On Sunday, March 29, 1998, Elie Wiesel spoke in Bridges Auditorium at the Claremont Colleges in Claremont, California. Days before Wiesel’s scheduled address Rabbi Leslie Bergson, Hillel Director and Chaplain for the colleges, with profound generosity asked if my daughter, Jesse, and I would like to drive Mr. Wiesel to his next speaking engagement. We immediately accepted her invitation. The Rabbi would also accompany us.
Claremont, California, is at the far eastern edge of Los Angeles County. Mr. Wiesel’s next speaking engagement was on the far northwestern border of Los Angeles County. Under normal circumstances the drive could take up to two hours. Normal circumstances could not possibly have applied to this day in 1998. I felt an all-consuming terror filled with what ifs. What if I made a mistake? What if another driver made a mistake? What if the Jeep broke down or had a flat tire? What if he didn’t like riding in a Jeep Cherokee? What if he preferred riding in a vehicle with automatic transmission instead of one with standard transmission? What if? What if? What if?
My vehicle then and now is a 1996 Jeep Cherokee. There’s nothing fancy about that Jeep. I doubted if it was ‘good enough’ for Mr. Wiesel. Surely he deserved the very best mode of transportation I could provide. I considered renting a Lincoln Town Car or some other worthy automobile.
And then the night before his scheduled speech I read the weather forecast. Rain. Lots of rain. I decided that we would all be safer if I drove a vehicle with which I was familiar.
That Sunday morning I went to the car wash. It was, of course, closed. Car washes generally do close when it rains. So Jesse and I cleaned up the Jeep as best as we could. Then off we went to Claremont.
When we pulled into the Bridges Auditorium parking lot I informed the security guard that I would be driving Elie Wiesel to his next speaking engagement. The guard, although appropriately doubtful, told me where to park.
Once inside the auditorium my daughter and I first located Rabbi Bergson who pointed us to the man in the front row.
“Hello,” I said to him. “I’m your driver.”
Elie Wiesel took my hand and thanked me. He hoped driving him was not too terrible an inconvenience. I mumbled something incoherent and then sat down.
A security guard approached me with instructions.
“Go backstage when he’s finished. I will guide you out the door to your vehicle. It will be cordoned off by security. No one will be able to approach.”
Mr. Wiesel’s address was amazing. In it he movingly spoke of years after the liberation placing his hands on the same cement balustrade as Hitler. He reminded us that history often lacks justice but frequently contains irony.
His speech ended and we followed security to the parking lot. My Jeep was, indeed, cordoned off. Even though his address had ended just moments before, a crowd had already gathered in the rain.
A man shouted out, “Elie, you taught me to play chess in the camps!”
Mr. Wiesel stopped and in the rain asked the man if he still played. The man said that he did. Mr. Wiesel encouraged him to keep playing.
And then we were in the Jeep. I assured Mr. Wiesel that my research had indicated that he was safest in back of me. He replied that he felt safe regardless of where he sat. Headlights and wipers on, we left Claremont with Rabbi Bergson in front with me and Jesse in back with Elie Wiesel. I drove with white knuckles and depended on my passengers to make conversation. He and Rabbi Bergson shared the latest news from Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion. My daughter pointed out sights such as the Rose Bowl. They chatted. Jesse confided to him that she felt challenged by her math class. He confided to her that he had also been challenged by math. They formed a bond born of common challenge.
Later my daughter shared that she felt fascinated by his hands and all that they had touched including Hitler’s balustrade.
I did not speak until we arrived at his next engagement.
We got out of the car and in the rain I said, “Mr. Wiesel, I would love to take a picture of you. I hate to do it out here in the rain but I’m afraid they won’t let us take pictures inside.”
This incredibly humble man said the only thing that hinted of his awareness of his place in the world.
“Mary,” he said. “They will let you take my picture wherever I want you to take it.”
Once inside and out of the rain, Elie Wiesel put his arms around Rabbi Bergson and my daughter and I took the picture. I then told him that I was reading his book “Night” to my sixth grade religions school class.
His reply was, “Never stop reading and never stop remembering.”
He then thanked me for the ride, hugged us all, and went off to speak again.
My friend Carole later asked me how it felt to drive a world treasure and have his life in my hands.
I thought a moment and then told her that it felt a lot like driving my daughter and having her life in my hands because they were both world treasures.
My friend agreed with my reasoning. I suspect so, too, would the very humble and very real man I drove across Los Angeles County on that rainy March day.
We are blessed by the life and memory of Elie Wiesel. I am blessed to have been his driver.
