father gradually made a showpiece out of them. He was not onlycaretaker of the gardens, but the convent’s electrician, plumber and carpenter too. He was the man-about-the-convent for about thirty nuns, who called themselves Faithful Companions of Jesus and lived in a fine three-storeyed house with a slate roof. The nuns were appreciative, and my father responded to being appreciated and being entrusted with responsibility. He could let his imagination run riot on a project while trying to save the nuns as much expense as possible. He established a nursery to save them from having to buy seedlings. And he grew flowers especially for the chapel in a designated bed in a bid to have the rest of the flowers left alone in the garden.
My father was happier than he had ever been. His volatile anger diminished for a while, and he no longer approached me at night. I had turned twelve, we were in a sunny if small house with paper walls, and Dad had been introduced to a new culture by crusty George, the assistant gardener. This was the culture of the ‘men’s room’. Nuns and girls were prohibited. The walls were hung not with holy pictures but photographs from risque calendars. All sorts of glossy magazines lay in drawers, filled with advertisements from Melbourne establishments offering satisfaction to those who needed to be satisfied.
My father was eventually initiated into a more sophisticated—and more expensive—way of releasing his constant sexual drive than he had ever known. In his naivety he must have imagined that it was a safer way, and something that he could easily keep a secret. Never did he suspect that after many years of growing carelessness he would bring syphilis home to his wife one day, or that she, after suffering great mystification and confusion about her condition (he never said anything until she nailed him) would take a taxi to an address in Lygon Street and loudlyand tearfully accuse the prostitute she found there. In spite of her pitiful condition, it was decided between my parents that it should be kept a family secret. But the secret was too heavy for my mother to bear alone. She eventually confided it to my sister Liesbet, who was grown-up by then. Eventually Liesbet confided it to all her sisters.
IT WAS OUR Dutch custom to visit people on a Sunday, and since there were no grandparents to go to now, we visited other Dutch families. Ten months or so after our arrival at Genazzano, we all boarded a train to visit a large family who had travelled with us on the transit ship, to find out how they were doing. The conversation was about the go-slow unions who threatened hardworking newcomers for showing up their lax attitudes; or the lack of choice in delicatessens and the food of home that we were all missing. It was about teenage daughters and sons, and how they disapproved of their friendships with those unreliable Australians.
We children were left to play with each other. We formed a sizeable bunch and, as usual, I felt nervous about being accepted by the others, even though I was one of the eldest at almost thirteen. To join in, I would have to speak up and be aggressive, and I wasn’t in the mood that day. There was a tree in the yard. I was wearing a dress, but that didn’t deter me from climbing to the very top. In spite of this feat, I went unnoticed. A heavy sadness came over me; there I was, alone at the top of the tree, desperately wanting to be like the other children, but separated from them and feeling so strangely lonely. I started to cry. Sobs welled up and, suddenly and unexpectedly, I felt free to let loose a deep, unnamed distress.
Everyone must have heard, including the adults inside the house. I glimpsed my mother’s head at the back door briefly. She must have gone straight inside again. I imagined her announcing that Carla had thrown a tantrum and it was best to ignore her. The hot humiliation brought on by that assumption made me truly desolate. I had no clear idea why I
My father was happier than he had ever been. His volatile anger diminished for a while, and he no longer approached me at night. I had turned twelve, we were in a sunny if small house with paper walls, and Dad had been introduced to a new culture by crusty George, the assistant gardener. This was the culture of the ‘men’s room’. Nuns and girls were prohibited. The walls were hung not with holy pictures but photographs from risque calendars. All sorts of glossy magazines lay in drawers, filled with advertisements from Melbourne establishments offering satisfaction to those who needed to be satisfied.
My father was eventually initiated into a more sophisticated—and more expensive—way of releasing his constant sexual drive than he had ever known. In his naivety he must have imagined that it was a safer way, and something that he could easily keep a secret. Never did he suspect that after many years of growing carelessness he would bring syphilis home to his wife one day, or that she, after suffering great mystification and confusion about her condition (he never said anything until she nailed him) would take a taxi to an address in Lygon Street and loudlyand tearfully accuse the prostitute she found there. In spite of her pitiful condition, it was decided between my parents that it should be kept a family secret. But the secret was too heavy for my mother to bear alone. She eventually confided it to my sister Liesbet, who was grown-up by then. Eventually Liesbet confided it to all her sisters.
IT WAS OUR Dutch custom to visit people on a Sunday, and since there were no grandparents to go to now, we visited other Dutch families. Ten months or so after our arrival at Genazzano, we all boarded a train to visit a large family who had travelled with us on the transit ship, to find out how they were doing. The conversation was about the go-slow unions who threatened hardworking newcomers for showing up their lax attitudes; or the lack of choice in delicatessens and the food of home that we were all missing. It was about teenage daughters and sons, and how they disapproved of their friendships with those unreliable Australians.
We children were left to play with each other. We formed a sizeable bunch and, as usual, I felt nervous about being accepted by the others, even though I was one of the eldest at almost thirteen. To join in, I would have to speak up and be aggressive, and I wasn’t in the mood that day. There was a tree in the yard. I was wearing a dress, but that didn’t deter me from climbing to the very top. In spite of this feat, I went unnoticed. A heavy sadness came over me; there I was, alone at the top of the tree, desperately wanting to be like the other children, but separated from them and feeling so strangely lonely. I started to cry. Sobs welled up and, suddenly and unexpectedly, I felt free to let loose a deep, unnamed distress.
Everyone must have heard, including the adults inside the house. I glimpsed my mother’s head at the back door briefly. She must have gone straight inside again. I imagined her announcing that Carla had thrown a tantrum and it was best to ignore her. The hot humiliation brought on by that assumption made me truly desolate. I had no clear idea why I
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