neighborhood. They're not gonna bother you."
"What do you know?" he
says sharply.
"You're just being crazy
again," I say, prodding one of the grocery bags with my foot.
"Anyway, even if they were coming to get you, your setup here is stupid.
You've got a baseball bat by the front door. Why couldn't they just grab the
bat and go down the hall and beat your brains out while you're sleeping?"
"I got another bat in the
bedroom."
"Brilliant." I snort a
small laugh as I follow my father down the hall. "I can't talk to you
about this. This is nuts."
He stops in the doorway and moves
toward me suddenly. "A man does what he does to survive," he says,
shaking the bat at me.
I throw up my hands. "Don't
gimme that again, please."
"It's true," my father
says forcefully.
"You know something?"
The old man ignores me and keeps
talking. "Someday, you'll know it's true," he says loudly.
"Hey, you know
something..."
"Because one day, you'll do
what I had to do..."
"Hey, you know what?" I
say, touching his shoulder. "I agree with you. What you're saying makes
sense—but only if you're in Auschwitz !"
My father slams the bat against the
doorway. "Don't make a joke ..."
"I'm not making a joke. You're
not in Auschwitz anymore. This is America .
Okay? The same rules don't apply."
The argument is always the same and
it always leaves me pissed-off and downhearted. It's true that my father has
had a hard life, and that at times he had to be ruthless and completely selfish
just to stay alive. When I was young, he told me how he almost killed another
prisoner over a couple of scraps of bread, and the story has haunted me ever since.
The problem is that my father has
applied the exact same logic to life after the camps and he's still paranoid,
bitter, and absolutely indifferent to the suffering of the rest of the world.
He's ruined his own life and my mother's with his compulsions, and now he's
almost done closing himself off.
I'd like to think my own life is
the opposite. Even on my worst days at probation, I figure I must be all right
since my father disapproves of what I'm doing.
"One day you'll know what I'm
talking about," he says wearily as he props the baseball bat up against
the wall and begins shuffling toward the groceries by the front door.
"You're just like me, you just don't know it."
"Total bullshit," I say.
"I'm not like you. I'm normal."
"Oy," my father says.
"Look, I'm very sorry about
what happened to you and to all those other Jews, but I'm not gonna spend my
life running scared about something that happened to somebody else forty-five
years ago."
My father cries out like he's been
stabbed.
"Well, I don't really expect
you to go along with that," I tell him. "But I've got my own life.
Okay?"
"Yeah, yeah, sure." My
father is trying to lift the bags at the other end of the hall. "I got my
life too."
"Glad to hear it." I
exhale deeply and slap my hands together, ready to move on.
I wish there was another subject I
could talk about with him. Cars, sports, women. Just things we could laugh
about over a beer the way other fathers and sons do. But then we've never been
like other fathers and sons. Sometimes I wonder why I even bother coming by the
house at all. My father has driven everyone else away. And he doesn't seem to
really appreciate my visits. But I still have a vague, hungry feeling, like I'm
expecting to find something I want here.
My throat feels dry. I could use a
drink now, but my father probably doesn't have anything in the house, except
Mogen David grape wine. Maybe I can pop around the corner to the Irish bar
later.
"So you want me to give you a
hand with those groceries?" I ask him.
The old man throws back his
shoulders and draws up his thick, barbed eyebrows. "You're here, aren't
you?"
I lumber down to where my father is
and begin picking up the bags. "So you never told me what you got all this
for anyway. Are you actually having somebody over?"
"Not like that," he
mutters, pushing one of the
"What do you know?" he
says sharply.
"You're just being crazy
again," I say, prodding one of the grocery bags with my foot.
"Anyway, even if they were coming to get you, your setup here is stupid.
You've got a baseball bat by the front door. Why couldn't they just grab the
bat and go down the hall and beat your brains out while you're sleeping?"
"I got another bat in the
bedroom."
"Brilliant." I snort a
small laugh as I follow my father down the hall. "I can't talk to you
about this. This is nuts."
He stops in the doorway and moves
toward me suddenly. "A man does what he does to survive," he says,
shaking the bat at me.
I throw up my hands. "Don't
gimme that again, please."
"It's true," my father
says forcefully.
"You know something?"
The old man ignores me and keeps
talking. "Someday, you'll know it's true," he says loudly.
"Hey, you know
something..."
"Because one day, you'll do
what I had to do..."
"Hey, you know what?" I
say, touching his shoulder. "I agree with you. What you're saying makes
sense—but only if you're in Auschwitz !"
My father slams the bat against the
doorway. "Don't make a joke ..."
"I'm not making a joke. You're
not in Auschwitz anymore. This is America .
Okay? The same rules don't apply."
The argument is always the same and
it always leaves me pissed-off and downhearted. It's true that my father has
had a hard life, and that at times he had to be ruthless and completely selfish
just to stay alive. When I was young, he told me how he almost killed another
prisoner over a couple of scraps of bread, and the story has haunted me ever since.
The problem is that my father has
applied the exact same logic to life after the camps and he's still paranoid,
bitter, and absolutely indifferent to the suffering of the rest of the world.
He's ruined his own life and my mother's with his compulsions, and now he's
almost done closing himself off.
I'd like to think my own life is
the opposite. Even on my worst days at probation, I figure I must be all right
since my father disapproves of what I'm doing.
"One day you'll know what I'm
talking about," he says wearily as he props the baseball bat up against
the wall and begins shuffling toward the groceries by the front door.
"You're just like me, you just don't know it."
"Total bullshit," I say.
"I'm not like you. I'm normal."
"Oy," my father says.
"Look, I'm very sorry about
what happened to you and to all those other Jews, but I'm not gonna spend my
life running scared about something that happened to somebody else forty-five
years ago."
My father cries out like he's been
stabbed.
"Well, I don't really expect
you to go along with that," I tell him. "But I've got my own life.
Okay?"
"Yeah, yeah, sure." My
father is trying to lift the bags at the other end of the hall. "I got my
life too."
"Glad to hear it." I
exhale deeply and slap my hands together, ready to move on.
I wish there was another subject I
could talk about with him. Cars, sports, women. Just things we could laugh
about over a beer the way other fathers and sons do. But then we've never been
like other fathers and sons. Sometimes I wonder why I even bother coming by the
house at all. My father has driven everyone else away. And he doesn't seem to
really appreciate my visits. But I still have a vague, hungry feeling, like I'm
expecting to find something I want here.
My throat feels dry. I could use a
drink now, but my father probably doesn't have anything in the house, except
Mogen David grape wine. Maybe I can pop around the corner to the Irish bar
later.
"So you want me to give you a
hand with those groceries?" I ask him.
The old man throws back his
shoulders and draws up his thick, barbed eyebrows. "You're here, aren't
you?"
I lumber down to where my father is
and begin picking up the bags. "So you never told me what you got all this
for anyway. Are you actually having somebody over?"
"Not like that," he
mutters, pushing one of the
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