Free Legends of Our Time by Elie Wiesel Page B

is somewhere inscribed, and he is not free to choose the paths leading him there.
    Souls dead and forgotten return to earth to beg their share of grace, of eternity; they need the living to lift them out of nothingness. One gesture would suffice, one tear, a single spark. For each being participates in the renewed mystery of creation; each man possesses, at least once in his life, the absolute power of the
Tzadik
, the irrevocable privilege of the just to restore equilibrium, to repair the fault, to act upon the absent. Condemned to go beyond himself continually, man succeeds without being aware of it and does not understand until afterward.
    And now let me tell you a story.
    Traveling through Spain for the first time, I had the strange impression of being in a country I already knew. The sun and the sky, the tormented lustre in the eyes: landscapes and faces familiar, seen before.
    The strollers on the
ramblas
in Barcelona, the passersby and their children in the back streets of Toledo:how to distinguish which of them had Jewish blood, which descended from the Marranos? At any moment I expected Shmuel Hanagid to appear suddenly on some richly covered portico, or Ibn Ezra, Don Itzchak Abarbanel, Yehuda Halevi—those princes and poets of legend who created and sang the golden age of my people. They had long visited my reading and insinuated themselves into my dreams.
    The period of the Inquisition had exercised a particular appeal to my imagination. I found fascinating those enigmatic priests who, in the name of love and for the sacred glory of a young Jew from Galilee, had tortured and subjected to slow death those who preferred the Father to the Son. I envied their victims. For them, the choice was posed in such simple terms: God or the stake, abjuration or exile.
    Many chose exile, but I never condemned the Marranos, those unhappy converts who, secretly and in the face of danger, remained loyal to the faith of their ancestors. I admired them. For their weakness, for their defiance. To depart with the community would have been easier; to break all ties, more convenient. By deciding to stand their ground on two levels simultaneously, they lived on the razor’s edge, in the abnegation of each instant.
    I did not know it when I arrived in Spain, but someone was awaiting me there.
    It was at Saragossa.
    Like a good tourist, I was attentively exploring the cathedral when a man approached me and, in French, offered to serve as guide. Why? Why not? He liked foreigners. His price? None. He was not offering his services for money. Only for the pleasure of having his town admired. He spoke of Saragossa enthusiastically. And eloquently. He commented on everything: history, architecture,customs. Then, over a glass of wine, he transferred his amiability to my person: where did I come from, where was I going, was I married, and did I believe in God. I replied: I come from far, the road before me will be long. I eluded his other questions. He did not insist.
    “So, you travel a great deal,” he said politely.
    “Yes, a great deal.”
    “Too much, perhaps?”
    “Perhaps.”
    “What does it gain you?”
    “Memories, friends.”
    “That’s all? Why not look for those at home?”
    “For the pleasure of returning, no doubt, with a few words I didn’t know before in my luggage.”
    “Which?”
    “I can’t answer that. Not yet. I have no luggage yet.”
    We clinked glasses. I was hoping he would change the subject, but he returned to it.
    “You must know many languages, yes?”
    “Too many,” I said.
    I enumerated them for him: Yiddish, German, Hungarian, French, English, and Hebrew.
    “Hebrew?” he asked, pricking up his ears. “
Hebreo?
It exists?”
    “It does exist,” I said with a laugh.
    “Difficult language, eh?”
    “Not for Jews.”
    “Ah, I see, excuse me. You’re a Jew.”
    “They do exist,” I said with a laugh.
    Certain of having blundered, he looked for a way out. Embarrassed, he thought a minute before