Act Four. Paradise Lost.

https://www.thisamericanlife.org/radio-archives/episode/362/got-you-pegged?act=4

Ira GlassWe've arrived at act four of our show. Act Four, Paradise Lost. There are certain settings-- as we've said on the show already-- where making judgments about people from tiny amounts of evidence is kind of required-- if you're interviewing somebody for a job, if you are choosing who is going to adopt your baby. Being on vacation is not one of those situations. But some people really never can stop the judging, like, apparently, one of our regular contributors, Shalom Auslander.

Shalom AuslanderI ruin vacations. That's just what I do. In Greece, I was sure the hotel had stuck us with the worst room in the building, even though every room was identical. I know that because we switched three times the day we got there. We switched again the morning after, and went home two days early. A year later, I spent four days in a Jamaican rain forest complaining about the weather. We're in a rain forest, my wife said. So? So it rains. We went home two days early.

And so last year, when my wife informed me that she had booked us a six-day vacation in Anguilla, a remote island in the British West Indies, I decided that this time would be different. It was our first trip in a while, and I'd been doing a lot of work on myself. With the money I'd spent on therapy, I could have bought the whole damn island of Anguilla. So I was anxious to see how far I'd come.

The resort was far more expensive than we could afford. I suspected that my wife was hoping that an exclusive resort would minimize the number of disappointments that could inevitably set me off. There was no need for her to worry. This time would be different. This time, I would be different.

The resort we flew to sits tucked away on the eastern end of an utterly pristine inlet of blue-green water on the southern tip of the island. The bellman brought our bags into our room, warned us not to feed the iguanas, wished us a happy stay, and left. My son started jumping on the bed, my wife joined him, and I pulled open the wooden louvered patio doors that led out to the beach.

Wow, I said, as I stepped out onto the patio. For once, the view looked exactly as it had on the website. Pelicans circled above the calm, still waters. The owner's golden retrievers slept peacefully in the shade beneath a gentle, spreading palm. My wife came up behind me and put her arms around my waist. It's Eden, she said. Paradise, I answered. Not a cloud in the sky, she said. Not a single cloud, I said. And then she went inside.

When I came in, she already had her beach bag packed and was pulling a T-shirt over our son's head. We're going to the beach, she said. You coming? I'll come down after I unpack, I said. They hurried out the door, dropped a cracker for the iguana waiting in the shade at the bottom of the steps, and headed down to the beach. I quickly put away our clothing, grabbed the room key, and locked the patio door as I closed it behind me.

Hello, said the old man. He was standing at the foot of our patio, holding on to the rail for support. Oh, hello, I said. His name was Marvin, and he'd been coming to the resort for 25 years. Oh, 25 years at least, he said. Maybe more, such a long time ago. Let's see, I'm 81 now. Yeah, the first time I came here was in, oh, let's see, 1980, I believe. Really, I said, backing my way towards the beach.

Here's the thing about people. I don't really like them. That's why I find racism so curious. There are so many reasons to dislike people. You're going to go with color? So I avoid the people whenever possible and try to keep my distance. It's really better for everyone.

Could have been 1982, Marvin continued, or maybe even 1978, now that I think about it. No, no, it was 1980. I remember because I was arguing with my wife about Reagan. Whoo boy, did she hate him. Uh-huh, I said. I looked toward the beach and could see my wife and son running down to the water with his pail and shovel. Well, I better go. Family's waiting for me and all. She's dead now, he said. He gently cleared his throat and looked to the ground. Damn it, I thought. I'm sorry, I said. She was a good woman, he said. I nodded. I'm sure, I said.

The hotel was very different back then, of course, Marvin continued. Very, very different. The restaurant wasn't where it is now. No, sir. That building wasn't even built until 1990, or so. Maybe '92, even. A fellow named Jeremiah built it with his own two hands, by gosh. Nobody builds like that anymore. As Marvin rambled on, I began to wonder, was there any way I could switch rooms without upsetting my wife? But I stopped myself, pulled myself together. Not this time, I thought. We are having a pleasant vacation.

Is that your wife, Marvin asked. Yeah, I said, waiting for me. She's beautiful, said Marvin. Yeah, I said. Well, I better skedaddle. My wife was beautiful too. Uh-huh, I said with a wave. Well, I'll see you later. Marvin waved back, walked up the steps of the villa directly adjoining ours, took out his key and walked inside. The door closed and the expectorating began. [COUGHING] Damn it, I thought.

The trip had exhausted our son, so we had an early dinner and went for a short sunset stroll on the beach. Thanks, said my wife, putting her arm through mine. For what, I asked. For being so good about things. I smiled and squeezed her arm. Our son ran through the gentle surf and shrieked with joy. Soon he grew tired, climbed into my wife's arms, and we reluctantly climbed the patio steps back to the room. Good night, said Marvin. He was sitting on his patio next door. Good night, whispered my wife.

Where in New York are you from, asked Martin. Upstate, she whispered, as she carried our exhausted son into the room. I spent a lot of time there, said Marvin. Hudson Valley, I think it was. Might have been the Catskills. Yeah, I think it was the Catskills. My wife and I used to take our kids up there when they were younger. OK, I whispered. We don't talk much anymore. My kids, I mean, not my wife. She's dead. Sure, I whispered. Well, good night. I closed the door behind me and locked it. Jesus Christ, I said. You OK, asked my wife. I'm fine, I said, with a smile.

We put our son to bed, crept quietly out the back door, and lay down together on a lounge chair underneath the stars. I love you, said my wife. I love you too, I answered. [CLEARING THROAT] came the sound from next door. [COUGHING] We lay there a while longer, holding hands in the cool, tropical night breeze, watching the shimmering lights of long dead

stars, and pretending we weren't listening to an old man drowning in his own phlegm. [COUGHING]

I awoke the following morning in a dark mood. I didn't want my wife to see it, so I crept out of bed, quietly dressed, and went for a walk. I made my way to the open air restaurant that overlooked the sea and sat down for an early breakfast. OK, I thought, so there's an old man next door. Was that worth ruining our whole vacation? I'd worked too long and too hard on myself to be derailed by this.

I decided to view Marvin as some sort of a test. Maybe it was God's test. Maybe it was just fate. But I was stronger than Marvin. I was stronger than 1,000 Marvins. He would not defeat me. I finished my breakfast and walked back to the room.

Good morning, said Marvin. He was sitting at his patio table, finishing his breakfast. Good morning, I said. A lovely day, isn't it? Oh, it is, he said. Mornings like this, my wife and I used to get up early and go for a long swim. That sounds nice, I said. She's dead now, he said. Hey, I said, who isn't? That's true, said Marvin. I looked out over the beach and smiled. Check and mate, Marv. I was unflappable.

Auschwitz, said Marvin. I turned around. Sorry? My wife, she died in Auschwitz. We were quite young, only married a few years. Auschwitz, I said. Marvin nodded. We were sent to Dachau at first. But after a few weeks, they sent us to Auschwitz. Auschwitz, I said. Sure, my mother too. She was sent to Bergen-Belsen, but that's not where she died. She died in Auschwitz with my father. Probably had pneumonia. That's what I heard. My father was shot. The Nazis shot him. I know this from some people in Miami who knew him in the camps. Ethel and Morris Goldstein. They died a while ago.

I should have been compassionate, I know. I should have taken a pad and pen and committed his story to paper for future generations. But I didn't. Instead, I seethed. 20 minutes of genocide stories later, I went into our villa, closed the doors sharply behind me, and stood in the center of the room with my hands on my hips. What, asked my wife. I threw my hand into the air. Auschwitz, I said. Pardon? Auschwitz. What are you talking about, she asked. Au-freaking-schwitz. He's a survivor, hon. A Holocaust survivor.

I don't have anything against Holocaust survivors. Some of my best friends are Holocaust survivors. OK, that's not actually true. But I don't have anything against them. But if I want to relax and forget about life for a while, maybe hit a bar and have a drink, I'm not going to call Elie Wiesel. Hey, Elie, how's it going? I had a tough day. Why don't you come over and we'll watch Schindler's List? Bring beer.

A Holocaust survivor, I said, pacing back and forth across the room. The place is half empty, and the guy next door is a Holocaust survivor. I think I've been pretty good about this. I didn't let the travel upset me. I didn't let the hacking next door all night long get to me. But this is too much. It's too much. I'm standing in paradise talking about gas chambers.

My wife was sympathetic, but she'd seen this before and insisted I was blowing it out of proportion. As usual, she said. And I said, what's that supposed to mean? And she said, you know what that means. And I said, no, I don't. And less than 24 hours after our plane touched down in Eden, we were fighting.

It's your decision, she said to me, as she gathered her beach things together. He's not ruining our vacation, you are. No I'm not, I shouted. Goebbels is. Blame Goebbels. She walked out and stomped down the patio steps. My son began to cry. A dozen iguanas sat on the deck. Two of them ran inside and hid under the bed. Damn it, I thought.

I spent the next few hours avoiding my wife, hoping that a little time would settle things down between us. I took my son and walked over to the front office. Did you feed them, the man asked. We told you not to feed them. They're in our room, I said. They're under our bed.

I heard laughter coming from the lobby and poked my head around the corner. Marvin was sitting in a wicker chair, surrounded by a half a dozen adoring hotel employees. A waiter from the bar brought him a rum punch. Let me pay you, said Marvin. No, no, Mr. Marvin, said the waiter. No, no.

If there's anything worse than hating someone, it's discovering that everyone else loves them. Oh, Mr. Marvin, an attractive female chambermaid cried, he's terrible. The man at the front desk smiled in Marvin's direction. What a sweet man, he said, and then shook his head. And what he's been through.

At dinner that evening, Marvin sat at the resort owner's table. My wife and I sat nearby, barely talking. Marvin told funny stories, and everyone laughed. Marvin told sad stories-- about the Holocaust I guessed, judging by the horror on the face of his dinner companions-- and everyone hugged him. And when the bill came and Marvin reached for it, again, they refused to let him pay. That was when I decided, with absolute certainty, that the son of a bitch was faking it.

Holocaust survivor my ass, I thought. I grew up in an Orthodox Jewish community. I've known Holocaust survivors, OK? And they don't go on and on about it. Elie Wiesel doesn't go on about it. Marvin was no Holocaust survivor. He was just an old chatterbox looking for a meal ticket. There's no such thing as a free lunch until you tell everyone sitting next to you at lunch about your stay in Bergen-Belsen.

Marvin was faking, I was sure of it. And I was equally sure that if I could just prove that to my wife, all would be forgiven. And I knew just how to do it.

We came back from dinner and I put my son into his pajamas and read him some stories. My wife sang him some songs and put him to bed. And after that, she put on her shoes and said she needed to take a walk. Fine, I said. Good, she answered. Great, I said. Whatever, she replied.

I went outside, sat down on the patio steps, and watched the ocean, hoping it would calm me down. Suddenly, I heard a groan coming from Marvin's patio. I stood up, peeked over the fence that separated our two patios, and saw him asleep on one of his lounge chairs. This was my chance.

I looked around to see if anyone was watching, went over to his patio, and crept up the stairs. He rustled, and I froze. After a few seconds, I tiptoed over to where he was sleeping. His left arm was propped behind his head, but his right arm was stretched out along the arm of the chair. Bingo. I made my way back to our room and waited anxiously for my wife to return.

A few minutes later, the front door opened. Well, well, well, I said, as she came into the room. Well, well, what, she asked. Well, well, well, I guess Mr. Auschwitz isn't such a survivor after all. What are you talking about, she asked. I held my arm out and pointed to my forearm. No numbers, I said with a smile. At last, I'd gotten a clean look at his forearm, and no numbers. What, asked my wife. No numbers. If he was in the Holocaust, where are the numbers?

Her face dropped. What did you do, she asked. What? What did you do? I didn't do anything. Did you ask him to show you his numbers? Bloody hell, Shal, did you ask him to show you his numbers? I didn't ask him to show me his numbers, I said. He was sleeping.

She pressed her fingertips against her eyes and shook her head. And why exactly would he lie about being in the Holocaust? Why, I asked. Free stuff. They pay for all his meals. They probably pay for his room. He's faking it. This is ludicrous. Why would he pick the Holocaust? What's he going to say, Bataan Death March? It was a hike. Get over it. You want free stuff, you go with Holocaust.

Which arm, she asked. What? Which arm did you check? I paused. The right one, I said. She looked at me. They tattooed the left? She nodded. And they didn't tattoo everyone. How do you know? My neighbors were survivors, she said. Both neighbors. None of them had numbers. She kicked her shoes off and headed for the bathroom. This isn't about Marvin, she said. This isn't about numbers or concentration camps. This is about you.

All that night and into the next morning, I couldn't sleep. I lay in bed, imagining that I'd prove to everyone what a fraud Marvin was. I pictured finding a photo of him, circa 1940, somewhere in Miami. I pictured calling the Holocaust Museum in DC. Marvin, they would say. We have no record of a Marvin. I pictured confronting him at dinner, catching him out on some esoteric German historical fact. Wrong, Himmler didn't take over the Gestapo until 1934. Ha. But mostly, I just felt awful. A full third of our first family vacation was over, and we'd spent most of it fighting. I was sure our son sensed it, sure that he would hold it against me, sure I was wrong, but sure I was right.

At the first sign of daybreak, I got out of bed and went down to the beach. I walked south along the entire length of the shore before turning around and heading back. As I grew closer to the beach across from our villa, I saw something dark and heavy in the shallow water. I thought it was a log or a mass of seaweed, but then I saw it was moving. It was kicking. It was a person. And as I grew closer still, I realized it was Marvin. It was Marvin, and he was struggling to get to shore.

I hate to admit it, but even as I ran to help him, I was pissed off. It was bad enough I had to put up with this pain in the ass. Now I had to save him? I grabbed Marvin around his chest, lifting and pulling as I swung his arm across my shoulder. He was coughing spluttering, trying to catch his breath. I'm all right, he was saying, I'm all right.

I helped him onto the beach. I was breathing heavily. That, I said, was the most pathetic cry for attention I have ever seen. Marvin laughed and took a moment to catch his breath. My wife, he said. Yeah, I said. Auschwitz. He shook his head. Second wife, he said. We came here together for 25 years. We used to get up for early morning swims. As I got older, it got harder for me to get back to the shore, undertow and all. She would stand at the edge and wait

for me to come back. She sounds great, I said. She was, said Marvin. I shook my head. Such a shame she wasted all those years with you. Marvin laughed again. We have the same sense of humor, he said. We should spend more time together. I stood up, wiped the sand from my legs and hands, and uttered the most honest thing I'd said to Marvin since I met him. That sounds awful.

Marvin smiled and we walked back to our rooms. And after that moment, he never bothered me again. I'd wasted three days trying to be polite to someone I couldn't stand and nearly ruined another vacation. But by finally being the ass I really am, I'd saved it.

I was cordial enough. Marvin waved when I saw him in the TV room, telling Holocaust stories to the young couple who checked in that evening. And I waved back. He nodded when I saw him at breakfast the following morning, telling a pair of young waitresses about mass graves in Sobibor. And I nodded back.

And then we finished our breakfast. And my wife took my hand in hers, and she smiled at me. And I smiled at her. And together we walked, arm in arm, to watch the sun, still rising, over the unspoiled beach below.

Ira GlassShalom Auslander is the author, most recently, of the memoir, Foreskin'sLament, which is out in hardback, and comes out in paperback October 4.