The Time of the Uprooted by Elie Wiesel Page A

the papers and put them in his pocket. With an impatient gesture, he told his men to follow him and then scatter among the tables, stopping here and there to question a customer, leaf through a wallet, or feel up one of the bar girls’ breasts. They were almost through when the leader spotted the boy sitting in his corner.
    “You there, who are you?”
    Péter panicked and forgot what he’d been taught.
    “So maybe you’re deaf and dumb? Or you’re a Jew?”
    “I’m a Caltho, a Calthoist,” the boy stammered.
    The fat Nyilas burst out laughing.
    “Me, too! I’m a Calthoist, too!”
    Ilonka spoke from the stage: “He’s mine.”
    An elderly Nyilas broke in: “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? This is no place for children.”
    “I couldn’t leave him home alone.”
    A bald-headed drunk seized the opening: “You live alone? Want me to come keep you company? We’ll have a good time, I guarantee you. The boy? I promise you he won’t bother us. We’ll send him next door to stay with the neighbors.”
    Ilonka came down from the stage to stand behind Péter, her hands on his thin shoulders.
    “If I came to see you, would you let me in?” the chief Nyilas asked with a sneer.
    “Of course,” said Ilonka. “All you have to do is check with the boss. He’s the one who sets my working hours. And my price.”
    The Nyilas chief sneered and bowed.
    “
Kezét csókolom, kedves aszonoyom.
I kiss your hand, my dear lady.”
    A moment later, the Nyilas were all gone. At a sign from the owner, the musicians launched into their repertoire of sad and boisterous tunes.
    The exhausted Jewish boy went to sleep, his head resting between his arms on the table.
    One day, thought Ilonka as she went back to the stage, one day I’ll sing for him, I’ll show him a good time, I’ll make him laugh, I’ll rid him of his fear, and show him the beauty of happiness. One day, I’ll tell him about my childhood. One day, I’ll make love to someone for love’s sake. One day, the sight of a man’s body won’t make me sick. On that day, I’ll look at myself without disgust, without remorse.
    One day, I’ll truly be alive, I’ll live from morning to night, I’ll smile when I feel like it, and I’ll give pleasure to a man I like. One day, I’ll wait for evening without an aching heart.
    One day, one day.
    But, Gamaliel muses, for Ilonka, the blessed saint Ilonka, the charitable, sensual singer who aroused the desire of her enemies and touched the heart of her little Jewish ward, that day never came.
    GAMALIEL WALKS TO A SQUARE NEAR THE HOSPITAL and sits down on a bench. Three hours to wait until he can meet the old Hungarian patient. How to pass the time? He could drop in on Yasha, who lives not far away, in a small apartment in Brooklyn Heights. From the street, you can see his cat, Misha, always keeping watch from the windowsill. Yasha’s love for this animal is strangely touching. The cat responds to the slightest show of affection; Yasha pampers the cat, speaks to him, listens to him, treats him as a close friend. Should he telephone Yasha? Why not? From a nearby booth, he dials the number, which he knows by heart. Five rings, six: no answer. Yasha isn’t home. Too bad.
    Gamaliel lets himself drift off into memory. He has the painful feeling that his childhood is fading away in the fog of those distant years in Czechoslovakia and even in Budapest. What can he do to save those years? He’s overcome with fatigue. Inexplicably, his brief visit to the hospital has left his mind exhausted. His head aches, his heart is racing, and his legs feel heavy. A moment of weakness? He’s sweating, though it’s still cool. The days are slow, lethargic, but the years are hurrying by. Soon they’ll go up in smoke. Yet they, too, weigh on him, and they keep getting heavier. No way to rid himself of them or to lessen the burden by sharing them with, let’s say, a loved one. Age can neither be divided nor multiplied. Time ceases when life