Free One Generation After by Elie Wiesel Page A

and was reassured. But only briefly. For now he made me turn around to better examine me.
    “First lesson,” he said. “We must do something about your
payoth.
”
    “No,” I shouted with growing fear.
    Nothing on earth could have made me give up the two side-curls which made my face look more Jewish.
    “We must,” he repeated. “With those curls in your eyes, you won’t be able to play.”
    “I don’t want to play,” I shouted. “Not if you have to cut my
payoth …
”
    In my childish imagination I had visions of being forced to choose between my musical future and my Jewish faith, and I could hear myself accepting martyrdom.
    “Don’t be silly,” the captain said. “Nobody will cut them off. Who needs them? You want your earlocks, keep them. However, before coming here, you’ll have to push them behind your ears. You can put them back in place when you go home. What do you say? Do you agree?”
    “No,” I replied, trembling. “I am a Jew. A Jew has no right to wear disguises. A Jew who hides his
payoth
is a liar and a fake and should be ashamed of himself.”
    He stared at me and shrugged his shoulders. “You’re stubborn, my little Jewish friend. Just like the rest of your people. Still, I think I’m going to like you anyway. I think you and I will get along.”
    He was short and heavy-set. His strong features, low forehead and somber, heavy-lidded eyes were impressive. I was afraid to meet his gaze.
    “Well,” he said. “Hand me that, let me show you what playing means.”
    He seized the violin and began to play what turned out to be his favorite
doina
. Eyes closed as in a trance, he seemed to plunge back into his childhood, far away, among the gypsies. I was afraid to breathe, but I followed him and watched him make his memories dance. The experience left me wide-eyed and enchanted as never before.
    “See?” he said, surprised at finding me still there. “That’s the way you’ll have to play.”
    Then he showed me how to stand, how to hold the instrument in my left hand and the bow in my right, how to keep time and make of the violin an extension of my arm, an expression of my soul.
    While I was practicing, he uncorked the bottle, lifted it to his lips and took several swallows. I shall never know whether he was as satisfied with his pupil as he evidently was with his
cuika
.
    Two days later I came back, carrying the same violin and another bottle. From then on, it became a ritual. While he drank, I familiarized myself with the instrument and its sounds. Had he been as good a teacher as he was a drinker, I would perhaps be more than the amateur violinist I am today.
    I can see him still: daydreaming, his elbows on the table, the bottle in front of him. He drank without opening his eyes. Sometimes a mysterious anger seized him and he would snatch the violin out of my hands and feverishly perform one of his savage tunes. Appeased, he would order me to play the piece again while he took another swallow from the bottle. As long as there was any
cuika
left, I could practice. The moment the bottle was empty, I had to leave; the lesson was over. Fortunately, his influence on me was limited to music.
    Incidentally, I must admit he was a good instructor; I realize it now. In turn severe and forgiving, attentive and absent-minded, patient and intolerant; his mood changed according to the need. In initiating me into the secrets of his art, he communicated its rhythm and fire. And with the years the projected concert at the Borsher Rebbe’s became a possibility.
    Naturally it never came to pass. My little town was annexed by Hungary, and my Rumanian police captain was transferred before I was quite ready to perform in public.
    Father tried hard to find someone to replace him. Five or six potential successors were approached; none appealed to me. In the meantime I had become involved in other studies and other passions. Mute in its case, the violin was relegated to the rank of object, to the sharp