Free The Time of the Uprooted by Elie Wiesel Page A

tells himself. This is no time to relax his vigilance.
    “Now take God, for example,” the old man is saying. “He was separated from His Creation, and His Creation betrayed Him. Ever since, He’s been feeling the same melancholy as the rest of us. And the same remorse.”
    So now he thinks he’s a theologian, Gamaliel thinks morosely. They are crossing a courtyard. The quiet that meets them is so heavy, it’s palpable. To Gamaliel, it’s a message he cannot decode: The silence of the mad is different from our own. Is it their home, or their prison? Is it a wall, or is it the light that illuminates the wall? Do they consider themselves intruders here, just as more and more he feels himself a stranger in the so-called real world? Most of all, Gamaliel hopes the old man won’t resume his chatter. If he does, Gamaliel will run away. A breeze whispers through the trees without disturbing their branches. Whence does it come? Who sent it? To stir what memories? Rebbe Nahman of Bratslav believed the wind carries messages from unhappy princes to their brides, who have been carried off by the forest spirits. In Hebrew, the word for wind is the same as for breath and spirit. But nowadays, people use the word to express disdain: “No need to listen to what he has to say; it’s just wind.” Gamaliel, on the other hand, takes it seriously: if only it would agree to take a message to his daughters . . .
    “Let’s sit for a moment,” the old man suggests. “At my age, my legs will no longer do what I tell them. There . . . on that bench. It’s the lovers’ bench. So many lovers sat there to escape, to love, to let loose . . . and to betray. I know all about that. . . .” He pauses to take a good look at Gamaliel’s features. “Have you ever sat on this bench? And how was she, that woman in your arms? Go on, tell me about it.”
    “I never set foot in this hospital before today.”
    “And she?”
    “She who?”
    “Are you sure she’s not here, the woman you once loved, the woman you still love?”
    “I’m sure of nothing.”
    The old man’s face darkens. “I hope you didn’t come here in vain.”
    “So do I.”
    After what seems like a long moment’s reflection, the old man looks Gamaliel straight in the eye and says, “And what if I tell you I’m the one you came for?”
    Should I take pity on him, or use my fatigue as a pretext to get away from him? thinks Gamaliel as he sits down. All is perfectly arranged here. Everything is in its place—clean, antiseptic. Not a speck of dust on the bench. Nonetheless, the old man takes out his handkerchief and diligently wipes off the seat. Gamaliel looks over at the windows on the two sides of the courtyard. They are dark and opaque. Yet he feels hundreds of pairs of curious or angry eyes watching his every move. Why are they interested in him? Do they want to warn him of some danger stalking him? Advise him to turn around and leave?
    “I used to work here as a guide and gardener,” the old man says, out of breath. “You can’t imagine. . . . It was a long time ago. I knew all the doctors, all the nurses. The patients were my friends. I protected them from fear. Poor people, they were so afraid they’d be shaking, terrified of the electroshock treatment. You’re lucky—you don’t know what fear is, at least not that kind. And my poor wife . . .”
    Gamaliel, more and more irritated, retreats into silence. The old man talks of fear, but what can he know about it, this solid citizen, well dressed, free to go where he wants when he wants? As for Gamaliel, the accursed refugee, it would take very little for the ground to slip out from under his feet. Should I tell this harmless well-meaning chatterbox that I’ve known every kind of fear? he wonders. Fear in Budapest. Fear of the Nyilas, the Hungarian Nazis, of the local police, of the German soldiers, and later, in Vienna, the fear of the unknown, the physical fear when confronted by a border guard, the fear felt