Chapter 3: Nasty Naz

Believe it or not, people on Planet Earth really care about such things as skin and hair and eye color.  Some people so much so that they will hurt and kill people who are different.

Believe it or not, some people hate each other because of religion.

If you could ever imagine, some people even hate each other because they live on a different side of the same town.

Silly I know.  Hard to believe, I know.  But believe me, there are many of the people on Planet Earth, much hatred in their hearts and for their nonsense reasons.  But it’s the terror inside them which they can’t face really.

My mother was as Arian as one can get, more than Nazi’s could ever ask for.  This was not because of some freak genetic phenotypical accident.  My grandmother was raped by an SS soldier.  Sounds shocking, but this was fairly common during the German occupation of Poland in World War II.  Rape of blonde hair blue-eyed women was a Nazi promotion of the so-called Arian race.

I have blue eyes and bleach blonde hair and pale ghost skin.  This was a big deal for certain people during World War II which is painfully embarrassing for me sometimes.

This is why.


Once upon a time there was a pretty Polish girl of sixteen years old.  Her homeland had just been invaded by cruel tyrants, The Reign and The Leader, who sparked a Great War throughout the Planet Earth.

Of these tyrants were special soldiers that bore twin lightning bolts on their lapels.  They had an obsession with blonde hair and blue eyes.

This beautiful girl had the traits that those monsters desired.

Seven of these lightning soldiers had been drinking booze all morning when they passed by this precious girl in the streets.  They called out to her and whistled at her.  “Come here little kitty!”  They said.  She did not come.  She was afraid of the monsters, and it was broad daylight.

The lightning soldiers were not pleased.  They dragged the young girl into an alley way.  She screamed to anyone for help then to God.  But the soldiers were the law and could not be stopped by any helper or that helper would be shot without question, and they were immune to anything her God could do in that moment.

Along with her clothes, her skirt, her blouse, her bra and panties, they stripped her of her virginity and sacred innocence.  Blood and semen and laughter and tears and sobs on the cobbled alleyway.

They left her there, for dead or living, it didn’t matter to them.  They had no soul.

That innocent girl forever cursed her eyes and hair, that day, the lightning soldiers.  But this beautiful girl aged one hundred years during those eternal twenty minutes.  She was able to pull one blessing from that dreadful day, the gift of life.  The life of my mother.

As if her life couldn’t get any worse, the trouble had just begun.  Her church was shut down and her priest imprisoned till death.

This girl with a gravid belly had only her parents, and even the lightning men stole them away and executed as conspirators to The Reign and its all-powerful leader.

She had no one except for her God and my fetal mother.  She begged for food and shelter where ever she went.  She survived.

This brave young woman with the blue eyes and blonde hair bore a wonderful babe in a poor farmer’s barn.  Her wails were not of pain, not of grief.  She was telling God that she’ll be fine.  She was thanking God for the only solace for her on Planet Earth.

Five years later she died of consumption in a breeding facility that was made for such mothers and children with the longed-for blond hair and blue eyes.

My grandma had a swan song:  Love.

She died happy, holding my mother’s little hand.


My mother was born Nastasia Adamczyk.  She was lucky to have kept her Polish name until five years old when her mother died.  She was also very lucky to learn the Polish language first.  The Nazi’s did not like Arian tots running around with Slavic names speaking Slavic languages.  They disliked it so much that they resorted to stealing so-called Arian children.

After my mother’s birth, my grandmother checked herself and my mom into what the Nazi’s called Lebensborn (trans.-> Spring of Life).  This is where women and children could find a safe haven if they bore or would bear children with the Nazi Party’s favorite features, blond hair and blue eyes.

The story, as it came down to me from my mother, was that my grandmother could not bear scrounging for food in the streets or fields or trash.  Since all of the churches had been shut down, the Lebensborn facility was rumored to be safe.  And lucky for her, it was.

They resided in the smallest Lebensborn facility in Poland and were treated relatively well.  That was until my grandma died and lucky for her she did (as shameful as it is to say).  They would have taken my mother from her not long after, and that would have destroyed my grandma.  Arian children that the Nazi’s controlled went through a process called Germanisation.  They made a tremendous effort to make these little Poles into Germans.

And people wonder why I say I am human, nothing else.  To know how awful people can be to each other over nationality or skin color or whatever, has made me cry a thousand times.

They called mother Greta Kopp in the Germanisation camp.  She was forced to speak only German and learn only “German” things.  She suffered about a year of this before that horror war ended.  She only confessed her German name once, that happened on her death bed not long before her swan song.

“Everything that has happened to me, I have done to myself.”

World War II ended and my mother was one out of thousands of orphans of Europe that got sent to America.

“They treated me better at that damned German camp than they did at that God-forsaken orphanage.  American Dream?  Land of Milk and Honey?  Not for everyone.”  She told me on her death bed.

She never admitted to me what age she was when she hit the mean streets of New York City.  “That’s a secret for me and God and your Father.”  She said.  And she was not prude by any means, but whenever it was, she started prostituting shortly thereafter.

I figured she must have been about fourteen years old but I hoped for sixteen.  She was my mother after all.

She was drawn to everything that parents wouldn’t want their kids to do at such an early age, if not ever.  By the age of twelve, she was a professional thief and pickpocket, drank too much liquor, smoked cigarettes, lost her virginity.

“More than once,” she said and laughed.

“Jesus mama, I didn’t need to know that” I said.

“You’d find out in my journals anyhow, and don’t use the Lord’s name in vain.”

She had no shame of prostitution until she was older.  The conditions were so poor in the neighborhood she group up in.  These so-called immoral ways to make money seemed natural when you know nothing else.

“It’s the world’s oldest profession.  Gives a woman power for once in her miserable life.  And it’s fun.”  Mom said.

“Jesus mom.  Really?”  I said.

“You won’t cuss but you’ll toss around the Lord’s name like a devil.”  She said.

“Sorry.”  That was the last time I said ‘Jesus’ in such a manner.  I was obsessed with eliminating all use of taboo words in any language I spoke.

She worked for a Russian pimp named Banya (his real name was Igor, but he ran several bathhouses besides his one brothel so his Russian friends called him the Russian word for ‘bathhouse’.)

Besides Germans, mom also hated Russians.  She refused to teach me either language.  “Those languages you’ll have to teach yourself.  I refuse.”  She told me after I asked when I was fifteen.  My father helped me with German.

Some of the scumbag johns that frequented my mom’s services called her Nasty Naz.  How she hated that when she heard it.  She didn’t care about the ‘Nasty’ part, she did not like a shorten version of her name bearing too close of a resemblance to the word ‘Nazi’.  Because I’m talking about my mother, I won’t tell the story about a man who called her that.  Two words can sum it up anyhow:  penis and teeth.

Along with turning tricks in Banya’s underground bordello, my mom went to school and led a whole other life.  She also put herself through medical college and became a nurse.  She was the poster child for the inhumane people that believe in Social Darwinism, Nazi’s for example.

She had her fill with America after college, at least with that worn down neighborhood in New York City.  Americans were third on her nationality hate list, half of the time.  The other half of the time, she had some endearing things to say.

“Too many sexual deviants there, at least in New York (f-word with -ing) City.  What the hell did the Puritans do to that culture to produce so many closet sexual weirdoes?  And they all seemed to gravitate to Banya’s Banya.”  She said.

“Wow, mom.”

After leaving the Land of Dreams, she moved around Europe, nursing where ever she could.  Those were her “simple times” as she called them, no grief, just caring for people.  She kept her mother’s swan song at the tip of her tongue always for the vulnerable and sick, the women and children, rarely men.

She had very few sexual relations during her simple times.  “All those years of random penises everyday made me not interested in sex, until I found love of course, your father.”  She said, (she used the Polish swear word for penis).

“Mom.  Do you have to talk like that?”

“You didn’t say the Lord’s name this time.  Good.  I’ll soften my words then Bozhi.”  She said.

My mother didn’t spend as much time talking about herself as she did my father, she adored him.  She made me read her journals which I found easier than listening to all the sexual things she had to say.

She met my father in Africa.  She started doing work for churches, for room and board and that led her to doing work for Catholic or any Christian missions.

This is how she met my real father Odin who was there as a hired gun, and my supposed biological father James who was an oil and diamond tycoon.  (I just call him Jimmy because he hates that).

Angola is a haven of diamonds and oil and people that either benefit or die because of such things.  My father and Jimmy were profiteers of such horror and wealth.  My mother was a bandage.

The year was 1975.  The year of my conception and birth. Angola declared its independence from Portugal a month before I was born.


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