Why I'm Writing This Born October 14, 1985. Rostov-on-Don, Russia. Mother: Ina. Father: Artyom. No memories of them. Only the knowledge that they existed, and that they were taken from me.
What followed were fourteen years. The German state would later call it “multiple acts of violence resulting in health damage.” Disability rating: 90 out of 100. PTSD with lasting personality changes. Dissociative disorder. Panic disorder. Recurrent depressive disorder.
Clinical language for something that has no language.
I'm forty now. Pilsen, Czech Republic. Not in the country where it happened. Most of what I have, I built alone. Anxiety, panic attacks, withdrawal — that's the shape of my days. But I'm alive. I survived.
This blog exists because these things happened. Not for money. Not for attention. Not for pity.
Silence protects the people who did this. Not the people who survived it.
I'll write this in pieces. Some parts will be harder than others. Some I may never share. My story, my rules.
If you survived something similar: you're not alone.
If you're here to understand: thanks for listening.
Content warning: Child abuse, trafficking, violence, trauma. No graphic details for their own sake, but the subject matter is what it is. Take care of yourself.
Part 1: Before Rostov-on-Don. October 14, 1985. Ina and Artyom.
That's everything I know about them. No faces. No voices. Just the fact that they existed and someone took me from them.
A German man appeared. He would control my life for the next fourteen years.
Years later I found his slides from the trip to Russia. The trip where he took me. Kidnapped me. Brought me somewhere no one looks for a child who doesn't officially exist.
My parents were killed. I don't know when. I don't know how. I know they're gone. He made sure of it.
Part 2: The Building Near Gdańsk Before Germany, there was Poland.
A building near Gdańsk. What happened there has marked my life to this day.
Men gathered there. Men who paid. For things that have no acceptable name.
Children were brought there. “Processed.” A word I can barely say without everything inside me contracting.
One of those children was Andy Jörns. My age. His father was the man who kidnapped me. His mother was Simona — a woman I'd consider my stepmother for years.
Andy was supposed to disappear. Money changed hands. I was supposed to take his place. His identity. His name. His life.
That's how I became Andy Jörns. The child from Rostov ceased to exist on paper.
My first conscious memory is not one any child should have.
Locked in a room for a week. With Andy. The boy whose life I was meant to assume. Except Andy was no longer alive.
A week with a dead child my own age. That's where my conscious existence begins.
Part 3: Rakow (1986) After Poland, East Germany. The DDR. A small place called Rakow.
I was about two. Too young to understand. Not too young to remember.
The body remembers what the mind can't process yet.
Daily abuse. Torture. Being locked away. Simona wasn't a mother — she was a victim herself. Beaten regularly. Too focused on her own survival to protect me.
The house that was supposed to be home was a prison. The people who were supposed to be family were tormentors.
Nothing about this life was mine. Too small to understand that. Too broken to fight back.
Part 4: Rostock-Groß Klein (1987) Rostock. Ground-floor apartment in Groß Klein.
He had a Bernese Mountain Dog. That dog tried to protect me — the only living being in that household who did.
The dog positioned itself between me and him. He killed it. Cold blood. In front of me.
My fault, of course. Everything was.
His name was Hermann. In Rostock he opened a youth club. To the outside world: the man who cared for children. Politically active — SED first, SPD later. Respected. Admired.
Behind closed doors: explosive, brutal, uncontrolled. Beatings everywhere — apartment, street, the youth club itself. Nothing I did was right. Everything that happened was my fault.
The apartment had a hidden space between walls. A bed in the darkness. That's where he locked me. Spiders. Darkness. Waiting.
The 2004 trial revealed thirteen children. Many from the youth club.
Thirteen children.
Hermann got three years. Served eighteen months. JVA Bützow. Because of his age. Because he confessed.
Part 5: Poland, Again (1987/88) Another train ride to Poland. Back to the building. Two weeks.
He had friends there whose children he didn't touch. Me, he sold. Men from all over the world. Languages I didn't understand. Money changing hands.
One of the men who paid for me was beaten to death in front of me. By Hermann. Some dispute about money. The man died on top of me.
He blamed me for it.
As punishment, he tore out my fingernails.
To this day I cut my nails too short. Every single day. The body doesn't forget. Even when the mind tries to look away.
To be continued.
Enough for now. The story goes to 1998. I need time before writing more.
If this is getting to you: take care of yourself.
📧 pyo@netunicorn.org