Lauren Yanofsky Hates the Holocaust

by Leanne Lieberman

  “Zach, I’m about to spend a lot of money to book the country club.”

  “Well, I’m thinking about being out of town that weekend.”

  “Where are you going?” I ask.

  “I thought Palm Springs might be nice that time of year, but I might have trouble at the border since I’m a minor, so I might have to settle for Whistler or Kelowna or Surrey.”

  Mom sighs. “Zach, this is unreal.”

  I can’t help smiling. “She’s not going to give up, is she?” I whisper to Dad.

  He pokes me in the ribs. “Don’t antagonize your mother.”

  I finish the dishes and go to the computer. Mom’s still badgering Zach, but he’s shut down and refuses to answer her at all. You’d think she’d have figured out by now that badgering doesn’t work with Zach.

  Then the doorbell rings. I hear Dad open the door and say, “Hey, Jesse, what’s up?”

  I sit bolt upright in the chair. Omigod, he’s at my house? This is crazy.

  I hear Jesse say, “Hi, Dr. Yanofsky. I’m here to go running with Lauren.”

  I stand up as Dad calls me. Jesse’s already dressed in a pair of running tights, a red toque and a blue jacket with a hood. “You up for a run?” he asks.

  “Um, sure.” Couldn’t he call first?

  “I’ll wait for you, if you like.” He winks at me and then turns to Dad. “I saw Lauren out by herself last night, doing wind sprints, and I thought it was pretty dark to be running alone.”

  “That’s exactly what we thought. You two should start a running club.”

  I roll my eyes and head upstairs to change. I hear Dad say, “So, nice to be back in the neighborhood?”

  “Yes, sir, glad to be back.”

  I can’t believe he’s here, that he wants to see me again. I look in the mirror. I’m not curvy like Brooke or sexy like Chloe. I do have nice skin, but I still don’t get it. Why does he like me? I’m actually stiff from running last night, and part of me feels like saying, Forget it, I can’t take this much excitement. I sit on the floor and pull on a pair of socks anyway. Maybe I can just tell him the truth. Which is what? Brooke is in love with him? I can’t say that. Maybe I should call Brooke and tell her the truth. That I’m in love with Jesse and he’s here in my house? I can’t do that either.

  So I pull on some running pants, grab a long-sleeved top and a fleece jacket and braid my hair, pulling it tightly into an elastic. I say goodbye to Dad, and then Jesse and I head out the front door.

  The night is crisp and cool, with stars visible overhead and a half-moon glimmering. As we start running down the street, Jesse grabs my hand. I look at him, smile and then pull away.

  “Hey, let’s go this way.” Jesse guides me down the steep slope past the railway tracks to the grassy hill of the park. He stops under the trees, away from the road, and pulls me toward him. He kisses me, a little more roughly than last night, his hands sliding down my back, pressing my pelvis against him. I can feel that he’s hard through the thin layer of his running pants.

  I pull away. “Hey, I thought we were running.”

  “I thought we could warm up first.” Jesse kisses my neck. “You smell good.” His hands work their way under my running jacket and skim along the top of my pants.

  I suck in my breath and pull away again. “Look, sorry, but…”

  Jesse rubs his hands over his face. “No, I’m sorry.”

  He strokes my cheek. “It’s just…you’re so—“I cut him off before he says something embarrassing. “Look, let’s just go for a run.”

  Jesse sighs and reluctantly drops his hands. “Yeah, a run. That’s a good idea.”

  We jog up the tracks to Forty-first Avenue, through Kerrisdale and then back. We don’t say anything the whole time. Crap, now he’s going to think I’m frigid, that I’m not worth his time. Where is the damn line, and how do you straddle it?

  When we get back to our street, I let Jesse lead me down the lane, let him press me up against the garage. I can say goodbye and slip into the backyard anytime if I want to, end this if I need to. Jesse keeps his hands on my back the whole time. And yet, as my lips cling to his, I realize I’d like him to squeeze me tightly again. He smooths my hair instead. When we break apart, my cheeks are flushed. “I should go,” I say, “but I don’t want to.”

  Jesse nudges me with his shoulder. “See you tomorrow at school, where I won’t talk to you.”

  “I heard Tyler’s having a party tomorrow night,” I blurt out.

  “I’ll be there. You?”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  He smiles. “See you,” he says; then he jogs down the lane.

  Eleven

  On Friday night, Mom, Dad, Zach and I are invited to the Shusters’ for dinner. Not only do I have to sit through dinner with Rebecca, but her dad is on call and so dinner doesn’t start until really late. Jesse texts at eight thirty to ask if I want a ride to the party, but dinner is still dragging on and I have to say no.

  By the time I leave the Shusters’, Chloe and Em have already walked to the party and it’s now too cold to bike, so I take the bus to Tyler’s house and go in the open basement door.

  The large hedge in front of Tyler’s house makes it perfect for a party. From the street, no one can see the kids or the lights. Because it’s Tyler’s birthday, only certain people are invited: the Perfects, the basketball team, the Smokers, some of the cast of Grease. I’ve heard of other parties where everyone texts their friends and people end up trashing the place, but this doesn’t happen with my friends; it’s kind of an unspoken rule.

  In the basement, Tyler, Mike, Justin and some other basketball guys are hunched over a coffee table playing quarters, a drinking game where you have to bounce a coin into a shot glass. Jesse isn’t with them, and I feel my toes curl up in my shoes. Maybe he’s not coming. Chloe and Em are sitting in front of a huge TV with some other members of the Grease cast, drinking cans of pop and discussing whether Chloe should cut her hair into bangs or if it will make her look too young. “You’ll lose your romantic look,” Em says.

  I sit down on the saggy faux-leather sofa and pretend to be interested in Chloe’s hair. Mac burps loudly and the boys cheer. Chloe and Em roll their eyes.

  Em moans, “How am I ever going to wear hot pants onstage? They make my thighs look horrible.”

  “Black,” Chloe says. “Tell Mr. Romano that hot pink is not your color, even with the wig, and you need black. I have some you can wear.”

  “You think it’ll help?”

  “Immensely.” Chloe flaps her hand. “Hey, do you think Nick—the guy who plays Danny—do you think he shaves his chest?”

  I don’t pay attention to Em’s response. The guys are laughing about the time Justin got wasted at the beach, the time Mac barfed in his mom’s planter. I’m too nervous about seeing Jesse to be in a party mood. Besides, drinking until you’re sick is gross. After a few minutes, I go upstairs to look for Jesse.

  I’m about to step onto the back porch when Brooke comes out of the bathroom. She’s wearing a really short skirt and a tight low-cut top and carrying a beer.

  “Hey, you’re here!” Brooke leans toward me. “I came with Jesse,” she slurs. “Super. Text or Facebook?”

  Brooke ignores my sarcastic tone. “I called him.” She sounds triumphant.

  “That’s just fabulous.” I start to push past her, but Brooke grabs my hand. “I asked him for a ride, and he said okay.” She giggles drunkenly.

  “Like I said, fabulous.”

  “He said he’d drive me home too.” Brooke digs her fingers so tightly into my arm, it feels like a claw. Then she turns toward the back door. “Everyone’s outside. Coming?”

  I shake my head no and watch Brooke carefully make her way down the back steps to the patio, where Chantal and Kelly are sitting. Brooke sits on a lounge chair next to some guy and throws her arms around him. I step onto the back porch, pulling on my jacket. Brooke must be freezing, I think. The voice in my head sounds like
Mom’s, and I shudder. How does that happen? Then I realize Brooke has her arms around Jesse.

  Just as I’m about to walk down the stairs, Tyler, Mike and some other guys push past me and run down the stairs, yelling. They’re carrying squirt guns and wearing black toques and the swastika armbands. I stand frozen to the spot, as if one of them had slapped me. The guys run around the yard and then out the gate to the back lane. I can hear them whooping by the garage, calling the other guys to join them. I watch to see if Jesse will join them. He doesn’t. All he does is pull away from Brooke as he watches the guys go past. Then he sees me on the stairs. I’m not sure how to read his expression. He’s smiling, but it’s an awkward half smile, and I’m not sure if it’s because he’s sitting with Brooke or because the guys are playing the Nazi game again.

  He starts to stand up, but then the guys with their Nazi armbands burst back into the yard, yelling drunkenly and jumping over lawn furniture on their way back out to the lane. Kelly, Chantal and Brooke laugh as the guys knock over a chair and spill a beer. Justin and some other guys from inside join them. I step back into the kitchen to get away from it all and press myself against the wall. I can’t believe they’re all just sitting there while the guys are playing Nazi again. Yet I can hear Kelly describing some campground while Mike organizes the guys in the back lane. I should stand up and say, Hey that’s offensive, or rip their armbands off. Wouldn’t they find that funny? I should go back downstairs or just leave—anything to be away from the boys with their armbands, from Brooke drooling over Jesse.

  Back in the basement, Chloe and Em and some other girls are talking about a shade of nail polish called Aphrodite’s Nightie. Some other kids are smoking a joint and listening to Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon. I try sitting with Chloe and Em, but I’m too restless. The guys are pretending to be killers in the back lane, Brooke’s hitting on Jesse and he’s just sitting there, and here I am, listening to a conversation about nail polish. I slip into the bathroom on the main floor and sit on the edge of the tub for a few minutes, looking at my nails. I don’t want to be at this party anymore. I leave without saying goodbye to anyone and go out the front door. Down the street, two people are getting into a blue Honda. I take a few steps forward and squint. It’s Jesse and Brooke. I watch Brooke laugh and teeter drunkenly. Jesse is holding her arm, helping her into the car. Brooke bumps her head on the roof, and they both laugh. Then Jesse does his lanky, sexy walk to the driver’s side, shaking his hair out of his eyes.

  I stand, stunned, watching them pull away. Does Jesse have his arm around the back of Brooke’s seat now? Is he squeezing her shoulder the way he squeezed mine? Was Jesse using me, or am I missing something here? I shake my head, trying to clear it. I’m cold, and I feel like I need to sit down, so I walk toward the bus stop. As I step into the street, I see something white in the gutter. At first I think it’s a bus transfer or a beer cup, but then I look again and realize it’s one of the swastika armbands. I crouch down and look at it. I should grind it into the pavement or rip it into shreds. Instead I brush off the dirt and shove it in the pocket of my jeans.

  Back at home, I sit on the damp concrete floor of the garage, delaying going inside. The lights are still on in the house, and I don’t feel like talking to my parents. Also, my hair smells like smoke. I gently bang my head against the garage wall.

  No matter what I do, the Holocaust keeps finding me, like a bad smell I can’t get rid of. I even sense it in the garage because of the Mengele book. I wish I’d found somewhere better to hide it than in here. Whenever I think about that book, I feel hate welling in me. Hate for Mengele, for the Nazis and for the world that let Mengele do those things. I even hate the authors for writing the book.

  The automatic garage light goes out, leaving me in the dark, and I wrap my arms around myself, shivering. I used to be scared of the dark; now I’m scared of becoming the kind of person who is filled with hate. It’s more than sixty years since the Holocaust and here I am, still worked up. And I’m not even Jewish anymore. At least, I’m trying not to be. I never did come up with a good “de-conversion” ceremony, and I’ve never told anyone about my non-religious status.

  I should have taken out an ad in The Independent, the local Jewish paper: Susan and David Yanofsky regret to announce that their daughter, Lauren Michelle Yanofsky, is no longer a Jew. Donations for counseling gratefully accepted. I should have tried harder to come up with a ritual or ceremony for becoming un-Jewish. A symbolic burning would have been great. I could have torched my bat mitzvah certificate. Becoming a bat mitzvah is supposed to mean you are responsible for your own religious life. If I burned that piece of paper, would I feel more free? I sit upright, humming with energy.

  I close the garage door, moving across the lawn and into the house quickly and quietly. Mercifully, the lights are out now, except for the night-lights illuminating the stairs. I want to get into the house and leave again without anyone noticing. I’m sprinting up the stairs with my jacket still on when Mom calls, “Lauren?” from her bedroom.

  I freeze halfway up the stairs. “Yes?”

  Mom sticks her head out the door. “I wanted to make sure you got in safely.”

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “Was that you in the garage?”

  “Yes.”

  “What were you doing out there?”

  “Oh…” I pause. “Just thinking.”

  Mom gives me a weird look. “I’m glad you got in early.”

  She blows me a kiss. “Good night.”

  “Night.”

  I stay still until there’s no noise from my parents’ room, then dash up to my room and shuffle through the contents of my desk drawer. My bat mitzvah certificate is still tied with a baby-pink ribbon. I race back down the stairs, grab a box of matches from above the stove and slip out the back door. The sensor lights flick on, and I stop and look up at my parents’ bedroom. Their room stays dark, so I continue out the back gate to the lane. I lean against the garage a moment to catch my breath. I’m sweating, even though it’s cold and damp outside. I tuck the certificate under my arm and scrape a match against the sandpaper on the matchbox. A deep sigh moves through me as the match bursts into flame. I hold up my bat mitzvah certificate and bring the match to it. The cheap paper burns quickly. I drop it when it gets too hot to hold and stamp out the flames. It’s over way too fast.

  I wander down the lane, shivering a little. I wish I was on a beach with a raging bonfire, one hot enough to warm my hands or cook baked potatoes. If I had a big enough fire, I could raze all my father’s horrible books. Or just one book, the Mengele book lurking in the garage. That would be enough. I shudder. The Nazis burned books to try to destroy Jewish culture. I’m acting like them. It’s their hate getting to me. I shrug off this idea. I want to burn the Mengele book so I’ll never have to read it again.

  I pause, mulling over the idea. And then I spring into action, rummaging in the garage behind the sun umbrella. The book will make a bigger fire, one that’ll last longer. Back in the lane, I tuck the book under my arm and light a second match. It’s drizzling now, and the match hesitates before catching flame. Then I hold the book by the spine, pages spread, and light it on fire. My breath is ragged now, my pulse racing as if I had just sprinted up a hill. The pages twist and bend in the flames, and then the whole book starts to flicker. It’s like a flaming flower, so beautiful I wish I could photograph it. I feel the flames grow hot against my palm before the book is even half scorched, and I know I should drop it on the pavement and move it down the lane with a stick so it doesn’t leave a mark on the pavement, but it looks so stunning, I don’t want to let go. I feel the heat on my palm, excruciating yet also exciting. I suck in my breath a moment longer and then drop the book. I grab a stick and push the ball of flame down the lane, like I’m playing field hockey. I want to take a slap shot, but I resist and gently bat the book across the asphalt. My next lantern could be a hockey stick with a flaming puck. When the flames die down, I
stamp them into ashes. The scorch mark is small and won’t show on the pockmarked lane.

  I skip down the lane, still holding the stick in my hands. I made a ball of flames, and it was unbelievably gorgeous. Then I chuck away the stick and start to sprint. When I stop to catch my breath, I feel a burning sensation on my palm. In the backyard I examine my hand under the sensor light. I instantly become aware of pain when I see the burn on my palm. Oh fuck. How the hell am I going to explain this? Still, I’m kind of pleased. This is my mark of conversion. I imagine un-converting other people from religious backgrounds as a way of creating world peace. We could all bear scars on our palms as marks of our journey.

  In the house, I thrust my hand under cold running water and force myself to wash it with soap. It hurts so badly, I have to stamp my foot so I don’t scream. I take a few deep breaths and then quickly wrap my hand in gauze. I realize I’m sweating from the pain, so I treat myself to two extra-strength painkillers.

  I lie on my bed, too keyed up to sleep. I batted a burning book down the lane. I got rid of the Mengele book. Holy shit, I think, I even burned my bat mitzvah certificate. I want to get up and tell someone, but who? Everyone would think I was crazy. My hand starts to ache really badly. How am I going to play basketball or even hold a pen? What if it gets infected? How will I explain the burn? An accident? I roll over, and something pokes my hip. I pull the armband out of my pocket. I should have burned it too. I slide it into my night-table drawer to get it out of sight, change into my pajamas and lie in bed listening to my noisy pulse. Finally, the drugs kick in, my head becomes groggy, and I fall asleep.

  My throbbing hand wakes me up the next morning. Shit, I think, infected already. It’s raining steadily outside, making the light coming through my window a flat gray. I lie in bed and think about the Mengele book, reduced to ashes. All the information from that copy is now either part of the atmosphere or ground into the asphalt in the back lane. Except for the part that has eaten away my hand and is still burning away in my mind. I shake my head, but even that movement makes my hand hurt. I take two more painkillers and put on an old sweatshirt over my pajamas. The stretched-out sleeves dangle over my hands.