“My father killed a man and went to prison. When he came out of it, he made us a prison at home."

Father. This word should evoke warm feelings in the heart. I associated it with hatred, pain and constant fear.

It never overflowed in our family. Meager salaries, lots of debt and five kids on mum's head. But poverty was nothing compared to the fear that was always with us.

We tiptoed all day and whispered, because the slightest noise annoyed my father. We ate only at set times and in minimal amounts, and went to bed at 10:00 p.m. sharp. Because there must be order. And at night we were freezing because of the windows open regardless of the season. Because you have to toughen up.

Father was a simple man. A bit rushed, but no more so than the other guys in our town. He became aggressive only after alcohol, which he most often drank at parties. Then, instead of playing, he went on the attack. He searched the crowd for some innocent guy and pounded him like a punching bag.

Sometimes my mother or drinking buddies managed to pull him away from the victim. However, on that fateful evening, no one was with him, and he had a bottle of moonshine at hand. Probably the front one, because in the 60s in Poland, nothing was driven.

Swaying, he reached for the bottle, took a solid pull from it, then turned it around and grabbed the neck. The remnants of the liquor sprayed everywhere, drenching his pants and shirt, but he couldn't see it anymore. In a drunken frenzy, he hit the bottle on the table and shattered it, creating the so-called "tulip". Thus armed, he moved towards his victim.

An opponent, as drunk as he was, had no chance. The father allegedly tore out his throat with a glass, drove the rest of the bottle straight into his heart, and then fell unconscious to the ground. That's all I know from people's stories.

She loved her abuser

Dad didn't come home anymore. I was lying on the bed in our children's room, cuddling up to my older brother. I was nine years old at the time and I was very afraid of my dad coming back. The noise he made as he entered the apartment, nearly ripping the door off its frame, and the roar of his roar as he fell to the ground or raced toward his mother. Numb with fear, I wondered if he would burst into our room this time too, tell us to get up and show us our homework notebooks, or if he would let go and focus on his mother.

I wasn't the only one awake. So did my siblings. My older brother held me tight against him, as if he wanted to protect me from what was about to happen. The sisters across from us tossed restlessly in their beds.

We finally fell asleep exhausted that night. The next day we got up for school as usual, but not cheerfully and energetically, like children in normal families that I saw many years later on television, only quietly so as not to wake up sleeping dad. We tiptoed into the kitchen, where Mom was waiting. Oh my gosh, she was loud. We were stunned by her courage.

- Well, what are you staring at? Wash up and have breakfast, she said.

- And dad? whispered my brother.

"Dad's gone," she replied, tears welling up in her eyes.

My mother knew no other life. She didn't know what freedom was, the joy of an ordinary day, a smile, not to mention dignity. So that morning she was close to a breakdown. And she would probably be biting her hands in despair if it wasn't for the neighbors.

A moment later, Mr. Marian entered our apartment and said that the police had taken my father because he had committed a crime.

"He killed a man," he said, twisting his cap off his head.

- Oh God! What will become of us now? Mom groaned and looked at us with terrified eyes.

After that, everything happened quickly. The father was taken from custody to the courtroom. The trial was short, the sentence was severe - life imprisonment. Mom passed out in Grandma's arms. Father turned pale then, but said not a word. I don't think he understood what had happened yet. After the trial was over, he immediately followed the militiamen out of the courtroom. And that's all I've seen of him.

We should be glad, after all, our tormentor has disappeared from the house. But it was the 60s and a single woman with five children did not have an easy life. If only we lived in the country, we would have our own chickens, cows and our own garden that could feed us! And yes - we were penniless, in a house that needed renovation since the war. My older sister and older brother went to work to support us, and since they had no education, they could earn very little.

Anyway, we all lived with the stigma of a murderer's family back then. People tended to avoid us. It's as if we killed the man, not our father. We were pointed at at school, pushed away from us at the store or church. The elder brother wanted to join the party so that we could live better, but they refused to accept him.

I prefer not to mention how I felt then. At school, in the yard, I kept to myself only with my siblings. My friends mocked me, threw stones after me, and I held back tears so that my little brother, whom I had to protect from people, would not see them.

After a few years, the father's sentence was changed to 25 years in prison. Until then, I had never seen him. Only my mother came for visits, who, instead of setting up a life for herself, cut herself off from her tormentor - she sighed for him all day, prayed for his soul and drove through half of Poland in snowstorms, frosts, downpours and heat. And she made him packages as if for Christmas Eve, from products that none of us had even seen on Christmas.

She was stupid and naive, and the worst thing was that when she thought about him, she forgot about us. Asking God for her husband to get out of prison early, she didn't think that if that happened, we'd be in hell again at home. What the children felt didn't matter. The important thing was that, according to her, a woman without a man was nothing. That's why it was always about him, her husband - a murderer, a thug, an alcoholic and, by the way, a lady boxer.

- If dad were here, then ... - she often began her pious wishes with these words.

- Toby will beat you to a pulp - her older sister would answer her furiously.

She was allowed to bring money home. You could even say that she worked hard for us, working 12 hours a day. It wouldn't even occur to me to talk back to my mother. It was hard for us to disagree with our sister, but after all, this woman gave birth to us...

One day she came back from her father happy. She learned from the prison director that her father would be released early for good behavior. 25 years turned into 11.

He hasn't changed a bit

Even though I was an adult, I trembled with fear. I remembered all the nights and days in the house where my father reigned. Of the five of us, now only me, younger sister and brother remain. The older siblings continued to send money, but both had already started their own families.

Excited mom began to hurriedly prepare for dad's return. She ordered general painting and a major cleaning of the house. It looked as if the Queen of England was about to visit us.

The terrible day has finally come. My father entered the house with one dilapidated cardboard suitcase under his arm. He was very skinny. He looked not 11 but 30 years old. His thinning gray hair was covered with a cap, and his coat hung on it as if on a hanger.

It wasn't what surprised me though, it was his eyes. Squinted, so brown they're almost black, alert like a wild animal. Above one was a dark blue dot. I didn't know then that it meant belonging to the group of those who rule the prison. Probably my father, as a murderer, had a high position among the convicts.

Father came into the kitchen and, without taking off his coat or saying a word to us, sat down at the table. Mom immediately served him his lunch and crouched on the other side of the counter. First he examined the cutlery carefully, then ran his finger along the edge of the plate, then raised his hand and studied the tip of his finger. He muttered something under his breath and started eating.

When he finished, he unbuttoned his coat and motioned us to the table. He watched us carefully for a long time. I could feel fear gripping my throat again, but for a while I had the illusion that maybe Dad would get up and put his arms around me and say something human like that he was thinking about us all the time or something like that, but all he said was,

- You're Bronek, right? And you, Kasia and Tadek? you have grown. Are you already working, are you helping your mother? - and when we shook our heads in response, he muttered ominously: - You're studying ... You're still learning, bastards ... And what do you need all this knowledge for?

I knew then that he hadn't changed a bit.

From day one, he took care of our education. Not that he cared. After all, he himself said that knowledge is of no use to us. It was about principles and showing power. I realized it much later.

I - a student - didn't pick on me that much. The younger siblings were screwed for it. If they didn't get straight A's, he was beating them horribly. I myself felt then that I should do something, react somehow. But I wasn't always brave... I wasn't a big boy or a stand-up guy, so I was very easily intimidated.

But that wasn't the worst. The most terrible of all was the silence. My father was silent all day. Even when he hit us, when he "asked" for notebooks, student diaries or food, he limited himself to the movement of his head or hands, and sometimes his glance was enough for us to understand what was going on. He also demanded the same silence from us.

In silence, he ate, washed, shaved, and worked in the garden. An ominous silence reigned in our house and was ten times worse than shouting or brawling.

He built a cell with bars on the windows

Each night, knowing my father was asleep in the next room, I trembled like the terrified little boy I used to be. I imagined my dad waking up and sneaking into my room, then clamping his hands tightly around my throat...

How many times have I woken up in the night drenched in sweat! I woke up from sleep and waited for the dawn. I longed so much for peace and at least a little love...

And in the morning, as usual, I bit my lip and pretended to be an older, strong and tough brother. What I would give then for someone to hug me and take the burden of responsibility off my back! First I had to protect my siblings from the children at school, now from the father we were all afraid of. Mother too.

One day my father decided to build a new house. I don't know where he got the money for it, because he didn't earn much from odd jobs on construction sites. Maybe he was stealing? Or was he doing some illegal business? I wouldn't be surprised.

He did everything on his own and without consulting his mother, let alone us. First, he found a plot of land on the outskirts of the town, then he equipped it - brought water, electricity, fenced it. And he began his work.

Every day, together with my mother, sister and younger brother, we helped him. We carried heavy cinder blocks, mixed mortar or poured concrete on the floors. And when we were done, I think everyone except him was horrified by the effect of our work.

Because my father built us a bunker. A low house with small windows, walls so thick that no atomic bomb could destroy it. The rooms inside were small, and the walls separating them were symbolic. Father chose a separate room for himself. He didn't want to share it with anyone. Inside, he set up only a couch, a table and a chair, and installed bars on the small window - like in a prison cell. No one was allowed to visit him there or disturb him.

Our rooms were not much different from his. They were a little bigger so we could fit the wall units in them, but Dad made sure we didn't keep any "dummies," as he called them, on the shelves. And so stuffed animals from Kasia's friends, as well as adventure books and a wooden car from Tadek's childhood landed in the garbage.

One day I'll kill him

There are also new rules in the new house. From then on, every day, in addition to checking our notebooks, Dad checked our shelves, made beds and clothes we wanted to put on.

We had our last meal at 6pm. Then Dad would bring a chain with a padlock and close the fridge. Just before 10:00 p.m., he would leave his cell like a guard on his rounds. Without knocking, he entered our rooms, turned on the light and checked if we were ready to go to sleep. Then he announced the beginning of the curfew, which lasted until 6.00 in the morning. No one could get up earlier or later.

At 6.00 in the morning, father would come to the door of mother's room, and she, like a well-trained dog, was ready to go to the bathroom and then prepare breakfast for us.

Our older siblings tried to reason with their father and talk him out of this Prussian drill. Then he cut all ties with them.

At first, I tried to meet my brother after classes, but when my dad started to hold me accountable for every lateness and set penalties, I gave up on these meetings.

The worst was probably Tadek. He was the youngest of the five of us, and he hated being locked in a dark basement very badly. He suffered from claustrophobia. He fainted, he screamed, he begged. But my father built the ceilings so thick that no one heard Tadek's sobs. Kasia and I could only guess how much she was suffering. Every time my father locked him in the basement, I thought I was going crazy.

I even threw my fists at Dad once, but he pushed me away so hard that I fell over and hit my head on the corner of the table. Despite his frail build, he was a very strong man. Furious and humiliated, I promised myself that one day I would kill him and free us from his tyranny.

Although there were times when I looked at him with pity. “How long has he had to live in this prison to behave like this?” I thought as he ran away from us to his room. This life-kicked man, our tormentor, knew neither laughter nor joy. We used to prank each other sometimes, we laughed when he didn't see it. He must have been unhappy.

Sometimes, when my father was not at home, I reproached my mother for taking him in.

- Why did you do this to us? I shouted furiously.

However, when I saw fear in her eyes - the same fear she felt when he spoke to her - I fell silent.

We all lived in a prison run by my father. I didn't move out of my parents' house just because I felt responsible for Kasia and Tadzia. My sister had already turned 18 at the time, but she didn't act like an adult. Over the years, she became frightened like a hunted animal and was afraid of life. She couldn't find a job for a long time. Eventually, they hired her as a cleaner at the hospital. Although she's always been a sensitive and intelligent girl, she ended up with a rag in her hand...

Tadeusz, on the other hand, started drinking and hanging around suspicious company as a teenager. Even so, when he returned home, he became as docile as a lamb. I knew he was boiling with anger inside, but he never said anything to his father. I understood him perfectly, I felt exactly the same. And I was afraid that one day one of us would not be able to stand it, and then misfortune would happen...

Fate saved us from this. Our tormentor died of a heart attack. At the funeral, we didn't know whether to laugh or cry, but we stayed calm. And then... Life has finally begun! On a warm April day in the backyard, we lit a huge bonfire and burned our father's couch, chair and table with satisfaction. I pulled the bars from the windows of his room, then made a pantry there.

Kasia bought paints with her own savings. We repainted the whole house. Tadek went to the market and instead of vodka, as he used to, he bought toy cars and put them on a shelf in his room. I, in turn, bought out half of the bookstore.

We all stood in lines together for a gas stove and a TV. We stood all night for the fridge, not knowing if we would get it, but we were glad that we were together, we could laugh out loud and talk. That was the first time my sister stroked my cheek. I felt weird.

"You see, we can't do that at all," she said. - Touch or cuddle.

I cried like a baby. I also thought that although my father had destroyed so much in us, he had not succeeded in destroying our solidarity. We had each other and we were finally starting to live. Only my mother couldn't enjoy her freedom. Maybe because she's never known it?

Read also: "I overheard a conversation between my husband and his mistress. I wiped our account and left. It turned out that I... cheated on him.” “Quarantine was needed to save our marriage. I met my husband again and we hardly got out of bed” “We met on a pilgrimage to Częstochowa and fell in love to death, although I thought it would be just a romance”