Her long fingers guided a wisp of white hair behind her ear, and the scar that stretched from the corner of her left eye down to her mouth glared at

Transcription

1 CHAPTER 1 Icouldn t pry my eyes away from the wrinkled skin of her forearm It could have been somebody s zip code, guiding letters, bills, and tons of junk mail to people s houses. It could bring birthday greetings and Christmas cards, and sometimes it could deliver news that we just don t want to hear. It might show where a lot of people live when it s on an envelope, with a stamp parked neatly in the corner. But this number wasn t on an envelope. It didn t delight anyone with news about a new baby or winning the lottery. It had nothing to do with where people lived. It s tattooed on an old woman s arm, and it s from a camp of torture where a lot of people died. And like always, when I visited my grandmother at the nursing home this afternoon, the number hypnotized me. Oma snored lightly, and my eyes lingered on those five digits on her translucent skin, almost transparent in the overhead industrial lighting. They told me more than she ever had about her time in Auschwitz. And I had tried. I d ask her about the camps, she d talk to me about tents. I d mention Nazis, she d bring up the National Guard. I d say something about gas chambers, she d talk about the rising prices at the gas pump. So, I stood staring at the number on her arm and at the scar from a deep gash right in front of the 2. Puddles formed under my arms when I thought about why I was there. Visiting was never fun more like a grandson s obligation. But today the stakes were high. My fingers played with the frayed edge of the pink blanket, and then my gaze wandered up to her face. She was staring at me with eyes like warm, blue ice. I almost peed myself. Jeez, Oma! You trying to scare me to death? When did you wake up? The eyes sparkled. You d prefer maybe that I did not? Not funny. When you leave here, you should maybe be a stand-up comic.

2 Her long fingers guided a wisp of white hair behind her ear, and the scar that stretched from the corner of her left eye down to her mouth glared at me. I looked away, and when Oma shifted in the bed, the strong smell of her gardenia-scented bath soap washed over me like a tidal wave. My sneakers squealed on the tile floor when I shifted from foot to foot. I looked back at her face. She stared at me hard. Something on your mind, child. I can always see it. That crooked little grin gets even crookeder. The time had come now or never. I crossed my arms over my chest. Well, actually, yes I heard and hated the squeak in my voice. Speak. She took my hand in both of hers. They felt weak but warm. It s like this, Oma. In social studies class we re starting a unit on well, on World War II and I was wondering Her gaze shifted to the window, and she dropped my hand. You ever notice that window looks out on nothing? I looked over at the window but didn t answer. How could a window look out on nothing? The room grew quiet except for the humming of the fluorescent lights. Finally she sighed and said, You mean you re going to study the Jews. She blinked rapid fire about five times. Yeah, well I just wondered if I could ask you some questions, sort of interview you. Her lunch tray with its remnants caught my eye. The lime Jell-O looked sort of like bright green puke. And the chicken well, I appreciated the gardenia smell. Interview me? You think maybe I m a movie star? This is a fancy spa I m relaxing in instead of a place where old people come to finish out their days? With this broken-down junk they call furniture? Her skinny hand pointed across the room. Look at that dresser with the drawer that won t close, so it looks like it s always sticking its tongue at me! I turned to the dresser and almost stuck my tongue back out at it. This wasn t going exactly like I had hoped. I tried to get a grip. You know, you could tell me some things about what it was like. What it was like? Why a teacher would want kids today to know what it was like, I ll never understand. She looked back to me, but the eyes had stopped sparkling. No, child. Some things are better left in the past. My stomach twisted and turned, and I pushed my sleeves up a little. Oma s hands shook, and her scar jutted out like a welt against her pale skin. That couldn t be good for her health. And I had done this why? Because some cool kids back at school were depending on me to come up with a killer project because I had a grandma who had survived Auschwitz? Really? My hand reached for hers. It felt cold as snow. Her eyes cloudy now looked through me, and it sounded like she was breathing underwater. Little drops of drool spilled out of the corner of her mouth next to the scar. But, Oma just a few questions

3 No! The thunder in her voice made me jump. First that she would shout at me and second that she was strong enough to shout at all. No! For that you must look elsewhere. She shook her head back and forth. Oh, Markus, this has been my burden alone all these years. It would be a sin to unload it on my only grandchild now! Her gaze dropped to her chest. Oma, I didn t mean I didn t have a clue how to finish the sentence. What did I mean? Leave it alone, child! So many things you are better off never knowing about. My skin prickled when I saw a tear run along her scar like a drop of water terrified of being consumed by the desert. Please, leave it alone. Then she closed her eyes and turned away. I knew that the interview had ended. And her breath still came in rasps. I tiptoed into the bathroom so I wouldn t have to swing by the gas station on the way home, and I stopped at the mirror. The little kid peering back at me looked so different from Oma in her bed. I figured that someday I would have her white hair, but for now, I pushed the reddish-brown mess away from my face and hooked it behind my ears. I looked at my cheek. No scar there. And when I pictured Oma in the bed in the next room, I saw guilt in those ridiculous green eyes glaring back at me accusingly. I loosened my hair again and let it fall in my face. * * * When I left Oma s room a few minutes later, she was snoring again. Old ladies aren t supposed to snore, but I welcomed the sound. She was asleep, and at least her chest rose and fell as regular as a metronome. As I crept out the door, I had the crap scared out of me for the second time that day when I ran headfirst into Lucy, one of Oma s nurses. She and Mom had gone to nursing school together, and she had babysat me back in the day. Because of our heights, my nose hit her at a pretty embarrassing spot, and my face went lava-hot. She just laughed. That color clashes with your hair, Marky, she said. At least when I get old, my hair will look better when I blush. Um, sorry, Lucy. I was trying to be quiet. I didn t want to wake her up. Lucy gave me one of those I understand smiles and put her hand on my shoulder. I thought that was just one of those comforting gestures that grown-ups make until I felt her steering me over to a couple of chairs. She gave me a little nudge, which didn t work, so the nudge turned into a shove, and I landed in one of the chairs with a plop. Um, Lucy? I was just leaving. I stood up. Oh, sit for a while. Let s talk. I don t want to sit. Sit.

4 I sat. The fake leather was cold, just like the whiter-than-white walls, and I longed for the butt warmers in Mom s Volvo. Lucy looked at me. Marky, you know that your grandmother s health is bad, don t you? Duh. If she weren t sick, we wouldn t have moved her in here. Yeah, I know, but Lucy kept right on going. What you saw in there was labored breathing. When people get older, they sometimes react that way when they get overexcited. You heard that? I was right outside the door. I looked down at the shiny, ugly tiled floors. The guilt that had been stalking me pounced like a lion on a gazelle. Marky? I forced myself to look at her. I know you want what s best for your grandmother, so you can t get her too excited. Yeah, I know. But I just wanted her to talk to me about her time in the camp. It s for a social studies project. And what did she say? Didn t you hear? I used my sarcastic tone. Yes, but I want to make sure you did. So, tell me. That I should forget it. Leave it alone. It s better not to know about these things. I looked directly at Lucy. But how can it be better not to know the truth about history? Lucy s blood-red fingernails pushed the hair out of my eyes. Marky, just because your grandmother lived through it doesn t mean that her version of it would be the truth. Maybe I hadn t heard right. She thought Oma would lie? Before I could say a word, Lucy put her fingertip on my lips. Truth and history can be really confusing. What do you do when you hear two totally different versions of the same story? How do you know which one represents the truth? My anger from today s social studies class flooded back. You sound like this jerk in school who says that the Holocaust never happened! Her eyes widened. No. No, that s not what I meant. It s just Her fingers fiddled with the starched white collar of her uniform. Well, the point is that you can t upset your grandmother if you want her to stay as healthy as possible. I looked down and nodded. Then my blood froze over. As healthy as possible? What s that supposed to mean? Why not just plain old healthy? That s what I m trying to tell you, Marky. She s not well. She s an 85-year-old woman who s been through hell on earth in her life, and if she can t bring herself to talk about it, you have to respect that.

5 What about my project? She has to help me! A nurse walked by and chucked a dirty look my way. For the second time with Lucy, I felt my skin get hot. Um, sorry, Lucy it s not your fault. I want her to get better. I really do. I expected Lucy to give me a comforting look, but she didn t. She just looked at me like she would look at a grown-up which I had just shown I wasn t and frowned. What is it about this project that s so important? I stared at her. Well, the Holocaust IS important. We have to learn about it. Our social studies teacher told us about this philosopher who said that if we forget the truth, we ll repeat it. Santana, I think. Lucy grinned. Santayana. Santana had a rock group. Great guitarist. Whatever. Besides, you didn t answer my question. What is it about THIS project that s so important? Jeez, am I that transparent? Well, I have the chance to make some new friends, to work with some new people. Lame, Marky, really lame. Lucy looked at me, and I twisted the cord on my hoodie. Then she said, Let her get better, Markus. Let her decide how much to share. I stood two inches tall. I want her to get better, Lucy. It came out a whisper. I know you do, sweetie. We all do. So let her get as much rest as possible. She reached over the mussed my hair. From anyone else, it would have pissed me off. Now, hop on that bike of yours and head for home. * * * Compared to the seat on my bike, the cold chairs in the nursing home had felt like heating pads. Some snow-like stuff drizzled down, and there were unfamiliar shadows on familiar street corners. The empty house loomed over me in the darkness. I stowed my bike around back and let myself into the kitchen where Mom had left on a nightlight. Before I could even dump my backpack, a bundle of fur attacked me, all legs, feet, and cold wet tongue. My backpack hit the floor at the same time I did to wrestle with Woofus, the true head of the house. Fourteen-anda-half pounds of miniature poodle, apricot in color, which just means sort of strawberry blond. He panted and practically shook his rear end off for me. Being loved and wanted rocks. After I gave him a quick out and poured a hefty helping of kibbles in his bowl, I found Mom s note on the counter. Had to leave for the hospital. Casserole still warm in the oven. Love, Mom. I grinned. Even though her night shifts as head nurse in the psych ward kept her away most evenings, she always looked out for me. When I fished my dinner out of the oven, the heat singed the tips of my fingers, and I cursed. Woofus gave me an offended look. I plopped the casserole down on the granite surface

6 of the kitchen island. The smell of onions, garlic, and potatoes wafted toward me and warmed my chilled bones. After spooning out a heaping helping, I sat next to Woofus, and we both chowed down while I thought back to today s social studies class. Mr. Girard, our pretty OK social studies teacher, looked about 35 so he was old, but not ancient. He had lectured us about how we needed to treat the entire unit on the Holocaust with respect yadda, yadda, yadda. Like, who wouldn t? And he said that we d work in groups of two, three, or four, so when he gave us the signal to start getting our groups together, I headed across the room for my two BFF s. Barth and Keasha are like me B-list. He s the only 8 th -grade boy I know who has already come out as gay, and he s cool with it, so that makes me cool with it. Most people leave him alone, but there are always the macho-jocks who can t keep their big traps shut. But they don t know what to do with Barth. They want to stereotype him and everything, but he s a muscular athlete who puts some of them to shame on the field, so they re lost. And even though he was born to be attracted to guys, he won t give any of the jocks the time of day, and I sometimes wonder if they re not a little hurt. And Keasha she s one of the few African Americans at my lah-de-dah private school carries around a little extra poundage. She wears it well, but some of them just can t look past it. Anyway, we ve been friends for forever, and they know me better than anyone. They stood by me when things fell apart at home. So, I headed across the room, and halfway there Heather, Mitch, and Katherine, three of the definitely cool kids who are totally A-list, sprouted up in front of me. I tried to get around them, but they kept shuffling back and forth to block my way. I just stopped and stared at them. The girls were beauties, and Mitch was the epitome of what every eighth-grade boy wanted to be. Hollywood looks, great build, some scruff on his face, and a little chest hair already peeking up over his shirt collar. Very unlike yours truly. Markus, Heather said, like we were friends or something. We need a fourth for our group. She tilted her head and blinded me with her best bleached smile while her very manicured finger indicated that Mitch and Katherine were the other members of we. Then she ran her hand through her long, blond hair. Before I could open my mouth, Mitch, Mr. Jock-of-the-school, grabbed my hand and started pumping it up and down like a rusty well handle. Really? Eighth-graders shaking hands? Sup, Markus? he asked, and he treated me to a look at his own pearly whites while his grip tightened on my hand. I wrestled my arm away. Um, Mitch? Do you mind? That was my hand. Mitch looked at Heather and Katherine like he thought they might hit him. Ah, sorry, dude. He swallowed hard. Yeah, well, so are my fingers, I said, and I massaged my aching hand. I studied it to see if a bruise was forming. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Keasha and Barth looking in my direction.

7 Um, thanks, guys, but I ll be working with Barth and Keasha. Before I could take a step, they circled around me like a wagon train and started talking all at once. But it s good to work with new people once in a while. We could hang out after school and talk about the project. We could really use your help. You could come over to our houses to work on it. We d really like to work with your grandmother. I m sure she s so sweet. I stood rooted to the spot. Was this finally my chance? Before I could say another word, a couple of voices blasted through the din of conversations, and every head in the room snapped toward the front. Vernon Buford, tall, gangly, and generally obnoxious, stood nose to nose with Mr. Girard, who was ramrod straight and glared right back at Vernon. Vernon s pointy nose hovered about two inches from Mr. G. s. I can t help it if no one wants to work with me, Vernon shouted. No one wants to deal with the truth. Vernon, if you can t find a partner, you can do your project alone. Mr. G. kept his voice level and even. Should we ask the entire class if anyone wants to work with you? Vernon bit his lip. He sweated like a pig at a luau, but he couldn t back down. Yeah, that s cool. He turned to the class and cleared his throat with a hawking sound. My dad studies history. He knows about these things. He knows that the so-called Holocaust never happened. I m going to prove it with my project. Does anyone want to work with me to find the real truth? The whole time he talked, his eyes looked above and beyond the class members, not at them. A vacuum of silence sucked all of the energy out of the room. My blood rushed in my veins. Before I knew it, I started toward Vernon. He saw me coming. Oh, yeah, Markus, he sneered. We know all about your little old granny. She probably tattooed that number on her arm herself just for the attention! His voice sailed up an octave while he guffawed at what he clearly thought was a hilarious joke. Vernon! Mr. G. snapped. Just then a book sailed through the air and clocked Vernon on the side of the head. Some students gasped. Some hooted. Vernon let out a howl. The bell rang. Mr. G. cut in. Vernon, leave family members out of this. You have the right to do your project any way that you want to, but keep it civil or take the consequences. I said, You re going to let him do a project on THAT? My knees shook. What about respecting the Holocaust? Markus, it isn t whether we like a topic or not. It s all about the research. There are plenty of people out there with Vernon s viewpoint. They re called Holocaust deniers. We have to let him find out the truth on his own.

8 Hey, like excuse me, but someone just hit me in the head with a book? Vernon massaged his temple. I sure feel sorry for the book, Barth muttered. The bell rang. Class dismissed, Mr. Girard said. He started to mess with some papers on his desk, and I saw a little grin twitching around his mouth. I looked at Barth and Keasha but couldn t say anything. I did notice that Keasha s social studies book was nowhere to be seen on her desk. Heather and Mitch had put their hands on my shoulders and led me back to my seat to get my things. Vernon had stormed out of the room, and I just wanted the day to end so that I could visit Oma and get it over with. Sometimes school really sucks. So now my two best friends don t know what I m up to, three obnoxious A-listers are brownnosing me to get me to work with them, a Neanderthal in social studies thinks that everything Oma went through was a lie, my grandmother refuses to help me on my project, and I don t even have a topic yet. In other words, a pretty normal day for an 8 th -grader. But still to work with Heather, Mitch, and Katherine especially Katherine would be more than cool. I polished off the casserole, washed the dish, and went upstairs with Woofus prancing behind me, next to me, in front of me, and between my legs. After a little maneuvering, I lunged into my bedroom with no broken bones. My bedroom served as my haven. Dark green walls that reflected the morning sunlight into a halo of nature. No heavy old-fashioned furniture neat, modern, IKEA stuff only. Overloaded bookcases and a sleek computer desk. And a double bed such luxury! Ah, yes the spoils of marital discord. I wanted to research the Holocaust, but my brain was a sponge that someone had wrung out too tightly. I sat down in front of my computer but didn t boot up. Who was I kidding? Who was I to do a decent project? First, I don t do a thing about Vernon and his crap about the Holocaust. Then I leave Oma upset and sick. And my two best friends are waiting for me to work with them on our social studies project, but there s something about the idea of working with Heather, Kat, and Mitch. I flung myself across my bed and buried my head in my arms. Woofus curled up with me and put his snout on my arm. I opened my eyes and looked directly into his big brown ones. What would you do, boy? I scratched him behind the ears, and he wiggled in appreciation. What was he trying to tell me with his eyes? I kept talking, scratching, and looking at him. His little face was pure truth. And that truth hovered right in front of my eyes. A minute later, I jumped back to my computer desk so fast that Woofus woofed. I jabbed the power button so hard that I almost knocked the damned thing off the desk. Woofus and his total innocence had just given me the mother of all Holocaust projects I would take on the deniers.

9 If Vernon wanted to mess with me and Oma well, bring it! And I knew that Oma would help me. The picture I kept on my desk of Mom, Dad, Woofus, and me caught my eye. Two parents, one kid, and one puppy captive in a frame with four straight boundaries. Slide the picture out, and you hold an empty frame. It was much too easy to break those boundaries. And now that just the three of us lived in the house, it seemed empty all the time. I still see my dad from time to time, but big deal. I don t even know why it happened. After four years, shouldn t I be used to it? Whenever I ask, my mom talks about the funny things her psych patients do. Oh, well crazy is crazy. But none of that matters anymore. I m a man on a mission. No one can call Oma a fake and expect me to just sit there. I thought back to what Lucy had said at the nursing home. And I thought back to what Vernon had said in class. And I thought about what Woofus tells me every day. Different versions of the truth. * * * While spooking around on my computer later that evening, I stumbled across a website that made me gulp. It was like a support group for Holocaust survivors who wanted to track down other survivors. A brainstorm rocked me. If I could find someone who had known Oma in the camp, it might help her. She needed someone from the past, someone who had shared her pain, someone who could talk with her and maybe even help her to get stronger and healthier. Most of all, someone who could make her relax so she would be willing to help me. I worked for about a half hour to come up with the right posting: My grandmother, who was Sarah Goldberg in Auschwitz, is not in good health. I was hoping to find someone not too far from Baltimore who knew her in the camp and could visit her to cheer her up. She s going through a rough time and could use the support. I found a nice, grandmotherly picture of Oma in my pictures folder and attached it to my message. I studied my post for about ten minutes and knew that if I pushed the send button, it was done. I pushed the send button.

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