Objects of Worship

by Claude Lalumiere

  “Mom!” Bernard and I shouted together.

  “Okay, okay,” Dad said. “I’ll jump to the ending.”

  Mom nodded, grinning. She slipped past Dad and squeezed between the two of us. We snuggled on either side of her, and the three of us listened to the conclusion of Dad’s war tale.

  “For more than two years, I was a lab rat for a team of Nazi scientists. Their research was equal parts science, torture, and occultism. They subjected me to all kinds of gruesome experiments; operated on me without anaesthetic; performed bloody rituals using my body as the focal point; irradiated me with radioactive rays; injected me with serums; forced me to drink foul-tasting concoctions that burned my throat . . . I think I even remember, at various times, having my limbs amputated, my tongue cut out, my eyes torn out . . . I have this memory of one of them reaching into my chest and ripping out my heart, holding it up above my face while its blood dripped onto my chapped lips . . . But I don’t know if any of that’s true. I’m not sure at all what really went on while I was their captive. Even while it was all happening, I had difficulty distinguishing fact from delirium.”

  Bernard interrupted. “Did they do all that to you because you’re Jewish?”

  “I don’t know. I really don’t.”

  Impatient, I prompted Dad to continue.

  “One day, a particularly messy, gory, and complex rite was disrupted by the castle shaking. The Nazi guards ran down into the dungeon to evacuate the scientists. I recognized the sounds of an air raid: the castle was being bombed. Part of the ceiling fell, and the scientists’ machines — these were like no other machines I’ve ever seen; I never did find out what they were or did, exactly — anyway . . . The machines exploded, destroying everything in sight. A powerful blast catapulted me into the air, and I lost consciousness. When I came to, I was naked — but, to my utter astonishment, otherwise completely unhurt, my body no longer showing any sign of the ravages the Nazis had inflicted on it. I’d landed in the middle of some woods with no idea where I was. So I just started walking, until I was found by some American soldiers. It turned out I was in Bavaria. They took me under guard, debriefed me, verified my identity, and eventually I was shipped back home to Montreal.”

  Mom beamed a proud smile at Dad. He smiled back, and they exchanged glances that sparkled equally with complicity, triumph, and mischievousness. Then Mom giggled; pretty soon Dad was laughing, too.

  “What’s so funny?” Bernard asked.

  Dad said, “Nothing. Just some old joke between your mom and me.”

  They kissed us goodnight and got up off the bed.

  “Dad,” Bernard said, “that was more than forty years ago. The principal at school fought in the war, and he’s old. Real old. Like, he’s retiring next year. You don’t look anywhere near that old. Our Math teacher, Monsieur Savoie, he told us once that he was thirty-five, and you look younger than him.”

  Mom’s face darkened. “You know about your father. And you know you can’t ever even hint at it to anyone outside the four of us.”

  Dad said, “Honey, they know. Lay — ”

  “Let me handle this,” she told him. Turning back toward Bernard, she said, “Well?”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  She looked both of us in the eye. “You know you have to keep it a secret. You know that.”

  “Yes,” we said in unison, doing our best to match Mom’s seriousness.

  There’s dust in my nose, my mouth, my throat, my lungs. I should have worn one of those filter masks or something. But it’s done, now; I’ve broken through to the concealed room behind the closet. The room where Dad kept his secret hidden from the world. The room with no doors and no windows that Dad included when he built this house after coming home from the war.

  That’s around the time the newspaper articles about Hochelaga started appearing.

  I step inside the tiny room. There are three spare uniforms, all identical.

  I undress, choking back tears.

  I slip into the green jumpsuit. I put on the orange rubber boots. I pull the skin-tight orange hood over my head, lining up the holes with my eyes and mouth. I fasten the green helmet, making sure the chin-guard strap is tight enough, but not too tight. Finally, I pull on the thin white gloves.

  I walk out of the closet wearing Dad’s uniform. For six decades, Dad was Hochelaga, Montreal’s own costumed superhero.

  When Jacques Cartier arrived in 1535, Hochelaga was the name of the Iroquois village that stood on what was to be later named the Island of Montreal. “Arrived” being the polite term for “invaded,” Dad had always reminded us sardonically.

  Dad chose the name because it honoured the First People who lived here before the European invaders, and because it was neither a French nor an English name. It was important for him that his superhero name favour neither of Montreal’s major languages. Dad, like most Montrealers, just wanted the Francophone and the Anglophone communities to get along. He spoke both languages fluently. In fact, courtesy of his multipurpose energy, he was fluent in every language spoken in the world today. Hochelaga was a hero for everybody.

  And now, because of my selfish, useless brother, it’s up to me to become the new Hochelaga.

  Because somebody has to.

  Summer 1992 in Montreal. The city’s 350th anniversary. The year The Mighty came to town to see my father.

  The Mighty. An elite group of international superheroes. The elite group of international super-heroes. They’ve been around since 1961, protecting the world from alien invasions, interdimensional demons, mad scientists, and other world-threatening dangers.

  The day before The Mighty’s visit, having no clue of what was to come, Bernard and I had had a rare quarrel. And, coincidentally, it had started with a discussion about The Mighty themselves.

  “I think the Lion King’s the coolest member; he’s the most radical. And the most mysterious. Nobody knows if he’s even really human,” I said.

  “Whatever. My favourite’s Samson. Because he’s Jewish, like us.” This wasn’t the first time Bernard had brought this up.

  “You know we’re not Jewish. Not really.”

  Dad was a secular Jew — and an atheist. He didn’t do anything Jewish; no Yom Kippur, no Hanukkah, no religious or traditional stuff at all. No circumcisions for us. No Bar Mitzvahs. No Sabbath. No worrying about kosher. Either he didn’t have any family left or he didn’t speak to them. He was close-mouthed about that. And Mom wasn’t Jewish at all; according to Jewish law that means we’re not either.

  Mom, as she liked to say, was half Louisiana Negro, half Canadian Cree, and all Montreal atheist. Bernard and I didn’t look a thing like her. But we looked almost as much like Dad as we looked like each other. And Bernard turned out even more like Dad than I did.

  “We’re not not Jewish. I’m not ashamed, like Dad is.”

  “Dad’s not ashamed. He just doesn’t believe in that. In any religion. And neither do we.”

  “Being Jewish doesn’t mean that you have to believe in Judaism. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with believing in God.”

  “Whatever. I don’t care about any of that, anyway.”

  But then Bernard took the argument somewhere new.

  “Oh yeah? Well maybe you should care about this: there were no superheroes before the war. All that began after. Around the same time Dad became Hochelaga.”

  “So?”

  “Dad gained his powers from Nazi experiments. And there’s a bunch of Nazi scientists who vanished after the war. Maybe all the superheroes were created by secret Nazi science.”

  “That’s stupid. Dad isn’t a Nazi. The Mighty aren’t Nazis.”

  “You don’t understand. I’m not saying they’re Nazis. I know they’re heroes. I’m not denying all the good they do. But maybe the Nazis created all the superpowers — or Nazi science, anyway. On the backs of tortured and slaughtered Jews.”

  “Dad says the Nazis didn’t kill only Jews. They nearly exterminated the Gypsies, they s
terilized Blacks and mulattos, they murdered millions of Europeans of all kinds.”

  “Yeah, but they killed more Jews than they did anyone else. They hated the Jews most of all. And that’s where Dad’s powers come from.”

  I punched him. And it escalated. Mom came in to break us up, but neither of us would tell her why we were fighting.

  The next morning, on our twelfth birthday of all days, the argument behind us, Bernard and I had just finished watching an episode of our favourite cartoon series, Chuck Amuck, and were waiting for Katgirl & Canary to come on, when there was a special news bulletin. The faceless red mask of the Internationalist — the leader of The Mighty — appeared on the TV screen. “The Mighty have come to Montreal in order to meet with Hochelaga on an urgent matter. We are waiting on the roof of City Hall. Montrealers, please spread this message to ensure that it reaches Hochelaga. Thank you for your time. Remember: help us make the world a better, more tolerant place.” He repeated the message in French. Then, he stepped back and raised his famous shield in the air, showing its borderless world-map coat of arms to the camera.

  We ran upstairs to Dad’s study. “Dad! Dad! Dad!”

  He met us on the stairs and signalled for us to calm down. “I know,” he said. “It was on the radio.”

  “Take us with you,” we said.

  “You know I can’t. It’s too risky. People can’t know that Hochelaga has twin boys. Do you want a supervillain to come after you? Or your mom?”

  “But it’s The Mighty! We’ll never get another chance to meet them. They’re the world’s greatest superheroes!” More than ever, the two of us were talking with one voice. For all his theories about Nazi science and superheroes, even Bernard wasn’t immune to fannish excitement when it came to The Mighty.

  Mom came up behind us. “No, they’re not,” she said, balancing herself on our shoulders and reaching over to kiss Dad, who bent down to meet her halfway. “What do you think they want?” she asked him.

  “Hell if I know. Maybe the Hegemony of Hate is planning an attack on the city, and The Mighty need some local help. Something like that. With the anniversary celebrations, there’s bound to be some trouble. Terrorism’s not my specialty, but I’ll do whatever I can.”

  Bernard was fuming mad that Dad wouldn’t let us meet The Mighty. “You have to take us. I want to meet The Mighty.”

  I could see in Mom’s eyes that she was getting angry with us, but I understood why we couldn’t go, as much as I wanted to see The Mighty in person. “Bern — you know we can’t go. Dad’s right.”

  “No! I want to go! It’s our birthday! We deserve it! We’ve been good! We’ve never told anyone! Ever. We’ve been so good.” Turning toward Dad, he snarled, “Do you know how hard it is not to brag? But we don’t. We never do. And you won’t even do this one thing for us!”

  Bernard was so angry his entire skin was turning red. Unable to contain his rage, he screamed and jumped up . . . and he just stood there in mid-air, defying gravity. “What — I can . . .?” Then he zipped higher — his face flushed with panic — and banged his head on the ceiling, knocking himself out. Dad caught him before he could fall to the floor.

  Dad murmured, “He flew . . .”

  Already Bernard was groaning his way back to consciousness. He was going to be okay. Mom took Bernard from Dad and said, “I’ll take care of him. Don’t worry. You just go. Now! You’re needed.”

  Dad looked frightened. He gave me a hug and, without another word, left to meet The Mighty.

  Dad had just about every superpower imaginable — superstrength, superspeed, invulnerability, invisibility, shapeshifting, flight, teleportation, transmutation, telepathy, telekinesis, firebreathing — you name it, he could do it. There was only one catch. He could access — or activate, or whatever it was he did — only one power at a time. While he used his speed or his strength, for example, he wasn’t invulnerable. He wasn’t automatically immune from harm: for his invulnerability to work, he had to will it into function.

  His power was like an energy field of some sort. Up to a point, he could control the extent of the field, so that, for example, his clothes would also become indestructible, or invisible, or whatever. So I guess his power was energy, and he could harness that energy any way he wanted. He didn’t fully understand it himself. He just used the power as best he could. If he didn’t appear to age it was because, when he wasn’t actively doing superhero stuff, he would use that energy to heal and repair his body. Theoretically, he could have been immortal.

  Although Dad kept his natural, youthful appearance at home, when he presented Benoit Kurtz to the outside world he would shapeshift to look older. “Benoit Kurtz” was “Dad.” But he had other identities, too. In 1976, Dad “retired” his real identity, the original Benjamin Kurtz, mimicking death (just another application of Dad’s superpower) while his “son” was “away overseas.” After the funeral, he teleported himself back home out of the grave, assuming “Benoit Kurtz” as his default identity. In 1998, as “Benoit” grew older, he invented a new “Benjamin Kurtz” — a “grown-up son from a previous marriage in Europe” who was our “older brother, named in honour of his grandfather.” Dad was once again in the process of shifting from one identity to the next.

  And he fooled everyone. Well, almost everyone. Mom, a municipal librarian who knew “both” the “older” Benjamin and the “younger” Benoit and whom Hochelaga had once saved from a burning apartment building, figured out his secret in 1978. She teased him for months, dropping vague double entendres that could imply she knew Dad was Hochelaga. It drove him crazy — he could have read her thoughts if he’d wanted to, but Dad would never invade someone’s mind without just cause. He’d long ago set limits on what he would allow himself to do. On what was right, and what wasn’t. Eventually he broke down and asked her out to dinner, telling himself it was just to scope out what she knew. But that night their long flirtation turned into love. They got married within the next year and had children in 1980. Us.

  As kids we never showed any sign of being superhuman. Until Bernard suddenly manifested Dad’s powers.

  Me . . . I was always just a normal guy.

  I have no idea what to do. As much as I hate to admit it, I feel silly in Dad’s costume. Somehow, Dad managed to pull off wearing this gaudy outfit and maintain his dignity . . . but I don’t know how. Maybe it was because he imbued everything he did with such low-key, charming wit. No matter how hard I try to emulate him, I know I can never match his confidence, his presence. I feel ridiculous and self-conscious, and not just because I don’t have superpowers. I haven’t even stepped outside yet.

  But the Herald of Hate is out there, and someone has to stop him. He thinks he’s killed Hochelaga. Maybe he has, but I’m hoping that the sight of me in Dad’s costume will rattle him, allowing me to . . . to . . . What can I do?

  Every day after Bernard manifested the power, for more than a year, I concentrated, tried to activate my own “latent” powers by force of will. But there was no power within me. For the first time in years, I try again.

  All I accomplish with all this concentration is to get a nosebleed.

  That is so pathetic. I am so pathetic. I have no power. I have no plan. I should have a plan. The Herald of Hate is going to slaughter me. But I have to try to take him down. For Dad. For Mom.

  For me.

  Bernard fully regained consciousness immediately after Dad left. At first, he couldn’t control the energy. He became intangible and sank through the floor. He was gone for almost a full minute; Mom panicked. But then he came back up. Trying to rematerialize, he shapeshifted randomly, taking on the forms of various classmates, Dad, Mom, wild animals, even furniture. Finally, he became himself again, with the energy under control. He still had a bump on his head. I teased him that he could use the power to heal that, just like Dad always did, but he just grunted and told me to mind my own business. I felt we were about to quarrel again — the previous day’s fight wasn’t complet
ely forgotten after all — so I backed off. We both sulked, while Mom looked anxious. We all sat in the living room and watched TV, none of us exchanging a word. I was too annoyed to pay attention, and I don’t even remember what was on.

  Less than an hour later, Dad returned. First thing he did was fuss over Bernard. I could see Dad was worried, but Bernard wouldn’t talk to him at all. Mom surreptitiously shook her head at Dad, and he left my brother alone.

  The four of us just sat there, tense and awkwardly silent, until I couldn’t hold in my questions any longer. “Who was there? What were they like? What did they want? Did you help them?”

  Dad laughed, and my mood brightened at that familiar, comforting sound. “Just give me a minute.” He grabbed a beer from the fridge and plopped down on the couch. We all gathered around him, even Bernard.

  “There were seven of them. The Internationalist, of course. I liked him. He’s a bit too serious and intense, but we have the same kind of ideas about the world. I asked him to visit if he ever had the time so we could grab a beer, relax, and chew the fat. There was the Weird Witch. A real looker, that one. A tall, Slavic amazon.” Mom chuckled, and Dad smiled back at her. “Anyway. The Lion King was there, too. And Thunderer. Marksman. Metal Man. Webmistress.”

  “Who did you fight?” I asked.

  “We didn’t fight anybody. They came to ask me to join The Mighty.”

  “You’re going to be one of The Mighty? That’s great!” I stood up, cheering, and did a little dance around the living room.

  “I didn’t say that, Gordon.”

  “What . . .”

  “I thanked them for the offer, but I turned them down. I don’t want to be away from you three more than I have to, and it’s not like they’re short on members, anyway. I like the good I do here, in Montreal. Let other heroes fight the big menaces. For me this is all about the people. That’s what Hochelaga is. A hero for the people.”

  Almost everyone thinks that superheroes are all the same. That’s not true. I have this theory that, for the most part, they fall into three categories.