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Authors: Sara Blædel
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Eskildsen was probing her memory. But when the woman finally spoke again, her tone was a little sharper.
“I’m sure you understand,” she said, “that many children like that did not have any contact with their parents once they’d been handed over to us. Several of them never saw their parents again so we didn’t necessarily know the names of their relatives. They were called ‘forgotten children.’ ”
“But surely their families didn’t write them off just because they’d been put in an institution?” Louise objected.
“Quite a few did.” Agnete Eskildsen explained that many parents preferred to hide or even forget the fact that they had a “flawed” child. “They didn’t want to visit the home. But there were also times when the parents were advised to break their contact with the child because their visitation led to nothing but trouble. The children became agitated and upset when their mothers and fathers left, so it was best for everyone if there was no contact.”
“I see,” Louise said, trying to swallow her disgust. What Agnete Eskildsen was telling her sounded completely inhumane. She knew it happened every day—she’d seen enough horror on the job—but could hardly accept the idea that any parent would abandon a child merely because he or she did not live up to expectations.
Breaking the silence, the woman seemed defensive as she went on. “I know it sounds terrible now, but that’s just how it was back then.”
“Yes, right. So the girl had no contact with her parents?” Louise asked, her composure regained.
“I’m not sure exactly,” Agnete Eskildsen admitted. “But as I recall, she never had any visitors. I could be wrong.”
She fell silent for a moment.
“Do you remember her last name?” Louise asked.
“No, sorry.”
“But someone must have known the names of her parents?” Louise tried, thinking of the Care Division or the facility supervisor.
“Yes,” Agnete Eskildsen conceded. “It was in the records, of course, but that wasn’t something the staff paid much attention to.”
“So there are records?”
“Sure, those kinds of things are always archived, but Idon’t know if the old files are still accessible. Back in my day, they were stored in the basement. We had records dating all the way back to 1860, when the first patients were admitted to Eliselund. Several of the really old case files are probably exhibited in the museum now.”
“The museum?” Louise repeated.
“Yes,” the woman replied as if annoyed that Louise knew nothing of the place at all. “When the Division for the Care of the Mentally Retarded ceased to exist in 1980, much of Eliselund closed down. Only the main building is still in use today, and it’s been set up as a day treatment center for the mentally disabled. Many of the other buildings ended up empty, but I read somewhere that the old washhouse has been converted to a museum with some of the devices that were used in the place through the years. I remember there was a Utica crib, and I’m sure that’s been brought over. Of course it’s been a long time now since the mad ones got locked up like that, thank God.”
“I’m not really sure what a Utica crib is,” Louise admitted.
“It’s a wooden box, maybe ten square feet, that was used to confine people. You always kept the worst ones locked up to have some peace. We used straitjackets and belts as well but at our place at least they were indoors in winter. The Utica cribs were outside or in the barn.”
“But you think I’ll be able to find the old records down there?” Louise asked, shaken by the casual tone with which Agnete Eskildsen spoke.
“Someone at the day center will probably be able to help,” she suggested. “I’m thinking you’ll find someone there in the main building all week. But what do I know? It’s been more than forty years since I stepped foot in the place. I just felt like I had to reach out when I saw that picture of little
“I’m sure you understand,” she said, “that many children like that did not have any contact with their parents once they’d been handed over to us. Several of them never saw their parents again so we didn’t necessarily know the names of their relatives. They were called ‘forgotten children.’ ”
“But surely their families didn’t write them off just because they’d been put in an institution?” Louise objected.
“Quite a few did.” Agnete Eskildsen explained that many parents preferred to hide or even forget the fact that they had a “flawed” child. “They didn’t want to visit the home. But there were also times when the parents were advised to break their contact with the child because their visitation led to nothing but trouble. The children became agitated and upset when their mothers and fathers left, so it was best for everyone if there was no contact.”
“I see,” Louise said, trying to swallow her disgust. What Agnete Eskildsen was telling her sounded completely inhumane. She knew it happened every day—she’d seen enough horror on the job—but could hardly accept the idea that any parent would abandon a child merely because he or she did not live up to expectations.
Breaking the silence, the woman seemed defensive as she went on. “I know it sounds terrible now, but that’s just how it was back then.”
“Yes, right. So the girl had no contact with her parents?” Louise asked, her composure regained.
“I’m not sure exactly,” Agnete Eskildsen admitted. “But as I recall, she never had any visitors. I could be wrong.”
She fell silent for a moment.
“Do you remember her last name?” Louise asked.
“No, sorry.”
“But someone must have known the names of her parents?” Louise tried, thinking of the Care Division or the facility supervisor.
“Yes,” Agnete Eskildsen conceded. “It was in the records, of course, but that wasn’t something the staff paid much attention to.”
“So there are records?”
“Sure, those kinds of things are always archived, but Idon’t know if the old files are still accessible. Back in my day, they were stored in the basement. We had records dating all the way back to 1860, when the first patients were admitted to Eliselund. Several of the really old case files are probably exhibited in the museum now.”
“The museum?” Louise repeated.
“Yes,” the woman replied as if annoyed that Louise knew nothing of the place at all. “When the Division for the Care of the Mentally Retarded ceased to exist in 1980, much of Eliselund closed down. Only the main building is still in use today, and it’s been set up as a day treatment center for the mentally disabled. Many of the other buildings ended up empty, but I read somewhere that the old washhouse has been converted to a museum with some of the devices that were used in the place through the years. I remember there was a Utica crib, and I’m sure that’s been brought over. Of course it’s been a long time now since the mad ones got locked up like that, thank God.”
“I’m not really sure what a Utica crib is,” Louise admitted.
“It’s a wooden box, maybe ten square feet, that was used to confine people. You always kept the worst ones locked up to have some peace. We used straitjackets and belts as well but at our place at least they were indoors in winter. The Utica cribs were outside or in the barn.”
“But you think I’ll be able to find the old records down there?” Louise asked, shaken by the casual tone with which Agnete Eskildsen spoke.
“Someone at the day center will probably be able to help,” she suggested. “I’m thinking you’ll find someone there in the main building all week. But what do I know? It’s been more than forty years since I stepped foot in the place. I just felt like I had to reach out when I saw that picture of little
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