Night

As for me, my place was in the house of study, or so they said. There are no Kabbalists in Sighet, my father would often tell me. He wanted to drive the idea of studying Kabbalah from my mind, in vain. I succeeded on my own in finding a master for myself in the person of Moshe the Beatle. He had watched me one day as I prayed at dusk. Why do you cry when you pray? he asked, as though he knew me well. I don't know, I answered, troubled. I had never asked myself that question. I cried because, because something inside me felt the need to cry. That was all I knew. Why do you pray? he asked after a moment. Why did I pray? Strange question. Where did I live? Why did I breathe? I don't know, I told him, even more troubled and ill at ease. I don't know. From that day on, I saw him often. He explained to me with great emphasis that every question possessed a power that was lost in the answer. Man comes closer to God through the questions he asks him he liked to say. Therein lies true dialogue. Man asks and God replies. But we don't understand his replies. We cannot understand them. Because they dwell in the depths of our souls and remain there until we die. The real answers, Eliezer, you will find only within yourself. And why do you pray, Moshe? I asked him. I prayed to the God within me for the strength to ask him the real questions. We spoke that way almost every evening, remaining in the synagogue long after all the faithful had gone, sitting in the semi-darkness where only a few half-burnt candles provided a flickering light. One evening I told him how unhappy I was not to be able to find in Siget a master to teach me the Zohar, the Kabbalistic works, the secrets of Jewish mysticism. He smiled indulgently. After a long silence he said, There are a thousand and one gates allowing entry into the orchard of mystical truth. Every human being has his own gate. He must not err and wish to enter the orchard through a gate other than his own. That would present a danger not only for the one entering, but also for those who are already inside. And Moshe the Beatle, the poorest of the poor of Siget, spoke to me for hours on end about the Kabbalah's revelations and its mysteries. Thus began my initiation. Together we would read over and over again the same page of the Zohar, not to learn it by heart, but to discover within the very essence of divinity. And in the course of those evenings I became convinced that Moshe the Beatle would help me enter eternity, into that time when question and answer would become one. And then, one day, all foreign Jews were expelled from Siget, and Moshe the Beatle was a foreigner. Crammed into cattle cars by the Hungarian police, they cried silently. Standing on the station platform, we too were crying. The train disappeared over the horizon. All that was left was thick, dirty smoke. Behind me someone said, sighing, What do you expect? That's war! The deportees were quickly forgotten. A few days after they left it was rumored that they were in Galicia, working, and even that they were content with their fate. Days went by, then weeks and months. Life was normal again. A calm, reassuring wind blew through our homes. The shopkeepers were doing good business, the students lived among their books, and the children played in the streets. One day, as I was about to enter the synagogue, I saw Moshe the Beatle sitting on a bench near the entrance. He told me what had happened to him and his companions. The train with the deportees had crossed the Hungarian border and, once in Polish territory, had been taken over by the Gestapo. The train had stopped. The Jews were ordered to get off and onto waiting trucks. The trucks headed toward a forest. There, everybody was ordered to get out. They were forced to dig huge trenches. When they had finished their work, the men from the Gestapo began theirs. Without passion or haste, they shot their prisoners, who were forced to approach the trench one by one and offer their necks. Their infants were tossed into the air and used as targets for the machine guns. This took place in a Galician forest near Kolomea. How had he, Moshe the Beatle, been able to escape? By a miracle. He was wounded in the leg and left for dead. Day after day, night after night, he went from one Jewish house to the next, telling his story and that of Malka, the young girl who lay dying for three days, and that of Toby the tailor, who begged to die before his sons were killed. Moshe was not the same. The joy in his eyes was gone. He no longer sang. He no longer mentioned either God or Kabbalah. He spoke only of what he had seen. But people not only refused to believe his tales, they refused to listen. Some even insinuated that he only wanted their pity, that he was imagining things. Others flatly said that he had gone mad. As for Moshe, he wept and pleaded, Jews, listen to me, that's all I ask of you. No money, no pity, just listen to me. He kept shouting in synagogue between the prayer at dusk and the evening prayer. Even I did not believe him. I often sat with him after services and listened to his tales, trying to understand his grief. But all I felt was pity. They think I'm mad, he whispered, and tears like drops of wax flowed from his eyes. Once I asked him the question, why do you want people to believe you so much? In your place, I would not care whether they believe me or not. He closed his eyes as if to escape time. You don't understand, he said in despair. You cannot understand. I was saved miraculously. I succeeded in coming back. Where did I get my strength? I wanted to return to Siget to describe to you my death so that you might ready yourselves while there is still time. Life? I no longer care to live. I am alone. But I wanted to come back to warn you. Only no one is listening to me. This was toward the end of 1942. Thereafter, life seemed normal once again. London Radio, which we listened to every evening, announced encouraging news. The daily bombings of Germany and Stalingrad, the preparation of the Second Front. And so we, the Jews of Siget, waited for better days that surely were soon to come. I continued to devote myself to my studies, Talmud during the day and Kabbalah at night. My father took care of his business and the community. My grandfather came to spend Rosh Hashanah with us so as to attend the services of the celebrated Rebbe of Borsha. My mother was beginning to think it was high time to find an appropriate match for Hilda. Thus passed the year 1943. Spring 1944. Splendid news from the Russian front. There could no longer be any doubt Germany would be defeated. It was only a matter of time, months or weeks, perhaps. The trees were in bloom. It was a year like so many others, with its spring, its engagements, its weddings and its births. The people were saying, the Red Army is advancing with giant strides. Hitler will not be able to harm us, even if he wants to. Yes, we even doubted his resolve to exterminate us. Annihilate an entire people? Wipe out a population dispersed throughout so many nations? So many millions of people? By what means?