Jacob was gone when I woke up and I was too upset to go to work. All I wanted to do was shower again. But with my hands trembling from fright and the cold, I had difficulty finding the strength to turn the shower knobs. I cursed out Jacob’s name waiting for the water to turn hot.
I turned my back on the shower head and let the water pound my shoulders, hoping to release the tension from inside. But I could not relax and raced through the shower, forgetting to shampoo my hair until I was already out and drying off. I looked into the bathroom mirror and saw the image of a woman who had had the ultimate violation committed against her.
I was feeling lightheaded and needed to eat something. But I could not concentrate. Instead, I threw on some sweats, pulled my hair back, and wrapped a scarf under my coat to brave the weather.
The sidewalk was shoveled but navigating by foot was very hazardous as the surface had already been covered by ice from the previous days’ freezing rains. As I walked in the bitter cold around the corner to my Nana’s building, I was upset that I had forgotten to wear gloves.
“Nana, its Danielle.”
“I am coming sweetheart,” she said in her broken English voice.
I heard her feet shuffle towards the door as she turned the three dead bolt locks.
“What a surprise. You never come by this early. Come in, come in. Are you hungry?”
Nana was wearing the pink fleece robe that I gave her for her last birthday. I followed Nana into her bedroom.
“Do you want some tea? I can make some tea. And Bessie brought me some fresh cookies from Schwartz’s. No work today?”
“No Nana. It was cancelled because of the weather,” I said as I took off my coat and put it on the couch. I hated to lie to my Nana, even if it was a white lie.
“No one should go out in this weather. But it’s warm in here. The heat works good.”
Normally I would have corrected Nana, saying the heat works well. But I was too upset.
“Yes it does, Nana.”
Nana sat down in her rocking chair near the window.
“How is Bessie?” I asked as I sat on her bed facing her.
“Not well. Her knees are so bad and she can hardly walk. They shouldn’t call it the golden years. It should be called the tarnished years.”
I smiled.
“What sweetheart? You look sad,” Nana said putting her hand on my chin and tilting my face. “You have been crying.”
I did not answer.
“Talk to me. You can always talk to your Nana.”
I looked at my Nana’s sweet, kind face and started to cry.
“It’s Jacob.”
“Vus?”
“Nana. He is a bad man.”
“Did you talk to your father?”
“I can’t talk to him.” I said, ashamed. “I tried but…”
“Your father doesn’t always understand,” Nana said, finishing my thought. “But you need to let him know. Sweetheart, look at me. Did he hit you?” she said, examining my arms for bruises.
“No. He didn’t hit me.”
“Then what?”
I hesitated. “It is worse, Nana.”
Nana clutched both my hands in hers.
“He made me. He forced me,” I said turning my head.
Nana looked confused.
“I don’t understand. What could he force you to do?”
I wiped my eyes and slowly began to recount want happened last night, leaving out the most horrid details. But as she heard my painful words, my Nana’s face stiffened and her eyes were fixed with fright as if she had lived this story before.
“I can’t stay with him anymore,” I said, breaking out into a loud sob. As I cried, my Nana covered me in her arms and I fell to my knees. And as I rocked with her, she sang Tumbala, Tumbala, Tumbalalaika.
“Nana, he’s my husband. And the Talmud says that a wife is the property of the husband.”
“Ahf Gever Ei’No Yachol Le’Hachrichech Benigood Le’Retzonech,” she replied.
“Nana, in English.”
“No man can make you do anything against your will.”
As Nana spoke, she grew very upset and then stoic.
“A long time ago, I, no, I can’t talk now.”
Nana stretched her arm, revealing the tattooed numbers on the inside of her wrist, and I turned my head away as I always have done.
“Don’t be afraid. That’s my number. The mark of something awful. An eyewitness account that is irreplaceable. I never wanted to remove it so that when someone sees it, they will remember and never forget.”
Nana rarely hid her tattoo from my brother and I but always refused to talk about it. But my revelations of Jacob seemed to remind her how fragile her life once was.
“What, Nana?”
“No. I can’t. It is not safe. But you have to go.”
“I don’t want to move back in with my father, but….”
“No, far away. Jacob will only come looking for you. You have to go far away so he can’t ever do that to you again.”
“Nana, I can’t run. Where can I go?”
Nana’s eyes were filled with fright as if she has seen a ghost.
“Where am I going to go, Nana? Except for the meager allowance that Jacob gives me, I have no money. I give him my pay check. I don’t even have a credit card since Jacob insists that we pay everything by check. My name is not even on the checking account. And where am I going to live?”
“Shh. Open my closet.”
“What?”
Nana pointed. “Go.”
I opened the door.
“On the top shelf. You see a black beaded purse?”
“Nana, what am I doing?”
“Stop asking so many questions. Please bring it to me.”
I handed the purse to Nana but she fumbled trying to open it.
“My hands hurt. Here. Open it.”
I twisted the metal clasp.
“Take out what’s inside,” she instructed.
Folded neatly inside were five one hundred dollar bills.
“Here, take this.”
“Nana, I can’t take your money.”
“You have to take it. And you need to go far away.”
“Where? Everyone I know is here. You’re here. My brother is here. I work here. Where am I going to go?”
“What about your friend Marcia?”
“In California? I’ve barely left New York. I have never flown on a plane.”
“That Marcia, she is such a sweet girl. And you were so close with her in law school. Maybe you can stay with her?”
“I don’t know. I can’t think right now. But I can’t leave you.”
“I will be fine. Your brother is nearby and I have my friends and… And take this,” she said, handing me her hair brush.
“Nana!” I pushed the brush away.
“I insist.” Nana spoke sternly, pushing the brush back into my hands.
More tears flowed from my eyes.
“Give while your hands are warm,” she recited.
“Nana.”
“Sweetheart. I don’t have much. I am an old lady. But while I am still here, it is better to give while your hands are warm. So please. Please your Nana and take this. And when you hold it, you will always think of me.”
“Nana, don’t talk that way,” I begged.
“Danielle. You must promise me,” she replied firmly.
Walking home from Nana’s apartment, a terrible thought came over me. What if I was pregnant? The blood could be from my period or from Jacob’s thrusting so hard that he tore me. And if I was pregnant, Jacob would be granted his wish, as I knew I could never terminate the pregnancy.
My heart was pounding as I entered the Walgreens. I had read about this pill. And as I walked up and down each aisle, I kept counting. Adding and subtracting. Figuring and refiguring. When did I get my last period? And then I counted 28 days ahead. I counted again and again and again. And today was day 26.
I walked on past t
he shampoos and conditioners, the skin crèmes, deodorants, and toothpaste. And then I thought I found it. It was just past the array of contraceptive products; the two sitting end to each other like an exhibit demonstrating the law of cause and effect.
As I read and reread the product in search of what I had heard of, an elderly man with yellowed eyes was examining toothbrushes, holding them up in the store light as if they were going to turn into something else. Another woman was opening the lids of moisturizers and smelling them. And she kept turning her head toward me, making me feel very uncomfortable. It was as if I had done something wrong.
Finally, a young woman, close to my age, asked if she could help. Embarrassed, I told her what I was looking for and she took me over to the pharmacy window. I was given a small package labeled Plan B.
“Take this now and the second pill 72 hours later,” the pharmacist said, nodding her head that everything would be all right.
I paid and thanked her and quickly walked past the lady who was passing judgment on my life. If she only knew.
Rose’s Eleventh Diary Entry
I have lost track of how long it has been since my last journal entry. I remember back to the last few weeks in the camp, after the guards had fled but before the liberators arrived. I was so tired and hungry. I spent most of my days with three other girls. But though the guards were gone, I was too weak to lift my body and run.
The last few days had been especially difficult, as I could not remember too much of what happened. I think I was fading in an out of consciousness. When I did wake up, I had a terrible headache. Sleep had become the only form of relief. But in my dreams, the horrors of the past appeared with such starkness. And I could not turn on a light to drive the nightmares away.
It was still cold at night, though winter had slowly melted into spring. To keep warm, we slept huddled against each other. Sadly, we didn’t even ask each other our names. But names do not matter; survival does. To survive, we even peed on each other to stay warm. One night, as I turned, the smallest girl’s body felt cold. She had had a fever for days and wouldn’t drink any water. When we woke up, she was dead. As weak as we were, two of us managed to pull her limp, exhausted body outside and we laid her to rest by the side of the building.
Still fearing that there might be some guards remaining, we only searched the camp at night for food. Another night, walking inside what looked like a storage room, we saw that the ceilings were covered with blood. Suddenly an old man appeared. He offered us a piece of a loaf of bread but told us that he had seen guards earlier in the day and told us to go back to our bunk, which we did. He also said that the Americans and Russians were coming soon and we would be liberated. But that had been a rumor for weeks.
The next morning, we explored the clothing warehouse, which was stocked with coats of all sizes. For a short time, we made believe we were in a Paris fashion show as we modeled for each other. Amongst the piles and piles of clothing, we stumbled on what looked like a sack of flour. Thinking she could make some cereal, one of the girls mixed the contents in the sack with some well water which we found outside the abandoned kitchen. But almost instantly upon tasting it, she threw up. Only after examining the writing on the bag did we realize that the sack contained naphthalene, which is used to make moth balls. As the day wore on, the girl became sicker and sicker and was gone by nightfall. Ironically, she had survived all the hardships and horrors up til then but died before the camp was liberated.
When the Americans entered the camp, they gave us bread, cereals, soup, canned beets and tuna, salami, milk and cheeses. But I only ate cereal and bread. I later discovered that this was the best thing to do. People who overate all the things they had hungered for died because their bodies could not handle the richness and needed time to readjust gradually.
A few days later, I was moved to the hospital where I am now. And I thank God for my safety but fear for the fate of my family and Irene.
PART TWO
Chapter Fourteen
The sunlight struck me in the face, momentarily blinding me as I pushed open our apartment building door and stepped outside. Taking my first step, my shoes made a crunching sound as they disappeared into the snow drift that had formed on the top landing.
“Careful, Danielle. It is slippery,” shouted a familiar voice.
“Is that you Sammy?” I said as I shielded my eyes from the light. “Why aren’t you in school?
“It’s a snow day. School’s cancelled.”
I extended the retractable handle of my luggage and carefully navigated down the four steps.
“Do you need help?”
“No, that’s kind of you. I am ok.”
“Where are you going?” Sammy asked as he tossed a snow ball into the air and watched it fall, making an impression in the snow covered ground.
“I have to get a cab,” I said, slowly walking to the curb. We both stared in amazement as a jogger passed us by.
“That guy must be crazy. Does he not know how cold it is?” I tilted my face to the sun.
“He must be. So, when will you be back?”
I did not answer Sammy’s question. “So, where is Raj?”
“He’s sick.”
“Well, that’s too bad,” I replied, frustrated as a cab filled with passengers drove by.
“Maybe you should walk to the corner. There’s more cabs going by on Elm Street.”
“You know Sammy. You are so right,” I said as I gave him a kiss on his forehead. “Now you take good care of yourself, ok?” I rubbed my hand through his thick hair and started to walk toward 1the corner as I heard the thud of another snow ball falling to the ground.
Sammy was right. Within moments, a driver saw my outstretched hand and stopped.
“Los Angeles,” I said as I stepped inside.
“I am sorry, ma’am, I don’t leave New York.” The driver chuckled in a heavy Middle Eastern accent.
“Sorry. I am little nervous. I meant Grand Central Station.”
Grand Central Station was only a twenty minute subway ride providing that the connections were on time. But waiting to change trains was the last thing I wanted to do this morning so I had decided to take a cab. As we pulled away from the curb, I turned to look out the back window at the neatly arranged identical buildings.
“Could you turn up the heat?” I requested.
The cab was freezing and I so wanted my morning cup of coffee.
Turning onto Queens Boulevard, the number seven train had just left the subway station and we were about to pass my father’s store.
“Could you stop here?”
“Did you forget something?” the driver asked as he slowly rolled to a stop.
I looked through the window of the cab and saw my dad waiting on a customer. For a split second, I thought about darting from the car and running into my father’s arms, knowing that a big hug would be waiting for me. But if I did that, I would never leave.
“No, that’s ok.”
The cab drew away. And after a few minutes of attempting to make conversation with me, the driver turned up the volume on his news radio station and left me alone with my thoughts.
Grand Central is cavernous and no matter what time of the day, it is always filled with bustling crowds. As you enter the main concourse, you immediately noticed the large American flag that was hung in the terminal a few days after the September 11 attacks.
And in the center of the concourse is the famous four-sided marble and brass clock designed to look like a pagoda which sits on top of the information booth.
As I waited at the ticket booth, a young woman with one hand holding her daughter and her other hand holding the handle of a small tattered suitcase stood in front of me. In front of her was an older gentleman who was arguing with the woman behind the yellowed glass window.
I looked down at the very pretty little girl who was saying something to her mother. But I could not understand her as track announcements of arriving and departing trains were
being broadcast through an overhead speaker that was making a horrible crackling sound.
Finally I heard, “Next in line.”
I moved up my rolling suitcase and it was my turn.
“Next in line,” repeated the robotic voice.
“Where to?” was the next programmed phrase she uttered.
“Los Angeles,” I said.
The ticket agent mumbled.
“I am sorry. Could you repeat that?” I leaned forward to hear better.
“Sleeper car?”
“Ah, no.”
“ID.”
“What? I am sorry I cannot hear you.” Another track announcement muted everything the ticket agent said.
“Your driver’s license or some other form of picture identification,” she replied rudely.
As I fumbled through my wallet, the voice behind the window grew impatient as did the other passengers waiting in line behind me.
“Return?”
“Excuse me.”
“What is your return date?” the agent sounded annoyed though I suspected that was her usual demeanor.
“Oh. I am sorry. I don’t have a return date. Just one way.”
“One hundred ninety five dollars and forty cents.”
“Let’s go, lady,” a voice piped up from behind.
I reached into my wallet and gave her the money as my ticket popped through a small metal slit in the counter.
“Track 23, boards at 11 a.m. Next in line.”
I tucked my ticket in the front zipper section of my backpack and followed the signs to track 23. But as I did, I quickly found myself in the middle of a human stampede.
“This is a track change for train 195. The Baltimore train will now leave from track 32. The train is now boarding on track 32. All aboard.”
In true New York style, I bullied my way through the crowd and found an empty seat in the waiting area. Stuffed in my backpack was a banana. As I peeled it back, my cell phone rang. It was my father. I didn’t want him to worry. But if I told him what I was doing, he would call Jacob. So I let it ring until it went to voice mail.
Against My Will Page 11