We used to live in a block of flats. Twelve stories high. The top floor consisted of a few small flats and a number of large rooms. Two of them were made into laundries. There were huge boiler pots, where we could boil white clothes. So huge that you could easily fit a chair in them and close the top firmly. There was a large bath tub, huge sink and plenty of space to manoeuvre. All you had to bring with you was a washing machine, which was very tiny (see the pic) and fit into the elevator perfectly.
Washing machine, exactly like mine
Sweet thing those machines. I used to love squeezing the water out of wet clothes using a crank attached to two rollers. I used to love watching clothes spinning with water during the wash cycle. I had a large wooden paddle to stir the washing while it was spinning.
So the top floor was just one long corridor, connecting the three stairwells running through our building. The same connection was running through the basement (all buildings in town had basement – no matter how big or small). The kids used to run around long corridors, playing hide and seek. Usually, we ran there when the weather was bad but it wasn’t a rule. The basement was spooky and we loved the atmosphere. A lot of people kept home-made pickles in their cellars and we sometimes went and managed to nick a few. Just for fun. Naughty, I know; but we were all ages between 8-12 and we didn’t really give a crap.
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Live outside the flat was fantastic. Running wild, away from the flat, where, apart from waiting for the evening parents fight, was nothing much to do. Being thought how useless I am, on regular basis, made me extremely shy. Although I was very gobby at home, trying to protest against everything that my parents represented, I knew that it was not what I wanted to be. So going outside, I was totally different. Smiley, friendly, funny, up for any adventure and surprisingly brave. Characteristics which, despite being good qualities, brought me to my knees and broke me to the bone.
The kids quickly picked up that I will go for anything to keep up with them. They soon discovered that it’s extremely easy to make me do silly things for fun. As all kids at the time, we all loved to make trouble. Nothing major, like making noises outside people’s door, flipping the bins upside down… I was told that as the bravest, I should go first. I was happy that I am the one (but in fact, I was like a rat used for reconnaissance and the last to leave as an escape goat). I was happy that I am accepted. I always helped others, even if it meant to sacrifice my own plans. I often left house chores undone, because someone from outside asked me to help with something. To me, letting down my parents wasn’t that bad, but saying “no” to anyone outside the house could result with them avoiding me and that I couldn’t face.
Once the kids learned that “I am in for all”, they understood that making fun of me is a safe sort of entertainment, that I am not going to tell anyone, and I will let them do it just to remain “in the pack”. I was extremely shy when it came to defending myself. I could be a lioness, when it came to stand and defend others, but when it came to defend myself – I was numb. At the time though, I was very far from psychological assessment of my behaviour and just went with the flow and I was happy to “belong”.
Being a chubby child I had to deal with all sorts of verbal abuse. On top of it, I had freckles and red hair, which at the time were biggest sins. I was boiling inside but I walked with my head up and ignored the names. There was a moment though, when I came to a little breaking point. I didn’t want to go out. It was summer and everyone was playing outside but I had enough. My mother was complaining that I am home all days. I decided to tell her why. In reply, I heard “tell them (the kids that called me names) off then; you are gobby enough indoors”. She ordered me to go outside and shut the door on me. I stood on the stairwell for hours, crying and looking at happy crowds of kids outside. That was it. I cried and cried. Sometimes I cried myself to sleep. As I was growing up, those barriers grew even more, but with becoming a teenager, the troubles took a new shape. I need to add that the schooling system was different back then, and the Primary School was for 8 years. Pre-school at the age of 6, then classes from 1-8, which meant that by the time you were leaving your first school, you were 14 years old. I was sent to the school a year earlier, following the assessment of some clever psychologist, which persuaded my parents that I am some sort of rapidly developing child and I should be sent to the school as soon as possible.
I will come back to this early period of my life at some point, to explore my feelings while away from home. For now though, I will concentrate on my story close to home. But that in the next chapter.
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