1950's Montreal, and Kurt.

 

A meaningful talk with mother. As she is 92'. Her memory is fragmented today, though spot-on in her early life. 

She loved my father.

My mother left her middle-class, somewhat privileged life to travel to Montreal, Canada. Something unheard of in 50's Melbourne. Unfortunately for them both, my mother got pregnant with me. Their relationship changed; from there, as two young Australians, their adventures had only begun. 

Montreal in the 50s' was a different place. Post WWII, migrants from war-torn Europe moved to any safe place...anywhere. 

My father made a friend from East Berlin. 

The boy's name was Kurt. The boy was raised in the "Hitler Youth" in Berlin. He believed his fatherland, because of WWI, was unduly punished. The term 'Patriotic" for young Kurt would be an understatement. He loved his country. 

Kurt looked like Hitler's image of a pure Arian: blond hair, strong body, and handsome. 

My mother and father lived a somewhat bohemian lifestyle. Their friends were jazz musicians, artists, and political refugees. 

My father met Kurt in a dive bar. As my family has always done, we take in strays, and Kurt was welcome in their one-room apartment.

Kurt managed to get a job as a waiter in a posh restaurant. He later obtained a flat (thanks to Dad)  a flat right above my parents.  

From tales about Kurt, before my father passed, loved the young German. Kurt would play German songs at 4 am, and his footsteps sounded like he was marching. He could hear Kurt singing in German. 

Kurt was homesick. He wanted to go home. My parents and other friends in the apartment complex pooled their money, so Kurt could go home. My father watched his plane disappear towards the east. 

About three months later, my father received an urgent telegram. 

"Please, I need the fare to come back to Montreal." 

It sounded urgent. 

Again the people in the apartment complex gathered as much money to spare - just enough to get Kurt back to Montreal. 

My father met Kurt at the dock. 

They hugged, and Kurt said, "Bill, my home will never be the same. My home is gone."

Both found the nearest bar and continued to drink into the morning. 

My mother was pregnant again with my sister. Dad had to go where the work sent him. 

Kurt and Dad corresponded for some time. The letters slowly faded. 

Before my father passed on, he'd talk about Kurt, a good soul with strong beliefs. 

My father was Jewish.