Against My Will

by Benjamin Berkley

  Frederick Fell Publishers, Inc.

  2131 Hollywood Blvd., Suite 305

  Hollywood, FL 33020

  www.Fellpub.com

  email: Fellpub@aol.com

  Copyright © 2012 Benjamin Berkley. All rights reserved. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For more information, address to Frederick Fell Subsidiary Rights Department, 2131 Hollywood Boulevard, Suite 305, Hollywood, Florida 33020.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  For more information about special discounts for bulk purchases. Please contact Fredrick Fell Special Sales at Business@fellpublishers.com.

  Designed By : Social Agency / www.socialagencyinc.com

  Cover Photo By : www.Philbrick.com

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Berkley, Benjamin.

  Against my will / by Benjamin Berkley.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-88391-280-5 (alk. paper)

  I. Title.

  PS3602.E7568A73 2012

  813’.6–dc23

  2012018514

  eBook ISBN - 978-0-88391-550-9

  Contents

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Rose’s First Diary Entry

  Chapter Two

  Rose’s Second Diary Entry

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Rose’s Third Diary Entry

  Chapter Five

  Rose’s Fourth Diary Entry

  Chapter Six

  Rose’s Fifth Diary Entry

  Chapter Seven

  Rose’s Sixth Diary Entry

  Chapter Eight

  Rose’s Seventh Diary Entry

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Rose’s Eighth Diary Entry

  Chapter Eleven

  Rose’s Ninth Diary Entry

  Chapter Twelve

  Rose’s Tenth Diary Entry

  Chapter Thirteen

  Rose’s Eleventh Diary Entry

  Part Two

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Part Three

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty One

  Chapter Thirty Two

  Chapter Thirty Three

  Chapter Thirty Four

  Chapter Thirty Five

  Chapter Thirty Six

  Chapter Thirty Seven

  Chapter Thirty Eight

  To my beautiful wife Phyllis, my biggest fan, who always believes in me.

  And to the brave souls of the Mauthausen Concentration Camp.

  Prologue

  It used to be commonly believed that a husband had a right to have sexual relations with his wife. A topic that was ignored for many years, spousal rape is now recognized as illegal in every state in America, and this type of rape was officially declared a human rights violation in 1993. Unfortunately, however, many states still make a distinction between stranger-rape and rape that occurs within the context of marriage, with the former carrying harsher penalties than the latter.

  Further, it is estimated that up to 15% of married women in America have been victims of spousal rape. Many women who fall victim to this type of violence blame themselves for staying in an abusive relationship while many women do not have the means to leave. Others see sexual submission as something that they must do because of their religious convictions.

  If you are a victim of spousal rape, help is available. Call the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-SAFE. They will direct you to places in your area where you can seek help.

  Tumbalalaika

  PART ONE

  Chapter One

  My bridal party lined up like airplanes waiting to be cleared for takeoff while I remained parked in my small dressing room hangar. All alone, except for my reflection in the floor length mirror, my thoughts drifted back to only ten months ago.

  I had just taken the New York State Bar Exam. Since I just reached my goal of experiencing financial independence for the first time, marriage was definitely not on my radar screen. But my father said it wasn’t right that a 29-year-old Jewish girl was not already married. At the time, maybe he was right. I had a closet full of bridesmaid dresses, enough diplomas to fill an entire wall, and a desk calendar that was counting down to my 30th birthday.

  Focusing on the mirror now, I admired my mother’s dress. It was slimming, which was definitely a good thing for me as I have always been apprehensive about my weight. It covered my arms, and elaborate lacework and crystals trimmed the heart-shaped bodice and train. As I stared at my image, a tear formed in my eye. I was only three years old when my mother died and my memories of her are limited to a grainy black and white photo of my parents under the Chuppah that sat on the rectangular mahogany server in our dining room.

  The raucous voices of Jacob’s groomsmen distracted me as they departed from the hallway en route to the sanctuary, replaced by the sounds of rustling dresses and my bridesmaids laughing about something that I am sure was silly. But I wanted to be part of the silliness. Then the laughter disappeared with their on-time departure. Next came the groom and his parents. All that was left was a deafening silence as I waited.

  I wanted to rub my eye but my makeup was set. I considered scratching my ear but knew it might leave a red mark. I thought about running away. But I had nowhere to go. And my remaining time was flowing faster than the last grains of sand in an hour glass.

  Rose’s First Diary Entry

  A young nurse with a very kind face told that me that I have been in this hospital bed for more than two weeks. But I have lost all sense of time and place. I am tired, I am weak and it hurts so badly when I try to eat. But I am hungry and I must get strong.

  I am told to rest. But as soon as I close my eyes, I hear voices and can’t discriminate if I am dreaming or awake. A defiant storm rages outside but not as violent as the storm within my aching body. I lift my body up and stare out of the small inch of glass that is not obscured by the pelting rain on the window. There is thunder and lightning but I cannot distinguish between reality and nightmare. And I take no comfort from the howling storm through which I now relive the previous nights and days of torment, pain, and humiliation. My spirit was bruised, as well as my body, and sorrow was an unwelcomed friend.

  Someone touches my wrist and I twitch with fright. Has my end finally come? But the touch is quickly followed by a soothing voice with assures me that I am all right and doing fine.

  Ironically, I suddenly have the gift of time while only recently my life was passing faster than the sands in an hour glass.

  I will sleep now and maybe write more tomorrow as I am told that I may soon forget. But I never will.

  Chapter Two

  Feeling a little lightheaded, I stepped away from the mirror and walked towards the window. Outside, a very tiny sparrow had found a resting place on a branch. I marveled how he balanced himself with one claw tucked up inside. We
exchanged glances before he flew away and I was envious of his freedom.

  Looking up at the sky that was slowly changing from shades of reds and oranges into darkness, my mind began swirling with thoughts, good and bad. I had slept so poorly last night anticipating today. I remembered looking at my alarm clock on the night table. I squinted my eyes to see the numbers. It said seven but I did not know if it was seven in the morning or at night. I mused that perhaps I missed my own wedding. But rather than panic, I pulled up the sheets, which felt so crisp and cool, and fell back asleep.

  Upon awakening, I had a terrible headache, which I never get. I had thought that a long, hot shower would ease the pain. But instead it left me more tired. And I am not one to take pills to mask the pain.

  There were so many things I still needed to do and I had prepared a list. But oddly, I did not feel pressured. Instead, I leisurely ate my Honey Nut Cheerios and a banana and entertained myself watching I Love Lucy. It was the one where Lucy was working on an assembly line packing candy, and the candies started coming out faster than she could pack them into their boxes. I had seen this episode dozens of time before but it still made me laugh. And I so needed to laugh.

  My stomach growled as I looked at the plate of once piping hot hors d’oeuvres that were brought into the dressing room earlier. But I was too nervous to eat and elected to finish the poured glass of champagne with which only moments ago my girlfriends toasted me. As I brought the rim to my lips, I fixated on the thousands of tiny bubbles releasing their energy in such a small area.

  I returned to the mirror and stared again looking at the reflection. The person I saw there was dressed in a white gown that would be the envy of every young woman. Yet from the depths of the mirror reflected a face stricken with fear.

  I pulled the thin veil down over my olive skin and suddenly a transformation from girl to woman occurred right before my eyes. Before me stood a stranger. This was not the face I had known for almost thirty years but a frightened young woman looking like a china doll in a glass case.

  I touched my own face under my veil as I wanted to make sure it was me. My brown eyes looked sleep deprived and were barely visible because my pupils were so wide.

  Outside the room, the music played and my heart began to thump. Not a steady thump, like a heart beating, but an uncontrollable pound. It was so loud in my ears.

  I took one more glance at the girl in the mirror. But the girl was gone and had been replaced by the stranger’s face. I knew once I turned, I was not only leaving that young girl’s face behind, but the life she once led. I knew as I walked out the door, I was going to take on the life of the stranger in the mirror. And the same thoughts crossed through my mind that had crossed many times in recent days. Thoughts of fleeing, images of wandering lost. But the sounds outside the room became louder and clearer. And I began to sing softly the song my Nana sang to me when I was frightened:

  Tumbala, Tumbala, Tumbalalaika

  Tumbala, Tumbala, Tumbalalaika

  Tumbalalaika, shpil balalaika

  Tumbalalaika freylekh zol zayn

  Rose’s Second Diary Entry

  It was dark when I opened my eyes and I tried to focus on the clock on the wall opposite my bed. Was it seven in the morning or was it night? Or does it even matter?

  My body is frigid and I cannot get warm. There are many blankets on the bed but they don’t stop the cold that is running through my bones.

  The same kind nurse from earlier fed me a few spoonful’s of water. But the spoon felt so cold against my parched lips that I shivered as I tried to swallow.

  She told me that it would be good if I could sit up. She said it might help bring down my fever. I was too weak to resist as she placed me in a chair by the window and wrapped me tight in blankets.

  Through the window, I imagined my vegetable garden back home. My father had cleared a small area in our yard near our neighbor’s pine tree that provided just the right amount of shade. And each spring we would plant seeds which in a few short weeks became vegetables. My favorites were the tomatoes whose plants grew taller than me and strong enough to hold dozens of fruit. Poppa always reminded me that a tomato was a fruit.

  And how much fun it was getting down on my knees digging for potatoes and onions. I remembered how I would fill the basket and then run into our kitchen and dump them all over the kitchen counter. Mama would pick out the largest to use for making soup.

  Sadly I also recalled the end of each season. We had picked the last of our crop and the once green leaves that carried life had now turned brown and wilted and died. Along with the fallen pine needles, all that was left was a stark contrast to only a few months earlier. I helped my Poppa till the area and we talked about when we would plant again next year.

  I am not ready to become a wilted plant and die. I pray to see my garden again.

  Chapter Three

  I finished Nana’s song and blotted a tear from my eye with a tissue, trying not to disturb my makeup.

  “That song is pretty. What is it?” my wedding planner Diane asked as she entered the dressing room.

  “Oh,” I said, startled. “I am embarrassed. You weren’t supposed to hear me.”

  “What was that?”

  “It’s a song my grandmother sang to me when I was a little girl,” I said, setting my glass of champagne on the small table by the window.

  “Well, it is beautiful. And Danielle, you look amazingly beautiful.”

  I shrugged and said thank you as Diane handed me my bouquet of small chocolate, orange and cream colored roses that were held together by a narrow band of crystals designed to match the crystals on my dress. The bouquet resembled the flowers in the photo that my mom carried on her wedding day.

  “Where’s my dad?” I asked quietly as we approached the doors that opened into the sanctuary.

  “He went to the restroom.”

  “I sure would like to.”

  “Oh, well, I don’t think we have time.”

  “I am only kidding.”

  Diane smiled. “Now, after your niece reaches the end of the runner, she will sit down and your music will start. At that moment, I will open the doors.”

  As I listened to her instructions, my heart beat faster and my face felt flushed.

  “Hi sweetie. Thought I forgot?” Dad joked as he took his position to my right.

  “And I want you to count slowly to three before you start to walk,” Diane continued.

  “You understand that?” my father said smiling broadly as he lightly brushed back the side of his hair with the tips of his fingers. My father had never given in to the fact that he was bald. Instead he grew this enormous strand of hair that started on one side and wrapped around the top of his head and down the other side.

  “Don’t be so nervous, Dad.”

  “Me? Nervous?” he said, touching and straightening his bow tie, which was another nervous habit of his.

  “And remember to walk slowly. You only do this once,” Diane added as she moved behind me to straighten my train.

  Waiting for our cue, I pondered Diane’s choice of words. I had spent my entire young life following instructions; always obeying, and wanting to please, especially my father. So why should today be any different?

  “Do I have time for a cigarette?”

  I looked at my father in amazement. “Dad!”

  Diane smiled warmly at him. “No, no. It’s ok. We still have a few minutes. The patio door is just to the right. You can smoke outside.”

  Diane and I laughed as my father’s black patent leather shoes made this odd clicking sound as he walked across the black and white tile floor to the door.

  “Can I take a peek?” I asked as I stood on my toes and looked through the small rectangles of opaque glass in the doors that would soon swing wide open.

  I did not want a large wedding but my father said that he had been saving up his whole life for this day. And that he only had one daughter. And that he wanted to share this Simcha with
everyone!

  “The Chuppah looks amazing.”

  The four posts were wrapped in hundreds of roses, and adding support for the canopy were the Talits of our grandfathers who were there in spirit.

  “The room will become even more beautiful once you step inside,” Diane murmured.

  “You must use that line on every bride.”

  “No, I really don’t.”

  “Then you are truly very kind,” I said as we watched my father puffing away outside the glass patio door. “He told me he was going to quit.”

  “It’s a horrible addiction. My father also smokes and he has tried to stop many times.”

  “Well, maybe I should have started smoking. I hear you lose weight. And then this dress wouldn’t be so tight.”

  “The dress fits you perfectly.”

  “Is that in your wedding planner contract to make sure you say the right things?”

  Diane politely laughed.

  “It’s ok. Anyway, I never asked you. Are you married?”

  Diane laughed again. “No, I have been with this guy for a while. My parents are thrilled. And he is ok. But I haven’t found Mr. Right yet—only Mr. Right Now. But it looks like you have.”

  “Yes. That’s what my father said.”

  Diane appeared puzzled by my answer. “I’ll go get your dad.”

  As she stepped away, I craned my neck and stood on my toes to look through the small glass windows and watched my niece drop white rose petals from her basket that softly landed on the white laced runner that ran from the back of the sanctuary and stopped just before the steps leading up to the Bema. Standing at the end of the runner and focused on the back of the sanctuary was Jacob, who was standing so stiffly he reminded me of a photo I saw of the palace guards in front of Buckingham Palace. But they weren’t wearing yarmulkes on their heads.

  “I am sure that nicotine must feel real good on your lungs, Dad,” I said sarcastically as my father resumed his position. He rolled his eyes in response.