And That’s How I Met …

My sisters were standing at the sink doing the breakfast dishes -- they did not turn around to greet me. Mamma was still sitting in the same chair she had been sitting the night before and with the same anguished look on her face. I stood silently in the doorway until she finally looked up at me. "Do you want some breakfast?" she asked.

As Pavla and Olivia were already doing the dishes and I didn't want to cause anyone to have to do anything on my behalf, I shook my head 'no.' It was apparent that none of my brothers had even come home last night -- but they were boys and for some reason that was entirely different.

"Where's Papa?" I asked. I didn't ask about my brothers, because it was possible, she didn't know, and I didn't want it to seem like I was trying to justify my actions by comparing my behavior with theirs. In my parent's eyes, I knew there was no comparison -- not in those days.

"He's gone to church," Mamma said. "He's gone to talk to the priest and to pray."

I had never felt lower in my life. Not for what Wade and I had done, but for hurting Mamma and Papa so deeply -- especially Mamma. After an awkward pause I finally said, "What should I do Mamma?"

She didn't even look up at me, she simply said, "It's Saturday Marika, it's laundry day -- strip the beds."

Stripping the beds and gathering all the dirty clothes was my usual Saturday job and with an immense feeling of guilt and remorse -- remorse at least for getting caught -- I not only stripped the beds, I did all the laundry myself, including hanging it to dry and folding what didn't have to be ironed.

It took me all day and it was late afternoon as I was returning the napkins and cup towels to the pantry, Papa finally drove up and walked in the kitchen door. My eyes met his as he put his coat and hat on the peg next to the door. I can't say it was a look of disgust, but more a look of utter shame.

My brothers never did come home for dinner that night. I guess they had heard what happened and they just figured it was better not to get involved -- lay low as they would have said. So, it was just the five of us sitting around the table in awkward silence only broken by an occasional, please pass this or that.

My sisters and I all slept in our own room that night, but we didn't really talk as we were afraid Mamma and Papa would hear us. And besides we could hear them talking -- almost arguing -- in their room and we were straining to make out what they were saying. Finally, around eleven o'clock I could hear Mamma praying and I soon fell asleep.

The next morning was Sunday and as I had done every Sunday morning of my life, after washing my face, I started getting dressed for church. Papa opened the door to our room without knocking and looking directly at me, said, "You're not going to church today. Just get dressed and pack a small bag."

With that he stepped back and closed the door. My sisters and I just looked at each other. I had never missed a Sunday at church in my life and I assumed neither had Papa. And where was he going to take me? He did say a 'small bag' so that probably meant only a night or two -- but why just me and not the whole family?

As I walked out the back-door, Papa was standing next to his truck. I got in on the passenger side and he got in behind the wheel. I sat quietly holding my bag in my lap hoping he would speak first -- he did not. Upon reaching Highway 90, we turned west towards San Antonio. I realized Papa wasn't going to tell me where we were going so, I tried to figure it out for myself. I had hundreds of aunts, uncles and cousins all over this part of Texas and I considered each household one at a time. But Papa never turned off the highway, he just kept heading west.

In those days before the freeway was built, it took a little over two hours to get to San Antonio and the closer we got to the city, the smaller the list of known relatives became. And once we reached the city center, Papa kept heading west only stopping for traffic lights -- a real novelty for a country girl.

Once we passed through downtown, I ran out of potential destinations. I had never been west of San Antonio, and I didn't know of any family, friends or relatives that did either. We kept traveling west on Highway 90 for almost another hour until we reach the small town of Castroville.

Papa then slowed down and started looking both left and right as if he was looking for a specific address. We crossed over a small river and went several more blocks before coming upon a large gray stone building. It actually looked like a stone wall as it was two stories high and had no windows, but it did have a wooden roof like a house or a barn.

Papa slowed down and turned on the next street circling the building. The entire block was surrounded by a stone wall and after two right turns we came to an entry gate, and he turned into the yard. There was a sign over the gateway, but I didn't have time to read it before driving under it. As we got out of the truck and walked towards the heavy wooden door, I saw a sign on the wall.

It read 'St Louis Convent' -- I stopped in my tracks and said, "No Papa -- No!"

He still refused to say a word; he just grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the door. Holding my arm in a vice grip, he rang the bell and we waited for the door to open as tears welled up in my eyes.

As the door opened, we were greeted by a large nun dressed in the traditional black and white habit. And when I say 'large' I don't mean fat. She wasn't fat; she was just a tall, big boned, large German looking woman. She had a huge silver cross hanging around her neck and absolutely no smile at all on her face.

Papa introduced us and she simply said, "I'm Mother Superior, we've been expecting you." And with no other introduction then that, she took my bag from my hand and grabbed my opposite shoulder as if she was taking possession of me. Without another word, Papa turned and walked out the door, quietly closing it behind him. I never saw Papa alive again.

Mother Superior took me to the long two-story building we had seen driving in. It was a dormitory divided into two sections by an open-air center stairway. The lower-level of the building was for the young women in training to be nuns. I assume they were all there voluntarily. The upper-level of the building was for girls like me. None of us were there voluntarily -- we were all basically prisoners. Prisoners who had committed no crime, never convicted by any court, yet confined against our will by our families for some infraction of some ancient moral code they hopelessly clung to as if it was their only hope for eternal salvation. Yes, I was bitter, I was hurt that my family that I loved would do this to me, but mostly I was incredibly scared.

All of the novices as we were call, regardless of how or why we were there, were forced to wear the same dull gray dress that buttoned up the front, had long sleeves to our wrists, and hung down to within an inch or two of the floor. We were not allowed any personal items of any kind -- no jewelry, no makeup, no civilian clothes and strangely -- no underwear. I don't know about the girls that were there voluntarily, but other than a few girls that were exceptionally well endowed, the rest of us were not allowed to wear any underwear at all -- not even bras. Besides the horrible gray dress, we were only allowed to wear black socks and these incredibly uncomfortable brown high-top leather shoes.

Some of the women on the upper-level of the dorm had given birth to babies out of wedlock. They were all forced to give up their babies and were now serving indefinite sentences for their crime. But most were girls like me that had simply dared to define virtue on their own terms.

There were about twenty of us confined to the upper-level -- ten of us in the ward to the right of the stairs and ten of us to the left. The building was constructed with windows facing the central courtyard, but none on the ends or the backside of the building. That's why the structure looked like a two-story stone wall from the street side. Probably half the girls were Hispanic (this was of course, South Texas) and the rest were of Irish, French, or Central European ancestry like me.

The daily routine was quickly drilled into me. There were morning prayers at 5:30 before we were allowed to get dressed. Then at 5:50 we were given twenty minutes to use the bathroom, get dressed and make our beds. A cold breakfast was served at 6:10 every day and there were consequences if you were late -- it didn't matter what the reason was. Daily Mass was from 6:40 and usually lasted an hour or more -- most of which was spent kneeling.

Then it was to work. The women that were at the convent voluntarily worked either in the kitchen or in the yard and gardens. They had a great deal more freedom than the rest of us. The girls like me, that were there against their free will, all worked in the laundry so that we were easier to supervise. The laundry was actually a business that was used to support the entire convent and we were its slave labor.

There was a cold lunch served at noon and then the only hot meal of the day, dinner at 6:30 sharp. Immediately after dinner there was another hour of prayer and meditation in the chapel and then generally, we were allowed out in the gardens for one more hour. This hour was intended to be for additional meditation, reflection, and prayer. But it was the only free time we had, and many girls would simply fall asleep from exhaustion.

As I mentioned, the 'slave' girls all lived on the upper-level of the dormitory building. Half of us residing in the southern end of the building, to the right of the stairway, and the other half in the north end. We referred to the two ends as north and south hell. Each dorm room was supervised by three nuns, with the older one generally in charge. In my case that was Sister Josephine. She was fat, stupid and just plain mean. In fact, she was a sadistic witch.

We were allowed showers on Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday nights. I say allowed; it was mandatory regardless of whatever your prior experience had been. The nuns didn't care what you used to do -- that was what got you into this situation in the first place, was their theory. I had never taken a shower in my life, we had one bathtub at home and all nine of us somehow shared it, though I admit not on a daily basis and of course never at the same time.

The nuns supervised every aspect of our daily lives, including the showers -- or in the case of Sister Josephine, especially the showers. The shower room had no partitions at all. It was just simply a room with tile walls and floor, with ten shower heads -- five on each side. There was no adjustment for hot or cold, just on and off. The water was heated by the boiler in the convent laundry, but that was almost a hundred yards away and the water was really never hot by the time it reached the dormitory. And we all suspected Sister Josephine would control the amount of hot water anyway just to be cruel.

I had probably been at St Louis about six weeks the first night we were forced to take our showers with absolutely no hot water at all. Whether this was some sort of sadistic trick Sister Josephine decided to play on us or not, we'll never know. But she certainly did seem to enjoy it. All ten of us were forced to take cold showers at the same time. And as the last girl finished, Sister Josephine entered the shower for 'inspection.' She made us all line up against the wall, five on each side. And then with a broom handle in her hand, she strolled slowly past each girl as we stood bare naked and shivering cold.

Stopping in front of each girl, she would pinch her nipples to see if they were hard enough for her satisfaction, and then she would run the rough broom handle up between each girl's legs slowly dragging it through her pubic region. When she got to me, I tried to cover myself, top and bottom, with my hands. She slapped my arm away from my breasts, hitting one breast hard with her fingers, and then whacked the elbow of my other arm with her broom stick.

"Did I say you could cover yourself?" she snapped. And then added, "You, little Czech bitch. Since you didn't mind spreading your legs for your boyfriend -- you shouldn't mind spreading them for me."

I pursed my lips together as if to spit in her face. But, before I could, she slapped me so hard that I was knocked to my knees landing in the kneeling position on the cold tile of the shower floor.

"You, little Czech cunt -- you spit at me, and I'll knock your teeth back to whatever ghetto you crawled out of," she hissed with eyes glaring and teeth clenched. And with that she yanked me back to my feet and kicking my feet apart, dragged her broom stick between my legs pressing hard against my crotch. It hurt like hell, and she seemed to at least get some satisfaction out of seeing tears well up in my eyes.

I was still awake laying in the near total darkness of our dorm room when I sensed someone standing over me. I didn't move, but just cracked one eye and realized it was Sister Josephine. She slowly pulled my blanket down like she was trying not to wake me, but when she had the blanket down past my hips, I open both eyes and looked her straight in the face. It was as if I was looking into the eyes of Satan himself. I rolled onto my back and crossed my arms in front of me for defense. But as I cleared my throat to scream, she quickly threw her hand over my mouth.

In a low raspy voice, she said, "You wanted something to spit at -- I'll give you something!" And with that she straddled my body pinning both of my arms with her knees. She hiked up her nightgown and brought her stinking naked crotch to within inches of my face. "Spit on that you slut -- spit on that," she growled.

Her twat was the most disgusting mass of filthy hair and foulness I had ever experienced. The dirt floor of our barn back home was probably cleaner. She obviously did not recognize the three showers a week rule and her stench was causing me to gag. I turned and twisted to free my arms, but it was no use. She probably weighed three times what I did, and I imagine she had done this before to other poor girls.

Just as I was about to throw-up, she said, "Well if you won't spit, how about this?" And with that she let loose the foulest stream of hot putrid urine straight into my face and mouth.

I didn't have time to think, instinct just simply kicked in and I reacted to defend myself with the only weapon I had available -- my teeth. I raised my head, opened my mouth, and bit down hard. I must have taken in more than half of her genitals and I clamped down like a steel bear trap. She started to scream but caught herself, so as to not wakeup the entire building. She squirmed and thrashed like a trapped animal, but I held tight like a pit bull with a bone.

She pounded on the top of my head with her fists until I finally let go. And when I finally did, she jumped from my bed and ran from the dorm room. No other girl made a sound, but I'm sure most if not all heard what happened. My mouth was full of piss and blood and pubic hair. But I didn't throw-up -- I was too mad at that point. Still in my night gown I ran for the showers and even though the water was ice cold, I stood there for fifteen or twenty minutes rinsing myself and my mouth over and over again.

I had no idea what to expect the next morning, but other than Sister Josephine glaring at me all day, it was a normal day. Over the next several days, she was a little ruder than normal and assigned me the hardest tasks in the laundry -- but she didn't do or say anything to actually single me out.

On the following Monday, I was called to Father James' office. Father James was the priest assigned to the St. Louis Convent. He was probably French-Canadian but didn't speak with much of an accent so you really couldn't tell. He was about my height, had the usual middle-aged belly and thick oily jet-black hair that he combed straight back. We saw him every day at Mass, but other than that he had little interaction with the novices. We were the responsibility of the nuns and for whatever reason he generally left our training and discipline to them.

As I walked across the courtyard toward the church office, I saw Mother Superior standing beside the front door. She wasn't smiling -- but then again, she never did. She did however have a twisted smirk on her face that I'd never seen before. As I approached her, she opened the door for me and said, "Father James wants to have a word with you."

She escorted me to his office and after we entered, she closed the door behind us and locked it, placing the key in her pocket. I assumed this meeting had everything to do with Sister Josephine and that there were bound to be repercussions for what happened that night in the dorm, so when she locked the door; I knew I was to be punished.

Father James was sitting at his massive, oversized oak desk looking down at some papers as if he was reading. Mother Superior stood beside and slightly behind me as I approached the desk and stopped. There was a dramatic pause of several seconds before he finally looked up and said, "Marika, I understand that you have bitten one of the nuns."

I didn't say anything. I just stared straight ahead at a large wooden and silver crucifix mounted on the wall behind Father James' head. I knew it didn't make any difference what I said, they had already decided to punish me and there was no point in trying to explain. But I did think it was strange that he didn't refer to Sister Josephine by name.

When he realized that I wasn't going to respond, he said, "So Marika -- I assume that is the Czech variant of Mary?"

Again, I didn't respond.

"So," he continued. "Were you named for our Blessed Virgin Mary or the prostitute Mary Magdalene?"

Without thinking I blurted out, "Would that be Jesus' prostitute?"

Within a split-second Mother Superior's open hand, slapped my face so hard I had to reach for Father James' desk to keep from falling to the floor. As I returned to standing at attention in front of his desk, I touch my hand to my lip to see if I was bleeding. I knew I was, as I could already taste the blood in my mouth and seeing the red blood on my fingers only confirmed it. Until that night in the park, I had never been slapped in my life, and now this was the third time in less than two months.

"You will never refer to our Lord and Savior with that blasphemous language again!" Mother Superior screamed. "Do you understand me -- you little slut."

I didn't respond. But just looked straight ahead -- not at Father James, but straight threw him to the crucifix behind him on the wall. Staring at Jesus on the cross I could feel nothing but contempt for Father James, Mother Superior, Sister Josephine and the entire Catholic Church. My only prayer was my determination not to show emotion and not to cry. If Daniel could stand stoically in the Lion's Den awaiting his fate, then so could I.

Father James slowly rose to his feet. "So, you're just a little Jezebel, aren't you? Well, if you want to be treated as a whore -- we can certainly accommodate you," he said as he came from behind his desk and circled behind me.

Stopping behind my back he said, "Mother Superior, would you mind helping Marika get comfortable."

Mother Superior barked, "Strip."

I didn't move a muscle.

She moved to where I could see her and with that same sinister smirk on her face, she carefully removed her black veil and coif and placed them on the desk. I continued to stare at the crucifix in front of me. She then tucked the large silver cross that hung around her neck under her scapular and then removed it, folding it carefully and also placing it on Father James' desk. With her eyes fixated on mine, she started to unbutton her habit. As she unbuttoned it down to her belt, she allowed her heavy silver cross to dangle in her cleavage suspended above her otherwise bare chest by a grungy matriarchal bra.