If I Should Die Before I Wake
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Authors: Han Nolan
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Copyright © 1994 by Han Nolan
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"Nightmarish Days," from
Lodz Ghetto,
by Alan Adelson and Robert Lapides. Copyright © 1989 by The Jewish Heritage Writing Project. Used by permission of Viking Penguin, a division of Penguin Books USA Inc.
First Harcourt paperback edition 1996
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Nolan, Han.
If I should die before I wake/Han Nolan,
p. cm
Originally published: San Diego: Harcourt Brace, c. 1994
Summary: As Hilary, a Neo-Nazi initiate, lies in a coma, she is transported back to Poland at the onset of World War II, into the life of a Jewish teenager.
1. Holocaust, Jewish (1939â1945)âJuvenile fiction.
[1. Holocaust, Jewish (1939â1945)âFiction. 2. JewsâPolandâFiction. 3. White supremacy movementsâFiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.N67833If 2003
[Fic]âdc21 2002027503
ISBN-13: 978-0-15-204679-8 pb
ISBN-10: 0-15-204679-8 pb
The text is set in Cochin.
Designed by G. B. D. Smith
O N M L
This is a work of fiction. All the names, characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this book are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to any organization, event, or actual person, living or dead, is unintentional.
To Brian, my husband,
and to my parents, James and Eileen Walker
for the patience, faith, and love
And to the memory of the six million Jews
whose faces I never knew,
yet whose voices I somehow heard
Hilary
SHE'S LOOKING AT ME.
She's looking at me like she knows me. It's the armband. She must have seen it when they carried me in. People see my armband and right away they think they know me, know all about me. They don't know crap. I know
her,
though. I don't need any armband to tell me about her. It's written all over her what she is.
She's still looking at me. That's her kind, looking at me like she knows me.
Hey, you don't know me. So don't look at me like you do. You think with that grandmaw look you're going to undo me and find some sweet young thing hiding behind my armband? What you see is what you get. It's all you get. You're just like my mother and the Rev. and them all. Like any second I'm going to change back into that nothing of a girl I used to be and open my arms and say, "I love you. I love you all." Forget it. I'm not some Barbie doll in a beauty contest. Screw it! That's not me. Never was. That's just who they want me to be. And why? For who? Huh?
You want to know who I am? I'm the worst possible thing that could happen to someone like you. And if I weren't trapped or strapped or wrapped or whatever the hell I am, I'd show you. See, cause I know you. I know who you are. I can tell a mile away. Jew lady! Yeah, I know you.
What you doing here anyway? You some kind of guard? You here to see I don't beat the crap outta some sick Jew? This is the Jewish hospital, isn't it? What a joke on me, huh? Having a motor cycle accident in some Hebe town and coming here to the freakin' Jew hospital. Yeah, I remember that all right. Dr. Bergensteinburger, or something, right? All of you have those look-at-me kind of names. Those so-very-Jewish names, so you can recognize each other without having to fart first.
Can't you speak or what?
Nah, you're just like all the others. Can't talk to someone like me, someone from my side of the tracks. You think you're better than me? You're nothing! Nothing! Hey, don't look at me, lady.
Yeah, now that's better.
You ever hear of us? Huh? White Power, lady! We ever come crashing against your door in the middle of the night? Maybe a rock thrown through your window? Yeah, I know, kid stuff.
We got the whole Hebe neighborhood quaking in their stinkin' stringy sideburns once, though, we sure did. Redesigned their whole freakin' cemetery. By the time we got through with it, it looked like some bloody massacre took place there. Yeah, I spray painted everything in sight, so it's like,
ARI
âWHITE POWERâ
GOLDSMITH
and then a big red swastika under all that Rest in Peace business they write. Yeah, bet they aren't resting in peace anymore in that stinkin' place. Made the front page of the newspaper, too. Not our local paper, that small-town crap wiper, but the freakin'
Philadelphia Inquirerl
How about that?
And that's nothing compared to what Brad and Billy H. and Chucky B. did last night or yesterday or whenever the hell this accident happened. Hey, picture it. They dress up like Bozo the Clown, all three of them, and kidnap this Jew boy. Wrestle him to the ground in the woods back of the library. Only dumb old Simon Schulmann would be at the library till closing time on a Saturday night. He'd been there the past three Saturdays so it was practically guaranteed he'd be there again this time and taking the shortcut home through the woods, of course. Lazy Jew. See what being lazy gets you?
Always he comes out dressed in these pants that I swear don't reach down to the top of his ankles. He's got these skinny black suspenders on,
too, like he's afraid his pants might slip an inch and maybe he'd look normal. Of course he always has on his little beanie cap Saturday nights, the hypocrite. He wears the thing every freakin' morning climbing on the bus, but soon as he sits his butt down and Mommy's out of sight, off it comes. If he really believes in those beanies, why the hell is he always taking his off? I'll tell you why. No balls. Jews have no balls. That's what Brad says, and he's right, too.
You know what Brad and them did with him? It's a riot, it really is. I only wish I could have been there to see old Simon's face. Girls aren't allowed to do those kinds of things in the group, but I would if I could. I would if I could. Simon's on my school bus, lives right behind me, anyway. He'd recognize meâbut Brad and them, they've been out of school a couple of years already. Hey, but I'm the one who chose him as our victim. I did that all right.
So, they stuffed him in one of the big orange lockers they got in the boys' locker room at school. He's pint-sized anyway, just like all Jews. Tiny little monkeys, what they are. Tiny little crooks.
Brad said old Simon had his fists flying all over the place, like he thought he had a chance. Cut his face on the edge of the locker as they were stuffing him in.
Hey, I know what you're thinking. Poor little boy. Poor pitiful little boy. He's thirteen, okay? That's not so young. He can take it. Don't look at me with that shame-on-you look. You don't know, Grandmaw.
He's all right. Even if we are on spring break, Brad said, he was screaming loud enough to wake the dead.
So what anyway. I don't care. I don't care about him or anyone except Brad.
Brad, now he knows me inside and out. He's the only one. Where is he anyway? He get hurt? Huh? You gonna talk to me, Jew lady? Look at me. Jews are always looking at the ground. Brad says it's 'cause they're always looking for pennies. Rich Jews. Rich bitch Jews. What you need to be scumming for pennies for?
I don't like the way you're looking at me. Don't pity me. Hey, don't pity me. Why do people always do that? All my life people are always pitying me. Teachers, they're the worst. They give you that simpering look and then come up and put their arm around you like they're your best buddy. They don't know me. They don't know what I'm thinking. Like when my father died. When a whole freakin' office building my father was working on collapsed and crushed him to death because his Jew boss was doing some dirty dealing with the construction, what did they know about how I felt? Nobody knew. But my teacher figures she knows all about it and she says, "Nancy dear, why don't you go sit next to poor Hilary. That's a good girl." Then, when Nancy's settled next to me, with her snooty nose flipped up toward the ceiling like a pop top, Mrs. Doyan adds, "Now, boys and girls, I want you all to be extra nice to our little Hilary Burke today, something very sad has happened to her father."
So of course at play period every kid in the freakin' school's asking me what happened. That's how understanding that bitch was. Yeah, she really cared.
So what anyway, right? All the hell I ever wanted was to have people leave me alone. If she had really understood, she would have at least known that about me.
So how come I can't see anything but you? Huh? Can't even see my freakin' body. Can't even move.
Know what you look like? Like some old bag lady that slept with her face pressed into the cracks of a sidewalk all night. Yeah, it's true, some gray old bag lady.
Where is everyone? Where's Brad? You can tell me that at least, can't you?
Screw it! He'll be here. He'll come. And wait till you see him. He's got eyes the color of blue ink and the biggest shoulders. Like rocksâhard, you know? I remember the first time I
really got a good look at him. Yeah, I was spying on them one night down in Hack's basement. Peeking through the window. Well, hey, all that yelling I was always hearing when they'd go marching down my street, what'd you expect, right? I had to follow them, see where they were going.
So what do I see but like ten of these major hunks all with their shirts off, and they're standing in a circle and one of them's got a hefty set of weights on his shoulders and the others are counting while this guy tries to lift it over his head. I recognized Hack and a couple of the others 'cause they went to my school a couple years back, but this one guyâBradâonly time I'd seen him was out in front of the 7-Eleven, where he once actually winked at me. Then when I started walking away, eating my stupid doughnut, I could tell he was watching me. Really, I could feel his eyes on my back.
Anyway, when they rolled the weights over to Brad, he picked them up like it was marshmallows on either end of a toothpick, I swear. And he does like seventeen lifts; more than any of the other guys. When he passes it over to the next guy, Mick, I can see this boy doesn't look so hot. He picks up the weights and the others start counting and it's like, one, tuh-ew, thur-eee, fff-our. His legs are shaking like he's trying to steady an earthquake, and the weights are lopsided, one side about to conk him on the head.
He loses it after six and everyone jumps back to let the weights crash to the floor. Then it gets really weird. Mick starts backing away and all the others, without any signal, they get into this line facing him and start stalking toward him. Then Mick starts crying, swear to God, and when his back comes up against this table, he turns around, pulls down his pants, and bends over. Yeah, really. And then Hack pulls out this long stringy whip thing and they each have a go at Mick, with Brad being last and whipping him seventeen times. Then Mick pulls his pants back up, turns around to face the others, and wipes at his nose. He raises his right arm straight out in front of him, palm down, with his fingertips almost touching Brad's chest, and he starts shouting, "Heil, Hitler! Heil, Hitler!"
The way he said it, man, like he wasn't just five seconds ago bent over having the blood whipped out of him. He stood so tall, and the others, they all together do this turn-around thing with their feet so they're facing the same way, and they all raise their hands and join him. "Heil, Hitler! Heil, Hitler!" Then they put their arms on each other's shoulders and they're shouting, "Strength through unity! Power through hate!
Kill Jews! Kill Jews! Kill Jews!" And I'm there, down on my knees under a freakin' bush that smells like cat pee, trying to figure out how I'm going to manage to get up enough courage to say something clever next time I see the steamy guy with rocks for shoulders. Hey, I won't forget that night in a hurry.