A Biography Of Survival, War And Redemption

A Child Of War by Ewa Reid-Hammer

Book excerpt

Arriving in the small village, we moved into a tiny cottage. I don’t remember much about the village except that other aunts and uncles were there, also living in little cottages.

We visited uncle Zbig every day. He always lay in a white bed, with white sheets and blankets. His legs were wrapped in white bandages. “Why doesn’t he get up?” I asked Dad. “He can’t walk,” Dad answered, “The soldiers shot his legs.” I wondered if he would always stay in bed.

I wanted to go back to my house and play with my toys. We hardly had any toys here. Most of all, I knew my Danda was waiting for me at home, and I badly missed her. Mom and Dad were busy. My sister and I were looked after by a strange woman. I pestered my parents about going home, but was told we couldn’t go back yet. Soon, they would say. I never understood the explanation, or perhaps there never was one, as parents at that time did not feel it necessary to explain things to children.

We lived in this small village for several months in an almost surreal situation. We had lost our beautiful home, were removed from familiar surroundings, and lived on a day-to-day basis until it would be possible to go back to the ruined city. Tying to provide a buffer for us, my parents acted as if these highly abnormal circumstances were not unusual. They sheltered me and my sister from the traumatized refugees, who had been strangers and now were our neighbors. Their pretense at normality in this extremely abnormal situation added to the atmosphere of unreality in which we lived.

Today, we would have had community therapy in this appalling situation. We were all traumatized, displaced persons, who after having been subjected to unspeakable trauma, ended up losing their homes and possessions. Their entire lives had been destroyed. Careers, education, work all disappeared into a dark void and no longer had any meaning. Some people were physically wounded. Most had no idea, and no way to find out, where their loved ones were, or if they had survived. Some people had gone over the edge and lost control. Others were only shell-shocked, suffering what we now call Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. They were all the walking wounded.

Finally, after many months, the big day came and we went home to Warsaw. I ran into the house calling, “Danda, Danda.” But she didn’t come out to greet me, and after running through all the rooms I did not find her. The disappointment was too much, and I started to cry. “Danda is not back yet,” Mom told me, “You have to be patient and wait.” “When will she be back? Where is she?” I wanted to know. “We’re not sure,” was the answer.

Somewhere about that time, a tiny baby was brought to the nursery for Helen and me to see. “This is your new sister, Anne,” we were told. We weren’t impressed. She didn’t look like much fun and was too little to play. She had her own nurse and we only saw her occasionally. We weren’t allowed to touch her.

Helen and I played and ate together in our own nursery, and slept in our own bedroom. In the mornings, we were taken to visit with Grandma downstairs for a while, and Mom and Dad visited briefly in our nursery. After lunch, if the weather was nice we played outside. I had a beautiful cream colored doll carriage trimmed with chrome, a gift from Grandpa to his oldest granddaughter. At five o’clock, Dad came to the nursery to play with us. He would read us stories or watch me make towers from blocks, or help me write letters with my crayons. His visits were always fun. Mom came too, but I don’t remember what we did with her.

One day, a young woman was brought to the playroom by Mom, and introduced as our new nanny. “I don’t want a new nanny,” I told Mom, “I want Danda.”

“Danda is not here and you must listen to your new nanny,” Mom insisted firmly.

This was unbearable. Not only was Danda gone, but some stranger was about to take her place. I would never let that happen. I would wait for Danda no matter how long it took. I let the woman know she was an intruder and not my real nanny. I made her life difficult pretending not to hear her orders, or ignoring them directly. I told her I hated her.

Finally, I succeeded in making her go away.

Mother was angry and told me my bad behavior had caused her to quit. She still didn’t understand that was my plan. Now, I hoped, Danda would come back.

But she didn’t. Another nanny was hired instead. I started my campaign of terror once again, however, this one was harder to discourage.

One morning, as I entered the playroom, I noticed an ironing board with an iron standing on it. Nanny was nowhere about. I examined the shiny object. I knew perfectly well I wasn’t allowed to touch it, but it was hard to resist. Wondering if it was hot, I placed my palm squarely on the shiny, flat surface. Immediately, I jumped away screaming and holding my burned hand. It had turned a bright red and was hurting badly. In response to my cries, the housekeeper and nanny both came running.

Mrs. Lizoniowa did the housekeeping and her husband was the gardener and maintenance man. They had been with us for a long time. She scooped me up in her arms and yelled at my nanny: ”Where were you? Why weren’t you keeping an eye on the child?”

She rushed me downstairs to my grandmother. My hand was soaked in cool water with a soothing powder and the doctor was summoned. Fortunately, the iron had not been very hot, and I had withdrawn my hand so quickly, no major damage had been done. Despite being reminded by Mom that I shouldn’t have touched the iron, the nanny was fired. I was coddled by my grandparents for a few days. It was a most gratifying ending to my misadventure.

My paternal grandmother was tolerant and loving. One morning I was brought to her bedroom while she was still in bed. After playing on the bed for a while, I got bored and went to explore her dressing table, which was full of bottles and jars. There were many very interesting things to examine. “Be careful, don’t spill anything”, grandfather warned.

“Let her have fun,” answered Grandma. Pretty soon a colored jar slipped out of my hands and a cloud of white powder enveloped the area settling on me and everything else in sight.

“Now look what you’ve done. I told you to be careful. What a mess!” Grandpa sounded very displeased. “Oh, it’s just a little powder,” Said Grandma, “Call Mary to clean it up.” I knew she had taken my side and I would not be punished. I loved my grandmother very much. From her I got the sense of unconditional acceptance and love, which I would so desperately need in the years to come. I would need these inner strengths for what was about to come.

Grandfather was the undisputed and autocratic patriarch of the family. He was the Emperor: powerful and controlling. His approval of me as his firstborn granddaughter, gave me special status in the family. He liked me as I was, and made me feel special. From him I got a sense of grounding and importance, strength, empowerment.

I continued to mourn the loss of Danda, and hope for her return. She had been my de-facto mother from birth. She was always there to comfort me when I cried, to feed me when I was hungry and to hold me when I was sad. She did not expect me to control my feelings, and allowed me to be I could who I really was: a baby-child. I could cry, scream, throw a tantrum when angry, or laugh, sing and dance when happy. She gave me total approval and affirmation. I knew that I was special and wonderful in her eyes. I did not know then, that I had lost not only her but all her gifts forever. I would spend many years in trying to find again the unconditional love she gave me, that was so suddenly and violently lost.

The loss of Danda was the first, and foreshadowed the many losses I would experience in the near future.

When the next nanny arrived, she had been warned I would be difficult and firmness was the order of the day. That evening we had potato soup served for supper in the nursery. I did not like potato soup and decided to test the resolve of the new nanny. I refused to eat it. She tried persuasion, bribery and threats, but to no avail. I simply refused.

“A stubborn one,” she said. “Well, you can just sit here until you eat it.”

So I sat there until bedtime, but she wasn’t beaten yet. “If you don’t eat it tonight, you’ll get it cold for breakfast in the morning.” I didn’t eat it.

True to her word she served it cold for breakfast. I still refused. She threatened to serve it again for lunch. By then nothing would make me give in.

As I sat in front of the cold soup once again at lunchtime, my Grandfather unexpectedly walked in. “What’s this, cold soup for lunch?” He asked. I told him I hated potato soup and nanny wouldn’t give me anything else to eat since yesterday. Grandpa was horrified and ordered lunch to be brought immediately. He asked the nanny if starving a child was her idea of discipline.

She left in a huff and once again Mom had to find a replacement.

I was a stubborn child with a strong sense of what was fair and an unwillingness to compromise on that. For some reason, being the first grandchild made me special. His approval gave me grounding. He was powerful and made me feel strong, as well.

Mother’s patience was wearing thin with my nanny exploits. She let me know when the next one arrived that this was it. If I misbehaved again, I would be in big trouble. The moment of truth came at bath time. Helen and I did everything together including taking long, fun baths.

The new nanny, having been warned of my temper tantrums, and afraid she couldn’t control us both in the tub at the same time, insisted we must take turns. I argued with her, telling her we were allowed to bathe together. She refused to give in and put Helen in the tub keeping me out.

All my rage at her not being Danda mixed with the sense she was being unfair. I reached out and grabbed her hair. She was holding Helen in the water and afraid to let her go. I yanked and pulled out a handful of hair. Then I grabbed for more. She screamed.

People came running and pulled me away. Mother came too, and I could see she was very angry. She told me she had had enough, and slapped my bottom hard, several times.

I had never been hit before, and though later I would be spanked by Dad, this was the first and last time Mother ever hit me. I cried bitterly from outrage and humiliation more that pain. But I knew this was the end. Mom had won and the nanny would stay. She was not so bad in the end, but I would never accept her because she wasn’t Danda. And I would never forgive Danda for leaving me.

I could not know then that Danda had spent the end of the war in a work camp in Germany. I felt very abandoned and betrayed.

Danda, my primary caregiver, had represented to me security, warmth and love. My desperate attempts to get her back represented my need to recapture the stability of an earlier era. I felt hurt and angry at what I experienced as her abandonment. These episodes reinforced for me that my anger and attempts to get my way were futile. I learned again how powerless I was to influence events. These feelings of impotent anger and frustration started to coalesce into an energetic block, which would later in life immobilize me and be a huge obstacle to motivation, making decisions and moving purposefully forward.