In Retrospect of Another Time

By John Irtel

The Second World War has greatly disrupted the lives of the Transylvanian Saxon people. Counted as German nationals for hundreds of years, they are now banefully punished for being on the wrong side of humanity. Young Johann fears for his life and successfully escapes from Communist Romania. In the American military zone in Austria, he finds security, but not an inspiring future of the kind he had hoped for. He teams up with a Viennese friend, who invites him to accompany him to Italy. They plan to stow away on a ship to the United States and find a more secure future.

They cross the Alps on foot in midwinter. In Trento they are arrested as illegal immigrants and transported to an internment camp on the island of Lipari. After some six month, the IRO assists John to immigrate to Australia, where he determinedly and successfully integrates into the Australian community. He undertakes suitable education that enables him to work in various employment situations, including in Commonwealth departments in Canberra.

After retirement, John settles on a bush block, which he develops into a viable small grazing property. Health issues forces him to give up physical work, but he embarks on writing his autobiography. He has reached his mideighties and looks back on his achievements.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Apr 22, 2016
• ISBN: 9781514494677

John Irtel

The early days of 1972 profoundly affected my life. Unexpectedly and prematurely, at forty-one years of age, I became another sufferer of coronary heart disease. In time, the inner wounds healed sufficiently for me to rejoin the workforce and continue life in a manner that accommodated a newfound attitude: to learn to live with my new destiny. I aggressively persevered, pretentiously concealing the psychological injury life had dealt me so harshly. I carried no guilt. I had always treated everyone with respect, even if I had not always been given the same in return. I thought I had been good to my family and had behaved soberly. So why had I been punished in this way? Perhaps these thoughts were whiffs of self-condemnation.

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In Retrospect of Another Time

John Irtel

Copyright © 2016 by John Irtel.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016905401

ISBN:   Hardcover              978-1-5144-9469-1

              Softcover                978-1-5144-9468-4

              eBook                      978-1-5144-9467-7

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Rev. date: 04/22/2016

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To Alice with all my heart,

loving care, and understanding.

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Epilogue

Prologue

I have reached an age at which time seems to be in abundance to repose and engage in long-held memories of the past. In my first memoir, From the Land beyond the Forest , I described all stages of my life in reasonable sufficiency. However, there is always more to tell; life’s work is never ending. I do not wish to supplant my early work in its entirety; rather this book provides additional material regarding those times and events and, in particular, events that have unfolded s ince.

The early days of 1972 profoundly affected my life. Unexpectedly and prematurely, at 41 years of age I became another sufferer of coronary heart disease. In time the inner wounds healed sufficiently for me to re-join the workforce and continue life in a manner that accommodated a newfound attitude: to learn to live with my new destiny. I aggressively persevered; pretentiously concealing the psychological injury life had dealt me so harshly. I carried no guilt. I had always treated everyone with respect, even if I had not always been given the same in return. I thought I had been good to my family and had behaved soberly. So why had I been punished in this way? Perhaps these thoughts were whiffs of self-condemnation.

Some twenty-five years on I experienced further health problems that led to recurrent arrhythmias. As they appeared more frequently, it was suggested I consult Professor Ross at Westmead Hospital in Sydney to determine the type of pacemaker I might require to continue life at a normal pace. My hospital admission extended into five weeks, far beyond the norm of one or two days, as each procedure proved rather difficult. Finally, I received a cardioverter defibrillator that went into action within hours due to the onset of arrhythmia attacks. I was of course extremely alarmed when I received my first jolt and demanded that it be removed, as I wasn’t prepared to live with the constant threat of electric shocks. ‘We can’t remove it now; it’s too late,’ said the nurse.

That response left me rather speechless. A little fine-tuning of the device, however, solved that problem, and eventually I was allowed to go home. In the course of time I got used to living with a foreign agent in my chest. The shocks that occurred, thankfully infrequently, were indicative of the life I should accept if I wanted to live, I was subsequently informed. One has to put up with such disturbing surprises if one wants to live.

My ailing heart got worse, and there were times when I wished I would not wake up the next morning. Everything was an effort, and at times I was gasping for life-giving oxygen that was not there. I felt as if I was confined in airless space from which there was no escape; death would have been welcome relief. It was now thirty-eight years since my first heart attack had occurred that I was referred to Westmead, where I was informed that my ill health stemmed from a very large aneurysm that had developed on the left ventricle of the heart, where the coronary heart attack had occurred so many years earlier. It was imperative that the aneurysm be excised, the professor said; the heart would be remodelled to make it function properly again. I was told that without any surgical interference, I could die at any moment. That came as a stark reminder that duration of life cannot be measured by a degree or scale, for the end, when it comes, is instant.

In 2008 I was operated on. After I was brought to the recovery room, it was discovered that certain organs were not responding. I was kept on life support for ten days before it was decided that I could make it on my own. I was catapulted into a mysterious world of hallucination in which I relived retrospectively the times of my past, some of which I had already annotated in my biography. I came to the conclusion that I should retell the sequences of the events as I had seen them unfold in my subconscious mind and mould them together with the events I had embraced in my first book.

I was induced to a subconscious state for ten days during which period I was catapulted into a world of dreams that unfolded different layers of events of the past but which I had long forgotten, regarding people that were no longer with us. After I woke up and the tubes were removed from my body I realised how quickly time had moved along and in which I had come very close to the terminal end that awaits us all in time. The hypnotic experiences in the aftermath of my operation were the catalyst for the chronicles I have written for the benefit of my descendants.

Transylvania

Chapter 1

T ransylvania, a province of Romania, has been synonymous with the stories of Dracula and his alleged adventures for a long time. The land was once renowned for its deep forests and ancient fortified churches built by the Transylvanian Saxons more than five hundred years ago. It holds many secrets of its past conflicts, some of which transpired even earlier than has been annotated with any clarity. Transylvania, a name derived from the Latin, terra ultra silvana , meaning ‘the land beyond the forest’, continues to slumber in the midst of antiquity that makes it, if not its diverse uniqueness, peculiarly special in the European con text.

The Carpathian Mountains rise in central Europe like a boomerang in the south-east and then turn towards the shores of the mighty Danube River in the south. Transylvania borders the plains of old Pannonia in the west, which the Magyars found exceedingly fertile and appealing. They finally settled there permanently after their long journey from the Asian steppes around the eighth century AD. The region was dominated in much earlier times by different tribal nations, but never contained as successfully as under the Magyars. In a relatively short time, they adopted customary traditions of their neighbours and thus formed the nation that we now know as Hungary.

The Romanians attribute their national heritage partly to the Daco-Roman rule that partially encompassed present-day Romania. The Romans, under Emperor Trajan, occupied and then held this region for some centuries in the first quarter of the first millennium AD. The Dacia Empire therefore draw significant claim on Transylvania. The assertion is based on the proposition that Burebista’s Dacia Empire encompassed the territory of present-day Transylvania, extending to the east as far as the Black Sea. The Romanians additionally trace their origin to the Thracians occupying the region of present-day Bulgaria. Claims and counterclaims stretch long into the past with some European nations. Hungary and Romania have tried to assert their claims of possession of Transylvania for centuries, each proclaiming its legitimate heritage over an ancient land that has been the cause of habitual feuds for a long time.

Anecdotes suggest that the Huns, Visigoths, Slavs, and other tribes also traversed Transylvania and held it, at different times, for unspecified periods. The Magyars arrived at the end of the first millennium, and they created a nation that is in every respect as European as any other nation. Around the twelfth century, the Franks, a Germanic tribal group, migrated from the Moselle area and were given far-reaching autonomic privileges for that period by the Magyars who controlled this land. History says it was the Magyars who invited the Franks to settle Transylvania, to help them protect their newly established kingdom from frequent onslaught by tribes from the east. Sporadic raids by the Mongols, Tartars, and to a lesser extent, Cossacks were a serious threat to European stability.

It is believed that the rich grasslands of the Danube plains, more than anything else, influenced the Magyars to remain in central Europe. They were a nomadic, tribal nation and had penetrated deep into Germany before they were repelled and driven to Pannonia, where they found the land rich and fertile for their horses. The breeding of horses was a culture the Magyars had brought with them from their original domain in Asia. They are renowned for their intrepid horsemanship even today.

Some of the last tribes to arrive were the Szekeleys, who settled the eastern and northern part of Transylvania, which until that time had been almost empty. It is nevertheless suggested that their Magyar cousins in the western region were not keen to accept them in their midst. Known to have a more aggressive nature, these tribes from the east were relegated to a region considered more suitable for them to establish themselves and provide a shield of invasion by the Mongols and Tartars into central Europe.

The reason for the sparse population in the Transylvanian Basin was believed to have been the large numbers of wild and dangerous animals, such as wolves and boars, that roamed the land at that time. In some areas, these animals still thrive there even today. The wilderness of the Carpathian Mountains became Ceausescu’s playground during his dictatorship of Romania.

The territory was open to frequent aggression from fearsome eastern invaders who threatened the peaceful environment the Hungarians had found since their settlement in Europe. Stephen, the Magyars’ first recognised king, converted to Christianity and adopted many of the neighbouring countries’ traditions. Stephen is a revered saint and considered an icon in Hungarian national folklore.

The Hungarians seemed to have found stability and required these new settlers as a bulwark against the frequent onslaught of invaders from the east. At some early stages, German settlers became known as the Transylvanian Saxons (Siebenbuerger Sachsen) after the Saxons of Germany. In 1222, King Andrew II of Hungary issued the Golden Bull, the equivalent to King John’s Magna Carta in early England, which gave them far-reaching concessions of autonomy and permitted them to hold on to their traditions and culture. They retained their detachment as a separate group of people until their exodus after the fall of communism in Romania at the end of 1989. After maintaining their cultural heritage for more than eight hundred years, the Saxons finally were resettled in Germany.

Hungary had ruled Transylvania for the better part of one thousand years. At the Trianon Peace Treaty of 1920 the Allies confirmed the secession of Transylvania to Romania. The Great War had obliterated the Austro-Hungarian Empire. By this time, the population of Romanian nationals had increased and was now dominating all other nationalities in Transylvania. Romania had done exceedingly well as a result of that war, contributing very little to the war effort but obtaining a much greater reward—some would say undeservedly. Romanian territory had doubled with the annexation of Transylvania.

The Transylvanian Saxons converted to Lutheranism at the time of the Reformation, in the fifteenth century AD, thus remaining within the German domain of influence. They retained their traditional language and folklore despite strong pressures for assimilation first from the Hungarians and then from the Romanians.

‘Mer bleiven wat mer sen’, translated from the Saxon tongue as ‘We remain what we are’, was the rallying sentiment. The Saxons of Transylvania remained strongly unified through their long period of settlement, purportedly because of their religion and their connection with Germany. They spoke a peculiar Germanic dialect in the home and among themselves but were of course also able to communicate in the Romanian tongue. Many of the older generation spoke Hungarian as well because of their earlier connection with Hungary. The Saxon dialects were quite exclusive in that their vowels varied from village to village, even though some of the settlements were only a few kilometres apart. In the cities, the Saxons’ dialects were less distinctive due to the interconnection with the different racial elements but still Germanic in the spoken word.

Chapter 2

I was born in a town in Transylvania that had about twelve hundred inhabitants, colloquially known as Pould in the Saxon tongue. My father, Johann, and mother, Anna, were farming people. They inherited the house and parcels of land from their parents, as was the tradition firmly founded ages ago. Both my parents were of German stock, as I was able to establish from archival evidence and from other claims handed down from generation to genera tion.

The earliest recollection I have is of the time I began school at the beginning of autumn 1936. I was 6 years old. The Saxons had their own school system, administered under the auspices of the Lutheran diocese in Transylvania. The lessons were conducted in High German, as were the church services, a practice observed for centuries. The Saxon people were bilingual and thus were able to communicate in their own tongue among themselves; they were also, of course, able to communicate with others in the language of the country.

It was in the first year at school that I fell ill with tuberculosis. My grandmother’s neighbour had died of TB, and it was thought that I might have caught the illness from him. The widow of the departed had given my grandmother a cap made from the pelt of a young lamb that had belonged to the deceased. Passing gifts after one departed was a frequent practice among the Saxons, especially if the bequest was as fine a treasure as the cap had been considered. My grandmother had graciously accepted the cap, as she thought it would be just right for her grandson to wear. She had always spoken well of and had held a great fondness for her neighbour.

TB was known to be a fearsome disease. Many people died of it before the advent of penicillin. The cap had been treated with the kind of disinfectant available at the time and was believed to be free of any possible contagion. I remember my mother crying a lot over that poisonous gift and regretting having accepted it.

In later years I questioned my mother about my illness that almost took my life, and she informed me that it may not have been tuberculosis. Dr Veidt had shown her the black spots on the X-rays and had diagnosed me with TB. But usually people afflicted with TB in those days had died, and I may have in fact suffered from another related illness. Medical examinations and doctors’ diagnoses did not then have the benefit of more conclusive evidence such as blood tests.

As far as I can remember winters were always long and challenging, even for those who were hardy. The ground would freeze hard, and the early snow that fell would remain on the ground. As the snow continued to fall it would thicken into a deep mass and lie there for many months. As my health deteriorated, the doctor advised that I be kept isolated, which of course prevented me from attending school. The weeks turned into months. It was decided that I would have to re-join school the following year, by which time it was hoped that I would have recovered.

Winter turned into spring, a time when everyone became involved in the ploughing and planting of the fields. The farmers’ activities continued unabated into harvest time, when the new school year would start. It had not pleased me to lose a whole year from school, but when I finally was declared fit to join other children I was the oldest in class. I was 7 years old when I began my education. It had taken a long time to recover from that debilitating illness.

My mother would take me in a ‘Puffing Billy’ train to the city, about fifteen kilometres away, for consultation by a physician. Dr Veidt was a kindly person and was respected for his professional skills. It was said that he had been trained in Germany, where most Transylvanian Saxons would go to receive their tertiary education. The German educational institutions carried a greater prestige in our part of Europe than any others.

During my illness many ghastly medications were forced into me. They were all disagreeable derivatives from synthetic and herbal products that I intensely disliked. Often with tears in her eyes my mother insisted that I must follow doctor’s instructions or I would not get better.

Herbs were found on summer meadows and on the edges of the forest. They were collected and preserved for later use. Even the nasty stinging nettle was collected and made into tea because it was known to be rich in iron and prescribed for anaemia and rheumatic complaints. Garlic on toast was another herb I disliked intensely then but have now become quite partial to in culinary preparations. There were of course many traditional herbs found in our region that are unknown anywhere else.

I often think of the peculiar practices that people resorted so long ago in the absence of modern medicines that are so easily obtained today. My mother instinctively turned to the old methods to alleviate pain. On one occasion she gave me a lump of sugar on which she had poured a drop of kerosene, which, it was claimed, would relieve the throat infections that frequently plagued me at the oncoming cold season. As soon as I had the sugar in my mouth, the hydrocarbon fumes from the kerosene affected my breathing. I still remember my mother surrendering to hysterics when she saw my state of despair. Depending on the type of carbon, such remedies can be fatal. It was an experience my mother would never consider using again.

In summer the old meadows embellished the fields with the most magnificent fragrances from the plants that grew in the native pastures, many of which were known to possess healing abilities. These useful herbs would be picked, dried, and hung in the loft of the house for when they were needed. One I still remember was the strongly scented caraway, which produced seeds from which a broth would be made to ease stomach ailments. Dill tea was another remedy that relieved bilious attacks, especially in young children. There are of course many hundreds of plants that have been identified throughout the world for their healing properties. The practical use of herbs by humans goes back to antiquity. I believe that not enough consideration has been given to certain herbs known to be of value and that they should be included in the pharmacopeia of medicines.

My mother believed passionately in herbal cures. She was frequently unwell and obviously suffered her ailments in great discomfort, which she perfunctorily betrayed whenever she twisted her lean face. She would prepare her magic potion in a form and manner handed down by her mother and then taken in small doses. She invariably claimed that these preparations relieved her malaise and made her feel better. The herbs she had taken over a long period may well have helped her achieve, in a mysterious way, old age. She was 96 years old when she passed away.

During the long winter months I often sat behind double-glassed windows to watch other children enjoy tobogganing on the snow and skating on ice in the brook nearby. My mother would not permit me to join the fun and games with other children; she was concerned that it would aggravate my delicate condition. I therefore was frequently prevented from participating in the gaiety of winter amusements.

It was also at this time, when I was confined to a convenient bed in the main room of the house, that I discovered and curiously examined the inscription on the bulky oaken beams spanning its ceiling. When I finally reached an age that enabled me to read, it dawned on me that these inscriptions contained a message of great significance in the history of our family. The passing of time had somewhat discoloured the old timber, since they were placed into position more than one hundred years ago, but the meaning remained indelibly clear. On one of the beams was chiselled the year 1831, and alongside it the name Michael Irtel, a forbear of the family that had built or renovated the house. It was sturdy with thick walls, which were built with handmade red bricks, stuccoed over and painted with kalsomine. The foundation consisted of massive rocks, which would have required quite an effort to place into position.

There were two rooms in our house, with a cellar underneath where some of the produce harvested during the year were stored for the long winter. The main room at the front of the house, being larger than the second, had three windows, two of which faced a road to the front frequented by people living further along in the neighbourhood. In this room was a large bed where my parents slept. Piled on the bed were feather-filled pillows and woollen blankets. There was also another bed in which my brother and I slept and which on rare occasions was made available for the unexpected family visitor. Only an uncle from the city ever visited us. On such occasion my brother and I were relegated to a canopy bed, located in the kitchen.

In the front room, standing against one wall, was a crystal cabinet displaying a collection of glass and chinaware. Photos of antecedents were strategically displayed for all to see. There were two wardrobes and a chest of drawers. Standing in the middle was a beautifully carved dining table made from sawn cherry wood and prune trees that my father had made, with chairs to match. The second room embodied the all-important kitchen and dining facilities, together with a wood-fired iron stove in which the embers scarcely ever ceased glowing, although less so in summer when the stove was used only for cooking purposes. That was basically the house in which I grew up as a child.

Directly under the gabled roof was a spacious attic utilised for surplus storage. It was a fascinating place where I spent much time curiously rummaging through old wooden boxes in which were hidden a wealth of memorabilia from the past, significantly stuff from the First World War. I can recollect the correspondence, pistols, swords, and other treasures that had been brought back from the lands in which a family member had been sent to fight. Wars were fought in Europe all too frequently; almost every generation families lost someone fighting in a war. It was an involuntary duty to serve one’s country in whatever capacity.

There were also letters and picture cards scattered among the hoardings that had been sent home at different times. Every time I had the opportunity to ascend to the loft I would rummage among the storage items and steal a glimpse of the assortment that had been stowed into different places. These artefacts had a remarkable effect on me and perhaps kindled my juvenile desires even then to travel and see the world. Such aspirations were at that tender age only dreams and phantasies. They were never lost entirely, however, and gradually intensified as I grew up. If I had only been able to see into the future, I would have been consumed with vain expectation. It is just as well that one cannot perceive the future; such provocation would be too much to bear.

Nevertheless, the collection contained history that depicted the happiness, pain, and fear that some of my antecedents had lived through during different times in their lives. All this was eventually lost in ways I never understood when my family left that place to be resettled far away from their homeland. The resultant upheaval of the last Great War in Europe has destroyed a lot of historical evidence.

Long ago the Transylvanian Saxons established their towns in the style that gave them suitable protection from invading enemies but also that reflected the heritage of the land from which they had originally come. The houses had high-pitched roofs decked with terracotta tiles that had been handmade by artisans at certain local clay pits. The homesteads were built in rows close to one another but within defined boundaries; the land generally included a completely enclosed courtyard. This domain was considered the focal point, with enough space for the farmer’s daily activities.

Every household had a fountain from which water was drawn up in a bucket from a deep well. The bucket would swing from the end of a fine chain or rope made from hemp, moored to a wooden axel, which when released would descend to the depth where the water was clear, cold, and refreshing. The water-filled bucket would then be wheeled up and its contents dispensed as required. The water was used for household and stock. Every household in the town had a fountain; in addition, there were one or two fountains located strategically in the town to serve stock and strangers travelling through our community.

The courtyard gave access to the residence, the sheds, and the barns. Quite often one would even find a little garden plot where a variety of herbs were grown for the nearby kitchens’ immediate use. These often grew among roses, daffodils, carnations, and a variety of other blooming things for use to adorn the rooms in the house. They resembled cottage gardens found in different parts of the world.

At the rear, adjoining the house, was another room or annex used in summer as an extended living space colloquially referred to as the summer kitchen. It had been my grandmother’s room before she passed away. It was self-contained and easy for her to manage. She had varicose veins that always broke out into ulcers. She treated the wounds with a green paste that she made herself from sulphur powder.

Traditionally, the houses in these towns were not spacious, as I can remember; they were then and most likely still are devoid of modern facilities such as a septic system. During my young days there was no electricity; only oil lamps provided light in the house. There was a wooden stove used for cooking and heating. The house had an atmosphere of warmth and engendered certain feelings of assurance.

The physical shape that encompassed my old home might resemble a picture from antiquity, a legacy that had served past occupants adequately. These houses, because of their design, unfortunately afforded little privacy. The creaking, whisperings, and other curious noises at night were sometimes distracting for those family members who desired a restful night. However, no one ever complained; whatever took place within the confined abode was a customarily accepted way of life. Some people, for a variety of reasons, extended their whisperings deep into the night. Traditions in the old countries are deeply rooted and hard to change.

The long winter months necessitated constant heating. Gathering wood and preparing it for the stove to burn efficiently required a lot of extra physical and economic effort. The surrounding hills contained majestic stands of oak and beech forests with interspersed patches of conifer, from where certain trees were earmarked by the forester and sold for firewood.

The densely green canopy of the trees darkened the floor of the forest in summer and gave shelter to all kinds of life. On certain calm days one could hear strange noises echoing through the tall trees, which obviously came from the multitude of creatures such as the squirrels crackling acorns, the woodpeckers boring into trees to retrieve a worm or prepare housing for a nest, and the deer and foxes calling out in their distinctive sounds. It always left one with a haunting experience of unforgettable magnitude. Wolves and wild boars still roam these forests, as they have done since before humans occupied this land. At certain times of the year they were known to be more dangerous than at other times. As a child I had heard of people entering the forest in winter, never to be seen again. This was the time when food became scarce and when these dangerous animals invaded settlements to hunt for food.

The Transylvanian forests may have given habitat to all kinds of devilish creatures in the distant past, including the bats that lived in hollowed trees in parts of the old forests. The stories of demoniacal and evil spirits that some intrepid visitors to Transylvania invent are nothing less than concoctions and hearsay, emanating undoubtedly from the lurid sagas of Dracula’s infamy. Such sensationalism should be met with great mistrust.

These forests have also been a productive source of timber for a variety of economic purposes for as long as humans have occupied this region. They provided the suitable timber for the fortified churches that the Transylvanian Saxons built hundreds of years ago to fend off the marauding hordes from the east. The Transylvanian oak was known to be as tough as any other timber. It was often utilised to strengthen an old house. Every fortification that still survives from that ancient period contains oaken timber. It has lasted in one form or another since those periodic onslaughts of the Huns, Mongols, Tartars, Ottomans, and others and still showed no signs of petrifaction when I last visited that area in 1989. Curiously enough, the fortified buildings reveal the pockmarked impacts of ancient weapons.

The Saxons’ fortified churches are well-known to many tourists to Transylvania. High walls and bastions that included the hand-hewn bulky timber harvested from these forests often surround the churches for their protection. Some of the spires of the churches were entirely constructed with oaken timber. Five hundred years later these structures appear as solid as if they’d been put into place in recent times.

During the industrialisation, the oaks were harvested on a large scale in that part of Transylvania where I grew up. They were sawn into sleepers for the railway tracks. I can remember as a young lad seeing men sawing them by hand. The large stacks containing hundreds of sleepers were shipped by rail to wherever they were needed in the land. The large stacks of oaken logs, many in excess of one metre thick, were harvested from the nearby forest. They provided a place for children to play hide-and-seek. I often stopped by, observing the razor-sharp saw biting with monotonous regularity into the hard timber, guided by a man standing on top of the log whilst another in the pit pulled the saw down. These logs had come from forests believed to be thousands of years old. They were really massive in size and possibly equal to any found in other parts of the world. If they only could speak of the events in their time of growth, they would certainly reveal interesting tales.

As a young lad I took little heed of warnings of the dangers that a forest held. The Transylvanian forests infuse a certain kind of mystery I have not had the opportunity of experiencing anywhere else. I excelled at exploring strange places out of sheer curiosity. At certain times of the year, my brother and I would venture into the forest to gather the delectable mushrooms that grew during summer on the dark, leafy forest floor.

The Morelo tree, a native in these parts, produced cherries in huge abundance. They were too bitter to be eaten fresh, but they were used for culinary purposes and in the making of liqueur. The birds took their fill but left enough for humans to harvest. We gathered them in buckets, and Mum preserved them in jars for winter. In certain areas, where the forest had been cut down and lain fallow for a time, wild strawberries and raspberries grew in profusion. One was invariably rewarded with a whopping amount of these delectable fruit, for which Mum always expressed her pleasure.

One of the everlasting aspects that I remember about these forests is their aroma. The fallen leaves would usually exude a strong scent of decay after the passing of a summer storm. The fermented leaves from these indigenous trees dispensed an odour typically found only in these old forests of Europe. I cannot recall having experienced anything more remarkable.

*     *     *

Further to the rear of the house were located a variety of sheds in which were to be found a workshop, farming implements, and storage facilities. Adjoining this part was a pigsty. Further on was a large shed where the hay was stored and within which were a couple of barns, under the same roof, housing cows and horses. Every household had a variety of poultry and the ever-popular geese and ducks specifically grown for culinary purposes. Their down was plucked at motive for use in quilts and other important bedding. The cows were reared not only to provide milk for the family but as beasts of burden, for farming activities, any surplus stock would be sold. As money was always in short supply; anything that was considered surplus would be disposed of to generate income.

Alongside the cow barn was the odiously huge heap of cow manure that served the means of fertilizer for use on the land. Of course it was a disagreeable and unpleasant task to convey the decayed dung to where it was needed, to be spread over the surface of the land and ploughed into the soil. But such were the circumstances that farmers in the old countries live under wherever this occupation exists. I have heard of nothing that dramatically has changed the convention in Transylvania, despite the progress that has taken place elsewhere in the world.

The winters were long, and the feed in the barn had to be apportioned to make it last to the following season. The hay shed was replenished with fresh hay each season for use in the ensuing year.

The buildings were constructed in tandem extending from the house to the rear where the barns were located. The surrounding building formed a secure compound, barring any uninvited visitors from entering the premises. Strangers would not dare enter without permission. Entries to these homesteads were solid, bulky wooden doorways often more than three metres high, which were locked and could only be opened from the inside of the precinct. Many premises had one or two vicious guard dogs, chained to a wire that often ran from the front entry to the kennel situated further back in the yard.

Somewhere at the back of the courtyard would be found the closet (outside toilet), which had a deep hole in the ground; ash from the stove provided suitable material for the decomposition. The toilet was located next to the dung heap, near the barn. In wet weather, especially in early spring, when the frozen matter began to thaw the dung heap would weep and emulsify with mud that caused an inevitable quagmire of unimaginable proportion. This deplorable situation not only created an undesirable stench, but it bred bacteria and caused maladies that sometimes resulted in potentially serious health outcomes. These situations have existed in this part of Europe since time immemorial. The authorities had no by-laws that imposed certain standards. The creeks and other waterways that ran through the villages were constantly polluted. No one ever bothered to introduce something more innovative, such as septic tanks for the decomposition of sewage. These age-old traditions probably still exist even now, to gauge from people who have visited their old homes and come back with deprecating views of the present situation. The times are changing though, and it is possible the trend in modern farm equipment will begin there too despite the backwardness of the country. The communist regimes had entrenched peasantry rather than the pursuit of a better living outcome, which they classed too bourgeois. The Roma people who obtained possession of some of these homes are less inclined to adapt better standards than they formerly upheld. The traditions of people’s lives in certain regions never change, it seems!

The cows were milked twice a day by hand. It was almost a ritual for children to sneak into the barn at milking time, with cup in hand to be filled with fresh warm cow’s milk, which I quite relished. We joked about the creamy rings the milk left around one’s lips. Fresh milk was believed to be healthy for children, a natural ingredient for growth and well-being. It was well-known that untreated milk bore all kinds of bacteria and may have been a health risk, but I had never heard of anyone getting sick as a consequence.

In my parents’ home, baked bread and milk or polenta and milk had been the standard breakfast. It was also said that fresh milk tasted better than that which had been boiled, which I suppose is an opinion of the beholder. A culture sometimes remains frozen until the movement of progress awakens it.

The Transylvanian Saxon farmers were self-sufficient. Their plots of land were adequate for them to grow the raw material from which they harvested the products they required for the ensuing year. They reared pigs and poultry and slaughtered them as need demanded. The flour for making bread was milled from the wheat they grew on their own farming plots. The wood-fired baking oven built with red bricks was situated within the precinct of the courtyard. Preserving vegetables was an age-old practice rigorously followed by everyone in the community, punctually and with regularity. Certain root vegetables were deposited in sand in the dark cellar, which kept them fresh for a long time throughout the long winter. Cabbages were salted, laid down in oaken casks, and made into Sauerkraut, by the age-old method of fermentation. The practice of fermenting and curing food can be traced back to antiquity. The practice, I believe, continues in certain parts to the present day. The meat was salted and kept in the coolness of the cellar. The village folk made a variety of sausages that were preserved in lard, in handmade clay pots. In autumn the cellar was filled with the produce each family needed for the winter, including apples, pears,