A Mad Desire to Dance by Elie Wiesel
I left him reluctantly.
A few days later, at nightfall, we went to the Wall, Haïm-Dovid and I, simply to talk about various things. Didn't his father forbid him from seeing me? Apparently not. Or was it conceivable that he chose to disobey the rabbi? Why not? After all, we were friends. I knew him better than most of the students. It was with him that I took occasional walks in the evening, admiring the sunset on the hills and the domes of the Old City. I loved and still love that time of day. Young Talmudists make their way toward groups of praying men. Beggars bless us; I empty my pockets to fill theirs. Yesterday's shadows stand out against the walls and invade the memory of the passersby and the fantasies of the ghosts. Sometimes, when Haïm-Dovid heard the muezzin calling the faithful to prayer in the al-Aqsa Mosque, he plugged his ears, but not I. I loved it, and I still love to absorb every rustle of the wind through the trees, the moans of those in despair, the languorous song of the disinherited and the wanderers. Even when I'm not in Jerusalem, I am mad enough to live in its memories by integrating them with mine.
In Jerusalem, in those days, I liked to be alone, truly alone. I hadn't been afflicted by madness yet, as you might think, or by a curse, as my friend Haïm-Dovid would think, but for reasons I myself don't know, I aspired to keep my distance from people, no matter who they were.
I hadn't yet come to a decision about the near future, but I was still living at the yeshiva. Haïm-Dovid wanted to know why I had gone to see the rabbi and what my conversation with him had been like. So he didn't know what his father thought of our friendship. I frowned.
“How do you know I saw him? I didn't tell anyone.”
“Oh, in an environment like ours, everyone knows everything. And quickly. Absolutely quickly and absolutely everything.”
“You say people know—but be more specific: What do they know exactly?”
“They know the two of you talked for a long time.”
“Absolutely?”
“Hmmm … for a long time.”
“And what else?”
“The rosh yeshiva, may the Lord grant him long life, isn't pleased with you,” he said.
“And do you know why he isn't pleased? Indeed absolutely displeased?”
“No, we don't know why.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.” Then after a hesitation, he said, “The rosh yeshiva, may the Lord grant him long life, doesn't owe anybody any explanations.”
“And no one receives his words in secret?”
“Not I, in any case.”
Should I tell him what the rabbi had told me about his brother? Why upset him?
“Tell me, Haïm-Dovid, what's your brother's name?”
He gave a start. “Why do you want to know?”
“No idea. Just like that. You mentioned him the other day …”
He scowled. “I shouldn't have. Forget what I said.”
I couldn't overcome my curiosity: Why this rejection of his brother? What sin had he committed to incur the blame of the rabbi and be repudiated by his own brother? I decided to be frank. “I owe you the truth, Haïm-Dovid. The rabbi mentioned him as well.”
“What did he tell you?”
“He warned me not to be like him, not to follow in his tracks; otherwise …”
“Otherwise?”
“Otherwise, I too will wind up at the bottom of the abyss.”
“Come with me,” Haïm-Dovid said in a tone that was suddenly resolute.
Cutting our way through the crowd, we approached the Wall. There my friend took a sheet of paper out of his pocket, tore it in half, wrote a few words on both halves, and inserted the two pieces into the cracks in the Wall, while murmuring a psalm.
“The first is to save my brother, and the other one is to protect you,” he said.
And once again, after a hesitation that made him sigh as if in pain, he added, “My brother is cursed. As for you, try not to imitate him; it would be madness on your part.”
He told me about the path bestrewn with traps and challenges taken by Béinish, his older brother, whom he had admired and loved.
He had gone mad, as I would later. An irate madman. Rising up against established authority and the discipline of faith, rebelling against the rigorous laws inherited from our ancestors. To put it plainly, a rebel against his father and the blazing symbol he embodied.
Yet, during his adolescence and throughout his studies, Béin-ish had made his parents and relatives proud. Tall, slender, generous, he was a fast learner, remembered everything, quickly knew his way around the most obscure Halakhic sources, and during the services, he showed a piety and fervor that aroused satisfaction and pride in his tutors. He wasn't known to have a single weakness or fault. Perfect in everything, rigorous in his spirituality, eloquent in speech, he could match the renowned scholars of the neighboring schools and was never conceited about it. Naturally, on the day after his bar mitzvah, his parents received calls from the most illustrious families having young girls to marry off.
Everything was going well. At sixteen Béinish was engaged. The young girl, Reisele, came from a great and wealthy Szerenc-sevaros family, and her father was known for his charitable deeds as well as his devotion to the Torah. Everything took place as in the past in central Europe. The two families prepared a wedding that would stand out for its festive splendor as well as the fervor of its religious ceremony. Three orchestras made the guests throb with joy and melancholy; seven troubadours vied for the honor of entertaining the gathering with their humor, acerbic and tender, sharp yet never aggressive. About fifty rabbis went out of their way for the occasion. The most illustrious among them, the venerable Rovidok Rabbi, a descendant of the famous Magid of Kraków, had the voice and face of a biblical prophet; he danced the ritual dance with the young bride, each of the two holding a corner of the handkerchief. Beggars came from every part of the country for the paupers’ feast. Sumptuous meals were distributed on every day of the weeklong festivity . The gifts the couple received would have delighted both present-day kings and queens and the kings and queens of old. A neighboring community offered the young groom a rabbinical position with a library, a study house, and an enviable salary. The father of the bride, for his part, very much wanted the couple to come and live in his palace for three years. But Béinish preferred to stay at his parents’ house. His father-in-law didn't take offense: “My son-in-law—may God protect him—doesn't like luxury; for him, knowledge is the supreme value.” And everyone was overjoyed until it all fell apart.
Scarcely two years after the wedding, a curse struck the little world of Béinish's family. It was Monday morning. Reisele, in tears, burst in on her mother-in-law, a letter in her hand. After scanning it quickly, the mother-in-law rushed to the rabbi to show it to him. “God has punished us!” she cried out in a hoarse voice. “Read this. What evil have we committed for Him to punish us this way?”
Unaccustomed to his wife having this kind of outburst, the rabbi remained calm. He read the letter once, twice, then shook his head: “What is this? What is he saying? I don't understand, I don't understand.” In fact, it was incomprehensible to everyone. The young husband had simply disappeared. Yes, disappeared without leaving a trace, other than this letter with which he broke his marriage ties. Like a thief, he had fled during the night, taking only his tefillin and a change of clothes. What? Béinish was separating from his family? Béinish was divorcing? Béinish was deserting his home and repudiating his relatives? Why? What was happening to him? Béinish was acting on an impulse, he of all people? Some Hasidim, bred on superstition, declared: “It's a dybbuk; he's haunted by an evil spirit.” This the rabbi didn't really believe. But then how could he explain it? And where was Béinish? Kidnapped by gangsters? Was he still alive? Should the police be alerted? To that, the response was immediate: “Whatever you do, let's not have the police around here.” Among these people, everyone managed without requesting help from the impious and hostile authorities. But then what should they do?
First, keep it secret: this “scandal” would just delight the Zionist “enemies.” But how could leaks be avoided? Béinish was too well known and very much solicited. Up until then, people saw him every day. Recently—in fact, since his marriage— he had seemed more taciturn, sullen, and withdrawn, and he avoided conversations and public meetings as much as possible. But there's a big difference between this and running away.
Haïm-Dovid was young at the time but mature enough to understand that his family was going through a serious trial, both painful and embarrassing. He remembered it with a sharpness that was still vivid: the faithful in whom they could confide, their grim expressions as they came and went; the improvised consultations behind closed doors; Reisele's tears; the rebbe-tzin's sighs. And the rabbi's silences. Dense, oppressive, impenetrable, they sometimes lasted for hours and days. How could he forget them? And his father's outpouring of tenderness toward him, the younger son, when he took him on his lap and stroked his head as a way of consoling himself for an irreparable loss.
“Even today I can't explain why Béinish, the brother I admired and also envied, deserted his home and family,” Haïm-Dovid said, closing his eyes as if this could help him find his words. “For me, for all of us, this remains a painful, taboo mystery. Absolutely.”
As he broke off, I couldn't help asking him: “Was he unhappy with his wife? Didn't he want her to bear children so his name would be perpetuated? Didn't he love her? Or perhaps he loved her too much?”
“My father might know the answer. I don't.”
“And what about Reisele? Where is she now? What became of her?”
“After the divorce, she became a recluse.”
“What do you mean? Invisible from one minute to the next?”
“She suddenly ceased to exist.”
“And what did the physicians say?”
“They said it was … psychological. A word I didn't understand but that was meant to explain it all.”
“And for how long did that last?”
“Even today, she still lives in her prison, separated from the world of normal people. She listens and doesn't answer. She listens and doesn't hear. She listens and doesn't cry.”
“And Béinish?”
Haïm-Dovid stiffened. Everything about him seemed to freeze: the suffering on his face, and the anguish. “He is lost. For us, he is lost.”
Actually, I thought, it was the simple and ordinary story of a breakup. With the family, with intimate friends, with the austerity of faith. But also of an opening to another life and its challenge to intelligence: those were the steps in the new life of the young prodigal son lost in unfamiliar vineyards.
“Can you imagine?” Haïm-Dovid added. “In his madness, my brother even joined the army. He completed his military service. And I've heard that now he's a member of the security services or Mossad, may God punish them all, each according to his sins.”
For Haïm-Dovid, his rebellious brother was insane. But was he himself normal? Isn't fanaticism, which restricts reason and blinds it, a kind of madness, and the kind that threatens not just one specific individual but a whole community?
This was probably when I decided not to stay much longer at that yeshiva. Honestly, I thought, the rabbi and his people go too far in their rejection of Israel. I can't be their ally. My uncle Avrohom would never have cursed Jews, not even those whose opinions and commitments he fought. He never would have wished suffering, humiliation, or death on them. After all, these soldiers were defending the only country in the world where every Jew can feel at home. You can deplore their negligence, the error of their ways in the area of religious practice, without going so far as to pray for their defeat, which would lead to the demise of Israel. Even today, I think I made the right choice. I'm willing to be different from others, but not in the same way as the members of that sect. I'm willing to suffer, but not to make others suffer.
“Haïm-Dovid,” I asked before parting from him, “what is your brother's new name?”
“Why do you want to know?” he replied, looking irritated.
“I'd like to meet him.”
He told me his name—Tamir—but regretted it immediately. I didn't realize my curiosity would anger him.
“And what if Béinish just wanted to live by himself?” he retorted abruptly.
At that point I said to myself that Haïm-Dovid, like his family, regarded his brother as ill. But if Béinish really had chosen to live by himself, perhaps I was wrong to want to meet him. What could I get out of it? An understanding of his solitude? Solitude is a battered woman who has neither the strength nor the desire to love anymore. Solitude is a starving child who dreams of a stale piece of bread. Solitude is a beggar who hasn't slept a wink for days and nights, perhaps since he was torn from his mother's womb.
Like madness, solitude is fear.
A solitary man is a man who is afraid. A man who is afraid is a solitary man. When solitude enters me, it becomes me. Solitude emerges unexpectedly when only the body belongs to me, but also when I belong to the body all alone. Solitude changes consciousness into a prison, a jail that I am afraid of leaving.
Afraid of not understanding anything, afraid of understanding everything. Afraid of loving and afraid of not loving anymore. Afraid of forgetting everything and afraid of not forgetting anything: mangled bodies left lying about the battlefield, the slow and implacable death pangs of the survivors. Afraid of experiencing hunger, afraid of having no thirst for anything anymore. Afraid of dying and of living. Afraid of being afraid. Afraid of being alone when no one is here anymore. Afraid of being alone when the loved one is here.
There exists a fear that is not yet death but that is no longer life.
“For you, is what you call madness a way of entering solitude?” Thérèse asks.
“I'm not a psychiatrist; I don't know how to define madness.”
“You've been with me for a long time, haven't you?”
“Yes. Under analysis, as they say.”
“Do you feel lonely when you're with me?”
“I talk to you; you listen to me. Should that make me less lonely?”
“Less insane?”
“Or more so?”
“That's exactly what I'd like to know.”
“May I answer with a question?”
“Go ahead.”
“In fact, God is lonelier than His most solitary creatures, for He can't not be. Could it be that He too is insane?”
“If you think you're shocking me, Doriel, try again. I'm not a believer. What about you?”
“I don't know anymore. I once was. As Haïm-Dovid would say, ‘absolutely.’ Now things have changed; sometimes I think I'm insane because I still have religious faith, sometimes because I no longer do. Did Nietzsche believe in God before sinking into madness? His last work is titled Ecce Homo, ‘Behold the man’: What man was he talking about? The God-seeking man or the man who shuns God? Perhaps the man who thought he was God? What does a person believe in when he no longer believes in anything? You who have explored the multiple faces of madness, what do you think of mine? Is it tied to a need or to a fear of the veils that solitude spreads over my eyes and heart?”
We often talk about the layout of places, but for me the problem revolves around my memories. I don't know how to organize my thoughts, and even more simply, where to rest my eyes; they are always losing their place. Which means that I am more and more astray in my own life. An unhealthy and malevolent blending of notions, terms, pictures: What meaning can be drawn from a sentence that is necessarily devoid of meaning? But, on the other hand, could the absence of meaning have some other meaning? And what about the ever-changing layout of words? Sometimes a comma travels: it runs, runs between the words, and is impossible to catch. Is the comma insane too?
As a rule, Thérèse Goldschmidt doesn't like the word madness. She always goes to great lengths to avoid it. She prefers illness, mental fatigue, psychological deficiency or instability, neurosis, depressio
“In spite of the time we've spent together,” she says, “it is too soon in our common endeavor for me to tell you you're cured. We still have a long way to go.”
“What you think of as too soon might be too late for me.”
“Too late? So long as the heart is beating, it isn't too late.”
“You aren't a cardiologist, as far as I know.”
“The heart has its own illnesses, and some are psychological in nature.”
“What are you referring to?”
“To illnesses linked to the life of the human body. Yes, we should bear in mind that the body has its own life, with its rights, its needs, and its mysteries. Take what is called desire, for instance. It doesn't often come up in our conversations. Why?”
“I have no idea.”
“I'll be direct: Do you ever desire a woman?”
“Didn't I tell you about Ruth?”
“Did you really desire her? I mean, desire her enough to want to know her in the biblical sense?”
“What on earth are you thinking of? Yes … no … never …”
“The truth, Doriel, tell me the truth. You aren't all that young anymore, but did you ever live with a woman, even for one night, or for one hour, and feel the fulfillment of desire and the surprising discovery of happiness?”
“I refuse to answer.”
“But … it's the rule—”
“I couldn't care less about your rules.”
“Therefore I conclude that your answer is negative.”
“You don't know a thing.”
“But I need to know.”
“Listen. In my tradition there are certain things it's indecent to talk about out loud. And whatever concerns eroticism is one of them. Would you be surprised if I told you that according to our wise men, God Himself doesn't look at what happens in the bedroom?”