Read Online The Time of the Uprooted by Elie Wiesel - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elie Wiesel
Tags: Fiction
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like to see me?”
“Right now.”
Hananèl is about to ask why the hurry, but he holds his tongue. Any show of disrespect toward a high dignitary of the Church could cause harm to the community.
“A carriage . . . a carriage is waiting for us at the gate,” says the priest.
“I’ll be ready in a moment.”
Hananèl buttons up his caftan, puts on his overcoat and hat, and walks to the door that Mendel is holding open. “I will accompany the Rabbi,” Mendel says in a tone that brooks no contradiction. They are already seated in the carriage when Hananèl tells Mendel to fetch their prayer shawls and phylacteries. “Who knows, we may have to stay there more than just a few hours.”
Mendel cannot keep from shivering. Does the Rebbe know something he doesn’t? He asks, “Is that all I should bring?”
“Yes,” his young Master says. “We’ll look to the Lord for whatever else we may need.” His words, though intended to reassure, sound foreboding to his aide and friend.
The carriage, drawn by two strong horses, rapidly crosses the streets of the small provincial town through a newly profound darkness, to which it is hard to become accustomed, particularly for people who never go out at night. Since March 19, when the Germans arrived, only an occasional streetlight has been turned on, for fear of air raids. The young priest sits silently beside the coachman. Hananèl is reciting psalms. Mendel sits fidgeting. Where are they taking us? he wonders. When will we get there? When will we return, and in what condition? He hesitates before questioning the priest, then does so whispering, hoping not to be heard by Hananèl. The priest does not answer. To prison, that’s where they’re taking us, and the Rebbe has already figured it out, Mendel is thinking. That’s how he knew we would need our ritual objects. What will become of our community? And of my wife and children? He turns to the Rebbe, but Hananèl is absorbed in the psalms and listens only to their silent song.
Far away, the dawn is breaking. The sky as it reddens is pure and delicate. Almost all the snow is gone from the rooftops. Nature awakens as if to a promise of life and happiness. Spring is on the doorstep. The trees, stirred by a light wind, are tracing their slender beauty on the horizon. “Soon it will be time to say our morning prayers,” Mendel murmurs, but still the young scholar does not reply. His silence is not threatening, but the priest’s is. Mendel doesn’t understand what is happening, and that disturbs him. Luckily, it will soon be light. I’ll see the Rebbe’s face, and then I’ll know, he thinks, trying to reassure himself.
After two hours of travel, the carriage reaches an outlying section of the city and pulls up in front of an impressive building that occupies half a block. The priest steps down, pulls a bell, and speaks to a watchman, who opens the iron gate. The priest respectfully asks the young Jew to accompany him. Mendel gives him his arm to lean on. In his other hand, he holds the prayer shawls and phylacteries. “This isn’t a prison,” he mutters. “That’s something, anyway.” They cross a courtyard and enter a luxurious building several stories high. Deep carpets, old paintings, lit candles everywhere. Absorbed in his thoughts, Hananèl slowly climbs the stairs to the second floor. They approach a door at the far end of a long hallway. “You stay here,” the priest tells Mendel, whose objections are silenced by a gesture from Hananèl.
The door opens, revealing a room lit by a huge chandelier hanging from the ceiling. A desk is littered with books and various objects. Hananèl looks straight ahead as he enters, telling himself he will not be afraid. The man seated there, hands folded in front of him, is thin and his face is bony under the red skullcap. His gaze is icy. He waits a moment before speaking the words that have been haunting him forever: “So it is you.”
The young Jew stands still
“Right now.”
Hananèl is about to ask why the hurry, but he holds his tongue. Any show of disrespect toward a high dignitary of the Church could cause harm to the community.
“A carriage . . . a carriage is waiting for us at the gate,” says the priest.
“I’ll be ready in a moment.”
Hananèl buttons up his caftan, puts on his overcoat and hat, and walks to the door that Mendel is holding open. “I will accompany the Rabbi,” Mendel says in a tone that brooks no contradiction. They are already seated in the carriage when Hananèl tells Mendel to fetch their prayer shawls and phylacteries. “Who knows, we may have to stay there more than just a few hours.”
Mendel cannot keep from shivering. Does the Rebbe know something he doesn’t? He asks, “Is that all I should bring?”
“Yes,” his young Master says. “We’ll look to the Lord for whatever else we may need.” His words, though intended to reassure, sound foreboding to his aide and friend.
The carriage, drawn by two strong horses, rapidly crosses the streets of the small provincial town through a newly profound darkness, to which it is hard to become accustomed, particularly for people who never go out at night. Since March 19, when the Germans arrived, only an occasional streetlight has been turned on, for fear of air raids. The young priest sits silently beside the coachman. Hananèl is reciting psalms. Mendel sits fidgeting. Where are they taking us? he wonders. When will we get there? When will we return, and in what condition? He hesitates before questioning the priest, then does so whispering, hoping not to be heard by Hananèl. The priest does not answer. To prison, that’s where they’re taking us, and the Rebbe has already figured it out, Mendel is thinking. That’s how he knew we would need our ritual objects. What will become of our community? And of my wife and children? He turns to the Rebbe, but Hananèl is absorbed in the psalms and listens only to their silent song.
Far away, the dawn is breaking. The sky as it reddens is pure and delicate. Almost all the snow is gone from the rooftops. Nature awakens as if to a promise of life and happiness. Spring is on the doorstep. The trees, stirred by a light wind, are tracing their slender beauty on the horizon. “Soon it will be time to say our morning prayers,” Mendel murmurs, but still the young scholar does not reply. His silence is not threatening, but the priest’s is. Mendel doesn’t understand what is happening, and that disturbs him. Luckily, it will soon be light. I’ll see the Rebbe’s face, and then I’ll know, he thinks, trying to reassure himself.
After two hours of travel, the carriage reaches an outlying section of the city and pulls up in front of an impressive building that occupies half a block. The priest steps down, pulls a bell, and speaks to a watchman, who opens the iron gate. The priest respectfully asks the young Jew to accompany him. Mendel gives him his arm to lean on. In his other hand, he holds the prayer shawls and phylacteries. “This isn’t a prison,” he mutters. “That’s something, anyway.” They cross a courtyard and enter a luxurious building several stories high. Deep carpets, old paintings, lit candles everywhere. Absorbed in his thoughts, Hananèl slowly climbs the stairs to the second floor. They approach a door at the far end of a long hallway. “You stay here,” the priest tells Mendel, whose objections are silenced by a gesture from Hananèl.
The door opens, revealing a room lit by a huge chandelier hanging from the ceiling. A desk is littered with books and various objects. Hananèl looks straight ahead as he enters, telling himself he will not be afraid. The man seated there, hands folded in front of him, is thin and his face is bony under the red skullcap. His gaze is icy. He waits a moment before speaking the words that have been haunting him forever: “So it is you.”
The young Jew stands still
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