What We Talk About When We Talk About Anne Frank: Stories by Nathan Englander
Book: What We Talk About When We Talk About Anne Frank: Stories by Nathan Englander
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Authors: Nathan Englander
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partner’s hit, but a shoulder fake and all-his-might strike, the ball of Lipshitz’s bare foot connecting with Aaron’s kidney. Larry didn’t offer a hand. He stepped back like a champion and raised his fists high. Aaron hobbled to the nearest tree and displayed for us thefirst fruits of our training. He dropped his pants, took aim, and, I tell you, it was nothing less than water to wine for us when Aaron Blum peed blood.
· · ·
It’s curious that the story most often used to inspire Jewish battle readiness is that of Masada, an episode involving the last holdouts of an ascetic Israelite sect, who committed suicide in a mountain fortress. The battle was fought valiantly, though without the enemy present. Jews bravely doing harm to themselves. The only Roman casualties died of frustration in their encampment below—eight months in the desert spent building a ramp to storm fortress walls for a slaughter, and the deed already done when they arrived.
When Israeli army recruits complete basic training, they climb up that mountain and scream out into the echo, “A second time Masada won’t fall.” Boris made us do the same over the edge of Greenheath Pond, a body of water whose circulation had slowed, a thick green soup that sent back no sound.
· · ·
Mostly, the harassment was aimed at the Blum boys and their house. I don’t know if this was because of their proximity to the Anti-Semite’s house, the call to the police, or the Anti-Semite’s public slap in the face. I sometimes can’t help thinking that the Blum boys were chosen as targets because they looked to the bully as they looked to me: enticingly victimlike and small. Over time, an M-80 was used to blow up the Blum mailbox, and four tires were slashed on a sensible Blum car. A shaving-cream swastika was painted on their walkway, butit washed away in the rain before anyone could document its existence.
When we ran into the Anti-Semite, insults were inevitably hurled, and punches thrown. Larry took a thrashing without managing his now-legendary kick. Shaken, he demanded his money’s worth of Boris, and made very clear that he now feared for his life. Boris shrugged it off. “Not so easy,” he assured him. “Shot and lived. Stabbed and lived. Not so easy to get dead.”
My father witnessed the abuse. He came upon the three Blum boys crawling around and picking up pennies for the right to cross the street—the bully and his friends enforcing. My father scattered the boys, all but the three Blums, who stood there red in the face, hot pennies in their hands.
The most severe attack was the shotgun blast that shattered the Blums’ bay window. We marked it as the start of dark days, though the shells were packed only with rock salt.
· · ·
We stepped up our training and also our level of subterfuge. We memorized kata and combinations. We learned to march in lockstep, to run, leap, and roll in silence.
Lying on our backs in a row with feet raised, heads raised, and abdomens flexed, we listened to Boris lecture while he ran over us, stepping from stomach to stomach, as if crossing a river on stones. Peace, Boris insisted, was maintained through fear. “Do you know which countries have no anti-Semite?” he asked. We didn’t have an answer. “The country with no Jew.”
The struggle would not end on its own. The bully would not mature, see the error of his ways, or learn to love the other. He would hate until he was dead. He would fight until he was dead. And unless we killed him, or beat him until he thoughtwe had killed him, we’d have no truce, no peace, no quiet. In case we didn’t understand the limitations of even the best-case scenario, Boris explained it to us again. “The man hits. In future he will hit wife, hit son, hit dog. We want only that he won’t hit Jew. Let him go hit someone else.”
Despite all the bumps pushed back into foreheads and the braces freed from upper lips, I’m convinced our parents
· · ·
It’s curious that the story most often used to inspire Jewish battle readiness is that of Masada, an episode involving the last holdouts of an ascetic Israelite sect, who committed suicide in a mountain fortress. The battle was fought valiantly, though without the enemy present. Jews bravely doing harm to themselves. The only Roman casualties died of frustration in their encampment below—eight months in the desert spent building a ramp to storm fortress walls for a slaughter, and the deed already done when they arrived.
When Israeli army recruits complete basic training, they climb up that mountain and scream out into the echo, “A second time Masada won’t fall.” Boris made us do the same over the edge of Greenheath Pond, a body of water whose circulation had slowed, a thick green soup that sent back no sound.
· · ·
Mostly, the harassment was aimed at the Blum boys and their house. I don’t know if this was because of their proximity to the Anti-Semite’s house, the call to the police, or the Anti-Semite’s public slap in the face. I sometimes can’t help thinking that the Blum boys were chosen as targets because they looked to the bully as they looked to me: enticingly victimlike and small. Over time, an M-80 was used to blow up the Blum mailbox, and four tires were slashed on a sensible Blum car. A shaving-cream swastika was painted on their walkway, butit washed away in the rain before anyone could document its existence.
When we ran into the Anti-Semite, insults were inevitably hurled, and punches thrown. Larry took a thrashing without managing his now-legendary kick. Shaken, he demanded his money’s worth of Boris, and made very clear that he now feared for his life. Boris shrugged it off. “Not so easy,” he assured him. “Shot and lived. Stabbed and lived. Not so easy to get dead.”
My father witnessed the abuse. He came upon the three Blum boys crawling around and picking up pennies for the right to cross the street—the bully and his friends enforcing. My father scattered the boys, all but the three Blums, who stood there red in the face, hot pennies in their hands.
The most severe attack was the shotgun blast that shattered the Blums’ bay window. We marked it as the start of dark days, though the shells were packed only with rock salt.
· · ·
We stepped up our training and also our level of subterfuge. We memorized kata and combinations. We learned to march in lockstep, to run, leap, and roll in silence.
Lying on our backs in a row with feet raised, heads raised, and abdomens flexed, we listened to Boris lecture while he ran over us, stepping from stomach to stomach, as if crossing a river on stones. Peace, Boris insisted, was maintained through fear. “Do you know which countries have no anti-Semite?” he asked. We didn’t have an answer. “The country with no Jew.”
The struggle would not end on its own. The bully would not mature, see the error of his ways, or learn to love the other. He would hate until he was dead. He would fight until he was dead. And unless we killed him, or beat him until he thoughtwe had killed him, we’d have no truce, no peace, no quiet. In case we didn’t understand the limitations of even the best-case scenario, Boris explained it to us again. “The man hits. In future he will hit wife, hit son, hit dog. We want only that he won’t hit Jew. Let him go hit someone else.”
Despite all the bumps pushed back into foreheads and the braces freed from upper lips, I’m convinced our parents
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