by Sol Stein
Table of Contents
Copyright
Rave Reviews for The Resort
Dedication
Acknowledgments
“There is no real proof that the Holocaust actually did happen.”
The Resort
PART 1
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
PART 2
10
11
12
13
14
15
PART 3
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
The Resort
By Sol Stein
Copyright 2013 by Sol Stein
Cover Copyright 2013 by Ginny Glass and Untreed Reads Publishing
The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.
Previously published in print, 1981.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher or author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, dialogue and events in this book are wholly fictional, and any resemblance to companies and actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Also by Sol Stein and Untreed Reads Publishing
The Magician
The Husband
Living Room
http://www.untreedreads.com
Rave Reviews for The Resort
“The pacing is perfect. Stein builds believable horror… Once again he proves his mastery over the thriller format.”
—The Washington Post Book World
“A ‘must’ to read…mirrors the ‘Holocaust events’ in all its terrifying stages.”
—Hannah Tillich
“Gripping! This is a scary novel—it portrays something we would prefer to think impossible.”
—Ernest van den Haag, author of The Jewish Mystique
“Shocking…a highly charged suspense thriller.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Cliff-hanging chapter endings…believable characters…but with something more: a warning.”
—Minneapolis Tribune
“You will stay with this book right up to the last word…and after that, it will stay with you for a long, long time.”
—West Coast Review of Books
“Chilling…it couldn’t really happen, you keep telling yourself, as you’re drawn chapter by chapter into the web of terror.”
—Sentinel Star, Orlando, Fla.
“A bizarre shocker…startling…stirring…a highly controversial novel on a sensitive theme.”
—John Barkham Reviews
“One of the most provocative, chilling, and spellbinding stories I’ve ever read. It will entertain you. It will enlighten you. And it will probably scare the hell out of you.”
—The State Journal-Register, Springfield, Ill.
“A fast, page-turning horror story which should haunt any sensitive reader. A thriller to make you think.”
—The Plain Dealer, Cleveland, Ohio
“This book could well be the shocker of the year…one that will chill you through and through.”
—The Abilene Reporter
For
Elizabeth and David
Acknowledgments
I owe a debt of gratitude to Ernest van den Haag for permission to use one of his theories in a context he would abhor if it happened in life.
Hillel Black, my editor in America, and Claire Carleton, my editor in Britain, both gave me valuable advice. Patricia Day was, as always, helpful through every draft.
Marilee Talman had a profound influence on the texture of this story and on the development of several of the characters. Judge Charles L. Brieant, Jr., helped me, as many times before, to understand the sometimes strange workings of the law.
Michael Burke, who has fought fires in California professionally, was good enough to let me interview him. Benton Amovitz’s expertise in Judaica was useful to me.
My work also benefited from the advice of Renni Browne, Wallace Exman, George Greenfield, Ernest Hecht, Henry Schwarzschild, Claire Smith, and Jeff Stein, to all of whom I am grateful, as I also am to Joan Searle, living litmus for a work of fiction.
“There is no real proof that the Holocaust actually did happen.”
—George Pape, President, German-American Committee of Greater New York, a cultural organization with fifty chapters in the metropolitan area, as quoted in The New York Times, October 8, 1977
“Do you want us to put you in the ovens? We will… We say one more time, all you Jews are going to get it.”
—Michael Allen, St. Louis, Missouri, Nazi leader, July 9, 1978, at rally in Chicago, Illinois, quoted in The New York Times, July 10, 1978
“The ‘deep irrationality’ of the Jewish people and the Jewish religion were apt to ‘trigger confusions, fear and eventually bloody aggressions in almost all host nations.’”
—Dr. Otto Scrinzi, neurologist and member of the Austrian Parliament, as reported in The New York Times, March 29, 1979
“Hadn’t he said he wanted only justice?”
—of Kurtz, in Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad
The Resort
Sol Stein
PART 1
1
Dr. Margaret Brown, a wise woman, was in as much a minority among physicians as the rest of the world. To become a doctor twenty-five years ago meant much memorizing, which she considered a low order of accomplishment, and a willingness to work long hours at low pay as an intern in preparation for a life’s work observing not the beauty of the human race or its accomplishments, but blotchy skin, swollen joints, and much worse. When asked why she had chosen medicine, she said she was curious about people. Why then did she not become a teacher? Because, she said, she was interested in formed people rather than masses of children conceived by others. Once her fellow students had learned the exact location of the pancreas and spleen, they were content. Margaret was not until she could confidently determine the precise cause of a patient’s discomfort or pain. Her curiosity made her an excellent diagnostician and constantly got her into trouble. At a lecture covering conception and prenatal care, the instructor, possibly a thwarted preacher, talked of the first human miracle, gestation. Margaret raised her hand and, when recognized, said, “Wouldn’t the miracle of tumescence come first and couldn’t we discuss that?” In a class that was predominantly male, Margaret was a frequent cause of nervous laughter.
She was thought to be attractive, which was an asset, and very smart, which was a liability. In those days few males enjoyed the idea of dating a woman who, whatever the splendor of her physical virtues, seemed to be intellectually superior. Especially cautious in this respect were young physicians-to-be, whose idea of accomplishment was playing not Hippocrates but Houdini.
Margaret realized much too soon that the ultimate organ, the brain that harbored the mind, was terra incognita for most of her fellow
students. Her wisest instructor, Dr. Teal, once asked her if brain surgery attracted her as a specialty.
“No,” she said much too quickly.
“May I ask why?”
“I find surgeons boring.”
Dr. Teal, a surgeon, blushed. Margaret quickly apologized, explaining she meant those of her fellow students who, bereft of leeches, had already opted for the surgical response.
Soon afterward Margaret decided that there was really no medical specialty for her to pursue. Her field, clearly, was wherever her curiosity might lead her. Some avenue of research perhaps. Psychiatry was not the answer; she was a talker, not a listener. Even internal medicine seemed restrictive, and so, faute de mieux, she became a general practitioner, with the whole human being her field of play. Dr. Teal thought, somewhat sadly, that the brightest medical student he ever had might as well have majored in philosophy.
One of the things that attracted Margaret to Henry Brown was that when he learned she was a physician, he said, “That’s convenient for emergencies.” Otherwise, it seemed, he was not impressed. “Doctors,” he said, “are like politicians. Status before content. Physicians, like teenage magicians, know a few tricks and expect minor deification. Politicians are assholes attended by proctologists.”
Margaret thought this young fellow pompous, bright, and intriguing, impertinent, and wholly unsuccessful in putting her off. Or did he think he was being attractive? She led him on.
After two hours, Henry had decided that Margaret was smart. When he stopped goading her unsuccessfully, he was doomed. She turned on him. She, at least, had a vocation in which if one failed totally, and was drunk all day long, one could still practice as a ship’s doctor. But he was a what? A businessman? What did that mean? An inventor? No. A creator of new markets? No. From what he reported, he was not even a successful exploiter of labor.
Their skill at brickbats cemented their friendship. They found themselves teaming up against others who were less skillful in verbal offense. Given the customs of the day, marriage began to seem inevitable.
Margaret got him interested in medicine as she saw it, a potpourri of neglected nutrition, wonder drugs, and common sense. Henry got her interested in eccentric business, mailing things that other people made, that went by the charming name of order fulfillment. For their off-hours they collected a group of friends who joined them on Friday evenings for drinks and talk. No bridge, no chatter about hearth or progeny was ever ventured. The sports events of the upcoming weekend were never alluded to by the men. The women never discussed meals they had prepared or were thinking of preparing. One heard few references even to medicine or business, unless the point was of general consequence and of interest to the group. An evening’s conversation might range from the sixth to the fourteenth century, with no mention of the twentieth, or might be spent in debate about the one subject that was of more interest than physics or history or a capella music. Human nature, though it varied not from century to century, was a subject worth infinite dissection, and Friday evenings at the Browns’ frequently turned to that topic. It was not for the ears of children, of which the Browns eventually had two. Ruth and Stanley, when young, accused their parents of always talking.
*
One spring morning Margaret awoke before Henry and pulled the drapes of their bedroom windows apart to find a sky that was overcast for the third day. She had hoped for sun, and failing that, a rainstorm that would relieve the sky of its lowering burden.
“God isn’t listening,” Margaret said.
Henry, stirring from sleep, said, “What’s that?”
“If the weather’s not going to change, I am,” she said. “Let’s go to California.”
“Where?” Henry said, sitting up.
“Let’s visit Stanley.”
Their son was finishing his freshman year at the University of California at Santa Cruz.
“He was here for Christmas.”
“That was months ago,” Margaret said, coming to sit beside Henry on the bed.
“He’ll be back here in a few weeks,” Henry said.
“We could rent a car in San Francisco, see Stanley, then drive down the coast on Highway 1. We could stop at Carmel, Big Sur, Santa Barbara, and fly home from Los Angeles. Everybody who’s ever done that trip says it’s marvelous.”
“I can’t take a week away on such short notice,” Henry said.
“Neither can I. Let’s do it anyway.”
“Insane,” Henry said. He had to admire her talent for electives. “California is like another country.”
“What’s wrong with that? Look at the weather here.”
“What makes you think the weather in California is going to be any better?” California, Henry told himself, is movieland and Disneyland, with pockets of elderly Neanderthals and drug-culture communes, surfboarding and tripping, lush groves and vineyards, the best and the worst of climates, the magnificent sierras and the valley of death. He’d been to a convention in Los Angeles. He’d visited San Francisco with Margaret long ago. Between them, he felt, would be like going up the river looking for Kurtz.
“Please?” Margaret said.
“It’s not to visit Stanley,” Henry said. “It’s for us.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Much later she was to think I wished it on ourselves.
*
Their five-hour flight from Kennedy was uneventful. As they emerged into the San Francisco terminal, they were both startled to see Stanley behind the roped-off egressway. Quickly they came around to where Henry could pump his son’s hand, releasing its enthusiasm so that Stanley could put his arms gently around the woman who had been his first love. God, how much taller than Margaret he was. In fact, Henry noticed, Stanley was now a smidge taller than himself. If each generation was a mite taller, where would it all end? The field of genetics escaped him. He felt the wonder of a father at the miracle of a son who had so recently been a child leaning down to embrace his mother.
“Did Mom worry all the way?” Stanley asked.
“I’ll tell you about Mom,” Margaret said. “Mom is a completely rational human being except on Ferris wheels and airplanes, and I haven’t accepted an offer for a Ferris wheel ride since I was sixteen. I trust airplanes even less than most people trust doctors. I know what doctors don’t know. How do I know what airplane pilots don’t know?”
Stanley and Henry laughed, as they all headed for the baggage area.
“How did you know where to meet us?” Henry asked.
“You told me the flight number.”
“But how’d you get here from Santa Cruz?”
“The way I always do,” Stanley said. “I took a thumb.”
*
Margaret was thirteen, walking home from school when, in a sudden rain, she saw the pickup truck and the driver stopped for her. Her wet middy blouse made her feel almost naked. She apologized for getting the cab seat wet. He said never mind and patted her knee, leaving his hand there, a signal for terror. At the light she got out against his protests, running all the way home in the rain. She scrubbed her knee and thigh with soap and water over and over again to remove the memory, determined never ever never to hitch a ride again.
/
*
“It’s easy out here,” Stanley said, “and you get to meet people. You know, not everyone who drives a car is a child molester.” He laughed, hoping she wouldn’t deliver the lecture again. “Of course, if Dad would spring for a car…”
“You’d only drive around a lot and get yourself into an accident,” Margaret said. “They say half the drivers in California are crazy.”
*
At the Hertz counter an ambitious clerk saw the coded rating on Henry’s credit card and said, “We’ve got the Granada you reserved, Mr. Brown, but I thought you might be interested in the special we have on Mercedes right now. They’re very popular in California.”
“Thanks for the suggestion,” said Henry. “We’ll stick to the Ford.”
A
s they left for the parking lot, the men each carrying a bag, Stanley put his free arm through his father’s and said, “I reserved a tennis court for eleven a.m. Tuesday. Think you can drive down in time so we can play before I show you around?”
“Terrific,” said Henry, who always played tennis twice a week at home. From his friends Henry heard horror stories about their adolescent sons; Stanley seemed to have bypassed all the conspicuous pitfalls. So far.
*
When they checked in at the Highgate, the clerk behind the desk, a sixtyish stout man with a slight accent, asked, “You’ll be staying just the one night, Dr. Brown?”
“I’m Mr. Brown. My wife is Dr. Brown. It doesn’t matter. Yes, just the one night.” The clerk reminded him of someone.
“Will the young man be staying with you? We can provide a folding bed or…”
“No, no. He’s going back to Santa Cruz.” A Lillian Hellman play? Or was it the film? Maybe he used to be an actor.
“Will you need a reservation at your next destination?” the man asked politely. The Highgate really deserved its reputation for considerate service.
“We’ll be driving south along the ocean. First stop is Carmel.”
“As your second, may I recommend Cliffhaven in Big Sur? It’s a new place, excellent view, three-star restaurant.”
“Yes, yes,” Margaret said, overhearing.
“Good,” the stout man said. “I’ll leave the confirmation in your box.”
As they followed the bellhop to the elevator, Henry looked over his shoulder once at the desk clerk. He wasn’t paying attention to the next person in line. He was staring straight at them. Embarrassed, Henry proceeded to the elevator without looking back again.
“Anything the matter?” Margaret asked in the elevator.
“No, no,” Henry said.
Margaret, out of long experience, knew Henry was lying to spare her something.
*
If you asked any of Margaret’s patients about why they went to her, they’d say her self-confidence was catching, you felt better after visiting her, even if the news was bad. You felt whatever was bothering you was under control, hers and yours. As for Margaret, she took pride in being a perceptive diagnostician of emotional as well as physical needs, needing only the tiniest clues to give her insight that helped. And so when Stanley took them via cable car to Ghirardelli Square, she sensed her son wanted a private talk with his father. Ghirardelli’s wonders offered a perfect excuse; for Margaret, useless shopping was a perfect recreation, and here there were dozens of attractive shops beckoning.