Although our father threatened to kill us and a merry band of jurists ravaged us, my brother Siggi and I always tried to do the best in everything we did. Maybe this was so, because every now and then our mother whipped us, so that we would never be morally confused.
Even so, the behavior of the adults around us greatly confused us, Siggi and me. Because no one ever whipped our tormentors, i.e. father, mother and their merry bands of lawyers. For years, somebody even earned, or spent, big money to shred our family.
When Siggi and I were twelve and fourteen years old, a kind judge ruled outside the law to liberate our mother and us from our new luxury home. Because our father refused to care for us. Two bailiffs threw our stuff out onto the lawn. Into the rain. On Christmas Eve day. Then they left again to celebrate Christmas. By the light of real fire candles on Christmas trees.
For one long year thereafter, Ma, Siggi and I had to squat in a tiny room in the attic of an apartment building.
And not even God seemed to care.
Our new home has a window, a door, and its ceiling slopes almost down to the floor. No utilities. Not even a French toilet hole in the floor.
Three of us crowd one mattress. Someone shakes me out of my sleep: “You’re late.” Rising, I thumped my head off the ceiling.
Hollow Sound. Where’s my brain?
Siggi and I must hurry to catch the train to our elite school in another city.
Noses cold and dripping. Snorting steam in candlelight. Take turns warming hands over flickering flame.
Where’s my cruddy hankie? A bare spot. Snot!
Sitting on mattress edge, Ma sullenly cuts rotting parts from apples. She gathers such in darkness from the nearby wholesaler’s pile. Puts edible parts in our mouths. Including cores. Don’t mind the worms.
Thank you.
No need to dress. We sleep in musty clothes under dusty blankets.
We tie our boots, hurry downstairs and stop at the top renter’s smelly three-story high waterless privy on the stair landing.
Now use your imagination, because I have to restrain my gestures. My fly buttons are a little lower. Gaze at your feet. Or stare at me. My slick buttons slip off frozen fingers. I dance. Precious moments. There. Missed. Don’t shrivel up now! Warm. Look Ma, no hands. Wind plays mournful tune in the privy pipe. No paper. Dry my hands on my pants.
I return to the stair landing to let Siggi takes his turn to also jump-start his day.
Outside it’s light enough for us to preen. Daily routine. Society demands us to be spick and span. Proper.
Need a wake-up shower. I spit-clean my eyes and ears with my trusty hankie decorated with crusty stuff.
Both eyes. Left ear. Always last, right ear. What’s left of it. Grossly neglected chronic infection. Pus. Stinks. Observe that everything always stinks. Even our showers. Can you still smell me?
I ask him: “Are they clean now?”
He responds: “You still have crud in your eye.”
“Which?“
“Left.”
“You do too.”
Observe that everything is always crusty, dusty, fusty, gusty, musty, or rusty. Rarely ever lusty or trusty. And worst of all, Siggi and I never dare to get close to someone busty. Ma doesn’t count.
We hurry to the train station. Feet freezing. Old boots still wet from long ago. Train makes four stops before we get off.
Respectfully our class rises to greet our teacher. Then sits down. I always hide behind the pupil in front of me. Too frightened to answer teacher’s questions. Brain, what’s left of it, wants to protect me and is always shut down. But I don’t know this. People tell me that I am dumb. I flunk French and this simply flunks me out of the elite, from which only five percent of the population manages to graduate.
I discover that my slick fly buttons are open. Must keep my hands down and folded until I find a safety pin.
My ear is whooshing. Feels like it’s oozing again. I casually scoop it out. Casually wipe on pants.
“Gristlehead!” This cool handle this teacher gave me a long time ago. Noooo! “What did I just say?” I shrug my shoulders. He comes. I stiffen. Pulls me up by my right ear, what’s left of it. “Ouu…“ If his fingers get gooey, he'll think I gooed him on purpose. And whip me.
“Write one hundred times, always pay attention to teacher!“ I slump back on seat. After eternity the mid-morning bell rings. I retrieve newspaper-wrapped snack from my satchel. Save paper for private hygiene, should such need arise. Take snack outside. Dense black bread with lard and sugar. Delicious! Even the mold.
At noon we return home by train. Like most days, Ma sits on mattress, brooding. “I’m hungry,“ I say. Again she feeds us pieces of salvaged fruit. After a hearty meal, Siggi and I try to sneak out. Ma reaches for the permanent ornament pinned to her waistband: Two feet of 220Volt electrical chord. She admonishes us that we have to do our homework first.
I write one hundred times. With cold fingers. The whip.
Ma had electrified my bottom before, for having been punished by my teachers. Could her high-voltage zapping be the single-biggest reason that Siggi and I are rarely morally confused? Think about this! Why did we not become like our early-day role models? Was it only because our mother and teachers whipped us, that Siggi and I did not become hedonists, wife-beaters, child beaters, adulterers, and worse?
If only it were true that character still counts. Character often gets us into trouble, Siggi and me. Because our truth seems to offend others. But thank you just the same, Ma, wherever you are. And thank you God for protecting and guiding of us.
Mr. Toastmaster.
