He did not know how to turn me on. I had no pretty pyjamas. My ‘sleeping gear’ was a second-hand blouse, my mattress was a yoga mat. We had no special wedding sheets and there was only cold water to wash in. At least there was water! I had to try very hard to find things to be thankful for. The white chocolate was the only thing vaguely romantic. I wasn’t in love. Thomas’s untrimmed bushy beard was scratchy and it reminded me of kissing my grandfather. I hated kissing my grandfather. It was all horribly humiliating. I wouldn’t kiss him. Kissing Thomas just felt wrong.
I was secretly glad when Brother Shor arrived the next morning to break the uncomfortable silence. I knew Thomas was disappointed with me. I was not the kind of wife he had been praying for or expecting. Our first night together did not get us off to a good start. The consequences of what I had got myself into started to suddenly sink in with a sobering thud. I felt stupid. Young, arrogant and oh so stupid.
Brother Shor saw us off at the bus station. On the bus to New York, I busied and distanced myself writing the following letter home.
20 August 1983
Dearest Mom
So! I am married and I have a husband! Thomas knows the scriptures so well and oh how thrilling it is because, when we’re talking, he’ll say, ‘Do you know what that verse is about?’ and then he shows me. He’s really compassionate and loving. He has been praying for a wife for years, but it just didn’t seem Elohim’s will to give him one. He was the first brother who told me the truth, and it was he who laboured with me, answering most of my questions and working things out.
The Church has set a very high standard. Sisters just don’t talk to brothers for anything. It seems that Elohim has set an order so that lasciviousness and fornication, pride and back biting do not arise. I really appreciate the order. The world is just too loose.
I tried to phone Grant and Julia again but the phone was out of order. My plane out of America is supposed to leave in two hours’ time! I have tried about six times to contact them but have just not been able to. We feel really bad about this misunderstanding and all. I am sorry it had to work out this way.
I really do love you lots and lots.
(Later)
I finally got to speak to Grant. I will start another letter to you as soon as I get to New York and tell you about our daily happenings. You must feel a bit like Job, Mom, but remember how Elohim abundantly blessed him after the trying of his heart. It seems like always at the end of big trials, there is a big blessing.
I love you muchly,
Les
NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK:
After many hours of travelling, we arrived at the New York depot. The awkwardness of the night before stretched long into the next day. Thomas held my hand. I felt pitifully shy and unsure of myself. What had I done?
We made our way to Nevins Street in Brooklyn. It was all familiar to me now. From the subway station to the house I grew ever more timid. I was now a ‘married sister’. How was I meant to behave?
Over the next few weeks I was to learn the rules. No affection in public. Nothing to show we were man and wife. For months after, even years, I often felt shocked as I reflected on what I had entered into so flippantly. Married!
11
Brother Leonard met us at the door of the camp in Nevins Street. He had just spoken to the elder at the morning call and had heard that we would be arriving soon. His eyes smiled at us. A knowing smile. Like we had been up to some monkey business, and he knew it.
We were shown through to what had been the sisters’ dining area. A thin curtain separated it from the rest of the dining room and the kitchen. It felt flimsily private.
A few days later we moved over to an apartment in Hoyt Street which we had to ourselves. To enter the place, I had to stick my hand through a pigeon-sized hole in the door and reach around till I found a rope. Pulling on the rope slid a locking plank out from its wedge against the door handle and the bottom step. When the plank fell, the door swung open.
As soon as my distressed mother found out I was married, she asked Grant to go and visit us to check that I was okay. We had only been staying in Hoyt Street for a couple of days when he came down from Boston to visit for the night. He brought my mail and also the passport I had left with them. The main purpose of his visit, though, was to ‘check out’ Thomas for my mom.
I worked late into the night before his arrival, sweeping the peeling walls and filthy floors, scrubbing, sterilising and washing. I put up pretty curtains I had sourced at the Nevins camp. Thomas brought home some discarded flowers he’d found and I had fun cutting off the dead heads and arranging them in the most beautiful container I could find.
I knew Grant loved potatoes and so I made the best potato soup I could, with fresh asparagus. One thing I could do very well was make soup. My mom had taught me. It had to taste good before it cooked. That was the secret.
Grant brought a stack of letters from South Africa, and one from England. It had Stewart’s beautiful, artistic handwriting on it. I opened it first. He addressed it to me like he often did. ‘Lesley Darling.’ ‘What is he doing, calling another man’s wife his darling?’ Thomas asked disdainfully.
Stewart had found out I was married. He was already in London, waiting for me. He had found a place for us to share and had fixed it up so that it was ready for me.
I struggled to control my anger when Thomas forbade me to write back to him. By this point I really resented him. I thought he had taken advantage of me, marrying me when I was so vulnerable and I disliked the way he treated me like some kind of possession. I belonged to him. I had taken on his name and I was his.
Now I struggled with a dilemma. Should I leave with Grant and go to my Stewart in England, or should I stay with Thomas and the sisters? My zeal to be right and my strong teenage arrogance held me back. I had done the deed, made a commitment and now I had to be a dutiful wife.
From this time one memory vividly stands out. I recall walking with Thomas from Hoyt Street to the camp at Nevins Street. I was happily skipping along the pavement in front of him when he stopped me. ‘A sister is to walk a few steps behind her husband. Let me go ahead,’ he said. My heart sank. I was being reprimanded! My dad had taught me that ‘ladies go first’ but the custom in the Church dictated otherwise. From then on I always walked a little behind him.
Poor Thomas. He felt it was his husbandly duty to constantly correct me and put me in my place. I was often in his bad books. I remember him scolding me soon after Grant left, seated at one of the dining-room tables at Nevins Street. I think it went on for over an hour. I felt wounded inside and also grew bored while I silently listened as he droned his reproof – it was mostly about how proud I was and how I should be more humble.
Sister Nediva was making food in the kitchen. Peeping at her and drumming my fingers on the table, I wished the lecture would end. He was embarrassing me. It seemed like I was getting a public rapping over the knuckles. Humiliated, I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. I had begun to think it was a big blunder marrying him. But it was too late now. My pride would not allow me to admit that I had made a mistake. He was right. I was too proud for my own good.
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