Andrea Dworkin - The New Womans Broken Heart

and her husband had held her back while the huge penis had plowed

into the swollen sore vulva of her bitch he called it and the wail had

come from this beast he called it, a wail that had shaken her bones

and reminded her of the screams of Dachau as she had always heard

them inside her. then the hour afterward when the dogs were locked

together, the females vagina clamped iron tight in rage and in fear,

and the husband had laughed as the bitch he called it cried and

whimpered and was paralyzed and impaled, bertha had known to

kill him then, instead she cried twisted her body around her dog

chained locked into the satisfied monster saw the skeletons of a

million dead and raped in the anguished eyes of her dog, its eyes

her own.

having had his fun he, the husband, had wanted to put out her dog

and keep the huge penis, the large fanged mirror of himself, she had

used everything to keep her dog, begging, tears, threats, her legs

opened on the very same floor that had seen her dogs stabbing

wounding rape, her eyes lowered, her mouth sucking his penis, her

breasts tom into by his teeth, her back ripped open by his teeth, her

ass tom into, with no wail, no screams, only sighs and moans

enacted, timed, disgust disguised, her own blood oozing from her ass

his price, an ad in the paper, the owner, another stud who needed

the huge penis not his own, money into her husbands hands, reward,

an understanding between them, 2 of a kind, sorry he had missed

the fun.

then, feeding her those next weeks to feed the young inside her, her

whole bottom hanging down, ready to drop out from under her, hard

to walk, harder still to run, the days of chasing balls over, her eyes

glazed and worried, she wanted them all to die inside her.

her time came, she refused, no contractions, she wouldnt let them

out, she wanted them dead, so the vet cut her open and squeezed

them out of her tubes, wet ratty things, she was tied down, her belly

facing upwards, awake, her belly cut open, her tubes hanging outside her body, he squeezed out 10, sewed her up.

she wanted them dead, hated them, tried to eat them, to kill them,

she was wretched with fever and being sliced open, the husband who

had done this to her held her down, all sentimentality and maternal

concern, bertha, sick with powerless suffering, forced her to eat,

kept her teeth from ripping apart the terrible ratty things that

crawled all over her. finally, broken, she gave in, let them feed, indifferent. the biting started after that, children, she hated them, let the abstract painters say she couldnt know, she knew.

bertha, hating the anguish of her silent foremothers who had not

studied Torah, had married a Christian, apostate, bertha had

thought a Christian would let her talk, was it a secular fist then that

smashed her when her opinions, in rebellion against that sad past,

would not be silenced? was it a secular penis that argued Law and

War and Supremacy in her mouth, in her vagina, in her ass? was it a

secular beer drinker who spent all night also on hard wooden

benches gambling away all their money, spent a thousand midnights

screwing the Christian women while the Jew waited at home? was it a

secular vanity that had demanded a dog—she, Jew, was afraid of

dogs—a german shepherd—she, Jew, was afraid of german

shepherds—taking her after threats to buy this dog, female because

all the males had been taken, this female dog left, assured by the pet

store owner that this dog would grow and become fierce and powerful, but it stayed delicate and weak and afraid like her, the Jew. was his hatred of this cowardly dog a secular hatred? or was a Christian

always a Christian, was it a Christian fist, a Christian penis, a Christian beer-drinking-gambler-stud, a Christian vanity, a Christian hater of the weak, and all the weak were Jews, and all the Jews were

female, and the smell of Jewish fear and female fear were the same,

dizzying, exciting, so that vengeance was sex and the wail that shattered bones was the payoff? bertha and her dog cowering in silence having been beaten the dog shivered its skin quaked on its bones

bertha too silent and quaking no wail could shatter the Christians

bones but any wail shattering enough could bring the Christian to

orgasm, was it a lust for Jewish blood that had made him marry her

and did her dog, german, betray him by reminding him of her and so

he had had it raped and had had to beat them both?

allies, they had run away together, the cold pavements, the

downpouring rain, the ice of winter, nothing could make them abandon each other, they had each others eyes and the same trembling day and night.

for months, on nothing, they had lived until in the dead of a clear

night bertha had had to choose, there were no more shelters to find,

no more dollars to be conjured up out of menial work or thin air, no

more friends to take them both in, no more nerves in her body not

raw and sick from worry and hunger, no more hope of a tomorrow

with enough money to feed them both, is it ever possible to choose

another life above ones own? human even, is it ever possible? bertha

smelled the russian alleys, the german showers, the gas coming up

enveloping choking smothering, bertha delivered her dog, her own

eyes, into the ovens, years later, walking on the Lower East Side, the

relentless sadness alone moving through her, she thought she saw

her dog in the back of an open truck with 2 other german

shepherds—expressionless, still small and thin, in chains.

as she kissed his neck, nausea rose up in her. was it a Christian neck

or a secular neck? steak broiling, wine half emptied from beautifully

formed glasses, even now did he smell her blood flowing anticipate

the moment of opening every vein with his penis, was it a Christian

penis or a secular penis, wanting to take back everything that had

been taken from her she tried ripping off his penis with her bare

hands, he lay twisted up in agony at her feet, was it a Christian agony

or a secular agony, pulling him by his neck the flesh nearly crumbling in her hands she dragged his body into the hall, spit on him, looked at her hands, empty, knowing she had gotten nothing back at

all. it wasnt Jewish nothing because those boys had the Law. it was

female nothing, secular, aged pure grief, raging nothing, murderous

nothing, unrelentingly sad.

8

the slit

In these delicate vessels is borne onward through

the ages the treasure of human affections.

George Eliot, Daniel Deronda