Triumph Over Tears Read online

  Triumph

  Over

  Tears

  Nava Chernoff

  Edited by Joseph Gavazzi

  Book cover photographer Shani Caplan Chernoff

  Copyright © 2018 By Nava Chernoff

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1720804818

  ISBN-13: 9781720804819

  Dad, I miss you.

  

  Table of Contents

  Preface

  Chapter One: Dear Mom

  Chapter Two: Early Childhood

  * The ugly side of life.

  Chapter Three: Kibbutz

  * Moshe

  * I Thought it was Love

  * The Drive to the Truth

  * Falling Apart

  * The Search

  Chapter Four: Ecstasy

  Chapter Five: Tom

  * Uncle Fred

  * 2008

  Chapter Six: Zoo

  Chapter Seven: Picking up the Pieces

  Epilogue

  ACKNOWLEDGMENT

  I would like to express my deepest and sincerest gratitude to all the people who have helped and supported me while researching and writing this book. To Tom, my loving husband, whose endless excitement kept me motivated. To my family, who shared vital information throughout my search. To mom Ora for always being there for me. To Ms. Kruger - - without you, the youth Trip to Germany would not have been possible. To Alyson Stephan, for instruction and guidance while writing Searching For Fred. And last but not least, my editor and partner, Joe Gavazzi. This book would have been impossible without his extraordinary support.

  PREFACE

  From being unconscionably raped as a young girl, to living through her parents’ divorce, to leaving her home by the sea… Follow Nava through her life in the Kibbutz, the news of her mother’s lung cancer, her father’s untimely death, and her 10 year journey to reunite her Holocaust family. She overcomes all odds to reach the pinnacle of the mountain with the love of her life… only to feel her elation turn to heartache. Her lessons learned along the way are a guideline for all of us, to a happier, healthier, more successful life. This emotional rollercoaster is a must read for any one who has suffered their own tragedies or indignities in life. Or is seeking guidance for those that are inevitably ahead.

  CHAPTER ONE

  DEAR MOM

  Mom,

  I have learned from experience that it is better not to leave unspoken words behind. Most often it turns out to be too late to express them. We are staying with the thoughts “I should have said…” forever. I have found this opportunity to utter those words.

  To the woman who helped me to become who I am today. I don't think you truly understand how much I value your opinions. Even when I do not agree with you, I appreciate, and respect your advice.

  All my life you have been watching over me attentively. Sometimes I grunted. Most of the times I accepted your advice. I remember one of my friends in the Kibbutz said “Really, you are going to ask your mom?” “Yes,” I replied. Most of my peers didn’t exchange “Good morning” with their parents, let alone questions about birth control options.

  We didn’t always see a situation the same way. I realized if I would share my opinion, you might act differently. For that I am sorry. I am sorry for not telling you when I was thirteen and had to take the early bus to Jerusalem that I wanted you to wake up with me. You knew you could trust me to be on time, that I probably do not need you, because I am responsible. For six months every time I left home I cried. I know you expected me to share everything with you. I did with most, but at age thirteen, and already very independent, I didn’t want you to think I was weak.

  I am sorry for not telling you when I was a child that I was being raped. I have seen your painful expression when I told you for the first time; felt your frustration that you didn’t know, and therefore could not do anything to end it.

  I am sorry for not expressing my pain when my first marriage was falling apart. I know, you knew how important it was for me to succeed, and you may have had a secret trick up your sleeve.

  For all the things I did not do and all the words I did not say, I am sorry.

  You overlooked my faults and helped to polish my perfections. Now that I am a mother I realize that it’s not all joy and happiness. It comes with responsibilities, sacrifice, and is not always an easy job to do.

  I am grateful to have you as my mom. I am thankful for being raised by a woman as strong and as beautiful as you. I am thankful for always being there whenever I needed you. I am grateful for being taught to be strong, to stand for my rights, to have a voice, to stand tall, to defend the weak, to fight the wicked, to feed the hungry, to be humble, to be kind. But above all, to be honest, act with integrity, and allow my humanity to show through with transparency.

  I remember those lessons, but it was your actions as much as your words. When our neighbor came down every Friday, at a remarkable time when the soup was boiling, and the house smelled from roasting chicken. She asked for sugar and left with a pot of cooked soup for her children. She never asked for it, but you always handed her the soup when she went. When the elderly couple below us put their garbage outside their door. You would take it to the main garbage container. When we always had a “lost” child that stayed with us. When my track teacher did not let me compete in the 1 kilometer run in the big meet. “She is a girl,” he said, “This girl runs faster than most of your boys. She practiced with the boys. She will compete with the boys” you said. At the time it was co-ed, but I was the only girl. I remember how thrilled you were when I called the hotel where you worked and said “I came in third, but I beat all the boys in my class.”

  I fully understand every sacrifice you have had to make for your children. Sometimes I did not want to be the “sandwich.” The older pulled one side, the younger pulled the other, and all I wanted was you to myself. The reality was not about what I wanted from you. It was about what I learned from you. To be the giving, loving, strong independent woman, just like you.

  Thank you for all the sacrifices you made. I love you

  CHAPTER TWO

  EARLY CHILDHOOD

  Every little girl should have a dream—a big dream.

  I was always fascinated by the Red Sea—its calming, clear blue water, the coral reefs, colorful creatures, and the ecosystem. The more I learned from my parents to respect the Red Sea and the life in it, the more I loved it. As a young girl I often vacationed in Sinai. The neighborhood children always compared notes regarding their sea-faring activities. Some people vividly remembered their first experience with swimming. Not me. I could never remember when I learned to swim, or, as my father would phrase it, “learned to float.” He would tell me, “You did not swim at first, but you knew how not to drowned.” He also claimed, “We threw you off the boat, and you floated.” My mother smiled at that story. “It was a little extreme, but you were a very young toddler,” she said. One thing from my childhood that I remember very clearly is the first time I swam with a shark. I was five years old. There was an odd, tickling movement around my feet as I stood in the shallow water, looking to the horizon with admiring eyes as my father sailed away on his little fishing boat to catch some fish for dinner. The water was clear and the sand soft. Looking down to see what kind of fish was so playful, I saw it—almost flat, swimming at the bottom around me, brushing my feet. “Shark!” I shouted as loud as I could. “Shark!” While in the water, I tried to lift both of my legs up so that the shark could not bite me. My older brother thought this was a funny sight and laughed so hard he was having trouble breathing. My younger brother inched toward me so slowly that a sea turtle walking on the sand would have beaten him in this race to save my life. When Arye, my
older brother, finally got to me, I clung to his neck, choking him, my legs around his hips, certain that I would be this sharkʼs dinner. I was scared to death. I told myself I would never, ever go back into the sea. As I looked at the beautiful blue water from afar, I immediately regretted my thoughts. My mother did everything in her power to convince me that—from the description my brother gave—it was a sand shark and they were harmless. My brave, larger-than-life father came back from fishing to hear my two older brothers laughing as they told him about the incident. My fatherʼs words were so calming and reassuring when I received my first lesson about sharks. “Sand sharks will not harm you,” my father said. “This is what mom told me, too,” I replied. Yet I was not convinced by their words. There was no way that I was going to believe them. Not on that day. I opened my eyes as big as I could—they are big and green just like my Dadʼs eyes—and I answered back, “It was going to eat me! It touched my feet. It wanted my feet first.” There he went again, my brother Elan, laughing so hard— until he got The Look from my Dad. “It will not eat you. Now you will go back to the sea and swim with us,” Dad said. Elan was thirteen years old and Arye was twelve years old. They ran into the water with my tall, slender mother, who was very active and often swam with us. I stood still. I said, “Not me! I am not going!” I was such a stubborn little girl. Dad picked me up. “Back to the water you go,” he said. “No shark will eat my daughter today.” I was hoping Mother would come to my rescue. But this time she was clearly on Dadʼs side. “You should go into the water and swim,” she said. “Learn about its creatures so you will not be afraid.” My parents had lost it, for sure. Here I was, five years old, almost attacked by a shark and my Dad and Mom were going to throw me back into the sea. I could not admit to my parents that day—as I made quite a fuss over the sand shark—that, after I was dropped back into the water and looked down to see it, the sand shark was pretty cute. I have learned many lessons regarding the sea; the list grows longer as I get older, and yes, I learned that sand sharks will not eat me. We spent every holiday on the beach, playing in the soft white sand of Sinai, Mother running the show and Father out there fishing. On one of those holidays, I ended up in Yoseftal hospital in Eilat. Preparing to leave we gathered all the equipment—which included our swim gear, toys, coolers, clothes, tents and garbage. We were missing a cup from the new red set of dishes. We all searched for it. Dad cleaned the grill and for the first time, and last ever, he poured the hot coals on the sand. During the search, I stepped on the hot coals. As a reflex, I lifted my leg up, putting my second foot on the charcoal. With burning feet, I ran into the Red Sea. My thoughts of going back to the others to tell them what happened abruptly ended when I realized how badly I was burned and how painful the hot, dry sand was. I would have to stay in the water until someone came to my rescue. “What is wrong?” my mother asked. “It is not like you not to help.” I told her what had happened and showed her my feet. My motherʼs deep brown eyes looked worried and sad as she smiled and assured me that I would be fine as soon as they got me to the hospital. Dad carried me to the Jeep. The search for the cup ended abruptly. The ride to the hospital began. While we were in the car, I started to feel blistering on the bottom of my feet. I remember thinking that by the time we reached the hospital I would not have any skin at all on my feet. I was too afraid to look. I had no clue what was happening. Dad was so upset over what happened that when Mom checked on me every few minutes I said I was fine, even though I was not. The drive was 75 km (about 46 miles) from Nuweiba, Sinai to Eilat. There were no highways, and the Jeep was far from new. The pain was intense and tears fell down my cheeks even though I tried not to cry. Normally, we would be singing songs the whole way back home. Of course, having four children together in the small space of the Jeepʼs back seat, there would often be fighting and arguing. That day we drove back in complete silence. Wrapped with bandages on my feet, traveling on piggyback for a few days, and listening to the adults cursing about that cup was no fun. Those adventures on the smooth, sandy beach and in the warm, clear water were endless. We had lots of laughs, too. The story that I heard the most, which happened before I was born, was about one of those trips to Sinai. My parents and most of my siblings left the tent, leaving Ofra, my older sister, to watch it. Ofra had a visitor—a lonely, lost camel. She was so scared of him that she fed him to keep him busy. By the time our parents returned, all of their food was gone.

  When I was eight years old, Israel returned our part of Sinai to the Egyptians. Withdrawal from Sinai followed the Israel-Egypt peace treaty of 1980-1982. Dad quit his job and vowed to “never touch Sinai as long as it is under the Egyptians.” Mom was not too happy with the fact that Dad needed to look for a new job. But it was all for peace. The children of the house quickly learned not to ask to go to Sinai. “You cannot go there anymore,” Dad would reply angrily. After the peace treaty, Dad did exactly what he said. He never touched Egyptian soil. I never visited Sinai beaches after the peace treaty. But I visited Egypt in 1993. I found the culture of Egypt rich and fascinating— nothing at all like the stories I heard as a young girl from my father, who was angered by the political situation in Sinai. Maybe one day I will gather enough positive energy to take my children to the beautiful white sand and clear blue water of “RAS GOLDA” in Sinai.

  In 1974, when I was two years old, my mother was very busy running the house and taking care of all the children—seven altogether, and not all her biological kids. But she treated everyone as her own. She did the best she could with her situation, married to my father. He was a tough man. He helped to raise the family and worked full time. We lived in a 60 square meter house, which is equivalent to 645 square feet. Of seven children, the youngest was a newborn and the eldest twenty years old. Five of us were still living in the house, as my two older sisters were married and lived in their own homes. Mother was only twenty-seven years old at this time. How did she do it? I canʼt even imagine. Things just got more difficult for her in the following years. Having said that, she could not possibly be in one hundred percent control.

  **********************

  The ugly side of life. I was six years old. He told me he would take me for a walk in the mountains and we would buy a Popsicle on the way back home. I had no reason whatsoever not to believe him. He was part of the family and would never hurt a little girl, especially not me. Off we went for a walk, to the desert mountain that I loved to play on, and he knew it. In a place where no one could see, he told me, “Turn around and lean on the mountain so I will not see your face.” I was worried because he sounded different than usual. Even his smell changed all of a sudden. But I did what he asked. I turned, bracing my hands against the mountain and moving the gravel beneath my feet. I asked him why we canʼt play facing each other. He said because this was a big kidʼs game. Then he rubbed himself on me. I wanted to turn, but he did not let me. He did this while I was fully dressed and not looking. He made strange grunting noises. This is when I felt that it must be wrong for him to play with me like that. I was too afraid to make a sound. Finally he said, “I am done. Letʼs go back.” I wanted to climb up the mountain and play in the bunker. But he said that we had to go back home so my mother would not worry. So we did. I was confused and not sure what to make of it. Every time he was with me, his advances became more aggressive to the point that he forced himself on top of me, looking into my eyes while he raped me. I knew then that what he was doing to me was wrong. But I was not sure why, except that he was hurting me. That could not be right. No one else treated me this way. My father was not the most affectionate person, but I knew he loved me and would never hurt me. This child rapist said, “Donʼt tell anyone,” with a combination of fear, pleasure, and anger in his eyes. I was scared, very scared. The pain drove me to find a way to end the assaults. Without telling anyone, I made up my mind that his actions were wrong and I needed to find a way out. I came up with the idea to be with someone at all times, to avoid being alone—no matter what.
Today, this is called the “buddy system.” It worked for a while, until the holidays, when we had a house full of guests and he stayed the night in our room, the childrenʼs room. He slept next to me. Everyone else fell asleep. I could not sleep because I was so frightened that I could not relax. I knew what he was going to do to me. I was worried that if someone saw us like that they would blame me for doing something wrong and throw me out of the house. That was what he told me would happen once, after he raped me. My six-year-old brain was utterly tormented. I remember thinking, “Why is he so afraid that my parents will find out?” So I decided to tell my parents what he was doing, and hope that it would make him stop. When he made advances on me that night, I turned to him and looked at him straight in the eyes; I wanted him to see me in the dark. Then I said, “If you touch me again, I will tell Dad.” He looked at me as if he saw a ghost. In an instant he lost his color and started to sweat. It worked. He never touched me again. At six years old, I learned a harsh but important lesson: Words are important.

  Personal note to my readers who are victims of abuse, rape, and bullying.

  I am deeply sorry that you got hurt emotionally, physically and mentally. I know from close and personal experience that it is not easy. I am not sure there is a word to describe, the humiliation and pain that our souls have been through.

  You already know how I stopped being raped. It worked for me. I scared my abuser by telling him that I will go to tell my dad.

  If you are being hurt still, find the courage to tell someone you trust. I know you can do it! You are stronger and braver than you think. Call the police, Dial 911. CALL 24/7/365 the National Domestic Violence Hotline 1-800-799-SAFE (7233), 1-800-787-3224 (TTY for Deaf/Hard of Hearing).