“Suddenly the Rebbe saw me and beckoned me to approach. I pretended not to notice. The Rebbe motioned to me again. I didn’t budge. Then he called me by name.”
-Elie Wiesel
The Avner Institute presents a powerful account of Simchas Torah with the Rebbe by Eli Wiesel.
“How can you believe in G-d after Auschwitz?”
Eli Wiesel writes:
My first visit to the court of the Rebbe lasted almost an entire night. I informed him at the outset that I was a Chassid of Wizhnitz, not Lubavitch, and that I had no intention of switching allegiance.
“The important thing is to be a Chassid,” he replied. “It matters little whose.”
We then changed the subject. The Rebbe had read some of my works in French and asked me to explain why I was angry at G-d.
“Because I loved Him too much,” I replied.
“And now?” he asked.
“Now too. And because I love Him, I am angry at Him.”
The Rebbe disagreed: “To love G-d is to accept that you do not understand Him.”
I asked whether one could love G-d without having faith. He told me faith had to precede all the rest.
“Rebbe,” I asked, “how can you believe in G-d after Auschwitz?”
He looked at me in silence for a long moment, his hands resting on the table. Then he replied, in a soft, barely audible voice, “How can you not believe in G-d after Auschwitz?” Whom else could one believe in? Hadn’t man abdicated his privileges and duties? Didn’t Auschwitz represent the defeat of humanity? Apart from G-d, what was there in a world darkened by Auschwitz? …
Our dialogue continued for years. After the publication of each of my books, he would write to me with his commentaries.
One year, during Simchat Torah, I visited Lubavitch. The Rebbe, seated in his place at the head of a T-shaped table, presided over the celebration with fervor. He was surrounded by dignitaries, but as a sign of respect the chairs to his immediate left and right had been left vacant. I stood at the entrance, in my raincoat and Basque beret, plagued by a terrible migraine. Had anyone paid any attention to me, they would have thought I was an observer from the outside, possibly a spy, an intruder, unable to comprehend the nature of Chassidic joy. But, luckily, everyone was looking at the Rabbi.
Suddenly the Rebbe saw me and beckoned me to approach. I pretended not to notice. The Rebbe motioned to me again. I didn’t budge. Then he called me by name. When I still didn’t move, powerful arms grabbed me and carried me over the heads of the crowd to the central table, depositing me like a package in front of the Rebbe. I wanted to die then and there if only I could do so without disturbing the celebration. The Rebbe was smiling. Would he tease me instead of coming to my aid?
“Welcome,” he said. “It’s nice of a Chassid of Wizhnitz to come and greet us in Lubavitch, but is this how they celebrate Simchas Torah in Wizhnitz?”
“Rebbe,” I said faintly, “we are not in Wizhnitz but in Lubavitch.”
“Then do as we do in Lubavitch,” he said.
“And what do you do in Lubavitch?”
“In Lubavitch we drink and say lechayim, to life.”
“In Wizhnitz too.”
“Very well. Then say lechayim.”
He handed me a glass filled to the brim with vodka.
“Rebbe,” I said, “in Wizhnitz a Chassid does not drink alone.”
“Nor in Lubavitch,” the Rebbe replied.
He emptied his glass in one gulp. I followed suit.
“Is one enough in Wizhnitz?” the Rebbe asked.
“In Wizhnitz,” I said bravely, “one is but a drop in the sea.”
“In Lubavitch as well.”
He handed me a second glass and refilled his own. He said lechayim, I replied lechayim, and we emptied our glasses.
After all, I had to uphold the honor of Wizhnitz. But as I was unaccustomed to drink, I felt my head begin to spin. I was not sure where or who I was, nor why I had come to this place, why I had been drawn into this strange scene. My brain was on fire.
“In Lubavitch we do not stop midway,” the Rebbe said. “We continue. And in Wizhnitz?”
“In Wizhnitz too,” I said, “we go all the way.”
The Rebbe struck a solemn pose. He handed me a third glass and refilled his own. My hand trembled; his did not. “You deserve a blessing,” he said, his face beaming with happiness. “Name it!”
I wasn’t sure what to say. I was, in fact, in a stupor.
“Would you like me to bless you so you can begin again?”
Drunk as I was, I appreciated his wisdom.
To begin again could mean many things: begin again to drink, to pray, to believe, to live. And then it was Simchat Torah, which is also my birthday.
“Yes, Rebbe,” I said. “Give me your blessing.”
He blessed me and downed his vodka. I swallowed mine – and passed out. I awoke outside, stretched out on the grass, where I had been carried, again, by the same arms, above the heads of the crowd.
One day the Rebbe sent me a long letter about my attitude toward G-d. It concluded: “But now let us leave theology and speak of a personal matter. Why aren’t you married yet?”
On the day of our wedding Marion and I received a superb bouquet with a card bearing his signature and his blessings.
He sent us an even more beautiful bouquet the day of our son’s bris.
We can be sure that the Rebbe’s blessings are with all of us now, and with all Israel’s sons and daughters wherever they may be. The best way to receive a blessing is with happiness and joy. May it continue to be felt in all our endeavors throughout the wondrous year that is just beginning.
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