The Suitcase

Becky’s Narrative

Becky’s Narrative

Dad died young. Mom raised me alone... for a few years. She missed having a male about the house. And in having been brought up in a wealthy family, missed having servants doing the housework. Her remorse was constantly expressed. She would apologize to me as I, dutiful daughter, helped out about the house with cleaning and laundry.

‘This shouldn’t be, Becky. But there’s either money for servants or money for college... not for both.’

So in her mind, there was sacrifice. What Dad left... apparently a good sum... had to be parceled.

There came a point when the drudgery... combined with seeing me... her only daughter... in her mind a budding Princess... labor about the house... brought frustrated desperation. Someone, I suppose a friend of Mom’s, suggested adopting a boy. And when Mom repeated this suggestion to another friend... a woman whom had immigrated from some eastern European country... there came a more specific suggestion concerning adoption. And more pointedly the name of an old institution known for raising incorrigible boys.

But if I recall the conversation properly... being a girl at the time and serving the women tea... she used the term ‘training’... not raising.

‘Times have changed, Moira. The politics... these formerly secretive communist governments are open to public scrutiny now. And the politicians are under... well... pressure to close up places like that. You’ll probably find they need to place a few boys. I’m sure there are some that speak English.’

So Mom followed up. The internet was nascent at the time. And though there was no glossy website for this institution, an email address was obtained. Communication followed. A thick envelope arrived weeks later. My prospective stepbrother was selected from photos and brief bio info. Mom wanted someone my age. To obtain one older limited the time he would serve us... so she thought. And younger brought more need for guidance... though I’m sure that was a euphemism for correction and discipline.

Well it happened. It required weeks of time, much paperwork, but surprisingly little funds, basically the cost of airfare. The institute had to place many boys before closing its doors as mandated. Therefore money was not an issue.

Weeks before the flight, a thick padded envelope arrived. I recall how impressively official it appeared, sent airmail from Europe. I remember Mom opening it and her disappointment in seeing it contained a notebook written in a foreign language.

She left for town, dropping the manuscript off at a service. And after translation, Mom tucked it away along with the equally thick English version. But before hiding it, from the bold print on the cover, I learned some Bulgarian... that the words ‘Boravene a Voinstveniya Muzh’ meant in English ‘Handling the Belligerent Male’.

‘You’re too young, Becky’, she advised in assuring my eyes would not see the contents.

And indeed, in sneaking from my bed late at night, I could peek down the stairs and see Mom reading. She found it to be most instructive... least such was the logical conclusion in noting her rapt interest.

So the day of arrival for Mom’s newly adopted son approached. I was called to the kitchen... a mother daughter talk. I feared some transgression had arose. I was thus heartened when the topic of discussion was my new stepbrother. First Mom suggested a name. We initially decided on Jack... such transmogrifying to Jackie when we... let’s say... got to know him better.

Then came a lecture. Essentially Mom encapsulated what she had learned... in the manual... translated as ‘Handling the Belligerent Male’. Curious, I now think of it as an owner’s manual.

Jack... Jackie... was sent to this institute for orphans by the government after he was taken into custody. The police had raided a gypsy camp... arresting dozens of thieves and con artists... perplexed by his relatively light hair and complexion. He had been stolen... kidnaped... as a toddler... real parents and place of birth unknown.

What to do. The gypsies had spent years training him in their rapacious life style of theft, burglary, lying and cheating. The authoritarian communist government had neither patience nor programs for reforming criminals... even those of youthful age. So he was discarded... sent to this institute where for sure he’d not be engaging in burglarious pursuits... away from society... and maybe... just maybe... there would come some use for him.

Such was being undertaken when all of eastern Europe turned to democracy and a government funded strict institute for incorrigible boys became an embarrassment.