Growing Up Amish - Ira Wagler [14]
In fact, Nicholas Herrfort provided the perfect defenseless target for just about any kind of mockery—simply for the general merriment of the crowd.
“Are you a heifer?” the taunt would begin.
“No, no, Herrfort,” poor Nicholas would respond.
Then again. “Are you a heifer?”
“No, no, Herrfort.”
The exchange would be repeated over and over to roars of appreciation and snickers of delight from sadistic onlookers.
Nicholas and his sister Nancy were always the last ones chosen for playground games. And neither of them could sing; their flat, toneless voices rang in jarring dissonance when it was their turn to lead a song. One time, Nancy picked a song that no one knew, and the whole classroom snickered and scoffed at her mistake until she buried her face in her arms on her desk.
I can’t imagine what their existence was like, but the Herrfort children must have developed a dull numbness to the cruel horrors that constituted an average day in their threadbare and joyless lives.
Several bullies took a particularly twisted joy in making Nicholas’s life miserable. They delighted in torturing and actually hurting him physically. The rest of us did not, but we did stand by and watch. We did nothing to stop it. And it was wrong of us, so very, very wrong. All of it.
The mocking.
The tricks.
The jokes.
The laughter.
The torment.
One particular thing still haunts me. I can see it as clearly in my mind as if it happened yesterday.
The school had an outdoor privy located across the yard from the schoolhouse. When Nicholas needed to go during the noon hour, he knew the bullies were keeping careful watch for him. Lurking furtively inside the safety of the schoolhouse, he waited for his chance to sprint to the privy without interference. When he thought the coast was clear, Nicholas would take off running down the walkway at full speed, legs churning desperately, arms pumping, hair flying behind him. But at least one of the bullies always raced after him. Once he caught up, he would kick Nicholas from behind with all his might, laughing and cackling all the while.
In winter, the bullies delighted in chasing him around to the back side of the schoolhouse, pelting him with iced snowballs and rubbing his face and hair with ice and snow, belittling and cursing him just for being who he was. It bruised him physically. It had to hurt, bad. I can’t fathom what it did to him emotionally. And the rest of us did nothing to stop it.
Once, one bully egged on another student, younger and smaller than Nicholas, in the school basement. The younger student ran at Nicholas full speed, grabbed his long hair, and actually swung himself off the ground and around Nicholas. Nicholas stammered and staggered, crying, “Ouch, ouch, ouch.” The bully whooped and clapped and guffawed and cheered. This happened two or three times, and again, we all stood around and watched until another student finally stepped in and stopped it.
The scene still sends shivers of horror down my spine. Especially because I knew better. Nicholas and his sister often walked home the same way we did, and on those walks, I quickly realized that they were both starved for even the tiniest crumb of human kindness. I can still see Nicholas as we walked along the road in the late afternoon sunlight, stammering his words, smiling hesitantly and shyly, and glancing furtively at me now and again to see if I would mock or scorn him. Gaining confidence when I didn’t. We had many normal, lighthearted conversations. Laughing and chattering as children do. I suppose that was as close as I ever came to seeing the innocent, relaxed child he would have been in a safer, saner world.
It is no surprise that from the brutal foundation of such a tortured life, Nicholas developed a mental disorder as he grew older. While some of those mental problems likely were genetic, I am convinced that no normal child