The Oath by Elie Wiesel Page A

I was a poor participant in that of others. No more remorse, no more regrets, no more nostalgia. Nothing but indifference. A matter of age, no doubt. “May God save you not from suffering but from indifference to suffering,” my friend Moshe had wished me. A wish that almost didn’t come true. That is why I shall speak to you in spite of everything. Out of gratitude. I shall break my oath not only to save you but also to save myself. I may be old and weary but I am not yet dead; I want to live my own death after having lived that of Kolvillàg. And though I am older than the old men I watched being murdered, I am still capable of recalling their childhood and mine. I am still capable of borrowing their voice.

PART TWO
The Child and the Madman

 
    I T WAS A BEAUTIFUL DAY , promising to be mild, almost warm. Clear sky, invigorating breeze. In the distance, long rows of pine trees bowing to the sun. Nearby, stone buildings and wooden cabins casting off their shadows. The familiar sights and sounds of a provincial town awakening: pails drawn from the well, animals being led to the drinking trough. First gestures, first meals, first decisions. The daily miracle was renewed; earth once again was beginning to live. Oh yes, it was going to be a peaceful day, bearing offerings, the kind that reconcile man with his fate and even with that of his fellow-man.
    I was returning from the
mikvah
, where I had performed my ritual ablutions, and on my way to the House of Study to participate in the first morning service. I was sixteen years old and planned to change the world through prayer.
    I was hungry and thanked God for my hunger. I was tense and feverish, and I blessed God for that fever and that tension. I rediscovered my body, as I did every morning, and resented its coming between me and myself. I decided to treat my body with even greater severity; I would nourish it less, drive it harder. I customarily fasted on Mondays and Thursdays. I would nowpush my resistance even further. From Sunday to Friday. Following the example set by the great ascetics Moshe had taught me to revere. I wanted to resemble them, I wanted to resemble him. Impossible to elevate and enrich the soul except at the expense of the body.
    Moshe was already at the
Beit-Hamidrash
. Wrapped in his tallith, his phylacteries on his forehead and left arm, he was staring into space with an intensity close to pain. He had not seen me come in. I withdrew into a corner and put on my phylacteries, picked up a volume of
Mussar
and read a few passages on things to do and not to do, on impulses to unleash or to restrain, on goals to attain or transcend, and also on agony, chastisement and the future of the illusory world men persist in wanting to conquer, embellish and possess as though they could take it along to the grave. After a while eight more worshipers filed in and we could begin the service.
    At the end of the last litany a voice was heard: “Is nobody saying
Kaddish?
”
    “Nobody.”
    That particular day none of the faithful worshipers had a dead parent to commemorate.
    “Wait,” said Moshe. And he began reciting the prayer for the dead. His voice was harsher, more deliberate than usual.
    Now I know that I should have recognized it as an omen.
    Back home, I found Rivka the maid busy in the kitchen, a rueful look on her face. Father was in his room, already at work; I caught a glimpse of him bent over the table, his Book before him.
    “I have a premonition,” Rivka said while pouring me hot coffee.
    Rivka was forever having premonitions. When things went well, she expected the worst; when there was trouble, she radiated optimism.
    “A premonition?” I said, smiling. “Another?”
    “Yes.”
    “A bad one, I expect?”
    “Very bad.”
    “Then why worry about it?”
    In vain. I did not succeed in cheering her up. Never mind, in another hour her mood will change, I thought. It wouldn’t be the first time, nor the last. Our maid was flighty, extremely