This year, however, they had taken the decisive step: they became angry when the lights went out. Now they were demanding both to see and to be seen. For me, their spontaneous torchlight parade is a symbol of their new desire to come up from underground, and to assert their Jewishness in open pride.
On this visit, too, I talked with them for long hours on end. Their knowledge of Jewish matters has not improved. Their faith in Marxism has not been shaken, nor have their ties to Soviet Russia been weakened. I heard not a single word of criticism against the regime in which they live. But I can report that their Jewish consciousness has taken deeper root. Judaism is no longer a matter of apologetics with them. Unlike many of their counterparts in the West, they are not defensive about their Jewishness, but regard it as a basic fact of life which is not open to discussion or philosophical debate.
“Anyone who wants to defame us can go ahead and do so,” said a chemistry student I had talked to once before, a year ago. “That’s their business. We simply don’t answer. We refuse to argue with them. Our answer lies in the fact that we continue to survive—and that we wish to go on surviving.”
Another student said, “We refuse to lower ourselves to their level. They’ve convinced us we’re right, and that’s the greatest compliment we can pay them.”
A girl, a student of Western literature and a friend of them both, said to me in Yiddish: “No one denies that there are anti-Semites here. We present a problem to them, but we’ve decided not to let them present a problem to us. Once and for all, we’ve simply refused.”
And yet, it is the anti-Semites who have caused these youngsters to return to Judaism, who have coerced them into becoming more Jewish. “It hurts me that our ‘revival’ has come about because of external, rather than internal, pressures; my only comfort is that this fact hurts the anti-Semites even more,” said a man who teaches foreign languages at one of the Soviet universities. A year ago this same man had told me how he had decided not to tell his son about his annual visits to Arkhipova Street, on the night of Simchat Torah, but had then actually met his son here, in the crowd. “This year we came together,” he said proudly. I asked him about the rest of the year. Did he talk with his son about Jewish matters? No. His wife is not Jewish, he explained, and there seems no reason to cause trouble at home. “But,” he went on, “let’s not worry. The situation cannot remain static. It has to change. Once you come to dance on Simchat Torah, you want to live like a Jew the rest of the year too. We’ll see.”
Indeed, since last year the situation has clearly changed. Young people who formerly knew about the existence of one Jewish holiday have uncovered others. Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur do not, it is true, attract them; they want to celebrate, not to fast and grieve. The “festival of freedom” is a far more exciting prospect. On a night during Passover 1966, several hundred youngsters gathered opposite the Moscow synagogue and began to dance and sing. They were the pioneer core, scouting the territory. Had there been no interference, Passover would probably have become another Simchat Torah. Someone, however, suggested to the community leaders that it was inadvisable to overdo such things. The warden of the synagogue was sent outside to ask them to leave. When this failed, the old rabbi himself came out and begged them to return home. “You’re disturbing the peace,” he told them. The youngsters finally took pity on these men, and rather than endanger their position with the authorities, decided to leave. They could wait until October. On Simchat Torah all the enthusiasm pent up during the year would finally be released.
About a thousand men and women filled the synagogue on the following day, for the second ceremony of processions. Many had brought presents for the guests: vodka, cake, and apples. They had saved up for a week or a month in order to provide this personal gift to the Jews who came to them from afar. A bottle of liquor costs about five rubles—a day’s wages for an officeworker or skilled laborer. I found myself surrounded by a dozen men, all pleading with me to drink, to accept a piece of cake or an apple. The congregation consists in the main of pensionnaires, retired workers. Last night was the youngsters’ holiday; today was theirs. “Drink lehayyim,” a Jew whispered to me. “I’ve kept this bottle for six months, waiting for this moment.” Standing next to him was a man with a red beard, who also urged me to drink: “Drink to us all; who knows, maybe your benedictions will be accepted in heaven.”
Here and there I heard people say proudly that the whole city was talking about what had happened the night before. Thirty to forty thousand youngsters had taken part in the “symphony of Simchat Torah,” and no one had been arrested, or even molested. This morning the chief trustee had contacted the police to ask if everything had been all right. Everything was fine. Not a single incident had been reported—highly unusual in the case of such a large gathering.
The processions ended. Men were being called up to the Torah. We all sang: “Blessed be he who has chosen us from among all nations and given us his Torah.” I returned to my bench in the visitors’ loge. Hunched in a corner, I read the anonymous notes I had once again found in my pocket: “Next year in Jerusalem”; “Be strong and valiant”; “Don’t forget us.…”
Suddenly, to my astonishment, I heard singing outside. I thought at first it was the effect of the vodka. But the voices became louder. I left the visitors’ section and hurried out to the street. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Hundreds of young Jews were there, singing and dancing, exactly like the night before. Where they had come from, how they had managed to leave their classrooms or offices—I don’t know. But they had come. Once again the police were called upon to block the street off. Only pedestrians were allowed to pass, and I heard some of them querying the officers about what was going on. One of the policemen replied, “It’s just the Jews, celebrating their holiday.”
For the second time in twenty-four hours I heard the old familiar songs in Yiddish and Russian. Circles were again formed to dance the hora. A young man climbed on the shoulders of his friends, shouting, “Long live the Jewish people!” The crowd roared back its approval, and urged him on. For a minute he seemed at a loss, then recovered himself and began to shout out the names of famous Jewish personalities in the Soviet Union: “Long live Benjamin Dimshitz!” “Long live David Oistrakh!” “Leonid Kogan!” “Yevsei Liberman!” “Botvinik!” “Maya Plisetskaya!” “Nehama Lipshitz!” All Jews. But the list was quickly exhausted and his audience wanted more. Unthinking, he chose the name of one long forgotten: “Long live Lazar Kaganovitch!” Someone near me asked jokingly whether Kaganovitch was still alive. Yes, he is still alive, but only the Jews remember him. I wonder if it ever crossed his mind that a day would come when his name would be trumpeted aloud outside the Jewish synagogue, while he himself was banished from the Kremlin walls.
A boy was pointed out to me who had traveled a distance of thirty miles in order to return a notebook that belonged to a foreign tourist. A second had come all the way from the other end of Moscow because the night before someone had promised to bring him a Hebrew calendar. Others came for no specific reason other than to continue what had been started the night before, as if they had simply resolved to ignore their official allotment of one night a year. It appears that when I expected to see nothing new here this year, I too had not reckoned with Jewish youth.
In all other areas, however, it must be said that the situation remains as petrified as ever. No one holds out any hope that the general discriminatory measures against Jews will be put to an end. German citizens living in the Soviet Union, for instance, have their own schools, their own theater, their own folklore, publishing houses, cultural life, and even radio and television programs. The Jews still have nothing. All others can pride themselves on their national heritage—but not the Jews.
As for the economic trials, it is difficult to ascertain whether they have been completely stopped or not. The press, at any rate, has ceased to publicize them, and that is a good sign. But there are persistent rumors about Jews who have been sentenced to death
or imprisonment for alleged economic crimes. These rumors are not spontaneous, nor are they groundless: the place of trial and the names of the accused are known. In addition, the pervasive fear which I encountered a year ago may still be said to exist. This time, too, I came across Jewish tourists from abroad who had tried unsuccessfully to speak with their relatives in Kiev and Minsk. The average Russian citizen does not hesitate to talk with foreigners; Jews shy away from them. In the synagogue I met someone who had been interrogated about a conversation he had had with me last year. They had showed him photographs, had wanted to know every question I asked him and what he had replied. He was released after twenty-four hours, but the effects of the interrogation had yet to wear off. Only because there was a large crowd around us did he feel free to speak with me again. In another place, in different circumstances, he would have avoided me completely. He told me so himself.
On the other hand, I heard of Jews in other cities who had overcome their fear. This year a number of Jews even had the courage to request permission to be reunited with their families abroad. A short while ago an old Hasid was granted an exit visa. Hundreds of his fellow Hasidim, singing and dancing, accompanied him to the train station, to the general astonishment of the other passengers. No one interfered.
Whether or not there will be interference in the future, only time can tell. I believe, however, that no amount of interference will succeed in dampening the new spirit of awakening that breathes in Soviet Jewry, especially among the young. And I believe that the authorities know this. Soviet policy toward the Jews seems to be at a crossroads; the trouble is that no matter which direction it finally takes, the results will in all likelihood be the same. A policy of leniency—even token leniency—will cause many Jews who have hitherto wandered about as strangers among strangers, along the fringes of their people, to return to Judaism. Once it is known that it is permissible to live openly as a Jew—without the fear of public insults and degradation—such people will return in the thousands, for the simple reason that it has been proved to them in their very bones that a Jew cannot live in Russia as a non-Jew.
But an opposite policy—of suppression through the real means of fear and terrorization—will only bring about similar results. The experience of past years has taught us that young Jews will oppose this kind of pressure. They have already demonstrated their unwillingness to surrender either to blandishments or to threats, and their adherence to Judaism will increase precisely as they are asked to reject it. The further they are separated from their people, the more will they assert their identification with it.
It is possible therefore to say that Soviet authorities have missed their opportunity. It may be that at one time—two or three generations ago—it was possible to solve the “Jewish problem” in the Soviet Union, for better or for worse, through a process of voluntary or forced assimilation. Many Jews, if given the opportunity, would perhaps have tried to assimilate and to live as non-Jews; but this was denied them. The general populace refused to accept them as citizens with equal rights. A Jew born as a Jew remained a Jew until the day of his death, whether he liked it or not. His national origin was stamped on all his documents.
By now, however, young Jews in Russia have rejected the solution of assimilation altogether. Although they have had no education in Judaism—except what they have learned from anti-Semitic literature—they cling ferociously to their community. Although non-religious, they celebrate Jewish holidays and sing Jewish songs. Under no circumstances will they allow their Jewishness to be degraded or killed.
I returned from my second trip to Moscow somewhat encouraged. I am convinced that however events turn out, these young Jews will continue to seize every available opportunity to demonstrate their solidarity with the Jewish community. I have no doubt that in the not too distant future they will appear in front of the synagogue not just once a year but twice, then three or four times, and then once a month. Something is taking place among Jewish youth in the Soviet Union, and the time has come for us to realize it. Without outside help, without teachers or books, without leaders and meeting places, even without an appropriate spiritual climate, they have managed to survive, and will manage in the future as well. And they will do so, I should add, on their own. They learn Hebrew in secret, translate a Hebrew song into Russian, pass from hand to hand slips of paper with a few lines of Jewish history written on them. They listen to foreign broadcasts and circulate among themselves news of what is happening in world Jewry and in the Jewish state. This activity is not organized by any single person in any single place. Each one of them takes part and feels personally responsible for its success.
Their salvation, then, will come from within themselves, not from us. They may already have realized how futile it is to rely on us—either on our help or on our sympathy—and so have taken their destiny into their own hands. In past years, guests from abroad played an important role on the night of Simchat Torah. Each one of us would be surrounded by hundreds of youngsters, and we would tell them what was happening elsewhere in the world. We taught them new songs. This time, however, we were only observers. A year ago, they seemed to be making a conscious effort to explain and clarify their Jewishness, both for themselves and for others. This year, everything had suddenly become clear. Few of the participants were to be seen engaged in discussions among themselves or with the foreign guests. Rather than besiege us with questions, they appeared content with what they themselves knew. They didn’t need us any longer. And the next day, when they came in groups to the synagogue, and began to sing and dance, it was without our knowledge. We went home; they continued to dance and shout: “The people Israel lives!” That song will never die.
14.
The Guilt We Share
The trial of Eichmann at Jerusalem may be called historic insofar as it aimed not merely at judging the crimes and moral degradation of a single individual—or even of a system—but at trying to define more clearly a whole epoch of our history. That epoch, up to now, has eluded all human understanding—so inhumanly blind were its drives, so terrible their consequences.
Not one, but two peoples were transformed: the one into the murderers, the other into the silent horde of the murdered. How was it possible? we still ask sixteen years later. How was an Eichmann possible? We ask the question in anguish—we are in the dark, still. How explain away so total a triumph of beastliness over man, and at the expense of the destruction of a whole people? How, and why? At a certain point in the asking, the why and the how come together, indistinguishably.
Those of us who looked to the trial for an answer to these questions looked in vain. I asked Alfred Kazin one day if he thought the death of six million Jews could have any meaning; and he replied that he hoped not. There can, indeed, be no answer naked enough, or real enough. But the trial should at the very least have shaped the question, should at least have revealed the cry inside the question that will echo through all time. Simply to condemn Eichmann was not enough; not even, in fact, possible. The enormity, call it even the absurdity, of his acts, transcended his person and placed him outside of temporal justice. The laws of living men could not judge him—only the dead could confront him. It was this that often made the trial seem unreal: that the principal characters, Eichmann foremost, appeared actually to be at ease in their respective roles, as if they had come together in the usual kind of judicial proceeding, the ordinary sort of trial where a man is being judged by his peers. Not so: not he, not Eichmann was being tried, but History. The accused Eichmann spoke freely, unafraid. He cited documents and figures, he held back nothing—he was desperately bent on saving his neck. Thus he often succeeded in giving a false emphasis to the proceedings. Yet we all know that it was not Eichmann’s neck that was really at stake. The case of Eichmann—symbol as well as individual—had to be judged in the domain of psychiatry and metaphysics, and not only by the processes of law.
It was precisely this kind of larger scope that the trial never achieved, as critics of th
e proceedings have pointed out. The beam of light that it threw did not encompass enough and therefore failed to uncover all the dark horizons. And if the focus of the trial was too narrow, the reason was that the proceedings got stuck inside the rules of the legal game. The accused should have constituted the point of departure—he was, instead, the end in sight. So the equation was necessarily falsified: if, before the law, the Eichmanns are guilty, the others, therefore, are innocent. But the truth leads to a different conclusion: the others are guilty, too.
All of us, I believe, in varying degrees must take responsibility for what happened in Europe—Curzio Malaparte and even Karl Jaspers have pointed this out. We belong to a generation at once lost and guilty, and our collective conscience lies under a weight of humiliation. It is too easy to put the whole brunt on a single Eichmann: to do so is to evade coming face to face with the problem. No one ever doubted Eichmann’s guilt; everyone was convinced of it from the start, and no trial was needed for proof. If the trial was important—and I for one believe it was—it was because by reviving the past it was able to demonstrate how a crime could spill over and outward, and splash its guilt onto those who thought themselves to be standing at a safe distance. If the grandiose proceedings had failed to teach this lesson, they would have been not useless, but incomplete.