Free From the Kingdom of Memory by Elie Wiesel Page A

passion
.
    I remember.
    And song
.
    I remember, Grandfather.
    Then sing!
    I cannot. Please understand; don’t be angry with me. My gaze is burning, but all the eyes it encounters are extinguished. I dwell in a cemetery, Grandfather. Like you, I am dead; only your voice reaches me. Tell me, if I were not dead, would I hear you?
    You don’t hear me well; you misinterpret my teachings. You’re alive, therefore live!
    I am incapable of it, Grandfather. I did try in the beginning; I failed. I loved you too much; now you’re gone. All those I loved, I love them still, and they are gone. I try hard to emulate them. Also to follow them.
    Stop! I shall not permit this. I order you to live! In ecstasy if possible, but surely in faith! And you must sing, do you hear me? You must sing! Do you want me to help you? The last time we were together, it was for the High Holy Days of the New Year
.
    I remember, Grandfather.
    We had gone to the
Rebbe
to participate in the solemn services. The disciples were weeping, the
Rebbe
was not. He remained silent. We recited our prayers and our litanies; we implored the heavens to protect us, to let us live, we shed unending tears; not he, not the
Rebbe.
He may have had some inkling of what was to come and that it was too late: the decree had been signed, it was irrevocable
.
    But then, why was he silent? If he knew, he should have wept all the more!
    At one point, just before the sounding of the
shofar,
he began to sing, something he had never done before
.
    Now I recall: his song tore at our insides.
    The words, do you remember them?
    No. Only the melody.
    A
verse from the Psalms. “The dead do not sing the Lord’s praise.…” Oh, yes, the
Rebbe
knew. And therefore he tried to do the impossible: to revoke the edict. If you kill your people, if you condone its annihilation, who will praise you? Who will sanctify you with song? He sang with all his heart, with all his soul, sensing that it was for the last time. That’s what we had failed to understand. For us this was the first time. Of all the men, of all the women present, you are the only survivor, the only one to carry His song in you: let it burst forth, let it ascend to heaven. Sing in His place and in mine!
    I cannot, Grandfather. Don’t push me to do the impossible. My place is with you, my heart is in mourning. They have murdered the child that I was, and you want me to sing?
    I want you to live
.
    Try to understand me, Grandfather. Try to forgive me.
2. A CHILD AND HIS GRANDMOTHER .
    Beneath your clothes, you were wearing your shroud.
    Of course
.
    You had a premonition? You knew that the train was carrying us to our death?
    Of course
.
    You should have told us.
    Who would have listened? An old woman’s delusions, that’s what they would have called it
.
    You were beautiful that day, Grandmother. Calm, peaceful.
    All of them were afraid. I wasn’t. Fear is like pain. It hurts, it hurts very much, and suddenly it no longer hurts; you are beyond pain. And fear
.
    You were smiling. Like …
    Shabbat eve?
    No. Like Friday mornings. On my way home from
cheder
, breathless, I would stop by to see you. You held out the
challah
. Quickly, I washed my hands; quickly, I recited the customary prayer; quickly I bit into the warm bread. And you, Grandmother, you would sit there, in the kitchen, your black scarf on your head, watching me, smiling, and to me your smile was a haven: it announced
Shabbat
and its joy,
Shabbat
and the angels of peace that escort it into time and even into the heart of man.
    That last Friday, do you remember it?
    I shall remember it to the end of my days, Grandmother. We were already in the ghetto.
    We were a little cramped but we were not sad
.
    We didn’t know.
    I did. Yes, I did. On that particular Friday I put the dough into the oven the same as always, and when I took it out it was charred. I tried again. Failure after
failure. I was unable to produce even the tiniest
challah.
Then I knew
.
    And yet you seemed