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

No sooner had Tom said that, when a small man stepped right in front of them, blocking their way. He brushed back his sandy blond hair and asked, "Ms. Jacobson, why does your family continue to perpetrate this hoax?"
The growling noises of conversation cut off, leaving nothing but the sounds of the cameras and recorders.
At first Sarah thought he was a private citizen, and not a member of the media, as he carried no recording devices and his eyes appeared normal. But a second glance exposed something far more sinister. This man wore a memory recorder implant behind his right ear. His audience, whoever they were, would be able to directly interface with his memories of confronting Sarah, over and over again.
As calmly as she could, Sarah said, "Excuse me?"
The man smiled. "I asked, given the fact that your grandfather, who lived a long and healthy life, is now on his deathbed, why does your family feel the need to perpetuate the hoax of the Holocaust?"
Tom stepped forward, shouting, "Now, listen here, you -- "
Sarah gently reached out and grabbed Tom's shoulder. "Tom, stop." She turned to the man. "Excuse me, but I didn't catch your name."
"Sorry. Maxwell Schwab, from the Institute for Historical Revision. I'm doing an article for our academic journal." He waved his hand at the other reporters. "We'd like to know why your family has gone to the trouble of inviting the mass media here, pretending to the world that the Holocaust actually happened and that your grandfather was a victim of this fictional event."
Tom pulled at her arm. "Come on, Sarah, we don't need to listen to this shi -- this crap."
Sarah resisted. "No, wait." She pivoted her body to face the reporter. "Mr. Schwab?"
"Yes?"
Sarah slapped him on the face, hard, glad she'd studied self-defense. He staggered back, and fell onto his backside. Sarah hoped it was painful enough to keep people from playing this memory.
Schwab sat there, unmoving, just staring at Sarah. No one bothered to pick him up.
She turned to Tom. "_Now_, let's go inside."
No one else stopped them.
* * * *
The first thing that hit Sarah as she entered the house was the smell. The odor of stewing meat and potatoes from the kitchen mixed with the old, musty smell that the house always seemed to have whenever Sarah had returned from college. The living room seemed dark, and it took her a moment to realize that all the shades were drawn, probably to keep the reporters from looking in.
She called out to her parents. "Hello? Dad? Mother?"
Her father called back, "In the kitchen, honey, be right out."
Sarah turned to Tom. "Are _you_ going to be OK?"
Tom smiled, shrugged, and took Sarah's hand briefly. "Yeah, I've dealt with her before. It's not too bad."
"She's not _your_ mother, though."
The door to the kitchen swung open. Sarah's parents, Paul and Anna Jacobson, entered the living room. Her father looked calm, cool, and collected, the way that he always looked. He wore a jacket and tie, in stark contrast to the polo shirts and jeans which Tom and she were wearing. Sarah couldn't remember a time when her father wasn't dressed so impeccably. Her mother, on the other hand, wore a sweatshirt and sweatpants, as if dressing well was currently her last priority. She appeared frazzled, with her hair all askew.
Tom greeted them with a simple hello. Sarah's father smiled at Tom, but her mother barely glanced in Tom's direction.
There was a moment of silence, which her father broke. "Come, Tom, I need your help in the kitchen. You can tell me how your family's doing back in Durham. And how about those Mets?"
The two men went through the slow swinging door, which creaked loudly until it finally shut, muffling their awkward conversation about baseball. Sarah and her mother watched the door for a few seconds after it had closed, and then Sarah turned to look at her mother. "I guess," Sarah said, "I ought to go upstairs and see Grampa."
Her mother sniffed. "Sure, go ahead. Do you want to bring your _goyische_ boyfriend upstairs too?"
_Damn_, Sarah thought, _she wasn't going to be reasonable. Surprise, surprise._ "Mother, please -- "
"And now you're living with him."
Shocked, Sarah took a deep breath. "I never told you that! How did you find out?"
Her mother grinned. "Just now, Sarah. You may be my smart Harvard daughter, but you're not smarter than me."
Sarah felt furious, but more with herself than with her mother. Anna Jacobson had done it _again_, pretending to know something so as to trick the information out of Sarah. Damn! How could she have been so stupid? Well, as long as Mother had figured it out, Sarah might as well get everything out in the open.
"I was going to tell you anyway, Mother. Today, in fact. Tom and I are living together. We have been for a while now."
Her mother glared at her and Sarah said, "I don't care how you feel about it. And anyway, things are different now."
"Such defiance," her mother said, making clucking sounds with her tongue. "And things being different isn't an excuse."
"You're right, Mother," Sarah said as sarcastically as she could. "An economic depression is no excuse for being unable to afford my own apartment."
"Now Sarah -- "
"'Now Sarah,' _what_?" Sarah slammed the doorframe with her palm. "It's not like you have the money to help out; you still live _here_, in the oldest house in the neighborhood. You can't even afford automatic doors. Well, I can't afford to live by myself. No one right out of school can, not with our loans. And as it is -- " She paused for a moment, then took the plunge. "As it is, Tom and I will probably be getting married soon anyway."
There. The big secret was out. Sarah studied her mother's face carefully; it seemed completely shut down. Her mother just stared at her, stonily, not reacting. Finally, Sarah couldn't take the silence any longer. "Well?" she asked. "Aren't you going to say something?"
Her mother sighed. "Sarah, it isn't Tom. He's a nice boy, and I do like him. But I -- and your father -- would prefer that you marry someone Jewish."
"Why?"
"Why? What do you mean, why?"
"Exactly what I said, Mother." She spoke crisply, trying to imitate the Cambridge accent of some of her professors. "Why?"
Her mother looked over Sarah's shoulder. Was it possible she had never really considered this question before? After a few seconds, Sarah's impatience got the better of her again. "Is it because of Grampa? Because he's the last one?"
Her mother immediately replied, "No! It's because you're Jewish. And it surprises me you'd even think of marrying someone who isn't."
Sarah shook her head and sighed. "You know, Mother, you shouldn't be so surprised. You never raised me as Jewish."
Her mother's eyes, filled with shame and fear, locked onto Sarah's. "That's not true," she said softly.
Sarah nodded and went back to being sarcastic. "Yeah, Mother. Matzoh ball soup on Passover, and Chinese food and a movie on Christmas. Should have been enough for me, right? That didn't make me Jewish; it just made me a different type of American. And that's how you and Dad raised me, as an American."
Her mother stood still for a moment, then sank onto one of the cushioned chairs. It sighed, sending dust into the air. "I can't believe it," she said, shaking her head. "I'm doing what I said I never would."
Confused, Sarah asked, "What are you talking about?"