Half-hearted and Nameless

A military man I know who is also a man of the cloth, recently fathered a half-hearted child. The child is a boy. Although the boy is now four months old I cannot tell you his name: as well as heart-deficient this boy is nameless. Into the vacuum where a name should sound and resound I have secretly named him Bert.

Bert was born with an Hypoplastic Left Heart. Of all the congenital heart defects consistent with life, this is the most severe. When early prenatal scans demonstrated the defect, doctors warned the mother and father: The child might not be born alive. Of all the cities in the world to be born thus, Melbourne might be the very best. For in this location the very worst heart enjoys the very best outcome. And Melbourne is home to the Royal Children’s Hospital, where the cardiac surgeons achieve results superior to other centres around the world. Paediatric surgeons from the greatest hospitals in the USA perform the same procedures but without the same success. Their specialists visit the RCH to learn how the Melbourne team does it.

When my soldier friend told me of Bert’s heart condition my own heart sank. Without an adequate left ventricle circulation is critically impaired, the baby is breathless and often blue. The situation is serious, prone to deteriorate rapidly. Surgery of the highest intricacy is needed with critical urgency. Further surgery will follow within months, and more still as the child grows. If the child grows.

But Bert’s family are strangers to despair. Their faith buoys them. They pray. Their large family prays, their congregation prays, sister congregations join in a tidal wave of prayerful hope. The soldier father sets about studying Hypoplastic Left Heart Syndrome. He interrogates the cardiologist, the cardiac surgeon, surgical texts and research papers in the learned journals. Meanwhile baby Bert lies in Intensive Care puffing mightily, as his too little heart labours to circulate oxygen-poor blood around his body – most crucially to his brain.

The baby undergoes his first operation. Some hold their breath. Others pray. Bert comes through.

The nurses ask, ‘What’s his name?’

The parents reply, ‘We haven’t given him a name yet.’

‘When will you?’

‘When he’s fit enough we’ll circumcise him and we’ll give him his name.’

The nurses are confounded. They’ve come to love this little baby who puffs and puffs and keeps pulling through. Love demands a name. Administration demands a name. A non-name is given, a name for nurses to love him by, a name for administrators to administer by. Obeying the same imperative, I looked at the bony little battler and secretly started calling him Bert. But his true name, the name that will come to him dynastically or by parental vision or by revelation is not known. The day is not yet come.

A close bond weaves itself among the team that comprises on the one side a mother, a father, bigger brothers, grandparents, uncles and aunts, and on the other, a cardiac surgeon from Belgium, a cardiologist with a Chinese name, ultrasonographers, physiotherapists, cardiac nurses. The father masters and explains to me the eye-watering anatomic detail, embryology, circulatory physiology and pathology as well as the sequence of cardiac surgeries that is needed for Bert to live and to grow. And (in the locution of the family), God willing, to undergo ritual circumcision and to receive his name.

When I visit Bert in Intensive Care, I find the usual grim intent of such a Unit softened. A tenderness prevails, a gentleness, the amalgam of a family’s faith and the distinctive ethos of the institution. It is in Paediatrics where you find the kindest clinicians, and human sensitivity at its highest. The Chinese cardiologist procures for himself a religious almanac so he can know the dates and times when the family will observe Sabbaths and Festivals. He doesn’t want to cause them needlessly to contravene the strictures of telephony at such times.

Bert learns to smile. An MRI searches for hypoxic and other brain damage and finds none. Bert learns to suckle, taking in nourishment made specifically for him, taking in too, mother love, mother touch, smell and sound. Bert lies at his mother’s breast and feels that heartbeat that reassured and made him through the months that he grew, until he came into the world without a fully formed heart. Bert’s bony cheeks begin to flesh out, but he gains weight painfully slowly. The cardiologist explains Bert’s heart has to work so hard it burns up almost all the energy he consumes. The date of the second surgical operation must be brought forward, lest a wonky heart valve be damaged further.

The soldier rabbi father and I became friends when he himself was a runted collection of skin and bones and spirit, aged four years. It was he who knocked on my door one Sabbath morning with a request from his mother to visit his sick sister in their house around the corner. That sister was sped to hospital that morning, never to return to her home. None of us has recovered from her ordeal and her loss.

Tomorrow, or as soon as an Intensive Care bed becomes free, the baby son without a heart and without a name will undergo his next surgery. If you are the praying kind, spare a prayer for him. You can call him Bert.

Dennis

 

 

When I was born my elder brother was two years and two months old. When my brother died he was sixty-two. Tonight my younger brother and I will remember our firstborn brother. We’ll recite Kaddish together in his memory.

 

 

 

When I was newly born Dennis filled my baby carriage with all of his toys, submerging me. I didn’t recall that; our mother told me of it. She said Dennis loved his new brother so much he wanted me to have all his toys. All of our lives Dennis gave away everything that was his.

 

 

 

Dennis and I always bathed together. When I was five years of age, and trusting, Dennis conned me into an act of fellatio in which he pissed in my mouth. I recall that clearly.

 

 

 

I’ll light a memorial candle tonight. The candle burns longer than twenty-four hours. When I walk into my night kitchen the small flame takes me by surprise. I stop and I remember. The small flame flickers and falls. It looks about to die, but then it rises and burns brightly.

 

 

I sit alone in the kitchen and the truth comes to me anew: we all flicker before we die. But Dennis! Dennis had such a force of life. I see him pushing Mum in her wheelchair along a steep winding path, pushing her up, up, to catch the sea view from a peak at Wilson’s Promontory. The tyres sink deeply into the sand but Dennis, by sheer force of will, propels Mum forward and upward.

 

 

 

Dennis the fearless. Dennis undaunted, never defeated. When his affairs took a reverse I’d worry for him, but he’d say, ‘It’s always darkest before the dawn.’  Dennis meant that, he believed it, he lived by it.

 

 

 

Life brought ease to the second brother, a harder path to the firstborn. Dennis rejoiced for me in all my little successes. He knew no envy, never felt usurped by the younger brother who got the birthright. He bought me a holy book and inscribed it with his heart’s blood: ‘For my brother Howard. God must be proud of you.’

 

 

 

Dennis had the gregariousness of the deeply lonely. I sit and leaf through his address book, an odd keepsake. The crammed pages teem with names, so many names, names of down and out people he’d find and succour. These people, themselves lonely, found in my brother a man who’d give away all his own toys. 

 

 

 

Dennis decided to undergo major surgery, hazardous surgery. I misgave. But he said, ‘Doff, It will cure my diabetes, I’ll get my life back.’  He had the surgery, his flame flickered and he died.

 

 

Eini, eini, yorda mayyim

My eye, my eye runs with water.

 

 

 

Ellul, 17-18, 5779.

Wrestling

(Someone told me recently a blog post is supposed to be of six hundred words. It sounded like one of the Laws of the Universe, like when we have an Equinox and when we have a Solstice. The Law reached me too late to stick. What follows is a story longer than the prescribed six hundred words. If you read it to its end you will understand I post it now to encourage a friend.)

Wrestling with the Murderer

 

***

It was in the late ‘nineties that I first met Chief Inspector John Bailey, the son of a policeman who had been awarded the George Cross posthumously. I had come to Albury expressly to hear the story of Eric George Bailey, the police officer who arrested his own murderer.

In the course of that first meeting John Bailey showed me the George Cross that the King of England awarded to his father. A large man, he hefted the silver cross in his palm, raising and lowering it slowly, in time with the cadence of his weighted words, as he told me of his father’s life and death.  Then he passed it to me. The medal, small in John Bailey’s hand, surprised me with its weight. Bailey said, “It’s what I have had to remember my father. It’s a rare and precious thing, a George Cross, but it’s not a father.

“I’ve got to pass it on, the medal. The Police Museum wants it, but I won’t let it go to them. I’ve seen too many things disappear from there, precious things, things that ought to remain when a man is gone, things that honour a person. This one was my father’s. “I’d trust the War Museum in Canberra. I’d be happy to see it go there, but not the Police Museum.”

The Chief Inspector was a tall man, stooping more for courtesy than for age, more or less pear shaped. Only his nose and his fingers were thin, arrows of curiosity projecting into the world before him. His eyes, hooded in age-loosened skin, looked at me, hawk-like, as he nodded slowly, “No, not the Police Museum.”

Bailey excused himself: “There’s a book I want to show you. I’ll bring it out.” I sat in the late afternoon sun on the Baileys’ small verandah and pondered the old man’s words: it’s not a father.

John Bailey returned carrying a copy of “They Dared Mightily”, an account of all Australians who had won the Victoria Cross or the George Cross. I learned that only about 400 of the latter have ever been awarded; in the echelons of courage it is the full equal of the Victoria Cross; and together with the VC it is the only royal honour ever awarded posthumously. Bailey opened the well-thumbed volume at page 279, pointed to his father’s citation and handed it to me to read. A quietly spoken man, he wanted me to know how history recalled his father, but he would not declaim or boast. The record must speak for itself.

The full citation was published in a supplement to the London Gazette of 25 October 1946 and read in part:

St. James’s Palace, S.W.1, 29th October, 1946.

The King has been graciously pleased to make the undermentioned awards of the GEORGE CROSS: —

Eric George BAILEY (deceased), Sergeant 3rd Class, New South Wales Police Force.

At about 8.30 p.m. on the 12th January, 1945, Sergeant Bailey (then a Constable 1st Class), whilst on duty in Adelaide Street, Blayney had occasion to speak to a man whose movements were suspicious. During the questioning the man pulled a revolver from his pocket and fired a shot which struck Bailey in the stomach. The Constable immediately closed with his assailant who fired two more shots. Although fast succumbing to his injuries and suffering from the effects of shock and haemorrhage, Bailey continued the struggle with the offender and held him on the ground until assistance arrived. Shortly afterwards he died. The fortitude and courage manifested by this Police Officer, in spite of the mortal injuries sustained by him at the outset of the encounter, constitute bravery and devotion to duty of the highest order.

 

Almost in passing there follows an account of an earlier act of heroism, desperate and unsung:

 

On 20 April 1939 he moved to Moruya, here he was highly commended for his part in the rescue of survivors from the fishing trawler, Dureenbee, which had been attacked by a Japanese submarine on 3 August 1942. He was transferred for the final time, to Blayney, just eight days before his death.

The face of Eric George Bailey looks out from his photograph on page 280. It is a young face, small and fine-boned beneath the broad visor of his police hat. The gaze is steady. I looked up at John Bailey and there was the same steady look. The look of the young man who was his father. In coming to Albury to learn about Eric George Bailey, GC, the father. I had no expectation of this man, his son. I had not imagined him. The son, I soon learned, was a story in his own right.

I asked John Bailey for his own recollections of his father’s passing. He was glad to oblige: ”Just before my father left the house to go to work, he paused and bent down to me and rubbed my head. He kissed my mother. He reached down to pat my little sister. Then he went through the doorway. I never saw him alive again.”

When John Bailey spoke he was irresistible. Speaking slowly, his voice emerging from his deep body, he chose his words carefully, simple words, spoken steadily by the old policeman, who regarded me steadily as he spoke. John Bailey looked across the small verandah towards me – and beyond me – to the scene he described. He looked at me, bringing me with him into that scene. It was alive in him as he spoke. I was soon to see that it had been alive to him ever since his father died, on January 12, 1945.

“The previous evening my father had said to all of us, ‘Tomorrow is the start of a new life.’ He and mother had brought us to the town of Blayney a week previous. Father had a week of leave that he used to settle us into our house and into the town.

“I remember Father brought a whole trailer load of onions and garlic with us to Blayney. He was a great gardener. He had grown them at his previous posting and he spent the last day of his leave fixing chook wire high under the roof in the garage to keep the onions and garlic dry.

That night Father said: ‘Tomorrow’s the day, the start of a new life.’

The next afternoon he walked out through the door for the 3.00 o’clock shift… I can still see him going out the door…”

“Father was one of nine children, the youngest. His family didn’t have much. My father didn’t own a pair of shoes until he was ten years old. He left home when he was fourteen to join the Post Office. He was a telegram boy. When he was twenty he joined the Police Force in Sydney. He worked for a while in Traffic, like all of them. Then he asked for a posting to the country. He was from the country himself… from Tenterfield. His people were farmers there.

“Father had married my mother in Sydney. She was a Sydney girl. When they were posted to the country it was to The Rock, not far from here…

“The Rock is a pretty small town. There were only a couple of hundred people. It was a one-man police station. It must have been a terrible shock to my mother, coming from Sydney to a place like that. But she accepted it.

“After The Rock Father was posted to Gundagai. I was born in Gundagai, in 1929. Then we went to Narrandera, then to Deniliquin, then Balranald. Every posting we went further west. Do you know Balranald?”

I shook my head. I knew the other towns he named: Narrandera is only 19 miles up the road from my home town of Leeton.

“Well, you would know Hay then – Hay, Hell and Booligal – Balranald is further out still… I remember the summers in Balranald. They were hot. The police house was very hot. A low roof…it was tin. One day the Chief Commissioner called in at the Station and Father invited him up home. He stopped with us for the night. I remember him and Father, both sitting out the back in the hot night. There was Father in his singlet, sitting with the Chief Commissioner of Police. He stripped down to his singlet too.

“That’s my first memory of the Chief Commissioner.

I met him again… after…

The Chief said to Father: ‘How can your wife live in this heat, a woman, with a child?’ So we were posted to Moruya. We were there from 1939 to 1945.”

“We arrived at Blayney on January 3, 1945.  Father started work in Blayney on January 12. He was shot that first day.

“My father was the only police officer to arrest his own murderer.”

A John Bailey pause. He lifted the little black leather casket and hefted it a couple of times. He put it down again.

When he resumed John Bailey shifted to the present tense: “Father walks the three quarters of a mile to work. On his way he stops at the picture theatre, to introduce himself to the proprietor. Father is the new police officer; he wants to meet the people who do business in the town.

Just then a man runs in, shouting that a man is waving a firearm about in the Exchange Hotel. Father knows the Exchange. We stayed there our first few nights in Blayney while they got the Police House ready for us.

“Father goes straight to the Exchange. In the Lounge they point out a man wearing a sort of uniform. He’s talking excitedly. Father doesn’t want an over-excited man with a firearm inside with all those people. He says: ‘You had better come outside with me.’

“They go outside. The man is wearing the uniform of the American Merchant Marine. Father questions him – name and address and so on. His answers aren’t satisfactory. He does say he is staying at the hotel. Father says ‘I think we had better search your room.’

Now the man becomes really agitated. He pulls out a handgun. Father says: ’Give that to me.’ He takes a step towards the man. The man shoots at my father. The bullet enters the left side of my father’s abdomen, passes through his liver, then up into his chest and lodges finally in his right shoulder.

“My father begins to bleed. My father closes on the man and grabs him by the arm. They wrestle and my father throws him to the ground. He comes to rest in the gutter, where they continue to wrestle. My father is getting weaker, but he manages to get on top of him.

The man still has the weapon in his hand, and my father attempts to take it while the man tries to shoot again. He manages to discharge the weapon but Father has deflected the gun so the shot goes astray. The bullet is found later in the ceiling of the hotel verandah. The man shoots again but my father has forced his wrist forward so the shot goes this time into the man’s forearm, where it shatters the bones and lodges in his elbow…”

There is another Bailey pause. The old policeman is looking downward and across his own verandah, across the years, at two wounded men in their mortal struggle. There is no anger in his expression, only sorrow.

The voice, the telling, is delivered like the plain fact testimony that I’ve heard police officers give in a court of law – no verbal colour, nothing in the words to convey hurt. Only the silences between words, only the pauses, allow me a sense of the speaker’s experience.

Old Man Bailey does not once refer to the killer by name – he remains ‘the man’ throughout – but the police officer is ‘Father’, flesh of his flesh. The father and his memorialising son have the colour and heat of human relationship. ‘The man’ has no human connection.

John Bailey resumes: “The gunman cannot escape. My father’s body is heavy upon him, his gun arm is shattered. My father has been bleeding heavily. Two railway detectives arrive at the scene from the railyards close by. They had heard the shots. Father says: ‘Take the handcuffs and cuff him. They are on my belt.’

The detectives put the handcuffs on the gunman, and someone calls an ambulance. The ambulance takes Father to the hospital in Orange, thirty miles away. My father dies on the way to hospital from loss of blood.”

Silence.

Then John Bailey repeats: “My father is the only police officer that I know of who arrested his own murderer.”

***

“An officer came to the house and told Mother that Dad was hurt. She went away with the officer and I took my little sister to the neighbours’ house. We stayed the night in the house of Death. That was the neighbours’ name – Death. They pronounced it Deeth.

“ I saw my father once more – in the casket, at the funeral. My father was 38 years old when he was killed…

“The Force paid full Police honours to my father. There was a procession at the funeral, with the Police Band, the Mounted Police, a motor cycle escort, officers marching in formation.

Afterwards we packed up and went to Mother’s people in Sydney. That was Bondi. Later there was a function to award my father the Geoff Lewis Trophy – that’s the annual police award for valour. At the function the Chief Commissioner said to Mum, ‘I want your boy John in the Police Force.’ He wanted to look after me for my father’s sake and for my mother. But mother didn’t want it. I didn’t either, really.”

“My father said I should go into the Post Office and that was the plan. I never intended to join the force. But after the funeral, the Chief Commissioner said to Mum, ‘How old is your son, here?’

Mother said I was fourteen.

The Chief said as soon as I was old enough I should join up: he would keep an eye on me.

So, when I was fifteen I went to the Recruiting Office. I wasn’t very big. Officer Russ Sadler was a big man. He said: ‘You delivering a telegram, son?’ I told Officer Sadler I was going to join the force.

He measured me and he weighed me and he said they wouldn’t take me. I was too small. ‘Go home and eat some Weet Bix, son’, he said. ‘Come back when you’re bigger.’

But the Officer-in-Charge, a Scot called Gordon McKechnie, bellowed and wagged his finger at the junior officer and told him off. ‘This young bloke is going to be a policeman. Sign him in.’

“So, even though I was less than five feet nine tall and I weighed less than ten stone, they let me into the Police Cadets – on a condition: I had the three years as a cadet to become tall enough and heavy enough. And I soon grew and I made the height and weight comfortably.”

I could see that he did. John Bailey, even in old age, was tall enough and heavy enough. Ample in fact.

***

John Bailey pointed again to the book.  I read again the citation. It described the actions of Officer Bailey. It steered well clear of any feelings. The officer saw his duty and he did not hesitate.

Only one year after his father’s death, John Bailey enters the fatal force. He serves for forty-five years. I wondered aloud,” Did you sometimes remember your father’s death during those years? Did you look over your shoulder as you went about your work?” What I did not ask – but I wondered – when he was a young father, did he not recall the night when grim-faced officers took his stricken mother away, leaving him, a fourteen year old boy to take his small sister to the neighbours called Death?

“I never forgot my father. I thought about him whenever I worked alone. As a country policeman I was usually alone. One night I was at home. I heard someone screaming wildly in the front room. I pulled my trousers on and there was a man in there, terrified, in a panic. He was shouting – something about a man, a gun. Someone had been shot in a house close by. “I pulled my boots on and ran straight there. I went into the house and saw the body. He was dead. I could see that straight away. Half the face had been shot off. It must have been a shotgun.

The gunman had to be somewhere close by. There was no-one else in the house. I went outside to look for the killer. It was dark. I didn’t want to turn on my torch and show him a target. I listened. There was no sound. I was pretty sure he was in the garden somewhere. I spent three quarters of an hour trying to find him.

“I did think of my father…

I tried to move quietly. Eventually I found him. He was sitting against the back fence, dead. He had shot his own face off.”

***

I did some research into ‘the man’ who murdered Eric George Bailey. I read he was released from gaol only two days before the murder. The man was a professional crook whose specialty was stealing passengers’ luggage from railway stations. He’d spent some time in prison for theft elsewhere in country New South Wales. On his first day of freedom he stole a couple of suitcases from a railway station. In one of these he found an American uniform.

It was just after closing time at a gun shop in Sydney that ex-prisoner Thomas Couldrey (alias Cyril Norman) knocked on the door of the shop. He persuaded the proprietor to admit him on the pretext of Couldrey’s planned departure before opening hour on the morrow. Couldrey examined a number of guns as if to make a purchase, loading one. He distracted the shop-keeper then attacked him, shooting him dead. He then looted the shop of weapons and ammunition and cash, which he packed into a suitcase. He travelled with that suitcase to Blayney, where he booked into the Exchange Hotel. Here, dressed in the American uniform, he proceeded to drink rapidly. It was there that ‘the man’ met Eric Bailey. It was outside the hotel – where Bailey chose to question him for the greater safety of patrons – that the officer said: “I think I’d better search your room.”

In time Couldrey recovered from the injuries he sustained in the struggle with the policeman who arrested him. He stood trial, was convicted and sentenced to death by hanging. In the event the sentence was commuted. Couldrey died in prison some years later of natural causes, thought to be tuberculosis.

***

By the time I met the son John, he had retired from the Police Force. We met at his home in Albury where he cared for his wife whose memory was failing. It was not old age or his wife’s infirmity that brought about Bailey’s retirement; it was, he said, disgust.

Four decades after his father’s murder Chief Inspector John Bailey underwent an exhaustive sequence of interviews and assessments that would have seen him promoted to Commander. He progressed smoothly through every stage. Next, Bailey underwent examination by an Ethics Panel. This was the final stage. From here promotion would be a formality: “There were five examiners on that panel. I recognised the faces of a couple of them, I knew the names of a couple more. The fifth was a senior man in the magistracy. I knew that name too. Everyone in the force knew him, the greatest paedophile in the state. Everyone knew, everyone turned a blind eye. And that… that man was about to determine my ethical fitness. It sickened me. I withdrew my candidacy. Not long after I retired.”

***

Much of this account I wrote shortly after first meeting John Bailey. Earlier he had recovered from ostensibly successful surgery for colon cancer, only for it to recur. His daughter Chrissie knew what this must portend. Her young children did not know and, she decided, should not know. Not yet.

So the time was not right for me to tell the story of John Bailey’s long, long struggle. Meanwhile he had other things on his mind, a great task before him in the care of his failing wife. After many years, when Mrs Bailey was beyond caring or knowing, John allowed his wife to move into professional care. Now he could retire from his second career.  In the years that followed John Bailey wrestled with his own murderer, an opponent more like a tag team, returning now as cancer, now as open heart surgery, now as diabetes, now as blindness, finally near his heart. He yielded only at the final fall.

***

My oldest friend Johnny Wanklyn phoned me from Albury. He produced only a few words, the bare few. Long before my friend became John Bailey’s son-in-law he’d been the elder man’s close friend. John married Bailey’s daughter and the two Johns remained tight.

Johnny had called a few times over the previous week or two. The first time Johnny wanted to know: “What’s the best place in Melbourne for chest diagnosis?” Unspoken was our shared knowledge of the colon cancer. The new problem was a mass in his chest. More calls followed: “The local specialist wants a biopsy – should it be taken in Albury or in Melbourne?” The last call: ”The old man’s too ill for any procedure.”

John Bailey’s son flew from Far North Queensland; his grandchildren gathered from Melbourne, from Geelong, from Christchurch. And now, the minimum, the inevitable: “Doff, John has passed.” My friend’s voice failed him.

Eventually he managed, “Bye for now.”

***

It was only six weeks previously that John Bailey and I talked over a long dinner at the house of his daughter, Chrissie and his son-in-law, John Wanklyn. I was about to fly to Wadeye, reputedly one of Australia’s most lawless towns. After a long career spent as an officer of the law in rural and regional areas, John Bailey was keenly interested: “I’ll be anxious to hear what you find in Wadeye. Tell me what you think.”

I readied myself to offer the veteran copper my apologetics, some extenuation of Aboriginal lawlessness. Old Man Bailey put down his glass. He raised his right hand, clawed by age and arthritis, and waved away my preconceptions of his preconceptions: he had none; he had, in his eighties that rare attribute – a genuinely open mind on Aboriginal matters. “Howard, I am glad you are going. Be sure to write and tell me about the town and the life there. Write and tell me what you see.” I did go, I did write. But I didn’t manage to complete my long piece about Wadeye – one of Australia’s hidden cultural capitals – in time to share it with John Bailey.

The uncompletedness of my task was a weight. I felt I owed some personal debt to John Bailey, to his remarkable life and lineage and service – this man who lost a father and gained a vocation through a murder.

***

A year after her father’s passing, John Bailey’s daughter supplied information he had not seen fit to mention to me. “Pa was honoured many times by the force. In 1972 they awarded him the Police Long Service and Good Conduct Medal; in 1986 he was awarded the National Police Medal; and in1988 they gave him the NSW Police Medal with 6th Clasp. Do you know what that means?”

I didn’t.

“It means they awarded him with that honour on six separate occasions.”

A Bailey pause.

“So the force honoured Pa lots of times in his lifetime. And one final time after he died: that was at his funeral. There was a motor cycle vanguard and a motor cycle rearguard. Police officers in numbers. The local chief commander spoke. Pa was buried in his dress uniform, with all his decorations attached.  A Police flag covered the casket and Pa’s police hat rested on it.

“One funny thing happened that day. I wouldn’t have seen the funny side at the time: a member of the motorcycle escort recognised the driver of the hearse. The man was a disqualified driver who’d lost his license through drink driving or some other offense. I don’t know what the copper did about it, but I know what he didn’t do. He didn’t arrest the driver on the spot and spoil Pa’s funeral.”

Postscript: I sent John Bailey’s daughter my notes. She wrote: “It took me a little while to brace myself to open it…You tell a story that I know, and have known for most of my life. But you have woven into the fabric of this new telling, the very essence of my father and his long-felt and deep loss of his father. I often think that the answer to the question “who would you invite to the ultimate dinner party?” would be, my father and grandfather, just to see and hear them together.

Thank you for reuniting father and son in words. I know Pa would have seen it as a precious and tangible thing to hand on to his children, grandchildren and beyond …”

I dedicate this story to a friend who is wrestling in another mortal struggle.

Reds Under the Beds

Michael Benjamin Komesaroff was a conspicuous proletarian classmate of mine during our later years at Scopus (1963). He had a lived political ideology, like other Komesaroffs before him, an indivisible loyalty to Jewishness and to his country of citizenship. I recall his vernacular speech deafening us classmates in his espousal of Labor politics. We called him Kommo; he was a social democrat before most of us knew the term. Those same politics marked the generation of his immediate ancestors, and brought them to the attention of ASIO. At the time Lenin was preaching international revolution, a doctrine that unsettled Australia’s conservatives. Here were the Komesaroffs, newly arrived from that revolutionary hotbed. Where did their loyalties lie? ASIO became very interested in them, and now their descendant, with a career in international journalism behind him, investigates the investigators in a new book. “Reds Under the Beds” is the result.

“Reds Under the Beds” describes the abiding interest of Australia’s intelligence community in a family who had immigrated in the early decades of the Twentieth Century.  The author’s love and respect for those ancestors match his feelings for Australia. His meticulous research informs this account of a group whose hallmark was loyalty. The Komesaroffs were loyal Jews who became loyal citizens of Australia. Jewish loyalty mandated their love of Zion and their opposition to fascism, while loyalty to the country of adoption saw them acknowledged as exemplary citizens. Somehow ASIO became all too interested in the Jewish concerns of the Komesaroffs and quite blind to their lives as citizens.

Michael Komesaroff writes his family’s story dispassionately, in clear and clean prose. His analysis of the political tides and times is  revelation, as is his understanding of the contest for middle Australia between Social Democrats and Conservatives. With a calm that is unusual he identifies prevailing anti-semitic attitudes without inflating it beyond its true dimensions. Most topically, Komesaroff shows us how Australians of the most ordinary loyalty can come under pervading suspicion and investigation by Intelligence organisations. In our times, when mistrust of the citizenry is translated into something of a growth industry, a poised and intelligent balance is needed between the community’s needs of security and of community. In the case of these ‘Reds under the Beds’, ASIO emerges, showing limited intelligence.

“Reds Under the Beds” is published by Hybrid Publishers and is available from most booksellers and Amazon. Further details of the book are contained on the Amazon website (here).

As outlined in the flyer, I have the pleasure of launching the book at 4:00 pm on Sunday 15 July at Glen Huntly Park Function Room, Glen Huntly Park, corner of Neerim and Booran Roads.

Ecclesiastes, 12, 1

A letter arrived inviting me to join a panel of former students addressing a bunch of peers from my old school. Panelists were to discuss a number of questions which all boiled down to If you knew then what you know now, what would you have done differently?

The questions made me think about my schooldays. I loved school. I felt happy. I thought the brutality of our teachers was somehow just the way of things, neither wrong nor right, simply conduct that lay beyond judgement. I didn’t like it – in fact when I witnessed it I’d whinny with the ugly mirth of the unpunished; when I received it I felt I might vomit. But then I didn’t like winter either. Winter and corporal punishment were both unpleasant and both lay beyond lawmaking.

As I reviewed our jungle behaviour my older self felt sad and ashamed. I wished we had been kinder. An instinct revealed to us whoever was the most vulnerable. Arriving as a new boy in mid-term I was conspicuously vulnerable and the hounds duly bayed and pursued me. Being new was a temporary condition; others suffered perpetually. In my turn I identified one or two of these and I teased them with relish.

In time I saw how that fat child, this gay person, that person whose father belted her every day, attracted the crows, and I declined to join in the pecking. In time two of these three were to die by their own hand; the third tried and failed.

I wasn’t fat, or gay. My father didn’t beat me. My schooldays were happy. Inspiring teachers inspired me; loving mentors nurtured me. I suppose I blossomed.

Half a century and more have passed since I lived in that arena of mind-nurture and bloodsport. My eyes, clouded now with cataract, my knees grating, my hearing dimmed, my balance wonky, my farting – ever a reckless delight – now hazardous, what advice would I offer today’s schoolchild? Should I say Rejoice in the days of your youth before the evil days come when you will say, “I have no pleasure in them”?

I watch those tender green shoots anxiously as they don school garb and they venture into their jungles. I hold my breath and hope. Will she make her way? Will she find a friend? What wise words might I proffer?

Instead of speaking words I hope I might hold my peace and let her be, and let her become.

A Dream

In early 2018, fourteen of Clan Goldenberg descend on a vast villa in the Dominican republic. We have not been long in DR before we start to feel its bite. While we reside in a vast house of huge rooms and lush grounds the world outside is very different. Simply put, the people are poor. While the sun-and rain-drenched soil feeds most of its 13 million people more-or-less adequately, measures of relative poverty place DR 19th-poorest on the planet. Schooling is free but generally brief and standards are deplorable. We read of teenage pregnancy – 28 percent of girls aged eleven to fifteen have undergone termination of pregnancy. Unemployment and sub-employment drive a cycle of generational poverty. The poor attend poorer schools for a shorter period. They leave, they marry too young, and it all starts again.

There is, it appears, something of a solution. For every additional year that a girl stays at primary school there accrues a 3% rise in her employability. But for every additional year of high schooling, employability rises 26%.

 

 

So far, so regrettably common. But there’s something uncommon about this particular half-island. In 1938 two of the worst humans of modern history found themselves at cross purposes. While Hitler worked to persecute, and finally to exterminate Jews, Trujillo, the Dominican butcher-dictator, strove to save them.

At the ill-fated Evian Conference, convened by Roosevelt to find countries of shelter for Jews, thirty-two nations gathered. The setting was elegant, the food sublime, the sentiments uniformly noble. The outcome was disastrous: America remained obdurately closed; Britain accepted children but kept Palestine closed to Jewish immigration; vast, empty Australia piously declared: we are a young nation without a racial problem (really?) and we have no wish to import one…

 

 

Nation number 32, the Dominican Republic, vowed to take 100,000 Jews.  Why did Trujillo make his offer? While opinion is divided about his motivation it seems he was anxious to improve his image following his recent massacre of 20,000 of his countrymen. Trujillo, himself partly black, was a racist who used to powder his face white for public appearances. He stated he sought Jewish immigration to raise the standards of Dominican agriculture and industry. He added openly his wish that by intermarrying with locals, European Jews would whiten his citizenry.

It is this mixed package of information that bites us. In Sosua, in the neglected north, we find a remnant Jewish community, proudly Dominican, proudly Jewish, unashamedly religiously ‘impure’. Sosua speaks to the grateful heart. A friend from New York helped to endow a school here for the children of the poorest, dedicating it to the memory of his mother Flora, herself an early childhood educator.

Sosua bit our friend and it bit my family too. We are accommodated between Sosua and Cabarete in a gated community of vast villas with yawning ceilings, timbered walls and picture windows opening onto lush grounds. Cheerful Dominicans bearing weapons protect us (from cheerless Dominicans?), patrolling the grounds day and night. Their guns have the look of the blunderbuss, somehow horrific and laughable at the same time. It is all very comfortable – just a little too comfortable for comfort. A comfort from which our New York friend relieves himself by working relentlessly for the people of DR, both Gentile and Jewish.

Two days ago we visited the school named for Flora, a part of the DREAM Project. The drive from Sosua to Cabarete was punctuated by the now-raining, now-sunny weather and the familiar dicing with death of the weaving motocyclistas along the perpetually slippery roads.

When we reached Cabarete’s sole traffic light we turned right, as directed, along Callejon de Talloga. This little ribbon of road twists and turns though the Dominican village, a place vivid for its street life and stark for its street life. People here abide in evident vivacity and in evident want.

We become lost repeatedly in side streets too narrow for a U-turn. Few of the villagers speak English but everyone knows the two words, DREAM Project. Faces light up, people point, someone materializes as designated interpreter and directions are given.

The roads are narrow, footpaths are lacking, and soft human bodies share the roadway with battered cars, bikes, motorcycles and hungry dogs. Dwellings are tiny and insubstantial. They will not survive the next hurricane season. Eateries are very numerous, generally someone’s front room. Bright colours, lounging youths, slim-hipped schoolgirls, their bodies advancing to a ripeness far beyond their years, smiles everywhere, people moving with the grace of dancers; life is pinched but never mean.

We turn a corner and here are the DREAM Project’s Flora Rabinovitch premises. By chance our visit coincides with the inauguration of something. The fundraiser, a charming American called John, shepherds a small herd of pink visitors to an outdoor shelter where he explains the DREAM in fluent and quite accessible Spanish and in English.  Seated on the ground before us is a class of three-to five-year olds, the pupils of the beginners’ grade. The children observe deep decorum, their bodies unmoving, their grave faces a mute challenge to all: behold my irresistible humanity.

 

 

The fundraising man is handsome, utterly charming, and he is paid to charm us. He certainly charmed me. If he told me he was going to campaign for the re-election of the incumbent President of the United States I would probably follow him and drink at his Tea Party.

But charm is needless. Outside on the street the need is visible and unpretty. Here in the bricks and flesh of the school is a serious gesture towards cure. John-the-Charming reels off figures and facts: We now have ten regional and rural schools, we have 750 students, we teach by the Montessori System…

 

 

Montessori! My own children attended a Montessori school. It stands for a learning which is neither rigid nor structured; rather the child chooses what to task to learn, and having once learned it, moves onto another. The teacher explains: The child learns tasks of living. We prepare the child for life at each child’s pace. The pace can be quick: many of our four-year olds are reading.

In the USA Montessori means private; private means money. These kids of the DREAM receive schooling that most Yanquis can only dream of.

  

 

We sweat for a while in the blaze of day then follow John and the teacher to the classroom of Beginners. The flesh and curls teacher closely resembles the young woman of the billboard, at work among her charges. We stand, towering above children who are impossibly small, impossibly beautiful and so, so solemn.

The children will invite you to come and sit. They will teach you what they have mastered.

 

 

One child takes my hand in hers and sits me down at a tiny table. She turns, walks a little distance to some shelves where she selects a tray, which she carries studiously to our table. She sits. Upon the tray I see small sheets of coloured paper and a small bucket filled with sharpened pencils. I ask her name. Facing downward she makes a small sound which I cannot make out. Rather than disturb her composure by asking again, I hold my peace.  My nameless little teacher takes a yellow pencil and traces a fairly straight line on the bottle-green page. At the termination of the line she draws a roughly circular shape. Gravely she looks up. I nod. Once again Anonymous Child draws something linear which runs to and joins something circular. I might be looking at a balloon on a string, an olive on a twig, or a circle and a line. I nod again. Little teacher hands me a pencil and I do my best to emulate the task she has mastered and taught me.

My lesson is over. I thank the small teacher and approach the adult teacher. I describe an outback school in Australia’s Top End where I saw undernourished children, and where the school feeds them. The pupils eat two hot meals a day on every school day, their sole reliable nutrition. Does the DREAM in Cabarete feed these kids? At mid-morning we have Snack. The government supplies milk and bread. The school supplies cookies. At lunchtime some children have no food and we teachers feed them from the lunches we bring from home. At the end of the day we give leftover bread and milk to children of hungry families to take home.

It’s time to go. A quiet word to John Charming. Yes, the school does accept donationsOne hundred percent of donated money goes to work in the classrooms.

I trust the DREAM. I donate more than I imagined I might at http://www.dominicandream.org/ and so can you.

Goodbye My Friend

We are saying goodbye to Mannie today.

Mannie, my friend.

Mannie, whose loved ones weep today.

Manny, one sole man, who ran and ran.

Mannie whose race is finally run.

Mannie’s roots lie in Greece.

Mannie was true to his roots.

Those roots brought forth shoots who live and grow and bear fruit. The shoots are the children of Mannie and Demitra. When the young couple named their shoots they were visited by the muses: they named their children not Lucy but Alithea; not Robert but Panayioti; not Susan but Leni. The names carry meaning, love of course, and destiny.

Mannie did not give his children easy names, Aussie names, names to hide behind. He gave them what he received – a culture, a tradition, a history of beauty and pride.

Everyone knows of the feats of Manuel Karageorgiou, Mannie, who ran the first Melbourne Marathon and the second and the third and …

Manny was one of the eight. Eight glorious souls who had lived and toiled and wrought in every Melbourne Marathon from the first to the latest. Forty consecutive marathons. Foolish.

I want to suggest to the non-runner reader what Mannie’s folly entailed. Physiologists have identified an end point of energy. And adult human can run about 32 kilometres, then energy reserves are exhausted. After that the runner faces a wall. The runner digs into a core of belief and runs a further step. There remain ten kilometres, ten thousand steps. The runner digs further, drawing on pride, on mystic need, on love, on some truth in the soul. And the runner runs on, runs through a wrecked body. The runner now is pure spirit.

And then there are the final, agonising, ecstatic one hundred and eighty steps. The runner crosses the line and then the race is run.

A few paragraphs ago I began listing Mannie’s Melbourne Marathons. I stopped after three. Were I merely to list the forty your eyes would glaze, your mind would wilt, you’d leave the track that Mannie and the Eight would not leave.

My Greek friend always dreamed of running the Athens Marathon, a homecoming profound beyond imagining. But Mannie never allowed himself to run Athens because it clashed with Melbourne. And Mannie owed the event his presence, his being. Mannie would not desert his friends of the Eight.

I’d like you to visit www.howardgoldenberg.com and look up posts that tell of three of Mannie’s marathons. You’ll find them dated October 2014, 2015, 2016. And then read https://howardgoldenberg.com/2017/10/23/its-not-how-long-youve-got-its-what-you-do-with-it/ from October 2017.

I’ll reveal here some of Mannie’s medical history, normally a forbidden act. But Mannie as we know was not a normal man:

While on an early morning training run before the Melbourne Marathon a few years ago I sensed a solid bulk of human flesh approaching in the gloom. The flesh developed a face and the face shot a me smile through the mist. Mannie recognised me first.

Here he was, I knew, fresh from his bone marrow transplant. Preposterous – Mannie understood – to run a marathon with that illness, outrageous, with those therapies. He’d visited me the previous week to talk about running again. ‘The specialist says I shouldn’t run. Howard, is he right?’

‘I suppose he must be Mannie. One fall and your bones can break, so easily.’

It was a broken rib, cancerous, we both recalled, that uncovered Mannie’s diagnosis.

Mannie looked at me. Mannie knew I was no cancer expert, just a runner. His look was a plea; he wanted a reprieve.

I said I could tell him what was the safest course. But then I told him about my mother:’Late in Mum’s life her health was shattered by strokes, but the spirit of the wanderer that had taken her to the bright and the dark ends of the globe, burned still. My sister and I were going to fly to Uluru. Mum wanted to come. She said, “If I stay at home I’ll die one day anyhow. I’d sooner go and see and find and know; and if I die doing it, I’ll have seen the rock. That would still be a good deal for me.” Mannie thanked me and left.  You know what Mannie decided.

I referred before to Mannie’s folly. I’ve seen marathons. I’ve seen and felt the interest and the indifference of spectators. I’ve seen the fellowship of running. I’ve felt the loneliness of the Malta plains. I’ve seen the splendour and I’ve seen the blackness: both were present that day in Boston. I thought I had seen it all, until I ran a marathon with Mannie. An entourage ambushed him – a son, a brother, a younger leviathan figure, a clutch of attractive young women (I wondered who they were. I learned they were girlfriends of nephews of Mannie.) This phalanx of nonrunners surrounded Mannie, they spread widely across the road. Mannie was one runner among thousands, but he alone moved in this stream of flesh aching with love. They ran and ran alongside their hero – the older man, the fat man, the glamorous girls. They tasted fatigue but they would not leave him, not until he reached the next plank in Mannie’s platform of love; and this, of course, was Demitra. ‘DEM!’, he cried, and they kissed. And Demitra held their grandbaby. Mannie stopped. He held that chubby child close and inhaled her. And then he ran on.

I have written of a human, a person. I have written of him chiefly as the operator of a pair of legs. A person is more than that. More than a disease, more than his diagnosis. But in Mannie the runner I see the human and his fate. This man faced Nemesis and outran him for year after year. And when at last – five kilometres into the fortieth marathon, after Mannie stumbled and fell, then arose bloodied – it was Demitra who stepped from the footpath, who took his hand and led him away.

“..Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;

Death closes all: but something ere the end,

Some work of noble note, may yet be done…”

Farewell, Mannie. We will not see your like again.

Mannie’s family have let it be known they don’t want floral tributes to mannie. They’d prefer us to donate to the Myeloma Foundation in his memory. And of course, in his honour.