Permanent

The last time Hannah spoke with her parents had been eighteen months before, when she had stopped in at the party they had in honor of her father’s completing the Daf Yomi cycle. She stood in the back, avoiding looking anyone in the eye and trying not to listen as her father gave a short speech about how fulfilling it had been to forge through the entire Talmud. Mostly, she had spent the time talking with her younger sister, Aviva, who had seemed overjoyed to see her, but simultaneously terrified that whatever it was that had made Hannah so un-frum might rub off. Before she left though—she had arranged for Owen to pick her up from the 7-11 parking lot a few blocks away—she had congratulated her father and given her mother a stiff hug.

Actually, she had seen them once since then. In March she and Owen went to the symphony—his sister was second clarinet, and though they never felt quite comfortable in the crowd they had season tickets and both enjoyed the music enough to get all dressed up and make a night of it—and on the second landing, as they wove through the crowd to get to the entrance closest to their seats, she saw her parents from across the room. Her mother was wearing her shabbos wig, and a deep purple dress Hannah didn’t recognize.

Her father looked the same as ever. The two of them were holding hands and looking down at their programs, huddled against a wall, and as soon as Hannah saw them she ducked—actually squatting in her edgy teal dress, pulling Owen down with her and hissing in his ear that she was going to hide in the bathroom until the conductor came out. He was annoyed, and said maybe she should just walk right past them and pretend she didn’t see them if it was such a big deal, but she ignored him and locked herself in the handicap stall until she could hear the applause for the concert master.

“Well, maybe we can set something up after the trial,” Hannah said, but she was lying, and didn’t bother hiding it.

The night before the trial Hannah got another tattoo—a very small boat with a slim crescent moon hanging above it, just below the outside edge her left clavicle.In the morning the ache of it woke her up a few minutes before the alarm went off, and she lay quietly, lightly massaging the skin with her eyes still closed, willing the day to retreat. The clock radio turned itself on, and the NPR Morning Edition theme was playing. Next to her, Owen jerked awake, and then rolled onto his side, letting out a low loose groan. Hannah studied the tattoos on his back with half-closed eyes. He had a series of four Japanese scenes placed in a diamond that began in the slight concave between his shoulder blades, widened in the middle of his back, and then narrowed again at the base of his spine. All four tattoos had the same two figures – a man who demonstrated four samurai positions, holding a sword or swinging nunchuks while a woman in an elaborately designed kimono responded by bowing, kneeling, holding the sword’s sheath. In the bottom scene her posture mirrored the man’s, the two of them facing off, bearing identical weapons.

“What do you think happens if I don’t show up today?” Hannah said, staring atthe Japanese woman.

“You’ll be subpoenaed.” Owen coughed a little and raked a hand through the front of his hair. He rolled back towards her and gave her a pointed look before pushing the sheets away and scooting his legs off the mattress and onto the ground. He got like this, angry and exasperated, whenever he felt her wavering. Hannah watched him walk to the bathroom and close the door, and then she heard the shower knobs whining off key,and the first rush of water hit the tub. Thin spaghetti strands of light came in through the strips between the almost closed mini-blinds, and hung on the wall diagonal from the window. The gray pinstriped suit that she had bought with Rebecca was draped over the back of a desk chair, the tags still attached to the long sleeves. Hannah considered going back to sleep, but something in her stomach had already begun bracing itself, tensing against her breath, and she sighed and got out of bed.

Hannah hadn’t worn nylons since high school, and she was momentarily flummoxed by the wispy nude colored thing that tumbled out of the small cardboard box Rebecca had chosen for her. But then, as she eased them onto her calves and plucked at fabric that gathered at her knees it felt easy and natural, her old life rushing back at her as she straightened the control top, and stepped into the skirt that fell just below her knees. There was a nice white collared shirt, and a pinstriped jacket that went with the skirt. With the whole outfit on all of her tattoos were obscured—there were seventeen now, including a full sleeve she had designed of all different kinds of birds—except for the tip of the compass rose on her left hand that crept out just beyond where the sleeve ended. Other than her blue hair, the Hannah that faced her in the mirror was almost scary in her blandness.

Owen came out of the bathroom with one of their old threadbare towels tucked around his waist. He looked at her looking at herself in the mirror and blinked.

“Jesus,” he said.

“I really don’t want to go,” Hannah said, looking at him.

“He should be in fucking jail,” Owen said, looking at her with surprising anger.“You have to put him in jail.”

Hannah shrugged, and had an absurd mental image of herself leading Rabbi Held to a cell and locking him in. She didn’t want to be involved.

Owen dressed quickly while Hannah pulled her hair into a low ponytail and took out all of her earrings, which had been one of Rebecca’s specific requests. She was not to give any indication of wildness or problems with authority, which was funny, she thought, because she never had any problems with authority until Rabbi Held.

The day was overcast but still warm, and Hannah felt herself sweating a little in her new suit as they climbed the steps leading to the building’s front door. Owen had made some jokes in car, trying to be normal, but as they went through security she noticed him quiet down. Rebecca ushered them into the room when she saw them standing awkwardly at the door, and then whispered the morning’s set up in Hannah ear, going from step to step slowly and carefully, looking cool and absolutely put together. The air conditioning was turned up too high in the room, giving it a slightly frosty feel that made Hannah slouch against the back of the seat she was in, trying to fold her body in on itself to generate some warmth. Twice, as she sat there simultaneously bored and panicked she caught herself reaching up to play with one of the earrings that she had left on her dresser.

The room was long and narrow, with a number of skylights letting in parallelograms of bright light that slanted against the witness stand and the small stenographer’s station. The lawyers sat at conference tables, and each side had a number of laptops open already. Besides Rebecca Hannah counted three other attorneys on their side, and five total on the other side. Rabbi Held wasn’t in the room yet, and just as she allowed herself to feel a bit of relief the doors creaked open and he came in, flanked by his wife and three rabbis that Hannah recognized from the neighborhood where she had grown up. He walked quickly, but in profile she could see that something about him had changed. The steeliness that had always scared her was gone. Strangely, she thought of something she had once read about how to scare off mountain lions. You were supposed to pick up small children, and fan out your coat to look bigger. The lion wouldn’t be able to tell where you ended and the other stuff began. He’d be scared that you were so much bigger and he’d run off. Rabbi Held seemed like someone picking up everything in sight, and for just a second she felt bad for him.

When the judge came in, Hannah tried to pay attention to the proceedings, but her stomach was uncertain about her breakfast, and a headache was beginning to twitch between her eyes. Suddenly she was being called to the stand, and Owen touched her thigh just before she got up. As she walked by the table where Rabbi Held was sitting, time seemed to drag, and she sneaked another look at him. But the man sitting at the table was too small and weak looking, not the same as the man who used to smirk and squint at the chest of her school uniform, saying she was the reason there were rules about modesty.

There was no actual Bible to swear on, which was a relief, and soon she was sitting in the odd little witness box, trying to empty her mind while she answered Rebecca’s questions about where and when and how often. It was important to focus on feeling like you might not really be sitting in the room, doing what you seemed to be doing. Like getting a tattoo and trying to push the sting of it deep into your gut. Then the defense attorney stood up and walked towards her.

“Miss Weinberg, as a tattoo artist you spend your days mutilating other people’s bodies, don’t you?”

The light changed in the room. Maybe a cloud passed in front of the sun, or maybe one of the light bulbs somewhere burnt out—she couldn’t tell—but for a second Rabbi Held’s face softened into something so familiar that she felt muscles in her back tense and clutch her bones, breath evaporate, the contents of her stomach suddenly thrashing, angry. She felt the scratch of his beard against her neck, and smelled the rich sour scent of him—like yogurt, or grapefruit that has gone bad.

“Modification,” she said. “It’s called body modification.”

In his seat, Rabbi Held smiled and his attorney looked smug.

“But really,” he said, “what’s the difference?”

“Well,” she said as her mind flooded with the past, “Modifications are worth the pain.”

~

A note from Mara Yacobi, Jewrotica’s Certified Sexuality Educator:

Sexual abuse affects children of all ethnic, racial and socioeconomic backgrounds. It is estimated that at least one in four girls and one in six boys experience child sexual abuse by the time they are 18 years of age. While the statistics are staggering, it is important to remember that behind each statistical number represents a real human being with severe emotional pain that can have long lasting effects. If a child or adult approaches you to say they have been abused, please consider the following ways to respond:

• Believe the child. Children rarely lie about sexual abuse.
• Praise the child or adult for telling you.
• Children fear they are at fault for the abuse. Try to help them recognize they did nothing wrong.
• Remain calm in your tone of voice and don’t let your response increase the survivor’s sense of shame or guilt.
• If the survivor is considering suicide, follow-up with them on a regular basis.
• Find a specialized agency or health practitioner that helps children and adults who have been sexually abused.
• If other children in the community are in danger of being harmed, speak with other parents so they can talk with their children and lookout for unusual behavior or physical symptoms in their children.

The recovery process from sexual abuse should ideally include professional help. It may also be helpful for a survivor of abuse to speak with trusted loved ones who can offer their support when feelings surface from their sexual abuse. If you or someone you know would like to speak with a mental health counselor, please email mara@jewrotica.org for more information. You may also contact the National Sexual Assault Hotline 1-800-656-HOPE

1 The Sex-Wise Parent. Rosenzweig, 2012
2 Planned Parenthood All About Sexuality, 1997