// end of the world //
December 2015
Is Hitler Funny?
Jordana Narin
We were sitting in the den of my apartment in Prague, a two bedroom I share with two roommates in an elevator building nicer than anything any of us could afford back home in the States. Lily, Maddy, and Andrew were perched on the couch, a newish but cracking but perfectly fine black leather behemoth that can fit up to eight (just not when access to the short glass coffee table in front of it is of import). Miranda was hunched over on a bar stool she’d dragged in from the kitchen, the distance between her lap and the top of the tallest bottle of Fanta on the table at least a foot. And Isaac and I were ensconced on the Persian-rugged floor, his legs criss-crossed and evoking a kindergartener’s while I used one knee to prop myself up and place the deck of playing cards face down on the glass in the center of us all.
“Six!” Maddy announced the number of the card she’d just drawn, revealing it to us as she placed it face up on the table, the start of another pile. “Six means chicks,” she explained to Isaac, the only one of our bunch who’d never before played King’s Cup, our drinking game of choice for the evening. Then she, Lily, Miranda, and I all threw back the repurposed coffee mugs we’d quickly rinsed under an hour ago upon realizing there weren’t enough plastic cups and sipped.
Andrew drew next. “Four.” He briefly held up the card as proof before tossing it into the secondary pile Maddy had created, leaning over the side of the couch, and dropping his hand to the floor. Everyone but Isaac mimicked him and did the same.
“Four is floor, man.” Lily chuckled at Isaac’s blank stare. “You were the last one to touch the ground. Drink up!”
He drank and the game continued. Miranda drew a three (“me”) and had to drink; Isaac drew a five (“guys”) and got dead armed by Andrew; I drew a seven (“heaven”) and since Isaac —by now getting the hang of it—and Maddy raised up their arms within a millisecond of each other, and after the rest of us, we called it a tie and made them both drink.
Then came Lily’s turn. She reached to the pile and flipped over the jack of spades. “Ha! I’m about to get all of you druuuunk,” she crowed. “Never have I ever is my shit.”
The rules for this abridged version, for our drinking game within a drinking game, were simple: Each person starts out with three fingers up in the air. Then we take turns offering up something we’ve never done. If another participant has done said deed, he or she puts down a finger. The first person with all three fingers down drinks, and we decided the game would go on until a single winner was declared.
Around in a circle we went, fingers dropping like stocks in a crash, finding out along the way who in our group has tried cocaine, hooked up in a shower, visited Ecuador, participated in a threesome, attended a Shabbat dinner, carved a pumpkin, taken a pregnancy test, and more.
Finally, Isaac and I were the last two standing, each with one finger left to lose. He looked at me, first solemnly but then playfully as his eyebrows shot up and his mouth curved into a half-moon. “Don’t hate me, but I’ve already drank enough tonight. A boy’s gotta do what a boy’s gotta do.” I winced, picking up my rum and coke in anticipated resignation. “Never have I ever been to Auschwitz.”
I drank.
“Oh fuck. I totally forgot to ask how Poland was!” Andrew apologized to me, Lily, Maddy, and Miranda. The four of us had gone to Krakow the weekend before on a school-run trip, visiting the city’s Jewish quarter, former Jewish ghetto, and the Auschwitz and Birkenau camps. Andrew and Isaac, studying on a different program than us, had stayed behind in Prague where we’re all spending the semester.
“It was good,” I said. “Definitely wasn’t a ‘fun’ weekend.” I made air quotes as I said the word fun. “But really meaningful.”
“Super important to see,” Miranda added. “Kind of eery, too, walking in and then out of the camps in a way millions of others couldn’t. There are so many reminders of all the people who never got to leave.”
“Like the luggage,” Lily said, referring to the display in an Auschwitz block of thousands of suitcases brought to the camp by people who wouldn’t have known their doomed fate.
“And the hair,” I said. “The hair was what affected me the most.”
“Oh, the hair, totally.” Maddy shuddered. “Seeing it hit me hard.”
“Hair?” Isaac asked. “Explain.”
“Yeah, hair,” I said. “There’s a massive, massive display of female hair. Some braided but mostly just faded tresses you could almost mistake for mothballs.” I felt a shiver run up my spine just talking about it. “I forgot the exact amount. But there’s a whole room in one of the blocks filled with nothing but hair.” (I’ve checked since—it’s estimated that the hair came from the heads of about 140,000 victims.)
“What did they need hair for?” Andrew asked, then—blushing—backtracked. “I mean, I can figure out why they cut it, obviously. To humiliate them, keep them cold probably. But why’d they want to keep it?”
“Slippers,” Miranda said, her voice slightly more subdued than it had been seconds ago.
“No way,” Andrew said.
“I swear.” Miranda nodded her head up and down as she spoke, as if she herself still needed to be convinced. Then she turned to me, Lily, and Maddy. “I asked our guide when we were there. He told me they used the hair to make slippers. Also blankets and socks and rope and even mattress stuffing, I’m pretty sure.”
My eyes widened. Maddy sighed, reminding me of the breathing technique my old Sanskrit professor employed each time he’d call roll and realize someone cut class.
Then, before Maddy or I could respond to Miranda, Lily chuckled. Not loudly, and not for long either. But it was enough to pause all other movement and conversation in the room. Enough to leave the six of us sitting there, frozen, for over a minute, waiting for someone to say something, anything, to thaw the ice. To explain how Miranda’s words, how slippers from hair, could possibly be funny.
At last, Lily reached over Maddy’s lap to grab a bottle of Becherovka from the table and said, with a casual enthusiasm to her voice, “It’s OK guys, I can laugh. I’m Jewish!”
“Six!” Maddy announced the number of the card she’d just drawn, revealing it to us as she placed it face up on the table, the start of another pile. “Six means chicks,” she explained to Isaac, the only one of our bunch who’d never before played King’s Cup, our drinking game of choice for the evening. Then she, Lily, Miranda, and I all threw back the repurposed coffee mugs we’d quickly rinsed under an hour ago upon realizing there weren’t enough plastic cups and sipped.
Andrew drew next. “Four.” He briefly held up the card as proof before tossing it into the secondary pile Maddy had created, leaning over the side of the couch, and dropping his hand to the floor. Everyone but Isaac mimicked him and did the same.
“Four is floor, man.” Lily chuckled at Isaac’s blank stare. “You were the last one to touch the ground. Drink up!”
He drank and the game continued. Miranda drew a three (“me”) and had to drink; Isaac drew a five (“guys”) and got dead armed by Andrew; I drew a seven (“heaven”) and since Isaac —by now getting the hang of it—and Maddy raised up their arms within a millisecond of each other, and after the rest of us, we called it a tie and made them both drink.
Then came Lily’s turn. She reached to the pile and flipped over the jack of spades. “Ha! I’m about to get all of you druuuunk,” she crowed. “Never have I ever is my shit.”
The rules for this abridged version, for our drinking game within a drinking game, were simple: Each person starts out with three fingers up in the air. Then we take turns offering up something we’ve never done. If another participant has done said deed, he or she puts down a finger. The first person with all three fingers down drinks, and we decided the game would go on until a single winner was declared.
Around in a circle we went, fingers dropping like stocks in a crash, finding out along the way who in our group has tried cocaine, hooked up in a shower, visited Ecuador, participated in a threesome, attended a Shabbat dinner, carved a pumpkin, taken a pregnancy test, and more.
Finally, Isaac and I were the last two standing, each with one finger left to lose. He looked at me, first solemnly but then playfully as his eyebrows shot up and his mouth curved into a half-moon. “Don’t hate me, but I’ve already drank enough tonight. A boy’s gotta do what a boy’s gotta do.” I winced, picking up my rum and coke in anticipated resignation. “Never have I ever been to Auschwitz.”
I drank.
“Oh fuck. I totally forgot to ask how Poland was!” Andrew apologized to me, Lily, Maddy, and Miranda. The four of us had gone to Krakow the weekend before on a school-run trip, visiting the city’s Jewish quarter, former Jewish ghetto, and the Auschwitz and Birkenau camps. Andrew and Isaac, studying on a different program than us, had stayed behind in Prague where we’re all spending the semester.
“It was good,” I said. “Definitely wasn’t a ‘fun’ weekend.” I made air quotes as I said the word fun. “But really meaningful.”
“Super important to see,” Miranda added. “Kind of eery, too, walking in and then out of the camps in a way millions of others couldn’t. There are so many reminders of all the people who never got to leave.”
“Like the luggage,” Lily said, referring to the display in an Auschwitz block of thousands of suitcases brought to the camp by people who wouldn’t have known their doomed fate.
“And the hair,” I said. “The hair was what affected me the most.”
“Oh, the hair, totally.” Maddy shuddered. “Seeing it hit me hard.”
“Hair?” Isaac asked. “Explain.”
“Yeah, hair,” I said. “There’s a massive, massive display of female hair. Some braided but mostly just faded tresses you could almost mistake for mothballs.” I felt a shiver run up my spine just talking about it. “I forgot the exact amount. But there’s a whole room in one of the blocks filled with nothing but hair.” (I’ve checked since—it’s estimated that the hair came from the heads of about 140,000 victims.)
“What did they need hair for?” Andrew asked, then—blushing—backtracked. “I mean, I can figure out why they cut it, obviously. To humiliate them, keep them cold probably. But why’d they want to keep it?”
“Slippers,” Miranda said, her voice slightly more subdued than it had been seconds ago.
“No way,” Andrew said.
“I swear.” Miranda nodded her head up and down as she spoke, as if she herself still needed to be convinced. Then she turned to me, Lily, and Maddy. “I asked our guide when we were there. He told me they used the hair to make slippers. Also blankets and socks and rope and even mattress stuffing, I’m pretty sure.”
My eyes widened. Maddy sighed, reminding me of the breathing technique my old Sanskrit professor employed each time he’d call roll and realize someone cut class.
Then, before Maddy or I could respond to Miranda, Lily chuckled. Not loudly, and not for long either. But it was enough to pause all other movement and conversation in the room. Enough to leave the six of us sitting there, frozen, for over a minute, waiting for someone to say something, anything, to thaw the ice. To explain how Miranda’s words, how slippers from hair, could possibly be funny.
At last, Lily reached over Maddy’s lap to grab a bottle of Becherovka from the table and said, with a casual enthusiasm to her voice, “It’s OK guys, I can laugh. I’m Jewish!”
// JORDANA NARIN is a Junior in Columbia College. She can be reached at jsn2124@columbia.edu. Photo courtesy of flickr user Sophie Zurybida.