They called him Moishe the Beadle, as if his entire life he had never
had a surname. He was the jack-of-all-trades in a Hasidic house of
prayer, a shtibl. The Jews of Sighet-the little town in
Transylvania where I spent my childhood-were fond of him. He was poor
and lived in utter penury. As a rule, our townspeople, while they did
help the needy, did not particularly like them. Moishe the Beadle was
the exception. He stayed out of people's way. His presence bothered no
one. He had mastered the art of rendering himself insignificant,
Physically, he was as awkward as a clown. His waiflike shyness made
people smile. As for me, I liked his wide, dreamy eyes, gazing off into
the distance. He spoke little. He sang, or rather he chanted, and the
few snatches I caught here and there spoke of divine suffering, of the
Shekhinah in Exile, where, according to Kabbalah, it awaits its
redemption linked to that of man.
I met him in 1941. I was almost thirteen and deeply observant. By day I
studied Talmud and by night I would run to the synagogue to weep over
the destruction of the Temple.
One day I asked my father to find me a master who could guide me in my
studies of Kabbalah. "You are too young for that. Maimonides tells us
that one must be thirty before venturing into the world of mysticism, a
world fraught with peril. First you must study the basic subjects, those
you are able to comprehend."
My father was a cultured man, rather unsentimental. He rarely displayed
his feelings, not even within his family, and was more involved with the
welfare of others than with that of his own kin. The Jewish community of
Sighet held him in highest esteem; his advice on public and even private
matters was frequently sought. There were four of us children. Hilda,
the eldest; then Bea; I was the third and the only son; Tzipora was the
My parents ran a store. Hilda and Bea helped with the work. As for me,
my place was in the house of study, or so they said.
"There are no Kabbalists in Sighet," my father would often tell me.
He wanted to drive the idea of studying Kabbalah from my mind. In vain.
I succeeded on my own in finding a master for myself in the person of
Moishe the Beadle.
He had watched me one day as I prayed at dusk.
"Why do you cry when you pray?" he asked, as though he knew me well.
"I don't know," I answered, troubled.
I had never asked myself that question. I cried because ... because
something inside me felt the need to cry. That was all I knew.
"Why do you pray?" he asked after a moment.
Why did I pray? Strange question. Why did I live? Why did I breathe?
"I don't know," I told him, even more troubled and ill at ease. "I don't
From that day on, I saw him often. He explained to me, with great
emphasis, that every question possessed a power that was lost in the
Man comes closer to God through the questions he asks Him, he liked to
say. Therein lies true dialogue. Man asks and God replies. But we don't
understand His replies. We cannot understand them. Because they dwell in
the depths of our souls and remain there until we die. The real answers,
Eliezer, you will find only within yourself.
"And why do you pray, Moishe?" I asked him.
"I pray to the God within me for the strength to ask Him the real
We spoke that way almost every evening, remaining in the synagogue long
after all the faithful had gone, sitting in the semi-darkness where only
a few half-burnt candles provided a flickering light.
One evening, I told him how unhappy I was not to be able to find in
Sighet a master to teach me the Zohar, the Kabbalistic works, the
secrets of Jewish mysticism. He smiled indulgently. After a long
silence, he said, "There are a thousand and one gates allowing entry
into the orchard of mystical truth. Every human being has his own gate.
He must not err and wish to enter the orchard through a gate other than
his own. That would present a danger not only for the one entering but
also for those who are already inside."
And Moishe the Beadle, the poorest of the poor of Sighet, spoke to me
for hours on end about the Kabbalah's revelations and its mysteries.
Thus began my initiation. Together we would read, over and over again,
the same page of the Zohar. Not to learn it by heart but to discover
within the very essence of divinity.
And in the course of those evenings I became convinced that Moishe the
Beadle would help me enter eternity, into that time when question and
answer would become ONE.
AND THEN, one day all foreign Jews were expelled from Sighet. And Moishe
the Beadle was a foreigner.
Crammed into cattle cars by the Hungarian police, they cried silently.
Standing on the station platform, we too were crying. The train
disappeared over the horizon; all that was left was thick, dirty smoke.
Behind me, someone said, sighing, "What do you expect? That's war ..."
The deportees were quickly forgotten. A few days after they left, it was
rumored that they were in Galicia, working, and even that they were
content with their fate.
Days went by. Then weeks and months. Life was normal again. A calm,
reassuring wind blew through our homes. The shopkeepers were doing good
business, the students lived among their books, and the children played
in the streets.
One day, as I was about to enter the synagogue, I saw Moishe the Beadle
sitting on a bench near the entrance.
He told me what had happened to him and his companions. The train with
the deportees had crossed the Hungarian border and, once in Polish
territory, had been taken over by the Gestapo. The train had stopped.
The Jews were ordered to get off and onto waiting trucks. The trucks
headed toward a forest. There everybody was ordered to get out. They
were forced to dig huge trenches. When they had finished their work, the
men from the Gestapo began theirs. Without passion or haste, they shot
their prisoners, who were forced to approach the trench one by one and
offer their necks. Infants were tossed into the air and used as targets
for the machine guns. This took place in the Galician forest, near
Kolomay. How had he, Moishe the Beadle, been able to escape? By a
miracle. He was wounded in the leg and left for dead ...
Day after day, night after night, he went from one Jewish house to the
next, telling his story and that of Malka, the young girl who lay dying
for three days, and that of Tobie, the tailor who begged to die before
his sons were killed.
Moishe was not the same. The joy in his eyes was gone. He no longer
sang. He no longer mentioned either God or Kabbalah. He spoke only of
what he had seen. But people not only refused to believe his tales, they
refused to listen. Some even insinuated that he only wanted their pity,
that he was imagining things. Others flatly said that he had gone mad.
As for Moishe, he wept and pleaded:
"Jews, listen to me! That's all I ask of you. No money. No pity. Just
listen to me!" he kept shouting in synagogue, between the prayer at dusk
and the evening prayer.
Even I did not believe him. I often sat with him, after services, and
listened to his tales, trying to understand his grief. But all I felt
"They think I'm mad," he whispered, and tears, like drops of wax, flowed
from his eyes.
Once, I asked him the question: "Why do you want people to believe you
so much? In your place I would not care whether they believed me or not
He closed his eyes, as if to escape time.
"You don't understand," he said in despair. "You cannot understand. I
was saved miraculously. I succeeded in coming back. Where did I get my
strength? I wanted to return to Sighet to describe to you my death so
that you might ready yourselves while there is still time. Life? I no
longer care to live. I am alone. But I wanted to come back to warn you.
Only no one is listening to me ..."
This was toward the end of 1942.
Thereafter, life seemed normal once again. London radio, which we
listened to every evening, announced encouraging news: the daily
bombings of Germany and Stalingrad, the preparation of the Second Front.
And so we, the Jews of Sighet, waited for better days that surely were
soon to come.
I continued to devote myself to my studies, Talmud during the day and
Kabbalah at night. My father took care of his business and the
community. My grandfather came to spend Rosh Hashanah with us so as to
attend the services of the celebrated Rebbe of Borsche. My mother was
beginning to think it was high time to find an appropriate match for
Thus passed the year I943.
SPRING 1944. Splendid news from the Russian Front. There could no longer
be any doubt: Germany would be defeated. It was only a matter of time,
months or weeks, perhaps.
The trees were in bloom. It was a year like so many others, with its
spring, its engagements, its weddings, and its births.
The people were saying, "The Red Army is advancing with giant strides
... Hitler will not be able to harm us, even if he wants to ..."
Yes, we even doubted his resolve to exterminate us.
Annihilate an entire people? Wipe out a population dispersed throughout
so many nations? So many millions of people! By what means? In the
middle of the twentieth century!
And thus my elders concerned themselves with all manner of
things-strategy, diplomacy, politics, and Zionism-but not with their own
Even Moishe the Beadle had fallen silent. He was weary of talking. He
would drift through synagogue or through the streets, hunched over, eyes
cast down, avoiding people's gaze.
In those days it was still possible to buy emigration certificates to
Palestine. I had asked my father to sell everything, to liquidate
everything, and to leave.
"I am too old, my son," he answered. "Too old to start a new life. Too
old to start from scratch in some distant land ..."
Budapest radio announced that the Fascist party had seized power. The
regent Miklos Horthy was forced to ask a leader of the pro-Nazi
Nyilas party to form a new government.
Yet we still were not worried. Of course we had heard of the Fascists,
but it was all in the abstract. It meant nothing more to us than a
change of ministry.
The next day brought really disquieting news: German troops had
penetrated Hungarian territory with the government's approval.
Finally, people began to worry in earnest. One of my friends, Moishe
Chaim Berkowitz, returned from the capital for Passover and told us,
"The Jews of Budapest live in an atmosphere of fear and terror.
Anti-Semitic acts take place every day, in the streets, on the trains.
The Fascists attack Jewish stores, synagogues. The situation is becoming
very serious ..."
The news spread through Sighet like wildfire. Soon that was all people
talked about. But not for long. Optimism soon revived: The Germans will
not come this far. They will stay in Budapest. For strategic reasons,
for political reasons ...
In less than three days, German Army vehicles made their appearance on
ANGUISH. German soldiers-with their steel helmets and their death's-head
emblem. Still, our first impressions of the Germans were rather
reassuring. The officers were billeted in private homes, even in Jewish
homes. Their attitude toward their hosts was distant but polite. They
never demanded the impossible, made no offensive remarks, and sometimes
even smiled at the lady of the house. A German officer lodged in the
Kahns' house across the street from us. We were told he was a charming
man, calm, likable, and polite. Three days after he moved in, he brought
Mrs. Kahn a box of chocolates. The optimists were jubilant: "Well? What
did we tell you? You wouldn't believe us. There they are, your
Germans. What do you say now? Where is their famous cruelty?"
The Germans were already in our town, the Fascists were already in
power, the verdict was already out-and the Jews of Sighet were still
THE EIGHT DAYS of Passover.
The weather was sublime. My mother was busy in the kitchen. The
synagogues were no longer open. People gathered in private homes: no
need to provoke the Germans.
Almost every rabbi's home became a house of prayer.
We drank, we ate, we sang. The Bible commands us to rejoice during the
eight days of celebration, but our hearts were not in it. We wished the
holiday would end so as not to have to pretend.
On the seventh day of Passover, the curtain finally rose: the Germans
arrested the leaders of the Jewish community.
From that moment on, everything happened very quickly. The race toward
death had begun.
First edict: Jews were prohibited from leaving their residences for
three days, under penalty of death.
Moishe the Beadle came running to our house.
"I warned you," he shouted. And left without waiting for a response.
The same day, the Hungarian police burst into every Jewish home in town:
a Jew was henceforth forbidden to own gold, jewelry, or any valuables.
Everything had to be handed over to the authorities, under penalty of
death. My father went down to the cellar and buried our savings.
As for my mother, she went on tending to the many chores in the house.
Sometimes she would stop and gaze at us in silence.
Three days later, a new decree: every Jew had to wear the yellow star.
Some prominent members of the community came to consult with my father,
who had connections at the upper levels of the Hungarian police; they
wanted to know what he thought of the situation. My father's view was
that it was not all bleak, or perhaps he just did not want to discourage
the others, to throw salt on their wounds:
"The yellow star? So what? It's not lethal ..."
(Poor Father! Of what then did you die?)
But new edicts were already being issued. We no longer had the right to
frequent restaurants or cafes, to travel by rail, to attend synagogue,
to be on the streets after six o'clock in the evening.
Then came the ghettos.
TWO GHETTOS were created in Sighet. A large one in the center of town
occupied four streets, and another smaller one extended over several
alleyways on the outskirts of town. The street we lived on, Serpent
Street, was in the first ghetto. We therefore could remain in our house.
But, as it occupied a corner, the windows facing the street outside the
ghetto had to be sealed. We gave some of our rooms to relatives who had
been driven out of their homes.
Little by little life returned to "normal." The barbed wire that
encircled us like a wall did not fill us with real fear. In fact, we
felt this was not a bad thing; we were entirely among ourselves. A small
Jewish republic ... A Jewish Council was appointed, as well as a Jewish
police force, a welfare agency, a labor committee, a health agency-a
whole governmental apparatus.
People thought this was a good thing. We would no longer have to look at
all those hostile faces, endure those hate-filled stares. No more fear.
No more anguish. We would live among Jews, among brothers ...
Of course, there still were unpleasant moments. Every day, the Germans
came looking for men to load coal into the military trains. Volunteers
for this kind of work were few. But apart from that, the atmosphere was
oddly peaceful and reassuring.
Most people thought that we would remain in the ghetto until the end of
the war, until the arrival of the Red Army. Afterward everything would
be as before. The ghetto was ruled by neither German nor Jew; it was
ruled by delusion.
SOME TWO WEEKS before Shavuot. A sunny spring day, people strolled
seemingly carefree through the crowded streets. They exchanged cheerful
greetings. Children played games, rolling hazelnuts on the sidewalks.
Some schoolmates and I were in Ezra Malik's garden studying a Talmudic
Night fell. Some twenty people had gathered in our courtyard. My father
was sharing some anecdotes and holding forth on his opinion of the
situation. He was a good storyteller.
Suddenly, the gate opened, and Stern, a former shopkeeper who now was a
policeman, entered and took my father aside. Despite the growing
darkness, I could see my father turn pale.
"What's wrong?" we asked.
"I don't know. I have been summoned to a special meeting of the Council.
Something must have happened."
The story he had interrupted would remain unfinished.
"I'm going right now," he said. "I'll return as soon as possible. I'll
tell you everything. Wait for me."
Excerpted from "Night" by Elie Wiesel. Copyright © 2006 by Elie Wiesel. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher. Excerpts are provided solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.