Reflections - The Holocaust Tattoo & The Barber Shop.

When I was a kid, I used to sweep the hair in my Dad's Barber shop. I have always equated Dad's Barber shop, in the Gippsland town of Moe, with the bar from "Cheers". Dad used to advertise it as "three chairs, no waiting" and it was the kind of place where "everybody knows your name." I have many fond memories of that Barber shop as a place of rich conversation, friendship and it was a place, through which I learned a lot about the world outside my small town confines. I learned about places and people, their vocations, the lives they led, the dreams they had. 

I also learned a lot about history.

One particular day, when I was maybe eight or nine years old, an elderly gentleman - a regular - came in for his regular tidy up. Despite his thinning, silvery hair, he always requested the same - a short back and sides, and a shave. Dad's work with the cut throat razor was quite a thing to see. It is a skill that you don't often see anymore, so to watch one do it with the skill of my father - it is artistry.

Anyway, this regular. He was an impish fellow, always well dressed and he had a sparkle in his eye, as though he had a deep appreciation of the world. He was always happy. I remember he had an accent. It was lyrical - not in the manner of the Irish or Scottish or even Welsh accents, which were the ones I'd heard the most as a boy in the early 80's. It sounded very much like the accent of our then next door neighbours, Tina and Rudy, who displayed lots of crockery and dinnerware with windmills on them in their home. I was to learn that this man was from Holland. 

For pocket money back in those days, I would man the broom in the Barber shop and sweep up the hair that would fall to the foor as my father clicked his scissors against the comb. Too much hair around the base of the barber's chair was hazardous, so I always swept with a sense of urgency, making sure the linoleum floor was clear (it should be said that an 8 or 9 year old boy armed with a broom and sweeping furiously while a barber is trying to work is just as much a hazard. But I was nothing if not task oriented).

I happened to be sweeping by my Dad's leather and chrome Barber's chair as the eldrely Dutchman sat down. Having stowed his coat and hat on a hook near the waiting chair, he'd dropped into the seat, settled back with a satisfied sigh, glad to be off his feet for a little while and he rolled up his shirt sleeves. As my Dad turned and flicked a barber's cape with the flourish of a matador, I noticed a simple tattoo on the elderly gentleman's forearm. Though it was but a moment, I immediately recognized a series of numbers. 

The gentleman saw my moment of pause and my puzzled expression and he smiled. As the barber's cape floated down and around him, he jutted his arm out from underneath and he showed it to me. 

I hadn't been mistaken. I saw a faded series of numbers, etched into the tanned skin of his forearm.

Max Kaufmann shows his Dachau tattoo --- Palm Beach Daily News photo by Chris Salata.

He explained that he was a prisoner of the Germans during World War 2. I knew a little bit about World War 2 from my own grandfather, who served during that terrible conflict. The elderly gentleman before me said that he was held in a camp in Holland, before being transferred to a place called Auschwitz. I had never heard of that place before. He told me many people were taken there and were given a tattoo, just like the one he had. He told me that it was a dark place and many people had died there, but he had been rescued.

That was the first time I'd ever heard about Auschwitz, the Holocaust or the Jewish people. I sensed, even then, that I been told something important. The encounter with this man has stayed with me. It was such a fleeting moment, but from that, I explored the Second World War in depth and, in particular, the Jewish experience. 

It was around this time, that I turned my attention to writing. In a grade three creative writing class, I wrote a short piece about a war experience from a soldier's perspective. I can't be sure if that occurred around the same time as my encounter with the elderly Holocaust survivor...but I like to think that it did. 

Moments of deep learning come from places and people you might least expect. This was but one of many lessons I took from my Dad's barber shop.

DFA. 

The Stir Of Echoes.

My grandfather owned a Gladstone bag - a robust, leather hand held case with stainless steel locks and rings for a shoulder strap. In the 21 years I knew him, this Gladstone bag was a recognizable fixture - a mark of the man if you will - which he took to work with him every night of his 40+ year career with the State Electricity Commission in Victoria, Australia. 

Whenever I went to visit Nana and Pa, this Gladstone bag would always be in the same place - by the fridge in the kitchen of their Langford Street home - ready and waiting. And on the nights he was on duty, it would be duly packed - a meal placed inside for him by my Nana along with his toiletries, tooth brush and paste, a stainless steel comb, his wallet and keys. Off he would go to work as a night watchman.

For years, I thought this Gladstone bag had been lost in the moves my grandparents made after Pa retired from the Commission in 1983. 

Their first move was from the Langford Street home to a newly built unit in Saxsons Drive in the mid 80's. As often happens, there is a tendency to down scale to save space or because things are no longer needed. 

My Nana further down scaled after my Pa died in  1993 as she sought to de-clutter. She did so again just a couple of years ago when Nana decided her health and well being would be best served by moving into a independent living unit. The Saxsons Drive unit was sold. 

It wasn't until my Nana asked me, very recently, if I would like to have it that I realized the Gladstone bag remained very much in her treasured possessions and, of course, I was honoured to accept her offer. 

For me, the Gladstone bag was such a tangible reminder of who my grandfather was and I reassured Nana that I would treasure it as much as she had for all those years after Pa died. 

Dad delivered to me during a visit home in October 2012 and, right away, I felt the impact of now being a custodian of Pa's Gladstone bag. It was then, and is now, a little worse for wear. The interior has a lining which has torn a little from the seams and the leather needs attention. But as is the case with all things that were made back in the day, it remains sturdy and functional. 

When I got it, inside I found an old stainless steel comb - the same one that Pa always took to work with him. It still has the faint whiff of bryll cream though I am sure that my mind is conjuring up much of that scent. There were some old keys that I assume fit locks in the old Langford Street home. There was an old school bottle opener which I have proudly attached to my keyring and now use proudly with my own beers and, perhaps most significantly, the last wallet Pa ever owned remained inside the bag.

The leather wallet is a veritable time capsule containing ephemera that corresponds with a period in the early 90's when Pa was told he had cancer. There's a card from the Latrobe Valley Hospital showing his blood type, dated 1991. This corresponds to the initial medical work up Pa went through in preparation for the rigorous treatment he would undergo later in an effort to stave off the cancer. There's a scrap of paper with the name and contact details of the Veteran Affairs Liaison at the Peter McCallum Cancer Centre in Melbourne written in Pa's own hand writing. This piece in particular is significant as I hardly saw much of Pa's handwriting. 

Whenever Nana and Pa went away on their yearly grey ghost migration, the post cards I got from them were always written in Nana's handwriting. I think there is one post card (which I still have) that's written in Pa's handwriting. That is why things like this are so precious - both as a tangible sample of Pa's own hand but also his state of mind at the time this was written.  

And there's his Returned Servicemen's League Membership Card - which, ironically, was valid until the end of '93 - 10 months after he died. 

Curiously, there's also a receipt for accommodation for 2 adults at the Cardwell Marine Hotel, dated July 1973 - 2 months before I was born. How that survived in Pa's possession for so long is not surprising because Pa was always keeping receipts like that.

But among all these things that have survived the two decades since his passing, one piece of paper carries something more precious to me than any jewel. 

By the middle of 1992, the writing was on the wall for my Pa. The cancer - having metastasised into his right shoulder when it was first discovered - made the inexorable march through his body. We all knew how the situation was going to play itself out but I don't think I ever understood what was going on in Pa's mind. Deep inside a pocket of the wallet, separate from all the other bits and pieces, cards and reminders was this scrap of paper. 

Written in Pa's own handwriting, it is a passage which I can't determine is original or borrowed. Regardless, its impact is powerful. I can only guess that it was written some time in 1992, at what was undoubtedly a dark hour in the life of my Pa. Faced with the brutal reality of his own mortality, knowing that his remaining time on this earth was short, his focus remained on that which was most important to him. His wife of 48 years...

...and possibly the Butcher.

Having met during the worst days of WW2, George and Dorothy Mayes experienced the full spectrum of the human experience. They raised three good children of whom they lost one far too early. They built a home and a life in a proud working class town and revelled in the lives of their children's children. They travelled together, looked after each other, laughed, cried and and encouraged each other. And in the end, there was this...a small devotional script, a message of feeling from the inner most thoughts of my grandfather's mind. 

These are the stir of echoes that continue in me...

DFA.

Unravel - Conversations with Greg Ralls.

There have been a few standout individuals I have encountered throughout my life who have made a particular impression upon me. They have excelled in their various endeavours, be it academic, sporting, arts or humanities, and have done so with a quiet determination, an unfailing drive and discipline, setting a bench mark which I've watched with a mixture of admiration and envy. 

Greg Ralls is one of those people who I have known, admired and envied for much of my life and he is a man who I feel privileged to know.

Greg and I grew up in the same country town together, went to the same primary school and high school, we were Scouts in the same group together. We were friends, but I wouldn't say we were close friends. I had a tendency to regard Greg with awe. In high school, he was academically brilliant, achieving top marks across his subjects. I regarded Greg as musically brilliant as well. He joined the school band from the beginning of high school, first playing the French horn in the orchestra before taking a sideways step to guitar. It was with the guitar that he excelled and I remember Greg becoming somewhat of a high school rock god because he was so damned good. 

He grew his hair long, emulated his rock heroes Brian May, Eddie Van Halen and Angus Young and was basically all kinds a of kick arse. During his band phase - first with a rock outfit called High Voltage, then with a later incarnation "Leather 'N' Lace" - I'll confess I was a groupie. All the while, Greg continued to rewrite the book on how to maintain an academic integrity that was second to none. Greg graduated from high school with a perfect record that would take him beyond the country confines of Gippsland and onto  greater things - further university study that would eventually dove tail into a lucrative career in civil engineering.  

As you do, you lose contact with old friends, high school friends as you move on and pursue life, career and love (or not). Greg's dad "Skip" remained (and remains) a regular at my father's barber shop in Moe, Victoria; their conversations routinely revolved around what we kids were up to and I would get snippets of those conversations from Dad during phone calls. 

With the advent of social networking of course, the opportunities for reconnecting with old friends becomes a simple as a key stroke, so when Greg popped up  in my feed a few years ago I didn't hesitate in reaching out. 

Greg revealed to me in some of those early conversations that he wanted to write a book and he sounded me out about a few practical things surrounding the production of a book, knowing that I had been published myself. I was keen to see how Greg's project would evolve and I was pleased to see that, this year, the fruits of his labours have now been realized. 

I was pleased and also a little shocked...Read on...

Unravel, by Greg Ralls chronicles a period in his late 20's, when he experienced first episode psychosis. After reporting a suspected homicide to police, Greg was straightjacketed and made an involuntary patient in a locked ward of a Western Australian psychiatric hospital. 

This is the story of an ordinary Australian; a boy from rural Victoria who excelled academically, who as a young man earned double degrees with honours from the University of Melbourne before moving across the continent to Western Australia to work for a successful consulting engineering firm. Four years after moving, his world fell apart; he was unwell, lost his job and was admitted to hospital. 

Unravel invites readers to share Greg's journey, from childhood to his adult years when his life unravelled, and to recovery. He relates his experience with clarity and honesty, and his intelligence and positive attitude shine throughout. 

Unravel is a thoroughly absorbing and courageous account of a man who, through his own hard work, determination and diligence, has the world at his feet and then loses it all as a result of a crippling mental illness.

Simple in its prose and unflinching in its delivery, Greg Ralls explores himself - his construction, de-construction and re-construction - with clarity and honesty, providing a vivid insight into schizophrenia and the incredible challenges he faced recovering from it. His journey through this dark time is peppered with all of the characteristics that made me admire Greg so when we were young and the resultant document serves only to reinforce that admiration. 

In talking with Greg about the book, I started by asking him to elaborate on his motivations for writing such a profoundly personal work.

G.R.: 'Unravel' was written primarily for my son. He's an only child, and I was driven by wanting to provide something of me for him for the inevitable day when I'm no longer here. That said, I'm only forty, so my death will be a while off yet I hope! 

Another motivation was a sense of disenchantment following some of the experiences I've had, and a feeling that writing would show to the world that those experiences hadn't got the better of me. Finally, when I began writing I still hadn't come to grips with my diagnosis. Putting into words all that happened gave me a greater level of understanding in regard to schizophrenia. 

I did a lot of background reading on the topic of mental illness, of various authors and from both psychiatry and anti-psychiatry viewpoints, which allowed me to gain a better perspective on my experience. So the motivation in that sense was to know what had happened to me, to unravel in my own mind parts of my life that felt incomplete. I recall waking up at about 3am one morning and having a compelling need to write. I got out of bed and started doing it.

DFA: In bringing Unravel to the page, what challenges (if any) did you encounter? I was particularly drawn to the deeply personal aspects of your recollections of your acute psychosis. Was recalling details of those and your hospitalization difficult for you?

I only wrote when I felt like it, over a three-and-a-half year period, and was never certain about publishing - but I had a feeling I wanted to. Surprisingly, it was an easy process; however, there were times when I read back through parts of my manuscript that I felt I entered a weird head space of vivid recollection of periods when I was unwell. It was like briefly revisiting the sensation of being unwell. 

Strangely, I thought that readers might see me as somebody who is still unwell instead of recovered because of the way I felt in those moments, as I was observing my own writing. I was projecting my feelings, in my imagination, onto those who in the future would read the book.

DFA: Now that 'Unravel' has released, what are your hopes for the book and what are your plans for supporting the book and raising its profile?

G.R.: The feedback I received following the first limited print run was overwhelmingly positive. People have opened up to me with their own stories as a result of me telling mine. Somebody suggested donating money to charity, so I'm planning now to raise money for community mental health support through continued book sales. I guess my biggest hopes are therefore to be read and appreciated, to bring forth a lot of fruitful dialogue on mental health, and to raise money to help others. As with everything in life, the real underlying desire is to achieve a successful exchange of value.

Greg Ralls has achieved something special in the writing and publication of 'Unravel'. He has contributed an important voice into the conversation surrounding mental illness, unravelling much of the stigma through the sharing of his own journey. His goals of raising the profile of mental illness through the sales and awareness of his own journey are considerable. And in sharing his experiences, Greg has affirmed that qualities I always saw and admired in him and he has raised the bar of human achievement just a little higher. He is courageous and evolved. But most importantly...

He is human.

Connect with Greg Ralls here.

Enquire about "Unravel" at the official Facebook page here.

DFA.