My mother lived with ghosts and demons haunting her dreams. Her name was Sofie and she grew up in Nuremberg, Germany during the fall of the Kaiser and Hitler's rise to power. Her mother belonged to the Nazi political party (only about 2% of Germans actually joined the party). Her brother, still a boy, joined Hitler's Youth while my mother joined the Air Force Auxiliary. It was perceived as their duty to their country; nothing more or less. Their home and business was bombed by the Allied forces, but thankfully, all of them survived.

Mom married an SS officer who was cruel and sadistic. He beat her frequently and Mom often feared that he would kill her in one of his rages. Mom left their daughter with our grandmother and volunteered for border patrol to escape his violence.

While on border patrol and near the end of the war, the guards allowed a French pilot to escape. The war was all but over. They knew from listening to the radio that it was just a matter of days before their nation was conquered. My mother and the other guards were found out and placed in front of a firing squad. She was hit twice, one bullet shattering her thigh bone and she was left under the bodies of the other dead guards to die. Mom eventually clawed her way out and was saved by a nearby German family.

During the Occupation Mom married an American soldier; my father. My Grandmother never forgave her for marrying an American; the 'enemy'. He was not wealthy and their years together were marked by poverty. My grandparents were wealthy but were loathe to help out.

Later, my father was convicted of carnal knowledge with a child. He molested me, my sisters, and at least one cousin that I am aware of. He went to prison, and my mother took to drinking heavily. She lost all of her children and was on the verge of deportation when she died of a heart attack at the age 43.

I was angry with my mother for not protecting me; even blaming me for the abuse. I had to grow up and look at what she had survived to understand how her experiences had damaged her ability to cope. Looking back on it now, I have no doubt that my mother suffered from PTSD. She is one of the elements of the family dysfunction that my son was born into. Clearly, my father is another, and finally, there is me. I will write about the rest of us later.