Nunzilla Was My Mother and My Stepmother Was a Witch

by Terry Gelormino Silver

  On a very beautiful and warm spring day, Mr. Elwin decided we should have our class outdoors. I forget what we were studying at the time, but I well remember the bit of playacting that I planned. At one point, when the class had stopped for a break, I got up and drifted poetically (I hoped) across the grass to a large boulder where I slipped down gracefully (I hoped) and leaned my head back against it as though I were overcome with the beauty of the world. I was hoping that Mr. Elwin was watching.

  Unfortunately, when I peeked on the ground from under my eyelids, I noticed that the boulder was entirely surrounded by poison ivy, which I was highly allergic to. Not wanting to ruin my romantic scene and come off looking like a fool, I decided to stay there and ended up with the worst case of ivy poisoning in my life. Even worse, I had to go to school the next week, including Mr. Elwin’s class, with swollen eyes, huge swollen lips, and a rash on my face and arms. I looked like a baboon.

  World War II

  We were all sitting around the radio in Cottage Fifteen when President Franklin Roosevelt declared war on Japan after they had bombed Pearl Harbor. We had mixed feelings of shock, fear, and excitement at the prospect of living through such a tumultuous period in American history.

  The girls were full of patriotic fervor watching the OS&SO cadets parade each Sunday in their Junior ROTC uniforms. They marched over the parade grounds to the music and drums of the Cadet Marching Band, led by Iris Jean’s handsome brother, who was the drum major. The girls and Home staff watched from the sidelines, well aware that many of the young, handsome boys would indeed be going off to war. Many of the girls were misty-eyed as they wondered what the future had in store for their classmates.

  Many of the Home boys went into the service, some even before they graduated from high school if they could get the Home superintendent to sign their enlistment papers. Some of the boys came back on leave to talk to various classes about their experiences. Several of the boys died in the war.

  My brother Frank joined the Coast Guard and said he saw some action; my brother Robert joined the Army near the end of the war and didn’t see any. I was relieved that nothing happened to either. I remember how sad I felt when I said goodbye to Frank, my old childhood nemesis. I was so worried that I might never see him again, and suddenly my childhood anger didn’t seem all that important.

  During the war years, one of the grade school classes wrote a letter to Clark Gable and Carole Lombard as a school geography assignment, asking them about their ranch and what they grew on it. Clark and Carole responded by sending enough oranges to the OS&SO for all the kids to share. They also arranged for us all to see Gone with the Wind in a downtown Xenia theater. Iris Jean and I sat together, squirming and oohing over Clark Gable, who became our new fantasy lover. In my eyes, with Iris’s southern belle background, she could have easily been Scarlett O’Hara.

  The stars' acknowledgment made us all feel special and important, and we were very sad when we learned that Carole Lombard had been killed in a plane crash on a trip to sell war bonds.

  The excitement of the war temporarily distracted us from our animosity toward Miss Redway, and hers toward us. Many of the girls, including myself, wrote letters to servicemen—partly out of patriotism and partly in the hope that we could initiate some sort of long-distance romance.

  Once, my brother Frank wrote me a friendly letter with the news that he’d passed my picture around to the guys on his ship. When he told me how everyone had enjoyed it, I was thrilled and looked forward to receiving letters from his shipmates. I soon learned that he had showed them the worst picture of me in his possession—one he had taken after I’d gotten finished mopping a floor. I had messy, uncombed hair, and was wearing a dirty, torn dress. I realized that war or no war, Frank was still the same and had not lost his unique sense of humor.

  The Witch

  The main bond between the girls of Cottage Fifteen was our mutual dislike of Miss Redway, our housemother. She was a small, stiff-backed woman who walked with her head tilted backward as though she were looking down from a great height on something she found unpleasant. She was quick to anger, and as a matter of routine, would swing her paddle around as she walked up and down the stairs and through the cottage, looking for someone on whom to vent her rage. She particularly terrorized the younger girls, and angered the older girls with her sarcasm, name calling, and unfounded accusations. She often referred to us as riff raff and alley rats.

  We never knew what might set our housemother off. Sometimes, when the sound of our laughter from upstairs would annoy her, she’d claim we were having a sex party. This only encouraged us to make ribald jokes at her expense. We’d snicker at her pretense of being such a genteel lady after observing her sitting in her rocker with her legs spread wide, or with one leg crossed over the other in such a way that we could see her underwear.

  We hated Miss Redway’s phony public persona. She would smile and call us honey-girl in front of other people, while surreptitiously pinching us hard on the arm or leg, with her hand hidden beneath her other arm or a piece of clothing.

  We especially detested the way Miss Redway would maneuver us into a far corner of her sitting room. After calling one of us into her room for a chat, she would start the conversation calmly and sweetly and tell us in very sugary tones about how we really shouldn’t have done something or other. She would call us honey or dear while slowly backing us up, one step at a time, into a corner, until she was blocking the only exit out of the room. Then suddenly, like a snake and without warning, she would strike out and hit us hard in the face. It was always very nerve-wracking, because although you knew the slap was coming, you could never predict exactly when.

  Miss Redway took great pride in her belief that she was a scholar. She liked to help the younger girls in the cottage with their homework, as it allowed her to demonstrate her skill as an educator. I wasn’t aware of this practice when the little girls asked me to help them with their homework. Of course, I was flattered, and immediately agreed to help.

  Before we got started, the little girls confided that Miss Redway had been helping them, but had been giving them many incorrect answers, and they were afraid to tell her. I was in a quandary, wondering if I should or shouldn’t help the little girls. After a moment's reflection, I decided that Miss Redway would likely be relieved to have this chore taken off her shoulders. Instead, when the housemother found out, she felt threatened and felt certain I was taking over her prerogatives. She went into one of her epic rages, shouting, “Did she go to college? Has she passed the Civil Service examination? Well, I did.”

  Miss Redway’s tirade went on for a full five to ten minutes, which only served to provide us with more material for our jokes. From that point on, any time one of us tried to make a point about something, the others would shout, “Have you passed the Civil Service examination? Well, I did!” Then we’d all crack up.

  Miss Redway tried to get even with me for what she thought was my attempt to show her up. She made continuous attempts to prove to everyone in the cottage how completely stupid and incompetent I was. When she had an audience, she’d ask me to do something very simple, like counting the laundry, for example, and then say, “Oh never mind. I know you wouldn’t be able to do that.” Then she’d smirk and turn to one of the youngest girls, “I’m sure that YOU will be able to do it correctly.”

  By this time, Miss Redway was very aware that my sister and I had no intention of avoiding the other girls in the cottage, or acting as her little Catholic goody-two-shoes spies. She didn’t get a single report from us about the other girls’ activities. This was probably another reason for her resentment and her vicious attacks on me. She didn’t seem to blame my sister Anne. I suppose she thought I was the evil influence who masterminded our lack of cooperation.

  If someone left a messy sink with loose hairs all over the surface, forgot to flush the toilet, or did not wrap up and dispose of a used Kotex, she’d immediately scream my name. She’d accuse me of being a
filthy pig, and loudly belittled me so that everyone could hear, whether or not she had evidence I was involved. She didn’t want to know the truth, so she didn’t ask any questions, and she never, ever apologized if proof of another girl's guilt was presented. Flustered, she would go into her room and slam the door.

  I began to hate Miss Redway with a passion, wishing she were dead, sometimes fantasizing that I had my hands around her throat and was tearing her apart. I was surprised I could hate so strongly.

  Cottage Fifteen Rebellion

  The incident that became known as the Cottage Fifteen Rebellion had not been planned. Everything had started out as simple girlish hijinks—nothing more. One summer night, not long after CQ and the powerplant had signaled lights out, we were all wide awake and feeling full of devilment. Although we were not supposed to bring food into the dormitory, one of the girls pulled a box of crackers from under her covers and began eating them.

  Hearing the sound of rustling paper, crumbling crackers, and chewing, one of the girls pulled out a flashlight and shone it on the miscreant who, enjoying the spotlight, bowed to one and all and made exaggerated motions of taking each additional cracker out of the box, holding it in the air, and then stuffing it in her mouth. The rest of us pantomimed our applause and started giggling.

  Wanting to get in on the fun, several of us went to our lockers and got flashlights and snacks, and distributed additional snacks to those who didn’t have any. Then every girl from the youngest to the oldest took turns eating with exaggerated motions while the rest of us simultaneously flashed our lights on the eater.

  As the fun continued, we got more and more rowdy and our voices got louder and louder. Suddenly, Miss Redway burst out of her room and stood outraged in the light outside the bedroom door, where she could be distinctly seen by all.

  We were completely silent for a moment as we stared at her; and then, before she had a chance to say anything, we all exploded into laughter. Our housemother had come out without a robe and was wearing a very thin, flimsy, and transparent nightgown which hid nothing from our curious eyes.

  Not realizing why we were laughing so hysterically, Miss Redway warned us that we would not be allowed to go to Friday evening’s movie if we did not stop. By then we were feeling so slaphappy that our laughter only increased. We went completely insane with laughter, and no matter what our furious housemother threatened us with—restriction to quarters, reporting us to the Dean of Girls—we couldn’t stop. The spasms of laughter just got louder and louder as Miss Redway stood there sputtering in her ridiculous nightgown. Finally, she just gave up, stormed into her room, and slammed the door.

  Our collective resentment of our housemother had been so intense and so longstanding that the night’s episode only stimulated our desire to misbehave. The next day, all of Cottage Fifteen, from the youngest to the oldest, felt a strong sense of camaraderie for having misbehaved spontaneously and in unison. We felt like the best of friends, linking arms and marching around and around in front of the cottage, shouting and singing. If our housemother had looked out the window or heard us that day, she never mentioned it.

  A few weeks later, Miss Redway went away on vacation and was to be gone at least a week while a substitute took her place. The substitute didn’t know how much we all hated Miss Redway, so she trusted us more than she should have.

  One day, while the substitute was out of the cottage, she left Miss Redway’s private room unlocked. We saw this as a rare opportunity to check out forbidden territory, and we took advantage of it. At first we only intended to satisfy our curiosity about Miss Redway’s inner sanctum, but when we saw her collection of wrinkle creams, hair dye, bubble bath beads, and lotions, our inner devils surfaced again.

  We all took bubble baths courtesy of our housemother, and dug gobs of wrinkle cream out of her jars, wiping them on tissues and leaving them on her dresser. We wanted her to know that someone had gotten into the jars, and we hoped she’d be embarrassed that her worries about wrinkles and gray hair were no longer secrets.

  And yet, when Miss Redway returned from her vacation, she was unexpectedly calm and never said a single word to us. The only explanation I can think of is that the substitute replenished Miss Redway’s supplies so she wouldn’t be blamed for leaving her room unlocked.

  The next episode occurred between Miss Redway and me. I was in a room downstairs that included a small bathroom, and was trimming my hair with a large pair of shears. As I was cutting, I heard Miss Redway shouting and the sound of a paddle hitting someone. Then I heard my sister Anne crying. I became angrier and angrier as I listened. Suddenly, I shouted: “Leave my sister alone!”

  With a roar, Miss Redway came charging into the room swinging her paddle. As she raised her paddle to hit me, my eyes widened in fear and I raised my hand to protect my face, completely forgetting I had the large shears in my hand.

  Miss Redway completely misinterpreted my widened eyes and upraised hand with the shears.

  “You're crazy,” she shouted, circling around me with her paddle, but making no effort to hit me with it. Her frightened eyes emboldened me, so I snarled, “Don’t you dare hit me.”

  “I’ll hit you if I want to,” she yelled as she continued circling me—but she never got closer.

  It hadn’t occurred to me to hit her, let alone stab her, but when I saw the fear in her eyes, I took the opportunity to look ferocious while I held the shears like a dagger. I knew then that she would never hit my sister or me again, and I sensed her reign of terror was over.

  The other girls who witnessed the episode knew I wasn't going to harm Miss Redway. If they mentioned anything about it at all, it was only to joke about our housemother circling around, ranting and raving, afraid to come any closer. Miss Redway, however, strongly believed I had actually planned to use the shears on her, and she reported me to the Dean of Girls.

  When the Dean called me to her office and asked to hear my side of the story, I told her I’d had no intention of either striking or stabbing Miss Redway. I told the Dean that Miss Redway had surprised me while I was cutting my hair, and when she attempted to hit me with the paddle, I had raised my arm to protect my face, completely forgetting I was holding the shears. The Dean apparently believed me, because she made no mention of a punishment, but she did say, “I know you’ve had a very unhappy childhood, but you should try to forget it and get along with Miss Redway.”

  I brooded about the Dean’s last words to me over the next few weeks as I began preparing for my move to Hayes Hall, the cottage for senior girls. Those words seemed to remove the protective shield covering my subconscious, and I began to critically examine the life I’d had with the nuns. For the first time, I dared to admit to myself that the nuns had been mean, and that I hated them. However, this created within me a whirlwind of guilt and doubt regarding my religious beliefs.

  In the months before I left, the girls in Cottage Fifteen had grown more and more resentful of Miss Redway’s endless harangues about our being alley rats, and tired of her strong-armed efforts to regain control of the cottage with even tighter restrictions and harsher punishments.

  When we complained to each other that we might as well be in Germany or Russia, I suggested that we needed our own Declaration of Independence to present to Miss Redway. Everyone agreed, and Berdene, who was always game to try anything especially daring, became as excited as I was during the meeting, and she volunteered to help me draft up the required document.

  I did most of the writing myself, stating that America was a democracy, but that she, Miss Redway, had been acting like a dictator and running Cottage Fifteen like a concentration camp. With Berdene’s help, I added various demands, including no more hitting any of us with a paddle, no more accusations without proof, no more calling us names, and so on.

  Such brazenness represented a complete 180-degree turn from our previous fear of Miss Redway, and it must have been a complete shock to her when Berdene and I, after asking permission to talk with her,
presented our document. Her response to our demands was surprisingly calm. She looked at us coldly and said she would read our paper later.

  The Wicked Witch is Dead

  I didn’t realize what a traumatic year was ahead of me when I moved to Hayes Hall, the cottage for senior girls. Hayes Hall was unlike the other cottages in appearance and operation. For one, the architecture was different. The cottages were plain functional buildings, whereas Hayes Hall resembled a fine southern home.

  Hayes was probably very much like a sorority house. There were separate bedrooms, with two to four girls in a room, rather than the usual open dormitory arrangement. There were comfortable upholstered chairs, end tables, and mirrors in the living room, plus a piano, making it look more home-like than the sparsely furnished living rooms of the other cottages.

  At Hayes Hall, life seemed more leisurely, and we didn’t have to rush and dress for meals in the dining hall. This was particularly nice at breakfast time, when we could come down to the dining room in our robes or beat-up old clothes as long as we looked presentable and didn’t turn anyone’s stomach. We took turns cooking and cleaning, although the housemother, Miss Melvin, usually prepared the meat entrees for dinner. With our more loosely supervised life, we recognized that we would soon be adults.

  Miss Melvin was a jolly, warm-hearted woman whom most of the other girl called Mom or Melvie. As much as I wanted to—and tried several times—I could never call her Mom. It was always Miss Melvin or Melvie. I envied the other girls’ easy familiarity with Melvie, especially when one of them put a hand on her shoulder when talking to her or gave her a hug.