I dreaded the nights. Then again, it always felt like night because the room was perpetually dark. Only a small hairline crack in the wood covering the window betrayed any sense of daylight. You could just make out a thin golden thread in those early autumn mornings. When it came, it felt like a special gift—a welcome if momentary reprieve from my thoughts and angst.
The isolation and solitary confinement were the extreme opposite of the rapid fire interrogations and anti-Semitic ramblings from the Keeper. I wasn’t sure which was worse. During those long dark periods, the mind has nowhere else to go but inward, and that’s not always the best place to be.
There were many moments during my captivity when I felt like I was being sucked into a giant dark hole—a long, huge tunnel. It was metaphysical. Maybe a dream, maybe not. I would lay chained on the closet floor or chained to the metal-frame bed and be transported horizontally into the tunnel. It was as if I were being pulled in by some unstoppable gravitational force. The only thing I could do was to accept my powerlessness. I had no idea what was happening to me. Was I cracking up?
Later, I learned it’s a common phenomenon for people who’ve had close brushes with death. All over the world people have reported feeling as though they’re being sucked into a long hallway or tube, or in my case, a tunnel. It shook me to my core. I was getting pulled into my own death, over and over again. It’s truly a miracle I survived, and even more so with my mind relatively intact.
A big part of that was focusing my mind on my sweet and beautiful wife. If I didn’t make it out of this mess, I hoped she would be able to say at my funeral that I was honest, a great father, and a caring husband. That made me content in my circumstances. I cared for her so much. I cared for her family; I had married them, too.
Then my emotions would swing like a pendulum to anger at my abductors. Those bastards made me convince my beloved wife to deliver the money! I took it for granted that they wouldn’t hold up their end of their proposed deal. “Deliver the money, and Jack goes free. Deliver the money, and nobody gets hurt.” Fat chance. The Keeper had already lied to me. He had said he’d let me go after they robbed me. And here I am, chained and tormented. Would they treat Janet the same way? Is she responsible for the Keeper’s insane grievances, too? I never expected her to deliver the ransom—nobody would have. To want to do it is one thing, but to actually do it is another. The courage and the will she carried in her petite, innocent frame is something I’ll never, ever forget.
Then the emotional pendulum would whoosh back in the other direction away from the torment the kidnappers inflicted on our family to tender thoughts of my children. Marc was six, Michael was two. My daughter was a glimmer on the horizon, not yet conceived. I thought of them many, many times during the loneliest hours. I felt their presence. I prayed ceaselessly that I would see them again.
My mind also jumped to escape, to freedom. I fixated on how I could break free. I tried and tried to get the handcuffs off. If I could just loosen them a little bit, I could squeeze a hand through the hole, I thought. I’d gladly trade some skin to strip a hand free. And if I could just manage a hand, maybe I could free my legs, then I’d make a run for it. Yes! I could feel the adrenaline when I fantasized about escaping. I would’ve done it. It might’ve worked. There were many times when nobody was around. I know because there were no sounds coming from the other room for hours at a time. Even during the day. No voices, no footsteps, nothing. But it was no use. The cuffs were too tight, and the chains were unbreakable. They were gone, doing whatever they were doing, and I wasn’t going anywhere. I was in bondage with no escape.
My mind wandered back to the driveway. I’d get so mad at myself. I wasn’t the fastest guy in the world, but maybe I could’ve lost the kidnappers in the woods behind my house. I replayed that scenario over and over again, visualizing the perfect moves like an athlete before an important game. I know the woods behind my house like the back of my hand; I’d lived in the area for 14 years. Plus, it was raining and dark. Maybe they would have never caught me, I thought. It burned in my gut, but I had chosen to go with them. And I’m glad I did, because Janet was inside with our two young boys.
Then I would try to flick off the thoughts like a switch. What do these mind games matter, anyway? It’s all so futile. I’d cycle through these thoughts again and again only to conclude that there was no way out. I honestly thought I’d never get out of there. Why would they take the risk of letting me go? What’s the upside? If caught, they’d already go to prison for the rest of their adult lives. What’s a few more years for murder that guaranteed I’d never talk to the police? I kept thinking about the gasoline can in the car and the fumes on the Keeper’s gloves. At the end of the day, they’re going to run off with the money and throw a lit match on this place on their way out. What did they have to lose?
* * *
The Keeper entered the room with a surprise. “I’m going away for a bit. Maybe three hours, and I might get stuck in traffic,” he said. “If you need anything, like food or a cigarette, tell him.”
It was a new captor, a guard that came with special instructions.
“He doesn’t speak English,” the Keeper said. There was some whispering between them, but I couldn’t make out any words.
“If you need to talk to him, you have to speak French,” he said.
“I don’t know French,” I said.
The Keeper spent a few minutes teaching me the basics.
“When he comes in, you greet him. You say, ‘Jambo.’ Understand?” he said.
“Yes.”
“If you need food, it’s ‘manget.’ If you want a cigarette, say ‘fire.’ If he talks to you, and you don’t understand, you say ‘Umfudisi.’ Understand?” he continued.
“Umfudisi. Yes.”
“Oh, and you don’t want to get smart with him. He’s high strung, and he already doesn’t like you. You know why?”
“Why?” I said, hesitantly.
“Because the Israeli Air Force bombed, napalmed, the village his wife and children were in. They killed them. Burned them alive. Imagine what he thinks about you.”
He let his comment linger as if expecting me to answer. It was one of his sadistic rhetorical traps. “Imagine what he thinks about you.” If I responded, the Keeper would’ve jumped all over me for talking back. “You don’t tell me! I tell you!” I couldn’t win. He enjoyed those moments. They reinforced his power. I laid there, unresponsive, muzzled by fear. I tried to sneak a slow inhale hoping he wouldn’t take offense. It was all I could manage. I had no idea what to do. I didn’t know if what he said was even true or not. He never mentioned the name of the stranger’s Middle Eastern village or any other details, but it didn’t matter. He had his desired effect. And with that, he left.
The new man left with him but stayed behind in the adjacent room. I could hear him on the other side of the door. He would stomp around and talk on the phone; that was part of his routine. It never seemed to ring, but at times I could hear him dialing out. He definitely spoke a foreign language, and I’m sure some of the calls were with the Keeper. I got the impression the new guy was slow-thinking and not very bright, not compared to the Keeper. I began to refer to him outright as Umfudisi. I got the feeling the Keeper would call him from time to time to check in and make sure he was doing what he was supposed to do: keep me alive and blind.
During the week of my captivity, there were perhaps three or four occasions when the Keeper informed me he was leaving the premises and that Umfudisi was in charge. All of these instances occurred after I was “promoted” to the bed, and they took place sporadically between long periods of isolation. The first time Umfudisi entered my room alone, I quickly acknowledged him with an obedient, “Jambo.” It was my way of saying “hi,” and “I’m no threat to you.” He didn’t respond. He just loitered for a while and said nothing. I could feel his menacing presence and wondered what he might do to me.
On another occasion I caught a glimpse of him walking out. He left the door open and a light on in the other room. The Keeper would’ve raged if he knew. I peaked at Umfudisi from beneath the frame of the taped glasses. He was tall, not what I expected. I figured he’d be heavy and of medium height, but he was very tall and thin. I only saw the back of him, but I noticed he had a limp. That was the reason for his heavy gait. That’s why it sounded like he was stomping all the time. He dragged one leg and caught his full weight with the other. Shhh-POOH, shhh-POOH, shhh-POOH. The stomp was accentuated by the cheap, hollow construction of the tenement floor.
Umfudisi only spoke a few words the entire time. I’ll never forget one of our final encounters. He freed one of my hands. It was exhilarating. I pulsed my fingers open and closed. I soothed my wrist with a gentle rub. My arms were no longer clasped together. It was so uplifting. He left the room, and I stretched my arms outward for the first time in days. The neck chains had been removed earlier that morning, and I felt free, save for my legs. I sat up and moved around more than I previously could on the bed. I felt liberated—which was kind of silly, considering.
But I had gotten too comfortable. Perhaps the mattress crinkled in a new way, or maybe the chains clinked oddly, because without warning the door burst open, and the Keeper jammed a pistol into my ribs.
“You trying to escape!” he yelled. Once again, he had his desired effect. My short-lived feeling of enjoyment was over.
* * *
I never ate anything in the closet—nothing for three days. I wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction, I thought. I was too terrified to eat, anyway. By the time I reached the bed, food was no longer something I could turn away. My first meal was chocolate—one of those big, thick chocolate bars. They put it in a plastic bag and told me to keep it. “Eat it when you’re hungry and put it back in the bag when you’re done. We don’t want roaches in here,” the Keeper said.
Once I started eating, he brought more food. Crackers made for my next meal, the thin square kind. Then peanut butter. Small bananas. Orange juice. A can of Mott’s apple juice. A can of Planters peanuts. Eventually, a McDonald’s hamburger with French fries and a can of Rheingold beer.
One time the Keeper said he had a special treat for me: homemade carrot cake. (To this day I can’t eat the stuff.) It had a thin layer of icing on top. “No thanks,” I said, reluctantly.
“It’s healthy,” he insisted.
“I had some recently. My wife made it. I can’t eat it,” I said, hoping not to set him off.
“You must’ve bought it from the Muslim sect,” he said. “That must’ve been from a Muslim sect,” he said.
I had no earthly idea what he was talking about.
Another time, he gave me a bag of dates. He dropped them next to me on the bed as he tidied up. When he left, I noticed a chartreuse green price tag on the cellophane wrapping with “$1.10” and the word “grocery” above it. I don’t know why, but it was comforting—something normal from the outside world. Later, he brought in a container of Bobby Brooks spring water with a white cap. A sticker on the cap read, “31¢.” Another time, he brought me a hamburger in plain white paper. It tasted unbelievably good. The circumstances were all wrong, but I allowed myself to secretly enjoy it. It was hot, and I imagined it coming from one of New York’s finest diners.
One morning, the Keeper came in, removed my neck chains, and announced he was going out to get breakfast. “I’m gonna bring you some potatoes and eggs,” he said. And he did, along with some coffee. He also told me, “You’re not going to need your ears to eat,” before putting plastic headphones over my ears. It was strange, and he never said why, but the last thing I remember as he was putting them on my head was the sound of church bells ringing in the distance. Sunday, I thought. It’s Sunday.
The eggs were scorching hot. So was the coffee, and the potatoes were abnormally warm. I sat up, still in my work clothes from last Tuesday night. As I lifted the lid on the coffee, deaf and near blind but for the Sterno, it hit me. The coffee cup! I snuck a peek. There on the rust-colored coffee cup were white letters over a brownish background that read: “The Horizon Restaurant, Bronx, New York.” The letters were patterned in a downward facing half-moon, or a horizon shape. It had an address: “Bronx, New York.” Given the temperature of the coffee and eggs, I thought perhaps The Horizon Restaurant might be nearby.
From that point forward, I paid close attention to whatever would further pinpoint the kidnappers’ hideout. The next morning, which had to be Monday, November 18, I heard the grinding gears of garbage trucks, the abrupt pshhhh release of air breaks, and hydraulic compressions as garbage men loaded and unloaded trash cans. God bless them, I thought. As a lifelong New Yorker, it was amazing how comforting mundane city noises could be. They came back the next morning and continued working for an unusually long period of time, maybe two hours. Was I near some kind of garbage depot?
I also heard children around the same time. School children, I thought. If they’re walking to school, then maybe there’s a school around here. That’s a useful landmark to know, I thought. I could hear their chatter and giggles, and shouting and chasing. They were innocent, playful sounds.
Later in the afternoon, I heard a heavy piece of machinery, like a tractor or bulldozer, or something similar. It sounded like it was loading debris onto another truck. A construction site? The rumble of the engine was much different than that of the garbage trucks earlier in the day. I had been forced to give up sight and yet, all of a sudden, my sense of hearing felt heightened. It’s amazing how much one sense can grow when another is taken away.
Several times I heard vehicles that seemed to be traveling at a high rate of speed and in constant motion in a clockwise direction. They sounded like souped-up hot rods. Were they racing? Was it the kidnappers? A couple of times the occupants got out and started jawing at each other. It sounded friendly for the Bronx, I guess. I racked my brain trying to make out some words, but it was no use.
There wasn’t that much regular traffic in the area, but there was a train. Judging by the audible ta-tunk ta-tunk ta-tunk and the screeching and slamming of metal wheels against metal tracks, I figured it had to be an elevated train or subway line. They’re common in the boroughs, and it couldn’t have been more than a couple of blocks away. It felt like a eureka moment at first, but then not so much. Was it the 4, 5, or 6 train? The B or D? Maybe the 6? Wait, what if it’s the LIRR? The Metro North? I tried to gauge how far apart the trains ran to determine whether it could be an express or local line. It didn’t work.
I also heard what must’ve been firetrucks. Was a station nearby? The sirens and blare horns blasted at irregular hours. I used the boarded window as a 12:00 point of reference to try to identify the location of the elevated train and the fire engine sounds. They seemed to come from a 10:00 direction. I felt like this was all going to be important if I ever got out of here.
There was a dog in a nearby building. It would bark at odd hours and trigger other dogs in the area to start barking. Sometimes someone would yell out for quiet. Sometimes someone would yell back.
Once I thought I heard a woman’s voice in the other room. Does she know I’m chained up in here like an animal? If I screamed for help would she call the police, or was that signing my own death warrant? The more I listened for her, the more confused I became. The woman’s voice seemed to come from the next room, but then it sounded like it was coming from the apartment above—or maybe outside? My newfound confidence was slipping away. Ok, so there’s a woman living upstairs, but is this a different woman? I listened intently and wondered if I was hearing someone’s TV. It was hopeless.
* * *
As the Keeper continued to come and go during those later days, I could feel rage beginning to bubble inside me. First it was shock and abject fear, then I’d learned to block out his hatred the best I could and sift his words for survival clues. Now it was rage. I was so angry at him, but I was also so intimidated that it paralyzed me when he was around. I couldn’t speak, and it was too dangerous to talk back even if I could.
There’s a natural instinct in all of us to get angry when someone degrades your heritage or religious faith. It strikes at your core. It’s universally wrong. It’s unjustifiable to hurt someone because of how they worship, or for their conception of God, or for who their family is, or where they come from. I’ve never understood how people can do this. I wasn’t raised that way. We were proud New Yorkers who loved our neighbors in the great melting pot that is our city.
But I couldn’t fight back. Not in those circumstances. There was no debating. No arguing. No discussing. I had to let him rant at me in his most vile ways and swallow the humiliation. I couldn’t afford for the Keeper to get upset, but my rage was brewing.
The theme of the Keeper’s abuse was always that rich Jews were subjugating poor blacks and the Palestinians. I would’ve liked nothing more than to explain why that perception was so misguided—and so hurtful. None of it even involved me. I could’ve said a million different things on that account, but there was no opportunity. I was just expected to absorb his hate.
“The Jews take advantage of poor people,” he said, over and over again. He didn’t preach so much as lecture. He was always lecturing.
“The plight of poor people in America, Africa, and the Middle East is because of the Jews and the whites,” he would pontificate. “The Jews are the world’s slumlords. How many slums do you own?”
He thought nothing of how bigoted and offensive his words were. It didn’t bother him in the slightest. I’ve met so many good people from different walks of life. What he was saying totally contradicted my experiences. Generalizing people as either good or bad based on their racial, ethnic, or religious backgrounds is something that I’ve always detested. It’s wrong. Period. Full stop. Not falling victim to his bigoted pathologies is going to be another win if I ever get out of here, I thought.
He would say horrible, and I mean horrible, things to me about how the Jews were treated by the Germans. He would then tell me that the Jews were the Nazis to poor black and brown people. At times it seemed his racial theories were part smoke and mirrors to justify his actions. He’d hear himself, and it wouldn’t make sense, like a fanatic who doesn’t quite believe everything he says but nevertheless tries to believe anyway.
“We’re not going to allow it,” he would say. “We’re not going to allow it.” That was his bottom line.
“A man isn’t a man in the ghetto, you see. How’s a black woman going to respect a black man when he can’t provide for her? He’s not getting that respect. He can’t support her. He can’t provide for her. He can’t give her medical care. He’s not a man—not a whole man,” he rambled.
I’ve never been unsympathetic to poor people. Far from it. But to the Keeper, I was responsible for the ills of society or even the world. My name is Jack Teich. I work in Brooklyn. I live on Long Island. I love my family. They mean everything to me. None of this other stuff has anything to do with me! I didn’t dare tell him. Not then. But a day would come when I would tell him everything, and he wasn’t going to like it, not one bit.
* * *
On Monday night, the Keeper made his move. At 9:15 p.m., he called Buddy’s house in Larchmont. His plan had been to push my family hard early and then go silent for several days. It would give Buddy and Janet precious time to get the money and to worry about getting me back. A worried family is a motivated family, he thought. Now, it was time to collect.
“Hello?”
“Hello. Buddy please,” he said.
“Uh, Buddy isn’t here. May I take a message please?” It was Lois, Buddy’s wife.
“What time will he be in?”
“I don’t know. Who’s calling please?” she asked, although she was already putting it together.
“I will call back—”
“No wait! I can tell you where he is,” she said.
“Quickly.”
“Yes, he’s in, um, he’s in Great Neck,” she responded.
“Yes,” he said.
“You know the number?”
“Yes I do,” he said, ending the call.
No sooner had he hung up than the phone rang back at my house on Kings Point.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Buddy?”
“Yes!” Buddy snapped to attention. He knew exactly who it was. Buddy and Janet had been waiting by the phone. The two previous calls had occurred at almost precisely the same time at night.
“Yes. Is my brother alive?” he asked.
“He is. He is alive, and he is well. Are you ready to make the exchange?”
“I have the money, but I must have proof that he is alive. I have the money,” Buddy said.
“I sent you proof. You have it,” the Keeper replied.
“You sent me proof? When?” Buddy asked.
“I sent the proof to you.”
“The other night?” said Buddy.
“You will have—”
“Look. You can have the money. I’ve got three-quarters of a million dollars right here, but I want my brother.”
“You will have him,” said the Keeper. He was getting annoyed.
“You must prove this to me,” said Buddy, holding firm.
“Now you listen to me carefully,” the Keeper said.
“I’m sorry. What did you say?
“Tomorrow, be at Times Square, at the Information Booth, in front of the Times Building. That’s all you need to know,” the kidnapper said.
“Times Square Info Booth?”
“Be there at 6:30. Be at the telephone booth behind the Times Information Booth,” he said.
“Wait one second,” said Buddy. “Now is that 6:30 in the morning or in the evening?”
“Evening. Understand? I will call you at the phone booth behind the New York Information Booth at 6:30.”
“Behind the New York Information Booth. Will you prove to me then that Jack is alive? When will I have proof he is alive? I will have the money with me. Three-quarters of a million dollars. It’s everything I’ve got,” said Buddy.
“Do you have the bag?” The Keeper was referring to the black satchel he put in the garbage bag at the Exxon station.
“I have it. I have the money in the bag you sent me. I’ve done everything that you have wanted.”
“We will prove to you he is alive,” said the Keeper.
“Before you get the money I want proof,” said Buddy. But there was no response this time.
“Before you get the money,” Buddy started again, but by then he was talking to a dial tone.