What she left behind

Oma’s life was not a beautiful fairy tale that ends happily ever after.  This woman, who had survived so much, was about to have to survive a lot more, from a man who she thought would be her savior. 

Grandpa tells me many years later that Oma had escaped back to Germany with the kids.  Mom and her brother must have been little, as Grandpa says she was speaking, but Mom has no memory of it.  Grandpa says, “It took me a while to find them, and bring them back.  When I did the kids could not speak English anymore.  It took me a month to beat the German out of them.”

I talked with my mother recently.  She said her first memory is of Grandpa beating Oma.  Oma then walked into the kitchen, with all her children and turned on the gas.  I don’t know what or who stopped her.  I’ve been in that place of abuse where you think you have no way out.  Now remember this is in the late 1950’s there was no national discussion on domestic abuse, no shelters for battered women.  She had lived a very difficult life with two kids in Germany.  I do not think she could imagine trying again with four.  She had run away and he had found her.  No place was safe for her or her kids.  She was trapped.  For this woman who had survived so much, death, at that moment, seemed like her only way out. 

The fact that Grandpa beat Oma and molested the kids was not a well known fact in the community, and had never been talked about publicly.  Nor was the fact that he would often leave and go to sea and leave Oma with no money.  No money, no groceries, nothing.  It was another way to control her.  Had it not been for a family friend, who let her borrow the money to buy things like food and shoes, they would not have survived.  Everyone knew my Grandfather was an ass.  Everyone, but my father Jeff, was afraid of him.  Grandpa was a big man and no one ever stood up to him.  I think few outside the family understood that he was mentally and emotionally abusive at all times.  James Parker was nothing but a bully. 

When I was in my early teens my Grandfather remarried to a woman named Barbara.  She, for the most part, was a nice lady.  She was a great baker.  Before she would marry my Grandfather he had to convert to Christianity.  My Grandfather was a long avowed atheist.  Oh what men will do for some pussy! Grandpa converted.  It was all a lie.  He never spoke of his new found faith or of Jesus.  To this day, I believe it was all an act.  I believe he died an atheist. 

We, Grandpa, Barbara, my parents and I, were active in a local church.  My mother came out when I was 19 and began to tell those around her about the sexual abuse she suffered at the hands of my Grandfather.  It split the family down the middle.  Most of the church and the community did not believe either, because he was well respected in the community.  He was seen as a self made man.  Barbara believed for 24 hours, until Grandpa convinced her otherwise.  I have refused to speak to her since then.  But I understand.  She chose to believe her husband, rather than her step-daughter.  My mother is messed up because of what my Grandfather did to her.  You cannot convince me otherwise.  I was in the room with her when she confronted him.  I was there when he admitted to what he had done. 

It was not until the last few years, and having lived with Mike, that I began to understand the depth of Grandpa’s disease.  He was a pedophile.  I remember being little and hiding in the closet, for whatever reason, and there was this trunk.  Oma caught me in it one time and was very shocked an upset at what I had found.  Turns out it was a trunk full of porn.  I must have got in there so frequently she put a trunk with my toys next to it.  My Grandfather worked on many Merchant Marine ships in the Orient.  I wonder now if he chose Asian assignments so that he might have ready access to children involved in the Asian sex trade. I wonder now if he married Oma just to have access to her kids.  And then there are my own impressions.

They begin to surface in dreams.  In these dreams I was trying to tell myself I had been raped by my Grandfather.  I did not believe them, at first.  Then I remembered something that had happened the first time I ever made love.  Mike and I were getting ready, he climbs on top of me and for about 2 or 3 seconds I wanted to freak out.  I wanted to claw Mike’s eyes out and all I could think of was my Grandfather.  I wanted to get away.  I pushed it down and rejected it.  Mike and I finished, and I did not think about it again for many years.  I mentioned it to no one.

It has taken some years, but I now believe, despite my mother threatening him, that he did indeed attack me.  I believe at least twice, before the age of five.  Before I could form real memories of the abuse, understand or tell.  I knew my mother had been assaulted.  I have never asked her for details.  Because I just cannot deal with that. I don’t want that in my head.  My councilor and I were able to recover the memory from when I was two using a self induced semi- hypnotic stat.  The details, of which, I shared with my mother.  She was shocked that my details matched hers.  I believe both times, that I know of, I was attacked in my sleep.  Both times I woke up.  I don’t know how many more times I was attacted, and did not wake up. When I was 5 I had surgery on my urethra.  I was told it was too small and I kept getting Urinary Tract Infections from too many bubble baths.  I wonder now if it is because I was being molested.

I had hated my Grandfather from the time I could remember.  Every time I was around him, he made me want to vomit.  In fact it was Texas, my beloved dog, who gave me the first clue that he was not a good man.  Texas refused to leave me when Grandpa and I were outside, often standing between us.  Dogs know if you only listen.  I shared my feelings with my family who told me, “You must love him!  He is your Grandfather and deserves your love and respect.”  I was taught to negate any instincts and feelings I had in order to tow the family line and pretend all things were normal. 

My hope, in you reading this part of the story, is that if you were attacked you understand you are not alone.  My other hope is that when a child comes to you with such feelings you never, ever tell them to ignore them.  That you trust those feelings and understand that something is wrong.  That you will not insist that they must do what is right, when everything tells them it is wrong. 

There were moments when my Grandfather was a wonderful man.  He taught me about the stars, gardening, talked with me about his voyages to exotic places and started me on a love of science.  He even helped me stand up to a bully once.  I wept so much at his funeral that I was almost asked to leave.  I fainted at his coffin.  After my mom came out, I refused to speak to him, or see him.  I am told he died calling my name.  Now as my Oma had the same name I am not sure which one of us he was calling.  I am happy to say that my Grandfather is currently in Hell, serving a sentence for all the things he did to us.  He can no longer hurt anyone!

Oma died August 20, 1983.  Thirty-two years ago to the day of this writing.  She was 57.  She spent the last year of her life fighting Multiple Myeloma.  By the time they found it, she was already in the advance stages of the disease.  It metastasized to her bones.  The end was not pretty and made me an advocate of euthanasia.  She remained married to my Grandfather until her death.  I was not allowed to attend her funeral.  I was only 7.  I understand it was so packed that the men stood outside to let the women and children have a place to sit. A woman who had gone from knowing no one in the community, to a community that overflowed with love for her. 

Oma’s life and her death has had a transformative affect on my life.  When I was 11 I began doing genealogy and research on my family. I doubt I would have gone looking for answers about my family if she had been alive. I would begin in my late teens collecting stories about her.  The story I have just told you, of Oma’s life, has taken the last 25+ years to piece together.  I am constantly learning new things about her.

At first there were only rumors that Oma had been in a camp.  I could not understand as she was not Jewish.  I did not know that more the Jews went to the camps.  At first I thought it was because she did not look like an Aryan, you know blond hair and blue eyes.  Oma had brown hair and green eyes.  Then I believed she was in one of Stalin’s camps, but now it seems she was in a German labor camp outside of Danzig. I’ve been trying to put her life back together and understand it in the context of history. She left behind a hand written account of her survival during the war in Poland.  From which I borrowed heavily for this article.  A copy of that article is on file at The National Holocaust Museum in Washington, D.C. 

What I remember of her life is very little.  She was warm, kind and gracious.  She was a gifted hostess and cook.  I remember singing with her, crocheting and knitting with her, cooking with her and lavish Christmases at her home.  I remember her stanch patriotism and how proud she was to be an American.  I remember the unconditional love she gave me.  Something I am eternally grateful for.  I remember thinking in my little girl mind that she was my mother.  My first memories are not of my own mother but of her.  She has colored the way in which I see reality. 

It is odd now that I would become the caretaker of her history and her story.  My younger cousins come to me and ask me to tell them her story and my memories of her.  I am honored to do so.  Her story has left behind a legacy of courage, and bravery in the face of adversity.  To never give up hope, to never surrender and to keep going even where there may be no end in sight. 

Three of her four children are still alive.  She has seven grandchildren and several great-grandchildren.  We are scattered thru out Texas and Louisiana and see each other for weddings, funerals and share our lives with one another on Facebook.  We retain good ties with our family in Germany and my mother even went to visit some years back. 

For many years I wanted to write a book about her life.  I was going to entitle it, “What she left behind.”  Although not a book, I am happy to have finally shared her story with the world in these articles. 

Ilsa