Beerinsky: Orphan

By Nicholas J. Besker

.....In browsing through bookstores today one sees that there is no shortage of biographies or autobiographies available. Most of the subject's names in the books have become household words and so one can readily conclude that this category of writing has largely become the province of celebrities or well-known personages, the so-called rich and famous.

.....There are a few who unabashedly attribute their success to fortuitous circumstances such as being in the right place at the right time or perhaps facetiously crediting the "Man Upstairs." On the other hand, in many of these accounts amazing feats of derring-do have been conjured up by ghost writers who had been given a free hand, thus lending a new shade of meaning to the phrase, "creative writing."

.....This writer states that Nicholas J. Besker's story is literally the truth and nothing but the truth, that he had no need to resort to fiction. "Just the facts," as Sgt. Friday would say. Not only was I an eye witness to these events but was also a fellow-victim for eight years. Fortunately, I was not numbered among the Beerinsky group, the bedwetters, and consequently escaped the inhumane treatment and humiliation of those unfortunates.

.....Despite my statement verifying the authenticity of Besker's book, I can well understand if skeptics regarded Besker's account as a figment of imagination. I consider it is an illustration of the old adage that indeed, "truth is stranger than fiction." Except for the grammatical violation in using the term, it might well be said that his description of life in this childrens' warehouse, aka orphan home, is most unique.

.....The time, setting and circumstances of Nick's "sojourn" in the orphanage have long since been obliterated by the sands of time and, like much of the long-ago past, cannot be recreated or duplicated today. To begin with, the location of the orphanage. It was situated on the shores of Lake Michigan on several acres of otherwise clear land, and was one of six Catholic institutions clustered in loose fashion in an enclave of a square mile or more.

.....This community was fenced off by brick walls, wire fencing and dirt roads. While access to outsiders was not rigidly controlled, it was unlikely that one would stray onto the premises of this "Forbidden City" unintentionally. These buildings within were cold and soot-encrusted. For all intents and purposes, they were as isolated as though patrolled by armed guards. There is little doubt that this absolute isolation and shielding from public scrutiny were major factors in developing the peculiar lifestyle and sadistic methods of discipline (torture) practiced by these "Brides of Christ."

.....This memoir book is an account of child abuse, oppression, bestiality, discrimination, humiliation and fear which was compounded and sugar-coated with religious gobbledegook and/or superstitions of the infallible Holy Mother Catholic Church. It held the same credibility and validity as that offered for the torturous abuse of the various Inquisitions, that indeed, "the end justifies the means."

.....By the time Nick was unceremoniously drummed off the premises of the orphanage into the realms of the unknown to wit, the normal but mysterious outside world, he was little more than a shell of a fifteen year old boy, a caricature. To all outside appearance, except for the clothes on his back, he was indistinguishable from any other teenager. However, the exterior was little more than camouflage, offering no clue to the confusion and disorientation raging inside. At fifteen years of age, he was inured to a robot-like state of lethargy, devoid of initiative, stripped of any self esteem and submissive to any vestige of authority. In a word, his entire physical and mental makeup was adapted to one environment, life in the orphanage. This is hi

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 19, 2000
• ISBN: 9781462828029

Nicholas J. Besker

NICHOLAS J. BESKER, what a life! He has come a long way from a baby among so many, without the benefit of parent's love and direction. Here is an orphan stripped of self esteem who rose above it with the attitude of "I'll show you." He made his successful mark in this world through an extraordinary or unusual search and pursuit to achieve. He believes anyone can overcome life's handicaps by persistent hard work, resiliency and the support of a loving wife. Currently the pleasure of his twilight years, plus the love and support of loved ones, finds him content.

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Copyright © 1999 by Nicholas J. Besker.

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Contents

PREFACE

THE BEGINNING

ORPHANAGE-

LOST AND FOUND

ORPHANAGE—GURLS

ORPHANAGE-DAILY LESSONS

ORPHANAGE-BEERINSKY

ORPHANAGE—

WOOD CARVING/ART

ORPHANAGE—RUSTY

NAIL/POCKET KNIFE

FOSTER HOME—

THE FAMILY

FOSTER HOME—HIGH

SCHOOL/SEX EDUCATION

TOUGH TIMES ON MY OWN

CONCLUSION

DEDICATION

. . .I dedicate this biographical narrative to the few women in my adult life who taught me the meaning of love, and to enjoy life in my pursuit of happiness. From them I learned that every adult woman is not the ogre I perceived as a child and it is not necessary to be selfish, feeling constantly challenged just to survive, that it really is normal and universally acceptable to trust others and to love and care for others. Those good women who patiently taught me to overcome my early acquired mistrust of almost everyone, everything and my selfishness are:

. . .First—Shirley—a high school classmate—not yet adult but my first experience with kindness towards another.

. . .Second—Mrs. Richter, my rooming house landlady in Milwaukee before I joined the Navy for WW II. She was the very first motherly adult woman who befriended me, showed concern for my welfare, dared to hug me occasionally and when I owed rent, helped me to stay alive during those tough first years on my own, trusted me and I trusted her. She led me to believe that with important issues, I could make it through persistant hard work and thriftiness—don’t spend what you do not have!

. . .Third—my first wife and mother of my only son. She also came from the orphanage with very low social background, starving for individual attention and love. Unfortunately, we did not have many happy years, the marriage ending shortly in a mutually agreed—to divorce.

. . .Fourth—my second wife, Alice, who ultimately adopted my son and helped me to raise him. We spent 35 happy years working, playing and progressing together in a quiet, relaxed life style. Our businesses were successful enough to allow us some leisure weekends, hobbies and opportunities to share time with friends as well as her extended family. When she passed away from cancer I was 71, my life shattered. Once again I am alone—no family.

. . .Fifth—my dear friend Ludy, who came into my life with her many talented, energetic husband. Over the years in our mutual businesses, the two families spent many happy times together, she adding softness to a sometimes tough world as well as sharing my pleasure of discussion and debate. We continue to spend pleasant hours together.

. . .Sixth—my dear friend Judy and her hard working husband, who became good close friends enjoying many mutual pleasures. At the time of my 1984 heart attack and long, difficult recovery, she stopped by my home to check on me every day after a day at her hospital job as Director of Nurses, continuing this practice of home visits until Alice became ill and passed away. Even though several years later her new business required they move away, I am forever thankful for her each day and each visit. We continue to go out of state to see them as often as possible.

. . .Seventh and final—my current wife, Dottie, the best thing that could happen to a recent grieving widower, who, like myself, had lost her mate of 38 years and agreed with me that we were both fortunate to have a chance to enjoy another few years of a happy marriage and as a real compliment to our lost mates. I am twice blessed. She continues to offer unending love and concern for my welfare, working endlessly at the almost impossible job, helping polish this diamond—in—the—rough by her patience and encouragement of reciprocal tactfulness in our churning society. Without her my life would still be in shambles as it was the two plus years I was alone. With her I am able to enjoy travel and social activities as never before. Without her untiring assistance with numerous rewrites, editing and changes, I would not have been able to complete this difficult project.

. . .The fates willing, in just a few more years, I look forward to presiding at our 50th wedding anniversary (12 with Dottie, plus 38 years with our deceased mates). All’s well that ends well.

PREFACE

. . .My experiences during my earliest years and my youth, I am sure could not be repeated in today’s world because religious attitudes and court powers have changed through improved knowledge and understanding, as well as through the will of the people. I am sincerely thankful that the Church and court entities were in place during the tuberculosis and influenza epidemic prior to World War I. Without parents or family, the courts (at the request of my dying father) awarded my custody and that of my siblings, to the Catholic Church Authority who housed, clothed, fed and educated me until I was through High School and able to take care of myself. For this I am forever grateful and in their debt, though my personal experience with their authority was anything but pleasant.

. . .Records show even with the best of intentions, under their care, about 80% of my fellow orphans wound up doing time or having a criminal record. Where do I fit in all the studies and psychological theories concerning adult criminal behavior? How did I escape that 80% category? Are the theorist all wrong or was I just lucky or inordinately plucky?

. . .The lyrics of a once popular song read How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood. Ah, what a beautiful thought for most people. Others of us who were less fortunate, do not share such wonderful memories. We do not love the scenes of our childhood and would prefer not to recall them. Unhappy, but truly memorable. My childhood is a case in point. In the following pages I present my story as I remember it, an orphaned family’s plight, and my struggle to survive personal psychological character problems. Where are the 20% of my fellow orphans who escaped the penal institutions to become a part of normal society and hopefully managed to attain a loving and productive life as I did. Those of us who are still around could certainly have an unforgetable reunion.

. . .Recently, as I neared completion of this book, I did have the good fortune to become re—acquainted with Ralph Wahlen, another boy about my age who shared with me most of those orphanage years. We exchange visits quite often, both enjoy thoroughly reminiscing the bad and sometimes good times that ensued during our formative years at the orphanage. He like myself, escaped the 80% bracket, constituting for us a mutual admiration for each other.

. . .To those readers who may have second thoughts concerning this narrative of allegations about abusive treatment by avowed—to—chasity nuns and other I—can—hardly—believe—what—I’m reading doubters, my co—defendant’s information will add to validity and/or give added credence, confirmation or better understanding of my story.

. . .It pleases me immensely and I will be forever grateful for Ralph’s willingness to write a truly honest and appropriate Forward for my endeavors to recall the facts. His singular preface/ forward follows and I say—Thank you RALPH E. WAHLEN for your added support and your generous assistance to my narrative.

. . .The Merriam—Webster Dictionary defines the word orphan as a child deprived by death of one or both parents. I suggest that a dog can be defined as a four—legged animal or that bread be described as food. These definitions are literally correct but, by omitting one qualifying factor in the word, orphan, the picture is muddled and unclear.

. . .By injecting one additional element into the equation it becomes evident how sterile and devoid of meaning this definition remains. That single missing piece is the child who, in addition to the above, is relegated to a childrens’ warehouse, aka, orphan asylum, in this book.

. . .The casual observer, especially if Catholic, feels good, smug and takes pride in Holy Mother Church’s charitable works of feeding the hungry and clothing the naked, etc. With the blinders of faith firmly in place, he is oblivious to the lot of kids whose only sin was losing his parents and/or being unwanted.

. . .The naive might suggest that after providing shelter and clothing, what else can wards of charity expect. There is the normal grammer school curriculum of the Three R’s. Add to this the fourth R, RELIGION, in megadoses. This supposedly, equips the Eighth grade graduate for life in the outside world.

. . .What about the unmentionable effects of extremely harsh, arbitrary discipline? How ironic and yet how appropriate that the child was assigned an identification number and that the keepers (the nuns) carry sidearms (rubber hoses) just as in a penitentiary!

. . .These vigilant guardians were ever ready to defend themselves and enforce the rules against the unruly and dangerous inmates. A beating with the rubber hose solved most problems unless some bizarre alternative came to mind. One of the more sadistic and resourceful nuns got her jollies by beating a kid with the rubber hose while holding his head under water, thus muffling his yelling.

. . .The non—teaching nuns for the most part, were pleasant but exercised little or no authority over the kids. It is not unlikely they were warned against being overly nice to the kids. The big nemesis was the twenty—four hour a day teacher, the ringmaster who ran the show unchallenged with no holds barred. True to character, her rules were absolute, petty, arbitrary and self—serving. New rules were enacted as occasions demanded.

. . .In the all too transparent effort to ward off show—downs and/or confrontations with the bigger kids, the teachers constantly lectured at length on their sacred role as brides of Christ and the sanctity and inviolability of that marriage bond. Touching a nun/ sister disrespectfully was a sacrilege, the penalty for which was eternal hellfire.

. . .As the nun got carried away by her own oratory it might well lapse into a diatribe on the kids’ worthlessness, how family had deserted them and the great burden they had inflicted on Holy Mother Church. It was almost a self—fulfilling prophecy that orphans, the very dregs of society, were doomed to never amount to anything. How naive that in saying this the nun was blind to the fact that their regimen was fitting the kids for that very role.

. . .Also lacking in the above definition is the child’s complete deprivation of love and respect. Granted, a huge brick, soot—encrusted building could not under any circumstances, be equated with fostering normal family life. But should the established order include depriving the kids of all sense of self—esteem and dignity? Must the prevailing guidelines be that anything less than harsh, unrelenting discipline is unacceptable?

. . .Upon graduation the product of this system was foisted onto some hapless relative who was too intimidated to confront the hierarchy about this uninvited and unwanted guest in his house. «Goodbye and good riddance!» says the church. «And don’t forget your allegiance to the One True Church».

. . .On the surface one sees the fourteen or fifteen year old emerging from many years of isolation into the outside world as a normally developed boy, equipped like any other boy his age, to cope in a totally unfamiliar and hostile world. However, a psychological XRay of the inside would reveal a grotesque caricature, a psychological distortion of a human being, devoid of all self—esteem and poise and woefully ignorant of all social amenities. He has an inferiority complex a mile long and is submissive and subservient to any vestige of authority. He is fit for nothing but life in the cocoon from which he was ousted.

. . .Mercifully, that orphanage is no longer in existence. It is indeed fortuitous that this saga of human misery and depravity perpetrated by the «One True Church» should be recorded in this biography. Nick is not only an eye witness but a victim and survivor.

. . .Read and enjoy his book.

. . .I, Ralph E. Wahlen, the author of the above, can testify to the veracity and accuracy of Nicholas J. Besker’s account since I was a fellow inmate for eight years—(1924—1932).

. . .Nicholas and I are a direct contradiction to the old adage «As a twig is bent, so is it inclined.»

THE BEGINNING

. . .The sting of the rubber hose striking tender flesh behind my knees smarted. This makeshift tool of torment had been fashioned from a 4—foot garden hose doubled up. When wielded by the hefty arm of Sister Frogface—a burly middle—aged, dedicated disciplinarian who would do well as a guard in a womens penitentiary—it was an instant attention—getter.

. . .Our class had just left morning chapel, headed for breakfast with our class teacher when I looked back down the hall. I could see her coming—red faced, nose wrinkled, nostrils flared, brow knit in a painful scowl, her mouth stretched like a bullfrog. She was as mad as I had ever seen her so I knew someone was going to catch hell. If I had known it was me she was after, I could have evaded her weapon by dancing around her, staying in constant motion, knowing a young boy could outwit a lumbering, middleaged heavy Polish nun. Her experienced mind outwitted me by withholding her weapon until she was well behind me—then she struck!!

. . .Number 116—come back here—now you come right back here—#116. Stand quietly now—I wanta’ talk to you. You are probably wondering why you got swatted behind the knees. I can tell you—this morning at chapel time when one of you boys made one of those smelly, improper, dirty sounds causing everybody to giggle while Mass was going on, I noticed the only boy who was not giggling was you—so don’t tell me—don’t deny to me that you were the boy who made that improper, smelly, dirty, sound. What have you got to say for yourself #116?

. . .I couldn’t help it Sister—it just happened—sometimes that stuff just comes out, you can’t hold it. I didn’t do it on purpose, honest.

. . .I am warning you—if that ever happens again you will be hearing from me and also from Sister Superior, whom we all feared. When I’m through with you—you will be glad to stand up to eat your meals. Now go back to your classroom and behave yourself.

. . .Was I her only target, or just her favorite? I don’t remember the exact date of this particular incident. A common practice at St. Aemilians calling us by number rather than by name as witnessed by me during my nine years in residence. I came to the orphanage a truculent six year old after three years at St. Vincents Baby Home. But I was not the only orphan slated to be saved from the world’s wickedness by the black robed nuns belonging to the Sisters of St. Francis of Assis, whose Motherhouse was located in the St. Francis Enclave. Since its founding in 1854 the orphanage sheltered more than 2000 homeless boys.

. . .Now as I sit in our Chula Vista, California sunroom, my 80+ year old memory frequently flashes back to those early years. I glory in the mere accomplishment of having survived those early years to now have the health and energy to look forward to entering the twenty—first century. I have the comfort and affection of my loving wife, Dottie, whom I married late in life in 1989, after losing my second wife to gastrointestinal cancer and she also her husband to cancer of the throat. We met at that wonderful organization known as San Diego Hospice, a most noteworthy juncture in my life.

. . .My memory, far from a precision instrument, has it’s ghosts to remind me of events that occurred, however puzzling to remember my life in a month to month, or even a year to year sequence with perfect accuracy. This I do know; there are very few happy remembrances for me of childhood, nor for my sisters, Josephine and Anne, during their pre—teen and adolescent years.

. . .My parents, Peter Beskar and Jela Rudic, immigrated to America in the second decade of the 1900’s from Dalmatia, located in Southern Austria. No one, I could ever discover, seems to know when either of them arrived in America or how they met, fell in love and decided to marry. I hope their marriage at St. Mary’s Catholic Church of West Allis, Wisconsin on May 23, 1913 brought them intense, if only brief joy. Their wedding was witnessed by a couple named Maretic of whom no one in the Beskar family later had any information, personal or written. In addition to the Maretic couple witnessing the ceremony there was recorded the presence of a second ghost couple, the Bralics. Again there is no record or memory of this couple having settled in the area. One rather persistent rumor concluded both couples, like many disappointed immigrants, probably returned to Austria when faced with the hardships of low employment and prejudice towards Kikes, Wops, Pollacks, Dagos, Krautheads, Frogs, Ruskies, Nigers, Chinks, Japs, Tarbaby, Greasers, etc. This is not a land of milk and honey or opportunity they expected it to be. What they found and thought of America is only a guess.

. . .I often wondered if America was a bitter disappointment to my parents but I will never know. Like a gnawing void in my memory as there are no letters, journals or diaries to whisper of their fondest hopes and dreams. I would like to think America was not a disappointment. There is the one simple handwritten letter of just a few lines by my father, Peter, acknowledging us four Beskar children as his legitimate offspring. The marriage and the birth of four children was hopefully joyful. The tragedy of course, was the early death of both parents during the epidemic of influenza and tuberculosis which struck down millions of people, whole families, throughout the world.