A DAY IN THE LIFE OF A BATTERED CHILD

It was raining that summer day. It always seemed to be gray and rainy in New England. Bob Steele, having just played “The Washington Post March,” was signing off on his regular morning radio program on Hartford’s WTIC AM. Mom walked into the den where I slept and opened the venetian blinds. “Time to get up. You’ve got work to do,” she barked.

Oh no, it was Monday, laundry day, I thought to myself! Mom was always in her most evil mood on Mondays. The year was 1955. Kay, my older sister, was eleven, I was nine, and Barbara was eight. My youngest sister, Dolores, was not born yet. My sisters and I washed up and then ate our breakfast of burnt toast and coffee. Dad had already gone to work at Reliable Bedding where he was employed laying linoleum and tile.

Suddenly the phone rang. It was Grandma Bendza. Mom talked to her mom for fifteen minutes, first in English, then in Ukrainian (so us kids wouldn’t know what she was saying). “Ma, I have to go and do my laundry. Good-bye,” she said in a rude tone of voice as she abruptly slammed the phone down. How could she be so mean to her own mother, I wondered? Grandma was such a nice lady, so helpful and generous.

Then mom went into her ‘sergeant major’ mode, issuing commands to her ‘troops.’ “You, bimbo (me). Get dressed and take the garbage out now. You two (Kay and Barbara) get those dishes washed, and get your room cleaned up. Then we all have clothes to wash.” As we went about our assignments, we dreaded that terrible chore, washing the clothes, the Monday morning ritual. As she wheeled the washing machine into position next to the kitchen sink and hooked its hose to the faucet, we grew increasingly anxious. Would she beat us today with the huge stick she used to prod the clothes with in the washing machine? “You bozo, catch these clothes as they come out of the ringer, and don’t drop them,” she ordered. As the shirts, socks, towels, underwear, and sheets poured rapidly out of the rotating ringer, the hot clothes scalded my small fingers. I gingerly put them into the waiting basket as fast as I could. But not fast enough to suit mom. She came around the washing machine with her big stick and hit me over the head. I saw stars and nearly passed out. “Now do it right,” she commanded in her harsh, mean voice. I could do nothing but obey and stuff my rage and pain deep down in my guts. Bewildered and baffled by her combative behavior, I had nowhere to escape to and no one to turn to for relief from this demon’s fury.

“You, Kayloy, take over for your brother. You, knucklehead, get the dry mop and sweep the den and dust the furniture. And you’d better do it right, or else. You, Barbara, help your sister with the clothes as they come out of the washer.” After the clothes were done, they were hung on the folding clothesline and hung up in the back porch to dry since it was raining.

Back in the den I was dry mopping the floor and dusting the furniture. Later mom yelled from the kitchen, "are you ready for inspection in there yet, Bimbo?” “Yes, mom,” I meekly replied. She came into the den, carefully looking for dust or cigarette butts dropped by my dad the previous night. “You, get over here,” she ordered. “What’s that?” she angrily asked, pointing to an errant peanut shell I had missed. Before I could reply, she backhanded me in the face, her wedding ring cutting my lip. I fell backwards onto the floor and looked up at her huge form. “Get up, take your punishment like a man. Don’t you dare cry. I didn’t hurt you. Get that mop and clean this room right, or you’ll really get it next time,” she bellowed. Shocked, hurt, and bleeding, I instantly obeyed her.

After lunch it was time for our afternoon naps. This, being summertime, the windows were left open to ventilate our small, hot, third story flat. The sounds of the neighborhood sometimes made sleep difficult. Included in these were the heavy traffic on Hartford Avenue, mechanics working on cars at the Tufano Rambler dealership across the street, and the voices and music from other tenements. After being roused from our two hour naps, the daily regimen continued. Today my special chore was shopping for groceries at Charlie’s Market, A & P Super Market, and Cousins Bakery. While I was gone Kay ironed clothes and Barbara helped mom prepare supper.

After I returned from my shopping expedition mom ordered me into her bedroom to practice the accordion. As I played the scales I heard mom yell, “play those scales right or I’ll come in there and show you how to play them!” This only made me more nervous, and I began to make many mistakes. Soon she was in the room, a small stick in her hand. “Put out you hand,” she commanded. I reluctantly complied. She hit my hand hard several times, angry red welts instantly appearing on my skin. I cried out in pain. “Now play those chords right, or you’ll get more of the same,” she admonished. Fighting back the tears I vainly tried to resume my practice. “That’s enough, that’s enough,” she yelled in exasperation. “Kayloy, get in here. See if you can do better than your lunk-head brother. You, get out of that thing and give it to your sister.” Kay began to practice the accordion, trying hard not to make any ‘clinkers.’

As the daylong deluge continued, thunder and lightning struck ominously close. Dad’s foot- steps sounded on the wooden steps leading up to our apartment. What kind of mood was he in we wondered? What tales of woe would mom assail him with about our wrong doings and misbehavior? Tonight dad was sullen, tired from the day’s physical drudgery, no doubt. He complained to mom that his knees were bothering him since he had been laying linoleum all day. Mom ordered us not to bother dad since he was tired, and needed to relax before supper.

Withdrawing to the cooler back porch, dad lit up a Camel and began reading the New Britain Herald. He seemed remote and unconcerned as he lounged in his favorite chair in his shorts and sandals. “Art, dinner’s ready,” mom called minutes later in her husky voice. Dropping his half-read newspaper, dad snuffed out his cigarette and joined mom for supper. While our parents ate their meal and conversed in hushed tones, my sisters and I waited for our turn to eat. Soon mom and dad were finished and we had our dinner of veal cutlets, corn on the cob, and potato pancakes. 13

After supper, the cleaning ritual began anew. This time the dishes, kitchen table, sink, and stove had to be scrubbed spotless. “You, Barbara, get that pan off the stove and give it to your sister to wash,” mom ordered imperiously. Barbara replied, “in a minute, mom.” From the den, my father emerged with a strange, frightening look on his face. “What did I just hear you say to your mother?” he thundered. Before Barbara could reply, he punched her in the eye, blackening it. “Don’t you ever say ‘wait a minute’ to your mother again,” he roared. “Do you understand me?” Barbara, shaken and in pain, could only sob uncontrollably. “When your mother orders you to do something, you jump. That goes for all three of you,” he concluded, his wrath expended. Badly shaken by this giant’s rage, we buried ourselves in the task at hand, hoping his fury was spent.

That night Kay and I had our turn to feel the anger of our parents. Like most children, we never seemed to get enough sweets to eat. Kay and I had ‘stolen’ a couple of donuts from the kitchen shelf, a capital offence in our house. Such a great transgression could not go unpunished. After interrogation from mom, we both pleaded guilty to our crime. Our sentence was severe. Mom and dad ordered Kay and I to remove all our clothes from the closet and place them on the bed. Then they announced, “You two wait in the corner for the junkman. He’s going to come and take you away tonight.” Being mere children, we believed them completely. Scared out of our minds, Kay and I stood in opposite corners of the kitchen for hours waiting for the dreaded footsteps of the junkman. Our knees shook from fatigued and fear. Barbara, ever the supportive sister, touched me on the shoulder and said, “don’t worry, Artie. It’s going to be okay.” But mom, ever vigilant, pulled her away from me and admonished her. “You, get away from him. He’s being punished. Or do you want to take his place?”

After a period of agony during which each minute seemed like hours, our parents at last ordered Kay and I to bed without further explanation. We gratefully crawled into bed, too exhausted and relieved to even say our nightly prayers. Our date with the junkman was postponed. But we would never forget it. Into blessed slumber we slipped, safe for a few hours from the tortures of our childhood; safe too from the all-seeing, all-controlling influence of our parents. Another day in the life of a battered child had come to an end.


Note: This is a composite of events which happened over several years, not on a single day. This essay does, however, accurately describe actual events which took place, and the prison-like environment my sisters and I endured in our formative years in the 1950s.

Essay #10
June, 1997
Atascadero, California