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.

 

 

Ein Loblied der ersten Liebe

 

 

Der Film "Ich denke oft an Piroschka" hatte das Interesse von János Berta an Hódmezövásárhelykutasipuszta erweckt: Hugo Hartung, der Autor des Piroschka-Buches, hatte so gefühlvoll über die Schönheit des Tieflandes und die Gastfreundschaft der ungarischen Menschen geschrieben, dass Berta neugierig wurde. Wie viel war wohl von Hartung übertrieben worden?

Berta beschloss, dorthin zu fahren, um sich persönlich zu überzeugen. Diese abenteuerliche Reise wurde durch viele herzliche, humorvolle Momente unvergesslich. In Hódmezövásárhelykutasipuszta, dem heutigen Székkutas, hat sich ein wahrer "Piroschkatourismus" entwickelt, aber die sachlichen und geistigen Kulturandenken haben ihren ursprünglichen Zustand bewahrt. Vor allem in Erinnerung blieb János Berta die gesprächige Lautlosigkeit der stillen Nacht in der Puszta. Hugo Hartung hatte ihn gelehrt, was das Geheimnis dieses Zaubers ist: im Einfachen das Schöne zu sehen und die wertvollen, volkstümlichen, persönlichen, familiären Bräuche der Ungarn zu respektieren. Daraus wurde dann sein Buch "Auf den Spuren von Piroschka und Hugo Hartung", welches ich noch nie gelesen habe obwohl ich mehrere Male "Ich denke oft an Piroschka" las und auch den Film mehr als mehrere Male gesehen habe.

"Ich denke oft an Piroschka. Oft höre ich ihre Stimme, nachts: "Kérem, Andi! mach Sígnal!" und meine, ihre drollige Stirnlocke an menem Gesicht zu spüren. Aber dann werde ich wach ... Wie es dazu kam - das freilich kann ich nicht in jedem Traum widerholen. Es ist eine zu lange Geschichte. Doch einmal muß sie erzählt werden. Inzwischen hat sich ja so viel geändert da unten in Ungarn. Vielleicht hat Pirsochka selbst wieder eine Piroschka, die heute so alt ist, wie sie damals gewesen ist. Ich darf es jetzt erzählen - alles! Ganz von Anfang an ... So hat es begonnen:"

So begann Hugo Hartung seinen Roman "Ich denke oft an Piroschka", der auch als Hörspiel und Film ein großer internationaler Erfolg wurde. Es ist liebenswürdige, erfreuliche, erheiternde Kunst. Dergleichen ist heute nicht mehr zu erwarten. Aus Anlass seines 65. Geburtstages am 17.9.1967 hat der Autor die Geschichte dieser Begegnung des Studenten mit der jungen Ungarin im Mindener Tageblatt erzählt.

 

 

In 1965 lies auch ich meine "Piroschka" in Deutschland zurücklies als ich nach Australien auswanderte. Von dort schrieb ich ihr ständig während der zwei Pflichtjahre die ich dort als unterstützter Auswanderer verbringen mußte, bis ich Weihnachten 1967 wieder in der alten Heimatstadt stand.

Da wartete kein großes Willkommen auf mich, weder im Elternhaus noch bei meiner "Piroschka", die auf dem Sofa saß neben einem Mann der mir als ihr Verlobter vorgestellt wurde. Ich zog kurz und bündig wieder von Deutschland weg, und nach einem sechsmonatigen Zwischenaufenthalt in Südafrika war ich auch schon wieder in meiner alten "neuen" Heimat Australien. Und natürlich war der Schriftwechsel auch völlig abgebrochen.

Erst zur Beerdigung meines Vaters in 1984 stand ich wieder mal in der alten Heimatstadt. Mehr aus Langeweile als aus Neugier rief ich das Elternhaus meiner alten "Piroschka" an. Nein, sie wohnte nicht mehr dort denn sie war jetzt verheiratet, sagte ihre Mutter die mich gar nicht mehr kannte, und gab mir ihre neue Telefonnummer. Ein einziges Treffen genügte und nach meiner Abreise fing der alte Schriftwechsel wieder an.

Die richtige Piroschka hatte alle Briefe vom Andi aus Wut zerrissen, aber meine "Piroschka" hatte sie alle fein und fleißig aufgehoben, vom ersten Schriftwechsel von 1965 bis 1967 bis zum zweiten von 1984 bis später als sie anbot mir die erste Hälfte und dann auch noch die zweite Hälfte zu schicken, aber dazu kam es dann nicht mehr denn Ende 2022 starb sie.

Wenn die erste Liebe gestorben ist, weiß man daß man alt geworden ist. Ich glaube es ist Zeit mir den Film noch einmal anzuschauen - drücke hier.

 

 

Why Childers? Why not?

 

5 Ginns Road, Childers, Queensland 4660

 

Ever since people asked me why I settled in Nelligen - if "settled" is the right word! - I have been asking people who came after me the same question. Their answers have been as varied as the people themselves but often there was a personal twist to it, just as there was to mine, as I explained in "Why Nelligen? Why not?".

Two people I asked were a couple from Victoria who bought a house here for no better reason than that their best friends had also bought a house here. When their friendship broke up, first their friends and then they moved away again. Which made my own plan in 2003 to relocate to the little town of Childers a safer proposition since the person who had attracted me to it in the first place, Noel Butler, my best friend for the best part of thirty years, had already been dead for eight years by then and was not likely to leave as he already lived in my memory forever.

After a lifetime spent in New Guinea, Noel had struggled - a struggle we shared - to make himself at home again in Australia, first at Caboolture, then at Mt Perry, and finally at Childers. He never quite succeeded since, as he put it, after a lifetime spent in PNG, "my spiritual home will always be New Guinea". He had either succeeded in finding his home in Childers, or his sudden death in 1995 had prevented him from trying his luck somewhere else again. I like to think that, for the last eight years of his life, he had found his home in Childers, so that when potential buyers knocked on the door of "Riverbend" just after I had begun to advertise it more than twenty years ago, I thought I check it out. What I am suggesting here is that, unless it is for work reasons, we usually have a personal reason for choosing the place we want to live in, and that the memory of Noel had been mine for driving to Childers.

And I wasn't disappointed. As I wrote in my travel diary then, "Childers, some fifty kilometres from Bundaberg, is a National Trust town and has a real community spirit. People know each other without living in each other's pockets as they can satisfy their curiosity from the constant stream of visitors who stop over for a day or two or, in the case of a whole bunch of overseas backpackers, work in the area as fruit pickers. The town is surrounded by rolling hills which are covered in sugarcane and avocado plantations. Everything seems to grow in the deep red soil! Most of the town's population live in highset 'Queenslanders' which are ideal for the subtropical climate. The footpaths are shaded by huge Brazilian leopard trees where locals and visitors sit at small tables taking their refreshments. This continues well into the night when the four pubs open their doors to the warm breeze. Before we had finished our first drink at the Childers Hotel, we had met people from as far away as Perth and Tasmania and struck up a long conversation with the licensee who happened to have lived just about everywhere, including my own 'stamping grounds' New Guinea, Burma and Saudi Arabia! It's a small world and it all comes together in Childers!"

Next day was much of the same. My diary again, "Beautiful morning at Childers! My old mate Noel Butler used to live here and at Mt Perry after he had come down from New Guinea in the late 70's. We had met aboard the PATRIS on the way to Europe in 1967 and kept in touch all those years until he passed away in 1995. We drove out to Mt Perry, which experienced renewed mining activities, to look at Noel's old house. Stopped at the not-so-grand Mt Perry Grand Hotel for a beer and a chat with the locals and some of the newly-arrived mine workers who were a colourful bunch. It left me to ponder what I might be doing today had I taken up Noel's invitation in 1985 to join him at Mt Perry which, as he put it, would have given him a new lease of life. His last place on the outskirts of Childers was now shaded by well-established trees and groves of banana and paw-paw trees, thanks to his hard work. What a difference from Christmas 1990 when I last visited him here!"

At the back of my mind had been to look at some houses. If I could find something suitable, I would sign on the dotted line. One that attracted my attention was the little split-level shown above, which was located at the edge of town at 5 Ginns Road. For me it "ticked all the boxes", but it was priced at $290,000 at a time when most houses in Childers sold for under $200,000. Had the price been lower, I might have signed on the dotted line. Someone else did shortly afterwards at $275,000. In the end, all I finished up buying on that trip was a new pair of shoes.

Over twenty years later, we are still at "Riverbend" and the same house is again for sale - this time for $785,000 - after it had been resold in 2007 for $371,000 and again in 2013 for $410,000, which should tell you something about the real estate market over the past twenty years as well as about the difficulties of selling at the high end of the market (it does also debunk the myth that house prices double every seven years).

I also still have those shoes I bought in Childers in 2003, although I have not worn them for quite a while. Perhaps it's time I tried them on again.

 

 

Just saying ...

 

 

A lot of work is going on across the backfence on our neighbours' acreage where they are planting trees and moving earth and building a huge marquee for their new commercial venture, "Orange Grove Farm Weddings".

I wish them well but, given our local demographics, wouldn't funerals be a better business? They could've pencilled me in as customer. Just saying ...