My mother’s new boyfriend, Aldon, called himself a “Holocaust truther” a month ago, during my first and only meeting with him, the three of us midway through wine coolers at her house, before dinner. She’d made Parmesan lamb chops.
“A Holocaust truther,” I said flatly, hoping he was kidding but knowing he wasn’t.
“Yes, you might as well know everything about my beliefs, considering how close I am to your mother.”
“Could we save this discussion for another time?” she asked.
“No, no, Ma, it’s okay,” I answered. “I want to learn all I can about your beau.”
“Why not? I have nothing to hide,” he said.
“Great. So you don’t think the Holocaust happened.”
“You mean did the Nazis intentionally decide to exterminate all the Jews?”
“Or if six million Jews died in a freak fishing accident, either one.”
“How about neither one? Some Jews did die, but nowhere near six million, a number plucked out of thin air decades ago by Zionists and their supporters. The evidence points to maybe a few hundred at most, almost all of them executed for serious crimes such as treason and murder. As a rule, according to German historical documents, the Nazis didn’t kill Jews simply for fun, despite what you might have learned from the movies. And speaking of murdering Jews, a reputable scientist conducted a chemical analysis of the shower walls in the so-called death camp at Auschwitz and found not a trace of Zyklon-B, casting serious doubts, to say the least, on an important part of the Holocaust narrative. He wrote a detailed report about his findings, with footnotes and everything. I can send you a link to it. And before you accuse me of bigotry: I don’t hate Jews, but I do love my Aryan background and hate when ignorant people slander it.”
I stared incredulously at my mother. Growing up, I’d never heard her say anything bigoted.
“You agree with him about the Holocaust, Ma?” I asked.
“Well, I try to avoid topics like that,” she said.
“Do you agree? Yes or no.”
“Let me put it this way: I don’t agree with everything he says, but he treats me like a queen. And, I know how this sounds, but I like his sculpted profile.”
“Yes, I know exactly how it sounds,” I said. “Because you lust after him, you can overlook his toxic ideology. Does he call you Eva Braun in bed?”
My mother looked shocked.
“Let her insult me. I’ve heard worse,” he said. “In the meantime, my toxic ideology will keep getting more and more popular. Responsible white people just can’t stand immigrant criminals and—”
“Fuck you,” I said.
“What a clever rebuttal.”
“Could we please dine without arguing?” my mother asked.
“No,” I said as I arose from my chair. “Call me when you dump that Nazi asshole. Otherwise, don’t call me at all.”
I walked out of her house.
Later, sitting alone at a table in some bar, sipping a cheap beer, a loud and slick country-rock song I’d never heard before blaring from the computer-screen jukebox, I regretted not taking a few Parmesan lamb chops with me. Then I regretted not dating Bennett, that half-black guy I’d known in college. Then I regretted my regret—damn white privilege.
Copyright © 2018 by David V. Matthews
March 15-16, 2018