School’s back this week. And all the parents of school-aged children breathe a sigh of relief as their little and not-so-little treasures return to the classroom. So glad that for me, that season has passed.
Even so, a fitting tribute to the time I once was a teacher…
Feature Photo: Classroom, Hermannsburg © C.D. Trudinger circa 1955
Friday has rolled around and once again, the well-researched, edited and polished article on some nascent topic of family history has failed to materialize. Too busy researching and chasing promising leads down rabbit holes. Plus making a concerted effort to finish the first draft of “Under the Bridge”, now titled The Culvert.
Hence, I am blatantly and unashamedly going to ramble and keeping to the theme of rabbits, rabbit on.
A fellow writer has the penchant to invite the reader to get comfortable in their favourite armchair with a cuppa and a bikkie, and then travel along with her in her latest story. So, I’m doing something similar today. Imagine we are in your café of choice, I’m having my decaf cappuccino with almond milk and you’re having your beverage of choice, and we are having a chat about family history. Admittedly, I’m the one doing all the talking—for a start. You can have your say at the end in the comment section.
Anyway, as I sip on my drink, I tell you…
I’ll start with the food. Early on in My Heritage forays, the computer offered some guidance with AI (artificial intelligence) in finding those relatives who would prefer to remain hidden in the distant past.
I took the AI up on the offer, to my regret.
After many questions that became more ridiculous as time went on, the robot which I might prefer to call a “bubble-headed booby”, asked the ultimate in absurdity. ‘What did your ancestor like to eat for breakfast?’
You need to understand that AI was asking about an ancestor who lived three hundred years in the past. If I knew the answer to the breakfast question, I wouldn’t be asking AI, would I?
I decided then to avoid researching with the AI after that interaction.
It got me thinking, though. What did my ancestors eat for breakfast? Too late for most of them to tell me. Even the famous ones don’t include a breakfast menu.
So, for future generations, here’s my offering for the few of my immediate family of whom I know their breakfast preferences.
My dad, Clement David Trudinger grew up during the depression and Second World War times. He loved bread with dripping. I’m not sure if this was a breakfast go-to, but he did say. Just saying.
My mum has to have her cup of coffee first thing in the morning. Coffee gets her going.
A few nuts and a cup of Caro does me for breakfast.
I’m not sure what my maternal grandma, Elsa Gross liked for breakfast, but she didn’t eat meat. I remember her having toast with butter and jam.
As for my maternal grandpa, Sam Gross, and my paternal grandma and grandpa, Ron and Lina Trudinger, I have no idea. And that’s only going back two generations.
All I can say for AI is good luck with that one going back three hundred years.
Digging back further, I discovered that one of my ancestors and an ancestor of my friend, and Indie Scriptorium teammate, Mary McDee’s, were shipmates travelling over to England from Normandy way back when England was invaded by William the Conqueror. I wondered whether they were friends and what their conversation was like. Mary was adamant that her ancestor probably wouldn’t have had much to do with mine as they were likely different ranks. But hey, ships back then weren’t that big, so I wonder…One thing for sure, they probably weren’t discussing their latest books and giving feedback to each other on how to improve their manuscripts.
*[Photo 3: Ship in Amsterdam © L.M. Kling 2014]
Continuing on my research voyage, Mary did ask me, “What’s a good Christian girl like you writing such content of bloodshed and gore. How did you come up with such an evil character like Boris?’
As I’m exploring those murky depths of my ancestral past, I’m beginning to understand. A relative of mine once read The Hitchhiker and was so shocked she gave it a poor rating. “This is not the person I knew,” she wrote as a comment. Little did she know that my ancestors and her husband’s were not the “Sarah Janes”, “Pollyannas” or “Saint Whoever” of the past. Quite the opposite. Think of Game of Thrones which is based on the War of the Roses, and you get the picture. One was likely a bishop, though, sorry to say…
And no, the dreams that formulated my Sci-Fi novels were seemingly not from ancestral memories from the mercenary soldier, Balthas Trudinger that the family was so ashamed of.
I looked into that and discovered that Balthas who lived at Lierheim which is a castle near Nördlingen, Bavaria, most probably belonged to the Teutonic Order. The Teutonic Order at the time of Balthas’ coming of age, had bought the castle there and were renovating it. Hitler gave the Teutonic Order a reputation as the exemplar of the all-German, all-Aryan fighting force. But once he won power, he ditched the Teutonic order—banned them. Actually, the order from what I can glean did much good over the centuries. They started around the end of the 12th Century as guards protecting pilgrims to Jerusalem. I bet Hitler kept that fact quiet. Although it was an army that did fighting and stuff in the past, these days it’s a charitable organisation.
I could go on rabbiting, but I think that’s enough random thoughts for one day. hubby has come home and we’re off to dinner for our 37th Wedding Anniversary.
Happy Friday and hope you enjoyed your cuppa and bikkie.
If you have a Family History comment or story, I’d love you to drop a line in the comment section below.
© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2024
*Feature Photo: Goats on mountain near Saas Fee, Switzerland © L.M. Kling 2014
References:
Nördlingen, 1580-1700: society, government and impact of war
***
in
Tuesday July 9, 2013
Part 2
[Eleven years ago, the T-Team, Next Generation embarked on their pilgrimage to Central Australia. Purpose: to scatter Dad’s ashes in his beloved Central Australia, in Ormiston Gorge.
Now just a teeny-weeny bit on the Family History front. I delved into some research concerning family traits. You see, the T-team pride themselves on their T-Traits (Dad stresses that the word “trait” is pronounced “tray”.) So, I decided to have a peek at what characteristics, us who are the T-Team, have that make us distinct from other families. I’ll elaborate in a future blog. But briefly, what comes to mind that aligns with the posts I read on Google, are hairline (straight but peaked up at each side of the temple), high forehead (Dad’s cousin always remarked this trait as a sign of intelligence), high cheek bones, good teeth, a penchant for puns and a certain amount of daring for adventure; hence the T-Team and their treks into the outback.
So, again, the virtual journey continues, to the Centre, Uluru and memories of that unforgettable holiday in 2013, with my brother and his family; the T-Team Next Generation.]
Mrs. T slept in the T-Van, while the rest of the T-Team walked the Marla Track to Kantju Gorge. There, we were awed by the caves hollowed out as if by waves crashing into them. We marvelled at the vivid red ochre paintings in rock caves carved out by the sea of time. Tourists filled these caves, spilling out the sides and edges, listening intently to the guides explaining the stories behind the artwork.
‘Where’s the Indigenous guides?’ Anthony asked.
I shrugged.
We returned to the carpark near the entrance to climbing the Rock. “Closed for Cultural Reasons” the sign read this time.
Shoulders hunched; the T-Team trooped to their respective cars.
‘When will we be able to climb the Rock?’ my nephew asked his dad.
‘We’ll try again tomorrow,’ my brother replied.
Sunset on Uluru (July 8, 2013)
As the cloud and damp set in during the day of July 9, the T-Team congratulated themselves on completing the mission to view the sunset on the Rock the previous night. Anthony reported, ‘Alice Springs had one of its lowest temperatures ever; 8 degrees Celsius maximum.’
‘Wow! Just as well we saw the rock in all its glory last night,’ I added. ‘Dad always said that the Rock is at its best at sunset when there are clouds to the West.’
Someone thought that was not the case, but I argued that last night’s Uluru sunset was the best I had ever seen.
The ever-changing colours of the massif amazed me; golden, then orange, then tangerine…until a rich deep red with the golden grasses glowing in the foreground.
And, with the photoshop features on my digital camera, I was able to make my image of Uluru, almost “chocolate box” quality. Not cheating, just capturing how I actually saw the famous Rock.
And on that night, as I stood transfixed, taking photo after photo of the Rock, Mrs. T called out, ‘Hey! Look the other way!’
We turned.
‘Wow!’ I exclaimed. ‘What a show!’ The expanse of sky painted in every hue from yellow to crimson; the sun’s parting gift as it sank from this evening’s horizon.
More frantic photographing ensued while most tourists ignored the glorious display behind them in preference to The Rock.
Then, as Uluru faded into monochrome shades, I overheard one fellow comment to his partner, ‘Is that all?’
The Phone Tree
Evening, and I used our portable camp stove to cook rice for tea. Anthony no longer complained about the use of the stove instead of the cooking facilities. Having skipped lunch, he was hungry, and he knew better than to expect the public BBQ to perform; especially considering a biting wind had sprung up.
The T-Lings, as they had done every night, planted their mobile phones at the base of the power pole which was not far from the BBQ. With cables attached, they left them there to charge up. ‘Would you look after our phones?’ they each asked, expecting me, as I was cooking, to keep an eye on their treasures.
Night fell and as the wind turned bitterly cold, I made a toilet visit where I donned my thermals. On the way back from the toilet, I observed a group gathered around the communal firepit. They asked if I wanted to join, but I declined. The T-Team were playing games.
In some ways I regretted not accepting the invitation. We played card games but as the T-Crowd was too large for the small tent, I ended up playing cards outside in the cold and dark. There, half-frozen despite the best efforts of the thermal underwear, I taught my younger niece to play Patience.
Then, how pleasant it was to snuggle into our minus seven sleeping bags for sleep.
‘Oh, no!’ a T-Ling cried, then rustling. ‘Our phones!’
© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2020; update 2024
Feature Photo: Chocolate Box Rock © L.M. Kling 2013
***
The Indiscretions of Overtime
Tuesday April 12, 2022, 6pm
Adelaide CBD Police HQ
Dan
Dan sighed as he filled in the archive retrieval request form. ‘Things I do for her majesty—Eloise Delaney.’
Under reason for retrieval, he wrote, “Relevant to cold case, the fatal accident of Milo Katz.” He had a hunch, but that was all. Had a gut feeling back in 1981 when he was a recruit, and the youth group was a-buzz with the sudden and tragic death of Milo. Something about his then friend, Sven’s behaviour in the weeks after the road accident had disturbed Dan, but being a trainee policeman, Dan put his head down, stuck it in the proverbial sand, and got on with training.
Dan recalled Christmas Eve, Sunday School kids doing their nativity play and Sven never came into the church hall to watch. Just kept loitering out in the carpark, smoking. Cigarette after cigarette. Even his girlfriend, Fifi couldn’t persuade him to join in the festivities.
While Dan hunted in the rolling file cabinets, he nodded and murmured, ‘Sven and Fifi, bonded over missing dads.’ Never discussed. Never. They went missing and their existence vanished with them.
Curious about information the police might have on the elusive von Erikson, he spotted the man’s name on a box on the middle shelf. Detective Dan Hooper pulled out a file titled, “Jan Von Erikson”. The one slip of paper described a disturbance on January 1, at 2:00am, 1977. One word dismissed the event. “Domestic”.
The account read, “Police were called to a disturbance at the home of Jan von Erikson in Somerton. Neighbours had heard loud shouting and glass smashing and called the police to attend. Police in attendance described the perpetrator, Mr. von Eriksson as drunk, belligerent, and angry.”
Dan flipped the page. No mention of von Erikson’s disappearance. No one asked. No one said. Had he disappeared? Or was it all in his youthful imagination?
He stared at the page. 1977, and he recalled Sven turning up to youth group with a brand-new Ford Falcon XB. Shiny red, as he remembered. Dan had been so envious that Sven, a contract labourer, could afford a shiny, red Ford Falcon XB. How could he? Sven was, what, nineteen? Same age as he was. And Dan knew he, at nineteen and a poor police cadet, didn’t have enough money in the bank to buy such an expensive car. Darn! He had to settle for a run-down, ten-year old Ford Cortina. Courtesy of church friend of the family, Gracie Katz.
The detective scanned the single sheet of paper with his phone and mumbled, ‘Something fishy here. Delaney’s onto something.’
After placing the Jan von Erikson file on the shelf, Dan moved the rolling cabinet to the 1978 section. He used a ladder to lift the cream and brown file box from the top shelf titled “Missing Persons, Percy Edwards”.
‘At least his Missus did the right thing,’ Dan said.
He hauled the box out and lugged it over to a desk. Under the light of a wide green hooded accountant’s lamp, Dan leafed through the wad of notes. Witness statements, leads, and character references.
Percy Edwards was a respectable businessman who dealt in antique furniture, art auctions, valuations and insurance. He belonged to the Ford car club which seemed odd to Dan. He remembered Percy from church as a man who exuded airs and graces, who he imagined preferring the elegance of a Mercedes Benz, rather than the common Ford.
Dan chuckled remembering a friend of his, Leigh who had gone camping with his family and Percy and his son Jimmy had come along too. Percy had never gone “roughing it” in the bush before and had complained endlessly, from the start of the camping trip to the finish. Leigh’s Dad never invited the high and mighty Percy on a camping trip again. Not that Percy would’ve gone after suffering the indignities of sleeping on stony ground under the stars.
Jimmy was okay about camping, though. He became a regular for youth group camps, hikes, and the road trip to Western Australia. In Perth, Jimmy was arrested after drinking beer in a public place and spent the night in the lock up. On camps, everyone appreciated the entertainment Jimmy provided with his strong singing voice and his acoustic guitar. He remembered the not-so-complimentary songs Jimmy made up about his father. That was before he disappeared. Jimmy lost his music mojo for years after his father mysteriously left. Started munching through packets of crisps instead.
Dan photographed page after page of the Edwards file. Boxes of evidence must not leave the storage facility. Percy Edwards fine upstanding citizen. Percy Edwards tall, distinguished, moustache, patting Jimmy on his head calling him, “Ma boy”.
Mrs. Edwards, otherwise known as “Primrose the plentiful” (yes, you got it, her real name was Primrose) as she had borne the illustrious Lord of the Edwards manor, eight children. Always pregnant or breastfeeding, yet eternally immaculate, black hair coiffured in a beehive to perfection, and with fashion sense that made her a trendsetter amongst the ladies. President of the church ladies guild, fantastic fundraiser, chairman of the local school’s Parents and Friends association, and all-round super mum. As some of the younger girls at youth group used to say about her, “What a woman!”
Dan smiled remembering how when her husband walked out the door and never returned, Primrose Edwards persevered. She worked on the checkout at the local supermarket, studied part-time and made full use of her mothering skills to become a teacher, and by gum, an exceptionally good teacher.
He thought then of Lillie. It was Mrs. Edward’s tenacity that inspired that socially awkward yet attractive girl Lillie to train to be a teacher. What ever happened to Lillie? he wondered. Is she still teaching?
His youth group had all grown up and drifted. Like Mr. Edwards they had disappeared into their grown-up lives. However, unlike Mr. Edwards, they were still traceable.
And Mrs. Primrose Edwards, was she still alive? Dan made a note to check the birth, deaths and marriage records. Or he could just ask Fifi, the encyclopaedia of life and everyone in Adelaide. Primrose was her mother. Besides, since Eloise was friends with Fifi, all he’d have to do is ask to have a chat with Fifi.
‘Who needs Google when you have Fifi,’ Dan laughed as he finished the final pages of scanning.
[Photo 4: Adelaide Flower Festival © S.O. Gross circa 1960]
Dan entered the lift at the basement and as it propelled him upwards to the ground floor, his phone vibrated in his pocket.
‘Hello Dee,’ Dan spoke.
‘Hey, Dan, I’ve been searching all day,’ Dee said, ‘you don’t happen to have a number for Sven von Erikson?’
‘Hey, Dee,’ Dan chuckled, ‘you must be psychic. I was just thinking of him. Why?’
‘Um, I think he might be key to the investigation.’
‘What? How?’ Dan stepped out of the lift and onto the ground floor.
‘Well, I have found out that he had a red Ford Falcon. Didn’t Mr. Wilke who we saw a few weeks ago say that the motorbike was struck by a red painted car?’
‘Oh, oh, yes, I’d forgotten about Mr. Wilke. Yes, follow that up.’ Dan strode to his desk and packed up his laptop. It’s going to be a long night. ‘Good work Dee.’
‘By the way, did you remember that I interviewed Lillie Edwards, formerly von Erikson, today?’ Dee sounded proud of herself.
‘What?’ Dan dropped his laptop. It thudded on the table. ‘How? How did you…?’
‘When I read the reports, I remembered Lillie from school days. Small world, isn’t it?’
‘Well, I’ll be. It is Adelaide after all. Anything useful?’
‘Maybe. That’s why I would like to speak to Sven her brother. And there was a friend of hers she was always hanging around with. Fifi? Married Sven. Was, I mean.’
Dan snorted. ‘Welcome to the family. I’ll send through the contact details.’
‘You have them?’
‘Yes, just not on me at the moment.’ Dan wasn’t about to plop Eloise, his former partner fighting crime into the conversation. He avoided triggers of the Dee kind as Dee and Eloise never got on. ‘I’ll text them to you as soon as, okay.’
‘Great!’ Dee replied. ‘Bye.’
‘Great work, Dee. Catch you in the morning,’ Dan said and tapped the red button. Must make note to send Dee the details, he murmured while leaving the office.
© Tessa Trudinger 2024
*Feature Photo: Not exactly a Ford, but red. Note the Cortina in the background © Courtesy of R. Trudinger circa 1983
***
You could say that creating one’s own reality is a global pastime and no one is immune to it. As humans, we interpret, or mis-interpret the world around us through our experiences, what we see, hear, taste and touch. We use our worldviews to form our identity and place in the world and to serve as a personal force-field to protect our beliefs. Our personal paradigm helps us navigate our way through life, predicting the challenges life may throw at us.
It is fair to say that our worldviews are limited, and often skewed as we encounter the worlds of others. Naturally, we believe our truth is the one and only way. To feel secure, we impose our version of reality on others. We are right. They are wrong.
Have you ever had the experience where someone reckons you said a certain thing, but you’re sure you didn’t? I have had friends “quote me”, attributing wise words to me, and I have no idea I’d ever said that. Wish I had. Maybe I had; I just can’t remember. Either way, our respective worldviews have filtered facts in and screened information out.
*[Photo 1: Sculpture in courtyard of Basel Kunst Museum © L.M. Kling 2014]
Anyway, the same can be said for our own personal family history. I remember reading an article in a Genealogy magazine about family myths and to be wary of them. It’s not enough to believe a story, a narrative. Good research requires facts, preferably primary resources.
With this in mind, I have been researching on the internet, the history of Nördlingen and the Kaiser Hof Hotel Sönne. Did my Trüdinger ancestors own it for two hundred years, as my relatives have been led to believe? It wasn’t our branch as my great-grandfather Karl August Trüdinger and family emigrated from Bavaria to England in the 1860’s, and then from England to Australia in 1886. He was a textile merchant trading in wool in Yorkshire England and then in Australia he set up a business selling textiles in Adelaide city. Now, here again, the details get a bit murky, and I need to do some more research into the actual work history of Karl August in Adelaide. Suffice to say, from my gleaning of Trove, Karl August was a fine Christian family man who together with his wife Clara Theresa, raised eight of his twelve surviving children to enter the mission field. Vastly different from the family origins in Nördlingen who were apparently rich and influential enough to own the hotel that entertained royalty.
Yet, as I delved deeper into the rabbit-hole of internet searches, I discovered that my four-times great grandfather, Balthas Trüdinger was a soldier in the Teutonic order. Why else was he living in Lierheim (a castle near Nördlingen) which at the time was owned by the Teutonic order? Oh, the shame that this brought on the family, having a mercenary soldier in their ranks! Another myth. Sure, Balthas was a soldier. Sure, as a soldier in the Teutonic Order he was paid. But was the Teutonic Order so bad?
When I first mentioned the fact of Balthas belonging to the Teutonic Order, my son and husband joked that he was most certainly a neo-Nazi of his time. I began to imagine Balthas all buff, shaved head and going around on crusades killing anyone who wasn’t Christian. According to my research, Wikipedia, mainly, Hitler portrayed the Teutonic Order as the exemplar of the Aryan race and cause.
Again, this was a myth. As soon as Hitler had achieved his purpose using them, he then turned against them and discarded the Teutonic Order.
*[Photo 3: Reminders of war, Dinkelsbuhl © L.M. Kling 2014]
According to my limited research, although the Teutonic Order went on Crusades to Christianise Europe, and paid mercenaries to fight, they also did a great deal of good. Way back when they formed in 1191, they protected travellers making their pilgrimage to the Holy Land. They organised and built hospitals, initially for wounded soldiers and these days the order is primarily a charitable organisation.
Anyway, it would seem from the records compiled from my uncle Ron Trudinger, that Balthas didn’t stay in Lierheim, but, after the birth of his son Georg, he moved to Nördlingen. Here, no mention of Georg being an innkeeper, but instead a linen weaver and Burgermeister of the town.
From a research paper on Nördlingen in the 17th Century called Early Capitalism and its Enemies: The Wörner Family and the Weavers of Nördlingen* (Published online by Cambridge University Press: 11 June 2012) which I accessed online through Jastor, I was able to surmise that for Georg to become the Mayor of Nördlingen, he would’ve needed to be seriously cashed up. I mean rich, one of the wealthiest in the town, if not, the wealthiest. It would seem he landed on his feet so to speak as a linen weaver or had come into a sizable inheritance. Or, had he or his father married into money in the town? The owner of the hotel, perhaps?
*[Photo 4: Unbroken Wall of Nördlingen © L.M. Kling 2014]
Nowhere in my gleanings on the town do I see that he was the innkeeper or owner of Kaiser Hof Hotel Sonne. The above-mentioned article had a breakdown of income, which I presume was yearly, of people in the town. According to a study accessed online called “Nordlingen, 1580-1700: society, government and impact of war”, in 1700, the owner of the Kaiser Hof Hotel Sonne had the highest income of all, a salary of 41 Florin. A teacher at the time received one to four Florin per year. And a soldier, which is what Georg’s father, Balthas was, received eleven Florin per year.
Again, as far as the Trüdinger family is concerned, it’s all conjecture and where myths start to grow and take a life of their own.
One thing for certain, though, is that in family history, experiences that family members have had hold weight for evidence. After all, they are the life-experience of that person and from their point of view. My second cousin, who married a German, and lived in Bavaria, decided to visit the Kaiser Hof Hotel Sonne in the 1960s. Family there living in Germany, informed her that a Trüdinger relative owned the hotel. Upon seeing the hotel, my second cousin was impressed by how high-class it was with fancy décor and loads of antique furniture. The food offered was out of her budget, but my second cousin tried to talk to her hotel-owning relative.
The encounter didn’t progress the way my cousin had hoped. Although my second cousin could speak fluent German, the hotel owner seemed distant and appeared reluctant to engage with her. Maybe, the lady was having a difficult day…Or hadn’t been given enough warning that a cousin was going to visit the hotel unannounced.
My second cousin left the establishment and decided to eat elsewhere.
When we visited my second cousin in Germany, she told me this story and mentioned that by the end of the 1960s the Trüdinger relatives had sold the hotel. She believed that the hotel had been in the family for 200 years.
I am still trying to figure out if this a fact, or if it is a myth.
Do you or someone you know have information on the history of the Kaiser Hof Hotel Sonne Nördlingen? Are you related to the Trüdinger family? You are most welcome to leave a comment. Or you may contact me through the My Heritage Trudinger-Kling website.
© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2024: updated 2026
*Feature photo: Kaiser Hof Hotel Sonne, Nördlingen © L.M. Kling 2014
***
Monday, February 7, 10am
Kapunda
Dan
Dee adjusted her double P2/N45 mask as the pylons of the Northern Expressway flitted past. Her glasses kept fogging up. Dan who had offered to drive the unmarked Camry, wore his supermarket purchased mask as a chin bag.
Dee glared at her partner in the fight against crime. ‘What use is it under your chin, Dan?’
‘I’m driving I need to see.’ Dan sniffed. ‘And breathe.’
‘I don’t want ya germs.’
‘Had no trouble way back in what, ’78,’ Dan replied with a shrug and then lifted the mask to just under his nose.
‘No pandemics back then.’
Dan chuckled. ‘Ah, those were the days.’
Dee huffed, folded her arms across her soft stomach and stared out the window at the Max Fatchen overpass. ‘Glad those days are over,’ she muttered.
‘Wonder what ever happened to them all? Our gang, I mean.’
‘Who cares.’
‘I remember your parties, you’d invite everybody.’
‘Not everyone…there was that skinny, bean pole of a girl with white hair. What was her name? Oh, yes, I remember, Lillie.’ Dee nodded. ‘I’d like to know what happened to her.’
‘Hmmm, Lillie what? Watson?’
‘Something like that,’ Dan laughed.
‘No, I remember, how could I forget? She looked like a reject from the Abba band. All Nordic, ya know. Yes, that’s right, von Erikson. Lillie von Erikson. She had a thing for you, ya know.’ Dee tapped the window. ‘But I put a stop to that. There was something wrong with that girl. In the head. Told her you was mine. And she believed it.’
‘Pity, she may’ve been my perfect match. Remember that show?’
‘How can I forget? I went on it, remember? The guy I got matched up with, let’s just say was not perfect. But I got a free trip to Bali out of it.’
‘Good for you, Dee.’
‘Actually, speaking of matches, I did see that Lillie once years ago. I went to this church up in Norwood one time. I was going through my religious phase.’ Dee coughed. ‘In front of me was this lady. I was admiring her dress and fashion sense. I thought she must’ve bought it from one of those exclusive boutiques in Burnside Village. She had a girl all tarted up though she must’ve been only about tenish. Mini with crop top and midriff showing. Asking for trouble. But the most beautiful auburn waist-length hair…just like the man on the other side of her, who must’ve been her father.’
‘How did you know it was Lillie if you only saw the back of her? Wasn’t Lillie always plainly dressed?’
‘From op shops, yes. But you see, the priest up the front encouraged the congregation to greet each other.’ Dee wrung her hands. ‘So, this lady turns around and with a most beautiful smile on her face, shakes my hand and welcomes me. Then, she looks me in the eye and her smile vanishes. And I notice her nametag, put two and two together and my Sunday was wrecked.’
‘Why?’ Dan looked at Dee. ‘You could’ve kissed and made up.’
‘Never! That girl…I mean, why’s she so blessed? I ask you! And I mean there she was, still looking good, and rich enough obviously to live in the Eastern suburbs and afford clothes from Burnside. And darn it, her husband’s called Jimmy Edwards. Not the Jimmy but lead guitarist of the local band I liked.’
‘Oh, come on, people change. I remember the rumours back then. I heard that her father walked out on the family and her mother had to struggle to continue her education at our college. She refused to send her to the local state school…’
Dee turned her whole body and fixed her eyes on Dan. ‘How do you know so much about her?’
‘We went to the same youth group, Dee. I never went out with her, but we had some friends in common.’
‘So, what happened to her? How did she get so rich?’
Dan scratched his shoulder and took the tricky turn off the freeway to Kapunda. ‘After she finished school, she sort of disappeared. Went interstate for a while. We all went our separate ways, I guess.’
‘Probably got herself into trouble and…’ Dee chortled. ‘Now I remember, her brother was hot.’
‘Sven,’ Dan snorted. ‘Yeah, got married to the girl next door. Young. Didn’t end well, so I heard.’
‘What do you mean? Did he kill someone?’
‘No, they got divorced after a couple of years. But there were custody issues. I remember coming across the case. Still, long time ago. Geez! That poor little mite would be in his forties now. I wonder what he’s up to. Hope he turned out all right.’
The welcome to Kapunda sign appeared followed by the Miner statue on the left. “Karen”, the trusty sat-nav, directed them to a road off the main road to the workshop belonging to Warick Wilke.
Dan pulled the patrol vehicle to a stop in front of the pastel green painted home. A parade of classic cars of varying antiquity lined the driveway leading up to a massive tin shed.
Dan stepped out of the car and smiled. ‘You can always look your nemesis up on Facebook and ask her to be your friend, Dee.’
‘Never!’ Dee replied.
Dan and Dee walked up the path lined with standard Iceberg roses. Dan adjusted his protective facial mask before knocking on the wire-mesh security door.
A man, his face smudged with grease and wiping his hands with a once-white cloth, emerged from the shed. ‘Can I help you?’
Dan pulled out his identity wallet and showed it to the man. ‘DCI Dan Hooper and DCI Dee Berry here. I believe you have new information about a cold case.’
‘Come inside,’ Warick said and gestured to the pair of detectives to enter his humble home. ‘I have it all set up in the dining room.’
Dee’s eyes widened. ‘Oh, my Lord!’
‘You have gone to a lot of trouble, Warick. Do you mind if I take some photos of your findings?’ Dan asked.
Warick placed down his cloth on an antique cedar chair and straightened a photo of a presumedly deceased kangaroo next to an obviously dented bonnet of a 1995 model Ford Falcon station wagon. ‘Best I could do; considering the original Ford Falcon XB’s can be worth in excess of a hundred thousand.’
Dan studied the photo. He’d owned a car such as this. Back in the early 2000’s. Ah! Memories! Camping trips to the Flinders Ranges with his then wife, Kate. His smile faded. Kate insisted the children have a shower each night after hiking. And made the whole family miserable if one of the children muddied their clothes. Scenery was unimportant for his ex, unless of course Kate was prominent in the photo.
‘You may want to compare this,’ Warick said and passed Dan a faded Polaroid photograph of a red 1976 Ford. ‘You can see there’s damage to the right headlight and the right side of the bonnet is caved in a bit, but you can see that a roo makes much more damage.’
Dan nodded. ‘Hmmm, Mad Max.’
Dee snorted and then continued perusing Warick’s wads of paperwork he’d gathered.
‘Also, on further inspection, I noticed that there’s what looks like a streak of black paint on the original.’ Warick quickly pursed and relaxed his lips. ‘I had to use a magnifying glass, but the image came into its own when I scanned it and enlarged it.’
‘Good work,’ Dan said.
‘Do you have a name for the person who brought the car in for repairs?’ Dee asked.
‘You see, it was only years later, upon reflection, that I recalled the motorcycle accident down at Sellicks Beach…I’m still kicking myself. Just that one detail, that one piece of paper—missing,’ Mr. Wilke said with a sigh. ‘I had an apprentice at the time. Great worker, but well, his brains, let’s just say weren’t in his head; they were elsewhere. As for paperwork? Hopeless. And unfortunately, he was responsible for fixing up that car and dealing with the owner.’
‘Name?’ Dan asked.
‘Francis Renard,’ Wilke grunted, ‘never forget that name.’
Dan made a note. ‘Francis Renard, now why does that name ring a bell?’
Dee snorted again. ‘Now there’s a blast from the past.’
Dan leaned over to Dee and whispered, ‘Is he on our records?’
‘Not exactly,’ Dee replied softly but with a sour note in her tone, ‘tell ya later.’
After recording Warick Wilke’s abundance of information about Fords, kangaroos, and receipts of repairs, followed by coffee and sultana cake with an informal interview, come witness statement from Warick, Dan and Dee finally dragged themselves away from the little green house in Kapunda.
‘Francis Renard and Lillie von Erikson, now there’s an odd couple I’ll never forget,’ Dee said as she yanked open the door of their Toyota Camry. ‘Imagine the offspring if there was any.’
‘What makes you say that?’ Dan asked while securing his seatbelt. He smiled, noting that Dee’s mask had slipped to below her chin after coffee and cake, and had yet to migrate up to cover it again. ‘There were rumours. Her friend, Fifi Edwards was quite concerned for her after an end-of year party.’
‘Ooh, you do remember her. Thought so.’ Dee checked her image in the mirror. ‘Wonder what happened to Francis? A mechanic: that sounds about right. If he’s the same Francis Renard, he didn’t strike me as the academic type.’
Dan tapped the steering wheel, then adjusted the visor to minimise the glare of the late afternoon sun. ‘Francis Renard, I’m sure I know him from somewhere.’
‘Probably do, Dan. It’s Adelaide.’
© Tessa Trudinger 2024
***
Sunday February 6, 11am
Magill Bakery,
Lillie
The Kitchener bun, its mouth between the sweet bread filled with cream, begged Lillie to take it. Eat it.
Lillie ruminated over the Sunday after the week of false starts, the threat of staff strikes and extended sullen preparations for a messy beginning to the school term. The week ahead loomed. As if the official rollover of High School beginnings for Year 7’s that pulled it in line with the other states, was not challenging enough, now the virus had reared its spikey head again. A staggered start. Sevens and Eights and the Twelves, back at school face to face, but the middle years on zoom, yet again.
‘How’s it all going to work, Jimmy?’ Lillie asked the man with long greying hair tied back in a ponytail.
Her husband, Jimmy popped a handful of gluten-free lentil chips in his mouth and crunched. ‘You’re the expert, you tell me.’
Lillie pointed at the Magill Bakery display window. ‘I’m having one of those, the Kitchener bun. I deserve it. What’ll you have? The usual?’
Jimmy shrugged and munched on some more chips. ‘Yup.’
Once they had entered the bakery, Lillie pulled out her credit card from her glossy black bag and ordered a salad sandwich, gluten free, of course, and iced coffee for Jimmy. For herself she requested a pie plus Kitchener bun and long black coffee with milk on the side. The she waved her card over the machine offered and listened for the affirming ping of transaction success.
Lillie smiled and repeated, ‘I deserve a little treat.’
The couple sat at a table near the automatic sliding door under the cool breeze of the air conditioning vent. They settled, first course on white plates arrived and they removed their masks.
Lillie noticed Jimmy’s lips stretch in an expression of disapproval and she said, yet again, ‘I’m treating myself. I deserve it.’
‘You say that every Sunday after church when we come here,’ Jimmy remarked.
Lillie pouted. ‘Well, after the week I’ve had.’
‘It’s always such a week you’ve had.’
‘The trials and tribulations of being a secondary school principal, dear.’
Jimmy glanced at her not so healthy choices and frowned. ‘No rest for the wicked.’
Lillie leaned back in her chair, her wide girth prominent. ‘And what do you mean by that comment?’
‘Er, nothing my love, just banter, a saying, so to speak.’
‘I hope so,’ Lillie tucked into her pie with sauce, ‘because it’s not easy running a large and prestigious college at these times.’
‘No, dear,’ Jimmy stood up and strolled over to the counter where he picked up the latest Sunday paper. ‘Crossword, dear?’
Lillie sniffed. ‘If it’s not half-done.’
‘I could go to the newsagents…’
‘Don’t bother, got my Words with Friends.’
After shaking his head, Jimmy sat down and spread out the paper on his side of the table.
Lillie finished her pie and then took a bite of bun. With mouth full and hand outstretched, said, ‘Crossword, dear?’
Several minutes of silence ensued as husband scanned the latest news, and Lillie puzzled over the crossword. Wife shifted in her seat; just couldn’t get comfortable. Words for the clues eluded her. Was she growing demented?
Lillie studied the black and white squares of the puzzle. ‘Another word for fox. Really? Who compiles these crosswords?’
‘There’s over 20000 cases and two more people died,’ Jimmy said.
‘It’s like the critter is stalking me,’ Lillie muttered while hovering her pencil over the crossword. Everywhere she looked these days, her past shadowed her. Memories from her youth attached themselves to every thread of her thoughts. A burden tempting her to confess deeds done over 40 years ago. She must resist. Too much to lose.
Jimmy looked up. ‘You say something?’
Lillie swayed her head and pinned back a bleached strand from her face.
‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine.’
Jimmy reached over and held her hand. ‘You know, I was thinking.’
‘That sounds dangerous.’
‘Yes, well, it’s a big zero birthday for you this year.’
‘Don’t remind me.’
‘Anyway, I was wondering what we, I mean the family could get you for your special day.’
Lillie sighed. ‘If you think I want an exercise bike or gym membership…’
‘I know we talked about an overseas holiday or even a trip to Tasmania, but um under the circumstances…’
‘I agree, a caravan and a trip to Robe?’ Lillie chuckled.
Jimmy grinned. ‘Caravan, hadn’t thought about that.’
‘They’re everywhere, love. Like there’s a secret caravan breeding programme going on.’
Jimmy snorted and laughed.
‘Only problem is. We’d need the four-wheel drive to pull it, and they’re not cheap, especially now.’
‘And not exactly something we can afford right now. What with bailing out my brother again and forking out more money to save our daughter, Tiffy from that scam she got tangled up in, we don’t have much left in the kitty.’
‘And all the gigs for our band have dried up over the last two years,’ Jimmy added.
‘Yes, that too.’ Lillie sighed. ‘So, my big birthday will have to be a rather simple affair this year.’
‘What I was thinking,’ Jimmy squeezed her hand, ‘what about a DNA testing kit. I’ve been doing some family history research and I reckon it would be interesting finding out where we come from. I mean, remember I got one of those things for Christmas from our nephew, Jacob. We could do the test together. Think of all the discoveries we could make.’
Lillie narrowed her eyes. ‘Nup, not happening.’
‘Don’t you want to know? I mean, your dad disappeared too. Left you, and somewhere, out there you might have a whole new second family.’
‘Like your dad?’ Lillie wagged a finger at her husband. ‘I see where this is going. You want to do your DNA, and then trot along to the police station and wave it in front of their faces saying, “Do you have any John Does matching this profile?’’ She scooped up cream from her plate and licked her finger. ‘Nup, not interested. It’s in the past. Water under the bridge. If those bones we found all those years ago were anything to do with your dad and your family, the police would have gotten back to us. Besides, from what I remember of your dad and what your sister has said about him, it was best that he left. Like my dad, he was a bad egg.’
Jimmy bit his lip. ‘He was still my dad. He had his faults. But, um what I want is closure.’
He then rubbed his nose and looked away.
Lillie shoved her empty Kitchener bun plate to the side of the table. ‘DNA? Not happening. You do realise that it’s all a rip off. I’ve read half the time they make it up.’ The sugary yeast bun and cream was beginning to give her indigestion. She burped. ‘End of discussion.’
Jimmy folded the newspaper. ‘Caravan? Holiday to Robe?’
Lillie glared at her husband.
‘Camping trip to the Flinders Ranges?’
‘I have work to do.’ Lillie stood up. ‘Let’s go.’
Sunday, February 6, 2pm
Café at Christies Beach
Eloise
Eloise and Fifi shared a generous serve of battered Port Lincoln flathead, chips and salad. Fifi kept an eye on the Bay Marie hoping no one would snaffle up the last chocolate mousse. Eloise settled on the citrus tart—if she had room. It seemed the more they went to this place, the larger the serves became.
Fifi smiled. ‘A continuation of our family saga, and away from prying ears, so to speak…’
‘What?’
‘You know how I don’t seem to fit in my family.’
‘No but go on.’ El leaned forward.
‘Anyway, I decided to settle the matter. You know how you were going on about getting your DNA done? Well, I did it.’
‘You ordered a test then?’
‘Yeah, I got it for my son, Jacob to give me at Christmas. I gave one to Jimmy, too.’
‘How did that go down?’
‘Not too good. Jimmy my brother was okay with it, but you should’ve seen Lillie. She went white, and then argued that we were condemning the family and any crimes my descendant might commit in the future would be discovered through my DNA. “Done it in America with the Golden Gate killer,” she said. It ruined the whole afternoon with her going on and on about it.’
‘I wonder what crimes Lillie’s committed that she’s so mental about the whole DNA thing?’ El said and laughed.
‘Hmm, I wonder what she’s hiding,’ Fifi said and chortled. ‘Well, I’m going to snaffle that…’
A small whiney voice interrupted Fifi’s thought of mousse-poaching. ‘Hi, there Eloise and Fiona. I couldn’t help over-hearing…’
El and Fifi snapped their attention to the owner of that whiney voice. Shaz with chocolate on her lips, grinned at them. The last mousse in her possession. ‘I just wanted to say, I done my DNA and it’s amazing. They traced me back to Queen Elizabeth the first of England.’
‘How’s that possible?’ Fifi asked. She knew her history.
‘Well, they did.’
‘Not a direct descendant,’ El remarked. She knew how family history worked. She’d been working on her ancestral trees for five years now.
‘Huh? What’s a direct descendant?’
El sighed. ‘Sorry, dear, but we must get going. See you at art?’
As El and Fifi left the establishment and made their way to the car, Fifi whispered, ‘I swear that girl is stalking you.’
‘I have wondered, and wouldn’t be surprised,’ El said. ‘I’ve got a creepy feeling about her. By the way, have you got the results back yet?’
‘Not yet, I waited a bit before doing the deed, Christmas and New Year ‘n all that. And I reckon Lillie’s stopping Jimmy from taking the test. But mine should be ready soon. Maybe there’s some cousins…’
© Tessa Trudinger 2024
Feature Photo: View near Flava Café, Christies Beach © L.M. Kling 2023
***
May 1977
Private College
Lillie
She perched on the kerb waiting. The minutes stretched, ticking into what seemed to her, an eternity. Cars whizzed past. With each car that emerged around the corner, the hope—her mum’s car. That battered blue FJ Holden, had suffered many knocks in its fifteen years of life. Like me, same age and having suffered hard knocks, she thought. But cars with anonymous drivers passed by and so did her hope…until she just sat…waiting…expectations drained…waiting.
A mixture of gloom and uneasiness haunted her. It had shadowed her all day. Ever since the first period, home class, when Dee, yes, that’s right, Dee, her arch enemy, had sidled up to her and hissed, ‘He’s mine, Lillie. He’s mine. He never liked you. He likes me.’
Dee slithered into her seat; pink lips pursed in a smile. She flicked her brown mane, and then glancing at Lillie, she smirked and then rubbed her hands together. ‘Mine!’ she mimed. ‘All mine.’
Lillie imagined Dee at that moment morphing from the budding model she was into a female form of Gollum, bent on possessing the ring offered by her latest conquest—Danny. Why else was Dee gloating?
Lillie’s heart plummeted to the pit of her stomach. A drop of rain plopped on the pavement and sizzled. Lillie sighed. She’d seen him—Danny—that morning. Lofty, blonde hair tousled, framing his high cheekbones, strong jaw and his face all tanned. But Danny hadn’t seen her. He never saw her.
On the way back from chapel, Danny had been walking behind her and she’d worried about her uniform. Was her dress hitched up in her regulation stockings? Autumn and the school demanded girls wear the winter uniform with the awful scratchy woollen skirt. The month of May in Australia, that day, hot and all steamed up, clouds billowing with purple bellies, threatening a storm, but not before all the students at College were fried having to wear their blazers as well as their uniforms woven in wool. The principal threatened the punishment of suspension if they shed any part of their school attire.
Plop! Another drop. A rumble of thunder.
During the day, her usual foes added to her discomfort. She was already hot, sweaty, and itchy, and then they had to weigh in. On the way to English class, Dee and her clutch of fiends attacked from behind. They threw verbal abuse; the usual “stones” of “loser”, “dog” and “no one wants you, Lil”.
Lillie fixed her eyes ahead even as the heat rose to her cheeks. She trod up the stairs to Dee chanting, ‘Poor Lil, poor Lil, what a dill.’
As Lillie turned the corner of the stairs, she glanced down. Danny leaned against the rail. Dee sidled up to him and pointed. ‘Hey look! She’s got a hole in her stocking. Poor Lil, poor Lil. Too poor to buy new stockings, Lil.’
Dee laughed and her gang joined in.
Lillie turned and continued plodding up the stairs.
‘Charge!’ Dee yelled.
At her command, Lillie quickened her pace. She knew what was coming. The thudding, the cries and the horde as her foes surged upon her. They crowded in and jostled her. Big beefy Twisty jammed her into the lockers and then bumbled down the corridor.
As Lillie straightened herself, Dee strode up to her and poked her. ‘He’s mine, understand?’ She then waved her hand in front of her nose. ‘Phew! You stink! B.O.!’
Danny lingered an arm’s length from Dee, and as she minced into English class, she blew him a kiss. Lillie’s stomach churned, and with her gaze riveted to the floor, she followed Dee into class. Her scalp prickled with the sense that the eyes of every class member had set upon her. Her orthodontic braces took on astronomical proportions and her pigtails drooped like greasy strips of seaweed.
Then Scripture class. Just her luck! Lillie picked Dee’s name out of the Encouragement Box. So, she had to find a verse from the Bible to encourage Dee. Dee? What sort of blessing could Lillie bestow on her worst enemy? The girl who had everything—popularity, beauty, and a boyfriend.
Lillie opened her Bible and picked out the first verse that caught her attention. She wrote down the verse from Galatians 6:7: “…for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.” She plopped the note for Dee back into the box. From what she could tell, Dee seemed happy with her note, if not mildly miffed by the message.
As she sat on the kerb waiting, Lillie reflected on the verse she received. Matthew 5:3: “Blessed are the poor in spirit…” She nodded and mused, That’d be right, Dee had me. Still, it does say I’m blessed.
That odd pair of siblings, Milo Katz and his younger sister, Sharon shuffled by. Lillie curled her lip and shuddered. She sank deeper into the shadows of the school’s office entrance. Both had this peculiar awkward gait, like they were a “sandwich short of a picnic” as Fifi often said of the mentally challenged. Milo certainly was. He’d failed Year 8 twice, then been relegated to the “special class”. He was in her confirmation class at her church and attended the same youth group. For some reason, Lillie had no idea why, he’d set his romantic sights on her, despite Lillie telling him more than once, that they could only be friends.
Then Sharon graduated from confirmation and began attending youth group. She’d taken a shine to Lillie after she was her leader at a youth South Zone camp. Now every time Lillie came to youth group, Sharon made a beeline for her and stuck to her like a clingy baby. They called her “Shatz” as Sharon’s mother called her that as a term for endearment in their native European language. Fifi joked that Lillie was Shatz’s “mother”. The other girls began avoiding Lillie. They didn’t like Shatz. Behind her back and in front of this unfortunate child, they teased her, calling her, Shatz the— (a derogatory name that rhymed with Shatz).
Lillie mused, How could a dynamo of a woman such as Mrs. Katz, leader of the ladies guild, classy dresser in league with Fifi’s mum, have borne and raised these two lame ducks? Were Mr. and Mrs. Katz first cousins? Were their offspring inbred?
A flash of lightning. A crack of thunder. Fat dollops of rain splatted on the footpath. Lillie sighed and muttered, ‘I’ll just have to risk getting laughed at. My mum’s car. What a relic! How embarrassing!’
She shrugged her bag full of books over her shoulder and sauntered to the chapel. Rain pelted down on her, and she sought refuge in an alcove of the chapel hidden behind a diosma bush. There, she drew her knees up to her chin and sniffed. The rain and then the tears had melted her mascara. Her vision blurred. She drew a soggy tissue from her blazer pocket and wiped her eyes.
The downpour stopped. Fellow students emerged from shelter and straggled along the road to the carpark where their cars or parents in their shining white Commodores awaited them.
Lillie examined her calloused knees that had broken through the holes in her stockings. When would mum be able to afford new stockings? Her parents barely scraped together the school fees. ‘We go without for your education,’ Mum says. Lillie had begun to understand how that worked in a posh school like this one. No friends, no choice but to study and get good grades…and a scholarship.
A car screeched. Expecting her mother, Lillie looked up. But it wasn’t her. But she saw them. Dee and Danny. They held hands. Dee nestled into Danny’s side as he held an umbrella over her, even though the sun now shone casting an eerie golden glow over the gum trees and oval. Lillie winced.
The couple perched on the chain fence where they swung back and forth and whispered into each other’s ears. Lillie parted the diosma bush. She watched and cursed them as wrapped in each other’s arms they consumed each other’s lips.
‘Ugh! How could they? In public!’ Lillie muttered. ‘I hope the principal catches them and puts them on detention.’
Lillie heard a familiar roar. She stepped from the bush and strode towards the carpark.
The FJ Holden raced up the driveway, its wheels crushing the car-park’s gravel in its rush to meet Lillie. Dee and Danny remained oblivious in their passion on the chain fence. Mum’s car cut through a large puddle. Water flew high in the air and then dumped on the couple.
Dee shrieked. They stood like two drenched rats, their legs and arms spread in their sodden clothes.
Now Dee really does look like Gollum, Lillie thought. Her nemesis’ mascara streamed down her face and made her eyes look like a panda’s and hair pasted on her head.
The couple glared at the FJ Holden as it screeched to a stop in front of Lillie. She smirked as she jerked open the white door of the mostly blue car and then scrambled in.
‘How was your day, dear?’ Mum asked.
‘You’re late,’ Lillie snapped.
As the FJ Holden with Lillie and her mum merged with the crowd of cars on the main road, Lillie glanced back and smiled.
‘Oh, by the way,’ Mum spoke while patting her wet hair from a late shower, ‘your dad’s gone for good this time.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Just do,’ her mother snapped. ‘Stop asking questions.’
Lillie gazed out the window at the passing Morphettville Racecourse and muttered, ‘Fine, then.’
‘Oh, another thing,’ Mum added, ‘You’ll be staying at your grandmother’s tonight. I hope you don’t mind, sorry about that.’
‘What about my…?’
‘Don’t worry dear, I’ve packed a bag. You know how your gran loves to have you.’
‘It’s okay, Mum,’ Lillie sighed, ‘at least I don’t have to put up with Sven’s arc-welding all night.’
‘Sorry about the inconvenience,’ Mum rattled on, ‘it’s Sven, you see, we’re just trying to help him set up his business. And I wish you wouldn’t begrudge him of that. Show a bit of respect.’
‘Sven, it’s always about Sven,’ Lillie mumbled to the window.
Her mother rambled on about everyone is different and that her brother needs a helping hand to move forward in life, and that Mr. Edwards was doing his best to help them out.
Lillie tuned out. She uttered not a syllable the rest of the journey to her grandmother’s house near Marion Shopping Centre.
[Next chapter Friday fortnight…]
© Tessa Trudinger 2024
***
CIRCULAR WRITTEN by ELSA GROSS from HERMANNSBURG,
OCTOBER 1939
About quarter to 7 we arrived at the station and there was the whole station out to meet us, black and white, big and little, and such a noise too, it sounded just like a whole lot of parrots or galahs. Then the truck came to a standstill and Sam got out and had to shake hands all around. I had to stay in the truck on account of the measles. I could only talk to them from a distance. It was just like a dream and to see all the natives running to and fro, reminded me of the movie films which Lou Borgelt had taken in New Guinea.
Well, after all the greetings were over we were taken across to our new home, which by the way isn’t very new, it’s one of the oldest houses on the station. Mrs Albrecht was going to have us over there for the first few days for meals, but through this measles business we decided it was best if we stayed isolated for a while so as not to infect the natives. Mrs Albrecht sent us over our tea, then, and such a huge tea, too, and we did full justice to it, too.
And now began our life on the station. But so far we haven’t seen very much of it, I haven’t been out of the place at all, Sam has gone to the other places more, but we keep away as much as possible. And now, last weekend, Ruth gets the German Measles, she was fairly miserable, but is alright again now, except for a cough. Now it means we have to stay isolated for another 10 days or so, in case Marie gets them. It is a real nuisance, because we can’t get to anything properly. The only advantage it has is that we can get things a bit straight around the place.
Such a lot wants doing, the doors don’t fit, and the floors need doing, and the garden has to be made. These last two days Sam has had 2 natives helping him with all sorts of odd jobs, yesterday and today they dug the front garden and this morning we planted the lawn and tomorrow I want to put in some flowers.
The first 2 days we were here were terribly windy and dusty and hot. The dust came in everywhere, it was just like a real dusty day in the mallee. Our box of goods was supposed to come out the same day that we got out here, but it didn’t come Wednesday, we waited Thursday, and still didn’t come. By this time Missionary Albrecht was getting worried, he thought the thing might have tipped over. Friday morning we got a wire to say they couldn’t get it off the truck in Alice Springs. They had been trying to get the wire through since Tuesday but the weather had been too bad, they couldn’t get it through. So Sam had to pack up an go into Alice Springs and there saw to the unloading. Eventually on Sunday afternoon the lorry arrived and was duly unpacked, of course the natives were very interested in everything, especially the piano.
So far I haven’t any house girls yet, as soon as we are out of quarantine I will get two. Mrs Albrecht has been baking my bread for me until I get the girls. Milk I have brought over every morning, also cream and from that I make my own butter, but unfortunately I am not a good hand at it yet. There are some nice vegetables in our garden, which is quite a big one, we have over 20 date palms in it, 4 orange trees and 3 figs and quite a number of vines. This last week we had about an inch of rain which was quite nice for the gardens and settled the dust.
I am afraid it will take me quite a while to get to know all the natives and all their names too. I know Albert, the artist, by sight, of course, he always wears an overcoat and is quite proud of his appearance. I also know,
Manasse the leather worker, also Herbert and Ferdinand the two Sam had helping him. Of the women, I think the only one I know by name is,
Cecelia, an older woman who always wears a red dress. Some of the children are lifted up so that they look over the fence to watch the children play and when we come out they scoot. Some of their attire is pretty weird too. One little chap wears his father’s shirt, it reaches nearly to the ground and has to have the sleeves rolled up. Another little girl has her big sister’s dress on, and every time she runs she has to hold it up or she would fall over it. Another little chap has a “has been” shirt on, his father’s, it’s only strips now. Most of the men wear hats, some felt, some harvester hats. The boys that Sam has have straw hats on but they look as though the mice have been at them. Yesterday morning the one came along with feathers sticking out of the holes, I don’t know if he had visited the fowl-house or not.
And now we have been here nearly 4 weeks and haven’t been able to do any real work yet, but we hope it won’t be much longer before we can start.
And so begins our life on the Hermannsburg Mission Station. May God make us a blessing to many.
© Elsa Gross 1939
*Feature Photo: My grandma, Elsa looking out from her Hermannsburg home © S.O. Gross circa 1940
***
I have spent a few hours of this good Friday reading the diary of my Great Aunt Dora. The story begins all full of the hopes of a young 18-year-old first-generation Australian girl whose parents had migrated from Germany to South Australia around 1877. I know her story, I knew and loved my great Aunt Dora. She will never marry. One of many women of her time, when, after World War 1, there were not enough men to go around. I imagine this is what life in the 1920’s was like for her, a maiden aunt caring for her parents.
She had one once. Before the war.
He came from Hamburg. A distant relative from the family.
But the Great War intruded. He was the enemy.
Interned. Never to return.
She perched on the bench in the Royal Botanical Gardens. Watching. Men promenading in pale pinstriped suits, on their arms women in their frilly-white Sunday best, giggling.
Easy for the men, she thought. Pick and choose. Pick and choose. Even the damaged men, the cripples, have a chance.
She sniffed.
What about me? Is that my future? Caring for my aging parents? No choice but to be an old maid?
© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2020; updated 2024
Feature Photo: A lone date palm, Botanical Gardens © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) 1986
***
Or
Tru-Kling Creations 