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that death? I do not know, I shall never know. What I do know is that we shall have to invent new prayers for the body as well as for the soul. For whoever tells you that soul can attain greater heights than body, bid him hold his tongue, for he does not know what he is saying. He did not see the Jews of my town, the Jews of all the towns like mine; he did not see their bodies become light as fire, lighter than ashes, invading the sky and our memory, and God’s.

DIALOGUES I

    Since when are you here?
    Since yesterday.
    Only since yesterday?
    No. I’ve always been here. Almost as if I’d been born here.
    Born? What a word to use in this place!
    That’s true of all words.
    Still, you do use them, don’t you?
    Less and less.
    Does it tire you to speak?
    It’s not that: words confine, when what I want is to escape.
    Do you succeed?
    Sometimes.
    How?
    Through images.
    What images?
    Of a life already lived.
    When? Where?
    At home. Before.
    Then there was a before?
    Yes. I think so. I hope so.
    And you go back to it?
    I think so. I hope so.
    To do what?
    To eat.
    Is that all?
    Yes. Eat and eat again. With my parents. The Shabbat meal. With friends, guests, beggars on their way through town. White bread, fish, vegetables. Eat slowly, very slowly. Chew. Relish the flavor. Fruit. Sweets. Lots and lots of them. From morning till night.
    Is that all you think about?
    That’s all I can see.
    And the future? Don’t you ever think of the future?
    Oh yes. Tonight’s soup, tomorrow’s dry bread: isn’t that the future? In my thoughts, I’ve already swallowed the soup, I’ve already devoured the bread. There is no more future.
    *
    Who are you?
    A number.
    Your name?
    Gone. Blown away. Into the sky. Look up there. The sky is black, black with names.
    I cannot see the sky. The barbed wire is in my way
.
    But I can. I look at the barbed wire and I know that what I’m seeing is the sky.
    You mean they have barbed wire up there too?
    Of course.
    And all that goes with it?
    The lot.
    The tormentors? The executioners? The victims with neither strength nor desire to resist, to smile at the shadows?
    I’m telling you: it’s just like here.
    Then we are lost
.
    We alone?
    *
    How old are you?
    Fifteen. Or more. Perhaps less. I don’t know. And you?
    I’m fifty
.
    I envy you. You look younger.
    And you, you look older
.
    Anyway, we’re both wrong. I’m convinced of it. I am fifty and you’re fifteen. Do you mind?
    Not at all. You or I, it’s all the same. Tell me: do you know who you are?
    No. Do you?
    I don’t
.
    Are you at least sure that you exist?
    I’m not. Are you?
    No, neither am I.
    But our faces? What has happened to them?
    They are masks. Loaned to him who has no face.
    *
    Are you asleep?
    No. It’s something else.
    Are you dreaming? With your eyes open? Letting your imagination run wild? Trying to feel human and fulfilled?
    I’m too weak for that.
    Then what are you doing? Your eyes are wide open
.
    I’m playing.
    You’re what?
    I’m playing a game of chess.
    With whom?
    I don’t know.
    Who’s winning?
    That too I don’t know. I only know who’s losing.
    *
    Hey, you there! You look like you’re praying
.
    Not so.
    Your lips keep moving
.
    A matter of habit, probably.
    Did you use to pray that much?
    That much. And even more.
    What did you ask for in your prayers?
    Nothing.
    For pardon?
    Maybe.
    For knowledge?
    Possibly.
    Friendship?
    Yes, friendship.
    For a chance to defeat evil and be linked to what is good? For some certainty of living within truth or of—just—living?
    Perhaps.
    And you call that nothing?
    Precisely. I call that nothing.
    *
    Were you rich?
    Very rich. Like a king.
    What did your father do?
    He was a merchant. He had to work hard.
    I thought that rich people didn’t work
.
    My father worked. From daybreak, late into the night. My mother helped him. We all helped, even the children. We had no choice.
    Then he wasn’t rich
.
    Yes, he was. No beggar ever left us without first enjoying a