Auschwitz and the Rectificrtion of History
by Eliot Fintushel
Illustrations by Jason Eckhardt
“The memory dogs! The fangs! The spit!”
I “Take it easy, Goldeh,” I said. She was lying on the cold floor of the I dumpster, losing more than blood. I cradled her head in my hand, I her grey hair matted like a discarded mop head, spooled round my fingers. We could hear them coming through the square. The dogs, the real ones, were clawing at the sides of the dumpster, leaping and yelping. Jerry was dead, but Weiskopf and her other thugs were close.
Echoing outside—breathless voices: “There. The dumpster. Take your time. They’re not going anywhere.” Past fractured crates, rotting cabbages, and moldering, stinking meat, and along the hard, rust-flaked walls I looked for a way out.
“You’re too clever, Al,” Goldeh whispered. “Don’t be clever. Don’t be an actor. Just die well.”
I remember with perfect clarity Goldeh’s reaction on hearing that the Dalai Lama was visiting Auschwitz. I, a vegetarian and a paid-up member of the White Plains Zen Center, was up to my elbows in chicken fat, eggs, and chopped liver fresh from Goldeh’s grinder. She was telling me what to do, step by step, even though I’d done it the day before; I couldn’t seem to retain the recipe—passive aggression against the carnivores, I guess. The radio was blasting through the kitchen at Wolf’s Delicatessen, when the newscaster mentioned the holy man’s trip, as a tag before the commercial, and Goldeh said:
“He’s too late.”
She wiped the grease off her fingers and, without asking, reached past the new dishwasher to turn off the radio the man kept on a shelf above the sink. Then she rolled down her cuffs, covering the number tattooed across her wrist. She stood perfectly still—so did we—until the sigh she was hiding dwindled to a shudder in her breath, and Goldeh left the kitchen.
The dishwasher, a heavy metal shavepate with a small ring through his nose, looked to me across the kitchen, terrified that he had somehow offended her.
I shrugged. “It’s her period.”
He nodded. “Hey, Al, who’s the Dalai Lama?”
“A singer,” I said, “like Dalai Parton.”
“Mm hmm.” Another minute or two passed. I spooned liver into plastic tubs and snapped the lids on, one by one. “What’s Auschwitz?”
“A ballpark, Jerry. Central European League.”
“Oh.”
Goldeh skirted through the kitchen, staring at her shoelaces. “I got to go home early.” She lifted her chin to tie the babushka she wore, summer and winter, around her ruddy, peasant’s face, in Westchester County as in Lithuania forty-five years before. Her eyes were puffy red.
I’d known Goldeh before Wolf’s; her son Sam had been a childhood pal of mine, and that’s how I got the job. It was just to tide me over, mind you, until my ship came in. I am an actor—enough said.
I opened the freezer door without dropping the half dozen containers of chopped liver. I’m Charles Blondin crossing Niagara on a high wire. Below me, the Horseshoe Falls are roaring. I feel the tension in my stomach, in my shoulders, in my face. I crossed the freezer without mishap and deposited the chopped liver on a shelf next to the dead, wrapped chickens. Ta daa! And some folks think theater training isn’t practical!
When I came out, Mr. Wolf was there interrogating Jerry. “What happened? What’s the matter with Goldeh?”
“It’s her period, Mr. Wolf,” he said. I winced. “And there was something on the radio, I think.”
“On the radio?”
“Some singer went to a ballpark.”
“A ballpark?”
“Over in Europe, Mr. Wolf.”
“Oh.” Mr. Wolf shook his head and went back in front.
Jerry was perturbed. “Who’s gonna make the cheese things, now? Wolf’s famous special whaddayacallits?”
“Blintzes, you mean. I’m gonna let you in on a secret. C’mere.”
Jerry snapped off his rubber gloves and followed me back into the cooler. I showed him the stacks of Mrs. Schwartz’s Homestyle Brand Blintzes, both cheese and cherry, in the Glen plaid four-packs—“Made in Canada.”
“Those liars!” Jerry said. “It’s just like the Doc told me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The Jews. They even he about blintzes.”
“Listen, Al.” A week had passed since the Dalai Lama’s visit to Auschwitz. Jerry was filling me in on some confidential stuff while Goldeh kibitzed with a customer. “I’m only staying here because the Doc wants me to. I’ve got my ear to the ground, boy.”
“And you can still wash dishes?” I’m George. Jerry’s Gracie. I’m smoking a fat cigar and doing takes to the audience. The freezer door is the audience. They love me. They’ve always loved me. I’m the funniest guy in vaudeville.
“I know what’s going on around here, Al, and you should know it too.”
“Tell me.”
“First off, Auschwitz isn’t a ballpark.”
“It’s not?”
“No! It’s one of those places in Poland where the Jews claim all those people were gassed.”
“Claim?” “Yeah. It’s a lot of bull, and she knows it. That’s why she got upset.”
“No!”
Yeah. Have you seen that number on her arm?”
“Sure.”
“It’s a tattoo.”
You don’t say!”
“Yeah. Her pals put it there. Some other Jews.”
“What for?”
“To make it look like the Nazis did it. In Poland. The Doc has it all worked out. She’s got piles of evidence, and it’s all gonna come out pretty soon. That’s why Goldeh was crying. It wasn’t her period, Al. She’s too old, don’t you see?”
“Gee, I guess you’re right.”
“She was worried because of what that Dalai gal might have seen. You know. That nobody really died there.”
“It was a hoax, you mean.”
“That’s it. The Zionists. Shh! Here she comes.”
“Hey,” I whispered, “can you introduce me to this doc?” I figured she would make a good character study.
“Sure thing,” Jerry said. “You know what else?”
“What?”
“That singer, Dalai Lama, she’s gonna be right here in town. I got a ticket to see her at the Zinn Center.”
“You mean Zen Center. The Dalai Lama’s coming here?”
“You want me to get you a ticket?”
“So what are you meshuginers whispering about?” Goldeh asked, rolling up her sleeves.
“Baseball,” I said. I flicked a big ash off my cigar and bowed to the freezer door. Say good night, Grade.
Lydia Weiskopf had four doctorates, actually—neuropsychology, physics, history, and electrical engineering, all of them mail order. She didn’t mind telling me that the State of Massachusetts, under pressure from Zionists, had suspended her license to practice engineering there, and she was similarly impeded from using her credentials in New York State. As a result, she had to live in this garage—what realtors call a “granny unit”—and subsist on donations and grants to her Institute for Historical Integrity.
You would be surprised,” she said, “if I told you the names of some of the organizations supporting my work.” Albeit in a small way. Across the table, Jerry smirked and nodded. We three were polishing off nearly thawed cheesecake and instant coffee after a meal of blintzes furnished by Jerry. The doctor indicated the rough panelboard partition bisecting the garage. “On the other side of that wall is the reason for their generosity.” She pointed, but I didn’t look; I was too fascinated by the graham cracker crumbs lining her upper lip, pasted there by cheesecake.