No Heroes: A Memoir of Coming Home

Everything Is Simple

No one in my family ever asks about my work. Each book I publish scares them until they read it and feel a certain relief that I didn’t tell the worst. I know that Arthur leaves out the worst parts, too. He fears that telling his story might provide fuel to the forces of Holocaust Revisionism who will proclaim him a liar. He believes that nothing can halt the repetition of genocide.

“All the books about the war are full of lies,” he says.

“Why, Arthur?”

“When the victims write about their experience, there is a tendency to make themselves sound better than they were. Remember, Sonny, no heroes.”

I ask why he agreed to this book, and he says he worries about it: Did he get the English right? Does he come off like a whining victim? I tell him that no one can dispute the truth. Since he does not think of himself as a victim, he will not be viewed that way. Finally, I assure him that I cut out all his whining.

He chuckles, a brief sound letting me know he recognizes my attempt at humor.

“Last night,” he says, “I could not sleep. It disturbed me that my thoughts are on paper. I don’t want to say nothing nasty about you, Sonny, but do you understand what I tell you? Maybe I don’t use the right words. It makes me feel scared, a strange feeling. I hope you have written my heart.”

“I did my best, Arthur. You told your story. That’s all anyone can do.”

It occurs to me that I am treating Arthur the way my editor deals with me when I call under the grip of prepublication anxiety. Arthur wants to know if I worry about reviews. I dust off the ancient adage and trot it out for his perusal: A good review is helpful, but a bad review is better than no review.

“Besides,” I say, “reviews don’t matter.”

“Sonny,” he says, “I think you are lying a little.”

“You’re right, Arthur. But there’s nothing we can do. We have to hope for the best and accept what they say.”

“Who reviews books?”

“Very few people make a living at it. Some are professors. Some are writers.”

“Other writers review books?”

“It’s a way to make extra money. I do it, too.”

“Like the Jewish Police.”

“What do you mean?”

“In camp they help their friends and hurt their enemies.”

“I don’t know if it’s as simple as that.”

“Let me tell you something, Sonny. Something I learned in life. Everything is simple. So simple. Much simpler than you think. Help your friends, hurt your enemies.”

“Do you have any enemies?”

“No, Sonny. I have outlived them all.”

“Then you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

He says good-bye and hangs up. He’s right, of course. The world is a simple place. It is the imagination that makes it complex, and writers are highly imaginative people. Arthur is reacting like a writer with the jitters, but he’s not a writer, he’s the page on which history was written. Arthur is the book.