Story of Baby S. as witnessed by Susan Grotte 15

Sundays at Hephzibah house were dominated by Church.

I sat in a metal folding chair trying not to squirm since I had no fat left to cushion the hard seat beneath me. I was in the last of 5 rows of 6 girls interspersed with 4 staff ladies. The Hephzibah girls and Hephzibah staff, along with their children made up the entire congregation in the little unfinished basement room. Behind me I heard the familiar sounds of little baby S nursing away during the service. It felt good to know that sweet Mrs. K. was behind me. She would not be quick to find fault in my posture or how my hair was curled. The rhythmic sounds of a suckling baby were soothing and normal sounds in this surreal world.

Back straight, eyes forward. I tried to pay attention to the long winded sermon and take good notes. Notes were turned in after every service and checked to make sure we paid attention to the service and were not daydreaming. If staff did not like your notes it was a paddling offense. Ron Williams had a theory that young people who were not engaged in busy work were lusting and enjoying lascivious fantasies.

My feet were cold and my back ached but otherwise the sermon was a nice reprieve from the normal stress of daily life at Hephzibah house.

Ron Williams deep voice filled the small room. He dwarfed the tiny podium.

Patti Williams sat on the left side of the room with all eight children in a row. There was always a well worn paddle laying on the seat beside her. It was not unusual to see her paddle her children for wiggling or making noise during the long sermons. The youngest was Seth, perhaps two years old and the darling irrepressible Benjamin was just four years old. I do not recall a service where that poor little boy did not get a severe beating. I was amazed how undaunted and happy he remained. Seth seemed dull. He just sat and sucked his fingers. He showed no signs of normal 2 year old curiosity and wonder. Maybe that is what a successfully broken will would looked like in a two year old. I found it profoundly disturbing.

Suddenly there was movement. I sensed rather than saw Mrs. K. stand up behind me. I dared not turn my head but up front Mrs Williams also hefted her wide girth out of her metal chair. It creaked loudly in protest. At just 40, Patti Williams was fat, slovenly and mean as a snake. Her grey hair in a stringy bun she stood looking back behind me towards the Mrs. K. and baby S. She had picked up the small paddle. A hard, tight smile crossed her humorless face. Mrs. K. had now made her way into my line of vision.

Mrs. K. was clearly upset as she carried her tiny baby towards the front of the chapel.

Ron Williams just droned on.

My stomach clenched. What was this???

Patti guided Mrs. K. into a small walled off area at the front of the room. The area was meant to be a closet one day. Now it had no door and served to store extra folding chairs. The two women entered the narrow room I had a partial view of the inside of the room but could no longer see Mrs. K. and the baby past Patti’s wide back.

Ron Williams kept preaching.

“NO! Oh NO!”

I was frozen. Staring straight ahead and gripping my pencil in horror.

WHACK!!

The baby SCREAMED.

We heard every powerful, stinging blow of the paddle hitting that tiny baby. It went on and on, every time there was a pause and I thought it was over it started up again.

Ron Williams actually stopped preaching. Grinning from ear to ear he made a fist and moved it enthusiastically across his body like a diabolical cheerleader, “Hit him again Sister! Hit him again!”

No one moved. No one DID anything. The babies cries were becoming strangled as he choked and he seemed to gasp dangerously between blows.

“Go get that baby Susan!” The voice in my head was screaming, “DO SOMETHING!”

I stared straight ahead as Ron Williams resumed his droning sermon. I thought of twenty scenarios where I saved that baby, but I sat glued to my seat. My blood ran cold.

The crying stopped before the blows stopped. Soon Mrs. K. stepped out from behind the wall she was sobbing and clinging to her baby Patti was right behind her with a huge self satisfied smile on her corpulent face, now red from exertion.

The baby was quiet. A spooky unnatural quiet. I watched the little bundle for signs of life intently until I saw his little chest heave showing he was indeed breathing.

How hard would you have to hit a baby to make him stop crying? Why would we all just sit there and let it happen?

I realized I had not taken any notes for several minutes. Somehow, knowing I would be paddled for that offense gave me a bizarre moment of satisfaction . A form of penance for my cowardice.

Everyone took their places.

Ron Williams droned on.

~ By Susan Grotte

The Potty Dance

"Potty Breaks"  Susan Grotte: Memories of HH

Painful cramps rock my lower back.  I stare at the shoes.  Opening my eyes wide to stop the tears.  Twenty six pair of plain brown loafers,  scuffed and worn.  All facing forward,  all showing agitation.  Twisting,  stomping quietly.  Legs pressed tightly together as 26 girls dance in quiet agony.  The familiar potty dance.  Large and severe Miss Diana stands at the beginning of the line. her legs are like  tree trunks as she stands in her sensible black warden shoes,  scowling.   No one dared whimper.  The lined moved with intentional sluggishness. 

A slight girl in the childish blue polyester uniform and red knee highs steps out of the bathroom.  She steps up to Miss Diana and holds up her hands. 

Miss Diana sniffs, “I don’t smell soap”  

“I washed Miss Diana,  I did!”  The desperate girl pleads for clemency.

“That is a work duty for arguing.  Do you want to make it a paddling for lying?”  

The door had been ajar.  We had all heard and seen the girl wash her hands.  This was simply a power play.

“No ma'am.”  The girls frail shoulders sag visibly.  She steps back into the bathroom leaving the door ajar while she carefully re-washes her hands.  She again walks up to Miss Diana holding her hands up.

“OK.”  Miss Diana  gestures with exaggerated boredom for the girl to pass and the first girl in the waiting line steps up to Miss Diana who holds out a roll of rough industrial toilet paper.

  We were to indicate how many sheets of toilet paper we needed based on what business we had to accomplish.  Three sheets for pee and five for a bowel movement.  

“I may need some extra Miss Diana.”  The blond girl blushed so deeply her scalp shone pink beneath her thin hair.  Miss Diana smirked and handed her three extra sheets.

“Just full of it today, aren’t you Tina”  

Tina laughed,  a forced tight laugh while the corded muscles in her neck betrayed her urgent need.  She stepped into the bathroom,  careful to leave the door several inches ajar.   The sounds of explosive diarrhea filled the narrow hallway.  

I clench my fists,  I curl my toes,  I squeeze my thighs together for all I am worth.  

I bite my lip and look up the line,  fifteen girls still ahead of me.

Please God, please.  

Just then a girl cries out in anguish.  A dark stain slowly spreads out on the concrete floor beneath her.  There is a nervous shuffle then eerie stillness as Diana’s eyes settle on the puddle. 

Miss Diana bellows out for the other main staff lady, “Sharon!”  

Thin and pointed Sharon’s face peered around the corner.  Her thick bushy eyebrows raised.  Her long hair piled precariously on her head.  

“We have a wetter!” 

Disgust drips from Diana’s  voice as she grabs little Lynn roughly and herds her down the hallway.  As she and Sharon leave dragging Lynn between them,  Diana commands the new young summer staff lady, Christie,  to take over the potty line.  Soon muffled cries and sharp whacks are heard as  tiny Lynn is paddled for her crime.  

Christie grabs the roll of toilet paper and with sympathy and compassion she quickly moves us all through the line.  Nothing felt so sweet as to finally sit on that toilet.  I looked at my scrawny  legs.  My knees were now the largest part of my legs.  I had to grab the sides of the toilet to keep from falling in.  I had lost 40 pounds in just 4 months and my 5’9 frame was down to just 88 pounds.  Little more than a skeleton,I looked at  my panties puddled on the floor around my ankles.  Several strands of short curly  hair caught in the plain white cotton. My body hair had been falling out as steadily as the hair on my head.  I hoped no one would notice the faint odor of urine as I pulled up my damp panties and washed my hands.  I had leaked a bit after all.  

I held my hands up to Christie to smell as I came out of the bathroom.  She rolled her eyes slightly,  embarrassed as I was at the infantile ritual, and waved me on.  

Walking down the hall I see Lynn,  now crouched over a bucket scrubbing the concrete floor while Miss Diana berates and ridicules her.  Her dark hair spills out onto the concrete obscuring her face but I see her boney shoulders shudder as she sobs silently.  She has been changed into fresh clothes and paddled but her humiliation will not stop here.  

She is now diapered,  a point of which Miss Diana makes sure we are all very aware.  I had been so close to being the girl who wet herself.   Once again saved by a child who was weaker and smaller than myself.  Lynn was only 12. I felt sick.  I hung my head in shame and walked by poor little Lynn slinking back to my seat in the cold makeshift basement classroom.   

~ By Susan Grotte

Fonda Finkey

Fonda came to Hephzibah House when she was just 13 years old. She had dark curls, a sweet round face, pink cheeks and dimpled knees. I instantly thought of the Hummel figurines that lined the walls in my aunt's kitchen.  

Fonda tried hard to obey the impossible rules at Hephzibah House. She tried to smile through the tears. She tried to be the girl they wanted her to be. She was beaten every day for one silly infraction or another, many days she was beaten more than once.  

Fonda's weight was dropping at an alarming rate and she was missing meals regularly, her sweet rosy face began to sag and shrink before our eyes. 

A veteran Hephzibah girl used a free moment to help Fonda make her bed perfectly.  Fonda’s bed was still tossed. The work duties that this earned put her over the limit of 35 and she was paddled.  

Graceful and kind, Maria looked out for the new girl by straightening Fonda’s crooked towel  before inspection. The perfectly straight towel was judged too messy and thrown on the floor. Fonda was paddled for that.     

I curled Fonda’s hair as Sara quizzed her on her scripture memory and Melanie helped her clean and buff her nails. We all wanted to help this cheerful, sweet child get a fighting chance. She was still paddled for her hair not curling properly, her nails not passing inspection and failing her Scripture memory. It was worse than Arbitrary, the game was rigged.  

Just 13 years old, Fonda was wise beyond her years. She quickly realized her beatings had nothing to do with her attitude and performance. Once she realized she was going to be paddled no matter what she did or did not do. Fonda set out to test her theory. Jaw set with determination, young Fonda did the most naughty thing she could think to do, she launched rubber bands at one of the Williams boys in the classroom. 
   

Fonda was yanked from her seat by the scruff of her neck and dragged down the hallway for yet another dreadful paddling when that small girl found the courage of legends and heroes. In the face of her oppressors, trembling in fear and facing certain pain, she began to sing at the top of her lungs.

“I LOVE Rock and Roll!” 

She sang and sang and sang, her voice grew hoarse, but she still sang. 

She was separated from the rest of the girls and placed in the isolation tower. The isolation tower was two sets of two interior doors hinged together to form a tall, narrow box. A girl could spend days in this contraption only coming out to sleep or use the bathroom with an escort. This way a rebel could be kept in complete isolation from the rest of the girls while  being right in the same crowded area.   

A recorder with Hymns was blared loudly to hush her or drown her out. Still she sang.

She cried and her voice cracked, but still she sang.  

I was dumb struck at her foolish defiance, as they dragged her away I was certain they would fillet the skin right off her small body. I wondered if Hephzibah House had ever actually killed a girl.  

That night I laid in the darkness and waited for her to be deposited back into her bed, broken and silent, I waited in vain. Fonda was gone.  

Years later I stood with Fonda on the street outside of Hephzibah House. She shook uncontrollably as she recounted her terrible experiences there. She was overcome and weeping when she saw the window to the blue room where she was paddled so many times. 

“I tried so hard to be good, I really, really did”  Fonda’s entire mind and body were reliving the fear and pain and bewilderment of Hephzibah House. She begged me to take her away from that place. 

As I guided her back to the safety of my truck and handed her tissue, she told me in great hiccuping sobs that she was never beaten for her final stand. Her singing was her ticket home.  

I stared at Fonda in open mouthed amazement. Really? They just let you go?

I thought of all of those years that I trembled in fear, terrified of Ron Williams, and here was a little girl who beat him with a song.

~ By Susan Grotte