Lauren Yanofsky Hates the Holocaust (10 page)

“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.”

“Aha.” Dad points with his fork. “The Holocaust was different because it was the first time technology was used to systematically kill people.” Dad has the annoying look on his face he gets when he thinks he's winning a good debate.

I put down my fork. “You think the Turks didn't have weapons when they killed the Armenians? That's a form of technology.”

“What's this about the Armenians?” Mom asks.

“You see? Mom doesn't even know about the Armenians. But everyone knows about the Jews.”

“What's your point, Lauren?” Dad asks.

I feel my skin heating up, and I grip my fork. “I think the Holocaust is way overdone. I think people should move on. Forgive and maybe also forget, focus on something else.”

Dad isn't smiling anymore. “That sounds pretty dangerous.”

I throw up my hands in frustration. “Great. We get to obsess about the past forever. Sounds like fun.” I get up from the table and clear my plate as quietly as I can, but my hands are shaking and I accidentally slam the dishwasher door, rattling the china. Both of my parents cringe. “Sorry,” I say, “and thanks for dinner, Mom.”

I leave the kitchen and stand in the front hall, trying to decide whether to run down the street or go up to my room. I hear Dad telling Mom about the Armenians. He uses the word
genocide
instead of
holocaust
, and I want to go back into the kitchen and argue with him some more. Instead, I hide in the upstairs bathroom with my back against the door.

When I calm down, I force myself to sit at my desk and do my biology homework and then some reading for history. It's a relief to concentrate on something other than Brooke or Jesse or the crazy conversation with Dad. When I finish my homework, I head down to the kitchen for a snack. Beside the fruit bowl is the stack of books Dad was showing me earlier. I can't help flipping through them as I eat yogurt. There's one on the Warsaw Ghetto uprising and another about the Righteous Gentiles—people who saved Jews—in France. Another is about stolen art. I flip through the glossy pages to see the paintings. I pick up the book Dad wanted me to read. It has a black-and-white photo of a young couple on the front cover and a color photo of an ancient couple on the back. I read the book jacket. It sounds like the kind of book I'd like, not so much for the middle bit about death and destruction, but for the part about how they were reunited in Israel. No. I put the book down. It isn't good for me to read this stuff. I need to keep my mind clear.

The last book in the stack also has black-and-white photos on the cover. I look closely and realize they're all twins. I feel my breath catching in my throat. Yeah, Hitler probably killed cute little twins too. I swallow the tickle in my throat. But it isn't a book about just any twins: it's about Mengele's twins.

I know Mengele was a creepy doctor who did weird medical experiments on concentration-camp prisoners, but I don't know about the twins. I read the front and back covers, then sit down on the floor by the heating vent and read the introduction. The book is about the horrible experiments Mengele did on twins. I know I should stop reading. I'll make myself sick again. I promised Alexis I wouldn't read this kind of thing, but I can't stop. It's like I'm addicted to the details, no matter how horrifying.

I take the book upstairs with me and brush my teeth and put on my pajamas. Then I climb into bed and continue reading, even though I'm tired and I want to stop. I have to read each detail so that maybe one day I'll understand how such evil could exist in the world.

It gets very late, and everyone else has gone to sleep. I am still reading, skimming for the most horrible parts. I read until my eyes ache, until my shoulders cramp from holding them so tight. Mengele chopped people up without anesthesia. He tried to make Siamese twins by sewing them together. Sometimes he did experiments on one twin and not the other, and one twin died. Most of his victims died from infection. I can feel my back tightening, my jaw locking, as I read. I can't stop reading until I come to a section on experiments he did on women's reproductive organs, how he made them sterile. Reading about Mengele doing stuff to women is way too freaky. I slam the book shut and shove it under my bed.

I lie on my back in bed, my body stiff, my mind humming with an aggravating buzz. I try to remember being at the lantern festival, being surrounded by those paper-bag lanterns. In my mind I lie down on the grass, encircled in flickering light. Nothing can harm me here, not even scary thoughts. I imagine myself protected by light and slowly calm my self down until I drift to sleep.

E
ight

O
n Monday morning I shower, moisturize, blow-dry my hair and then discover my straightener doesn't work. I push the on-off switch a dozen times, but the little red light won't come on. This is a disaster of the highest order. My hair is a giant poof of poodle frizz. I swear and smack the straightener down on the counter.

Dad knocks on the door. “What's up?”

“Hair issues.”

“Make a ponytail and call it a day.”

“It doesn't work that way!” I try French braids, but my hair looks lumpy, and frizz starts to erupt through the braids almost instantly. I try adding a hair band, then rip it out and throw it against the door. I need the straightener.

Zach bangs on the bathroom door. “Hey, I need to pee.”

“Fine.” I yank my hair free of the braids, get back into bed and pull the covers over my head.

Mom knocks on the door. “Aren't you getting up?”

“I can't. The straightener died.”

“Oh, how bad is it?” I pop my head out; hair is springing around it. “Oh. Not so bad.”

I pull the covers back over my head. “You're a terrible liar.”

“I see. Well, how about a hat?”

“You have to take a hat off inside school.”

“I see.”

I think I might kick her if she says that again. “Could I please get it chemically straightened?”

Mom sighs. “I'll see what I can do.” She leaves the room and I hear her making breakfast for Zach, and then the car pulls out of the driveway. The house is quiet.

Okay, so it's not just my hair. It's Jesse the Nazi. And Brooke the traitor. What the hell am I supposed to do? Ignore the game and hope the boys don't play again? Rat them out and hope they get in trouble?

Mom comes back twenty minutes later with a straightener in a plastic bag.

“Where did you get it?”

“I borrowed it from Shayna Shuster. Rebecca doesn't use it much.”

I make a face. She raises her eyebrows. “Shayna says it gets really hot, so don't burn yourself.” She checks her watch. “If you hurry, I'll drop you off at school.”

“Don't you have to be at work?”

“I cancelled my nine fifteen.”

“Oh, thanks.”

“I understand hair. Do you want me to take you to get a new straightener after school?”

“No, that's okay. I can walk up to London Drugs myself.”

“Fine. Put it on your debit card, and I'll pay you back.” Mom gets up to leave. “Do you want a bagel to eat in the car?”

“Yes, please, with cream cheese.”

Sometimes Mom is all right.

It's a raw, wet day, the kind where the rain seems to fall sideways and the dampness gets into your skin. Mom wears one of those plastic old-lady rain kerchiefs over her hair to walk from the house to the car. “You've got to be kidding,” I say.

“I wouldn't say a word about frizz, if I were you.”

I close my mouth and get in the car.

I'm late for biology. Mr. Saunders takes my late slip and nods for me to sit down. I don't dare look at Jesse or Brooke. As soon as the bell rings at the end of the period, I hustle out of class. Even so, Jesse catches up to me in the hallway.

“Hey, what's the rush?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“I'm going to English.”

Jesse grabs my shoulder. “Hey, c'mon, I apologized.”

“Yeah, thanks.” I stop a moment and look at him. He looks genuinely sorry, and I don't know what to say. “I have to go.” I pull away, holding the shoulder he touched.

At lunchtime Chloe, Em and I walk to the convenience store for chips. When we get back to our lockers, Brooke is chatting with Jesse. She's leaning against her locker with her arms crossed under her boobs to make them look bigger.

Chloe grabs my arm. “What's up with that?”

“Nothing.” I focus on getting my shorts and T-shirt out of my locker.

“That is
so
not nothing.”

I head for the bathroom and lock myself in a stall so no one can see the tears forming in my eyes. Em and Chloe follow me and stand outside the stall. “What does Brooke think she's doing?” Chloe asks.

“It's complicated,” I say from inside the stall.

“It's not complicated. She's a man stealer,” Em spits out.

“Complicated how?” Chloe asks.

“I can't tell you now.”

“Can we talk after school?” Em asks.

I open the stall and daub my eyelashes to stop the flow of mascara. “That would be good.” Chloe and Em both hug me, and we stand in the bathroom ignoring other girls until the bell rings. I stay in the bathroom until I'm sure Brooke and Jesse are gone. I'm late for phys ed and have to run laps, but I don't care.

Chloe and Em are waiting for me by the lockers after school.

“We feel bad. We've been so busy, we didn't even know something was going on with Brooke,” Chloe says.

“Man stealer,” Em whispers.

Chloe elbows Em in the ribs. “Wanna come over?” she says to me.

I nod, and we head out into the drizzling afternoon. At Chloe's house we settle in the
TV
room with popcorn and cranberry juice. I feel like doing something mindless—watching
TV
or even playing video games—but Chloe and Em want the dirt.