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Dave Pelzer
A Child Called
'It'
David J. Pelzer's mother, Catherine Roerva, was, he writes in this ghastly, fascinating memoir, a devoted den mother to the Cub Scouts in her care, and somewhat nurturant to her children--but not to David, whom she referred to as "an It." This book is a brief, horrifying account of the bizarre tortures she inflicted on him, told from the point of view of the author as a young boy being starved, stabbed, smashed face-first into mirrors, forced to eat the contents of his sibling's diapers and a spoonful of ammonia, and burned over a gas stove by a maniacal, alcoholic mom. Sometimes she claimed he had violated some rule--no walking on the grass at school!--but mostly it was pure sadism. Inexplicably, his father didn't protect him; only an alert schoolteacher saved David.
This book is not for sale!!!
This book is dedicated to my son Stephen, who, by the grace of God, has taught me the gift of love and joy through the eyes of a child.
This book is also dedicated to the teachers and staff members of Thomas Edison Elementary School to include:
Steven E. Ziegler Athena Konstan Peter Hansen Joyce Woodworth Janice Woods Betty Howell and the School Nurse To all of you, for your courage and for putting your careers on the line that fateful day, March 5, 1973.
You saved my life.
then home away from home, for providing the perfect sanctuary during the process of this project.
And lastly, to Phyllis Colleen. I wish you happiness. I wish you peace. May God bless you.
Author’s Notes
Some of the names in this book have been changed in order to maintain the dignity and privacy of others.
This book, the first part of the trilogy, depicts language that was developed from a child’s viewpoint. The tone and vocabulary reflect the age and wisdom of the child at that particular time.
This book is based on the child’s life from ages 4 to 12. The second part of the trilogy, The Lost Boy , is based on his life from ages 12 to 18.
1 – The Rescue
March 5, 1973, Daly City, California – I’m late. I’ve got to finish the dishes on time, otherwise no breakfast; and since I didn’t have dinner last night, I have to make sure I get something to eat. Mother’s running around yelling at my brothers. I can hear her stomping down the hallway towards the kitchen. I dip my hands back into the scalding rinse water. It’s too late. She catches me with my hands out of the wat er.
SMACK! Mother hits me in the face, and I topple to the floor. I know better than to stand there and take the hit. I learned the hard way that she takes that as an act of defiance, which means more hits, or worst of all, no food. I regain my posture and dodge her looks, as she screams into my ears.
I act timid, nodding to her threats. “Please,” I say to myself, “just let me eat. Hit me again, but I have to have food.” Another blow pushed my head against the tile counter top. I let the tears of mock defeat stream down my face as she storms out of the kitchen, seemingly satisfied with herself. After I count her steps, making sure she’s gone, I breathe a sigh of relief. The act worked. Mother can beat me all she wants, but I haven’t let her take away my will to somehow survive.
I finish the dishes, then my other chores. For my reward I receive breakfast – leftovers from one of my brothers’ cereal bowls. Today it’s Lucky Charms. There are only a few bits of cereal left in a half of a bowl of milk, but as quickly as I can, I swallow it before Mother changes her mind. She has done that before. Mother enjoys using food as her weapon. She knows better than to throw leftovers in the garbage can. She knows I’ll dig it out later. Mother knows most of my tricks.
Minutes later I’m in the old family station wagon. Because I’m so late with my chores, I have to be driven to school.
Usually I run to school, arriving just as class begins, with no time to steal any food from other kids’ lunch boxes.
Mother drops my oldest brother off, but keeps me for a lecture about her plans for me tomorrow. She is going to take me to her brother’s house. She says Uncle Dan will “take care of me.” She makes it a threat. I give her a frightened look as if I am truly afraid. But I know that even though my uncle is a hardnosed man, he surely won’t treat me like Mother does.
Before the station wagon comes to a complete stop, I dash out of the car. Mother yells for me to return. I have forgotten my crumpled lunch bag, which has always had the same menu for the last three years – two peanut butter sandwiches and a few carrot sticks. Before I bolt out of the car again, she says, “Tell ’em … Tell ’em you ran into the door.” Then in a voice she rarely uses with me, she states, “Have a nice day.” I look into her swollen red eyes. She still has a hangover from last night’s stupor. Her once beautiful, shiny black hair is now frazzled clumps. As usual, she wears no makeup. She is overweight, and she knows it. In all, this has become Mother’s typical look.
Because I am so late, I have to report to the administrative office. The grayhaired secretary greets me with a smile. Moments later, the school nurse comes out and leads me into her office, where we go through the normal routine. First, she examines my face and arms. “What’s that above your eye?” she asks.
I nod sheepishly, “Oh, I ran into the hall door … by accident.”
Again she smiles and takes a clipboard from the top of a cabinet. She flips through a page or two, then bends down to show me. “Here,” she points to the paper, “You said that last Monday. Remember?”
I quickly change my story, “I was playing baseball and got hit by the bat. It was an accident.” Accident. I am always supposed
eyes, which is mostly a habit from trying to deal with my mother. But it’s also because I don’t want to tell him anything. Once, about a year ago, he called Mother to ask about my bruises. At that time, he had no idea what was really going on. He just knew I was a troubled kid who was stealing food. When I came to school the next day, he saw the results of Mother’s beatings. He never called her again.
Mr Hansen barks he’s had enough of this. I almost leap out of my skin with fear. “He’s going to call Mother again!” my brain screams. I break down and cry. My body shakes like jello and I mumble like a baby, begging Mr Hansen not to phone Mother. “Please!” I whine, “Not today! Don’t you understand, it’s Friday?”
Mr Hansen assures me he’s not going to call Mother, and sends me off to class. Since it’s too late for homeroom class, I sprint directly to Mrs Woodworth’s English class. Today’s a spelling test on all the states and their capitals. I’m not prepared. Usually I’m a very good student, but for the past few months I gave up on everything in my life, including escaping my misery through my schoolwork.
Upon entering the room, all the students plug their noses and hiss at me. The substitute teacher, a younger woman, waves her hands in front of her face. She’s not used to my smell. At arms length she hands my test to me, but before I can take my seat in the back of the class by an open window, I’m summoned back to the principal’s office. The entire room lets out a howl at me – the reject of the fifth grade.
I run to the administration office, and I’m there in a flash. My throat is raw and still burns from yesterday’s “game” Mother played against me. The secretary leads me into the teachers’ lounge. After she opens the door, it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. In front of me, sitting around a table, are my homeroom teacher Mr Ziegler, my math teacher Miss Woods, the school nurse, Mr Hansen and a police officer. My feet
become frozen. I don’t know whether to run away or wait for the roof to cave in. Mr Hansen waves me in, as the secretary closes the door behind me. I take a seat at the head of the table, explaining I didn’t steal anything … today. Smiles break everyone’s depressed frowns. I have no idea that they are about to risk their jobs to save me.
The police officer explains why Mr Hansen called him. I can feel myself shrink into the chair. The officer asks that I tell him about Mother. I shake my head no. Too many people already know the secret, and I know she’ll find out. A soft voice calms me. I think it’s Miss Woods. She tells me it’s all right. I take a deep breath, wring my hands and reluctantly tell them about Mother and I. Then the nurse has me stand up and show the policeman the scar on my chest. Without hesitation, I tell them it was an accident; which it was – Mother never meant to stab me. I cry as I spill my guts, telling them Mother punishes me because I am bad. I wish they would leave me alone. I feel so slimy inside. I know after all these years there is nothing anyone can do.
A few minutes later, I am excused to sit in the outer office. As I close the door, all the adults look at me and shake their heads in an approving way. I fidget in my chair, watching the secretary type papers. It seems forever before Mr Hansen calls me back into the room. Miss Woods and Mr Ziegler leave the lounge. They seem happy, but at the same time worried. Miss Woods kneels down and wraps me in her arms. I don’t think I will ever forget the smell of the perfume in her hair. She lets go, turning away so I won’t see her cry. Now I am really worried. Mr Hansen gives me a lunch tray from the cafeteria. “My God! Is it lunch time already ?” I ask myself.
I gobble down the food so fast I can hardly taste it. I finish the tray in record time. Soon the principal returns with a box of cookies, warning me not to eat so fast. I have no idea what’s going on. One of my guesses is that my father, who is separated
elbow, into a big office. No other person is in the room. The policeman sits in a chair, in the corner, where he types several sheets of paper. I watch the officer closely as I slowly eat my cookies. I savor them as long as I can. I don’t know when I will be eating again.
It’s past 1:00 p.in. when the policeman finishes his paperwork. He asks for my telephone number again.
“Why?” I whine. “I have to call her, David,” he says gently. “No!” I command. “Send me back to school. Don’t you get it? She mustn’t find out I told!”
He calms me down with another cookie, as he slowly dials 7- 5-6-2-4-6-0. I watch the black dial turn as I get up and walk towards him, straining my whole body while trying to hear the phone ringing on the other end. Mother answers. Her voice scares me. The policeman waves me away, and takes a deep breath before saying, “Mrs Pelzer, this is Officer Smith from the Daly City Police Department. Your son David will not be coming home today. He will be in the custody of the San Mateo Juvenile Department. If you have any questions, you can call them.” He hangs up the phone and smiles. “Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” he asks me. But the look on his face tells me he is assuring himself, more than he is me.
A few miles later, we are on highway 280, heading towards the outskirts of Daly City. I look to my right and see a sign that reads, “THE MOST BEAUTIFUL HIGHWAY IN THE WORLD.” The officer smiles with relief, as we leave the city limits. “David Pelzer,” he says, “you’re free.”
“What?” I ask, clutching my only source of food. “I don’t understand. Aren’t you taking me to some kind of jail?”
Again he smiles, and gently squeezes my shoulder. “No, David. You have nothing to worry about, honest. Your mother is never going to hurt you again.”
I lean back against the seat. A reflection from the sun hits my eyes. I turn away from the rays as a single tear runs down my cheek.
“ I’m free?”
dad.”
When it came to housekeeping, Mom was an absolute clean fiend. After feeding my two brothers, Ronald and Stan, and I breakfast, she would dust, disinfect, scour and vacuum everything. No room in our house was left untouched. As we grew older, mom made sure we did our part by keeping our room neat. Outside, she meticulously attended a small flower garden, which was the envy of the neighborhood. With Mom, everything she touched turned into gold. She didn’t believe in doing anything halfway.
Mom often told us that we must always do the best we could, in whatever we did.
Mom was truly a gifted cook. Of all the things she did for her family, I think creating new and exotic meals was her favorite. This was especially true on those days when Father was home. Mom would spend the better part of the day preparing one of her fantastic meals. On some days when Father was working, Mom would take us on exciting sightseeing tours around the city. One day, she took us to Chinatown in San Francisco. As we drove around the area, Mom told us about the culture and history of the Chinese people. When we returned, Mom started her record player, and our home was filled with beautiful sounds from the Orient. She then decorated the dining room with Chinese lanterns. That evening, she dressed in a kimono and served what seemed to us as a very exotic but delicious meal. At the end of dinner, Mom gave us fortune cookies and read the captions for us. I felt that the cookie’s message would lead me to my destiny. Some years later, when I was old enough to read, I found one of my old fortunes. It said, “Love and honor thy mother, for she is the fruit that gives thou life.”
Back then our house was full of pets – cats, dogs, aquariums filled with exotic fish and a gopher tortoise named “Thor”. I remember the tortoise best because Mom let me pick a name for it. I felt proud because my brothers had been chosen to name the
other pets and it was now my turn. I named the reptile after my favorite cartoon character.
The five– and tengallon aquariums seemed to be everywhere. There were at least two in the living room, and one filled with guppies in our bedroom. Mom creatively decorated the heated tanks with colored gravel and colored foil backs; anything she thought would make the tanks more realistic. We would often sit by the tanks while Mom told us about the different species of fish.
The most dramatic of Mom’s lessons, came one Sunday afternoon. One of our cats was behaving in an odd way. Mom had us all sit down by the cat while she explained the process of birth. After all the kittens has slipped safely out of the mother cat, Mom explained in great detail the wonder of life. No matter what the family was doing, she somehow came up with a constructive lesson; though we were not usually aware that we were being taught.
For our family – during those good years – the holidays started with Halloween. One October night, when the huge harvest moon was in full view, Mom hurried the three of us out of our house, to gaze at the “Great Pumpkin” in the sky. When we returned to our bedroom, she told us to peek under our pillows where we found Matchbox race cars. My two brothers and I squealed with delight as Mom’s face was flushed with pride. The day after Thanksgiving, Mom would disappear to the basement, then bring up enormous boxes filled with Christmas decorations. While standing on a ladder, she tacked strings of ornaments to the ceiling beams. When she was finished, every room in our house had a seasonal touch. In the dining room Mom arranged different sizes of red candles on the counter of her prized oak hutch. Snowflake patterns graced every window in the living room and dining room. Christmas lights were draped around our bedroom windows. Every night I fell asleep while staring at the soft, colorful glow of the Christmas lights
Because Father’s job often required him to work 24hour shifts, Mother often took us on day trips to places like the nearby Golden Gate Park in San Francisco. As we slowly drove through the park, Mom exp lained how the areas were different and how she envied the beautiful flowers. We always visited the park’s Steinhart Aquarium last. My brothers and I would blaze up the stairs and charge through the heavy doors. We were thrilled as we leaned over the brass, seahorseshaped fence, looking far below at the small waterfall and pond that were home to the alligators and large turtles. As a child, this was my favorite place in the entire park. I once became frightened, as I thought about slipping through the barrier and falling into the pond. Without speaking a word, Mom must have felt my fear. She looked down at me and held my hand ever so softly.
Spring meant picnics. Mom would prepare a feast of fried chicken, salads, sandwiches and lots of desserts the night before. Early the next day, our family sped off to Junipero Serra Park. Once there, my brothers and I would run wild on the grass and pump higher and higher on the park’s swings. Sometimes we would venture off on a new trail. Mom always had to pry us away from our fun, when it came time for lunch. We wolfed down our food, hardly tasting it, before my brothers and I blitzed off for parts unknown, in search of high adventure. Our parents seemed happy to lie next to each other on a blanket, sip red wine and watch us play.
It was always a thrill when the family went on summer vacation. Mom was always the mastermind behind these trips. She planned every detail, and swelled with pride as the activities came together. Usually we traveled to Portola or Memorial Park, and camped out in our giant, green tent for a week or so. But whenever Father drove us north across the Golden Gate Bridge, I knew we were going to my favorite place in the world – the Russian River.
The most memorable trip to the river for me, happened the
year I was in kindergarten. On the last day of school, Mom asked that I be excused a halfhour early. As Father honked the horn, I rocketed up the small hill from the school, to the waiting car. I was excited because I knew where we were going. During the drive, I became fascinated at the seemingly endless fields of grapes. When we drove into the quiet town of Guerneville, I rolled my window down to smell the sweet air from the redwood trees.
Each day was a new adventure. My brothers and I either spent the day climbing an old, burnt tree stump with our special whomperstomper boots or swimming in the river at Johnson’s Beach. Johnson’s Beach was a whole day’s event. We would leave our cabin by nine and return after three. Mom taught each of us to swim in a small, trenched hole in the river. That summer Mom taught me how to swim on my back. She seemed so proud when I was finally able to do it.
Everyday seemed sprinkled with magic. One day after dinner, Mom and Dad took the three of us to watch the sunset. All of us held hands, as we crept past Mr Parker’s cabin to get to the river. The green river water was as smooth as glass. The bluejays scolded the other birds, and a warm breeze blew through my hair. Without a word, we stood watching the fireballlike sun as it sank behind the tall trees, leaving bright blue and orange streaks in the sky. From above, I felt someone hug my shoulders. I thought it was my father. I turned and became flushed with pride to find Mom holding me tightly. I could feel her heart beat. I never felt as safe and as warm as that moment in time, at the Russian River.
