spite of the chilly wind blowing in her face, she is sweating. She hurries up the road to her property. Her property. Her father has transferred the farm over to her. She’s her own mistress now. Her own mistress.
She has been to see the priest. She entered his room with some hesitation. She looked for an excuse. Wanted to speak to him, to ease herself and her conscience.
But then, when she was facing the priest, she stood there like a schoolgirl, couldn’t get out the words she had been planning to say. He sat there behind his desk.
What brought her to him? Was there something weighing on her conscience?
And there was a smile on his lips. That omniscient, self-satisfied smile.
His request for her to lighten her conscience, and that smile, too, the look in his eyes, had been enough to silence her completely.
Why should she do it?
Was this man to be her judge? Was he to sit in judgment on her life and what she had done? No, she didn’t want to talk to him about it. Didn’t want to receive absolution from any man. What absolution, why should she?
She had done nothing wrong. Wrong had been done to her. Wrong had been done to her since she was twelve years old.
For years she had fought against her feelings of guilt, had always done as she was told.
At school they were taught that Eve gave Adam the apple, and so both were guilty of original sin and were driven out of Paradise.
She hadn’t driven anyone out of Paradise. She had been driven out of it herself.
To this day she sees her father before her. Her father, whom she had loved so much. She remembers feeling his hands on her body, those groping hands.
She had lain there perfectly rigid. Incapable of moving. Frozen. Hardly daring to breathe.
Eyes tight shut, she lay there in her bed. Not wanting to believe what was happening to her. Her father’s breath on her face. His groans in her ears. The smell of his sweat. The pain that filled her body. She kept her eyes shut, tight shut. As long as she didn’t see anything, nothing could be happening.
Only what I see can happen to me, she had told herself.
Next morning her father was the same as usual. For weeks nothing more happened. She had almost forgotten the incident. Had suppressed the memory of her father’s smell, the smell of his sweat, his groan, his lust. It was all hidden behind a thick veil of mist.
She still wanted to be “a good daughter.” Just that, a good daughter. She wanted to honor her father and her mother. As the priest always said they must in Religious Instruction. Everything her father did was right. He was the center of her life, he was Lord God Almighty on the farm.
She had never seen anyone contradict him or oppose him. Her mother didn’t. She herself couldn’t either. With time, the intervals between the occasions when he came to her grew shorter. More and more often he wanted to spend all night in her bed.
Her mother seemed not to notice any of it. She kept quiet. Quiet as she had always been for as long as Barbara could remember. No one noticed anything.
In time Barbara got the impression that what her father did was right, and her disgust for him was wrong. After all, her father loved her, loved only her.
She wanted to be grateful, to be a good daughter.
Like the girls in the story of Lot and his daughters. Lot who had fled from the city of Sodom into the wilderness with his daughters. Lot lay with his daughters there, and they both bore him children.
That was what it said in the Bible. Why, Barbara asked herself, why should what was pleasing to God in Lot’s case be wrong in hers? She was a good daughter.
She twice bore her father a child. She twice let herself be persuaded to name another man as its father.
The first of them, Vinzenz, came to their farm just after the war, a refugee from the East. He was glad to work on the farm and have a roof over his head.
It came easily to her to make eyes at him, and when she told him she was pregnant he was ready to marry her
She has been to see the priest. She entered his room with some hesitation. She looked for an excuse. Wanted to speak to him, to ease herself and her conscience.
But then, when she was facing the priest, she stood there like a schoolgirl, couldn’t get out the words she had been planning to say. He sat there behind his desk.
What brought her to him? Was there something weighing on her conscience?
And there was a smile on his lips. That omniscient, self-satisfied smile.
His request for her to lighten her conscience, and that smile, too, the look in his eyes, had been enough to silence her completely.
Why should she do it?
Was this man to be her judge? Was he to sit in judgment on her life and what she had done? No, she didn’t want to talk to him about it. Didn’t want to receive absolution from any man. What absolution, why should she?
She had done nothing wrong. Wrong had been done to her. Wrong had been done to her since she was twelve years old.
For years she had fought against her feelings of guilt, had always done as she was told.
At school they were taught that Eve gave Adam the apple, and so both were guilty of original sin and were driven out of Paradise.
She hadn’t driven anyone out of Paradise. She had been driven out of it herself.
To this day she sees her father before her. Her father, whom she had loved so much. She remembers feeling his hands on her body, those groping hands.
She had lain there perfectly rigid. Incapable of moving. Frozen. Hardly daring to breathe.
Eyes tight shut, she lay there in her bed. Not wanting to believe what was happening to her. Her father’s breath on her face. His groans in her ears. The smell of his sweat. The pain that filled her body. She kept her eyes shut, tight shut. As long as she didn’t see anything, nothing could be happening.
Only what I see can happen to me, she had told herself.
Next morning her father was the same as usual. For weeks nothing more happened. She had almost forgotten the incident. Had suppressed the memory of her father’s smell, the smell of his sweat, his groan, his lust. It was all hidden behind a thick veil of mist.
She still wanted to be “a good daughter.” Just that, a good daughter. She wanted to honor her father and her mother. As the priest always said they must in Religious Instruction. Everything her father did was right. He was the center of her life, he was Lord God Almighty on the farm.
She had never seen anyone contradict him or oppose him. Her mother didn’t. She herself couldn’t either. With time, the intervals between the occasions when he came to her grew shorter. More and more often he wanted to spend all night in her bed.
Her mother seemed not to notice any of it. She kept quiet. Quiet as she had always been for as long as Barbara could remember. No one noticed anything.
In time Barbara got the impression that what her father did was right, and her disgust for him was wrong. After all, her father loved her, loved only her.
She wanted to be grateful, to be a good daughter.
Like the girls in the story of Lot and his daughters. Lot who had fled from the city of Sodom into the wilderness with his daughters. Lot lay with his daughters there, and they both bore him children.
That was what it said in the Bible. Why, Barbara asked herself, why should what was pleasing to God in Lot’s case be wrong in hers? She was a good daughter.
She twice bore her father a child. She twice let herself be persuaded to name another man as its father.
The first of them, Vinzenz, came to their farm just after the war, a refugee from the East. He was glad to work on the farm and have a roof over his head.
It came easily to her to make eyes at him, and when she told him she was pregnant he was ready to marry her
Similar Books
