When I saw the headline about Elie Wiesel’s death on July 2, I felt as if I’d taken a physical blow. Had I been at home, I’m pretty sure I’d have lost the battle between the tears threatening to spill and my reticence to break down in public.
I met the late Nobel Laureate in 1981 when I was a reporter for the Los Angeles Daily News. Back then I was the only feature writer with a master’s in English and consequently had become the go-to reporter for authors on PR book junkets. I had already interviewed Maya Angelou, Toni Morrison, John Gregory Dunne, and many others. And while each experience had an impact on me, my conversation with Elie Wiesel turned out to be one of the most meaningful experiences of my life.
His story is now well-known. In 1944, the small, timid, and not particularly healthy 15-year-old was dragged from his home in Sighet, Romania, and, along with his mother, father, and sister, was sent to Auschwitz concentration camp. His mother and sister were immediately murdered; his father slowly wasted away. After being transferred to Buchenwald, the young teen somehow survived, and when the war ended, he was sent to an orphanage in France. There he took up intense study of Jewish history and law and later attended the Sorbonne. In 1956, he immigrated to New York City and lived there until his death.
