Read Online The Sacrifice of Tamar by Naomi Ragen - Free Book Online
Authors: Naomi Ragen
Tags: Historical, Adult
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itch and ache of a scar wound beginning to heal.
And then, about a month later, she began to feel strange again. Her stomach bloated, and she felt the unmistakable signs of her monthly flow. To her surprise, nothing happened. She waited a week, wondering if she could have been injured in some way, or if just the emotional trauma had put off her cycle. She remembered hearing tales of women during the war whose periods had stopped altogether.
And then one day, as she was going down to the grocery, she felt an unmistakable small movement inside her womb. She stopped and put her hand over it, as if to hold on to its reality.But it vanished too swiftly for it to have been anything more than her imagination, she concluded.
A tiny movement, like the swish of a fishtail moving silently through the water, she thought. And the thought refused to leave her.
She waited for the reassuring rush of blood that would tell her that her body had been cleansed, restored to normalcy. She, who had so much wanted a child, now prayed this month, of all months, for that cleansing flow.
Five weeks. Six weeks. Seven. Eight.
Her clothes would no longer button. And now, early in the morning, the nausea that had begun weeks before and that she had dismissed as a mild flu slapped her down like a tidal wave. She, who even as a child had never once thrown up, found herself in the bathroom on her knees, retching green bile.
She called Jenny.
“Mazel tov!” Jenny said.
For a moment, she forgot. A pure wash of happiness streamed through her. It lasted only seconds. And then the horror struck her full force. It was like a looming nightmare when you are a sick child and your comfortable, familiar room becomes a dark jetty of sharp rocks and the tidal waves rush toward you, unstoppable from the distance, assuring you that you will die. That nothing can stop your death, your horrible death.
Not this month, O G-d! Not this month!
There was silence on the line, and then Jenny’s calm, intelligent voice, the voice of her best friend: “What’s wrong, Tamar?”
“Nothing!” she shouted, then took hold of herself. “Nothing,” she repeated in a strangled voice.
“I’m coming right over.”
“No! Don’t!” To hide what needed to stay hidden. She couldn’t. Not from Jenny. “I think I need to see a doctor first.”
“Are you afraid? Is that it? I thought you wanted a baby more than…”
Not afraid. Afraid is to lock the door. Afraid is to hide. What is it called when the horror is inside you? When it is there or not there? When it can be either the greatest good or the darkest curse?
“I know it seems scary, a little stranger moving into your body, sitting on your stomach and liver…” Jenny laughed sympathetically. “Do you want me to go to the doctor with you?”
Come with me Jenny, please! Make me tell you everything, the way I did when we were children. And you were always so strong. You, who had so little—no father, a distant mother—were always so self-reliant. My parents were kind and soft and caring. Except for Tateh dying, there has never been any toughness in my life. Would it make a difference now if there had been? And what would you do, Jenny, if there was a child growing inside you that was either planted there by the honorable man you loved or by a goy and a rapist?
A black rapist.
Why did that matter, his color? Was she a racist? If it had been a blond German who had come in through the window, would it have been any different?
Yes, she thought. It would have been a different kind of horror, a different kind of violation. Maybe worse, she thought. But there was no point pretending it didn’t matter that he was black. It mattered.
Yes, she thought. Shem, Ham, and Japhet. The three sons of Noah, from whom were descended mankind’s three separate races. Shem had fathered the Semites, race of the spirit; Ham, the dark races of passion and physical instinct; and Japhet, the descendants of Greece and Rome, the race
And then, about a month later, she began to feel strange again. Her stomach bloated, and she felt the unmistakable signs of her monthly flow. To her surprise, nothing happened. She waited a week, wondering if she could have been injured in some way, or if just the emotional trauma had put off her cycle. She remembered hearing tales of women during the war whose periods had stopped altogether.
And then one day, as she was going down to the grocery, she felt an unmistakable small movement inside her womb. She stopped and put her hand over it, as if to hold on to its reality.But it vanished too swiftly for it to have been anything more than her imagination, she concluded.
A tiny movement, like the swish of a fishtail moving silently through the water, she thought. And the thought refused to leave her.
She waited for the reassuring rush of blood that would tell her that her body had been cleansed, restored to normalcy. She, who had so much wanted a child, now prayed this month, of all months, for that cleansing flow.
Five weeks. Six weeks. Seven. Eight.
Her clothes would no longer button. And now, early in the morning, the nausea that had begun weeks before and that she had dismissed as a mild flu slapped her down like a tidal wave. She, who even as a child had never once thrown up, found herself in the bathroom on her knees, retching green bile.
She called Jenny.
“Mazel tov!” Jenny said.
For a moment, she forgot. A pure wash of happiness streamed through her. It lasted only seconds. And then the horror struck her full force. It was like a looming nightmare when you are a sick child and your comfortable, familiar room becomes a dark jetty of sharp rocks and the tidal waves rush toward you, unstoppable from the distance, assuring you that you will die. That nothing can stop your death, your horrible death.
Not this month, O G-d! Not this month!
There was silence on the line, and then Jenny’s calm, intelligent voice, the voice of her best friend: “What’s wrong, Tamar?”
“Nothing!” she shouted, then took hold of herself. “Nothing,” she repeated in a strangled voice.
“I’m coming right over.”
“No! Don’t!” To hide what needed to stay hidden. She couldn’t. Not from Jenny. “I think I need to see a doctor first.”
“Are you afraid? Is that it? I thought you wanted a baby more than…”
Not afraid. Afraid is to lock the door. Afraid is to hide. What is it called when the horror is inside you? When it is there or not there? When it can be either the greatest good or the darkest curse?
“I know it seems scary, a little stranger moving into your body, sitting on your stomach and liver…” Jenny laughed sympathetically. “Do you want me to go to the doctor with you?”
Come with me Jenny, please! Make me tell you everything, the way I did when we were children. And you were always so strong. You, who had so little—no father, a distant mother—were always so self-reliant. My parents were kind and soft and caring. Except for Tateh dying, there has never been any toughness in my life. Would it make a difference now if there had been? And what would you do, Jenny, if there was a child growing inside you that was either planted there by the honorable man you loved or by a goy and a rapist?
A black rapist.
Why did that matter, his color? Was she a racist? If it had been a blond German who had come in through the window, would it have been any different?
Yes, she thought. It would have been a different kind of horror, a different kind of violation. Maybe worse, she thought. But there was no point pretending it didn’t matter that he was black. It mattered.
Yes, she thought. Shem, Ham, and Japhet. The three sons of Noah, from whom were descended mankind’s three separate races. Shem had fathered the Semites, race of the spirit; Ham, the dark races of passion and physical instinct; and Japhet, the descendants of Greece and Rome, the race
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