He sent Joan a handwritten message: "Thanks for the article. I hope I'll be able to meet the author when we come in January."

Elie Wiesel, l986 Nobel Peace Prize winner, addressed a crowd in West Bloomfield Township, Mich., last November. His book, Legends of Our Time, was given to series author Roy Peter Clark by a rabbi on a train.

Joan hosted a dinner party. It was an intimate affair, just three couples, at the Fry's house, which looks out toward the Skyway Bridge, where the Gulf of Mexico flows into Tampa Bay.

Marion Wiesel, Elie's wife and literary helper, entered first and shook my hand.

"We know you by your words," she said.

She was a stunning woman, with a warm, open face and flashing, perceptive eyes that let you know immediately she's paying attention. Marion was a promising actress in her youth, and she retains a kind of dramatic persona, her deep tan and dark eyes framed by a crown of beautiful pure white hair.

Then, Elie Wiesel extended his hand. He also looked fit and tan, with unruly commas of dark hair across his forehead. He wore a blue blazer and red tie and a French Legion of Honor pin on his lapel.

"Copies of your article came to me from all over," he said. "I was deeply moved."

Joan Fry is a legendary cook, and she prepared something special for Elie, in respect for his being a vegetarian and in honor of his Romanian heritage. It was a Transylvanian ragout, a savory stew of white beans, red bell peppers, onions, and garlic.

After dinner, the conversation ranged widely. I learned that Elie rises at 4 a.m. and walks on the beach each morning. We wondered why writers seem to prefer the mornings, and how readers become writers.

He told me he loves books and exploring bookstores. He recalled how he learned to read by the age of 3, how his father taught him the Bible and then commentaries on the Bible.

I would learn from him that, according to a Jewish legend, an angel reads the Torah to the unborn child in the womb. The angel protects the baby and prepares its soul for life in the real world. But just before the baby is born, the angel turns off the reading light and, with his finger, flips the baby's nose. This act makes the baby forget what was learned in the womb. The child must face the challenge, and know the joy, of reading and learning once again.

In contrast to his angelic parable, I recalled a demonic one: the Nazi book burnings of 1933 and the inevitability of what would happen next in Germany. "When one burns books," wrote poet Heinrich Heine, "one will, in the end, burn people."

I told the Wiesels stories about my Jewish grandmother Sadie, how she once had called Jesus her "cousin."

"Jesus was born a Jew, and he died a Jew," said Elie.

"And he had a good Jewish mother," said Marion. We had a hearty laugh at that.

"It was Paul who changed things," said Elie. He was referring to the argument between Peter and Paul, eventually won by Paul, on whether Gentiles had to be circumcised -- become Jewish -- before they could become Christian.

This led to a conversation on what it meant to be Jewish.

"Your mother's mother was Jewish?" he asked.

What he said next startled me with its directness. "Then, according to the law, you are Jewish."

This point was reinforced by a letter I received from a man in Philadelphia who had read my story about the rabbi on the train. The writer's name was Yisroel Meyerowitz.

"I was wondering what the reason is that you desire so much to locate this rabbi. Is it because you have realized that in halacha Jewish Law, a person's status as to whether he is Jewish or Gentile is determined through his mother? In other words, since your grandmother was Jewish, your mother and therefore you have the same status. This law is established de facto and is not changed in any way by the actual religion that is worshipped."

My mind carried me back to my childhood, when Connie Funkhouser spat at my mother after Mass and called her "that Jew!" Although she meant it as an anti-Semitic insult, it turned out to have a profound truth at its heart, one which she could never recognize, but which I now had to deal with.

Elie Wiesel says I am Jewish.

I asked him if he would sign the book the rabbi had given me years ago. I was headed to Philadelphia to see him again and wanted to return his gift with a special inscription:

"For Chaim Horowitz -- who has created new links -- with every good wish, Elie Wiesel, Jan. 94."