The Testament by Elie Wiesel

Author:Elie Wiesel [Wiesel, Elie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-307-80644-4
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2011-09-13T16:00:00+00:00

Here, Zupanev was muttering as he blew his nose, here are some words. Not mine, but yours, what I mean is: they belong to you; they were meant for you. And I think that’s funny. These words, snatched from a dead man, from death itself, in order to be repeated, transmitted and kept alive, I am entrusting to a mute! Will this farce never end?

Read these tales, Grisha, and you will learn about the life and death of a Jewish poet, your father.

He was somebody, your father. Difficult to get on with. In the beginning, during the first interrogation, he annoyed us to the point of exasperation.

I was only a clerk, you understand. Nothing more. A stenographer. I took notes. From my corner, I observed the prosecutor, the colonel, the magistrate—to hell with all these titles, anyway, they all added up to the same thing—and I observed the accused without being seen by them.

I was a piece of furniture. An instrument. Part of the scenery. The invisible man from whose attention nothing escaped. So you can believe me, son, when I tell you that he was somebody, your father.

Now don’t jump to conclusions: he did not succeed in resisting all the way: the one who will has not been born yet. Oh, yes, we broke him, as we broke those before him and those after him. The fact remains that he was, forgive the expression, a rare bird, a unique case. He held out longer than anticipated, he took punishment better than the most hardened politicians. Do you know why? Because he was not afraid of death. And that, my little one, is what is referred to in our circle as “foolish and hypocritical behavior”; everybody is afraid of death, let me tell you. Man is meant to live and meant to want to live. Only your father was different. You may be proud of him, my boy.

I remember as though it happened yesterday. That night, they had really let him have it. He could no longer stand on his feet, his body was swollen and bloody—and yet, he resisted. I don’t even remember now what the particular charge was. He simply, stubbornly, refused to sign the official minutes of the session. The examining magistrate offered him a cigarette—they all do that. Your father declined; anyway he could not have put it in his mouth, which was a gaping wound.

The magistrate addressed him with a semblance of pity: “Why are you so foolish, Kossover? Why are you so obstinate? There is nothing to be gained that way. Why are you determined to suffer? I’d like you to explain.”

The magistrate seemed truly, sincerely interested. Sensing this, your father made an effort to stand straight.

“Very well,” he said, “I shall explain.”

He spoke with difficulty: the words scorched his tongue. He swallowed his saliva, his blood.

“I am a poet, Citizen Magistrate. And it behooves a Jewish poet to safeguard his dignity.”

And you know what, Grisha? For a moment I was flabbergasted—I don’t mind telling you—and so was the judge.

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