The impotence.

When my mother was being abused, I had no idea what to do. Sometimes I would go downstairs, unable to stand her scream, hoping to help her. But when I peeked into the room, I often saw her bent in half, and father behind her, moving his hips vigorously, while he held her hair tightly.

Stop it, I wanted to scream, but I never did.

When in my room I imagined myself coming downstairs and telling him to stop, and saving my mom, but whenever I saw his strong arms and the brutality with which he grabbed her, the feeling that I would lose overwhelmed me and I watched terrified, and fled whenever he let out a deep roar.

At that time, I thought I was a terrible son, that I couldn’t help my mother. Now I was able to appreciate my freeze response. Thanks to it, my mother managed to protect me, and I hardly experienced any physical violence.

This lasted for some time. I lived in my tiny world and never considered seeking help.

Until one day my mother and I went shopping a little further than usual and I saw a poster with a sad child. I had a split second to look at it, but it was enough to remember the most important information – I remembered the kid’s sadness, I recognized well, and the big word “HELP?”. The next day, instead of returning home from kindergarten, my legs carried me in front of this poster. I stared at it for some time without saying a word. I noticed in the background silhouettes of two adults who looked like they were arguing. I noticed a sad, dirty teddy bear that the kid was holding. I noticed the full inscription. “ARE YOU EXPERIENCING VIOLENCE?” – I read letter by letter.

Am I experiencing violence?

Is it violence in the picture?

“DO YOU NEED HELP?”

I felt tears.

Was that enough as an answer?

Underneath were three triplets of numbers I recognized as a phone number, a small picture of a very outdated phone, and a text that I read as “call”.

I looked again at the drawing of the sad child, hesitating.

Did I look like that child?

More tears welled up in my eyes, and I bravely stopped them.

I started looking around. I didn’t have my own phone, but in kindergarten I was taught that if I got lost, I should go into the store, ask an adult to call the police and wait.

I looked through the glass into the meat shop, next to the poster. I saw a grown man behind the counter and felt discouraged. However, I also saw a young, smiling lady at the other counter and made a decision. I swallowed and forced myself to enter the store. I stood nearby the wall, as if I didn’t want anyone to see me, and step by step I moved away from the man and approached the young lady. I kept checking if she was still smiling, ready to run if only she gave me a bad look.

“Good morning, what can I do for you?”, she asked politely.

It was silent.

I realized that I didn’t know how to tell her. I was afraid that she would get angry soon, and yet I couldn’t say anything. My heart was pounding. I thought it was about to pop. The world ceased to exist.

The woman must have noticed my breathing, because she came from behind the counter and knelt in front of me.

“Did something happened? Are you lost?”, her voice sounded so nice.

My finger pointed towards the poster.

“Do you want to show me something?”.

I took a step towards the exit. The woman followed me until we left the store and I stood in front of a poster pointing to the phone number.

I don’t really remember what happened next. I remember being very scared and regretting this decision many times. I hesitated, thinking I made a mistake. However, at every step there was a nice adult nearby, there were screens with cartoons, colorful books and crayons.

I remember that after some time, a lady came and asked me to listen to her carefully.

She said that my mother can’t take care of me because she is sick and needed to be in the hospital, and that I would be able to visit her, but for now someone else would take care of me.

So I was transported to a sort of full-time kindergarten, where some ladies took care of all of us.

Over the years, I found out that they were looking for a foster family for me, but there were a lot of children also looking for a home. I said I understood, because even though the Children’s Home wasn’t a dream, it was better than my old home, and I was incredibly grateful for every act of kindness.

Finally, when I was about twelve years old a home for me had been found.

…

The house of Mr. and Mrs. Ochocki was quite spacious and already housed seven residents. Apart from Mrs. and Mr. Ochocki, there were two girls in one room and at the other end of the house three boys in a room with two bunk beds. I took the last free bed – down by the left wall.

Mr. and Mrs. Ochocki were very strict, but also polite. Their rules made sense, and they always allowed us to ask about them. Apart from these rules, however, we had a lot of freedom. Mr. Ochocki taught us that there are always fresh products in the fridge and that we can use them, that if something is missing, we can tell them and they will try to buy it, and in addition, we had supplies of long-lasting products in the basement that we could use – everything so that we wouldn’t worry about hunger.

Each of us also had a phone, a metal box locked with a code for valuable things and a twenty euros of pocket money per month for current expenses. Additionally, from time to time, we could earn extra money for some simple tasks.

For example, one day Mr. Ochocki came to our room and announced that he would give forty euros to whoever would wash his car.

I got up and looked around the room.

Timon and Eric looked up and went back to reading.

“I can do it”, I said quietly.

Mr. Ochocki threw me the keys with a smile.

“I need it ready by seven”.

“Understood”.

Mr. Ochocki closed the door behind him.

“Pansy”, I heard Eric’s voice as I got out of bed.

Recently, the term entered his vocabulary and he used it almost all the time, although I was pretty sure that neither of us knew what it meant exactly.

“Eric, shut up”, Timon said from the upper bed.

Timon was already an adult, but the Ochocki family allowed him to stay so that he could focus on his studies until he found a good job. Timon was very grateful for this. He always did his duties without a word, never caused problems, he covered all his expenses with his own money, which he earned by teaching mathematics and physics privately. That is why he did not come forward when Mr. Ochocki gave us tasks. To wash the car I usually needed the whole afternoon. He gained forty euros in two hours.

And he probably wanted to leave these tasks for us, who could not yet work legally.

Personally, at the beginning of my stay here, I had no need for money. The Ochocki family had a rule that all expenses related to the school, such as the collection of two euros for flowers for the teachers, were covered by them additionally and not from our pocket money. All expenses such as textbooks, clothes, food were family expenses that they paid for. As soon as we were able to justify why we needed a given expense, why it was not our whim, they were ready to pay for it. When we went shopping, I often watched how Mrs. Ochocka and Bea negotiated which clothes were needed, and for which Bea had to pay if she wanted them.

This way, Kevin, our youngest family member, had the most savings, which he kept in his box.

For an eight-year-old child, forty euros per month was far exceeding his expenses. If he spent money on something, it was a euro or two for a wafer or juice. And even so, most of the sweets he got not with his money, but during shopping, when he smiled nicely at Mrs. Ochocka, and she always agreed, since it was such a small expense. In this way, in his own box, next to his surprising savings, there was a lot of sweets that he saved for later. When his school organized a trip to the cinema, he ran to Mr. and Ms. Ochocki, and they gave him extra money for school expenses. When he wanted a toy, he usually waited until Christmas or birthday.

Ever since I met him, I envied him how he used his innate cuteness.

But not in a bad way.

Sometimes Eric gazed over Kevin’s shoulder into his box and then complained that the Ochocki family gave everyone the same amount of pocket money, that it was far too much for an eight-year-old, but I liked that we were all treated the same regardless of age.

Mr. and Mrs. Ochocki had a very practical approach to the money they wanted to instill in us. They wanted us to be good and helpful, but also to not be afraid to make money for our hard work and to use our earnings wisely.

And each of us had duties, which Mr. and Mrs. Ochocki and us divided as fairly as possible, depending on persons competences, and if we did as asked we received the pocket money. When someone was slacking off, the Ochocki family took from that person’s pocket money.

For a long time, I didn’t care much about money. I was more interested in home’s peace and Ochockis’ satisfaction. I felt uncomfortable when Mr. Ochocki was angry with Eric when he didn’t do something again, so at some point, whenever I saw, for example, an unpacked dishwasher, I knew Eric was supposed to unpack today, I did it for him and enjoyed the peace during dinner.

However, when Mr. Ochocki caught me doing Eric’s work, he was terribly upset. I tried to shrink and said nothing. I knew he didn’t want to punish me for helping around the house, but I still felt I had done something wrong. Seeing my anxiety, he encouraged me to talk. He explained to me that he wasn’t angry with me, but that he didn’t want Eric to learn that he could take advantage of others. After talking to Eric, Mr. and Mrs. Ochocki agreed that if Eric failed to fulfill his duties and I reported it, I could do them and get the money they would take away from his next pocket money.

This way, the atmosphere between me and Eric became even more tense.

For me personally, a forty euros a month was quite enough. I would be happy to wash Mr. Ochocki’s car for free to express my gratitude. I applied mainly when no one else wanted to, because I felt obliged to help them. However, Mr. Ochocki insisted that I watch my business and not allow myself to be taken advantage of.