A brief note on Primo Levi's Moments of Reprieve, a marvellous, inspiring book which I referred to a few weeks ago. Once I’d mentioned it, I had to get it off the shelf and read it again. This is a book whose power is very modest, very quiet, almost saintly, and which ideally you should read as a counterpoint to If This Is A Man, the same author’s cathartic description of life, if life it can be called, in Auschwitz. If If This Is A Man tells the raw, unvarnished horror, Moments of Reprieve captures some of the things which happened in prison camp which convinced him that the spark of decency, of dignity, and love was still alive, in some people at least.
There are stories of men trusting each other in the midst of thievery, of “free” (ie, conscripted but not Jewish or “criminal”) workmen bringing Levi food everyday for weeks and months, each time committing a capital offence. There are tales of men who never lost their sense of humour, telling tales of Lilith, who in some versions, was created after Eve because it was not good for even God to be alone, and of her mischievousness (to put it no higher). And there is a tale of a man whose life was music, who hummed and sang his to keep his identity and sanity, who was bitterly reviled by others, but who casts a spell on the whole camp by selling his bread ration when he is already starving to play for a short while on a stolen violin.
And there is my favourite story of all, of the Cantor who somehow keeps track of the Jewish calendar through all his imprisonment. One day, there is an issue of soup, poor enough stuff, not much more than water, but a rare treat. When he gets to the head of the queue, the Cantor says that it is a day of fast in the Jewish rite, and he begs that the soup be kept for him for the morrow. This is extraordinary enough, all the men are starving to death, but he is firm. The soldier does not immediately revile him either, but has a conversation about the fast. But can you not break the rule when your need is so great? Only if I was sure I would save my own life or another’s. But you might die tonight from lack of food. I might, but I am not sure of it, so I must keep the rule. So here is greatness, strength of character to observe the ritual in the darkest times of despair and need, and to observe it with a cheerful heart. But there is greatness, too, in the soldier’s response; he takes the mess tin, fills it with soup – more than a normal serving – and keeps it for the morrow, perhaps saving his humanity at the risk of his life.
This is a book of many aspects, all of them remarkable. You will never read another book anything like it; you will find it hard to read without tears; it is a message that there is a candle in even the darkest night.
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