Holocaust ha, ha, ha
BY CARLO WOLFF
The
heady and complicated satire, My Holocaust, is amusing and, at times, very
funny. Some might find such a treatment of such a subject offensive. Making
fun, though not light, of a topic as fraught as the Holocaust takes
chutzpah, a quality in which author Tova Reich abounds. Reich is also
unforgiving, caustic and liberating. Even when her cast swells so that it
strains the novel's cohesiveness, Reich's impatience with whining and
intolerance of pretentiousness keep it on course. Despite a humorous, if cutting, tone and occasional mystical references, My Holocaust is dead serious in intent. It's about the defilement and trivialization of memory. It's about the dumbing-down of suffering, about the commercialization of tragedy, about a global, predominantly American culture that would denature horror in the name of equality, a culture of moral numbness. Is there a way back to sensitivity? Reich suggests not, though this effort, designed to pique and, perhaps, reanimate moral purity, belies that attitude.
My Holocaust is the story of the Messer family, would-be proprietors of the Holocaust in concept if not in fact. After Maurice and Blanche Messer made their fortune in women's undergarments, they got into the Holocaust business, qualifying for the talk-show circuit because they were concentration camp survivors. Maurice, Blanche, their son Norman and their strayed daughter, Nechama, know they can't "own" the Holocaust, but the first three do their best to keep it Jewish and singular; Nechama, meanwhile, has become a nun in the Carmelite convent in Auschwitz, of all places, and changed her name (which means "comfort" in Hebrew) to Sister Consolatia of the Cross. My Holocaust is about Maurice's attempt to return Nechama to her Jewish origins and to retain control of the Holocaust Museum in Washington, D.C. His daughter's defection spins Maurice out of control and triggers a wild, wild tale.
Before Reich populates this fantastic, phantasmagorical fiction with characters spanning new age "seer" Mickey Fisher-roshi and Bunny Bacon, an heiress who turns to obsessive use of her DustBuster for stress relief, she paints a vivid picture of the Messer family at the heart of her book. Maurice and Blanche Messer are nothing if not gregarious. They discuss everything, including son Norman's flaccid personality. At the same time, they value his marketing talent:
"The Holocaust was hot, no question about it," Reich writes. "Blanche then urged Maurice to start the new consulting business, Holocaust Connections, Inc., and to take Norman in as an equal partner."
As the Holocaust accumulates moral and commercial value, Maurice's stock rises and he eventually becomes chairman of the Holocaust Museum in Washington. He becomes preoccupied with fund-raising and invites the zaftig and wealthy widow, Gloria Bacon, to Auschwitz-Birkenau, a former concentration camp in Poland, to romance her out of her money. Maurice would rather stroke Gloria than her homely daughter, Bunny, a prospect he leaves to Monty Pincus, a rabbi who wants to be the Museum's executive director.
Meanwhile, other groups are eager to leverage the Holocaust brand and turn their claimed victimhood to commercial use. Toward the end, a diverse group, including Palestinians, takes over the Holocaust Museum in the name of United Holocausts, prompting this acid portrait of a Washington crowd. Reich has a fabulous grasp of that oddly cosmopolitan, politically greased city:
"Represented in their numbers, among other onlookers and bystanders, was the stodgy majority citizenry of the District of Columbia in a spectrum from pale bisque to the darkest chocolate, their young manipulating stereophonic equipment where their voluminous pants crotched at the knees; spectral government beetles with ties askew and hair wrung out by the humidity scuttling out of the monumental white marble tombs; fry-fed families yoked to their cameras and ready to strangle each other, thankfully released from the dogged misery of touring to which they had condemned themselves by this lucky stroke of crisis and spectacle coinciding with their visits to the nation's capital."
Packed with the verbal equivalent of sight gags, like the names Pushkin Jones and Sherri Shapiro-Pecker, My Holocaust entertains, though its overall effect is sobering. Reich uses wit, a sociologist's apprehension of cultural trend, and humor to deflate impostors, even the self-aggrandizing Maurice. The story is fantastic, the notion behind it all too real. When you reach the end, you'll be happy Reich didn't call this "Mein Holocaust."
Cleveland free-lance writer Carlo Wolff is the son of German Jewish refugees who lost relatives in the concentration camps. He also is the author of Cleveland Rock & Roll Memories.