People die only when we forget them

 

One of the last few postcards I received from my friend Hans Moehrke

 

On this day in 2015, my friend Hans Moehrke passed away at his home in Cape Town. He and I had met when he stayed at the SAVOY HOTEL in Piraeus where I was a permanent resident during my "Greek days". We breasted the bar on many nights and, over many drinks, bemoaned the state of the world and our place in it, in three languages: Afrikaans, English and German. We were both in commodity trading: I mainly in grains, in lots of 20,000, 30,000, even 50,000 tonnes at a time, whereas Hans was more into pork bellies for which there wasn't much demand from my Saudi masters.

We stayed in touch after my return to Australia in 1985, sometimes through an occasional phone call but more often through letters and postcards. "I was delighted to speak to you on the phone today. Although some ten years or more must have passed since we last spoke with one another, hearing your voice was just as if we had been together only yesterday", he wrote, and repeatedly invited me to visit him and his family in Cape Town. (His daughter Astrid and her husband and their son later emigrated to Adelaide, and I like to think that my supporting letter to the Department of Immigration was of some help.)

Knowing I was again single by choice - just not my choice - he tried to matchmake me by sending me several of these enticing postcards:

 

 

On the back he wrote, "I will gladly assist you in trying to source the right partner for you. However my hands are tied until I receive detailed specifications from you. South Africa has many fair maidens to offer, although they may not always be fair in colour as revealed on these postcards. To acquire any one of the wholesome women for the purpose of marriage, you have to negotiate with the parents of the bride to agree on the level of the 'Labola' payment. The price is determined by the status of the family - chief, headman or commoner - whether the bride is a vergin [sic] or not, whether she has illegitimate children, etc. In practice this means you will have to pay plus/minus 200 cows or 40,000 rand for a daughter of a chief, if she is still a vergin [sic]. If on the other hand, if she has had premarital experience, one should be able to negotiate a 25% discount. Should the above proposition arouse your interest and since I am reasonably familiar with local customs, I could of course assist you with negotiations and any physical examination that may be required (here, too, I am qualified) to make sure that you receive value for money."

 

 

After he had been diagnosed with Parkinson's disease and his hand-writing had become almost illegible, we phoned each other instead. Then, after I had heard nothing from him for a while, I don't know what made me do it but I googled "Hans Moehrke Cape Town" and found this:

 

www.remembered.co.za Hans Horst Moehrke was born on 30 July 1934 and passed away on 27 May 2015 in Cape Town. Posted by Remembered Admin, 10 Jun 2015

 

That was ten years ago, and I still miss his postcards and letters and occasional phone calls, his great sense of humour, and even more our long talks breasting the bar of the SAVOY HOTEL. Rest in Peace, Hans!

People die only when we forget them. I shan't forget you, Hans!

 

Is there something he's not telling me?

 

 

For the time being at least, I'm through all those medical proddings my German-born-and-trained GP, Dr Ziergiebel, M.D.,FRACGP, FRCS A+E Ed., MRCP U.K., MRCGP U.K., DFFP, JCCA Accredited GP Anaesthetist, Senior Lecturer ANU Medical School Canberra, had meted out, and I have a ten-page Health Assessment Summary to prove it. Deutsche Gründlichkeit!

Remember Lieutenant Columbo and his "Just one more thing ..."? Just as I was leaving his surgery, Dr Ziergiebel, Columbo-like, asked me, "Just one more things? Have you considered completing an Advance Health Care Directive?" Seeing my blank face, he handed me a two-page form and suggested I read it, sign it, and have it witnessed by two other people.

As I retreated down the hallway clutching the document, I thought I heard him humming "This Old Man ..." Is there something he's not telling me?

 

 

After Hillside, it's been all downhill

 

A sketch of the Hillside Hostel by Walter Dubrow, c.1957

 

When I first came to Canberra, I moved into a place called Hillside Hostel because it sat on a hill, but not just any hill – it was on Capital Hill, which is where the New Parliament House now stands. The wide expanse of Capital Hill had been significant for Hillside because local residents had complained about the proposed construction of a men's hostel in their suburb. Capital Hill was a compromise; it kept the men away from the general populace, from the housewives across the city. It kept them safe.

Aside from its conspicuous location, Hillside was so notorious because it had the worst living conditions. The rooms were spartan apart from the dust and cobwebs. They smelt of linseed oil from the bulky brown linoleum tiles curling up on the floor. Dirty yellow newspaper sheets were laid out under the lino covering the pine floorboards. The mattresses were horse hair and riddled with fleas. The walls were one hundred percent pure unadulterated asbestos. Roofs were galvanised, with pools of water that collected in the corridors.

There was never any hot water, which meant that showers were taken cold. In the middle of a Canberra winter, this was especially bracing. The men were given one towel per week – holey, stained, malodorous – along with slivers of soap. The shower blocks had no tiles, doors, curtains or dividers.

In the mess, a bottle of black sauce half full of sediment sat in the middle of each table alongside two empty sauce bottles filled with salt and sugar. On Saturday mornings, the scrambled eggs – made from dried egg powder – tasted of fish fried in the same aluminium pan the night before. The porridge was sugary sweet and attracted swarms of blowflies.

The occupants were a chaos of cultures: Poles, Maltese, Yugoslavs, Balts, Greeks. When it came to the Italians and Germans, the memories of the war were still fresh in people's minds. I heard of a few Germans who were told to leave their worksites in the middle of the day simply because the foreman didn't approve of them.

I left Hillside Hostel after a few months when I joined the ANZ Bank who moved me into Barton House in nearby Brisbane Avenue, where most of their single men were billetted. Hillside Hostel finally closed in 1968.

It took another twelve years before work began on building the new Parliament House where the hostel once stood. While Hillside Hostel had seen the odd scuffle or bare-knuckle fistfight, it was nothing compared to the bloodsport that now takes place inside the new Parliament House.

All this came back to me when I diescovered this Court Notice hidden away in the backpages of the Canberra Times of Wednesday, 11 June 1952:

 

 

Rudolf "Rudi" Klug had arrived in Melbourne as a "Jennings German" aboard the NAPOLI in 1951, and had like me lived in Hillside Hostel.

 

From October 1961 to February 1952, 150 "Jennings Germans" came to Australia; 12 on the SKAUBRYN, 36 on the NAPOLI, 42 on the CASTEL BIANCO, 53 on the NELLY, and 7 on the ANNA SALEN. For the full German Jennings story, click here

 

He had married, had become an Australian, and had divorced again ...

 

Sydney Airport Arrival Card from October 1969
returning on LUFTHANSA flight LH692 from Frankfurt via Bangkok

 

... and, despite his "criminal record", had become the owner of the multi-million-dollar businesses Canberra Roof Trusses (CRT), CFM Kitchens, and Canberra Fascia Boards by the time I met him sometime in the late 1980s after he had called me to computerise the accounting functions of all his businesses which saved him lots of money and made me quite a bit, too.

His business lives on as CRT Building Products but, judging by his date of birth, I doubt he's still "riding after dark a motor cycle that did not have a rear light showing". Having had you as a client, it's been good knowing you, Rudi, and I trust you enjoy the rest after a long and successful life.