One Generation After by Elie Wiesel

Author:Elie Wiesel [Wiesel, Elie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-8052-4296-6
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2011-08-15T16:00:00+00:00

THE END OF A REVOLUTIONARY

Somewhere, far away: noisy streets, crowded with people strolling and laughing, with window-shoppers and policemen. And much ado. About nothing. Aimless shouting and calling. And quarreling. Just for the fun of it.

And I was going to get some rest here, the stranger thought, more amused than bitter.

He was sitting on the terrace of a sidewalk café, shielded from the sun, idly watching the passing cars and the pedestrians dodging them: Even so, I was right to come, nothing here concerns me.

Three days earlier he was still at home. In his house, with a woman both gentle and melancholy. And colleagues, some friendly, some envious. Smiles, flatteries and half-truths. Always the same questions, the same answers. The same burdens and the same alibis. Suddenly he felt like leaving it all. Without a word. Leave. For a few days. Or a few years. And breathe. And remain silent; remain silent at last. He jumped into a taxi. To the airport. The first plane out. Anywhere. Don’t look at me that way. Please. Yes, I’ll pay. Cash. Anywhere, I said. Hurry.

I was right to come, he thought. Here too I am a stranger. But it’s not the same.

2

The hours flew by. He wasn’t aware of time. Before, it had filled him with anguish. Time-conscious? More than that: time-obsessed. Not any more. He was living outside time. No clock, no obligations. No need to pretend being busy, entertained, interested, moved. He would get up and go to sleep whenever he chose. No one would ask: Where were you? Or: Whom did you see? Or: Why are you late? No one would try to make him forget or remember. He would be alone at dusk and still alone at dawn. Not like a prisoner in his cell; like a fugitive in the forest.

His home? He would forget it. His work? To hell with his work. And the woman? So as not to think about her, he began studying the faces around him. A pair of young lovers, isolated from the outside world. What seemed like a gang of thieves plotting. A baffled-looking man sporting a mustache. A woman. Why is she so worried? Let’s stop, and look again. Still young, in her twenties, perhaps older. Black hair, fiery eyes, sensual, obstinate lips. Probably waiting for someone, her husband, her lover perhaps. She seems impatient, preoccupied: yes, worried. She has consulted her wristwatch at least ten times. She starts to get up, only to sit down again. The stranger tries to catch her eye. In vain. He smiles at her; she does not respond. He leans toward her and asks her the time; she pretends not to hear.

I don’t feel rebuffed. It’s her privilege after all. She owes me nothing. Anyway, she distracts me from my thoughts. Isn’t that enough?

3

Now she was staring at him. Openly. Without false modesty. She smiled, and now she spoke: “You are not from around here, are you?”

“No. But you are.”

“Wrong.”

“Are you expecting someone? Someone special?”

“Of course. You.

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