“Here,” Herr Silverman says, and then holds out his hand.
There’s a small box in front of my face wrapped in white paper.
When I have it unwrapped and opened, it takes me a second to realize what’s inside.
It’s my grandfather’s Bronze Star, only it’s been covered with paper, painted, and then laminated. On the star is a bronze peace sign and on the ribbon are my initials written in fancy calligraphy swirls.
“If you don’t like it,” Herr Silverman says, “I can remove the tape and paper. The actual medal isn’t altered underneath. I was going to give it back to you tomorrow after class. Remember when you said you wanted to turn the negative connotation into a positive?”
I’m not entirely sure how to respond. It’s kind of corny on one hand, and on the other it’s an amazingly thoughtful present—plus it’s the only gift I will receive on my eighteenth birthday, which is almost over.
But for some reason, instead of saying thank you like any polite, normal person would, and maybe because I feel like it might be really important, I say, “Does Julius make you happy? I mean—do you love him? And does he love you? Is it a good relationship?”
“Why do you ask?” Herr Silverman gets this worried look on his face, like my question throws him a little.
Instead of answering his question, I say, “Did you write letters from the future Julius when you were in high school?”
“Actually, I did,” Herr Silverman says. “Metaphorically, I absolutely did.”
It makes me feel less insane to think about Herr Silverman being all confused in high school about his sexuality and writing letters from the future people in his life—the people who would understand him, and listen to him, and treat him like an equal without making him act and put on a fake mask. The people who could save him. Herr Silverman believing in those people back when he was my age, and then making it to his age, because if he’s truly happy . . .
I get mad at myself for thinking about all of that, because there’s still a large part of me that thinks it’s all bullshit, and if I let myself believe in the bullshit, it will just ultimately make me even more depressed when bad things happen or Herr Silverman eventually lets me down and I can’t believe in him or his philosophies anymore. But for some reason, I go ahead and pin the stupid peace medal to my shirt, right over my heart. Maybe just because Herr Silverman went to so much trouble for me tonight—maybe because I owe him this much, and it doesn’t really hurt to pin a fucking medal to my shirt.
“Looks good,” Herr Silverman says to me, and then smiles.
“Thanks,” I say, and suddenly I feel so tired—like I really don’t care about anything anymore, like I’m just finished.
“I’d like to call your mother, Leonard. May I?”
“What for?”
“Well, we’re going to have a lot to sort out in the morning.”
“Like what?”
“You need help. Professional help. I’m not sure your mother realizes the seriousness of your condition—how much pain you’ve been in. These things don’t just go away.”
“She won’t listen to you. She’s crazy.”
“May I call her? Please,” Herr Silverman says.
I suck my lips into my mouth because I’m exhausted and don’t really feel like arguing with him, and then I nod, thinking, Herr Silverman can’t make anything worse.
“She’s under Fashion Designer Linda,” I say while I’m doing the pattern to unlock my cell. I hand him the phone and say, “But she probably won’t answer anyway. She never answers at night. Says she needs her beauty sleep, but really it’s because she’s sleeping with this French guy who loves sex and Linda is a nymphomaniac.”
I wish I hadn’t said that last joke, especially because Herr Silverman doesn’t even acknowledge it, let alone laugh.
He calls Linda, but she doesn’t answer.
He leaves a message saying that I’m with him at his apartment and he’d really appreciate a call back, because it’s an emergency. He leaves his cell phone number and then hangs up.
“Guess we wait for her to call,” Herr Silverman says.
I look away.
Linda won’t call back tonight.
I know from experience.
Herr Silverman pulls a pad of paper from a drawer, writes down Linda’s phone number, and sticks it in his shirt pocket.
“Did you paint this?” I point back at the X-ed-out-tree-with-fallen-decapitated-heads-of-famous-political-leaders painting that hangs over the couch. I don’t know why I ask. Maybe just to change the subject. Maybe because I feel bad about Linda’s not calling, and Herr Silverman’s belief that she will.
Herr Silverman’s face lights up like he’s either really proud of the painting or he’s just happy to have something to talk about besides how fucked I am. “No,” he says. “I purchased it when I went to Israel a few years ago. At an art show. A friend of a friend. Had it shipped home. A little extravagance.”
“It’s very good,” I lie. I don’t really like it at all. I just feel like I should be nice to Herr Silverman. I’m kind of worried that he’s going to use my secret against me—everything I told him about Asher—so I want to be on his good side.
“I like it,” he says.
“What does it mean?” I ask, trying to make him happy.
“Does it have to mean something?”
“I don’t know. I thought art was supposed to mean something.”
“Can’t it just exist without an explanation? Why do we have to assign meaning to art? Do we need to understand everything? Maybe it exists to evoke feelings and emotions—period. Not to mean something.”
I nod to acknowledge what he’s saying, even though it sounds a little like art-talk bullshit to me.
Still—I think about Herr Silverman and Julius having deep conversations about art and life and everything, and it actually starts to make me smile.
Life beyond the übermorons.
If I weren’t so tired, I’d continue the conversation, debating back and forth, just like in Herr Silverman’s Holocaust class, like he always wants us to. I’d go on for hours and hours, but I feel like my mind’s quitting on me—like I only have time for one or two more questions—so I ask, “Would you say it’s modern art? Something you’d see in MoMA in New York City? I’m sort of interested in modern art lately.”
“Well, it’s art and it’s modern. But anything painted recently is called contemporary art.”
I nod and say, “Do you think a picture of a Nazi handgun set next to a bowl of oatmeal could be contemporary art, or maybe just art?”
“Sure,” he says. “Why not?”
“Okay,” I say, and then we just sort of sit there silently until I realize I’m dangerously exhausted—that my brain is maybe at the end of its rope—and I can’t wait for Linda to not call all night, because I just don’t have the energy. My eyelids weigh a million pounds each. Through a yawn, I say, “Do you mind if I shut my eyes for a second or two?”
“Go right ahead,” he says. “Make yourself comfortable.”
As soon as my head hits his couch, the rope snaps.
It feels like my brain is falling down into some pitch-black abyss.
I dream of übernothing.
THIRTY-FOUR
There’s a warm puffy blanket over me when I wake up.
I’m sweating.
The lights are off and the curtains have been pulled, but the glow of the city creeps in from under the heavy cloth and illuminates the outside rectangle of the windows.
It takes me a second to remember where I am and how I got here on my Holocaust teacher’s couch, but once I do, I feel a rush of adrenaline course through my veins.