Hope: A Tragedy: A Novel

by Shalom Auslander

  Bree, Hannah had informed him, had taken Jonah and gone down to Mother’s apartment in Brooklyn.

  Maybe they’ll see a show, he thought. Maybe she’ll do a little writing. Maybe she’ll run into a famous writer, who could make all her dreams come true.

  He hoped that she would.

  Back in his bedroom, Kugel noticed that his rash was spreading farther up his arms; the sun seemed to have made the itching worse.

  He should get some calamine lotion. Or aloe. Aloe’s good for a lot of things.

  He took out his Last Words notebook, turned to the last page, and added to his list:

  iPod (headphones/charger)

  EpiPens

  Zyrtec

  Papers (?)

  Aloe/calamine

  Kugel could hear Anne Frank coughing. It was a deep, whooping cough, and it worried him. She was dying.

  We have you in a double suite, Mr. Spinoza, but I see you’ve brought your own bed. Shall we check it for you? Donald here will help you with your bags.

  Kugel pitied the dying, but he envied the dead. Whenever he looked at photos—of JFK, of Elvis, of Smiling Man—he thought, Well, at least you got it over with. At least you can cross that off your list. He imagined the scene at the gates of heaven to be not unlike that at the finish line of a long and grueling marathon: everyone high-fiving, hugging, collapsing, elated that it’s over, yes, it’s finally over, pouring cups of water over one another’s heads and saying, Holy shit, dude, that was fucking brutal. I am never doing that again.

  The house, aside from Anne Frank’s coughing and vomiting, was miserably silent. Kugel went downstairs, desperate for company. As he was entering the kitchen, Mother was leaving.

  I’m sorry, Mother said to him. I’m sure she’ll come back. She’ll like it in Brooklyn.

  Kugel nodded.

  Do you think she’ll phone the police? Mother asked. She wouldn’t do that, would she? Turn in Anne Frank just to get back at you?

  Mother, due to Anne Frank’s impending death, moved about that day with a desperate, mournful solemnity; she wore a long black dress, her silvery hair pulled back into a tight bun; she sighed loudly, bit her fingernails, and when Kugel returned to the living room, she had hung black cloths over all the mirrors. She stood by the window, peeking through the blinds.

  Have you noticed? she said to Kugel as he entered. The police, she continued without turning around. That’s the fourth time they’ve driven by.

  Kugel assured her they were only keeping an eye out for Wilbur Messerschmidt Jr., but he had taken note of them earlier, too, from his bedroom window, and, privately, had similar concerns. Had a neighbor reported them? The UPS man? Anne Frank was illegal; what was the punishment for harboring an illegal? Jonah had screamed the night before, too; maybe somebody heard, maybe somebody was concerned, maybe somebody thought something was going on? Maybe Mother was right, maybe Bree had turned him in? She could have phoned the police, said she was a neighbor, said something was going on in the attic. Four times in one morning seemed excessive, didn’t it? Why would they be patrolling in the daytime if all the fires occurred at night?

  He could hear Anne Frank coughing.

  I think we should phone a doctor, said Kugel.

  Mother turned to face him. It was clear from her expression that she disagreed.

  She’s very ill, Mother.

  She’s been ill before.

  Mother, she needs to be seen.

  And then what? asked Mother. Dragged from the attic, the only place she feels safe, the one place she wants to be? Do you know that a doctor who sees her is legally obligated to admit her to the hospital if that’s what he determines is necessary?

  If it gets worse, said Kugel, we’ll have to call someone.

  I’ve been charged with saving her, said Mother.

  Even if it means letting her die?

  Yes.

  I’m going to the pharmacy.

  But for what, he wondered, as he roamed the brightly lit aisles lined with brightly colored bottles. What did Anne Frank have? A flu? A cold? A virus? He was worried he would get the wrong thing, or the right thing with the wrong thing in it—a Something/Whatever with Added Who-Knows-What, when all she really needed was the Whatever, the Something could be lethal for the elderly, and she was allergic to the Who-Knows-What. When he was a child, pharmacies filled Kugel with joy and excitement. There were endless promises, countless possibilities: bottles that gave you shiny hair, fresh breath, white teeth; tubes that gave you clearer skin, longer eyelashes, rosier cheeks. We were malleable, Kugel thought, changeable, our bodies infinitely under our own control. Now those same aisles and shelves just reminded him of all the things that could go wrong. Did she need an expectorant? A suppressant? A flu remedy? A cold remedy? A hot compress? A cold compress? A hot/cold compress? A caplet? A tablet? A gel tab? An ointment? A salve? A rub? An anti-diarrheal? An anti-inflammatory? A decongestant? A dehumidifier? An enema? Oh, God, what if she needed an enema? The aisles that once seemed to hold endless promise and power—immortality!—now seemed pathetically weak and ineffective. All these balms for minor scrapes and scratches. Where was the cancer cleanser, the Alzheimer’s rub, the cardiomyopathy cream? He imagined turning a corner in the store to find an Auschwitz prisoner in prison garb and armband, carrying a shopping basket in one hand and tapping his lips with the other.

  Do you know where they put the typhus gel? he inquires politely of Kugel. Have you seen the malnutrition bars? The rickets spray? Dr. Beckett’s Go On lotion, for people who just can’t go on?

  This is it, Jonah, my boy, my love, my heart, my soul, my dream. This is our best shot at holding back the tide of death and disease: cherry-flavored DayQuil. That’s the best we can come up with, kid. If you’re dying, and need something fast, here it is, this is what we can muster up after hundreds of years of science: Maalox.

  Tums.

  Ouchless Band-Aids.

  He felt dizzy upon leaving, as if he were dying himself, as if he were suffering, already succumbing, to something for which there was no tablet or caplet or liquid gel, while inside the store they were having a two-for-one special on Imodium EZ Chews. Kugel loathed going to the auto store for the same reason; he spent the week after worrying that his jets were clogged, his valves were loose, his plugs were shot.

  When he got home, the house was dark, though it was only mid-afternoon. He thought for a moment that they’d had a power outage, which would be odd for the summertime, but he realized, soon after entering, that Mother, while he was gone, had hung black fabric over all the windows.

  It wasn’t safe, said Hannah.

  What wasn’t safe? asked Kugel.

  It’s a small town, said Hannah. People talk.

  Kugel could see Hannah had been crying.

  Where’s Mother?

  Upstairs, said Hannah.

  Kugel found the attic stairs down, and climbed them, slowly, fearing the worst, fearing that he’d been too late, that Anne Frank was beyond the powers of DayQuil and Theraflu.

  He found Mother kneeling quietly in front of the western wall of boxes, sobbing gently as she placed a small yellow adhesive note on the wall. There were at least a dozen other notes already on the wall, some crammed into the tiny cracks between the boxes.

  She turned to Kugel, her eyes red.

  She won’t respond, she said softly. She’s too weak to talk. I didn’t want to leave her alone.

  We should call a doctor, said Kugel.

  Mother shook her head.

  It may be her only hope, said Kugel.

  Our hands are tied, said Mother.

  Kugel went to Mother and helped her stand. He told her not to worry, that Anne would be okay, that he’d brought her some medicine, that she just needed some rest. Mother nodded and went downstairs, and Kugel pulled the stairs up behind her.

  The ghastly stench in the attic contrasted violently with the pastoral, angelic bedroom set that Mother had created in the center of the attic. Mother
had dressed the bed as if Anne Frank were still a young girl, with a teddy bear propped up on the pillows, and a pair of child-size one-piece pajamas. She had placed a Hello Kitty alarm clock on the bedside table, and some children’s books as well, kept in place by a box of matzoh. A childscape, thought Kugel, a won’t-let-it-go tableau. Kugel hadn’t eaten all day, and so, intestines be damned, he took a small piece of matzoh from the box, lay down on the bed, and turned on the bedside lamp. Mother, he noticed, had replaced the pink lamp shade with Kugel’s grandfather.

  He closed his eyes.

  He was desperate to sleep.

  Is she gone? he heard Anne Frank say.

  She’s gone, said Kugel.

  Anne Frank began coughing again, a violent cough that Kugel could feel through his body, his bones.

  How’s the book coming? he asked when she had ceased.

  She won’t leave me alone, said Anne Frank.

  She’s trying to help.

  I’m trying to work.

  Kugel took a bite of the matzoh.

  How’s the book coming? he asked.

  I took your advice, she said. I gave it up.

  Kugel closed his eyes and shook his head.

  Okay, he said. Okay.

  She coughed again, and Kugel stood and passed the bag of cold remedies and pain relievers over the wall.

  Danke, said Anne Frank.

  Kugel turned and sank to the floor, his back leaning against the western wall.

  Anne Frank, said Anne Frank, is the most recognizable symbol of Jewish suffering and death.

  Kugel heard a book drop heavily to the floor.

  The diary of Anne Frank, read Anne Frank, is the best known, and she has become a symbol of all the children who died in that genocide.

  A second book dropped to the floor with a thud.

  I am, she said, become death.

  Kugel said nothing, but reached back and pulled one of Mother’s notes off the wall. It read: I’ve made some chicken soup.

  Another read: Let me know if you want me to turn on the heat.

  Helen Keller, said Anne Frank, was a socialist. Did you know that?

  I didn’t know that, said Kugel, pulling off another note. It read: I’ve made some mistakes.

  Kugel got to his knees and turned to face the wall.

  Nobody does, said Anne Frank. She was a suffragist. A pacifist. A radical. A woman of ideas, of passions.

  The notes at the top of the wall seemed to be the earlier ones. They were mostly offers of food or some kind of help or provision. Toward the middle and bottom, they took on a more personal tone. One, from the very bottom of the wall, read: I’m dying, too.

  They wanted her to be their blind girl, Anne Frank continued. Their deaf angel. Me, I’m the sufferer. I’m the dead girl. I’m Miss Holocaust, 1945. The prize is a crown of thorns and eternal victimhood. Jesus was a Jew, Mr. Kugel, but I’m the Jewish Jesus.

  Please answer me, read one note.

  Kugel dug one of the notes from between the boxes. It read: I drove my husband away.

  I did my best, read another.

  Kugel began to replace the notes, delicately, using his fingers to feel for the sticky spot on the wall, trying to locate the exact spot where Mother had placed them.

  I’m pro-choice, said Anne Frank, did you know that?

  I didn’t know that, said Kugel.

  Nobody does, said Anne Frank. I love God and hate his followers. I think America is the greatest wasted opportunity in the history of man. I think the answer to peace in the Middle East is to bomb the hell out of it; kill no one, but destroy it all—every mosque, every synagogue, all history, all the past, leave no stone unburned, leaving nothing holy behind. I think never forgetting the Holocaust is not the same thing as never shutting up about it. I’d like to scratch Abraham Foxman’s eyes out.

  You’re a woman of ideas, Kugel said as he worked. Of passions.

  Shall I tell you what I think, Mr. Kugel? I think that when people die and go to heaven and they throw themselves at the Almighty’s feet and beg Him, their voices choked with tears, not to send them to whatever idea of hell they arrived with, to spare them that agony and pain and suffering, God laughs and shakes His head and says, Send you to hell? Buddy, you just came from there.

  I’ve got a professor you’d love to meet, said Kugel.

  Kugel placed the last note back where he found it, stood up, and headed for the stairs.

  You should get some rest, he said.

  Here, she said, and placed her manuscript on top of the wall.

  I took your advice, she said, and wrote about myself. Feelings, opinions, attitudes. It’s only a first draft.

  Kugel picked it up.

  They’re going to hate it, said Anne Frank.

  Kugel headed back down the stairs.

  Keep your mother away from me, said Anne Frank.

  She’s trying to help.

  I just want to be left alone.

  Last words, thought Kugel.

  Maybe a tombstone.

  SOLOMON KUGEL

  I Just Want to Be Left Alone.

  That wasn’t bad.

  That wasn’t bad at all.

  He went downstairs and met Mother in the hallway. She was holding her pillow.

  How is she?

  We should get her a doctor, Mother.

  We can’t risk it. I’ll spend the night with her.

  Mother, she just wants some quiet.

  What’s that? she asked, pointing to the manuscript.

  It’s something she asked me to read.

  Mother looked hurt, though Kugel could not tell whether that was a result of Anne Frank’s wanting space, or of Anne Frank’s giving her writing to Kugel and not to her.

  I’ll just go check on her, said Mother.

  I just did. Give her some space, Mother.

  Fine.

  Good.

  Mother went back downstairs. Kugel went to his bedroom and called Professor Jove.

  Jove wasn’t in.

  Kugel left a message.

  29.

  KUGEL LAY IN BED THAT NIGHT, holding his pillow over his head trying to shut out the sounds filling his room—Hannah and Pinkus having sex; Mother moaning; Anne Frank coughing, shuffling, typing.

  Her manuscript lay untouched on his nightstand.

  After some time, Hannah and Pinkus finished, Mother stopped moaning, and the medicine had quieted Anne Frank’s cough.

  Silence.

  At last.

  Kugel’s stomach grumbled. The matzoh, that toxic symbol of freedom from that holiday of unforgetting, began to do its work on the lining of his intestines. Kugel grabbed Anne Frank’s manuscript and went to the bathroom, where he sat on the toilet and began to read.

  He finished it, some time later, back in bed; his eyes were red, his cheeks streaked with tears.

  She was right, he thought.

  They were going to hate it.

  He went back to the bathroom, his stomach still turning.

  If Christ ever comes back, he’d heard it said, it will be the Christians who kill him this time. And they’ll make the Romans, Kugel knew, look like pussies.

  Christians? Christ will think at the moment of his second death. That’s how I die? Christians?

  Kugel heard a door slam and jumped.

  Outside.

  A barn door?

  He hastily pulled his pants up—this is how they’ll find me when the genocide comes, he thought; all my fantasies of resistance and gunfights will remain just that, as the reality of the situation creeps in: they’re kicking in the doors, and I’m on the toilet with the worst case of shits in human history.

  He hobbled to the bedroom, tossed the manuscript on his bedside table, and grabbed the cane and flashlight from beside the bed.

  I should have gotten a dog.

  I should have gotten a gun.

  Something big.

  He crept quietly down the stairs.

  At no point, he wondered, maybe
between Voorburg and The Hague, did Spinoza think, Hey, wait a minute—I’m carrying my mother’s deathbed. This is fucked up. Not once? Did he sleep in it? Christ Almighty, did Benedictus de fucking Spinoza sleep in his fucking mother’s fucking deathbed?

  He crept carefully through the foyer, the living room, and the kitchen. He paused beside the garden door and then yanked it open.

  There was a full moon that night, and it cast an eerie glow across the yard. The doors of the garden shed flapped in the wind and crashed into their frames. He walked out to the shed, locking the doors tightly.

  Maybe it was just nature, trying to scare him again.

  Probably it was.

  Probably not.

  He peered into the darkness of the heavy woods. Nothing moved. Even the wind seemed to die down.

  Will? whispered Kugel.

  A match strike, a flash of flame, not more than two feet away. Kugel, blinded, stumbled back, his cast arm raised in defense.

  Evening, Mr. K, he heard Will say.

  His vision began to return; Will stood before him, smoking a cigarette, as calmly as the day they had met at the grocery store.

  How are you, Mr. K, said Will.

  He was wearing his usual overalls and plaid shirt, but his beard had grown in, and his hair was wild.

  They stared at each other for a moment before Will nodded to the attic windows.

  How’s she doing? he asked.

  Are you going to burn down my house? Kugel asked.

  Will nodded.

  Yep, he said. I am that.

  Listen, Will, said Kugel. Listen. I love that house as much as you do. I know how you feel, really, it’s a terrible thing losing your history, but I’ll take good care of her.