Elie Wiesel by The Forgotten Page B

Anyone’s success was a credit to all. Any victory over injustice, won by reportage or an editorial, justified pride in the whole team. A newspaper was a living organism, pulsating with affection, determined to accept only truth. Of course there was often a gap between the ideal and reality. There were compromises, deals, someone was always passing the buck; all that was normal. But your eyes—at least at the beginning—were on the heights, even if they were unattainable. Even if you had to begin the climb again every day.
    It wasn’t going so well this evening.
    Malkiel was working on a story from the Buenos Aires correspondent but couldn’t seem to concentrate. His boss had praised him often for his powers of concentration: Malkiel listened well, read quickly and understood even more quickly. When an editor was in a hurry, he called on Malkiel.
    But this evening it wasn’t the same Malkiel. He was trying to recall: what time did he see Dr. Pasternak? At eleven in the morning? Not earlier? He had known for only nine hours? Borne the weight of this curse for only nine hours?
    Dr. Pasternak was treating Elhanan. Casually dressed, with a loosely knotted tie and horn-rimmed glasses. In his sixties. A hard, clipped voice: “Thank you for taking the time, Mr. Rosenbaum.”
    “Tell me what’s going on.”
    A routine question, but deep down Malkiel knew it was bad news about his father. He could not admit it to himself, but he was afraid the doctor would say, “Your father is sick. He has cancer.”
    “Your father is sick,” said Dr. Pasternak, his hands clasped demurely before him on the desk.
    “Is it serious?”
    “Very.”
    “Cancer?”
    “No,” said Dr. Pasternak.
    Thank God, Malkiel thought. If it isn’t cancer it can’t be too serious.
    “It’s actually worse than cancer,” the doctor went on.
    Impossible, Malkiel thought; I must have misunderstood. What could be worse than cancer? “I don’t understand,” he said in a changed voice.
    “Cancer is not always incurable. Your father’s sickness is.”
    “I don’t understand,” Malkiel repeated. His heart waspounding, bursting. A migraine had struck again. Nausea rose in his throat.
    “What we have here is an extreme case of amnesia,” said Dr. Pasternak. “Elhanan Rosenbaum has a sick memory; it is dying. Nothing can save it.”
    Malkiel was drenched in sweat. He groped vainly for a handkerchief.
    “Doctor, may I use your washroom?”
    “The door to the left, behind you.”
    He washed his face, took a few gulps of water, breathed deeply to overcome the nausea. In the mirror, a face pale and gloomy announced an approaching misfortune.
    “Forgive me, Doctor.”
    “Not at all, Mr. Rosenbaum. Perhaps I should apologize. I should have given you the news less brutally.”
    “Go on, please.”
    Dr. Pasternak explained that the nervous system was annihilating itself. Symptoms of senility, and even dementia. A loss of orientation. Of identity. An inexorable process that might take months or years: it was impossible to predict. And even more impossible to slow down. The doctor inspected his hands, his nails. Perhaps he was embarrassed; had he not just confessed his impotence? As for Malkiel, he was living through a scene outside reality. It is not true, it cannot be true, he decided. It can happen to anyone? Yes, but my father is not just anyone. “What are we going to do? What can we do?”
    “Do?”
    “I mean, about my father. Are we going to tell him?”
    “I don’t think it’s necessary.”
    Malkiel did not understand. Did his father already know? And had he said nothing? Once more he remained alone with his secret.
    “Your father is a very intelligent man,” Dr. Pasternaksaid. “For some weeks now he’s suspected what was happening. He came to see me, which was natural. I spoke frankly to him. I respect him too much to deceive him.”
    “When was this?”
    “Yesterday afternoon.”
    Yesterday afternoon? Malkiel reproached himself: Why