In his view, the Jewish infidels will survive only so they can be punished by Allah and oppressed by his devoted servants. They are the cause of all evil weighing on the world. They are the incarnation of transgression, impurity personified, the vermin of the earth, society’s cancer, the enemies of peace, the negation of happiness. Realizing that Shaltiel was guilty only of belonging to the accursed people, Ahmed quickly saw how he could take advantage of the situation: He had to coerce his hostage into signing a “voluntary” declaration condemning the Jewish state for “all the crimes committed against the unfortunate Palestinians.” He also wanted to get him to request that men of goodwill, on every side of the political spectrum, save his life by obtaining the liberation of the three Palestinian “prisoners of war.”
Between the obscenities punctuating the Arab’s orders, Shaltiel finds himself regretting two things: that he never acquired the mystical powers that would make him invisible and that he never studied the Koran. Does the Muslim holy book, held to be sacred by countless believers, really preach bloodthirsty violence? His mind, molded by the study of Jewish sources, refuses to accept this. If the Koran represents contemporary Islam, as practiced by his abductors, he feels it is a religion much to be pitied.
Ahmed believes that he is the Prophet’s personal servant. It is He who commands him to do what he does. Hence his conviction that he can do as he pleases. Shaltiel is his enemy and the enemy of his brothers in the desert; he must be denied pity. He must be crushed, his will shattered, his faith ridiculed, his honor sullied, his reason denounced, his dignity destroyed; he must be smashed, trampled on, his soul emptied of its powers and treasures. Ahmed’s immediate goal is specific: compelling the masters in Tel Aviv and Washington to accept his political demands. In front of his implacable, inflexible determination, they will show themselves to be weak and cowardly. The key to his victory is here before him: this pathetic Yid, Shaltiel Feigen-whatever.
Little by little, Ahmed convinces himself that, in addition to the liberation of the Muslim prisoners, it will be essential for him to force the hostage to disown his people—those manipulators, renegades, criminal gangsters, children of the devil and death.
“Whether you admit it or not, from the fact of being Jewish, you’ve got Muslim blood on your hands,” he says to his prisoner. “What the Jews are doing at home, they’re doing in your name too.”
“No, no, no!” protests Shaltiel, who hasn’t yet understood the meaning of this accusation. “I’m Jewish, but I’ve never humiliated anyone. I’ve never committed a crime! You’ve made a mistake about me. I’m not the person you’re looking for. I’m not your enemy! I’m against all humiliation, all persecution; I’m opposed to violence in every form, for violence includes violation. The Jew that I am, the storyteller I am, repudiates it with all my heart and soul.”
Ahmed isn’t listening to him. There is no discussing theology, sociology and politics when someone is under the spell of a self-enclosed totalitarian ideology. Intentionally or out of ignorance, Ahmed, who is empirical in all matters, detests pointless and laborious philosophical imaginings, never-ending discussions, or clashes of ideas that might be respectful of non-believer opponents and sinners deserving only of complete contempt. His argument boils down to two words: yes and no. His vocabulary is meager, limited to threats and swearwords. His role is not to listen but to be listened to. As he sees it, every infidel is a potential hostage. He is the all-powerful, omniscient master; the slave owes him not just absolute obedience, but also his existence and survival.
Even torture that is only verbal reinforces the power of the torturer: The prisoner’s imagination leads him to dread the next round of interrogations. And when it happens, the feeling of inferiority becomes more acute; it bores into the brain, and the cultural and psychological defenses that surround the brain disintegrate and vanish. The ego is dissolved. Could Ecclesiastes be right? Is a living dog worth more than a dead lion? Chased from his throne by Ashmedai, the master of demons, good King Solomon, the wisest of men, experienced mental torments too. Physical pain comes later. For the tortured, all the knowledge acquired from childhood in the course of a lifetime won’t protect you. The moans seem to issue from another body. In the end, the victim doesn’t have anything or anyone to cling to. It’s the feeling of falling into a bottomless well. Suddenly emptiness or the idea of emptiness appeals to him. Oh, to have an empty head, an empty heart, an empty future; to think of nothing, to feel nothing: This would be paradise in the middle of hell.
But Shaltiel knows this is impossible. His breath is not the only thing binding him to life. He has his parents, his wife, his close friends; they must be dying of anguish. What do they know? What are they doing? Who are they calling? What are the police doing? What is the press saying? In his imagination—and it fits with reality—he imagines Brooklyn in turmoil: the intense speculation in the study and prayer houses; the Hasidim consulting their Teacher, who advises them to recite particular Psalms. In her powerlessness, Blanca must be agonizing. If there is anyone who is moving heaven and earth, it is she. Nothing stops her; nothing holds her back. Dynamic and full of ideas, she must be running from one office to the next, from one of the dozens of Jewish organizations to another; he can hear her motivating them, encouraging them, urging them to act: Surely someone can get to a congressman, a government official.
“So, you little bastard Yid,” Ahmed yells. “Are you going to open your filthy mouth finally? If you don’t talk, I’ll make you drink your own blood! Are you going to ask for the liberation of my heroic comrades? Are you going to sign a confession and publicize your disgust for the Jewish army and the Jewish politicians? They will be done for in time, I can guarantee that! And you first and foremost!”
Meeting with flat refusals, the Arab moved away and seemed to take his companion to task, as though he were testing his loyalty to their cause.
“We’ve got to get him to show his weakness and cowardliness publicly. Thanks to him, we’ll force the liberation of my brother and the others and also gain the respect of revolutionaries throughout the world. That’s our mission!”
So there are only two of them, thinks Shaltiel. Two men, two terrorists, bound by hatred. Yet, listening to them, they’re so different. One will never change because he won’t entertain doubts, but is the other one capable of doubting? In the end, which of the two will kill me? Actually, what’s the difference. Inevitably, they’ll go through with it.
He says to himself that like Dostoyevsky he’ll be a witness to the preparations of his own execution.
He hears a door opening and closing. One of the terrorists has gone out. It’s the Italian. Ahmed begins to manhandle his prisoner, hoping he’ll reach a breaking point.
Shaltiel takes refuge in his memories and in words, as usual. He calls them, but they don’t obey. Ideas and images overlap, become distorted, diverted, disassociated. Finally, a wave of panic turns to tenderness.
Suddenly, a weird thought pops into his head: Why not make a “confession” and sign their preposterous statements, to which no intelligent person will attach any importance, and put an end to this stupid, horrendous spectacle? Other men, ever so much more influential than he, have done this, in another day and age: Nikolay Bukharin, Lev Kamenev, Zinovyev—great statesmen, illustrious generals, admired revolutionaries, former companions of Lenin—when their suffering became unbearable. He can’t do it, though he could perhaps advise the Americans and the Israelis to liberate the three Palestinians, but he could not accuse Israel of war crimes or crimes against humanity: His own memory and that of his parents won’t allow it. Yet it would be so simple: Saying yes under threat is not a disgrace. If he gave in, surely Jews would understand. Didn’t he write articles supporting Jerusalem in an obscure Jewish monthly put out by the Department of Literary Studies at a Jewish college in Ohio? He used a Hebrew name, Shaltiel ben Haskel.
He suddenly finds himself trembling. Is it possible these Palestinian terrorists have read his arti
cles and discovered the real name of their author? Perhaps his abduction was calculated. But why would they read a publication whose readership was so limited that it had to close down for lack of a subsidy? Yet in his feverish pain, he says to himself, Now that electronic communications are becoming global, anything is possible. How is he to know? Should he ask Ahmed if he is familiar with the articles? Bad idea. He might torture him even more cruelly.
Clenching his teeth, he decides not to say or do anything for the time being. He’ll wait for the Italian.
In the course of the following night Shaltiel succeeded in persuading the Italian to remove his blindfold.
“In any case, it’s of no use to you,” he said. “I’ve studied esoteric subjects that have taught me how to ‘see’ voices. So I can describe you and your friend, your faces, your bodies, your behavior. Do you want me to prove it?”
The Italian nodded his head silently. He was surprised when his prisoner began to describe facial characteristics of both men—one bearded, the other just badly shaved; the first having well-defined eyebrows, the other bushy ones.
Luigi is thrown by what Shaltiel has to say, failing to account for the blindfold having been askew. He removes it. Shaltiel has won. He squints, adjusting his eyes to even the meager light.
Am I dreaming? Is it the dream that makes my body tremble? wonders Shaltiel. He is so afraid of torture, so afraid of fear. His brain is muddled, disoriented, especially when he must wear the blindfold. He keeps repeating prayers, but they are beginning to seem less holy. His thoughts are bizarre; he’s not even sure he’s thinking. Does he cry for help? The cry may well be silent. But he hears it and he’s not sure it’s him. He suddenly sees himself surrounded by a group of masked children who are threatening him. They’re reproaching him for not having children. They demand a story, any story, as long as it’s beautiful. He suggests a poem; they refuse. He insists. They put their hands over their ears. He gets angry. A little girl makes a face at him. He finds it unbearable. Finally, he submits:
This is the story of a young, sad tiger who, from afar, tells a beautiful story to an exhausted old lion. Listen, children, grandchildren, listen and don’t cry. And you, old people, listen and don’t laugh.
Don’t look for your father, says the tiger; he is gone. Don’t call for your mother; she is hiding.
What do you say, children, when you’re saying nothing? And you, old people, what are you doing against the forest with its bruised arms?
And you, jailer, who is the real prisoner, you who erects great walls or me, your victim who dreams of freedom?
Let’s listen, children, nice children, let’s listen to the beggar who keeps silent and the blind man who sings of dusk and the tramp who sings of his thirst.
An awkward movement awakens him with a start.
• • •
To escape from the present, Shaltiel takes refuge in the delirium of the past: his father so pure in his occupations; his friends so compassionate; One-Eyed Paritus and his secrets; his brother, Pavel, and his metamorphoses; Blanca and lost happiness, unfulfilled love.
I feel an obscure desire to compare my imprisonment and my abductors’ death threats to the sufferings of my father, my mother and their parents. But I fight against the comparison. I confine myself to just recalling those years. Even in my imagination, I didn’t accompany them far enough into the darkness. I learned from my father never to yield to the temptation of comparing. Some memories are by essence unique and must remain so: Any resemblance can only be illusory.
How, in their flesh and conscience, did he and his companions live through the German occupation and its atrocities? How did they live with the dead and with death all around them? They may talk about it if they have the strength and desire; others have done so. As for me, I won’t allow myself to: I have no firsthand knowledge of Auschwitz and Ravensbrück. And there, the mystics are right: Those who know don’t talk and those who talk don’t know. And even the survivors who have decided to bear witness confirm it in their way: They almost all say that their experience can’t be related in words, and yet, as witnesses, they’re morally compelled to resort to them. Their silence, except if it is ontologically integral to their deposition, would not help truth triumph. It would only open the road to oblivion and, as one survivor put it, enable the executioner to kill his victims a second time.
To tell this story in its entirety, it may be useful for me to emphasize the role that the game of chess played in my life.
I like playing chess. I like the concentration it demands and the fact that imagination is essential. The notion that sometimes one needs to grant greater initiative and power to the pawn than the king. I welcome the need to anticipate the opponent’s moves, and turn them against him.
I also like this intelligent game because it brings me closer to my father. Facing the chessboard, even when I’m alone, I’m never really alone—my father is always facing me. I like his generosity and his way of educating me, of loving me, and doing it without flaunting it. He does everything to give me confidence. At first he went to great lengths to lose against me. Later, he went to even greater lengths to win. And when he would lose, he was happy. And proud, very proud.
I would sometimes play with strangers, and more often still, alone. There was a time, at the age of twelve, as I was preparing for my bar mitzvah, when I preferred the game to studying. In fact, I had already acquired a reputation as a budding champion in Brooklyn.
My father also liked chess, though he sometimes chided me for playing too much. Seeing me without a book in my hands or under my arm, he would gently reprimand me: “Are you forgetting that losing a game is an error or a lesson, but losing one’s time is a sin?” His rebukes never lasted very long. Afterward he watched me closely as I pondered the best way of exploiting the position of the mischievous pawn threatened by the horrid castle.
• • •
In Davarowsk, Galicia, several years earlier, I had the good fortune of meeting a German, Friedrich von Waldensohn, who claimed to be a count, though he didn’t make his lineage clear. Austrian, Hungarian, Estonian, Prussian?
He lived in a large apartment near the Jewish neighborhood, but our first meeting took place at our house, well before we moved to the ghetto. One evening, he knocked at the door and announced he was looking for me. My father was gripped with fear: Was he with the police? What possibly could it be?
The visitor, noticing me at the other end of the room, made me come closer.
“He’s young, barely seven,” my father said. “He didn’t do anything bad.”
“I see all of you are frightened. Don’t worry, I have no intention of harming you. I’m not a policeman. I’m here because I’m interested in chess; if I could, I’d spend my days and nights in front of the chessboard. And I’m told that you, my boy, are a good player.”
I didn’t know what to say. But my father quickly pulled himself together.
“Yes, that’s true, my son is a good player—at least people say he is. But I’m not competent enough to judge.”
“I am,” said the visitor. And he turned to me. “What about you? What do you think?”
I don’t know how I found the courage, if that’s what it was, but I replied, “Would you like me to show you?”
In a split second the table was cleared and the chessboard appeared. The count and I, face-to-face, started a game whose repercussions would turn out to be considerable in all our lives. He spoke German and I, Yiddish.
I was nervous, anguished; I sensed danger. After all, I couldn’t crawl into the man’s head: Whether I won or lost, I risked sparking the anger of my distinguished opponent. I had to make an effort to concentrate. I had the luck of playing black. I had no trouble predicting his first four moves (the king’s pawn, the queen’s bishop …). I set up my attack. He repulsed it. After playing for over an hour, my eyes constantly on my fingers, I found myself at a turning point: Should I sacrifice my castle and then capture his queen three moves later and p
ossibly humiliate him, and suffer his revenge? I wondered if he sensed I was hesitating. I sacrificed my castle—and I won the game. Stunned, frightened, my father stared at me, afraid that heaven would come tumbling down on us. But to our great surprise, my opponent, instead of being angry, showed contentment and approval.
“You almost kept the castle to keep me happy, right?”
I stammered some incoherent words. He interrupted me.
“Don’t insult me by lying!” he snapped.
I didn’t answer. But, as if at the edge of a precipice, I implored the God of my ancestors to protect us.
The visitor resumed in a friendlier voice.
“That was Alekhine’s defense you used in the beginning, wasn’t it?”
“I don’t understand …”
“You’re lying again! Do you think I don’t know the gambits, the openings and defenses of the great Russian masters?”
My body in a sweat, all I could do was repeat, “Sir, you have to believe me …”
“My son never lies,” my father interjected.
“I’ve never heard the word ‘gambit,’ ” I said. “I’ve never heard that there were … there were masters, great or small.”
The visitor scrutinized me for a long time, then gave me a faint smile.
“I believe you. And I like you. I’ll take my revenge next week. Okay?”
“Of course, sir,” my father replied, in my stead.
The war had been going on forever. Davarowsk was occupied by the Hungarian army and suffering under its yoke. Our Jewish community was soon to be subjected to the first anti-Semitic measures. Meanwhile, the number of disastrous decrees kept growing.
Friedrich von Waldensohn—or “the count” as we called him—came to see us every week. Our games were becoming more intense for both of us. They took place even in the ghetto, where we had moved with a few pitiful objects and utensils. Whenever he visited, he brought us food and sometimes much-needed clothes.