Lauren Yanofsky Hates the Holocaust

by Leanne Lieberman

  And then there’s the angst. What about Brooke? Am I supposed to say, Oops, he’s not a total Nazi, just kinda dumb and I’ve forgiven him, so get lost?

  “Lauren, dinner is on the table,” Dad calls.

  “Coming.”

  I let my parents and Zach chat through dinner and focus on eating Mom’s delicious salmon. I don’t know how she does it, but she makes it with this maple-ginger glaze that’s awesome. I eat two helpings, and Mom smiles.

  When I’m clearing the table, Dad hands me an envelope. I look at the return address and hand it back to him. It’s from the youth group again.

  Dad raises one eyebrow. “Hey, you promised to at least think about going.”

  I sigh and rip open the letter. What is it this time? A symposium on Jewish song, a debate on intermarriage? No, it’s a pamphlet for March of the Living, a Holocaust tour for teenagers that reenacts the walk Holocaust victims took from the Auschwitz concentration camp to the Birkenau camp.

  “Why would they send me this?” I throw up my hands.

  “That tour ends with a couple of weeks in Israel. Wouldn’t that be fun?” Mom says hopefully.

  “You’re kidding, right?” I look at Mom. “Please tell me you think this is funny.”

  Mom puts down her scrub brush and dries her hands on a dishtowel. “I don’t think it’s funny at all. I think it’s educational.”

  I drop the pamphlet onto the counter and rub my forehead. “Wait, let me get this right. I’ve already told you I’m sick of the Holocaust and think it’s way overdone, but you want me to experience more Holocaust, in Poland, and then get on a plane and go to Israel?”

  Mom loads the dishwasher with the dirty plates. “Shayna Shuster says Rebecca went last year and loved it.”

  “Rebecca Shuster is an idiot.”

  Mom gives me a pained look. “I know you haven’t been very interested in doing anything Jewish, but this might help you reconnect with your Jewish roots.” I slap my hands against my thighs. “UNBELIEVABLE.”

  “What’s the problem?” Mom asks.

  “You really don’t get it?”

  “No, it seems like a nice idea. You might even meet a nice Jewish guy.”

  I can’t decide whether to laugh or cry. I start hiccupping instead. “Absolutely no effing way would I go on that trip.”

  “Hey, language,” Dad says.

  “Are you guys out of your minds?”

  Mom sighs. “What’s the problem?” she asks again.

  “I know I’m not supposed to tell you guys you’re stupid or anything, but COME ON!”

  “Enough with the theatrics. State your case.” Dad crosses his arms against his chest.

  “Okay, so you take a bunch of teenagers to Poland, and you stuff them with ideas of how Jews were hated for centuries and then finally exterminated in gas chambers. And then, when they’re filled with misery and have begun to see themselves as victims, you fly them to Israel and tell them they’re free, that they have their own homeland. Then they support Israel no matter what it does, even if it means killing Palestinians. You’re turning kids into Holocaustarians.”

  “Did you say Holocaustarians?” Dad asks.

  “Yes, I just made it up. There are people who are Christians or Buddhists or vegetarians or whatever, and then there are people who are Holocaustarians. And not just any holocaust, but the one with the capital H.”

  “Let’s not go down that road again.”

  “I can’t believe you were stupid enough to show me this pamphlet!”

  “It just came in the mail…” Dad says.

  I stomp out of the kitchen and go up to my room. I’m so angry, I feel like slamming my door a hundred times.

  Instead I pull on my running clothes and take the stairs back down three at a time. Mom comes into the front hall as I’m pulling on my mittens.

  “Where are you going?”

  “For a run.”

  “At night? I don’t think so.”

  “Watch me.” I slam the door.

  Outside it’s damp, and the wind whips the last leaves off the trees and sends them scurrying down the street. I sprint down the block until I’m panting and have to walk. I nudge the wet leaves with my running shoes. I’ve forgotten to bring an elastic, and my hair blows around my face. It’s too cool to keep walking, so I start a slow jog.

  Why do people have to keep reminding me I’m Jewish? And worse, why do they keep using the Holocaust to do it? I don’t get it. If Jewish organizations want to teach kids about their Jewish heritage in a positive way, they should send them to Spain, so we can see the sights of the Golden Age when Jews and Muslims lived together in harmony. I learned about that in grade-eight history.

  I start to calm down as I jog through the streets. I like looking into people’s houses when their lights are on. Inside, people are eating dinner or watching TV. No one is getting killed or massacred or planning on killing someone. At least, I hope not. A few cars pass, and I see someone walking a dog. Then I hear footsteps coming up behind me, running footsteps. I tense and look over my shoulder. Another runner, a guy, is coming down the street—fast. Too fast. I’m about to cross the road when I hear someone call, “Hey, Lauren.” I turn and realize it’s Jesse. “Wait up,” he calls.

  I stop and wait until he catches up.

  “What are you doing out here?” I blurt.

  Jesse’s panting. “I saw you go running by and…well, I thought I’d go for a run too.”

  I can’t help smiling. “Oh.”

  Jesse starts jogging beside me. “How far are we going?”

  “I’m not sure. It might be a long run.”

  “All right, I like a challenge.” He lifts his hand to high-five me. I think about ignoring it; then I see his face, sort of eager, and I notice he has beautiful, perfectly sculpted eyebrows, as if he’s had them professionally shaped. A little tingle travels down my legs, and I reach over and smack his hand.

  I let Jesse set the pace and the route. I’m too nervous to think of anything to say. Usually I turn around at Sixteenth Avenue, but Jesse keeps heading north. I did say I was going on a long run. Rain starts to fall, not a downpour but more of a gentle mist, and I try to rescue my hair by pulling up my hood. After a while I relax a little. Jesse looks cute in his track pants, his hair hanging down in his eyes. Every block or so, he pushes his hair behind his ear, and it stays there for about half a block and then falls down again.

  The closer we get to the beach, the windier it gets. By the time we reach the road next to the beach, the wind has whipped strands of my hair loose from my hood and sent them flying around my head. I can’t imagine what my hair will look like by the time we get back.

  “How far are we going?” I finally say.

  “Oh.” Jesse looks at me. “I don’t know.”

  “We should turn around.” My parents will kill me if they find out I was down by the beach at night.

  “If we go a little farther west, it’s not such a steep hill home.”

  We jog along the waterfront, the puddles lit up by passing headlights. When we get to a grassy park, Jesse grabs my hand. “Hey, wanna go down to the beach?”

  I don’t want to, but Jesse’s holding my hand, so I squeeze his hand yes and let him lead me down a steep flight of stairs to a gravel path above the rocky shore. The wind roars around us, damp and unruly, swirling off the water. It’s dark on the path, but across the harbor, downtown shimmers, and beyond that the lights on Grouse Mountain twinkle.

  Jesse laughs into the wind. “Isn’t this amazing?” I shiver and nod, smiling wildly. I feel like I could lean into the wind and it would support me, and I wouldn’t go careening into the rocks.

  “Okay,” Jesse says, and he points his thumb to the stairs. We sprint up the steps and stand in the lee of a huge tree. I hunch over, trying to catch my breath as I wipe my eyes. Jesse stretches his quads. I try not to stare at him as I run my hands through my hair. I know my cheeks must be bright from the run.

  “
We should get going.”

  “Run too far for ya?”

  “My parents are going to kill me for being gone so long in the dark.”

  “They notice that kind of thing?”

  “Sure. Don’t yours?”

  “No, not so much.”

  “It’s ’cause you’re a guy.”

  Jesse shrugs. “I think they got used to not having me around. You know, being away at school and all.”

  “Oh. You happy to be back?”

  “Yep.” He smiles at me, and I flex my legs nervously.

  My sweat starts to chill. “We should get going.”

  “Wait a second.” Jesse grabs both of my hands. “You never texted me back.”

  “Oh.” I look up into his face. “I guess I didn’t know what to say.”

  Jesse squeezes my hands. “Well, how about you say, ‘I accept your apology.’”

  “Um, okay. Yeah.” I’m so nervous, I can’t think. The wind is pushing my hair into my face, and I’m worried I might smell from the run. Jesse steps closer to me and I let him, even though I know I shouldn’t. I should pull away and say, Race you to the intersection. Instead I let Jesse pull me close enough that I can put my head on his shoulder. I’m so close, I can hear him breathing. My own nervous breath is coming so fast, I’m sure I sound like I’m having an asthma attack. Then Jesse lets go of my hands and his arms wrap around me, his hands smoothing the back of my running jacket. I inhale noisily and feel my cheeks flush. I stay absolutely still, holding my breath, my face resting on his shoulder. I’m supposed to do something with my arms. Letting them dangle is not an option. I take a deep breath and wrap my arms around his waist. I’d like to squeeze him tightly and prove to myself that this is for real, that Jesse is actually hugging me. I don’t dare. I’m so nervous, I’m not even enjoying the hug. How pissed off will Brooke be?

  Then I feel Jesse starting to pull away a little and I think, Okay, this is going to end, and we’ll jog home, and maybe we’ll forget about this. Maybe we’ll call it “that time we once hugged by a tree near the beach.” Omigod, that sounds so romantic. Then Jesse leans down, his lips moving warm and wet on mine. I can taste the salt from his sweat. I stop thinking about Brooke or anything but Jesse’s delicious lips. I’m so out of breath I’m sure Jesse will notice. He’ll say, “Yanofsky, you breathe like a truck.”

  But he doesn’t. He nuzzles my ear and says, “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.”

  I don’t say anything. I can’t say anything. But I pull away and let him see the smile spreading across my face. It’s the kind of smile that’s so big it feels like my face might crack. I grab Jesse’s hand and pull him toward the intersection and then back up the street toward home. I flap my arms, pretending to be a bird or a plane.

  It’s a long run back, but when I feel tired, I look at Jesse, and the smile he gives me makes me think I could fly all the way home.

  We run down the back lane behind our houses and I say goodbye at my garage. “Wait,” Jesse says, but I don’t want anyone to see us, so I just wave and slip through the back gate.

  As soon as I’m out of sight, I throw myself against the garage door. Omigod. I can’t believe it. He wants to kiss me. He did kiss me. I do a small jig and trigger the motion-sensor light. Mom opens the back door.

  “Lauren, is that you?”

  “Yep, it’s me.”

  “We were worried. Where have you been?”

  “On a really long run.”

  Mom sighs. “It’s not safe for a girl alone.”

  “Yeah yeah. Whatever.”

  “We’ll take you to the gym, or you can use the treadmill here.”

  “Yeah, okay.” I want to be alone, so I slip past her and run up to the shower.

  I strip off my clothes, stand under the hot water and do a little happy dance. I want to tell Brooke, but we’re not talking. How can I not share this with her? I want to tell everyone. But I won’t. I’ll keep this secret to myself. I wrap my arms around myself in the shower. Jesse wants to kiss me. He did kiss me. I do another happy dance.

  Ten

  The next day, I’m so nervous that I don’t leave for school until I’m almost late for biology. How can I sit between Brooke and Jesse for ninety minutes? When I arrive, Jesse grins at me and kicks my leg under the stool. I ignore him and pray he stops. I glance at Brooke, but she’s staring straight ahead. Luckily, Mr. Saunders is introducing a new unit on mammals, and there’s no lab. Soon we’ll start dissecting a fetal pig, which sounds disgusting.

  Jesse catches up with me on the way to English. “Hey, what’s the hurry?”

  “I have to go to the bathroom before class starts.” I’m speed-walking down the hall, dodging grade eights.

  He jogs to keep up with me. “You mad at me again?” He grabs my hand and makes me stop.

  “No, just nervous.” I pull my hand away and look around. Brooke has gone ahead to her math class.

  He steps on my toe. “What are you nervous about?”

  “I don’t want people looking at us,” I whisper. “I…”

  “It’s a secret?”

  “It’s—I don’t know—private, I guess. You won’t say anything, will you?”

  Jesse cocks his head. “I can’t write Jesse thinks Lauren is a babe on the bathroom wall?”

  “No.”

  “How about Jesse kissed Lauren by the beach?”

  “No!”

  “How about—?”

  I step on his toe. “How about nothing?”

  Jesse sighs. “Girls are weird.”

  I shrug, and we walk to English together.

  While I’m waiting for class to start, I check my phone. Alexis has texted me. Did u tell?

  I sigh. Jesse kissed me at the beach, I write back.

  OMG! U still have to tell.

  I put my phone away.

  After English I grab my lunch from my locker and walk to the auditorium to watch the Grease rehearsal. I can’t possibly make it through lunch with Jesse. I’m sure everyone, especially Brooke, will know about us by the way he looks at me. So instead, even though I want more than anything to sit and hold Jesse’s hand, I munch my bagel with cream cheese, tomato and sprouts and listen to the Grease cast sing. Em’s voice is better than it was last year. I realize she must hold back when she sings with us, because here in the auditorium, her voice fills the space. She’s almost convincing as Rizzo, although she still looks too prim.

  When the bell rings for third period, I go to my locker to grab my clothes for phys ed. Brooke and Jesse are sitting on the floor, listening to Brooke’s phone, each of them with one earbud in. Jesse sees me and gets up. “Hey, where were you?”

  “I, um, was watching Grease rehearsal.”

  “Oh.” He nods. “Run later?” He raises his eyebrows.

  I feel like everyone is watching—or at least, Chloe, Em and Brooke are. “Maybe, if it’s not raining.” I want to stay and look at him leaning against my locker with that sexy smile on his face, but the second bell rings. “I have to go now. See you later.”

  Brooke glares at me and starts walking beside me to the gym. “What was that about?”

  “Nothing. He was just being nice.”

  Brooke sighs. “He is really nice, isn’t he?”

  “Yep.”

  “Did you hear Tyler’s having a party at his house Friday night? It’s his birthday.”

  I nod. It’s the first time Brooke and I have spoken all week. “I was thinking of asking Jesse if he’ll go with me.”

  “Oh.” I stop in the hall. “Did you ask him yet?”

  “No, not yet. What do you think? Should I call him or text him or message him on Facebook?”

  My stomach twists. “Why would I care?”

  “Could you please get over yourself?”

  “Not likely,” I say under my breath as I stalk off.

  Mom makes a delicious chicken stir-fry with broccoli and snow peas for dinner. She’s in a good mood because Zach has agreed to st
udy with a college student for his bar mitzvah. I can’t quite read what Zach is thinking now, but I’m sure he has some alternate plan.

  After dinner I load the dishwasher and Dad scrubs out pots and pans while Mom pores over an invitation catalog at the table. Zach sits next to her, building with Lego. Mom asks Zach, “Now, do you like the navy and gold, or the navy and silver?” Zach just shrugs.

  “Why don’t you email people?” I say. “It’s way more environmentally friendly.”

  “Tacky.” Mom doesn’t look up.

  Dad gives me a warning look. “Don’t rain on your mother’s organizational parade,” he whispers.

  Mom is in full bar mitzvah planning mode. She has a baking day at the temple lined up, a booking at the Richmond Country Club for the party, and caterers to interview for the Saturday lunch. “I think I like the silver.” She marks the page with a sticky note and closes the catalog.

  Zach ignores her and pulls more Lego out of a plastic bin. His starts tapping his toes on the floor.

  “So, what do you think?” Mom asks Dad. “Deejay or band?”

  “What about a jazz quartet?”

  “Could they play a horah?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Then no. Ooh, what about a klezmer band?” she says.

  Dad makes a face.

  “You don’t like klezmer?”

  He makes another face.

  Mom turns back to Zach. “How about you? What do you think?”

  Zach focuses on attaching wheels to a Lego car. “I’m not going to the party.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I hate those parties. They make you play games and dance with girls.”

  “Hey,” Dad says, “girls are okay.”

  Mom grips the invitation catalog. “What do you mean you’re not going to the party?”

  “I never agreed to that.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I said I would study my Torah portion with the cool guy if you bought me the space-station Lego set, but I never agreed to anything else.”