Disclaimer: I don't own West Wing. 'Nuff said. I am also not Elie Wiesel
and if anyone has *any* information on the real Zalman, could you send me
it? Thanks.
Overview: Okay, this may conflict with prior knowledge of Toby's family. If it does, I'm sorry. I wrote this for my English class short story, turned it in, got a 100. I figured I'd stick it up here to see if people liked it. R/R
Honoring Our Dead
by Tatt Skywalker
It was a week before the Presidential debates when I found out my ex-wife, Congresswoman Andy Wyatt was pregnant. Despite our failed marriage, the two of us both shared a wish to have children. Because of a disease causing Andy's white blood cells to attack a pregnancy like a virus, it was something the both of us had to decide to continue to strive for as neither one of us could get pregnant alone.
We had been trying for four years, I gladly donating my own white blood cells to help Andy's learn to tolerate a pregnancy. Now our dreams were coming true. Not only in one way, but two. Literally. Twins, due sometime around May.
That was the real reason that I, Toby Ziegler, was now standing outside, huddled in my coat trying to protect myself from the cold November weather. It was not any November day but a special one. It was Election Day 2002. I, however, was not back in Washington awaiting the election results.
No, instead I was standing outside a complete stranger's house trying to build up the nerve to knock. So far, it wasn't working. Big, bad Toby Ziegler was afraid to knock on a door.
If Sam could see me now, I mused.
A gust of cold air rattled my bones and finally prompted my knock. I am forty-four years old, and I'm not saying I'm frail or anything, it was just COLD.
"Coming!" someone inside yelled. "Coming."
And the door swung open much like it had five years before just a few blocks away...
"He's in here, Toby," Mrs. Gasby said as she opened the door to my father's house. For twelve years she had greeted me at that door, but on that day, it was as if we were strangers. Silently, she led me to the parlor where my father was waiting.
I sighed and walked over to him. "Tomorrow," I reassured him and placed my hand on the smooth pine. My hand rested there for a moment as my eyes took in every contour of the solid coffin. He had died the day before. He would be buried the next morning.
Burial soon after death is a Jewish tradition and my father was a very religious man. He had made it through some of the toughest times in the history of the world. I would honor him with a burial as he liked. It would only be me and a few of his friends. No one else would be coming.
David wasn't able to come. I dunno... being miles above the planet is a pretty good excuse for not making it to a simple funeral. Despite our father's illness, Dave still decided to go up. I don't blame him for his passion. It is the same for me with the Administration. But I wasn't with Bartlet then.
Brenda and Lisa couldn't make it for the funeral either. Both had families, who was I to intrude on their lives? Who was our father to ask them to abandon their families to see him set in the ground? Looking back now I think of the song Sam sang at Debate Camp... of how well it fit my father's situation. I don't remember the words, I don't speak Latin. But I heard him explain the song's meaning.
Let us be merry young men. For after the joys of youth and the pains of old age, the ground will have us.
"It's true," Sam had added. It really was.
I'm not as religious as my father was. His faith was built on the pain and suffering of himself and countless others in the German camps... on the forced march... He was a survivor of great injustice. All his hope was built on the Torah.
A youth full of joy was not entirely my father's. The pains of old age overcame him at a very young age. And the ground would have him that next day. It's funny how simple things like a song make you think of the past.
"Toby?"
I turned away from the coffin.
It was Mrs. Gasby standing there behind me. She held out a letter to me. "This one is for you," she explained. "There's one for Dave, the girls. We... we wrote them just two nights ago..."
I gave her as comforting a look as I could. "Thank you."
She nodded and left once more.
My father's parlor is not really a parlor but really more of a study. Mother just liked calling it a parlor and holding her tea parties there. The name stuck long after her own death seven years before my father's. Perhaps it was his way of paying tribute to her. I'll never know.
I sat down behind my father's desk and stared at the envelope I held in my hands. He had written me a letter. He had known his end was coming. For some reason, I didn't want to open the letter. I somewhat believed that as long as he still had something to tell me, he would still be alive. It was a stupid feeling but it gripped me for a time.
Finally, my curiosity over came me. I used a penknife from one of the desk drawers to carefully open...
The door. A kindly looking woman opened the door to face me. "Can I help you?"
"Yes," I said, rubbing my hands together. "My name is Toby Ziegler. I'm looking for a Professor Wiesel. Elie Wiesel."
She gave me a apologetic look. "I'm sorry," she said. "Professor Wiesel isn't able to-"
"Let him in Marion," an elder man shouted. "Let him in."
The woman didn't look happy but let me into the house.
The warmth! I was over come and I just stood there, soaking in the heat from the radiator. New York City is my native home but the past four years in DC must have spoiled me because I was not prepared for the weather. I realized how stupid I must look, standing by an old radiator like I was trying to absorb the heat.
"How may we help you, Mr. Ziegler?"
"My father... I believe he knew you."
I looked at the letter in my hands and observed the familiar marks of my father's script. The cursive marks flowed smoothly together creating a sense of serenity in something so simple as writing.
Dear Toby, My time is coming my son. I can sense it. I feel it in my bones at night. I don't want to leave you without passing something to you. A piece of knowledge. I'm writing to David, Lisa and Brenda as well. You have all done me proud. But you most of all, Toby. When I came here to America with your mother and sister, I knew this would be the land my family would prosper in. That we could all grow strong here. You have grown strong, son. You work for the leader of the free world. Everything we hoped for came true with you. That any child can be successful. It is the American dream. It was our dream for you. I was at Auschwitz for a week, son. It is there I lost many of my family. I know I never told any of you about my time in the camps before but I am telling you now. Not your sisters or David... I love you all equally but how can David appreciate my story when his heart isn't even on Earth? Why burden the girls with the truth when they already their young ones to worry about? Toby, I entrust this with you because you are now the man of the family. It is to you everyone will look up to. And I believe you can understand and appreciate what I am about to tell you. I was fifteen when they found us hidden in our neighbor's attic. It was my father, my mother, my three sisters and my brother-in-law who were all hiding there together. We didn't know it, but the war was almost over. So close... we almost made it. It was August of 1944. We had heard of the invasion in France two months before and it filled us with hope. Hope that we would be safe, that the Germans would be too busy at the front to find us. It was not so. I do not know the date in which it happened, but I know for certain that it was August. The fine weather outside, what other month could it be? We heard screams from the floor below us and a second later, Nazis burst through the attic door. They shouted at us to get up, to leave. All we could think of as they shepherded us out was of the massacre in Jozefow two years before. Would this be our end? After all we had done to survive? After all the Delphinkis had do to help us? We all hurried out of the house and into the street. I saw my best friend, Andrzej Delphinki and his sister behind a push cart as they watched their parents be arrested and us marched out into an awaiting truck. They later killed both his father and mother. He never forgave me and my family for it. He still lives in Rabka, Poland, living a life of bitter hate and pain. How I pity him. But never did he pity me.
I read the next part, of the train ride to Birkenau at Auschwitz. They were packed in to the trains like cattle. Here I was, reading about the experience of my father, feeling sick that what he had written had even happened.
He wrote of their arrival and how his family was separated. "Men to the left, Woman to the right." I learned the fate of my missing family members. I had already known that my aunts Krysia and Chava hadn't survived. Nor had my grandparents. Yet, reading my father's words, the news hit me hard and caused me to grieve for these people I never knew.
My father's script was replaced by his words as I continued to read. I could hear him speaking to me, relating his tale to me as if he were sitting alive before me. He was sent to Buna after Auschwitz and his first assignment was as a laborer.
The work was hard and he was often beaten. Later, my father became friends with a man in the electrical warehouse. The man helped him get a transfer, though when my father made it into the warehouse, the man was gone. He didn't give the man a second thought once he made it into the warehouse. He just thanked God he was there.
They laughed at me in the warehouse. They found humor in my faith though they did not laugh at man named Juliek who poured his soul into his violin. The music soothed them. My faith annoyed them as many had lost their own. But I took their jests. God had been good enough to send me there, Toby. Who was I to pass judgements on God's favors? One person, a boy around my age, did not mock me openly. Yet he was one of those who had lost his faith. I remember a day that almost made me join him in his disbelief. I remember that it was a trial for me not curse God. The Germans made us assemble for a hanging. We all did, thinking nothing of the deaths that would occur before our eyes. We'd see worse before. It turned out, we hadn't. He was just a child, my son. I can't say for sure how old. Around twelve perhaps. They hung him along with two adults. They made it seem gallant but the boy... his fear showed in his eyes. When the chairs fell back, we marched past the bodies. His eyes were open, watching us as we pass. I don't mean he died with his eyes open. I mean he was watching. He was still alive, Toby! And we had to march past him. We couldn't come to his aide. It was horrible. But it didn't seem to hit any of us more than it hit that other boy I mentioned before. His name, I can remember, was Elie.
"He wrote of a boy named Elie in a letter to me," I explained to the man in front of me. "He said that he worked in an electrical warehouse with him at Buna."
Professor Wiesel looked interested. "Really?" he asked.
I nodded.
"Do have this letter with you," Wiesel asked.
"Yes," I answered and pulled the letter from my bag. "I thought you might want to read it yourself."
We were still standing in the hallway and both Wiesel and I wouldn't have found any problem in that. Most of the meetings I have back in the West Wing are in the hallways. Offices aren't as practical as people believe.
"Elie, Mr. Ziegler, perhaps it would be more comfortable for you to sit in the living room," Marion Wiesel suggested intently.
"Yes, perhaps that would be better," Wiesel agreed a moment later. "After you, Mr. Ziegler."
I walked into the room indicated by his outstretched arm and took a seat in one of the chairs surrounding the central coffee table. Wiesel and Marion sat down on the couch nearby. There was a moment of silence as Elie read the letter. In my line of work, silence is a virtue not often come by.
Marion Wiesel, however, had a different idea. "Mr. Ziegler, tell us a little about yourself."
'A little about yourself'... here it came. All I wanted to do is see if this Elie Wiesel guy was the one my father had mentioned. Now I had to actually get to know these people.
"My name is Toby Ziegler and I work at the White House," came the traditional response. I wasn't trying to show off, but I did work at the White House. What else could I say?
Well, Marion was surprised. "The White House?"
I nodded. Unlike the rest of the Senior Staff, if Bartlet won the reelection, it wouldn't be my fifth year in the White House. No, it would be my ninth. I was the only Senior Staff member that stayed with the White House when Bartlet came to office. After eight years, working at the White House just doesn't seem that big of a deal.
But Marion Wiesel thought it was a big deal. "You work so close with the President... what's he like?"
"We've never had a President like Bartlet," I answered with as much respect as a comment like that can carry. I don't me any disrespect to the President, I just don't like talking about my job with people I've never met before. Unless, they're politicians or the like. Elie Wiesel can be considered a public figure, but his wife really cannot. I don't like to talk about my job to people like her because it makes me feel like I'm trying to put myself above them.
I don't do that. Well, not outside the office, anyways. I only do that to CJ and Sam because, well, they work for me. I can't exactly let them feel important. They wouldn't be productive.
"Is the President interested in Elie for something?"
"No," I established. "This is just me. Rather... it isn't just me." I took a deep breath and then explained to her why I had really come. "I'm not here because the President asked me to come or anything. In fact, the President didn't want me to come. It's Election Day. Not a good day for Senior Staff members to be out. But..."
I paused a moment. She gave me an expectant look so I began again. "My ex-wife and I have been trying to have a baby for a while now. We're going to have one... two actually. I... I want them to know about their history. My father wanted them to know... I want to honor his wishes. That's why I tracked your husband down. To honor his wishes."
I know you and Andy have been having problems lately. I hope you are able to resolve them, I really do. You two remind me of your mother and I in our younger days. Such bustling youth I see in you both. Don't make a decision either of you will regret later on. You love her, son. Treat her well and don't put your work before your wife. Yes, you will have to find a new work after you leave the White House. That is alright but don't leave her out in the cold. Work things out. Keep the love alive. On that matter, I know it has been hard. But it will happen. I just regret I won't be around to see your children. Lisa and Brenda's families are wonderful, but I do wish I could see you and David's families... if either of you would settle down! But I know you will someday, both settle down and start your family. That is why I ask this simple request. Don't let my story fade away. Don't forget me and what happened to me and my family. Tell your children. Pass this letter on to your children. Please, Toby. I trust you... don't let me be forgotten.
"Zalman," Professor Wiesel whispered from the couch.
Both Marion and I turned to face him.
Remarkably, after reading a letter than had seemed extremely morbid to me, Professor Wiesel was smiling. "I never knew he made it," the man stated.
"Made it?" I asked.
"Why, yes," he replied. "We ran together on that march to Gleiwitz together for a little while. I saw him last on that march." Wiesel nodded. "Yes, I can tell you, I remember your father from the camps. Very devoted to religion. And... your father... he really irritated some of the prisoners."
"Yeah... he said that somewhere in there," I agreed.
"Yes, it was horrible. Have you read any of my books?"
I nodded. "My assistant, Bonnie, gave me one... Night, it was called. That's how I connected you with my father."
"My first."
"Yeah."
"It's all true," Wiesel said. "You've read then? About it all?"
"What you went through..."
"No one believed anything would happen," Wiesel said. "You read that. No one believed we would be effected by the war. Then came the ghettos... then the trains... That's when they understood. That's when they began to listen. But it was too late." He looked to me. "Would you have listened?" he asked.
"Probably not," I admitted. "I wouldn't want to."
"No one wants to believe something bad will happen," Wiesel responded. "Why would you? But we should have. By the time we reached the camps, we all wished we'd believed. Now, this is interesting, that Zalman went the same way as my father and I. Through Birkenau and then to Buna."
I offered the information, "He was a laborer, then he was transferred to the electrical warehouse."
"Which is very odd, you've probably gathered from any other research you've done," Wiesel commented.
I sort of hung my head. "No, I... haven't done any other real research."
What would have warranted a disgusted look from the Senators on Capitol Hill, just rendered a smile from Elie Wiesel.
"But you're trying," he said.
I was silent. I really wasn't trying. I had found out about Elie Wiesel from my assistant Bonnie. She had been reading Night when I asked her to run my father's name for me. When she heard the name Zalman, she turned to her desk and pulled out the book. I had her run the name Elie Wiesel instead and fours later, I was on a plane to New York. I had read the book on the flight so it was all fresh in my mind and I could understand all that he was talking about.
"As long as we remember, we will be able to prevent it from happening again," Wiesel commented. "Or we will atleast have the sense to try to prevent it."
"Did you know my father well?" I asked him after a moment's pause. He had said he'd known my father. But not how well.
"No, I'm afraid that I didn't not know Zalman. Well, I knew Zalman more than anyone else took the time to. He was from Poland and had a fairly large family. None of which he knew were still alive," he answered. "It was mostly because of that hard fact that Zalman was set up to survive for himself. Most of his time was spent alone, in meditation. Yet, he was the first one to offer bread if someone was feeling sickly."
That brought a smile to my face. My entire life, my father had been like that. He was not one to open up to people. But if someone in the family or a friend were sick or feeling down, he'd be there to listen. He'd comfort you.
"His devotion to religion was what brought him comfort. Our Kapo, he was always angry and abusive. Many times Zalman was the victim of his bouts of fury. And still, every night, he would pray and meditate," Wiesel told me. "No matter what happened, he prayed at night."
"I can tell you of many times I would have ended my prayers," he continued. "He was whipped once by an angered Idek, our Kapo. He came after Zalman with a pipe and beat him so badly he was taken to the hospital wing. When he returned, he was still praying. Still reciting parts of the Talmud to himself.
"But then, there was the day they hung the young pipel. The sad-eyed angel, as I remember him. Such a young, innocent child put to death. We watched them hang him along with two adults. Then we marched past, tears in our eyes. We marched past the boy who was hanging, still alive on the end of the rope. That night was the only night I remember that Zalman didn't not meditate or pray. He didn't even eat.
"Later, I heard someone asked him, 'How can you still pray to a God who allows us to suffer and die. Who allows a child to be killed and shows no mercy to that child even then?'
"'Who am I to question the moved of my maker?' Zalman asked. 'He has provided me to be here in this unit instead of out lifting rocks about. How can I question He who has allowed me to keep my life?'
"No where in that camp would you find someone as devoted to God in that camp. Never would you find someone who thought he owed God something for still being there.
"On Yom Kippur there was a great debate. You must face many in Washington, but this was a debate like you've never seen. What was debated could have ended some of our lives. 'Should we fast?' I did not as my father forbade me to. I did not as an act of rebellion towards God. But, of course, Zalman fasted. He tried to convince us to fast as well. That night, without asking anything in return, he handed out his bread and soup to some of those in our unit who had decided not to fast. He made them know he respected their choice and thought no less of them.
"And that was Zalman," he seemed to finalize. "Zalman Ziegler. In my time with him, I never learned his last name. I never learned the last names of many of my unit. They were not so dearly important to us as they are now."
Wiesel took a moment to shuffle the several pages of the letter and run his finger down the selected paper.
"The march from Buna to Gleiwitz," Wiesel said.
I wasn't exactly sure if he was directing the words to me or merely speaking to himself. I didn't say anything.
"That was the last time I saw Zalman, on that march," he added. "It was an extremely icy day. The wind blew in violent gusts on to our marching mass. I was marching with Zalman at my side for a good while. Until he was over come with cramps.
"I did believe that was his end. If you stopped on those marches, the SS guards gave you no chance to recover. If you were to fall, they shot you. They shot you in the back as if you were nothing more than a rabid dog. When he became over come by the cramps, I pleaded with him to try and continue. I begged him to continue on. But he could not. I watched him sink to the ground as I kept marching on.
"I'm sitting here with his eldest son and I must admit, I'm not as ashamed to say that after I watched your father sink down, I forgot about him. Perhaps it is because you already know that from the book. But even if you didn't, I would still admit I paid him no heed. Look at those times, Mr. Ziegler. I was going on for the sake of my father. If not for him, I would have joined Zalman on the snowy ground. It would have been welcome relief.
"And it fills my heart with joy to know that he did, in fact, survive. I suppose there are a few who I knew at the camps that survived that I will never know whether they survived or not. I'm glad that I have found Zalman."
That remark was like an injection of guilty. I had waited five years to find out about my father. Five years. It took me that long to bring myself to honor his wishes. That moment, I vowed that my children would know of my father from youth. I would make sure that they never forgot what he went through.
I looked at my watch and stood up. "Thank you Professor," I said. "I've enjoyed talking with you."
"Must you leave so soon?" Marion Wiesel asked, her first words in a long while. "Please, stay for supper."
"Thank you, but I can't," I was forced to decline. "I've got a plane to catch. I have to be in DC before he votes are all counted."
Wiesel nodded. "We understand. And Mr. Ziegler, thank you."
"Thank you, sir," I responded. "Thank you for allowing me to be able to pass on to my children the knowledge I wish my father had shared with me from the beginning."
Marion showed me out, asking once more for me reconsider joining them for dinner. With a heavy heart, I once again had to decline. But it wasn't because of my flight.
It was a cold November morning when Mrs. Gasby and I accompanied my father to his final resting place. There was a very small service led by my father's rabbi and only a few of the people from his temple accompanied him to the funeral.
He is buried in South Amboy, across the river from Manhattan in New Jersey. It is a wonderful little ceremony and he is buried along side my mother in the military section. On either side of him are friends of his from his company during the Korean war. They had picked the place out together. He was the last to journey to the place. I had been to both of their services. Now, I was there for my father's.
When the service was completed, I gave my keys to Mrs. Gasby so she could go to the car and get warm. Teary eyed, she left me by the grave.
It was November and the ground was covered in snow. I brushed the freshly fallen snow from my parents' shared marker.
"Good bye, Dad," I said uncomfortable to the plaque in the ground. "I wish... I wish we'd been able to know each other better." I pulled the letter out of my coat. "I'll remember, Dad. I'll always remember."
Five years later, I was back to confess that I hadn't remembered. I had stuffed the letter into a forgotten drawer and left it alone. When Andy and I divorced, I saw no reason to bother with my father's words. I had believed he had chosen the wrong child to give the letter to. I had no one to pass the letter on to. I had no one to give his message.
But I would soon.
It was a late winter, and little snow had fallen. I wiped away what had fallen on the marker away.
"Hello, Dad," I said. "I found Elie. He told me about you and I want you to know, I'll pass your words on. I'll do ask you ask. My kids won't forget. I promise you."
I heard a bell ring and I watched as the doors of the building beside the cemetery opened. There were many cheers and much shouting and calling out. The pre-school had just let out and children three to five were racing out to meet there parents.
Despite the frigid weather, I was warm. Someday soon I'd have children of my own to pick up from pre-school.
"Dad, I've got a flight to catch, but I promise, you won't be forgotten," I told him before I had to leave. "I swear, my kids will always be aware of what happened. And I'll do whatever I can to keep it from happening again."
Then I had to leave. My flight left from Newark at four o'clock. I got into my rental car and turned on the radio to learn the latest poll results. As I drove out of the cemetery, I kept gazing back to the plot I had just left. At that moment, I felt closer to my father than I ever had before.
I carved the last name as neatly as possible into the wooden plank. I brushed the debris away and blew across the wood for good measure. Then I admired my work. The four names were crooked and read from top to bottom: Zelig Ziegler, Feige Ziegler, Chava Ziegler and Krysia Ziegler. It was much less than my family deserved but it was all I could do. I shoved the plank down into the earth with as much force as I could muster. Szymon came over and helped me and we secured the simple marker into the ground. It was the only detour on our journey to find work in France. Putting our family to rest was something we had to do. It was all we could do for them. Shifra came over and Szymon wrapped his arm around her. I hug my head and let tears stream silently down my face. The three of us said fair well to them in our own way and then we turned back to the road and walked away. Since then, I have not been back. I can't even tell you for sure in which town that cemetery they are 'buried' in lays. But I do know that I am for ever grateful they cane be at peace together.
And now my son, I am saying good bye to you. I wish I could be with you as your life goes on. I will forever regret that I can not. I love you, Toby, and I am proud of you. I know that you have grown to be a great man and will continue to become greater. I know you and Andy will work things out and will raise beautiful children. Remember, tell them what I have told you know. Don't let what happened disappear into history. Good bye, son. Live well and live happy.
Love to you, Zalman Ziegler
Mail From: IZZiegler@USHolocaustMemorial.org (Professor Isaiah Zalman Ziegler)
Mail To:
GovIZZiegler@NHstate.gov (Governor Isaac Zelig Ziegler)
Post Date: November 9, 2038
Text As Follows:
Dear Isaac,
The service was held this morning. Uncle Sam was able to attend and the Lyman's came. Really, it was a very simple service. I know you wanted to come and Mom hopes you know it is okay that you weren't able to.
How are things on the campaign going? It shouldn't be too hard, you're the best governor they've had since Josiah Bartlet and they know it. You really shouldn't worry so much about it. Besides, if you lose, you could always come teach down here with me at Georgetown. :-)
Isaac, I have something important I need to talk you about, so I'll say it now. Dad gave me his father's letter. You remember it, right? The one he used to read us when we were kids? Mom told me he wanted me to take it and make sure people never forgot.
I want to ask you, do you mind if I put it on display at the Memorial? This belongs to you as much as me and I don't want to make a decision for both of us. I really think it will do good there, you know. Dad must have read it to us a million times but it never really sank in before I read it for myself. I'd like for others to have that opportunity.
So, write me back soon, alright? Give my love to Joanna and the kids. And Isaac, remember, we'll never forgot. Don't let the kids forget either. Remember what we promised Dad.
We'll never forget.
Love, Isaiah.
End Text.
Overview: Okay, this may conflict with prior knowledge of Toby's family. If it does, I'm sorry. I wrote this for my English class short story, turned it in, got a 100. I figured I'd stick it up here to see if people liked it. R/R
Honoring Our Dead
by Tatt Skywalker
It was a week before the Presidential debates when I found out my ex-wife, Congresswoman Andy Wyatt was pregnant. Despite our failed marriage, the two of us both shared a wish to have children. Because of a disease causing Andy's white blood cells to attack a pregnancy like a virus, it was something the both of us had to decide to continue to strive for as neither one of us could get pregnant alone.
We had been trying for four years, I gladly donating my own white blood cells to help Andy's learn to tolerate a pregnancy. Now our dreams were coming true. Not only in one way, but two. Literally. Twins, due sometime around May.
That was the real reason that I, Toby Ziegler, was now standing outside, huddled in my coat trying to protect myself from the cold November weather. It was not any November day but a special one. It was Election Day 2002. I, however, was not back in Washington awaiting the election results.
No, instead I was standing outside a complete stranger's house trying to build up the nerve to knock. So far, it wasn't working. Big, bad Toby Ziegler was afraid to knock on a door.
If Sam could see me now, I mused.
A gust of cold air rattled my bones and finally prompted my knock. I am forty-four years old, and I'm not saying I'm frail or anything, it was just COLD.
"Coming!" someone inside yelled. "Coming."
And the door swung open much like it had five years before just a few blocks away...
"He's in here, Toby," Mrs. Gasby said as she opened the door to my father's house. For twelve years she had greeted me at that door, but on that day, it was as if we were strangers. Silently, she led me to the parlor where my father was waiting.
I sighed and walked over to him. "Tomorrow," I reassured him and placed my hand on the smooth pine. My hand rested there for a moment as my eyes took in every contour of the solid coffin. He had died the day before. He would be buried the next morning.
Burial soon after death is a Jewish tradition and my father was a very religious man. He had made it through some of the toughest times in the history of the world. I would honor him with a burial as he liked. It would only be me and a few of his friends. No one else would be coming.
David wasn't able to come. I dunno... being miles above the planet is a pretty good excuse for not making it to a simple funeral. Despite our father's illness, Dave still decided to go up. I don't blame him for his passion. It is the same for me with the Administration. But I wasn't with Bartlet then.
Brenda and Lisa couldn't make it for the funeral either. Both had families, who was I to intrude on their lives? Who was our father to ask them to abandon their families to see him set in the ground? Looking back now I think of the song Sam sang at Debate Camp... of how well it fit my father's situation. I don't remember the words, I don't speak Latin. But I heard him explain the song's meaning.
Let us be merry young men. For after the joys of youth and the pains of old age, the ground will have us.
"It's true," Sam had added. It really was.
I'm not as religious as my father was. His faith was built on the pain and suffering of himself and countless others in the German camps... on the forced march... He was a survivor of great injustice. All his hope was built on the Torah.
A youth full of joy was not entirely my father's. The pains of old age overcame him at a very young age. And the ground would have him that next day. It's funny how simple things like a song make you think of the past.
"Toby?"
I turned away from the coffin.
It was Mrs. Gasby standing there behind me. She held out a letter to me. "This one is for you," she explained. "There's one for Dave, the girls. We... we wrote them just two nights ago..."
I gave her as comforting a look as I could. "Thank you."
She nodded and left once more.
My father's parlor is not really a parlor but really more of a study. Mother just liked calling it a parlor and holding her tea parties there. The name stuck long after her own death seven years before my father's. Perhaps it was his way of paying tribute to her. I'll never know.
I sat down behind my father's desk and stared at the envelope I held in my hands. He had written me a letter. He had known his end was coming. For some reason, I didn't want to open the letter. I somewhat believed that as long as he still had something to tell me, he would still be alive. It was a stupid feeling but it gripped me for a time.
Finally, my curiosity over came me. I used a penknife from one of the desk drawers to carefully open...
The door. A kindly looking woman opened the door to face me. "Can I help you?"
"Yes," I said, rubbing my hands together. "My name is Toby Ziegler. I'm looking for a Professor Wiesel. Elie Wiesel."
She gave me a apologetic look. "I'm sorry," she said. "Professor Wiesel isn't able to-"
"Let him in Marion," an elder man shouted. "Let him in."
The woman didn't look happy but let me into the house.
The warmth! I was over come and I just stood there, soaking in the heat from the radiator. New York City is my native home but the past four years in DC must have spoiled me because I was not prepared for the weather. I realized how stupid I must look, standing by an old radiator like I was trying to absorb the heat.
"How may we help you, Mr. Ziegler?"
"My father... I believe he knew you."
I looked at the letter in my hands and observed the familiar marks of my father's script. The cursive marks flowed smoothly together creating a sense of serenity in something so simple as writing.
Dear Toby, My time is coming my son. I can sense it. I feel it in my bones at night. I don't want to leave you without passing something to you. A piece of knowledge. I'm writing to David, Lisa and Brenda as well. You have all done me proud. But you most of all, Toby. When I came here to America with your mother and sister, I knew this would be the land my family would prosper in. That we could all grow strong here. You have grown strong, son. You work for the leader of the free world. Everything we hoped for came true with you. That any child can be successful. It is the American dream. It was our dream for you. I was at Auschwitz for a week, son. It is there I lost many of my family. I know I never told any of you about my time in the camps before but I am telling you now. Not your sisters or David... I love you all equally but how can David appreciate my story when his heart isn't even on Earth? Why burden the girls with the truth when they already their young ones to worry about? Toby, I entrust this with you because you are now the man of the family. It is to you everyone will look up to. And I believe you can understand and appreciate what I am about to tell you. I was fifteen when they found us hidden in our neighbor's attic. It was my father, my mother, my three sisters and my brother-in-law who were all hiding there together. We didn't know it, but the war was almost over. So close... we almost made it. It was August of 1944. We had heard of the invasion in France two months before and it filled us with hope. Hope that we would be safe, that the Germans would be too busy at the front to find us. It was not so. I do not know the date in which it happened, but I know for certain that it was August. The fine weather outside, what other month could it be? We heard screams from the floor below us and a second later, Nazis burst through the attic door. They shouted at us to get up, to leave. All we could think of as they shepherded us out was of the massacre in Jozefow two years before. Would this be our end? After all we had done to survive? After all the Delphinkis had do to help us? We all hurried out of the house and into the street. I saw my best friend, Andrzej Delphinki and his sister behind a push cart as they watched their parents be arrested and us marched out into an awaiting truck. They later killed both his father and mother. He never forgave me and my family for it. He still lives in Rabka, Poland, living a life of bitter hate and pain. How I pity him. But never did he pity me.
I read the next part, of the train ride to Birkenau at Auschwitz. They were packed in to the trains like cattle. Here I was, reading about the experience of my father, feeling sick that what he had written had even happened.
He wrote of their arrival and how his family was separated. "Men to the left, Woman to the right." I learned the fate of my missing family members. I had already known that my aunts Krysia and Chava hadn't survived. Nor had my grandparents. Yet, reading my father's words, the news hit me hard and caused me to grieve for these people I never knew.
My father's script was replaced by his words as I continued to read. I could hear him speaking to me, relating his tale to me as if he were sitting alive before me. He was sent to Buna after Auschwitz and his first assignment was as a laborer.
The work was hard and he was often beaten. Later, my father became friends with a man in the electrical warehouse. The man helped him get a transfer, though when my father made it into the warehouse, the man was gone. He didn't give the man a second thought once he made it into the warehouse. He just thanked God he was there.
They laughed at me in the warehouse. They found humor in my faith though they did not laugh at man named Juliek who poured his soul into his violin. The music soothed them. My faith annoyed them as many had lost their own. But I took their jests. God had been good enough to send me there, Toby. Who was I to pass judgements on God's favors? One person, a boy around my age, did not mock me openly. Yet he was one of those who had lost his faith. I remember a day that almost made me join him in his disbelief. I remember that it was a trial for me not curse God. The Germans made us assemble for a hanging. We all did, thinking nothing of the deaths that would occur before our eyes. We'd see worse before. It turned out, we hadn't. He was just a child, my son. I can't say for sure how old. Around twelve perhaps. They hung him along with two adults. They made it seem gallant but the boy... his fear showed in his eyes. When the chairs fell back, we marched past the bodies. His eyes were open, watching us as we pass. I don't mean he died with his eyes open. I mean he was watching. He was still alive, Toby! And we had to march past him. We couldn't come to his aide. It was horrible. But it didn't seem to hit any of us more than it hit that other boy I mentioned before. His name, I can remember, was Elie.
"He wrote of a boy named Elie in a letter to me," I explained to the man in front of me. "He said that he worked in an electrical warehouse with him at Buna."
Professor Wiesel looked interested. "Really?" he asked.
I nodded.
"Do have this letter with you," Wiesel asked.
"Yes," I answered and pulled the letter from my bag. "I thought you might want to read it yourself."
We were still standing in the hallway and both Wiesel and I wouldn't have found any problem in that. Most of the meetings I have back in the West Wing are in the hallways. Offices aren't as practical as people believe.
"Elie, Mr. Ziegler, perhaps it would be more comfortable for you to sit in the living room," Marion Wiesel suggested intently.
"Yes, perhaps that would be better," Wiesel agreed a moment later. "After you, Mr. Ziegler."
I walked into the room indicated by his outstretched arm and took a seat in one of the chairs surrounding the central coffee table. Wiesel and Marion sat down on the couch nearby. There was a moment of silence as Elie read the letter. In my line of work, silence is a virtue not often come by.
Marion Wiesel, however, had a different idea. "Mr. Ziegler, tell us a little about yourself."
'A little about yourself'... here it came. All I wanted to do is see if this Elie Wiesel guy was the one my father had mentioned. Now I had to actually get to know these people.
"My name is Toby Ziegler and I work at the White House," came the traditional response. I wasn't trying to show off, but I did work at the White House. What else could I say?
Well, Marion was surprised. "The White House?"
I nodded. Unlike the rest of the Senior Staff, if Bartlet won the reelection, it wouldn't be my fifth year in the White House. No, it would be my ninth. I was the only Senior Staff member that stayed with the White House when Bartlet came to office. After eight years, working at the White House just doesn't seem that big of a deal.
But Marion Wiesel thought it was a big deal. "You work so close with the President... what's he like?"
"We've never had a President like Bartlet," I answered with as much respect as a comment like that can carry. I don't me any disrespect to the President, I just don't like talking about my job with people I've never met before. Unless, they're politicians or the like. Elie Wiesel can be considered a public figure, but his wife really cannot. I don't like to talk about my job to people like her because it makes me feel like I'm trying to put myself above them.
I don't do that. Well, not outside the office, anyways. I only do that to CJ and Sam because, well, they work for me. I can't exactly let them feel important. They wouldn't be productive.
"Is the President interested in Elie for something?"
"No," I established. "This is just me. Rather... it isn't just me." I took a deep breath and then explained to her why I had really come. "I'm not here because the President asked me to come or anything. In fact, the President didn't want me to come. It's Election Day. Not a good day for Senior Staff members to be out. But..."
I paused a moment. She gave me an expectant look so I began again. "My ex-wife and I have been trying to have a baby for a while now. We're going to have one... two actually. I... I want them to know about their history. My father wanted them to know... I want to honor his wishes. That's why I tracked your husband down. To honor his wishes."
I know you and Andy have been having problems lately. I hope you are able to resolve them, I really do. You two remind me of your mother and I in our younger days. Such bustling youth I see in you both. Don't make a decision either of you will regret later on. You love her, son. Treat her well and don't put your work before your wife. Yes, you will have to find a new work after you leave the White House. That is alright but don't leave her out in the cold. Work things out. Keep the love alive. On that matter, I know it has been hard. But it will happen. I just regret I won't be around to see your children. Lisa and Brenda's families are wonderful, but I do wish I could see you and David's families... if either of you would settle down! But I know you will someday, both settle down and start your family. That is why I ask this simple request. Don't let my story fade away. Don't forget me and what happened to me and my family. Tell your children. Pass this letter on to your children. Please, Toby. I trust you... don't let me be forgotten.
"Zalman," Professor Wiesel whispered from the couch.
Both Marion and I turned to face him.
Remarkably, after reading a letter than had seemed extremely morbid to me, Professor Wiesel was smiling. "I never knew he made it," the man stated.
"Made it?" I asked.
"Why, yes," he replied. "We ran together on that march to Gleiwitz together for a little while. I saw him last on that march." Wiesel nodded. "Yes, I can tell you, I remember your father from the camps. Very devoted to religion. And... your father... he really irritated some of the prisoners."
"Yeah... he said that somewhere in there," I agreed.
"Yes, it was horrible. Have you read any of my books?"
I nodded. "My assistant, Bonnie, gave me one... Night, it was called. That's how I connected you with my father."
"My first."
"Yeah."
"It's all true," Wiesel said. "You've read then? About it all?"
"What you went through..."
"No one believed anything would happen," Wiesel said. "You read that. No one believed we would be effected by the war. Then came the ghettos... then the trains... That's when they understood. That's when they began to listen. But it was too late." He looked to me. "Would you have listened?" he asked.
"Probably not," I admitted. "I wouldn't want to."
"No one wants to believe something bad will happen," Wiesel responded. "Why would you? But we should have. By the time we reached the camps, we all wished we'd believed. Now, this is interesting, that Zalman went the same way as my father and I. Through Birkenau and then to Buna."
I offered the information, "He was a laborer, then he was transferred to the electrical warehouse."
"Which is very odd, you've probably gathered from any other research you've done," Wiesel commented.
I sort of hung my head. "No, I... haven't done any other real research."
What would have warranted a disgusted look from the Senators on Capitol Hill, just rendered a smile from Elie Wiesel.
"But you're trying," he said.
I was silent. I really wasn't trying. I had found out about Elie Wiesel from my assistant Bonnie. She had been reading Night when I asked her to run my father's name for me. When she heard the name Zalman, she turned to her desk and pulled out the book. I had her run the name Elie Wiesel instead and fours later, I was on a plane to New York. I had read the book on the flight so it was all fresh in my mind and I could understand all that he was talking about.
"As long as we remember, we will be able to prevent it from happening again," Wiesel commented. "Or we will atleast have the sense to try to prevent it."
"Did you know my father well?" I asked him after a moment's pause. He had said he'd known my father. But not how well.
"No, I'm afraid that I didn't not know Zalman. Well, I knew Zalman more than anyone else took the time to. He was from Poland and had a fairly large family. None of which he knew were still alive," he answered. "It was mostly because of that hard fact that Zalman was set up to survive for himself. Most of his time was spent alone, in meditation. Yet, he was the first one to offer bread if someone was feeling sickly."
That brought a smile to my face. My entire life, my father had been like that. He was not one to open up to people. But if someone in the family or a friend were sick or feeling down, he'd be there to listen. He'd comfort you.
"His devotion to religion was what brought him comfort. Our Kapo, he was always angry and abusive. Many times Zalman was the victim of his bouts of fury. And still, every night, he would pray and meditate," Wiesel told me. "No matter what happened, he prayed at night."
"I can tell you of many times I would have ended my prayers," he continued. "He was whipped once by an angered Idek, our Kapo. He came after Zalman with a pipe and beat him so badly he was taken to the hospital wing. When he returned, he was still praying. Still reciting parts of the Talmud to himself.
"But then, there was the day they hung the young pipel. The sad-eyed angel, as I remember him. Such a young, innocent child put to death. We watched them hang him along with two adults. Then we marched past, tears in our eyes. We marched past the boy who was hanging, still alive on the end of the rope. That night was the only night I remember that Zalman didn't not meditate or pray. He didn't even eat.
"Later, I heard someone asked him, 'How can you still pray to a God who allows us to suffer and die. Who allows a child to be killed and shows no mercy to that child even then?'
"'Who am I to question the moved of my maker?' Zalman asked. 'He has provided me to be here in this unit instead of out lifting rocks about. How can I question He who has allowed me to keep my life?'
"No where in that camp would you find someone as devoted to God in that camp. Never would you find someone who thought he owed God something for still being there.
"On Yom Kippur there was a great debate. You must face many in Washington, but this was a debate like you've never seen. What was debated could have ended some of our lives. 'Should we fast?' I did not as my father forbade me to. I did not as an act of rebellion towards God. But, of course, Zalman fasted. He tried to convince us to fast as well. That night, without asking anything in return, he handed out his bread and soup to some of those in our unit who had decided not to fast. He made them know he respected their choice and thought no less of them.
"And that was Zalman," he seemed to finalize. "Zalman Ziegler. In my time with him, I never learned his last name. I never learned the last names of many of my unit. They were not so dearly important to us as they are now."
Wiesel took a moment to shuffle the several pages of the letter and run his finger down the selected paper.
"The march from Buna to Gleiwitz," Wiesel said.
I wasn't exactly sure if he was directing the words to me or merely speaking to himself. I didn't say anything.
"That was the last time I saw Zalman, on that march," he added. "It was an extremely icy day. The wind blew in violent gusts on to our marching mass. I was marching with Zalman at my side for a good while. Until he was over come with cramps.
"I did believe that was his end. If you stopped on those marches, the SS guards gave you no chance to recover. If you were to fall, they shot you. They shot you in the back as if you were nothing more than a rabid dog. When he became over come by the cramps, I pleaded with him to try and continue. I begged him to continue on. But he could not. I watched him sink to the ground as I kept marching on.
"I'm sitting here with his eldest son and I must admit, I'm not as ashamed to say that after I watched your father sink down, I forgot about him. Perhaps it is because you already know that from the book. But even if you didn't, I would still admit I paid him no heed. Look at those times, Mr. Ziegler. I was going on for the sake of my father. If not for him, I would have joined Zalman on the snowy ground. It would have been welcome relief.
"And it fills my heart with joy to know that he did, in fact, survive. I suppose there are a few who I knew at the camps that survived that I will never know whether they survived or not. I'm glad that I have found Zalman."
That remark was like an injection of guilty. I had waited five years to find out about my father. Five years. It took me that long to bring myself to honor his wishes. That moment, I vowed that my children would know of my father from youth. I would make sure that they never forgot what he went through.
I looked at my watch and stood up. "Thank you Professor," I said. "I've enjoyed talking with you."
"Must you leave so soon?" Marion Wiesel asked, her first words in a long while. "Please, stay for supper."
"Thank you, but I can't," I was forced to decline. "I've got a plane to catch. I have to be in DC before he votes are all counted."
Wiesel nodded. "We understand. And Mr. Ziegler, thank you."
"Thank you, sir," I responded. "Thank you for allowing me to be able to pass on to my children the knowledge I wish my father had shared with me from the beginning."
Marion showed me out, asking once more for me reconsider joining them for dinner. With a heavy heart, I once again had to decline. But it wasn't because of my flight.
It was a cold November morning when Mrs. Gasby and I accompanied my father to his final resting place. There was a very small service led by my father's rabbi and only a few of the people from his temple accompanied him to the funeral.
He is buried in South Amboy, across the river from Manhattan in New Jersey. It is a wonderful little ceremony and he is buried along side my mother in the military section. On either side of him are friends of his from his company during the Korean war. They had picked the place out together. He was the last to journey to the place. I had been to both of their services. Now, I was there for my father's.
When the service was completed, I gave my keys to Mrs. Gasby so she could go to the car and get warm. Teary eyed, she left me by the grave.
It was November and the ground was covered in snow. I brushed the freshly fallen snow from my parents' shared marker.
"Good bye, Dad," I said uncomfortable to the plaque in the ground. "I wish... I wish we'd been able to know each other better." I pulled the letter out of my coat. "I'll remember, Dad. I'll always remember."
Five years later, I was back to confess that I hadn't remembered. I had stuffed the letter into a forgotten drawer and left it alone. When Andy and I divorced, I saw no reason to bother with my father's words. I had believed he had chosen the wrong child to give the letter to. I had no one to pass the letter on to. I had no one to give his message.
But I would soon.
It was a late winter, and little snow had fallen. I wiped away what had fallen on the marker away.
"Hello, Dad," I said. "I found Elie. He told me about you and I want you to know, I'll pass your words on. I'll do ask you ask. My kids won't forget. I promise you."
I heard a bell ring and I watched as the doors of the building beside the cemetery opened. There were many cheers and much shouting and calling out. The pre-school had just let out and children three to five were racing out to meet there parents.
Despite the frigid weather, I was warm. Someday soon I'd have children of my own to pick up from pre-school.
"Dad, I've got a flight to catch, but I promise, you won't be forgotten," I told him before I had to leave. "I swear, my kids will always be aware of what happened. And I'll do whatever I can to keep it from happening again."
Then I had to leave. My flight left from Newark at four o'clock. I got into my rental car and turned on the radio to learn the latest poll results. As I drove out of the cemetery, I kept gazing back to the plot I had just left. At that moment, I felt closer to my father than I ever had before.
I carved the last name as neatly as possible into the wooden plank. I brushed the debris away and blew across the wood for good measure. Then I admired my work. The four names were crooked and read from top to bottom: Zelig Ziegler, Feige Ziegler, Chava Ziegler and Krysia Ziegler. It was much less than my family deserved but it was all I could do. I shoved the plank down into the earth with as much force as I could muster. Szymon came over and helped me and we secured the simple marker into the ground. It was the only detour on our journey to find work in France. Putting our family to rest was something we had to do. It was all we could do for them. Shifra came over and Szymon wrapped his arm around her. I hug my head and let tears stream silently down my face. The three of us said fair well to them in our own way and then we turned back to the road and walked away. Since then, I have not been back. I can't even tell you for sure in which town that cemetery they are 'buried' in lays. But I do know that I am for ever grateful they cane be at peace together.
And now my son, I am saying good bye to you. I wish I could be with you as your life goes on. I will forever regret that I can not. I love you, Toby, and I am proud of you. I know that you have grown to be a great man and will continue to become greater. I know you and Andy will work things out and will raise beautiful children. Remember, tell them what I have told you know. Don't let what happened disappear into history. Good bye, son. Live well and live happy.
Love to you, Zalman Ziegler
Mail From: IZZiegler@USHolocaustMemorial.org (Professor Isaiah Zalman Ziegler)
Mail To:
GovIZZiegler@NHstate.gov (Governor Isaac Zelig Ziegler)
Post Date: November 9, 2038
Text As Follows:
Dear Isaac,
The service was held this morning. Uncle Sam was able to attend and the Lyman's came. Really, it was a very simple service. I know you wanted to come and Mom hopes you know it is okay that you weren't able to.
How are things on the campaign going? It shouldn't be too hard, you're the best governor they've had since Josiah Bartlet and they know it. You really shouldn't worry so much about it. Besides, if you lose, you could always come teach down here with me at Georgetown. :-)
Isaac, I have something important I need to talk you about, so I'll say it now. Dad gave me his father's letter. You remember it, right? The one he used to read us when we were kids? Mom told me he wanted me to take it and make sure people never forgot.
I want to ask you, do you mind if I put it on display at the Memorial? This belongs to you as much as me and I don't want to make a decision for both of us. I really think it will do good there, you know. Dad must have read it to us a million times but it never really sank in before I read it for myself. I'd like for others to have that opportunity.
So, write me back soon, alright? Give my love to Joanna and the kids. And Isaac, remember, we'll never forgot. Don't let the kids forget either. Remember what we promised Dad.
We'll never forget.
Love, Isaiah.
End Text.