Myra
Posted: Tue Feb 10, 2015 11:07 am
It was one of those icy pitch black nights, no moon, even the stars were shivering.
I could barely breathe, so thick was the air with the stench of burning Joan flesh.
Dragged inside the gate backwards by the shoulders, watching my boots carving canyons through the mud, I glanced up and saw the sign over the gate:
"ierf thcam kiryL"
As I was pulled along between them, I could see scores of burning, melting corpses forming pyres on either side of my two captors and I, lit by ghastly orange light reflected in placid pools of human fat escaping the tongues of fire that danced above them.
By the same light I saw the wire, seemingly endless, stretching far beyond the rows of filthy, dilapidated wooden barracks which housed God only knew who.
"Goyim", muttered the fellow on my right as though he had read my mind. He was a medium-sized swarthy man with a large hooked nose. "In your language they're called 'Gentiles'".
"I'm not a Gentile", I replied, though barely audibly, being overwhelmed by the Joan smoke as I was at the time.
Clearing my throat to be heard, I said: "I told you, I told both of you... I am a Jew. My mother was born in Ireland. I know Torah. Leon Uris is my favorite author!"
"I know differently", said the older, slightly slighter guy on the left, who had a slightly crooked smile and constantly complained about painful hemorrhoids, "The DNA analysis was conclusive. You are 1/4 Swedish, you bray like an ass, therefore you are Gentile."
Hook-Nose opened his mouth as if to speak, but remained silent.
I thought, "What DNA test?", but kept my mouth shut.
Suddenly I felt myself being pulled upwards, my boots clamoring against worn wooden steps. I looked up and saw the sign:
"QH".
I was dragged through a doorway into the glowing warmth of a room decorated like any concentration camp office might be. I was then unceremoniously plopped into one of those old oak office chairs on wheels, with arms.
My companions retreated back to the door.
Hemorrhoids gently closed the door and took a position standing at ease on the right side of it.
Hook-Nose checked to confirm the door was closed, moved Hemorrhoids to the left side, then positioned himself standing to attention on the right side of the door.
We waited.
I desperately longed for a Coke. Examining the room more thoroughly, I discovered only a dry drinking fountain against the unfinished plank wall to my left. In the center of the room was a large old oak office desk. Hanging from the ceiling above the desk was light fixture with a conical green shade, the only light in the room. On the center of the desktop stood a freshly brewed pot of coffee whose aroma, at least, camouflaged much of the stench wafting in from the poor burning Joan's outside.
The pop-pop-popping song from the hot pot-bellied stove beneath the lone window unfortunately did not drown out the sound of the occasional blood-curdling scream coming from the direction of the barracks.
Behind the desk was another door, sporting yet another sign, this one reading "Kommandant". Beneath it, scrawled on the plank wall in black grease pencil, was the word "BOSS" within English parentheses.
As I was musing over why the letters "SS" were shaped like two lightening bolts, the door behind the desk suddenly, though very slowly, creaked open.
A woman stood on the threshold.
Her head shaved, she was sporting attire resembling that of a Zen Buddhist monk. Over the plain black robe she wore a famous blue raincoat, which partially covered the 12-jeweled breastplate strapped to her chest, and completely covered what looked like small shoulder pads on her shoulders.
As she skipped into the room to the chair behind the desk, I could see she was wearing nothing on her legs and feet save worn leather sandals strapped up the calf.
I stood up, according to my mother's custom. The woman nodded to each of us three in turn, pulled out the wheeled oak chair in front of her, and sat down.
"G'day, ma'am," I said, as I also sat down.
The woman glared across the desk at me after sliding the coffee pot to one side.
"Why have you come back to this place?" She hissed.
"I've never been here before?" I said, aghast that I might ever have visited such a place and failed to recall doing so now.
The woman looked at me sternly. "This is the Poetry By Our Members section of the Leonard Cohen Files Forum, you fool, of course you've been here before. We've changed the name, though."
I was stunned.
I said, "This can't be the Member's Poetry section. That was a beautiful place! Clean, roomy barracks, lots of nutritious food, a school, amazing photographs on the walls - even an orchestra with violins playing for several smiling, dancing, happy people."
"That was not real," she spat, "This is real. You said you were a Jew. We accommodated you."
"But I am a Jew," I protested.
"You lied then. You are lying now." the woman responded. "We have a witness. He says he tested your DNA. You are 1/4 Swedish and you bray like an ass. You are not a Jew."
"Your witness is mistaken," I replied after a moment to two, having regained my composure after this errant evaluation. "Any DNA analysis worth its salt should have shown me to be 3/4 Irish, 1/8 Swedish and 1/8 African American. Therefore I'm even more Jewish than you are."
I leaned forward, looking intently into the woman's icy blue eyes. Her features were somehow familiar - though she was not pretty, she was not homely, she was just sort of exasperatingly neutral.
My own eyes must have signaled a flicker of recognition, as almost simultaneously her eyes signaled to mine an immediate recognition of my recognition.
"Myra?", I asked.
Her eyes held mine. "Why have you come back to this place?", she repeated shrilly.
"I did not come back. Your goons over there dragged me here.", I said, gesturing with my hand to the door behind me.
The woman's head turned, her eyes squinting at the front door where my two companions stood waiting patiently in half-light.
"Those two are not from me", she said.
Turning in my chair in surprise, I looked at the two fellows who had dragged me through the cold night to this place, for the first time noticing that their sandaled feet appeared to be made of brass.
Groaning inwardly, I turned back to face the woman. I looked up at the light fixture over the oak desk. Raising my right hand and holding my thumb up between the light bulb and myself, I moved my thumb closer to my face then closer to the bulb several times, pretending to gauge the effect. In fact, however, I was playing for time, contemplating what to say.
I said, "You're right. They are with me, sorry. You see, I've been meaning to return to this place as I remembered it, though not as I've seen it now... as it really is. But I've kept delaying myself, somewhat convinced another visit would be as pointless as the first apparently was, yet nevertheless also sure I should come back."
The woman's glare turned a little menacing as she hissed, "Go on."
"Well, okay. First off... What are you doing?
I thought about following that up with: "No offense meant, but those people out there are my friends. It would appear you are gleefully roasting them alive, keeping them barefoot and pregnant, at it were. While laughing...", but I didn't say that. I suspected the money was laundered anyway.
Next I considered saying: "No offense meant, but you and your friends in that tower, joyfully addicting our sons and raping our daughters, pinning medals on one another, exalting whoever's judged best at using God-given talent as a Joan slaughter weapon", but I didn't say that either. I knew she would just claim metaphor.
Then there was the heartfelt: "No offense meant, but I'm a Jew and I brushed the lamb's blood over my door and you took my firstborn anyway." But I didn't say that, seeing how seeking sympathy or remorse was not native to my present environment.
So, and calling up my most earnest personality. I said this:
"Whatever you are doing, I still have the other half of that dollar bill in your pocket.
"They still require 'line upon line, precept upon precept'. They are ready and it's all in their book.
"But they can't hear without the artifices of authority, and the artifices of authority can't afford credibility to anyone without celebrity, these days. I am none of that. Also, humility in communication, even after all these years of judgement, eludes me. And... I - once in a while - have a tendency to bray like an ass.
"I've come to the Kotel, I've prayed, and I'm looking for someone to help, please."
On that hopeful note, and avoiding the woman's gaze, I stood up and walked over to the front door. I nodded to my two companions. "Okay, let's go," I said.
Hook-Nose turned and opened the door. Hemorrhoids didn't move.
"He's thinking about staying," said Hook-Nose. "Grab his left arm."
Hook-Nose took Hemorrhoids' right arm, then I took his left, and together we dragged him outside through the door backwards, in the same fashion I'd been dragged inside, years ago.
Hook-Nose suddenly stopped on the door sill and turned back to face the woman at her desk.
In the kindliest, most patient voice you've ever heard, he said: "Feed my sheep."
And we turned and left that place.
I could barely breathe, so thick was the air with the stench of burning Joan flesh.
Dragged inside the gate backwards by the shoulders, watching my boots carving canyons through the mud, I glanced up and saw the sign over the gate:
"ierf thcam kiryL"
As I was pulled along between them, I could see scores of burning, melting corpses forming pyres on either side of my two captors and I, lit by ghastly orange light reflected in placid pools of human fat escaping the tongues of fire that danced above them.
By the same light I saw the wire, seemingly endless, stretching far beyond the rows of filthy, dilapidated wooden barracks which housed God only knew who.
"Goyim", muttered the fellow on my right as though he had read my mind. He was a medium-sized swarthy man with a large hooked nose. "In your language they're called 'Gentiles'".
"I'm not a Gentile", I replied, though barely audibly, being overwhelmed by the Joan smoke as I was at the time.
Clearing my throat to be heard, I said: "I told you, I told both of you... I am a Jew. My mother was born in Ireland. I know Torah. Leon Uris is my favorite author!"
"I know differently", said the older, slightly slighter guy on the left, who had a slightly crooked smile and constantly complained about painful hemorrhoids, "The DNA analysis was conclusive. You are 1/4 Swedish, you bray like an ass, therefore you are Gentile."
Hook-Nose opened his mouth as if to speak, but remained silent.
I thought, "What DNA test?", but kept my mouth shut.
Suddenly I felt myself being pulled upwards, my boots clamoring against worn wooden steps. I looked up and saw the sign:
"QH".
I was dragged through a doorway into the glowing warmth of a room decorated like any concentration camp office might be. I was then unceremoniously plopped into one of those old oak office chairs on wheels, with arms.
My companions retreated back to the door.
Hemorrhoids gently closed the door and took a position standing at ease on the right side of it.
Hook-Nose checked to confirm the door was closed, moved Hemorrhoids to the left side, then positioned himself standing to attention on the right side of the door.
We waited.
I desperately longed for a Coke. Examining the room more thoroughly, I discovered only a dry drinking fountain against the unfinished plank wall to my left. In the center of the room was a large old oak office desk. Hanging from the ceiling above the desk was light fixture with a conical green shade, the only light in the room. On the center of the desktop stood a freshly brewed pot of coffee whose aroma, at least, camouflaged much of the stench wafting in from the poor burning Joan's outside.
The pop-pop-popping song from the hot pot-bellied stove beneath the lone window unfortunately did not drown out the sound of the occasional blood-curdling scream coming from the direction of the barracks.
Behind the desk was another door, sporting yet another sign, this one reading "Kommandant". Beneath it, scrawled on the plank wall in black grease pencil, was the word "BOSS" within English parentheses.
As I was musing over why the letters "SS" were shaped like two lightening bolts, the door behind the desk suddenly, though very slowly, creaked open.
A woman stood on the threshold.
Her head shaved, she was sporting attire resembling that of a Zen Buddhist monk. Over the plain black robe she wore a famous blue raincoat, which partially covered the 12-jeweled breastplate strapped to her chest, and completely covered what looked like small shoulder pads on her shoulders.
As she skipped into the room to the chair behind the desk, I could see she was wearing nothing on her legs and feet save worn leather sandals strapped up the calf.
I stood up, according to my mother's custom. The woman nodded to each of us three in turn, pulled out the wheeled oak chair in front of her, and sat down.
"G'day, ma'am," I said, as I also sat down.
The woman glared across the desk at me after sliding the coffee pot to one side.
"Why have you come back to this place?" She hissed.
"I've never been here before?" I said, aghast that I might ever have visited such a place and failed to recall doing so now.
The woman looked at me sternly. "This is the Poetry By Our Members section of the Leonard Cohen Files Forum, you fool, of course you've been here before. We've changed the name, though."
I was stunned.
I said, "This can't be the Member's Poetry section. That was a beautiful place! Clean, roomy barracks, lots of nutritious food, a school, amazing photographs on the walls - even an orchestra with violins playing for several smiling, dancing, happy people."
"That was not real," she spat, "This is real. You said you were a Jew. We accommodated you."
"But I am a Jew," I protested.
"You lied then. You are lying now." the woman responded. "We have a witness. He says he tested your DNA. You are 1/4 Swedish and you bray like an ass. You are not a Jew."
"Your witness is mistaken," I replied after a moment to two, having regained my composure after this errant evaluation. "Any DNA analysis worth its salt should have shown me to be 3/4 Irish, 1/8 Swedish and 1/8 African American. Therefore I'm even more Jewish than you are."
I leaned forward, looking intently into the woman's icy blue eyes. Her features were somehow familiar - though she was not pretty, she was not homely, she was just sort of exasperatingly neutral.
My own eyes must have signaled a flicker of recognition, as almost simultaneously her eyes signaled to mine an immediate recognition of my recognition.
"Myra?", I asked.
Her eyes held mine. "Why have you come back to this place?", she repeated shrilly.
"I did not come back. Your goons over there dragged me here.", I said, gesturing with my hand to the door behind me.
The woman's head turned, her eyes squinting at the front door where my two companions stood waiting patiently in half-light.
"Those two are not from me", she said.
Turning in my chair in surprise, I looked at the two fellows who had dragged me through the cold night to this place, for the first time noticing that their sandaled feet appeared to be made of brass.
Groaning inwardly, I turned back to face the woman. I looked up at the light fixture over the oak desk. Raising my right hand and holding my thumb up between the light bulb and myself, I moved my thumb closer to my face then closer to the bulb several times, pretending to gauge the effect. In fact, however, I was playing for time, contemplating what to say.
I said, "You're right. They are with me, sorry. You see, I've been meaning to return to this place as I remembered it, though not as I've seen it now... as it really is. But I've kept delaying myself, somewhat convinced another visit would be as pointless as the first apparently was, yet nevertheless also sure I should come back."
The woman's glare turned a little menacing as she hissed, "Go on."
"Well, okay. First off... What are you doing?
I thought about following that up with: "No offense meant, but those people out there are my friends. It would appear you are gleefully roasting them alive, keeping them barefoot and pregnant, at it were. While laughing...", but I didn't say that. I suspected the money was laundered anyway.
Next I considered saying: "No offense meant, but you and your friends in that tower, joyfully addicting our sons and raping our daughters, pinning medals on one another, exalting whoever's judged best at using God-given talent as a Joan slaughter weapon", but I didn't say that either. I knew she would just claim metaphor.
Then there was the heartfelt: "No offense meant, but I'm a Jew and I brushed the lamb's blood over my door and you took my firstborn anyway." But I didn't say that, seeing how seeking sympathy or remorse was not native to my present environment.
So, and calling up my most earnest personality. I said this:
"Whatever you are doing, I still have the other half of that dollar bill in your pocket.
"They still require 'line upon line, precept upon precept'. They are ready and it's all in their book.
"But they can't hear without the artifices of authority, and the artifices of authority can't afford credibility to anyone without celebrity, these days. I am none of that. Also, humility in communication, even after all these years of judgement, eludes me. And... I - once in a while - have a tendency to bray like an ass.
"I've come to the Kotel, I've prayed, and I'm looking for someone to help, please."
On that hopeful note, and avoiding the woman's gaze, I stood up and walked over to the front door. I nodded to my two companions. "Okay, let's go," I said.
Hook-Nose turned and opened the door. Hemorrhoids didn't move.
"He's thinking about staying," said Hook-Nose. "Grab his left arm."
Hook-Nose took Hemorrhoids' right arm, then I took his left, and together we dragged him outside through the door backwards, in the same fashion I'd been dragged inside, years ago.
Hook-Nose suddenly stopped on the door sill and turned back to face the woman at her desk.
In the kindliest, most patient voice you've ever heard, he said: "Feed my sheep."
And we turned and left that place.
