The Sonderberg Case - By Elie Wiesel & Catherine Temerson Page 0,1

the producer to stage a doubtless costly show that should have remained in his head or in the drawer?

I mentioned my “office” a few paragraphs ago. A tiny, unused corner in the newsroom of a New York daily. A modest worktable—a desk—and two chairs rented by two European magazines for which I was culture correspondent in the United States. This was well before the invasion of computers. The place had all the characteristics that spring to mind when you think of a hellish environment, except that Dante’s hell, with its nine circles, is surely more orderly. Unbearable racket, the incessant ringing of twenty telephones, impatient calls from the editors, the shouts of the photographers and messengers, the hot topic in the news: the arrogance of a politician, his rival’s defeat, the inside story on an actress’s love life, the confessions of an ideologically motivated killer, a scandal in fashionable circles or in the slums. One article is too long, the other not long enough. Headlines and subheadings compete for top billing. Two dates, two facts that can’t be reconciled. A beginner is reprimanded; he breaks down in tears. An old-timer tries to console him. This, too, will pass; everything passes. In short, it’s not easy to concentrate. Not to mention my immediate preoccupation: my birthday.

The fact is, I have a strong aversion to birthdays. Not other people’s birthdays, but my own. Especially surprise birthday parties. I dislike planned surprises. The obligation to put on an act. To lie. To lapse into abject hypocrisy. To smile at everyone and thank the good Lord for having been born. And men for having been created in His image, though He is supposed to have everything except an image. That said, let’s get back to our dear Oedipus, his complexes made famous by Freud and his conflicts with the dreadful Creon. Are they contemporary heroes? This would explain the failure of the play. Does it tell us that the world changes but not human nature? Fine, we know this, and we get used to it. The Greeks’ taste for authority and power, the passion for freedom and wisdom among their philosophers, the choice between obedience and faithfulness. In our day as well? An idea that deserves further thought. And a conception of spectacle.

It was at that moment that my strange life was turned upside down, as they say.

A woman comes up to my desk. She waits for me to notice her and ask if she is looking for someone; if she is, I’m sure it can’t be me.

In her forties. Attractive. Dark hair; dark eyes; serene and self-confident.

“I was told that you’re the person I’m looking for,” she says.

“Me?”

“Yes, you.”

“But I’m not on the editorial staff anymore … I mean, not really.”

“I know.”

“I’m just a subtenant of sorts.”

“I know that, too.”

“So then …”

“You used to be a reporter.”

“Yes. How do you know?”

She smiles. “You’re the one who covered the trial of…”

“Of Werner Sonderberg. You remember that? Congratulations.”

“I’d like to talk to you about it.”

“After so many years?”

“Time is no matter.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m Werner’s wife.”

Suddenly, I recognized her. I had seen her in court during the trial. The mysterious fiancée.

“He’d like to meet you.”

“Right now?”

The past resurfaces. For a while, years ago, after the trial, I belonged in earnest to the journalism brotherhood—I mean the active, dynamic, and above all romantic brotherhood. People came to see me, to ask me questions, to give me leads. It was the best period in my life. The most exciting.

I supplied information and explanations. I commented on events both frivolous and historical. I talked about known people to unknown readers. I thought I was useful. Essential.

“We’re here on a visit. Werner would like to see you.”

I remember the trial. Not surprising. It’s the only one I ever attended. The solemn setting. Seriousness, the solemn law. The tension in the room. The anonymous jurors: destiny in twelve faces. The duel between the prosecutor and the defense lawyers. And the defendant: I see him again. Impassive. A living challenge to threats of imprisonment.

——

Actually, I had discovered journalism well before working in the field. My uncle Méir, early on, considered it the finest profession. It is he who made me appreciate, as an adolescent, the multifaceted world refracted by news and editorials in print. He ranked the committed journalist as the equal of writers and philosophers. In his youth, at New York University, he used to go to the corner coffee shop every day to read the morning papers and sip his