The Holocaust Kid Read online

  He took my hands in his. “They all have their stories. But their suffering isn’t ours. We didn’t go through it. As I’ve written, the Second Generation has no real experiential content. Just fantasies, overactive, morbid imaginations—”

  “What’s your connection?” I broke in, demanding his CV. “Where were you born?”

  “Poland. Actually, the town of Oswiecim.”

  “Auschwitz!” I exclaimed. “What happened to your family?”

  “Who knows? Gone up in smoke, I suppose.” He shrugged. “I was hidden during the war. Given to a Catholic family. Raised Catholic. God, I loved baby Jesus. Then I was told I had living family. My mother had survived Bergen-Belsen. She and my stepfather were in some place called Chicago.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Is Uly a Hebrew name?”

  He laughed. “Ulysses,” he said. “Uncircumcised child of anger. My Jewish family wanted nothing to do with Jewish identity.”

  “And now you teach Holocaust studies,” I said, shaking my head. “Why are we talking about this?” I straightened up, stretching my arms.

  “Maybe we have to,” he said.

  “There must be other things to talk about,” I insisted.

  While the tension between us grew, we studied each other curiously. Offspring of the century’s horror show. Freaks of history. Is that what we had in common?

  “We’re meshuggeh people,” I quoted him.

  “But passionate,” he added, putting his arms around my waist. “Do your parents receive wiedergutmacht?” He drew me near.

  “German reparations payments?”

  He nodded. “Survivor gelt.”

  “Survivor guilt,” I said. “Of course.”

  “This one is for us.” He kissed me on the lips suddenly. I pulled back for a moment, probing his eyes, so dark, unknowable.

  “I find myself very attracted to you,” he said softly. “Even if you are a refugee.”

  “And what are you?” I asked. “Son of the D.A.R.?”

  “I want you, Zoe.”

  “Whoa! Hold on a minute.” I pulled back, looking at him. “You work kind of fast, don’t you?”

  “You want me too, you sexy Polish Jewess.” He pulled me to him, grabbing a hunk of my hair. “You with your beautiful Zivia Lubetkin hair.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “She fought the hell out of the Nazis in the Warsaw ghetto. Killed, naturally.” He kissed me lightly on the mouth. “I’ve only seen pictures of her, but she had your wild hair.” He kissed me again. “Zosha—”

  “Zoe,” I corrected him.

  “You’re Zosha,” he said, gently combing my hair with his fingers.

  Being so close to him, I heard his breathing. Short, quickening. I could feel his body quiver.

  “That’s what my mother calls me,” I muttered.

  “If you tell me you love someone and he loves you, I’ll leave you alone, Zosha.”

  “We just met tonight. You don’t know—”

  “We’ve known each other a long time,” he whispered in my ear.

  “I don’t believe that.”

  He kissed me gently.

  “Do you have someone—?” I began as he kissed my neck. I put my arms around his waist. For several moments, we moved very slowly to an ancient song.

  The telephone rang, startling both of us. I reached out. “Don’t pick it up,” he pleaded. Second ring. Third. Fourth.

  “I have to!” I cried, freeing myself from his hold.

  “Oh, hi.” I groaned softly. “Yes, I’m right here. I can’t talk right now. It’s not a good time, Mom. Because I’m not alone. Yes, someone’s here. You don’t know the person. Yes, it’s a man. No. I won’t tell you his name.” I rolled my eyes at Uly. “Mom! I have to go. I’ll call you tomorrow. Please. Okay, I promise. I’m hanging up. Yes, Mom. I’ll double-lock the door after he leaves.”

  I hung up the receiver, sighing deeply as I sat down on the couch. “Speaking of—” I shook my head.

  “Aren’t you a little old to have your mother calling at this hour?” he asked.

  “She doesn’t think so. What can I say? She worries about me because I live alone.”

  “All survivors are overprotective,” he said. “Where were we?” He approached me.

  “The D.A.R.”

  “And I was trying to seduce you.” He ran his fingers under my sweater.

  I pulled away from him. “Can’t we just talk?”

  “Isn’t that what we’ve been doing for hours?” He looked down at his watch. “It’s eleven o’clock.”

  “Is there a time limit?”

  “I should probably go,” he said, turning impatient. “It’s getting late.”

  “No, don’t, Uly,” I said. “Not yet. I’ll be right back.”

  In the confessional of the bathroom mirror, I studied my face. What the hell was I doing? Did I really want to sleep with him tonight? I had told myself that I wasn’t going to do that anymore.

  The Liz Taylor eyes were mussed with black makeup, my lipstick clownish. Sure, I felt drawn to him. He was an attractive man. Still. I splashed water over my face and hands. The Holocaust professor waited for me.

  When I returned, Uly reclined on the couch. He had taken off his black boots, which stood up straight, invisible legs inside them.

  As I sat down on the couch, I couldn’t take my eyes off his boots. I imagined an SS officer inside them, wearing a long coat, a swastika armband on his sleeve. Uly pulled me to him, starting to kiss me again.

  I drew away from him. “Why do you wear those boots?”

  He looked perplexed. “You don’t like them?”

  “They’re Nazi boots.”

  “Zoe,” he said softly, trying to placate me. “I bought them at Florsheim’s on Broadway. A store owned by Jews,” he added in his defense. “On sale.”

  I picked them up. Heavy. The black leather hard. I dropped the boots behind the arm of the couch, out of sight.

  “Why don’t we take off our clothes?” he suggested. “Be naked together. Mano a mano.”

  “I have a little bit of grass,” I offered, stalling for time.

  “Oh.” His eyes twinkled. “Let’s stoke it up.”

  I went into one of my file cabinets, pulling out a plastic baggie. “Can you roll?” I asked.

  “Can I roll? You bet I can.” He threw himself into his task. Starting with an extra-large Bambu rolling paper, he rolled it into a perfect cylinder.

  “Voilà! Now we just need a flame.”

  “Right here.” I pulled a lighter from the baggie.

  We sat comfortably next to each other on the couch. He placed the joint in my mouth, held it while I inhaled, and then I put it in his mouth. Back and forth.

  “Mmmm . . . ” He lay his head back on the couch. “I don’t know about you, but I got buzzed.”

  I took another puff. “Me too.”

  “C’m’ere.” He pulled me to him.

  “Do you want to hear some music? I’ve got this great reissue of Miles Davis’s Kind of—”

  He stood up, loosening his tie, gray silk with a red stripe down its center. “Let’s just lie together. Nothing will happen you don’t want to happen. I promise, Zosha.”

  “I’m not ready.” I paused. “I feel too ambivalent.”

  “This is ridiculous,” he said angrily. He pulled his tie off, rolling it up like a snake in his hand. “It’s time for me to split.” He reached over the bolster for his boots.

  “No!” I implored. “Couldn’t you just stay for a few more minutes? Tell me to take my clothes off—again,” I whispered.

  “Take my clothes off,” Uly ordered.

  I moved over to his lap, opening the buttons of his shirt. He placed my hand so I could feel his hardness straining against the fabric of his pants.

  At that moment, I felt my power. I could do what I wanted with him. It was a delicious thought: how much he needed me. I could withdraw my hand.
I could tell him to go to hell. I could, but I didn’t. He could kill me. I placed myself squarely on top of him, grinding into his hardness.

  “Zosha,” he sighed.

  That was the clincher. I relaxed into his arms, letting him take off my sweater. “Let’s get rid of these too.” My leather skirt. He nearly ripped my lace panties.

  “Uly—”

  “No talk,” he said, reaching over to pick up his tie from the floor. He slipped it around my neck.

  We began to kiss again. Light, flirty kisses. Tongues teasing. Probing. Retreating.

  Slowly, serpentine, he draped his tie around the back of my neck, swirling it like a sash. Then he ran it down my back, over my bare buttocks. Starting over again, my neck, my back, beginning to run his tie between my legs, then withdrawing.

  “Does it excite you?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I whispered, trying to grab the tie with my thighs, holding it there. He pulled it. I started to grind as he lashed the tie between my thighs.

  “I love the way you move your ass,” he muttered.

  Grabbing the ends, he began to whip the tie over me. Back and forth. Sawing me in half like a magician. Oh, the sensation of the rope.

  “You don’t like that much, do you?”

  “Don’t stop.”

  He was the master. Ubermensch. Superman. So powerful. It was 1942. I was a prisoner. Jew. Whore. The ends swished against my thighs. I clasped the tie between my legs. He pulled it tighter, caressing me softly. I pressed his hands hard against my breasts.

  “Is that what you want?”

  “Tak,” I answered him in Polish. Yes.

  He turned me over, the tie wrapped between my legs.

  “Don’t stop,” I repeated breathlessly.

  He had selected me from the others. If I made him love me, he’d take me through the war. I would survive. He could give me Jewish babies.

  Uly ran his tongue back and forth. Now his fingers reached inside to zero in on my hardness. I pressed against his finger, tongue, mashing against him as I started to come.

  He climbed behind me. “I’ve got something for you, my little refugee,” he whispered. “This comes all the way from Oswiecim.”

  He entered me slowly. His body tensed as he started his pounding, which was hard and fast, pounding against me.

  Afterward, as he slept next to me, I watched him. My rescuer! He had known me as an outsider could never know me. Once he opened his eyes, still asleep. My blood brother. I dozed for several hours, his leg flanking mine.

  It was a familiar dream. The locks were forced, the door to my apartment opening slowly. I could see the silhouette of a man, stalking across the studio. As he approached my bed, I could see a knife in his hand. I was about to scream. That’s when I woke up. The bed was empty next to me.

  “Uly,” I called in the dark.

  “I’m right here.”

  My eyes adjusted, seeing his figure bent over.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “I’ve got to go.”

  I switched on the reading light, glancing at the clock. Two-thirty. “Why are you leaving?”

  He reached to pick up his tie. My tie. I longed to keep it as a memento.

  “I’ve got to go.” He coiled the tie, dropping it into his jacket pocket.

  “Why?” I sat up.

  “Because I have to get up early tomorrow. Actually, in a few hours.”

  “There’s an alarm.” I climbed out of bed. “Don’t go yet.”

  He sat down on the bed, pulling on his boot. “Zoe, did you see my other boot?”

  “I don’t get it.” I sat down next to him, pulling a T-shirt over my nakedness. “Why do you have to leave? It’s not as if you live with someone.”

  He nodded ruefully. “I thought you knew.” He bent over to reach his other boot under the bed. He looked up at me. “Everyone knows it. I did think you were aware of Maria—”

  “Maria?”

  “She converted, and is actually more religious than me,” he said. “She lights candles on Friday night.”

  “Does your girlfriend know about—this?”

  “No, of course not.” He looked grimly at me. “I’m sorry, Zoe. I thought you knew. She’s my wife.”

  “Why don’t you wear a fucking ring!”

  “We don’t have that kind of marriage,” he began.

  That’s when I looked down at the despised black boots. How could I have given myself to this Nazi, this married Nazi Jew! I kicked one of the boots with my bare foot, bruising my big toe.

  “Zoe, you’re a terrific woman,” he continued. “You’re young, so you don’t know that yet.”

  “I get it,” I said, waking from my dream. “I’m the Jewish girl you screw after your Holocaust lecture.”

  “Look, I told you, I’m attracted to you.”

  “Yes, I know. My Zivia Lubetkin hair.”

  “And you’re attracted to me.” He reached out to hold me.

  “Uh-uh.” I pulled away from him.

  “Grow up, Zoe,” he said, then added, “Does it really matter? I have a long marriage. We’re more roommates than anything. We have no children. Actually, it’s quite sad.”

  I was taken aback for a moment. What about the Jewish babies?

  “Look, I’m not the prick you think I am. Have you read my book?”

  I shook my head.

  He picked up his briefcase, snapped it open, pulling out Our Bodies, Not Our Souls.

  He handed me his book, then took it back. “Wait, I want to write something.” Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he bent down, his thick hair falling over his forehead. He looked up at me momentarily, pushed the hair from his face, then began to write. “Here.”

  I turned to the title page. “Welcome to the club. Uly Oppenheim.”

  “What club is that?” I asked, paging to the table of contents. “You mean like Gertrud F. and Eva Z.?”

  “We’re the ones left holding the bag,” he said gravely.

  I slammed the book shut, returning it to him. “Not me,” I said, shaking my head. “Not my club. This was just temporary insanity.”

  I stepped over my black leather skirt, red sweater, my panties splayed grotesquely.

  “No matter what you do, you’re stuck with the Holocaust. So is the rest of the world. But you, Zosha, have a special task.”

  “Is this supposed to be some sort of lesson from the Holocaust professor?”

  “You’re a smart kid.” He patted me on the ass. “You know those files of yours—” He raised those hairy brows of his. “Write something.”

  I met his stare. “What makes you think I haven’t?”

  TRIPTYCH

  The phone rang. No one. I dropped the receiver, threw the blanket over my head. Still ringing! I picked up and heard a dial tone.

  I tumbled out of bed, ran into the kitchen, and pressed the downstairs TALK button. “Who is it?” I called.

  “Zosha,” the garbled voice screeched. “Your father and me are standing already here ten minutes. Open up already!”

  Saturday morning. How can they do this to me? I buzzed them into the building, then raced into the bathroom.

  Dammit! I ran cold water over my face. What do they want? I looked in the mirror. Last night’s mascara was smudged around my eyes like bruises.

  My mother was panting as she climbed the final steps, a shopping bag clutched in her hand. She stopped to catch her breath, then said, “I can’t see why you don’t have an elevator like a human being.”

  My mother’s hair, dyed dull beige like all of her cronies’, was teased in a bouffant with wings. She wore a two-piece lavender ensemble she’d sewn herself, turquoise beads and earrings, pale stockings, heels.

  I looked down at myself, standing there barefoot and wild-haired, my ancient chenille robe falling apart.

  Heniek followed flatfootedly behind. In contrast to my mother’s getup, he looked like a Ben Shahn drawing of a working man in American clothes. A blunt hat with
a feather covered his head as he bent over, checking his watch with a jagged flick of his wrist.

  “Couldn’t you at least call first?” I finally said, tying the frayed belt of my bathrobe.

  “What, are we strangers?” Genia demanded. She leaned toward me, trying to push a stray hair out of my eyes.

  “That’s not the point,” I snapped, throwing my mother’s hand off. What if I was with someone? They had no respect for my privacy. An obscene, ungrateful word. “Normal people call before they burst in on you first thing in the morning,” I insisted.

  “Pish, posh,” Genia answered. “You’re such a fancy lady we have to make an appointment?”

  They stood in the hallway outside my apartment, my family, bathed in acid green lighting.

  “So we can come in?” Genia said finally. “Here.” She passed me the heavy shopping bag.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “Wait,” she said. “First I go to the toilet.”

  Genia never entered a place without rushing to the bathroom. Once she had been forced to pee in the pushka, and then only when the women guards in the camp gave her permission. Now Genia knew where the ladies rooms were in every major department store as well as hotel and restaurant in the city.

  Heniek sat on the couch, picked up a magazine, then a book, Our Bodies, Not Our Souls by Uly Oppenheim, Ph.D. The cover was a real grabber with its vivid red letters and the black garter with a swastika.

  “What’s this?” he asked, beginning to leaf through the pages. My father read everything written about the war.

  “I met the author. He gave me a copy,” I answered. “It’s about brothels in the camps.”

  “It’s not a lie,” he said. “Such things happened. Believe me, I saw much worse than that.”

  “You have the day off?” I asked, attempting the impossible: to engage my father in a conversation.

  He didn’t hear, flipping the pages.

  “You’re not working?” I repeated.

  Without looking up, he said, “You want me to go?”

  “Of course not,” I said pleasantly. “Do you want tea, Dad?”

  “Don’t bother.”

  “It’s no bother.” I filled the kettle.

  “I don’t want nothing.”

  “Look, I’m making it anyway. If you want something . . . ”