On the march: The book contains many personal stories of our world at war.
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Thank you for your patience with me. I truly appreciate it, and this round of medication appears to be working.
Recently I received a gift — a copy of Lurline and Arthur Knee’s meticulously crafted book Marched in. I’ve never been one to mess with gift horses but I remain a little confused about the giver. Ownership has been claimed by the late Bruce Wilson (making it even more special in my eyes); however, just how the leap was made from Bruce’s desk to mine is unclear to me. A heavenly gift, let’s leave it at that.
Marched in
The work of the authors gives us information about seven internment and prisoner of war camps in the Tatura area. It contains hundreds of human stories; people who were in the wrong place at a critical time.
However, unsurprisingly, the first thing I took note of was the dedication.
“To all those men, women and children whose lives were irrevocably changed through no fault of theirs, through being in the wrong place, with the wrong passport, at the wrong time, during the Second World War. It is to them that we dedicate this book. They showed by their example that it is possible to survive with dignity and pride behind barbed wire. They have told us: We were treated with respect, as fellow human beings. We will never forget that.”
German wool buyers: Then war is declared.
Internment and prisoner of war camps
Our authors took great care to explain the differences between the two types of camps, with the latter for those involved with the military — and covered by the Geneva Convention, meaning they had to be returned to their homeland. While civilians brought to Australia as internees did not have to be repatriated.
There are many instances of members of both groups — whether repatriated or not — eventually becoming Aussies.
Camp 1, situated near Tatura, was the first internment camp in Australia.
Wrong time, I guess
Some of the early occupiers of Camp 1 were German wool buyers — and several of these people had been in Australia for many years. “Their jobs included the inspection of wool clips, on sheep stations around country Australia.”
It was therefore assumed — probably accurately — that these German citizens knew more about Australia than many people born and bred here. March them in! Our authors have detailed responses from some of our wool buyers, but it is interesting that none of the feedback contains criticism of our government. One went so far as to say that his time at Camp 1 was the best time of his life.
You’ve got to be joking!
The Vienna Mozart Boys’ Choir — said to be the best of its kind in the world — had just concluded a world tour. The choir consisted of 20 boys, aged from eight to 14. However, the day they were about to board their ship, to return to Austria and Germany, war was declared. It is difficult, if not impossible, to measure our response to this latest ‘threat’.
Under the instruction of their choirmaster, Dr Gruber, the boys were moved to Melbourne, where they were billeted with parishioners and rehearsed daily. The boys were interned as they reached 18 years, when they were sent to Loveday Camp in South Australia. “Most of the boys remained in Australia after the war.”
Throughout this extraordinary book, there are stories within stories; for example, the experiences of the Vienna Mozart Boys’ Choir also contain the story of Dr Gruber, who was eventually interned at Camp 1. It is possible Dr Gruber, who had given not a hint of being a supporter of Hitler, and began all the boys’ concerts with God Save the King, was ‘dobbed in’ by a disappointed lady friend.
Where to find Marched In
The Tatura Museum is open from 1pm to 3pm every day (except Good Friday and Christmas Day) and has copies of this fascinating book for sale (phone 5824 2111).
The big picture man, John Lewis and I
I don’t even remember what year it was.
I was writing a booklet for a marketing client and it was to contain interviews with, perhaps, 10 people of interest. However, timelines, deadlines and budgets, dictated that these should be phone interviews, but — as most of these people were busy people, business people, with no time to spare and not a lot to say — that didn’t matter. I understood them, and they me. I could write a short profile and they’d sign off on it.
The next name on the list was ‘Bill Kelly — Artist’. I made a couple of additional phone calls, seeking help. Who was this man? Well, he’s an artist; he has a small gallery, in Nathalia. And then I called Bill Kelly, for the strangest interview of my life.
He was attempting to change the world; I didn’t even know what questions to ask. And, for a humble man, he found himself in a difficult situation. He wanted to help me with my task but his life story was so very big, and my knowledge of him so very small. Who do you know who can add his name to a list that includes Mother Teresa? Could I come to see him? he asked. There was a painting he would like me to see. Sorry, no. Not this time, anyway. Unwillingly, he talked briefly about his life and life experiences — and I had enough information to write an uninteresting profile about an international writer, painter, global peace campaigner and, possibly, one of the world’s great thinkers.
I had visited Nathalia in my past. I remembered having lunch on the banks of the creek, in the midst of an otherwise frantic day, and I remembered being grateful for the peace and beauty of this small town. I had some idea of why Bill Kelly, with a world from which to choose, had somehow found Nathalia — and why he was content there.
We concluded our one-sided conversation, agreeing to meet one day, someday.
However, I read John Lewis’s column last Friday (titled, ‘Farewell to the big picture man’) with my usual eagerness and finished it with a great deal of unresolvable regret. I didn’t keep my promise, and I don’t know why. (Perhaps I was intimidated to the point of no return.) No matter. Bill Kelly will have long forgotten me.
By the way, if by chance you missed Johnno’s Friday column, ‘do yourself a favour’ and please find it now.
Under the clock
Under the clock
Photo by
Contributed
‘Jackasses’ — September 20, 1910
People passing the Post Office on Friday afternoon, about two o’clock, were surprised to hear a series of exclamations from the top of the tower of that building; and on looking up, they beheld a pair of laughing jackasses perched on the railing. The birds would serenely survey the surroundings; then looking down upon ‘the meaner things below’, go off into shrieks, the duet being not quite harmonious in intonation, though the tempo might have been considered good enough for jackasses.
A gentleman, who happened to pass by at the time, thought they were laughing at him because he was wearing headgear so rarely seen in the streets of Shepparton — a belltopper. A young lady was equally indignant, for her belief was that the laughter was in consequence of her tremendous hat, poised in position, on a small but pretty head, through the medium of elongated pins. A little boy, whose fingers were sticky with chocolate creams, boldly expressed the opinion that the birds were training for the Competitions.
Then the jackasses flew away, whether owing to the small boy’s ‘imperence’ – as ’Enery ’Awkins would say — or the shower of rain that began to fall, being left an open question.
My thanks to Geoff Allemand and ‘Lost Shepparton’.
That’s all for now. The daffodils are out in several places in the garden, and so self-involved I have been that I didn’t even notice. Just a month now until spring.
10°C