The Gates of the forest by Elie Wiesel

Author:Elie Wiesel [Wiesel, Elie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780805208962
Publisher: Schocken
Published: 1992-08-15T00:00:00+00:00

guilty-”

"He is the victim; not Jesus; he is the crucified; not the Christ. Have you understood that?”

"Yes, yes.”

"I don’t hear the priest. Doesn’t he agree?”

The priest lifted his face towards Gregor. His lips moved, but no sound came from his mouth. His neighbors elbowed him, pressing him to obey. "Speak, Father, speak, or else we’re lost. Can’t you see that it is God who forces you to submit.”

"Yes, yes,” the priest muttered with an immense effort.

"Yes, what?”

"I’m guilty; we’re all guilty.”

He trembled from head to foot, knowing that he could not be saved. He had lived in ignorance and among lies, content with easy explanations. Now, at the hour of punishment, everything had crashed down and it was too late to start over.

"Say after me, 'Judas 1S innocent and we humbly implore his forgiveness.’

All of them complied. Only Petruskanu did not take part in the confession but continued to stare at Gregor. Gregor threw back his head; the moment had come. He let the silence become more heavy before he said, in a lower voice, "I’m now going to tell you something else you don’t know.”

He paused for a moment in order to lend more weight to what was to follow. The peasants leaned forward, expecting the worst.

"I’m not Ileana’s son,” said Gregor, articulating every syllable.

For the second time that afternoon the village was struck by lightning. As pale, as if bathed in the deathly light of the end of the world, the peasants stared incredulously a one another. Had they heard correctly, or was it all a dream? Each one looked into his neighbor’s eyes for confirmation. Petruskanu could no longer control the trembling of his upper lip. Gregor perceived his dismayed expression and smiled as he said, "Ileana is a saint, but I am not her son.”

With his body rigid, upraised arm and blackened blazing face, he looked a wild, ragged prophet, far from the multitude and even farther from his own self, standing on the mountain top uncertain as to what God wanted him to do: to curse or to forgive, to chastise men or to give them the consoling balm of grace and hope with which to rebuild their life, their faith, their way.

For a brief instant he weighed the two possibilities. Words surged to his lips, words charged with vengeance and unhappiness, placed under the sign of ultimate justice. He could explain the situation and throw at them the secrets which they had confided in him, leaving hate in his wake. They would

no

hate one another openly instead of hating the Jews; they would no longer wish to appear on the streets; wives would not be able to endure the presence of their husbands. You there, or you, with the scar on your right cheek, if speech has been restored to me it is in order that I may use it. And I say this: stop coveting your wife’s younger and more beautiful sister; leave her alone and do not sow fire and poison in her body.

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