‘Now let us pray to Jesus for forgiveness and thank him for this special time we have had together.’
It was normal to have to hug and pray with the person who had beaten you. They made out it was for your own good. If you refused the post-beating cuddle you risked another, so you smiled sweetly and said nothing. It was how the game was played.
So many of the adults seemed to take pure delight in their power to punish us, perfecting their own versions of torture methods for children. Older children got what was called the board – a plank of wood drilled with holes. As it swung to hit you air rushed through the holes, which made it sting more. In a sadistic twist, children were often thrown into the shower first. The board on a wet bottom was excruciating. Many poor kids faced that at least once a week.
Aside from my three little friends I was not a popular child. I was skinny, with scraggly thin hair and freckles – an obvious target for bullying. There was a girl one year older than me called Honey. For some reason she took an instant dislike to me. Every day she found new ways to taunt me, whether it was nipping my arms as she brushed past, dropping my books onto the floor or kicking me from behind in class. She was an angelic-looking little girl with long dark curls and chocolate saucers for eyes. All the adults thought she was adorable. I don’t think I ever saw her once get the swat. But her skills as a manipulator meant she was certainly responsible for several other kids getting it.
One evening in the mess hall she picked up my dinner plate, pretending to smell it, then spat in it. This went unnoticed to anyone but me, of course. She gave me a little smirk of satisfaction. I glared at her, promising myself that this time I would have my revenge.
My opportunity came a few days later. It was monsoon season and during a break from the downpours the teachers let us out to play for half an hour. I found a large hairy grub on a bush and placed it in my pocket. After nap time I made sure I was the last child in the line, hanging back for just a few seconds – long enough to open her drawer and throw the grub inside. I spent the rest of the day feeling nervously self-satisfied. At bedtime I was really looking forward to the moment she discovered it. But she didn’t. I went to sleep disappointed, and by the time I woke up had forgotten all about it.
At lunch we were told to prepare ourselves to write an ‘Open Heart Report’ before dinner. Both adults and children did these once a week, although in other communes they were done daily. In theirs the adults had to fill out a form detailing the sharing, writing down the full details of who they had sex with and on what nights. They were supposed to write it all up in unexpurgated detail, saying what positions they did, whether they had full sex, oral sex or just foreplay. The reports were passed on to the Shepherds, who dished out any relevant punishments and sent edited versions on to David Berg. It wasn’t unusual for someone to later see their reports referred to in a Mo letter, either as good examples or through naming and shaming anyone who came across as a doubter.
For children, the reports were just as bizarre. We had to write down what bad thoughts or spiritual battles we’d had and any moral lessons or victories we’d learned that week. We also got asked about our toilet habits – how many poos we’d done and whether they were soft or hard. Sometimes, after the Home Shepherd or your teacher had reviewed your report they would take you out on a ‘walkie talkie’, which was usually a walk around the garden, during which they would discuss points from your report, particularly those relating to your NWOs (Need Work On) – a list of areas you admitted you needed to work on, for example trying to be more humble or less selfish.
But the reports weren’t just about ourselves. We also had to include any unspiritual or bad behaviour we’d seen other kids do.
The teacher went round every child asking them to admit verbally to anything naughty they had done or thought. If you didn’t admit to something you were called a liar. So it was easier just to confess something – anything. That was horrible enough. But what was far more unpredictable was what others said. It wasn’t in my nature to get others into trouble. I had too much empathy, especially with the naughty kids or the cry-baby ones. But if you went for more than two sessions claiming you hadn’t seen anyone do anything bad you were accused of hiding something or covering up for someone. So you were left with the choice of a telling a blatant lie or saying something as mild as you could get away with. I usually opted for the latter and prayed that what I said wouldn’t land another child a serious beating. Other children, like Honey, relished it. She never failed to take the opportunity to twist and exaggerate a tiny misdeed out of all proportion.
It didn’t occur to me to be worried about the grub. I definitely knew I hadn’t been spotted putting it in the drawer. But of course I hadn’t bargained on the fact that little snitches like Honey have eyes in the back of their heads. She had seen me pocket the grub in the garden and carry it into the house. The first words out of her mouth at the reporting session were: ‘Natacha put a dirty thing in her pocket.’
I flustered for a few minutes, pretending it wasn’t true. But my face gave it away.
Of course picking up a garden pest and putting it in your jeans wasn’t the greatest crime in the scheme of things, and this time even the teacher could see that. I might well have escaped a spanking but for my own complete inability to be devious. Before I could stop them the words blurted out of my stupid mouth: ‘I put it in Honey’s drawer. I’m sorry.’
The pain of the beating was only slightly lessened by the joy of hearing Honey’s squeal when the teacher dragged us both into the dorm and opened the drawer. The big fat grey grub was sitting there on her favourite blouse.
But if I had thought the worst thing Bangkok could throw at me was crazy rules and punishments like the plank and the wall, I was wrong – far worse was to come.
I had recently learned that the little girl with the braided hair on the cover of Heaven’s Girl was in fact inspired by Grandpa’s real granddaughter, Mene.
Grandpa often referred to her as Merry Mene in his letters. She was one of his favourite grandkids and lived with him. Of course I still didn’t know where that was because the location still needed to be kept a strict secret so that the Antichrist couldn’t find him and kill him.
Once I learned Mene was Heaven’s Girl she became my real-life heroine. I imagined her running through forests zapping people with her special powers. If I could have chosen to meet any of Grandpa’s family in real life it would have been her. But the mere mention of the name Davidito, his adopted heir, still brought me out in a jealous rage. The fact he was a boy probably didn’t help. I way preferred the idea of a princess instead of a prince leading me into the fight at Armageddon.
Uncle Titus called us into the dining room for group devotion time. He stood in the centre of the room with a thick sheaf of papers in his hand. ‘I have something very important to read today’, he intoned in his low voice. ‘The whole family is here because this is an issue that affects all of us. There are many reports of second-generation family members behaving in ungodly or ungrateful ways. This will not be tolerated.’
He explained that in his hand were a series of letters Grandpa had written about Mene. As she reached her teens she had started calling up demons. Every night the demons came to possess her and trick her into being naughty. She saw demons everywhere; she talked to them and even invited them into her bed. Grandpa had tried so hard to make the demons leave Mene. He had carried out exorcisms where he prayed over her as much as 50 times a day and had been forced to beat her up with a big stick. Sometimes the exorcisms made her faint or throw up, but Grandpa said this was a very good thing because it proved the demons were leaving her body.
I stood to attention, listening in stunned silence. Uncle Titus continued in his pained-sounding voice.
‘I am going to pass around copies of another letter. I want you all to read it carefully. As you will see it is a recording of a real conversation between Grandpa and Mene. You will see with your own eyes how much Grandpa loves her and wants to save her.’
With shaky hands I looked down at the sheet of paper.
It began with the explanation that Grandpa had handed Mene