Nunzilla Was My Mother and My Stepmother Was a Witch Read online

  Nunzilla Was My Mother

  and

  My Stepmother Was a Witch

  .

  Terry Gelormino Silver

  Although based on a true story, some names herein have been changed to protect confidentiality. Any similarity between the names and characters in this book and any real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  © 2009 by Terry Gelormino Silver

  Dedicated to my two beloved children

  who if life were fair would have outlived me:

  Maria Christina Bruington

  Edward Michael Silver

  And dedicated to

  my dear and beautiful granddaughter

  who has eased some of the heartache:

  Christine Lynn Cline

  DEFIANCE

  Although I’m wearing sorrow’s ring,

  must share his bed, his dark abode,

  I will not be submissive wife

  or bear his seed –

  Aborting all that seek

  maternal nourishment.

  No guard or lock

  or jealous, watchful eyes

  will keep me from my love

  (for even sorrow sleeps).

  One moment’s negligence

  and I’ll escape

  to be with joy!

  CONTENTS

  Preface

  PART ONE – St. Ann’s Infant Asylum

  PART TWO – St. Vincent’s Orphanage

  Sisters of St. Francis

  Religious Fears and Shenanigans

  Other Fears and Horrors

  Bums of St. Vincent’s

  Orphanage Pets

  About Sex

  Work Assignments

  Boys vs. Girls

  Depression Cuisine

  Playing the Orphan Game

  Playground Entertainment

  Visits to the Mental Hospital

  Nunzilla’s Fangs

  What’s in a Name?

  My Hero – My Father

  Happy Days at St. Vincent’s

  Getting Ready to Transfer

  PART THREE – The OS&SO Home

  The Home Hospital

  Cottage 15

  Culture Shock

  Comparisons

  Teenage Crushes

  World War II

  The Witch

  Cottage 15 Rebellion

  The Wicked Witch is Dead

  A Year of Turmoil

  Emotional Breakdown

  To Hell With it All

  Postscript

  About the Author

  Preface

  Nuns, whom I collectively call Nunzilla, served as my mother since they raised me from the age of four to fifteen. My son said I should write about them because they've haunted me most of my life. My husband said I needed to be locked in a room with them and given a whip so I could beat the hell out of them.

  I admit there were times in the past when beating up nuns would have given me a great deal of satisfaction. I used to fantasize telling them off and physically assaulting them. If I caught a glimpse of a nun, even from a distance, I would tense up and cross the street. I was fearful lest my eyes unintentionally acknowledged her presence.

  I hated all memories of St. Vincent’s. It was only one of three children’s homes where I had been raised, but it was the one that affected me the most. And yet my feelings about SVO were sometimes contradictory.

  During my hate periods, when I was feeling particularly angry, my anger would seem like a force or energy I could send outward as a powerful weapon against the nuns.

  After reading about telekinesis and teleportation, I’d lie in bed and fantasize that I could send out my spirit to haunt SVO and terrify the nuns, based solely on the strength of my feelings. I fantasized about floating over the high brick walls and around the orphanage grounds before diving down through the winding depths of the underground tunnel that some nuns called the catacombs. I would shriek, howl, and moan, rattling and stirring up the large rats that always nestled along the overhead water pipes.

  I imagined soaring up to the shuttered belfries and awakening the hordes of bats from their upside-down reveries, sending them zooming and zigzagging down toward the awestruck nuns and toward the screaming but delighted orphanage children. In my mind I saw the playground surveillance nun staring up in terrified wonder, crossing herself repeatedly while praying for divine protection. I never heard any reports of this happening, so I guess my attempts at teleportation were unsuccessful.

  However, to my great confusion, there were times when I thought fondly of the old SVO days—of my childhood home.

  When I was about thirty years old, my husband and I visited my sister in Columbus, Ohio, and my husband suggested we take a look at the orphanage that I had talked about so often. When I saw the place, I broke down in tears. St. Vincent’s Orphanage didn’t exist anymore. I was completely shattered by its disappearance. In its place was St. Vincent’s Children’s Center (SVCC) for kids in need of psychological help, or who had gotten in trouble with the law. There were no brick walls, four- and five-story buildings, no shuttered windows or belfries, no girls shouting or chanting as they played hopscotch, double-dutch, or any of the other games we used to play. Where was the place of my memories? Where was my home?

  While I was trying to comprehend all the changes that had taken place, my husband confided to one of the lay people that I had been a child in the old orphanage. She thought it was wonderful that a former resident had come back for a visit, and she rushed to inform several nuns, who came out of their offices to see who I was. Soon there were six or seven nuns gathered in a semicircle in front of me.

  I panicked. Being in the company of so many nuns was too much. I broke down and cried. It was difficult getting into a fighting mode after sobbing like a baby. Embarrassed by my weakness, I dabbed at my eyes and blathered on about how beautiful everything looked and how wonderful it was to be back, instead of taking advantage of my dreamed-of opportunity to tell the nuns off.

  As soon as I started weeping, surrounded by the nuns, my Jewish husband disappeared. All that Catholicism and emotion were more than he could handle.

  As my husband and I drove away from SVCC, I thought of how my orphanage life had started...

  PART ONE

  St. Ann’s Infant Asylum

  Columbus, Ohio

  When my four siblings and I left Bellaire, Ohio in 1929, I remember it was raining. For some perverse reason, I’ve subsequently considered rain connected with any new venture as being lucky, despite the fact that I was leaving my family home forever and my life was changing so completely.

  I was four years old. For awhile I thought we were merely on a fun trip, but before long I began to have an ominous feeling in the pit of my stomach. As the miles rolled by, the rhythmic droning and turning of the wheels added to my feeling of anxiety. My mother was not with us. My father said she was in the hospital and would soon be well again.

  I think of St. Vincent’s Orphanage (SVO) as my childhood home because I’d lived there the longest, but St. Ann’s Infant Asylum, which was across the street from SVO, was actually the first orphanage I entered.

  St. Ann’s was for infants and preschoolers. I was accompanied to St. Ann’s by my three-year old sister Anna, and two infant brothers—Roberto, who was one and a half, and Virgilio, who was only three months. Our oldest brother, Francesco, who was six years old, went directly to St. Vincent’s Orphanage because he was of school age.

  I remember my fear when we finally stopped and got out in front of the large building that was St. Ann’s. The steps leading up to the front
door seemed enormous. I became more frightened when a black-robed nun came to the door and spoke to us. Looking back on that event and learning later in life that my siblings and I only spoke Italian (a language I no longer remember), my fright is understandable. Left by our father with beings we’d never seen before (the nuns), speaking words we didn’t understand, could only have been emotionally traumatic.

  We cried when our father left us at St. Ann’s, but he comforted us by saying he would return. My sister and I thought he meant that same day. We waited near the front door for him to come back. We screamed and cried when a nun forced us to go upstairs to bed. Later that night, the two of us climbed out of our cribs and onto the windowsill, keeping our streaming eyes on the dark street as we watched and waited for our father to return.

  Instead of calling me Concetta, my birth name, the nuns called me Terfina, and they called my sister Carmela instead of Anna. Not knowing English, we didn’t know the nuns had renamed us. The words “Carmela” and “Terfina” were merely words in a language we didn’t understand. I imagine the nuns were aggravated when we didn’t respond to our new names. Nuns sometimes were short on patience.

  By the time we learned to speak English, Anna and I thought that Carmela and Terfina had always been our names. We didn’t learn otherwise until many years later. Our brothers kept their true names, but they were Americanized to Frank, Robert, and Virgil.

  I have scattered memories of my life at St. Ann’s–the rows of cribs where we slept, with a nun going from bed to bed to sprinkle holy water on each child, and the playroom, which had a continuous bench built around the four walls that was also used for storing toys. We would sit on the bench as we waited for our baths or to get our hair combed.

  As four-year-olds often do, I had fanciful thoughts about the world around us and what the nuns were trying to teach. I thought that God was a giant frog who lived up in the sky, because I knew it was rainy and wet up there. When the nuns said God was always watching us and knew whether we were good or bad, I pictured him looking down at us with great big froggy eyes. When it was thundering, I thought the frog god was mad at us and was jumping and leaping all over the sky—knocking things around to scare us into being good again

  Although God represented something frightening to me, Jesus did not, because pictures on the walls and in books depicted him as such a gentle human being. Once, when a couple of little boys and I decided to play crucifixion, I played the part of the long-haired Jesus because we thought he was a girl. We were very serious about the whole thing, and I willingly submitted to their interpretation of the crucifixion and let them press me up against the playroom wall with my arms extended. They began pounding away at my hands and banging on my head with their little wooden hammers. It must not have hurt, because I don’t remember crying. In fact, I was rather pleased that I was chosen to play Jesus and thought the game was a lot of fun. The three of us were surprised when the playroom nun saw what we were doing, became angry, and put a stop to it.

  I remember having an aversion to Hershey kisses and refusing to eat them because I thought they were cut-off nipples. I also remember a little boy and I playing a game of “you show me yours and I’ll show you mine.” It didn’t bother me at all that he had something I didn’t, because I naturally assumed that one day I would grow one too. My theory, after noticing that boys and men were generally bigger and stronger than girls and women, was that you took turns being all of them. First you were a little girl, then you got bigger and stronger and became a boy; then you grew a little more and became a woman, before finally becoming a man.

  Occasionally, older siblings of St. Ann’s children were brought over from St. Vincent’s for a visit. I was extremely proud of my big brother Frank, and I repeated everything he told me to anyone who would listen. When he told me our last name was Cocoa, I believed him, because he was called Frank Cocoa by other St. Vincent’s kids.

  I didn’t realize that Cocoa was a name of derision until I got to SVO, and neither did Frank at the time. Years later, he told me that when he first went to St. Vincent’s and couldn’t speak English, the kids asked him what his name was. Frank said he thought they asked him what he wanted, so he answered “Cocoa.” It’s also possible that the boys of St. Vincent’s merely doubled the last syllable of his name, Francesco.

  When I was almost six, the nuns informed me that I would be going to St. Vincent’s. I was both afraid and excited by the prospect of the transfer. I’d soon be going to school and living with my big brother.

  PART TWO

  St. Vincent’s Orphanage

  Columbus, Ohio

  When I first went to St. Vincent’s, what impressed me most were the high brick walls. I would stare up at them and wonder at their height, awed that they were taller than my father. I also was amazed to see so many big girls, especially the oldest ones, seventh and eighth graders, in an orphanage. I thought they were grown women.

  Although I was afraid of the big girls and often turned away when they tried to talk to me, I definitely admired them as I watched them walk up the stairs to the older girls dormitory. Sometimes they’d stop on the landing and talk together, looking down on us little girls with amusement because of the way we were staring at them. They looked so strong and brave in their torn work dresses, their thumbs hooked into their belts, their elbows out, and their legs spread wide. They seemed afraid of nothing, and often when no one was looking, I would try to imitate their swagger and confident air.

  Since the boys and girls were kept separate, I seldom saw my brother Frank. Boys and girls were also kept separate in the dining room. Things in general were quite serious at SVO. We marched two-by-two in complete silence through the halls and corridors to church, school, and the dining room. We were not allowed to talk during meals. And it seemed we were constantly praying or going to church.

  Simple things, like relaxing on the playground, learning rope jumping and double dutch, ball bouncing, and playing games like jacks, marbles, dodgeball, Red Rover, snake, war, cowboys, Mother May I, statues, and other games, were the high point of our days. We made intricate patterns with strings wrapped around our fingers, made yo-yos out of flat buckeyes, or made rings and other jewelry with tiny beads and wires.

  Many times I just liked to be by myself. I enjoyed watching ants run in and out of their homes or spiders spinning their webs. Sometimes I would catch a bug and throw it on the web for the spider to eat. I would entertain myself by letting flies gather on the open sores of my legs or arms. I was completely captivated by the way the flies stuck their tongues into my sores. I didn’t realize that what I was doing could be disgusting to other people.

  I thought flowers and trees had thoughts and feelings like people, and a large buckeye tree at the edge of the girls playground was one of my favorites. I would lean against it when I felt lonely or when I had been punished, certain that it liked me and was sorry I was crying.

  It seemed to me that dolls came to life when their owners weren’t around. I would constantly check the small doll on my bed to see if it had changed position, and the fact that she was sometimes facing another way convinced me that she had moved on her own. It never occurred to me that another person might have moved her.

  Any possibility for magic was eagerly pursued, because through magic I hoped to be united with my father again. I would search for hours for special stones. I was sure they were magical if they sparkled. I left little notes in cupped flowers for the fairies who might help me get home again. We all thought that catching falling leaves before they hit the ground was lucky. If you caught the right one, your wish would be granted.

  When it became clear that catching falling leaves, finding magic stones, and leaving messages for the fairies wasn’t going to work, I thought prayer would be the answer. It was a common belief among the girls that if you prayed one thousand Hail Marys on special religious days, like the Assumption of the Virgin Mary into heaven, your prayers would be answered. St. Theresa would let you know by
the smell of roses in the air that your wishes would be granted. I tried it several times before accomplishing the thousand prayers, marking them off on a piece of paper as I prayed, finishing the last prayer late at night in my bed. As usual, I prayed to be transported out of St. Vincent’s and taken back home again. I was positive I smelled roses.

  Eventually several weeks passed, and nothing had changed. I was still at St. Vincent’s. I didn’t know what to think. I was completely devastated. The next time I went to confession, I told the priest that I didn’t believe in God anymore.

  Instead of questioning why I had made such a statement, he said, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He gave me some “Our Fathers” and “Hail Marys” to pray as a penance and told me to stop being so foolish.

  Not being sure what kind of people nuns were, given that we never saw them eat, wash, go to the bathroom, or do anything that other people did, I once tried to peek under their habits when I was lying on the playroom floor to take a nap. The nun caught me and slapped me for my curiosity. I wondered what the nuns must have been like when they were nun kids.

  Sisters of St. Francis of Penance and Christian Charity

  The Sisters of St. Francis of Penance and Christian Charity at SVO were not your sweet movie or television types. They held not only religion, but life itself in serious regard. The major emphasis of the nuns having direct contact with the children seemed to be on the penance part of their calling rather than Christian charity—some more so than others.

  The nuns’ main focus seemed to be on the afterlife and preparing for it. Any hardships, suffering, humiliation, human loss, or pain of any kind were to be accepted with gratitude and borne with serenity, as they believed that suffering in this life would help us atone for our sins and lessen the period spent in purgatory in the next.