Hope: A Tragedy: A Novel

by Shalom Auslander

  The old lady.

  Senior nodded and threw back his drink.

  Anne Frank, he said.

  She’s not Anne Frank.

  Oh, yes, yes, sir, I know that she is. That’s her, all right, said Senior. Crazy bitch, too. Can’t blame her, though, I suppose, after what she been through and all. Terrible thing, just terrible. You can imagine Esther wanted me to throw her out, of course, toot sweet, but then Esther wasn’t German. I begged her not to make me do it. How could a German throw Anne Frank out of his attic? I asked her. Can you imagine the headlines? Nazis Strike Again? Local Man Makes It Six Million and One? No, no, thank you; I’m kind of a private man. Well, I gave Esther the diary to read, and it got to her in a big way, and she agreed to let Anne Frank stay on a bit, until she finished the book she was working on at the time.

  She’s still working on it, said Kugel.

  Senior shrugged.

  Can’t be easy, I suppose, he said. Thirty-two million copies, that ain’t chicken feed. Anyway, those first few years weren’t so bad. She slept during the day and worked at night. I brought her food every so often, but that was it. When Wilbur Junior came along, well, things got a bit rocky then. Junior cried a lot when he was a baby, and played a lot when he was a little boy, and he just about drove poor Anne Frank crazy with all that noise. He got to calling her his Aunt Frank, though, and once he got a bit older, they actually became quite close. Esther passed on when Junior was only fifteen or so—bad ticker—and well, I guess I took it pretty hard. Pretty hard. I’m not a perfect man, Mr. Kugel, or even a very good one, I figure. Too much drinkin’, not enough thinkin’, what can I say? Didn’t do right by that boy, I’m afraid, don’t think he’ll ever forgive me, neither. Can’t say that I blame him. Terrible things I done to him, terrible things.

  You lied to me, said Kugel, getting to his feet. You said there was nothing wrong with the house.

  You want to sue me? said Senior. You’re looking at all I got. I didn’t mean to saddle you with her, Mr. Kugel; when that lady from the real estate office told me you were a Jew, I thought the Lord Himself had sent you, like He had his Jew son, Jesus. A German can’t throw Anne Frank out of his house, but a Jew sure as hell can.

  A Jew can’t throw Anne Frank out of his house, said Kugel.

  Quicker’n a German can, that’s for sure, said Senior. Look, Mr. Kugel, I’m sorry, I am. But, hell, I’ve done my share. I spent the best years of my life atoning for something I didn’t do, something my parents didn’t do, something done just about before I was ever even born. I got no complaints with that, but I’m about all atoned out, and I ain’t yet gotten round to atoning for the things I did do. You’ll forget she’s there. It might take a while, but soon you’ll forget. Sure, you’ll have to spend a little bit more on food, maybe you hear a thing or two at night, but that’s about it. She keeps to herself pretty much, doesn’t do much up there but sleep and write.

  Unbelievable, muttered Kugel.

  Senior poured himself another whiskey.

  We all got our crosses to bear, Mr. Kugel. Didn’t you ever want to hide somewhere? Didn’t you ever think the world was just too damn ugly to face for one more day? Didn’t you ever ask yourself what kind of a world you’d been dragged into, what kind of world you’d dragged your kid into? Can’t protect them, not from anyone, not even from yourself. Nah, I don’t blame her, not a bit. Not for hiding and sure as shit not for writing. We all make mistakes, Mr. Kugel. God knows I have. You’ll get there. There comes a point where you realize that this is it; more of your life has been written than there is left to write, and you’re not all that enthused about the pages you’ve got so far. Maybe it’s too sad and you wish it were happier, maybe it’s too happy and you feel bad, wishing it were sadder. So you start to rewrite. We all do it. Add a little here, take away something there. Maybe you’re not old enough yet, God bless you, but I’m coming on seventy-two this January. Everyone I knew my age is dead, and everyone I know younger than me is waiting for me to go. I double-lock my doors, make sure I’m home before dark. I don’t carry a wallet anymore. My wallet days are over. Did you know there is an end to the days when you can carry a wallet? You never think of it. Your whole life, you worry about how much is in your wallet, where you left it, where’d I put that receipt, where’s my credit card, why can’t I ever find my license in this goddamned thing, and you never think, there will come a day I am so weak and vulnerable that I can’t carry this goddamned thing outside anymore. I carry some cash, a few bills—gotta keep some cash with you to give to the kid who holds you up. They’ll beat you worse if you don’t have anything, that’s the theory anyway; I don’t know if that’s true, but I’m not too keen on finding out. Now, I never went through what Anne Frank went through; I never seen a death camp or a gas chamber in the flesh, but fear’s fear. Don’t you ever wish you could take your lovely wife and that innocent little boy and lock yourselves up in an attic somewhere? Don’t you sometimes wish you never had to come out again at all, that you found the one person kind enough—one kind person would be enough, too—who would bring you some food now and then? Well, I know I do. Take it from someone who knows, Mr. Kugel, the only thing golden about the golden years is that it’s almost over, the whole shebang. If I could find someone who’d let me hide away in their attic, rewriting my life story and waiting for the end, I’d do it in a minute.

  Hearing a car door slam, Kugel went to the window. Outside, Will had pulled up in his truck, and was now heading up the front walk.

  I’ve been thinking about getting a dog, said Kugel.

  I’ve been thinking about getting a gun, said Senior.

  Something big, said Kugel.

  Something small, said Senior.

  Will walked in, glumly at first, but smiled to see Kugel there, and said, Hey, Mr. K, how are you?

  Good, said Kugel.

  Senior slid the whiskey and glass on the floor beside his chair, where Will couldn’t see them.

  Glad to hear it, said Will, glad to hear it. Looks like you took a fastball to the noggin there, Mr. K.

  Something like that, said Kugel.

  How’s our friend doing?

  Kugel shrugged.

  She’s a little high maintenance.

  You give her my best now, said Will.

  Kugel promised that he would. Will walked to the kitchen, passing by his father without so much as a word. Senior watched him go.

  Yep, said Senior, picking up his whiskey glass. Could do with a few rewrites myself.

  17.

  CAN I HELP YOU? asked the young woman at the bookstore help counter.

  I’m looking for The Diary of Anne Frank, said Kugel.

  The . . . Diary . . . of . . . Anne . . . Frank, she said as she typed the title into the computer. I haven’t read that, she added. I should.

  Mmm.

  I saw the movie, though, she said. That was great.

  Kugel nodded.

  Which movie was that? he asked.

  Oh, you know, said the young woman. The one with what’s her name? I can’t remember the actress’s name . . . you know, her teacher, and she teaches her sign language at the end?

  That’s Helen Keller.

  She snapped her fingers.

  Yes, she said, yes, that’s right. Helen Keller. What a story, huh? So, you know . . . just, wow.

  Inspiring.

  Yes. Very inspiring. She dies, right?

  That’s Anne Frank.

  Okay, good, she said cheerfully, so I wasn’t totally off. Here we go, it’s in the memoir section. I’ll take you there.

  He hadn’t intended to buy the diary; after speaking with Senior, though, Kugel began to think his best option for getting rid of Anne Frank might just be to help her finish her book; he didn’t want to say it to her directly, but maybe a novel was not the same as a diary; maybe she needed some help. He picked out a handful of writing books for her—The Guide to This, the Handbook for Whatever—and then decided to get a book or two abo
ut the Holocaust.

  We have one, said the young woman at the help counter, squinting as if in pain at the word on the computer monitor. Butcherworld: A History.

  Buchenwald, said Kugel.

  He wondered if Anne Frank was hungry.

  And one, she said, on Austerlitz.

  Auschwitz, said Kugel.

  He wondered if she needed more printer paper.

  That was when he asked about the diary.

  Kugel paid for the books and left (the Holocaust books, he couldn’t help noticing, were twenty percent off), and stopped on his way home at Vince’s, the local hardware store.

  My cat, Kugel said to Vince, peed in the heating vent.

  Get rid of the cat, said Vince.

  I’m working on it.

  Once a cat starts peeing in a vent, likely as not she’s going to keep peeing in it.

  I’m working on it.

  Vince recommended scrubbing the vents and ducts with a mixture of water and vinegar and then sealing the damned thing up.

  Better yet, said Vince, get rid of that damned cat.

  I’m working on it.

  Kugel purchased a plastic bucket, a wire brush, and a box of latex gloves, and spent the rest of the day cleaning up from a cat that didn’t exist and a mother that did, who was suffering post-traumatic effects from a genocide that happened, but not to her. Afterward, he went out back to the small gardening shed at the edge of the woods, where he found an old wooden-handled hammer and a rectangular scrap of pine board, which he nailed over the heating vent in Mother’s bedroom floor. He drove the nails through the board, crushing the wood fibers with the end of his hammer, sealing it like the lid of a coffin. He didn’t feel bad for the wood. He didn’t feel bad for the nails. Problem solved. That was the old Kugel. Large and occasionally in charge.

  He liked this hammer.

  He liked this hammer a lot.

  A fourth farmhouse burned that night.

  It was near midnight, and Kugel had been telling Bree about his conversation earlier that day with Senior. He told her that Senior believed the woman really was Anne Frank, that she had been in his attic for over forty years.

  Has everyone in this town, said Bree, lost their mind? What are we doing here?

  That was when the firehouse alarm rang.

  Kugel stood by the open bedroom window, listening to the long, mournful wail of the siren, rising and falling slowly in the night air. He was certain he could smell smoke, but it may have been just a neighbor’s woodstove. He pitied the wood. He hoped the wood’s children would remember him. He shivered and closed the window.

  He said we’ll forget she’s there.

  You actually sound like you agree with him.

  It’s some food and water, Bree, it’s no big deal. She’ll be done soon. We won’t know she’s there.

  No, we won’t, said Bree. Because she’s leaving.

  At least, Bree argued, Kugel’s mother had given birth to him—Bree could understand why he’d feel some responsibility to house her, care for her. But what had this woman in the attic done that Kugel should feel such a responsibility to her, a responsibility even greater than the one he felt to his family?

  Tell me, she said, I just want to know. Okay, so she’s Anne Frank. Let’s say she is. What has she done, Sol? She hid? She wrote a diary? She got caught? I could almost understand, almost, if it was Miep Gies hiding up there. She was a hero, she risked her life for another, she did something.

  Keep your voice down, said Kugel.

  She could be crazy, said Bree. She could be violent. Look at yourself—one eye half-swollen shut, a gash across your forehead. How much do you have to suffer before you can be done with this? She could be sick, Sol, she could be diseased. Your child is in this house, your family, your future. What are you trying to fix? What are you atoning for? What she went through? Or what you didn’t? Could another Holocaust survivor throw her out, would that be okay? Could we have Elie Wiesel come by and throw her out? Maybe he has a sideline business, something to supplement his income.

  In the distance, Kugel could hear the fire engine sirens beginning to scream.

  If Bree couldn’t understand Kugel, Kugel couldn’t understand her, either. So Anne Frank stays in your attic for a while, so what? So you toss her a bit of matzoh and you put up with her annoying writer bullshit now and then, so what? When she’s gone, when she’s finished her book or dropped dead trying, they can all go up there, toss her shit away, lock the attic door behind them, and live happily ever after. A Nazi’s son took care of her for ten years; a Jew is going to throw her out after forty-eight hours?

  He turned from the window to face her.

  Did you even read the book? he asked her.

  What book?

  The diary.

  No, she said. I didn’t. Did you?

  No, said Kugel, I didn’t. But I know the story.

  Everyone knows the story, so what?

  So it’s tragic.

  No, she said, it’s not. It was tragic. We thought it was tragic. But she lived, right? She’s upstairs in our attic, Kugel, that’s what Will said, that’s what Senior said. It’s a happy fucking ending.

  That doesn’t make it any less tragic.

  Dying is always more tragic than surviving, said Bree. Just listen to your mother on that one.

  Kugel was discovering something about Bree that he had never known, and it worried him; he wondered if this whole incident had revealed an unbridgeable gap between them: how could she think that dying was always more tragic than living? Kugel was a firm believer that death was not always a bad thing—that life often reached such levels of crapitude that dying was preferable to living. Maybe that was why Smiling Man was smiling? Maybe he realized it would soon be over. Maybe he wasn’t happy—maybe he was relieved. Maybe the rest of them, looking on in misery, were still holding on to the idea—Bree’s idea—that any life is better than death, which, given their situation, was tremendously bad news. Maybe Smiling Man—emaciated, diseased, his loved ones murdered, his earth a hell—maybe he knew it was almost over, and maybe he was glad.

  Fuck all of you motherfuckers.

  Toodle-oo.

  Surviving? said Kugel. She’s been living like a rat in attic after attic for the past seventy years. That’s much more tragic than if she had been murdered.

  How can life be more tragic than death? asked Bree.

  You can spend it in an attic, said Kugel.

  Do you really think, said Bree, her voice rising, that anyone would have read that fucking book if she had survived?

  Keep your voice down, snapped Kugel. He imagined Anne Frank upstairs, her ear to the vent, listening to them, listening to Bree, hearing those words. They would cut her to the bone.

  Of course they would have, he said loudly for Anne Frank’s benefit. It was a terrific book, heartfelt and beautifully written.

  Because she died, said Bree. There are a dozen other books by survivors—a dozen dozen—and nobody reads them. You know why? They’re by survivors. People read Anne Frank because Anne Frank died.

  What’s your point, Bree?

  My point is that death is more tragic than life, than any life, because every life has hope of some kind. She’s alive, Kugel—and she needs to go.

  Kugel covered the vents with their bed pillows.

  Jesus Christ, said Bree.

  Imagine, Kugel said in an angry whisper, just imagine, that you heard that a black man found Martin Luther King Junior in his basement, alive, and kicked him out. What would you think of him?

  You need help.

  He got shot, sure, but they dragged him away, patched him up. But it fucked him up, messed up his head—he couldn’t go out there anymore, so he decided, Bree, to let the world think he had been assassinated, that sometimes it’s easier to live on this planet if everyone thinks you’re dead. And we’re sitting in the living room one night, you and me, watching TV, and the story comes on that MLK isn’t dead: some guy found him hiding in h
is basement. A black man. And he threw him out. A black man, a son of slaves, threw Martin Luther King Junior out on his ass. What would you think, Bree? You’d look at me and shake your head and say, What a piece of shit. And you’d be right.

  Is that what this is about? asked Bree. What other people think? When does what your family thinks start to matter?

  It’s about what’s right.

  So you’re going to tell Jonah? Who she is, what a Nazi is, what happened, why she’s here?

  No.

  So you’re going to lie to him. Is that what’s right?

  Kugel’s head throbbed. He hated arguing with Bree, they almost never did. It was one of the cornerstones of their relationship that no matter what they were discussing, they remained rational, calm, able to compromise.

  I’ll tell him she’s his Aunt Frank, said Kugel.

  The hell you will, said Bree.

  And this she added with a quiet, chilling calm:

  You want to live with Anne Frank over your head, be my guest. But I’ll be damned if my son will.

  And Bree slept that night on the floor of Jonah’s bedroom.

  18.

  KUGEL RETURNED to his office the following morning, trying to return some measure of normalcy to his life, but he was preoccupied, tired, and nervous, and he remained that way over the course of the day. He was uninvolved in meetings, and when asked his opinion on some matter or the other, could not recall what subject they had been discussing. He phoned home often, every hour or so, hanging up if Bree answered (though relieved to know that the house hadn’t been burned to the ground), and if Mother answered, asking how Anne was doing.