Hostage by Elie Wiesel Page A

their padded jackets and slung them over the backs of the two survivors. They left the old peasant woman after having given her all the food in their possession.
    Haskel and Leibele were taken to a refugee center in Kraków but fell ill there with high fevers. Ilya took them to a military hospital and put them in the care of warmhearted personnel. The two friends lay side by side, each locked in his own pain.
    Haskel was the first to get better. A young army nurse feeding him some hot tea told him in Yiddish that her name was Natasha and that she was happy to report he was doing much better. He couldn’t believe it, he said. She smiled and caressed his forehead. The nurse spoke Yiddish! he thought to himself. What was she doing at his bedside, and how did she know he too spoke Yiddish?
    She seemed to read his thoughts. “Ilya told me about youand Leibele.” She paused for a moment, then added, “You’ll be fine, you’ll live, I promise. You can count on Ilya and me.” She looked around to make sure no one could hear her, then went on, “After all, we’re Jewish. You suffered enormously. We must help one another.” Natasha was Jewish; the thought reassured him.
    “What about my friend?” he asked. “Where is he? Why isn’t he here with me? How is he?”
    The young woman’s face darkened.
    “He’s not well. I’m sorry to have to tell you; he’s not well at all. It’s hard to fight it, but we’re trying, believe me. A miracle is always possible.”
    Natasha didn’t want to drive him to despair; that was clear.
    “A miracle? Did you use the word ‘miracle’?”
    “Yes, I did. You never know. Ilya tells me you come from a religious family. Is that true?”
    “Yes, it’s true. Very religious.”
    “Then pray for him.”
    Pray? Haskel said to himself, I haven’t addressed prayers to the God of my ancestors for ages. I’ve been telling myself that a Sage should invent new ones, prayers that no mouth has pronounced yet, prayers that would bear the burning stamp of an accursed place called Auschwitz.
    “I’d like to see my friend,” he said to the nurse.
    “Why?”
    “If what you say is true, my friend will be leaving us soon. I’d like to be present.”
    “But you’re not well yet, Haskel. You won’t be able to stand up.”
    “Yes I will. I’m strong enough, you’ll see. I must see him. Please, Natasha, please help two Jewish friends to get together for the last time.”
    Natasha looked at her watch.
    “Ilya will be here very soon. I’ll discuss it with him.” She left him.
    For the first time since his deportation, Haskel’s eyes filled with tears. Over there, people didn’t cry, for they feared they would never be able to stop. Now he would have to make an effort not to break down if he got to see his dying friend one last time.
    Natasha and Ilya arrived, forced smiles on their lips. Ilya sat down at the edge of the bed.
    “Listen, Haskel, my friend, I know you can be strong; proof is, you’re here, among us. Here’s what I suggest: In a few hours we’ll go with you to Leibele’s room. You’ll stay for no more than fifteen minutes, and then you’ll come back here. Agreed?”
    Haskel nodded yes.
    It was a long, irritating wait. His nerves were on edge. He didn’t want to answer questions as to his own health. He had no appetite; it was hard for him to swallow. He thought of praying, remembering those he had known in his childhood. Should he pray for his wife? How could he know if …? So as not to think about them, he prayed for Redemption in the distant future and happiness in the near future. He prayed for health, peace, springtime, bread and honey: No tradition has as many entreaties and divine interventions. Were all of them in vain? God may have turned away.
    In the late afternoon, Natasha and Ilya took him to theroom opposite his. There was just one bed and Leibele was in it. His face was bathed in sweat, his body shaking with convulsions, his lips trembling—he seemed