Read Online God's Callgirl by Carla Van Raay - Free Book Online

weight of his derision. Tears gathered inside; lately my insides had become a catchment of silent grief. The pain of not being respected by my papa seeped into my stomach and right down into my shoes.
    The fear of making a mistake cowed me at every turn. But even greater than the fear of doing things wrong was the dread of being discovered for the evil girl I was. The terror was made worse by the feeling that everyone could see through me.
    My seven-year-old mind burned. Sex obsessed me relentlessly; it seemed to surround me everywhere. I drew a surreptitious stick figure in the dust of a window pane, furtively adding a thing hanging between his legs (without knowing what it was, just that it was wicked—I had seen other naughty children do it), then hastily wiped it out, looking around to check whether anyone had noticed me. Worse, I felt like abducting little children and doing them terrible harm.
    Walking to my aunt’s house one day, along the familiar cobbled and tree-lined streets, I spotted a naked little girl in her front garden. The gardens were all very small in our area, barely three metres from the street to the front door. I was struck dumb by the sight of her genitals, so clearly visible on her tiny body. The feeling rushed through me that I wantedto shake that girl child, maul her viciously with my hands, throw her to the ground and stab her with a knife, hit her with a stick, a brick—anything. Kill her, but firstly maim her sexual parts. The compelling desire grew and grew in me. I was entranced, a force inside pushing me ever closer to the point of taking action. Suddenly, I became aware of the way my chest was heaving, and that my face was red and distorted, and I hurried off in case anyone saw me. The guilt I felt then was hot, sticky and terrible. Never talk to anyone about it!
    When my papa touched me with his hands, or with his penis, or his mouth, he was telling me I was nice, that he liked me, and also that I was the worst, most sordid girl in the world. He told me this by his furtive actions, his compelling body. No words were ever spoken during our night-time encounters. Understanding all this was beyond me; there was no way I could work it out. My solution was to hide, and pretend that I did not have bad feelings. Become invisible, Carla, hide who you really are. This was difficult, because I felt as if I did not have a private self.
    And so, at the end of term in grade three, when it was time to sing solo in class in front of thirty classmates, I fell into a serious panic. Everyone was going to receive a mark for singing and we all had to come up and sing a song of our own choice. For most of the children this was a bit of a treat: it was a rare thing to get out of your seat at any time and the general feeling was that this was an opportunity to show off. I merely felt huge distress at the thought of the eyes of others aimed at me. I heaved and squirmed, blushed and turned pale, hot and cold, and felt sick to my heart and stomach.
    At last I was the only one left and there was no escape. The teacher motioned for me to come to the front. Inexorably, I found myself leaving my desk to face the silent group of expectant children. I opened my mouth and outcame what I thought sounded like a suppressed scream, but it was the first bar of the banal song I’d chosen: ‘ Daar bij die molen ’ (‘Over by the windmill’). My performance held a total lack of finesse; I wasn’t trying to be entertaining, just trying to get through the ordeal. Most of my vocal cords were out of action and a raw, scraping sound filled the attentive room. The teacher was kind. ‘You have a voice like a bell,’ she said, and gave me a 6 out of 10.
    THE SOLDIERS WERE returning home after the war. They filled the trains that criss-crossed the countryside, including the carriage that brought me, my sister and aunt home from a stay in Amsterdam. While we were gone, our mama had been brought another baby by the stork. It was a