Girls Like Us (16 page)

“Please?” Hating to grovel for my own stuff.

He laughs. “Sure.” And throws it at me. I grab for it and open the inside pocket, already knowing how this is going to turn out. “If you’re looking for your money, it’s gone. I have it, and your passport.”

“You stole my money?” Tears are coming now as I think about what I did to get that money and how carefully I saved it.

“You stole my heart.”

“What? That doesn’t even make sense! It’s
my
money.”

“It’s
my
heart.” He seems completely convinced by his own logic.

I tell him he’s a piece of shit, which seems a bit mild under the circumstances, and turn my head to the window. I watch fields, trees, cows, and the few farmhouses that dot the scenery whiz by, and try to think rationally. We’re going too fast for me to jump out and I have no idea how long he’s planning on driving. I consider writing
help
or
hilfe
in lipstick on the window but there’s about a million problems with that plan, none of which ever surfaces in the movies. I can’t figure out how to escape and get my money and my passport. I worked too hard for that money to let him get it. Closed my eyes and gritted my teeth for it. Fuck no, he’s not getting my money. I cry quietly out of the window, trying to ignore his verbal assaults from the driver’s seat. Wondering if he really will take me to Amsterdam or if he’ll think of some other way to punish me instead.

Another hour later and he pulls off the highway onto a dirt road. I’m guessing this isn’t the way to Holland but stay quiet, trying not to provoke another onslaught. He’s been quiet for a while, running out of steam and insults about eighty miles ago. Clearly his mind has been working overtime. The dirt road is becoming less of a road and more of a track until finally it peters out into grass and dirt. Mike continues to drive through nothing but fields for a while, stopping finally near the edge of a large river. We’re in the middle of nowhere. I can’t see anything but fields for miles to our right, a thick forest to our left, and the river in front. I know the Autobahn’s somewhere behind us but at this point I’m not sure how far. If I can get away, though, I’ll just run as fast as I can in that direction. Someone will eventually see me. Mike parks the car right on the river embankment. It’s about a forty-foot drop down to the muddy water.

“Get out.”

I stay seated, scared to move. The plan is becoming a little clearer.

“Get the fuck out of the car.”

I get out, hearing the tone in his voice change. He no longer sounds merely angry, he’s moved into pure rage. He comes around the car and grabs me.

“I’ve changed my mind. Fuck Amsterdam. That’s too good for you.”

He points to the river. “How far do you think you would travel before you washed up? I wonder how strong the current is today.” He pulls me closer to the water’s edge as I struggle to get free of his grip.

“Please. Please. Please don’t do this.”

“What? Hurt you? That’s what you did to me. You hurt me, Rachel. So now I have to hurt you.”

“Please, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t mean to. . . .” I’m crying hysterically now, begging for my life.

“I loved you. I fuckin loved you. I wanted to marry you.”

He sounds as if he’s about to cry and I seize on it. “I loved you too. We could still get married.”

He loosens his grip a little.

“But I know you’re fucking someone else. Who is it? Just tell me who it is and I’ll let you go.”

He’s right. I have met someone else, a guy called JP, but I know if I confess, I’ll be floating facedown in the river for the next few weeks until some old fisherman hooks me accidentally.

“There’s no one, I swear.”

He punches me dead in the mouth. “Every time you lie, that’s what you’ll get. Now, who is he?”

“There’s no one.” I brace myself for the blow, but it doesn’t hurt any less.

I’m crying and bleeding and he’s sweating and cursing an hour later, but I still haven’t told him anything. Intermittently he’ll stop and quiet down, pausing to smoke a cigarette and sit on the hood of the car, while I catch my breath from the blows and the crying.

The plan to kill me and dump me in the river seems to be fading. If I can just hang tight a little while longer.

I cry and beg as much as possible, and swear my undying love. Although he’s entertaining the thought of forgiving me, he’s having too much fun punishing me.

“Take off your shoes.”

I comply and he snatches them and puts them in the car. “Now you can go home.”

He gets into the car and drives off. Perplexed, I wait for a few minutes until I can no longer hear the engine and then start running as fast as I can in the direction of the highway. I can feel stones and twigs cutting into my feet. I feel as if I’ve run for miles when eventually I hear the engine getting closer and closer and he’s back. He performs this charade, driving away, forcing me to run, coming back again several more times over the next hour until my feet are bloody and swollen. On the last round, I’m too tired to run and understand that it’s futile anyway. I sit down on the grass and wait for him to come back. He sees me defeated and appears to relish the fact that he’s beaten most of the fight out of me. “We learned that in the army: Take the shoes to disable the enemy.” I figure I’ll try one more time.

“But I’m not your enemy. I love you; let’s be together.” I’m pleading now.

Slowly he relents. He wants to believe me and so he does. I manage to convince him to drive us back to civilization where we can find a place to eat and relax. He agrees that it’s been a long day. I’d like to argue that given the fact that I’ve been kidnapped, assaulted, and threatened with drowning, my day has been much longer, but I’m just relieved that we’re turning back.

We pull into a small village, and Mike starts talking about where we will live after the wedding. I try to play along as much as I can but I’m plotting my escape. I’ve managed to get him to give back my passport but he’s still holding on to the money. As soon as the car slows down, I jump out, stumbling and then running as fast as I can in the opposite direction. An elderly woman is walking by and I shout,
“Polezie—vo es Polezie?”
She points up the street, fortunately in the direction I’m already headed, and I run faster. Mike is trying to turn the car around to catch me but there’s too much traffic and he’s still trying to make a U-turn when I’m already halfway up the hill.

I run, out of breath and wheezing, into the precinct. I tell the officer at the front desk in English (as I don’t know the words in German) that I was kidnapped and assaulted. He calls several other officers over. I describe Mike and his car and tell them he should still be in the area. There’s some discussion among the officers that I don’t understand and then a Sergeant Werner takes me into an interview room. He’s tall and a little intimidating but I figure once I tell him what happened he’ll warm up
.
I tell him the whole story, although my disheveled appearance, the bruises that are beginning to develop on my face and arms, and the torn soles of my feet pretty much explain everything. Sergeant Werner seems mildly interested, although he’s clearly not the most empathetic of listeners. He asks questions and writes notes until we’ve been all the way through the event.

Another cop comes in to report that Mike has been brought into custody and is in the interview room next to mine. I tell Sergeant Werner to check Mike’s pockets and that he’ll find two thousand-mark bills, one five hundred, three hundreds, and four fifty-mark notes.

Sergeant Werner is gone for a while, and I can hear the low murmur of men’s voices in the next room. Then I hear them laughing, and moments later the cop reenters the room and casually asks me if Mike can have a cigarette. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “A fuckin cigarette? He just beat and threatened to kill me. Tell him to buy his own fuckin pack with the three thousand marks he just stole from me!” I’m yelling now, with tears streaming down my face, and yet the sergeant just stares at me as if I’ve just refused the most reasonable, logical request in the world. “Fuck this. I’m leaving. You’re not gonna do shit.”

I storm out of the interview room, still crying.

Werner runs after me and for a moment I think he’s going to apologize, arrest Mike, and this whole bizarre scenario is going to be resolved the way it should be. Instead, he grabs my arm, tells me I can’t leave, and demands my passport. I can’t believe this is happening. I’m yelling and crying and trying to get away from him. “I didn’t do anything, he’s the one that did this to me.” The cop is now blocking me from leaving as I try to walk down the stairs. I know that Mike can probably hear the whole thing and is enjoying every second. Fortunately, another cop—a woman, hears the commotion, too, and runs up the stairs. They are debating in German and I can understand only a few words, but it’s clear that he’s winning.

The female officer turns to me. She looks frustrated but is trying to calm me down. “Give him your passport or he’ll arrest you.”

The male cop looks smug.

With tears streaming from anger more than anything else, I turn over my passport, still confused as to why I’m being treated this way. She takes me downstairs to another interview room where I sit chain-smoking for what feels like hours, but is probably closer to forty-five minutes.

Sergeant Werner finally returns and hands me back my passport. The female officer is with him and offers an apology. Werner seems disappointed that he was unable to find any outstanding warrants and has no reason to arrest me.

“You can leave.” He dismisses me with a wave.

“How am I supposed to get home?” We had driven for over two hours and I had no idea where I was.

“He will give you a ride.”

I’m confused. “Who? Another officer?” I know I don’t want to be trapped in a car with this guy for a couple of hours.

“Him.” He points upstairs, and I suddenly realize that he is suggesting that I get back into the car with the same man who kidnapped and assaulted me that morning.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Now I am about to get arrested.

“He says he will give you a ride. He is leaving now too.”

“You’re not arresting him? What about the assault? What about my money? Did you get it back?”

“He says it’s his.” Werner is already walking out the door, no longer interested in our conversation.

The female officer who has stayed puts her arm around me. In careful English and over my sobs, she explains what is going on. Yes, Mike is claiming the money is his. The bruises and cuts, the marks on my body and on my feet apparently come from the fact that I like rough sex, and that’s what we were doing in the field. In fact, he was trying to break up with me but I didn’t want to and that’s why I came to the precinct. He’s told them that I am a
“Hure,”
and that my place of employment is a strip club. With these “facts” on the table, my case has ceased to be a case.

The woman seems ashamed. “They do this to many girls,” she says. “Girls . . . uh . . . rape.” She mimes hitting. “Girls . . . they, ah . . . do not believe, um, when cabaret, das bordell, strip club.” She struggles to explain, but she really doesn’t need to. She gives me enough money to get on the train and writes Werner’s name and badge number on a piece of paper with an address for what I assume is police headquarters. “Please. Write to them. Tell them what he did. He always do this.” There are tears in her eyes and I cry as I hug her, thanking her over and over again. Of course, Mike is waiting for me when I get off the train. He’s smug now and I don’t argue with him. He won. I figure that the bruises will heal and I’ll make back the three grand eventually.

Later when JP begins to hit me, night after night, I’ll know better than to go to the cops for help. I never do write the letter of complaint about Werner. I don’t believe it’ll do any good. After all, I’m not exactly a credible complainant, an upstanding citizen. Girls like me, I realize, get what they deserve.

I was thirteen when the film
The Accused
premiered in England. Based on the real-life gang rape of Cheryl Araujo that occurred at Big Dan’s bar in New Bedford, Massachusetts, in 1983, this film was one of the first Hollywood films to deal with rape in a direct manner. Jodie Foster plays the rape victim and in the end triumphs over the perpetrators of the crime and the system. In real life, however, the victim was vilified by her Portuguese community despite having been assaulted by six men on a pool table while a group of bystanders cheered them on. Candlelight vigils were held on behalf of the accused men and the victim was portrayed as a loose woman whose decision to go to a local bar alone late at night to buy a pack of cigarettes got her just what she deserved.

A few months later, as a victim of a date rape, I was told by the cops that given that I already worked in a bar, was on a date with a man in his twenties, and was generally considered to be “too grown” made for a difficult case. Despite the fact that the assault took my virginity and that the adult perpetrator had a record of sexual and physical violence, including putting a teenage girl in a coma, the case was dropped. Apparently I wasn’t a great victim then either.

My experiences with cops, both growing up in England and in Germany, left me distrustful and skeptical. When I came to New York and began working with law enforcement, I retained a lot of the perceptions that I’d carried for years. As I worked with cops, I’d hear the same complaints: The girls didn’t want to talk to them, the girls were “resistant” to help, that perhaps they didn’t really want any. Most law enforcement officers failed to understand the rationale behind the girls’ responses to them. They sometimes understood why internationally trafficked victims who are undocumented and who’ve often experienced police corruption in other countries might be mistrustful of the police, but they expected girls from the United States to automatically trust and respect law enforcement. Yet many trafficked girls have grown up in communities that historically have feared and loathed the police, often with good reason. Communities of color and low-socioeconomic communities have rarely experienced police presence as a positive thing. Growing up in these communities, you learn that snitches get stitches and that cooperating with the cops is considered the lowest form of cowardice. In fact, cops are the ones you’ve seen regularly harassing your brother when he’s late coming home, the ones who locked up your cousin last year, who took over an hour to come that time someone broke into your grandma’s apartment. You learn not to trust them and often to fear them.