Dawn by Wiesel Elie & Frenaye Frances

Author:Wiesel, Elie & Frenaye, Frances [Wiesel, Elie]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Fiction, Jewish, General, Literary, Historical, Classics, War
ISBN: 9780553225365
Publisher: Bantam
Published: 1970-01-02T07:00:00+00:00

Being afraid, I ought to have told her, is nothing. Fear is only a color, a backdrop, a landscape. That isn't the problem. The fear of either the victim or the executioner is unimportant. What matters is the fact that each of them is playing a role which has been imposed upon him. The two roles are the extremities of the estate of man. The tragic thing is the imposition.

"You, Elisha, you are afraid?"

I knew why she had asked. You, Elisha, who lived through Auschwitz and Buchenwald? You, who any number of times saw God die? You are afraid?

"I am afraid, though, Ilana," I repeated. She knew quite well that fear was not in fact the real theme. Like death, it is only a backdrop, a bit of local color.

"What makes you afraid?"

Her warm, living hand was still on my shoulder; her breasts brushed me and I could feel her breath on my neck. Her blouse was wet with perspiration and her face distraught. She doesn't understand, I thought to myself.

"I'm afraid he'll make me laugh," I said. "You see, Ilana, he's quite capable of swelling up his head and letting it burst into a thousand shreds, just in order to make me laugh. That's what makes me afraid."

But still she did not understand. She took the handkerchief from her cuff and wiped my neck and temples. Then she kissed my forehead lightly and said:

"You torture yourself too much, Elisha. Hostages aren't clowns. There's nothing so funny about them."

Poor Ilana! Her voice was as pure as truth, as sad as purity. But she did not understand. She was distracted by the externals and did not see what lay behind them.

"You may be right," I said in resignation. "We make them laugh. They laugh when they're dead."

She stroked my face and neck and hair, and I could still feel the pressure of her breasts against my body. Then she began to talk, in a sad but clear voice, as if she were talking to a sick child.

"You torture yourself too much, my dear," she said several times in succession. At least she no longer called me "poor boy," and I was 'grateful.

"You mustn't do it. You're young and intelligent, and you've suffered quite enough already. Soon it will all be over. The English will get out and we shall come back to the surface and lead a simple, normal life. You'll get married and have children. You'll tell them stories and make them laugh.

You'll be happy because they're happy, and they will be happy, I promise you. How could they be otherwise with a father like you? You'll have forgotten this night, this room, me, and everything else—"

As she said "everything else" she traced a sweeping semicircle with her hand. I was reminded of my mother. She talked in the same moving voice and used almost the same words in the same places. I was very fond of my mother. Every evening, until I was nine or ten years old, she put me to sleep with lullabies or stories.

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