“My name is Elizabeth Smart,” I answered.
The man ignored me and started talking. Soon I was to learn a couple of things. First, my captor had many names. Second, he liked to talk. A lot. About his life. About his writings. About his purpose. Anything about himself. He and Hephzibah had kept extensive records of “the path they had taken,” and it became obvious that I was going to hear it all.
I didn’t know who he was, I didn’t know his real name, but I recognized him. I remembered he had come to our house to help with some repairs. My parents had tried to help him. Over time, I learned that my captor had changed his name from Brian David Mitchell to David Shirlson and finally to Immanuel David Isaiah. Although I was told to simply address him by Immanuel. The woman had gone from Wanda Barzee to Elladah Shirlson to Hephzibah Elladah Isaiah.
During most of my captivity, I called them Immanuel and Hephzibah. But I have a hard time thinking of them by these names anymore. Too loaded with ugly baggage. Brian David Mitchell and Wanda Barzee are more comfortable to me now.
“You are her handmaiden,” Mitchell then told me as he pointed to Barzee. “You are the second wife.”
I looked at them. The word crazy rolled around my head.
“She is your mother wife. You are her handmaiden.”
I couldn’t wrap my mind around it. Mother wife! Handmaiden! I had no idea what that meant.
Soon I was to learn. To him, a handmaiden was a sex toy. To her, it was a slave.
*
Lunchtime approached. The woman got up and started fixing food to eat. I watched her for a moment through puffy eyes.
I knew that the man could kill me anytime he wanted. He certainly had the physical capability. He could kill me with nothing but a twist of his hands. No one would ever know. Nobody was there to protect me. Nobody was there to take care of me. I had to watch out for myself.
My mind started turning. Okay, I thought to myself, I can’t fight them all the time. If I do, they’ll keep me cabled. I’ll never have a chance to escape.
I thought back on a girl I knew in junior high. She was a friend to the Polynesian kids, the Mexicans, the Caucasians. She was friends with everyone. She was just so nice. So I thought, Okay, I can be like her. I can make this situation the best that I can for myself. Nobody wants to be around a crybaby. Nobody wants to be around a sad sack. If I am miserable and whiny and don’t carry my weight, then he will be far more likely to kill me. What was there to stop him? If I’m going to survive this, then I have to step up. I have to try to help myself.
I continued thinking.
If I did as they told me, if I didn’t always fight him, then maybe it would be harder for him to hurt me. If I could get them to trust me just a little, maybe they would let me off the cable. Maybe they’d realize how much they were hurting me. Maybe they would come to like me, maybe even come to care about me. Then maybe they would let me go.
So I got up and walked over to where they were seated in the tarped area in front of the tent. They had set a tablecloth on some of the plastic containers. She had started to grate carrots and cut up onions. He was just sitting there, waiting for his lunch.
“I can help,” I said. “What do you want me to do?”
She hesitated. I think she was surprised. Then she passed me a cutting board and grater, careful to keep the knife out of my reach. (Not that it mattered. I never could have hurt them, even in the most desperate times.) I started grating carrots, helping to prepare the food. They had onions, raisins, and carrots mixed with mayonnaise and rolled in tortillas for lunch. They ate like they were starving. I ate next to nothing at all.
When they were finished, I asked if they wanted me to help clean up.
“It’s okay,” Barzee said. “It’s your wedding day. You don’t have to help me anymore. You can go and cry again for now. But you’re gonna have to stop soon. You can’t cry your life away.”
That started it all over again. My wedding day! Any composure that I had captured was immediately lost at that thought.
“Please don’t hurt me again,” I begged him. “Please, please, just leave me alone.”
Mitchell shook his head. “We’re man and wife. That’s a part of what we do now.”
“No, no, please don’t do it again. Please … I’m begging you … you don’t have to do it. Please…”
He was instantly angry. “It’s what we do!” he seemed to hiss.
I kept on begging and crying. I couldn’t seem to stop.
Watching me, he suddenly grinned in a menacing way. “Tomorrow we are going to be as Adam and Eve in the garden,” he said. “We’ll be his little children. Tomorrow, we’re all going to go naked. Then Hephzibah and I are going to demonstrate…”
He went on to describe what they were going to do. Things I didn’t want to know about. I thought I was going to be sick to my stomach. The image was so disgusting. So humiliating. I couldn’t even think.
I spent the rest of the day crying by myself.