Michael A. Burstein - Kaddish.pdf - Michael A. Burstein - allforjesus2001

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First published in Analog Magazine, November 2000

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"The deniers’ window of opportunity will be enhanced in years to come. The public, particularly the

uneducated public, will be increasingly susceptible to Holocaust denial as survivors die.... Future

generations will not hear the story from people who can say ‘this is what happened to me . This is my

story.’ For them it will be part of the distant past and, consequently, more susceptible to revision and

denial."

—Deborah Lipstadt,

Denying the Holocaust (1994)

* * * *

Sarah Jacobson's hands shook as she parked her clunky Volkswagen across the street from the old

suburban house in which she had grown up. She sat there, breathing in the gas fumes from the idling

engine, as she watched the reporters swarm all over the front lawn.

Her boyfriend, Tom Holloway, sat next to her in the passenger seat. He stared at her for a moment, then

asked, “Ready?"

Sarah nodded. As she turned off the car's engine, Tom jumped out of the front seat, dashed around the

front of the car, and opened the driver's side door for her. For once, she was grateful for the

old-fashioned Southern charm. To think, when she'd first met him, she'd resented it.

Well, she didn't resent it now. Tom was positioning himself to fend off the horde of reporters, and she

was grateful for that too. Fortunately, no one had noticed, or else they had not yet connected Sarah to

the biggest news story of the week. Tom gave Sarah his hand, and she allowed him to help her out.

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She stretched as she got out of the car, feeling the warmth of the spring sunlight on her back. How

strange that she could enjoy it, on this morning of all mornings. She closed her eyes and took a deep

breath, listening to a bird singing in the distance.

Tom's voice intruded upon her brief peace. “Shall we?"

She gave him a small smile. “I guess so."

“OK.” Tom looked around, concentrating his gaze at the sea of reporters. “Lot of excitement for a small

town on Long Island,” he said. Sarah noticed that he was making no effort to suppress his Southern

accent; he knew how endearing she found it. “Hard to believe your grandfather's attracting all this

attention."

“Yeah,” Sarah replied. “I know.” She cocked an ear toward the reporters. “Listen."

One radio reporter, close enough to be heard, was speaking into her thumbnail recorder, taping

commentary for her story. “This is Paula Dietrich, reporting from Lawrence, Long Island, where Joshua

Cohen is dying. Born in Warsaw in the 1920s, Cohen—"

Tom whistled. “He's become a celebrity. Finally got his fifteen minutes of fame."

Sarah shrugged. They'd both studied Warhol. After all, they had both graduated from Harvard with

honors. “As far as I'm concerned, he's just my grandfather."

“Yeah, I know,” Tom said softly. “Sorry. You sure you're ready?"

“Ready as I'll ever be, I guess. If I can survive this, I can survive anything.” Sarah grabbed Tom's hand.

They walked off the sidewalk onto the path leading up to the front door. She braced herself for the

barrage.

One of the reporters glanced in their direction, and recognized Sarah. “It's the granddaughter!” he yelled,

and began running towards them. In seconds, all of the shouting, sweating journalists had descended

upon Sarah and Tom. The way they jostled at each other, trying to get better positions for recording their

images, reminded Sarah of a plague of locusts come to feed.

“We'd like to ask you—"

“May I ask you—"

“I have a question—"

“How do you feel?"

“Did you ever think—"

Tom shouted above the Babel of voices. “Please, everyone! Sarah just wants to get inside."

Obviously that was not good enough for the reporters. Instead, they used Tom's interruption to create

some semblance of order to their questioning. One reporter took the lead, and the others fell silent.

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“Ms. Jacobson, Trevor Hunt, USNA Online . Could you tell us what you're going through at the

moment?"

Sarah glanced at Tom and shrugged. It would be easier to answer a few of their questions first, she

decided, and then go inside. She looked directly into Hunt's right eye, which glowed red with the lens of

an implanted camera. “What anyone would go through when her grandfather is dying, I guess."

“But, Ms. Jacobson!” interjected the radio correspondent they had been listening to earlier. “The

circumstances of your grandfather's position—"

Sarah interrupted her. “Listen. I know what my grandfather is to the world, but to me, he's just my

grandfather. Now let me go say goodbye to him in peace. I promise I'll talk to you—all of you—later."

Apparently chastened, the reporters parted in front of Sarah and Tom, clearing the path to the front

door. As they walked up the path, a background murmuring began, like cats growling at each other over

their food. The reporters chatted with their colleagues or recorded views for their broadcasts. Tom

whispered to Sarah, “I'm really surprised. They're being more courteous than I would have guessed."

No sooner had Tom said that, when a small man stepped right in front of them, blocking their way. He

brushed back his sandy blond hair and asked, “Ms. Jacobson, why does your family continue to

perpetrate this hoax?"

The growling noises of conversation cut off, leaving nothing but the sounds of the cameras and

recorders.

At first Sarah thought he was a private citizen, and not a member of the media, as he carried no

recording devices and his eyes appeared normal. But a second glance exposed something far more

sinister. This man wore a memory recorder implant behind his right ear. His audience, whoever they

were, would be able to directly interface with his memories of confronting Sarah, over and over again.

As calmly as she could, Sarah said, “Excuse me?"

The man smiled. “I asked, given the fact that your grandfather, who lived a long and healthy life, is now

on his deathbed, why does your family feel the need to perpetuate the hoax of the Holocaust?"

Tom stepped forward, shouting, “Now, listen here, you—"

Sarah gently reached out and grabbed Tom's shoulder. “Tom, stop.” She turned to the man. “Excuse

me, but I didn't catch your name."

“Sorry. Maxwell Schwab, from the Institute for Historical Revision. I'm doing an article for our academic

journal.” He waved his hand at the other reporters. “We'd like to know why your family has gone to the

trouble of inviting the mass media here, pretending to the world that the Holocaust actually happened and

that your grandfather was a victim of this fictional event."

Tom pulled at her arm. “Come on, Sarah, we don't need to listen to this shi—this crap."

Sarah resisted. “No, wait.” She pivoted her body to face the reporter. “Mr. Schwab?"

“Yes?"

Page 3

Sarah slapped him on the face, hard, glad she'd studied self-defense. He staggered back, and fell onto

his backside. Sarah hoped it was painful enough to keep people from playing this memory.

Schwab sat there, unmoving, just staring at Sarah. No one bothered to pick him up.

She turned to Tom. “ Now , let's go inside."

No one else stopped them.

* * * *

The first thing that hit Sarah as she entered the house was the smell. The odor of stewing meat and

potatoes from the kitchen mixed with the old, musty smell that the house always seemed to have

whenever Sarah had returned from college. The living room seemed dark, and it took her a moment to

realize that all the shades were drawn, probably to keep the reporters from looking in.

She called out to her parents. “Hello? Dad? Mother?"

Her father called back, “In the kitchen, honey, be right out."

Sarah turned to Tom. “Are you going to be OK?"

Tom smiled, shrugged, and took Sarah's hand briefly. “Yeah, I've dealt with her before. It's not too

bad."

“She's not your mother, though."

The door to the kitchen swung open. Sarah's parents, Paul and Anna Jacobson, entered the living room.

Her father looked calm, cool, and collected, the way that he always looked. He wore a jacket and tie, in

stark contrast to the polo shirts and jeans which Tom and she were wearing. Sarah couldn't remember a

time when her father wasn't dressed so impeccably. Her mother, on the other hand, wore a sweatshirt

and sweatpants, as if dressing well was currently her last priority. She appeared frazzled, with her hair all

askew.

Tom greeted them with a simple hello. Sarah's father smiled at Tom, but her mother barely glanced in

Tom's direction.

There was a moment of silence, which her father broke. “Come, Tom, I need your help in the kitchen.

You can tell me how your family's doing back in Durham. And how about those Mets?"

The two men went through the slow swinging door, which creaked loudly until it finally shut, muffling

their awkward conversation about baseball. Sarah and her mother watched the door for a few seconds

after it had closed, and then Sarah turned to look at her mother. “I guess,” Sarah said, “I ought to go

upstairs and see Grampa."

Her mother sniffed. “Sure, go ahead. Do you want to bring your goyische boyfriend upstairs too?"

Damn , Sarah thought, she wasn't going to be reasonable. Surprise, surprise. “Mother, please—"

“And now you're living with him."

Shocked, Sarah took a deep breath. “I never told you that! How did you find out?"

Page 4

Her mother grinned. “Just now, Sarah. You may be my smart Harvard daughter, but you're not smarter

than me."

Sarah felt furious, but more with herself than with her mother. Anna Jacobson had done it again ,

pretending to know something so as to trick the information out of Sarah. Damn! How could she have

been so stupid? Well, as long as Mother had figured it out, Sarah might as well get everything out in the

open.

“I was going to tell you anyway, Mother. Today, in fact. Tom and I are living together. We have been

for a while now."

Her mother glared at her and Sarah said, “I don't care how you feel about it. And anyway, things are

different now."

“Such defiance,” her mother said, making clucking sounds with her tongue. “And things being different

isn't an excuse."

“You're right, Mother,” Sarah said as sarcastically as she could. “An economic depression is no excuse

for being unable to afford my own apartment."

“Now Sarah—"

“'Now Sarah,’ what ?” Sarah slammed the doorframe with her palm. “It's not like you have the money

to help out; you still live here , in the oldest house in the neighborhood. You can't even afford automatic

doors. Well, I can't afford to live by myself. No one right out of school can, not with our loans. And as it

is—” She paused for a moment, then took the plunge. “As it is, Tom and I will probably be getting

married soon anyway."

There. The big secret was out. Sarah studied her mother's face carefully; it seemed completely shut

down. Her mother just stared at her, stonily, not reacting. Finally, Sarah couldn't take the silence any

longer. “Well?” she asked. “Aren't you going to say something?"

Her mother sighed. “Sarah, it isn't Tom. He's a nice boy, and I do like him. But I—and your

father—would prefer that you marry someone Jewish."

“Why?"

“Why? What do you mean, why?"

“Exactly what I said, Mother.” She spoke crisply, trying to imitate the Cambridge accent of some of her

professors. “Why?"

Her mother looked over Sarah's shoulder. Was it possible she had never really considered this question

before? After a few seconds, Sarah's impatience got the better of her again. “Is it because of Grampa?

Because he's the last one?"

Her mother immediately replied, “No! It's because you're Jewish. And it surprises me you'd even think

of marrying someone who isn't."

Sarah shook her head and sighed. “You know, Mother, you shouldn't be so surprised. You never raised

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