Hope: A Tragedy (16 page)

19.

THAT NIGHT, lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, Kugel thought he heard a gentle tapping on the vent, but decided that he hadn’t.

Maybe he had.

He hadn’t.

The noises from the ducts were loudest and most oppressive at night. Mother below, moaning, groaning, belching; Anne Frank above, tapping, shuffling, wheezing, typing, printing, bitching; and Kugel, trapped in the middle of this miserable suffer sandwich, with all the wretched clangor of their failing mortal coils—the farts, the grunts, the gasps, the coughs; the nightly performance of the Judeo-Misery Orchestra, a distressing cacophony of
oy-veys
,
gevalts
, and
Gott in himmel
s played against the endless laugh track that emanated from the tenant’s television, culminating in the big finale, when Mother woke them all with her daily morning screams of her not-traumatic-enough-stress disorder.

Burp.

Groan.

Moan.

Ha ha ha!

Oy
vey.

Freeze, police!

Gottenyu.

This is
Sixty Minutes
.

Oof.

God in heaven.

Tonight on Jay Leno.

Ugh.

Fart.

Grunt.

Applause.

And, on top of that, the creaks, the cracks, the pops that sounded, each and every one, like an arsonist, whatever an arsonist sounded like, just outside his window, just outside the door, preparing to burn them all alive.

Tell them I said . . . something.

What, though, goddamn it? What?

Kugel already had the perfect tombstone for Mother. He’d had it since he was a teenager, had thought of it on their trip one summer to a German concentration camp. Mother had taken him to Jerusalem for his bar mitzvah (You should know your history, she said as the Israeli soldier eyed them suspiciously and tore through their suitcases); when she realized the return flight required a stopover in Berlin, she decided this was the perfect opportunity for the two of them to visit a death camp.

You with your comfortable American life, she said. You wouldn’t last five minutes in Auschwitz.

Young Kugel wondered how Chelmno felt. Nobody ever talked about Chelmno.

He wouldn’t last five minutes in Chelmno, either.

They decided to spend the night in Berlin, visit a death camp in the morning, and continue home that afternoon. Unfortunately, Mother soon discovered that all the really famous death camps were far away, much too far for a day trip, so she had to settle for the concentration camp in Sachsenhausen.

Sachsen what? she had asked the hotel concierge.

Sachsenhausen, he said. It’s about a thirty-minute train ride from Berlin Central Station.

Never heard of it, she said. And then, holding her hand up to her mouth, she said to Kugel: They don’t want us to see the
real
death camps.

The concierge assured her that many thousands of people died there.

How many?

Many, miss. Very many.

Was there a gas chamber?

After a long pause: Of course, yes.

You’re sure.

Oh, yes.

I don’t want to get out there and find some sanitized park grounds.

No, no, not at all. It’s very disturbing.

They set out by train the following morning, but as neither Mother nor Kugel was yet aware of his gluten intolerance, she packed only some bottles of water to drink and a loaf of bread to eat, since anything more than that, she declared, would insult the memory of the deceased. They would have killed, she said, for a loaf of bread like that.

By the time they arrived, Kugel was doubled over in pain, and he raced to the bathroom the moment she handed him his ticket.

And there he stayed, on the toilet, for the bulk of their available time.

He made a few attempts to leave the restroom and walk to the camp, but he’d only get as far as the gates—Work Will Set You Free, they read—before having to turn and run back, hoping his stall was not yet taken. With little more than forty minutes to go before their train to the airport, Kugel managed to gain some control of his quivering innards, and he and Mother hurried together into the camp. Kugel did his best to keep up with Mother’s angry, purposeful stride through the camp gates.

Well, I’m never going to see it all now, said Mother, looking at the map of the camp in her hands, thank you very much. I can forget about seeing the Jewish barracks, they’re way the hell over there. And the medical center is a twenty-minute walk all by itself. Walk faster, Solomon, for crying out loud.

She decided, with the limited time they had, to just see the gas chamber, marked with the letter
Z
on the camp map. They followed the map closely, but to Mother’s growing frustration, couldn’t seem to find “the damned thing” anywhere. With just twenty minutes left, she stopped the leader of a small tour group standing at the center of the camp.

Pardon me, she said, can you direct me to the gas chambers?

Ah, he said, no problem, we were just heading there ourselves.

He clapped his hands to get the group’s attention.

This way for the gas, ladies and gentlemen, he said.

He led them to a small patch of grass at the far side of the camp, where they gathered around him in a tight, solemn circle. It was silent for a while, as the visitors let the reality of the horrors of what happened here, on this very spot, only a few short decades ago, sink into their minds and tear at their hearts.

This, said the leader of the tourist group, is where thousands of men, women, and children were systematically murdered.

One woman began to cry. Her husband put his arm around her.

Where? asked Mother.

Right here, said the group leader.

Where?

Here. Where you’re standing.

Where’d they go? she asked.

They died, he said with irritation.

Not the people, said Mother, the gas chambers.

They knocked them down.

Who?

The SS, he said.

Sons of bitches, she said. Still they torture us.

The guide nodded.

One of the visitors placed his hand on his head and made a blessing in Hebrew. Everyone closed their eyes and when he finished, they nodded and said: Amen.

After a moment, Mother said, Are there ovens at least? The trip shouldn’t be a total waste?

The guide pointed them to the infirmary, in the basement of which were half a dozen steel crematoriums built into the foundation wall. Mother had Kugel stand in front of one of the ovens for a photo.

Open it, she said to him. So we can see.

Kugel reached over, pulled the heavy door open, and faced the camera.

What are you doing? she asked.

What?

Stop smiling.

Oh.

Look into the oven. Not all the way in, Solomon, just with your eyes.

Like this?

Sadder. Good. Now get one of me.

They hurried back to the train, Kugel again walking quickly to keep up with Mother’s furious gait.

I hope you’re happy, she said once they had taken their seats. You ruined the whole concentration camp for me, you know that? You ruined the whole damn camp.

Kugel felt bad. She had been so looking forward to it.

We saw the ovens, though, he offered. Those were pretty cool.

She waved her hand at him in disgust and looked out the window.

Ah, she said, never mind. I’m sure I’ll see the inside of a gas chamber before long. I’m sure they’re already building them, getting them ready.

Who? he asked.

What’s the difference?

She lay back, closed her eyes, and went to sleep. And that’s when he looked at her and thought, instantly, of her tombstone:

MOTHER

Here she lies.

Big surprise.

Now, he thought as he lay in his bed, I just need one for myself. And for Mother to drop dead.

I shouldn’t have thought that, he thought.

At least I didn’t
say
it.

But you thought it.

That’s not as bad.

It’s bad, though.

There it was again. That sound.

Maybe it was just the wind.

It was probably just the wind.

Kugel crept quietly from bed, knelt on the floor, and pressed his ear against the cold metal vent.

Anne? he whispered.

I’m hungry.

Mother? he whispered.

I’m hungry, Mother repeated.

Mother, go to sleep.

I’m hungry. Can you bring me a little something?

Kugel looked over his shoulder to check on Bree, who stirred in her sleep, rolled onto her side, and pulled the quilt over her head.

I’m hungry, Mother called.

Go get something, then.

I’m frightened.

Mother had claimed, after he’d found her befouling the heating ducts, that she’d been doing it because she was frightened of the tenant, that she didn’t feel comfortable leaving her room at night, that she often barricaded the door with a chair.

That’s dangerous, Mother, he had said.

Not as dangerous as not barricading it, she had replied.

Bree rolled over again, mumbling in her sleep.

Will you bring me something? Mother asked.

Okay.

Bring me something to eat.

Okay!

He’d do anything for a night of silence, a no-groan, no-moan, no-
oy
night.

Kugel went downstairs to the darkened kitchen, shone the flashlight out the back door to see if the arsonist was there, gave him the finger in the event that he was, made Mother a plate of cookies and a cup of tea, brought it to her in her room, asked her twice if she needed to go the bathroom while he was there, and, enjoying the silence that followed, climbed back upstairs.

Sol, he heard Mother call through the hallway vent. Solly, I spilled.

He pulled the attic stairs down and headed up to check on Anne, hoping to find her picking out cover art and packing up her belongings.

It was dark up there, the only light visible being the blue-green glow of a computer screen coming from behind the boxes on the western wall. A positive sign.

Hello? he said softly. Hello?

A sigh of frustration came from behind the wall.

Enter, said Anne Frank,
the
son
.

Kugel noticed the heavy black fabric hung over the windows. He crossed to the window nearest him and tugged on it.

Your mother, said Anne Frank, in addition to having an inordinate amount of time on her hands, has a rather sepulchral design sense.

During the day, as Anne slept and Kugel worked, Mother had covered the windows of the attic dormers with heavy black cloth, as, she had read, had been done in the original Frank attic, which left the Kugel attic even darker and more depressing than it had been before. Kugel worried that Mother might be annoying Anne Frank, disturbing her, slowing her down and interrupting her work.

I’ll talk to her, said Kugel.

He peered over the wall of boxes; the pile of papers beside the computer didn’t seem to have grown much, if at all.

It may have even grown smaller.

He walked back to the window that faced the driveway, looking over the dark cloth Mother had stapled to the frame.

I’m curious, Anne Frank said. Which do you think it is? Does she not want others to see in, or does she not want me to see out?

Both, said Kugel. Kind of her whole parenting philosophy, really.

It’s a funny thing, said Anne Frank. My mother and I never got along very well. We clashed, for any number of reasons. In the end, what brought us closer together was genocide.

That
is
funny, said Kugel.

We cried in that camp, said Anne Frank, and held each other, shivering, dying, and she told me how special I was, and I told her how much I loved her, and we both apologized, again and again, for all the time over the years we had wasted bickering.

Hilarious.

What do you imagine would have happened, continued Anne Frank, if she had survived? If we had reunited somewhere in Europe after the war; if we’d gotten a small flat in Paris, Milan, Berlin, somewhere? We’d have killed each other, that’s what, Mr. Kugel. We’d have hated each other more than we ever had before.

What’s that got to do with my mother? Kugel asked.