Lauren Yanofsky Hates the Holocaust (5 page)

Services have already begun by the time we arrive, and the congregation is reading a prayer in English as we enter the sanctuary. For most services, the temple is almost empty, but on Rosh Hashana and a few other holidays, it's so crowded that you have to reserve seats. Mom marches up to our row, waving at people and stopping to whisper hello. She has on a new suit and a giant eye-catching red hat. Even though Rosh Hashana begins the period where you pray to be forgiven for your sins and ask to be inscribed in this mythical Book of Life for the next year, some people, like Mom, use the occasion to dress up. I sigh with relief when we finally duck into our seats. Dad passes me a prayer book, and I open it to a random page and rest the heavy tome on my lap. Rabbi Birenbaum, who is the tallest, skinniest man I've ever seen, leads the prayers at the front. Zach and I have nicknamed him the Specter. Poor Zach—his bar mitzvah lessons are supposed to be with the Specter, but I can tell Zach is terrified of him. Also, Rabbi B. has no idea how to talk to Zach. Most people don't.

The service drones on, Rabbi Birenbaum announcing the pages in English. I stand when everyone else stands, even say some of the prayers by heart, but otherwise I let my mind wander. Sometimes I find myself singing along, but then I stop myself.

Just as I'm about to die of boredom, it's time for the sermon. There's no way I can sit through Rabbi Birenbaum waving his huge skinny hands around for half an hour. As I stand up to excuse myself, Mom gives me a look, but I mouth “bathroom” at her and keep going. I scoot up the aisle to the main doors and sigh with relief as I head down to the washroom. Downstairs, kids are racing up and down the hallway, sliding on the soles of their fancy shoes. A clump of girls, including Rebecca Shuster, is gathered by the bathroom door. I hold my breath and sail past them without saying hello and take out my phone in a bathroom stall. There's a text from Chloe, You are the luckiest girl ever, and one from Em, I knew J had a romantic soul. A shiver of excitement courses through me. I take a moment to savor the memory of Jesse's attention, then check my hair and go look for Alexis. I find her waiting for me outside on the temple stairs, reading a fashion magazine. She's wearing giant sunglasses and exactly the kind of little suit Mom wanted me to wear.

Alexis and I have been best friends since nursery school. We went to Hebrew school together and were inseparable until four years ago, when her mom got this big administrative job at a hospital in Seattle. Since she moved, we talk on the phone, chat on Facebook and hang out whenever she comes back to Vancouver. Even so, we've grown apart. Alexis doesn't play sports, and most of the time when we hang out, we just talk. Last time Alexis visited, she brought her scrapbooking materials with her in a cutesy little hot-pink suitcase and spent more time talking to my mother about interior design than she did hanging out with me.

Alexis is on her school's cheer squad this year, which totally freaks me out. She says they do cool dances, but they also have to yell stupid chants. I'm sure Alexis looks adorable in her uniform because she's really petite and the white top would show off her long black hair, but cheer squad's main function is to cheer on boys' sports. Why aren't those girls playing the sports instead? It makes me want to barf. I've got a very long list of reasons why cheer squad is lame, but I'd never say anything to Alexis. Instead, I keep encouraging her to go out for soccer or track. She's a pretty fast runner.

Alexis and I give each other a long, tight hug and then I tell her about basketball camp and about sitting next to Jesse in biology. Alexis asks me a zillion questions about Jesse and announces that I should ask him out. “It's not that easy,” I say, and then I change the topic before Alexis can ask why not. Alexis is like that—she has a clear answer for everything, even when I just want her to listen and empathize. Alexis tells me about a film she's helping her boyfriend, Eric, make, and she gives me an update on cheer squad. I pretend to be interested because Alexis is my oldest friend, and even if we don't see eye-to-eye, I know we'll always be friends. Then Alexis says, “Eric and I are going to this Jewish youth-group convention in Portland in October. It'd be cool if you came too.”

I frown. “Did my mom put you up to this?”

“No, I just thought it would be fun if you came.”

“Fun?” I can't help smirking.

Alexis pulls her hair up and knots it on top of her head. “Look, if you're not into it, that's fine, but you don't have to put it down.”

I try to make my face neutral. “Sorry. Yeah, well, I'll think about it.” But I won't.

Alexis stands up, looking annoyed. “The sermon is probably over. I should get back.”

“Oh, okay.” I watch Alexis go into the temple, and then I sigh. Rosh Hashana is the time when you're supposed to ask people for forgiveness, not piss them off. I sit alone, enjoying the sunshine, for a few more minutes before I go back inside.

The service drags on. After the last few prayers, a series of announcements and a final psalm, it's finally over. Then I'm forced to wait for my parents to finish socializing. When we finally get home, I help Mom make chicken soup and
tzimmes
and cut vegetables for a
kugel
. Dad works on the turkey and stuffing, and even Zach helps by setting the table. He likes activities that create something orderly.

In the afternoon Mom and Dad take a nap before our guests come for dinner, and I sit down at the computer in the family room to do my homework. I decide to start with some research for a history paper on World War I. Mr. Whiteman said we could write about any aspect of the war that interests us. I hate it when teachers make essay topics so vague. What interests me about the First World War? Causes? Maybe. What if I wrote about the Jews in World War I? Right. I sigh and tell myself to get over the Jews. Maybe I should research civilian deaths. How did regular people—civilians—die during the war? I do a Google search on civilian deaths in World War I, and lots of articles about Armenia come up. Armenia? I don't even know where Armenia is. I do another search and find out it's near Turkey and that it was part of the Ottoman Empire. Okay, Armenian deaths in World War I it is. I start reading an article and am shocked to discover that between one and one and a half million Armenians were killed during the war. That's a lot of people. Then I read something so freaky it makes me sit up straight and curl my toes on the hardwood. The article refers to the killing of Armenians as
a holocaust
.

I stare at the screen. I've never seen the word written that way, with a lowercase
h
. Didn't
Holocaust
mean the killing of the Jews? Wasn't it a Jewish word?

I open a new tab and type the word
holocaust
into Google. Tons of articles about
the
Holocaust—the killing of European Jews by Nazis—come up. Huh. Then I search for a definition of the word. Turns out it's from the Greek word
holokauston
, which means “sacrifice consumed by fire.” I go back to the article about the Armenians and scan through it, skipping the history section and focusing on how the Armenians were killed: deportation by forced marches, extermination camps, children killed by toxic gas. This sounds familiar enough to make my stomach clench. I lean back in my chair. Why is the killing of Jews during the Second World War referred to as
the
Holocaust while the extermination of over a million Armenians is only
a
holocaust? Is killing Jews more significant than killing Armenians? Armenians probably don't think so.

Maybe I'll write an essay comparing the two holocausts. No, enough with the Jews. I'll just write an essay about civilian deaths during World War I. I shake my head. Why can't I write an essay about changes in fashion during World War I, or the development of gun technology, or the draft? Why does everything always come back to the Holocaust? “I am my father,” I say out loud, and then I shudder from my head to my toes. It could be worse though. I could be my mother.

I take out my history notebook and scribble:
The killing
of Armenians was a holocaust
. Too general. What if I wrote,
The killing of Armenians during World War I was similar to the
killing of the Jews in the Second World War
? Much better. I could jot down the outline right now. I shove the notebook back in my bag. I'm not supposed to be writing or even thinking about the Holocaust,
any
holocaust. I promised Alexis back in grade eight

It was Alexis who first realized I had a problem with the Holocaust. After the trip to the cemetery with Grandma Rose, I'd become obsessed with the Holocaust, even though I'd decided not to be Jewish anymore. It was weird: I was refusing to participate in anything Jewish, yet as I entered public high school, I started reading everything I could get my hands on about the Holocaust. And in my house, that was a lot. I read
Hana's Suitcase
, all the
Maus
books and Anne Frank's diary. Then I read books by Primo Levi and Elie Wiesel, and a novel by Susan Fromberg Schaeffer called
Anya
. I started going into Dad's study when he wasn't around and reading through his collection of Holocaust-survivor memoirs. I watched sections of the documentary
Shoah
, as well as all the popular Holocaust movies:
Schindler's List
,
Life is Beautiful, The Pianist,
even
Sophie's Choice
. I couldn't seem to get enough. All through grade eight, Dad kept giving me more books, and sometimes we'd sit in his office and talk about them. He gave me background about the war in Europe and the Jewish effort to stop the Nazis. We ate from his secret stash of pistachios and talked about why Canada didn't allow more Jews to immigrate in the 1930s and '40s.

Alexis kept telling me I had to stop reading the books, that I was developing nervous habits like chewing my nails and pulling out my hair. She said I looked behind me a lot when we were outside.

One afternoon when Alexis was visiting from Seattle and we were walking to the 7–Eleven, the craziest thing happened. It was a crisp fall afternoon, and we were shuffling through the leaves in the gutter on my street when all of a sudden I remembered a dream I'd had, something about boots marching on a road. It wasn't very clear, so I stopped and tried to remember more of it.

Alexis asked, “What's going on?”

I stood still in the leaves. “I don't know.” A flutter of terror crept over me. I couldn't move.

Alexis walked back to where I was, and the sound of her boots in the leaves triggered more memories of the dream, something about running.

“Omigod, I had this dream.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, there were boots in it.”

“Um…so?”

“I don't know, they were marching.”

“And?”

“I'm not sure. I think they were chasing me.” I looked at Alexis, trembling. I sat down on the curb and laid my head on my knees and wrapped my arms over my head. “I feel like I've been here before.” Those boots had chased me down this street.

“Of course we've been here before. This is your street.” Alexis crouched beside me. “You're acting really weird.”

In my dream I'd been running, and men in high black boots were stomping after me, chasing me. As I remembered the dream, I felt my breath catch in my throat. I could hear Alexis asking me if I was okay. And I wanted to say something, but I couldn't. I felt like I wasn't properly anchored to the earth, even though I was sitting right on it, and in order to get re-attached and stop the jittery feeling coursing through me, I needed to hit something.

Alexis hunched over me. “Are you okay? Can you get up? You're really freaking me out.”

“No,” I said aloud. I wanted to sit and try to understand what was going on. I let Alexis haul me up, and that's when my heart started to pound like it was going to explode in my chest. I thought, Omigod, I'm having a heart attack and I'm only fourteen. It was crazy. I even had symptoms like in the ads on
TV
—the dizziness and the screwed-up vision.

The next part is really embarrassing. Alexis called my mom, who came and picked us up and took me to the hospital. The doctor checked my breathing and said I was fine, that there was nothing to worry about.

“I'm not fine,” I said. “My heart is going to burst.” I was shaking and trying to grind my fists into the examining bed.

The doctor said, “You're having a panic attack. Take some deep breaths and you'll feel better. I can show you some relaxation techniques to help you.”

I wanted to go back to my street and bury myself under the leaves.

All the way home in the car, my mom kept asking me why I'd had a panic attack, and I kept telling her I didn't know. As soon as we got back from the clinic, Alexis and I went up to my room.

“You okay?” Alexis asked.

I nodded. I'd downed two extra-strength Advil in the bathroom when we got home, and my legs felt like Jell-O.

“I told you to stop reading all that Holocaust stuff. You're making yourself nuts.”

I nodded.

“Listen, you scared the shit out of me today. I don't want you getting all crazy on me.”

“I'm not crazy.”

“I didn't mean it that way.” She squeezed my hand. “I mean, I don't want you thinking all those negative thoughts. Anyone would be anxious reading about all that death and destruction.” She ran her fingers along the shelf beside my desk. “Lauren, look at all these Holocaust books. Get rid of them. Read something else.”

“Harry Potter?” I said weakly.

“Sure, or just read a fashion magazine.”

I groaned.

I blew my nose, and then Alexis and I practiced one of the exercises the doctor had recommended: Five thoughts for the five senses.

“I see the blanket,” Alexis said.

“I hear the wind,” I said.