“I’ve just returned from three years of financial leave. I lived in New Jersey for a while, then California for two years.”
“What did you do for three years?” he asked, leaning forward slightly in his chair.
As always, I was happy to tell my stories. Usually my family was my audience, but he was so warm and sweet I didn’t mind sharing with him.
I told him about getting into Brown and leaving my small town, then about having to leave Brown because of money trouble. He was sympathetic, and seemed to appreciate the fact that I wasn’t a typical Brownie. He especially liked hearing about my travel across country to California and my successful business venture. He enjoyed my dramatic rendition of the earthquake.
He was impressed by my journeys, physical and otherwise, and wasn’t shy about telling me. I thought of the lawsuit, because it had been an important learning experience, but — not wanting to get into the ugly, anti-Brown mess — I didn’t bring that anecdote into the conversation.
“So that’s what has kept me busy until now,” I wrapped up.
“And what’s next for Heidi Mattson?” he asked.
“Completing my Brown education,” I answered. I tried to think of something else, another goal, but none came readily to mind.
“I find you to be a very intriguing young lady, Miss Mattson,” he said, staring into my eyes for a moment, then he looked down, reaching to the coffee table for some papers.
I was flattered by his interest, and still impressed with the rich surroundings. I thought of my grandfather’s love for historical timepieces when I saw the ornate mantel clock behind the rabbi. I managed to keep my expression serene, but I was surprised to see it was already three o’clock. I had missed registration for my art class! I didn’t say anything, however, and turned my attention back to my enthusiastic host.
He was still moving things around on the coffee table, as though searching for something. I thought about our talk. He was clearly impressed by my humble beginnings and seemed to enjoy my accounts of struggling to make things happen. I had experienced this before, usually from fellow students. They’d think, “How noble! She struggles, she earns her way!” I wasn’t offended by that attitude, merely observant. But when the rabbi started making offers I was unsettled.
He had pulled a notebook out of a stack of papers and settled against the back of his chair. “I need you,” he stated flatly. “I need you to be my assistant, help me write my book, attend White House functions with me, act as my buffer. I need someone like you to subtly keep the undesirables away from me. There will be an element of danger; I am a target for assassination. With your poise and intelligence, though, Heidi, I’m sure you can handle the position. I also need you to shop, cook, and be my confidante …”
The list was long. He continued to explain in detail his intellectual, social, and practical needs. “You will have everything you need. Of course, school will be your priority, after that your attentions will be for me.”
It was finally happening! All my sacrifices, the years of waiting, the tens of thousands in loans; it was worth it! I was here among the world movers.
And, thanks to the growth and experience of my years since Bucks-port, I was probably skilled and poised enough to fill the role he described. Still, my practical, down east Maine skepticism demanded to be heard, silently prodding my eager spirit.
Stop being so suspicious! Blame it on Maine.
He was offering me an incredible position.
Still, what is the catch?
I mentally charged past my own doubts and envisioned the future: respect and regard, travel and invaluable experiences, political and social connections around the globe. Amazing luck, but it wasn’t just luck.
I was qualified.
Any doubt about that had been overshadowed by the rabbi’s in-depth, verbal analysis of me. He cautioned that I and my family would have to clear FBI security in order for me to become a part of his high-profile, high-risk life. I gave him permission to “run” me through security, planning some digging of my own. I agreed to return the next afternoon.
My head spinning, I didn’t even bother to look for the landlady who was presumably waiting for me. Rather I concentrated on the rabbi’s offer. My practical nature kicked in and I considered the worst possibility.
Was he for real? Those sparkly eyes … No, Heidi, you are just imagining it.
But the look was too familiar, that gleam of interest. I couldn’t help but respond, even though everything else about him was perfectly unsuspicious to me.
C’mon, Heidi, after all, he’s a rabbi!
Diligently I sought out advisors to allay my nagging concern. Every reaction, from that of a local politician and businessman (Pauly Bertolucci from the Avon Theater) to that of a dean, a professor, the chaplain of the university — a rabbi himself — was the same. Rabbi B——— was indeed an incredible man and the offer he was making was exciting. And valid. In fact, the chaplain, Rabbi Kirk, confirmed he had been asked just a few days earlier to find the rabbi an assistant. Even my cautious mother was excited. The rabbi had called her. “He was extremely complimentary about you,” Mom told me proudly. “And he knows everything about all of us, even your grandparents. How did he do that so fast?”
“I don’t know Mom.”
“It’s amazing, Heidi. Where did you get your luck?”
As agreed I went to see the rabbi a day later, on a Wednesday afternoon, ready to talk specifics. If he had been sparkling when we first met, today he was radiant, even in his dark flannels puttering about his shadowy home. Again my suspicions crept in, but I pushed them away, remembering Professor Hirsch’s reply to my pointed question. “He’s seventy-seven years old, Heidi! And a rabbi! Don’t worry about anything like that. He’s past that.” I was just being silly.
He seated me in the library and announced his deep admiration for me, then he launched into a complimentary commentary on my entire life. He knew everything, from my birthday to the playground accident I had had in fourth grade. He even knew my little sister had flunked her driving test. All in the incredibly short space of twenty-four hours! He apparently had become quite familiar with my finances as well. “I know you strive to be completely self-sufficient. You have proven that, from your fifth-grade art and jewelry sales to your housecleaning venture. You can work for me now. Your loans will be dissolved, any future financial needs will also be taken care of. You don’t need to worry about that any longer,” he said, to my amazement.
This was a dream!
Winding up his speech, he declared dramatically, “I have something for you. Come with me.” He gripped my arm for support — a little tightly, I thought — and we slowly ascended the staircase.
Intrigued, I remained silent as we walked. He concentrated on the steps. Glancing past his spotted fingers sunk into my bare arm, I noticed the portrait of a young woman among the relics on the wall. She was terribly familiar: long, straight blond hair, blue-eyed, early twenties. In fact, she looked a lot like me. My first thought was that she was a romantic interest of his. But I remembered seeing downstairs a young girl in one of the photos with Yassir Arafat. And another where the girl was being presented with a huge ruby on a necklace. As if on cue, the actual gem appeared as we approached the landing. It hung from a thick black ribbon, ceremonial and special, but forgotten.
Of course — the girl must be his granddaughter.
I asked Rabbi B———, “Who is the woman in this picture?”
His manner turned cool as he replied courteously, “That is my daughter, but she lives far away now.”
His daughter? She’s my age. Where is his wife?
His hand firmly on my arm, he directed my attention toward a bedroom.
The room was smartly decorated, manly and dark. As we entered I noticed a bit of sunlight had managed its way into the room, which was obviously the rabbi’s bedroom. It struck a mirror, illuminating the objects on the dresser in front of it. He led me in, explaining that he had
planned a special weekend in honor of my birthday, which he knew was that Sunday. I was flattered but still a little uncomfortable.
He stood me in front of the dresser, facing the mirror, then released my arm. A necklace was formally arranged on the dresser, the facets of its innumerable jewels magnifying and intensifying the bit of sun shining across it. Rabbi B——— picked it up and presented it to me, saying, “This is your first present. Happy birthday, Heidi.” He explained that the various stones were from each country in the Middle East. Speechlessly I watched in the mirror as the old man carefully laid the necklace on my chest. Then, standing next to me, he pulled it up toward my throat, more tightly, until the jewels began to press into my skin. I held my breath as the rabbi wrapped it twice around my neck and secured the gold clasp. He left one hand on my shoulder and leaned toward me. His face, bearded and weathered, closed in on me.
So thoughtful and so sweet. I’m not used to this.
I braced for a scratchy peck on the cheek. The rabbi seemed to come closer, and I abruptly turned away. His lips fell just short of my cheek.
Heart pounding, I walked out of the bedroom, cheerily thanking him and gushing about the gift.
Why do I have to be so paranoid? He’s just a lonely old man. Harmless, really. And he has a real job for me. One I know I can do.
I chastised myself for being so unfairly suspicious.
This was normal, this was Brown: the best school in the country. It should be expected that incredible things occur here! Shame, you narrow-minded Maine girl.
Feeling foolish, I thanked him sincerely while we slowly made our way down the stairs to the library, his hand once again squeezing my arm.
He responded to me sweetly and tenderly, like a doting grandfather. “You’re very welcome, Heidi. Please, no need to mention it. I am also taking you to a special dinner tonight — for your birthday.” I tried to demur, but he insisted, even when I argued that my evening clothes were still packed since I had only been in town a few days. With a smile he produced a neat packet of fifty- and twenty-dollar bills from his pocket. Gracefully, he planted them in my hand. “Buy a dress and shoes, whatever you need. Be back here in two hours.”
Overcome, I turned toward the carved door, and an image of the blond girl quietly sitting in her frame flashed by.
I look just like her! Is there something personal, more intimate, going on here?
This was too much. I took a step, then a breath, and turned around to face him. I looked right into his eyes and appealed, “I’m very tired and I need to go home. I’ll call you tomorrow. Thank you for everything.” I held the cash out, but he only shook his head. I placed it on the hall table in front of a photograph of him and Nixon embracing. Then I looked at the old man and smiled, sure that he would understand.
When he nodded and smiled back, I knew it would be all right. I turned toward the door and looked down, reaching for the beautiful knob. As I did the rabbi’s body crashed upon my back. One hand grasped my hair, the other hand held my chin and throat as he pulled me around toward his face.
The first thing I felt was pain.
Part of me left my body, left the situation. His body pressed against mine, grotesquely; his fingers, still gripping my hair, tightened and jerked my head back and forth in his attempt to bring his mouth in contact with mine. I was in shock. The rabbi was trying to rape me!
My only thought was to get out of there. For an old man he exhibited an unnatural strength and mobility. Something terribly brutal had come over him and some hidden part of me fought back blindly but ferociously. Frightened for my life, I exploded, thrashing and punching, a tornado of rage and fear.
He scraped my face and neck and pulled my hair, pressing his wet mouth violently against mine. As I frantically struggled with him he twisted my neck, desperately trying to hold me. Finally I broke away, scrambled and crawled on all fours toward the door. I attacked the doorknob, screaming with an unrecognizable voice, and threw the heavy door open.
The next thing I knew I was standing outside his house, nauseated, trembling, covered with a cold sweat. The bright sun hurt my eyes. I was breathing hard, tears streaming down my face. I stumbled away from the house, a faraway voice in my head telling me to try to appear normal.
I fumbled with my truck keys, dropped them. When I bent to retrieve them I felt a tightness around my throat. Keys forgotten, I reached to my neck and struggled to unclasp the necklace. My fingers were clumsy; I couldn’t get it off. The frustration was crushing. I felt I might faint, but I knew I couldn’t stay here, in front of the house. I grabbed my keys and stumbled into the truck. At first I ground the gears and the truck only lurched away from the curb, but I managed to drive away, sobbing, scared, confused.
I was in a state of complete shock.
From my readings I could recognize the typical reactions to sexual assault: What did I do? How did I cause this? Thankfully I possessed enough intestinal fortitude and sense of self to know, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that Rabbi B———had just committed an uncon-scionable act, an insult to me, himself, the university, and the titles he represented. How dare he commend me for my achievements and talents, then reduce all his words to … to what just happened. The memory of each of his scratches, his touches, threatened to crush me. My mind tried to make sense of the situation. He had actually expected me to abandon my self-respect, my actual self, in exchange for tuition, room and board, a secure future, and priceless contacts and experiences. Hey, I’d even receive social status for my complete disregard of truth and respect.
The rabbi had badly underestimated me. He should have known.
Didn’t my history speak for itself? I’d always taken care of myself.
Hard times were nothing new to me, but then offers like the rabbi’s were not all that common. I wondered what kind of person would actually go for his offer? I couldn’t comprehend it; it was beyond me. The realization that he expected me to play his game sickened me.
I can’t remember my drive home. Isabella was there, back early from her family’s law office. All the emotions I had put on hold in the truck poured out as soon as I saw her. She held me while I cried and shook, patiently asking me to tell her what was wrong.
“The rabbi did a bad … he …” was all I could manage. I sobbed a few minutes more, slumped at the kitchen table.
Isabella, always good at being strong for others, didn’t make me explain right away. She kept her anger in check and focused on calming me down. She marched around the kitchen, preparing her aglia olio and boiling water for pasta. She waited for me to talk.
I had to.
Could this have really happened?
Still stunned, I tried to reconstruct for her the events of that afternoon.
“Where’s the necklace?” she asked grimly.
For a moment I didn’t know where the necklace was, then remembered it falling off in the truck. I had tugged on it enough while I drove that it finally broke free. Where it had landed, I didn’t know.
“You need to give it back, Heidi,” she said, her legal mind working. “Send it back. Return receipt.”
I got up to go retrieve the jewels. It felt good to move, although my legs were still wobbly. I walked down the steps to where my truck was parked. When I saw the necklace I remembered everything. It felt ugly, like an enemy in my hands. I carried the evidence back to the kitchen, realizing now that the rabbi had committed an actual crime.
I put it on the table and a few stones slipped off the broken thread. I watched them roll as I asked Isabella, “Legally, what should I do next? Do I have to report him?”
“The last thing you need is to be on Brown’s bad side again. You’ve already got the lawsuit against you, Heidi. Brown wants to be rid of you. Don’t give them an excuse to make your life miserable.”
I was quiet. She was right.
“What is it you want, Heidi?” Isabella asked.
I looked up at her wearily. “I want my education and I want to get on with my
life.”
“And Brown wants to look good and make money,” she replied. “You’re not helping them.” Spatula in hand, waving through the air in an expression of disgusted boredom, she added, “You pay your money; you get your piece of paper with Brown across the top.”
She had a good point. Dwelling on the negative wouldn’t get me where I was going. No use crying over spilt milk.
Part of me did cry, though. I found myself shying away from elderly men on the street — and feeling guilty when I did it. I reminded myself over and over: “You didn’t do anything, Heidi. He was bad.” A nagging voice occasionally surfaced, telling me, “Report this.” But I didn’t see that helping anyone.
It isn’t like the rabbi is roaming the streets.
Sometimes I even felt angry, but mostly I put the incident out of my mind.
It was a week after the attack when I ran into the chaplain on my way to class.
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