My mother said she would kill Uncle Carl if she ever saw him again. Carl went into the woods when we drove to the Yukon to see friends in 1972. My father called his friends and told them we were coming to visit, “Tell Carl to leave. My wife will kill him if she sees him.”
Carl Schaack was not in town when we visited Whitehorse, Yukon. He left town when he knew we were coming. I remember the feeling of dread that I was driving in the direction where he lived.
The only time I spoke to my father about being molested by Carl Schaack was when he called me after the police contacted him in 1997.
The police called my father, “Willim Fernuik, your daughter has filed a report that she was molested in your home in 1966 by Carl Shaack. Do you know where Carl Shaack is?”
My father called me after he spoke to the police and asked me, “Pamela, why didn’t you tell me you had filed a police report?”
“I thought you would warm Carl that the police were looking for him.”
“I wouldn’t have warned him. I don’t even know where he is.” My father was not pleased I had contacted the police. He said, “You don’t stir up a pot of old soup.”
It was my pot of old soup. My pot of old soup, needed to be stirred. The light of day needed to wipe out the mold of my memories.
I contacted the police in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan the day I saw the front page of the local newspaper in 1997. My two year old daughter was sitting in her high chair; I was sitting at the kitchen table. We normally didn’t get the paper. It was free for a week as a promotion. The entire front page of the newspaper was covered with mug shots of pedophiles. The article’s focus was on how pedophiles can not be rehabilitated. If a person molests a child once, he will probably molest again.
I was eight years old for a few minutes as I read the newspaper. I thought of the man we called Uncle Carl, and I wondered where he lived. Was he harming other children?
I immediately got out of my chair, and became a mother bear. I would give a voice to the little girl who wasn’t believed years ago. I would protect the child who sat in the high chair beside me, and I would protect children I had never met.
I called the operator and asked for the phone number for the Police station in Saskatoon. The officer I talked to instructed me to write a letter explaining in detail the abuse. He said to include small details like where my bed was in the room, or any other peripheral memories I had from that time.
I was prepared to testify in court. I wrote the letter and mailed it.
Then I waited to hear from the police officer.
Disclaimer:
These writings refer to Carl Schack, a Canadian man who died in the early 1990’s. Any resemblance to the name or likeness of any other person using the name Carl, Carl Schack, or Uncle Carl, is purely coincidental.
You can read the next part of the story here.
