An unforgettable childhood lesson from Brăila, Romania
By Ovi Catanescu, based on my memories and those of my brother, Adi
The Owl Never Forgets.
When we were children growing up in Brăila, the courtyard of our apartment building was an entire world of its own.
That was where we played, argued, made up, invented all kinds of mischief, and occasionally drove the adults to the brink of despair.
Among our neighbors was a woman everyone knew as Pisicuța — “Little Kitty.”
I don't remember ever knowing her real name.
She was probably in her forties or fifties, always elegantly dressed, and lived with her elderly mother.
Pisicuța was a prostitute.
As children, we didn't really understand what that meant. We only knew that adults sometimes spoke about her in a certain tone, making it clear that some of the neighbors didn't think very highly of her.
Adi remembers that Pisicuța met her clients around the Brăila railway station or the port. Some were traveling salesmen, known in those days as commis voyageurs, well-dressed gentlemen in suits who traveled from town to town on business.
Around the neighborhood women, Pisicuța seemed rather reserved and cautious. Adi suspects that some of them looked at her with suspicion, perhaps even jealousy, but those are only his impressions from long ago.
What I remember clearly, however, is that Pisicuța was always kind to us children.
She spoke gently to us and sometimes gave us candy.
She had never done anything to hurt us.
And yet, we started breaking her windows.
Our Special Ammunition
Back then, a slingshot was one of the favorite weapons of the neighborhood boys.
But ordinary pebbles weren't always good enough for us.
We had discovered something much more interesting: the little steel balls inside ball bearings.
At school, during our shop classes, we made all sorts of things, including projects using fret saws. We also had access to a bench vise.
Using that vise, we could break apart old ball bearings and recover the steel balls inside.
To us, those little balls were a treasure.
They were perfectly round, heavy, and far more accurate than ordinary pebbles.
And we had become quite skilled with our slingshots.
Unfortunately, our marksmanship wasn't always accompanied by good judgment.
I don't remember who first came up with the idea of shooting at Pisicuța's windows.
I only know that we did.
And that her windows were broken by our steel balls.
Today, I feel ashamed when I think about it.
That woman, who had always spoken kindly to us and given us candy, had become the target of a childish cruelty for which we had absolutely no justification.
She hadn't provoked us.
She hadn't upset us.
She hadn't done anything to us.
To us, it was probably just another prank, another opportunity to show off our slingshot skills.
But to her, it meant broken windows, fear, expenses, and humiliation.
The Steel Balls That Gave Us Away
Pisicuța found the little steel balls inside her home.
Clearly, they hadn't gotten there by themselves.
I don't know whether she ever actually saw us shooting or whether she could identify exactly which boys were responsible.
But there were a few boys in our courtyard who were well known for this kind of mischief.
And Adi and I were certainly not at the bottom of the list of suspects.
As best we remember, Pisicuța told our mother what had happened.
And that meant we had some explaining to do.
Mother didn't need much evidence to believe that we were capable of something like that.
She knew us too well.
But what followed wasn't some spectacular punishment.
Mother had her own way of making us understand when we had done something wrong.
She didn't need to yell.
Sometimes, simply seeing how disappointed she was in us was punishment enough.
One of her expressions, which I have never forgotten, was:
“You make me so ashamed I feel like sinking into the ground!”
She said it in a firm voice, but you could also hear how deeply we had hurt her.
This time, Mother made us understand something that, in our enthusiasm as little troublemakers, we hadn't stopped to consider.
Pisicuța was a human being.
Someone who had never hurt us.
Someone who had always treated us kindly.
The fact that some neighbors judged her for the way she earned her living gave us absolutely no right to humiliate her or destroy her property.
And above all, there was no excuse for what we had done.
A Lesson That Stayed With Me
I don't remember every word Mother said to us that day.
But I remember the result.
We never bothered Pisicuța again.
I don't know what became of her later in life.
I don't know how long she continued living in our building, or what happened to her after we grew up and moved away.
But today, after all these years, I think about her with a sadness that the little boy I was back then could never have understood.
To us, Pisicuța had been just a neighbor with a funny nickname.
To some adults, she was a woman to be judged.
But to our mother, she was, first and foremost, a human being who deserved respect.
And to me, today, Pisicuța remains connected to one of the most important lessons of my childhood.
You can be a curious, inventive, brave, and talented child.
You can have the best slingshot in the neighborhood and the most perfectly round steel balls.
But none of that means much if you never learn how to be a decent human being.
And sometimes, that lesson doesn't come from school.
It comes from your mother.
The Owl Never Forgets.