Exiled in Germany
A Roundabout Way Home

Exiled in Germany.

A Roundabout Way Home.

By Mrs. Fanny E. Rieck, Coff’s Harbour.

I left Munich, Bavaria, in the most beautiful season of the year, the end of June. The linden trees were covered with honey-filled blossoms. The bees were busy filling their hives, and many now poor, but formerly rich, people were gathering these fragrant linden blossoms, and drying them for the only “tea” which they could get to drink. The real tea and coffee had been for so many years banished from their homes, with such articles as meat, white bread, butter, cheese, soap, and all the luxuries—one might say necessities—of life, owing to scarcity and exorbitant prices, from which thousands suffered through the horrors of war.

Good fortune favoured me. I was able to take advantage of the high price of land, and sell my cottage in the suburbs of Munich, and will leave this land of hunger, drudgery, and sorrow, and return to my birthplace in sunny Australia. I must purchase English money at the rate of 2000 marks for £1 sterling (pre-war price 20 marks for £1); therefore I must give £100 for £1. I must have £50 cash to travel via Belgium, Ostend, Dover, London, and via the Canary Islands and Cape Colony to Sydney, New South Wales, and further to my home at Coff’s Harbour. I paid out 100,000 marks (pre-war price £5000) for my ticket, all I was worth. I must look at the fact as “sport,” the twin of bad fortune, and pay out without regret, only too thankful to be able to return to my native country after nine years’ exile and semi-starvation, in a foreign country. My passport from the British Consul at Munich was in order. I went to pay my taxes, and got a “set-back.” Such a high assessment was a cruel imposition; also the war indemnity tax of 8000 marks (£400). I had a very hot half-hour at that office, but, eventually, was glad to sign away everything in order to get out of that unfortunate country. All good people advised, urged, and helped me to get away.

In buoyant spirits at the railway station, Munich, I said good-bye to mournful, envious friends. One said: “Are you really going to leave this country?” I said: “I would be sorry to take it away with me.” The Red Cross allowed me a free journey by rail to the border of Belgium, to the towns of Aachen and Herbertsthal. I was no longer prisoner of war, but refugee. Without my dear husband, and former travelling companion, I must face the world, and travel alone half round the earth.

It was good-bye, Munich, formerly jolly, beautiful city in the snow. It was indeed under a cloud where no silver lining was to be seen. It was good-bye to the kind, good people with whom I had shared pleasure, hunger, and sorrow. Good-bye to the majestic, snow-decked Alp mountains, at whose foot lies the one who for so many years stood so true and dear to me, whose grave lies in the little cemetery of Deisenhofen, at the foot of the Alps.

The last winter had been exceptionally frigid, and the vegetation had been retarded. After an hour’s train ride from Munich, which is the highest city in Europe, one saw a difference at Ingoldstadt, the vegetation was quite a month earlier. Red fire beans were in full blossom, and haying in full swing.

It is a beautiful sight to see the whole country covered there with golden grain. Every where, even under the orchard trees, every available space has its patch of food stuffs, or grass for hay. When well manured these meadows give three good cuts of hay every summer. In no country, except perhaps in Italy, can one see such dense cultivation, a great harvest is in prospect, also quantities of fruit. One could not wish for a more beautiful sight, such a wealth of colour: the golden wheat and rye, barley, and oats lying bent under their own weight on the ground. These crops are all cultivated in lands or plots, so different to agriculture in Australia. Besides cereals one sees lands of flax, potatoes, chicory, lucerne, rape, cabbage, swede turnips, mangel wurzel, &c. Everywhere are countless orchards with rosy apples.

The train passed by rivers and shining brooks meandering through lovely vales, or peeping out from graceful feathery reeds. The hills were covered with many-coloured forest trees, and the house gardens were already gaudy with brilliant flowers. It was indeed a pleasure to travel through Europe in summer. On through Würzburg, Mayence, and Frankfort. There one became saddened by seeing and hearing of the ruinous effects of the late war. The city of Frankfort was then occupied by Africans, doing duty as soldiers.

We raced on to Bingen, and then down the world-renowned favourite tour in Europe, the River Rhine. Our train travelled down the right bank. Words cannot express, and no Australian can rightly imagine, without having seen it, the beauties of this majestic river. One feels its loveliness in every fibre of one’s body, as every bend of its shining stream brings fresh, new, and charming views. We see the fabled old “Mouse Tower,” in which, history says, a bishop made the first “corner” in wheat. There stands the ancient castle of Ehrenfels; one has scarcely time to clothe it in its historical glory of ancient times, with travelling caravans, robbers, knights, in armour, tournaments, minnesingers, its turrets, drawbridges, sieges, &c., when Castle Rhenstein appears in view, high on a peak, restored in its former glory, when we visited it long ago for a walking tour in 1899, and saw its old collections of relics, armour, swords, tapestries, harps, old spinnets, and a thousand interesting antiques. On through terraced vineyards with the vine bushes, light green, tall, tender, and close together, but, wonders that such a small bush can produce such quantities of rich red and white wine. We once saw the vine harvest in October. The grapes were carried to the press in long barrels, strapped to men’s shoulders, the only convenient way to carry them, up and down these hills. The local people drank beer, as the Rhine wine was too dear.

It was July when I passed through, and the hills looked their loveliest, clad in fresh green. Now come the world famous “Lorelei Rock,” more beautiful than words can tell, but we rushed into the tunnel behind it, and appeared in still more fascinating scenery. The river broadened out into a broad lake, where steamers, sailing boats, barges, and long rafts, with timber, moved slowly along. After miles of cultivation, vineyards, grain, potatoes, and fruit, with sweet little homes, big castles, and many picturesque towns and villages; the old historical Kaub Island was passed. Now the mountains began to be rocky, and wooded. All was flooded by a brilliant glorious sunset. The darkness deepened.

Farewell, you grand old stream. I shall never see you again. Farewell, you beautiful, fruitful valleys, and mountains. Quite other scenery draws me to my sunny home in Australia; the scent of the gum and wattle blossom, the stately palms, tall eucalyptus trees, and the gorgeous bush flowers. The song of the lark, the nightingale, and the call of the cookoo, will change into the shriek of the cockatoo, many and gorgeous parrots, and the jolly laughs of the kookaburra, and the thoughts of the flesh-pots of bountiful Australia gladden my empty frame.

Leaving Cologne at 1 o’clock a.m., I arrived at 3 o’clock a.m. at Aachen, on the boundary between Germany and Belgium, where I was awakened by the guard to purchase my ticket to London, and to forward my luggage. I should have had 40 minutes’ time here, so, heaping my portmanteaux together, I went to the booking office, where the clerk took an awful time to get my luggage forwarded, and then reckoned all the money out in English, Belgian, and German coinage, gets confused, and reckoned over again, till some one at my side said coolly: “Your train has gone on without you, lady.” I got a shock. The train had been late in arriving, and so stayed only 20 minutes, but I had left my passport with my bags, and I abused the clerk for keeping me so long. He said: “You’ll never get away from here without a passport.” But I let nothing damp my courage. I went to the Military Commander, a Belgian, who only spoke French. He could not help me. No consul was up at this early hour. I went to the office again, and eventually I was told that my luggage would be kept back at the next stopping place, at Herbertsthal, or Brussels, in Belgium. I was taken to a sleepy policeman, who permitted me to continue my journey under the guard at 7 o’clock next morning, so I passed the time in the restaurant. All people were good and kind to me, and in due time I got my luggage and passport all right at Herbertsthal, or I never should have seen Australia again.

Entering Belgium, our train went first for hours through wooded rocky mountainous country, till we came to the far-famed “fat meadows,” all dotted with beautiful black and white belted cattle.

Then came the grand, stately city of Brussels. The terrible ravages of the late war were pointed out to me in many towns—wrecked houses, in perilous positions, showing rooms in many coloured wallpapers, tumble-down chimney stacks, swinging doors, and windows all tottering and decaying. It was sad. Many poor women were visiting the graves of their husbands. Now we all know what war is.

At Ostend I was again in a fix. I had not got my passport stamped at the border of Belgium. What now? I must run and hunt up the Belgian Consul, who, for two francs, slowly stamped the pass. A tip to the boy who helped me, and, thank God! I was in time to catch the departing packet steamer for Dover and dear old England.

There was a contingent of Scotch Highlanders on board returning from the Continent. They were fine, strong, handsome men, orderly, kind, and well behaved. They played military music on deck, and then had afternoon tea with bread and cheese, which they kindly invited me to share. You may guess I did not say no. The luxury of white bread and cheese I had not tasted for years, only black bread, potatoes, and dried peas and beans, no meat, no fats, and little milk, no sugar or tea. I thankfully drank their black boiled tea and ate my fill.

From Dover we travelled through hop fields, gardens, meadows, and charming little red-tiled houses in villages, and many-coloured houses, all with gorgeous flower gardens and beautiful hedges. Through Kent to Victoria Station, London, I chummed up with an old English lady traveller who had been for many years occupied as a teacher of languages in Vienna.

I could not get advice from any one as to where to put up in this enormous city, and it was now 8.30 p.m. I was just struggling with my luggage, when a kind lady addressed me, saying: “Can I be of any help to you?” A grateful “Thank you, yes. We wish to find a simple, clean hotel for the night.” The lady belonged to the “Vigilance Association” to help strangers and foreigners. She showed us her badge, and kindly took us to the Albion Hotel near by, and saw that we were made comfortable.

It seemed like a dream—this noisy, rumbling, big city. The events of my journey all passed before me, and it was long before I could sleep for the noise of the great city and nervous tension; but my bed was so clean and comfortable that I slept till late next morning. Our breakfast was brought up, which consisted of eggs, bacon, and bread and butter. I was in clover, and all only cost us 8/6 each. My friend went to the Isle of Wight, and I to the address given to me at East Ham. I actually know not one person in London, but my introductory letter brought me to kind people, who took me in, gave me food and shelter, sympathy, and kindness; helped me in every way, and put me on board the steamer Sophocles at Tilbury, after eight days in London. I found London very much improved since my last visit in 1900. All the people appear better dressed and fed. The poor children were not so forlorn, ragged, and neglected. The streets were cleaner, and the tubes, underground railways, buses, tramcars, &c., took the people so quickly out of the streets that they were not so congested as of old. Broad, new streets had been broken through. In all the suburbs there were avenues and streets of “one family” houses, all with little gardens in front and behind, to be rented at reasonable prices, which strikes me as much more comfortable than the four or five story houses, where the inhabitants are boxed up in flats, as in Continental cities.

Dear, happy, comfortable old London. All English-speaking people love it, and call it “Home.”

I first made my way to the Strand in London. My heart swelled with pride and pleasure when I saw that beautiful building, Australia House. It is indeed a credit to the Commonwealth, and invites world-wide admiration, and is an attractive advertisement for Australia—in the free exhibition rooms, viewing the fine displays of grain, fruits, minerals, manufactures, wool, cotton, leather, stuffed animals, gorgeous pictures of Australia, where the crowds gather from all countries of the world. They meet there, and talk about Australia. The free moving pictures show the various industries in Australia; for example, how giant forest trees are cut down, drawn to the mills, and sawn into timber; also sugar cane cutting and crushing; how the land is cleared for cultivation, ploughed for wheat, or other grain. I remarked that Australia was the best boomed place, and thousands were anxious to flock there.

Even in July in London rain fell almost every day, and I was not sorry to continue my journey home to Australia. I joined the Aberdeen liner Sophocles at Tilbury. The food was good, clean, and plentiful, and we received every kindness and attention from all on board. There were 400 very decent emigrants.

In voyaging round the Cape of Good Hope to Australia one avoids the heat of the Red Sea, but it is a long, monotonous journey, with only two stopping places—the first at the Canary Islands, where the mountain scenery is most lovely, especially the far-famed Peak of Teneriffe. These islands must be wonderfully fertile, and productive, for the native population, mostly Spaniards, brought on board the steamer so very many different kinds of fruits and vegetables. There were apricots, peaches, grapes, bananas, pineapples, coconuts, [illegible — ink damage] tropical fruits. There were [illegible — ink damage] canary birds, and beautiful [illegible — ink damage] and other [illegible — ink damage] [?turned] to be a red-[illegible — ink damage] [illegible — ink damage] when such [illegible — ink damage] Visitors from [illegible — ink damage] a pleasant health [illegible — ink damage] [illegible — ink damage] not so homely [illegible — ink damage]

After a [illegible — ink damage] we had a cool, smooth [illegible — ink damage] [?Cape Town] where time was given us to thoroughly investigate that interesting city and its many different peoples, its curious Dutch gardens and quaint houses, and the wonderfully beautiful Table-top Mountain. A visit to Capetown makes one thankful that we have a White Australia.

About 30 of our passengers left the ship for Johannesburg and the Rand, and some others came on board for Australia. Our boat called at Albany, where 140 emigrants disembarked, and also more at Melbourne. When I reached my journey’s end, after nine years’ absence—years full of adventure, sorrow, and privation, and the trying journey back—I am sure there was not a happier or more thankful passenger stepped ashore in Sydney, and was welcomed by dear friends than myself. It really seemed like a glimpse of Heaven to return to free, happy Australia and my home once more.