HITLER BOOM BOOM!

Dad was the first one to break the rules, while at the same time teaching us to accept authority, but really meaning what was commonly known as “Children should be seen but not heard.” If you add that just like a fish that swims in front of your eyes, it has no voice, unlike a dog or a cat, that can pretty much express itself emotionally. Crying for no reason, sulking or being excessively needy, was resolved by a wack from parents and teachers alike. Only if smacking became excessive would it occasionally attract the attention of the social services.

There were no troubled children in my childhood according to statistics at that time. Instead, there were only misbehaving children whom the government encouraged to be disciplined through moderate smacking. However, my parents disagreed with the teachers raising their hands against any of us for offences such as being late for school, or other wrongdoings committed by their mischievous brood. Dad had different methods to bring out the best in us, and though his approach didn’t involve physical violence, his punishments were notably unacceptable by todays’ modern standards.

At the age of six, as I recall those events, I was spared from participation in weekly behaviour reviews by Dad always taking place in the kitchen on Fridays. Mum would have her back to the event, busily whipping eggs or stirring poppy seeds in a bowl to make a cake. Her silence served as testament to her support for her husband’s way of bringing up the family.

On one Friday event, Dad gathered us by blowing his metal whistle, instructing his children in the usual manner to form a line with hands down by their side, heads straight, and eyes focused. With a calm yet stern voice he went on asking the usual questions ranging from accomplishments to be proud of that earned a star, to no stars for misbehaviour. We were his little soldiers in our kitchen military headquarters. Earning five stars was a great achievement earning the price of an ice cream, even in winter. Lies were flying back and forth, distortions and accusations, shifting blame onto others rather than taking responsibility for any misdeed. Dad listened attentively in silence until I impulsively took upon myself the blame from my siblings. The image of his angry face forever etched in my memory.

“Never own up to another person’s guilt,” he said coldly. “At six years old you should know that blaming yourself for something you didn’t do doesn’t make you a hero!”

Perhaps he said more which I can’t remember, but what stayed in my memory were his next words.

“When I was six years old, I questioned authority, defying my own mother’s rule to quickly come home after school because I wanted to see the bombings with my own eyes.”

His own words caused him to bite on his tongue as since that day the weekly summons were over and done with, and his reprimands changed into more civilised summaries of recent events. We trusted him, and Mum, who whispered to him that once he broke his own rules, nothing would ever be the same. We never blamed him for strict rules, because deep down he wanted to make us as tough as he was, having witnessed the atrocities of falling bombs over his town.

He told us once when on his way from school he lingered about, hearing sirens sounding the alarms to hide when a uniformed German soldier pulled Dad into the porch of a house. Dad thought of kicking his way out, but the German clapped his hand against Dad’s lips, pointing his finger at the sky.

“Hitler boom, boom!” he uttered over the noise from the Luftwaffe’s roaring engines. He didn’t release his grip until it quietened enough and then he brought Dad home to his mother, a few streets away.

She must have given Dad a good hiding for disobeying, and I believe that day Dad grew up fast and became wiser than a six-year-old child. A little old man looking far beyond the gloomy sky, and into the future when only the toughest survive.

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