The woman

January 29th, 2002

I met her one night at a bar in D. A woman in her late 50ies. A tired, worn-out face and yet there was a tender beauty about her. A beauty she must have been a long time ago. What brought this sadness, lost hope and pain to her face?

I dared not ask. She told me nevertheless:

She met him when she had a baby boy already.
Sometimes baby boy would cry at night and sometimes it happened when he made love to her. He would shut the baby up. His way. The scars on the baby boy face would show for a couple of days after. She would not leave the man she so much loved. They got married.
She had her husband throwing her down the flight of stairs in the house She was eight month pregnant with another baby boy. She would not leave her husband. The second child she conceived from him was by way of marital rape. The neighbours had heard the screams and thought it was love making. She would not leave her husband. Their third child was a love child, too. She would not leave her husband. The last time he beat her up she had no face left for three weeks. She left her husband.

She was in love again with another man. A kind man, she would tell the children. Do not be afraid of him, he is a kind man. The kind man raped her son and her daughter. She never found out until much, much later and she would not have left him – if she had. He left her.

She was in love with another man. A kind man, she would tell the children. Maybe, that is what she told herself, too. The kind man alas did not touch the children. He never laid hand on her, either. The kind man was an alcoholic only. He drank away the little money she had and died of cancer of the liver. She would not have left him.

Twenty-five years later, she sits in a bar in D., talks to me. Telling me her story and I turn around to this woman and ask her:

Why have you not left those men?

I had four children and no place to run to, be her simple answer.

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