This generation needs a sign.
Did you not see that the Fourteen Stations of the Cross are projected on the events that marked your passion, that of the Shoah? (Holocaust)
(pp. 122-123)
It begins with the nocturnal arrest, carried out by a small group of soldiers (from the Gestapo), in the middle of the night, upon denunciation, upon information from "friends." On closer look we even see Judas, played by a neighbor, or otherwise by a concierge, a night watchman, a hotel solicitor who would receive money for his betrayal, a price set by the Nazi occupant (150 francs for a Jew).
We move then to the following scene, that of the flagellation (the pogroms), we see the spitting, the blows and especially the clothes of derision, the infamous clothing sign, the Star of David. We discover then, with shock, an entire people flagellated, tortured in all its members, in its children, in its women, its elders, and who remain silent.
Next follows the condemning to death scene. A real sentence - a final solution - judicial and executory. On close observation, once again, we clearly see Pilate washing his hands of it all, all the Pilates (the government leaders of the entire world) who do not want to know anything about it.
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(pp. 126-127)
In the sixties, the author held weekly discussions with university students, leading to the following revelation:
"We were in the beginning of 1967, at the moment when we discovered this image of the passion written in the story - in the flesh - of the Jewish people. But one must remember - as I have already said - that in that particular spring, the world was resounding with the hysterical screams of Arab crowds, thirsty for blood and vengeance. Thus one had to expect something to happen, something very serious. But what? - I was telling myself this: this image, in the tapestry of the Jewish people, is real, it is not simply an optical illusion. So the drawing will be extended, for it is clear that a new episode of the story of the Jews is being written. But in that case there must be one or the other: either this new event will not be written in the logic of the preceding ones, of those which represent the passion, so then, that would mean that this image is complete, finished, and this will be the end of it. It stops at the placement in the tomb, just as in the traditional ways of the cross. Or, the event that is coming will become an extension of the preceding episodes, but then what could it represent?"
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(pp. 14-15)
The day following your conception, I called you.
"Israel, go towards the land I will designate for you. Claim it for yourself. It is yours."
And you obeyed.
And you grew.
And you multiplied.
And you moved.
And your nourishment was eve's milk and wild honey.
And one day, you stammered out your first word. One day you combined three syllables. Holy is the day on which you called your father by his name.
Thus, in the blurred image of God, you were created. You were born, you were created, begotten, in order to represent, to illustrate, to signify.
Israel, you are image. Your very name is image. You were conceived to serve as an illustrated book, for use by children and those who resemble them.
An illustration project over the history of nations, over the film and terror of the centuries.
And forever and ever.
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(p. 17)
ghimel
Let me speak of my joy when I heard you first utter my name. I quivered from the very depths of my being. Those three syllables were more beautiful than the most sophisticated symphony. Those syllables were more beautiful than the harmony of the universe: Elohim.
Elohim, you said Elohim.
You said Elohim, and not Eloah.
Eloah would have delighted me for it means Lord.
It signifies master.
You said Elohim. You used the plural. How did you know this at your tender age? Who could have suggested this to you?
Intuitively, you knew the most secret and mysterious aspect of my existence.
You touched my heart. You truly understood.
You understood. Your words show how profoundly you do. I am not one. I am a singular plural; the only singular plural in the entire universe. You understand me.
© AlphAquino.com, 2004.
MY ELDEST
SON
A BOOK BY LUC-F. DUMAS
Translated by Pierre Dominique Audet
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