Elie Wiesel: A Retrospective, Week #2
Dawn, published in 1961, is Elie Wiesel’s second book. The work explores an ethical question he imagines that he might have faced under different circumstances. For this purpose, he creates a protagonist named Elisha, a young Holocaust survivor who goes to the British Mandate of Palestine in order to fight for “the Movement,” which is meant to represent the Irgun, a Zionist paramilitary organization seeking to oust the British in Palestine.
At the opening of the story, the British have captured a Jewish combatant who is sentenced to be hung for his resistance activities. In retaliation, the Movement captures a British soldier. They issue a warning: Unless the British allow the Jewish man to live, their soldier will die at the exact moment he does. When the British do not give in, Elisha is told he will be the executioner.
The story follows Elisha’s night of mental preparations for his role as executioner. He is deeply troubled by the thought of enacting such personal and direct violence, but equally determined to do what he views as necessary. As he struggles with himself, he examines his choice, conviction, and doubts through the ghosts of influential people from his life—his father, his mother, a beggar, and even his past self.
Passage #1:
A beggar teaches the young protagonist how to tell night from day:
“You mustn’t be afraid of the dark,” he said, gently grasping my arm and making me shudder. “Night is purer than day; it is better for thinking and loving and dreaming. At night everything is more intense, more true. The echo of words that have been spoken during the day takes on a new and deeper meaning. The tragedy of man is that he doesn’t know how to distinguish between day and night. He says things at night that should only be said by day.” (145)
Passage #2:
“Look how the sky is opening up,” I said.
She threw back her head and looked above her. Just as I had said, the sky was opening up. Slowly at first, as if swept by an invisible wind, the stars drew away from the zenith, some moving to the right, others to the left, until the center of the sky was an empty space, dazzlingly blue and gradually acquiring depth and outline.
“Look hard, I said. “There’s nothing there.”
From behind me Catherine looked up and said not a word.
“That’s enough,” I said; “let’s go on walking.”
As we walked on I told her the legend of the open sky. When I was a child the old master told me that there were nights a little boy whose father was dying said to God: “Father, I am too small to know how to pray. But I ask you to heal my sick father.” God did what the boy asked, but the boy himself was turned into a prayer and carried up into heaven. From that day on, the master told me, God has from time to time shown Himself to us in the face of a child.
“That is why I like to look at the sky at this particular moment,” I told Catherine. “I hope to see the child. But you are a witness to the truth. There’s nothing there. The child is only a story.”
It was then for the first time during the evening that Catherine spoke.
“Poor boy!” she exclaimed. “Poor boy!” (180)
Passage #3:
I was beginning to understand. An act so absolute as that of killing involves not only the killer but, as well, those who have formed him. In murdering a man I was making them murderers. (187)
Passage #4:
“Are you afraid?” asked Ilana.
“Yes.”
Being afraid, I ought to have told her, is nothing. Fear is only a color, a backdrop, a landscape. That isn’t the problem. The fear of either the victim or the executioner is unimportant. What matters is the fact that each of them is playing a role which has been imposed upon him. The two roles are the extremities of the estate of man. The tragic thing is the imposition.
“You, Elisha, you are afraid?”
I knew why she had asked. You, Elisha, who lived through Auschwitz and Buchenwald? You who any number of times saw God die? You are afraid?”
“I am afraid, though, Ilana,” I repeated. (192)
Passage #5:
One of Elisha’s ghosts, the boy he used to be, answers him when he asks if he is being judged by these figures from his past:
“I’m not judging you,” he said. “We’re not here to sit in judgment. We’re here simply because you’re here. We’re present wherever you go; we are what you do. When you raise your eyes to heaven we share in their sight; when you pat the head of a hungry child a thousand hands are laid on his head; when you give bread to a beggar we give him the taste of paradise which only the poor can savor. Why are we silent? Because silence is not only our dwelling place but our very being as well. We are silence. And your silence is us. You carry us with you. Occasionally you may see us, but most of the time we are invisible to you. When you see us you imagine we are sitting in judgment upon you. You are wrong. Your silence is your judge.” (200)
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