going through. I’d thank him, but I don’t. I’m not sure if I can say anything. Instead, I sigh and nod once more.
“The pedophile, such is a master of manipulation,” André says. “Those who have not experienced this do not easily understand. They think the victim should have told someone, or done something to stop it. But why would they? A child does not know better. With most pedophiles, it is not rape. Non! It is a willing choice and a seduction .”
A wave of shame hits me and my stomach churns. My breakfast threatens to come back up. For a moment, I close my eyes. I hold it together by gripping my knees firmly. My hands would be trembling if I didn’t.
His words, “willing choice and a seduction” repeat in my mind.
I shake my head, an unconscious physical denial, but he’s so right. No wonder I’ve been stuck right there in the past. Confused and ashamed; buried in guilt and self-loathing.
“Did you watch the movie, Sophie’s Choice ?” André’ asks.
It takes me a moment to get my bearings. I hold on to his question like tugging on the reins of a runaway horse. Thankfully, I can stop this mad gallop into my past for now. I can take a much-needed break from the appalling mental and emotional struggle I’ve been battling.
“Sure. I saw it,” I say, while sucking in a deep, fortifying breath.
My counselor’s gone off to left field once more, but that’s OK. In fact, it’s a relief. It’s a well-earned respite for me, whenever he changes the subject.
“Bon, eh bien.” He nods. “Upon arrival at Auschwitz, the brave and beautiful Sophie is forced to choose which one of her two children is to die in the gas chamber. The surviving child will proceed to the labor camp.”
I nod. Sophie’s Choice is the kind of movie where you come away feeling sad, and the memory of it—the terrible, heartbreaking dilemma—stays in your imagination for weeks.
André’s eyes flash with emotion as he lifts his hand and raises his index finger to make his point. “ Bon. If the Nazi had simply taken one child—Sophie could have lived with this, yes? It would be out of her hands. She would have been given no choice , do you see?”
My teeth clench, but I nod my understanding. In life it can be wonderful to be absolved of all responsibility. To have all options taken away. To know for certain there’s absolutely nothing you can do to change your fate.
To be free of blame.
André’s raises and lowers his head rapidly, making his point. “It is cruel, yes, it is horrific! Sophie’s grief—her pain, her suffering—it would have been unspeakable! Yet she would not have felt such guilt.”
I consider this for a moment.
I understand the heavy burdens of blame, regret and guilt. It was the act of deciding which child would die that destroyed her. It was her choice, which was impossible to live with.
When I meet André’s gaze there’s a strong emotion he’s communicating through his expression. He wants me to appreciate how Sophie felt. He wants me to get the connection between our two stories.
My pulse kicks up as I begin to fully understand.
André’s aware of the exact moment I “get” it.
“ Oui, oui ,” he says excitedly. “Your situations are not similar, and yet they are, no? It is because Sophie was made to choose that she felt herself to be a part of that choice, comprenez-vous? It becomes her decision. From active participation, Sophie shared in the act. She felt responsible—complicit in a vile crime. Mon Dieu, it was the most heinous crime a mother was capable of committing.”
My jaw tightens. I’m not thinking of Sophie now. My mind and memories are all focused upon my father. It feels dishonorable to speak ill of the dead—a social faux pas, and inherently wrong. Bad, good or otherwise, I don’t want to speak of my father.
I don’t want to think of him at all.
André reaches over, pats my knee comfortingly and pulls away. “ Mon ami, I will tell you something few
“The pedophile, such is a master of manipulation,” André says. “Those who have not experienced this do not easily understand. They think the victim should have told someone, or done something to stop it. But why would they? A child does not know better. With most pedophiles, it is not rape. Non! It is a willing choice and a seduction .”
A wave of shame hits me and my stomach churns. My breakfast threatens to come back up. For a moment, I close my eyes. I hold it together by gripping my knees firmly. My hands would be trembling if I didn’t.
His words, “willing choice and a seduction” repeat in my mind.
I shake my head, an unconscious physical denial, but he’s so right. No wonder I’ve been stuck right there in the past. Confused and ashamed; buried in guilt and self-loathing.
“Did you watch the movie, Sophie’s Choice ?” André’ asks.
It takes me a moment to get my bearings. I hold on to his question like tugging on the reins of a runaway horse. Thankfully, I can stop this mad gallop into my past for now. I can take a much-needed break from the appalling mental and emotional struggle I’ve been battling.
“Sure. I saw it,” I say, while sucking in a deep, fortifying breath.
My counselor’s gone off to left field once more, but that’s OK. In fact, it’s a relief. It’s a well-earned respite for me, whenever he changes the subject.
“Bon, eh bien.” He nods. “Upon arrival at Auschwitz, the brave and beautiful Sophie is forced to choose which one of her two children is to die in the gas chamber. The surviving child will proceed to the labor camp.”
I nod. Sophie’s Choice is the kind of movie where you come away feeling sad, and the memory of it—the terrible, heartbreaking dilemma—stays in your imagination for weeks.
André’s eyes flash with emotion as he lifts his hand and raises his index finger to make his point. “ Bon. If the Nazi had simply taken one child—Sophie could have lived with this, yes? It would be out of her hands. She would have been given no choice , do you see?”
My teeth clench, but I nod my understanding. In life it can be wonderful to be absolved of all responsibility. To have all options taken away. To know for certain there’s absolutely nothing you can do to change your fate.
To be free of blame.
André’s raises and lowers his head rapidly, making his point. “It is cruel, yes, it is horrific! Sophie’s grief—her pain, her suffering—it would have been unspeakable! Yet she would not have felt such guilt.”
I consider this for a moment.
I understand the heavy burdens of blame, regret and guilt. It was the act of deciding which child would die that destroyed her. It was her choice, which was impossible to live with.
When I meet André’s gaze there’s a strong emotion he’s communicating through his expression. He wants me to appreciate how Sophie felt. He wants me to get the connection between our two stories.
My pulse kicks up as I begin to fully understand.
André’s aware of the exact moment I “get” it.
“ Oui, oui ,” he says excitedly. “Your situations are not similar, and yet they are, no? It is because Sophie was made to choose that she felt herself to be a part of that choice, comprenez-vous? It becomes her decision. From active participation, Sophie shared in the act. She felt responsible—complicit in a vile crime. Mon Dieu, it was the most heinous crime a mother was capable of committing.”
My jaw tightens. I’m not thinking of Sophie now. My mind and memories are all focused upon my father. It feels dishonorable to speak ill of the dead—a social faux pas, and inherently wrong. Bad, good or otherwise, I don’t want to speak of my father.
I don’t want to think of him at all.
André reaches over, pats my knee comfortingly and pulls away. “ Mon ami, I will tell you something few
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