Sunlight on a Broken Column (1/1)
Title: Sunlight on a Broken Column
Fandom: West Wing
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Characters: Josh and Toby
Length: ~1000
Icon: indigo_inferno
Summary: After Josh meets with Jeff Breckenridge to talk about reparations for slavery, Josh and Toby talk about genocide. Post-ep for 1.18 - Six Meetings Before Lunch.
Warning: Discussions of genocide. Specifically, The Holocaust.
“How did the meeting with Breckenridge go?”
Josh jumped. Toby was standing in the doorway, hands in his pockets.
“Do you ever think about knocking?”
Toby shrugged. “Breckenridge? The meeting?”
Josh shook himself.
“It was okay. I couldn’t get any movement on the book jacket blurb, but we’re meeting next week to do more prep for the confirmation. Don’t rule out a win just yet.” He tried to smile.
“I think the ship has sailed. I read his piece in the New Yorker. Cogent. Forceful. He’s a believer, Josh.” Toby jutted out his lip. “Reparations for slavery isn’t an idea we can just flick off the table.”
“Yeah.” Josh’s eyes were unfocused.
Toby hesitated. “Josh?”
“Yeah?” Josh looked up.
“Don’t take this as anything but my desire to get the milk subsidy remarks put to bed today, but are you okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Josh?”
Josh cleared his throat.
“I told Breckenridge that the SS guards forgot give my grandpa back his wallet when they let him out of Birkenau.”
Toby straightened up and took two steps into Josh’s office, closing the door behind him.
“Why?” His voice was gentle.
Josh’s fists were clenched, knuckles white against the dark wood of his desk.
“Josh?” Toby’s voice was even gentler. “Why?
“Did you have any family-?”
“In the Shoah?”
“Yeah.”
“All of them. All four of my grandparents died in the camps. Some great aunts and uncles.”
Josh opened his mouth. “I’m sorry.”
Toby shrugged.
“Did you family talk about it?”
Toby shrugged again. “Sure. A little. On Tisha B’Av. Sometimes at Pesach. While we were sitting shiva.”
“How?”
“With grief. With love. With respect.”
Toby thought of listening to the voices of his parents, unusually and unaccountably soft. He had lost what little Yiddish he had had; could no longer understand his father’s occasional interjections in his mother tongue. As a child he had understood. Understood intuitively what he had since thought and written about, if only to himself. That the shared community language had contained, within its rhythms and syntax, a collective narrative of suffering and overcoming. Hebrew may have been the language of prayer, of coming before the almighty, but Yiddish had been how they had come before each other.
Josh was silent.
“You didn’t?”
“No.” Josh thought; revised his answer. “Grandpa might have talked to Dad, I guess.”
Talked to Dad, like he would have been discussing his choice of retirement home or an arthritic knee. Talked to Dad, like there weren’t stories to be told that were so horrifying that they were rendered almost unbelievable in their inhumanity. Talked to Dad, like there were even words that could have transported someone from warm, safe Connecticut back through space and time to hell itself.
There was a silence. A muscle jumped in Josh’s jaw.
“You know how freshman girls arrive at college with a copy of The Bell Jar and the collected poems of Sylvia Plath?”
“Some boys, too.” Toby said, mildly.
“I’d always thought Plath was the provenance of girls who wore far too much eyeliner and wrote Patti Smith lyrics all over their notebooks.”
Toby’s mouth flickered, but he said nothing.
“I met this girl freshman year who was cool. Smart. She used to read to me.”
Josh was looking over Toby’s head at his chalkboard. At those columns of names.
“She read me all kinds of things. And then one day she read me some Plath. Have you ever read her poems?”
“Yes,” said Toby. “I have.”
Josh swallowed. “I thought she must be Jewish.”
Toby frowned. “Plath, or your girlfriend?”
“Both, I guess.” Josh frowned, too. “Those words. I couldn’t believe she was saying them to me, like they were a serviceable metaphor and not-.”
Toby realised where Josh was going with this. “ ‘My skin, bright as a Nazi lampshade’? ‘A cake of soap, a wedding ring, a gold filling’? Those kind of words?”
Josh looked like he had been slapped. “Yeah.”
Toby paused, sitting for a moment in silence as the thin winter sun streamed through the blinds in Josh’s office.
“There’s a Holocaust theologian called Emil Fackenheim.”
Josh looked at him.
“He said that every explanation of the Holocaust is false, if not obscene, unless it’s accompanied by a sense of utter inadequacy.”
Josh was still.
“Plath was a deeply unhappy woman who lacked that sense of inadequacy.”
“Yeah.” Quiet. Like Josh was hardly speaking at all.
There was another silence, rich and twanging.
Toby licked his lips. “My shul had developed some liturgy for Yom HaShoah. Why don’t you come with me?”
Josh looked as if he would rather go to the dentist. “Maybe.”
Toby raised his eyebrows, slightly. “Think of it as politically expedient.”
Josh was still.
“You can’t bite the head off everyone who comes in here to talk about other genocides.”
“I know”.
“Okay then. I’ll get Bonnie to confirm with Donna.” Like it was a meeting.
“Okay.” Little more than a breath, and Toby knew that Josh would never go with him to shul.
Toby wished there was something else he could say before he stood up and walked out of Josh’s office. But he was himself and Josh was Josh, and it was kind of the point that there wasn’t anything that could be said. Not without inadequacy.
Fandom: West Wing
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Characters: Josh and Toby
Length: ~1000
Icon: indigo_inferno
Summary: After Josh meets with Jeff Breckenridge to talk about reparations for slavery, Josh and Toby talk about genocide. Post-ep for 1.18 - Six Meetings Before Lunch.
Warning: Discussions of genocide. Specifically, The Holocaust.
“How did the meeting with Breckenridge go?”
Josh jumped. Toby was standing in the doorway, hands in his pockets.
“Do you ever think about knocking?”
Toby shrugged. “Breckenridge? The meeting?”
Josh shook himself.
“It was okay. I couldn’t get any movement on the book jacket blurb, but we’re meeting next week to do more prep for the confirmation. Don’t rule out a win just yet.” He tried to smile.
“I think the ship has sailed. I read his piece in the New Yorker. Cogent. Forceful. He’s a believer, Josh.” Toby jutted out his lip. “Reparations for slavery isn’t an idea we can just flick off the table.”
“Yeah.” Josh’s eyes were unfocused.
Toby hesitated. “Josh?”
“Yeah?” Josh looked up.
“Don’t take this as anything but my desire to get the milk subsidy remarks put to bed today, but are you okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Josh?”
Josh cleared his throat.
“I told Breckenridge that the SS guards forgot give my grandpa back his wallet when they let him out of Birkenau.”
Toby straightened up and took two steps into Josh’s office, closing the door behind him.
“Why?” His voice was gentle.
Josh’s fists were clenched, knuckles white against the dark wood of his desk.
“Josh?” Toby’s voice was even gentler. “Why?
“Did you have any family-?”
“In the Shoah?”
“Yeah.”
“All of them. All four of my grandparents died in the camps. Some great aunts and uncles.”
Josh opened his mouth. “I’m sorry.”
Toby shrugged.
“Did you family talk about it?”
Toby shrugged again. “Sure. A little. On Tisha B’Av. Sometimes at Pesach. While we were sitting shiva.”
“How?”
“With grief. With love. With respect.”
Toby thought of listening to the voices of his parents, unusually and unaccountably soft. He had lost what little Yiddish he had had; could no longer understand his father’s occasional interjections in his mother tongue. As a child he had understood. Understood intuitively what he had since thought and written about, if only to himself. That the shared community language had contained, within its rhythms and syntax, a collective narrative of suffering and overcoming. Hebrew may have been the language of prayer, of coming before the almighty, but Yiddish had been how they had come before each other.
Josh was silent.
“You didn’t?”
“No.” Josh thought; revised his answer. “Grandpa might have talked to Dad, I guess.”
Talked to Dad, like he would have been discussing his choice of retirement home or an arthritic knee. Talked to Dad, like there weren’t stories to be told that were so horrifying that they were rendered almost unbelievable in their inhumanity. Talked to Dad, like there were even words that could have transported someone from warm, safe Connecticut back through space and time to hell itself.
There was a silence. A muscle jumped in Josh’s jaw.
“You know how freshman girls arrive at college with a copy of The Bell Jar and the collected poems of Sylvia Plath?”
“Some boys, too.” Toby said, mildly.
“I’d always thought Plath was the provenance of girls who wore far too much eyeliner and wrote Patti Smith lyrics all over their notebooks.”
Toby’s mouth flickered, but he said nothing.
“I met this girl freshman year who was cool. Smart. She used to read to me.”
Josh was looking over Toby’s head at his chalkboard. At those columns of names.
“She read me all kinds of things. And then one day she read me some Plath. Have you ever read her poems?”
“Yes,” said Toby. “I have.”
Josh swallowed. “I thought she must be Jewish.”
Toby frowned. “Plath, or your girlfriend?”
“Both, I guess.” Josh frowned, too. “Those words. I couldn’t believe she was saying them to me, like they were a serviceable metaphor and not-.”
Toby realised where Josh was going with this. “ ‘My skin, bright as a Nazi lampshade’? ‘A cake of soap, a wedding ring, a gold filling’? Those kind of words?”
Josh looked like he had been slapped. “Yeah.”
Toby paused, sitting for a moment in silence as the thin winter sun streamed through the blinds in Josh’s office.
“There’s a Holocaust theologian called Emil Fackenheim.”
Josh looked at him.
“He said that every explanation of the Holocaust is false, if not obscene, unless it’s accompanied by a sense of utter inadequacy.”
Josh was still.
“Plath was a deeply unhappy woman who lacked that sense of inadequacy.”
“Yeah.” Quiet. Like Josh was hardly speaking at all.
There was another silence, rich and twanging.
Toby licked his lips. “My shul had developed some liturgy for Yom HaShoah. Why don’t you come with me?”
Josh looked as if he would rather go to the dentist. “Maybe.”
Toby raised his eyebrows, slightly. “Think of it as politically expedient.”
Josh was still.
“You can’t bite the head off everyone who comes in here to talk about other genocides.”
“I know”.
“Okay then. I’ll get Bonnie to confirm with Donna.” Like it was a meeting.
“Okay.” Little more than a breath, and Toby knew that Josh would never go with him to shul.
Toby wished there was something else he could say before he stood up and walked out of Josh’s office. But he was himself and Josh was Josh, and it was kind of the point that there wasn’t anything that could be said. Not without inadequacy.