Hope: A Tragedy (24 page)

I’ve got a professor you’d love to meet, said Kugel.

Kugel placed the last note back where he found it, stood up, and headed for the stairs.

You should get some rest, he said.

Here, she said, and placed her manuscript on top of the wall.

I took your advice, she said, and wrote about myself. Feelings, opinions, attitudes. It’s only a first draft.

Kugel picked it up.

They’re going to hate it, said Anne Frank.

Kugel headed back down the stairs.

Keep your mother away from me, said Anne Frank.

She’s trying to help.

I just want to be left alone.

Last words, thought Kugel.

Maybe a tombstone.

SOLOMON KUGEL

I Just Want to Be Left Alone.

That wasn’t bad.

That wasn’t bad at all.

He went downstairs and met Mother in the hallway. She was holding her pillow.

How is she?

We should get her a doctor, Mother.

We can’t risk it. I’ll spend the night with her.

Mother, she just wants some quiet.

What’s that? she asked, pointing to the manuscript.

It’s something she asked me to read.

Mother looked hurt, though Kugel could not tell whether that was a result of Anne Frank’s wanting space, or of Anne Frank’s giving her writing to Kugel and not to her.

I’ll just go check on her, said Mother.

I just did. Give her some space, Mother.

Fine.

Good.

Mother went back downstairs. Kugel went to his bedroom and called Professor Jove.

Jove wasn’t in.

Kugel left a message.

29.

KUGEL LAY IN BED THAT NIGHT, holding his pillow over his head trying to shut out the sounds filling his room—Hannah and Pinkus having sex; Mother moaning; Anne Frank coughing, shuffling, typing.

Her manuscript lay untouched on his nightstand.

After some time, Hannah and Pinkus finished, Mother stopped moaning, and the medicine had quieted Anne Frank’s cough.

Silence.

At last.

Kugel’s stomach grumbled. The matzoh, that toxic symbol of freedom from that holiday of unforgetting, began to do its work on the lining of his intestines. Kugel grabbed Anne Frank’s manuscript and went to the bathroom, where he sat on the toilet and began to read.

He finished it, some time later, back in bed; his eyes were red, his cheeks streaked with tears.

She was right, he thought.

They were going to hate it.

He went back to the bathroom, his stomach still turning.

If Christ ever comes back, he’d heard it said, it will be the Christians who kill him this time. And they’ll make the Romans, Kugel knew, look like pussies.

Christians?
Christ will think at the moment of his second death.
That’s how I die? Christians?

Kugel heard a door slam and jumped.

Outside.

A barn door?

He hastily pulled his pants up—this is how they’ll find me when the genocide comes, he thought; all my fantasies of resistance and gunfights will remain just that, as the reality of the situation creeps in: they’re kicking in the doors, and I’m on the toilet with the worst case of shits in human history.

He hobbled to the bedroom, tossed the manuscript on his bedside table, and grabbed the cane and flashlight from beside the bed.

I should have gotten a dog.

I should have gotten a gun.

Something big.

He crept quietly down the stairs.

At no point, he wondered, maybe between Voorburg and The Hague, did Spinoza think, Hey, wait a minute—I’m carrying my mother’s deathbed. This is fucked up. Not once? Did he sleep in it? Christ Almighty, did Benedictus de fucking Spinoza sleep in his fucking mother’s fucking deathbed?

He crept carefully through the foyer, the living room, and the kitchen. He paused beside the garden door and then yanked it open.

There was a full moon that night, and it cast an eerie glow across the yard. The doors of the garden shed flapped in the wind and crashed into their frames. He walked out to the shed, locking the doors tightly.

Maybe it was just nature, trying to scare him again.

Probably it was.

Probably not.

He peered into the darkness of the heavy woods. Nothing moved. Even the wind seemed to die down.

Will? whispered Kugel.

A match strike, a flash of flame, not more than two feet away. Kugel, blinded, stumbled back, his cast arm raised in defense.

Evening, Mr. K, he heard Will say.

His vision began to return; Will stood before him, smoking a cigarette, as calmly as the day they had met at the grocery store.

How are you, Mr. K, said Will.

He was wearing his usual overalls and plaid shirt, but his beard had grown in, and his hair was wild.

They stared at each other for a moment before Will nodded to the attic windows.

How’s she doing? he asked.

Are you going to burn down my house? Kugel asked.

Will nodded.

Yep, he said. I am that.

Listen, Will, said Kugel. Listen. I love that house as much as you do. I know how you feel, really, it’s a terrible thing losing your history, but I’ll take good care of her.

Now, why, Mr. K, asked Will, would I burn down something I loved?

Because you’re upset, said Kugel. Because people are buying all your farms, your past is being sold off.

You’ve been listening to my old man, said Will.

Anne Frank began coughing; they could hear it clear through to the woods.

She’s getting worse, said Will.

You’re going to burn her down, too, Will? You’re going to burn Anne Frank?

I’m burning it down, Mr. K, because I hate it. I’ve got some history in that house, Mr. K, I’ll spare you the details, but you can well imagine. My old man didn’t start drinking last week, I tell you what.

Then burn
his
house down, said Kugel.

This is his house, said Will. Truth be told, there wasn’t a soul in the family that didn’t know what he was up to, and nobody said a word. Keep the lie alive, because the neighbors won’t like the truth.

My father, said Kugel, disappeared when I was six.

Well, that’s a shame, Mr. K. Or maybe it’s a blessing, no real way to tell. Wish mine had, I tell you what, wish he’d gone right to hell. Maybe your tragedy was a blessing. My blessing of a father was a hell of a tragedy, I can tell you that. Swore when I was a child that I’d come back one day and burn the damn things down, all of them, every last damn Messerschmidt barn in the county.

Anne Frank coughed again.

What do you give her? asked Will. Day, two days?

Is that what you’re waiting for?

Yep.

Why?

Now, how’s that going to look, Mr. K, said Will, a German burning down Anne Frank’s house?

Not good, said Kugel.

Damn right, said Will. Besides, Mama died when I was a young one, so Anne’s about the closest thing I ever had to a parent. That wasn’t particularly close, mind you, but she never laid a hand on me, neither to hit me nor to hug me. I guess that’s the best you can hope for sometimes, an even split. I’ll come back when she’s dead.

Do you want to say good-bye? asked Kugel.

Will shook his head.

Nah. She’s probably trying to write or something, I suppose. That always came first. Could use a rewrite or two myself. You send her my best, Mr. K.

And with that, Will turned and disappeared into the woods.

Kugel went back inside and sat on his bed.

He thought about calling the police, but Anne Frank was illegal, and, anyway, what would be the point? Will would be long gone. Besides, though he was shaken by their meeting, at least he now knew the rules. As long as Anne Frank was alive, he didn’t have to worry about the house burning down.

There was comfort in that.

He could live peacefully, as long as Anne Frank did.

Maybe he would get her a microwave, after all. Maybe he would get her an e-reader. And he decided, too, that once the sun rose the following morning, he would phone a doctor. To hell with Mother and her paranoid fantasies. Redemption was at hand. After all he’d sacrificed for his mother, the one thing he could now do for his family—for his wife and child and their future—would be to keep their house intact. A roof, unburned, over their heads. They would catch Will soon, they always did; Kugel had only to keep Anne Frank alive until then. Soon after, no doubt, she would die, Mother would die, too, and the house would still be there, waiting to be filled with memories, laughter, life. The past would be gone. Maybe they’d have another child! Yes—a new last Kugel!

He laughed at the thought.

They’d call him Fin.

Fin Kugel.

Tomorrow, first thing in the morning, he would phone a doctor. He would take the black curtains off the mirrors, he would open the windows, let in the light, the fresh air.

He turned to shut off his bedside lamp, and noticed, without too much concern, that the manuscript he’d left on the bedside table was gone.

30.

AS IT TURNED OUT, the night Solomon Kugel discovered a fugitive arsonist hiding in the woods behind his house was the best night of sleep he’d had in weeks.

For once the sounds of Anne coughing and typing through the night were calming, as he knew that as long as she was alive, he was safe. His house would not burn down, his life would not be taken. He even managed to sleep late, as for once Mother had not woken up screaming. Perhaps helping Anne Frank had somehow assuaged her own guilt for not being a Holocaust survivor as well. Perhaps she was dead.

Don’t get ahead of yourself, Kugel my man.

Kugel stood and stretched in the fine morning sunlight, and as he did, noticed out the bedroom window that the vegetables and fruit he’d left for Mother the other morning were gone. He’d forgotten last night to take them in, of that he was certain; had Mother really collected them? She hadn’t done so in weeks.

Was that also a good sign?

Was her dementia accelerating?

Kugel, for the first time in ages, felt, well, happy. The begin-againer was beginning again.

He thought he would phone Bree, tell her the good news. No, Mother wasn’t out yet and neither was Anne, but the family was safe from the fire, if they’d just keep her alive a little longer—Bree would have to admit, wouldn’t she, that he was right to keep her in the attic!—and then, with Will caught and safely locked away, she would die, as she was terribly ill already.

He would wait for Bree to return, though—perhaps over a quiet candlelit dinner with a bottle of champagne—to tell her about Fin, and they would tumble after into bed, together again at last.

He considered for a moment calling Professor Jove to give him the good news.
Feh!
he thought. To hell with Professor Jove! He would just find a way to ruin Kugel’s good mood, to find the cloudy lining to his silver whatever, and then send him a hefty bill. What did Professor Jove know, anyway, really know, about flesh and blood and life and death? Philosophy? The mind? The psyche? Luxuries. Like cleaning the windows, Kugel thought, on a condemned, crumbling house. He imagined the Professor sitting beside a dying Anne Frank somewhere in Bergen-Belsen:

I’m cold, Anne Frank would say.

Of course you are, Professor Jove would answer. You’re dying.

But I want to live, Anne Frank would say, I’m just a child.

Knock knock, Professor Jove would answer.

What?

Knock knock.

Who’s there, she would mumble feebly.

Death.

Death who?

Death, Anne. Death. You’re dying.

I don’t get it.

There’s nothing to get. It’s over. You’re fucked.

No, he didn’t need Professor Jove, not today, maybe not ever. Perhaps it was true that it was foolishly optimistic to believe that this was the best of all possible worlds. But then wasn’t it equally foolishly optimistic to believe this was the
worst
of all possible worlds? To believe that there could be no place worse than this? Surely there could be, there must be—even if it was the same exact place as this, but lacking only, say, chocolate ice cream—a world exactly like ours lacking only chocolate ice cream would be a much worse place than this, and there would have to be a worse place, somewhere, still worse than that. A place with no Jonah, no Bree.

Maybe, at last, he would have the Big Talk with Jonah. Maybe he would introduce him to Anne Frank. It ain’t the best world, kid, but it ain’t the worst. Maybe Godot shows up in act three, my son; maybe the audience is just leaving too early.

ESTRAGON:
Where’d they all go?

VLADIMIR:
They were just here.

GODOT:
Are they coming back?

They
wait.

Curtain.

The last thing Lou Costello ever ate before his soul departed this world was a strawberry ice cream soda. Two scoops. His last words:

That was the best ice cream soda I ever tasted.

Lou wins, thought Kugel.

Smiling Man wins.

You get out laughing, you win.

Gogol’s tombstone: And I shall laugh with a bitter laugh.

Mel Blanc’s tombstone: That’s all, folks.

SpongeBob SquarePants: I’m a goofy goober, yeah, you’re a goofy goober, yeah, we’re all goofy goobers.

Do not disturb any further.

Kugel dressed and went downstairs to the kitchen, where Mother was at the table, having a cup of tea.

I’m phoning a doctor, he said. I know you’re opposed, Mother, but she is our responsibility, and my mind is made up. We cannot allow Anne Frank to perish on our watch.

Mother was silent for a moment, and then she said, in a low and angry voice: Get that fucking
whore
out of this house.

Kugel turned around.

What?

I said, Mother repeated, her voice rising, get that fucking WHORE out of this house.

She stood and held Anne Frank’s manuscript in her hand.

Mother, said Kugel, just calm down.

Mother threw the manuscript at him, the pages fluttering wildly to the floor, and pointed to the ceiling.

I don’t know who that bitch is, she said, but I know she isn’t Anne Frank. Anne Frank would never write those things. Anne Frank would never
think
those things.

She put her hands to her face and paced back and forth, shaking with rage.

When I think of it, she said. Using the name of a poor murdered child to coddle favor, to get some free food, to sell some books. It sickens me, just sickens me.

She kicked at the pages of the manuscript on the floor.

Get her out of here, Solomon. Get that lying old whore out of here or I swear to God I’ll drag her down the stairs by her hair and throw her out myself.

Mother, said Kugel. Calm down. Whoever she is, she’s a survivor.

She’s a liar, Solomon, she probably put those numbers on her arm by herself.

You’re being ridiculous, said Kugel. We can’t throw her out.

My God, Mother continued, the things I did for her, the things I told her, about myself, my most personal . . . and you! You call yourself a father? You call yourself a husband? You let this woman come between you and your wife, you and your child—and still you defend her? This grifter, this phony, this, this . . . Nazi!

She turned to Kugel with hatred in her eyes.

Get her out of here, said Mother. Get her out of this house this instant.

Hannah came into the kitchen, and tried to calm Mother down.

What happened? she asked Kugel, helping Mother into a chair. Mother sat down heavily; her outburst over, she now seemed to have lost all her energy, all her will. She stared vacantly at the floor, muttering incoherently.

The last hurrah, said Kugel. The doctor said this would happen.

Let’s get you to bed, Mother, said Hannah. Shall we go work on the scrapbook? Mother? Mother, would you like that, to work on your scrapbook?

Hannah helped Mother up and took her to the bedroom, where she stayed with her, cutting up newspapers and history books and gluing them to the pages of the scrapbook until Mother at last grew tired and fell asleep.

Kugel meanwhile had phoned a local doctor, who, after many objections, agreed to pay a house call later that evening.

Kugel hung up the phone and all but raised his hands in the air in victory. He was elated. No threat of arson, an almost-finished first draft, and Mother, seemingly on her last breath. Could this day get any better?

Sol, he heard Hannah say.

He turned to her. She had Pinkus beside her.

I think it would be better, she said, if we moved out.

Unbelievable, said Kugel.

We’re sorry, said Pinkus.

Un-be-
lievable
, Kugel said again.

Hannah apologized, too; but to stay, she felt, would be to validate the claims of the woman in the attic, which would only upset Mother further.

Kugel nodded.

At least, he said, let me help you pack.

Hannah hugged him, and he hugged her back. Pinkus offered to help Kugel take down the mattress from the attic, but Kugel assured him that wouldn’t be necessary.

Mother rose only once the whole time they were packing, and that was to use the bathroom. She had definitely changed for the worse. She moved slowly again, and her whole posture seemed to have shifted, from upright and driven yesterday to hunched over today, the comforting old weight of whatever back on her stooping shoulders at last. Kugel watched and decided then and there that he would e-mail his supervisor the next morning to see if he couldn’t come in for a little heart-to-heart talk; he would explain all that had transpired, accept all the blame, and request that he be given his old job back; they were a great team and had done great work together, and it would be a shame, wouldn’t it, if all that were ruined over a few weeks of stress and anxiety. I’ve been here since the compost days, he would say. Did the supervisor know that moving into a new home was listed as one of the most stressful things a man could go through, short of a death in the family? Even more stressful than divorce? He would tell him, and who knows, stranger things have happened.

It was turning out to be quite a day. By the afternoon, even the remedies he’d bought for Anne seemed to be working; her coughing had ceased, he could hear her through the vents typing and muttering as usual. He helped Hannah and Pinkus out to their car, lifted the suitcases into the trunk, and closed it with a satisfying slam.

You’ll thank Bree for us, said Hannah.

Of course, said Kugel, of course. She’ll be back soon, tomorrow maybe. Hey, you know what? You guys should come over for a barbecue this Sunday, what do you say?

Well, said Hannah. Let’s see how Mother’s doing.

Of course, said Kugel, of course.

He waved to them as they turned out the driveway, and he smiled. He took out his cell phone and dialed Mother’s old number in Brooklyn.

¿Sí?
said a woman on the other end of the line.

Hello? said Kugel.

¿Sí?

Is Bree Kugel there? This is her husband calling.

No, no, said the woman, Miss Bree not here. I am here, with Jonah.

Oh, said Kugel.

She went to hear man reading, said the woman.

She went to a reading, said Kugel.

Yes, yes, a reading. A famous man.

Philip Roth?

I don’t know.

It wasn’t Philip Roth?

I don’t know.

Kugel smiled. He was happy for her.

That’s great, said Kugel, that’s great. Will you tell her to phone me as soon as she returns?

Yes,
sí
.

And will you tell Jonah I’ll see him soon?

Sí,
sí.

Kugel closed his phone and took a deep breath. Whistling softly, he strolled around the side of the house to the back lawn. More seedlings were beginning to appear in the vegetable garden.

Will? he called.

He wanted to tell someone the good news.

Will?

Well, he’d tell him later.

It wasn’t until Kugel got back to the front lawn of the house that he smelled the smoke.

Something was burning.

Was it the neighbor’s stove? Was someone burning leaves? His mind raced, and then he saw the smoke creeping out from beneath the front door of the house.

Will! he shouted as he ran to the door. Will!

Had Anne died? It didn’t make any sense; how would Wilbur know so quickly, even if she had?

Had Mother killed her?

Kugel threw the front door open. Smoke was already filling the downstairs hallway, and he could see flames licking angrily out of the bottom of Mother’s bedroom door.

Mother! he called.

He ran to her door and tried to open it; the doorknob, hot from the flames behind it, singed his hand, and he began to kick at it with all his might; it wouldn’t budge.

Mother! he called.

He ran back outside—the smoke now filled the entire downstairs—and raced around the house to the window of Mother’s bedroom. The smoke was thick inside her room, but he could see Mother lying facedown on the floor beside the bed. He banged on the window, but she didn’t move. The window was opened slightly, and he reached in and forced it the rest of the way up; the burst of oxygen fed the furious flames and lashed out at him, scorching the siding of the house. He waited a moment for them to subside, and climbed through.

Mother! he called once he was inside, but still she didn’t move.

He ran to the bedroom door—she had, as usual, propped a chair up against the knob to keep it from being opened. He kicked the chair away, pulled his sleeve over his hand, and yanked the door open, trying to clear the air of smoke, but the flames simply roared again and poured like a wave of fury into the hallway. He stuck his head out of the doorway, coughing, trying to control his breath. Already the tenant’s room was ablaze, and flames licked at the ceiling of the hall. Black smoke funneled toward the kitchen and up the stairs; the wooden rail of the stairs had caught fire, too.