“Come on. We have to get going.”
As Jacob pulled on my arms, I rotated the wedding band on my finger and knew that this was not a dream.
“Why do we have to leave so early? The brochure said that check-in was not until 3,” I said.
“I don’t want to take a chance with traffic. Anyway, are you hungry?”
“I am always hungry.”
“Ok, well shower and we’ll grab something downstairs.”
“How about room service?”
I started thinking about fresh strawberries on a high stack of pancakes, muffins, orange juice and some great wake-me-up coffee. But, as if Jacob had a business appointment to keep, he vetoed my idea and we had a quick breakfast in the hotel’s coffee shop before embarking on our honeymoon.
Never having left the State of New York, I had always dreamed about going to “paradise” for my honeymoon. I would be sitting by the pool under a palm tree sipping a Mai Tai. And one night my imaginary husband and I would have a romantic dinner on the beach and then take a walk along the shore under the moonlight and make love.
But my prince charming said he could not get that much time off from work. So we settled on the Pocono Mountains in north Eastern Pennsylvania which, for New Yorkers without a lot of time, was a very popular honeymoon destination.
As we started out on our road trip, it reminded me of the original movie “The Heartbreak Kid” with Charles Grodin. The radio was blaring and we were singing along in our best karaoke voice each song that the station played. But by the time we crossed the George Washington Bridge, Jacob lost interest and tuned the radio to an all-news station. So, with no one to talk to, I decided to revisit the hotel brochure.
“Escape to the Pocono Mountains and cuddle with your lover in your own in-suite spa. Or indulge yourselves with a couples’ massage in the privacy of your room.”
“It would be fun to get a couple’s massage. And they will come to our room.”
My suggestion got no response.
“Experience the sexiness of the Blush king size round bed with its lush pillow top mattress, layers of luxury featuring satin striped sheets, a plush duvet and silky smooth satin striped pillows that will make you melt, setting the perfect mood.”
“This hotel looks amazing.”
“What?”
I lowered the volume on the radio and repeated, “The hotel looks amazing.”
“Don’t do that,” Jacob barked.
“What?”
“Don’t touch the radio.”
“Well, you didn’t hear me.”
“What?”
“Like I said, you didn’t hear me so I lowered the radio.”
“Ok, I am sorry.” Jacob softened his tone. “Yeah it does look great. Did I tell you that this guy from work, I told you about him? Greg. He was also there on his honeymoon and had a great time.”
“No you didn’t. I would remember. How come he wasn’t invited to our wedding?”
Again my question drew no response. And except for asking Jacob to stop so I could get out to pee, we had very little conversation the remainder of our way to paradise while I dwelled on how Jacob jumped on me for touching his stupid radio.
The brochure described the bed perfectly. It was lush and felt silky smooth against my skin. And because it rained almost continuously for the three days we were there, we saw very little outside of our room, which for most honeymooners would be the perfect storm.
But other than meals and sex, Jacob seemed more interested in holding his Blackberry than me. And when he did want sex, which I dutifully performed every morning and night, I was at first flattered that someone would find so attractive an overweight girl pushing 30. But that excitement wore off by day three as Jacob did not care whether I rocked his world or not so long as I supplied the receptacle for his sexual release. I felt stupid that I had packed some very sexy lingerie as Jacob could not care what I wore or not or whether my top was on or off. Foreplay did not exist. And no different from when we first had sex, Jacob was unsympathetic to my sexual arousal. All that matter was that he was satisfied.
However, rather than discuss his lack of emotion and our intimate life with him on our honeymoon, I accepted, or fooled myself into believing that it would get better. Besides, we were in paradise, or Pennsylvania, and I was happy to have the time off from work and enjoyed my alone time relaxing and reading magazines.
Chapter Ten
Jacob had purchased a loft in a recently renovated three story building at the base of the Queensborough Bridge on the Queens side, which was ideal for me as it was only a two stop subway ride to my work. I was very excited about moving there, not only because it was my first apartment away from home, but the neighborhood had become a vibrant hot spot with many new restaurants and upscale stores that helped revitalize what was once a place you would never walk around at night. With frequent trips to Pottery Barn and Macy’s, in a few short weeks I had transformed our two bedroom home into a very chic abode.
However, Jacob rarely shared my excitement; he only seemed concerned with how much everything cost. Whenever I would suggest that we try one of the restaurants “that got such great Zagat reviews,” my suggestion was returned with a lecture that “had I not spent so much money on decorating, we would have money to go out.” And he would figuratively slam me whenever I reminded him that I work too and that if I wanted to go out for a nice dinner, it did not require an act of Congress to authorize a spending bill. Instead, he would remind me that he was the money manager of our finances and had the final word. He had the only word. And though I thought I had signed up for a shared lifetime, that also meant shared finances, for better or worse. But I was apparently misinformed or did not read the fine print.
The only thing he did permit us to splurge on was TIVO, which allowed me to record and watch my favorite programs. With the Food Network’s “Barefoot Contessa” on when I wanted, routine dinners became gourmet delights. However, the rest of our marriage was routine~my nights were spent cleaning and washing while Jacob was immersed in researching stocks and bonds and fondling his cold and unemotional Blackberry.
However, being the good wife, I decided to be patient and see if my lump of clay would turn into a bar of gold. But with the arrival of fall, Jacob’s internal weather changed as well. Aside from him being rude, having poor eating habits and often appearing disheveled, he was now finding fault with everything I did. And when he was not tenderly caressing his Blackberry or watching the CNBC stock quotes waltz seductively across the bottom of the television screen, he was often cursing me. He even pounded the table when he was upset. One night after I prepared his favorite dinner, meatloaf, he discovered that I had forgotten to enter a check in the checkbook. Not accepting my explanation, he responded by throwing a dinner plate against the wall. I responded by sleeping in the guest bedroom.
The next morning, as was always his pattern, he tried to justify his behavior as if it were only a “reaction” to something I had done or said to him. It was always my fault; I had provoked him. Oftentimes, he would go as far as saying that I deserved it. And after each and every incident came the well-known remorseful stage, where he would profess his “deep love” for me, and in the next breath he would stage another verbal assault.
The scariest part was that sometimes he wouldn’t yell and scream or curse me out. Instead he was quietly abrasive and displayed the most hateful and evil manner while whispering in my ear. But my dad’s words kept echoing in my mind, “He‘s a good man.” My father had always been such a good judge of character that I wanted to believe that he was right. But as more time passed, I believed no more and realized how stupid and naive I had been.
Curiously, though, Jacob walked around like a lion in his den. His public image was that of a loving husband, a good provider, well-liked and respected by colleagues. He could be personable and sometimes even charming. He was also always polite and respectful to my father and gave my Nana a welcome kiss and always asked how she
was. But he could sour honey behind closed doors.
As for intimacy, sex was the only thing I was useful for. But sex with Jacob was no different after the honeymoon than before; very quick and purely for his satisfaction. For me, it had become nasty and sleazy and something to dread. In the first few weeks of our marriage, I kiddingly reminded him that the Talmud said that a husband must provide for his wife’s sexual pleasure, but he would remind me that I was not getting any younger and that we should start a family. And so, to avoid arguments, I continued to have sex with him. But I knew he had to see the disgust on my face and hear the sigh of relief when it was over.
By our fourth month of marriage, I lost any desire for an emotional attachment and preferred that he did not hold my hand or even touch me. And on the very few occasions I felt the desire for a sexual release, afterward, instead of feeling good I would hate myself for doing it and I would end up in the bathroom crying on the floor. When I could not hold back the need to scream, I would put a wash cloth over my face and sob without a sound.
My own father could hardly believe my situation. He initially dismissed it as typical marital problems that had gotten out of hand. He even said that he couldn’t imagine my husband ever losing his temper. Eventually, I gave up trying to convince him that this was not normal or typical, and that the person he saw for a few hours at a time was not the same person I lived with day to day.
As for Nana, I tried to shield her from my pain. However, Nana was a very wise woman. She could see that I was upset and she conveyed her concern with her eyes.
But Jacob’s obsession with getting me pregnant was what I feared the most as he often refused to wear a condom. Since it was against our religious beliefs to use birth control pills, I depended on Jacob to use a condom every time to be sure we weren’t accidentally getting pregnant. And even our limited conversations somehow always seemed to revolve around starting a family.
One Sunday morning, I held my mug of coffee while looking out our living room window. The sky was an amazing blue with only a few puffy clouds. I enjoyed walking in the park near our home, which was always littered with young couples and families enjoying the view of the Manhattan skyline.
“I am going to go for a walk. Want to go?” I asked, already knowing his answer.
“No.”
“Come on. It is a beautiful day. We can then find a place to get something to eat.”
Jacob did not answer.
“Come on. We got nothing else going on today.”
“I said no,” Jacob barked back with an icy glare.
“Ok. I will be back in a few hours.”
But as I started to put on my jogging shoes, Jacob spoke in an ugly tone.
“Good. Maybe you will shed some weight.”
This was the first time Jacob had ever brought my weight into a conversation.
“Excuse me?”
“Come on. You have really beefed up. Look in the mirror.”
“And you should talk. Take a look at your belly. Do you think that is attractive?”
I thought my comment would have quieted Jacob but he lashed back.
“You won’t be doing much walking when you have a baby in your arms.”
“Say it again.”
Jacob glared at me. “I just said, get all the walking out of your system now. But it will be a little different when you’re feeding a baby. And there goes that job of yours.”
In the past, when Jacob would bring up my job, I would ignore him. But not this time.
“I don’t understand you. You make it sound like it will be punishment to have a child. Don’t get me wrong. Raising a child will be my number one priority. But now is not the time. Not yet. And I will let you know when it is the right time. As for my career, I love what I do. And no one, including you, is going to change that.” I shouted and slammed the door.
As a result of my unhappiness, work became my substitution for marriage. Going to work was fresh air while being in the same room with Jacob was choking. By our sixth month wedding anniversary, my spirit was dying and Jacob’s very presence repulsed me. Foolishly, I had thought that things would get better. I let myself be subjected to some of the worst verbal and emotional abuse anyone could imagine, as Jacob’s goal was to break me down and make me his servant and baby oven. Scared and frightened, all I could do was lay in bed each night humming, “Tumbala, Tumbala, Tumbalalaika.”
Rose’s Eighth Diary Entry
The commandant a bitter man in his forties; he was short, stocky, with steel gray eyes and crooked cigarette stained teeth. And every time I looked at him, I caught him staring back at me with his eyes narrowed and mouth pressed into a thin, disapproving line. His expression also reminded me of this nasty, dirty man that worked in the butcher shop in our town. Whenever I saw him, I became very frightened.
But working in the commandant’s home afforded me heat from the cold, and three meals per day. When Irene did not have a specific job for me, I spent my days either polishing silverware, dusting, or peeling potatoes in the kitchen.
But regardless of all the hours that I worked, I could never stop thinking about my parents. And when Irene would talk about the conditions in the camp, she did say people were starving. Whenever she had business at the camp, she would smuggle food from the kitchen and put it in a basket with a fake bottom. Once inside the camp, she would go to the infirmary and give it to the sick Jews. She had been doing this for some time but was fearful that someone was watching her. She asked that I pray for her safety. She also promised that she would try to find out any information about my family. I held on to her promise as that was all I had, though I knew it my heart that their fate had long ago been decided by someone else.
Nights were forlorn as when the commandant was home, I was locked in the basement after completing all of my chores. The basement had very low ceilings, making it difficult to stand up. Even if I did, the ceiling was not finished and I often hit my head against the exposed pipes. And my only light was from a bulb controlled by a light switch in the kitchen which often was left in the off position. But when it was on, it gave off very little light. Even more intolerable was that the basement was not heated and the outside cold filtered through the cracks of the stone wall. And just by touching the walls I felt a chill shoot throughout my body.
I also feared the commandant’s two German shepherds that roamed the house. One night, one of the dogs ran down the steps when the door was still open and pinned me on my bed. I was so scared.
But on the nights that the commandant was away, I would sit in Irene’s room and we would take turns brushing each other’s hair. I soon learned that Irene had a daughter, who would now be my age. Irene was not married when the baby was born and she did not really know the father. Her child died of pneumonia and Irene would often tell me how I reminded her of her daughter.
As we brushed our hair, Irene taught me a song:
Tambala, Tambala, Tumbalalaika
Tumbala, Tumbala, Tumbalalaika
Tumbalalaika, shpil balalaika
Tumbalalaika freylekh zol zayn
Tumbala, Tumbala, Tumbalalaika
Tumbala, Tumbala, Tumbalalaika
Tumbalalaika, shpil balalaika
Tumbalalaika freylekh zol zayn
She told me that whenever I was frightened, I should hum this song to myself and it would take me to a place where there were no guns and bullets. She said to think of myself as a ballerina dancing on a big stage. And I would be safe.
Chapter Eleven
Burying my head in the sand, another month passed. But after being married for what now seemed like a life sentence, and without access to any money to rent my own apartment, I made the decision to move back home. First, however, I needed to speak with my father rather than just showing up at his door with my worldly possessions in tow.
Jackson Heights was still a neighborhood that took working-class immigrants new to America and lifted them into the middle class by providing them the opportunity for
hard work. What made Jackson Heights a rarity is that it was an urban neighborhood, based around the subway and elevated train line. And unlike many urban neighborhoods in the 80s, Jackson Heights had not become a slum.
Traveling north, Queens Boulevard was the main artery leading into the Queens-Midtown Tunnel and Manhattan and the asphalt-paved street had hardly changed from the time I was a little girl, despite the attraction of the many nearby malls. With both sides of the street occupied by businesses, my father has always said that the people that live in Jackson Heights remained loyal to the businesses frequented by the generations before them. Even a heavy snow storm has little chance of paralyzing the noisy street always crowded with shoppers.
On Wednesdays my father worked until seven so that he could accommodate his customers’ work schedules. As I waited to cross the busy street, the all too familiar steam billowing from its manholes gave the illusion that pedestrians were disappearing into thin air as they walked.
My father’s store faced the #7 subway line and was only four blocks from our apartment. To his right was my favorite pizzeria, on the left was the dry cleaners, and down the block was Frishman’s, our kosher butcher. Standing in front of the store, I read the sign above the window, “Lee’s Opticians,” and laughed. Mr. Lee was a very nice Jewish man who sold the store to my dad, but everyone always thought that he was Asian.
As I closed the door, I could still hear the muffled sounds of the street permeate inside; the roar of the accelerating buses, the blare of car horns, the screaming ambulance that passed by, and the voices of barking dogs being walked by their owners.
But the most irritating sound came from inside the store. My father’s customer, Mrs. Nadel, had apparently stopped by to check on her latest match. She had a very deep and recognizable voice for a woman, like the late actress Bea Arthur. As soon as I heard the caustic sound of her voice, I immediately turned around to leave. But I was not fast enough, and my father motioned with his hand for me to walk to the back of the office behind the display counters. As I approached, I tucked my head into my chin hoping “Yenta the Matchmaker” would not see me.
Against My Will Page 8