MARIA Your sister is very beautiful.
DAVID What I’m saying is, even though she’s my family, I’m not so close with her. I don’t think blood is, is necessarily so important.
MARIA You don’t think this?
DAVID No, I get along with most of my friends better than her.
MARIA What does this mean, “get along”?
DAVID It means to have a nice relationship.
MARIA So you no think is important? Family like this? Real blood?
DAVID Well, not really, no.
MARIA You know my whole family die, yes?
DAVID I know.
MARIA You know I never have children, yes?
DAVID I know.
MARIA Do you think we get along? (a moment) You don’t know me, David. Come, we find you the dinner clothing. (opens the closet) You choose a jacket, I prepare tofu food, which may be disgusting.
Maria exits into the kitchen and begins preparing the tofu.
David walks to the picture of himself and looks at it. He then lifts the remaining picture frames and finally looks through the clothes, pulling out a sports jacket.
In the kitchen, Maria pulls out and cuts the tofu.
David removes his hoodie for the first time, throws on the jacket and walks into the kitchen.
MARIA (cont.) Ah! I look at you! You are beautiful. Like adult man!
DAVID Yeah, I feel good, I feel professional! Maybe I’ll work a little bit later. Is that okay? After dinner, I think I could get something done. I feel right, a little bit. In a suit.
MARIA You see? You act like a man, you be more quiet when is important, you get the result!
DAVID Yes, you’re talking about discipline!
MARIA You keep the jacket.
DAVID Thank you. I think I should start wearing a suit.
MARIA You dress like a child, you act like a child—
DAVID I’ll buy a tuxedo immediately. From the duty-free shop at JFK—
MARIA You dress like a man, you act like a man.
DAVID And I’ll walk through New York and everyone will think I just came from a business meeting or something and I’ll command some kind of respect! Even on the subway! People will think I’m taking the subway just to feel real life! “This guy could be taking a taxi but he’s here with us! Good for him!” Good for me.
Maria shuts off the lights and lights a candle.
MARIA I think if your life was not so good you would maybe finish the book more quickly.
DAVID You’re probably right.
MARIA Now you do prayer over the tofu. I think is a great idea.
DAVID I don’t pray.
MARIA You make it up maybe.
DAVID Maria, I’m not praying over tofu. Why don’t you do the prayer?
MARIA I don’t know any. You do it. Your grandfather tell me you know every prayer when you were a boy. That you memorize.
DAVID I liked to memorize things.
MARIA He say you are very religious.
DAVID Well, he’s wrong. I just liked to memorize. Not just Jewish prayers. I knew every statistic for the New York Knicks. And all the lyrics to “We Didn’t Start the Fire.” I memorized like a kid memorizes. I knew all of Who’s On First.
MARIA What is this?
DAVID Who’s on First was a comedic—it was a funny comedy routine.
MARIA Funny like your children’s book?
DAVID My young adult novel? Yes, funny like that.
MARIA So you tell me then.
DAVID What?
MARIA Tell me Who’s on First. Maybe you do it as a prayer.
DAVID I’m not doing that. I’m not praying Who’s On First over a block of tofu. And it’s a seven-minute dialogue. I would need some prep time.
MARIA Okay, then we just eat.
DAVID Sounds good.
They begin to eat the tofu. Maria drinks a lot of water.
DAVID (cont.) So, you’ve never had tofu before?
MARIA I have no reason for this.
DAVID Well, I’m honored to witness your first time. What do you think?
MARIA I think is good. I like it very much.
DAVID That’s great. I’m glad you like it.
MARIA I say that just to make you happy.
DAVID Thank you. It did, it worked.
Maria reaches across the table and places her hand on his. He pulls away quickly like it was an accident—
DAVID (cont.) I got an idea.
David runs into his bedroom and fetches the vodka bottle from his bag.
DAVID (cont.) Can I open this?
MARIA You think it will make the tofu taste better?
DAVID It couldn’t hurt. Will you have some if I open it?
MARIA I maybe will try a little. I don’t drink vodka—I don’t drink anything like this—since Jerzy die.
DAVID Then it’s a big day for you, Maria! Vodka, tofu. I’m turning you into a real bohemian. I’ll give you a henna tattoo later, if you want.
David grabs some juice from the fridge and begins pouring the vodka:
DAVID (cont.) Tell me how much you want.
MARIA Is enough. David, you want to learn Polish? You put the juice away.
DAVID Really? Okay . . . okay, sure. I could drink it straight. It doesn’t matter, really, for me.
MARIA And sit down please.
DAVID Why don’t we drink these at the same time and then just eat as much tofu as we can so we don’t taste it?
MARIA Okay.
DAVID Are you ready?
MARIA I think so.
DAVID All right, on three, okay? One two three—
They pound back the shots. Maria begins coughing. It becomes uncontrolled.
DAVID (cont.) Hey! Put your hands over your head or something. Raise them! Put your hands over your head. Breathe! Maria! Breathe!
He grabs her arms and raises them for her. Her coughing subsides. She suddenly grabs him with her raised arms, holding him tightly. He freezes in her grasp.
DAVID (cont.) Maria. Let me get you a glass of water.
MARIA Sit down. (releases him) Are you ready?
DAVID For what?
MARIA Do you want me to tell you something?
DAVID Um, okay?
MARIA You want to know my story?
DAVID Oh. Yeah.
MARIA You want to know the bad thing in my life?
DAVID Very much.
MARIA I tell you.
She pours and drinks a shot, downing this one.
MARIA (cont.) I hope will not bore you.
DAVID It’s okay.
She pours and drinks another shot. And another. She pushes the bottle to David. He does a shot.
MARIA And again.
DAVID (does another shot, overwhelmed:) Oh, fuck. Oh fuck!
MARIA How do you feel? (he can’t lift his head) Okay, is enough. Look up at me. You know I was born in Krasnystaw, is small town in Poland, in east of country, by Ukraine—
DAVID (reeling from the vodka) Holy fuck—
MARIA David, look up at me when I speak to you. I say I was born in east of Poland—
DAVID I’m good. I just gotta put my head down, I’m listening though. I’m good.
MARIA Is not good, I want you should look at me.
DAVID It’s just I weigh like 135 pounds, it affects me very quickly—
MARIA David, do you want to know this or no?
DAVID Yeah, continue. Please.
MARIA In 1939, I am four year old, we live in Krasnystaw, we have money, we have the respect. The Germans come in, they separate the Jewish people and build a ghetto—is one street at the end of the town.
Ghetto is like small city and—
DAVID I know what a ghetto is. I read Night in high school. (she glares at him) Sorry, that’s stupid. Continue.
MARIA I remember that we have to leave the house. They come in, speaking German, picking up my things. And my brother is sick. This is the first memory I think I have in my life. He have a cold, you know, is winter and he is sick, is normal. But as they taking my brother, he sneeze on the man—on the officer. Just one time, he sneeze. Is no problem. But they take him to the middle of the square. My mother is screaming and my father cover her on the mouth, I see him do this to her—and they pull my brother—is ten-year-old little boy—and they shoot him in the face. Because he sneeze in winter.
The telephone rings, shocking them—
DAVID Jesus fucking Christ! Maria, do not pick that up!
MARIA Excuse me, David. (picking up phone) Hello? Yes? I am fine. No I have time—
DAVID Maria, hang up the fucking phone—
MARIA David, ssh! Yes, I received the information, but . . . No, I’m sorry, thank you for calling. And good night to you. (hangs up) I continue now. After they do this thing, we must walk to the ghetto. Is poor neighborhood, we never go there for any reason, but now is supposed to be the home. I ask my mother why they do this to my brother and she whisper to me that it is my father fault, you know, because he cover her on the mouth—is not a nice thing to say, but . . .
DAVID Holy shit, Maria.
MARIA Yes, don’t say that.
DAVID I’m sorry, that’s just fucked up.
MARIA We live in this ghetto, is like little flat, I don’t remember and one day my nanny come. She is Catholic woman, I stay at her house sometimes when my parents need help before the war. My mother kiss me, say she will see me soon and give me to this woman. The nanny take me—not my older brother because you know he has the penis cut, they know who is Jewish—and my mother pay the nanny to take me. She is smart, she give her everything we have. So I live with this family. The children don’t speak to me, is okay, but the nanny don’t want me to live in the house, I know this. I am Jewish and someone know about this, they kill the whole family.
(slows) So, one day, the nanny come into the basement, where I sleep, and she ask me to say thank you to her. I say thank you. And then she ask me to tell why I must say thank you. You know, what she is doing for me, why I should thank her. I don’t know what I should say. So I ask her, “When my parents come back to get me?” And she take me on the wrist like this (holds David’s wrists), holds them very hard and tell me that they take my parents to Belzec—you know, to breathe in the gas.
(beat) And then she ask me again, why I must say thank you to her.
The telephone rings. Maria lunges for the phone but David seizes her arm and they stare at each other.
Suddenly, David stands, grabs the phone and violently slams it down on the receiver. He lifts the phone again and slams it down two times.
David runs into his bedroom and sits on the bed, his head buried in his hands. In the kitchen, Maria, unmoved, takes the tray of brownies and places them on the table.
MARIA (cont.) David, you want you should eat dessert?
DAVID (wipes his wet face) I’ll be right in, Maria.
MARIA David, you come back. You do me something.
DAVID I’m coming.
MARIA I want you should do the comedy now.
DAVID What?
MARIA You tell me Who’s on First.
DAVID I don’t really feel like doing that right now, if you don’t mind—
MARIA I do mind. I tell you a story, you tell me one—
DAVID But that’s a two-person routine, Maria. I’m just me.
MARIA I understand. Maybe you put on hat, so I know who is what person.
DAVID I don’t want to wear a hat.
MARIA So maybe you hold the tray of brownies—When you lift up is one man, when you put down is other man. (pointedly:) Please you do it, David.
DAVID I don’t know. I feel silly—I—(she thrusts the tray forward) Maria, I— I’ll lift one brownie.
MARIA Is fine. Begin.
DAVID Okay. Are you ready? I feel like an idiot. One second.
David does a shot of vodka. He picks up a brownie and begins, lackluster:
DAVID (cont.) Well let’s see who we have on the bags, Who’s on first, What’s on second, I Don’t Know is on third This is so silly—
MARIA You continue anyway.
DAVID (awkwardly sets down the brownie) That’s what I want to find out. (lifts the brownie) I say Who’s on first, What’s on second, I Don’t Know’s on third. (takes a bite)
MARIA If you going to eat brownie, this is not going to work.
DAVID Oh. Sorry, I didn’t realize. Then give me a second— (takes a swig of water to wash it down) All right. I’m not starting over though, I’ll start from “I Don’t Know’s on third.”
MARIA Is fine.
He picks up a new brownie—
DAVID I Don’t Know’s on third. (sets it down) Are you the manager? (brownie up) Yes. (brownie down) And you don’t know the fellows’ names. (up) Well, I should. (down) Well then who’s on first? (up) Yes. I mean the fellow’s name. Wait, sorry, that was supposed to be down. (puts brownie down) I mean the fellow’s name. (picks it up, back on track) Who. (down) The guy on first. (up) Who. (down) The first baseman. (up) Who. (down) The guy playing first base. (up) Who is on first! (down) I’m asking you who’s on first. (up) That’s the man’s name! (down) That’s who’s name? (up) Yeah! (down) Well go ahead and tell me!
MARIA Okay, I get it. Is enough.
BLACKOUT—
Scene 4
Six hours later
The lights are dim. 3A.M. Maria sits up in her bed with a Sudoku book and a night-light. David sleeps in his bed.
Suddenly, David falls out of bed onto the floor. He shoots up, panicked, grabs his pipe and baggie of weed. He jumps up onto the windowsill but slips off, grabbing his foot.
DAVID Ah! Fuck me!
MARIA David?
DAVID Yeah. Yeah. (runs into her room, heart racing) Hey, what’s up? Are you up? I just got up.
MARIA What happen to you? You wet.
DAVID Is it cold in here? It feels cold. I think I just, I think I had a nightmare or something.
MARIA Then is good time for the company.
DAVID Sure, yeah. Maybe I’ll just—I think I’ll maybe just sit down for a minute. (flops down on the floor at the edge of her couch) Wow!
MARIA You maybe tell me what nightmare was about.
DAVID Yeah? Is that a good idea? It’s good to exorcise. That’s good advice. Sure. I’ll tell you.
MARIA Okay. Begin.
DAVID Right. So I was in this kind of corporate office. Everything was so real. And I don’t go in these, so I don’t know how I know. Anyway, I was waiting for an elevator—
MARIA Wait, you wait here. (she fetches a wet washcloth from the kitchen) Keep speaking to me.
DAVID Okay, so I don’t know what I was doing there but I was waiting for an elevator. And, when it came, I stepped in and there was one other guy inside. He was just like a businessman, he was clean-cut, anonymous. And the doors closed and I criticized him in my mind. And we started going down and the elevator starts picking up speed. I didn’t hear anything snap—a cable or anything—but I know what’s happening, the guy knows what’s happening and we’re falling. (she presses the washcloth to his neck) Thank you. And then the guy looks at me and I see his eyes and he’s suddenly, like, real to me and then we both just looked at each other, knowing we would be the last thing we would both see. And I felt the rush. And I felt it. And I think I fell out of the bed. What do you think it could mean?
MARIA I think it mean you still drunk.
DA
VID That’s true, that’s probably it. I guess it’s a cliché, a falling-elevator dream. I think I have an unimaginative subconscious, Maria. But it was real. Because it felt real. No. It felt good to tell you though, thank you. It feels good to tell you things.
MARIA It feels good.
DAVID I should probably just go back to sleep.
He rests his head against her couch. Pause.
MARIA Did you like my story before?
DAVID It was depressing, really, I guess mostly.
MARIA There is a different part of it. Maybe will be more interesting to you. Can I say it?
DAVID Okay?
MARIA I tell you. When the war finish, people come back to Krasnystaw, you know, people who survive, very few. And a girl—my age—she come back and she see me in the town. I know her from before the war, we play together, and she say hello to me and I pretend to not know her, I am Catholic now, they tell me not to speak to no one. But I need to know what happen in the camp. So I visit with this girl, in secret. She is very sick, she has the tuberculosis disease, but I don’t think about this too much. And she tell me about her family, also killed in the camp. But she say she think she has more family. In New York, in America.
DAVID What do you mean, more family—?
MARIA Cousins. The people in New York don’t know she is born and she die of tuberculosis. Ten-year-old little girl, David, she die before anyone know she is even born. World is not fair, you say. For six year, I think about this girl every day. I remember every part of her story and I start to think this girl is my sister, my family. Her family is my family. And I think to have a family in New York. I picture everybody. New little babies I can hold on to. Old people I can watch die with peace. Say “Remember when he did this or that and I get mad.”
DAVID Maria . . .
MARIA So, in 1951, I get marry to Jerzy and I have papers now, no one know who I am before the war and I make a telephone call to organization in Israel. “I think I might have family in New York,” I tell them, “this is the name.” (beat) And now you my cousin.
DAVID (overwhelmed) What?
MARIA This is how you are my cousin.
DAVID Why are you telling me this?
MARIA You come to Poland.
The Revisionist Page 5