08 Not Worth Owning Anything

Still in Harburg, I was surrounded by memories—some good, but mostly painful. Nigg and I used to climb the 200-foot solid rock cliff behind our house, its surface polished smooth by centuries of wind and rain. We would peer into the nesting place of the falcons, wide-eyed with wonder.

“Nigg always wished he could raise one,” I recalled aloud.

Seeing the cliff now, through adult eyes, I realized how reckless we’d been. One misstep could’ve killed us. But as children, we felt invincible, scaling the mirror-smooth stone as if it were part of our playground—a shortcut to the castle above.

That cliff was part of an ancient crater, formed by a meteorite impact thousands of years ago. The force of it left a 21-mile-wide depression, and NASA later found that the stones here closely resembled those on the moon.

Alex, Maus, and I entered the castle restaurant, Fürstliche Burgschenke, and took the first table we saw, ordering coffee and cake. I pointed out the table where my parents used to play pinochle every week with the Pfeifers, the restaurant’s former owners.

That name—Pfeifer—triggered a memory.

Nuschi.

Our guinea pig, with soft patches of black, white, and golden brown. My heart pounded. My hands trembled. Nuschi had come from the Pfeifers, and she had meant everything to us. She was something gentle, something safe, something untouched by our father’s cruelty.

One afternoon, while my mother was cleaning and instructing us to help, I overheard her say that the woman who did our laundry had quit because she couldn’t stand our father. I liked that woman—she’d had the courage to tell the truth. Now, with her gone, everything fell to me. I was the girl, so the house became my responsibility.

The laundry had piled up. Lella’s old washing machine was broken, so I had to scrub everything by hand on a washboard. My back ached, but there was still the floor to scrub. When I complained, I was told, “Everyone has to earn their keep—you’re no exception.” Yet my father did nothing. He’d show up at the gas station in his suit and stink of cigars, barking orders at the employees and ruining everyone’s mood.

Before leaving for Donauwörth that day, Mother said, “When the boys come home, tell them to clean Nuschi’s cage.”

They didn’t.

When she returned, she erupted in rage, face flushed red. “You ungrateful useless brats!” she screamed, calling us names and threatening, “Just wait until your almighty lord father comes home.”

And he did.

Nigg and I froze. We braced for the routine—being summoned to the laundry room one by one, beaten with the water hose. But this time was different.

“I’ll put an end to this problem,” he growled. His insults poured out—telling us we weren’t worthy of having anything, that he never wanted us, that we only lived by his mercy.

And then I saw the change in his face. I knew that look. A chill ran through me. I prayed I was wrong.

He stormed out of the kitchen with Mother chasing after him, pleading. Nigg and I sat stiffly on the bench, breath held.

“Why is she begging?” Nigg whispered. “Isn’t this what she wanted?”

We heard noises from the laundry room but couldn’t make out what was happening. When he returned, he stood tall and proud, like a general after a conquest.

“You’re not worthy of owning anything,” he declared. “Get that guinea pig out of here.”

For a moment, I hoped he hadn’t done it. Maybe he’d relented. Maybe he was bluffing. But then he added:

“What happened to the guinea pig is nothing compared to what’ll happen to you if you disobey me again. Now go—take care of it.”

Nuschi was dead. He had killed her.

We looked at each other, hearts heavy, tears trapped behind our eyes. We were too afraid to cry.

“One day I’ll make him pay,” Nigg whispered.

I carried Nuschi up the steps. Nigg dug a small grave under the plum tree, and we buried her. I kept wondering: If only God can take life, does that mean my father thinks he’s God?

Suddenly, past and present blurred. I saw the pattern. I understood, for the first time, how adults become who they are—how pain repeats itself. And in seeing that, I saw myself, even now, trapped in a familiar helplessness.

Back at the table, I looked at Alex. He said nothing. I wondered: Did he connect the story to his own actions? Did he remember what he had done to Shiva?

On Valentine’s Day in 1992, his son Michael brought us a four-month-old Golden Retriever mix. We named her Shiva. She was a gift, a joy. I was thrilled—we were moving into a bigger house with a garden, and I worked from home. She became my shadow, my comfort, my baby.

But on moving day, Shiva got in Alex’s way, whining to be near me. That night, he locked her in the garage. I was afraid to question him, the old fear creeping in. The next morning, I sat with her on the patio, trying to reassure her with love before we left to clean our old place.

When we returned, Shiva had torn through the screen door and was asleep near our bed. Alex was furious. He dragged her outside and beat her with the leash.

I froze. I couldn’t move. I watched, horrified—seeing my father all over again. And I hated Alex in that moment just as I had hated my father.

Then something shifted. I screamed, “STOP!” And he did.

That single word shattered the chain of fear that had bound me since childhood. For the first time, I had power. My “no” had been heard. I had stopped what I couldn’t as a child.

I knew that to heal, I had to face the trauma—not bury it. Helplessness repeated becomes a permanent scar.

Shiva was never the same. In 1998, she bit a child who tried to pet her, and we had to put her down. I never forgave Alex.

Months later, he wanted another dog. I was torn—afraid he’d hurt it too, but also longing to nurture something again. I promised myself I wouldn’t let it happen twice.

When we brought home our black Labradors, Diva and Wotan, in April of 1998, I knew I had changed, even if I couldn’t yet explain how. They were mine—my babies. If Alex disapproved of how I raised them, I ignored it and did what I believed was right.

The moment I realized I’d truly grown came the day Diva’s first litter of six puppies went out to play after their vaccinations. One of them, Wulf, approached a Dachshund and was bitten. Diva charged to defend him but returned reluctantly when I called her.

I asked Alex to hold the dogs while I checked if the Dachshund had its rabies shots. Diva followed me. Alex snapped, grabbed her—and started hitting her.

I shouted, “STOP!” My voice was firm, unshaken. “I will not tolerate your violent behavior.”

He had exposed the same rage, the same need for control, as my father. I was terrified—but this time, I said no. And this time, I was heard.

That single act broke the cycle. It didn’t fix the past. But it changed the future.

Evaluation:
This narrative reveals the enduring psychological impact of chronic childhood trauma, rooted in emotional neglect, physical abuse, and the absence of secure attachment figures. The narrator’s early experiences with a domineering, violent father and a complicit or powerless submissive mother created a foundation of fear, helplessness, and suppressed rage. Her inability to protect a beloved pet from her father’s cruelty during childhood left a deep wound—one that resurfaced decades later when her husband exhibited similar abusive behavior. The killing of the guinea pig symbolized a total loss of safety, agency, and the right to love or be loved freely. This event became a traumatic imprint, reinforcing the child’s belief in her powerlessness and in the unpredictability of authority figures.

The adult reenactment of that helplessness—watching her husband beat the dog—triggered a visceral trauma response, complete with dissociation, paralysis, and internalized guilt. However, her eventual scream, her “no,” marked a profound psychological breakthrough: a reclaiming of voice and agency previously denied to her as a child. This act of defiance was not only a protective gesture toward the animal but a symbolic stand against her past. Her healing began not through forgetting the trauma, but by consciously interrupting its repetition. This chapter illustrates the powerful psychological truth that unresolved trauma often seeks reenactment until it is consciously faced, named, and transformed. The narrator’s growing ability to recognize patterns, feel emotions long suppressed, and assert boundaries reflects significant progress toward post-traumatic growth and emotional autonomy.