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

Her mother seemed to go through an internal struggle, and when she spoke next, her words were chosen with care. "Sarah, I guess you were right, in a way. It _is_ because of Grampa that I want you to marry someone Jewish, but it's also because of Grampa that I never really made that clear. Because -- because I wanted to protect you."
"Protect me?" Sarah felt surprised; the only things her mother had ever tried to protect her from were strangers and bad grades.
"Yes, Sarah, protect you. I mean, just look outside at that mob of reporters. You don't know what it's like growing up as the only child of a survivor. I had to grow up listening to all these stories over and over, all this pressure on me from your grandfather. Because of the Holocaust. All that pressure you're feeling from me -- I felt it from him. He's dying now, and I still feel it." Her voice trembled, but she clamped her mouth shut.
"Because of the Holocaust? Mother, Grampa was never very religious; you told me that yourself. And I don't see how the Holocaust is a reason to marry someone Jewish."
"Why not?" she asked softly.
Sarah considered the question. "I know _something_ of our religion," she said without conviction. Somehow, that was the one thing she had never gotten around to studying while at Harvard. "The Holocaust is not exactly a -- a defining event in Judaism."
Her mother shook her head. "Oh, yes it is. After all, Sarah, by intermarrying, aren't you denying what it is about you that made the Nazis try to wipe us out? Some would say that you're letting Hitler win. After all these years."
Sarah didn't know what to say to that; it made her angry and upset, and choked her up. But her mother continued. "Sarah, these were all the things I had to grow up with from your grandfather. I don't know what it was like firsthand to be in the camps, thank God, and God forbid that anyone ever will again. But to your grandfather, his experience there was always more real than the rest of his life. More real than the people in his life."
Her mother paused for a moment, then said, "It was even more real to him than me."
"Oh," Sarah finally managed to say.
"Your grandfather felt that every minute of life had to be devoted to reminding the world. Except instead of bothering the world, he bothered your grandmother and me. When you were born, I promised myself that I wouldn't let him warp your life the way he warped mine."
"But your life isn't -- " Sarah cut herself off.
Her mother chuckled bitterly. "It isn't warped? Sarah, compare your life to mine; you've always had more choices than I did. In my day, there was still so much women couldn't do, or wouldn't be allowed to do. Things were good for a while, but then when the Supreme Court overturned _Roe v. Wade_, it was like the clock turned backwards for all women. And for a Jewish woman, the only daughter of a survivor -- " She stopped.
"Yes, Mother?"
"Let's just say that your father was not the first man I wanted to marry. But your grandfather, well..." She trailed off.
There was nothing Sarah could think of in reply, and her mother gave her a sad smile. "Now maybe, you understand," she whispered.
"And maybe you do too," Sarah whispered back, a question and a statement at the same time.
Mother and daughter regarded each other for a moment, and then Sarah spoke. "I'm going upstairs to see Grampa, Mother. It's my last chance."
Her mother sighed. "Go. I've already made my peace with him. We'll talk more later, after -- when there isn't so little time."
* * * *
Grampa looked so weak lying in the hospital bed that U.S. Hospice had provided. Where was the strong man of Sarah's childhood, the Grampa who had carried her on his shoulders at the playground, who had comforted her on her first frightening day of school, who had attended her high school graduation just five years ago? This old, frail shell of a man, lying in bed with blankets around his thin body and snoring weakly -- Sarah couldn't reconcile him with her memories of her grandfather.
Then, tattooed upon his left arm, she saw the number: 110290. It had always been there. She remembered that first time she had asked Grampa about it. She'd been six years old. He had taken her to the playground near the house, on a hot summer day. Grampa took off the raincoat he always wore, sat on a bench with other old people, and let Sarah run off and play while he "snoozed and schmoozed," as he liked to call it. She never understood how he could sleep with all the noise from all the children playing, but Grampa seemed able to sleep anywhere. It might have scared her, but he always woke up when she called him.
When she returned, she was shocked to see that Grampa had rolled up his sleeves because of the heat. Grampa never rolled up his sleeves.
"Grampa," Sarah had asked, "what's that?" Her little fingers reached out to touch the number.
He woke instantly. "What is what?"
"That number. What is it?"
Grampa saw what she was looking at and quickly rolled down his sleeve. "Better you shouldn't ask," he said, and glared at her. Then his face softened. "_Saraleh_, how old are you again?"
She laughed. "Six, silly!"
"Six." He looked into the distance for a moment. "I had a sister who was six, once. She never got to be seven."
Grampa had had a sister? Sarah had never heard of this before. "What was her name?"
"Sarah. You were named for her." He looked at his left arm, and rolled the sleeve back up, displaying the tattoo. "I was sixteen; that was when I got the number. Sarah, forget what I said before. It is better that you ask. You must ask. And remember."
He had told her of the horrors of the camp. Of how his own grandfather had disappeared one night. Of how he, his parents, and his little sister were taken away in cattle cars from their home to a place called Auschwitz, where they were separated, and how he never saw them again. Of how he had very little to eat, all of it bad. Of how he had to endure the beatings of the guards. Of how he got sick with typhus and thought that he would be sent to the gas chambers and turned into smoke and ash. Of how they marched him to Buchenwald, and how he almost collapsed and died along the way. Of how he was barely able to move when the Americans came to liberate them, and how two righteous Gentiles whose names had sounded Jewish, Sergeant Rosenthal and Corporal Glaub, had attended to him and nursed him back to health.
His stories had seemed so incongruous in the bright, sunny playground filled with the laughter of little children, and at first Sarah thought he was making them up. But as the stories continued and got more horrible, Sarah became mesmerized. When he finished, Grampa had tears in his eyes. She hugged him, and he trembled just like Sarah did when she woke up from a nightmare.
That night, so many years ago, the rain had pounded on Sarah's bedroom window like gunshots. It was a hot, humid night, and as Sarah drifted off to sleep she thought of all her grandfather had told her. She dreamed of being stuffed into a gas chamber, the stink and sweat of human flesh pressing on her from all sides, Nazi stormtroopers shooting people outside, human flesh burning, going up in sweet-smelling smoke --
And she awoke, screaming and crying. Her mother had come in and held her for a long time. When she found out about Sarah's dreams, she promised Sarah that she would never have such dreams again. From that day on, Grampa never took Sarah to the playground alone. And the nightmares had faded away and disappeared, except for the memory of the number on Grampa's arm: 110290.
Sarah shook her head, clearing away the memories of that long ago night, and looked at the bed. The frail old man wrapped in blankets had that same number, 110290, tattooed on his arm. There was no question in Sarah's mind now, that this man was her grandfather, lying in his bed.
And dying.
_I shouldn't disturb him_, Sarah thought, and had turned around to leave the room when she heard his voice. "Who's there?" Even when he was dying, he woke to the sound of her.
She turned back; her grandfather's eyes were open. "It's Sarah, Grampa."
He smiled. "_Saraleh_, it's good to see you." He struggled to sit up in bed, and coughed. "Here, come sit next to me, on the bed. We'll have one last chance to snooze and schmooze before I go."
"Grampa! Don't talk like that." She moved his blankets over and sat down.
"Sarah, Sarah. Years ago, it would have been tempting the evil eye to say such things, but now ... now I am dying. And I am looking forward to peace. I have not had a peaceful life, _mameleh_."
"I know."
"So _nu_. Tell me, how are things? What are you doing with yourself?"
Sarah shifted around. "Well, I'm living in New York City now, you know. I'm working for a web publisher. Editing."
"And are you enjoying it?"
"I suppose, although what I'd really like to do is write."
"Eh. And are you seeing anyone? I want great-grandchildren, you know."
He laughed, and Sarah joined in. "You remember Tom, don't you? We're living -- I mean, he's now at NYU, in law school."
Grampa fixed Sarah with a long gaze. "So, you're living together?"