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alive, in a chariot of fire, to go on through the centuries as the herald of deliverance.
    For no apparent reason, I pictured him as a Yemenite Jew: tall, somber, unfathomable. A prince ageless, rootless, fierce, turning up wherever he is awaited. Forever on the move, defying space and nature’s laws. It is the end which attracts him in all things, for he alone comprehends its mystery. In the course of his fleeting visits, he consoles the old, the orphan, the abandoned widow. Hemoves across the world, drawing it in his wake. In his eyes he holds a promise he would like to set free, but he has neither the right nor the power to do so. Not yet.
    In my fantasy I endowed him with the majestic beauty of Saul and the strength of Samson. Let him lift his arm, and our enemies would fling themselves to the ground. Let him shout an order, and the universe would tremble: time would run faster so that we might arrive more quickly at the celestial palace where, since the first day of creation, and, according to certain mystics, long before that, the Messiah has awaited us.
    A Yemenite Jew, I no longer know why. Perhaps because I had never seen one. For the child I then was, Yemen was not to be found on any map but somewhere else, in the kingdom of dreams where all sad children, from every city and every century, join hands to defy coercion, the passing years, death.
    Later on, I saw the prophet and had to admit my error. He was a Jew, to be sure, but he came from no farther away than Poland. Moreover, he had nothing about him of the giant, the legendary hero. Pitiful, stoop-shouldered, he tightened his lips when he looked at you. His movements betrayed his weariness, but his eyes were aflame. One sensed that, for him, the past was his only haven.
    It was the first night of Passover. Our household, brightly lit, was preparing to celebrate the festival of freedom. My mother and my two older sisters were bustling about the kitchen, the youngest was setting the table. Father had not yet returned from synagogue.
    I was upset: we were going to partake of the ritual meal with only just the family, and I would have preferred having a guest as in preceding years. I recovered my good mood when the door opened and father appeared, accompanied by a poorly dressed, shivering, timid stranger. Father had approached him in the streetwith the customary phrase:
Kol dichfin yetei veyochal
(Let him who is hungry come eat with us).
    “I’m not hungry,” the stranger had answered.
    “That makes no difference; come along anyway. No one should remain outside on a holiday evening.”
    Happy, my little sister set another place. I poured the wine.
    “May we begin?” my father asked.
    “Everything is ready,” my mother answered.
    Father blessed the wine, washed his hands, and prepared to tell us, according to custom, of the exploits of our ancestors, their flight from Egypt, their confrontation with God and their destiny.
    “I’m not hungry,” our guest said suddenly. “But I’ve something to say to you.”
    “Later,” my father answered, a bit surprised.
    “I haven’t time. It’s already too late.”
    I did not know that this was to be the last
Seder
, the last Passover meal we would celebrate in my father’s house.
    It was 1944. The German army had just occupied the region. In Budapest the Fascists had seized power. The Eastern front was at Körösmezö, barely thirty kilometers from our home. We could hear the cannon fire and, at night, the sky on the other side of the mountains turned red. We thought that the war was coming to an end, that liberation was near, that, like our ancestors, we were living our last hours in bondage.
    Jews were being abused in the streets; they were being humiliated, covered with insults. One rabbi was compelled to sweep the sidewalk. Our dear Hungarian neighbors were shouting: “Death to the Jews!” But our optimism remained unshakable. It was simply a question of holding out for a few days, a few weeks. Then the