One morning our mother picked us up and told us there would be a surprise waiting at home.

“Things are going to change,” she said.

Her voice carried a strange tone, almost too careful, as if she were choosing each word before letting it escape.

“Yeah, right,” Nigg one year younger, muttered. “I know your surprises. They’re never good for any of us. What is it this time?” He shook his head, staring straight ahead. “Never mind. I don’t even want to know.”

Hans, two years younger, and I exchanged a quick glance but stayed silent. We had learned long ago that questions only made things worse.

Ignoring Nigg, our mother continued, “A lot of things are going to change. Maybe your father won’t beat you kids so much anymore.”

Something in her voice unsettled me. For the first time, she sounded almost guilty. The thought confused me. She had never defended us before. Never stepped in. Never stopped him.

My mind drifted away from her words, escaping into a familiar daydream. I imagined a different house, quiet and warm, where no one shouted and no one hit. I imagined living with someone kind, someone like our neighbor, young Mrs. Reischel, who always smiled when she saw us. In my dream, I belonged somewhere safe.

But it was only a dream.

When we arrived home, the surprise was waiting in the living room.

A young man stood there, stiff and uncertain, as if he didn’t quite belong in the space he occupied. Our mother introduced him.

“This is your brother, Lutz. He will be living with us now.”

Brother.

The word hung in the air, heavy and unreal.

I stared at him, trying to understand. He was about eighteen, tall and slender, with light brown hair that fell softly across his forehead. Not black like ours. His face was calm, almost gentle. He was handsome, and despite my confusion, I felt something unexpected—a small flicker of pride.

An elderly woman stood beside him. Her eyes were small and sharp, her mouth thin and unsmiling.

“This is Mrs. Jauernik,” our mother said. “Lutz’s grandmother.”

That confused me even more. How could she be his grandmother and not ours?

The questions formed in my mind, but I forced them back down. Asking questions in our house was useless. It was like beating my head against a wall. Nothing ever changed. Nothing ever improved.

My father always said, “Sentimentality is unnecessary. It leads to irrational reactions.”

So I taught myself not to ask. Not to feel. Not to hope.

My mother had said things would change.

She was right.

That very day, my room was taken from me. Mrs. Jauernik needed it. I was moved downstairs to Lella’s kitchen, which had been turned into a bedroom. The room smelled faintly of old food and cleaning soap. It no longer felt like a place where anyone belonged.

Mrs. Jauernik became our housekeeper, and from the moment she arrived, she took control. Her voice was cold and sharp as she gave her orders. Nigg carried her heavy luggage up the stairs. I unpacked her belongings, folding and hanging clothes that smelled of dust and unfamiliar places.

Lutz was given one of the rooms on the third floor where Nigg and Hans slept. We were not allowed there.

“You’re too young to understand,” our mother said.

Understand what?

Nigg and I looked at each other but said nothing.

Later, we learned the truth. Our father had been married before. Lutz was our half-brother.

For a moment, hope crept quietly into my heart. Maybe he would be different. Maybe he would see what was happening to us. Maybe he would protect us.

We were wrong.

Life quickly settled into a new routine, filled with commands and quiet resentment.

Each morning, before breakfast, I scrubbed the wooden stairs, the cold water numbing my hands. Once a week, I waxed them until they shone. Only then was I allowed to eat.

Our breakfast was always the same—oatmeal with sugar. At school, we ate dry sandwiches with margarine.

Meanwhile, Lutz and the old man sat at the table with soft-boiled eggs, fresh rolls with butter and jelly, and steaming coffee. The smell filled the house, rich and warm, but it was not meant for us.

After school, a basket of damp laundry waited for me. I stood for hours with the heavy iron in my hands, pressing wrinkles from clothes that were never mine.

Still, I told myself it was better than being beaten.

At the gas station, the days were long. The smell of gasoline clung to my skin. I did my homework in brief moments between customers, trying to finish before someone called my name again.

My mother told my teachers, “My daughter has to work. She has no time to waste on useless things like homework.”

Even so, I worked hard. I managed to keep a B average. When my grades dropped, my father called me stupid. My mother blamed the teachers.

When my teachers suggested I attend gymnasium, my mother dismissed it without hesitation.

“This is a waste of time. We need you at the business.”

And that was the end of it.

We worked late into the night. Sometimes we rode seventeen kilometers on our bicycles, the cold air biting into our faces. Sometimes we hitchhiked.

One day, a man offered me a ride and promised ice cream and chocolate if I would be nice to him. His hand slid across my leg. Panic filled my chest.

“No!” I screamed.

He shoved me out of the car and drove away.

When I told my mother, she didn’t ask what happened.

“You were probably rude to him,” she said.

Her words closed the door on any hope of protection.

Then came the night Lutz drove me home.

I was exhausted. The hum of the engine and the darkness wrapped around me, and I fell asleep.

Pain woke me.

Sharp. Confusing.

I opened my eyes and saw him above me. His weight pressed down, heavy and suffocating. His hand covered my mouth, silencing me.

“Don’t tell anyone,” he whispered.

Then he was gone.

The room fell silent.

I lay there, frozen. My body hurt, but the pain inside me was worse. I didn’t understand what had happened. I didn’t have words for it. Only feelings—shame, confusion, fear.

I knew I couldn’t tell my mother. She wouldn’t care. I couldn’t tell my father. I couldn’t tell anyone.

The next morning, Lutz stopped me in the hallway. He looked at me calmly, as if nothing had happened.

“If you get pregnant,” he said, “just tell them you wiped yourself with one of my handkerchiefs.”

I didn’t understand. Seeing my confusion, he explained that he meant if a child began to grow inside my belly.

I was eleven years old.
Only parents had babies.
The stork brought them.

But I understood enough to be afraid.
The morning after it happened, I scrubbed myself over and over, but I could not wash away the feeling. I burned the blood-stained sheets while my parents were gone. I watched the fabric curl and blacken in the fire, hoping it would erase everything.

At night, I lay awake, listening. I avoided him. Watched him. Listened for his footsteps. When he entered a room, I left.
Every sound made my heart pound. Sometimes I heard the church bells strike midnight before sleep finally came.

I felt:

Dirty.

Alone.

Broken.

I wondered if anyone could see it on me. If it was written on my face.

I wondered if it was my fault.

Then, without explanation, Lutz and Mrs. Jauernik moved out of the house. No one told me why. No one spoke about it.

But the fear never left me.

For years afterward, the memory of that night returned again and again, uninvited, as real and terrifying as the moment it happened.

And even when he was gone, I never truly felt safe.