Fast Forward – because I can.

I warned you that the events I describe may not follow any logical sequence and this post probably confirms this.  The year 2000 found me in Knysna, South Africa.  Karl had been dead 3 years and for once in my life I was quiet alone.  The days sped by at a rapid rate and the daily “inspection” in the mirror confirmed the worst.  Whatever you have heard, German women do NOT age well.  I was 60 years old and probably looked ten years older.

One day a very strange letter arrived in my post box at the Knysna Post Office.  It was addressed to my “new” South African name and came from an agent in the States.  Enclosed was a First Class ticket from South Africa to Las Vegas for a “Porn Star Reunion” conference.  My screen name was used in the letter and I was offered an obscene amount of money just to make an appearance.

Karl had left me, what I considered at the time, a considerable amount of money, but after buying the farm and making the necessary improvements, and living for 3 years, my precious savings were running very low.

The invitation thus, came at a very opportune time.  But to go back?  After all that time? The way I looked? Impossible !!  But the more I thought about it, and the more I looked at my bank statement, the more I realised that I had no choice.

I may write about my experiences in Las Vegas in 2000 at a later time, but not now, not now.  On the positive side I made more money in the 10 days that I spent there, than I made during my entire career, which spanned almost 20 years.  But at what cost?  A more degrading and humiliating experience would be hard to imagine.  But always the money, just like the early years, always the money.

The difference between 2000 and 1957 was that in 2000 when you said, “No way, I’m not doing THAT,” they just doubled the offer and then doubled, tripled and quadripled it until you relented and you were violated exactly the way they wanted, over and over and over again.

When I cry at the thought of what happened in Las Vegas, I just go to my study, open the filing cabinet and look at the bank statement that says, “You will NEVER, EVER, have to suffer this humiliation again in your life.”

Eight years later, with the sound investments that I have made, this still applies.



The beginning.

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.

Events that shape a life

My father never returned from the war and in the chaos that followed it could not be said that he was missed or even spoken of.  Survival became the watchword and in the pursuit of this we, as a family, did what needed to be done.  Of course I was too young to remember much, or contribute anything, but the gnawing hunger and cold can never be forgotten.

My mother worked as a waitress, as did my two oldest sisters, albeit at different establishments.  Olga, the eldest seemed to be doing slightly better at that time and spoke often of her dream of becoming a famous dancer.  The dancing that she did at that time was “temporary” and was just to bide us over until something else came up.

The were many men who visited at that time and gruff voices and laughter often wafted into the little attic bedroom that I shared with my brother, Hans.  American voices, “the enemy”, “the occupiers”, they said.  But it had to be done.

I believe that there are only a handful of events that change a persons life, and the first of these occurred about a year after the war, when I was six years old.  It was a particularly noisy night and Hans and I awoke from a deep sleep to the sounds of screaming and breaking glass from the front room.  We rushed down the stairs and pushed the living room door slightly open to see what was going on.

Our mother stood in the center of the room leaning against the sofa, quite naked.  A strange man, and American, wearing only a white shirt, held her tightly by the arm.  On the floor near the fireplace lay another man, a pool of blood slowly forming a wide puddle around his head.  He too was naked, and the side of his face, from his eye to behind his ear was cut wide open.

She caught my eye, and gathering a shawl around herself, rushed to the door, yanking Hans and I by the hands and pulling us up the stairs, saying nothing.  We were pushed sharply into the attic room and the key turned in the lock.  Her footsteps receded back down the stairs.

Nothing was ever mentioned of this event and in later years Hans and I speculated that maybe it had just been some strange mutual dream.  Years later, when visiting Olga, who now owned the old house, I got down on my hands and knees and looked intently at the spot where the blood would have stained the old wooden floorboards, but nothing remained that could remotely have resembled a mark.

I was deeply affected by this event and in many ways it exceeded far more shocking scenes that the young Helga would witness.

Where I am now.

It is a cold and blustery night.  I am 68 years old and all alone.  I am not used to being alone.  It wasn’t always like this.  I have a story to tell and a young man (yummy) to write it all down.  This story will be at my own pace.

According to my birth certificate I was born on the 1st of February 1940 in Dresden Germany, to Kurt and Gretel Schultz.  Obviously, I don’t remember a thing about this event, but according to my mother it was also a cold and blustery night.  My father was drunk and passed out in the hospital waiting room.  He was a soldier and had been summonsed from the front to be at the birth of his fourth child.

Until 1945 I remember nothing.

Now?  Well now it’s 2008 and I find myself in Knysna, South Africa.  What happened in between?  If you would like to know, just keep on reading.

Auf Wiedersehen

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