181. Primo Levi a Emil Davidovič, 2 febbraio 1965

Torino, 2/2/1965

Caro Mendi!

di certo non puoi immaginare con quanta gioia ieri ho ricevuto la tua lettera: molto raramente mi è capitato che una sola lettera portasse con sé una tale quantità di ricordi e di esperienze. Ti chiedo perdono: purtroppo ho una conoscenza limitata del tedesco (quel poco che ho imparato ad Auschwitz), ma credo che tra[1] noi non possiamo[2] usare nessun’altra lingua. Se conosci il francese o l’inglese (o magari il latino!), dimmelo: in questo caso mi sarebbe più facile esprimermi.

Dunque i «nissim»[3] sono ancora possibili a questo mondo: sei vivo, nonostante tutto, nonostante le sofferenze che abbiamo condiviso, nonostante la terribile marcia della morte! Ma a pensarci meglio non dovrei stupirmene.[4] Per quel poco che ho avuto modo di conoscere di te, eri chiaramente uno degli eletti, uno[5] di coloro che hanno dimostrato sufficiente coraggio e virtù per superare la prova e[6] meritare la libertà.

Oggi (dopo così tanti anni!) non sono più in grado di verificare i ricordi che ho di te. Ma di una cosa sono del tutto certo: che tu fossi un rabbino e un giovane colto, poliglotta, coraggioso e onesto.[7] Non sei molto alto, hai capelli e occhi scuri, e sei nato intorno al 1917: è esatto? Sei slovacco, forse di Miskolc; in ogni caso parlavi fluentemente slovacco, ungherese, tedesco, yiddisch ed ebraico. Mi sembra anche di ricordare che tu facessi qualcosa come il droghiere, o che avessi esercitato occasionalmente un’attività analoga (in caso contrario, ti chiedo di nuovo scusa) e che per questo fossi stato assegnato al Kommando 98. È giusto anche questo?

Adesso ho qualche dubbio, invece, sul fatto tu sia stato partigiano e dottore in Legge, come ho scritto nel mio libro. Nella memoria sono rimasti impressi però due episodi precisi, e cioè:

– Una volta, mentre insieme trasportavamo su da una cantina dei sacchi di cloruro di magnesio, ti ho domandato se e quando è consentito a un ebreo uccidere. Mi rispondesti che era consentito solo in quattro (?) casi: per sottrarsi a morte certa e per evitare di adorare un idolo. Gli altri due li ho dimenticati.[8]

– Eravamo in una cisterna sotterranea insieme ad altri compagni (tra cui Goldner e Siwadjan[9]). Era giugno, non c’era sorveglianza, eravamo insolitamente di buon umore: ho cantato una canzone italiana (era una canzone della Prima guerra mondiale), poi, con grande sforzo e fatica, ho tradotto il testo per te in un tedesco pessimo.[10]

Tuo cognato, il povero Izu Jakobovic, non l’ho dimenticato.[11] Allora aveva all’incirca 19 anni, era alto e magro; mi disse di essere un sionista revisionista. Ho presente anche Stern: l’ho visto l’ultima volta qualche giorno dopo l’arrivo dei russi.[12] Sei rimasto in contatto con qualcun altro? Hai idea se Szanto Andrej (Bàndi), un tempo farmacista a Praga, sia ancora vivo? Era un amico splendido![13]

Più volte, ma sempre invano, ho cercato di avere sue notizie.

E cosa è successo agli altri del Kommando 98?[14] Brevemente ti informo qui dei pochi di cui so qualcosa:[15] posso chiederti di fare lo stesso?

– Alberto Dalla Volta, il mio inseparabile amico italiano, è scomparso nella marcia della morte. E così Gyuri Kaufmann, di Nagy-Kanisza. Bela Fischer, un eccellente chimico di Budapest, è stato liberato con noi a Buna. Silvio Barabas[16] di Sarajevo e Jean Samuel di Strasburgo sono sopravvissuti alla marcia della morte; adesso il primo vive negli Stati Uniti, il secondo (il «Pikolo» del mio racconto) è farmacista a Wasselonne, vicino a Strasburgo. Siamo rimasti buoni amici e ci teniamo in contatto; quattro anni fa sono stato suo ospite, e lo scorso luglio è venuto da me a Torino con la famiglia. Joulty (un francese) vive a Parigi; così dovrebbe essere anche per Paul Steinberg, che nel mio libro (per ragioni comprensibili) ho ribattezzato Henri.[17]

Sarei particolarmente interessato a conoscere il destino dei seguenti compagni:

Arnold Silberlust, fisico, di Lipsia

Palptil Brackier, belga, ma di origine polacca

Elias Lindzin, polacco (nel mio libro, p. 99 e segg., ribattezzato «David Kram»)

Robert Bassist, dell’Austria meridionale o della Croazia, e infine[18] Pàli Kraus («Szög», p. 137 e segg.)[19]

Per quanto riguarda me, suppongo che tu abbia letto l’essenziale nella quarta di copertina del libro. Due punti sono però da correggere: non ho «fondato» nessun gruppo partigiano (mi sono semplicemente unito a uno di questi); e… ho scritto un secondo libro.[20] Anche questo è uscito lo scorso ottobre in lingua tedesca (Atempause, Wegner Verlag, Hamburg): me ne è rimasta solo una copia, altrimenti sarei stato[21] davvero felice di spedirtene una. È il racconto del nostro lungo, infinito viaggio di ritorna a casa, passando per la Polonia, l’Ucraina, la Bielorussia, la Romania, l’Ungheria, la Slovacchia, l’Austria e la Germania, fino all’ottobre del 1945.

Ci sarebbero ancora molte cose da dire, ma la mia lettera è già diventata fin troppo lunga e ho fretta di imbucarla[22] subito, in modo che tu possa leggerla il prima possibile. Spero vivamente di ricevere presto tue notizie.

I più affettuosi saluti a te e alla tua famiglia

il tuo amico

Turin, February 2, 1965

Dear Mendi!

You can hardly imagine how delighted I was to receive your letter yesterday: rarely has a single letter brought back such a wealth of memories and experiences. Please forgive me: unfortunately, my command of the German language is limited (to what little I learned in Auschwitz), but it seems to me we have no other language between[1] us.[2] If you understand French or English (or even Latin!), please let me know: that would make it easier for me to express myself.

So it seems “nissim”[3] are still possible in this world: you are alive, despite everything, despite our shared suffering, despite that horrific evacuation toward death! But, on second thought, I cannot truly be surprised by this.[4] Judging by what little I knew of you, you were clearly one of the chosen ones, one[5] of those who demonstrated sufficient courage and virtue to pass the test and[6] earn freedom.

Today (after so many years!), I can no longer be sure my memories of you are accurate. I am absolutely certain that you were a rabbi—a knowledgeable, multilingual, lively, and honest young man.[7] You are not too tall, you have black hair and eyes, and were born around 1917: is all of that correct? You are Slovak, perhaps from Miskolc; in any case, you spoke Slovak, Hungarian, German, Yiddish, and Hebrew fluently. I seem to recall that you were somehow a pharmacist, or ran a similar business on occasion (if not, I again beg your pardon), and that’s why you were assigned to Kommando 98. Is that true, too?

As to whether you were actually a partisan with a doctorate in law, as I wrote in my book—I now have my doubts. However, two very specific episodes are etched in my memory, namely:

– Once, when the two of us were carrying bags of magnesium chloride out of a basement, I asked you whether and when a Jew was permitted to kill his fellows. You replied that it was permitted only in four (?) cases: to save oneself from certain death; and to avoid worshipping an idol. I have forgotten the other two cases.[8]

– We were in an underground bunker with some other comrades (including Goldner and Sivadjan[9]). It was June; there were no guards around, and we were in an exceptionally cheerful mood. I sang an Italian song (a song from World War I), and then, with great difficulty and effort, I translated the lyrics into dreadful German[10] for you.

I have not forgotten your brother-in-law, poor Izu Jakobovic.[11] He was about 19 at the time, tall and gaunt; he told me he was a Revisionist Zionist. I remember Stern, too: I last saw him a couple of days after the Russians arrived.[12] Who else have you stayed in touch with? Do you have any idea whether Szanto Andrej (Bàndi), formerly a pharmacist in Prague, is still alive? He was such a wonderful friend![13]

I have tried several times, but always in vain, to get news of him.

And what has become of the others from Kommando 98?[14] I will briefly tell you here about the few[15] I know of; may I ask you to do the same?

– Alberto Dalla Volta, my inseparable Italian friend, disappeared during the death march. So did Gyuri Kaufmann, from Nagy-Kanisza. Bela Fischer, an outstanding chemist from Budapest, was liberated with us in Buna. Silvio Barabas[16] from Sarajevo and Jean Samuel from Strasbourg survived the death march; the former now lives in the U.S.A., while the latter (“Pikolo” in my book) is a pharmacist in Wasseln, near Strasbourg. We have remained in close contact and are good friends; I was his guest four years ago, and he visited me in Turin last July with his family. Joulty (a Frenchman) lives in Paris; so does Paul Steinberg, whose name I changed (for understandable reasons) to Henri in the book.[17]

I would be particularly interested in learning the fate of the following comrades:

Arnold Silberlust, a physicist from Leipzig

Palptil Brackier, a Belgian of Polish descent

Elias Lindzin, a Pole (whose name I changed to David Kram in my book, pp. 99ff.)

Robert Bassist, from southern Austria or Croatia; and, finally,[18] Pàli Kraus (Szög, pp. 137ff.)[19]

As for me, I assume you have read the basics from the back of the book. However, two points need to be corrected: namely, I did not “found” a partisan group (I merely joined one); and—I have written a second book.[20] It was also published in German last October (as Atempause, Wegner Verlag, Hamburg): I have only one copy left; otherwise I would have been[21] quite happy to send you a copy. It tells the story of our interminably long journey home, through Poland, Ukraine, Belarus, Romania, Hungary, Slovakia, Austria, and Germany, up to October 1945.

There is still much more to say, but my letter is already far too long, and I am in a hurry to mail it[22] right away so you can read it as soon as possible. I look forward to hearing from you again.

Warmest regards to you and your family

Your friend

Turin, 2/2/1965

Lieber Mendi!

sicher kannst Du Dich kaum vorstellen, mit welcher Freude ich gestern Dein Brief bekommen habe: sehr selten ist mir passiert, dass ein einziger Brief solch eine Fülle von Erinnerungen und Erlebnissen gebracht hätte. Ich bitte Dich um Verzeihung: bin leider der Deutschen Sprache nur beschränkt mächtig (das wenige, das ich in Auschwitz gelernt habe), aber es scheint mir, dass wir keine andere Sprache zwischen[1] uns benutzen konnten.[2] Falls Du Französisch oder Englisch (oder gar Lateinisch!) verstehst, sage es mir: so würde es mir leichter, mich auszudrücken.

So sind die «Nissim»[3] noch an der Welt möglich: Du lebst, trotz Allem, trotz unseren gemeinsamen Leiden, trotz der entsetzlichen Todesevakuierung! Aber, besser gedacht, ich kann nicht wirklich davor erstaunt sein.[4] Sollte ich von dem Wenigen aus verurteilen, das ich von Dir erlebt habe, warst Du deutlich einer der Vorerwälten, einer[5] von denen, die ausreichende Mut und Tugend beweist haben, um die Probe zu bestehen und[6] die Freiheit zu verdienen.

Ich bin heute (nach so vielen Jahren!) nicht mehr in der Lage, meine Erinnerungen von Dir nachzuprüfen. Dass Du ein Rabbiner, und ein vielwissender, vielsprachiger, munterer und ehrlicher Junge warst, davon bin ich völlig sicher.[7] Du bist nicht sehr gross, schwarzhaarig und -äugig, geboren ungefähr 1917: stimmt das alles? Ein Slowaker bist Du, aus Miskolc vielleicht; jedenfalls hast du fliessend Slovakisch, Ungarisch, Deutsch, Yiddisch und Hebräisch gesprochen. Es scheint mir dazu zu erinnern, dass Du irgendwie Drugist gewesen bist, oder gelegentlich ein ähnliches Geschäft geführt hast (falls nicht, wieder bitte ich um Verzeihung), und deswegen warst Du dem Kommando 98 eingeteilt. Ob das auch stimmt?

Dass Du tatsächlich Partisan und Doktor der Rechtswissenschaft gewesen bist, so wie ich in meinem Buch geschrieben habe, hier bin ich jetzt in Zweifel. In meinem Gedächtnis sind aber zwei sehr genaue Episoden geblieben, und zwar:

– Einmal, als wir beide Chlormagnesiumsäcke aus einem Keller trugen, habe ich Dir gefragt, ob und wann es einem Juden erlaubt sei, seinen Nächsten zu töten. Du hast mir geantwortet, das sei nur in vier (?) Fällen erlaubt: um sich selbst vom sicheren Tod zu entziehen; und um zu vermeiden, einen Abgott zu verehren. Die andere zwei Fälle habe ich vergessen.[8]

– Wir waren, mit anderen Kameraden (Goldner und Siwadjan[9] darunter) in einem unterirdischen Tank. Es war Juni, keine Überwachung war da, wir waren aussergewöhnlich frohgelaunt; ich habe ein Italieniches Lied gesungen (es war ein Lied aus dem Ersten Weltkrieg), dann, mit grosser Mühe und Anstrengung, habe ich den Text für dich in miserablen Deutsch übersetzt.[10]

Deinen Schwager, den armen Izu Jakobovic, habe ich nicht vergessen.[11] Er war damals ungefähr 19, gross und hager; er sagte mir, ein Zionist-Revisionist zu sein. Auch Stern ist mir vorhanden: ich habe ihn das Letztemal ein Paar Tage nach der Ankunft der Russen gesehen.[12] Mit welchen anderen bist du in Kontakt geblieben? Hast du Ahnung, ob Szanto Andrej (Bàndi), vormals Apotheker in Prag, am Leben ist? Er war so ein prächtiger Freund![13]

Mehrere Male, aber immer vergebens, habe ich versucht von ihm Nachricht zu bekommen.

Und was ist mit den anderen von K.do 98[14] geschehen? Ich werde dich hier kurz von den wenigen unterrichten,[15] von denen ich Bescheid weiss; darf ich Dich ersuchen, dasselbe zu machen?

– Alberto Dalla Volta, mein untrennbarer Italienischer Freund, ist in dem Todesmarsch verschwunden. So auch Gyuri Kaufmann, aus Nagy-Kanisza. Bela Fischer, ein ausgezeichneter Chemiker aus Budapest, ist mit uns in Buna befreit worden. Silvio Barabas[16] aus Sarajevo und Jean Samuel aus Strassburg haben den Todesmarsch überlebt; der Erste lebt jetzt in U.S.A., der Zweite (der «Pikolo» von meinem Bericht) ist Apotheker in Wasseln, neben Strassburg. Wir sind in guter Freundschaft und in Kontakt geblieben; ich war vor 4 Jahren sein Gast, er kam zu mir in Turin im letzten Juli mit seiner Familie. Joulty (ein Franzoser) lebt in Paris; so sollte auch Paul Steinberg, in meinem Buch (aus verständlichen Gründen) Henri umgetauft.[17] 

Besonders interessiert wäre ich, das Schicksal folgender Kameraden zu kennen:

Arnold Silberlust, Physiker, aus Leipzig

Palptil Brackier, Belgier, aber von Polnischen Stamm. 

Elias Lindzin, Pole (in meinem Buch, s.99 ff., «David Kram» umgetauft)

Robert Bassist, aus Süd-Oesterreich oder Kroatien und endlich,[18] Pàli Kraus («Szög», s. 137 ff.)[19]

Was mich betrifft, nehme ich an, dass Du das Wesentliche in der Rückseite des Buches gelesen hast. Zwei Punkte sind aber zu berichtigen: ich habe nämlich keine Partisanengruppe «gegründet» (ich habe lediglich mich an einen solche angeschlossen); und – ich habe ein zweites Buch geschrieben.[20] Dieses ist letzten Oktober auch in Deutscher Sprache erschienen (Atempause, Wegner Verlag, Hamburg): nur eine Kopie ist mir übrig geblieben, sonst wäre[21] ich recht froh gewesen, Dir ein Band zu schicken. Dies ist die Erzählung von unserem unendlich langen Heimkehr, durch Polen, Ukraina, Weissrussland, Rumänien, Ungarien, Slowakei, Österreich und Deutschland, bis auf Oktober 1945.

Manches wäre noch zu sagen, doch ist mein Brief schon viel zu lang geworden, und ich habe Eile, ihn[22] sofort zur Post zu geben, so dass Du möglichst schnell ihn lesen kannst. Ich freue mich sehr, wieder von Dir zu lesen.

Freundlichste Grüsse Dir und Deiner Familie

Dein Freund

Turin, February 2, 1965

Dear Mendi!

You can hardly imagine how delighted I was to receive your letter yesterday: rarely has a single letter brought back such a wealth of memories and experiences. Please forgive me: unfortunately, my command of the German language is limited (to what little I learned in Auschwitz), but it seems to me we have no other language between[1] us.[2] If you understand French or English (or even Latin!), please let me know: that would make it easier for me to express myself.

So it seems “nissim”[3] are still possible in this world: you are alive, despite everything, despite our shared suffering, despite that horrific evacuation toward death! But, on second thought, I cannot truly be surprised by this.[4] Judging by what little I knew of you, you were clearly one of the chosen ones, one[5] of those who demonstrated sufficient courage and virtue to pass the test and[6] earn freedom.

Today (after so many years!), I can no longer be sure my memories of you are accurate. I am absolutely certain that you were a rabbi—a knowledgeable, multilingual, lively, and honest young man.[7] You are not too tall, you have black hair and eyes, and were born around 1917: is all of that correct? You are Slovak, perhaps from Miskolc; in any case, you spoke Slovak, Hungarian, German, Yiddish, and Hebrew fluently. I seem to recall that you were somehow a pharmacist, or ran a similar business on occasion (if not, I again beg your pardon), and that’s why you were assigned to Kommando 98. Is that true, too?

As to whether you were actually a partisan with a doctorate in law, as I wrote in my book—I now have my doubts. However, two very specific episodes are etched in my memory, namely:

– Once, when the two of us were carrying bags of magnesium chloride out of a basement, I asked you whether and when a Jew was permitted to kill his fellows. You replied that it was permitted only in four (?) cases: to save oneself from certain death; and to avoid worshipping an idol. I have forgotten the other two cases.[8]

– We were in an underground bunker with some other comrades (including Goldner and Sivadjan[9]). It was June; there were no guards around, and we were in an exceptionally cheerful mood. I sang an Italian song (a song from World War I), and then, with great difficulty and effort, I translated the lyrics into dreadful German[10] for you.

I have not forgotten your brother-in-law, poor Izu Jakobovic.[11] He was about 19 at the time, tall and gaunt; he told me he was a Revisionist Zionist. I remember Stern, too: I last saw him a couple of days after the Russians arrived.[12] Who else have you stayed in touch with? Do you have any idea whether Szanto Andrej (Bàndi), formerly a pharmacist in Prague, is still alive? He was such a wonderful friend![13]

I have tried several times, but always in vain, to get news of him.

And what has become of the others from Kommando 98?[14] I will briefly tell you here about the few[15] I know of; may I ask you to do the same?

– Alberto Dalla Volta, my inseparable Italian friend, disappeared during the death march. So did Gyuri Kaufmann, from Nagy-Kanisza. Bela Fischer, an outstanding chemist from Budapest, was liberated with us in Buna. Silvio Barabas[16] from Sarajevo and Jean Samuel from Strasbourg survived the death march; the former now lives in the U.S.A., while the latter (“Pikolo” in my book) is a pharmacist in Wasseln, near Strasbourg. We have remained in close contact and are good friends; I was his guest four years ago, and he visited me in Turin last July with his family. Joulty (a Frenchman) lives in Paris; so does Paul Steinberg, whose name I changed (for understandable reasons) to Henri in the book.[17]

I would be particularly interested in learning the fate of the following comrades:

Arnold Silberlust, a physicist from Leipzig

Palptil Brackier, a Belgian of Polish descent

Elias Lindzin, a Pole (whose name I changed to David Kram in my book, pp. 99ff.)

Robert Bassist, from southern Austria or Croatia; and, finally,[18] Pàli Kraus (Szög, pp. 137ff.)[19]

As for me, I assume you have read the basics from the back of the book. However, two points need to be corrected: namely, I did not “found” a partisan group (I merely joined one); and—I have written a second book.[20] It was also published in German last October (as Atempause, Wegner Verlag, Hamburg): I have only one copy left; otherwise I would have been[21] quite happy to send you a copy. It tells the story of our interminably long journey home, through Poland, Ukraine, Belarus, Romania, Hungary, Slovakia, Austria, and Germany, up to October 1945.

There is still much more to say, but my letter is already far too long, and I am in a hurry to mail it[22] right away so you can read it as soon as possible. I look forward to hearing from you again.

Warmest regards to you and your family

Your friend