The Time of the Uprooted by Elie Wiesel

consent.
    “Never forget that you’re my nephew,” Ilonka continued, speaking very softly. “You’re the son of my big sister. You live in Fehérvàros. Son of Magda. You go to church with me on Sundays. If someone asks you whether you’re Catholic or Calvinist, say that you don’t know.”
    “Calvinist? What’s that?”
    “A good Christian.”
    “So all Christians are Calvinists?”
    “No, not all, just those who believe Calvin was Christ’s most faithful disciple.”
    “They were friends?”
    “I don’t know about that. They’ve been dead a long time, may they rest in peace. But let’s talk about people you’re supposed to know, like the pastor or the priest. His name is Miklós. Say it.”
    “Miklós. The pastor’s name is Miklós.”
    “And you?”
    “Péter.”
    “What are you?”
    “A Calvinist Jew named Péter.”
    “No, never say that!” Ilonka exclaimed in alarm.
    “A Catholic Jew who—”
    “No!”
    “Then what should I say?”
    “That you’re my nephew. Say it.”
    “I’m your nephew.”
    “Where are your parents?”
    “In the village. At home.”
    “Where’s your home?”
    “In Fehérvàros.”
    She gazed at him affectionately.
    “Good, very good. You’re awfully intelligent. Your parents were lucky. Someday they’ll be proud of you.”
    She was interrupted by a very heavyset, very blond woman, who whispered in her ear, “Get a move on; you’re up next.”
    The woman cast a curious glance at the boy and asked, “Who’s that, your bastard kid?”
    “He’s my nephew.”
    “I didn’t know—”
    “There’s a lot of things you don’t know,” Ilonka replied harshly.
    The blonde shrugged and walked off. Ilonka joined her on the stage, which all of a sudden was brightly lit.
    “Ladies and gentlemen, distinguished guests . . . ,” the blonde shouted in a voice that was surprisingly hoarse, powerful, almost deafening.
    Nobody was paying attention to her.
    “Ladies and gentlemen,” she began again, visibly annoyed. “If you please . . . Quiet down, please. . . . Pretend that your wives—your faithful and hopelessly boring wives— are with you. . . . Come on, let’s behave. . . . Especially since you’re going to have the good fortune and the honor of listening to a star who’s admired and loved—yes, loved by real men, not idiots like you. . . .”
    There were catcalls in the audience. “She’s loved. Hear that, Istvàn? But how? In bed or standing up?” Unflinching, Ilonka launched into a sentimental song that was usually well received, but this time her voice was drowned out by the general hubbub. A voice yelled, “Take off your dress if you want us to listen to you.” Another shouted, “Give us a look at what we know you’ve got.” Ilonka played coy, but as she sang, she took off her red-and-green blouse. “More, more,” the audience shouted in unison, applauding and making obscene gestures. I mustn’t look, Péter reminded himself. She told me not to look. Did he understand that for the first time in his life he was observing a public humiliation? He closed his eyes, only to reopen them immediately. The racket had suddenly ceased. A group of armed Nyilas in uniform were standing at the cabaret’s entrance. Silence had fallen like a summons to reality. All eyes except Ilonka’s were on the newcomers. Ilonka, still holding her blouse, was gazing at the little boy sitting quietly at his table, a boy who didn’t know where to look or what to do with himself.
    “Are there any
büdós Zsid
k,
any filthy Jews, here?” the leader of the Nyilas demanded.
    No one spoke.
    “I’ll say it once more: Are there any filthy Jews here? If there are, stand up.”
    No one moved.
    At last, a well-dressed man rose and walked over to the Nyilas leader: “Here’s my ID, and my Party card. I know everybody here, and I’ll vouch for each and every one of them.” The Nyilas chief, a fat, surly man with jet black hair and a Hitler mustache, glanced absently at