The summer before I entered the sixth grade, a set of fraternal twins and their family moved into our neighborhood.
They were Eastern Europeans and the twins, a boy and a girl, were the same age that I was, getting ready to start at the same middle school.
My best friend (my next-door neighbor) and I had both taken an immediately liking to the girl, and we started a regular habit of going to her window to ask her to come outside. If her mother was home, and it was early enough, she'd always join us outside, but one time we came over at dinner time and her father was already home from work.
We were at her window, as usual, waiting to see if she could come outside. School had just started and she was anxious about something, like she hadn't finished her homework yet. My best friend and I had the types of parents who never asked about homework, so we couldn't understand her stress level, and we were sort of goofing around at the window, sitting on the ground, waiting for her, when we heard her father burst into her room in a fit of anger.
Before we fully understood what was going on, we peeked up into the window and witnessed a grown man punching his 12-year-old daughter repeatedly in the head, over and over again. This man wasn't smacking his daughter, and he wasn't slapping her; he was beating her. He punched her so hard, he was literally knocking her across the room, into the walls.
She was a little thing, just like my friend and I were, small in stature and weight. We slid down the wall and cowered, terrified, not knowing what in the hell to do. We were 12-year-olds, for fuck's sake. At some point we heard the mother try to enter the room and we heard screaming, then it sounded like he knocked her down, too.
I'm not sure how long we sat there in a paralyzed confusion, but at some point we knew she was alone in the room again. When we summoned the courage to make ourselves known to her, we could see he had knocked the clips clear out of her hair, and she couldn't open one of her eyes. She was lying on her bed, quietly crying, and when she saw our faces again, she said, through swollen lips, “I hate him.”
I will never forget how she looked, and I will never forget that she seemed simultaneously horrified and relieved that we knew her secret. My legs feel like rubber right now, just from remembering all of this.
If you've read this book, this coming-of-age classic, published in 1973, you already know why I have shared this, why this memory was triggered. If you haven't, well, all I can tell you is. . . you can't possibly know what you are in for, if you take on this read.
What's interesting: I would not have read this, if I'd known the topic in advance. . . but, if I hadn't read it, I'd have missed out on one of the most unique, memorable, upsetting, and surprising stories I've ever encountered in my life.
I think I can liken my experience of this read to my experience of watching our friend being beaten by her father: I sorely regret seeing what I did, but maybe if I hadn't, I'd never have said to my best friend that night what I did: “If a man ever hits me or my kids like that, I'll kill him.”
We all respond differently to violence, and we all know that our circumstances often control the outcomes (my best friend herself went on to have several physically abusive boyfriends before settling on a verbally abusive husband), but what was revealed to me about myself that night was later echoed by Gerda Weismann Klein, who wrote in her Holocaust memoir, “I prayed that I should never be assaulted, for I knew I would strike back, even though I would have to pay for it with life itself.”
Me, too, Gerda. Me, too, Patty Bergen. We are who we are, and our responses and our opinions are as unique as we are.
This is a powerful, flawed, and unforgettable read. This story will never leave me.