1956

I was born in Germany, some ten years after the Second World War. I didn’t experience the war, but my parents did. War does strange things to people; it dims the light in their eyes. Back then, there was no word for it, and I did not know it was not normal. The other kids’ parents in the neighborhood were much the same – zombies navigating their existence with one halting step in front of the other. I know my parents did their best under the circumstances. Still, it would also be fair to say that they failed me, making me feel as they did in their overwhelm and exhaustion, that I was a great burden to them. That I was far more than any parents should ever have to endure, never worthy of praise or encouragement, only ever of consternation and criticism. Ultimately, it shaped how I saw myself as entirely unlovable and stupid. So dark inside that if anyone truly knew me, they would shrink away in horror. It’s not the best footing from which to start out in life. 

But then again, perhaps it was by watching my parents live their half-dead lives, utterly numbed from living squeezed inside a box too small to take even one cleansing breath, that I came away with my unrelenting inner drive never to give up. I didn’t know where I would eventually go or what I would do. Still, I always knew that I would never be like them, living a life full of such vast impossibility. How else to explain the interminable compulsion that kept me moving forward, no matter how deep the morass, how utterly hopeless my state, and how excruciating my pain? So much pain lay ahead, but undeniably, this inexorable drive in me would not let me quit. It kept me surviving when others might long have given up and died. I guess I have my parents to thank for that.

We lived in a three-story rowhouse in a quiet suburb of Nuremberg. Nothing here was reminiscent of what people usually thought of when they heard about the city and its infamous war trials. The streets in my neighborhood were clean and quiet. They were wide by German standards but still narrow enough that cars had to park half on the sidewalk to keep the road passable. All the houses were immaculately kept. They had steepled tile roofs, and most were painted a conservative white or beige, with the occasional free spirit making theirs a dark blue or wine red. Windows were, without exception, hung with lacey sheers. The tiny postage-stamp front yards were well-kept, tiny patches of grass, some with an old oak or pine tree, and always bordered by knee-high hedges or beds of pansies or snapdragons or impatiens.

It was after nine when I made it back to my parent’s house. It was already dark out. Most neighbors had drawn heavy curtains over their downstairs living room windows. Blue light from their televisions strobed through the cracks, making me think of an alien invasion in progress. My house was dark. My parents must have gone to bed very early. I was grateful for that. 

Shakily, I climbed the five steps to my front door and pushed the key into the lock. Once inside, I remembered to lock the door behind me. My parents had a thing about that. I didn’t turn on any lights. I tiptoed in the dark up the steps to the first floor, where my parents slept in separate bedrooms. I had to traverse Mama’s room to access the built-out attic where I slept. I pressed the door handle as quietly as possible, but still, she woke up and turned on the little lamp on her bedside table. “How was it?” she whispered sleepily, rubbing her eyes. “Fine, Mama. It was fine.” I was grateful Mama didn’t notice the missing buttons on my snot-stained blouse, the torn pantyhose, or the deep red mark on my cheek where the man had punched me into submission. I was relieved I didn’t have to explain. I probably would have thrown up if I’d had to say those awful words out loud, “He raped me, Mama!”

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