The Shiksa Syndrome: A Novel (13 page)

A worrier by nature, I often worry how I’d have gotten through the Holocaust had I been born in that place at that time. Sometimes after reading a book, seeing a film about the war, being at synagogue and hearing a talk from a survivor, I internalize the emotions and bring them all home.

My parents and I once visited the Holocaust Museum in Washington, D.C. With Sam. When you begin the tour, you are given a card with the name of an actual person who was in the camps. You must wait until the tour ends before opening the card, learning whether or not your person survived.

We started with an exhibit replicating a typical home in Europe before the Nazi invasion. Room to room, you observed a comfortable family. The father cozy in the living room reading, the child playing in his room upstairs, the mother in the kitchen cooking. Suddenly, a knock on the door. Screams. Bang! The entry swift and, just as quickly, life as they knew it ends.

Chilling as that was, what chilled me to the bone were the shoes. Exhibited behind a wall of glass were all the recovered shoes. One pair piled on top of the next, high enough to create a small mountain. A mountain of hope destroyed in the soles of those shoes. Destroying the souls of those shoes.

At night, still, I lie awake and think of Sam. Like the Holocaust family, he felt safe. What harm could possibly come to him waiting for the elevator in the North Tower? I relive Sam’s last moments as if I were with him. It is a movie. One I see again and again. Desperately rewriting the ending, but to no avail. Always the same, innocent people always destroyed. And for what?

In the world, not only is it more interesting and respectful to embrace and allow our differences, it is essential. But tolerance does not exist, so assimilation takes the lead. The safety of sameness. And not just with religion.

Scranton now has all the same stores as New York. When I watch television, I can barely tell one actor from the next; one look, one style, is dominant. In the attempt to unite, we are doing away with individuality. Compromising the individual spirit.

How relieved I was when, after the tour, I opened my card and discovered my person had survived. But the survivors are dying off, making it too easy to forget. The point, now, of the Holocaust is to remember. Still so near, 9/11 already feels too far. My foothold in Judaism is to continue the story. To always remember.

“But when Krista talks about things Jewish, it all sounds so nice,” I tell Josh, eager to convert him in order to save myself. “In fact”—I take a breath, knowing just how far out on a limb I am about to travel—“she told me this Saturday night it’s some holiday too. She says it’s like Halloween?”

“That’s a stretch, but okay.” Josh laughs. “Purim.”

Josh knows his stuff. If asked, he will claim it’s only for work, being a distributor to many Jewish businesses. “Know your customer,” he’ll say.

“Yeah, Pooreem,” I say. “And after dinner, she and Matt are going to some big service and a costume party. They’re dressing as Bonnie and Clyde. Krista asked if we want to join them.” I look at Josh through hopeful eyes. “Can we?”

“Look, it’s sweet of her and you too, but believe me, it’s pretty boring,” he says of the
megillah
reading that is one of my favorites. Beautiful Esther and the villain Haman followed by hamentaschen cookies, colorful costumes, and carnival-like celebrations.

“No problem,” I quickly say, remembering last year when I dressed as a flapper and Peter came as a cop. A joyful participant, he booed and hissed along with everyone during the service whenever we heard the name Haman.

“Don’t look so disappointed, eMay.” Josh reaches across the table and rubs my arm. “Just get better because this weekend I made way better plans.”

The night of Erev Purim—all Jewish holidays begin at sundown—though Krista’s with Matt at the nighttime service, I, too, find myself someplace new. At the communal table of the stunningly trendy Asia De Cuba, Josh and I drink Absolut and eat lobster mashed potatoes. A bacchanal befitting a queen. Still high the following afternoon, I fly higher when Josh takes me to a matinee on Broadway to see
Spring Awakening.
And is it ever. The feasts. The festivities. I feel my own awakening and privately own this Purim celebration while remembering the Book of Esther.

King Ahasuerus picks out Esther in a beauty pageant, and makes her his queen. But considering the negative political climate, she takes her cousin’s advice and does not tell him she’s a Jew. When Haman wants to annihilate the Jewish people, Esther appeals to her husband. She uses her feminine wiles but in an ordinary, girl-next-door way. Choosing the right moment, she reveals her identity to the king. Because he has fallen in love with her by then, she wins his favor, enabling the Jews of Persia to be saved.

In a beautiful art deco building I lay with Josh. Safe in his bed, tucked away in this co-cop, his one-bedroom castle. Though naked, I still wear my costume. Shiksa. One day I will take it off. One day when the time is right, I will choose to show my hand.

Meanwhile I encourage Josh to use his and to touch. Allowing myself to feel all I can. It is Purim, and we are commanded to eat, drink, and be merry.

S
omething
F
ishy

H
EY, YOU OKAY STANDING HERE
?” asks Josh. After last night, I assumed this morning we’d linger, but he had us up and out. Showered and dressed, hailing a cab to take me for, you got it, a surprise. “They should have a table any minute.”

“Oh, good,” I say. “It is a little cold.”

Last night was wonderful.
Much
better, we took a very sensual leap. The romantic I am thought we’d stay at his apartment, where we’d spend the day in bed with Sunday’s
New York Times.
Cooking omelets and drinking Bloody Marys. So when the cab drove uptown through the park over to the West Side, I had no idea where we’d be going. But I sure am sorry it turned out to be here.

“It’s worth the wait,” he says of the line that’s so far out the door it practically reaches the corner. “Barney Greengrass is my total favorite for Sunday morning Jew food. They’re also one of our best customers. You know this place?”

“Mmmmm,” I say, instead of mentioning I spent my entire childhood here splitting the lox platter. Exactly nine and a half blocks from my parents’ apartment, I can only pray they really are in Plantation Island or maybe slept in New Jersey.

“You know what,” says Josh. “Let me see if Gary’s around. If he is, maybe he can help get us in.”

“Great.” I flash Josh a smile before putting my head down, not wanting to run into anyone from the hood.

“We’re in luck,” he says a few minutes later. Finding me on the line and extending his hand to take me off. “Over the holidays we did Gary a really big favor with two dozen seeded ryes, so the next table is ours. Follow me.”

VIP treatment. And from a guy in bread. Who’d have thought? It’s nice and warm when we get inside, and not just the temperature. The aroma of Jewish appetizing permeates straight to my bloodstream. Nova and salmon and sturgeon and sable. Tuna fi sh, whitefish . . . the smells so comforting, even the gefilte fish seems appealing.

“You ever see anything like this?” asks Josh, indicating the meat counter as we wait in the front while the busboy cleans our table.

“It’s like I see everything with you through new eyes.”

Josh beams. “Some other time I’ll take you here for lunch,” he says. “Their sandwiches are big enough for four. You like corned beef, pastrami? Bet you never had tongue.”

“Tongue?” I ask because I think I should. I happen to love tongue. Most people don’t. I don’t think it’s a dislike for the taste of the tongue as much as that it was once someone’s. “Do you like tongue?”

“I’m pretty open-minded when it comes to food,” says Josh. “But you can’t get me there.”

The host brings us over to our table. Josh walks close behind me, his hand guiding my back as he whispers into my ear: “Though after last night, I can think of a few things I’d like to do now with mine.”

Before we sit, I kiss him in front of the table, totally oblivious to anyone but Josh. Unzipping my jacket, I pull off that bomber hat (this from a girl who only wore bowl-shaped suede ones with faux-fur trim) and feel quite
It
when my silky straight hair tumbles down. Menus now in front of us, we don’t even look. Josh and I only have eyes for each other.

We must be giving off the vibes because I can feel all eyes upon us. Well, certainly the couple at the next table. We get the Stare. Josh doesn’t notice, but I can feel it. Enough to try to sneak a peek and break it. Very gradually, I peel my eyes off Josh, casually dropping them down to the menu. I tilt my head to the right to do that thing with my hair. The top of my left hand brushes under it as I throw my head back, allowing it to slowly turn to the left. Coming face-to-face with the guy at the next table who’s been staring.

“Peter?!”

“Well, if it isn’t Aimee Albert. Fancy seeing you here.” Peter pauses to take me in. “If that is you.”

“H-h-h-hi.” I exhale in staccato sounds that would make more sense if I were about to sneeze.

Now what? Oh. I need to introduce him. To Josh. And he has to—

“Aimee, this is Courtney. Court,” he says, and I instantly have to wonder how long they’re dating that he has already shortened her name, “this is Aimee.”

“The Aimee?” asks Courtney. Courtney, I notice, with the real red hair. “I heard about you.”

“Really?” This makes me extranervous. “How’d you two meet?”

“She’s a waitress at the club,” says Peter.

“Don’t they serve liquor there?” I ask. She hardly looks old enough to be out of college, let alone a waitress at the club.

“I’m almost twenty-five,” boasts Courtney, catching my drift. “But my agents say I look really, really young. They keep sending me out to play high school and college kids, but I haven’t booked anything yet.”

I look at Peter with nothing but disappointment. He is trying to make changes? This is how he plans to grow up? Seems to me he has only regressed in the three months since we—

“Aimee?”

“Huh?”

I look from Peter to Josh—ohmygod, it’s a living hell to look from Peter to Josh—and have no clue as to whatever it was that was just said.

“Aren’t you?” asks Josh. He motions to himself and then to Peter.

“Of course,” I say, and now catch up. “Josh Hirsch”—I must say his last name—“meet Peter McNight.”

“Hey there,” says Josh. “Nice to meet you. So how do you know Aimee? We met like almost two months ago.”

“Sweet,” says Peter. “We know each other longer than that. I’m her ex—”

“Trainer!” I suddenly chime in. Having a whole new respect for actors who improvise, observing how, with everything, practice make perfect.

“Excuse me?” challenges Peter.

I turn to Josh. “Yeah, I had training sessions at the gym for a while. Like a year and a half. But I stopped around Christmas. So now he’s my ex.” My smile to Peter confirms it. “My ex-trainer.”

“I never knew y—,” begins Courtney.

“Ready to order?” breaks in Norm, our waiter.

“Not yet,” says Josh. “But coffees all around?”

“Definitely,” says Courtney. “Not that I want to really wake up after last night.” She flashes Peter a young, dreamy smile.

“O-kay.” Peter almost blushes. “Bring on that coffee. In fact”—he looks across to Josh and talks confidentially—“how ’bout we push these two tables together and share. Fun? What do you say?”

“I’m game,” says Josh.

The two men stand and make the move, while Courtney and I wait to adjust our chairs.

“That’s much better,” says Peter, who now sits close, way too close for comfort, to me.

“So.” Josh makes the attempt to start a conversation. “You did a great job training Aimee.”

“I sure don’t know about that.” Peter practically smirks when he looks at me. And while I know he doesn’t know what’s up, I can see he’s up to playing along.

“Modest. What club do you two work at?”

“The LaughTrack,” says Courtney.

“Isn’t that a comedy club?” asks Josh.

“ Uh-huh.”

“They have a gym?”

Oh boy, here we go.

“No, silly,” replies Courtney. “Why would a comedy club have a gym? Duh.”

“But you’re a trainer?” he asks Peter.

“I never knew you were a trainer.” Courtney now gets out the words. Anxious for confirmation, she reaches across the table and taps Peter’s hand.

I give Peter a look. He is not pleased. On the other hand, he can see the possible discomfort if Josh knew of our relationship, so he complies.

“Peter is a stand-up comic,” I explain for him, “who only moonlights as a personal trainer.”

“I know you’re also a bartender, but I never knew you were a trainer,” says Courtney.

“Well, I am now,” says Peter, eyeballing me. “A trainer. In training.”

“Wow,” says Courtney. “That’s awesome. You’re so many things, Pete.”

“Sounds kind of like that boyfriend,” Josh says to me. “Aimee told me her ex was a stand-up,” he says. “Tough gig. Hard to make a living. Unless you can really hit—”

And though Peter is not a violent man, I see he would like to. Instead, he moves the exchange forward.

“What do you do?” he asks Josh.

“LoveLoaves. Bread. Family business,” answers Josh.

“What do you do?” Courtney asks me.

“I’m in PR.”

“Pete, isn’t that just like—?”

“So what are we all having?” I interrupt nice and loud, the waiter gratefully arriving with waters and coffees.

“Trust me,” says Josh, helping the waiter pass the hot coffees from his tray. “Everything here is great. And if you’re into chubs, this is really the place.”

Courtney squints her eyes in confusion and looks across to Peter. “Can I get some pancakes and bacon?”

“No,” says Peter. “Not here. But I guarantee you’ll like this stuff once you know what to order. Aimee’s the one who turned me on to this food, and I’m hap—”

“You?” Josh interrupts. Incredulous. “Never would have guessed that.”

Though I see he caught it, Peter lets the comment pass and continues, “I’m happy to see you found one of your tribe.”

“What tribe?” asks Courtney.

“The food tribe, Court,” I practically spit. “I’m a foodie. So is Josh. Isn’t that right?” and I see the explanation has him satiated. “It’s always good to try new things.”

“Sure is,” says Peter. “Hey, what was the name of that great crunchy thing you made? Kagel?”

“You mean kugel?” Josh looks beyond curious.

“The head trainer at the place where we worked out was Jewish,” I say.

“Oh, you mean that place on
Ninety-sixth Street
?” Peter grins, also pleased with his improvisational skills. “She ran a tight ship.”

“Uh. Yeah,” I agree. “And I used to make little treats for everybody every time I reached another goal. Treats from every culture. Treats from around the world.”

“eMay, how cool you know how to make a kugel,” Josh practically
cvells.

“eMay,”
Peter says, ripe with sarcasm, “makes one mean kugel.”

“That sounds really good,” says Courtney. “I’ll have the kegel.”

“I bet you will.” Josh winks at Peter. “Bet you can get some good pointers in that area from your trainer here too.”

“Josh!”

“Court,” Peter speaks with patience as if talking to a child. “I’ll tell you about that
later.
” He puts emphasis on the word
later
for my benefit. “Kugel is a noodle pudding,” explains Peter.

“I want to order the kagel.”

“I’m not sure you’d really be happy with that for breakfast,” Josh tells Courtney. “You all mind if I order? We can do lox, deli meat, a batch of eggs, bagels, cream cheese . . . something for everyone. What do you say?”

The table quiet, we all listen as Josh gives the waiter the order—except for Courtney, who repeats each item after he says it, checking with Josh she pronounced everything right.

“In case I ever audition to be a waitress in a Jewish restaurant, I should know,” she says. “We never had food like this in Lake Wallenpaupack. It was so beat. I’m so glad I left Pennsylvania.”

PENNSYLVANIA?

Ohmygod.

“So you and Aimee have something in common,” says Josh. “How about that. She’s from Pennsylvania too.”

“Really?” says Courtney.

“Really!”
says Peter.

“Whereabouts?” asks Courtney.

“Yes,
exactly
whereabouts?” Peter turns and asks the same.

“Scranton.”

Don’t ask. I got the word out, and let’s leave it at that.

“Scranton!” Peter roars. “That’s a scream.”

“It is not,” I defend. “It’s a very sweet place.”

“Totally,” chimes in Josh. “We were just there last weekend. Aimee showed me the house where she grew up. And her church,” he adds.

“Her church!” shouts Peter. “In Scranton!”

“Just like Jax,” exclaims Courtney. (With her reference to Peter’s comedian friend at the club, I get how I chose Scranton in the first place.) “Lake Wallenpaupack’s not that far,” she tells us. “Less than an hour east. But the Poconos are BOR-ING,” she sings. “Did you like it better growing up in Scranton?”

“Um. Yes,” I say. “It was actually an idyllic American childhood.”

“Isn’t it really funny being here in New York and everything?” Courtney now says to me, girl-to-girl. “I mean not just the whole
Sex and the City
life. But take this. Like there was no Jewish food in Lake Wallenpaupack. I didn’t even know any Jewish people. The comedy club was my first time.”

“Well, growing up in Scranton was different.”

I aimlessly pick up a knife from the table, noticing my reflection. If I don’t use it on myself first, I bet I will soon see my old nose growing back. Getting longer by the second.

“I’d guess it’s pretty different,” says Josh. “Plus Aimee had a neighbor who married Jewish. Muffy Steinberg.”

“Muffy Steinberg!?” Peter is about to burst. “I’d like to hear about Muffy Steinberg,” he tells Josh. “Please. Fill me in. I’m all ears.”

“Well, it was just a little story about how she introduced Aimee and her family to Judaism, kind of. When Muffy married a Jewish guy and they had a bris.”

“Wait,” says Peter. “Go back. Muffy
introduced
Aimee’s family to Jud—?”

“Do you have to have a bris if you marry a Jewish guy?” jumps in Courtney.

“If I’m right about what’s going on here, Aimee might.”

“Peter!”

Josh, too, feels offended, only he has no idea why.

“You don’t have to be so mean to me just because I stopped training with you.”

“Well, you know, you train someone for a year and a half, and you think you know them. Then one day you run into them at breakfast and
—SHIT.
”

“SHOOT.”

Peter’s right hand holds the handle of his coffee cup; my water glass is in my left. Afraid of what he might say and unwilling to find out, I kick him under the table, hard. So hard, his right hand jerks into my left, causing the coffee and the water to spill on the table and drip down onto our laps.

A momentary quiet takes over, allowing the dust, or in this case the dribble, to settle. Coffee is all over my brand-new designer jeans. Though, all things considered, this is the least of my problems.