Lauren Yanofsky Hates the Holocaust

by Leanne Lieberman

  Jesse winks at me and does a layup. “Oh, well, if you’re too scared…”

  The ball bounces off the rim, and I grab it as it rebounds off the pavement toward me. “Fine. I’ll take you. Ten minutes max.” I pass him the ball and get off my bike.

  I walk toward Jesse and stand facing him. I can feel my blood pounding in my temples. Jesse looks down at me—he’s a full head taller than me now—and grins. The scent of his deodorant makes it hard to concentrate. “You ready?”

  “Wait.” I knot my hair at the nape of my neck.

  He dribbles the ball and goes in for a layup. I try to block him, but my shoe falls off. Jesse scores. I swear under my breath. “Nice one,” I say.

  He passes me the ball. “You start.”

  I dribble for a moment, then kick off my shoes and look up at him. The driveway is cold under my bare feet. Jesse has a look in his eyes like nothing matters, like everything is easy. I know he can easily block me, so I have to be faster, smarter. I jab-step right, cut left and pull up for a quick shot. I’m a little outside my range, but the ball arcs and swishes through the net. I cross my arms across my chest as I land on the ground, holding my boobs in tight.

  Jesse catches the ball on the rebound. “Not bad, for a girl.”

  I feel myself turn red, and I slap the ball away from him. “Hey, whatcha doing?” he says.

  “Playing like a girl,” I say and shoot again. I miss this time, but my next shot goes in. We play hard for another ten minutes. I may be quicker, but Jesse and his long arms roundly defeat me, 11-8. He slaps me on the back. “Good work.” Then he goes into the house for water and comes back with two plastic sport bottles. We sit on the curb and drink.

  “You been practicing?” he asks.

  “Basketball camp.”

  Jesse swigs from his water bottle. “I thought you went to some Jewish camp.”

  “I haven’t gone there in a couple of years.”

  “How come?”

  “Not enough basketball. Too many war games, stuff like that.”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  “It’s not my thing. Actually, I wanted to talk to you about war games.”

  “Oh yeah? What about them?”

  “What was going on last night?”

  “You mean the park thing?”

  “Yeah, the park thing.”

  Jesse gives me a big lazy smile. “That was fun.”

  I hug my arms across my chest. “Pretending to be a Nazi is fun?”

  “Oh that. Yeah, that was fun—a joke.”

  “The Nazis killed millions of people, and you think it’s fun to pretend to be one?”

  “Oh, c’mon. We weren’t really being Nazis. It’s not like we were playing concentration camp. I mean, I know about all that crazy shit. We were just a bunch of drunk, stupid guys running around a park with water guns. No harm done, right?” He punches me lightly on the arm.

  I stare at him incredulously. “Are you serious?”

  Jesse holds up his hands. “It wasn’t my idea. When I got to Mike’s house, the guys were already making the armbands.”

  “And you had to follow along?”

  “Aw, don’t be like that. It was, like, instead of playing video games where we try to kill stuff, we were outside trying to kill each other. It was good times.”

  I sigh. “Why couldn’t you be an anti-terrorist squad, or pretend to bust drug runners, or…I don’t know—be cowboys and Indians?”

  He squints at me. “Is that really any better?”

  “To me it is.”

  “Well, there you go. This is all about you.”

  “How could it not be? I mean—Nazis?”

  He shakes his head and downs the rest of his water. “You need to relax.”

  My mouth falls open. “Relax?”

  “You know, just chill. Don’t take everything so seriously.”

  I think of Grandma Rose on the stone, sobbing, Dad trying to hold her up, my eleven murdered relatives, and I wonder how I’m not supposed to take this so seriously. I stare at Jesse, knowing he’s waiting for me to say something. I want to say, You don’t know shit about me, but what’s the point? I start backing away. “Basketball was fun. We should do it again. You know, with shoes and all. And thanks for the water.” I put down the sports bottle and pull my hair out of its knot.

  “Hey, Lauren, you’re not really pissed, are you? ’Cause you know I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.” He rubs his knees. “Aw shit, I’m sorry.”

  “No, it’s okay. It’s fine. I’ll see you around.” I get on my bike.

  “Hey, wait.”

  “I gotta go.”

  I cycle down the street and turn the corner, heading toward the park. I can’t believe it. What an idiot. I need to relax? I knew he was too cocky.

  I stop to wait for the traffic light to change. Just when I think I can be normal, the Holocaust reappears in my life and makes me Jewish again. How pathetic is that? Couldn’t I be outraged because the Nazis killed millions of people? I am. But mostly I care because the Nazis killed eleven people in my family. My family. I bang my fist on the handlebars. “My life is so stupid,” I say to a maple tree.

  Brooke is waiting for me on her front doorstep with her bike. “What took you so long?”

  “Hair.”

  “Oh.”

  We get on our bikes and ride to Benny’s Bagels, where we both order tea and a bagel with peanut butter and honey and then take our food up to the balcony.

  “So where did you go last night?” Brooke asks.

  “Just home. After I saw the guys’ war games, I…”

  “Guys are dumb.” Brooke sighs and sips her tea.

  “Did you see the armbands they had on?”

  “With the swastikas?”

  I nod.

  “Superbad taste.”

  “It freaked me out.” I shudder and grip my mug.

  “Oh, they were just being drunken idiots. They play all those war video games and then they get shit-faced and need to burn off some of their testosterone by pretending to shoot each other.”

  “I can’t believe you’d say that. They were pretending to be Nazis. That’s fucked up.”

  Brooke flips her hair. “Like I said, superbad taste, but they weren’t serious. I wouldn’t get all worked up about it.”

  My breath catches in my throat, and I stare at Brooke like it’s the first time I’ve seen her. I look at the barrette holding back her long bangs, at the freckles on her nose, the thin blond hairs on her forearms. I can’t believe she’s saying this. “You’re as bad as Jesse.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He said the same stupid crap.”

  Brooke sits upright. “You talked to him?”

  “Yeah, he was playing basketball in front of his house this morning. We played a little one-on-one.” Brooke’s eyes have opened really wide, but I’m still thinking, Brooke doesn’t get it. She doesn’t think the guys’ game was a big deal. Even though she’s seen the picture of Grandma Rose’s family in my room and asked who they were and I told her how they died, she still doesn’t get it.

  Brooke grips the table edge. “Omigod. You played basketball with him?”

  “Don’t get too excited. He’s a lot more arrogant that he used to be.”

  “Does that mean you wouldn’t go out with him?”

  “Well…” I pause, thinking about the way he teased me and how good that felt. “How could I? I mean, he was pretending to be a Nazi.” I shudder.

  “Does this mean you wouldn’t mind if someone else went out with him?”

  My toes curl up in my flats. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, what if one of your other friends was interested in him?”

  “And they didn’t care that he thought pretending to be a Nazi was okay?” A heaviness settles over me, and I feel like I can’t move in my chair.

  “Well, no. Say they knew it was wrong and all, but if someone else had a crush on him…”

  I hesi
tate. “I guess anyone else could have a crush on him. I’m sure half the girls at school are in love with him.”

  I’m having trouble concentrating on what Brooke is asking me because my brain is still processing that Brooke doesn’t care that Jesse dressed up as a Nazi. Did anyone at the park last night care? Am I the only one who thought it was wrong?

  Brooke leans forward over the table, resting her chin in her hands. “Okay, I have to tell you something, but you have to promise not to be mad.”

  “Oh.” I bite the inside of my cheek. It’s never a good sign when someone makes you promise not to get mad.

  “Do you promise?”

  “Well, um, sure.”

  “Okay, I didn’t want to tell you, because I knew you were interested in him, but, well, I really like Jesse.”

  “Oh.”

  “You’re so mad at me, aren’t you?”

  “Oh, well, I…”

  “I didn’t want to tell you, but Lauren, it’s not just a crush. I’ve liked him ever since he came back to school last year.”

  I grasp my mug and grind the toes of my shoes into the floor. I’m not sure what to say.

  “I mean, I think I would die for him. Like lie down in traffic or take a bullet.” Brooke’s eyes are sparkling, and her cheeks are glowing like she’s gone for a run. I’ve never seen her like this, not even when she won mvp last year.

  “Oh, wow.”

  “And that’s why I haven’t been hanging out with you, because I didn’t think you could understand, and Chantal and Kelly did.”

  “Oh, wow.”

  “You keep saying that.”

  “I’m not sure what else to say.” I grip the sides of my chair, my ankles tightly crossed. I’m not even sure what to think.

  “Well, you could say it’s okay for me to go out with Jesse.”

  I dig my fingernails into the palms of my hands. Can I say, Yes, I still want Jesse even though he thinks it’s okay to dress up like a Nazi? Do I say, No, I’m going to have a shit fit if you go out with him? Finally I mumble, “I’m not sure what to say.”

  “’Cause if you don’t want me to, I won’t go for him.” Brooke looks at me expectantly. My eyes dart to the side for a moment, as if I’m hoping someone will come along and interrupt our conversation and I won’t have to respond. No one comes, and when I look back at Brooke, she’s still looking at me like she’s a hungry dog and I’m a hamburger.

  “Well,” I say slowly, “I guess—I guess if you want to ask out a guy who thinks dressing up as a Nazi is no big deal, then that’s your…” I want to say problem, but I settle for, “I guess that’s for you to decide.” I’m trying hard to keep the bitterness out of my voice. I look at my watch. “I need to go.” I stand up and pull on my jacket.

  “Shit.” Brooke runs her hands through her hair. “I knew you were going to be so mad at me.”

  “No, it’s okay. You really like him, and I guess the Nazi thing’s not so problematic for you.”

  Brooke looks up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Did your family get killed in the Holocaust? I guess not. Neither did Jesse’s. You and Jesse will be perfect for each other.” I get up and run down the stairs, leaving Brooke alone in Benny’s. Out on the street, I sit on the curb by my bike and squeeze my head in my hands.

  My phone beeps.

  Don’t b mad, Brooke texts.

  I write back, Ok.

  U still mad?

  No.

  Want to ride tog?

  No.

  Call later?

  Maybe.

  Nazis suck.

  No shit, I think. I shove my phone in my pocket and get on my bike.

  Seven

  At home I curl up on the wicker couch in the kitchen and pull out The Color Purple, the book I’m reading for English, to distract myself from thinking about Brooke. I’m surprised I like a schoolbook so much. Most of the stuff I have to read for English is about boys or old men, but The Color Purple is all about women. Just as I’m settling in, Dad comes in with a bag of chips and a stack of books.

  “Hey, Laurensky, whatcha reading?”

  I hold up the book and hope he’ll leave me alone.

  “Ooh, feminist stuff, huh? I have something you might like.” He shifts through his stack and pulls out a book with a yellow Star of David on the cover.

  I shrug my shoulders. “I think I’ve already read that one.”

  “No, this is new. It’s the story of a young girl who survives—”

  I put up a hand to stop him. “Let me guess. It’s about a girl who gets sent to a concentration camp. The Nazis gas the rest of her family but keep her to do forced labor. She has to eat crappy food, and she has no shoes. Everyone around her dies of horrible diseases or starves. She survives, but when she tries to go home, other people are living in her house.” I’m sitting up now, clutching my book. “And then she finds out”—I swallow because my voice is getting shrill—“that all the Jews in her village and in the villages nearby are dead.”

  Dad stands by the stove, staring at me, dumbstruck. I take a deep breath. “I don’t need to read any more Holocaust books, Dad. I could write my own if I wanted to.”

  “Oh.” Dad leans on the counter, still staring at me.

  “Was I right? Is that the story?”

  “Well, sort of. It’s about a survivor who meets her childhood sweetheart years after the war, in Israel, and falls in love all over again.”

  I narrow my eyes. “But it’s also about how she survived, right?”

  Dad fans through the pages. “Well, yes.”

  “See? Same story, just a different ending.”

  “Aha!” Dad jabs a victorious finger in the air. “But the ending is what counts. It’s all about hope.”

  I stare at him bleakly. “All that death puts a bit of a dimmer on any hope, for me. Besides, I don’t read Holocaust books anymore.”

  “Since when?”

  “Well, since right now.” I’m lying, of course.

  “Oh, I didn’t know that.”

  “Well, now you do. I’m done with the Holocaust. I don’t want to ever read another Holocaust book, see a Holocaust movie, hear a Holocaust anecdote or meet another survivor. As far as I’m concerned, I know enough.”

  “Oh. Do you have to be so definitive?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, what are you going to read?”

  I hold up my novel. “Maybe I’ll read about the oppression of women. That could take a lifetime.”

  Dad shakes his head and holds out the Holocaust book. “You sure you don’t want this?”

  “No, and if you invite any more survivors to dinner, I’ll be out.”

  “Okay then.” Dad stares at me some more. Then he holds out the bag of Doritos. “Chip?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Dad shrugs. “More for me then.” But he doesn’t sound like his usual joking self.

  I get up and head to the computer. I could have described the horrors of the concentration camps in more detail for Dad, but enough of that. I sign on to the computer and open a new document. I have a new list in mind.

  Ten Ways to Stop Thinking about the Holocaust:

  1. Straighten hair.

  2. Sprint uphill.

  3. Fantasize about Jesse.

  4. Recite times tables.

  5. Think up lantern ideas.

  6. Play basketball.

  7. Write lists.

  8. Learn about different atrocities.

  What I didn’t tell Dad was that even though I’ve been trying to avoid the Holocaust ever since grade eight, I still can’t get away from it. Sometimes it feels like a cloud of smoke constantly blowing in my face. Sometimes it’s obvious, like my writing a paper on Armenian genocide. That’s my own fault. But other times, it’s totally random. Like the time Alexis and I asked if we could get tattoos—little flowers on our ankles. Alexis’s mom said, “One day you might have a job where you’ll have to wear panty hose, and a tattoo might look
unprofessional. Or you might be allergic to the dye, and those needles might not be clean.”

  My dad said, “Did you know they tattooed numbers on people’s arms during the Holocaust?”

  I wanted to say, It’s just a flower on my ankle, and I’m choosing to do it, but I didn’t. How do you argue with the Holocaust? You don’t.

  And it’s not just me and my little world that are overrun with Holocaust stuff. When I went to the library last week to get books for my Armenia paper, there were a few books about the Armenian genocide, but shelves and shelves about the Holocaust. One website claimed that in one year The New York Times printed more articles about the Holocaust than about all of Africa. That made my arm hair stand up. I wondered why there was still so much Holocaust stuff out there compared to everything else. The website’s claim made me nervous. It made me think of the accusation that Jews control the media. Which isn’t true. And it’s anti-Semitic to think that way, right?

  For dinner, Mom makes lasagna and a salad. Zach’s wearing his Batman gear at the table again and doing this toe-tapping thing he does when he’s agitated. Zach’s been wearing the Batman outfit more often since the trouble started with his bar mitzvah classes.

  “So,” Dad turns to Mom, “Lauren told me something very interesting today.”

  “What’s that?”

  I spear a lettuce leaf and pretend to ignore him.

  “She told me she isn’t reading any more Holocaust books.”

  “I’m reading The Color Purple,” I say to Mom. “It’s amazing.”

  “My book club did that one a couple of years ago,” she says.

  “Anyway,” Dad continues, “the book I wanted Lauren to read isn’t really a Holocaust book. It’s about hope and the future of the Jewish people.”

  “That sounds interesting,” Mom says.

  I focus on cutting the lettuce leaf into smaller bits. “This is a great salad, Mom.”

  “New dressing,” she says, “with dill and a touch of maple syrup.”

  “I’m still curious,” Dad says. “Why the sudden moratorium on Holocaust books?”

  I put down my fork and sigh. “You’re not going to let it go, are you?”

  “I’m curious, that’s all.”

  I take a deep breath. “Well, I guess I’m sick of hearing about Jews being killed. You’d think we were the only people who were ever massacred.”