Lemkin’s House
Rent from DeepDyve- Lemkin’s House
to my parents
Cast of Characters
Lemkin, Polish-American lawyer; eyeglasses, balding, pale; fifties.
Proxmire / Jack / Antoine / Hasan, a Western white man, forties to fifties; plays multiple roles.
Mother / Caitlin / Tatjana, a white woman, thirties to forties; plays multiple roles.
JP / Militaman / Victor / Palmer, a black man, thirties to forties; plays multiple roles.
Nausicaa / Agathe / Rose / Guard / Voice of Female Aide, black woman, thirties to forties; plays multiple roles.
Notes on the Play
Setting is a dilapidated house. The play is performed without an intermission.
Act One
Lemkin, in a rumpled 1950s gray suit, holds a battered briefcase as he stands outside an office door.
Hello. Is the senator here? I’d like to speak to him.
I’m sorry, he’s in a meeting right now.
Could I wait?
Look, you don’t have an appointment.
[ironic] Right. Tell him it’s that “pest” Raphael Lemkin.
He’s booked solid—he has other priorities, Lemkin.
We need to reopen hearings. Can you give him these papers?
He already has them. The senator has all of your materials, Mr. Lemkin. Every single sheet of paper. I’m closing the door . . .
[trying to hand her a manila envelope] First they burn books, then they burn bodies! Read the evidence.
[trying to close door] Mr. Lemkin, move your foot away . . . [End Page 123]
Did fifty of my family members die in vain? I have to leave them some epitaph. [stuffing the envelope through the closing door]
Remove the envelope. You’re ripping your own materials.
[clutches his chest, starting to have a heart attack] Oh, my God . . . I can’t breathe. A glass of water, please. [collapses]
Lights shift, revealing Lemkin inside a dilapidated house. The windows are covered. Lemkin wakes and opens a door inside the house. Behind it is a brick wall.
They think I’m so “annoying” they buried me alive? [sees a newspaper on a chair and picks it up, reading] “Philip Noel-Baker nominated for Nobel Peace Prize.” Damn. [reading] “Raphael Lemkin: heart attack”? [looking at newspaper’s date] August twenty-ninth, 1959? Tomorrow’s Times? [reading] “Death in action was his final argument. Senators used to feel a certain concern when they saw the slightly stooped figure of Raphael Lemkin stalking the halls of Congress.” Oh, my God, it’s my obit. [reading on] “They will no longer have to think up explanations for a failure to pass the genocide law for which Mr. Lemkin worked so patiently.” I’m wormwood. Well, if they think I’m going to stop now, they’ve got something else coming. There’s no reason why you can’t continue lobbying Congress when you’re dead!
He goes to a desk with a typewriter, sits, and begins to type a letter.
Senator, let me reiterate: as my parents were being gassed to death, or slaughtered in the woods outside their home, I invented a word. [typing carefully] Genos, from the Greek, meaning race, tribe. [typing tenderly] Cide. Latin: to kill. Race-murder. Genocide. The word stops you in mid-sentence, doesn’t it? Senator, it went straight into Webster’s in ’44—in ’48 my genocide treaty was approved. It’s more than a decade later, and the U.S. has still not ratified my law. Only man has law. Law must be built. I demand an immediate response. I am, Lemkin.
He puts the letter in a mail slot on the wall. A door opens and Proxmire, in a suit, enters, raising a champagne glass.
“Fellow colleagues, Lemkin died twenty-nine years ago. He was a great man.” I just told the Senate that.
Twenty-nine years? Time flies when you’re lost in paperwork!
[giving Lemkin a document] Raphael Lemkin, I would like to present you with your law.
Flashbulbs pop as the two men pose for a photo opportunity.
You got my letter?!
The U.S. finally ratified it today—November 4th, 1988—theninety -eighth country to do so, I might add.
[dusting...
