Seductive Poison (8 page)

My arrival in England was softened by Ruth, the kind and mysterious aunt I had never known about. I followed her into her grand house, The Elms, and admired the blond-gray wisps of hair that gracefully fell from her bun against the nape of her neck. We had tea in her library and I spied one of her books,
John Stuart Mill—The Man,
on one of the many built-in book shelves. I was impressed by the many pieces of art on the walls and wondered if my mother’s cultivated Jewish home in Germany had felt like this. That evening she wrote to my parents:

SEPTEMBER 1969

Dear Lisa and Larry-

What a delightful child! She has a quiet sort of strength, beyond her years—and such warmth and sensitivity. At table, she was telling about your work, Larry: “He’s really a genius”—and I said how much I had been struck by her intuitive sparkle—and little Debbie suddenly, with her eyes moistening, said: “Now you’ve made me homesick.” But going to sleep she was not.

More practical: She will join the transport of children to school Monday. I do wonder how her curriculum will shape. Ackworth is a very fine school, with a very old tradition! What a link there is suddenly between us! Ever yours, Ruth B.

This letter must have opened worries and old wounds for Mama. What would she tell Ruth about the fact that I had never heard about Ruth, her family and her life?

Within hours of leaving London, I arrived in Yorkshire and was transported to the school. I immediately sensed that it would be a harsh environment for me. On the day of my arrival I wrote this letter home:

SEPTEMBER 9, 1969

I got here yesterday. I live in Ackworth House in an attic room with four other girls. The rooms are terribly ancient. I will soon need an eiderdown comforter for the bed because the windows are kept open all night. The school is huge and will take me months to find my way around. There are a thousand rooms and halls leading to dead-end walls. Ackworth used to be an orphanage in the 1700s and resembles a place of imprisonment! I can’t think of much else to write except that I do miss you a lot!

Love Always and Sincerely, Debbie

I did not fare as well as my parents and I had hoped. As my letter suggested there were troubles brewing. Although I tried hard to be the person my parents wanted me to be, I felt like a lost orphan locked away in a world that presented only dead ends, where I would find a way to fall through the cracks.

Unfortunately, the school did not know my troubled past and never thought to assign me a mentor to guide me through this closed society, a community inhabited by kids who had been boarders since they were eleven years old. I found it hard to break through the tight bonds and cliques and find a comfortable niche.

To make matters worse, my first experience as a Jew came the second day of school, in the dining room. One of the girls joked with another boarder that she was a “Jew” for not sharing her dessert. Everyone snickered when someone else whispered, “Kike!” Like my
mother, I was an alien in an enemy country and I, too, made a pact with myself that no one would know my horrible secret.

My course load was drowning me: French, Spanish, English Language, English Literature, History, Geography, Science, Homemaking, Art, Arts and Music History, and Religious Instruction. It was far too heavy after having cut school for two years.

During my second month I met Mark Blakey, a boarder since childhood and the designated Head Boy. The students called him Brutus because he was six feet tall, an athlete, and kindhearted. He was gentle, firm, well behaved, and the school pet. I felt secure in his presence. Instructive, almost fatherly toward me, he tried to protect and guide me through the cloistered boarding school society and I began to idolize him. He, in turn, seemed fascinated by my wild spirit and willingness to buck the system. I struck a chord in his quiet demeanor and turned what must have been a rather boring boarding school existence into a daily soap opera.

But Mark’s goodness couldn’t keep me from gravitating toward those with whom I felt more comfortable and had a greater allegiance: the outsiders. It was very reassuring that there were kids like me, and without their enduring kindness my experience would have been vastly different. I began to smoke, and soon, so did Mark. Within six months, although I was going steady with Mark, the school’s most popular bloke, I was having difficulty with my studies and was prone to argue with dictatorial instructors. I started drinking cough medicine to make myself hallucinate. Mark’s parents must have heard stories about me from the staff and were worried that he had chosen such an oddity for a girlfriend. They were bothered by me. I was not blue-eyed, fair-haired, light-skinned, or Anglo-Saxon, but a shade darker than they would have liked. Perhaps I was Italian, Jewish, or East Indian? When Mark’s mother came to fetch us, for the Christmas term-break, she took us to a lovely restaurant before our long ride north. While we reviewed the menu, I overheard a couple speaking at the table next to us. “She’s probably Jewish,” the woman declared, “and hopefully not an American Jew.”

I looked up in shock, wondering who they were talking about, praying it wasn’t me. Mark and his mother exchanged quick glances, then continued studying the menu. But I was suddenly deeply hurt, ashamed, and embarrassed.

In that moment I wished I had gone home to Reigate with Ruth, even though they didn’t celebrate Christmas. Feeling a sudden connection
with my Jewish heritage, I wanted to be there when they didn’t turn on the lights from Friday evening through Saturday, recited hymn-like prayers over the braided bread they called challah, then sprinkled it with sea salt. I wanted to be home … with my own people.

Christmas at the Blakeys’ farm was educational. Everyone rose before 6
A.M.
Mark, as the eldest son, was expected to work the land with his father. On the occasions when he was not too busy, Mark taught me how to “lamb,” a term for assisting sheep to birth their young, drive the tractor, to ride sidesaddle, English style, and he took me on a foxhunt. Mark’s mother, Marion Blakey, tried to like me, took me sightseeing, and was very kind; but her instinct was correct: I was a bad influence on her son. Although he did well on all his exams, Marion believed her son was far too taken with the troubled waif from America. But Mark vigorously defended me and I was profoundly grateful for his devotion. I had been missing someone, anyone, who thought I was special.

In a letter to Ruth, six months into the school year the telltale signs of my troubles were present:

… I don’t seem to be able to do anything right. I wonder what’s wrong with me. I hate most of the authorities in this school. I’m tired and want to come home for a long rest.

My poor relations with my teachers finally came to a head when my English Literature schoolmaster accused me of “bastardizing” Shakespeare with my accent, then expelled me from his class for chewing gum. Later that evening I punched my fist through a window. I hadn’t intended to sever three tendons, cut an artery, and get transported by blaring ambulance to the hospital. During my two-week hospital stay, with my reattached tendons healing in a plaster cast, a minister, a priest, and a rabbi were invited to counsel me. I refused to speak to anyone but Mark.

Soon after, I wrote in my journal what seems now to be a particularly telling passage:

Once and for all I push away the cloud from my eyes.
I can see misery and pain all about me.
Suddenly I am where I began,
Still too weak to help the underprivileged of our world.
My responsibility and what am I doing? Naught!

In the summer of 1970 my parents agreed to let me come home for the six-week term break. Just before my return I received a letter from my brother Larry. He wrote of his church, the Peoples Temple, and about a man who lived Jesus’ teachings and knew all about me and my troubles. He invited me to come visit and see for myself. I wondered if maybe Larry was on drugs. How could anyone know my difficulties?

3
Lost and Found

Back in San Francisco, in my father’s American car, I felt disoriented. Compared to the English cars I was now accustomed to, this one felt immense. Papa and the steering wheel were on the wrong side of the car and the traffic was streaming by on the wrong side of the road. I had finally come home and yet nothing felt right.

When Mama greeted me at the door, I struggled to remain composed. I wrapped my arms around her and choked down a cry, once again painfully aware of how little I knew her.

After I had my cast cut off and had the stitches taken out, I swam daily to strengthen my shriveled arm, lay in the sun to give it color, and sat outside on the front porch with Mama, together at last. Papa went to work in the mornings but came home early to spend time with me. On weekends we drove up to our land in Sea Ranch on the Northern California coast.

Although it was good to be home with my parents, by my fourth week I felt antsy, anxious to visit Larry and meet the man who knew everything. It was not easy, however, to convince my parents to let me go. They were troubled by my plan. Larry had been alarmingly uncommunicative since he had joined the humanitarian self-help group up north in Ukiah. In the three years he had been involved with the group, the Peoples Temple, Larry had visited our parents only once. Papa called him regularly but was always told Larry was gone, busy, or at work. Papa thought something was odd.

Larry had married Carolyn, his college sweetheart, in 1967. After their graduation the following year, Larry was struggling to obtain a
deferment from the Vietnam War. He had requested alternative service work, explaining he was born and raised a Quaker. While waiting to hear from the Draft Board, Larry and Carolyn had moved north to a little community called Potter Valley, where Carolyn taught high school. She chose this location after listening to a sermon given by Reverend Jim Jones, a handsome preacher there who criticized the war in Vietnam, racism, and social injustice. She and Larry attended church services and found themselves in the company of many other college graduates. Jim took a special interest in the attractive young couple and offered to help Larry write the final appeal for Conscientious Objector status. Jones said it would be a miracle if Larry received it. In the spring of 1969, Larry was granted the impossible. A miracle.

Larry and Carolyn were impressed and they stayed on to work with Jones in his fight against prejudice and poverty. However, soon thereafter, Carolyn and the minister became close working comrades, spending more and more time together on important church matters and with her mentor’s help, she divorced my twenty-two-year-old brother.

Looking back I can see how well orchestrated the demise of their marriage was. But at the time no one saw the contrived and more sinister meaning. It happened during a small meeting Jim had arranged to discuss Larry’s C.O. status. During the session Jim mentioned he’d observed a “distance” that had grown between the young couple. Larry agreed, saying he worked long hours at two jobs and that Carolyn had grown quite cold. Carolyn agreed and, much to his surprise, asked for a divorce.

“I’m sorry that is how you feel … but if that’s what will make you happy …” Larry whispered, visibly shaken.

Jim suggested that Larry meet Karen, a devoted new member. Karen just happened to be in the building and was summoned to Jim’s meeting. The Reverend introduced them officially and said he felt in his heart and psyche they would be well matched. Within six months Larry was divorced from Carolyn and dating Karen. They married soon thereafter.

I had seen Karen’s photograph on Papa’s desk. She reminded me of a cover girl, young, blond, hair blowing in the wind. She looked honest, sweet, and fun. She had been a homecoming queen in college. I was eager to meet Larry’s new wife and to see for myself what the man Larry called the Prophet was all about.

Finally, my familiar promises of good behavior worked and my
parents gave me a few days away from them. I boarded a Greyhound bus for the three-hour ride north to a place where the summer heat reached over 100 degrees.