Lauren Yanofsky Hates the Holocaust (8 page)

Breathe. It's just a bunch of boys running around with water guns in a park at night, a stupid game. It's not like they're rounding up Jews or killing gay people. It's not like they care that I'm Jewish or even know that I'm here. But
still
. Nazis? How can they be so stupid? I feel panic start to rise in me, and I swallow it down. I don't have time for panic; I have to be clearheaded. I look out into the field. If I need to escape, I can sneak up through the trees to the old railway tracks and walk home from there.

It is very dark now and getting colder. I pull on my mittens and jam my hands in my pockets. Why aren't they pretending to battle Al Qaeda? I sit with my mouth open and watch Justin chase Tyler down the hill to get back to Mike without being squirted. Then Tyler trips, and Justin jumps on him and sprays him with his water pistol. I see Mac weaving through the trees, hunched over, looking behind him every few feet. I'm so intent on watching, I don't notice anyone behind me until a voice says, “Hey, Yanofsky, is the coast clear?”

“Oh!” I jump up and turn around.

Jesse flicks a flashlight in my eyes. “Hah, I scared you.”

“I didn't hear you coming.” I'm still gasping.

Jesse playfully shoves me in the shoulder, and I push him back. He's wearing jeans, a red ski jacket and a black toque. His hair hangs over his eyes like a sexy eye patch. I realize I'm looking at him and not saying anything, but before I can open my mouth, Jesse grabs my arm and propels me in front of him and out from the trees. “Whaddya see?”

I swallow and try to compose myself. Jesse crouches behind me, still clutching my arm. I turn around and look at his beautiful face, then at the Nazi armband. The swastika is hand-drawn in black ink on white paper and held together with staples. Did they sit around making them while they drank? I feel the vodka churning in my gut. “So, whaddya see?” Jesse repeats. I peek around the tree. Mike has his back to us and is talking with Tyler and Justin. They are looking the other way, passing a beer back and forth.

“Am I good?” Jesse sounds impatient.

“Yeah.”

He squeezes my arm and takes off across the field. He jumps on Mike's back and tackles him to the ground, squirting him in the head. Justin and Tyler fall down laughing.

I lean back against the tree and think about the pressure of Jesse's fingers on my biceps, the brush of his armband against my jacket. Then I hear Brooke calling my name. I come out from the trees and head toward the streetlight along the road. Brooke walks toward me. Kelly and Chantal stand by the road.

“Hey, where were you?” she asks.

“Oh, watching the guys. Did you see what they were—”

“Hey, Brooke,” Chantal calls. “Are you coming?”

“Just a second.” Brooke turns to me. “We're going to this other party at Kelly's cousin's friend's house. Do you wanna come?”

I look at Kelly and Chantal, posed with their cigarettes. “Nah, I think I'll hang with Em and Chloe.”

Brooke shrugs. “See you later then.” I watch them head toward the corner. Behind me, the guys have emerged from the trees and emptied their water guns and are now drinking and laughing. They're still wearing their armbands. I don't want to be near them, so I walk to the swing set where Chloe and Em are still working on their dance routine, oblivious to the guys.

I watch them a moment as they cavort in the sand.

It used to be the four of us on the swings.

“Hey, Lauren, we were looking for you,” Chloe calls out. “We're going to DQ. Wanna come?”

I hesitate for a moment. I'm not up for more talk about Christian youth group or the play. I shake my head. “I don't think so.”

“Okay, talk to you later,” Chloe shouts at me. She and Em put their arms around each other and start waltzing toward the road.

“
So long
,” Em sings.

“
Farewell
,” Chloe calls out.

“
Auf weidersehen, goodnight
,” they both shriek in falsettos. More giggles, more stumbling.

I stand, shivering, in the middle of the park, alone in the dark. The shortest way home is directly through the area where the guys are standing. I keep to the outside of the park instead, dodging through the trees and then breaking into a run at the hill. None of them glance my way, but I don't stop until I'm crouched in the tall grass on the tracks, with my hood over my head. I take a few deep breaths. I feel better, safer, hidden from the boys below.

I try taking more deep breaths to calm myself, but I'm too agitated. I need distraction. I turn and sprint up the road to my street and then down the sidewalk to my house, not stopping until I get to our garage, where I slam myself against the wall and try to convince my heart to stop thundering in my chest. I start counting breaths and then try to send each breath all the way down to my toes.

When I've calmed down a little, I pop some spearmint gum in my mouth to cover up any alcohol on my breath, walk around to the front of the house and let myself in. Mom is waiting in the front hall for me. “Where were you?” she says.

I jump. “God, Mom, you scared me.” My pulse picks up again. “I was out with Brooke and Em and Chloe.”

“And where are they?” Mom looks pissed off, like I've missed my curfew, even though it's only nine thirty.

“They went to DQ.” I twist my fingers behind my back. “What's the problem?” I try to sound calm, even though I feel like I've had six cups of coffee.

Mom's lips tighten into a grim little line. “Justin Ferguson's mom called. She saw Justin getting into the trunk of Mike Choi's car, so she followed them to the park, where the kids were all drinking and smoking.” She says
trunk
like it's a swear word.

I suck in my breath. “I don't know anything about guys in the trunk of a car.” I try to concentrate on standing still.

“And the drinking?”

“Chloe, Brooke, Em and I were just there for a little while.” I start to sweat in my jacket.

“Why were you in the park at night?”

“Oh, just hanging out.” I take off my jacket and hang it in the closet, trying to act casual.

“At night? Since when do you girls hang out in parks at night?”

“Oh, we were only there for a bit, to meet up.” I kick off my shoes.

“I don't want you hanging out in parks at night. It's not safe.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I mumble.

“Lauren?”

I turn to face her. “Okay. I heard you.”

Mom sighs, and I head down to the basement, where I sit in the workshop and hug my knees to my chest. Maybe the boys just saw the Nazis on the History Channel and thought it looked cool or funny to goose-step. Maybe they don't actually know about the Holocaust, about what the Nazis did. I hold my breath for a moment and try to imagine this. Can there actually be people who haven't heard about the Holocaust? I try to imagine what it would be like to be a guy like Justin: white, male, smart enough, a good athlete, oblivious to genocide. His parents are still together, and he lives in a nice house near Chloe. What would it be like to grow up and only be part of regular culture: Christmas, Easter and Thanksgiving?

But what if the guys
do
know what the Nazis did? Maybe they think white supremacy is actually a good idea. Maybe next week's game will be about rounding up the geeks at school, or tormenting the Chinese kids. My heart starts going so fast, it feels like it's going to take off like a rocket. I try to focus on my breathing, but I feel like I can't get enough air. “Okay, this is just a panic attack,” I whisper aloud. “I'm not dying.” Still, tears form in my eyes, and I feel like smacking my fist against the wall to stop the building anxiety. I've had barely any panic attacks since that first big one in grade eight. The doctor said there were meds I could take if they got really bad, but I've always managed to calm myself down on my own. I force myself to think about five things for five senses. Okay, I feel the cold floor, I see the workbench, I smell the carpeting, and, um, my mouth tastes awful. Okay, what's the other sense? Right, hearing. Okay, I hear the hum of the furnace. I start over again. I feel the wall behind me, and I can hear leaves rustling outside. My mouth tastes vaguely of gum, and if I try hard, I can smell the paint cans. I keep going until I'm digging for smells and tastes and I've distracted myself from the boys and their armbands. My breathing slows. I'm not dying of a heart attack at sixteen. Then I start to feel sleepy and sore from sitting on the cement, and I get to my feet and go up to my room. I brush my teeth and pull on my favorite flannel pajamas with stars on them and get into bed. Only by imagining lanterns at the festival am I able to calm down and then finally sleep.

S
ix

T
he next morning I sit up slowly and drink a glass of water. The backs of my eyes ache and my head pounds, as if drums are being played in my skull. Alcohol is so not worth it. I roll over and think about the guys' armbands, then feel myself shudder. Who can I talk to about this? I hesitate before dialing Alexis. She'll freak, but I need to tell someone. Her phone rings three times before she picks up.

“Hey, Lauren.” She sounds sleepy.

“Did I wake you?”

“No, but I'm still in bed.” She yawns. “What's up?”

“I have something crazy to tell you, but I don't want you to overreact. And you can't tell anyone.”

“Is it about that guy, Jesse?”

I hesitate. If I tell her the truth, then how can I still like him? “No, it's not about Jesse.”

“Oh, too bad. I thought you were going to tell me something juicy.”

“No, I was at a party last night. Well, not a party, exactly. Just some kids hanging out at the park.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Well, the guys…they were playing this war game, this Nazi war game.”

“They were WHAT?” I imagine Alexis sitting bolt upright, wide awake.

“I know. It was nuts. They were wearing these Nazi armbands, yelling
Heil Hitler
! and pretending to shoot each other.”

“Who? Who?”

“Oh, just some guys from school. You don't know them.”

“Omigod, that's crazy. What were they thinking?”

“I—I don't know.”

“And these guys are your friends?”

“Well, sort of. We hang out with them at school.”

“Wow, that's crazy. What are you going to do?”

“I dunno.”

“You have to tell someone,” Alexis announces.

I groan. “Tell who what?”

“I don't know. Your parents or the school. They can't make fun of what the Nazis did.”

“I'm not sure telling someone is a great idea.”

“Lauren, it's not an option. You have to tell. It's anti-Semitism.”

“But if they don't know the Nazis killed Jews, is it still anti-Semitic?”

“That's beside the point. You have to tell someone.”

“Well, um, I'll think about it.”

“Promise?”

“I said I'd think about it. Anyway, I should go now.”

“Hey, what about that Jesse guy?”

I freeze. “What about him?”

“You guys still talk?”

“Sometimes.”

“Oh, that's good. Text me later.”

I put down my phone and roll over in bed. Tell someone. Yeah, right. Fat lot of good that would do. People would get all upset about anti-Semitism and talk about how the Holocaust could happen again anytime. Alexis can get very worked up about hate crimes against Jews, none of which seem to be happening anywhere near us. It's true that Jews were treated like crap in Europe for centuries, but things in North America look pretty good for Jews these days. I know you can still find Holocaust deniers and people claiming that Jews drink Christian baby blood, but you can also find people who say the earth is flat and global warming is a myth. Besides, in our own lives, in Canada, none of that anti-Semitic stuff is happening—not like in the past anyway. Now Jews own land, join country clubs and attend any university they like. People get riled up about Israel, but to my mind, that's political, not religious. The guys at school are idiots, but anti-Semitic? I think not.

My phone beeps. It's Brooke. B-fast? she texts.

I write back, Benny's?

Meet here.

In an hour.

I shower and put on jeans, a pink long-sleeved T-shirt and a pair of silver flats.

I wheel my bike out of the garage and inhale the crisp fall air. A few leaves are still on the trees, shining in the sunlight, but there are lots to crunch on the edge of the road. One of my neighbors is out raking, and I feel like jumping into the pile of leaves like Zach and I used to do.

I want it to be just another beautiful fall day, but it isn't. It's the day after the guys pretended to be Nazis. The Holocaust is truly unavoidable. If it's not boys playing Nazi in the park, it's news on the car radio about Holocaust survivors or stolen art or reparations or a new museum or monument. If I go to the library and look at a list of books for Jewish teens, most of the books will be about the Holocaust.

But worst of all, the Holocaust is in my head.

I bike along the road, listening to the leaves crunch under my tires. Down the street, I see Jesse playing basketball in his driveway. I slow down and think about turning back, but then he waves at me. I freeze for a second and then bite my lip and bike toward him.

There has to be some good explanation for the Nazi stuff, right? Maybe he'll apologize if I tell him how offensive I thought it was. Or maybe he'll say he had no idea who the Nazis were or what they did. One of those has to be the case.

Jesse is dribbling the ball. “Hey, Laurensky, wanna shoot hoops?”

I twirl a lock of hair around my fingers. “I'm supposed to meet Brooke and”—I look down—“I don't exactly have the right shoes.” I'm not wearing a sports bra, either, but I don't mention this.