Small Steps Towards the Kitchen

I slept on the floor in a room at the back of the house. There were two windows, four walls and a wooden door.

I was about four or five. We lived in Poland, in the farmhouse attached to a barn that I have written about in the memory of finding a slice of bread. When you came through the front door, you entered the kitchen. There was a room to the left with a big bed. My mother and father slept there when they slept at home.

Sometimes they were so drunk that they slept outside. There were also days when they did not come home at all.

Farther into the house was the room where I slept. I remember its floor and windows, and the door my mother opened that day.

I do not know whether this was the first time my biological father beat me. It is the first time I remember.

The door opening

I had wet myself during the night. I remember my mother opening the door and telling me to get up. I think of it as morning, but I cannot be certain of the time.

She was drunk. There was a wet patch on the floor, and she asked whether I had wet myself.

I told her that I had. I told her I was sorry.

She went away. Then I heard my father’s voice from the kitchen. It was loud, almost a scream. I cannot remember exactly what he said. He was drunk too.

My mother came back and told me to get up and go to the kitchen. My father wanted to speak to me.

I got up and walked towards the door. I remember taking very small steps. Then I went through it and out to the kitchen, where he was sitting on a chair.

What I had done

He asked what I had done on the floor.

I knew what he meant. I was afraid to answer, and it took me a little time. Before I answered, he asked me again.

I told him I was sorry. I was so sorry.

He asked again what I had done. I said that I had wet myself.

I do not remember exactly what he said after that. I remember him standing up and taking the belt from his trousers. He told me to go outside.

I did not know what was going to happen.

I walked towards the front door in small steps. He told me to hurry up. I made my steps faster, opened the door and went out.

Beside the well

There was a well just outside the house. It was the kind where you lowered a bucket and brought it back up with water. We were not allowed to use that water, but the well was there.

My father came out behind me. He told me to bend over the edge, look down towards the water and lower my trousers.

I remember asking why. He told me I would see, and that I would never wet the floor again.

I still did not know exactly what was going to happen. I lowered my trousers.

There was silence. Then I felt a burning pain across my bottom. Before I understood what it was, I felt it again. My tears began to fall.

I do not remember screaming or saying anything. I remember the tears. I cannot say how many times he struck me, but I still remember how it felt.

Then he told me I could pull up my trousers, and that I must never wet the floor again.