Eberhard Gil on Farcaster

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There were eleven of us. We lived in a lake... For breakfast, mother would slice the wind. I never knew my father—he died of liver cancer when he was killed in a tragic car accident after self-immolating at Uncle Eugeniusz’s name-day party. Uncle Eugeniusz was taken by the NKVD in ’59. No one complained. We all belonged to hordes and raided the surrounding areas. New York, Lądek-Zdrój, and Oslo were all in flames. We also played at construction sites. Sometimes someone would get crushed by a reinforced slab, sometimes not. When a nail pierced through someone’s foot, mother would chop the foot off and say with a smile, “You’ve got another one, right?” She never trembled in fear that we’d kill ourselves. She knew we’d all die eventually. No one complained.

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We went to the forest whenever we felt like it. We ate berries that foxes and deer had pissed on. We ate death cap mushrooms that rabid bison and martens had shat on. We didn’t have hamburgers—we ate wolves. We didn’t have chips—we ate ants. There was no Coca-Cola back then, just bear saliva. No one complained. We cooked soups out of fuel oil, soap, and asbestos (still extremely bullish on it). If a bee stung you, you drank two glasses of milk and pressed a cold frying pan to it. If someone choked, they drank three glasses of milk and pressed a hot frying pan to their throat. No one complained.

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A neighbor wouldn't hold a grudge over the stolen apples, and neither did Dad about being replaced in his parental duties. In the evening, Dad and the neighbor would have a beer—like always. Then Dad would head home and pick up a new kid along the way. Kids were everywhere back then. On lawns, in drainage ditches, by bus stops, under trees. Just like candy wrappers today. There were no candy bars back then, the ground was littered with kids instead. No one complained. In summer, we climbed onto skyscraper roofs—no adults watched us. We jumped. But no one ever smashed into the pavement. Everyone knew how to fly, and no one needed special lessons to learn. No one complained.

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In winter, whichever dad would organize a sleigh ride for us using an old Fiat, always speeding up on turns. Sometimes the sled would hit a tree or a fence. Then we’d fall off. Sometimes, right at that moment, a Jelcz or a Star truck would come barreling down the road. Then we’d die. No one complained. Bruises and scrapes were normal. So were knocked-out teeth, split-open bellies, suddenly missing eyes, or amateur amputations. The school counselor didn’t send us to a family psychologist over it. No one taught us how to dial the police to snitch on our parents. A belt was an educational tool, and no one ever died from education. Auntie Daninka used to say, “Better a beating than breakfast.” No one complained.

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No one went to the dentist every month. Tooth decay is tasty. If someone swelled up from a bad tooth, we’d play soccer with their head. No one complained. We were raised by forest rangers, old witches, escaped convicts, reform school buddies, janitors, and priests. Our mothers gave birth to our siblings the normal way—at work, in the reeds, or on the balcony. Almost all of us survived. Some even didn’t end up in prison. No one finished college, but everyone learned hardship. Some started families and now raise their kids according to psychologists’ guidelines. It’s sad. These days, there are more candy bars than children.

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We, the children of the lake, love our parents because back then, they didn’t yet know how to raise us *properly*. Thanks to them, we spent our childhood without sweets, respect, warm meals, meaning—and, some of us, without limbs. No one complained.

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