Letters from Yelena

by Guy Mankowski

  Unfortunately, the more she learnt about us, the more she found reason to despise us. Her ability to distance us from him gave her many opportunities to express her venom. I don’t want to go into this too much, Noah, not because I won’t tell you, but because – and I hope you understand this – I have fought so hard to escape what she did. Bruna was given an almost free rein in raising us, and over time she found very inventive ways to express her hatred of us. She created a secret culture, away from my father’s eyes, in which she constantly bullied, taunted and abused us. With my father leaving early every morning to work, Bruna would wash and dress us, arguing that my sister in particular was unable to do this well enough on her own. (Thinking of my sister now I realise how laughable this is, for she is a successful businesswoman, tactful and assertive, and unscarred in a way that suggests great resilience.) Bruna was so able to convince my father that she was a problem that she was still 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 now on Inessa and I would never disturb our father when he came home from work. My father was too tired and overwhelmed to resist the decision, as Bruna had pounced during a window of vulnerability. But Inessa or I could not have possibly predicted where Bruna’s imagination would take this new decree.

  Inessa and I always had to be in bed early, but Bruna started to enforce the rule that the minute she turned our lights off we had to be utterly silent so as to not disturb our father. ‘He must close his eyes,’ she would bark, pointing a thick finger at the prostrate form of my father, dozing in the living room. ‘He must be allowed to close his eyes.’ Now I see in that statement a hidden message that I was too young to understand.

  By then, Inessa and I were learning to adapt our playful, immature instincts to minimise the time we were punished for them. But two young girls, left alone in a room before they were tired, were always going to make some noise. One night, around a week later, I was playfully throwing a pillow at Inessa, who’d started to giggle uncontrollably. It wasn’t even dark outside, and my father wasn’t yet in his bedclothes. But the shout came through from the next room, ‘If I hear another sound from either of you, then you will both be sorry.’

  Strangely enough it was Inessa who took the order more seriously than I. She rolled back into the thin sheets and lay rigidly on her back, seemingly willing herself to not move an inch, let alone make noise. But in my naïve state I was less disciplined. I didn’t honestly believe Bruna could punish us as she did in the mornings with my father just in the next room. At worst, I thought, it might make the following morning slightly more unpleasant and I thought I had found a little opportunity to now needle her. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

  Making fun of Inessa’s sudden obedience, I threw another pillow at her head. It missed, and clattered over the bedside table. Inessa’s rigid stillness was suddenly disrupted as she scrambled to quickly put it back into place. ‘Yelena,’ she hissed, with genuine disappointment resonating in her voice. It’s a sound I still remember.

  We didn’t hear Bruna coming. But suddenly the door to our bedroom was open and, striding inside, she slammed the door shut behind her. She brought out a long steel key that I hadn’t known existed and, her eyes darting between the two of us, locked the door shut. I must have looked as if I might scream, Noah. Scream out for my father, scream out in apology. ‘Now would not be the time to make any noise, Yelena,’ she said. And then, pronouncing each word slowly and carefully she repeated her strange statement. ‘He must be allowed to shut his eyes.’

  She started to move over to Inessa.

  ‘No,’ I said. A sharp wave of her muscular arm swept me into silence. ‘Please Bruna – let me speak. I am so so sorry, but it wasn’t Inessa’s fault, it was mine.’

  I instantly regretted the line of reasoning. Bruna sensed something in me, and looked over at Inessa’s bedside table. ‘It happened on Inessa’s side. She must learn to be responsible.’

  ‘Bruna, please.’

  ‘Back on your bed, and turn around.’

  Wondering if I should risk shouting out for my father, but suddenly aware of the thickness of our walls, I tried to make my way back to my bed. I remember taking in the length of my arms, the sheer heft of Bruna’s presence, and bitterly lamenting that I wasn’t stronger.

  ‘I said turn around,’ Bruna ordered.

  As I started to try to do so, I heard Inessa begin to whimper. Bruna’s attentions were no longer on me. She seized the pillow.


  ‘I have told you both, time and time again,’ she said, her voice lowered now, ‘to keep your stupid noises to yourself after dark. Your father must be allowed to shut his eyes, if only for one second. I see I will have to make you remember.’

  ‘It was my fault – ’ I insisted, but my words were interrupted. Suddenly, and to the shock of even Inessa, Bruna gripped the pillow and wrapped it around my sister’s little head.

  ‘Bruna!’ I screamed. Barely able to believe what was happening. I ran over to Inessa, whose legs were kicking from under the sheets, her young body trying to scream in protest. Bruna quickly adjusted her body so Inessa couldn’t wriggle free, breathe or even move. ‘Back on your bed.’ she said, her voice rising.

  I couldn’t help it. I ran over to Bruna and threw myself around her shoulders, but with one swift swat she snapped me back against the wall. I hit my head on the doorframe, and fell to the floor, stunned. I can’t remember how long I remained like that, pulsing and yet immobile. I remember from that position seeing only Bruna’s great shoulders and bowed head, and as I struggled to compose myself I saw that Inessa’s feet had suddenly stopped moving.

  I screamed. Bruna got up. Inessa lay still. I realised I had no idea how long I had been lying there for, trying to get my stupid head together while my sister squirmed and tried to cry out. At every moment Bruna’s shoulders had seemed to become wider and stronger, like she was a woman possessed.

  This time Bruna didn’t seem to object to the scream. Perhaps even she sensed that she had gone too far. ‘Get back into bed, you stupid girl,’ she said, pointing me rather half-heartedly towards my messy sheets. ‘She’s just fainted.’ And with that she slowly made her way to the door, unlocked it, and moved back outside. I could hear my father shuffling around his desk and Bruna’s plaintive, reassuring voice coming into play.

  Neither my father, nor Bruna, ever came in to check on Inessa. As soon as Bruna was gone I rushed over to her, pushed the pillow from her face and pulled her into my arms. Those moments seemed to last an eternity. She is dead, I remember thinking. And it’s my fault.

  She seemed so small and helpless, and I couldn’t imagine how she must have felt as she suffocated. It was my job to protect her from this. At that moment, my self-loathing was so strong I could nearly taste it. And then, one long minute later, Inessa coughed and her thin body squirmed back to life. As I tried to ease her shaking body back into the sheets, she didn’t say a word. Neither of us did. I knew her bed had now become a prison for her. I am sure the two of us stayed awake for every moment of that night. Both in utter silence.

  The next morning, Inessa and I remained mute. My father went to work, early as usual, and Bruna remained silent and quietly disdainful. She didn’t react when she saw Inessa the next day, only pausing to order us to get dressed. Any reaction I had hoped I might see in her, relief perhaps, never materialised. Sometimes, the most powerful act can be no act at all, and sadly it was Bruna who taught me that.

  From that moment on Inessa and I fell completely in line with Bruna’s desires. Through our childish logic, I think we both reasoned that no harm could come of either of us if we simply did exactly what she asked. I was not to know that she wasn’t acting out of a strong desire for order, that there was something deeper hidden inside her. Consequently, our obedience acted merely to delay her next violent act, not prevent it. Painfully, in retrospect it all makes sense. But then my mind simply could not grow and advance fast enough to counteract her.

  In the nights that followed I lay stock-still in bed, in a faithful replication of Inessa’s rigid position. The difficulty was that there would always be times when Inessa and I had to make some noise. However, I was determined that the noise would never come from me. Whenever I was tempted to get up, or speak, or even move around in bed, I only had to look over at my sister to remind myself of what I had to lose.

  One night, I was foolish enough not to go to the toilet before bed, and rather than move at night, I wet the bed. I felt so disgusting, trying to ignore the water in my bed, but strangely I also felt a proud defiance, at being prepared to debase myself rather than give into her. It seemed righteous at the time.

  But this was very short-sighted of me. Yes, Bruna would have to suffer the inconvenience of washing my dirty sheets. But what I did not understand was that I had finally presented her with her next opportunity. Any pride I felt at my self-restraint, for not getting up at night, was soon lost when Bruna discovered the sheets the next day with a hollow roar. I remember being surprised at the ferocity with which she ordered me to come to my room. Her back was facing me as she angrily stripped the sheets. I could not see her expression, only guess at its twisted aggression.

  ‘Yelena. I cannot believe that you are too immature to even control your own body. This sort of behaviour is simply disgusting.’

  ‘I’m sorry Bruna.’

  ‘It is not me you should apologise to. I don’t go out to work every day to pay the bills, do I? It’s your father that does.’

  I knew better than to ask her not to show the sheets to my father.

  ‘He will just have to see what you have managed to do for himself,’ she said.

  I didn’t beg. I felt as if the air was sucked out of my body. My father was the one person in the world I wanted to impress, wanted to love me. I couldn’t bear to watch as Bruna took the dirty bundle of sheets into his study and showed him just what his eldest daughter was capable of. My father, who had always struggled with the machinations of the female body at the best of times, could only respond with a repulsed confusion. Nevertheless, he refrained from meeting my eye in the time that followed. His silence, and the complicit disgust within it, was far more hurtful to me than anything Bruna might have said.

  If the mornings were poisonous, the nights under this new regime – where every word and action could be used to punish you – were far worse. Night after night was spent listening out for the movement of Bruna’s body in the surrounding rooms, and far more rarely the shuffling of my father. My senses alert, I tried to reason a path through this unbearable atmosphere. Once or twice, Bruna would come into the room even if we hadn’t made noise, and tears would begin to seep out of my eyes, though I forced myself to smile at her. Each time I could only guess at what she was about to do. I was so terrified of wetting the bed again, and giving her a reason to punish us, that I started to do just that a few times a week. This would provoke Bruna’s anger – an anger that seemed genuine rather than contrived – and cause her to humiliate me in front of my father. But this simply made me more anxious and therefore more likely to wet myself again.

  Perhaps due to some innate survival instinct, Inessa began to distance herself from me. Sensing that she and my father were starting to develop a bond, on occasion Bruna would come into the room and punish Inessa, or in the mornings hurt her, for some imagined crime or even worse for something I had done. Starved of sleep, and with no-one to turn to, the guilt started to well up inside me. I had to watch my every step at home, but school was a different story. There, I was able at least to breathe without worrying how loud the breath was.

  At school we had two periods of free time, and during that period I was always especially quiet and withdrawn. I enjoyed drawing and writing during those classes where that was allowed; and in the others I was careful to remain studious enough to get good grades. It was the short break before the end of the day that was unbearable because I was aware that soon I would be back home again.

  One afternoon, the thought of returning home became too much for me. I thought my head was going to split open, or that I might faint. With a terrible sense of foreboding – because I knew that any act of rebellion would cause my sister to be punished – I told my teacher I had a headache and I asked to be sent to the matron.

  The matron was sympathetic, she seemed to sense that something deeper was afoot. ‘You are very pale, young lady, and your blood pressure is rather high. I suggest that you lie down for a while until yo
u feel better.’

  The matron’s chamber was quiet, and smelt rather reassuringly of lotion and bandages. As I lay on the stiff bed, I tried to calm my racing heart but my mind didn’t seem strong enough to do so. Needing to stretch my legs and clear this storm from my head, I made my way to the unisex bathroom and there, in a discarded mug, I saw a man’s unwanted razor blade.

  I acted instinctively. I had no idea what to do with it, but all I knew was that I had to quell the bubbling in my brain. I needed to feel something, something other than fear. I needed to feel calm, and perhaps only then would I gain a sense of control over this pulsating sense of guilt.

  I went into one of the stalls and sat on the toilet, pulled my knees up against my chest. Through the frosted window of the cubicle I could see children starting to race out into the playground, full of abandon and glee. I felt as if I was watching them in a film. I knew it was almost time to go home. The pressure in my head was too much – I had to get it out. I chose the tender, pale skin on the underside of my arms, and in a moment of pure resolve I sliced deeply, awkwardly into it. Almost instantly, the blood gushed out, as if grateful, and I felt such relief that I almost laughed. My brain sang in ecstasy, and I let it pour and pour, the poison in my brain exorcised by the bright red spurt of release.