It’s hard to remember a time before Yolanda. She helped my mother in the house and sometimes helped my father at the office. “Your father’s not like a Jewish man,” Yolanda said. What did she think real Jewish men were like? Did they have horns? Perhaps she couldn’t imagine a real Jewish man arousing desire.
One day, for no particular reason, I glanced towards the kitchen and saw my father groping Yolanda’s breasts. Her eyes were shut, her body curved against him. Just then, he lifted his head and our glances locked. My life until that moment flashed before me, opening then quickly withering like time-lapse flowers.
I fled to my room and threw myself onto the bed. Except for an occasional shudder, I lay still. When I could move, I dragged myself to the kitchen. My father sat there, wreathed in harsh-smelling smoke. He didn’t look up. “You know I love your mother,” he said to the table. I just nodded. Even then, I knew I wouldn’t tell. Silence wove a conspiracy between us. I was only fourteen and I needed my unshattered world.
We’d arrived from Europe when I was very small. My parents survived the war and tried to live as if everything of value lay before them. But my mother yearned for the youth she was meant to have, carefree years that suffering had snatched away. She resented me as if I were her jailer, firmly planted in front of the door to freedom.
My father stood there too. Once, when they were screaming at one another,...
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