"Burstein,_Michael_A._-_Kaddish_for_the_Last_Survivor" - читать интересную книгу автора (Burstein Michael A)

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Kaddish for the Last Survivor
by Michael A. Burstein
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Copyright (c)2000 by Michael A. Burstein
First published in Analog Magazine, November 2000

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Science Fiction
Hugo Award Nominee

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"The deniers' window of opportunity will be enhanced in years to come. The public, particularly the uneducated public, will be increasingly susceptible to Holocaust denial as survivors die.... Future generations will not hear the story from people who can say 'this is what happened to _me_. This is _my_ story.' For them it will be part of the distant past and, consequently, more susceptible to revision and denial."
-- Deborah Lipstadt,
_Denying the Holocaust_ (1994)
* * * *
Sarah Jacobson's hands shook as she parked her clunky Volkswagen across the street from the old suburban house in which she had grown up. She sat there, breathing in the gas fumes from the idling engine, as she watched the reporters swarm all over the front lawn.
Her boyfriend, Tom Holloway, sat next to her in the passenger seat. He stared at her for a moment, then asked, "Ready?"
Sarah nodded. As she turned off the car's engine, Tom jumped out of the front seat, dashed around the front of the car, and opened the driver's side door for her. For once, she was grateful for the old-fashioned Southern charm. To think, when she'd first met him, she'd resented it.
Well, she didn't resent it now. Tom was positioning himself to fend off the horde of reporters, and she was grateful for that too. Fortunately, no one had noticed, or else they had not yet connected Sarah to the biggest news story of the week. Tom gave Sarah his hand, and she allowed him to help her out.
She stretched as she got out of the car, feeling the warmth of the spring sunlight on her back. How strange that she could enjoy it, on this morning of all mornings. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, listening to a bird singing in the distance.
Tom's voice intruded upon her brief peace. "Shall we?"
She gave him a small smile. "I guess so."
"OK." Tom looked around, concentrating his gaze at the sea of reporters. "Lot of excitement for a small town on Long Island," he said. Sarah noticed that he was making no effort to suppress his Southern accent; he knew how endearing she found it. "Hard to believe your grandfather's attracting all this attention."
"Yeah," Sarah replied. "I know." She cocked an ear toward the reporters. "Listen."
One radio reporter, close enough to be heard, was speaking into her thumbnail recorder, taping commentary for her story. "This is Paula Dietrich, reporting from Lawrence, Long Island, where Joshua Cohen is dying. Born in Warsaw in the 1920s, Cohen -- "
Tom whistled. "He's become a celebrity. Finally got his fifteen minutes of fame."
Sarah shrugged. They'd both studied Warhol. After all, they had both graduated from Harvard with honors. "As far as I'm concerned, he's just my grandfather."
"Yeah, I know," Tom said softly. "Sorry. You sure you're ready?"
"Ready as I'll ever be, I guess. If I can survive this, I can survive anything." Sarah grabbed Tom's hand. They walked off the sidewalk onto the path leading up to the front door. She braced herself for the barrage.
One of the reporters glanced in their direction, and recognized Sarah. "It's the granddaughter!" he yelled, and began running towards them. In seconds, all of the shouting, sweating journalists had descended upon Sarah and Tom. The way they jostled at each other, trying to get better positions for recording their images, reminded Sarah of a plague of locusts come to feed.
"We'd like to ask you -- "
"May I ask you -- "
"I have a question -- "
"How do you feel?"
"Did you ever think -- "
Tom shouted above the Babel of voices. "Please, everyone! Sarah just wants to get inside."
Obviously that was not good enough for the reporters. Instead, they used Tom's interruption to create some semblance of order to their questioning. One reporter took the lead, and the others fell silent.
"Ms. Jacobson, Trevor Hunt, _USNA Online_. Could you tell us what you're going through at the moment?"
Sarah glanced at Tom and shrugged. It would be easier to answer a few of their questions first, she decided, and then go inside. She looked directly into Hunt's right eye, which glowed red with the lens of an implanted camera. "What anyone would go through when her grandfather is dying, I guess."
"But, Ms. Jacobson!" interjected the radio correspondent they had been listening to earlier. "The circumstances of your grandfather's position -- "
Sarah interrupted her. "Listen. I know what my grandfather is to the world, but to me, he's just my grandfather. Now let me go say goodbye to him in peace. I promise I'll talk to you -- all of you -- later."
Apparently chastened, the reporters parted in front of Sarah and Tom, clearing the path to the front door. As they walked up the path, a background murmuring began, like cats growling at each other over their food. The reporters chatted with their colleagues or recorded views for their broadcasts. Tom whispered to Sarah, "I'm really surprised. They're being more courteous than I would have guessed."