Later that day, word got around that they were removing most of the books from the library for the good of the students. Going to see for myself, I went down to the basement and turned the corner, dismayed to find the shelves empty. The only items remaining included Priesthood-approved materials—similar in content to our homework. Encyclopedia Brown was gone, and I grieved as if I had lost a best friend.
The library was just the first level of cleansing. Mr. Jeffs and the teachers began to closely monitor and eliminate any information we received from the outside world. The teachers removed any cartoons, caricatures of animals or people different from us, from our textbooks, warning that the outside world had planted “alligator eggs,” things that were seemingly innocuous but that would grow to kill us. Every textbook became riddled with large, gaping holes. Eventually, texts were replaced by materials written just for us. In the classes and hallways, decorations were ripped from the walls. The only pictures in any classroom were pictures of the Prophets, from Joseph Smith down to Uncle Roy.
At home, fortunately, Mom allowed us to read some outside books and stories as long as she had read them first and considered them “faith-promoting.” Little House on the Prairie and Anne of Green Gables were on the short list of titles that were acceptable—or at least not publicly unacceptable.
One book popular in our community was The Hiding Place by Corrie ten Boom, about a family of Christians living before, during, and after the Nazi occupation of Holland. Gathering us together before bedtime, Mom read to us about how Corrie’s family hid several Jews in her room behind a secret wall before being discovered by authorities and taken to the federal prison of Scheveningen and then Vught. She tied in the ten Booms’ experience with stories of the ’53 raid, reinforcing our faithfulness to the Priesthood and our terror of government. It struck a fearful and familiar chord within us: armies were dangerous, government control was evil, and families could be torn apart by them.
The book raised deep philosophical and religious questions for me. I was astounded that Corrie’s sister considered being eaten by fleas as a miracle, since they kept the guards away so the prisoners would not be killed for studying the Bible. Could there be miracles in even the hardest of situations? My mother’s stories seemed to validate that idea. But I couldn’t wrap my head around the contradiction that the Jews didn’t practice plurality, and therefore couldn’t be God’s chosen people. Worse than that, they had killed Jesus Christ! So why would God show up miraculously in the midst of the Holocaust? Or, if he was a merciful God, as Corrie’s sister suggested, then why would he allow such achingly horrific suffering in the first place? My mind roiled with these questions.
I also drew personal connections between the experiences of the women in the book and my own life. The women in the camp shared one bottle of vitamin drops, which miraculously never ran out. The Mormon pioneers had hundreds of similar stories, ones I’d been told all my life. But I had to ask myself, Would I have shared my vitamins under those circumstances? I hoped I would, but I wasn’t sure. I made up my mind to grow to be the kind of person who would consider others’ needs even when the consequences were life-and-death. Otherwise, what was the point of life?
When Irene got a new color television set, Dad gave Mom her fuzzy black-and-white one. Most often the TV had a towel or laundry draped over it, but occasionally we would watch an “appropriate” program after school. Uncle Roy had admonished families in church many times:
Shame on you parents, for allowing these evils of immorality to be in the lives of your children right in your own homes! One of the tools parents have allowed into the home that creates this immorality is the television.… If you just flood them with evil, and let them see all the nakedness and corruption, and they’re not prepared to resist it, they will naturally lean toward it.
Little House on the Prairie and Disney Sunday Movie were safe. Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood and Sesame Street were on the list, too, until the Prophet deemed them worldly and idolatrous because puppets, like cartoons, were an imitation of God’s creation.
The television helped my mother control her restless natives, especially with the baby getting into things, the twins’ never-ending energy, and her eleventh child on the way. Aunt Irene created a lending library that included Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, Heidi, Anchors Away, and Brigadoon—generally older films, and always G-rated. A few full-length Disney features snuck by for a while, even though they were cartoons. I loved Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, and Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs with all the passion my young heart could muster. Of course, these stories affected my psyche, like any other young girl’s.
In the hidden recesses of my mind, I dreamed that a handsome prince would sweep me off my feet, rescue me from Irene’s clutches, and carry me away to live happily ever after! However, our teachings stated clearly that the Prophet would be inspired with the knowledge of which man would be my perfect husband, the one to whom I would always defer and keep sweet. It was everything an FLDS girl was supposed to dream of.
I knew that I wasn’t likely to marry a young man whose kiss would make me swoon, like in the movies—no matter how much I longed for it. The most romantic thing an FLDS girl could secretly hope for was to be a first wife and enjoy a few precious moments of one-on-one time before additional wives and myriad children arrived. We never dared speak of that hope. As with the vitamin drops in Corrie ten Boom’s story, it would be morally wrong not to share.
CHAPTER 3
Up in Flames
Just before I entered the fourth grade in August 1985, we moved into a large new house on Claybourne Avenue in Salt Lake City, just a few months before our newest baby girl, Elissa, was due. There we would live without separation, even breaking bread together on the main floor.
That year, our frail Prophet, suffering from the debilitating effects of shingles, had admonished FLDS families to live more openly for the first time since Brigham Young and John Taylor settled Utah. The country had been through the roaring ’50s, the free-love ’60s, the civil rights ’70s, and the alternative-lifestyle ’80s, so surely it was not only our right but our duty to show the world how the true people of God lived.
He spoke with great fervor, glowing with love for his people, as he prophesied that the Lord wanted our families to put away our petty differences to stand together in the coming destructions. He could see signs all around us and believed he would soon be meeting Jesus Christ to return to him the keys of the kingdom. Although we heard this kind of thing every Sunday, I thought he really might, because Uncle Roy was the most ancient man I had ever seen. His tall forehead, accentuated by his bald scalp and scarce side hair, made everything below his brows look extra wide, and his expansive smile was as warm as summertime.
After so many decades in hiding, the thought of living openly unnerved many people who had survived the ’53 raid, including my mother. Since Dad hadn’t grown up in plurality and hadn’t experienced the raid, he was more inclined to prove his obedience to Uncle Roy and make the move. I liked the Claybourne house’s flat and spacious layout much better than that of our old home. Its orange-and-yellow décor, which would have been groovy in the ’60s, didn’t look quite modern, but I didn’t care—we had a dishwasher! For us girls, who had spent years hand-washing mountains of dishes every day, it was a wonder. I dreamed of all the things I would do with my newfound time.
Sterling and Samuel moved out, and Janet and Cindy were married off to young men that the Prophet had chosen for them, but that still left nineteen kids and the mountains of laundry, cooking, and cleaning we required. Irene decided that because she was done raising babies, she should not have to do any cooking or cleaning, so the burden was left to my mom, my sisters, and me. It felt bitterly unjust, but my mother didn’t breathe a word against her sister-wife, so I dismally resigned myself to being a servant in Irene’s household.
One day, one of my gorgeous brunette half sisters, Victoria, who was about three years older than me, walked over
and put her name on the family chore chart! We all looked at her in surprise. Victoria didn’t exactly enjoy household duties, though she would at least do them, grumbling, when the others refused. None of Irene’s other children signed up, but Victoria provided an example of decency. Over the next several months, Victoria stood up to her mother and had the guts to treat ours with genuine kindness in many ways. I adored her for it.
At first my siblings and I found it quite unnerving to live side by side with Irene and her children. Without the buffer of separate floors, we were easier targets. However, we discovered an unexpected boon: there were many more escape routes in this house! Our little ragtag team of siblings became adept at battle tactics and survival strategies. If a smaller sibling was being picked on, an older one would create a distraction while a third swept in and shuttled the younger child to safety. Working together, we minimized most physical damage. Emotionally, however, it was worse, in that my mother was subject to Irene’s nasty criticism, rules, and budget all the time. Her sister-wife retained her position as the alpha wife.
Irene and Dad had both begun teaching at Alta Academy, and getting the entire brood promptly to Morning Class was a daily adventure. Breakfasts had to be gobbled and lunches packed, and a dozen schoolchildren sharing three bathrooms was a nightmare, especially as some of the older girls like Christine and Savannah wanted to carefully style their hair in the trendiest fashion acceptable in the church. They’d also do the younger kids’ hair, and I quickly learned which of my sisters was most patient and gentle as they tugged my hair into tight braids. Hairstyles were rigidly monitored by Mr. Jeffs and our teachers, and makeup was banned. The slightest infringement carried severe consequences, like a temporary expulsion and being used as a public example to others.
Wisely, Dad would have already left the house in his brown Buick Century. His place at Morning Class was up front with the Priesthood brethren, and he had to be on time. The rest of us would cram into “Big Blue,” Irene’s Chevy Suburban, and wait for the older girls, who were inevitably running late.
It was a catastrophe to be tardy for Morning Class. Most mornings, I pled with Heavenly Father to let us arrive at least during the opening song, so we would not have to creep in, humiliated, with all eyes on us.
One very cold November morning, when I was ten, we arrived late, with Irene screaming hatefully at us as she parked the Suburban. As we approached the enormous white building of the Academy, I noticed the parking lot was devoid of any stragglers.
By the time we reached to the door, shushing one another as we entered, the opening song was obviously over, and there was no way to slip in unnoticed. We tiptoed into the colossal hall as Dad and Mr. Jeffs, seated in the front of the presiding Priesthood, glared at us with stern disapproval. I made my way quietly across the green-carpeted floor to where my fifth-grade classmates were seated, determined not to let anything ruin this day.
Today was glorious for two reasons. First, it was my beloved brother Cole’s birthday. He was turning twelve—an enormously important milestone for a male in our church. He would be the first of my mother’s boys to be ordained to the Aaronic Priesthood, an honor to be superseded only when he would receive the Melchizedek Priesthood at eighteen, and later when he was married for time and all eternity. I hoped for him that he would marry many wives so he could obtain his Celestial Glory. He deserved it more than anyone else, for the way he cared about others and took care of Mom in ways our father did not. It was often the case that when a father’s life became packed full of the demands of multiple wives and many children, the sons took his place in labors of love and emotional support. After all, a man can have countless wives, but he will only ever have one blood mother.
Dad had a lot of responsibility between teaching at Alta and running HydraPak. His burden had greatly increased with Mom home full-time since the birth of our darling new baby sister, Elissa. Since two of Irene’s daughters had recently married and left home, Dad still had sixteen children living at home in 1986. I was proud of him. I knew he paid a generous tithe to the church, and I had overheard his comments to Mom about Uncle Roy’s plans for him in the Priesthood leadership. Any day now, he would be “called” to an important position in the church.
I shifted in my seat. Mr. Jeffs was giving another monotonous sermon. I was trying to sit attentively, but I noticed my classmates were as restless as I was. This was the other reason for my good mood: today we got to have a class party, something that happened only a few times a year, when mind-numbing amounts of lessons and homework were set aside for board games and treats. I glanced at the old ice cream bucket near my feet, the mouth-watering aroma of the brownies I had baked wafting up.
Suddenly there was a small commotion toward the front. Dad swiftly rose and followed someone outside while Mr. Jeffs was still speaking. Our principal looked annoyed, and I was worried. Dad cared too much about his standing just to walk out in the middle of class—something had to be going on! Someone passed a note to Mr. Jeffs, who nodded, and then Morning Class continued.
When it was finally over, my classmates and I waited for everyone to leave so we could section off our part of the great hall into our classroom. Forgetting the commotion, I dove into the activities, my reverie interrupted only when several high school boys were paged to the office. Later some of the eighth graders were called, too, but we were all focused on the rare chance to play games.
After lunch we played another fun game called Fruit Basket Upset, a modified version of musical chairs. It was total chaos and it felt so good to laugh! Mr. Jeffs often told us that laughter was “light-minded” and a road to hell. At one point during the games, I was surrounded by boys on both sides. For a brief moment, I wondered why it was so important to treat boys like snakes. Sometimes, I thought, they didn’t seem that slimy. Guiltily, I glanced into the hallway, grateful Mr. Jeffs wasn’t walking by.
All too soon, it was 1:40 p.m. and time for closing prayer. As we prepared to bow our heads and fold our arms, Mrs. Nielsen said, “Rebecca, come and see me after, please.” There was no severity in her voice, but during the whole prayer I wracked my brain. What had I done wrong? Had I sat with my legs apart at some point? Had I spoken to a boy? Had I pushed my sleeves up? That must be it! The dress I was wearing that day had elastic at the wrists and pretty ruffles, but they often got paint or glue on them, and without thinking I would pull them up to my elbows throughout the day. More than once Mr. Jeffs had admonished me, “Becky Wall! Pull your sleeves down!” When the prayer finally ended, I hung my head and walked to Mrs. Nielsen’s desk. She waited for the remainder of the kids to rush out before turning to me. Instead of anger or judgment in her eyes, there was compassion. She put her arm around my shoulder.
“Becky, your new home caught on fire.” My hand flew to my mouth as I immediately thought of my mom and younger siblings.
“Everyone is okay; no one was hurt,” she said comfortingly. “However, your house has been completely ruined. Uncle Woodruff Steed has graciously invited your entire family to stay with him while your family rebuilds your home.”
It had been arranged that one of the teachers would drive Trevor, Lillian, Amelia, and me to our house. As we neared our block, which was packed with cars, I bolted from the vehicle before it stopped half a block away from our house. I ran toward it, shocked that it looked like a bomb had hit it. Only a burned-out shell remained, and an acrid smell of smoke hung in the air. The surrounding trees were blackened, and jagged glass covered the lawn.
The windowless house, seemingly devoid of furniture, was filled with people. Students, neighbors, and strangers with garbage bags and shovels peered out of the gaping holes from the living room. Muddy rubble covered the no-longer-recognizable hardwood floor, and everywhere I looked, I saw evidence of destruction. The orange Formica was bubbled, cracked, and bowed. Huge ceiling beams now lay on the floor. I made my way carefully along the hallway to my mom’s room and burst into tears as I flew into her arms.
“It’s all right, Becky,” she murmured into my hair. She smelled of smoke, but I didn’t want to let her go. “Everything is going to be all right. Everyone is safe, and that’s all that matters.”
I hadn’t believed this was true until I heard it from her lips. I looked at my mother’s bandaged arms. She had gotten burned at one point during the fire in her zeal to save her children and home. She would heal, she promised me. Slowly, I climbed back through the debris and made my way into the room I shared with several sisters.
The moment I saw that my new pink seersucker plaid dress had been burned beyond salvation, I cried hard, though silent, tears. It was my only dress that wasn’t a hand-me-down, and Mom had sewn it special for me, even adding pleats to the skirt. With so many babies, it had taken her a very long time to finish. Long gone was the time when Mom could work through the night so that my sisters and I would awaken to the luxurious surprise of brand-new matching dresses for the 24th of July or another special occasion. I determined that day that I would become a master seamstress. I would have to.
I helped Mom gather up what few possessions were salvageable, which we shoved into big black garbage sacks to wash later. As I started hauling the heavy bags outside, I was stunned to see that neighbors had brought stacks of blankets, clothing, and food for our family. I looked at the items with great suspicion. They were apostates and Gentiles! Had they poisoned the food? Or infected the blankets? We had kept hidden for so many years, trying not to let our old neighbors see who we really were. We had only recently made our lives more public, living among the evil people.
But what I witnessed on that day and the ones following was not the presence of evil. How could all of these people who brought clothes and bedding from their own closets, made food from their own kitchens, be evil? In wonder, I noticed our neighbors had the same expression as Mrs. Nielsen had had when she told me the news. It was compassion.
The Witness Wore Red: The 19th Wife Who Brought Polygamous Cult Leaders to Justice Page 4