The Testament by Elie Wiesel Page A

their turn to meet death, some as messengers, others as victims. The bells rang out, they chimed; would they never stop?
    “What does that mean—war?” I asked my father.
    He tried to explain: politics, strategy, territorial ambitions, national pride, economic factors. All I understood was that the Austrians loved their king, the English theirs, the Russians theirs, but that all this royalty envied and hated one another.
    “But then,” I asked in astonishment, “why don’t
they
do the fighting? Why do kings send their people to kill and be killed in their place? It would be so much simpler.…”
    My father agreed. “Unfortunately, kings don’t think the way we do.”
    Another time he gave me a better explanation: “War is a sort of pogrom, but on a larger scale.”
    “Against the Jews?”
    “Not necessarily. You see, in war, all people become Jews without realizing it.”
    Barassy was being emptied of its arms-bearing citizens and filling up with strangers. Sons and husbands, called to the colors, were leaving for the train station singing, while recruits mobilized elsewhere were arriving in our midst. At first the war was one long journey, an endless displacement, a national uprooting.
    My father having been discharged for medical reasons, there were no changes in our family life. On the other hand, my maternal and paternal uncles had all donned uniforms and were already fighting for the glory and honor of the Tsar of All the Russias.
    I can still remember. Most evenings, neighbors and friends would gather in our home, in the dining room during the winter and under the poplar in the summer, to discuss the situation at the front. The three students, our companions in misfortune during the pogrom, paid us frequent visits. Two of them came for the meals, the third for my sister.
    The conversations also touched on the future: What was better for the Jews—a victory for the Tsar or a triumph for the Kaiser? As it happened, both of them, one after the other, lost that war, and neither’s loss benefited the other—or the Jews.
    At the time there was much talk in our families about a highly placed monk, his evil power and great influence at the Imperial Court; about the misery of the country, its weakness, the soldiers who were fighting badly or not at all, about the rich and the dignitaries who spent theirnights drinking and making merry; about the discontent taking hold of the people.…
    I learned some new words—Bolshevism, Menshevism, Socialism, Anarchism. I questioned my father: “ ‘Ism’—what’s that exactly?”
    “It’s like a fickle woman ready to marry … the first word that comes along.”
    There was talk of leaders—courageous or rash depending on one’s point of view—who clandestinely or from abroad claimed to be able and willing to depose the Tsar.
    “That’s a joke,” someone said. “Depose the Tsar—no more, no less. They can’t be serious.”
    Then the talk turned to revolution, counterrevolution, the Brest-Litovsk armistice, peace, the White and Red armies.
    Why did my father one fine day decide to leave Barassy and move us all to Romania? He was probably as afraid of civil war as of Communism.
    The move was painful and filled with incidents; we had to abandon a good part of our belongings on the way. My mother was a poor traveler but never complained. Masha was upset at having to leave her future husband; but Goldie, a year younger, was helpful and good-natured. As for myself, I found the adventure strangely exciting—towns and villages devastated, men and women in flight seeking shelter, and above all, the stories they told between handshakes—never before had I heard such stories. I experienced this time of upheaval with every fiber of my being. In my child’s mind I sometimes fancied this war had been declared just for my education.
    Welcomed in Liyanov, a small town on the Romanian border, by Sholem, a cousin of my mother’s, a devout Hasid, we adjusted quickly. What