I had taken early train from Boston for interviews at Columbia in morning, and NYU in afternoon. A transistor radio to my ear, I couldn’t help but smile when I heard Sam and Dave, “Good lovin’, I got a truckload,” but when Dionne Warwick began to say little prayer, I couldn’t listen, closed my eyes and said my own little prayer, holding my tears at bay. Papa’s dream as long as I could remember, was that I would go to “greatest scientific university in America,” MIT, which I had done for almost one term. His dream, my nightmare. My advisor, Professor Lowendorf, or Lowendork, as his students referred to him, refused to allow me to go straight into Upper division Maths as freshman, unless, as it became clear to me in first two weeks of Fall term, I let him fuck me. He was slightly more subtle but message was clear.

I went to Dean, Dr. Stockwell. He said, “Don’t you think you’re exaggerating? Professor Lowendorf would never do anything like that.” And I had better be careful about accusations if I wanted to have any kind of academic career. It was 1967 and there weren’t many young women pursuing careers in Mathematics, or Physics, for that matter. It was difficult road for many of us and many predators in rocks above our path.

I discreetly asked around and found number of other female students, victims of L-Dork’s sexual predation. In fact, Dean Stockwell was apparently in cahoots with Lowendork.  Perhaps some sharing going on. I was sickened and so angry but couldn’t bring myself to tell Papa. I was deathly afraid it would cause another heart attack, one which he might not survive. I was afraid if I told Mama, Papa would find out. So, I resolved to leave MIT and maybe find new school in New York. Present it to my parents as fait accompli. Ergo, my trip that day.

Interviews at Columbia had been . . .  “alright.” Friendly enough, but I was not impressed with course of study open to me. Mostly,  no one would guarantee I could go directly into Upper division Maths. I had no intention of wasting two years doing Math I had been doing as eight-year-old. I thought, Maybe I should have gone straight to University when we came to America, for millionth time. But then, I would never have met Misha. The thought of him almost overwhelmed me on subway to NYU.

Monsoon rains had abated when I got off train at Fourth Street Station and I thought park looked so clean, having just been washed by God. Interviews at NYU were wonderful. “Miss Koen, I don’t recall ever meeting such an excellent candidate. I don’t know what they were thinking at MIT, not putting you straightaway into Upper Division Mathematics. If you like, I can call Dean Stockwell and see if we can get this straightened out.” 

“Oh, thank you, Dean Cromarte, for your kind words and your most generous offer, but my relationship with MIT is broken and I have no wish to repair it.” I would explain no further.

Dean guaranteed in writing, right there in his office I would be able to be in Upper Division Maths from day one. Only catch was I would have to wait until Fall term. I emerged from NYU that afternoon with lightness of spirit I had forgotten I once possessed. I thought, I can find job in DC until September.

I was happy until, walking through Washington Square Park, absent rain but still soggy, I remembered a day just like it in Hillsdale, walking home from school with Misha, wanting so desperately to already be home, to fall into his arms. I began to weep silently. 

“My beautiful angel. Where are you?” He was alive, I knew. Mama Sharon had continued to receive letters, postmarked from Philadelphia, no return address. Only thing private dick could find out . . . Misha was not in Philadelphia.

I continued on my way back to Fourth Street station through park. I got to corner and was about to cross street away from park when something caught my attention out of corner of my eye. Big guy, young man, walking west away from me. I could not look away from him. Something about way he walked, his carriage . . . I began to feel faint. “Come on, Rivka, don’t be pussy. Buck up!” I started walking after him, faster and faster. I was so agitated, my gait was stiff, clumsy. I finally caught up to him and he stopped. I reached out and touched his left shoulder. He slowly turned around.