The Rhythm of Memory

by Alyson Richman

  “She has done nothing, Doña Olivia,” Octavio replied, his head bowed to his chest.

  “They took the wrong person,” he said after a long pause. “Salomé has done absolutely nothing to deserve this.”

  Thirty-five

  VESTERÅS, SWEDEN

  FEBRUARY 1975

  “I was bound and gagged, slapped and beaten, before being thrown into a cell that was no larger than three meters by two meters. It was nothing more than a concrete bunker that smelled of human waste and had no windows. I lay there for hours, my wrists handcuffed behind me, doubting that I would ever be returned. You must believe me when I tell you I thought that I was going to die in that prison, among the sound of screams and the drone of the incessant music that attempted to mask the wails. I have never known such a hell as I did there.

  “Two hours passed before I was taken to the interrogation room. The guards came and pulled me out by both arms, dragging me through a long, narrow corridor that was illuminated by gas lights. I must have passed two dozen filthy cells that mirrored my own. The people inside barely seemed human. White eyes peered out from dirt-smeared faces. Some were covered with dried blood.

  “ ‘Keep moving!’ one of the guards yelled, as he shoved me forward. I remember that as I tried to regain my balance, I was kicked in the small of my back. This guard, I can still remember his face. He was a young boy. No more than sixteen years old. Kicking me as if I were nothing more than a sack of bones. ‘You Marxist cunt!’ he called me, time and time again.”

  Samuel shuddered. Although he had heard stories similar to Salomé’s before, listening to such a young, beautiful woman, a mother of three, recount such brutality was particularly disturbing to him.

  “I don’t even think I can bring myself to remember the brutality I endured during the first few days I was there. They did such horrible things,” Salomé said, then paused. “Things no one should have to go through. And we women, what they did to us was so awful, so shameful…if Octavio had any idea, he would have never been able to look at me in the same way.”

  In the low light of Dr. Samuel Rudin’s office, Salomé’s face looked as though it had been stolen from a Velázquez portrait. Her regal features tightened as she tried to fight back her tears, and her long, black hair fell over her shoulders.

  “During my first interrogation, I was slapped, punched in the face, breasts, and abdomen.

  “I was told over and over again by the interrogator that I was a socialist whore, a communist bitch. ‘Repeat after me,’ he screamed, ‘I am nothing more than a fucking communist bitch!’

  “I said nothing.

  “‘Repeat after me, you fucking puta: I am a fucking communist bitch!’

  “I started to cry. He hit me with the butt of his rifle and kicked me in the stomach with his boots.”

  Salomé stopped, lowered her eyes, and rubbed her temples.

  “I don’t know if I can continue, Doctor.”

  “Take your time, Salomé. We’re not in a hurry here.”

  Salomé inhaled deeply. The words eventually came to her. Haltingly at first, but then they seemed to spew forth.

  “The interrogator unbuckled his belt and forced me on my back with the heel of his boot. Then he spread his legs over my neck, held me up to him by my throat, and then forced himself into my mouth.

  “They told me that they would kill my husband and my children if I did not cooperate. They told me that I had to repent for my husband’s sins or they would kill my children!”

  She was now sobbing uncontrollably. Samuel reached for a box of tissues and handed them to her. In the light, her face was now red, her features swollen and lined with tears.

  “Up until that moment, I had never known any other man besides my husband. Can you imagine such a thing? Can you imagine?”

  “No…” Samuel folded his hands in his lap and looked at his patient with great compassion. “I am so sorry.”

  Salomé blotted her eyes. She was surprised by the way the words were pouring out of her. It was the first time she had ever spoken of what had been done to her, and she felt as if a floodgate had been opened.

  “When I refused to admit to conspiring against the government, my face was repeatedly forced into a bucket of urine and human feces. When I insisted that I had never committed a crime against the state, they called me a fucking liar over and over again. I was raped. I was given strong electric shocks. I don’t even think I remember half of what I went through. The mind works so strangely…I think I’d go insane if I remembered everything they did to me.”

  Her nose was now running and she reached for a tissue.

  “I suppose I came here hoping that, in a few sessions, I would be cured of my nightmares, that I would be able to embrace my husband as I had before. That I would be able to listen to music and feel joy, not terror, and not be paralyzed with fear and dread.”

  “You really thought that in a few fifty-minute sessions we would be able to tackle all that, Salomé?” He looked at her sympathetically, smiling slightly as he shook his head.

  She smiled back at him, her eyes peering up from the crumpled tissue. “I know I am being unrealistic, but I feel like I am living a lie. Every day, I am forced to pretend that I am the same woman I was before this all happened to me. I must smile to my children and tuck them in at night, promising them that what they see in their nightmares are only figments of their imagination. Yet, I have actually lived my nightmares. No one can tell me they were only a dream.”

  “Yes, what you are saying is true,” Samuel agreed. “But, Salomé, I understand that you would not want to share these feelings with your children, but surely you can unburden yourself somewhat to Octavio?”

  “No, I cannot!” She continued to cry into her tissue. “I cannot share anything with him because I am afraid to!” She was shaking her head now. “If I begin to tell him how I feel, I’m sure I will say things I will regret.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Silence filled the room and Samuel continued to stare at his patient.

  “I think you do know.”

  Salomé continued to say nothing.

  “Do you blame him, Salomé, for what happened to you?”

  “No.”

  “Not at all?”

  “No.”

  “Then why are you afraid of what you might say to him?”

  “I just am!” She paused. “Maybe I’m afraid he’ll reject me if he knows how I was used in that prison. Maybe I’m afraid he won’t be able to love me in the same way…”

  “But, you’ve already said that you can’t embrace him. Aren’t you the one who has been doing the rejecting?”

  “Yes, but…”

  “But what?”

  “Maybe because I’d rather be the one who is doing the rejecting than be the one who is refused.”

  “I don’t think it’s that simple, Salomé.”

  “All I know is that it is an awful thing to feel that your husband might look upon you differently. I mean, this is the man I have loved since I was seventeen! He is the father of my children, for God’s sake! How could I live with myself, knowing that every time he holds me, he envisions another man raping me?”

  “How do you know he would think that?”

  “I don’t know. But I believe that if he knew what happened to me, he couldn’t help but think that way.”

  “So you don’t want to tell him what was done to you—but, clearly, you are angry with him. Explain this to me: Are you angry with him for what was done to you, or are you upset that he doesn’t understand what you are going through?”

  “I have already told you, I’m not angry with my husband for what happened to me.”

  “All right then, tell me what you are angry with him about.”

  Salomé pushed her black hair behind her ears and straightened her back. She was becoming increasingly irritated.

  “I’m sorry if these questions are annoying you, Salomé. It’s jus
t that I find it hard to believe that the entire time you were lying there in your filthy, cramped cell, after enduring endless brutality—the electric shocks, the rapes—all of that, you never once blamed your husband?”

  “No.”

  Samuel lowered his voice even further, approaching his next question with tremendous caution.

  “You never once said to yourself, ‘Why is this happening to me? What have I done to deserve this? Why do I have to suffer for the actions of my husband?’ ”

  “No! No! No!” Her eyes were closed now, and her hands covered her ears. Her whole body was shaking underneath her.

  “Salomé?”

  After a few minutes of silence, Salomé finally answered.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Yes, Salomé?”

  “Perhaps I did. Sometimes.”

  “Sometimes what?”

  “Sometimes I did think that.” Her voice was now barely audible.

  Silence again permeated the room. Samuel watched his patient carefully. Salome’s face collapsed, and once again, she began to cry.

  “I was angry at him.”

  “Of course you were.”

  “I suppose I was angry at him even before I was abducted. I was angry that he didn’t stop and think about how his actions might affect us as a family.”

  “I think you have a right to be angry, Salomé.”

  “Do I? Sometimes I think I am responsible for what he did. There can be no other explanation for why he refused to listen to me.”

  “I’m not following you…” Samuel looked perplexed.

  “Well, up until Octavio was approached by Neruda, he had made great sacrifices so he could provide the children and me with the best life possible. I know he felt intimidated by my background, and I know he played the role of movie star begrudgingly. In an ideal world, he would have been a poet or at least a schoolteacher. My husband had great expectations that he would bring beauty and knowledge into the world. He hated the vacuous life of a movie star. He was typecast as the same character over and over again: ‘the romantic lead’…‘the man with the soulful eyes’…”

  Samuel nodded. “Go on.”

  “Well, helping Allende was a role he cherished. Finally, he was approached by someone with intellect and vision. He thought it was a chance to use his talents to achieve something of greater meaning.” Salomé cleared her throat. “Octavio believed in Allende,” she stressed. “He was flattered that they thought he could help their campaign.”

  “But by doing this, he put his family in jeopardy.”

  “Yes, but I’m sure he didn’t do it on purpose. He just didn’t fully foresee the consequences.”

  “That sounds rather naive.”

  “Yes. My husband is naive. I suppose that’s his most tragic flaw,” she said, before pausing. “I fell in love with his idealism. It’s ironic that the very trait that I cherished in him is the one that I now resent.”

  “You were eighteen when you married. You’ve experienced far more in those ten years since you were wed than most people do in a lifetime, Salomé.”

  “I know that, but still it’s difficult to feel one has matured and developed but one’s partner hasn’t.”

  “Do you really believe Octavio hasn’t changed? I find it hard to believe that a man who experiences the terror of having his wife abducted from his very home cannot be changed from that experience.”

  Salomé was silent for a moment. “Perhaps I can’t see how he’s changed. Perhaps I am so focused on how I have suffered…how I’ve lost part of myself, that now I can no longer see my husband clearly.”

  “Perhaps you can’t.” Samuel raised an eyebrow at his patient. He looked up from his notepad and was struck by how pale Salomé appeared. She suddenly seemed so unsure of herself, her face revealing her conflict of emotions.

  “You need to understand that these feelings you are having—the anger, the resentment, the constant questioning of your current situation—these are all natural.”

  “Yes, I know. But it’s difficult to admit that I have these feelings.”

  “Of course it is. But you cannot censor yourself. By denying certain emotions, you are doing harm to yourself and to those you love.”

  “I don’t want to be angry or resentful toward him. I want to forgive him.”

  “Of course you do, but it is not only you who needs to get counseling. Has Octavio considered seeing someone? I can only imagine the guilt he must have.”

  “He refuses to see anyone.”

  “That concerns me, Salomé. He should see a counselor. Even without the trauma of your abduction, I would think he would have trouble adjusting to a foreign country and culture.”

  “You’re right,” Salomé agreed quietly. “And it has been especially difficult for him, considering that, at least before the coup, he enjoyed a position of fame and respect in Chile. Here, he has no identity other than a newly arrived immigrant.”

  Samuel nodded. “I know that feeling.”

  “And he has yet to find a job.”

  Samuel nodded sympathetically. “You both need to be speaking to someone right now. Each of you has your own pressures…your own pain and guilt. If you are unable to discuss these things between yourselves, at least try and have some professional guidance.”

  “I know, I know.” Salomé shook her head. “I will try and speak to him about it again.”

  “All right then.” Samuel folded his hands. He paused and pressed the stop button on his tape recorder, which was documenting their session. “Let’s stop here for now. You must be tired from such a difficult session. But you did well, Salomé. It takes real strength to force yourself to relive such painful memories and admit the feelings you have about them.”

  “I just hope it’s worth it in the end.” She sounded weary and exhausted from their session.

  “It will be, Salomé,” Samuel said softly, trying consciously not to gaze too intently at his patient sitting demurely on the leather sofa.

  She gathered herself from the couch, smoothing the material of her skirt over her knees as she stood up and shook out her hair with a toss of her head. Samuel was struck by Salomé’s beauty.

  “I hope to see you next week, then.”

  “Yes, of course, Doctor.”

  “Good. We’ll continue where we left off.” Samuel stood up to show Salomé to the door. “Until next week, then. I look forward to it.”

  He stumbled over his last words a bit. He thought, “It’s quite all right to look forward to seeing a patient again.” There was nothing wrong with that. After all, he was helping her on her road to recovery. And saving her marriage as well.

  Now all he had to do was see about attending to his own relationship. Lately, his wife had not seemed like herself at all, and he was beginning to realize that perhaps he and Kaija had issues between them that they needed to address.

  So, in the blue-gray winter, crushing the frost underneath his heels, Samuel Rudin hurried home to the family he knew would be waiting for him.

  Thirty-six

  VESTERÅS, SWEDEN

  FEBRUARY 1975

  That evening, Samuel arrived home to find Sabine playing alone in the living room. He crouched down and hugged his little girl. “Where’s your mama, älskling?” he asked the child.

  “Sleeping.” Sabine pointed with one of her small, pink fingers to the rooms above. “She’s in her room.”

  Samuel was surprised by the state of the house. The lights were turned off in the kitchen, and when he flicked on the switch, he found the sink full of dirty dishes and a burnt pot on the stove.

  “How odd,” he thought to himself as he glanced over the room. Usually, Kaija maintained a fastidious household. This seemed rather out of character for his wife, though she certainly hadn’t been acting like herself for the past few weeks.

  Upstairs, he found Kaija asleep in the bedroom, one leg draped from underneath the covers, the other curled beneath a twisted sheet. Her cotton nightgown reve
aled the outline of her thin body.

  Samuel sat down on the edge of the bed, untied his shoes, and loosened his collar.

  He wasn’t sure if he should wake her. It was already half past six, and little Sabine would be getting hungry soon. But Kaija really seemed to need this rest.

  From the look of her swollen eyelids, he suspected that she had been crying.

  He couldn’t help but remember how his mother had been when she first began to spiral into depression. She too began with a proclivity for afternoon naps, a growing disinterest in her physical appearance, and a lack of energy to maintain the household. Seeing his wife lying in their bed, her face slightly swollen from sleep, echoed memories of his mother long ago. He was unnerved. For the first time, he saw troubling similarities between the two women who had dominated the different stages of his life.

  He wondered if he had, on some subconscious level, married Kaija because he was attracted to her fragility and her vulnerability. Had he married a woman whose problems he thought he could solve simply by exchanging wedding vows and giving birth to children of their own just to compensate for his failure to save his own family?

  If he were honest with himself, he would have sat himself down on his own couch and said, “Samuel, you suffer from helping syndrome. You’re attracted to what’s broken. You want to glue back what’s fractured.” Sometimes Samuel had to remind himself to take a step back and look at his own past and his own family. Like his patients, he had scars of his own, and he too struggled to live with them.

  That evening, Kaija awakened from her nap and went downstairs to find Samuel clearing the dishes from the spaghetti meal he had made for himself and their daughter. She could not hide her embarrassment.

  “I’m sorry, Samuel,” she apologized. “I only thought I would sleep for a few minutes or so…I never meant to sleep this long.” She was now rubbing her eyes. The long, terry-cloth sash from her robe dangled at her sides.

  “That’s quite all right, Kaija. I managed everything all right, I think.”

  Sabine was smiling at her father, her face covered in red sauce.