Read Online Hope: A Tragedy by Shalom Auslander - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Shalom Auslander
Ads: Link
out. They did it on purpose, those Germans, to torture me, to drive me mad.
I built that garden for you, Mother, not the Germans.
Ever since the war, she said softly.
He put his arm around her shoulders and they made their way back to the house.
I know, said Kugel.
Kugel was a small boy, no older than six years old, when he woke up one morning to find his father gone. In the days and months that followed, Mother’s explanation for Father’s absence varied. Sometimes she told Kugel that he simply disappeared; sometimes she told him he had died; sometimes she told him he had been murdered. Wrong place at the wrong time, she said. All Kugel knew for certain, then as now, was that he was gone. Life was good, and then, one day, it was bad. It was evening, it was morning, it sucked. Kugel sometimes wondered if it would have been better if Father had left sooner, if Kugel had never known him, never known that happier time. According to Professor Jove, it was the knowing that there had been a happy time, a place of joy and peace and security, that made the sudden absence of it all so agonizing for young Kugel. Not the agony of what was, but the agony of what was no longer; this was the source of all life’s pain—not the fear of a hell to come, but rather the knowledge of an Eden that is no more. Hell isn’t the punishment, said Professor Jove. Eden was.
Whatever happened to Father, it caused Mother to hate him, utterly and completely, and she wanted Kugel to hate him, too, and so Kugel did. Mother was hurt, and sad, and suffering a pain that young Kugel could not ease. Suddenly she was a single mother with two small children—Kugel was six, and Hannah, his younger sister, was not yet two—and because there had been no body, no death, there were no life insurance moneys, either. Overnight, it seemed to young Kugel, Mother became older, wearier, and try as he might to cheer her up—no matter how many chores he did, no matter how well he did in school—nothing seemed to help. Hating Father was the least young Kugel could do. It was also the most he could do. Hatred was all he could offer her. And so he did.
It was soon after that Mother first began referring to the war. The first time Kugel recalled hearing about it was the day after they moved into that small city apartment; Mother had left some of the cardboard boxes in the stairway, and Mr. Rosner pounded on the front door, citing all manner of violations and shouting all manner of threats. Mother opened the door, shook her head, apologized and said, in a soft voice, as Mr. Rosner’s tirade finally drew to a close, Ever since the war.
This seemed to extinguish the fire in Mr. Rosner’s heart, and he put his hands on his hips and shook his head.
It’s okay, Mr. Rosner said.
Those sons of bitches, said Mother.
It’s okay, he said.
Mother was Kugel’s whole world now, and he loved her dearly. He admired her strength, her resilience, how quickly she silenced that pig Rosner. So it didn’t surprise young Kugel to learn that Mother was a war hero; she was a hero to him already.
Kugel never asked Mother which war she was referring to, or why Mr. Rosner would care as much as he did. Her references were vague: Those sons of bitches, she said, or Such cruelty, or Whole families destroyed, or Never again. Some nights, she would come into young Kugel’s bedroom, sit on the edge of his bed, and tell him violent tales of riots and torture and pogroms.
What are pogroms? asked young Kugel.
One evening, when Kugel was eight years old, Mother came to his bedroom, brushed the hair from his brow, and told him that it was time he learned about a terrible place known as Buchenwald. She had a large book with her called
The Holocaust
, and she showed him the photographs inside: of mass graves, starved prisoners, piles of naked corpses.
That’s your uncle, she would say.
That’s your grandfather’s sister.
That’s your cousin’s father.
What’s that? Kugel asked,
I built that garden for you, Mother, not the Germans.
Ever since the war, she said softly.
He put his arm around her shoulders and they made their way back to the house.
I know, said Kugel.
Kugel was a small boy, no older than six years old, when he woke up one morning to find his father gone. In the days and months that followed, Mother’s explanation for Father’s absence varied. Sometimes she told Kugel that he simply disappeared; sometimes she told him he had died; sometimes she told him he had been murdered. Wrong place at the wrong time, she said. All Kugel knew for certain, then as now, was that he was gone. Life was good, and then, one day, it was bad. It was evening, it was morning, it sucked. Kugel sometimes wondered if it would have been better if Father had left sooner, if Kugel had never known him, never known that happier time. According to Professor Jove, it was the knowing that there had been a happy time, a place of joy and peace and security, that made the sudden absence of it all so agonizing for young Kugel. Not the agony of what was, but the agony of what was no longer; this was the source of all life’s pain—not the fear of a hell to come, but rather the knowledge of an Eden that is no more. Hell isn’t the punishment, said Professor Jove. Eden was.
Whatever happened to Father, it caused Mother to hate him, utterly and completely, and she wanted Kugel to hate him, too, and so Kugel did. Mother was hurt, and sad, and suffering a pain that young Kugel could not ease. Suddenly she was a single mother with two small children—Kugel was six, and Hannah, his younger sister, was not yet two—and because there had been no body, no death, there were no life insurance moneys, either. Overnight, it seemed to young Kugel, Mother became older, wearier, and try as he might to cheer her up—no matter how many chores he did, no matter how well he did in school—nothing seemed to help. Hating Father was the least young Kugel could do. It was also the most he could do. Hatred was all he could offer her. And so he did.
It was soon after that Mother first began referring to the war. The first time Kugel recalled hearing about it was the day after they moved into that small city apartment; Mother had left some of the cardboard boxes in the stairway, and Mr. Rosner pounded on the front door, citing all manner of violations and shouting all manner of threats. Mother opened the door, shook her head, apologized and said, in a soft voice, as Mr. Rosner’s tirade finally drew to a close, Ever since the war.
This seemed to extinguish the fire in Mr. Rosner’s heart, and he put his hands on his hips and shook his head.
It’s okay, Mr. Rosner said.
Those sons of bitches, said Mother.
It’s okay, he said.
Mother was Kugel’s whole world now, and he loved her dearly. He admired her strength, her resilience, how quickly she silenced that pig Rosner. So it didn’t surprise young Kugel to learn that Mother was a war hero; she was a hero to him already.
Kugel never asked Mother which war she was referring to, or why Mr. Rosner would care as much as he did. Her references were vague: Those sons of bitches, she said, or Such cruelty, or Whole families destroyed, or Never again. Some nights, she would come into young Kugel’s bedroom, sit on the edge of his bed, and tell him violent tales of riots and torture and pogroms.
What are pogroms? asked young Kugel.
One evening, when Kugel was eight years old, Mother came to his bedroom, brushed the hair from his brow, and told him that it was time he learned about a terrible place known as Buchenwald. She had a large book with her called
The Holocaust
, and she showed him the photographs inside: of mass graves, starved prisoners, piles of naked corpses.
That’s your uncle, she would say.
That’s your grandfather’s sister.
That’s your cousin’s father.
What’s that? Kugel asked,
Similar Books
