Life in a Box

by Einat Lifshitz Shem-Tov

  Tears began to stream down his cheeks and Mickey’s voice grew hoarse. I got up, brought him a glass of water, and urged him to drink. He took a few sips and blew his nose with a handkerchief he pulled out of his pocket.

  “Would you like to talk about this later?” I asked.

  “No, I have to talk about it now,” he answered right away.

  “When my father came out of that closet, after they took his parents away, he didn’t know what to do. He was just fourteen years old. He wouldn’t leave the house, afraid the neighbors would turn him in. Every time he heard footsteps outside the front door, he was sure they were coming to take him, so he would get back in the closet and stay in there for hours—until nighttime when all was quiet. During these weeks, he hardly ate and lost a lot of weight. He used up whatever his parents had left behind. After a number of weeks, he left the house. At first only at night and then, little by little, during the day as well. He was so lonely…he didn’t have a soul in the world…” Mickey was muttering to himself, and I felt the intense pain coming from him, making its way to me as well.

  “What happened after that?” I asked. I was caught up in his story and curious to hear the rest. “Did he tell you?”

  Mickey nodded and continued. “One day he was coming out of the house on his way to the market where he stole food from the stalls. He didn’t have a choice. He didn’t have even a penny left to spend. That day he wasn’t lucky. The merchant noticed him and called the police. They knew immediately that he was a Jew. They took him to the police station, where they beat him until he lost consciousness. The next day they put him on a truck with other Jews and transferred them to the ghetto. He didn’t tell me everything he went through, but from what he did say, I could tell these were terrible days, full of so much suffering that he wanted to die. He even tried once to commit suicide, but someone saved him. When he told me this, he cried and mumbled: ‘For what? For what?’”

  “What does that mean?” I asked. “After all, he was saved in the end, and he raised a family.”

  “That’s right. I didn’t understand his reaction either, and I told him so.”

  “So, what did he say?” I asked.

  “Nothing. He cried and fell asleep.”

  “And that’s it?” I asked in disappointment.

  Mickey sighed and shook his head. “The next day I spoke with him again. He didn’t say much—just that from the day he was saved, he swore to do everything in his power to stay alive.”

  “What do you think he meant?” I asked.

  “I’m not exactly sure, but I get the feeling he’s hiding another horrible story that he doesn’t want to talk about.”

  “Did you ask him? Try to encourage him to talk about it?”

  “I tried, but it didn’t help. He was crying the whole time. I couldn’t sit next to him anymore and watch his suffering.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, truly sorrowful. Mickey loved and admired his father so much—that was the reason he never left home. And it’s also the reason, I thought, that he worked in a business he didn’t like and didn’t interest him at all.

  Mickey’s story stayed with me throughout the coming weeks. Luckily, the transfer of George’s money took up most of my free time. I tried to make contact with the organization I had chosen, but it didn’t come about. Most of the time, the line was busy, and when they did finally answer, the call would get cut off in the middle.

  I decided to go there. I looked up their address and discovered, to my consternation, that Roy and I had not been far from there on our way back home. This organization apparently had a number of branches throughout the United States, and one of them was in a suburb of Chicago. I didn’t tell Roy I was going. Ever since we had returned from our trip, a tremendous distance stood between us.

  I made the journey without any problems. The weather had grown mild. Light winds were blowing. It was afternoon by the time I stood in front of a building with peeling walls. It was in the process of being restored, so scaffolding covered with green burlap had been constructed up to the center of the building, trying to hide the ugliness of the exposed walls. There was a sign directing pedestrians and another temporary sign, pointing the way to the offices I was looking for. Someone had tried to clean up the entrance to the building, but dust blew in every time the door was opened. The elevator was broken. Fortunately, their office was on the second floor. I rang the bell on the intercom and received an immediate polite answer—the same voice that had answered the phone. I said, “Hello. I came to meet somebody regarding a donation.”

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Eva Brown.”

  “Who are you supposed to meet with?” The speaker asked politely but still left me standing outside the door.

  “I don’t know. That’s what I came to find out.”

  “Please wait.”

  Several long minutes passed before the door was opened by a young woman wearing a pink pantsuit. Her hair was pulled back and pearl earrings adorned her ears. Her expression was cold and polite.

  “Please come in. Mrs. Levine, the branch manager, will see you in a short while.”

  The secretary returned to her place behind the counter. I sat for half an hour on an old sofa looking through magazines. Suddenly I heard a voice next to me. “Miss Brown?” I lifted my head and saw one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. Her hair was very short, with shades of white, black and gray mixed together. Her face had no trace of makeup and was flawless, as if each feature had been meticulously placed by a sculptor to create a perfect harmony. She had kind eyes. She leaned toward me and asked again, “Miss Brown?” Her eyes hypnotized me. She held out her hand and helped me up from the sofa. “Come, let’s go into my office,” she said, and turned around. To the receptionist, she said, “Cathy, could you make us two cups of coffee?”

  “Right away,” answered Cathy.

  Her office was clean and functional. On her mahogany desk were various writing implements and a large calendar. On the right side was her computer and on the left, two framed photographs. On the wall next to her was a bulletin board with notes written by hand. The walls were otherwise free from decorations, save one large picture hanging on the wall across from her. Despite the functionality of the room, it had a cozy feeling to it. The carpet was dark; light penetrated from the window, and her smiling face created an atmosphere that said no matter what is said in this room, it will be received with understanding and help will be offered.

  “Well, what can I do for you?” she asked in a warm voice.

  “I don’t know really where to start,” I stammered.

  “Start at the beginning,” she said, surprising me.

  “OK, well, I want to donate money that I’m supposed to receive in the next few days to the organization.”

  “Perhaps you could tell me a little bit about this money you want to donate?” Her voice was quiet and low. My fear of having to reveal where the money was coming from vanished. Suddenly I felt a real desire to share the horrible experience I went through with her. Somehow, I knew she’d understand. I told her everything. About the first time George came to my house, about the attempted rape, about the threats I received, about the trial, and finally about my decision to donate the filthy money to a Jewish organization.

  Mrs. Levine didn’t stop me even once. She sat upright in her chair like a queen, her eyes never moving from mine the entire time. When I finished talking, the room was silent. She bowed her head, then lifted it back up and said, “You’ve been through a very, very difficult experience. How do you feel today?” Her answer caught me off guard. I expected her to talk about the money and explain how to transfer it to the organization. But she ignored the subject entirely and was only interested in me. Her question struck a dormant nerve that suddenly awoke, and my tear ducts turned on the waterworks. I’d been so busy lately just surviving, protecting myself from harm, that I never stopped to examine my true feelings. Now that the question has been asked, I once
again became that little girl needing a mother’s affection.

  Tears were streaming uncontrollably down my face. Mrs. Levine got up from her chair, came around the desk, lifted me up from my chair, and hugged me, which only served to increase my weeping. I couldn’t stop the choking sobs that emanated from the depths of my gut or the infinite tears streaming down and staining the blouse of this woman who I had never met until an hour ago.

  I couldn’t still my crying. My whole body shook. Mrs. Levine led me to the couch at the end of the room and came back with the cup of coffee that had cooled on her desk.

  “Take a small sip,” she said. “It will help to calm you down.”

  It took several long minutes before my breathing became regular and the tears began to dry on my cheeks.

  “This is the first time you’ve cried like this,” she said.

  I nodded in agreement, and she said, “Good, this is the beginning of the path.”

  I didn’t understand what she meant.

  “Now I want to ask you another question. Why did you choose our organization? There are so many others that deal with survivors of sexual abuse. Why us specifically, a small, barely recognized organization?”

  “A little while ago, I found out that my mother was Jewish.”

  “And your father?”

  “My father was Christian. He was also…” I couldn’t say the words. Maybe I was afraid that if I did, she would ask me to leave her office.

  “He was what, dear?”

  “He was…neo-Nazi…”

  She took my chin, raised my head up, and asked, “And how do you feel about that?”

  “I’m ashamed,” I answered without hesitation.

  “And when did you find this out?”

  “I found out recently, after he and my mother were killed in a car accident. Until then, I idolized him.”

  “You’ve been through a rough time,” she said.

  The tears were threatening once again to erupt.

  “Listen, Eva, I’m glad you came to us, and we would be happy to accept your donation. I think you made a very brave decision, but I want you to let us do something for you.”

  “What—” I began, but she interrupted me.

  “I have been at this organization longer than most. Unfortunately, I have a great deal of experience with what you have been through. A lot of girls and women come to us asking for help and we try to help in any way possible. You also need help. You can’t continue on with your life until you’ve dealt with this horrible experience. I am asking that you let us help you. We have excellent professionals and a lot of love to give.”

  This was the first time that someone had seen that I needed emotional assistance. Mrs. Levine touched on the exact location of the loose thread in my body, the one that constantly reverberated and threatened to break.

  This time I looked straight into her eyes and nodded.

  “Wonderful,” she said. “I’ll set up an appointment for you to meet with one of our therapists and you can continue from there. I want you to know that you can always call us. We have people that are always on call and available to help at any hour in any way. I want you to promise me.” Her eyes never strayed from mine until I agreed out loud.

  When I left the office to the street outside, it seemed like the sunlight was caressing me more than before. I walked toward the car, thinking about what had happened during the last two hours, and realized that throughout my entire meeting with her, Mrs. Levine had spent very little time on the donation and most of the time on me, Eva, a girl she had never met before but nevertheless made time for.

  25

  One week later, George’s money arrived. I wanted to get rid of it as fast as possible, so I decided to drive to the offices of the organization, hoping to get lucky and find Mrs. Levine in the office again. What do I want from her? What will I say to her? I didn’t know, but I was hoping to see her.

  When I arrived, I went up to Cathy, the receptionist, and asked if Mrs. Levine was in. Cathy answered politely that she wasn’t in the office and asked if I’d like to speak with Rachel. Before I could answer, a young woman in her thirties came up to me and said, “Eva?” I nodded in surprise, and, smiling, she invited me to follow her.

  We went into a room that was completely different from that of Mrs. Levine. It was brightly lit by two large windows, one of which was open, allowing the sounds of traffic below to filter in with a dull, continuous hum. The table under the window was loaded with objects and papers. It was a total mess. There was a stack of books resting on the sofa across from the table. Strips of various sized papers were stuck to the wall with transparent tape—most likely reminders from years ago. Rachel sat me down on the sofa and moved the books aside to make room for us.

  “How did you know I was Eva?” I asked inquisitively.

  “I spoke with Hanna Levine. She described you in such detail that the minute you walked into the office, I knew it was you.”

  I was disappointed that Mrs. Levine was out. I wanted to leave the check and leave. But Rachel had other plans.

  “I suspect you wanted to meet with Hanna. She’s lovely, isn’t she?” Before I could answer, she said, “Hanna deals mostly with managerial issues—she just happened to be here when you came in. She’s usually running around the various branches in the country. Although it wasn’t chance that you came on a day she was here—I believe that everything happens for a reason.” She smiled at me, revealing two rows of white teeth covered by plump pink lips. “Hanna told me your story, but I’d like to hear it from you.”

  “But I came in to bring the money I’d like to donate to the organization.”

  “Great! We’ll deal with that later. Now I’d like to get to know you.”

  She stopped speaking and looked at me. I looked back at her, but I didn’t know what else to do. I spread my hands and moved restlessly on the sofa.

  “Would it be easier if I asked you questions?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, I know that you experienced an attempted rape; I know that your parents were killed in a car accident; I know that your mother was Jewish and that you only found this out recently; and I know that you are very ashamed of the fact that your father is connected with the neo-Nazi movement, which you found out only after his death.” She paused for a moment, and then asked, “How did you feel when you found out your mother was Jewish?”

  I had expected her to ask other questions. Why did she, like Mrs. Levine, choose to ask about my feelings?

  I contemplated the question briefly. “I’m not sure I know,” I answered.

  She raised her eyebrows and let me continue. “I was very surprised. I didn’t have any connection to Judaism, and knew nothing about it, but suddenly I belonged to that world. It was really strange—it’s still strange to me. I don’t understand why my mother kept it from me, and I understand even less why she chose to marry my father.”

  “The subject bothers you,” she said.

  “Yes,” I answered immediately.

  “If you were to receive the answers to your questions, do you think you would be more at peace?”

  “I suppose so, but I don’t really know where to start.”

  “Let’s begin with you telling me everything you know about your mother.”

  “The truth is that I don’t know very much about her.”

  During the next hour, I found myself talking, and not only about my mother. She asked me questions that I didn’t have the answers to, forcing me to deal with them. It was reassuring when she said that not every question has an answer. “Sometimes it’s important to simply remain with the question.”

  The conversation with her had drained me. I felt as exhausted as if I had carried a load weighing several tons.

  “You’re tired,” she said.

  “Yes, very much,” I said.

  “I completely understand. This discussion is not easy for you.”

  “No, not at all.”

  “Why?” she asked sudde
nly.

  “Why what?”

  “Why is discussing your mother making you so tired?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Try.”

  “I guess I’m just trying to pack everything I missed out on all my life into a very short time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When she was alive, she was like a dead person to me. Now, after her death, I’m trying to bring her back to life. It’s really hard. It’s hard for me—I want to know who she really was, not just the way she presented herself. But on the other hand, who was she for real? I’m so confused.”

  “I understand.”

  “Besides, I have so many questions to ask her. I want to understand why she kept secrets, and why didn’t she share them with me when I grew older, when I could have understood.”

  “Why do you think she acted this way?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe she knew that she didn’t stand a chance, that my father was everything to me.”

  “And if she had told you everything, what would have happened?”

  “I guess I would have been angry. It would have been very frustrating—it would have thrown me off balance.”

  “And maybe she knew that that’s what would happen to you,” she said, thinking out loud.

  I looked at her face, and without hesitating, I said, “She wanted to protect me.”

  Rachel looked at me and didn’t say a word.

  ***

  The fatigue that took hold of me after my conversation with Rachel continued that whole week. I trudged through my daily routine waiting for the weekend to come so I could rest. Thoughts ran rampant in my head and gave me no respite. Images of my mother passed in front of my eyes. She looked like someone else, someone that was a stranger but somehow familiar to me. One night I woke up in a panic, sat up in bed, and looked around. The house was quiet. What had awoken me? My dream. I played the images in reverse and they quickly became a clear and vivid memory.