Personal Narrative: My Childhood Memories Of The Holocaust

As much as I loved Germany, it also holds a few not so cheerful memories. This is where I would learn that there was a dark side of my dad and from that point on I was aware that he would beat my mother. I watched and listened, not saying too much, the fantasy world I had built, like walking into a Funhouse mirror where everything would be distorted. The mirror that said I had a happy childhood and everything was fine, had broken. My dad was only violent when he would drink. He would hurt my mother and if she were not there, he would hurt my brother’s and I. When my dad was away, we would sleep secure as we didn't have to worry about my dad getting everyone up in the middle of the night to stand at attention in front of him while he was mad about something we had been disciplined for weeks before. My mother would defend him, he would slap her right there in front of us if she didn't. We would look down as though we didn't see anything. We stood there in that line at attention, in our minds, we prayed for the “parade rest and dismissed” that would eventually come. I can remember when I was about 10 years old being huddled under the covers on my bed listening to my father throwing my mother around the living room. The dread would creep in like an icy

Right before that, he had a record on his stereo playing those songs of lost love. It started skipping. My middle brother ran in screaming at him. "She wasn't doing anything! Stop!" He was right, I had been lying there in the floor coloring. My father thought I had been slamming my feet on the ground which caused his record to scratch. My brother yelled at him to take it out on him if he had a problem, my dad dropped me right there and took off after my brother. I laid there crumpled on the floor, too shocked to cry, listening to my dad and brother fighting in the bedroom. My mother picked a poor day to be