I was eleven, Mama had remarried. We still stayed in the old house. Hans, my dear Hans, had died the year before. I never cried when he died. I never cried at the funeral when the little coffin slowly decsended into the cold earth. I did however cry when I was alone in bed. I sobbed and sobbed until sleep slowly came to my rescue.
I woke with a strange feeling. It was pitch dark and ice cold. I smelt cigarette smoke and liquor and felt a hand between my legs. Suddenly I felt a terrible burning pain as he stuck a big, rough, finger into me. I cried out and a hand covered my mouth while he continued prodding and moaning. It stopped and I felt a warm, wet stream of something against my side.
He lay there for a while, still covering my mouth with his hand and then got out of my little bed and walked quickly to the door and left.
It was Monday June 4, 1951, and for me, it was the very first step on a long journey.
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