Lauren Yanofsky Hates the Holocaust

by Leanne Lieberman

  The rabbi started making a speech about the Holocaust, how we should always remember the six million who had died. I tuned him out. I knew what he was going to say: forgive but never forget. I thought instead about going to Whistler for a last weekend of spring skiing, and how great basketball camp was going to be that summer. I wondered if I’d be able to convince Mom that colored contact lenses were a “need” and not a “want.” The rabbi began the Kaddish, the prayer for the dead, and I murmured the words, thinking about which pictures I’d hang in my locker when I finally got to high school. I’d heard the Kaddish a million times, at each of the Holocaust memorials I’d been dragged to and a zillion times at my Jewish day school. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I thought. All people die eventually. Then the rabbi started reading out a list of the dead people whose names were carved on the stone memorial. I dug my toe into the wet grass and stared at my sneakers. I was wondering how rude it would be to check my phone when I heard the rabbi call out the name Leibowitz, Grandma Rose’s maiden name. It’s a pretty common Jewish name, but I remembered Grandma Rose having said she was the only one in Vancouver with that name. I let go of my phone, stopped pawing at the grass and looked up at the rabbi. He was reading out more Leibowitz names. Five, six, seven…I pressed my fingers into my palms, counting. I looked up at Dad’s face. His eyes were blank, staring straight ahead. His lips had disappeared into his beard the way they did whenever he was angry. Then I looked at Grandma Rose. Her lined face had crumpled like a crushed piece of paper. I stared in amazement. She’d always been so composed, and now she looked like one of those wizened apple dolls. Tears streamed down her cheeks, her mascara flowing like dark rivers into her wrinkles.

  When the rabbi began the final prayers, Grandma Rose’s quiet tears changed to long wailing sobs, drowning out the rabbi. Dad wrapped his arm around her shoulders. The rabbi finished reciting the prayer, and Grandma Rose kept crying. Then she walked very slowly to the stone monument, dropped to her knees and lay down on the base of the stone. I hung back, stunned. I’d never seen Grandma Rose cry or express any emotion stronger than distaste, and there she was with her legs splayed on the stone, her pumps hanging off her heels. Dad ran and leaned over her, trying to get her up. He was crying too, the tears running down his face. His beard must be getting wet, I thought. Then Dad was down on his knees too, sort of trying to get Grandma Rose up, but rocking back and forth with her. Grandma Rose was stroking the words engraved into the stone: Lydia Leibowitz. And below them, Sol Leibowitz, Yuri Leibowitz—a whole line of Leibowitzes. I counted eleven names.

  I just stood there, staring down at Dad and Grandma on the stone. Grandma was speaking in Yiddish and English. She said, “They killed my Lydia.” Lydia was her sister; I was named in her memory. Both of us had the same Hebrew name, Leah. Luckily, my parents decided to call me Lauren. Lydia sounded so old-fashioned.

  I’d always thought the Holocaust was a disaster that happened to other people’s families. Grandma Rose and Zeydi had each emigrated separately from Russia before the Second World War and then met in Vancouver. Mom’s parents were born in Canada. Yet I’d known Grandma Rose came to Canada without the rest of her family. Why hadn’t I ever wondered about them? Even though I was named after Lydia, I’d never thought about how she died or how old she was when she died.

  I walked back to the car alone and waited for Dad and Grandma Rose. They came a few minutes later, hunched over and holding on to each other. We silently got into the car and Dad pulled out of the parking lot. No one said anything as we drove. We said goodbye to Grandma Rose when we dropped her off at her condo, but that was it.

  Back at home, Dad had gone into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of scotch, even though it was only two in the afternoon. Then I’d followed him into his office. He cleared a stack of papers off a hardback chair for me, and I sat across the desk from him. I felt very grown-up, sitting in his office surrounded by his shelves of books and his messy papers.

  Dad sipped his scotch, lined up his pencils on his desk and gazed out the window above one of the bookshelves. Finally I said, “I don’t understand.”

  Dad drummed his fingers on the desk. “What part?”

  I wanted to say, I thought it didn’t happen to us. Instead, I said, “I thought Grandma Rose’s family survived the war.”

  He sighed. “A few did.”

  “And the rest of them?”

  Dad rubbed his eyes.

  I wanted to say, The Nazis killed them, right? but it sounded too harsh. So I asked, “What happened?”

  Dad looked over my head. “Her family was rounded up and shot.”

  I sucked in my breath and nodded. I’d read enough Holocaust books to imagine how it happened, how the Nazis would have grouped them together, then shot them into a pit, like at Babi Yar. Did the Nazis play music while they killed them? Did they make them take off their clothes? I felt nauseous. “What about Grandma Rose?”

  “She had already immigrated to Canada. Her Uncle Rafe had sent a ticket for her after he had settled here with his own family. He had promised to send for one of his brother’s children.”

  I nodded. I’d heard the story of how she traveled by boat and then train. Grandma Rose’s other siblings were all either older and married or too young to travel alone.

  I’d stood up then, wavering. “I think I’ll leave now.”

  Dad nodded and took a sip of his scotch. I saw him tilt his chair back as I left.

  I went out to the garage and sat on the cold concrete floor and hugged a basketball in my arms. With a few rounds of ammunition, the Nazis had murdered most of Grandma Rose’s family. Eleven people. Her sisters, parents, brothers, nieces and nephews, all shot. I’d seen a picture of Grandma Rose’s sister Lydia, the two of them with lace ribbons in their hair. Not only was I named after Lydia, I had her nose too. When I looked closely at the picture, I could see I had her frizzy hair. I guessed I had her olive skin and black eyes too, but it was hard to tell from the picture.

  I went outside and bounced the basketball under the maple in front of our house. A soft drizzle was falling. I tried to imagine my family being shot, what it would be like to have the Nazis arrive at my door and force me to leave. I imagined the sound of soldiers marching down our quiet, leafy street, soldiers ringing our bell. I froze in the driveway, clutching the basketball, and looked around. No one else was outside on this miserable, rainy afternoon. I tried to think about what it meant to be named for someone who had been killed. I shuddered and dropped the ball, letting it roll onto the lawn. Did Grandma Rose think of her sister every time she looked at me? It was hard to read Grandma Rose. She was so reserved, so proper and so…well, distant. Had she always been that way, or had losing most of her family made her like that? I couldn’t imagine asking her.

  I picked up the basketball and dribbled it to the end of the street and back, running under the tall maples. Then I dropped onto the front lawn, sweaty and out of breath. I could feel moisture seeping into my jeans. And why were they killed? Because they were Jewish. I didn’t get that part. Dad had tried to explain it to me, but I didn’t understand how following different laws and customs made people that different, or why the Nazis would care. I mean, I knew Hitler thought Jews were racially inferior, but it seemed so ridiculous to me. My Jewish friends weren’t so different from my Christian friends. So we ate different foods and celebrated different holidays. Basically we were the same. Brooke, Chloe, Em, my Jewish friend Alexis and me—we all wanted a cute boy to like us, wanted to find the perfect pair of jeans and to escape our parents.

  And yet, the Jews had always been persecuted. Most of the Jewish holidays were about different people trying to kill us. Passover was about the Jews being slaves in Egypt. At Purim, the Persians were after us. At Hanukkah, the Greeks tried to take over. Tisha B’av commemorated the loss of the temple, first to the Babylonians and then to the Romans. And let’s not forget Holocaust Remembrance Day, marking the Nazis’ destruction of European Jewry. At my house, every d
ay was Holocaust Remembrance Day.

  Who needed all this misery?

  Why would anyone want to belong to a religion that was all about loss, grief and persecution? If I wanted misery, I could watch the evening news. Why couldn’t I be part of a religion that focused on peace instead? Or at the very least, why couldn’t Jewish holidays be like Easter and Christmas? Fluffy bunnies and Santa Claus, not death and persecution?

  I looked at the sky. Dark clouds were moving quickly. I didn’t want to be Jewish anymore. I didn’t want to be part of a persecuted people.

  That’s when I decided not to be. It wasn’t like my family kept many of the laws or traditions anyway. I would go to public school, change my name from Yanofsky to something like Richards or Smith and stop being oppressed by the Jewish holidays. It could be so easy. I could get my hair chemically straightened and get a nose job. No, wait—a nose job was as typically Jewish as Dad saying, Oy. I’d stick with my own nose.

  I didn’t want to belong to another religion; I just didn’t want to be Jewish anymore. I didn’t know a word for becoming un-Jewish, so I made up a list: de-convert, de-judify, de-Jew, de-religicize, de-belief, de-brief. I guess you could also say naturalize or normalize.

  I tried to imagine a ritual for becoming un-Jewish. I could burn my bat mitzvah certificate, destroy Mom’s collection of Yaffa Yarconi cds, purge my parents’ library of books about Jewish record holders, Jewish contributions to the atomic bomb, Yiddish jokes.

  I never did any of those things. Instead, I refused to go to temple and Hebrew high school and Jewish youth group. When Mom threatened to cut off my allowance and Internet access if I didn’t go to Hebrew high school or youth group, I said, “Fine” and started babysitting more and going online at Brooke’s house. They finally relented when I went on my hunger strike.

  And yet, even after I had started grade eight at public high school, I couldn’t help thinking about Grandma Rose when I lay in bed at night, about her family being shot because they were Jewish. I remembered Grandma Rose crying on that stone, Dad trying to lift her up, the two of them locked in that hug. I wanted to forget I’d ever seen them. Six million dead Jews was a number too big to be meaningful, but the murder of eleven of Grandma Rose’s family—my family—was like a fire ripping through my lungs.

  Grandma Rose died a year after our trip to the cemetery. It was weird. One Friday night she was at our house for dinner, and she died in her sleep from a stroke that same night. My parents said it was the best way to go. I think they meant Grandma Rose was lucky she hadn’t been shot into a pit.

  Three

  The weather starts to turn cooler, but the days are still bright and sunny. Grease rehearsals start—two lunch hours a week plus twice a week after school. Chloe is the lead dancer, and Em is playing Rizzo, the bad girl, which is ridiculous. Could there be anyone more like goody-goody Sandy than Em? The girl they picked for Sandy, Melanie Chan, does have a better voice and is in grade twelve, but please. Can’t Mr. Matheson see that Em is Sandy?

  Whenever Chloe and Em are free to have lunch with me, Brooke eats lunch with Chantal and Kelly. I can see her down the hall, laughing and whispering, but she doesn’t even look my way. When she is around, Brooke acts like she’s not doing anything new or unusual, but she smells like cigarettes.

  It’s weird. Chloe and Em fantasize about Grease, but the Smokers are Grease.

  Mid-September, the Jewish holidays begin. The first is Rosh Hashana, the Jewish New Year. You eat apples dipped in honey and spend a long day praying in the overheated temple. Since most people don’t show up for the service until after ten, I decide it’s essential that I go to biology before services.

  Mom is checking her email in the family room when I cautiously approach her the night before the holiday. “So.” I clasp my hands in front of me. “I was thinking that since we’re starting a new lab in biology tomorrow, I might go to class before temple.”

  Mom looks up from the screen. “On the holiday? I’m sure your teacher will let you make up the lab later.”

  “He would, no problem, but it’s not like I would miss any of the service, and it would just be easier if I went. Also, the lab sounds really interesting.”

  Mom eyes me suspiciously. “You’ve never been very interested in science before.”

  I hold my gaze steady. “Biology fascinates me.” This is not exactly true. I’m taking bio because I suck at chemistry, physics is bewildering, and I need a grade-eleven science.

  Mom doesn’t say anything for a minute, just keeps looking at me.

  “I promise to help out with dinner in the afternoon.” I know I sound desperate.

  Mom narrows her gaze even more. “Fine. We’ll be at school to pick you up at quarter to ten. Don’t be late.”

  I scoot out of the room before she changes her mind. The real reason I can’t miss biology is because Jesse is my lab partner. And he talks to me every day in class. He says, “How’re you doing?” and I feel my cheeks heat up, and I say, “Good. You?” Sometimes I ask him how his weekend was, all the while knowing Brooke is listening, holding her breath, beside me. The day he asked me if I was going to try out for basketball this year, I thought Brooke might fall off her lab stool. It’s weird—even though it’s gorgeous Jesse, it’s also just Jesse, the guy I used to have milk-chugging contests with.

  When we’d started doing labs, I’d assumed I’d be Brooke’s partner, but Jesse turned to me and said, “So how about it, Yanofsky? Are you getting the microscope, or do I have to?”

  I was so flustered, I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I just went and got the lab equipment. Brooke almost died of envy, but she seemed happy to work with Chantal.

  In the morning my whole family sleeps in except me, and I leave for school early to avoid any conflict with Mom. I arrive in biology class feeling a little self-conscious, since I’m dressed in a skirt, sweater and tights instead of my usual yoga pants or jeans. Mom tried to buy me a gray suit, but I refused to even try it on. After Mr. Saunders explains the assignment, Jesse starts adjusting the lenses of the microscope. I sit quietly, pretending to study the lab sheet.

  Jesse looks through the eyepiece of the microscope at a slide. “Hey, check this out.”

  I peer through the microscope. I’m so close, I can smell his spearmint gum. “Neat. It looks like a little swimming pool.”

  “Ah, simile.” Jesse raises his hand for a high five.

  I lightly hit his hand. “What?”

  “You used a simile. The bacteria is like a swimming pool.”

  “You been studying for the poetry test?”

  He nods and changes the slide. After peering through the microscope, he says, “Okay, look at this one. This amoeba is a fish.”

  “What? That makes no sense.”

  “Think like a poet. This amoeba is a fish. Get it?”

  I stare at him blankly.

  “It’s a metaphor, Yanofsky.”

  I smile. “I think your metaphor sucks.”

  Brooke coughs, but I ignore her. I put another slide under the clips. “What does this one look like?”

  Jesse leans over the eyepiece. “It just looks like bacteria.” We laugh.

  He sits up straight. “I’ll give you another one.” He looks at me intently. I try not to squirm. He is so unbelievably gorgeous, yet he still sounds like the old Jesse, like the person I used to know. It’s exciting and unnerving at the same time. Jesse says, “Okay, I’ve got it. Your eyes are like—like cow patties drying in the sun.”

  “What?” My hands fly up to my cheeks.

  “Simile. Your eyes are like cow—”

  “I got it. Thanks.”

  “Wanna hear the metaphor?”

  “My eyes are cow patties?”

  “I bet you’ll never forget metaphor and simile.”

  I wince at the touch of arrogance in his voice. “No, I won’t.” I look down at my biology notebook, hoping he’ll quit giving me that smirk. I glance back. He still looks proud of himsel
f. I don’t remember him being so cocky. He probably knows how gorgeous he is. Still, he’s looking at me differently now, and for longer. I’m not sure how to describe it, but it freaks me out.

  Mr. Saunders calls the class back to attention, and Brooke passes me a note. I unfold it. It says, WTF!!!! I turn to sneak a glance at Brooke, but she pretends to be listening to Mr. S.

  When I leave biology class, Mom and Dad are waiting for me in Mom’s wagon. Zach’s in the backseat, wearing his Batman cape and mask over his jacket and tie. It feels weird to be driving somewhere with my whole family on a weekday morning, and for a moment I feel excited by the uniqueness of the day. I used to love going to temple and having a day off school to play with my friends in the temple basement. I also liked the singing and the refreshments afterward. Now temple feels like a long boring ordeal where the prayers are interminable, the rabbi will ramble on forever, and I’ll have to see kids I’ve been avoiding for the last four years. At least Alexis will be here from Seattle. She always comes up for the holidays to be with her grandparents.

  Services have already begun by the time we arrive, and the congregation is reading a prayer in English as we enter the sanctuary. For most services, the temple is almost empty, but on Rosh Hashana and a few other holidays, it’s so crowded that you have to reserve seats. Mom marches up to our row, waving at people and stopping to whisper hello. She has on a new suit and a giant eye-catching red hat. Even though Rosh Hashana begins the period where you pray to be forgiven for your sins and ask to be inscribed in this mythical Book of Life for the next year, some people, like Mom, use the occasion to dress up. I sigh with relief when we finally duck into our seats. Dad passes me a prayer book, and I open it to a random page and rest the heavy tome on my lap. Rabbi Birenbaum, who is the tallest, skinniest man I’ve ever seen, leads the prayers at the front. Zach and I have nicknamed him the Specter. Poor Zach—his bar mitzvah lessons are supposed to be with the Specter, but I can tell Zach is terrified of him. Also, Rabbi B. has no idea how to talk to Zach. Most people don’t.