“The Jewish holocaust was documented too,” said Christine.
“My dear young lady,” said Salmon, “let me tell you something. For every fact you claim or source you can give me about the Jewish holocaust I can provide another one to contradict it. I can give you sources explaining how it was impossible that so many people were killed. Impossible. And today, as I’m sure you know, a number of international scholars question the very nature of that particular event. Not just the magnitude of it but the very nature of it.”
“What do you mean the very nature of it?” said Christine.
“They are questioning whether it even happened,” said the young man who had spoken before.
“Whether it even happened?”
“That’s right. I’ve read a lot about this myself and it does get you thinking. But isn’t that what education is supposed to be about? To make people think?”
“What kind of thinking is it when you deny something happened when we know perfectly well that it did?” said Christine.
“The point,” said the Chair, “is to let people think for themselves and allow them to reach their own conclusions.”
“May I?” Salmon again. The Chair gave him a nod. “Current scholarship holds that Jews were persecuted by Nazi Germany. There is no debate about that. But there is debate … considerable debate on this matter I might add … as to how many were actually killed and also how they were killed. There is one view that says the Nazis never used gas chambers to kill Jews and other people. Let’s not forget that we’re not only talking about Jews. We’re also talking about Poles, Catholics, members of the clergy, homosexuals, intellectuals, communists, Gypsies … a lot of different people. It’s not only about the Jews.”
It was a speech.
“What about ovens?” said Christine.
“Oh please,” said the young man at the far end of the table.
“What about ovens?” Christine said again.
“I see where you’re going with this,” said Salmon. “At one time there were reports that scores of people were disposed of in ovens … burned alive … and that horrible experiments took place but many of those reports have since been discredited as being inaccurate or exaggerated. Why even the sworn testimony of some survivors themselves was shown to be full of inconsistencies.” He stopped and heaved a long sigh. “History evolves. It always evolves and the scholarship evolves as well. As more things come to light we are able to look at history … any period of history … with a more enhanced open mind.” Salmon looked straight at Christine. “Surely you’re aware that in some societies teaching of the Jewish holocaust is against the law?”
“You mean Arab countries?” Christine said.
“Yes and even in some school boards in the United States and Great Britain. For over thirty years now a number of boards in the United Kingdom haven’t taught anything about this matter at all for fear of upsetting an ever increasing number of Muslim students. Muslims comprise a large percentage of the student body in some of these boards and the students’ parents vehemently object to this sort of thing being taught in much the same way that you object to using this particular text in your history class. That’s what happens when we allow history to become … personal. What’s that text called again? The new one?”
“What text?” said Christine.
“The one you so strenuously object to using.”
“You mean the one we’re using now?”
“Yes. That one.”
“An Overview of the Twentieth and Twenty-First Centuries.”
“I see.” Salmon clasped his hands together and placed them on the table in front of him. “And who is the author of this book?”
Christine picked up the mini kindle and advanced her thumb through the pages to the front cover. “Oh my God,” she said.
There in small type was the name of John Salmon. One and the same.
“You wrote it?” she asked him.
“I’m afraid so.”
The Chair couldn’t hide her chuckling. “We have many items on our agenda today and I think we’ve given this piece of business more than due course. Christine Fisher has drafted a motion that will be tabled for consideration by the board. All of you have this draft at your disposal. Her draft motion is to replace the current Grade 8 history text and to begin searching for a new text from another publisher.”
“Can’t we just vote on it now?” said Salmon. “We all read it.”
There were nods around the table.
“Fine then,” said the Chair. “Let’s have a show of hands. All those in favor?”
Christine raised her hand, a meek form of protest. It was the only hand that went up.
“I’m afraid you don’t have a vote,” said the Chair. “This is confined to members of the board.”
“Sorry.”
“Opposed.”
It was unanimous.
“The draft motion is defeated.”
The Chair, implicit matriarch of the Upper Grand District School Board representing one hundred elementary and secondary schools in Wellington County, showed Christine a wan smile. “You’ll have to keep using that same text, I’m afraid. John’s. It might not be perfect but it’s the best one we’ve got. Thank you for coming today.”
12
The yellow taxi pulled up just past the front doors of the Greenwich Village Seniors Center. The driver spotted an elderly woman with a cane standing next to a man who looked even older than she was.
“Taxi?” he said.
The woman raised her cane, and the driver backed up his car to get as close as he could to them. She saw that he was middle-aged with a dark complexion. The side door of the taxi opened. The driver stayed behind the wheel, watching through his rear-view mirror as the old man helped the old woman navigate into the back seat.
“Arabs,” the woman whispered to the man. “They would never dream of getting out to help you into their cab. Not in a million years would they offer a hand.”
With the two of them inside and the car doors closed, the driver looked over his shoulder, awaiting instructions. A thick pane of glass separated the front of the car from the back.
“New York University School of Law, Forty Washington Square South. The building is called Vanderbilt Hall,” said Jack’s voice through the car’s speaker system. “It’s in Greenwich Village.”
“We’re in Greenwich Village,” said the driver.
“I know,” said Jack. “It’s not far.”
The driver smirked, slighted at the prospect of such a short fare. With the one-way streets and bumper-to-bumper traffic, it would take ten minutes for the trip and that only if he stretched things out. Walking would be faster, but this couple wasn’t walking anywhere.
“It’s the main building of the law school,” Jack said. “It’s the whole block between West Third and Washington Square South.”
“I know where it is,” said the driver.
“I’m glad you know.”
The woman steadied her cane between her knees, her hands clasped around the top. “This should be interesting,” she said to Jack as she settled in. “Do you think they’ll know who you are?”
“Why would they know me?”
“My nephew’s son knows who you are. He met with you, didn’t he, when he wrote that article?”
Jack nodded.
“That was a terrible thing he wrote and I’m going to tell him that.”
“He’s young. He doesn’t know any better.”
“Imagine writing what he did after all the things you told him.”
Jack shrugged.
“It’s not right. They think just because you’re a hundred years old you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The sound system was picking everything up. The driver peeked into his mirror, and scrutinized the face of the man in the back. “You’re a hundred years old?” he said.
“What was that?” Jack said, raising his head.
“You’re a hundred years o
ld?” the driver repeated in a louder voice.
Jack smiled. “Yes I am. They had a big party for me the other day but that was the other day. I’m working on my second hundred years now.”
The driver laughed as he inched his cab onto the roadway. The traffic, full of small electric taxis like his, was barely moving.
“Didn’t you tell him about Auschwitz?” the woman said to Jack. “And how everyone was starving to death? And about the gas chambers and the crematorium?”
“I did but I guess he didn’t believe me.”
The driver looked into his mirror again.
“I don’t understand how people can be so ignorant,” the woman went on. “And university students yet. What makes it so bad is he’s my nephew’s son. I wonder what’s going to happen at the debate today.”
“It’s not a debate,” said Jack. “It’s a panel discussion. But that’s why we’re going. To see what they have to say.”
“I’m not terribly hopeful.”
“They’re going to have some professors there and the president of the Jewish students association or whatever it’s called.”
“One would think he’d have something to say about it.”
The cab wasn’t moving. None of the cars were moving. The driver stared into his rear-view mirror.
“What was that you said about gas chambers?” he said.
“I beg your pardon?” said Jack.
“She said something about gas chambers.”
The woman lifted her cane and tapped it twice against the glass directly behind the driver’s head. “This man,” she said, motioning to Jack, “is a survivor of the Nazi death camp at Auschwitz. You’ve heard of Auschwitz, haven’t you?”
The driver just shrugged.
“My God,” the woman exclaimed at his apparent indifference.
“Can I ask you a question?” said Jack, leaning forward.
“Sure,” said the driver.
“Where are you from?”
“Iran.”
“When were you born?”
“Nineteen-ninety-five.”
“How long have you been in New York?”
“Nine years now. Almost.”
“And you’ve never heard of Auschwitz?” the woman asked him.
“Well …”
“Well what?” said the woman.
“I heard rumors.”
“Rumors?” the woman said.
“Yes. I heard a few things but that was only after I came here.”
“What about over there?” said Jack. “In Iran. Did you go to school in Iran?”
“Of course.”
“Did you ever learn anything about the holocaust or about the war when you were in Iran?”
“Which war? There are lots of wars.”
“World War II. Back in the nineteen hundreds.”
“World War II?”
“The Second World War. Isn’t that what they call it now?”
“No. We never studied that but the Great Holocaust? Sure. That happened the year before I came to America. Everyone knows about that but even that is exaggerated.”
“What do you mean?” said the woman.
“What you read in America isn’t what you read in Iran. There they print the truth. Over here it’s all propaganda. Can you deny it?”
“You’re talking about the Christian holocaust?” Jack said.
“That’s the only holocaust I know about.”
“And you think it’s exaggerated?”
“Of course. They say hundreds of thousands of Christians were murdered but that’s not true. Yes there were a few murders when some Christians started preaching about Jesus to the Muslim community but that’s all. It was only a handful.”
“I believe the number they claim is fifty thousand.”
“It’s not true. It’s all exaggerated. But they should never have been preaching to Muslims in the first place.”
“And what about the other holocaust? The Jewish holocaust.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Why not?”
“I never heard a thing about that until I came to this country. Now why is that the case? Maybe because it’s an American invention?”
The traffic was crawling along, giving the driver plenty of time to keep glancing into his rear-view mirror.
“This man is a survivor of the Jewish holocaust,” the woman said, raising her voice. “And that was the big one. Six million people.”
“I’m sorry,” the driver said, “but I don’t believe it. Look. If six million Jews were murdered how come there are so many Jews today? Where did they all come from? There must be six million Jews in New York City.”
“What kind of logic is that?” said the woman.
“There is another holocaust too,” said Jack. “More than a million Armenians were killed by the Turks in the early nineteen hundreds.”
“By Turkish Muslims?” said the driver.
“Yes.”
“Of course. What do you expect? It’s all lies. All of it.”
The woman was shaking her head from side to side.
“Do you mind if I ask you a question?” said the driver, looking into his mirror at the reflection of Jack.
“Sure.”
“How come no one here ever talks about Jews killing Muslims? What about that holocaust?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Jack.
“I’m talking about Jews killing Muslim babies. Muslims have lots of children and Jews try to kill as many of them as possible to keep the population down.”
“Where does this happen?”
“Wherever there are Jews.”
“I don’t think so,” said Jack.
“So you don’t believe it?”
“No.”
“And the same way I don’t believe the story about your Jewish holocaust either. It’s not true.”
The woman piped up. “Show him your arm,” she said to Jack.
“What?”
“Show him your arm.”
“I don’t want to.”
“What about your arm?” the driver said, glancing back again.
“He has a number stamped on his arm. It’s from the camp.”
“Really? Let me see it.”
“Show him,” she said to Jack. “Why don’t you? Then maybe he’ll believe you.”
Reluctantly, Jack removed his coat, peeled off his sweater, and rolled up his shirt sleeve. The driver had the cab at a complete standstill now. He turned around and looked through the glass partition.
There,” Jack said.
High up on his right arm was a letter followed by five numbers.
A-25073.
“How did you do that?” the driver said.
“He didn’t do it,” the woman said. “The Nazis did it.”
“How?”
Jack rolled his sleeve down and put his sweater back on. “They stuck a needle in me. It hurt.”
“You remember?” asked the driver.
“Of course.”
The woman seemed satisfied, but she didn’t know what the driver was thinking. He turned around to face the front and put his hands back on the steering wheel. Jack looked at his watch.
“The meeting is going to start soon and we’re stuck in all this traffic,” Jack said, leaning forward. “When are we going to get there?”
“We’ll be there in a few minutes,” the driver said. “There’s a lot of traffic. I can’t do much about that. Can I ask you something?”
“What?”
“If what you say is true how did you get out?”
“Now that is quite a story,” the woman said.
“You want to know?” Jack said, sliding his coat over his shoulders, and the driver said he did. “All right. If you want to know I’ll tell you. It was like this. I looked like an Aryan boy.”
“What’s that?”
“An Aryan? It means you’ve got blonde hair and blue eyes. A true German. When I was in the ghetto I used
to sneak out to the Aryan side to steal food and other things for my family. If anyone stopped me I just gave them a Hail Mary.”
“What’s that?” the driver said.
“Hail Mary,” Jack said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Jack went right into the Latin.
“Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc ete in hora mortis nostrae. Amen.”
Every syllable, every letter, was perfect. Jack sounded like a priest at mass. His woman friend was impressed, but she didn’t know about the driver.
“What’s that mean?” the driver asked, so Jack told him.
“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”
He said it without thinking. It was automatic. The driver was confused.
“Why would a Jew know something like that?” he said.
“Well,” said Jack, “in the ghetto at Lodz … that’s the city where I lived in Poland … I used to slip into a church on the Aryan side. It was one street over. Like I said I could pass for an Aryan boy so it wasn’t difficult. In the church there was a priest … Father Kasinski … a wonderful man … and he taught me the prayers. He baptised me. He taught me about Catholicism and it’s a good thing because that’s what saved my life.”
“You mean Jesus saved your life?”
“Yes he did and I never forgot it.”
“And you learned those prayers?”
“I never forgot them.”
“Tell him how you got into the church,” the woman said.
“I went through the sewers,” Jack said.
“The sewers?” said the driver.
“I learned how to go through the sewers but then the Germans found out about all the Jews hiding in the sewers and they found us. My family … my mother … my father … my aunt … my two cousins … we were all sent to Auschwitz and they died there. Every one of them. Except me. I lived.”
The Last Witness Page 7