In our previous blog/podcast, #9, of the memoir, "Voice from an Urn", Viga's mother had reunited with her father in Australia. At the point that podcast ended, Viga's father had just finished making love to her mother when he suddenly, violently slapped her hard across the face. Why? In the second half of this chapter, she tells us why and why she states at the end, "I'll do whatever it takes to stop him from ever beating me up like that again."
I NEVER WANT TO BE BEATEN UP LIKE THAT AGAIN!
Podcast 10: Voice from an Urn
"So is this the best you have to offer me now?" he yells. "Was it that good with him that now I get the leftovers?"
"What...what do you mean?" I cry, feeling the sting of his hand burning my cheek.
"What do I mean?" His voice drips with sarcasm as his hand slams the other side of my face. "What do I mean? I mean what you gave that prick you left in Germany, the one you are crying for now. Let me help you cry all those tears out. I'll help you forget him."
He pushes me off the bed and I land hard on the linoleum floor. He comes after me, his feet kicking my stomach, my back, my breasts. He grabs my long hair and yanks my head back, slamming his fist into my mouth, my eye. He pummels both my ears. The pain is unbearable. I'm screaming.
"Shut up!" he yells. "Stop that screaming. You'll wake Viga. Shut up I tell you!"
There's a banging at the door. He stops, listens. A voice outside asks,
"What's going on in there?"
"Everything's fine," he calls back. "My wife hurt herself on the stove. I'm taking care of it."
I lie there whimpering as he speaks calmly. He walks over to Viga, who has woken up and is rubbing her eyes. "Dada?"
"Sshhh, it's okay my little one. Go back to sleep. Mommy just hurt herself. Daddy is looking after her. Go back to sleep." He settles Viga back in and covers her with a blanket. Then he comes back over to me and stands there, looking down at me.
"Well?" He says.
I can't bring myself to look at him. I curl into a ball wishing he'd finished the job and I were dead.
"Well?" He says again. "Look at me! I'm talking to you. What do you have to say for yourself? Look what you made me do to you."
I look up at him in disbelief. I have trouble seeing him. My one eye is swelling up. What does he mean? What I made him do? He answers my unasked question.
"Don't you know why I'm so mad? Are you really that stupid or do you just think I am? Did you really think I wouldn't see behind your false smile, your compliments, that you aren't happy to see me at all? Did you think I wouldn't know you wanted to stay with him, your lover in Germany?"
"What lover?" I try to lie. "I had no lover."
"What! Are you going to keep on lying?" He kicks me in the backside again and grabs my hair, yanking my head forward then slamming it hard against the wall. I cry out in pain.
"Be quiet!" He hisses. "Do you want the nosy neighbors to come running again? Shut up and take what you deserve, you whore!" He kicks me again in the stomach, stands back and looks at me. "Get up! Get up on the bed."
Somehow I raise myself and fall heavily onto the bed, while he lights cigarettes, one for him, one for me. He inhales his and puts mine in my mouth. "Here. Calm yourself down so we can talk."
I don't want the damn cigarette. I don't want to talk. I don't want to hear what he has to say. I don't want him. I don't want his child. I just want to die.
"Aren't you curious how I know what you were doing in Germany?" He asks. I don't reply. I am not curious. I am nothing.
"Are you so stupid you thought you could get away with it? People talk you know. Do you know how much it hurt me to hear the new arrivals tell me you were his lover? Here I am slaving away, digging trenches, making a home for my beloved wife and child and you are there screwing some prick,