Lauren Yanofsky Hates the Holocaust (19 page)

“Oh, I'll think about it.” I get up to leave, then sit back down. “Wait. There's something I don't get. If it's really about teaching tolerance, why can't you use some other tragedy as an example?”

“You could.”

“But you don't.”

“Well, I am a Holocaust historian. That's my field.”

I nod. Fair enough. I start to stand up again, but Dad says, “I have a question for you.”

“Yeah?”

“Why are you all of a sudden so squeamish about the topic?”

I knit my fingers together and squeeze. My hand still hurts, and I want to distract myself with pain. How to answer this without giving him a summary of how the Holocaust has affected me? I sigh. “I'm sick of the Holocaust being the defining element of being Jewish. It's like there's bagel and lox, and there's the Holocaust, and that's it.”

Dad sighs. “You know, it doesn't have to be that way. There are lots of other parts to being Jewish.”

“Like?”

“Well, for me, the most important part of being Jewish is social justice. I'm not really a spiritual person, but being ethical and helping others to be ethical is what makes me Jewish.” Dad pauses a moment. “Maybe if you attended Jewish camp or youth group or Hebrew school, you wouldn't feel that the Holocaust was the only Jewish thing in your life.”

I make a face. “I think I might convert to something else instead.”

Dad rubs his forehead. “Please don't tell your mother that right now.”

Both of us glance out at the garage. “Is Zach still out there?” I ask.

“I haven't checked yet.”

“You want me to go out?”

“Not yet.” Dad drums his fingers on the counter again. “You hungry?”

I shrug. “Sure.”

Dad opens the freezer. “I don't think we have any lox, but we definitely have bagels.”

Mom comes home a few minutes later and joins us at the counter. “How's your hand?” she asks me.

“Better.”

“Good.” She looks at Dad. “How was your lecture?”

“Fine, good.”

She looks at me, and I nod. “Dad was great.” Dad kicks me under the counter.

“Zach still out there?” She looks out the back window.

Dad says, “I haven't checked on him yet.”

“Really? I came home early to see what was going on.”

“Lauren and I were talking about other things. Besides, I'm pretty sure Zach's having a grand old time eating Cheezies and grapes.” Dad holds up an empty grape bag.

“Actually, I ate those,” I say.

“Oh.”

Mom starts moving toward the back door. “Wait,” I say. “Let me go out.” Mom nods, and I head out to the garage. Zach's lying on an air mattress, in an old blue sleeping bag.

“Hey, I brought you an apple.”

Zach lifts his head up. He looks pale and tired. “No, thanks.”

I squat by his mattress. “You don't look good.”

“It's the hunger strike.”

“How long since you ate?”

“I scarfed a bag of chips Monday night.”

“Nothing since then?”

“No, that wouldn't be fair.”

“Zach, that was days ago, so you're kidding, right?”

Zach closes his eyes and shakes his head.

“I told you to cheat!” I punch the air mattress by his head.

Zach rolls over on his side. “It has to be real, so they'll see I'm serious. And I've been drinking a lot, so I'm not dehydrated. According to my research, I should be okay for another two weeks.”

Zach's surrounded himself with comic books and water bottles, but he looks too listless to move. I want to shake him, but I know that won't work. Instead I say, “Can I talk to you for a bit?” Zach nods, and I sit next to him. The garage is damp, and I shiver. “How long are you going to go on?”

“Until they give in.”

“No bar mitzvah?”

“No monkey show.”

“It's the people, right?”

Zach nods.

I tap my fingers on my knees. “What if there weren't a lot of people? Would you do it then?”

“What do you mean?”

“Say there were only a few guests.”

“I guess that wouldn't be so bad.”

I rub my fingernails against each other. “So it's not the learning you're against.”

Zach shrugs.

“I think I may have a plan. I'll be right back.” I race into the house and get my Tanach—my Hebrew Bible—and crouch down next to Zach. “Okay, what if we open this at random? Could you read it?”

“Can I go over it once?”

“Sure.”

Zach rolls over on his stomach and props himself up on his elbows. I watch as he reads through the Hebrew. Even though I attended Hebrew school for eight years, I still had to study hard to learn how to chant the Hebrew. I watch Zach's lips moving.

“Okay, I think I can do the first part,” he says.

“Go for it.” I follow along in the text as Zach chants half a page effortlessly, using the correct musical notation. “Wow.”

Zach lies back down and closes his eyes. “It's not hard.”

“Could you do it without the notes?” When you read from a Torah scroll, there's no musical notation for the chanting. You just have to know it.

“I already memorized it.”

“Right.” I pause for a moment.

“What are you thinking?” Zach asks.

“Mom and Dad want you to have a bar mitzvah. And you don't mind doing the reading, but you don't want it to be a gong show, right?”

“Right.”

“Okay, so you could learn this fast and have your bar mitzvah soon to get it over and done with, right?”

“Yeah…”

“So then the next question is, how many guests do you think you could handle?”

Zach thinks for a second. “Seventeen.”

“Seventeen?”

“Yep.”

“That's the exact number?”

“Yep. Any more and I can't do it.”

“Can you tell me why?”

“When I had to do a speech for the speech contest, there were seventeen kids in the class, and that was fine.”

“Okay. Gotcha. What about the party?”

“No party.”

“Mom won't buy that.”

Zach hangs his head.

“Wait. What if the party was here, and you had to say hi to people, but then when you'd had enough, you could go to your room or come out here?”

Zach presses his lips together. “That might be okay. If there were only seventeen people.”

“Do you think you could handle twenty?”

“Maybe. But only if I get to choose. And I don't have to wear a suit.”

“Zach, you can wear a suit. And have your picture taken. And lead the whole service.”

Zach closes his eyes. For a moment I think he might be falling asleep or passing out. Then he looks at me and grimaces. “I guess I could.”

“Deal?”

“Deal.” Zach sticks out a weak hand and we shake.

In the kitchen, Mom is making pasta while Dad grates cheese.

Mom says, “Is he coming in yet?”

I sit on a stool at the counter. “Not yet. Here's the situation. Zach hasn't eaten in over forty-eight hours. For real.”

Mom puts down her knife. “Oh my god.”

“He's been drinking water, so I think he'll be okay, but we need to step up negotiations.”

Mom turns to Dad. “
Leave him and he'll be fine
. Isn't that what you said?”

Dad throws up his hands. “How was I supposed to know he wasn't eating?”

“Hello?” I wave my hands between them. “I think I have a solution.” I wait until they both turn to me. “Zach says he'll have a bar mitzvah, but it has to be small and soon.”

Mom frowns. “How small?”

“Seventeen people. He's agreed to a party, but it has to be here. Also, he says he'll wear a suit, pose for photos and lead the whole service.”

Dad whistles. “Maybe you should go into labor negotiations.”

“I'd be good.”

“You'd be excellent.”

I can see Mom calculating which seventeen family and friends to invite. She sighs. “Well, I guess that would be fine. It's the ceremony that's important. Did he really say seventeen people?”

“I think he might be persuaded to twenty. But it has to be soon.”

“Why's that?” Dad asks.

“So he can get it over with. I think the anticipation's killing him.”

Mom flails her arms in the air. “But he hasn't even started studying. And you need time to plan these things.”

“Not if you only have seventeen people. You've had dinner parties bigger than that. And don't worry about the studying. Zach has already taught himself how to read the Torah.”

“Oh?”

“Yep.”

“Well,” Dad says, “that would be Zach.” He turns to Mom. “Deal?”

She braces her hands on the counter and closes her eyes for a minute. “What about a speech?”

“I wouldn't push it,” I say.

Mom pauses, then sighs. “Fine. I guess that'll have to be good enough.”

Dad says, “Let's feed him and get him back in here then.”

I quickly make Zach a peanut-butter-and-banana sandwich, his favourite, and he eats it out in the garage, along with three chocolate-chip cookies and a glass of milk. When he feels a little better, I help him carry his sleeping bag and comics back into the house.

After dinner I log on to Facebook. I'm expecting more Holocaust-related comments, but Mac's posted a stupid cartoon and Tyler's written about a hockey game. Chloe's status says she's off to a youth-group sleepover this weekend. Brooke and Chantal are talking about a party in Ladner. I scroll all the way down and find Tyler's
I smell a rat comment
from yesterday. There are fifty-seven posts now. I crinkle up my toes and look around me. Zach has gone to bed, Dad's in his office, and Mom's on the phone in the kitchen, madly rebooking Zach's bar mitzvah. I skip the posts I read yesterday and look at the new ones. Chloe wrote,
Bad idea to
start with
. Brooke added,
Superbad taste
. Even Chantal and Kelly weighed in.
Serves you right, losers
, Kelly said. Chantal wrote,
Get a life
. A girl named Cass from my English class wrote,
It wasn't a rat, it was someone who decided not to be a
bystander
. I click
Like
under Cass's comment. Then I update my status.
I'm thinking about a career in labor relations.

The chat box comes up from Alexis.
How was your
dad's talk?

Didn't go.

U skipped?

Yep.

Wow. Where did u go?
Alexis has probably never skipped in her life.

To the beach with Brooke
. Then I tell her about Zach's hunger strike and his bar mitzvah, which is going to be in two weeks. Alexis writes,
Glad things worked out ok
, and since I can't think of anything to else to say, I write back,
Yep.

I go into the kitchen to get a snack and see how Mom's doing. She's sitting at the counter with the phone and her bar mitzvah planning notebook beside her. I can tell from her red eyes that she's been crying. Also, her hair is scrunched up on one side from resting her head in her hand.

“How goes it?”

Mom sighs. “I cancelled the country club, most of the catering order, the invitations and napkins. I called the rabbi, and luckily no one wanted a date in November. We're going to have the service in the downstairs chapel, not the main sanctuary.”

I nod my head. “Sounds good.”

Mom continues. “I called Auntie Susan and Uncle Steve and Dan and Cathy, and they're going to come.”

I nod again.

“I lost the deposit for the country club, but I guess that doesn't matter.”

“You could have a party for something else there. Maybe your anniversary or Dad's birthday or something.”

Mom stops tucking papers into her notebook. “You don't get it, do you?”

“Get what?” I stop eating my cereal.

Mom squints at me over her reading glasses. “Look, you may not know this, but life can be pretty shitty.” I put down my spoon. Mom almost never swears. She continues, hands braced on the counter. “Most people in the world are poor or sick or live in countries at war. People die all the time. And my job is to try and convince girls not to starve themselves to death. I counsel them and teach them about good nutrition. And some of the time, the girls get better. And other times, the girls kill themselves. Lots of life is like that: miserable.”

I'm not sure where Mom is going with this. I've never heard her talk so bitterly. She continues. “And then there are some amazing times in life, like when a baby is born or people get married. Those times should be celebrated, and because we're Jewish, we also celebrate our children with a bar or bat mitzvah.”

“Because we're adults now?”

Mom ignores my snarky tone. “You know, I don't think it's about becoming an adult. I think it's the parents' way of celebrating the success of childhood. Your kid didn't die of some horrible disease and learned how to read and write and, if they were lucky, how to ride a bike and swim. By twelve or thirteen, kids need to start being independent. And that's it; a parent's most important role is over. If you haven't done your job up to that point, well, you've missed your opportunity. And this—this growing up should be celebrated. All that other crappy stuff about life—the dying and sickness—for one day you get to ignore it and celebrate your child. And that's why I wanted to have a big bar mitzvah for Zach. To celebrate everything he's done, because it's been harder for him than most kids.” Mom's voice starts to crack. “That's all I wanted.”

I want to tell her that Zach's bar mitzvah will still be a celebration, just smaller, but I can see she feels cheated out of her months of planning. All of her excitement and enthusiasm has been squelched to a measly few weeks and seventeen guests in the dinky chapel. “I think the party here will be nice.”