by Carol Selick
“Uncle Leo said that his father died of starvation in the Warsaw Ghetto before the family was taken away. He described the day the Nazis came for the family. His mother, your grandmother Chiah, stood in the street with the other children holding tightly to her skirt. The Nazis called for all the strong men to step aside. Your grandmother pushed Uncle Leo and told him to go. That was the last he saw of his family. They were killed in Treblinka, one of the worst concentration camps.”
I closed my eyes and pictured that awful scene. It was hard to understand. Why did the Nazis hate my innocent family? Just because they were Jewish?
“How did Daddy take it?”
“He cried, and then he never talked about it.”
I kept my promise and never asked my father about his family in Poland. Once he told me that I was named after his mother and that she was a beautiful and caring woman, but that’s all he ever said.
The subject never came up again until a few years later. I was in high school, and my mother shared a letter that Uncle Leo had written to my parents about the day he was liberated from the concentration camp. I guess she thought I was old enough to handle it by then.
Many years have passed since the day of my liberation from Belsen-Bergen in 1945. I still can recall that joyous but painful moment. Yes, I was weak, a walking skeleton at that, but my mind was as clear as a child’s.
I wept and thought of the years of great suffering. Years so long and yet now they seem to be nothing more but a dream.
My thoughts reached for my family whom I loved so much. They were so close to surviving and yet so far from living. I lay on the grass and looked at the English tanks passing by and could only utter, why, why so late?
Love always,
Leo
I tried to imagine how my father must have felt when he got the devastating news about his family, my family. It was almost impossible to conceive of it. How could the world allow this to happen? Because of Hitler, my relatives along with millions of Jews had suffered an unbearable and unfathomable fate. I would never get the chance to meet my grandparents and my aunts and uncles. I felt a pain in my heart and a hollowness inside that was different from any heartache I’d felt in the past. I wanted to believe in a higher power, but how could God allow something this horrific to happen? Was life that random? There simply was no answer.
Even though it was a windy December day, I bundled up and went to the park. The cold, brisk air shocked me back to the present. I thought about my uncle and what he had survived. He had overcome so much, yet instead of being bitter, he had embraced life.
I felt a new strength and determination to live a full life but on my terms. My dreams were not my parents’ dreams. I couldn’t wait to tell Bruce what I’d discovered.
23
COUCH DREAMS
Those nickels and dimes
Are of another time.
Life is believing in you.
It’s pulling you through the bad times too.
At my Monday night session, I filled Bruce in on what I remembered about Uncle Leo and my father’s family in Poland.
“This is very significant. As we talked about in your last session, your father has survivor’s guilt.”
“But what does that have to do with me?”
“He has transferred his feelings of unworthiness on to you.”
I was becoming aware of where Bruce was going with this and I asked, “Are you saying that I have survivor’s guilt, too?”
“You’re an only child and given the loss your father experienced, it’s understandable that he would want to over-protect you. By not talking openly about what happened in his past, he’s repressed painful emotions and memories. They still have power over him, and make him feel unworthy. Somewhere in your childhood, you got the message that the only way to deserve happiness was to suffer.”
“So I was like a sponge?”
“You could say that. You were a sensitive child.”
“That’s true, but my father always told me I could do anything I set my mind to.”
“He didn’t do it consciously.”
Bruce paused and looked at me. He could tell I was deep in thought.
“You know, Carol, there’ve been studies on children of Holocaust survivors. Even though your father wasn’t actually a survivor, he was deeply affected by the loss and suffering of his family.”
“How could he not wonder why it didn’t happen to him? Why he was alive?”
“You told me that he came to this country before the war?”
“Yes, his aunt sent for him. He was the oldest boy and he wasn’t getting along with his father.”
“He wasn’t getting along with his father. Sound familiar?”
I needed a minute to let this sink in.
“Because he and his father didn’t get along, his life was saved. And now we don’t get along. That is deep. It’s so ironic!”
“Yes, Carol, and you’re rebelling against him.”
“But how is that the same? My life isn’t in danger.”
“Survivors often need to have extreme control over their children and desire to inhibit their children’s separation from them. Why are you rebelling?”
“I guess because I don’t want to be who my parents want me to be.”
“Exactly. You are saving your life by rebelling. Not literally, but symbolically. Your parents, especially your father, still have power over you. You are repeating a family pattern.”
“But how can I change, if my father won’t talk about the past?”
“By talking about your feelings here. Remember, you can’t change your father but you can change the hold he has on you. The more we explore these feelings, the less power your anxiety and phobias will have over you. You haven’t talked about your mother very much.”
“My mother had her own way of making me feel guilty. When I would get sick as a child, she would say things to me like, I didn’t sleep all night. I was worried about you.’”
“That was her way of showing that she cared about you.”
“I know, but I felt smothered.”
“What other thoughts do you have about her?”
I stopped for a minute and tried to think objectively about my mother.
“My mother always did what was expected of her. She always had a serious look on her face. She wasn’t depressed, but there was a heaviness about her. Whenever she laughed or smiled, it felt like the sun breaking through the clouds.”
Bruce gave me a quizzical look.
“My mother hated messes and made me feel guilty about accidentally spilling things. Everything had to be just so. She wasn’t exactly big on body fluids either.”
“That’s hard for a child to live up to.”
A sudden wave of sadness washed over me. I nodded. There had been so many lost opportunities to connect with my mother.
“My mother usually goes along with what my father says, but she tries to make peace between us. I feel guilty about upsetting her, too.”
“For our next session, I’d like to explore your feelings of separation anxiety regarding your mother and father. I think it would be helpful, Carol, if you laid on the couch.”
I was jolted out of my childhood regrets. I wasn’t expecting to hear about the couch.
“How do you feel about that?”
“I was wondering when you’d ask me to move to the couch.”
Of course, I left out what else I was wondering, like when my favorite daydream would come true. The one I flashed on any time there was a pause in the conversation, or things got too painful. The one where Bruce is lying on top of me on the couch, and I’m looking into his eyes and there’s nothing left to say. When even words lose their power and we let our bodies do the talking. I felt an intense attraction between us, and at times I thought that Bruce felt it too. He was s
till smoking those big cigars, using smoke to put out the fire.
“How do you feel about that?” he asked me again.
“You mean lying on the couch?” Even if I told him what I was thinking, it wouldn’t do any good. He would just tell me it was transference. There was no way I could share my fantasy with him, not yet.
“I don’t know. I guess I’ll have to find out.”
As I walked out of the office, I thought about the sponge analogy. According to Bruce, I was absorbing my parents’ unspoken fears and uncried tears. Uncried Tears—that would make a good country song, I thought. But this wasn’t a song, this was my life, and it was something I had to face.
24
MOVING ON
Straightjacket nights, blanket so tight,
Wrapped up in a woman who’s waiting to fight.
Burstin’ with something, knowing the time must be right
For her art, her life—
Chained and tamed woman’s blues.
I was getting used to waking up in the double bed by myself, but couldn’t shake the feeling that something or someone was missing. Oh, for a nice, warm body next to me, I thought as I faced another freezing, frigid December day. Maybe I wouldn’t feel as alone if I slept in the smaller bed, but it was piled high with clothes and I was too lazy to hang them up. It was a throwback to my Washington college days when my roommate Bonnie and I dumped our clothes in the middle of the floor. I’d lost touch with Bonnie but still heard from Marsha in Colorado. I was glad that breaking up with her brother Robbie hadn’t affected our friendship. When I wrote to her, I left out the part about how badly he had broken my heart. I didn’t want her to feel guilty about it.
Marsha knew that I’d gone back to Joshua, and she knew about the bust. What she didn’t know was that I’d never really gotten over Robbie. He’d hurt me more than Joshua ever had, and that was saying something! Even though Joshua had come back into my life, there was a part of me that never fully trusted him. He was exciting and sexy and familiar, but there was something dangerous about him. I was always waiting for the other shoe to drop, and it did.
Melanie and I talked a few times a week. She’d managed to get her boyfriend Mark a decent lawyer, and Mark was to be temporarily released into Melanie’s custody. She planned to ask her parents to loan her the money for his plane ticket back to Boulder so he could stay with his mother until his sentencing. The lawyer thought he’d be sentenced to a year or two in federal prison. Today Melanie was going to see him at the Manhattan Detention Center to give him the good news. She and I were meeting for dinner in the Village later.
I walked into the kitchen, made my usual cup of instant oatmeal, ate it robotically, and then sat down on the couch in the living room. It was Saturday, and I didn’t have to get to the health food store until eleven. I put on Carole King’s Tapestry album, lit a cigarette, and drank a cup of instant coffee. No more Pero, the healthy substitute that Robbie and I used to drink together in the morning. Besides, it tasted like shit! Back to my decadent ways, I needed something stronger to start my day. Some of his healthier habits had rubbed off on me, though. I wasn’t eating as many hamburgers and was taking more vitamins, bought with my employee discount at the health food store.
Katie, the store manager, had noticed the change. She was a wholesome-looking all-American girl, with thick strawberry blonde hair and perfectly placed freckles sprinkled over the bridge of her nose. Katie and her husband had moved to the city from Nebraska so he could go to NYU med school. She looked innocent, but her baby blue eyes could turn into cold steel blue whenever a male customer started to come on to her, which was a daily occurrence.
“What? No running to McDonald’s for lunch today?” she’d asked me earlier in the week.
“No, I’m not craving Big Macs like I used to.”
“I knew you’d see the light if you worked here long enough. Here, have a protein bar. It’s on me. Go ahead, take your lunch break.”
I was hanging onto the job, trying not to let my crazy life distract me. Now, more than ever, I had to prove to my parents that I could be independent and take care of myself financially. They didn’t even know that I was still seeing Bruce, let alone that he had discounted his fees for me.
I’d learned what most of the vitamins were for and recommended the store brand whenever possible. I was feeling less spacey and my ability to concentrate was improving. Katie said it was because I was taking B-complex, Bruce said it was due to my therapy, but I thought it was because there was no man in my life screwing with my head.
I was glad the job had worked out. It wasn’t too stressful, my manager liked me, and more importantly, it paid the rent. It hadn’t been my first choice. A week before I got the job, I’d had an interview with a music licensing company. I was psyched as I walked into the lobby of the ultra-modern office building on East 42nd St. I was wearing a white knit top, my favorite long skirt with purple, red, and blue patterns and my brown suede fringed sandals. My hair was pulled back in a ponytail, showing off my new silver hoop earrings with the purple beads in the center that I’d bought from a street vendor in Times Square. I knew I looked good! A thirty-something, cool-looking guy named Derek led me to a glass cubicle. There was a pad of lined paper, a pencil, and a set of earphones on the desk.
“We are a music licensing company. Your job will be to listen to music and identify the songs by title and artist. Your application says you’re a musician, Carol, so that should give you an advantage.”
I’m meant to have this job, I thought to myself. Then Derek said, “I’m going to give you a short music test to help you understand what the job will entail. Put on these headphones and simply write down the names and artists of the ten songs you hear.”
It sounded like a no-brainer until the first song came on. Elevator music! All the songs sounded the same — no singing and a watered-down, homogenized musical arrangement. I got three out of ten. I handed Derek my nearly blank paper. He mumbled something about getting back to me, but we both knew I wouldn’t get the job.
I got on the elevator and instantly recognized the song playing. It was the end of Song Sung Blue, by Neal Diamond. I knew the next song, too, The Day the Music Died, by Don McLean. Why couldn’t I have done that well during the test? I guess I had to actually be in an elevator to recognize elevator music! I laughed out loud! I hated to admit it, but I was better off not getting the job. Listening to that boring stuff all day long might’ve killed my love for music. A week later I’d seen the “Help Wanted” sign in the “Sunshine Health Food Store” window and the rest was history.
That Saturday when I got to work, the store was almost empty, and it stayed that way all afternoon. Maybe the cold weather was keeping customers away.
“Hot date?” Katie asked me.
“I wish. Why’d you ask?”
“You keep looking at the clock.”
“Just meeting a good friend.”
“We’re pretty slow today. You can leave an hour early if you want. I’ll lock up.”
“Thanks! I’ll come in earlier on Monday.”
Even though I wasn’t meeting Melanie downtown until 7:00, I decided to head to the Village and walk around. The subway would be the fastest way to go, but I wasn’t ready to take it yet. That was still one of my therapy goals. I walked over to Fifth Avenue instead and took the downtown bus, with a transfer to the West Side.
Nothing could dampen my spirits. It was Saturday night and the Village was hopping despite the cold weather. A long-haired hunk in an army jacket and suede boots with a guitar slung over his shoulder caught my eye. I smiled at him, but he was walking too fast to notice. Probably going to meet his lover. I went into a vintage clothing store to get out of the cold. I was drawn to a light blue, embroidered satin nightgown that looked like it could’ve been from the 1940s. It reminded me of the sophisticated gowns worn by movie stars like Lauren Baca
ll and Greta Garbo, strong, confident women who were comfortable with their sexuality. Their femininity was mixed with an aloofness that only added to their seductiveness. On impulse, I bought it. Was I signaling the universe to send me a new lover?
I walked down Bleeker Street and stopped to read the sign in front of the Bitter End. A singer named Melissa Manchester was performing that night. My friend and fellow singer, Shelley had mentioned her to me, and if she was playing at the Bitter End, she had to be good! Maybe Melanie and I could catch her show later.
When I got to the pizza place, Melanie was already there. Her perfect complexion looked a little paler than usual, reflecting the heavy stuff she was going through with Mark.
“How’d it go? How’s Mark?” I asked her.
We both lit a Taryeton and inhaled. “Let’s talk low,” she said. “It’s crowded in here.”
I looked around the restaurant. There were mostly people our age or younger. Some were NYU students looking as if they didn’t have a care in the world. That’s how Melanie and I should have been feeling too, enjoying our twenties, full of promise. Instead, we were talking about prisons, sentencing, and drug busts.
“Mark looks terrible. He’s lost a lot of weight and I’m afraid he’s gonna have a breakdown. He cried when he saw me.”
“When’s he getting out?”
“In about two weeks. I hope he makes it. I heard Goldman is already out.”
“Yeah, but I’m cutting him off. I promised my parents I wouldn’t have anything to do with him.”
“Good! You have to look out for yourself. No one else will.”
Melanie was getting tougher. This experience had hardened her in a different way than the rape had. The rape had shown her the randomness and evil in the world, but the bust had made her disappointed in friends, people she thought she could trust. And in a way, that was harder to take.
“I can’t stop thinking of that line in the Carly Simon song.”