messages his brain tried to send his colon, and he knew from experience that in these situations, he only had limited control of that particular bodily function. Still, how could he leave now? He’d waited this long.
Excuse me, he groaned to the couple. Do you have the time?
The man turned and looked down at Kugel, who now felt terribly small.
No, said the man, pulling the woman even closer with his arm, but Kugel could clearly see the silver diving watch on his wrist.
Tall people appeared to have it easy; that was what Kugel found so galling. Like things just went their way. Let’s go buy a house! Let’s get expensive diving watches! Why not, we’re tall! What could go wrong? The woman wasn’t quite as tall as the man, but she was marrying into his tallness, hoping for a piece of that ever-perfect tall pie, and for that, Kugel hated her even more than he did the man.
The creature inside Kugel’s gut lashed out again; a sustained blast of fiery pain; it was determined to get out, to find freedom.
I’d never make it in Auschwitz, thought Kugel. Not a week. Not a day. Bread was all they ate there, wasn’t it? Soup if they were lucky. He’d die, he knew it, and not even in a gas chamber or a crematorium—no, not he, not Solomon Kugel; Solomon Kugel would die in the latrine. He’d die on the toilet. His descendants would speak of him sadly—Those sons of bitches, they would say—and they would make Great-grandfather Kugel out to be some sort of martyr, some sort of hero, but they would never speak openly about how he really died: doubled over on the crapper, dead of dehydration. Dead of glutens. Dead of the shits.
The woman pointed up at an advertisement for a large white Victorian house, in front of which stood a tall oak tree with fiery orange autumnal leaves. The man pointed to the child’s tire swing that hung from one of the tree’s heavy branches. The woman hugged the man and he kissed her on the top of her head.
Kugel could never survive a genocide, not with his stomach. And Bree, with her dye allergy; Pardon me, Herr Kommandant, but do you have a
clear
soup? I’m very sensitive to coloring.
Someone would have to hide them, that much was certain.
If what?
If something happened.
If what happened?
Something.
What?
Whatever.
But who? Of the roughly 2,400 residents in Stockton, Kugel knew about twenty of them by name; of those twenty, there were probably a total of seven who would agree to hide him and his family in their attic (this was assuming that those seven hadn’t already promised their attics to other Jews, blacks, homosexuals, Asians, Muslims, immigrants, etc., which you had to assume at least two or three of them already had; first come, first saved). The Kugels, though, were at a distinct disadvantage for the remaining five attics: together with Bree and Jonah, there were three of them, and if Mother kept hanging on the way she was, they were four (I am
not,
resolved
Kugel
,
taking Anne Frank with us); realistically, they’d probably need a whole attic to themselves. He and Bree would share a bed, but Jonah was getting too old to share one, and Mother would need one, too (nobody was going to agree to share a bed with Mother, and Kugel would sooner force Jonah into a cattle car and seal the doors himself than make him share a bed with his grandmother). It wasn’t a question of greed, just pragmatism, and, of course, no doubt: if the attic they wound up hiding in was large enough, Kugel would be more than happy to share it with another young couple, or maybe some children whose parents had been arrested by the authorities (they’d need constant reassuring, though, which he’d be willing to give them in the early days, but as the genocide dragged on, they were going to get on his nerves, he knew that now; man up, kids, this isn’t easy for anyone). One thing was certain: with the Kugels’ various dietary restrictions, whoever shared the attic with them ought to know straightaway
Excuse me, he groaned to the couple. Do you have the time?
The man turned and looked down at Kugel, who now felt terribly small.
No, said the man, pulling the woman even closer with his arm, but Kugel could clearly see the silver diving watch on his wrist.
Tall people appeared to have it easy; that was what Kugel found so galling. Like things just went their way. Let’s go buy a house! Let’s get expensive diving watches! Why not, we’re tall! What could go wrong? The woman wasn’t quite as tall as the man, but she was marrying into his tallness, hoping for a piece of that ever-perfect tall pie, and for that, Kugel hated her even more than he did the man.
The creature inside Kugel’s gut lashed out again; a sustained blast of fiery pain; it was determined to get out, to find freedom.
I’d never make it in Auschwitz, thought Kugel. Not a week. Not a day. Bread was all they ate there, wasn’t it? Soup if they were lucky. He’d die, he knew it, and not even in a gas chamber or a crematorium—no, not he, not Solomon Kugel; Solomon Kugel would die in the latrine. He’d die on the toilet. His descendants would speak of him sadly—Those sons of bitches, they would say—and they would make Great-grandfather Kugel out to be some sort of martyr, some sort of hero, but they would never speak openly about how he really died: doubled over on the crapper, dead of dehydration. Dead of glutens. Dead of the shits.
The woman pointed up at an advertisement for a large white Victorian house, in front of which stood a tall oak tree with fiery orange autumnal leaves. The man pointed to the child’s tire swing that hung from one of the tree’s heavy branches. The woman hugged the man and he kissed her on the top of her head.
Kugel could never survive a genocide, not with his stomach. And Bree, with her dye allergy; Pardon me, Herr Kommandant, but do you have a
clear
soup? I’m very sensitive to coloring.
Someone would have to hide them, that much was certain.
If what?
If something happened.
If what happened?
Something.
What?
Whatever.
But who? Of the roughly 2,400 residents in Stockton, Kugel knew about twenty of them by name; of those twenty, there were probably a total of seven who would agree to hide him and his family in their attic (this was assuming that those seven hadn’t already promised their attics to other Jews, blacks, homosexuals, Asians, Muslims, immigrants, etc., which you had to assume at least two or three of them already had; first come, first saved). The Kugels, though, were at a distinct disadvantage for the remaining five attics: together with Bree and Jonah, there were three of them, and if Mother kept hanging on the way she was, they were four (I am
not,
resolved
Kugel
,
taking Anne Frank with us); realistically, they’d probably need a whole attic to themselves. He and Bree would share a bed, but Jonah was getting too old to share one, and Mother would need one, too (nobody was going to agree to share a bed with Mother, and Kugel would sooner force Jonah into a cattle car and seal the doors himself than make him share a bed with his grandmother). It wasn’t a question of greed, just pragmatism, and, of course, no doubt: if the attic they wound up hiding in was large enough, Kugel would be more than happy to share it with another young couple, or maybe some children whose parents had been arrested by the authorities (they’d need constant reassuring, though, which he’d be willing to give them in the early days, but as the genocide dragged on, they were going to get on his nerves, he knew that now; man up, kids, this isn’t easy for anyone). One thing was certain: with the Kugels’ various dietary restrictions, whoever shared the attic with them ought to know straightaway
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