Boca Mournings

by Steven M. Forman

  FOLLOWER: I don’t know if this is such a good idea.

  LEADER: Did I mention we can take all their stuff if we kill them?

  FOLLOWER: Count me in.

  Six million people . . . about as many as three quarters of the New York City population, I thought as I exited the Holocaust Museum. I shielded my eyes from the bright sun and looked out at the Jerusalem valley.

  “Are you alright?” Kane put a hand on my shoulder.

  “No, I’m not,” I said.

  “I’ll give you some time,” he said and left me standing alone with my thoughts.

  The Holocaust Museum is cut into a mountainside. My tour began underground in a triangular walkway which gradually ascended back to the surface.

  I counted ten halls each dedicated to a different aspect of the Holocaust. There was too much to absorb and comprehend.

  There were twenty-five hundred personal items in the museum and forty-six thousand audio and video testimonies taken from survivors and witnesses.

  The Great Hall contained over six hundred photographs of atrocities, mass graves, murdered babies, living skeletons, gas chambers, cremation ovens, the Auschwitz Album, and German soldiers shooting unarmed men, women, and children at point-blank range.

  Railroad cars used to transport the victims to death camps were on display. A pile of shoes and containers of human ashes evidenced the murder of so many, including one and a half million children.

  The Hall of Villages identified thousands of destroyed shtetels, and the Hall of Remembrance listed the names of millions of destroyed lives. Incredible. I breathed deeply and looked for Kane.

  He came back to my side and patted my shoulder.

  “It’s a tough experience,” he said, and sighed.

  “How can Buford say the Holocaust never happened?” I wondered aloud.

  “A lot of Nazis say that.”

  “He says Hitler didn’t kill enough Jews.” I shook my head.

  “A lot of Nazis say that, too.”

  “Maybe he’ll learn something here,” I said.

  “And maybe not,” Kane responded. “Remember, all those atrocities were committed by people who would do it all over again if they had the chance.”

  The sun was low in the sky. I glanced at my watch. It was 6:00 p.m. We had been in the museum for three hours.

  “Are you tired?” Kane asked. “I can take you to the hotel to rest.”

  “No, I’m alright. I want to see as much as I can,” I said.

  The minister patted my shoulder again.

  “Good for you, Mr. Perlmutter.”

  We went with our two armed guards to the Wailing Wall in the Old City. We stood in a well-lit public square and looked at the ancient wall of stones. Kane explained some of the Wall’s history including stories of King Solomon’s original tenth-century temple, Herod’s massive expansion in 19 BCE, and the destruction by the Romans in 70 CE.

  “After Emperor Titus destroyed the temple,” Kane said, “this wall became a place of mourning . . . a place for wailing . . . or so the story goes. Nowadays some people call it the Western Wall. This section of wall was built on top of an original section of wall. It’s very symbolic.”

  “What are all the pieces of paper between the stones?” I asked, pointing and walking around a group of praying, bearded men dressed in black. The men glared at me and I assumed I had intruded on their prayers. I smiled apologetically, but they continued glaring.

  A red spot in the Holy Land? Stop it you hothead.

  I turned my attention to Kane before I turned into an ugly American.

  “The notes are put there by people who believe all of God’s bounty emanates from this place,” Kane whispered. “They write notes of prayer and place them in the wall for God to read.”

  “Do you believe God reads all these notes?” I asked Kane politely.

  “I doubt He has time for all the faxes.”

  I laughed. The men in black turned and looked down their noses at me. Their stares were hateful and intolerant. I became hostile in a heartbeat and contemplated whaling someone at the Wailing Wall. Minister Kane put his hand on my shoulder and led me away.

  “I don’t think they like me,” I said to Kane.

  “They don’t like me, either,” he told me.

  “But you’re one of them.”

  “No, I’m not.” Kane shook his head. “I’m an Israeli and a Zionist. Those Jews are Neturei Karta, Guardians at the Gate. They represent a tiny percentage of Israelis, but they make a lot of noise. They say Israel can’t exist until the Messiah comes.”

  “When is that?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m not waiting,” Kane said. “I love this country and the Neturei Karta wants to give it to the Palestinians.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s their interpretation of the Bible . . . not mine,” Kane said. “They believe that Jews are in exile because of divine decree.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I decided.

  “Christians disagree with Christians, don’t they?” Kane asked. “Muslims disagree with Muslims. People are always interpreting the word of God differently, to suit their purposes. A hundred religious people can have four hundred opinions of what God meant when He said something.”

  “Maybe God should have been more specific.”

  Later, I stood on my balcony at the King David Hotel watching the Old City glow like gold in the setting sun and I heard the muezzin’s call to evening prayer. I was in the birthplace of the greatest story ever told . . . surrounded by holy books that were read constantly . . . with very few readers on the same page.

  The next morning, at 5:00 a.m., I stood in the dark desert, shivering from the cold, looking up at a thirteen-hundred-foot-high flat rock.

  Masada will never fall again. Remember the Alamo, I couldn’t help thinking.

  “We can climb using the snake trail like those people from the buses are doing,” Kane said, pointing at silhouettes. “Or we can take a cable car to the top.”

  Men, women, and children were heading toward the snake trail.

  Let’s climb, Mr. Johnson prodded me . . . and like an adolescent I listened to him.

  “Let’s climb,” I said, regretting the words as soon as I said them,

  I tried to follow Kane and our two-man army closely but soon lagged behind. It didn’t take me long to learn why the path was called the snake trail. About a third of the way up, the steep trail coiled like a cobra and bit me in the ass. My knees and sciatica reminded my sixty-one-year-old body that I should be on one of those little cable cars climbing halfway to the stars. I pushed myself to pick up the pace. I thought I was doing better until a group of teenage girls trotted past me.

  “Isn’t this wicked awesome?” one of them said to another.

  I was so discouraged I stopped in my tracks. Wicked painful, I thought, bending at the waist and trying to stretch the burn out in my butt.

  “You okay, mister?” a little boy asked me.

  Bent over to half my height, I was at eye level with the kid, but I felt two inches tall.

  “I’m fine,” I lied. “How old are you kid, thirteen?”

  “I’m eight,” he said proudly, and left me in the desert dust.

  I limped in silent agony until I heard loud pounding footsteps behind me. I moved to the side and pressed my back against the rock wall. A long line of young soldiers stampeded by me like I was standing still, which I was. They were shouting encouragement to one another in a mad dash to the top. They carried rifles and large packs on their backs, and some of them held stretchers on their shoulders in four-man teams. On the stretchers, I saw large full bags I guessed were meant to simulate body weight. When the last of the soldiers had passed me, I started climbing again and found myself reenergized . . . for about ten steps.

  “You’re doing great,” I heard encouragement from above.

  “For a dying man,” I gasped.

  My escorts laughed.

  “Take your time,” Kan
e advised. “You’re not a kid anymore.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that at the bottom?” I joked and bent at the waist again. “Who were those maniacs running up the mountain?’

  “They’re soldiers finishing their training program,” one of my armed guards said. “They’ll be sworn into the army at the top of Masada.”

  “They didn’t even look tired,” I remarked.

  “Oh, they’re tired, Mr. Perlmutter,” the other bodyguard said. “Those guys are finishing a fifty-kilometer march they started last night. They walked thirty-five kilometers carrying their own equipment and they each marched fifteen kilometers in four-man teams carrying a stretcher weighted with sandbags. They’ve been hiking for twelve hours.”

  “Did you go through the same training?” I asked, standing upright again.

  “Of course,” the young soldier said.

  “It must be tough,” I commented.

  “It is, sir,” he said proudly. “We have to be tough, so that Masada never falls again.”

  Remember the Alamo.

  I took a deep breath.

  “Let’s go,” I said, and I made it to the top without another stop. Once there I was rewarded by the site of soldiers and civilians celebrating a spectacular sunrise.

  I arrived at Miami International Airport at eight forty-five the same morning I left Tel Aviv. A coffee-colored goddess with the face of an angel was waiting for me at the baggage claim where I had no baggage to claim. I had traveled light with only a carry-on.

  God, she looks great, I said to myself. I’m a lucky guy. When she was born, I was in high school dating my future wife, Patty McGee.

  I smiled and waved. Claudette waved, but didn’t smile. She had an anxious look on her beautiful face.

  We hugged briefly. She let go first.

  Something’s wrong, I sensed.

  “Welcome home, Eddie,” she said stoically.

  “Thank you, Eartha Kitt.” I tried to read her mind but couldn’t.

  We walked to the car making uncomfortable small talk. I threw my one bag in the trunk and got in the passenger’s side.

  “So, how was Israel?” she asked, not looking at me as she inserted the key in the ignition.

  “Too many Jews,” I told her, removing the key from the ignition. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing,” she said unconvincingly.

  “Is Queen okay,” I asked about her ninety-plus grandmother.

  “She’s fine.”

  “What’s wrong, then?” I asked again. “I’m a detective, remember? I know when a person is lying.”

  Did you finally realize I’m too old for you or something? I thought.

  Tears came to her eyes.

  “I have to stop seeing you,” she said, her lower lip trembling.

  I knew it!

  “Did I do something wrong?” I asked as calmly as I could.

  “It’s not you . . . it’s me,” she said.

  I think I’ve used that line myself.

  She slept with someone else, Mr. Johnson decided. The little tramp.

  Look who’s talking, I scolded him. You’d screw anyone.

  Of course, I would. I’m a penis, he explained. What’s her excuse?

  “Is there someone else?” I blurted out before I could stop myself.

  “There hasn’t been anyone else since I met you,” she said.

  “Okay. Did you kill someone?”

  “Not lately.” She reminded me that she had cut off a bad man’s head with a machete before she fled Haiti.

  “Well, what could be so bad then?” I asked her.

  “Promise not to get angry?” she asked timidly.

  “No.”

  “Promise to try not to get angry?”

  “Yes.”

  “While you were gone, I missed you so much-” she said.

  “That’s okay,” I interrupted. “I missed you, too.”

  “You don’t understand,” she went on. “I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. I was afraid you might not come back. Then I realized I had done something really stupid.”

  “What?”

  “I’d fallen in love with you, Eddie.” She started crying. “I didn’t mean to. I know you don’t want any attachments and I understand. I’m sorry.”

  “You’re telling me you want to stop seeing me because you love me,” I said slowly. “Have I got that right?”

  She nodded. “I know you’re going to leave me someday,” she said. “It’s what you do. You told me that when we started seeing each other and I thought I could handle it. But the longer we stay together the harder it will be for me when you want to leave.”

  I looked at her, knowing what I wanted to say but not saying anything.

  “Aren’t you going to say anything?” she asked.

  Oh, alright.

  “I love you, too,” I told her.

  “You do not.” She shook her head. “You’re just saying that to shut me up.”

  “That’s partially true,” I conceded. “But I also love you.”

  “Since when?” She refused to believe me.

  “Since a minute ago when you said we couldn’t see each other anymore,” I answered. “I got very upset. I haven’t been that upset about losing a woman since my wife died.”

  “I know I can’t replace your wife,” she added quickly. “But do you love me for real, Eddie?”

  “I love you for real . . . for now,” I said sincerely. “Is that good enough?”

  “For now,” she said, smiling.

  We didn’t consummate our spoken love that night. Mr. Johnson wasn’t up for it and I blamed it on jet lag.

  E-mail from Russia the next morning at my office:

  Hello dear boy,

  You must be frantic worrying about us. Donʼt worry. Be happy. Weʼre still in Ekaterinburg with the Kuznetsovs. Boris, the boss, literally has fallen in love with me in his own psychotic way. Boris is bisexual by the way and Yuri is bipolar. They admire our loyalty to our friends and think weʼre marvelously Mafioso even though weʼre gay Jews. Boris says he wants to fahk me but I told him I was married and monogamous. Now he wants me more. What is it with you men?

  Yesterday Boris had two of his goons take us to the Ekaterinburg Cemetery, a graveyard for gulag Goombas. It was fabulous. There are life-size, color pictures of the deceased on the tombstones. Itʼs so hard to describe, I suggest you Google: Ekaterinburg Cemetery Mafia . . . and see what I mean. Of course, the Internet is not like visiting dead people in real life, but youʼll get the idea.

  Dasvidaniya.

  Howard and Derek.

  P.S. The Dietrichs are fine.

  E-mail from Randolph Buford - Israel - May 12, 2005:

  This is my first e-mail. I was in Bakom Army Base for a few days. I am in north Israel now in the Magen Division for problem recruits and criminals. We are expected to do seventy-five push-ups and eighty-six sit-ups and run two kilometers in less than nine minutes. I canʼt do it. I hate it here.

  Sergeant Oz is at the base and she teaches self-defense. She treats me like everyone else - bad.

  Buford’s message included no hello and no goodbye, but at least he was doing as he was told, and I considered that a good sign.

  Fifteen hurricanes hit America’s southland in 2005, felling a few Florida fronds before knocking the jazz out of New Orleans.

  Four storms - Dennis, Emily, Katrina, and Wilma - did one hundred and twenty-eight billion dollars worth of damage and caused over two thousand deaths nationwide. During a lull in the storms I got organized.

  Dr. Cohen’s project in Osceola Park would be ready to open before the New Year and Claudette was working at the facility as head nurse and as Dr. Cohen’s watchdog.

  Sylvia Dubin-Goldman’s estate had been settled to my satisfaction, which meant Sanford Kreiger, her lawyer, had to lie. He did a great job. I had several meetings with the trustees of the Dubin-Goldman trust and I was pleased with the way it was taking shape. I thought we could finish both projec
ts before the end of the year.

  Derek and Howard e-mailed regularly. They had moved on to the Scandinavian countries and expressed no interest in returning to Florida until the temperature in Wilton Manors became “civilized.” The Dietrichs were having a great time and showing no ill effects from their ordeal.

  Buford also sent his mandatory weekly e-mails.

  E-mail excerpt from Israel - mid June 2005:

  I am being pushed very hard. I am learning nothing. I hate it here.

  E-mail excerpt from Israel - late June, 2005:

  Today I did twenty-five sit-ups and thirty push-ups without stopping but I couldnʼt complete the run in nine minutes. I hate it here.

  E-mail excerpt from Israel - early July 2005:

  Today I did seventy-five push-ups and a hundred sit-ups without stopping. I completed the run in eight minutes and fifty seconds. Sergeant Oz told me I was doing better.

  E-mail excerpt from Israel - August 2005:

  Several of us were moved to a Kibbutz. I am working as a farmer. People are nicer here. Not so military. I was told there are about two hundred and seventy places like this in Israel and they produce forty percent of the agricultural products. I work hard and donʼt mind. I like to watch things grow. I never knew that. I have two Jews I talk to now. They are Russians. They are the closest I have to friends.

  I think Sergeant Oz doesnʼt hate me so much anymore. She talks to me more now.

  Randolph

  E-mail excerpt from Israel - September 2005:

  I was taken to Yaʼd Vasham. After the tour, Sergeant Oz reminded me that I had once said that Hitler didnʼt kill enough Jews. I said I was sorry and told her Iʼm trying to learn.

  Randolph Buford

  Throughout September, Buford’s e-mails became increasingly insightful. He told me about the helicopter ride over Israel with other soldiers from his unit.

  E-mail excerpt from Israel - late September 2005:

  It was just like that guy on the El Al plane said, Israel is this little strip of land in a vast desert. It doesnʼt take up much room.

  In early October, Buford wrote:

  I climbed Masada yesterday with my group after a twenty-five kilo overnight march in the desert. When we reached the top we celebrated.