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enemy of the people—you have drummed that into my head often enough. You do not
become
an enemy of the people; it is something you have always been. Even if you never knew it, never wanted it, even if you spent your life fighting the people’s enemies, you are still an enemy. It is like grace for Christians—you have it or you don’t; you are born with it.
    The transition is perfect: I was born in this very place in 1910, in this lovely city of Barassy, better known since the Revolution as Krasnograd.
    I am sorry I cannot be more precise. It was at the end of May, or the beginning of June. All I know is that I came into the world the second day of Shavuot. My father, you see, like all middle-class Jews, was profoundly religious and lived according to the Jewish calendar, from one holiday to the next, from one Sabbath to the next. The week began on Sunday, the year began on Rosh Hashanah, in the fall.
    Strange coincidence: my grandfather, whose name I bear, died on the same day of the same holiday, but three years earlier. All I know of him is that he owned a sawmill in a neighboring village and was respected throughout the province. The wandering beggars used to pronounce his name like a blessing; he housed them and fed them like honored guests, making them feel that they were honoring him by accepting his alms. He was respected equally for his erudition and his piety. In order to attract Jews to his village, he had a House of Study built where he taught Scripture and the commentaries to both adults and children. The most famous rabbis, it seems, attended his funeral.
    As an adolescent I stumbled upon a photograph in oneof my father’s books. It showed a stately Hasid, tall and vigorous, with kind and noble features. I asked my mother who he was.
    “Your grandfather,” she answered, “Paltiel Kossover. Be proud to bear his name.”
    And I, foolishly, contradicted and hurt her, “Why should I?”
    The insolence of the Communist in me went even further: “Proud of a Hasid, me? I’m ashamed!”
    My mother began to weep silently, and, instead of stopping and begging her forgiveness, I continued with the same idiotic insolence:
    “You forget the age we’re living in, Mother; we believe in Communism, we reject God, and even more those who use faith in God, who use God to prevent the Jews from freeing themselves, from emancipating themselves, from claiming their rights as citizens and human beings.”
    In a frenzy of arrogance and stupidity, I tore up the yellowed photograph, in a way annihilating my grandfather, right under the horrified eyes of my mother. That memory still haunts me.… Today, Citizen Magistrate, I regret that act. In fact, I regretted it immediately, though for other reasons. Rather than scold or threaten me, my mother said quietly, “I won’t tell, Paltiel, I won’t tell your father.”
    I wanted to beg her pardon, to nestle against her and … But I did nothing of the sort. I was too ashamed—or not ashamed enough. I regret it today. I regret having hurt my mother; I regret having betrayed my father; I regret having torn up the face of my grandfather, whose name I bear. I so wish that my son could have seen his picture one day; my son will not even see mine. My son … Don’t make me speak of my son, Citizen Magistrate, have pity, you who are without pity. Question me about anything you like, but leave my son out of your games: he is only two years old.
    He bears my father’s name: Gershon, nicknamed Grisha. My father was strict and gentle at the same time. The youngest of eight boys, he seemed incurably shy. Yet his presence was imposing. He rarely raised his voice, but we paid attention even when he coughed before speaking. He said what he had to say in a few sentences, sometimes in a single word, always clear, concise and to the point. You are sneering, Citizen Magistrate; my love for my father no doubt amuses you. So what! I loved my father; I admired him. I never told him, so you