Hostage (13 page)

“We’re pleased to welcome you into our movement. We’re accepting you because your supporter is a comrade whom we trust. We hope you won’t disappoint us. Be sure to observe all the security rules scrupulously. We’re operating in a hostile atmosphere. We’re spied on by informers. The police are always seeking us out, aware of the danger we represent for the people they protect. All your ties to us must remain secret. Not one word to anyone, not even to the people closest to you.”

After a pause, he looked at Pavel with a searching and stern gaze and added, “From now on, your family is us. We have complete priority over all the people who are not party members. Forget your individual conscience and your personal passions: You’ve now written them off once and for all. The party is the equivalent of God for your father: the beginning and end of all things. Betray the party and you’ll be damned.”

They all nodded their heads. The young convert had been warned. Evil exists, and it is betrayal.

Though a good Communist, faithful to the ideals of Marx and Stalin, Pinhas remained a good Jew, in part because he was a good son. He didn’t want to upset our father, so he went to great lengths not to change his way of life.

As I said, I don’t know why, but he chose me as his confidant. And it’s he who first taught me chess, when I was still little;
I played with my father only later. One day, while we were playing, he told me the story of a young boy, an occasional magician, who devoted his life to a noble conspiracy: making history move forward and rescuing human beings from despair. Afterward, he referred to him often though making it clear that he was an imaginary character. His faith in the future became his gateway to a romantic circle of initiates all linked to a gigantic worldwide fraternity. He constantly came within a hairs-breadth of danger; ran the risk of being identified, imprisoned and beaten; felt the excitement of distributing forbidden tracts under the doors of Jewish homes and outwitting the police. And then came the harrowing but also thrilling preparation of the use of violence.

Whom was he speaking of, if not himself and his dreams?

Yet he led an open and ordered life as before. He was never absent from his place of work. He never criticized his employers. He celebrated the Sabbath and the holidays with us.

Only once did he have to deal with a snag. His cell had decided to meet on a Sabbath evening. How could he justify not being present at the Friday evening meal? He invented a friend’s illness. Father wanted to know how serious his friend’s condition was, and Pinhas, a bad liar, gave an answer that was too vague to be convincing. Nevertheless, my older brother’s seat stayed empty for the Sabbath meal.

That night the offices of the police were set on fire. A young Jew was arrested; dangerous pamphlets were found in his home. He confessed under torture that he was a Communist. He mentioned Pinhas’s cell, and the secretary was immediately apprehended and cross-examined. The others were obliged to hide, in the mountains, or elsewhere. Pinhas decided to spend
a few days with a distant cousin. Father wanted to know why. Pinhas tried to dodge the question. Father demanded the truth and Pinhas confessed: He was involved in the conspiracy. “So you’re mixed up in the fire?” asked my father, alarmed.

“Not directly.”

“What does that mean, not directly? Is that yes or no? If yes, in what way?” Lowering his eyes, Pinhas acknowledged his membership in the Jewish Communist Party, emphasizing the word “Jewish.” Father reflected at length before giving his opinion: “Then you’re in danger. Go quickly to your cousin’s house.”

At dawn the next morning the police came to our house intending to take Pinhas into custody. They combed the house from top to bottom looking for arms, explosives or subversive propaganda, but they found nothing. Questioned separately, each of us gave the same answer: Pinhas often visited friends in Debrecen, Hungary, for a few days’ rest.

Years later, Pinhas told me how tormented he had been: What if the police had taken one of us hostage? What would he have done?

Zelig, who was also safely hidden away, contacted Pinhas through a reliable go-between and told him that he had received the consent of the party’s secret service to leave for the Soviet Union: Being too well known in Davarowsk, Zelig was putting all the cells in danger. Zelig asked the proper authorities if he could bring his companion Pavel, whose party loyalty he could vouch for. Twenty-four hours later, the party responded affirmatively.

Zelig organized a last family reunion in a safe hideaway at the edge of the forest. Dressed like a peasant, Pinhas seemed
both anguished and excited. He promised my father that when he got to Russia he would arrange to have us all join him. We would live without fear over there. Father listened to him, distraught, and said, “I don’t know when we’ll be seeing each other again, son. But take your tefillin. They’ll protect you. And …”

“Yes, Father?

“Never forget that you’re Jewish.”

“I won’t forget, Father.”

Pinhas kissed his hand, and I thought I saw tears in his eyes.

Suddenly, my father pulled himself together and said, “I almost forgot—since you’re going to Russia, you should know that we have family in Moscow.”

Pinhas was surprised.

“Make sure you remember his name. He’s a Communist too. His name is Leon Meirovitch. He’s a close collaborator of Lazar Kaganovich.

“I’ll remember,” Pinhas said.

In the course of their trip, Pinhas mentioned the name of his relative to Zelig. The latter gave a start, as if he’d been stung by a bee.

“What? What did you just say? You have a relative who is a close collaborator of Kaganovich, Lazar Kaganovich? Are you sure?”

“Yes. That’s what my father told me.”

Zelig was convinced that Pavel and his father were mistaken; they couldn’t possibly have a relative who really worked with Kaganovich, one of Stalin’s closest collaborators. And yet they did.

Press excerpts: October 27, 1975

Is it his second or third day of captivity? Endless hours of thirst, hunger, tension, pain. Unable to see or to move. His thoughts wander as he seeks something to latch on to, something to help him avoid falling into the abyss.

One-Eyed Paritus materializes from the recesses of his mind. He could see farther than anyone. Where are you, my old friend and guide? Did you ever experience prison? Were you ever subjected to torture? Did you ever feel tempted by death?

The air is stifling. He wants to cry out, weep, vomit. It reminds him of his first sea journey, to the Far East. He was young and irresponsible, and felt the need to free himself from his habits and duties, from the anxieties of his kind father and the mysticism of his cousin Arele. He longed, in short, for a change in his everyday life. He wanted to look deeply into himself before surrendering to Blanca, to the sway of her love and passion, before handing her his freedom. Just then, to be without ties—that was what he wanted. Blanca had been understanding and shown no resentment. “Good idea,” she said. “Distance will help you straighten out your thinking.” In fact, on the ship, while feeling so ill, it was he who resented her. Why had she not shed a few tears, begged him to stay, kissed
him? Why did she not protest, saying the decision was proof of his egoism, that he thought more about himself than about her? Like Job, he now felt lonelier than ever. And yet, just like Job, who had three friends keeping him company, at sea, Shaltiel always had someone by his side.

How could this “someone” be defined? Paritus is an ageless man. When he listens, he looks old, moderate and wise. When he speaks, he blazes with the intensity of youth. Where does his knowledge in so many areas come from? He must have had a full and turbulent life. Is he single? Is he married? Did he have the time or desire to start a family? Never surprised, he himself is surprising for his vast knowledge and experience. When he explains a passage from an ancient text, whether Jewish, Christian, Buddhist or secular, it’s as though he had kept company with the author. To follow him, Shaltiel has to focus his attention.

I met him as I was on my way to the Far East. I had found a journalistic pretext. A Yiddish daily in New York suggested I try to find the traces of a Jewish kingdom in India, founded twelve centuries ago by the ten tribes exiled from Jerusalem by Sanheriv, the king of the Assyrians. I was twenty-four years old. I was no longer happy with my life. I had to find my bearings again, to renew myself. It was through Paritus and his book on personal and collective crises that I came to understand this.

On a completely different level, having always been attracted by the esoteric sciences and their mystery of mysteries, I was looking for an unfamiliar country or landscape where I could study mysticism.

I embarked on a ship in London, where I had gone to visit a distant cousin, and he, Paritus, embarked in Port Said, Egypt. When he walked into the small, somewhat dismal and dark third-class cabin, I was resentful: Even alone, I had felt cramped. And I was fond of my solitude.

Tall, untidy, bearded, a tanned face covered with wrinkles, he didn’t even greet me with a nod; he set his worn and battered suitcase down on a chair and started to unpack—underwear, clothes, and especially books, which he threw in a jumble on the bed. I glanced indiscreetly at the pile: English, French, German, Yiddish, Hebrew and countless other languages. He’s a Jewish intellectual, I thought to myself. Should I talk to him? I decided to wait. Would he introduce himself? Where does he come from? Where is he going? Why is he going to the Far
East? Is he running away like me? Is he trying to write like me? Will he disembark in Aden like Paul Nizan? Perhaps his behavior is meant to convey that he would rather keep his distance from inquisitive people. Bah, all for the better. Conversing with strangers was not my purpose when I decided to set out on this pilgrimage in search of a Jewish legend whose origins were obscure. So I affected to be reading a specialized journal. He walked out without saying a word.