Elie Wiesel by The Forgotten Page A

“Did you see that? Did you see that bastard humiliate that survivor? Did you see the defendant snigger? That poor Neimann’s memory is a graveyard, the biggest in the world, and the defense attorney wants him to remember the color of a uniform!”
    “It’s to be expected, Father.”
    “Details, details! How can we remember them all? Major events, and everyday incidents? What remains of the life of Moses and David is a few moments, a few words. And the rest? Has all the rest just disappeared?”
    Next morning Elhanan called Tamar at the newspaper. “I wanted to thank you for your piece this morning.”
    She had written it in the first person and called it “The Tears of Memory.”
    Malkiel loved his work. He threw all his talent and energy into it. Every day he felt like thanking God for his job on the
Times.
He liked his colleagues, the secretaries, the errand boys; the moment he stepped into the editorial offices he perked up. The irregular hum of the teletype machines, the constant shrill of telephones, the word processors lined up on desks like an army awaiting the signal to move out: Malkiel would not change places with the most exalted prince on earth.
    He had never followed any other calling. As a student at Columbia, he had applied for a job at the
Times
, which took him on as campus stringer. Luck smiled upon him: it was the year of the student demonstrations. Malkiel phoned in his stories three or four times a week, then every day. They won him his boss’s friendship, his fellow students’ admiration, and the anger of the administration. And what was bound to happen happened: he devoted more time to his reporting than to his literary studies. His father seemed unhappy about that, but Malkiel reassured him. “Why do we study? To prepare ourselves for a good job, right? Well, I already have one.” Just the same, he promised to complete his degree before going to work full time. “Is that better?” Yes, that was better. Not best, but better. “What’s still bothering you?” Malkiel’s father seemed worried. Malkiel was used to his father’s anxieties. He knew how to deal with them. But when he seemed sad, Malkiel felt helpless. And he was sad now, Malkiel’s father was: He was no doubt thinking about the woman he had loved: If she had lived, she would have been proud of her son.
    Malkiel lowered his voice: “Are you thinking of Mother?”
    “I’m always thinking of your mother.”
    “Is that why you’re so sad?”
    “You’re why I am sad, too.”
    “What have I done?”
    “Nothing; nothing bad. On the contrary, you’ve justifiedall the hopes we had for you. It’s just that … I wonder if a good journalist can in the end be a good Jew.” For Malkiel’s father, being a good Jew was at least as important as getting a good job.
    Malkiel was aware of that. “Don’t worry,” he said. “In the old days all reporters were cynics; but no more. Trust me. I won’t let you down.”
    The day came when he was awarded a diploma. Father and son sat on a bench on the banks of the Hudson. It was a beautiful evening in June. All around them students were popping corks out of champagne bottles. “Long live life!” they shouted. The students hugged and kissed. “Live it up!” “Aren’t you going to join them?” Elhanan asked. Malkiel replied that he had no desire to. Elhanan tilted his head back and stared up at the starry sky: “I’m proud of you, Malkiel.” He could not conceal his emotion.
    Next day Malkiel started work at the newspaper. The atmosphere was invigorating. A newspaper was society’s nerve center; its problems, upheavals and aspirations were refracted through it as through great theater. A play two hours long could cover thirty years of existence; so thirty pages of a newspaper contained thousands of events, which could fill a hundred volumes. And then a newspaper was a brotherhood, too. Despite intrigues and feuds, camaraderie on a newspaper was unlike anything else.