Helga Parl

Story

The Story of Helga Parl (Introduction – Postscipt added as a separate story)

High up in the restaurant, situated mid-way the huge Euromast of Rotterdam in South Holland I am having a cup of coffee with an old Dutch friend. He and his family had migrated to Australia shortly after my departure from the Netherlands nearly 50 years ago. Disillusioned, they had returned to their beloved country after only two years stay, never to return.

As we looked down from our lofty glassed-in platform we could appreciate the enormous expanse of the Rotterdam harbour. Hundreds of vessels of various shapes, colours and sizes lined the waterways. Islands that provided the moorings were peppered with old and new buildings. ‘See that little red brick building down there Helga, framed by two huge skyscrapers?\’ asked Dirk. ‘It\’s now an American hotel, but you and Jan set out from that exact spot when you migrated to Australia. Don\’t you remember it?\’

I could hardly believe it. To my mind the building of yore was gigantic, dark and forbidding, standing menacing only a few paces from the quay where our 10,000 ton migrant ship, the ‘SS Zuiderkruis\’ (Southern Cross) was moored. Then hundreds of people, milling around to get a last glimpse of their departing relatives and friends were dwarfed by both the fa�ade of that building and the ships hull. Now quay and water seemed desolated. What had I been thinking that day, standing there at the railing of the ship that would be home for the next six weeks?

I was angry with my fate. I was angry with my in-laws standing there, waving, crying, and calling out words that were lost in thousands of others. Were they crying for losing their son? Were they crying for losing a daughter-in law they had not really welcomed into their family? Were they crying because they would never see the grandchildren yet to be born? Were they crying because people standing next to them did the same?

I would not let on how disappointed I was in my husband for promising me a better life in Holland than Germany could offer if I would marry him; when in fact it turned out to be much worse. True, he had also promised to show me the world, but migration had definitely not sprung to my mind. Will I never see my parents, siblings and friends again? Will it be hard to learn a new language, after just having learned to carry on an ordinary conversation in Dutch? Do I have enough clothes to wear until we can afford to buy new ones? Will my husband be able to start from scratch and build up a new career? Will my German certificates be acknowledged and help me find a good job?

I had no tears for those people down there. They were well to-do merchants. They had everything they could ever need, but had refused to assist their only son in getting back on his feet when after unwise business ventures he had reached rock bottom. And what about my own parents in Hamburg? What will they be doing at this moment? Will they be standing at the banks of the river Elbe thinking of their daughter, whom they might never see again? I left the railing and went alone to the other side of the ship. On my last visit from Holland to Hamburg/Germany, I had told my parents about our plan to migrate to Australia. They just about had a heart attack. I can now envisage their ashen faces, saying nothing for some time, just sitting straight backed against their chairs. ‘Why Australia, it\’s so far away!\’ my mother uttered at last. I tried to reason with them and perhaps tell myself that all would be well.

‘The Australian government have invited people like us to come and work in Australia and they promised a reliable future\’, I argued. ‘I will come back and visit as soon as we have enough money for the trip. After all, Jan\’s friend Roulof had come back and had told us favourable stories about his adopted city of Brisbane.\’ What Roulof had omitted to tell us, was that women there, though treated like ladies, were in fact considered second class citizens. They were meant to populate the country, not compete with men in the work force. They would not get payed more than eighty percent of the wages men got for equal work. He also didn\’t tell us that we would end up in a camp of sparsely furnished, dirty Nissan huts with food that was almost unrecognisable as such. He did not know the drawing office that I would work in, was definitely Dickensian, decades behind European standards. Perhaps he was wise, because we might have made different choices.

As it was, in October 1959 Mr and Mrs J.W. Parlevliet set out on the journey that changed their lives. At first together and later separately we climbed over many hurdles, but by and large I would call our migrant story a success story.

Helga Parl, Brisbane. (Postscript follows)

< Back to the Stories