Naked truth chapter 9 - The Price of Silence: A Story of Growing Up in Isolation and Finding Solace
Skeletons in the cupboard - a very crowded place
What is the price of silence? What is the toll of keeping quiet? The cost of enduring abuse with nowhere to turn to? Recently, Martha found herself wondering—was there ever an escape from the situations she was trapped in? Was there someone, somewhere, who could have listened, who she could have run to for help, for guidance? Was there anyone who might have…saved her?
Let’s think about it: what does a typical family look like? Parents, grandparents on both sides, aunts, uncles, cousins, extended relatives, family friends—right? But for Martha, it was different. Half her family was distant, living in Russia, so there was little hope of support from them. On her father’s side, distance and a long-standing family feud kept everyone at a distance; her father maintained a quiet relationship with them, hidden from the Ferret. And as for family friends? Another empty space. From bits and pieces of family stories, she learned that before she was born, her parents had friends. But a few years after after her birth, something happened—a split. The friends had taken her father’s side, and after that, family friends were nowhere to be found in Martha’s life.
The truth is, Martha became an expert at concealing her pain. She had been taught to keep silent, to never speak a word of it. So, what could she do? It was almost ironic; the turmoil in her family was far from quiet—doors slammed, voices clashed, raised, noise, so much noise - and she would flinch, her heart in her mouth, every time tension built around the Ferret’s stormy moods. The neighbours weren’t oblivious; they “saw”through the walls. Martha had learned to read the signs, the hardened eyes, the way the tiny frame would stiffen, radiating danger.
Back in the day, every staircase had its own… “informer”, the so-called "staircase chief." This was the person entrusted by the state to keep an eye on the residents, tasked with reporting the movements and activities of everyone under his “supervision.”
He was the one who knew exactly who visited whom and when—his ear always to the ground, attuned to the goings-on of the forty families in his "parish." In addition to monitoring, he was responsible for maintenance issues, the point of contact for any repairs required.
For families like mine, who didn’t fit the usual mold, his vigilance was heightened. We were under special scrutiny, especially when my Aunt Raisa from Russia, a rare visitor - twice or once in my life - came by. Her presence was always carefully noted, recorded, and reported further up the chain.
Martha recalled a time—though she couldn’t remember her exact age—when the police arrived at their door, summoned by the informer. It was one of those days when the tension in the flat was palpable, the screams on a massive scale, the slamming doors threatening, the kind that made it impossible to ignore the unfolding drama.
A quiet and reserved man on the surface but a notorious gossiper behind the scenes, Mr. Mandache, along with representatives from each of the other 39 families, worked at Romania’s largest clothing factory in Bucharest. The factory had arranged housing for them, contracting all 40 apartments—plus 40 more—for its employees. Her parents held a 25-year contract, monthly payments for their apartment, the equivalent of a mortgage.
There were no playgrounds of any kind but kids used to play freely outside, on the grey pavements, team type of games, using plastic balls, sometimes on small patches of grass laying down a piece of cloth and playing cards _ no not that type of cards _ but innocent, animal based ones.
She remember being most of the time the observer, sometimes watching from the balcony at the third floor and rarely from downstairs as her shy nature prevented her from joining in. Life of a kid growing in those times was mainly based on … doing homework and not much else. At least not in Martha s case.
School in the early years was a morning affair, starting at 8:00 a.m. and ending by noon or 1:00 p.m.
When Martha thinks back to those days, she always remembers her teacher, “Tovarășa” Toia—a tall, efficient woman, kind in a quiet way, dressed in austere suits, and highly experienced with young children. She was the one who placed the first pen in Martha's hand, as she had done with countless generations before, teaching them how to write. For the first four years, *Tovarășa* Toia taught every subject, from writing and grammar to geography, history, and a myriad of lessons on manners—basic courtesies that would stay with Martha for life.
In second grade, a foreign language was introduced, English in Martha’s case. Weekly physical education classes were also part of the curriculum, seen as essential not only for health but for instilling discipline. Activities were regimented, focusing on team sports, group exercises, and athletic drills. But for Martha, who was anything but athletic, these hours brought only frustration and tears. Running and jumping into the sand pit felt like weekly misery, a source of unending anxiety.
It wasn’t until years later that Martha discovered exercise she could love. She first came across Jane Fonda’s aerobics on a rare trip to Russia, and she must have been 20 years old, a revelation that transformed her view of fitness. The energy, rhythm, music and freedom in those routines made exercise feel entirely different, and from then on, she fell in love with it.
Of all her classmates, Martha lived the farthest away. What had once been a short, 10-minute walk home during her first few months of grade one had now turned into a 35-minute bus ride. It wasn’t just the long commute; it was the friendships that became harder to build because of the distance. Most children attended schools near their neighborhoods, allowing them to continue childhood bonds or make new ones as they entered school together. For Martha, the bus ride became a solitary routine.
The loneliness didn’t end with the bus. After the ride, there was a quiet 10-minute walk from the bus station to her flat, where she let herself in as a latchkey child where she was greeted only by the empty apartment. She’d heat up her meal and eat alone, a book always beside her plate. From a very early age, books became her constant companions—her friends. She read on the bus, while walking (yes, walking and reading), while eating, and then later, after homework, she’d dive into more reading. Books filled the quiet spaces, providing the companionship she otherwise lacked.
Finishing fourth grade felt like the first step toward growing up, marking a shift to a new phase in learning. Though the school remained the same, the structure of classes changed entirely. Lessons were no longer led by a single teacher but by many, each introducing new subjects and broader perspectives.
The last day of school stands out vividly in Martha’s memory. Tovarășa Toia, their beloved teacher, brought in a large, vibrant pink geranium. She had asked the children beforehand to bring small pots filled with soil, and on that day, she carefully took cuttings from the geranium and handed one to each child as a farewell gift—a small, living memory of their early years together. Martha’s plant survived and thrived for many years, a lasting reminder of that time.
The following summer, tragedy struck Tovarășa Toia’s family. Her only son, just a year older than Martha, passed away due to an injury sustained while swimming, a loss that would reshape her life. Martha remembers the news clearly; it was a hot summer in Bucharest, and the pools were open everywhere. The incident happened at a pool not far from Martha’s home, and perhaps it was this proximity to the tragedy that left her uneasy around water, never quite able to find joy or comfort in swimming.
End of chapter 9
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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Naked truth chapter 4 - baking is a serious matter
It was one of those October days when the rain seemed to enrage everyone, cloaking the world in heavy drops, clogging the drainage systems, and creating rivers down the street.