrived a year earlier, a year later, I could have chosen the path leading to the right rather than to the left and not have known them. I am glad I did.
I remember: a winter night, a sleepy inn. Muffled up in my cape, stretched out behind the hearth in the spot reserved for impecunious travelers, I was reviewing, as I did every evening, the events of the day gone by: the people met, the words pronounced, the moments wasted. A balance sheet I imagined drawn up and inscribed in the
Pinkas
, the Book which never left my side.
It was dark. And so I had not noticed my neighbor lying at the other end of the hearth. I could not tell whether he was young or old. I only knew that he was
Na-venadnik
like myself.Like myself, he was not asleep. Like myself, he barely moved. After a while we began to speak softly so as not to disturb the proprietor. We traded impressions and anecdotes, but no precise, personal information—such is the law of wanderers in exile.
His was a warm voice, inviting trust and comradeship. He claimed this was his last year of wandering. Had he had his fill of dusty roads, barking dogs and criminals infesting the woods? I asked. Was that why he wished to return home?
“No,” he said, “that’s not it. Some sinners prolong their penance because it links them to their sins a little longer. Penance can become a trap. I prefer to halt; I choose not to reach the goal.”
He confided to me the origins of what he called his “offenses.” Forbidden readings, mystical projects. Exorcism through fasting, mortification of the soul and invocation of the Names. Frankly, he had not been mature enough or sufficiently prepared for the
.
“I should have rushed forward, gone with him. He was so small, so far away.”
“Try not to think about it any more,” said my father
.
“I can’t.”
“Make the effort; you must. You can’t go on like this. You have no right to. What you did, others have done. By accusing yourself, you condemn all the mothers who did what you did. You are unfair to them.”
Her head was tossing on the pillow. “No, no,” she said. “I did not behave well. I should have understood. And refused to be separated from my little boy.” Though awake, she was stillfollowing her ghost and her breath was halting. “He is five years old. He has not grown up. He will be five years old forever.”
I should have liked to know this little brother, both younger and older than myself. Whom did he resemble? My mother? I should have liked to see her the way she must have looked that night, surrounded by barbed wire. But even while I listened, I could not help thinking: And I, where do I fit in? I suffered with her and for her, but I could not understand. Where do I fit in, where?
Woe to those nameless orphans who believe in nothing but the brotherhood of the dead. Woe to those ghosts we keep expelling from our memories. Woe to this generation which sees everything and understands nothing. Woe to those who, like yourself, await death and expect nothing else. You have not yet lived and already you hate life. You have not yet confronted your fate and already you are bored. You want to die and you don’t know the reason. How can one help pitying you?
At your age I went from wonder to wonder, despite the ghosts pursuing me relentlessly, despite the proximity of the abyss. I fought with life every morning and with darkness every dusk. I explored every direction and intercepted every call. I spoke and I listened, I taught and I learned, I received and I gave, I yielded and I stood fast, I laughed and I cried—often for the same reasons—and I regret nothing. I could have not lived any of these experiences; I am glad I did. I could have not met any of my companions; I am glad I did. People, events, discoveries; I could have arrived a year earlier, a year later, I could have chosen the path leading to the right rather than to the left and not have known them. I am glad I did.
I remember: a winter night, a sleepy inn. Muffled up in my cape, stretched out behind the hearth in the spot reserved for impecunious travelers, I was reviewing, as I did every evening, the events of the day gone by: the people met, the words pronounced, the moments wasted. A balance sheet I imagined drawn up and inscribed in the
Pinkas
, the Book which never left my side.
It was dark. And so I had not noticed my neighbor lying at the other end of the hearth. I could not tell whether he was young or old. I only knew that he was
Na-venadnik
like myself.Like myself, he was not asleep. Like myself, he barely moved. After a while we began to speak softly so as not to disturb the proprietor. We traded impressions and anecdotes, but no precise, personal information—such is the law of wanderers in exile.
His was a warm voice, inviting trust and comradeship. He claimed this was his last year of wandering. Had he had his fill of dusty roads, barking dogs and criminals infesting the woods? I asked. Was that why he wished to return home?
“No,” he said, “that’s not it. Some sinners prolong their penance because it links them to their sins a little longer. Penance can become a trap. I prefer to halt; I choose not to reach the goal.”
He confided to me the origins of what he called his “offenses.” Forbidden readings, mystical projects. Exorcism through fasting, mortification of the soul and invocation of the Names. Frankly, he had not been mature enough or sufficiently prepared for the
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