German Lessons

By Kieran Donaghue

A novel in which the events take place during the period Autumn 1932 – Spring 1933. Frank Hannaford, a young Australian from a sheltered Catholic background, is searching for a deeper version of himself in 1930s Germany. At the university and in an organisation of young Catholic men he finds friendship and a new confidence in his own resou

• Language: English
• Publisher: Palaver
• Release date: Jul 22, 2019
• ISBN: 9780975235249

Kieran Donaghue

Kieran studied philosophy in Australia, the United States and Germany in the 1970s and 1980s. He taught for a short period at the Australian National University, then spent nearly twenty years working for the Australian Government's overseas aid program. During this time he made numerous visits to countries in Africa, Asia and the Pacific, learning much from local people and from many fine aid workers dedicated to improving the lives of others. Praying for Sunlight, Waiting for Rain has its genesis in the visits Kieran made as an aid official to the highlands of Papua New Guinea.Further biographical details, along with information about Kieran's first novel, German Lessons, and his contribution to an anthology on the 2019-20 Australian bushfires, Continent Aflame: Responses to an Australian Catastrophe, can be found at: www.kierandonaghue.com

Book preview

German Lessons

Frank Hannaford, a young Australian from a sheltered Catholic background, is searching for a deeper version of himself in 1930s Germany. At the university and in an organisation of young Catholic men he finds friendship and a new confidence in his own resources. A German identity begins to form, surprising and delighting him. But he also struggles with the unexpected possibilities of love, and with political events and commitments he does not fully understand. The Nazis come to power, previously strong opposition from the Catholic Church evaporates, and Frank is left floundering, at odds both with himself and with the young woman whose friendship he most values. A Bildungsroman set in a time of social and political upheaval.

for Mariko — and in memory of Toshio

Acknowledgements

While imbued with history, as documented in the Chronology, this story is essentially a work of fiction, of imagined characters and situations and of possible responses to real events. Anyone who knew my father may recognise aspects of him in Frank’s father, but the other fictional characters are modelled at most superficially on people I have known or read about.

I would like to extend my heartfelt thanks to Ngaire Donaghue, Paul Komesaroff, Sally Gardner, Barry Donaghue and Mariko Nakamura for their encouragement and textual advice. I would also like to thank the ACT Writers Centre for arranging appraisals of early drafts, and the appraisers for their constructive criticisms. Without the help received from these sources the book’s shortcomings would be much more extensive than they currently are. The responsibility for the final product is of course mine alone.

Kieran Donaghue

GERMAN LESSONS

A Palaver Book

Copyright © 2019 Kieran Donaghue

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher, author, or artist, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

ISBN–13: 978–0–9752352–3–2

ISBN–13: 978-0-9752352-4-9 (e-book)

For additional information, bulk or educational purchases, and other resources, please contact Ethica Projects, Pty. Ltd c/o Paul Komesaroff: [e-mail]

First Palaver Edition published July 2019

Cover design and layout: Ian Robertson

www.palaver.com

Palaver is an imprint of Ethica Projects, Pty Ltd.

10 Barnato Grove Armadale Victoria 3143 Australia

Contents

I

The Table : October 1932

II

The Vanguard : October–December 1932

III

The Room : January–February 1933

IV

The Church : March–April 1933

Chronology

Background and References

I

The Table : October 1932

Saturday 1 October 1932

There were polite questions about Frank’s journey, then an awkward silence. Father Klein sat back and surveyed his young visitor. He spoke slowly. ‘It was a great sorrow to me when your father left the seminary. But I am sure it has been for the best. Of course you must think so.’

‘Yes, I suppose, if my father had become a priest, I wouldn’t exist. Which is not an easy thought to understand.’ Frank took a moment. ‘Well, to understand it is easy enough, as a matter of logic, but to feel its full meaning, that is much more difficult. And...unsettling.’

‘I see you have a philosophical bent. That reminds me of your father.’ The priest laughed briefly to himself. ‘Yes, we called your father the philosopher. Thomas Aquinas was his leading light, the great synthesiser of ancient wisdom and Christian doctrine. I must admit, that sort of thing was not my strength. It passed over me like water over stones. And left me just as rough as before.’ Father Klein’s hands pointed to his considerable bulk, or perhaps to the signs of unkemptness in his clothing. ‘But John – he so loved to argue the point. Every point. At any time.’

Frank was not sure he had a philosophical cast of mind, but he was quite happy to talk about his father. And he was particularly pleased that the priest’s Bavarian accent, although unfamiliar in its rhythms and cadences, was proving easy enough to understand.

‘My father studied philosophy when he returned to Australia. But he always saw it as the servant of his religion. He said the philosophers at the university discovered this and did not like it. For them philosophy was the queen, not a handmaiden. So my father decided to give it up.’

‘But he seems to have done very well in his chosen calling.’

‘He sells insurance. But things are very difficult at home now. With the unemployment.’

Father Klein let Frank’s words slide away. He continued to reminisce. ‘Your father was a very good friend to me when we were in Rome, I hope he has told you. I’m afraid my Italian was poor. I think I have no talent for languages. Many people here say that I cannot even speak German.’ Another small laugh. ‘But your father spoke excellent Italian and also some German. That was a godsend to me. And he was most generous with his time. A very honest and sincere man. That is how I think of John. Do you also speak Italian?’

‘My father always wanted me to learn, but the school I attended didn’t offer it. So I just learned German. And Latin. Six years of Latin.’

‘You have two sisters, I think.’

‘Yes, both younger than me.’

‘Are they healthy and well, your sisters? And your mother? I think she should be heartily congratulated for marrying such a fine man.’

Frank thought that if there were any congratulations to be handed out the recipient should be his father. He was sure his dad would agree. But it was neither the time nor the place to say this.

‘Thank you, they are all keeping well.’

The conversation ebbed and, as Frank cast around for something to say, the door opened and a large woman with grey hair tied back tightly came into the room. She was carrying a tray with coffee things and cake. She set the tray down heavily on the priest’s desk.

‘How would the young man like his coffee, Father?’

‘You must ask him yourself, Frau Wolters. Herr Hannaford will be staying with us for some time, as we discussed, so you will need to know how he takes his coffee and such things.’ Father Klein added, largely to himself: ‘What we call coffee, at any rate.’

‘Would you like milk in your coffee, Herr Hannaford? There is a little sugar in the bowl. And help yourself to a piece of cake. I could not find any vanilla, but I do my best with what God sees fit to give us Germans.’

The woman turned back to the priest. ‘Father, I’ve prepared something cold for the evening meal and for tomorrow. There should be enough for you and your guest. But you and I will need to talk again about the household budget, the extra expenses, about how we will manage, with the collections falling off.’

Father Klein responded that prices were also falling, or at least were not rising, but Frau Wolters dismissed this with a tightening of her mouth.

Despite the reference to budgets and prices Frank enjoyed this exchange. When the priest had been speaking to him he had sensed significant effort being expended to accommodate his presumed lack of ear for the German language, at least for the priest’s version of it. He had a similar feeling from the few words the housekeeper had addressed to him. But the two native speakers had no need to worry about such things. Their speech was natural and unencumbered and he thought it beautiful, even if he did not catch every last word. He found himself practising the phrasing and intonation in his head, testing them on his tongue, before leaving them to be savoured again later.

When Frau Wolters had left the room Father Klein confided to Frank: ‘She has not had an easy life. Husband long gone, son with the reds. She has a great love for her country and feels a deep humiliation, like so many here, about what has happened. But she is very loyal to me. And there is a warmth there, you will see.’

‘I understand Father. I feel I am coming from a very sheltered place.’

There was a brief discussion of when Frank’s board would fall due, when and where he would take his meals, laundry arrangements, other practicalities. The priest then prepared to stand, but changed his mind and settled back in his chair. ‘You know, it meant a great deal to me when I received the letter from your father after the World War. I had not long moved here from my previous parish and I was finding it difficult to settle in. And I think all Germans felt very much cut off from the rest of the world at that time. We were the vanquished, even though no foreign forces had ever set foot on our soil. And it seemed to us that we were being blamed, unfairly blamed, for all the destruction and the suffering. To receive the letter from your father, written in the German language, with its words of friendship and concern, and after so many years. This was a wonderful thing. A bridge to something better. I still read that letter from time to time.’

As he sat there, enjoying the warmth of the atmosphere, Frank realised that his father had told him very little about Father Klein. Even when it had been agreed that he would stay at Father Klein’s presbytery during his year at university in the Rhineland, a year on which he was staking immense but vague hopes, his father had not told him much about the priest. But this reticence was perhaps not surprising. It was more than thirty years since his father had seen Werner Klein.

‘I remember I was embarrassed when I included in my reply to your father details about my clothing and shoe sizes and asked if it might be possible for him or other sympathetic Australian Catholics to send me something, second hand things. I even asked if he could send some vestments for the Mass. And some months later I received three very large boxes full of clothing and tinned food, even some chocolate. And shortly after that another letter, this time with more information about the family. The material things were of course most welcome. But the friendship and care, these were the most important things. And John’s pride and happiness in his family, this gave me deep satisfaction. I could feel our Lord taking great joy in this family. And here you are, John’s son, sitting with me in my presbytery. It seems like a wheel has come full circle.’

Frank felt a surge of pride in his father and love for him. He resolved to do everything possible to be a credit to his father in Father Klein’s eyes.

The room that was to be Frank’s was located at the rear of the presbytery. It was small but neat and tidy, with minimal furnishings. There was a crucifix on one wall and a worn rug on the floor, a bedside table that rocked as Frank laid a hand on it and a stolid looking wardrobe that seemed to preside over everything.

He sat on the bed and thought that, rather than finding everything strange and difficult, his arrival had been a form of homecoming with much that was familiar. He had foreseen so many difficulties in his first meeting with Father Klein, anticipated so many missteps, that its actual course now seemed to have been laughably easy.

Frank looked around the room again. There was a desk and a chair but he realised they were much too small. He imagined Father Klein rushing to the parish school and grabbing what was nearest at hand, a last minute thought. Something would have to be done, but it could wait. The priest had mentioned a tram stop, to the right at the front gate of the presbytery and a little way along on the left hand side. He set off to explore the town.

Thursday 6 October 1932

The ‘mensa’, all the students called it, the table. Frank liked that. He liked the feeling of unity and purpose and solidity it conveyed. But in fact there were rows and rows of tables, and as he looked around he could see that they were filled with young men, a smattering of older ones, occasional young women, everyone talking and gesticulating and laughing as they ate and drank. He was sitting alone, but he felt in good company.

He took a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it on the battle-scarred table beside his plate. He was eating noodles, trying to keep the sauce from spilling onto his clothes, every now and then stopping to glance at the note. Copies had been everywhere, stuck on notice boards and tucked under salt shakers and anything else that would hold them in place. They contained an invitation to all foreign students to attend a get-together at the foreign students’ office.

It’s tomorrow, Frank realised. There might be someone there with whom he could compare notes.

He had spent nearly three years at university at home in Australia and had enjoyed it immensely. His parents had been so proud. His dad had said that ‘uni’ was doing him the world of good, it was ‘bringing him out of himself’. But this tone changed when Frank brought up the possibility of studying in Germany. His mother looked to her husband to say something to quash the idea, but Frank quickly pointed out that his father had gone to Italy when he was only nineteen. His dad’s response was that he had been sent to Italy, he had not just gone there, and he had not been alone, he had been immersed in a brotherhood of care and support. And anyway they would not be able to afford it, not the way things were heading.

The topic lay dormant. Then, some months later, his father matter-of-factly delivered the news that Werner Klein, a fellow student at the seminary in Rome all those years ago, was offering Frank a spare room in his presbytery.

Frank had been at the beach with Ellie and Margie. The ocean was a ten minute walk from their house and it was there that he and his sisters spent nearly every morning in the hot January weather. When they got home they went around to the back of the house as usual to wash the sand off their feet. Frank turned the garden tap on full-throttle and, a ritualistic practice, pressed his finger against its mouth to generate a sharp stream of water. Margie was the first target but she blithely skipped out of harm’s way. When Ellie’s turn came she just turned her back and hissed: ‘Oh do stop it Frank.’ His father opened the back door and stood, demanding. ‘Frank, stop the yahoo behaviour and come inside. I’ve got something to tell you.’

Frank turned off the hose and examined his feet. He had walked barefoot from the beach over the low sand dunes and the stretch of scratchy bitumen until he had got to the couch grass near the front of their place.

His mother thought that couch was ugly, with its blunt, stubby leaves, but she had to accept that the salty sea air was too harsh for more refined grasses. Frank liked the couch, its sponginess encouraging against his bare feet. He had a pair of old sand-shoes with him but could not be bothered putting them on. In fact he hardly ever wore them, and by the end of the summer the soles of his feet would be as hard as bits of old leather. Every now and then he would use one of the sand-shoes to give Margie a smack on her backside or the back of her legs, but he never really made much contact. She would fling her hands behind her as if shooing away a fly and then duck and weave, enjoying the dance. Ellie was now too old for this game. And she had never been a willing player.

‘Well Frank, I’ve mentioned Father Klein to you. After we spoke I wrote and told him you had got it into your head you wanted to study in Germany. I asked if he had any contacts who might be able to help.’

Frank’s father had been holding a letter in his right hand as he spoke. He put it on the table.

‘Well, Father Klein writes that he has a spare bedroom in his presbytery and he is open to giving you the use of it. Of course we would have to cover the cost of your food and other things, but the amount he mentions is not beyond the realm of possibility.’

‘Dad, that’s extremely kind of Father Klein.