I have no desire to ever return to my old neighborhood, let alone the house that I grew up in. It was a relief to leave New York and escape to Connecticut. Even though Bert and I met and married in New York City, and our two sons were born and raised there, I have no attachment to it, only to the Brooklyn Botanic Garden, the Metropolitan Museum, and Hunter College. I am a Danburian and love Connecticut’s huge trees, endless brooks, rock walls, farms and architecture. If I could amputate childhood, I’d be happier. But life is not that simple, amputees often feel phantom pains. So, to expunge much of childhood’s toxins I will return, as an empowered adult and make a clean break from Home.

In fantasy, I return to Home. I Google the present owners on 67th Road, across the street from Forest Hills High School, and call, “Hi, I’m Jane Gerber, and I’m writing a research paper on the connections to home and family. My parents bought your house in 1947, just after it was built, and I lived there from age seven to nineteen. Would it be possible for me to walk through your house and garden and take some photos?” Mrs. Molnar says, “Why not, how about this Thursday at 3:30?”

Erica Molnar, a tall, slim woman in her early thirties answers the door and I’m met with the aroma of cake baking which reminds me of Mother’s Bischof’s Brot. “Hi, I’m Jane Herschlag.” Hi, I’m Erica, glad to meet you. My son and daughter are in the garden; we can go out shortly.” “It smells great, what are you baking?” “It’s a Hungarian pound cake. I thought we’d have coffee and dessert later.” “What a coincidence, my family is from Austria and one of my mother’s cakes smelled like yours.”

She invites me in, leading me from the front door, through the entrance hall, past the living room on the left, into the kitchen, where we make a right into the dinette — “I went to high school with Simon and Garfunkel but I wasn’t in any of their classes. It was ranked number one back then.” “It’s still a good school but not great. Rob and Susan are only six and eight, so they have quite a few years before going there.” “It’s here that my twin, my older sister, and I did all our homework, played some games, and ate all our meals except when company came. I see that you have replaced the window with a bigger one. It lets in so much light. Your glass table is lovely, so airy.”

I think but don’t say, it’s under our Formica dinette table that I confided in my only ally, my German shepherd, and cried silently as she washed away my tears, and never told my secrets. It’s the room where Father slapped me across the face when he was in a mood. But there was not enough space for real spankings. Those happened in the hallway or living room or outside.

After Father pliered my left arm with his left hand, he had lots of room to swing his right hand with more force to smack, smack, my rear end; like a yoyo on a string, he’d roll me back in for more smacks.

Erica says, “Why don’t we go out to the garden, the kids are swimming.” I watch them play water ball, swim, chase each other in the in-ground pool that was built for my older sister after she got polio. A physical therapist came to the house weekly to exercise with her in the summer months, and Father worked with her the other days. In non-swimming weather he exercised with her for a whole hour before going to work. Today the pool is a place for fun, and Erica is a relaxed mother. She asks, “The cake isn’t ready but we can have coffee meanwhile, would you like some?” “Yes, please, black.”

“When we swam the crawl, our shepherd thought we were drowning, she nervously paced along the pool edge and barked short loud alerts, her head popping up with each yap, or, when she could, she grabbed an arm and tried to pull us out. Without a gradual entry she didn’t like going in. During a few rescue attempts she fell in and we played a bit before lifting her out. Your kids are good swimmers.”

“Having a pool of their own makes the difference. We’ve been living here for six years, and by a year old they each knew how to swim.” I think of Father’s swimming lessons at Jones Beach. I’d forget each lesson as soon as it ended. The next time we went to the beach and he grabbed my arm, an electric shock of recall flashed through me, he dragged me across the hot sand as I screamed. He went ever deeper, clutching my body tightly against his, until the waves were over my head. I inhaled water, gasped, coughed. He finally walked out and dropped me at the edge, wheezing, coughing. Slowly I walked back to the family blanket, staring at the sand that immediately scoured the incident from my brain, only labored breathing remained. I picked up my pail and walked towards my sisters.

“It’s so gracious of you to let me see the house and offer your hospitality. I lie, “It brings back fond memories of our whole family playing together in the pool.” Mother never went in, not even once. And Father never played with me inside or outside the house. “Does Mr. Molnar also enjoy the water?” “The first thing he does when he gets home from work, weather permitting, is change into a bathing suit, and jump into the pool. No matter what the kids are doing, they join him if they are home.” “Just like our family,” I say. I need to keep this pretend research on friendly terms or I’m afraid my visit will be terminated. Who wants to hear about a pervert family formerly living in their house?

Her daughter Susan’s exits the pool then takes a flying leap back into it, “Hi everybody.” My parents, afraid of accidents and lawsuits, didn’t permit friends in the pool. These kids get a bit raucous and there’s no complaints or directives to quiet down. It’s fun to observe the calmness and pleasure permeating their play. When the oven timer rings, Erica shouts, “Ten minutes till cake and milk.” “Yeah, yeah.” from the peanut gallery.

Everyone gathers around the patio table and I help Erica serve the goodies. They chatter and slurp and before you know it, they are done and jump back in to continue their games. Erica says, “Why don’t I take you upstairs and show you our bedrooms. Rob, being the youngest, has the smallest room; Susan has the middle room.” I take of few shots downstairs then we go up.

Climbing the stairs, my heart starts pounding, I think, this was our third house, not the one where Father first did it. He sat on my bed and put his hand on my head, forcing it to his naked crotch. I don’t recall what he said but I disobeyed, clamped my mouth shut and shook my head left to right, left to right in avoidance. He wrapped his hands around my throat and throttled me, then left me gasping for air as he walked out of my bedroom. He must have said something to Mother, she came in, saw me and phoned the doctor. As soon as he arrived Doctor Rosenhain determined that I had asthma.

With one neck throttling Father converted me from a little girl, into a compliant, silent dishrag. That was on my third birthday, in our first house on 65th Road, also in Forest Hills.

Erica shows me Rob’s room, it’s varied shades of blue—walls, carpet, bedspread, and yellow curtains with black trains. “This was my big sister’s,” I say. With apprehension I look into Susan’s room, which Anne and I shared, it’s super pink with ruffled polka dot curtains and ivory carpeting. It’s here that Father sneaked in after I fell asleep and assaulted me sexually, even though Anne was in the room. She pretended he wasn’t there. “Susan must be in heaven with all this pink.” “She is.”

“I lived here from age seven to nineteen, when I married,” I said; but thought, that was three years after I was liberated by Father’s death. In this house I learned that he lurked around every corner. I was never safe if he was home. I’d think he was in one room so enter another and suddenly he’d grab me. It didn’t matter that the rest of the family was home.

Walking back downstairs I see the sunken living room. Erica’s long couch has tons of over-stuffed pillows. “We had a walnut wall unit across the long wall. Inside the cabinet covering the fireplace was the TV and phonograph; long before flat-screened TV. I see that you have resurrected the fireplace.” “We enjoy it, especially around the holidays.” said Erica.

I don’t mention that Father’s modern upholstered version of a Morris chair faced the wall unit, or that we weren’t allowed in here unless we were watching TV, or when Father made us listen to classical music. We all sat on the seven-foot curved sofa with amber tweed fabric. A kidney shaped Formica coffee table (the fad of the day) fit the curve of the couch. Talking was forbidden. If I shifted my body, moved my arms or legs, daggers flew from father’s eyes straight to me. I’m surprised that I was allowed to sometimes go to the kitchen to dance in private. I loved ballet and had a few lessons but always got asthma from the exertion so they were ended.

Anne sat on the big upholstered wingback chair and read, deaf to the world around her. If we wanted her attention we’d have to call her name numerous times. Mother’s spinet was on the short wall. She seldom played, until after Father died. When Anne and I were dating Richie and Herb, Mother played American songs and they sang along.

I click a last picture, “These photos are for reference material for my project, to compare the present with my childhood photos,” I say. But what I am really doing is contrasting this family’s home to my house of torture. With adult eyes, and Father’s death, I can look at these rooms with his power diminished into nothingness; my power grown into a voice that determines what happens to me. I am finally not afraid of anything more that Little Jane has to see or say.