Lauren Yanofsky Hates the Holocaust (12 page)

Don't be.

OK.

U lying?

Maybe.

My place aft school?

Busy.

I wait to see if she texts back, but the phone is silent. I get my biology textbook out of my bag and try to read the assigned chapters, but then my phone beeps again. It's Em. Pancakes and prayer @ 7 am. U in?

Not sure.

C'mon, it'll be interesting.

Yay God?

Yep, yay God.

I think about it for a minute. Then I write, OK, curious. Will b there.

Yay! Go in side door. Don't knock. Peeps sleeping.

I type back g-nite and put the phone down.

This is weird. I'm going to Bible study, to pray about Jesse. No, I'm going to observe a cultural experience. It'll be interesting.

I set my alarm for 6:00 am, turn off my light and roll over. I close my eyes and try to breathe deeply, but I'm not sleepy, so I look on my night table for something to read.

I've finished
The Color Purple
. Then I remember that the Mengele book is still under my bed. I'd meant to put it back on Dad's desk, but I forgot. I get it, put it back, then pick it up again. I shouldn't, but I want to read to the end of the book so I can learn how Mengele was eventually tried and punished. Surely he must have died a horrible death after all the misery he caused. Instead I learn that Mengele escaped through Italy and went on to South America. Anger rises like heat on my skin when I read how the killer lived out the rest of his life without any punishment while the twins who survived had all kinds of physical and psychological problems. How could they not? Almost all Mengele's survivors were the only people in their families alive at the end of the war.

I slam the book shut and shove it under the bed again after I read that Mengele believed he was doing real scientific research. Science, my ass. I clench my teeth and feel tension building in my neck. And the guys at school, they thought it was funny to pretend to be Nazis. Calm down, I tell myself. It's just ignorance. If they knew about Mengele, they wouldn't have done it.

Maybe Dad is right. Maybe the world still needs more Holocaust education. I flop over in bed. This is so complicated. I'm sick of hearing about the Holocaust, yet there are still people who don't know about it or make light of it. Where's the balance? Should I tell someone about the armbands and hope the guys get some sensitivity training? Is the Holocaust so big and terrible that absolutely everyone has to know about it?

I close my eyes and try to think about playing basketball with Jesse, or being at the lantern festival. It doesn't work. I can't stop thinking about the book, and the more I think about Mengele cutting people up, the more I feel panic rising in me, like bile seeping up into my throat. My fists tighten, and I press my toes against the footboard of my bed. The book feels like a hot coal burning under my bed. I try to do the five senses exercise: I can see the damn book; I can hear the voices of the boys laughing in the park; I can taste anxiety boiling in my throat as I imagine killing Mengele. How would I do it? Would I let him starve, or would I shoot him? Maybe I'd gas and burn him. I sit bolt upright and throw off the covers. The Nazis are turning me into a killer. I can't distract myself—not with the book in my room. I have to get it out of here.

I creep quietly down the stairs to Dad's office. Dad is at his desk, leaning back in his chair, reading. I think about casually walking in and putting the book on the shelf, but he's sure to ask me what I'm doing. I could wait until tomorrow, but I want that book away from me now. Just looking at it makes me feel panicky. What kind of idiot was I to think I could read it? I stand there in the hallway outside his office and suddenly realize that I want the book out of the house altogether. At the back door, I pull on my raincoat and boots and slip into the yard. It's a cold, clear night, and the stars are pinpricks of light in the sky. I inhale a few times and watch my breath cloud into the air. What if I dumped the book in someone's garbage? If I head out the back lane, though, I'll trigger the motion-sensor light by the back gate. Instead I slip into the darkened garage and shove the book on a shelf under the sun umbrella. There, I think. Rot in the garage, killer.

N
ine

M
y alarm rings before it's even light outside, and I peel myself out of bed. Em lives a few blocks away in an ancient mansion with beautiful woodwork and enormous fireplaces. Her house is so big and formal, I feel weird letting myself in the side door.

Fortunately, the Bible group isn't meeting in the living room—which reminds me of a funeral parlor from a movie, with lots of high-back sofas and long creepy drapes—but in the blue-and-white
TV
room on the second floor. When I arrive, lots of girls are already there. I recognize kids from school, some I didn't even know were Christians. Everyone speaks in whispers, although somewhere in the house I can hear kitchen cupboards opening and water running.

I sit next to Em and she introduces me to Cathy, a woman who looks younger than our moms but older than a college student. She has long blond hair in a braid down her back and is wearing a loose plaid shirt.

“Lauren's just observing today,” Em says.

“Great.” Cathy smiles. “Feel free to join in.”

Cathy calls the group to attention and asks them to turn to Mark 12. I decide to sit back from the group, on the window seat. I watch the girls flip through their Bibles and listen to Em read several verses, ending with, “Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself. There is none other commandment greater than these.”

Em pauses and Cathy turns to the group. “So what should we make of this?”

There's a moment of silence, and then a girl I don't know says, “Well, I think it means we should be good friends.”

I sit up a little straighter as the girls discuss what it means to be a good friend. I've never heard the Bible talked about as actually relevant to our lives. At Hebrew school, we talked about Jewish history or what the different rabbis said or how to fulfill Jewish commandments.

After the discussion, each girl shares her prayers for the day. Chloe is first. “I pray to understand math and get along better with my mom. And for all my friends to be happy.” She looks over at me.

The next girl says, “I pray for my sister to stop taking my stuff.” Everyone laughs. “And for Claire to be okay with her parents' divorce.” Everyone looks at a girl named Claire, and she tries to smile.

Another girl I don't know says, “I pray for my grandmother to recover from her operation, and I'm thankful for Em's mom's pancakes.” More laughter.

Claire waves her hand in front of her mouth when it's her turn, so Cathy says, “We all pray for Claire to be strong and to be helped by her friends through this difficult time. And we hope she knows Jesus is her friend.”

Claire says, “Thank you.”

I knit my brow. Jesus? How is Jesus your friend if he died for your sins? Then Em says, “I pray for all my friends to make the right decisions and feel peaceful.”

She looks at me across the room.

The other girls pray for help at school or with personal problems. Cathy says, “I pray for Jesus to show us all how to live and that all your hopes and dreams will come true. Amen.”

The girls all say, “Amen,” and then they hold hands and smile as they send a “prayer squeeze” around the circle.

Then we go downstairs to the dining room, where Em's mom is standing at the table with a huge platter of pancakes. Em passes me a plate. “See, isn't Bible study amazing?”

I nod. I'm not sure what to say. It's all so…personal.

“Is Jewish prayer like that?” Em asks.

“Um, not really.” But I can't explain why. Em's mom comes over to ask her something, and I'm saved from having to explain. Despite seven years of Hebrew school, I've never really prayed. I've recited the Hebrew prayers millions of times, and I know what most of them mean, but they aren't my words or wishes. Jewish prayer is ritualized and thought out in advance. You say thanks for various things and praise God a zillion times, then you say a prayer for the sinners and for good health and praise God another zillion times—he's a king, he's a lord and a whole bunch of other male images—and then it's finally over. I can't think of a single time in all my years of Hebrew school when anyone said,
Pray your own prayer
. Making a wish when I blow out candles on my birthday cake is the closest I've ever come. How depressing. Eight years of Hebrew school has actually deprived me of the chance to pray. If I were going to write a list of reasons why being Jewish sucks, this would be near the top.

I wander away from the chatting girls to find the bathroom. On my way back, I spot what must be the library. Unlike Dad's cluttered, book-filled mess with its Ikea furniture, this office is regal. Built-in bookshelves and a fireplace surround a huge desk. I sit on the floor near the entrance and listen to the girls' chatter. Someone is discussing a math test, and I hear snippets of talk about a soccer game.

Jewish youth group is so not like this. At the one event I attended before I declared myself not Jewish, we played broomball and ate pizza. The girls worried about what their hair looked like, and the guys goofed off on the ice.

I tuck my knees up to my chest and rest my cheek on my folded arms. Tears come to my eyes, and I blink them back. I'm envious, not because they believe in God or because Jesus is their friend, but because they have each other.

I pull a book off a shelf near me to distract myself from self-pity and realize it's an old book of maps of China. I stand up and look at some of the other titles. There are Bibles, lots of books on Christian missionaries, and then a whole wall of books on China. I wish Dad's office was full of these kinds of books.

The girls start leaving, calling their thanks to Em and her mom and Cathy. Then I hear Chloe calling me. I step out of the library and into the hall.

“I'm here,” I say.

“Oh, good.” Chloe and Em already have their coats on. “Cathy's going to drive us to school. Are you ready to go?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Are you okay?” Em asks.

“Yeah. Fine. Thanks for inviting me. It was cool.”

“You could come again, if you like.”

“The lone Jew at the Christian prayer group?”

“Well, you could say your own prayers, if you like.”

I feel tears well up. “I must be really tired.”

Em and Chloe both hug me. “We'll keep praying for you even if you don't come,” Chloe says.

I hug her tighter.

In biology class I sit on the aisle and concentrate on the video Mr. Saunders shows. I can tell Jesse glances at me several times, but I keep my eyes forward. At lunch I sit with Chloe and Em and listen to them study for an English-lit test.

Down the hall, Brooke, Chantal and Kelly surround Jesse. He looks like he's enjoying himself, surrounded by three sets of cleavage. I notice Brooke has started wearing low-cut tops. Jesse doesn't look over at me once. I sigh.

By the end of the day, I'm exhausted from my late night with Mengele and my early-morning Bible study. I go home after school and get into bed and fall asleep. When I wake up an hour later, it's dark outside, and I snuggle under the covers and play games on my phone. I can always do my English reading later. Then I hear Mom calling me for dinner. I'm about to put my phone down when I notice a voice message. From Jesse. I feel my pulse start to race. Shut up, stupid heart. But it doesn't. I play the message.

“You must think I'm the biggest jerk ever, and insensitive and racist. And I'm not. Look, we were drunk and it seemed like a good idea at the time, and no one thought, What's the Jewish girl going to think? And we should have. So let's go running and I'll apologize all the way. And when we get back, you can beat the crap out of me at basketball. I'll even let you win. Just kidding.”

Which emotion should I experience first? How about ecstasy? He called me. He wants to play basketball with me
and
go running. And he said he was wrong. That's enough, isn't it? I actually have to stop and clutch at my chest to make sure my heart doesn't jump out of it. Can you die of excitement? Can you die from your heart actually beating too fast and…I don't know, overexerting yourself? Probably not, if you're a healthy teenager, or people would die from sex all the time, and that only happens to old men.

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?”