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Authors: J. A. Kerley
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holding such titles as
Ceauşescu’s Orphanages: a History of Hell
,
The Pathology of Fetal Alcohol Syndrome
and
Psychic Damage in Early Childhood.
Other titles were in Romanian.
“I’m twenty, Doctor. Almost twenty-one. Why?”
“The worst of what I’m telling you happened before you were born. The wretched
Ceaușescu
regime in Romania, the plight of the orphans, the decades of horror and human wreckage—”
“I got that, Doctor. About how Cacesku—”
“
Ceaușescu
,” Szekely corrected. “Nicolae
Ceaușescu
.”
“Sure,” the reporter nodded, flipping open her notepad to glance inside. “
Ceaușescu
wanted to grow the country’s workforce so he outlawed birth control and demanded large families, but the country was so desperately poor the children couldn’t be cared for and were placed in state-run orphanages.” The reporter wrinkled her button nose. “Nasty places.”
“Yes,” Szekely nodded, thinking,
They were more than nasty, miss, they were hell on earth, a dark bloom of evil that poisons to this day.
“But what does my age have to do with that nasty moment in history, Doctor?”
Szekely felt her legs propel her to standing. Heard her voice grow loud.
“It’s not history!”
The reporter’s eyes went wide. Szekely waved her hand in apology and sat down again. Took a deep breath.
“Forgive me. My work means reliving events of that time almost daily. Plus I’m a bit fearful you’ll view these orphanages as having no more hand in our present lives than a faded newsreel from World War II. Yet they’re with us today. That’s the real story.”
The young woman frowned. “But if the Romanian orphanages have been changed and the children saved—”
“Physical salvation differs from psychic salvation. Physically, the children may have been removed from conditions of horror, but in many cases the horrors have not been removed from the children.”
“Sure, Doctor. Some poor kids probably have nightmares and things. I know I would if I’d started life like that.”
Szekely began to speak but closed her mouth. The intern reporter had most likely grown up in a bright home with a green lawn and white picket fence. Enjoyed large and healthy meals each day. Generations of adoring family would have surrounded and coddled her. Her bedroom held toys and dolls and lace curtains, cool in summer and warm in winter. She would have spoken at two years of age, walked at three, been in school at five. Interacting with her fellow humans would have been as natural as giggling.
Could the young woman in any way comprehend what happened to children who grew up in a box with no human interaction? Wallowing in their excretions? Feeding on slop, like hogs? Could the pretty young thing ever envision what some of these broken children became as they aged? It was an impossible task. Szekely knew; she had been studying such children for years and was herself still capable of awe at the horrors inflicted on the innocent.
Szekely looked into the eyes of the reporter, the woman’s pencil now tapping the notepad. She was impatient to get to her next assignment, something to do with a circus in town.
“I’ll see you to the door,” Szekely said, standing.
They strode along the hall to the reception area and out the door into a bright Gulf Coast morning. A faux-wood plaque on the side of the red-brick building said
Coastways Behavioral Medicine, LLC.
Beneath it were the names of several psychologists including Dr Sonia Szekely. Under Szekely’s banner a small sign proclaimed EEOSA.
The reporter thanked Szekely and promised to send a copy of the article when it was out, a month perhaps, or more, depending on how much of the paper would be devoted to sporting triumphs.
“Remember,” Szekely called to the woman’s departing back, “it’s not history. It lives with us today.”
But the reporter had already hidden inside her iPod. Szekely shook her head and watched the woman’s tiny silver Honda buzz
Ceauşescu’s Orphanages: a History of Hell
,
The Pathology of Fetal Alcohol Syndrome
and
Psychic Damage in Early Childhood.
Other titles were in Romanian.
“I’m twenty, Doctor. Almost twenty-one. Why?”
“The worst of what I’m telling you happened before you were born. The wretched
Ceaușescu
regime in Romania, the plight of the orphans, the decades of horror and human wreckage—”
“I got that, Doctor. About how Cacesku—”
“
Ceaușescu
,” Szekely corrected. “Nicolae
Ceaușescu
.”
“Sure,” the reporter nodded, flipping open her notepad to glance inside. “
Ceaușescu
wanted to grow the country’s workforce so he outlawed birth control and demanded large families, but the country was so desperately poor the children couldn’t be cared for and were placed in state-run orphanages.” The reporter wrinkled her button nose. “Nasty places.”
“Yes,” Szekely nodded, thinking,
They were more than nasty, miss, they were hell on earth, a dark bloom of evil that poisons to this day.
“But what does my age have to do with that nasty moment in history, Doctor?”
Szekely felt her legs propel her to standing. Heard her voice grow loud.
“It’s not history!”
The reporter’s eyes went wide. Szekely waved her hand in apology and sat down again. Took a deep breath.
“Forgive me. My work means reliving events of that time almost daily. Plus I’m a bit fearful you’ll view these orphanages as having no more hand in our present lives than a faded newsreel from World War II. Yet they’re with us today. That’s the real story.”
The young woman frowned. “But if the Romanian orphanages have been changed and the children saved—”
“Physical salvation differs from psychic salvation. Physically, the children may have been removed from conditions of horror, but in many cases the horrors have not been removed from the children.”
“Sure, Doctor. Some poor kids probably have nightmares and things. I know I would if I’d started life like that.”
Szekely began to speak but closed her mouth. The intern reporter had most likely grown up in a bright home with a green lawn and white picket fence. Enjoyed large and healthy meals each day. Generations of adoring family would have surrounded and coddled her. Her bedroom held toys and dolls and lace curtains, cool in summer and warm in winter. She would have spoken at two years of age, walked at three, been in school at five. Interacting with her fellow humans would have been as natural as giggling.
Could the young woman in any way comprehend what happened to children who grew up in a box with no human interaction? Wallowing in their excretions? Feeding on slop, like hogs? Could the pretty young thing ever envision what some of these broken children became as they aged? It was an impossible task. Szekely knew; she had been studying such children for years and was herself still capable of awe at the horrors inflicted on the innocent.
Szekely looked into the eyes of the reporter, the woman’s pencil now tapping the notepad. She was impatient to get to her next assignment, something to do with a circus in town.
“I’ll see you to the door,” Szekely said, standing.
They strode along the hall to the reception area and out the door into a bright Gulf Coast morning. A faux-wood plaque on the side of the red-brick building said
Coastways Behavioral Medicine, LLC.
Beneath it were the names of several psychologists including Dr Sonia Szekely. Under Szekely’s banner a small sign proclaimed EEOSA.
The reporter thanked Szekely and promised to send a copy of the article when it was out, a month perhaps, or more, depending on how much of the paper would be devoted to sporting triumphs.
“Remember,” Szekely called to the woman’s departing back, “it’s not history. It lives with us today.”
But the reporter had already hidden inside her iPod. Szekely shook her head and watched the woman’s tiny silver Honda buzz
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