My Holocaust Read online

  My Holocaust

  A Novel

  Tova Reich

  To the memory of

  Esther Stone

  You shall not make for yourself an idol nor any image of what is in the heaven above and in the earth below and in the water under the earth. You shall not bow down to them nor serve them. Because I the Lord your God am a jealous God, visiting the sin of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation of those who despise me.

  EXODUS 20: 4–6

  Contents

  Epigraph

  PART ONE

  The Holocaust Princess

  PART TWO

  Camp Auschwitz

  1

  IN ROOM FOUR, BLOCK FOUR of the Auschwitz death camp…

  2

  AT DINNER THAT EVENING in the upstairs dining room of…

  3

  VERY EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, the limousine pulled up in…

  4

  THE LOVELY JUNE WEATHER, one of the first warm and…

  PART THREE

  Lessons of the Holocaust

  1

  THE TAKEOVER OF THE UNITED STATES Holocaust Memorial Museum in…

  2

  DUE TO A COMBINATION of unfortunate circumstances, following the takeover…

  PART FOUR

  The Third Generation

  About the Author

  Praise

  Other Books by Tova Reich

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  PART ONE

  The Holocaust Princess

  IT WAS NOT THE FIRST TIME that the father-and-son team Maurice and Norman Messer, respectively chairman of the board and president of Holocaust Connections, Inc., were traveling home from Poland, but it was definitely the saddest. In all their business dealings for clients they had always come through with flying colors, which was how they had built their enviable reputation and their legendary success. But this time, in a most painful personal matter involving an exceedingly close member of their own immediate family, indeed, the very future of their line, they had failed completely. Nechama, only child of an only son, had absolutely refused to see her father or her grandfather, either one-on-one or in any constellation. She had, in any case, as they were categorically informed, taken a vow of silence. This was communicated to the two men by a matronly nun in sunglasses who came to meet them outside the gate of the Carmelite convent—the new con-vent, that is, some five hundred meters from the perimeter of the Auschwitz death camp, to which the nuns had moved after all that ridiculous fuss. “Sister Consolatia requests that you respect her right to choose,” the nun told them with finality, in English, though Maurice of course knew Polish. From the signature phrasing, the Messers, father and son, could not deceive themselves that this was anything other than a direct quotation from their apostate offspring, now reborn as Sister Consolatia of the Cross, their lost Nechama.

  Nevertheless, despite their unquestionably genuine and heartbreaking disappointment, they made themselves comfortable, as usual, in their ample seats in the first-class compartment of the LOT airplane. They always flew Polish, as a matter of policy, to maintain healthy relations with the government with which they had most of their dealings, and they always flew first class, because to do otherwise would be unseemly for men like themselves, steeped as they were in such nearly mythic tragic history, a history that set them apart from ordinary people and therefore necessitated that they be seated apart. And from a business point of view, from the purely practical side, it would look bad to go economy, it would look as if their enterprise were falling on hard times. Everything in their line of work, naturally, hung on image. “Look,” as Norman formulated it, with the usual pauses and swallows that heralded the delivery of one of his aphorisms, “we already did cattle cars. From now on, it’s first class all the way.” Clients expected a premium operation from the Messers, and Holocaust Connections, Inc., billed them accordingly. This trip, for example, was covered by an anti-fur organization that was eager to firm up its honorary Holocaust status, and Norman had managed, even in the midst of his private anguish, to do a little work for them, still in its early stages admittedly, involving the creative use of the mountains of shorn hair of the gassed victims in the Auschwitz museum—a ghoulish idea on the face of it, which he was now massaging and dignifying in order to establish the relevant ethical connection that would ennoble the agenda of the fur account and give it that moral stamp of the Holocaust.

  By now, of course, the father and son partners knew all the flight attendants on the airline, specializing in the women. Maurice persisted in referring to them politically incorrectly as “hoistesses,” a teasing liberty for which he took the precaution of propitiating them, just in case, with small offerings from the luxury hotels of Warsaw and Krakow—miniature shampoos or scented soaps from the bathrooms, chocolate hearts wrapped in gold foil plucked off the pillows atop the turned-down bedsheets. He squeezed and harassed their vivid blondness and springy buxomness hello and good-bye and thank you, muttering, “Don’t worry, girls, don’t worry, I’m safe.” “And he gets away with it too,” as Norman painstakingly and unnecessarily explained to his wife, Arlene, “because he’s this cute little tubby old bald Jewish guy with pudgy hands and a funny accent, and the dumb chicks from Czestochowa, they think he’s harmless—big mistake, ladies!—so it turns into a stereotypical Polish joke.”

  They boarded the plane ahead of the common passengers, wearing to the very last minute their trademark trench coats—the sexy semiotics, as they interpreted it, of international mystery and intrigue. Then one of the attendants, Magda or Wanda or someone, without even inquiring, her brain imprinted with their preferences as if the storage of such information were her reason for existence, glided forward with a welcoming smile such as had long vanished from their wives’ repertoires, bearing before her living and breathing breasts a tray with their usual—for Maurice, his glass of Bordeaux (“I’m a red wine male,” as he liked to confide urbanely at official functions), for Norman, rum with Coca-Cola, two containers of chocolate milk, and a dozen bags of honey-roasted peanuts.

  For a long time they sat side by side in silence, each with his own thoughts, perfectly at ease with the other, apart yet joined, Norman tearing open with his teeth pack after pack of the peanuts, pouring them out into the ladle of his palm, jiggling them around like dice, and then, with his head tilted slightly back, dumping them into his mouth with a sharp flat smack. He went on doing this automatically, mechanically. It was okay to dispatch the nuts this way when he traveled with his father. The old man didn’t mind, most likely didn’t even notice, like other survivor parents maybe just registered gratefully that at least his son was eating, and for Norman it was a stolen pleasure because this was not a snacking style in which he could ever have indulged had he been with his wife or daughter. That robotic, cranelike up-and-down motion of his arm drove the two of them crazy, they could feel its vibration even if they weren’t looking directly at him. Maybe that’s why Nechama went into the convent, Norman speculated—because of his annoying habits.

  As for Arlene, well, he was just not going to spoil everything by thinking about his upcoming meeting with her while he was masticating. He simply refused even to start thinking about how he was going to manage her on the Nechama problem when he got home, how he would confirm that, yes, unfortunately, it looked, at least for the time being, as if this nun thing was a done deal, there was nothing they could do about it for the moment except, of course, to use Arlene’s idiom, to go on being supportive, to love their daughter unconditionally, it goes without saying, to always be there for her, but, at the same time, we need to allow time to grieve—figuratively grieve, that is, not actually go into mourning by sitting shiva for s
even days like those ultra-Orthodox fanatics when one of their kids converts—and then, of course, we need closure, we need to move on with our own lives, to let go of all this bad stuff, put it behind us, give the healing process a chance to work, blah blah. “Look at it this way,” he could say to Arlene, “the bad news is, it’s a fact—she’s a nun, so that makes her a Christian, I guess, a goy, a shiksa, even worse, a Catholic, we just have to face it. And also it’s a problem, I suppose, that she had to go and pick that Carmelite convent right by Auschwitz, of all places, for her nun phase, where three-quarters of our family were incinerated. Know what I mean? On the other hand”—and here he would slow down and suck in air for greater effect—“the good news is, she’s safe, she has a guaranteed roof over her head and what to eat every day, guys can’t bother her anymore, and, from a parent’s point of view, we will now always know exactly where she is at all times.”

  Hey, he loved the girl as much as Arlene did, Norman thought resentfully. Why was he always the one on the defensive? Did he really need this added grief? Nechama was his daughter too, for God’s sake. This whole mess was no less of an embarrassment for him than it was for Arlene. Jesus, this could even impact their business, their lifestyle—you hear that, Mrs. Messer, hello? How was it going to look? he demanded of the wife in his head: Holocaust Heiress Dumps Jews. It was an emergency damage-control situation requiring a rapid response. He had to figure out some way to market this negative to their advantage, to turn it around—something like, you know, the ongoing trauma of the Holocaust, the continuing threat to our survival, the Holocaust is not yet over, et cetera et cetera.

  No problem; he was prepared to deal with it. But there was one thing he wanted to know, just one thing—why was it the case that he was always the one who had to be, as Arlene would put it, supportive, like some kind of jockstrap? Why couldn’t she be supportive of him once in a while? Had it penetrated her ozone layer yet that everywhere her poor schlump of a husband went he was a big man, he was greeted like a hero? Was she cognizant of that fact? In Warsaw, the women adored him, especially since he had lost all that weight; but the fact is, over there they had always loved him, they loved him in any shape or form, they loved him for himself. They came up to his hotel room carrying bouquets of flowers and bottles of champagne, with beautifully made-up faces and beautifully sprayed hair, in shiny high-heeled shoes and gorgeous real-leather minidresses with exposed industrial-strength steel zippers running from neck to hem—not that he carped the diem, needless to say. In the States they worshiped him, idolized him for his aura of suffering, like a saint, like a holy man out of Dostoyevsky, they revered him for never letting up on this miserable Holocaust business, for immersing himself in it every minute, for schlepping the Shoah around on his back day and night, for sacrificing his happiness to keep the flame going—not for his own health, obviously, but for the moral and ethical health of humankind. The anguish in his eyes, the melancholy in the set of his mouth, the manifest depression in how he blow-dried his hair, the sorrowful awareness of man’s-inhumanity-to-man in the way he belted his trench coat—it turned them on, yes, it turned them on.

  So big deal, his wife didn’t appreciate him. So what else was new? She was happiest when he was away from home, that was obvious, she was delighted that his job required so much traveling. Fine, he could live with all that, too, so long as somebody appreciated him, so long as someone somewhere was glad to see him once in a while and showed him a little respect. But it was another thing entirely to blame him for the whole fiasco. C’mon, was he the one who put the kid in the nunnery? Please! And why was he going home now, of his own free will, to listen to all that garbage? He must be out of his mind, meshuga. It was masochism, pure and simple, a sick craving for punishment—he should call a shrink, seek counseling, as the mental healthniks say. Did he have any doubts whatsoever about what Arlene was going to dump on him, with her squeegee social worker’s brain and her prepackaged psychological explanations? Oh, it was an old song, he had heard it a thousand times already. She would start in again with the whole bloody litany—how it was all his fault, everything that had happened was his fault. Right from the start. First of all, what kind of sick idea was it to insist on naming a baby Nechama? A poor, innocent baby, to give her a name like Comfort, as in “Comfort ye, comfort ye, oh my people,” like some sort of replacement Jew, like some sort of postcatastrophe consolation prize, as if they were all depending on her to make things right again after the disaster. Such a heavy load, such an impossible burden to saddle a kid with—no wonder the poor girl took herself out of this world. Did he think names don’t matter? There was a whole literature on the subject, on the effect of names on development and identity and self-image. What kind of father would do such a thing to his own flesh and blood? It was criminal, unforgivable. Why couldn’t she have been given a normal name, some sort of hopeful, pursuit-of-happiness American name that people could at least pronounce, like Stacy, or Tracy?

  And then this whole second-generation business that he had gotten himself involved with, dragging Nechama along like some sort of archetypal sacrificial lamb, like Jephtah’s daughter, like Iphigenia. As a matter of fact, Norman knew very well that most mental health types just loved the second-generation concept, they ate it up, but Arlene—surprise, surprise—didn’t believe in it at all. Why? It was completely predictable: because it served Norman’s agenda, that’s why, because it legitimized and explained his obsession, and gave it status. There was nothing in it for Arlene. As far as Arlene was concerned, second generation was a made-up category, an indulgence for a bunch of whiners and self-pitiers with a terminal case of arrested development. The so-called survivors, they were the first generation; they were the ones who had been there, they had experienced it all firsthand, and after them came their children, this bogus second generation, these Holocaust hangers-on, Norman and company, throwing a tantrum for a piece of Shoah action. So all of those tough, shrewd, paranoid refugees who came out of the war—you don’t even want to begin to think about how they made it through—suddenly they get turned into sacred, saintly survivors with unutterable knowledge, and then the second generation, born and reared in Brooklyn or somewhere, far, far from the gas chambers and crematoria, gets crowned as honorary survivors. Suddenly these lightweight descendants are endowed with gravitas, with importance, with all the seriousness and rewards that come from sucking up to suffering. What could be neater? All the benefits of Auschwitz without having to actually live through that nastiness—Holocaust lite.

  And what did they do to deserve this honor, this second generation? What exactly are their suffering bona fides? Well, they had it rough, poor babies—they were victims too, you can’t take it away from them, as they reassured one another at regularly scheduled 2-G Anonymous support group meetings in synagogue basements. They were damaged by the damaged, suffered the psychic wounds of being raised by mistrustful, traumatized, overprotective parents with impossible expectations. They bore the weight of having to transmit the torch of memory, that kitschy memorial candle, from past to future. They endured a devastating blow to their self-esteem in consequence of the knowledge that their lives were a paltry sideshow compared to their parents’ epic stories. It was sick, sick, pathetic—“Holocaust envy,” a new term for professionals, coming your way soon in the next updated, revised edition of the DSM-IV bible of mental disorders. And to think he would expose his own child to such a pathological situation—to think he’d go ahead now and render this acute condition chronic by prolonging the agony, by trying to pass the whole load on to Nechama like a life sentence, like indentured servitude, like guilt unto the tenth generation. Is it an accident, then, that she abandoned the Jews for the ultimate martyr religion, complete with vicarious suffering as its main value and a tortured skinny guy on a cross as its main icon? Is it an accident that she found her way back to the gates of Auschwitz? Had it never dawned on him where this morbid Holocaust fixation would lead?

  “Maybe we should’ve c
ome mit one of those deprogramming fellas,” Maurice was now saying. “Maybe we should’ve climbed the wall from the convent like that crazy rabbi—what’s his name?—when it used to be in the other building where they used to keep the gas in the war. Maybe we should’ve kidnapped her from the schwesters.”

  Norman shook his head. “Bad idea, Pop.” He swallowed portentously before elaborating. “It would have been disastrous for Polish-Jewish relations, a nightmare for Catholic-Jewish relations, not to mention curtains for business relations.”

  “Nu, anyway, you have to be a younger man for that kind of monkey business, climbing walls—you know what I mean? And you’re not so young anymore, Normie, ha ha, and I’m not in such good shape—like your mama says, svelte. I’m not so svelte like I used to be when I was a leader from the partisans and fought against the Nazis in the woods.”

  Norman had to catch his breath and squeeze the bridge of his nose to stem the keen rush of longing for his daughter that swept over him at that moment, as Maurice recited that familiar refrain in exactly those words about having been a partisan leader who fought the Nazis in the woods. It was a private joke between Norman and Nechama. They would mouth those exact words of Maurice’s every time he uttered them, flawlessly imitating his grimaces and gestures and accent, mouth them behind the old man’s back at gatherings with friends and family or even at the public speeches that he regularly gave in synagogues or community centers or schools about his career as a resistance fighter, which he always began with the sentence, “I’m here to debunk the myt’ that the Jews went like sheep to the shlaughter.” Norman and Nechama would mouth this sentence, too, in fits of choking, mute hilarity. It was a harmless father-daughter ritual that had started when she was about eighteen or nineteen years old, after Maurice had given his standard talk, at Nechama’s invitation, in the Jewish student’s center at her college, opening, as usual, with that sentence about the sheep-to-the-slaughter myth, and ending, as usual, by snapping smartly to attention when they played the Partisan’s Hymn, “Never Say This Is the Final Road for You.”