HSFTP – 05 Grandpa, Why

Maus, my husband Alex, and I drove slowly over the familiar old cobblestone streets.

How many times, I wondered, had I walked these paths with my head down, stepping carefully from stone to stone, lost in sad thoughts, wishing my life could be different? Every house we passed, every corner we turned, stirred memories that sprang vividly to life around me.

There was the house where Heidi, my closest childhood friend, lived with her grandparents. We passed the little shop where Grandma had bought me my first knitting needles and a skein of wool when I was just three years old. And there was the Gasthaus—the Golden Lamb—where Grandpa and I went every Sunday after church.

The road curved left toward the marketplace and then climbed the hill toward the castle. We passed Ursula Sauer’s house. Ursula, another school friend, had her first child at fifteen. People had called her a whore and a lowlife; she became the talk of the town. My chest tightened. A rock seemed to settle on it. I took a deep breath. So many memories. So much shame. So many buried fears.

“Up at the castle courtyard—right here,” I said to Alex, pointing to the left, “was the garden where the princesses spent their summer afternoons, entertaining relatives in the sun. I can almost hear them laughing.”

I showed him the Forest Master’s house—the man in charge of the castle’s forest and hunting dogs.

When we stepped through the weathered oaken east gate of the castle wall, the view took my breath away. The entire town and the winding Woernitz River lay beneath our feet. I watched Alex’s eyes widen in awe. Pride swelled in my chest—pride in showing him and Maus my hometown. The place where I was born, where my grandparents had lived—and died.

Just a few yards further, leaning against the rock on which the castle stood, was a slab of marble. A memorial to the soldiers lost in World War II. Carved into it: Friedrich Linse, 1945—my mother’s younger brother.

Tears filled my eyes as I turned and pointed toward the hill about a mile to the east.

“And there,” I said softly, “lies his mother. My beloved grandma—Lella.”

Suddenly, memories flooded in, sharp and vivid. I was seven years old again, and it all felt so real…

“Lella, are we going now?”

I was proud that Grandpa no longer had to carry me down the steps. I was a big girl now. Four years old. Allowed to walk—so long as I held Lella’s hand.

“First we tell Friedl what we need,” Lella replied. “Then we’ll go to the butcher’s and the milk store.”

I carried my little shopping bag to help her. She’d bought it for me during a visit to Aunt Mina—Grandma’s younger sister, who lived in Augsburg. They both had the same beautiful white hair.

The store we visited had once been Grandma’s. She used to sell pots, pans, and everything the village needed. But she had closed it when I was born and rented it out to Friedl, who now ran it as a grocery shop. Still, Grandma always went through the front door, never the back. She handed Friedl a list of what we needed, and Friedl would prepare everything in a cardboard box, placing it on the bottom step for us to collect.

One day, Lella opened the door to our house with the same hand that held the milk can. She didn’t want to let go of mine. The can slipped, clattering onto the stone tiles. The blue enamel shattered and splattered across the floor.

“Don’t worry, Lella,” I said. “Grandpa will fix it.”

But Lella was still gripping the door handle when she collapsed. I knew something was wrong.

“Lella! Lella!” I screamed, cradling her head in my hands.

Friedl came running from the store. More people arrived. Grandpa carried Lella to bed.

“You don’t need to cry, Grandpa,” I told him. “The doctor will put a bandage on her, and I’ll help you fix the milk can.”

The house filled with people, voices, and confusion. Some wandered into Grandpa’s study—my favorite room, with its big shiny desk and all the tiny drawers. I sat on his lap when my mother, Marie, walked in. She and Grandpa were crying.

I snuck into the bedroom and whispered, “Lella, just keep sleeping. I’ll sit by you and be quiet.”

I noticed her hands were tucked under the covers, her hair combed differently.

“I’ll hold your hand so you can sleep better,” I said. But her hand was cold. That’s why they hid it under the blanket.

“I’ll lie next to you,” I offered. “Then you’ll get warm soon.”

Grandpa came in and found me beside her. He smiled sadly and said the doctor needed to examine her.

“I’ll stay so the doctor won’t hurt her,” I said.

He lifted me gently into his arms. “The doctor can’t hurt your Lella anymore.”

Later, Marie told Lore, the boys’ nanny, “Take her downstairs with the boys.”

I stomped my foot. “No! I don’t like the boys—they’re always fighting!”

After the doctor and nurse left, I sneaked back into Lella’s room, curled up beside her, and fell asleep.

The next morning, I woke up in the boys’ room. Confused, I crept upstairs. Grandpa was already dressed, surrounded by papers and coins.

“I’m fixing your breakfast today,” he said.

He opened the study window and tapped a stick against the sill. Across the street, Baker Graf opened his window. Grandpa passed him money and received four rolls—one for Lella, two for himself, and one for me.

Then he said softly, “From now on, we only need three rolls.”

In the kitchen, he warmed milk, tore up a roll in my bowl, sprinkled sugar on top, and poured in the hot milk. He buttered his own rolls, filled his coffee cup, and sat beside me.

“Eat,” he said gently. “Lella won’t eat with us today.” Tears rolled silently down his cheeks.

“Why do you have all that money on your desk, Grandpa?” I asked.

“I have to pay the people who are coming to take Lella.”

“Take her where? Why? Can I go too?”

He tried to explain that Lella was going to heaven.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said stubbornly, wriggling out of his arms. “I’m going with her.”

“No, not this time,” he said softly.

When they came to take her, the men wore black coats and white gloves. They placed Lella into a black box. When they closed the lid, I screamed.

“She can’t breathe!”

The world blurred. Tiny dots danced in front of my eyes. I fainted.

When I awoke, Grandpa held me and carried me to the window.

“Look,” he said. “Lella is going for a ride in a beautiful coach with black horses. Later, we will visit her.”

We climbed the hill to a place I had never seen before—the cemetery. In the small house with the glass door, Lella lay surrounded by flowers and candles. She looked peaceful.

“Grandpa,” I whispered, “the doctor took off her bandage. She’s not hurting now. She’s sleeping. You don’t need to cry anymore.”

A few days later, Marie dressed me and said, “You’ll go with Grandpa. I’ll come later with the boys.”

Again we went to the cemetery. People gathered around a large hole. Grandpa held me close. A church man in a black robe spoke for what felt like forever. The men in black lowered the box. I turned to Grandpa, horrified.

How could he let this happen?

When he reached for his handkerchief, I broke free and ran.

“Lella!” I screamed, just as Marie caught me and slapped my bottom—in front of everyone.

Grandpa pulled me into his arms and held me tightly. The little colored dots returned. I fainted again.

When I awoke, I was lying on the kitchen bench, my favorite pillow beneath me.

Even then, I didn’t understand. But everything changed.

Grandpa moved his bed into the study. I had to sleep in the boys’ room. I was told to call Marie “Mother,” and the man I had always been afraid of—I had to call “Father.”

I wasn’t allowed to visit Grandpa anymore. No more Sundays in church together. No more lemonade in my little stone mug at the Gasthaus Lamm. No more mashed potatoes with schnitzel. No more sugar rolls soaked in warm milk at 3 a.m.

Now, 43 years later, I was back—with my husband.

The memories of Lella flooded my mind, vivid and raw. My throat tightened, tears welled in my eyes, but a surprising sense of relief washed over me. After all these years, the child in me had finally laid her grief to rest. The pain had softened. In its place, a loving memory remained. The tears had emptied a long-held sorrow, making room for healing.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Maus watching me. She and Alex said nothing. I was grateful. I needed this moment—needed to let it rise and pass without interruption. It was sacred.

As I turned away and walked down the narrow stony path leading from the hill, I could almost reach out and touch the tower of the Lutheran church to my right—the very church where we were all baptized. Even Lella.

And I knew then: the memory of her death was no longer a wound. It had become part of me. And at last, there was space in my soul for joy—for the good memories to return and take their rightful place.

PSYCHOLOGICAL EVALUATION REPORT
Subject: Female child (unnamed, referred to as “the child” in this report)
Age at time of trauma: 7 years old
Presenting Concern: Long-term impact of early childhood bereavement and sudden loss of primary caregiver (grandmother, “Lella”)
Assessment Context: Based on detailed autobiographical narrative reflecting on childhood experience and adult processing of grief.

Background and Context

The subject experienced the sudden, traumatic loss of her grandmother—her primary attachment figure—at approximately seven years of age. The event occurred in the context of a stable and loving relationship in a multi-generational household in a small German village. The grandmother (“Lella”) was the child’s primary emotional anchor, caregiver, and the person with whom she shared her daily routines and emotional world.

The death was not only sudden but happened in the child’s physical presence, without forewarning, and during a mundane moment that had previously brought comfort and familiarity. The child witnessed the collapse, the aftermath, the social responses, and the eventual burial, all while lacking appropriate psychological support, explanation, or containment of the trauma.

Psychological Trauma and Developmental Impact

1. Attachment Disruption

The loss of Lella represented a profound rupture in the child’s primary attachment bond. According to Attachment Theory (Bowlby, 1969), secure attachment figures help regulate affect, provide safety, and promote autonomy. The grandmother’s sudden death and the subsequent forced reorganization of the family system—being removed from her grandfather, relocated to share space with her brothers, and being required to refer to her mother and father in more formal roles—would have triggered a sense of abandonment and emotional disorientation.

2. Traumatic Grief and Disenfranchised Grief

The child was not given space to understand, grieve, or participate in the mourning process in a developmentally appropriate way. Instead, she was physically removed from comforting figures, excluded from rituals, and scolded or punished for expressing distress (e.g., being slapped during the funeral). These are key factors that contribute to traumatic grief—a form of bereavement in which the natural grieving process is interrupted by fear, confusion, or unresolved distress.

Additionally, her grief was disenfranchised—meaning it was not acknowledged or validated by the adults around her. She was expected to assimilate to new roles and behaviors (calling her parents by new titles) without any transitional or therapeutic support.

3. Somatic and Dissociative Responses

The narrative shows multiple indicators of somatic and dissociative responses to trauma:

  • The child repeatedly fainted when confronted with overwhelming emotions or helplessness (at the closing of the coffin, at the gravesite).

  • She experienced visual distortions (“little colored dots”), a hallmark of dissociative stress reactions in children, which often precede fainting or derealization.

  • These bodily reactions are consistent with freeze and collapse responses in the autonomic nervous system, common in young children who cannot “fight or flee” in the face of emotional overwhelm.

4. Loss of Voice and Suppression of Emotion

Post-loss, the child’s ability to express herself emotionally was progressively diminished. She was removed from her beloved grandfather, denied familiar comforts, and had to conform to new roles without consent or understanding. Her protest at being sent with her brothers, her outrage at Lella being buried, and her stubborn insistence on going with Lella to heaven were all ignored or punished. Over time, this likely led to internalized shame around emotional expression and contributed to a frozen grief response that remained unresolved for decades.

Long-Term Psychological Effects (Observed in Adult Reflection)

The adult narrator returns to the village 43 years later and experiences a powerful emotional reactivation of the suppressed grief. The setting, sensory cues, and physical proximity to the gravesite trigger a vivid, childlike reliving of the experience—a hallmark of unresolved trauma stored in procedural memory (van der Kolk, 2014).

However, this return also marks a critical turning point: she is finally able to reprocess the event through adult cognition, integrate the loss, and symbolically say goodbye. This delayed grieving process is a form of post-traumatic growth, where the individual not only confronts the pain but transforms it into meaning and emotional healing.

Key observations:

  • She expresses a shift from grief to relief, as the burden of unresolved sorrow begins to lift.

  • She recognizes the long-suppressed inner child who had never been allowed to mourn.

  • She reframes the memory of Lella’s death as a loving, rather than purely traumatic, experience.

  • The presence of her husband and friend, who remain silent and supportive, offers witnessing without intrusion, allowing her to reclaim her emotional narrative.

Clinical Interpretation

The subject’s early childhood trauma aligns with characteristics of:

  • Complicated childhood grief

  • Attachment trauma

  • Developmental PTSD

  • Emotional suppression and internalized grief

Nevertheless, the adult’s reprocessing of the experience demonstrates resilience, reflective capacity, and the capacity for healing through reconnection with memory, place, and self.

Recommendations (If in a therapeutic context)

  1. Inner Child Work: To continue building compassion and integration for the child-self that experienced the loss.

  2. Grief Processing: Using narrative therapy or somatic experiencing to fully release residual guilt or emotional pain.

  3. Family Systems Exploration: To better understand how intergenerational patterns and post-war trauma may have influenced emotional silence in the family.

  4. Creative Expression: Memoir writing, storytelling, or art may serve as meaningful vehicles for ongoing healing.

Conclusion:
This case reflects a powerful example of how early childhood trauma, particularly around death and loss, can remain unprocessed for decades when unacknowledged. Yet it also highlights the extraordinary human capacity for healing and meaning-making. The narrator’s return to her childhood village becomes not just a physical journey, but a symbolic reclamation of her voice, her grief, and her love for the grandmother who was never truly gone.