Oma

Oma

“Something was wrong.” I said to myself.



I’m just standing here on the footpath and gawking like a kid, at what? I thought. It’s just an empty house?



No! It’s more than that. It’s a haunting memory that I can see, smell and feel.  It’s like … All I can see is blackness, and the coldness creeps into my bones, through every open unclogged pore on my skin, as the chill makes my nose hairs tingle. It makes my throat constrict, like I’m unable to swallow. My tongue rolls along dry parched lips, trying to moisten them to make them wet and just sticks to the roof of my mouth. I’m just standing here, like a child left out in the rain, remembering and visualising my painful past.



“Mamma, I’m sorry,” I cry out into the darkness.  “I want my Oma.”

“Shut up you little prig, Oma is dead. She’s gone and your back here with me now.” Mamma yelled at me, through the closed cupboard door.

“Oma isn’t dead. Papa, Help me.” I called out.  All I could hear from behind the door was a shuffling noise. It reminded me of the noise that Papas feet used to make, when he was dancing around the kitchen with Oma.



I was living with my Oma and Papa before Oma went away. Papa and Oma would dance together everyday around the kitchen floor. Oma would call out to me. “Fabian, come here my little munchkin, come and dance with your Oma and Papa.”

I would run up to Papas knees, hold up my arms and Papa would lift me up like a feather. So I was eye to eye with them, and we would glide around the floor together, dancing to the music on the radio. Oma and I would giggle as Papa held us tight. “Like peas in a pod,” he would say.

Then waking up one morning, I bounced downstairs and found Papa crying. He looked so sad, just sitting there in the dark; he seemed so small, hunched over in his big old chair. He looked at me and shook his head, and held out his arms.  I went running into his arms. He was shaking, and trembling, he felt cold. “Papa, you’re cold.” I said.



I could feel the stubble on his chin, as he hadn’t shaved. I thought this strange as Papa always shaved. I would sometimes watch him with the razor, in the bathroom in front of a small scratched mirror. I would have to stand on a stool just to see my face next to his in the old mirror. Papa would warn me, never ever to touch his razor as it would cut off my fingers, he growled at me, with a smile on his face.

Now Papa was sad and crying. He told me that “Oma had gone to heaven, and that we would soon have to go and live with my Mum.”

“Noooooooo” I cried. “Papa nooooo, I don’t want to go back to her house.”

“Sorry munchkin, but we cannot stay here for much longer; there are too many beautiful memories here, and the landlord will kick us out. Oma brought in ironing, to pay the bills and the rent.  I cannot do work, it’s my back; I’m very old and weak, not enough strength to work.  We will have to leave here and go and live with your Mum, before we get kicked out. It’s ok Munchkin, I won’t leave you,” he said with a sad smile on his face. While the tears streamed down both of our cheeks.



“Get in there you little prig. I told you before, no music in this house, who do you think you are, eh?” Mamma sneered at me as she slammed the cupboard door behind me.

“I’m sorry Mamma. It’s cold and it smells in here. I won’t turn on the radio again when you are sleeping, I promise. Mamma, I’m scared that Tic Toc will come and get me.” I tried to call out to her, but I knew it was no use. There was no answer.

The coal dust from the cupboard was making me cough the more I called out. I knew that she was standing on the other side of the cupboard door, probably listening and smiling. I could hear her heaving chest trying to breathe, from years of smoking. I could hear her coughing and spitting. It made me feel sick.

Suddenly I could hear a familiar sound in my head. It was Oma’s favourite music. It was ‘Oh Summer Place by Percy Faith Orchestra’, beautifully playing in my mind. I just closed my eyes and swayed to the music. I could see and smell Oma as the music played. The sweet smell of lavender and roses, lingered around my nostrils.



I don’t know for how long I had been in the cupboard, when the glare from the door opening woke me up. I crouched back as far as I could away from the door, back into the cupboard even though the coal was cutting into my legs. I could feel the warm air as it came in through the open door.

“Munchkin it’s Papa, take my hand, let me help you.” A familiar voice whispered.

“Papa, why is Mamma so mean to me? Why does she shut me in this cupboard?” I cried.

“I don’t know Munchkin, but just think of your Oma when you are in there. I will try to get you out when I can, but she won’t let me go near you. I’m sorry Munchkin.” Papa said to me as his out stretched shaking hand came closer to mine. I grabbed it and held on to him. I didn’t want to let go as he lifted me up to his chest. He hummed and swayed a beautiful sound. Closing my eyes it was just like we were back in Oma and Papas kitchen. I could feel us dancing, and swaying to the music. I could imagine the fire burning in the back ground, and I could hear that familiar shuffling sound of Papas feet.

“Like peas in a pod,” I whispered in Papa’s ear.

He smiled and winked at me, as he put me down to the ground again. There was still a sad look in his eyes.



It is forty five years later as I turn and walk away from the curb, but something stops me and pulls me back. Out of the corner of my eye I could see something glistening in the sunlight. It was half buried in the ground. Something shiny was poking out of the dirt.

I bent down to pick it up and it was like slow motion. I had tunnel vision, just staring down at the shiny object. My heart missed a beat.  When I pulled it out of the ground it came to me easily. I turned it over and over in my hand, just staring at it, as the dust softly fell through my fingers to the ground, and the tears silently ran down my cheeks. This dirty old treasure was in my heart and soul.



I’m holding one of Oma’s broaches. She used to wear it everyday clipped to her apron. I was stunned, as I hadn’t given it a thought, or even asked what had happened to her things after she died. Papa was too sad, and I had other things on my mind. To now find, and have something of my Oma’s, makes my heart swell with beautiful memories.



I’m still scared of Tic Toc. Every night I make sure the wardrobe doors are shut so he doesn’t get out, and as for my Mother well…Time doesn’t heal wounds, and that’s all I can say about that.



I often play Oma’s music at night, just before going to sleep. It is very calming, and I have some beautiful memories, which I cling to.

I have always known that something was wrong, now I remember what it was. It was the fact that none of Oma’s photos or personal items was ever displayed at my Mother’s house.  I didn’t even get to say goodbye, it was as if she never existed. Papa didn’t live for much longer after Oma died; Papa peacefully went to join her six months later.  Together again, shuffling around that big heavenly dance floor in the sky. Bless them both.