From Rags to Rags

By Tina Medeiros

From Rags To Rags is Tina Morrison's true story of wasted childhood back in Poland during 60’s and 70’s. It portrays a painful journey through neglect, despair, horrors of domestic violence and poverty inflicted by alcohol abuse. Written in her own words, Tina describes daily shame and humiliation caused by her drunken father and how she tried to cope when things couldn’t get any worse. Terrorized by her father’s tyrannical ways at home she’s often hungry and her disabled mother is reduced to beg for food around the neighbourhood... But however bad things could be, Tina’s story is also sparkled with doses of humour which makes an interesting and compelling reading, giving the reader a welcoming break from the gloomy horror of domestic abuse portrayed in this book.
This is the first of two books, and Tina’s story continues in From Rags to Rags, and then it got worse... It took much soul searching and twelve years to complete both books.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tina Medeiros
• Release date: Mar 25, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476124506

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From Rags To Rags

Tina Morrison

Copyright Tina Morrison 2013

Published by Tina Morrison Publishing at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author

From Rags To Rags: A Memoir

...I remember the pain around the chest area, how I couldn’t catch my breath consumed with sheer terror. I tried to pray the way mama taught me, hoping to be able to focus on something other than the pain or the screams. I lay there struggling for each breath while repeating those few words of prayer over and over. In the darkness I could see the outline of the huge picture of Jesus and Mary hanging on the wall, but it didn’t make me feel safe. It frightened me...

From Rags To Rags is Tina’s Morrison true story of wasted childhood back in Poland during 60’s and 70’s. It portraits a painful journey through neglect, despair, horrors of domestic violence and poverty inflicted by alcohol abuse. Written in her own words, Tina describes daily shame and humiliation caused by her drunken father and how she’s trying to cope when things couldn’t get any worse. Terrorized by her father’s tyrannical ways at home she’s often hungry and her disabled mother is reduced to beg for food around neighbourhood... But however bad things could be, Tina’s story is also sparkled with doses of humour which makes an interesting and compelling reading, giving the reader a welcoming break from gloomy horror of domestic abuse portrayed in this book.

This is the first of two books, and Tina’s story continues in From Rags to Rags, and then it got worse... It took much soul searching and twelve years to complete both books.

Author's note; To protect the identity of certain people, names have been changed.

From Rags to Rags

By Tina Morrison

I’m on the left

PART 1

I was woken by a loud bang on the window and the sound of broken glass that flew just inches past my head, covering most of the bed and the floor next to it. I jumped up immediately feeling so frightened and sick that I started to cry. My body shook violently as I tried to hide in the corner. I was five years old.

It was pitch black and the silence that followed was more terrifying than the noise itself. That night I slept in the kitchen which faced the yard of the farm. It could have been two or three in the morning and I remember being very scared of what would follow next. Shortly after, my dad appeared. He was drunk and very angry. He couldn’t find the light switch and was banging in the darkness for a while before unsuccessfully attempting to sit on the chair. He landed on the floor, pulling along the plastic cover off the table and making a vase of artificial flowers smashing next to him. It took me a while to notice the presence of mama as the light was switched on in the other room. I could feel she was as frightened as me, but tried to appear calm for my sake. I desperately didn’t want to be on that glass-covered bed, or anywhere near the place we called ‘home‘. I tried to get into pretend mode, hoping that perhaps I was still dreaming, but my dad’s angry and loud voice reminded me that there was no escape from reality.

By now he was screaming at mama for not hearing him as he was calling outside. The truth was, he was so drunk that he was unable to put the key in the lock to open the door. He called, but nobody answered, so he picked a stone and threw at the window to wake us up. By some miracle I wasn’t hurt. Except of course that it gave me a tremendous fright. As soon as dad came in through the door I stopped crying. He hated that and I was afraid it would make him even more angry. I was never allowed to cry in his presence. So I tried to focus my attention on the old tapestry that covered the wall above the bed. It featured the hunting scene where few hunters on horses were chasing a dear through the forest. I knew it by heart, all the shapes and colours, every inch of that picture, which I always found strangely comforting in it’s familiarity. But as much as I wanted to, this time I could not concentrate on what I was looking at. It was difficult to ignore the commotion around me.

He begun to hit mama for not hearing him downstairs when he couldn’t open the door.

Its all your fault, you stupid bitch!.. You‘re fucking useless, all you do, is sleep! Sleep, and complain...

The screaming and banging moved on to the other room. I’m sure all our neighbours heard it, and I prayed someone would call the police. But as usual, nobody interfered. The house we lived in was two-storey high, and was occupied by four other families. That included the landlord, who owned the place and who also ran the farm. All were decent hardworking people and I guess they too, were somehow scared of my dad when he behaved violently. Everybody knew what was going on in our small flat upstairs, and yet, nobody volunteered to do anything about it.

The shattered window remained that way for a long time, as there was no money to fix it. Dad was unemployed most of the time and mama received a small state pension, which was hardly enough to buy food. In fact, that money was mostly spend on his drinking. Our kitchen cupboards were often empty and I had to rely on neighbours to feed me.

If anybody were to ask me what I wanted the most when I was a child, my answer would have been; ‘Peace at home‘.

As far as I can remember I lived in constant fear and total lack of security. Poverty and violence were my everyday surroundings, but it all started long before I was born.

Chapter 1

Mama and dad on their wedding day

My parents met in a labour camp in Germany during the Second World War. They were young and very much in love. Both away from their home countries, and separated from families by war.

Mama was born in Ukraine into a very prosperous and hardworking family. They owned three windmills and lots of farm machinery, which her grandfather helped to build with his own hands. The first few years of mama’s life were happy and carefree. But that unfortunately was not to last and during the thirties, under Stalin’s rule, her family lost everything. Their land was confiscated in order to create collective farms. The windmills and farm machines were burned and destroyed, as in the eyes of Bolsheviks that was the evidence of capitalist decadence. My great grandfather was forced to do the destroying himself. Refusing was unthinkable. He died by being beaten to death in front of all his family. My grandfather died of starvation and so mama’s two baby brothers. She actually saw how one day granddad was holding his one-year-old son on his knee trying to feed him some milk on the spoon. The baby was so weak by prolonged malnutrition that it didn’t have enough strength to open his mouth. He stretched and died with his eyes wide open. The other baby, just two years old, died a week later.

Mama, her younger sister Nadia and my grandmother Olana, were the only survivors. Mama often recalled how she ate leaves off the trees and what hunger did to other people during the Great Ukrainian Famine that affected millions. A woman from her village has gone mad with hunger. She killed her own teenage son, who was too weak to protect himself. His body was cut up into small portions and placed in a large pot on the stove where she attempted to cook it. Afterwards she stood at the doorway all covered in blood, holding an axe and would scream wildly if anybody tried to approach her. It took several people to disarm her.

Many children were orphaned and they had to fend for themselves. Those who’s parents did survive, were not much better off. My grandmother worked all day in the fields to earn just one tablespoon of flour that she mixed with some water and nettles, and after cooking it, fed it to my grandfather. He was swollen up from hunger and too weak to feed himself. Any food was a luxury as there was almost nothing, and people were dying everywhere. Seeing someone drop dead while walking, was a common site.

Mama often referred to these times and kept saying that there is nothing worse than hunger. If she happened to accidentally drop a piece of bread on the floor she never threw it away, but picked it up, kissed it, made a sign of the cross over it and ate it.

To add to the horrors of her upbringing, when she was just seventeen, in 1942, she was forcefully taken from her home by the Germans, packed on the cattle train ( along with many other youngsters ) and sent to Germany to work as unpaid labourer. She often recalled the horrific train crash she was involved in while on the way. Being locked up in one of the back carriages, she survived and witnessed the terrible death scenario. Body parts were mixed with crushed metal and wood. She saw people without legs and others almost cut in half, begging to be killed.

Mama did several jobs for the German farmers, working nonstop from morning till night. At one point the farmer attempted to rape her. She responded by slapping him on the face while calling him a German swine. For that she was severely beaten and taken to prison, where she was starved end ill-treated. From there, she was transported to the camp near Frankfurt area, where she remained till American army liberation took place. It was there, where she met my father. The war was over and like many other survivals, mama was both crushed by the past and optimistic with what the future might offer. After meeting my father, going back home to Ukraine was not an option. There was a general chaos everywhere and rumours were spreading about how unsafe it was to go back to Russia where eastern Communist Regime ruled by Joseph Stalin was still in power. Many of those who did return were prosecuted on the spot, branded as collaborates. It included everyone, even an ordinary people like mama. What was most unbelievable and horrifying, that those were the very people who fought against Nazis. For those reasons, vast majority of Soviet citizens who were abroad at the time, did everything they could to remain in the West.

Lots of young Russian girls saw the lifesaving opportunity in marrying an outsider. Mama considered herself extremely lucky for once. My father happened to be Polish, and what’s more; she was truly in love with him.

*

Mama was deeply religious, humble and of generous heart. I guess believing in God gave her strength to survive the awful misfortunes that happened to be the part of her sad and tragic life. It was something to lean on and her faith was never shaken. However, being a simple and uneducated woman, she become superstitious too. It was reflected in her everyday behaviour. She believed for example, that if a woman crossed your path on the way out in the morning, it brought bad luck and you were better off to go back and stay at home. She would cross herself at the beginning of each journey, and did the same while passing the church on her way. It was very common to see crosses hanged up on the walls in almost every household where we lived, as the majority of people were practicing Catholics. If mama was to visit someone for the first time and there was a cross on the wall, she would approach and kiss it. I'd be deeply embarrassed each time I witnessed that, because I haven’t seen anybody else doing it and as religious as people were, they did give her ‘funny’ looks.

My dad was different. Intelligent, educated, creative and talented. He came from Poland. During the war, he was a soldier fighting against the Germans. Captured in Czechoslovakia while jumping off the train, he became the prisoner of war and was taken to labour camp in Germany. After meeting mama, my parents got married in 1945 shortly after the liberation, and a year later decided to go and settle in Poland where my dad’s family lived. His parents died during the war, but brothers, sisters and a stepfather survived.

My sister Krystyna was born not long after they arrived in Poland and mama nearly died giving birth. The labour lasted a couple of days, and there was no doctor or midwife to assist her. It was my aunt Barbara who helped to deliver Krystyna. Times were hard, they had nothing of their own and shared an old cottage with Barbara and her newlywed husband, Piotr. For a while things were as fine as they could be, but it didn’t last. Dad had this dream of prosperity. He desperately wanted to achieve something, and that something had to be better and bigger than anything his brothers or sisters had. He had several assets; he could build, paint and repair almost anything. He was also a talented writer and spoke several languages, and - he loved to make plans.

Unfortunately, it never took any solid shape. He drunk heavily right from the beginning. There are several types of alcoholics; some are sentimental and start crying when drunk, others are jolly, behaving in funny ways, while my dad was a violent type. When drunk, his personality would change so much, that he appeared to be almost somebody else. He loved to show off and impress in the most embarrassing manner. When drunk, he hardly spoke Polish. It was Russian, French, German, Czechoslovakian or English. Whichever language took his fancy, and it depended of whom he wanted to impress. Acting superior and loud, he bossed everybody around and was aggressive.

It was getting progressively worse, and Barbara, his older sister, would not tolerate some of his behaviour. They argued a lot and after a while, my parents were asked to leave. The request was polite, but firm.

My parents moved to another village, where they rented first floor apartment on the farm. It contained two rooms; large kitchen and a bedroom. There was no bathroom or indoor toilet and the only source of heating was a kitchen stove.

Suddenly mama found herself in total isolation, with a baby and a violent husband to cope with. They didn’t know anyone in the new area and his drinking problem was getting out of hand. It was not appreciated by the neighbours. With Barbara and Piotr around, things were less scary and mama could always rely on their protection if things become really bad, now, there was no one she could turn to. Life became a real hell.

Dad did occasional painting and decorating job, but whatever money he earned was mostly spent on his drinking. To survive, mama found a job as a waitress in the nearby town where she commuted daily on the bus. My sister was placed in state run nursery, which was a relatively cheap form of childcare back in those days.

Mama’s job meant that at least they were not starving. Every day she brought home some leftover food from the restaurant where she worked. She had to, because her small salary was spent on dad’s vodka. There wasn’t any tips as the place belonged to the state run train factory and was used exclusively by the workers. It was hard and demanding job, but mama was young, healthy and - desperate. She knew there was no way she could rely on dad to provide for his family.

Mama suffered almost daily beatings. Mostly, because she couldn’t produce more cash to buy alcohol. Dad would order her to go and borrow the money from our neighbours, and if she failed to do so, he would beat her till she fainted. She tried to cover her bruises, but it was a small place and everybody knew what was going on.

Mama attempted to leave him only once, when Krystyna was about twelve. A friend from work offered to help her out. Mama had gone as far as packing the few belongings she owned, but did not leave. Dad went down on his knees apologizing, crying and promising to change. He was full of remorse and begged her not to leave him. He vowed never to drink or hit her again and somehow managed to persuade her to stay.

The promise lasted a month. He never touched any drink during that time, and even found himself a job. Mama almost started to believe that he’d keep his word when suddenly one evening he failed to come home after work. It was his payday and she knew immediately what it meant. Feeling almost sick with regret, she also knew that she could not go and ask her friend for help again. She felt too embarrassed for turning the offer down when it was given. Mama could not ask again, and dad made sure she never did. He kept her in constant fear by threatening what would happen to her and Krystyna if she ever attempted to leave him again. He would find and kill them both, he said. Mama believed his threats more than anything. She knew what he was capable of.

If things were bad before, now they were worse than ever. Dad’s anger turned towards my sister too, and on many occasions she had to hide at the neighbour’s house under the bed to escape his wrath. He beat her so often, that it affected her ability to concentrate and do well in school. But if she failed to bring good marks from school, he would beat her for that too. It was a vicious circle. Joanna lived in constant fear of dad and mama could not protect her. As a result of stress and abuse, she never had any appetite and developed a bad anemia. Each evening spelled the beginning of a new nightmare because it was then, when dad usually arrived home drunk and demanded more alcohol. Of course, there wasn’t any, and no money to buy it either. Furniture and dishes were smashed regularly while he threw mama around in his temper. She suffered broken ribs, black eyes, broken nose and all sorts of bruises too often to remember, and our flat looked as pitiful. It was never-ending hell.

me and mama

By the time I was born mama was ill, broken, and tired with life in general. She was 35, but looked sixty. I wasn’t planned, and there was pressure from the doctors for mama to have an abortion. She was in no shape to give birth and there were serious health concerns by then. It was around that time, when she developed this mysterious illness causing her legs to go numb to the point that she couldn’t walk, and lay paralyzed in bed. Her blood was black in colour and the nails on her toes become thick and shapeless. She had them removed by surgery several times.

But the most disturbing of all, was her mind. She had by then a slight insanity, and as the time passed it was becoming progressively worse. I think her mind switched off at some point because she could take no more of what life had to offer.

Despite the pressure from the medical team, she would not agree to have termination and went ahead with the pregnancy. It was mostly due to her religious beliefs. To her, I was a ‘gift from God‘, and she was willing to take all the risks necessary.

This time mama had an easy birth in hospital proving the doctors wrong. Krystyna was overjoyed, as she always wanted to have a sister. Dad wanted a boy, and was disappointed. However, not for long.

For a while, he took a real interest in me and even promised to quit drinking. But as the novelty of my arrival faded away, things started slowly to go back to normal.

Krystyna was nearly 14 and eagerly took over the job of mothering me, as mama was feeling very ill most of the time. Although she started to walk again after my birth, she was still weak and unstable on her feet.

My earliest memory goes back to when I was about two years old. I was in my pram which Krystyna was pushing and she gave me a piece of apple which was spoiled on one side and I refused to eat it, throwing it on the pavement. I also recall her feeding me some soup later on, half of it went down my chin as Krystyna was singing and not even looking at what she was doing.

Her mind was on her boyfriend who was about to visit.

Kazik, the son of a farmer, studied medicine and was eleven years older. They met in the little village near Poznan, where dad’s stepfather and two sisters lived. One of them was Barbara who moved there with Piotr. By then, they had three children and were still very happy together. They lived on a small farm, occupying a semidetached cottage while the other half belonged to dad’s other sister Marysia, who was also happily married to my uncle Stefan and they just had a baby boy.

Dad took Krystyna over there for a short visit. It wasn’t often he would go there as they all knew about his endless drinking and believed that in this case, the relationship between them worked best from a distance, with well-spaced visits. Although they respected one another, there was always some kind of silent war going on. Dad could not stand any kind of preaching or open criticism on the subject of his drinking, so it was treated as a taboo.

What was truly amazing, was that dad was the best person anybody could wish to be with - when sober. He was generous, an excellent story-teller, and had fantastic sense of humour. He loved practical jokes and always had lots of plans and ideas. When visiting his family, he was always on his best behaviour. I guess he needed their approval when withholding from drinking. As a father, he was very strict and demanded respect. Also, his ward was the law. We could never do anything without his permission, and that never changed for as long as we lived under his roof.

When he took my sister for that visit to his family, she was invited to go to a dance with her cousin, and of course, she had to ask dad if she could go. He said yes, but on the condition that she would be back by midnight, and not a minute later. As it turned out, Krystyna came back at four in the morning. Dad was fast-asleep but because of the aunt Barbara’s support, he never found out about it. That night was about to change my sister’s life. She met her future husband.

It wasn’t long before Kazik become a regular visitor to our house. He wanted to marry Krystyna as soon as she turned eighteen, (the legal age for marriage in Poland then). Dad liked his future son-in-law. He was impressed that Kazik studied medicine and already had his army duties behind him. He seemed very sensible and polite young man, who would ask dad’s permission each time he wanted to take Joanna out. Mama liked Tomek too, but mostly because he didn’t drink. Not surprisingly, that was the only thing dad did not like about him, as he was hoping for a drinking companion.

Meanwhile, my sister changed her appearance. She cut her long hair short, started to wear makeup and pointed shoes that were in fashion at the time. She studied hard to become a hairdresser. Her dream was to leave home as soon as possible, but she also wanted financial independence.

Kazik and Krystyna married when she was eighteen - and five months pregnant. I remember her wedding day. She looked so beautiful in her white dress, and the party lasted three days! Dad surprised everybody by remaining sober right through the whole event. He never touched even one drink and was a perfect host. Again, he wanted to impress Kazik’s family, and not to offend his own.

After the reception was over, Krystyna and her new husband moved into a small room they rented in Wroclaw. There was no honeymoon as they couldn’t afford to go anywhere. My sister’s dowry included an old duvet and few personal belongings. Kazik got some money from his parents, but it was spent on rent and they also bought some basic furniture like a bed and a wardrobe.

Chapter 2

Not long after my sister got married and moved away, mama took me to Ukraine to visit her family. It was my second journey there. The first time I went there, was with both of my parents when I was only two years old. I can remember very little from that trip and just one incident stood vividly in my mind; the big train station, crowds of people everywhere, and me walking next to mama who carried a couple of bags in her hands and couldn’t hold on to mine. She asked me instead to hold the handle of one of the bags. I tried, but was swept away by passing mass of passengers who rushed in both directions. Dad was walking in the front, a good few yards ahead and was not aware of my sudden disappearance. As for my part, I could see mama and could join her if I wanted to, but decided to hide instead. Sure enough, she soon noticed that I wasn’t next to her and started to cry, asking everybody around if they had seen me. Dad was beside himself with anger. He was screaming at her for being careless and stupid. What started as a joke on my part turned into fear and I became too frightened to come out of my hiding place behind the soda-water machine. It was a policeman who found me there.

Three years later, I traveled there just with mama and we stayed in the Ukraine for five months. It was a totally different world and I loved it. My grandmother Olana, aunt Nadia and uncle Vanya all lived in the village called Bosivka, which is situated about two hundred kilometers down south from Kiev.

The place was breathtakingly beautiful. I was five years old and to me it seemed like stepping inside a fairytale. Mama’s family occupied a cottage on the hill. It was white-washed and had blue window frames. There was no indoor plumbing so the water had to be brought from the well just at the bottom of the hill. Behind the cottage was a wooden toilet and across the yard was located a stable which housed a cow, two small pigs and some chickens. Just outside the cottage were apple and apricot trees surrounded by very colourful flower garden. Further up the hill there was a sour cherry and plum orchard. Where the hill ended, the vegetable gardens and wheat fields spread towards massive old forests visible over the horizon.

I loved everything about living there; the people, the nature, the animals, the atmosphere, and most of all - the peace. At my aunt’s home there was no fear or violence. She herself was calm, goodhearted and softly spoken. She never complained and smiled a lot.

Soon after we arrived, she gave birth to a little girl called Svieta. I remember feeling jealous as the baby took away all the attention which I craved so much. Every time Svieta cried, Nadia would expose her breasts which were so heavy with milk that it squirted high into the air. I was fascinated watching my little cousin being fed. They told me Svieta was found under the bush in the garden and I believed them.

To draw attention to me, I became demanding and would not take ‘no’ for an answer. One day, mama took me to visit a friend who lived in the cottage just at the bottom of the hill. The woman had a son about my age. He was around and played with some colourful plasticine at the kitchen table. As soon as I saw it, I wanted it all for myself. I refused to join the boy and share it and sat sulking in the corner, avoiding to speak to anyone. What happened next fills me even now with shame. The woman found some excuse to send the boy out and fetch something from outside. When he left, not suspecting anything, she quickly snatched the plasticine from the table, mashed it into a ball and handed it to me. While doing so she instructed me in a low and urgent whisper to put it away under my cardigan and not to tell her son where it was. But something wicked inside me would not listen to her and I did just the opposite. When he came back, he noticed immediately that his toy was missing and I made it quite obvious