By Anya Peters
A heartbreaking real tale of 1 little girl's seek to discover a spot she may well name home.
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An award-winning ebook according to a real tale that spans three continents and 70 years. it's the tale of an easy suitcase with a reputation on it. And the hunt to find what had occurred to its proprietor. it is a "Holocaust Remembrance publication for younger Readers"
Extra info for Abandoned : the true story of a little girl who didn't belong
From the stories she told us we knew that even as a child she had been headstrong and unruly, and constantly at war with her own father. She described herself as being the ‘black sheep of the family’, ‘rough and ready’ and a ‘fighter’. ‘Don’t worry about me,’ she’d whisper to us those nights when we’d all tiptoed back down after he had staggered off to bed. ’ But she wasn’t; though neither was she quite ready for the monster my uncle turned into after swallowing beer and vodka all night. She just wasn’t willing to be a victim.
Liam’s father, my uncle, was the kind of drunken, irreligious Irishman her mother would probably have crossed the street to avoid. Mummy had never married him, but they were living together, ‘in sin’ as it was called in those days, which to her Catholic parents would have been worse. On top of it all they were living in a council flat on a run-down estate. Theirs was a good Catholic family in small-town Ireland, and their parents would never have accepted her lifestyle. Maybe, as her new partner drank more and more, and started to become violent, she was too ashamed to tell anyone what her life had come to, let alone her parents.
I feel myself slipping away, the room floating in and out, the sounds of her blouse being ripped as he drags her through the archway, shouting that he wants her out too, his knees and fists punching into her as she struggles up and kicks back; vile names I don’t yet know the meaning of screamed into both of us. I sit wedged between orange cushions on the end of the fake-leather sofa, shivering, helpless, contorted with fear and the effort to stop my crying, waiting for him to start back on me. The terror of what he is doing and of Mummy leaving forcing my mind out of my body, until the sound of her head being knocked like a coconut against the living room wall jolts me back—not knowing whether to look or not look, listen or not listen, trying to reverse the flow of tears—to stop feeling.