The Time of the Uprooted: A Novel

  As he listens to the priest, Hananèl is thinking, If he wants to be alone with me, he must be embarrassed about something. Who knows, maybe he’s sick, he or someone in his family. But I’m not a doctor. So maybe he wants me to intercede with heaven for him? The young scholar signals to Big Mendel to leave. Mendel backs out of the room, obviously disapproving, as if he fears some threat to his Master.

  “Now, what may I do for you?” Hananèl asks the priest in a tone he hopes is both courteous and self-assured.

  “I have a message . . . a message for . . . for His Honor the Rabbi,” the priest replies.

  “I am not a rabbi.”

  “Your assistant believes . . . he believes you are. . . . And so does the person . . . so does the person who sent me.”

  So this is not the one who is expecting something from me; it’s not about him or his personal problems. The thought worries Hananèl. Then who is it about? Who else could have need of a Jew like me? The Archbishop, that’s who it must be. What’s he suffering from? Insomnia perhaps? What’s he afraid of?

  “I’m listening,” Hananèl says. “You have a message for me?”

  “From . . . it is from His Eminence Archbishop Báranyi.”

  “And what is the message?”

  “His Eminence asks . . . he asks to speak with you . . . in person.”

  “Well then, tell him I’ll receive him.”

  “If I may . . . if I may make a suggestion to The Honorable Rabbi . . . His Eminence is expecting him at his residence . . . at the Archbishop’s residence.”

  “When would he like to see me?”

  “Right now.”

  Hananèl is about to ask why the hurry, but he holds his tongue. Any show of disrespect toward a high dignitary of the Church could cause harm to the community.

  “A carriage . . . a carriage is waiting for us at the gate,” says the priest.

  “I’ll be ready in a moment.”

  Hananèl buttons up his caftan, puts on his overcoat and hat, and walks to the door that Mendel is holding open. “I will accompany the Rabbi,” Mendel says in a tone that brooks no contradiction. They are already seated in the carriage when Hananèl tells Mendel to fetch their prayer shawls and phylacteries. “Who knows, we may have to stay there more than just a few hours.”

  Mendel cannot keep from shivering. Does the Rebbe know something he doesn’t? He asks, “Is that all I should bring?”

  “Yes,” his young Master says. “We’ll look to the Lord for whatever else we may need.” His words, though intended to reassure, sound foreboding to his aide and friend.

  The carriage, drawn by two strong horses, rapidly crosses the streets of the small provincial town through a newly profound darkness, to which it is hard to become accustomed, particularly for people who never go out at night. Since March 19, when the Germans arrived, only an occasional streetlight has been turned on, for fear of air raids. The young priest sits silently beside the coachman. Hananèl is reciting psalms. Mendel sits fidgeting. Where are they taking us? he wonders. When will we get there? When will we return, and in what condition? He hesitates before questioning the priest, then does so whispering, hoping not to be heard by Hananèl. The priest does not answer. To prison, that’s where they’re taking us, and the Rebbe has already figured it out, Mendel is thinking. That’s how he knew we would need our ritual objects. What will become of our community? And of my wife and children? He turns to the Rebbe, but Hananèl is absorbed in the psalms and listens only to their silent song.

  Far away, the dawn is breaking. The sky as it reddens is pure and delicate. Almost all the snow is gone from the rooftops. Nature awakens as if to a promise of life and happiness. Spring is on the doorstep. The trees, stirred by a light wind, are tracing their slender beauty on the horizon. “Soon it will be time to say our morning prayers,” Mendel murmurs, but still the young scholar does not reply. His silence is not threatening, but the priest’s is. Mendel doesn’t understand what is happening, and that disturbs him. Luckily, it will soon be light. I’ll see the Rebbe’s face, and then I’ll know, he thinks, trying to reassure himself.

  After two hours of travel, the carriage reaches an outlying section of the city and pulls up in front of an impressive building that occupies half a block. The priest steps down, pulls a bell, and speaks to a watchman, who opens the iron gate. The priest respectfully asks the young Jew to accompany him. Mendel gives him his arm to lean on. In his other hand, he holds the prayer shawls and phylacteries. “This isn’t a prison,” he mutters. “That’s something, anyway.” They cross a courtyard and enter a luxurious building several stories high. Deep carpets, old paintings, lit candles everywhere. Absorbed in his thoughts, Hananèl slowly climbs the stairs to the second floor. They approach a door at the far end of a long hallway. “You stay here,” the priest tells Mendel, whose objections are silenced by a gesture from Hananèl.

  The door opens, revealing a room lit by a huge chandelier hanging from the ceiling. A desk is littered with books and various objects. Hananèl looks straight ahead as he enters, telling himself he will not be afraid. The man seated there, hands folded in front of him, is thin and his face is bony under the red skullcap. His gaze is icy. He waits a moment before speaking the words that have been haunting him forever: “So it is you.”

  The young Jew stands still and replies, “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Of course you do. You know perfectly well.”

  Hananèl decides not to insist. The prelate motions toward a chair.

  “I prefer to remain standing.”

  The Archbishop looks down, then speaks in an anguished voice. “What do you want of me? Tell me, tell me everything. We are both men of God, you and I. We can speak from the heart.”

  “I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You’re after me; you’re pursuing me even into my dreams.”

  “I have nothing to do with it,” Hananèl replies. “Perhaps the Lord is making use of me to address your conscience.” The Archbishop is silent. Now the young scholar is inspired, and he continues in a tone that is both harsh and intense. “And if the Lord is using me, I have no right to remain concealed. Is it to please the Lord that you neither act nor speak out at this fateful time for the children of Israel? They are in danger, as you well know. The Germans are here. Will they do to us what they’re doing to our brothers and sisters in Poland? My heart tells me they will. And what does your heart tell you?”

  “Sit down. . . . Please be seated. . . .”

  Hananèl remains on his feet. The Archbishop sits up straight: “Why are you speaking like this to me? You’re hurting me, and I don’t deserve it. I’ve never persecuted Jews. I’ve never preached hatred of Jews. But you’re making me suffer. Why? What have I done to you that you should trouble my rest and even my sleep?” Suddenly, his tone of voice changes. “And besides . . .” He stops for a moment, as if to gather his strength. “Who do you think you are that you dare address me in His Holy Name?”

  He leans forward so he can better study the face of the young visitor, who is too calm, too sure of himself. Now, just as suddenly, he is seized by panic. He cries out from the depths of his being. “No! No! It cannot be true! You cannot be . . .”

  He collapses to his knees.

  The young scholar helps him up and says, “Now we can begin.”

  THURSDAY, 10:00 A.M. “YOU’RE LOOKING FOR someone?”

  Gamaliel was daydreaming. Now the voice of his self-appointed guide rouses him.

  “Can I help you?”

  Gamaliel pauses a moment before answering. “Yes, I’m looking for building four, ward three.”

  “Yes, I know where it is. Come, I’ll show you.”

  His guide seems to know his way around. He’s a stoop-shouldered elderly man with puffy cheeks and a pointed black goatee. Behind horn-rimmed glasses, his eyes light up when he speaks, but his face remains expressionless. Instinct tells Gamaliel to be cautious: There is something disturbing in th
e old man’s manner.

  “My wife’s there, too. She’s been there since . . . Well, I don’t recall anymore since when. . . . She left me . . . all I know is I’m alone . . . have been for a long time.”

  The man blows on his hands. Is he cold, just when Gamaliel is beginning to feel hot? His wavering voice is shot through with remorse. Remorse over letting his wife leave him? Over forgetting what day she left? Gamaliel studies him: He’s met too many people, in too many lands, not to sense a warning signal.

  “It’s a depressing place,” the old man says. “Depressing for those who live there, and for the rest.”

  “The rest?”

  “The rest of us.” And after a pause, he adds, “You, too, are here to see your wife?”

  “No.” Should he tell him he’s not married? Gamaliel is in no mood to confide in this man.

  “Maybe she’s your mother?”

  “No, not that, either.” This fellow is getting on my nerves with his interrogation, Gamaliel is saying to himself, but the old man backs off.

  “What right do I have to be asking? We’re all separated from someone we love.”

  Gamaliel’s thoughts turn once again to his two daughters, Katya so far away, Sophie so estranged, both so hostile, and once again the pain is so sharp, it takes his breath away. Better not think about that, he tells himself. This is no time to relax his vigilance.

  “Now take God, for example,” the old man is saying. “He was separated from His Creation, and His Creation betrayed Him. Ever since, He’s been feeling the same melancholy as the rest of us. And the same remorse.”

  So now he thinks he’s a theologian, Gamaliel thinks morosely. They are crossing a courtyard. The quiet that meets them is so heavy, it’s palpable. To Gamaliel, it’s a message he cannot decode: The silence of the mad is different from our own. Is it their home, or their prison? Is it a wall, or is it the light that illuminates the wall? Do they consider themselves intruders here, just as more and more he feels himself a stranger in the so-called real world? Most of all, Gamaliel hopes the old man won’t resume his chatter. If he does, Gamaliel will run away. A breeze whispers through the trees without disturbing their branches. Whence does it come? Who sent it? To stir what memories? Rebbe Nahman of Bratslav believed the wind carries messages from unhappy princes to their brides, who have been carried off by the forest spirits. In Hebrew, the word for wind is the same as for breath and spirit. But nowadays, people use the word to express disdain: “No need to listen to what he has to say; it’s just wind.” Gamaliel, on the other hand, takes it seriously: if only it would agree to take a message to his daughters . . .

  “Let’s sit for a moment,” the old man suggests. “At my age, my legs will no longer do what I tell them. There . . . on that bench. It’s the lovers’ bench. So many lovers sat there to escape, to love, to let loose . . . and to betray. I know all about that. . . .” He pauses to take a good look at Gamaliel’s features. “Have you ever sat on this bench? And how was she, that woman in your arms? Go on, tell me about it.”

  “I never set foot in this hospital before today.”

  “And she?”

  “She who?”

  “Are you sure she’s not here, the woman you once loved, the woman you still love?”

  “I’m sure of nothing.”

  The old man’s face darkens. “I hope you didn’t come here in vain.”

  “So do I.”

  After what seems like a long moment’s reflection, the old man looks Gamaliel straight in the eye and says, “And what if I tell you I’m the one you came for?”

  Should I take pity on him, or use my fatigue as a pretext to get away from him? thinks Gamaliel as he sits down. All is perfectly arranged here. Everything is in its place—clean, antiseptic. Not a speck of dust on the bench. Nonetheless, the old man takes out his handkerchief and diligently wipes off the seat. Gamaliel looks over at the windows on the two sides of the courtyard. They are dark and opaque. Yet he feels hundreds of pairs of curious or angry eyes watching his every move. Why are they interested in him? Do they want to warn him of some danger stalking him? Advise him to turn around and leave?

  “I used to work here as a guide and gardener,” the old man says, out of breath. “You can’t imagine. . . . It was a long time ago. I knew all the doctors, all the nurses. The patients were my friends. I protected them from fear. Poor people, they were so afraid they’d be shaking, terrified of the electroshock treatment. You’re lucky—you don’t know what fear is, at least not that kind. And my poor wife . . .”

  Gamaliel, more and more irritated, retreats into silence. The old man talks of fear, but what can he know about it, this solid citizen, well dressed, free to go where he wants when he wants? As for Gamaliel, the accursed refugee, it would take very little for the ground to slip out from under his feet. Should I tell this harmless well-meaning chatterbox that I’ve known every kind of fear? he wonders. Fear in Budapest. Fear of the Nyilas, the Hungarian Nazis, of the local police, of the German soldiers, and later, in Vienna, the fear of the unknown, the physical fear when confronted by a border guard, the fear felt by the refugee, the exiled, the hungry, the person who’s been uprooted and is living clandestinely, the fear of showing one’s afraid . . .

  “My poor wife,” the old man is saying. “How she suffered, flat on her back, thin as a rail, handcuffed to the iron cot, waiting for the first wave to hit, the first shock to shoot through her body and rip her brain apart . . .”

  Gamaliel is no longer listening to the old man’s soliloquy; he’s thinking about the patient he’s going to see. Can it be that she is someone he knows? A neighbor from back then, in Budapest? Companion of a one-night stand somewhere along the fields of flowers or dusty roads of this planet? A small shy voice somewhere inside him whispers, Suppose it’s Ilonka? If it is, will she remember him? After all, it’s been what seems like centuries since their ways parted. She stayed home, in her apartment, working at her trade of nightclub singer, living her life, whereas he . . . He has so many questions for her. About his mother. Who turned her in? What was she wearing? What did she carry in her pathetic little suitcase when she climbed into the cattle car? And about his father. Who tortured him in the interrogation cell at the notorious counterespionage headquarters on Andràssy Utca? Did his comrades help? What were their names? How did he maintain his Jewishness far from his own people? When and how did he die? So many things Gamaliel doesn’t know but wants to find out. He can’t even list them all. What questions should he ask Ilonka, if indeed it is she waiting there, to rouse her will to remember the distant and painful past? He knows only that the elusive, nebulous answers he seeks lie somewhere in a memory not his own, and that he cannot die in peace until he knows. Fortunately, Ilonka knows. For it is she he came to see. But is it she? Not necessarily. After all, that the patient speaks Hungarian means nothing; many Hungarians live in America.

  “What’s on your mind?”

  The old man’s intrusive question is exasperating. Gamaliel feels like telling him it’s none of his business. He shouldn’t pester a stranger like this. Let him go pick on someone else. But the old man is pitiful. Why hurt his feelings? Maybe he should just throw the question back at him.

  “As for me,” the old man says, as if he’d read Gamaliel’s mind, “what concerns me is language—that is, language in relation to electroshock treatment.”And he launches into a learned monologue on the connections between philology and semiotics as they relate to anthropology and psychiatry. “Yes indeed, you can tell if a person is in a state of advance or decline according to the words he uses to define those conditions. It’s all in the language. . . . Didn’t Leibniz say that language is the finest monument a people can build? Every word has its double, as does man: This double accompanies man, or denies him; it is always the aggressor. It distorts the reality that the word transmits. But where is truth? To flush it out, to corner it—there’s a goal for the seeker. And then, if he digs deeply enough into the word, he will find a tru
th set forth by our most remote, least-known ancestors. . . .”

  The old man pauses to pose the next question. “But if that word is telling a lie, is man up to the task of discovering the truth on which the word once was based? But then again, what is a lie? The opposite of the truth? But then what is truth? The Sophists, those masters of rhetoric, did not even ask the question. What interested them was the art of convincing. Now, there is conquest in conviction, and electroshock is the dreadful conqueror who convinces. But how about the conquered? Who speaks for them, for those who learned only to howl? What would we know of Plato and Confucius if their ability to express themselves had died with them? Similarly with Moses: What if the word of God had not burst forth from his lips but had sunk into the sands?”

  Well, well . . . Gamaliel can’t help smiling. Why didn’t I have this fellow for a teacher? Who knows, I might have less trouble writing.

  “It all would have been so different,” the old man continues. “Yes, it would have been so very different if these great thinkers with their world-shaking ideas, these creators with their universal visions, had undergone even a minute of electroshock!”

  Now Gamaliel listens more carefully. He must be a talented writer, this man obsessed, or else a frustrated orator. Suddenly, he finds the old man interesting. He’d invite him to the nearby coffee shop if he had the time and had thought to put enough money in his pocket. Gamaliel likes to draw from wells that are new to him, to be a link between people who have nothing in common. To pluck on their heartstrings, to awaken them to enthusiasm. Rescue them from boredom and oblivion. What tragedy is this cultivated, outgoing man living through with his wife, or far from her, that he is so concerned with a treatment that doctors hardly ever use nowadays? What scream is he stifling under this flood of words he pours into the ear of the first passerby he meets on his journey? Meanwhile, the old man is scratching his beard with an air of concentration and is still talking away. Now, no doubt to impress even more, he discourses on Meister Eckhart and his book on divine solace, on Pindar and his concept of silence; he is mingling Oriental philosophy, nuclear science, political gossip, and biblical exegesis, all apparently without noticing whether Gamaliel is really paying attention: “The unfortunate thing, the terribly unfortunate thing, is that the psychiatrists here put themselves on a pedestal, and so they no longer know how to listen. As for me, I know. I don’t just listen to human beings; I listen to animals. I understand them; I sense what they’re asking for. I listen to trees that are in fear of drought, and the wind that plays at drawing clouds, then erasing them. I listen to blades of grass that moan softly as they grow. I listen to the earth we walk on—it’s resigned to being trampled. I even listen to the stones. People think a stone feels nothing, has nothing to say. Well, they’re wrong. Stones have their own language. Yes, it takes them years or centuries to communicate with one another. So what? They’re patient; they can wait, can’t they? How old is our beloved planet? What’s a century and a half compared with billions of years? I’m telling you, our caretakers should learn to listen. . . .”