Lauren Yanofsky Hates the Holocaust (11 page)

“So, what happened?”

“Well, Brooke says she's in love with Jesse.”

“But he's yours,” Em wails. “He even writes you poetry.”

“We're just friends.”

Em stuffs her face with popcorn. “Could you please stop saying that? We're writing a musical about you two.”

“You are?”

“Yeah, want to hear?”

Em and Chloe look at each other and then sing, “Oh he's a goy and she's a Jew and they don't know what to do. Teen lo-o-o-ve.”

“You're kidding, right?”

Chloe flops back on the couch. “Okay, we just made that up after school, but c'mon, what happened?”

I sigh. “I guess you didn't see, but when we were at the park the other night, the guys, including Jesse, were dressed up as Nazis. And I totally freaked out at him about it.”

Chloe sits up. “Wow, that's really bad.”

Em crinkles her brow. “Nazis? As in the guys who killed all the Jews?”

“And lots of other people too. Anyway, I guess Brooke can laugh it off, but I can't. And she's ‘deeply in love' with him.”

“Did you say ‘deeply'?” Chloe asks.

“Yep.”

“I think I'm going to barf.” Chloe holds her hand over her mouth.

“You could write it into your musical instead.”

“Ooh.” Em rubs her hands together. “Now we've got conflict. A Smoker girl is trying to break up the young cross-cultural lovers. What will Lauren do?”

“I don't think anything rhymes with cross-cultural,”

Chloe says.

“How about interracial?” Em suggests.

Chloe cocks her head to the side. “They're not technically interracial or even mixed ethnicities.”

“Guys, please.”

“Sorry,” Em says.

“Anyway, I want to—I don't know—disappear for a while. I can't watch them at school. And I sit between them in biology. But I can't be there.”

“That's so crazy,” Chloe says.

“What would you do?” I ask.

Chloe and Em look at each for a moment and then Em says, “Well, I would pray about it.”

My eyes open wider. “Look, guys, I don't want to be rude, but I don't think that's my thing.”

“No, you should try it,” Chloe says. Both of them are looking at me earnestly.

I take a deep breath. “C'mon, it's not like if I pray for Brooke not to like Jesse she'll stop. The world doesn't work that way.”

“No,” Chloe says, “but it might make you feel better.”

“Yeah, I don't think so.”

We sit quietly for a moment, eating the last of the popcorn. “I'm going to pray for you tomorrow at Bible study anyway,” Em says. “If that's okay.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Me too,” Chloe says.

“You go to Bible study too?”

“Yep. Every Tuesday morning at seven thirty.”

“Wow. That's early. What exactly do you do there?”

“Well, we usually read a section of the Bible and talk about it, and then we have a short prayer session and maybe a talk from Cathy.”

“Who's Cathy?”

“She's our group leader.”

“Hey, you should come tomorrow morning.” Em grips my hand. “It's at my house, and my mom's making pancakes for everyone.”

“I'd feel awkward.”

“We'll have a special prayer for you, except we won't say your name or anything.”

“Well…”

“Think of it as a learning experience.”

“I'll think about it.”

I leave soon after to walk home. It's pouring now, and the rain runs off my jacket, soaking my jeans. I've never thought much about prayer. To me, it's the chanting you have to do at Hebrew school while your teacher makes sure you're not daydreaming. And if I did pray, what would I ask for? For Jesse not to have dressed up as a Nazi? No, I'd pray not to be Jewish; then I wouldn't care what Jesse wore.

When I get home, my parents are pacing the kitchen. “What's going on?” I say. “Don't you guys work anymore?”

Mom taps her long burgundy fingernails on the counter. “No one can find your brother.”

“Oh.”

Dad leans on the counter, brow furrowed. “Do you have any idea where he might be?”

I shake my head. “Did he go to school?”

“I dropped him off this morning,” Mom says, “but he left at lunch and no one knows where he is.”

I listen to the rain drumming on the skylight. “Well, I'm sure he'll show up when's he ready.” I quickly head down to the basement, in case Mom and Dad start fighting. They used to argue a lot when Zach was still at Hebrew school and hiding all the time. Zach would hide if his phys ed class was too loud or if his schedule changed unexpectedly. He hated fire and earthquake drills. Even a class party would throw him out of whack. Every time Zach hid or, worse, ran away from school, I'd end up sitting with him or looking for him until Mom left work to get him. I'd hate how Zach looked when I'd find him hiding in the equipment closet with his hands over his ears, or under the librarian's desk with his eyes closed. I'd always want to hug him, but I knew that that would be too much contact for him when he was feeling overwhelmed. Instead I'd sit quietly beside him until he was ready to come out of hiding. Zach's been much happier since he transferred to a special private school a couple of years ago.

In the basement, I sit on the stool at the workbench. I've decided to make a star lantern. It's got a lot of straight lines, so it shouldn't be too hard. I've made some sketches, and now I'm trying to cut the wood, but the saw keeps slipping. Maybe I'll figure out how to suspend a candle in a cheese grater instead. I saw a few people with lanterns like that last summer, and they looked pretty cool too, but not as cool as the dragons, cupcakes and aliens.

I think the real reason I'm having so much trouble making a lantern is that when I close my eyes and imagine myself at the festival next summer, I'm not walking around with a lantern, I'm spinning a burning hula hoop around my waist, around my arms. I'm surrounded by flames, yet not burning.

This will definitely not happen. I'm not the performing type. Not even with an unlit hula hoop.

I pick up the saw to try again, and then I hear a tapping sound. At first I think it's the furnace, or maybe the water heater, but then I hear it again, coming from the laundry room. I think of mice and yank my feet up onto the stool, but it's not really a scurrying sound. I have a moment of panic, and then it occurs to me: Zach. “Who's there?” No response. “Hey, Zach,” I whisper, “is that you?”

I get a cough in response.

“Cough twice if it's really you.”

Zach coughs twice. I breathe a sigh of relief and stick my head into the laundry room. “Where are you?” The closet door slides open a bit, and I see two eyes peeking out from behind the ski suits.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing.” Zach's eyes blink in the darkness. I hear his toes tapping on the linoleum.

“Oh. Wanna come out?”

“No, thanks.”

I cross my arms and tap my toes back at him. Then Zach asks me, “What are you doing down here?”

“Trying to make something.”

“What?”

“Just this art project.”

Zach steps out of the closet, his hair full of static. “Can I see?”

“Well, sure.”

He follows me to the workbench and stares at the mess of wood and sawdust.

“I'm trying to make a lantern.”

“A what?”

“A lantern—you know, something you put a candle in. It's made out of tissue paper, wire and wood.”

“Oh. So what's the problem?”

I hold up the two uneven pieces of wood. “I can't saw straight.”

“Did you use a vise grip?”

“What's that?”

“It's this thing that holds the wood steady.”

“I don't think Dad has one. How do you know about that?”

“Shop class. I actually like shop class. Did you know the lathe in the shop at school can turn a block of wood into a baseball bat in less than five minutes?”

“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.