by Tom Dusevic
‘What did he die from?’
‘His lungs got sick and he never got better.’
‘When did he die?’
‘The thirty-third year.’
That’s how she said 1933. Forty years. Prehistoric. Even the war seemed an eon ago.
But not for my parents. They had nostalgia for youth interrupted, and a way of village life they yearned for. There was a solemnity to these losses, which were carried deep inside. The grieving, and something else I couldn’t name but was as real as life itself, held them back from the world around them. It also held them back from me, because I didn’t know this part of them. With my limited Croatian I was running out of words to prise open their hearts.
The questions piled up. Milenka carried the flame of memory for Leo and Boris and Janko and Jakica and Milica and Marija and Bartolomeo and others buried in faraway places. The baby girl lost, who Mama said was my big sister, would always live inside her. Mama’s first child was miscarried after a fall on public transport.
To many people, my quiet mother lived in the shadow of her gregarious husband. Tata lit up a room with one-liners, often at Mama’s expense. It seemed mean to me at times. But even though she’d heard every joke and ditty, she laughed more than anyone in earshot, happy tears, biting on the medallion of her gold necklace to compose herself.
By contrast, Milenka’s forte was the epic story, frequently a scandal or adventure tale about the old country, told in a hush-low voice, different to her standard high pitch. She spoke about her smuggling career and the misery of being a conscripted worker – ‘I never volunteered!’ – in the construction of Tito’s Brotherhood and Unity Highway, where she was injured and forever after battled leg ulcers. When she told these, and more recent, stories, there was the pleasing, slow rhythm of repetition and inverted syntax for maximum effect: hot, hot, my God, how hot it was. Brush strokes of detail: plump, perspiring, a priest. There were long stretches of well-paced narrative, unexpected turns and twists. Digressions: that’s the village where Black Maria comes from. A climax: pregnant. She’d pause, deepen eye contact, nod without speaking, touch your arm constantly to make sure you were following the tale: twins. But there was more, a new chapter, wait till you hear what happened before the birth. Gone.
By age nine, I’d already had more formal education than Mama, but that didn’t count for much in the oral tradition. Milenka had mastered the art of telling true stories because she had paid attention or lived them. Because of her, this is what I know. First, listen and listen well. Second, notice things. Third, total recall is respect. Last, but not least, know the listener and leave them with a taste for more.
The Lukins told each other stories in their hideout caves during the war. They spoke constantly as they rowed across the green water to the ‘Foša’ in Zadar’s old town. While working in the fields at Crno, they took marenda, a no-frills brunch, and gossiped. Milenka embodied family history and genealogy. In time, she was the one left carrying the load, the glorious and agonising past tugging her back.
7
Year Five blues
Jean Emmanuel Castagnet was a rotund, bowling ball of a man in a rumpled dark suit. On the verge of sixty, his best teaching years were behind him. He was slow to anger and even slower to get lessons underway, but quick on his feet. I’ve seen him scurry across Canterbury Road at peak hour, a jerky heel-first movement impossible to mimic; he had the slyness of a jewel thief and a schoolboy’s lust for mischief. Mr Castagnet brutalised and coddled the thirty-five boys in 5 Blue (surnames A to H), the wildest class in a boisterous school.
St John’s College Lakemba was run by the De La Salle Brothers, a Catholic order founded by John Baptist de La Salle, patron saint of teachers. It had six grades: fifth and sixth class in primary, and forms one, two, three and four. Each grade had three classes, Gold, Red and Blue, the school’s colours. Our totem was an eagle; our master the bald, flightless Mr Castagnet.
On our first morning at St John’s, Sir did the rollcall, running through the names in alphabetical order in a hefty Mauritian accent, like a border official in a French-speaking colony. First, Bates John, which Sir changed to a mellifluous Jean. We had a Louis and Louie, a John-Claude, several Johns and two Giovannis, which all gave the francophone obvious pleasure, before hitting a mogul at Doosavick Tom. Steadying himself, it was a slalom run through the Es, Fs and Gs before hitting the end of the roll at Hogan Craig.
We soon began calling each other in this reverse form: ‘Hey, Fraser Paul. Have you seen Castagnet Emmanuel?’
Most of the boys were new to me. St John’s was fed by six parish schools, with a few outliers from the district. We sat two to a wooden desk, on a bench seat, with a cavity underneath the desktop to hold books; flip-top desks would be our inheritance in higher grades. I sat with my neighbourhood mate, arty Carlo, one of half a dozen boys from St Joseph’s in my class.
Just before recess we got a surprise visit from Brother Gregory, the primary school principal. He was Sam’s teacher in 6 Gold the year before and the consensus was scary ‘Egor’, from the middle part of his name, was severe with the leather strap. Mr Castagnet wilted before Egor, his head downcast, eyes averting contact.
‘Litt-le boys will lis-ten when I speak,’ Egor said, stressing every syllable. ‘An-y-one here do-ing the wrong thing will be sent to see me.’
The room was deathly silent as Egor, squinty eyes behind spectacles, laid down the law. Then he was gone, without so much as a good luck or happy motoring. Due to his stealth entrance and rude exit I got the impression Egor could materialise at will, like one of the ghost group villains in the Phantom Agents, the modern-day ninjas on TV.
I’d brought my cricket bat to school and at recess we started a game among the Belmore boys. After every ball bowled a new kid would seek my permission to play, as if I were the owner of cricket. What a weird idea. Soon the game grew beyond anyone’s control, as there was no reason to deny anyone a go. I’d soon put names to faces, gathering many new mates in a short time.
We’d done no work that day as Mr Castagnet was buried in paperwork that involved the racing form guide. As soon as we came into class after lunch he asked the boys sitting next to the windows to roll down the wooden blinds. He locked the door and turned on the TV on top of a cupboard near the blackboard. I thought we would be watching a current affairs show on Channel Two, the way we identified the ABC then. But he switched it to Channel Seven.
‘Who likes boxing?’ he asked, searching our baby faces for affirmation. ‘Muhammad Ali?’
Sir had tuned into the broadcast of the heavyweight fight between Ali and Joe Frazier at Madison Square Garden in New York, a non-title rematch after ‘the Fight of the Century’ in 1971. We sat still, at first, and watched intently, as Sir described the action.
‘That’s a jab. Watch Ali’s feet. He’s dancing. Ali has him by the neck. Frazier’s getting tired. Ooooohhhh! Great right.’
Mr Castagnet was immersed in the fight. As the rounds ticked by, we drifted to the front for a better view. There was jostling, cheap slaps and elbows, but Sir was oblivious. The bout was more like a wrestling match as Ali kept Frazier in a clinch for long stretches. Ali won on points and Sir was thrilled.
‘Too smart, too fast.’
There was half an hour to go in the school day. Was this what St John’s was going to be like for the next six years?
‘You can start your homework if you like.’
‘But you haven’t given us any, Sir,’ said Peter, sitting closest to him, the kid busting to be first in line no matter the occasion.
‘Okay, do the first three exercises in the maths textbook.’
Groan.
The walk home from Lakemba took half an hour. In late January the heat was stifling, but at least we weren’t carrying many books. Sam took us via a cornershop oasis. I tried to keep money in reserve to buy a Paddle Pop ice-cream, often two. As the heat settled in over coming weeks, Carlo and Frank were spared the trudge home, wast
ing hard currency on a bus whose journey was ludicrously serpentine in the opposite direction, towards Roselands Shopping Centre, and then to Belmore. For company I once caught the bus, but its worth was lost on me. I used bus money for a post-school treat instead and still ended up getting home before those mammas’ boys.
St John’s was variously a low-security prison, vital football nursery, exuberant Middle Eastern bazaar and dream factory for striving scholars, such were its abuses, contradictions, inconsistencies and joys. At morning assembly our class lined up next to the non-prefects of fourth form, who looked liked men. Although they were fifteen at most, I suspected some of those boys had grown beards during the school holidays.
While waiting in the car one Saturday evening in winter as my dad nipped into the Belmore bottleshop for Reschs Dinner Ale, I saw some older boys slipping into the pub, dressed in cool Amco jeans, bulky lumber jackets and desert boots. They’d be lucky to be in trades when they left school at the end of the year, and most likely be unemployed, the world having been hit by an oil crisis. Petrol was rationed in Sydney, with long lines at pumps. Tata feared not being able to get to work.
Some of the 5 Blue boys knew fourth formers, who would talk to us at line-up, egg us on to be silly. It was risky behaviour. The Master of Discipline – no kidding – was in charge of assembly, six-hundred boys huddled in a valley the size of two basketball courts. His forte was detecting illicit behaviour from his watch-tower on a first-floor balcony. Unpolished shoes, a tie not done properly, even a whisper to a classmate would land you in strife.
‘Hey you, no, YOU,’ the MoD, tall with an atrocious comb-over, would interrupt himself reading notices at the microphone. ‘Yeah, curly, that’s right, YOU. Up to my office.’
There was a certain shame in being admonished in front of the whole school – with a flogging to come. Some mornings the line outside the MoD’s office resembled a junior remand centre. In a mere ten minutes, he’d busted talkers, late-comers, guys without combs, poor-posture slackers, those who had forgotten to bring a note for an excursion, boys who had missed the deadline for raffle money, those without PE gear on a Thursday, kids reported for mucking up on public transport and those who’d become distracted during the MoD’s address. It was a democratic line-up though, miscreants all in this grand clearing house of corrections, including boys taught by females and strap-shy males. Flogging at St John’s was as prevalent as blue shirts, as unvarying as the bell between forty-minute periods. Everyone believed the MoD went easier on footballers.
Mr Castagnet’s discipline swung between non-existent and unhinged fury. Every morning we had unorthodox rituals after prayers. They began in Lent, the six or so weeks before Easter. We took up a copper coin collection for the Missions every day. There was the return of Project Compassion boxes, in competition with other classes for the highest return.
Sir took charity to the epitome of fun, not content to simply collect and count and send a boy to the office with the spoils. He devised ways to get us to part with money we might other- wise have spent at the tuckshop. In 5 Blue we had a series of raffles, with prizes determined by the pool of money collected, thus preceding the NSW government’s lotto by five years. We’d start with a high-rollers’ five-cent raffle: one kid would distribute tickets and Sir would declare the prize pool, with half going to the Missions. There was banter, cheering, commentary and coin moving in Sir’s mini-casino. We had several rounds; the last would get you buy-in for as little as a cent. He explained the odds of winning and how the prize pool was structured – a maths exercise, boys, should Egor walk in on us. We kept at this creative compassion for a full year; no other class came close to us in fundraising. By the time the Melbourne Cup rolled around we were borrowing Sir’s form guide and looking at the odds and recent racing rather than going for sweeps – which were raffles anyway – like the other classes.
I’d been elected class captain for a term, an office of many duties but no pleasures. Sir would duck off to the shops on Haldon Street to get his lunch or place a bet at the TAB. I would be told to sit at his desk, take down the names of talkers and maintain order. At first, I tried to instil some shoosh. Yet there was little point, given I couldn’t use the strap on them. It was mayhem. One of the boys thought it would be hilarious to hide Sir’s long black bludgeoner. Who was I to stop him?
We were so noisy the teacher next door did not protest with a knock on the wall or door. She sent a boy to Egor’s class to alert him. Most of us missed Egor’s arrival. He was a fleshy volcano set to erupt, a blood boil about to burst, Al Pacino in Dog Day Afternoon at the end of his tether.
‘Where’s Mr Cast-aghhh-net?’
An abyss of silence opened up.
‘Um, he had to go, um, um, out for a bit,’ I said.
‘Where?’ that one syllable echoed in a still valley.
The question was still ringing when Egor demanded to know why I was sitting at the teacher’s desk.
‘Sir told me to stay here and take down the names of talkers.’
‘So, where are the names of the talkers, Thomas?’
‘Um, I was trying to get them to be quiet Brother, but …’
‘Every one of you will be staying behind after school for detention.’
Mr Castagnet came into this maelstrom, sheepishly, telling Egor he had just gone to the toilet for five minutes and had asked Doo-savick to watch over us. They went outside to speak on the landing; in total silence, we strained to hear what was said.
Sir came back in, shaking – was it fear or anger? – a rodent’s eyes darting around the room. He said we would be on detention for an hour, which meant he was on detention, too.
‘Doo-savick, come here. You were supposed to keep the class in order and now all of us are in trouble. You will take the punishment for the class and you are no longer the captain. Six!’
Sir went back to his desk to get the strap. Not there. He checked all three drawers. Gone. Sir became more agitated, his rage rising.
‘Where is the strap?’ he asked me.
I shook my head.
Sir turned to the class. ‘Where is the strap?’
He moved around the room, opened a cupboard, bent over to look on the floor. But his temper was up. ‘Who took my strap?’
No one said a word, a show of solidarity worthy of a parable.
‘Okay, okay,’ he snarls. He retraces his steps, pulls out a dustpan and brush from a cupboard. I’m confused but far from relieved. Sir has the short-handled wooden brush in his hand.
‘Hold out your hand Doo-savick. Six!’
Surely he’s not going to use the wooden brush on me? I’d got the strap for small things like talking and knew the hot sting of leather, but this is insane.
‘Hold out your hand.’
My brain seizes up, can’t find an escape clause, or appeal to him not to be so stupid. Solid wood. Yet to not take the penalty or to draw away when the chop came down risks disgrace plus pain.
You weak bastard, I protest to Sir with my eyes. I push my left hand towards him. He measures up the task, as the brush is 15 cm shorter than his faithful punisher. There is no hard slap sound of leather or the easy swoosh of a bamboo cane. Just the dull thud of a blunt cleaver hitting flesh and bone.
‘One.’ It comes again.
‘Two.’ The pain surges.
‘Three.’ My hand is numb, dead meat. Some would change hands at this moment, but what’s the point? I need one good hand.
‘Four.’ Whose wobbly thing am I holding out here?
‘Five.’ I’m rising out of my body, chased by terrified nerve endings that are being hunted by wounded, raging bulls.
‘Six.’ Done. Don’t cry. You won’t pass out. There’s a violence contained in this battered hand. I can make out Sir’s blank, stupid face but not the other boys. I won’t cry. Killer eyes back at him. Now what, you dodo?
‘Back to your desk.’
As if falling gently to Earth, dazed, I sit next to Carlo, the grim accounta
nt of flogging. He is smiling, not because he is mean, but because he is a pro. On his oversized drawing book for art that sticks out from under the desk, Carlo keeps a tally of the hits every boy has taken each term. Six places me close to the medals. If Carlo could draw my pain in abstract it would take over a wall in his lavish bedroom gallery; if he went figurative, just drew my lifeless left hand, he’d have to use a dozen colours to get the trauma just so. Mr Castagnet’s next captain-accomplice is welcome to this bitter ignominy.
We had cousins and family friends all over Sydney. The inner-city denizens of Surry Hills and Newtown had cleared out by the mid-1970s, making way for other migrants and university students. We knew several families with farms and market gardens on the edge of suburbia. A cousin of Mama’s ran a fishand-chip shop in bohemian Balmain. A man from Ljubač had an apartment on the hill above Manly beach. Our Lukin cousins in Blacktown had a brand new house but it would be years before the inside toilet was connected to the sewerage system; a dunny man collected their ‘night soil’.
Tata knew his way around burgeoning Sydney. A quick look at the Gregory’s street directory, then moving a slow, knowing index finger across several pages as if reading Braille, and he was good to go in any direction. He favoured Holden station wagons, he said with a broad-faced smile, because you could park in loading zones. No matter how close to ‘empty’ it said on the fuel gauge, Tata never bought petrol from Caltex; the red star logo was a communist symbol, a precursor to ruin and subjugation, not quite what the oilmen of California and Texas had in mind.
‘Are you sure you know how to get there?’ I’d say, as we set off for a new suburb.
‘Doesn’t matter, the car knows how to get there.’
I pondered the teleology of that for a while. Maybe that’s why Tata sticks with second-hand cars when I’d really like him to get a new one; this light green EH was as old as I was. Was it possible for cars to have some kind of navigation memory? Probably not, but given the possibility of UFOs, the Loch Ness monster, Bigfoot and disappearances inside the Bermuda Triangle, the meta-mysteries of the day, you had to allow for anything. On that principle, an old car was obviously better than a new one.