Lauren Yanofsky Hates the Holocaust

by Leanne Lieberman

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Can I make a lantern too?”

  “Sure.”

  Zach looks at my drawing. “I think you need a better design first. Like, draw it out and do the measurements.”

  “Oh, good idea.”

  Zach pulls some paper across the table and hands me a piece. He starts sketching a biplane.

  “So, why were you hiding?” I ask.

  Zach doesn’t say anything, so I focus on my drawing. Then, just when I think he’s not going to answer, he says, “Bar mitzvah lessons.”

  “Not going well?”

  He shakes his head.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “I don’t want to do it.”

  “The practicing? I’m sure you’d learn it superquick, if you wanted to.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Oh? Why’s that?”

  “’Cause then you have to do it in front of all those people.”

  “You mean the guests.”

  “Yep. Do you know how many people were at your bat mitzvah?”

  “How many?”

  “Two hundred and thirty-seven.”

  “You counted?”

  “Yep. I can also tell you how many lights are in the sanctuary.”

  “I bet you can. So what are you going to do?”

  “Hide. Refuse to go anywhere.”

  “Refusing to eat works well.”

  “Really?”

  “Worked for me.”

  “What if I did all three?”

  “That might work. Plan your snacks in advance.”

  “Oh, okay.” Zack puts down his pencil and points to my picture. “Lauren?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Can I draw that for you?”

  “Sure.”

  “Your design kinda sucks.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  Zach shrugs, sketches out the star and then adds the measurements. “Why a star?”

  “I don’t know. I just like them.”

  “That’s weird.”

  “I wouldn’t talk.”

  Zack pretends to look offended.

  I stay in the basement until I get hungry, and then I go upstairs and let my parents know I’ve found Zach.

  “I thought you looked down there,” Mom says to Dad.

  “I did.”

  “Well, obviously not very well.”

  “Please don’t start,” he says.

  “Hey, before you guys get going, do you want to know why Zach is hiding in the basement?”

  “Let me guess.” Mom runs her hands through her hair, tugging on the blond strands. “He didn’t want to go to his bar mitzvah lesson?”

  “You got it.”

  Mom rubs her temples. “I was worried this would happen.”

  Dad sighs. “Maybe we should find him a different tutor.”

  I lift my hand as if I’m at school. “I don’t think Rabbi Birenbaum is the problem. Zach doesn’t want to have a bar mitzvah because he hates being the center of attention.”

  Mom sits down at the counter and holds her head in her hands. “But it’s a special occasion, and I really want him to have the same opportunity as the other kids.”

  I hold up my hands in defeat. “Is there anything for dinner?”

  “Don’t look at me,” Mom says. “I’ve spent all afternoon looking for Zach.”

  Dad sighs and opens the freezer. “How about hamburgers?”

  “Sounds good,” I say.

  Dad defrosts the burgers and grills them on the barbecue on the back deck, under a golf umbrella, while I cut up lettuce and tomato. Zach comes upstairs once he realizes it’s too late to go to his bar mitzvah lesson. He’s all smiles as he eats voraciously, smearing mayonnaise across his face. Although Zach is a better eater than he used to be, he still avoids brightly colored foods like ketchup and mustard.

  “Are you going to hide next week too?” Dad asks wearily.

  Zach shrugs and shows Dad his biplane drawing. I can see it’s a big effort for Dad to show any interest.

  After dinner I spend a few minutes working on my history essay. Mr. Whiteman approved my thesis and outline ages ago, but I haven’t opened the books I checked out of the library yet. I’ve done some research on the word genocide, since that’s what most websites call the massacres in Armenia. Basically, it means the intentional killing of a whole group of people because of race or religion. I’ve heard about genocide in Africa, in places like Darfur and Rwanda, but when I do a Google search, lots of places I didn’t know about come up, including Cambodia and Indonesia and Bosnia. It freaks me out, reading about all that killing. I’m finding more and more holocausts all the time.

  I lean back in my chair. It isn’t only the killing that’s getting me. At every Holocaust memorial and ceremony I’ve been to, Jews have said, Forgive but never forget. The other thing they’ve said is, Never again.

  And yet it is still happening, over and over again. How many millions of people have died as a result of genocide since the Holocaust? It makes me feel sick to my stomach. When Jews said Never again, did they only mean to them?

  I find something else that is disturbing. When I key in Jews + genocide in Google, not only do I get articles about atrocities committed against Jews, I also get articles about atrocities committed by Jews. One of the articles is about the Israeli army oppressing Palestinians. I don’t know much about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, but just reading this makes me feel crazy. Is this the end result of the Holocaust? Jews got a homeland in Israel and the Palestinians lost theirs? I’m not sure, but it makes my head ache to think about it.

  I put away the books on Armenia without opening them.

  Before I get into bed, I check my phone.

  Alexis has written: Did u tell?

  I don’t reply. Next there’s a message from Brooke.

  U still mad?

  I text back No.

  Brooke writes back U pissed?

  Yes.

  Don’t be.

  OK.

  U lying?

  Maybe.

  My place aft school?

  Busy.

  I wait to see if she texts back, but the phone is silent. I get my biology textbook out of my bag and try to read the assigned chapters, but then my phone beeps again. It’s Em. Pancakes and prayer @ 7 am. U in?

  Not sure.

  C’mon, it’ll be interesting.

  Yay God?

  Yep, yay God.

  I think about it for a minute. Then I write, OK, curious. Will b there.

  Yay! Go in side door. Don’t knock. Peeps sleeping.

  I type back g-nite and put the phone down.

  This is weird. I’m going to Bible study, to pray about Jesse. No, I’m going to observe a cultural experience. It’ll be interesting.

  I set my alarm for 6:00 am, turn off my light and roll over. I close my eyes and try to breathe deeply, but I’m not sleepy, so I look on my night table for something to read.

  I’ve finished The Color Purple. Then I remember that the Mengele book is still under my bed. I’d meant to put it back on Dad’s desk, but I forgot. I get it, put it back, then pick it up again. I shouldn’t, but I want to read to the end of the book so I can learn how Mengele was eventually tried and punished. Surely he must have died a horrible death after all the misery he caused. Instead I learn that Mengele escaped through Italy and went on to South America. Anger rises like heat on my skin when I read how the killer lived out the rest of his life without any punishment while the twins who survived had all kinds of physical and psychological problems. How could they not? Almost all Mengele’s survivors were the only people in their families alive at the end of the war.

  I slam the book shut and shove it under the bed again after I read that Mengele believed he was doing real scientific research. Science, my ass. I clench my teeth and feel tension building in my neck. And the guys at school, they thought it was funny to pretend to be Nazis. Calm down, I tell myself. It’s just ign
orance. If they knew about Mengele, they wouldn’t have done it.

  Maybe Dad is right. Maybe the world still needs more Holocaust education. I flop over in bed. This is so complicated. I’m sick of hearing about the Holocaust, yet there are still people who don’t know about it or make light of it. Where’s the balance? Should I tell someone about the armbands and hope the guys get some sensitivity training? Is the Holocaust so big and terrible that absolutely everyone has to know about it?

  I close my eyes and try to think about playing basketball with Jesse, or being at the lantern festival. It doesn’t work. I can’t stop thinking about the book, and the more I think about Mengele cutting people up, the more I feel panic rising in me, like bile seeping up into my throat. My fists tighten, and I press my toes against the footboard of my bed. The book feels like a hot coal burning under my bed. I try to do the five senses exercise: I can see the damn book; I can hear the voices of the boys laughing in the park; I can taste anxiety boiling in my throat as I imagine killing Mengele. How would I do it? Would I let him starve, or would I shoot him? Maybe I’d gas and burn him. I sit bolt upright and throw off the covers. The Nazis are turning me into a killer. I can’t distract myself—not with the book in my room. I have to get it out of here.

  I creep quietly down the stairs to Dad’s office. Dad is at his desk, leaning back in his chair, reading. I think about casually walking in and putting the book on the shelf, but he’s sure to ask me what I’m doing. I could wait until tomorrow, but I want that book away from me now. Just looking at it makes me feel panicky. What kind of idiot was I to think I could read it? I stand there in the hallway outside his office and suddenly realize that I want the book out of the house altogether. At the back door, I pull on my raincoat and boots and slip into the yard. It’s a cold, clear night, and the stars are pinpricks of light in the sky. I inhale a few times and watch my breath cloud into the air. What if I dumped the book in someone’s garbage? If I head out the back lane, though, I’ll trigger the motion-sensor light by the back gate. Instead I slip into the darkened garage and shove the book on a shelf under the sun umbrella. There, I think. Rot in the garage, killer.

  Nine

  My alarm rings before it’s even light outside, and I peel myself out of bed. Em lives a few blocks away in an ancient mansion with beautiful woodwork and enormous fireplaces. Her house is so big and formal, I feel weird letting myself in the side door.

  Fortunately, the Bible group isn’t meeting in the living room—which reminds me of a funeral parlor from a movie, with lots of high-back sofas and long creepy drapes—but in the blue-and-white TV room on the second floor. When I arrive, lots of girls are already there. I recognize kids from school, some I didn’t even know were Christians. Everyone speaks in whispers, although somewhere in the house I can hear kitchen cupboards opening and water running.

  I sit next to Em and she introduces me to Cathy, a woman who looks younger than our moms but older than a college student. She has long blond hair in a braid down her back and is wearing a loose plaid shirt.

  “Lauren’s just observing today,” Em says.

  “Great.” Cathy smiles. “Feel free to join in.”

  Cathy calls the group to attention and asks them to turn to Mark 12. I decide to sit back from the group, on the window seat. I watch the girls flip through their Bibles and listen to Em read several verses, ending with, “Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself. There is none other commandment greater than these.”

  Em pauses and Cathy turns to the group. “So what should we make of this?”

  There’s a moment of silence, and then a girl I don’t know says, “Well, I think it means we should be good friends.”

  I sit up a little straighter as the girls discuss what it means to be a good friend. I’ve never heard the Bible talked about as actually relevant to our lives. At Hebrew school, we talked about Jewish history or what the different rabbis said or how to fulfill Jewish commandments.

  After the discussion, each girl shares her prayers for the day. Chloe is first. “I pray to understand math and get along better with my mom. And for all my friends to be happy.” She looks over at me.

  The next girl says, “I pray for my sister to stop taking my stuff.” Everyone laughs. “And for Claire to be okay with her parents’ divorce.” Everyone looks at a girl named Claire, and she tries to smile.

  Another girl I don’t know says, “I pray for my grandmother to recover from her operation, and I’m thankful for Em’s mom’s pancakes.” More laughter.

  Claire waves her hand in front of her mouth when it’s her turn, so Cathy says, “We all pray for Claire to be strong and to be helped by her friends through this difficult time. And we hope she knows Jesus is her friend.”

  Claire says, “Thank you.”

  I knit my brow. Jesus? How is Jesus your friend if he died for your sins? Then Em says, “I pray for all my friends to make the right decisions and feel peaceful.”

  She looks at me across the room.

  The other girls pray for help at school or with personal problems. Cathy says, “I pray for Jesus to show us all how to live and that all your hopes and dreams will come true. Amen.”

  The girls all say, “Amen,” and then they hold hands and smile as they send a “prayer squeeze” around the circle.

  Then we go downstairs to the dining room, where Em’s mom is standing at the table with a huge platter of pancakes. Em passes me a plate. “See, isn’t Bible study amazing?”

  I nod. I’m not sure what to say. It’s all so…personal.

  “Is Jewish prayer like that?” Em asks.

  “Um, not really.” But I can’t explain why. Em’s mom comes over to ask her something, and I’m saved from having to explain. Despite seven years of Hebrew school, I’ve never really prayed. I’ve recited the Hebrew prayers millions of times, and I know what most of them mean, but they aren’t my words or wishes. Jewish prayer is ritualized and thought out in advance. You say thanks for various things and praise God a zillion times, then you say a prayer for the sinners and for good health and praise God another zillion times—he’s a king, he’s a lord and a whole bunch of other male images—and then it’s finally over. I can’t think of a single time in all my years of Hebrew school when anyone said, Pray your own prayer. Making a wish when I blow out candles on my birthday cake is the closest I’ve ever come. How depressing. Eight years of Hebrew school has actually deprived me of the chance to pray. If I were going to write a list of reasons why being Jewish sucks, this would be near the top.

  I wander away from the chatting girls to find the bathroom. On my way back, I spot what must be the library. Unlike Dad’s cluttered, book-filled mess with its Ikea furniture, this office is regal. Built-in bookshelves and a fireplace surround a huge desk. I sit on the floor near the entrance and listen to the girls’ chatter. Someone is discussing a math test, and I hear snippets of talk about a soccer game.

  Jewish youth group is so not like this. At the one event I attended before I declared myself not Jewish, we played broomball and ate pizza. The girls worried about what their hair looked like, and the guys goofed off on the ice.

  I tuck my knees up to my chest and rest my cheek on my folded arms. Tears come to my eyes, and I blink them back. I’m envious, not because they believe in God or because Jesus is their friend, but because they have each other.

  I pull a book off a shelf near me to distract myself from self-pity and realize it’s an old book of maps of China. I stand up and look at some of the other titles. There are Bibles, lots of books on Christian missionaries, and then a whole wall of books on China. I wish Dad’s office was full of these kinds of books.

  The girls start leaving, calling their thanks to Em and her mom and Cathy. Then I hear Chloe calling me. I step out of the library and into the hall.

  “I’m here,” I say.

  “Oh, good.” Chloe and Em already have their coats on. “Cathy’s going to drive us to school. Are you ready to go?”

  “
Yeah, sure.”

  “Are you okay?” Em asks.

  “Yeah. Fine. Thanks for inviting me. It was cool.”

  “You could come again, if you like.”

  “The lone Jew at the Christian prayer group?”

  “Well, you could say your own prayers, if you like.”

  I feel tears well up. “I must be really tired.”

  Em and Chloe both hug me. “We’ll keep praying for you even if you don’t come,” Chloe says.

  I hug her tighter.

  In biology class I sit on the aisle and concentrate on the video Mr. Saunders shows. I can tell Jesse glances at me several times, but I keep my eyes forward. At lunch I sit with Chloe and Em and listen to them study for an English-lit test.

  Down the hall, Brooke, Chantal and Kelly surround Jesse. He looks like he’s enjoying himself, surrounded by three sets of cleavage. I notice Brooke has started wearing low-cut tops. Jesse doesn’t look over at me once. I sigh.

  By the end of the day, I’m exhausted from my late night with Mengele and my early-morning Bible study. I go home after school and get into bed and fall asleep. When I wake up an hour later, it’s dark outside, and I snuggle under the covers and play games on my phone. I can always do my English reading later. Then I hear Mom calling me for dinner. I’m about to put my phone down when I notice a voice message. From Jesse. I feel my pulse start to race. Shut up, stupid heart. But it doesn’t. I play the message.

  “You must think I’m the biggest jerk ever, and insensitive and racist. And I’m not. Look, we were drunk and it seemed like a good idea at the time, and no one thought, What’s the Jewish girl going to think? And we should have. So let’s go running and I’ll apologize all the way. And when we get back, you can beat the crap out of me at basketball. I’ll even let you win. Just kidding.”

  Which emotion should I experience first? How about ecstasy? He called me. He wants to play basketball with me and go running. And he said he was wrong. That’s enough, isn’t it? I actually have to stop and clutch at my chest to make sure my heart doesn’t jump out of it. Can you die of excitement? Can you die from your heart actually beating too fast and…I don’t know, overexerting yourself? Probably not, if you’re a healthy teenager, or people would die from sex all the time, and that only happens to old men.