Free From the Kingdom of Memory by Elie Wiesel Page B

serene.
    You
forget You didn’t see me. You entered the kitchen and I turned my back to you. So as not to see you, so as not to be seen by you. I handed you a piece of cake. You asked, But where is the
challah?
I answered, We must keep it for tonight, for the
Shabbat
meal
.
    But that evening, I remember, you seemed at peace.
    It was already
Shabbat.
I thought, It’s our last here, the last with my grandson and his parents. The last
Shabbat
of my life. What good will it do to protest? I chose resignation, submission to His will. In a sense I even experienced a strange satisfaction. I no longer loved the world and those who live in it; I no longer loved Creation
.
    That Sunday you wrapped yourself in your shroud underneath your clothes.
    I felt like attending my own funeral. Only there was no funeral. God turned away from earth; in its stead He chose fire. What? You don’t know? God saw somebody set the world on fire, and He began to cry so that His tears might douse the flames. But His eyes were dry
.
3. A CHILD AND A STRANGER .
    Stranger, tell me a story.
    Look away, my boy. To look at me is dangerous. I bring bad luck
.
    Tell me a story. Any story. I cannot live without stories.
    Don’t listen, my boy. Close your ears. To listen to me is dangerous. My words wound. They will distress you, they will tear you apart. Go, find someone else to talk to, someone else to be with
.
    It is you who interest me, only you.
    Why? Do I remind you of someone?
    Perhaps.
    Your father?
    Possibly. I have forgotten what he looked like.
    Your brother?
    I’ve forgotten him too. I’ve forgotten everything, stranger. I wish to listen to you in order to rebuild my memory as others rebuild their careers or their lives.
    You wish me to hand you my past, is that it?
    Yes, that’s it.
    Even if it is filled with horror?
    Nothing frightens me, stranger.
    And what if I told you that I am Death?
    I’d refuse to believe you.
    Why?
    Death never gives, it only takes.
    You are so young, yet you spoke of Death like an old man
.
    I am old, older than you, older than my old Masters of long ago. At his death, my father had not reached my age.
    And what if I told you that I am your father?
    I would answer that you’re lying.
    And what if I gave you proof?
    You’re a stranger; my father was my father.
    But your father is dead. You just told me so. Why couldn’t he come back as a stranger?
    The dead don’t come back; we go toward them. They are waiting for us. My father is waiting for me.
    You are trying to join him, is that right?
    I am looking for myself near him. We lived together too short a time. I miss him.
    He was strong?
    Sometimes.
    Wise?
    Often.
    Generous?
    Always.
    You see, my boy: it’s you who are telling
me
stories
.
    I know. I couldn’t live without stories.
    Told to a stranger?
    Told by a stranger.
    And what if I told you …
    Don’t say another word.
4. A CHILD AND HIS MOTHER .
    I saw you, you know.
    …
    I saw you in the crowd.
    …
    The crowd was withdrawing, just as the dark sea recedes from the shore.
    …
    I didn’t know.
    What didn’t you know?
    That it was the last time I would see you.
    Yes, the last time
.
    You didn’t turn around.
    …
    Not even once.
    …
    Why didn’t you try? Tell me! Why didn’t you try to look back at me? I wanted so much to see you, to see you one last time.
    We were being pushed. Slowly, relentlessly, the tide was carrying us forward
.
    I know, I know. But still. I lack that image: you seeking me, you looking at me.
    …
    On the train, an hour earlier—or was it a week? A lifetime? You were telling us we must stay together, no matter what, we must stay together. Someone, Grandmother perhaps, was whispering that we had better consider all eventualities, without saying what they might be. But you had the courage to name them. You said, If we are separated, we shall meet again after the war. At home. Your last words.
    …
    We were separated. A stifled cry. A heartbeat. And our family was dispersed.