Legends of Our Time by Elie Wiesel Page A

didn’t use his madness to achieve an end known only to himself? And then, are you sure he was killed at Auschwitz?”
    I would have wanted to interrupt: “You’ve misunderstood me, I’ve expressed myself badly, I wrote badly and you misread me. Now I know the truth, and the truth is that Moshe the Madman isn’t dead nor will he ever die, just as his vision will never be extinguished.” But I said nothing and let his phrases rain down on me like a punishment I deserved.
    At last, when I could stand no more, I cried: “What do you want from me? What have I done to you? Who gives you the right to judge me, to accuse me? Moshe the Madman? He didn’t condemn anyone, but you do. In the name of what? of whom?”
    He placed his hand on mine to calm me.
    “You’re getting carried away, don’t be angry. I’ve offended you: I beg your pardon.”
    I thought: “Yes, indeed, he has changed after all. Moshe never begged anyone’s pardon, not even God’s, especially not God’s.”
    He took a swallow and continued, his voice a little lower: “I was so curious that I let myself take advantage of your kindness, do you understand?”
    “Let’s not talk about it anymore. Let’s drink up. The best way to evoke the cantor is to drink.”
    To gain forgiveness, he gulped down the contents of his glass; then, after a moment of hesitation, he continued: “One last question. Perhaps it will offend you. You speak of him lovingly. Always. You speak of him the way I do of my father. Why is that?”
    He wanted to tell me the story of his life, his experiences before, during, and after the war. I hardly cared to hear about them. I was becoming confused, I was beginning to lose my temper, my thoughts were getting tangled up, I was losing my way.
    “Let’s get back to your question. Why do I evoke his memory with love? Because nobody else does. Because he was no one’s father, no one’s son. Homeless, rootless, jobless:a free man, so to speak. Nothing outside tempted or frightened him. Unreliable, solitary, he made of his madness a contagious joy, a public good. A guide, he showed the way. A visionary, he never drank twice from the same cup, never invited the same experience twice. How could I recreate his image without love, his destiny without longing?”
    I could have gone on that way until morning, but I fell silent. Suddenly the idea came to me that we really knew nothing about him, except what he himself had forced us to see. Perhaps he had had a family in a neighboring village, had loved a woman, brought up children. What could we say, exactly? That he proclaimed himself a madman, that he confused happiness and poverty, lucidity and hallucination. But the rest? The side he would not show? I was beset by doubts. I took another look at the Jew from Brooklyn.
    “The truth,” I whispered. “I insist you tell me the truth. You have information I need. Give it to me. Who are you? Why does the cantor interest you? Could you be his brother? his friend? his murderer? his avenger? Could you be—his son?”
    My question seemed to surprise him. He flushed and began to blink, his eyelids seized with a nervous tic he made scarcely any attempt to control. After a moment of silence, he regained possession of himself and burst out laughing.
    “You’re joking! You’re wandering off! What an imagination you have! Me, his avenger! Me, his son!”
    “You laugh, but that proves nothing. You are laughing to conceal your little game, but I see through it. Tell me who you are and what you’re doing here, in front of me. I must know everything, I tell you.”
    He became serious again and began to inspect his fingernails. My eyes clouded over.
    “Well? Nothing more to say? Too bad. If Moshe theMadman were here, he’d know how to conquer you. But he is no longer of this world. Moshe the Madman never was of this world. All the same, I knew him and have followed him to this very day. That must prove something, but I shall die without knowing