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By Sheila Orysiek
 SAN DIEGO—Why Michael G. hated me I never learned – but hate me he did. Over one hundred children lived in the 80 houses on our street in an overwhelmingly Jewish neighborhood in Philadelphia. But Michael hated only two of us; my friend Carol was also the recipient of his negative attentions.
The hierarchy of children was largely based on age. Those who were eight years and older governed the lives of those of us who were younger. But Michael’s domination went beyond the usual harassment children inflict upon one another – it was almost enslavement. He was nine years old while I, at six, was one of the youngest.
Michael's reign of terror began early in the morning as we waited for the school bus. He delighted in pushing me back against a low picket fence and then with a final shove I tumbled backward head over heels. If I was lucky a coating of snow broke my fall. Initially there was some laughter from the rest of the kids – but that soon ceased. Even boisterous youngsters realized Michael's actions went beyond the norm.
For Hanukah he was given a wagon large enough to hold several children and my life took a turn for the worse. He tied Carol and me to the wagon filled with kids and made us pull it – our labor enforced by his fists. Fortunately for Carol, she had two teenage sisters who flew to her rescue. I was the only younger child with no older sibling to succor me.
Watching all this was Joe S. He was several steps beyond my age group – he was twelve. A quiet boy, he was nevertheless deeply respected. When there was a question of who had touched base first – or if someone had truly been tagged - Joe’s decision was final. As young as we were somehow we all knew Joe was a fair minded person; everyone trusted him. He was as intent upon playing and winning as anyone else – but there was an early maturity about him we all recognized. I watched Joe from afar – he was twice my age – wiser – and therefore on a different plane from the one I inhabited.
Michael’s devilment could reach demonic proportions. I was eight when my mother returned from the hospital with an infant. In those days it was not enough to wash the baby’s cloth diapers – they were boiled. My mother, still very much in pain, first carried the diapers down to the automatic washer in the basement, then carried them upstairs to the kitchen and into a cauldron on the stove and boiled them. Each was then pulled out with a long wooden spoon and while still steaming, she wrung them out by hand. My job was to carry the very heavy basket of wet diapers again down to the basement, out the back door and hang them on the clothes line. We did this every other day.
It was August. Philadelphia is not only hot, but since it lies between two rivers – exceedingly humid. Hanging diapers in the blazing sun was not a pleasant task – but I did it – happy to help my mother. When finished I hastened into the not much cooler house (brick homes become ovens in the summer heat) to get the next load. Looking out the kitchen window, to my horror, I saw Michael busily cutting the clothes line with all the wet diapers now lying on the ground. My mother burst into tears. The clean diapers were dirty and there was no more intact clothesline to hang the rest.
Miriam, Michael's younger sister, was one of my best friends and we spent many hours engrossed with our dolls. We each brought out our little boxes and baskets filled with clothes for our “children,” She and I walked up and down the street proudly pushing carriages, cooing over our “babies.” We stopped several times to change their diapers and clothes, being careful to keep them warm in cooler weather and shading their doll eyes from the sun in the summer.
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One day I made the mistake of playing dolls with Miriam on her doorstep instead of my own. In the midst of our play, Michael came slamming out of his house, yanked my doll from my hands, threw it on the ground and began kicking it down the street. Dolls at that time had fairly fragile heads and I watched in horror as the beloved face was smashed in – well beyond repair. In maternal despair I tried repeatedly to rescue my child, getting my own face fisted for my efforts. Even Miriam was crying and ran into her house.
This blot on my life continued until one cold windy day when I was ten and Michael was thirteen. He had been given a puppy for Hanukah which he adored. On that fateful day I was walking home from school clutching my school bag, trying to keep my wool scarf on my head in the stiff wind. Michael’s little dog came galloping over to say hello. He was a cute little thing and I leaned over to pat his friendly head. That was a big mistake.
My heart plunged in fear as Michael came bursting out of his house, screaming at me to keep my hands off his dog. He grabbed my school bag and dumped out its contents. When the loose leaf notebook hit the ground the rings burst open and all my school work was soon flying away in the wind. In tears, I tried to catch the papers while Michael laughed and held me back.
Then suddenly, when all seemed lost, a champion appeared. Joe S. had been watching from his window and he had had enough. He came racing out, pulled Michael away from me, and then made him run and pick up the still flying notebook pages. I could hardly believe this rescue.
Having just finished reading Ivanhoe – I immediately identified with Rebecca of York – the beautiful Jewess – and felt as she must have when she beheld Wilfred of Ivanhoe riding to her rescue. Joe was a true knight in shining armor, galloping into the lists, lance lowered, aim taken, eyes glinting in righteous anger through his visor as he unhelmed the dastardly knave, Michael, and left him humbled in the dust of Ashby.
Apparently this incident was observed by the other boys and from then on as long as one of them was present they kept me safe from Michael’s wrath. No one discussed it, it just happened. When I was thirteen we moved across the city; Michael was left far behind. The story should end here – but it doesn’t.
At seventeen, a senior in high school, I was busy with the task of transforming into adulthood, enjoying my friends and the dating possibilities of many young men my age. I was a member of BBG – B’nai Brith Girls - and one Saturday evening we had a party with the boys’ counterpart AZA - Aleph Zadik Aleph. To my unhappy surprise, one of the boys was Michael G. I automatically recoiled until I realized he didn’t recognize me; I was no longer the stringy youngster he had tormented. In fact, he asked me to dance and I accepted.
He asked me several more times to dance. Then he asked me to go out with him the next Saturday night. I looked deeply into his eyes and couldn’t believe he didn’t recognize me. He repeated his invitation. I smiled at him, and then said an emphatic “No! I won’t date a guy who takes a little girl’s doll and kicks in its face.” Michael looked at me aghast with incomprehension. I walked away from him and spent the rest of the evening dancing with the many other willing boys. His eyes followed me and I could see as slowly – very slowly – he took in and began to understand what I had said and who I was.
I am sure Michael grew up to be a fine husband and father – but the mother in me was taking no chances.
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