Read Online Letters from Yelena by Guy Mankowski - Free Book Online Page B

bullying Inessa to wash and dress even when she was six and seven years old, well after she would have been able to do this alone. By
that age, I would be getting ready in my own room, but that part of the day would still be traumatic for me. I could hear Inessa crying in the other room, and at the back of my mind painful,
glowering memories of the times Bruna had beaten us preyed upon me. On a few occasions, which I was too young to properly memorise, she sexually abused us, after her ritual mocking of our bodies
got out of hand. This culture of abuse gave Inessa and me a sense of worthlessness that it has been difficult to shake, particularly for me. I wonder now when she learnt to do this so
proficiently.
    I can only think of that time as one long smear of pain, which obscured the rest of my childhood. I struggle to recall the abuse exactly, but at the back of my mind I remember periods of
unendurable pain. The way her attention would often focus on my little sister, and the way she would enjoy it if I tried to stop her. The hour or so that Bruna had with us in the mornings were
periods in which I constantly feared the ways her unhappiness might be expressed. As time went on, I’m sure Bruna saw those early morning routines as a brief reprieve from her own inadequacy,
her time to express all her anger and frustration at the world on two little girls. And yet she did it carefully, so that my father was just about able to convince himself that nothing untoward was
going on.
    It was not that my father didn’t care for us, merely that he did not know how to express his love in a day-to-day manner. He deeply wanted to believe that Bruna had our interests at heart,
and so overwhelming did he find it to make a living and also deal with the loss of our mother that he did not have the strength to face up to what was really going on.
    From an early age his love was manifested through his ambition for us. After my mother died, he continued taking Inessa and me along to the local folk group, which met on a weekly basis. I used
to love him taking us there; I adored all of the colour and the laughter and the singing. It was like a new world; so separate from the drab reality I was growing used to. It was my escape. It was
probably only a simple hall with very little decoration, but in my eyes it represented happiness. Even though the dances only took place in the local village hall, there were good links to local
ballet schools and I was talent spotted at seven and began ballet soon after. My father, perhaps seeing somewhere to finally put his love for us, worked extra long hours (thereby giving us more
time with Bruna) to pay for the classes. At this stage he’d focused so absolutely on his business that he was starting to make very good money for us, even if we rarely saw it. By nine years
old I was practicing in long sessions at least three times a week, sometimes five. After school the day would begin for me in a way. When most children wanted to play, I found I only wanted to
dance. When I danced, people used words like ‘gifted’, ‘special’ and ‘talented’. I forgot all about Bruna and was able to escape her. Dancing became my world.
When I was part of it people fussed over me and praised me. When I danced, I finally felt like I had value.
    But it remained difficult to retain any sense of value in the home. As my father’s business took off, Bruna’s leash over us was tightened, and before long she had found an
opportunity to use it. My father would often return home from the office after dark, extremely tired. Like any young daughters we would instantly rush up to him the moment he opened the front door,
and want to have his undivided attention. But one evening Inessa jumped into his lap just as he was beginning to eat the limp, cool dish Bruna had made him. His plate went flying, along with its
contents and my father was scalded with hot coffee. Amongst the ensuing chaos Bruna decreed that from