“The tale you long to tell. The story of a life which is revealed,
after many years, to have been all along the story of a death.”
– Sofia Samatar, A Stranger in Olondria
You see in one photograph, a little girl’s short dress, white lace under flowery orange organza, white stockings and black, patent leather shoes: a three-year old, dressed beautifully by a mother proud of her husband’s position at the American embassy in Bonn. In all those still photographs it’s glaringly obvious that the girl was not really a little girl, but a loud and excitable monster, brimming over with uncontrollable energy. She’s a flash of movement among other children standing neatly and obediently.
Seeing the photographs, I feel the shame again. I
wanted to behave, but I could not control myself.
There were green hills between the tall, dull, post-WW2, German apartment buildings. I’d lie down at the top of each hill, roll down it, and then rush up to the next one. Occasionally, another child was there, a Chinese girl who would always ask me to sit by her and then begin to make a daisy chain. She wanted to make a crown of flowers and see me wear it. I’d watch her carefully pierce the stems of the tiny daisies with a delicate fingernail and slip the stem of the next daisy into it. I wanted to see the completed crown; I wanted to wear it. I’d try to sit and wait—but I couldn’t. Even as the energy forced me to run to the top of the next hill, I’d feel sad about the crown of flowers, about again disappointing the girl who wanted to see me wearing it, but I couldn’t stop myself.
That energy transferred itself to anything I touched. Once, I opened a bottle of soda sitting on the kitchen table. The contents flew out explosively, covering the table in brown liquid. “You stupid girl! You’ve spilled it!” my mother yelled. I was horrified and ashamed—how had I done that?
And I was too excited when my father came home each evening. It would make him mad and then I would have to run from him. He’d chase me through the apartment and I remember the shame I felt when he laughed, “Ha! You cornered yourself.” He’d carry me into the living room, sit on a straight backed chair by the front door with me face down over his knee, and I’d scream as he spanked me. One evening, my mother came out of the kitchen holding a dishtowel and said, “Don’t touch her ever again.” We were both struck dumb and just stared at her. He never did spank me again. We were both terrified of her.
But sometimes, I did keep still. I would lie on the cork floor in the living room, fascinated by the strange material it was made of, put my feet against the wall, and gaze at a painting of a dense, dark, orange forest. I’d try to leave my body and walk through that forest; I was never able to do it. So I’d look for the sewing needle that I dropped on the floor, hoping to find it before my mother realized I’d lost it.
 |
| 47 years later, it looks like a different painting |
And I sat still for a book once, too. When my parents were out, I sneaked into my mother’s room that glowed a dim orange from the light trying to pour in through the curtains. I sat there with a book that had a little ladybug printed on the cover. It was
The Elves and the Shoemaker and I finished reading it just in time to rush out of her room and close the door as they were opening the front door. I boasted about reading the whole book and they were not angry.
When my mother’s back was hurting, my father would do the laundry in the basement. German women in the building stared at me as I ran back and forth screaming in the dim hallway. I was very slow to understand that he was indulgent only in public.
A German boy would sometimes visit his grandmother downstairs. I never knew when he would come. Early one morning, he threw pebbles against my window. We spoke through the window. He told me to come downstairs. As I was standing at my closet, wearing an undershirt and underpants, trying to figure out what I could wear that wouldn’t make my mother mad, when my dad walked in. “Why are you standing there neck-ed?” he asked in a booming voice. I wanted to explain that I was going downstairs to play with the little boy, but I was too afraid to speak. I didn’t move as I tried to find my voice, but finally his voice made me reluctantly get back into bed.
Eventually I did “learn to mind.” The children at the kindergarten would take walks with Miss Helga. We were not allowed to let go of the rope. One time I tripped, but as the other children kept walking, I kept hold of the rope. My knee was scrapped and Miss Helga wanted to know why I hadn’t let go. Didn't she remember all the times she had told me to never let go?!
