Naked truth - chapter 3 - Bambi
When tears are drying on your face
It was spring—this much she remembered! The linden tree in front of the block of flats had just begun to unfurl its buds into dazzling green leaves, promising a myriad of flowers in a month or so.
Funny how certain memories stuck in her mind, random pieces of an invisible puzzle. Martha could hardly recall anything from her childhood, teenage years, or life as a young adult. It was mostly a sea of grey, with occasional spikes of memory, sharp and metallic, sometimes with a faint taste of burnt sugar.
It must have been a Sunday midday, as that’s when cartoons were shown on TV. It was a black-and-white set, but she didn’t mind—it was amazing just to have one. She had no idea what it was like to have a color TV, so she never felt like anything was missing.
Her mother, whom she privately called "the ferret," was out on the balcony, ironing sheets after washing and starching them. It always took her a long time. The washing machine made such loud, clunky noises that Martha had to close her door whenever she was studying. Saturdays were for washing clothes, sometimes even midweek. Sundays were reserved for ironing. The longest task was the bed linens—sheets, pillowcases, duvet covers. No matter how many times Martha's father told her not to be so precise, nothing could stop her.
The ferret always complained about the hard work, her mood often bad, so Martha and her father had to tiptoe around the house as another sheet was carefully pressed on the board. Everything was done in silence, martyrdom written all over her face. Once ironed, each item was folded to perfection, no creases allowed, and stored neatly in the brown, polished cupboard in the living room mixed with the treasured Lux soaps.
In 1980s Romania, fragrant soaps were a rare luxury, highly sought after and often only obtained after hours of queuing in all kinds of weather, with no predictable supply. Families fortunate enough to have relatives abroad would receive care packages, and soaps were always a prized item. These soaps became a form of currency, used to bribe doctors and nurses, barter with butchers, or given as gifts to teachers or for birthdays. In many cases, the same bar of soap would circulate, exchanged again and again, before eventually being used for its intended purpose. I often wondered just how many times a single bar changed hands before it was finally used.
Martha sat quietly, catching a few moments of “Bambi”. Cartoons were her favourite—”Tom and Jerry”,"Woody Woodpecker”—they brought smiles and laughter to her otherwise lonely life. She watched them alone, as the ferret had no interest, and her father would be ridiculed by her mother if he joined in and laughed with Martha..
The only scene etched in her memory was of the dying deer—Bambi’s mother, her last moments playing out on the screen, with Bambi’s tears streaming down his innocent face. Martha, overwhelmed by the sorrow, joined in the pain, tears rolling down her chubby cheeks, her sobs making it impossible for her to speak coherently. She rushed to the balcony, where between heart-wrenching sobs, she cried to her mother, “Bambi’s mother died… Bambi has no mother!”
Her mother looked up calmly and said, “It’s just a story, it’s not real.”
But for Martha, it was more than real. Bambi's grief felt as raw and painful as her own. She returned to the armchair, her heart aching, while her mother shouted from the other room, “See what you’ll do if I die!”
Martha switched off the TV without responding, her emotions too heavy to process. She quietly retreated to her room, picked up her well-worn storybook, and began reading some of her favorite folk tales. She already knew although just 7 years old that they would help her forget, if only for a while.
End of chapter 3
Naked truth chapter 2 - about the cherries and the hair salon
The suffocating sensation hit her as she descended the cement staircases, one step at a time, 20 steps time three and 10 more after—cold, imposing, and often unnervingly lonely. The absence of windows only amplified the eerie feeling that slithered through her body. The staircases seemed to echo the greyness of everything…
One of my dreams is to write a novel, inspired by real events but with a touch of fiction in it. Will it happen? I don’t know! Writing as and when I find the energy and time while navigating the choppy waters of life.
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