Daddy's Girl

From early childhood I felt a deep, soul-bending closeness to my father. It was like an inner instinct in my subconscious that told me I had to grab every minute that Providence allowed me to be with my father. He was sunshine in my soul, a special happiness that was unmercifully cut short by the devilish Nazi hands!

On the Sabbath and holidays I would go with him to the synagogue and sit quietly with reverence and awe. Beside him I felt the holiness of the place.

One weekday my father, as usual, had to attend his business. He could not take me with him, but I insisted to go with him at least until the first corner of our street (I usually fought for my wishes). When he left me there I could not find my way back home. Somebody walked me back to the police station where one of the policemen recognized me as one of the Bleier children. Thus, my parents got me back - their lost child. At this stage of my life, ages 3-6, we had the most freedom that a child could have. We really took full advantage of it with great enjoyment.

As I look back, some of our mischievous deeds should have been controlled by the grown-ups. Children at that delicate age do not always have the right judgement, even if we preferred not to be reprimanded or yelled at.

Once cold fall day I remember wandering by myself at the far end of our backyard garden. I dug out of the soil a vegetable [(rescoka)] that we kids liked to eat uncooked. With a rusty blade I found, I cleaned and pealed it. Suddenly I cut my finger, and the blood rushed from the wound. I was so scared of my mother reprimanding me, that instead of asking her for help, I tore off a piece of my underclothes and bound my injured finger with it. I tried to hide my wrongdoings from my parents.

We sometimes overheard our parents talking about the private life of one of our neighbors. The wife was unfaithful and did not want any more children, so her husband would beat her up from time to time. One day we walked in front of their house. From inside came the cry of the wife and the yelling of the husband. Their only child, Robert, sat and cried outside the front door. We, should not have, but asked him why he was crying. He did not answer us, just blushed red all over his face.

© David Muskal, 2001