The porridge witch
Turn your wounds into wisdom
“Eat you porridge before it gets cold”, said my mother.
“No, I don’t want porridge! I want toast!” I replied.
I didn’t know that asking for what I wanted, would lead to a terrifying moment in my young life.
My parents had immigrated to Australia from Austria, on an assisted ten pound passage. We were living in a run down old tenement house in Richmond, Melbourne, along with many other migrant families. We all had one big room each, shared pay showers, pay cooking facilities, and toilets.
There was a small pub next door, which my dad often frequented. Where I was often reluctantly sent to fetch him for dinner. The pub was always full of smoke and drunk, loud people, all talking at once, and the strong smell of beer. I could feel them staring at me as I walked around looking for dad. I really disliked going there.
From our room, you could hear the busy traffic on church road, which ran up a hill, and carried on down the other side. On top of the hill was Saint Ignatius church, one of the biggest churches in Melbourne, a dark imposing Catholic Church built of Bluestone. Opposite it was a Catholic Kindergarten run by nuns. I walked to that kindergarten on my own, each weekday morning, and back home again in the afternoon. Then I stayed with another family in the building, until my parents got home from work, to collect me.
It was a bright sunny morning, with no hint of what was to come.
We were all sitting at the breakfast table in our little, upstairs, one room apartment, with its faded smoke stained wallpaper, and cream linoleum floor. It had two big windows facing into the street. The only furniture was a double bed, a bedside table, my cot at the foot of their bed, a large wardrobe, a pantry closet for food, and a table and three chairs.
Dad is sitting quietly at the far end of the table, eating his eggs and toast, and reading his newspaper. Mum and me had porridge in front of us.
“Eat your porridge and you can have toast after,” my mum said.
“I want toast, I don’t want porridge! I don’t like porridge!”
Mum was annoyed, she had tried all sorts of persuasions, and threats to make me eat my porridge, including giving me a clip over the ears.
One thing about my mum, was she was very slap happy. I got slapped for the slightest thing. She had a menu of different slaps that she had learned from her mum, who had used them her when she was a child. You will get a smack that makes you head spin, or makes you see stars, or knocks your head off, or makes your ears ring, and so on. If I could dodge them I would, but mostly they were quick as a snake strike, and so unexpected that they got through. I didn’t even understand why she hit me most of the time. I just knew to keep out of her reach.
I didn’t care about a slap this morning. I didn’t want to eat porridge. I just wanted toast. She told me that I couldn’t go out and play until I ate my porridge. But I didn’t care! I wasn’t going to eat it.
I would just sit there if I have to. I was determined. I wanted toast!
My father, at the other end of the table, had been quietly eating, and watching the exchange between me and mum.
My father was a bit of a stranger to me. He never played with me. He hardly ever spoke to me, except to tell me to do something. I remember overhearing a conversation between him, and mum one time. Mum was saying you never do anything with him, you don’t play with him, you don’t even talk to him. You need to do something with him. My father replying, “What can I talk to him about, he is just a baby.” “Then do something, play with him, or take him for a drive, or something,” she said.
So one rainy day, when mum was out, he did. He said come with me. I asked where we were going, and he replied for a drive. I asked where we were driving to, and he replied we were just going for a drive. So I got into the car, and sat next to him on the front bench seat.
We drove around in the rain for a while. I couldn’t understand why we were sitting in a car, driving around in the rain, but not going anywhere. Dad didn’t say one word to me. He slowly smoked a cigarette while he drove, and the car began to fill with smoke. We drove around in silence. There was no radio, only the repeating squeak of the windscreen wipers, and the sound of traffic on wet roads. When we got home, he let me loose to play with the other kids. I was glad the drive was over.
My dad was a complicated man, carrying many demons from a terrible childhood.
Those demons haunted my childhood.
Mum and I were still engaged in the porridge wars.
I wasn’t going to eat my porridge.
I wanted toast.
Suddenly, like a waking giant, my dad stirred, and spoke. He said to mum, “I know how to fix this.” He got up out of his chair, and stood over me, saying, “If you don’t stop talking back, and you don’t eat your porridge, then we don’t want you anymore!”
Wait! What?
Even to my little Kindergarten mind that seemed silly.
I didn’t believe him.
I told him I just wanted toast!
“If you don’t do what your told, then I am going to take you downstairs, and give you to the old lady who lives out the back,” he threatened. Mum didn’t intervene, she watched silently, and said nothing.
At the side of the house, with an outside door, lived a little old lady, grey haired, wrinkled, and mean looking. She was always dressed in complete black from head to toe. Whenever she saw any of us children around her, she would wave her walking stick threatening us, and yell in some strange language. To us little kids she was a witch from the old European fairy tales. The kind of witch who cooked and ate little children. A witch of childish nightmares. We were fascinated and frightened of her, and would scurry and hide whenever she saw us.
But I was convinced dad wouldn’t give me to the witch, I was certain he was bluffing.
I said “No, I don’t want porridge, I want to eat toast!”
“Then that’s it” he said, “We don’t want you anymore. I am going to take you downstairs, and give you to the witch who lives out the back.” He then scoops me up into his arms and says, “I have had enough of this, the witch can have you.” Holding me in his arms he proceeded to walk out the door, and down the stairs. Half way down he stopped.
“Are you going to eat your porridge,” he said?
“I just want toast,” I replied. Firm in my feeling that he would never give me to the old witch.
He shook his head, then proceeded on down the stairs until he reached the door leading outside. The witch’s door was close, about 10 metres to the left, outside that door.
Then he threatened “This is your last chance, I won’t ask you again, will you eat your porridge, or do you want to be given to the witch?”
With those words, I did something that I didn’t do before…
I imagined him giving me to the witch. I saw her opening her door, her dark eyes shining with a big hungry smile, as my dad gives me to her. I saw her locking the door behind her, locking me in with her. And then I saw her turning on the oven.
It suddenly all became real, and terrifying.
My system went into shock and panic.
My automatic flight response kicked in.
I struggled, and squirmed, and kicked to get out of my dads grip and run away. But he held me too tightly, I couldn’t escape,
I could hardly breathe.
He said “Will you do what we want now?”
The nightmare of what I imagined was too terrible, the chance that it was real was horrifying. “Yes, yes,” I cried in fear and panic.
A smile came on his face, and he said “Ok then, but never talk back to us again, and always do what you are told.”
He carried me back up, as I cried in his arms. I sat in my chair, and with my body shaking and in tears, I ate the stupid porridge. I was hurt and upset. I didn’t look at them, or talk to them. Mum gave me a piece of toast and cookie to try and cheer me up.
Something in me had been damaged. Dad had crushed any sense of me being allowed to have a boundary. It wasn’t safe to express anything. I didn’t feel safe with, or trust, my own mother and father! He had made me feel that he didn’t care about me, or what I wanted. And that I was disposable. My mum did nothing to stop him.
I avoided my parents whenever I could as a child. They were mostly not fun to be around. It only got worse as the years passed, as my dad began drinking more and more heavily. I learned to keep to myself, and take care of myself. It felt safer and less stressful.
There were of course moments of sunshine and fun. Like when we went to the beach, or the movies, played board games, or went camping together. But deep inside I always felt stress around them. and the threat that things could go very dark, in an instant, and they did…
… more and more often, as the years went by.
… Franz Schutz
