Kin Deep and the Inability to Mourn

By Cornelia MacErlean

Irene’s early life experiences in a disturbed Germany of 1914 to 1956 encourage her to migrate to Australia as a divorced mother of four daughters. However, instead of creating a promising future for her small family in her adopted country, her family is broken apart within three years.

A coming together of the ’Big Five’ at the celebration of Irene’s 80th birthday, and two years later at her imminent death, exposes the antagonistic relationships of the four sisters. The author welcomes a metaphysical visit from her mother as an opportunity to further explore their relationship.

• Language: English
• Publisher: ReadOnTime BV
• Release date: Sep 2, 2012
• ISBN: 9781742842486

Book preview

KIN DEEP

And

The Inability to Mourn

Cornelia MacErlean

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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KIN DEEP And The Inability to Mourn

Copyright © 2012 Cornelia MacErlean

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

The information, views, opinions and visuals expressed in this publication are solely those of the author(s) and do not reflect those of the publisher. The publisher disclaims any liabilities or responsibilities whatsoever for any damages, libel or liabilities arising directly or indirectly from the contents of this publication.

A copy of this publication can be found in the National Library of Australia.

ISBN: 978-1-742842-48-6 (pbk.)

Published by Book Pal

www.bookpal.com.au

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KIN DEEP

And

The Inability to Mourn

A MEMOIR

An unexamined life is not worth living

Socrates

A personal and subjective truth based on certain episodes of my life which may be remembered differently by others.

For the remaining links in the chain.

* * * * *

Thus she spoke, and I longed

To embrace my dead mother’s ghost.

Thrice I tried to clasp her image,

And thrice it slipped through my hands,

Like a shadow, like a dream.

The Odyssey

Homer

If I write this memoir, will it bring you back? Will I discover the key, the one leading to the loving relationship that I have always wanted and needed from you? Or, should I believe what I read in books? Sometimes, sentimentality is a replacement for anger when it concerns someone you love.

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Contents

Chapter 1 On Earth:

Chapter 2 Munich

Chapter 3 Eighty Years

Chapter 4 Cousins

Chapter 5 The Celebration

Chapter 6 In dem Reich

Chapter 7 The Picnic

Chapter 8 The Diagnosis

Chapter 9 The Call

Chapter 10 Sisters by Half

Chapter 11 At Death’s Door

Chapter 12 The Admirer

Chapter 13 Between Heaven and Earth

Chapter 14 Irene’s Last Visit

Chapter 15 Final Farewell

Epilogue

My Mother, Myself Cornelia Contag 2000©

About the Author

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Chapter 1 On Earth: as it is not in heaven

I am the last link in the girls-only family chain; the unexpected and unplanned, and I could sigh, the unwanted, ball and anchor of 1946.

On the positive side, however, a quick calculation of the months before my birth, I can surmise that my conception occurred at a time of celebration and hope; when an understanding presented itself that all is not lost; that there may be a future; self indulgence with responsibility it could be, but without the endless concern for death or survival, as had been the case for many during the war; it could be.

In the year of my conception, 1945, peace had been declared months earlier; Germany, Hitler and his Nazis had been defeated; World War II was now to be featured in the history books; the populace could now greet each other with Gruss Gott rather than Heil Hitler.

But there, the celebration ended. The survivors of Hitler’s Holocaust were now expected to scrape together a living, create a roof over their heads as well as finding or creating daily nourishment to keep their remaining members of family alive; all tempered by the inherited cloud of guilt for having survived and regret for having played a powerless role in the experience.

And, the dead could not be forgotten; daily news reports of the existence of Concentration camps left the German citizens horrified. How could their kin do this outrage to each other? How could this cruelty against humanity be perpetrated on the average citizen’s watch? Where would the communist threat now leave the Germans? Would peace be real and possible and lasting? These questions were being asked not only by Germans but by the world; retribution and punishment occupying the minds of the victors.

In this environment, my mother, a divorcee with four daughters, the eldest nine years of age, attempted to make the most of her survival. There had to be another way concluded my mother. Hence, in 1956, she accepted an offer to migrate to Australia; our host-family, a Methodist minister, his wife and four children taking the role of our guardians.

This ‘other way’ allowed us to buy our own house in Melbourne within eighteen months of our arrival in Australia. My mother chose Barton Street not aware that the street so named remembered the first Prime Minister of Australia. As a nine-year-old I told everyone my house address with great pride. Oh to be considered Australian occupied my every thought; so I began my denial of my German origin.

As it happened, we appeared to be the ideal migrant family, worthy of introduction to the Royal visitors to Melbourne. Our arrival in Australia, in Sydney via Darwin, had been announced on the front page of the Sydney newspaper; our host proudly extending her welcome to us at the Central Sydney Railway Station to satisfy the reporters. In reality she had appeared to farewell us on our stage two of travel; the Sydney to Melbourne train. She had been visiting her relatives in Sydney from Melbourne and would meet us at Flinders Street Station three days later.

Further exclusives followed in Melbourne; Francisca, my eldest sister’s success at modelling, when she was voted model of the year for wearing a potato sack to the Melbourne Cup—Elizabeth Taylor who had been visiting, had complained that she had nothing to wear—and Francisca winning a scholarship to study social work at Melbourne University; Ingrid, the next eldest, keeping true to her personality—the quiet one—kept out of the spotlight except that her blonde hair and blue eyes made her the chosen German-looking teenager ideal, more than appropriate to be introduced to the Queen mother. Yet, our front page family photograph in the Sydney newspaper failed to include her at all.

My next eldest sister, Daniela—five years older than me—because she had been dating an Australian Rules footballer, featured in the sports pages and the youngest daughter, Cornelia, with all of my ten years, creating news because I was a regular fan at Glenferrie Oval, Hawthorn, cheering on Roy Simmons. But the real truth did not hold newspaper material value: I supported the Magpies, Collingwood, and not Hawthorn, the Hawks; in fact, Glenferrie oval had been closer to my home in Barton Street but no one asked me that question.

Thinking back to those years, on a subconscious level, I might have been identifying with the working class and the strugglers in society by choosing the Magpies as my football team, I tell myself; Collingwood having been very much a working class suburb. But because today, if I were completely honest, I could describe myself as a Chardonnay-Socialist and do so, often, much to the disgust of the upper middleclass surrounding me. But seeing this is Australia, discussing my political leanings or my religious beliefs is not recommended. It is good enough, on recalling those days, that our new country had given us a chance of freedom and opportunity, not to forget to mention, education; so our European habits of open discussion of politics and religion have had to be stored away.

Then again, perhaps I absorbed more than I thought possible in my nine years of the post-war German environment; my mother, as I witnessed, the single parent of four struggling to feed us, impressed me; after all, everyone had been living on their bare bones as far as I knew. But as I had experienced no other way of living I absorbed my mother’s values; hating pomp and circumstance, hypocrisy, authority and anything militaristic. And then, as I remember—I was four years old—to challenge my mother’s efforts even further the system tried to help our mother by taking away her four children and placing us in an orphanage; but, more of that later.

As I grew in life, so I experienced several religions; born a Catholic—or so I thought—confirmed a Lutheran, the girlfriend and friend of many Jewish teenagers—living in Bondi and the tallest German girl attending a barmitzvah—marrying into a strong Catholic family and, in Melbourne, at our host’s discretion, spending many hours attending Bible classes, Sunday school lessons and adult church services in a Methodist environment. Despite this religious intensity I believe to have been the first Brownie to have been expelled from Brownies. But despite all, I remain an atheist, humanist and existentialist today.

My mother, in contrast, also explored many belief systems and came to the conclusion that her relationship with her God was personal. She did not welcome the interference of man between herself and her God. Thus a little religion for our migrant family could only benefit us—our mother decided on our behalf—her decision being influenced by the fact that our offer of migration only came about as an answer to her prayers, or so she led us to believe: the offer to help us originating in the offices of the World Council of Churches. Someone must have been listening.

And now, in my fiftieth year, I suspect the lock on the chain, which has always kept our family of five women linked, is about to give way forever. I am the youngest by five years of four daughters; my eldest sister having been born in 1937.

Today, it is July 1996 and I am at our mother’s bedside to make sense of her hospital admission. It occurs to me that I am living the finality of our mother’s life, but Mutti? She appears content and self-satisfied. Almost as if her God has done the right thing for her, finally. I ask myself, has she hoped and prayed for this moment? She appears to be in a celebratory mood. But where do I fit in? I am mentally prepared to be solemn, emotional, supportive and understanding; to sit and talk over the inevitable; ease the pain of loss and departure, so to speak. How can this feeling-filled period—as books and soap-operas on television have often portrayed—be so, so, so, cold and indifferent?

I arrive prepared to use the tissues bulging in my pockets. Yet we sit staring at the open ward—not talking. My mother makes no attempt to explain how she happened to be here.

‘Your neighbour rang me’, I break the silence. Irene’s eyes acknowledge what I just told her—or I think they did. Perhaps this is not news to her. I wait a few more moments. She will open up any minute now, I tell myself. But the silence between us becomes unbearable. I pass on the bad news. ‘You will never be able to go home to your flat, to live on your own. The doctor says so.’

I think only of the scheduled hospital sessions I have had to relinquish to other technologists. After all, I am an Imaging Technologist contracted to work in operating theatres of the Private Hospitals of Perth—seven specialists depend on me at thirteen hospitals—contracts I don’t want to lose, I remind myself. I move closer to my mother. But she would never understand if I tried to explain my time limits and responsibilities to her, I decide.

There is no need to bring authority to support my statement, I think, too late. I continue to make eye contact. I am hankering for a reaction. Yet, there is no sign of surprise or resistance on Irene’s face. She has grown more placid in her old age, I think. And, I am disappointed. I ask myself silently: isn’t this the time when parent and child come together in tears and promises of never ending love and appreciation? I stare my mother in the eyes now, waiting. She manages a half swallowed, ‘Why?’ but doesn’t expect an answer. I explain, ‘We will have to find you some other place to stay, you know, like shared care.’ My unused lounge room comes to mind, ‘Perhaps you could come and stay with me?’ I remain positive and hope the anxious look on my face doesn’t betray me. I haven’t asked my live-in partner, David, but, I feel sure that he would not mind. He is very fond of my mother and she is of him.

We had both reached our forty-year milestone when we met; both having had difficult experiences in our previous lives; the result being a blended family of five, three children and two adults, living together within three months of meeting. Six years between each child allowed the eldest—my daughter—to be seen as a role model for the next eldest who in turn helped to guide his sister; all making us proud by achieving university degrees and success in their life choices.

Nevertheless, my thirty or more years of working in hospitals make me think of the worst at this point. Two words, the brightness of a neon sign, flash across my mind: THE END. Yet, my mother leans back into her pillows and smiles at me, digesting my offer, almost as if she knows more than me. I wait for some sign of disagreement and don’t expect her to give up her life-long independence so easily.

I shouldn’t be surprised, I tell myself, that I am the one expected to see this through; I am not married, I work for myself and I have been living in the same State as my mother for many years. So, who could arrange her exit more easily? Then again, if my sisters were to be asked, two out of three, the internationalists, Francisca from France and Daniela, my next eldest from New York, would say, ‘But you have lived in Australia all this time. And Western Australia at that! How could you know anything?’

As much as my sisters know and recognise I am living with my daughter in our Californian Bungalow in inner city Perth. But that is all they know. My partner of ten years and his two children are non-existent to them. As a blended family of five we have squeezed into a two bedroom house; David applying his carpentry skills by adding two more bedrooms.

And so, in my darkness, I am the one expected to be the conductor of our mother’s final scene on this earth as well as the executer of her will—a ‘blank’ piece of paper, without interest to anyone—ignored for at least fifteen years by our mother.

But, dear sisters, I decide, I am not ready for my possible abandonment. I know that God has not let me down rather, he has answered my childhood prayer. ‘Dear God, please don’t let my mother die before I’m grown up.’

I can hear him/her reply, ‘Is fifty years long enough?’

It is and it is not, I want to say, knowing I cannot let death be our final embrace. There has to be something else. I want more. I see my mother, almost a stranger, lying in her hospital bed. Emotionally she is as distant as anyone could be, I think. I know her only physically, I decide. What can I do to reveal her mystery? I won’t let her disappear. Her life is too precious to discard. I begin to unravel and reknot what I can create about her life as I know it. Her beginning—actually 1913, I remind myself, not the year of her birth, 1914—yes, I read of Germany in turmoil; another war brewing.

* * * * *

Chapter 2 Munich

And, on the surface, the church-run home for mothers and babies in the city of Munich, southern Bavaria, had proven to be a safe haven for the fresh-faced nineteen-year-old mother-to-be. Marie Wendig knew that she had disgraced her family. She had been banished but her child was very much wanted by her. And now, only a few days remained for her to be able to dedicate her hours to the new life she was carrying.

The unborn infant had not been the difficulty in the last nine months; it had kept her company in her darkest moments; occasions when she had almost believed what had been said about her. Cruelly, on a daily basis, she had been told that she was worthless, only good enough to go down on her hands and knees to scrub the wooden floor. And when she had finished that task, she could expect twice as many more to fill her day.

Yet the cruel and neglectful treatment offered by those in this home strengthened her resolve to overcome this bleak period in her life. Instead of alarming her, the subtle inner movements of her baby had told her that she was not as unworthy in life as she had been described. God had chosen her to give life. Why could others not see that she was as capable and determined a young woman, as upright in her social attitudes as her father, Otto, and mother, Anna? As the eldest daughter of three girls and a son, Marie was not without worldly knowledge: it was beyond her that her own family could have been so cruel.

I remind myself about what I had read as my mind slips into the make-believe world of Marie Wendig’s pregnancy in 1914. To bring a child into the world outside of marriage was considered irresponsible; the social norms far outweighing the love and acceptance of the family of the soon to be illegitimate infant. Before World War I and until well into the twentieth century a scandal together with ostracism appeared to be the right of polite society.

The loneliness of the last three months had been soul-destroying. Each night, her ripe young body searched desperately for the comfort of her lover’s arms; his soothing words and gentle kisses full of promise of a loving life together, kept her floating sensuously through her dreams. Thanks to her God, her strong Prussian heritage had kept her determined to survive her abandonment.

It had not been Alfred’s fault entirely. She could not forget his words, the reassurance of his breath alive today, as it had been then. ‘Whatever may be, we will be together.’ But he had not been prepared for the wrath and indignation that his family had shown. It had been a major scandal to create life under these circumstances; more so, his family had made it clear, that to fraternize with someone much below his family’s standing was the