Free The Time of the Uprooted by Elie Wiesel

and replies, “I don’t know what you mean.”
    “Of course you do. You know perfectly well.”
    Hananèl decides not to insist. The prelate motions toward a chair.
    “I prefer to remain standing.”
    The Archbishop looks down, then speaks in an anguished voice. “What do you want of me? Tell me, tell me everything. We are both men of God, you and I. We can speak from the heart.”
    “I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “You’re after me; you’re pursuing me even into my dreams.”
    “I have nothing to do with it,” Hananèl replies. “Perhaps the Lord is making use of me to address your conscience.” The Archbishop is silent. Now the young scholar is inspired, and he continues in a tone that is both harsh and intense. “And if the Lord is using me, I have no right to remain concealed. Is it to please the Lord that you neither act nor speak out at this fateful time for the children of Israel? They are in danger, as you well know. The Germans are here. Will they do to us what they’re doing to our brothers and sisters in Poland? My heart tells me they will. And what does your heart tell you?”
    “Sit down. . . . Please be seated. . . .”
    Hananèl remains on his feet. The Archbishop sits up straight: “Why are you speaking like this to me? You’re hurting me, and I don’t deserve it. I’ve never persecuted Jews. I’ve never preached hatred of Jews. But you’re making me suffer. Why? What have I done to you that you should trouble my rest and even my sleep?” Suddenly, his tone of voice changes. “And besides . . .” He stops for a moment, as if to gather his strength. “Who do you think you are that you dare address me in His Holy Name?”
    He leans forward so he can better study the face of the young visitor, who is too calm, too sure of himself. Now, just as suddenly, he is seized by panic. He cries out from the depths of his being. “No! No! It cannot be true! You cannot be . . .”
    He collapses to his knees.
    The young scholar helps him up and says, “Now we can begin.”
    THURSDAY, 10:00 A.M. “YOU’RE LOOKING FOR someone?”
    Gamaliel was daydreaming. Now the voice of his self-appointed guide rouses him.
    “Can I help you?”
    Gamaliel pauses a moment before answering. “Yes, I’m looking for building four, ward three.”
    “Yes, I know where it is. Come, I’ll show you.”
    His guide seems to know his way around. He’s a stoop-shouldered elderly man with puffy cheeks and a pointed black goatee. Behind horn-rimmed glasses, his eyes light up when he speaks, but his face remains expressionless. Instinct tells Gamaliel to be cautious: There is something disturbing in the old man’s manner.
    “My wife’s there, too. She’s been there since . . . Well, I don’t recall anymore since when. . . . She left me . . . all I know is I’m alone . . . have been for a long time.”
    The man blows on his hands. Is he cold, just when Gamaliel is beginning to feel hot? His wavering voice is shot through with remorse. Remorse over letting his wife leave him? Over forgetting what day she left? Gamaliel studies him: He’s met too many people, in too many lands, not to sense a warning signal.
    “It’s a depressing place,” the old man says. “Depressing for those who live there, and for the rest.”
    “The rest?”
    “The rest of us.” And after a pause, he adds, “You, too, are here to see your wife?”
    “No.” Should he tell him he’s not married? Gamaliel is in no mood to confide in this man.
    “Maybe she’s your mother?”
    “No, not that, either.” This fellow is getting on my nerves with his interrogation, Gamaliel is saying to himself, but the old man backs off.
    “What right do I have to be asking? We’re all separated from someone we love.”
    Gamaliel’s thoughts turn once again to his two daughters, Katya so far away, Sophie so estranged, both so hostile, and once again the pain is so sharp, it takes his breath away. Better not think about that, he