Hope: A Tragedy: A Novel

by Shalom Auslander

  Kugel sat back on his heels and placed his hands on his heart.

  The important thing, he said, is that we’re communicating. That we’re being honest with each other. Nothing can come between us when we’re together. It’s been a hell of a twenty-four hours, Bree, I’m just, I’m wiped out.

  Tap, tap-tap.

  Shut up, he hissed at the vent.

  He looked to Bree, who was staring now at the vent.

  She’s a little high maintenance, he said.

  Bree pointed to the vent.

  Right now? Bree asked, her voice soft and trembling. There’s someone up there? In our attic? Right now?

  Kugel nodded.

  Right now there’s someone in the attic?

  Kugel nodded.

  Just calm down, he said.

  Calm down?

  Calm down.

  Calm down? she said, her voice rising.

  Her eyes filled with rage.

  How, she demanded, was she supposed to calm down? How did he know that she wasn’t dangerous, that she wasn’t a criminal, a thief?

  She can barely move, Bree.

  How did he know she wasn’t carrying some disease? He had a son to think about, even if he didn’t care about his wife. Had he thought about his son for even a moment?

  Of course I care about you.

  What kind of man was he being? What kind of father? Was that why he hadn’t gone to work? Was he risking his family’s well-being in the middle of an economic depression to take care of this old lunatic? Where were his priorities? Had he called the police?

  He stood and went to the desk chair.

  I called the Simon Wiesenthal Center, Kugel said with some pride. He wasn’t, after all, an idiot.

  You called the Simon Wiesenthal Center.

  Yes.

  Before calling the police.

  Yes, he said. Keep your voice down. To find out if she was dead.

  You called the Simon Wiesenthal Center to find out if Anne Frank is dead.

  Yes.

  How did that go?

  They were less than helpful.

  The book sold twenty million copies, Sol.

  Thirty-two, said Kugel. It’s a tough act to follow.

  Bree would take no more. This was just like the situation with Mother, she said—someone else always comes first, someone else always needs Kugel more than his wife and son. She demanded that he throw the woman out, immediately. And she insisted that he phone the police.

  Or, so help me God, she said, I’ll take Jonah and leave. I’ll go to Brooklyn. I will not subject him to this.

  Kugel sat in the chair, unable to fight back, unable to answer, his head in his hands as he weathered all the abuse and anger she rained upon him. He knew she was right. And he knew he couldn’t do as she asked.

  Tap, tap-tap.

  She has numbers, he said without looking up.

  She what?

  She has numbers.

  What numbers?

  On her arm. Camp numbers.

  So?

  So she’s a survivor.

  So?

  Only now did Kugel look at her, surprised by her lack of compassion.

  So? he asked. So?

  I don’t understand, said Bree. If Elie Wiesel knocks on the front door tomorrow, we’re supposed to give him the guest room?

  Not if he shows up, no, said Kugel, not if he knocks on the door. But if we find him in the guest room?

  Find him?

  Yes, find him, said Kugel. Under the bed, or in the closet or something. Like I found her. You’d want me to throw Elie Wiesel out of our house?

  What are you saying? asked Bree. If I’m cleaning the guest room next week and I find Elie Wiesel hiding under the bed, you’re not going to throw him out?

  Kugel shook his head.

  No, he said, surprising even himself.

  Why not?

  He’s Elie Wiesel, hon.

  You’re insane.

  Keep your voice down.

  You’re insane.

  I’m insane? said Kugel. You want to throw Elie Wiesel out of the house and I’m insane.

  So if Simon Wiesenthal turns up in the dryer you’re not going to ask him to leave?

  He’s dead, honey.

  Hypothetically.

  Hypothetically? asked Kugel.

  He didn’t like what he was thinking, didn’t like what he heard himself saying.

  Hypothetically, she said.

  Hypothetically no, said Kugel. Hypothetically I’m not throwing Simon Wiesenthal out of the fucking dryer.

  What about Solzhenitsyn? asked Bree. We’re going out for dinner, I take a shower, open the bedroom closet to get some clothing out, and Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn’s sitting on the floor. Does he get to stay?

  That’s ridiculous, said Kugel, relieved to have found his own limit. He’d totally throw Solzhenitsyn out.

  Oh that’s ridiculous?

  Solzhenitsyn wasn’t in the Holocaust, hon.

  He was in the Gulag, said Bree.

  The Gulag wasn’t the Holocaust.

  So we’re specifically housing Holocaust survivors?

  Keep your voice down, said Kugel.

  He stood, shook his head, and turned to the window. The woods were dark, forbidding. Why couldn’t he have found an arsonist, why couldn’t he have found mouse shit? He knew what he sounded like, and he hated it, but he didn’t like what she sounded like, either. She had relatives who died in the camps, too; how could she be so cold?

  Tap, tap-tap.

  You know, said Kugel, this hasn’t been a picnic for me, either. I was trying to protect you, to leave you out of it. I haven’t slept in days, Bree, I’ve been berated by real estate agents, by a Holocaust foundation, who knows if they contacted the ADL—it hasn’t been easy, you know?

  Tap, tap-tap.

  Kugel kicked the pillows off the vent and bent over.

  Shut the fuck up, he shouted. I heard you, okay? I heard you!

  Kugel grabbed his bathrobe from the bed and angrily pulled it on.

  What about Sharansky? asked Bree. He wasn’t in the Holocaust.

  Bree, said Kugel as he headed for the door, I’m not throwing Sharansky out.

  Where are you going? she asked.

  Kugel stamped angrily down the hallway and pulled the attic stairs down. He climbed up two steps at a time; maybe, he thought, I should just throw the bitch out.

  The attic was dark.

  What? he called out.

  Nothing.

  What do you want? he called out again as he approached the wall of boxes. I’m in no mood for jokes. I’m in no mood for this hide-and-seek bullshit.

  He looked over the wall. Anne Frank was on her side, sleeping. The laptop was closed, and he could hear her ragged breathing.

  Tap, tap-tap.

  Kugel turned to the vent in the attic floor. He approached it slowly.

  Tap, tap-tap.

  Kugel knelt down beside the vent.

  Mother? he said.

  I’m frightened, came Mother’s reply.

  Kugel closed his eyes and dropped his head.

  Mother, said Kugel, go to sleep.

  I can hear you fighting, said Mother. I don’t like hearing you fighting.

  We’re not fighting, Mother.

  I should go, she said.

  Mother, you don’t have to go. We weren’t fighting.

  I’m sorry.

  Mother, go to sleep.

  I’m a burden.

  Go to sleep, Mother.

  Kugel stood up, checked again on Anne, and went back downstairs, folding the attic stairs as quietly as he could. He climbed into bed; Bree lay with her back to him, on the far side of the bed.

  She’s not staying, said Bree.

  I’m not dragging Anne Frank down the stairs, honey. I’m not throwing Anne fucking Frank over my shoulder, kicking and screaming, and dropping her on the front lawn of my house, I’m sorry, I’m just not doing it.

  Anne Frank is d
ead, said Bree.

  I wish, said Kugel.

  Bree switched off her bedside lamp and pulled the covers tight around her. Kugel was thankful for the darkness that surrounded him.

  She’s not staying, said Bree.

  Kugel turned his back to Bree and stared at the wall.

  Why couldn’t he have just found shit?

  She just wants to finish her book, he said.

  I’m in no mood, Bree replied, for jokes.

  14.

  THAT NIGHT, Kugel dreamed he was looking out his bedroom window whereupon he spied a long procession of derelict elderly men and women, stretching as far as he could see, dragging themselves along his driveway; skeletal and withered, they moved slowly, bleating and bawling all the way; they went barefoot, their crumbling, emaciated bodies draped in dirty hospital gowns and gray, soiled pajamas; they were bent and broken and bandaged; some had their heads wrapped in gauze, some had walkers, some went with wooden crutches, some with steel IV towers, the small black plastic wheels stuttering along the crushed-stone drive. Some stumbled and fell to the ground, unable to rise; the others took no notice, didn’t try to help them to their feet, just kept walking on, moving ahead, even stepping on them, trampling them, as their inexorable plodding march continued. They frightened Kugel, though he didn’t know why, old and enfeebled as they were. He hurried down the stairs and out the front door, where he stood at the end of the front walkway, shouting at them to get off his property, warning them that he would call the authorities if they did not turn around immediately, but they paid him no attention. They moaned and groaned as they hobbled forward, sounding more like a herd of bruised cattle than human beings, drawing closer and closer to the house. Jonah had followed Kugel out onto the front porch, and Kugel shouted back to him to go inside, to lock the doors, and to tell Bree to phone the police. They grew closer. Kugel bent down, picked up a sharp stone, and threw it toward them with as much force as he could; with a sharp crack, the stone hit one elderly man square in the skull, but he didn’t seem to feel it, or if he did, it didn’t slow him down; his head snapped back, but he just kept on ambling forward. Kugel threw another stone, and then another, striking them on their shoulders, chests, heads, but none having any more effect than the first one had. Closer and closer they came, until they were upon him, and Kugel shouted for Bree and covered his face and shut his eyes, waiting for the beating to begin—he couldn’t bring himself, even now, to lash out at them with his fists—but the beating never came. With his eyes still closed, he could feel them brushing past him, groaning and moaning and oy-veying by, as if he weren’t even there. They had a stench about them like decay, like old neglected books. He opened his eyes as they shuffled by; their thin bare legs were covered in soot and mud; a few had wrapped their feet in old rags and newspapers, but they weren’t English papers, they were foreign, a language Kugel couldn’t recognize. When the last one had passed, Kugel turned and followed them around the corner of the house, where they had continued toward the high, sharp cliff at the edge of the property. Hey, he called to them, hey, watch out. Again, though, they took no notice of him. Hey! he called again. But they continued walking, bleating, braying, shuffling toward their doom, and soon, one by one, they were stepping off the edge of the cliff and falling, without a cry, to their deaths.

  Kugel woke with a start.

  He sat up, listening.

  Had he heard something?

  He lay back down, tried to sleep, but sat up sharply when he thought he’d heard the sound again.

  Maybe when I’m dead, he thought. Maybe when I’m dead I’ll get some goddamned sleep.

  He wondered if there was a last line in that.

  Sleep, at last. Or: At last, sleep.

  To sleep, perchance to something.

  Perchance to sleep?

  To sleep perchance to sleep even more?

  Something.

  He picked up his notepad and wrote that down.

  Byron, on his deathbed, said: Now I shall go to sleep. Good night.

  How about: Don’t wake me for breakfast.

  Or: Cancel my subscription to the Times.

  Or that old joke: Do not disturb any further.

  That wasn’t bad for a tombstone:

  SOLOMON KUGEL

  Born.

  Died.

  Do Not Disturb Any Further.

  That sound again. A creaking.

  Could be nothing.

  Could be a door opening.

  Could be two trees, their trunks rubbing together in the wind, nothing more.

  Nature, he couldn’t help noticing lately, was trying to scare the shit out of him. Fucking with him. He couldn’t help noticing that the extremes of temperature caused the wood of the house to expand and contract, making it sound as if a roof beam were snapping, as if the house might collapse and crush them all; he couldn’t help noticing, too, that lightning seemed to happen only at night, when it was most frightening; he couldn’t help noticing that if nature caught you sitting peacefully on the veranda one morning, enjoying the warm summer breeze and sipping a cup of tea, WHAM, she’ll cause a door somewhere to slam shut, a newspaper to fly away, a table to tip over. Sure, sure, François-Marie, all we have to do is tend our gardens. But what if your garden is trying to kill you, what then?

  Again the creaking.

  Kugel quietly crept out of bed so as not to wake Bree, knelt on the floor, and pressed his ear to the heating vent. He tried not to breathe; the stench was unbearable, even without the blower vomiting it up into the air. He heard Jonah, snoring lightly, and a moan of pain—that was probably Mother. He didn’t hear Anne typing. At this time of night, he could usually hear her typing. Maybe the creaking was her? Maybe she was walking around the house? Was that lunatic down here, walking around the house?

  Anne? he whispered into the vent.

  Nothing.

  Mother?

  Nothing.

  Ma?

  Kugel tiptoed out of the bedroom and into the darkened hall. He was relieved to see the attic stairs closed, and decided to check in on Jonah. Kugel knew that parents were supposed to enjoy watching their children sleep, but Kugel did everything he could to avoid it. Jonah seemed even more vulnerable in his sleep than he did during the day, his delicate chest rising and falling and seeming at times as if it could so easily stop, for no reason, with no warning or symptoms, going one moment and then, in the next, not. It was evening, it was morning, it sucked.

  Kugel thought he might get a gun.

  Just a small one.

  For protection.

  Not too small, though.

  He crept downstairs, took the flashlight from beside the garden door, and walked outside.

  Hello, he whispered. Hello?

  Or a dog. Something big. Not too big, though.

  He switched on the flashlight; the beam seemed pathetically weak in the heavy dark of night. The air was cool. He wondered if it was any cooler in the attic now, too. Maybe he should get her a fan.

  Maybe it was too cool. She was old, after all. Maybe he should get her some blankets.

  Kugel swung the light across the line of trees at the edge of the woods and called out: I know you’re fucking out there, motherfucker.

  He waited.

  Nothing.

  What a world, thought Kugel; whoever you were, wherever you were, whatever time of the day or night, you could open your back door and call out I know you’re out there motherfucker, and nine times out of ten you’d be right. The motherfucker might not be in your own backyard, he might not be in the neighbor’s yard, he might be in the next town over, in the next state, in the next country. But the motherfucker was out there, and he meant you harm.

  Why was Smiling Man smiling? Had he lost his mind? Had the photographer been joking with him? Had he made a joke himself—about his nudity, his frailty?

  What’s your best side? the photographer might have asked.

  Looking down at his skeletal form, Smiling Man might have said: T
hese are all my sides.

  Maybe he wasn’t smiling, after all.

  Why was it so important to Kugel that he was smiling?

  Because he was smiling, whether we wanted him to be or not.

  I fucking know you’re fucking out there, Kugel called again.

  A .22.

  Nothing crazy.

  Something small.

  Not too small.

  For protection.

  A Doberman.

  Just in case.

  Mother’s defense against the motherfuckers out there was paranoia. Better spooked than sorry.

  It’s a theory, thought Kugel.

  Professor Jove was opposed to guns, not because of the physical danger they posed but because of the ominous hope they represented. The whole notion of personal protection caused Jove some concern, from national armies on down, and he saw a troubling similarity between gun owners and health fanatics, the former hoping they could protect themselves from the threat of man, the latter from the threats of life, of age, of nature, of death.

  You never see a happy jogger, said Professor Jove, or a happy gun owner. Do you know why?

  Is this a joke? asked Kugel.

  No, said Professor Jove. It’s because they both know they’re chasing the impossible. So they run more miles, they lift more weight, they eat more protein and less carbs, or they eat more carbs and less protein. So they buy a bigger gun, a second gun, a third gun. Schmucks. Has a gun owner ever, in the history of the weapon, been satisfied with a small gun? If a small gun can save me, he figures, what can a big gun save? What can the biggest gun save? What can a bomb save? Tell me, Kugel: What did Helen Keller do when she fell into the pond?

  Kugel sighed.

  I don’t know, said Kugel. What did Helen Keller do when she fell into the pond?

  She drowned, said Professor Jove. She struggled to reach the surface, but the exertion only made her body more desperate for oxygen and her lungs began to contract and expand on their own. Soon the spasms in her chest ceased, and she lost consciousness and died.

  I don’t get it, said Kugel.

  Maybe she jogged that morning, said Professor Jove. Maybe she had a .22 in her dresser drawer. Schmuck.

  Kugel swung the flashlight back and forth across the face of the woods. Nothing moved.

  Asshole, he called out.