Read Online Hope: A Tragedy by Shalom Auslander - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Shalom Auslander
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he say? asked Kugel.
After a moment she replied: He said, Fuck you.
Kugel turned to her; she had finished packing up the boxes and was now pushing them with her back toward the wall.
I was taken aback, she continued, as you can imagine, and so I repeated myself, assuming he’d misheard me. I’m Anne Frank, I said. Who isn’t? he replied. As it turned out, there had been, ever since the diary was published, a steady stream of girls in to see this publisher, day in, day out, all claiming to be me, all wanting a piece of the royalties. I recalled as he told me this seeing some other girls my age in the waiting area outside his office—some tall, some short, some fat, some thin—all of them, though, wearing as downcast and maudlin a countenance as they could manage, much as they imagined the woeful little girl from the attic would. The editor, naturally, thought I was a fraud as well, but when I told him about the parts of the diary my father had edited out—parts only I, back then, could have known about—he saw that I was indeed who I claimed to be. And do you know what he said then?
Fuck you? offered Kugel.
She fixed her eye on him once more.
He closed his office door, she said, sat me down in his chair and said, Stay dead.
Having finished righting all the boxes, the old lady pulled herself back along the floor to the western wall and scurried behind it. When she was gone from view, Kugel went to the boxes and began lifting them, one by one, back into place.
He said, Mr. Kugel, the anger in her voice beginning to rise, that nobody wants a live Anne Frank. They want a martyr, they want to know we’ve hit bottom. That it gets better, because it can’t get worse. They want to know that we can rise like a phoenix from our own fiery human ashes. But tell me, Mr. Kugel, what is the point of a phoenix rising if all it ever does is gaze down with perverse longing at its own torched reliquiae? Stay down, you miserable bastard bird, stay down! The glory was in rising, fool, not in having burned! We all burn, everyone burns. Burning doesn’t make you special!
She was shouting now, and Kugel stepped back from the wall.
He went to his desk, Mr. Kugel, held up a copy of that goddamned diary, with that goddamned smiling child on the goddamned cover, and said, They don’t want you. They want
her
.
Mother called out for him again.
Sol, please, I’m frightened!
Kugel took the shopping list in his hand, pressed it into his pocket, and headed for the stairs.
I told him I was working on a novel, Anne Frank called out loudly after him. Do you know what Mr. Editor did then, Mr. Kugel? He laughed! Stay dead, he repeated, stay dead! I’m a writer, Mr. Kugel! I am not a child! I’m not some goddamned memoirist! I am a writer! Thirty-two million copies, Mr. Kugel, that’s nothing to sneeze at! I will leave this attic when I finish this book, and not one moment sooner! Not one moment sooner! I am a writer, Mr. Kugel, do you hear me! A writer!
Kugel headed down the stairs.
Matzoh! Anne Frank shouted after him. Get me my matzoh!
Kugel folded the stairs and let the attic door close with a crash.
He enjoyed the silence that followed.
Mother called again.
Sol, please! I’m frightened!
Anne Frank, Kugel muttered to himself as he headed outside to rescue Mother from her garden.
That’s all I fucking need.
8.
THE SUN WAS IN THE SKY like a something. The breeze blew like a whatever.
I was so frightened, said Mother.
The gate’s right here, said Kugel. You just have to push.
He demonstrated the proper technique for her as they left the garden.
See? Like this, Mother, it’s not complicated. I got no sleep last night, Mother, and there’s a very complicated issue I’m dealing with, okay, very thorny, a lot of very sensitive . . . you know? I don’t need to be rushing out here every . . .
Pull going in, push coming out, Mother said with a shake of her head. Everywhere else it’s push going in and pull going
After a moment she replied: He said, Fuck you.
Kugel turned to her; she had finished packing up the boxes and was now pushing them with her back toward the wall.
I was taken aback, she continued, as you can imagine, and so I repeated myself, assuming he’d misheard me. I’m Anne Frank, I said. Who isn’t? he replied. As it turned out, there had been, ever since the diary was published, a steady stream of girls in to see this publisher, day in, day out, all claiming to be me, all wanting a piece of the royalties. I recalled as he told me this seeing some other girls my age in the waiting area outside his office—some tall, some short, some fat, some thin—all of them, though, wearing as downcast and maudlin a countenance as they could manage, much as they imagined the woeful little girl from the attic would. The editor, naturally, thought I was a fraud as well, but when I told him about the parts of the diary my father had edited out—parts only I, back then, could have known about—he saw that I was indeed who I claimed to be. And do you know what he said then?
Fuck you? offered Kugel.
She fixed her eye on him once more.
He closed his office door, she said, sat me down in his chair and said, Stay dead.
Having finished righting all the boxes, the old lady pulled herself back along the floor to the western wall and scurried behind it. When she was gone from view, Kugel went to the boxes and began lifting them, one by one, back into place.
He said, Mr. Kugel, the anger in her voice beginning to rise, that nobody wants a live Anne Frank. They want a martyr, they want to know we’ve hit bottom. That it gets better, because it can’t get worse. They want to know that we can rise like a phoenix from our own fiery human ashes. But tell me, Mr. Kugel, what is the point of a phoenix rising if all it ever does is gaze down with perverse longing at its own torched reliquiae? Stay down, you miserable bastard bird, stay down! The glory was in rising, fool, not in having burned! We all burn, everyone burns. Burning doesn’t make you special!
She was shouting now, and Kugel stepped back from the wall.
He went to his desk, Mr. Kugel, held up a copy of that goddamned diary, with that goddamned smiling child on the goddamned cover, and said, They don’t want you. They want
her
.
Mother called out for him again.
Sol, please, I’m frightened!
Kugel took the shopping list in his hand, pressed it into his pocket, and headed for the stairs.
I told him I was working on a novel, Anne Frank called out loudly after him. Do you know what Mr. Editor did then, Mr. Kugel? He laughed! Stay dead, he repeated, stay dead! I’m a writer, Mr. Kugel! I am not a child! I’m not some goddamned memoirist! I am a writer! Thirty-two million copies, Mr. Kugel, that’s nothing to sneeze at! I will leave this attic when I finish this book, and not one moment sooner! Not one moment sooner! I am a writer, Mr. Kugel, do you hear me! A writer!
Kugel headed down the stairs.
Matzoh! Anne Frank shouted after him. Get me my matzoh!
Kugel folded the stairs and let the attic door close with a crash.
He enjoyed the silence that followed.
Mother called again.
Sol, please! I’m frightened!
Anne Frank, Kugel muttered to himself as he headed outside to rescue Mother from her garden.
That’s all I fucking need.
8.
THE SUN WAS IN THE SKY like a something. The breeze blew like a whatever.
I was so frightened, said Mother.
The gate’s right here, said Kugel. You just have to push.
He demonstrated the proper technique for her as they left the garden.
See? Like this, Mother, it’s not complicated. I got no sleep last night, Mother, and there’s a very complicated issue I’m dealing with, okay, very thorny, a lot of very sensitive . . . you know? I don’t need to be rushing out here every . . .
Pull going in, push coming out, Mother said with a shake of her head. Everywhere else it’s push going in and pull going
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