One Generation After by Elie Wiesel

soul.
    “Do you enjoy making love?” she asked coolly.
    “That depends.”
    “What about me? Would you like to make love to me?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Would you try it to find out?”
    “No, thank you.”
    “Why not?”
    I remained silent: it was not me she was questioning, so it was not up to me to answer. She took my hand; I pulled it back.
    “Do I disgust you? Is that it?”
    “No, not at all. I’m just too warm.”
    “So am I. And sometimes I disgust myself.”
    I wanted to say something to soothe her, but my mind was blank. “Let’s talk,” I said.
    “What about?”
    “You.”
    She asked me to use the familiar
tu
. “All men do,” she explained. It was the first time anyone had categorized me as man.
    “All right,” I agreed. “But let’s talk about you.”
    “What do you want me to say?” There was a hint of anger in her voice. “I don’t like to talk about myself. While taking off their clothes, men always want to know who I am. It’s important for them to know on whom they have the honor and pleasure of spitting. I don’t answer. Anyway, not truthfully. As it is, my truth is soiled enough. And so I invent, I embroider. I have lots of imagination. You understand?”
    “I understand.”
    I really didn’t, I just didn’t want to hurt her. I wasn’t even listening. It was too hot. I took out my handkerchief and mopped my face. She did the same.
    “Am I boring you?” she asked.
    “Not at all.”
    “If I am, say so.”
    “Not at all. It’s the heat.”
    “Where was I?”
    “You were telling me about truth.”
    “Oh, yes, what was I saying? Men want to know everything, absolutely everything. So I humor them; I make up stories; each one made to order: they would break your heart. Those imbeciles adore stories and confessions. In every man there is a priest who sees in every woman an unhappy whore, a soul to save and console and bring back to the fold. Which offers him the luxury of behaving magnanimously, like a self-appointed or God-appointed protector of widows and orphans. That is whatthey all come for: not to make love—that too, of course—but to bring us their cheap pity and affection. ‘Ah, my little one, you suffered so much as a child, here is another hundred francs. It’s a present. You see: I am generous. But in exchange, pretty child, you’ll be nice with me, promise?’ So I pocket my tip and say thanks very much, mister, thanks very much, Father, you’re so good, and kind, and have a heart of gold, the soul of a saint, come here, stretch out on me, I give myself to you, I’ll let you do as you please, draw as much pleasure out of me as you wish, as you can, I’m a pleasure machine, don’t worry, there’ll be enough for everybody, for all the priests and saints still to come. That’s what I tell them—joking, crying or beating them, depending on their taste: some like my tears, others are excited only by my fury. See? I’m not worth more than a hundred francs.”
    She interrupted herself, moistened her lips and said: “And you? What do you want?”
    “I have no idea.”
    “What do you want from me?”
    “Nothing, I suppose.”
    “Do you want me to speak of truth? Like the others?”
    “If you wish. But I must warn you again, I haven’t a cent.”
    Once again she seized my hand violently, and this time I let her. At her touch and for the first time that night, I could not keep from trembling. I had just rediscovered my body.
    “I like you,” she continued, releasing my hand. “I like you because you’re young and poor; because you’re Jewish and unafraid. And also because I don’t understand you.”
    She drew back slightly as if to see me better. “I know what you’re thinking. That I’m drunk.”
    “Wrong. I’m not thinking anything.”
    “Don’t interrupt. Please. You’re not thinking of anything but you think I’m drunk. One does not exclude the other. Well, it’s true. I did drink. Not much. Just a little: with three well-paying