Elsa Newman’s sons visited her this weekend. She sees them once a year, by court order, and this was the time.
I hear that the first visit, on Saturday, went reasonably well. Elsa arrived in the visiting room and set out chairs for herself and the two boys. When they arrived in the company of the father, [an adult is necessary, in order for minors to visit this prison] he forbade the boys to sit until he had retrieved a chair for himself. Then they were permitted to seat themselves. Their chairs were close to Elsa, and she was able to touch them, pat a hand, rub the back of the younger one and write on his back, “I love you.” This latter came from an old game she used to play with them in earlier years and more pleasant settings: she would write a word on their back, and they tried to figure out what she was writing. So the “I love you” was a familiar game to the younger boy.
At this first visit, the younger boy was chatty and liked touching his mother–hand, arm, kiss or hug, as is quite appropriate for a child of his age. The older boy was quiet until he began to talk…and then he talked and talked and talked, as if he wanted to fit in a year’s worth of conversation. This went on until his father finally turned to him and said, “Will you shut up?” Whereupon the boy did exactly that.
The next day, however, the visit went quite differently. The father and two sons arrived first. This time the visitors arrived in the visiting room before Elsa did. The father had already set up chairs, placing his in such a way that he was sort of between Elsa and the boys. Defeat and despair seemed to show in every line of their bodies. Older boy is tall and strong–a weight lifter, with considerable upper body strength, and he is handsome, but he walked slouched and hunched almost as if broken by something that had happened since the last visit. They could no longer touch their mother…pat her hand…or offer her a kiss on the cheek. And indeed, on this second day of the weekend, they seemed not the be much interested in her. The younger boy would not talk to her–or talked very little. He veered away from his father and seemed to cling to his older brother, as if for safety from the man who sat between him and his mother. The older boy also was quiet.
At one point, Elsa’s younger son, to entertain himself? Or because he was uncomfortable? began to tap on his brother’s thigh, as if playing the piano. Elsa patted her own thigh. “You can play the piano here,” she said. The boy shook his head, as if he dared not come near her.
Then–and this is what caused me to ask the question in the title of this piece–AS though he had grown weary of visitation by court order, the father suddenly stood, an hour before the visit should have ended. “Are you ready to go?” he demanded of the two boys. They did not answer. They remained seated.
“Come on. Let’s go,” said the man. The boys stood obediently and–heads down–trucked after him.
Elsa, helpless, watched them go, deprived of the hour that would have given her even a few more precious memories to strengthen her until she sees them again–in another year.
What shall we say of this man? What kind of man is this–to thus deprive his children’s mother of that single, precious hour?
In words I think Elsa might have used: “I pray G-d you never have to have visits from your children in prison.”
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