Lauren Yanofsky Hates the Holocaust

LAUREN
YANOFSKY
HATES THE
HOLOCAUST

Leanne Lieberman

ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

Text copyright © 2013 Leanne Lieberman

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Lieberman, Leanne, 1974-
Lauren Yanofsky hates the Holocaust [electronic resource]

/ Leanne Lieberman.

Electronic monograph.
Issued also in print format.
ISBN
978-1-4598-0110-3 (
PDF
).--
ISBN
978-1-4598-0111-0 (
EPUB
)

I. Title.
PS
8623.I36
L
39 2013            j
C
813'.6            
C
2012-907466-7

First published in the United States, 2013
Library of Congress Control Number
: 2012952950

Summary
: Lauren, a Jewish teen, is sick of hearing about the Holocaust but must make a tough choice when some friends play Nazi war games.

Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

Design by Teresa Bubela
Cover photography by Gary McKinstry
Author photo by Bernard Clark

www.orcabook.com

16 15 14 13 
•
 4 3 2 1

For Robbie Stocki

Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Acknowledgments

O
ne

O
n the first morning of grade eleven, my mom is waiting for me in our kitchen. She's made me a plate of eggs and toast and tucked an envelope under my glass of orange juice. She glances at my ripped jeans but doesn't say anything about them. Her shiny white suit seems a little over-the-top for her nutritionist job at the hospital, but then Mom is often overdressed.

I sit down at the table and hold up the envelope. “What's this?”

Mom slides her gold-streaked hair behind her ear and keeps making my brother Zach's lunch. “Just open it.”

I sip my juice and frown at the return address. It's my parents' temple, which means it's from either the Jewish youth group or the Hebrew school. I chuck it aside and dig into my eggs and toast.

Mom is very involved at the temple. Her latest project is a mitzvah, or “good deed,” committee that brings food to elderly people or baby presents to new moms.

Mom ignores the fact that I've tossed the envelope aside. “So, first day of school,” she says.

“Yep.”

“Excited?”

“No.” I am a little bit, but I wouldn't admit that to her.

Mom says, “The temple's after-school program also starts today.”

“I'm aware of that.” I squint at the envelope.

“Your father and I are hoping you'll go this year.”

“Not a chance.” I shovel eggs into my mouth.

Mom sighs. “It's only two nights a week.”

I glare at her. “I'm not going. Ever.”

“Don't you want to get your driver's license?”

Because I've refused to do any Jewish activities lately, I haven't been allowed to get my license. “It's better for the environment to walk or bike,” I mutter.

Mom shuts the refrigerator a little more forcefully than necessary. “It's not like we're asking a lot.”

I stand up and wrap my remaining toast in a paper towel and shove my dishes into the dishwasher. “When are you going to give this up?”

“Lauren…” Mom says, but I've already grabbed my lunch from the fridge, picked up my bag and am headed to the front door.

It's a beautiful, crisp morning, sunny with a light breeze. I take a moment to clear my head and put on some lip gloss. Then I head down the street toward school.

I love my walk to school. All the years I went to Jewish day school, I was confined to a car pool, squished in the backseat of either my mom's wagon or Shayna Shuster's van, which always reeked of her perfume. Now that I go to regular high school, it no longer matters to me what time Mom manages to pry Zach out of bed; I leave on my own time.

First I walk down my street, with the maples rustling overhead. Then I cut through the park, the dew collecting on my flats. The mountains are a deep blue against the lighter blue of the sky. On the other side of the park, a few blocks away, is my school.

I am lucky because not only do I have a great walk but also a pretty good school. There are no metal detectors or drug busts or gangs, just regular kids coming to school.

Okay, so most kids don't take the time to appreciate their school—it does sound pretty pathetic—but on the first day, I'm always thankful, because I wasn't supposed to go to public high school. I was supposed to attend (cue the music from
Jaws
) The Akiva Jewish High School. My parents wanted me to spend five more years with the same cliquey, mean kids I'd endured since kindergarten.

But I put my foot down. I pulled out all the stops, including my trump card: I told my mother I'd stop eating if I had to go to Hebrew high school. This was very effective because Mom works with anorexic girls. I even went on a two-day hunger strike, although I cheated and ate a steady supply of licorice and Ritz crackers when no one was looking.

Here are the six reasons I gave my parents for letting me go to public school:

1. Public school has a better basketball team.

2. Public school kids are nicer, especially my friends Brooke, Chloe and Em.

3. The whole world is not Jewish, and no one should pretend it is by going to a school that is all Jewish.

4. Akiva was sure to be social purgatory for me. Did my parents want me to need many, many years of expensive therapy?

5. Public school is free. My parents could save the tuition and take our family to Hawaii instead.

6. Public school has better language programs. What if I wanted to take Mandarin or Cantonese? The Jewish school doesn't offer these, and if I want to go into business, another language would be a huge asset.

Okay, so number six is a little weak. I've had three years to learn a new language and I've stuck with French. Also, I have no intention of going into business.

When I get to school, I make my way to D wing, where my friends and I always have our lockers, near the cute boys from our class.

Brooke is already shoving her bag and running shoes into her locker and attaching a magnetic mirror to the locker door. She tightens her blond ponytail and waves at me when she sees me coming down the hall. Brooke has been my best friend since we met on a soccer team when we were ten. Now we play on the basketball team together, and since we're in grade eleven this year, we'll both be starters. Most of the time I can beat Brooke when we play one-on-one, even though she's a couple of inches taller than me. I can be surprisingly fast, and I have longer arms.

“What's your first class?” Brooke asks. We compare timetables and give each other a high five when we realize we both have biology first period and phys ed after lunch.

The first bell rings, and after checking to make sure my hair hasn't frizzed, Brooke and I head up the stairs to class. We choose seats in the middle of the room, not too close to the front, or we'll look like geeks, but not so far back that we'll be tempted to whisper to each other and get in trouble.

Brooke and I are talking with Mac Thompson and Tyler Muller, two guys who have lockers in our wing, when Brooke grips my hand under the lab table. She's staring at the doorway, where Jesse Summers stands, scanning the room for a place to sit. There are still plenty of empty seats, but he looks right at me, smiles and then heads toward us. I think Brooke might faint. I have to shake her hand off mine so Jesse doesn't see us holding hands and think we're weird.

Jesse slides onto the stool next to me and says, “Hi, Lauren.”

“Hi.”

“How was your summer?”

“Good. You?”

“Good, really good.”

Before my stomach actually catapults my breakfast out of my mouth, the biology teacher, Mr. Saunders, starts handing out textbooks and course outlines.

I'm trying to focus on Mr. Saunders, but sitting beside me is the cutest guy in our school. No, possibly in the universe. Jesse is tall and lean with dark skin and hair. He also has the most beautiful cheekbones, what Brooke calls “radiant facial structure.” Personally, I'm more interested in the way his jeans hang off his hips and the way he flips his hair out of his eyes. Brooke and I spent a lot of time last spring walking by his house when he got back from boarding school. “That's where he lives,” Brooke would say, and then we'd both sigh. I would rather have been playing soccer or hanging out at Brooke's, but Brooke always wanted to walk by and see if he was around.

Attractive guys we know usually fall into one of two categories: (1) cute, goofy guys we wouldn't date because we've known them for years or (2) cute guys who don't go to our school who we would go out with, if only they'd ask.

Jesse fits into a whole other category: guys who are so gorgeous and so untouchable, we can only stare. And it's not like I'm gorgeous myself. I have clear skin and an olive complexion, and I'm dark enough that sometimes people at my parents' temple ask me if I'm a sabra, which means a native-born Israeli. Other than that, I have ordinary dark eyes and a biggish nose. My most challenging feature is definitely my hair. It's long and dark brown and very curly. I've been begging to get it chemically straightened, but Mom won't let me.

I endure a whole hour of Brooke sitting on one side of me while Jesse lounges on his stool on the other side, foot tapping, pen flipping, totally distracting me. I know she's dying to text me to say
WTF?
or
OMG
.

When class ends, Brooke and I hurry out of the room, our shoulders pressed together. “Omigod,” she says, “I can't believe he talked to you.”

“I can't believe he sat next to me.”

“We'll probably sit like that all term.” She elbows me in the side. “Lucky girl.”

I'm so nervous all I can do is tug on the ends of my hair.

Brooke and I split up after that because I have English and Brooke is off to math.

When I get to English class, Jesse is sitting by the windows. “Holy fuck,” I whisper to myself as I find a seat on the other side of the room, at the back. I take out my phone and text Brooke. U won't believe who's in English.

God? she writes back.

Yes.

It's destiny.

I don't think so.

Then the bell rings, and I put my phone away.

I have Mr. Willoughby for English again, which is great. Some of the guys call him a fag and make fun of the way he uses words like
Augustine
or
imperative
or
disingenuous
. It doesn't matter to me if he's helping us understand Steinbeck by lecturing on the social structure of farm labor or the boll weevils of the dust bowl—I'm riveted. It's not what he says, it's how he says it in his British accent, his long arms waving around his fiery red hair.