runk and beat both you and her。”
“These things happen。 And I was only there for three years。 Until my aunt had her breakdown and I was taken into care。”
“So how did that feel？ Ending up in a home with no one in the world to turn to？”
“By then I was old enough to manage。 The brothers there were nice enough。 Some of them； anyhow。”
I left it at that； made no mention of the members of the order who had been sent to jail for interfering with children in their care。 I accepted that I had no right to force the wall of denial that only the man himself could decide to demolish。
“Look at this！” I overheard a mother admonish her young children。 “This is beautiful。” “Ooh！” chimed the children。 “Isn’t it beautiful？”
And on numerous other occasions： “Watch out！ This is dangerous。” “Help！” wailed the children。 “It is dangerous； very dangerous。”
So it went on； year in； year out。 “This is good； that is bad。 This is marvellous； that abominable。” The children swallowed every word she said； without ever stopping to chew； without even looking。
She could have pointed to the black kettle and told them it was white； and they would have piped in unison： “Oh yes！ Very white indeed。” They were such nice； amenable children。
Watching from a distance； I sometimes felt like crying out：“For goodness’ sake； don’t believe everything you hear！ That kettle isn’t white at all； it’s black！ Use your eyes and see for yourselves！ Rely on your own judgement！”
But of course I didn’t。 It wasn’t my place。 All I could do was hope to see the day when these children would find the wherewithal to break the bonds of their conditioning；establish a truth of their own。
They were well into their thirties before it finally happened。
I heave