Krugersdorp on my mind again

Written in Jerusalem on Friday 19th June 2015 by Leon Gork, about his life in Krugersdorp as a child from 1940 - 1965

 

Krugersdorp is on my mind again and I sometimes wonder what kind of a mind this is that wanders backwards, to that late 19th and early 20th century collection of dwellings with stairs going up to big, brightly polished red stoeps, covered by red, corrugated iron roofs and streets of my vintage. I often wondered who built these magnificent houses, especially in Burger Str.

 

Once again I go rambling down Ockerse Str, a chubby, overgrown 11 year old ragamuffin, like a tomato that had grown up in an over fertilized vegetable patch,  known as fat gork, because of my figure,  or little gork, because I had an older brother, hands in my pockets, my shirt tails hanging out, grey socks round my ankles. I can still hear Ma chastising me “Leon take your hands out of your pockets”.  

 

After I’d finally persuaded myself that  my black mongrel of a dog, Binkie had stopped following me, because I had taken him firmly by the collar and had put him securely behind the big, red, wooden, yard gates and I had definitely closed them, I continued walking slowly, examining each house I passed.

 

By the time I got to Katzen’s, where three talented elegantly brought up sisters lived,  Binkie had escaped and was running next to me making as if he wasn’t following me but had just come to smell the flowers. Once I managed to see how he did it; he simply jumped a six foot high dark green, split pole wooden fence, covered by a bushy creeping plant that produced delicious, purple colored passion fruit, which we called granadellas and which shut in our yard from the front of the house, I actually saw him once on top of that fence and admired his agility and sense of balance. I confess that I was very proud to be the owner of such a wonderful animal. Although now reminiscing with my two brothers they claim that Binkie was their dog and not mine. I still think he was my dog.

 

The Katzen family was unbelievable among the social circles of Krugersdorp, that I was familiar with. I think it’s because they never played bowls and preferred playing music at home instead. Willy, the father spoke in a deep baritone voice as if he was singing an aria from Rigoletto or the Barber of Sevillle. I actually heard him sing once in shull (synagogue) where lay people would conduct the service on one or other family memorial day. He sang like Caruso and it was clear to me and I think to him also, that he had missed his calling in life, because his days were spent behind the counter of his hardware store in West Krugersdorp.

 

Mama Nancy, was a very short, sharp eyed lady, who used to carefully scrutinize me as I sat on the little black bench, just big enough for two, waiting for Josephine when I had a date with her. I was sure that Nancy had told Josephine to stay back in her room until she’d had time to carefully check me out. Her questions were simple enough; where were we going to? What time we’d be back? And so on. But her look asked more than a thousand more questions about what diabolical plans I was scheming for her daughter. Now that I think about it I realize that taking Josephine on a date was a daunting deed and only now I understand why I didn’t date this girl I loved more often. Being a simple guy, I didn’t have any schemes and really concluded that her inquiring look came from deep inner wisdom that she had, whereby she could read my mind and knew, more than I did about myself, that she wisely saw that I had some deep wisdom hidden in my soul. While all the time she was simply being paranoid about her daughter.

 

The sisters were characters taken straight out of a Victorian manual on good upbringing of young ladies; there was Josephine, who was in my class in school, who I adored because of her elegant ways and her ability to write poetry, which totally amazed me who couldn’t even rhyme cat with mat. I still love poetry and have even come to learn that words don’t have to rhyme.  I always had the feeling that she was fragile and when I went out with her on dates I always held her very gently as if I thought she would break into pieces in my arms, but she really had a very robust appearance, which didn’t fool me. I learned a few years ago that she died quite young.

 

Then there was Florence, the youngest, who I never knew what talent she had but I decided that she was a great artist, like her aunt, Yetta Lenhoff, Nancy’s sister, who used to come all the way from Upington, with her husband and two children who looked like Hansel and Gretel standing in front of the witch’s sugar icing cottage in the forest. She really made the most delicious cakes decorated with the most colorful icing imaginable with pink and blue ribbons made of sugar.

 

Rivette, who was a star pupil at KHS, and who everyone admired, was, of course the genius of the family. I only knew her from a distance and would have liked to know her better. One day I got to know her daughter, who immigrated to Israel and even came to us for Friday night dinner.

 

Again I led him home. This used to happen about three times before I gave up. One might think this was a game but for me it was a serious matter. I didn’t care if Binkie managed to follow me all the way to Heder; he was only being loyal to me. It was his instinct but his instinct made him do some things that could endanger his life, like charging after every cyclist on the road.  He was just a dumb animal and just was not aware of the consequences of his actions and it was my job, as a responsible human being, who loved him to death to take care of him.

 

Binkie wasn’t the only animal in our family; there was also a ginger cat, chickens and rabbits and I felt myself responsible for their well-being. Ginger always kept an eye on me, even as she lay sunning herself on the, once again polished red steps of the back stoep, though she didn’t follow me physically, I had the feeling she was somehow following me spiritually. This brought the thought to my mind that cats are mysterious creatures; their spirits wander while they lie in one place. I think they are also loyal but fool us into thinking that they are selfish creatures.

 

Long after these escapades my friend Allan and his mother, Millie, came to live in the first house next to ours that I came to as I started my walk down Ockerse Str. It was right next to our garage but I never noticed it without taking a deliberate good look. I think the big palm tree in the little garden hid it and the dark yellow bricks, it was made out of, acted as a sort of camouflage making it blend with the dark green of the garden. Naturally it also had a dark red roof held up by ornately decorated pillars, carefully, carved with raised concrete rings,  as if they were holding up the Parthenon in Athens.

 

I would turn up to Burger Str, taking the long way past Shimwells, where I could check out the shop window full of interesting toys which I badly needed, because I was on my way to Heder, where I didn’t want to go because it would just be a waste of another beautiful day when I could be doing more productive things like counting my stamps or sticking my motor car pictures in the correct place in the album, or just reading the Beano or the Hotspur.

 

I knew I’d be late and old Wolkie would make me stand a while outside the class. I confess I was a little worried but not for coming late. I was worried me that I couldn’t care less. I tried to make myself worry but it didn’t work.

 

Wolkie was a nice old fogey, who we called Wolkie, not because his thick white hair looked like a cloud over his round, ruddy face, but because his name was Rev. Wolk. He kept pushing his big black yarmulke (skull cap) back over his head, not because he was worried that it might fall off but because he was thinking.

I often wondered what he was thinking about. He certainly wasn’t thinking about his pupils who sat looking as if they were diligent, at pages filled with Hebrew print in their Chumashim (Bibles, usually just one of the books in a slim volume). They weren’t just putting on an act because they were really very good kids, eager and able to do well in their lessons. I was different.

 

He never really taught and he didn’t seem to be listening when we read. It was only when he screamed a sort of Tarzan kind of ayeee ayaha ayeee that we realized someone had read a verse or word incorrectly. He obviously knew it all by heart and could spend his time thinking about other things. I think that like my cat he was a mystic at heart and his soul wandered through the cavernous halls on its way to the throne of the almighty Himself to find a solution for his brain dead pupil, Leon.

 

Most kids were dead scared of old Wolkie. Once you got to his class you were one of the senior children and being in Wolkie’s class was something to boast about. It was basically the last class in Heder (afternoon Hebrew school) before your barmitzvah. Once you had your Barmy (13th year adulthood ceremony) you were out.

 

I liked the prestige but I didn’t give a damn and I didn’t think he was fearful. I liked old Wolkie and I really wanted to do my best for him. I wanted to make him proud of me, but alas I never succeeded. Firstly because Wolkie never praised anyone and would clip people over the ear, for some reason, which I could never figure out and moan his Tarzan moan.

 

He liked me and I liked him so even though I didn’t know what the dickens was going on and chewed bubble gum and even blew big bubbles, he never clipped me and I thought I was lucky. Actually, thinking back on the situation I realize that he just didn’t have any expectations of me. Somebody, probably my dad had told him to go easy on me, like not to try to get water out of a stone, which was okay and I enjoyed my life.

 

My pleasure in life was reading the Beano and the Hotspur. I always walked straight down Ockerse Str, without looking at any houses, on the days when my magazines were due to arrive from England at the local CNA, the biggest book and stationary store that I had ever seen. Mrs Walsh was the manager and the clerk at the counter would go to her while I waited, breathlessly, but trying not to show it, a the counter. I would be shattered with disappointment if the magazines hadn’t arrived and walked dejectedly back home, but if they’d arrived I rush home to sit on the toilet in our back yard where I could read in peace.

 

My mother wasn’t fooled by my appearance of dullness and would hassle me to put down the Beano and do my homework. She didn’t hammer me about Heder homework, she was concerned that I should learn arithmetic and with her there was always insistence on achievement even for the dullest of the dull. Ma believed that anyone could do anything. There was no tolerance for dullness, which she considered laziness.

 

For more stories of Krugersdorp go to:https://www.facebook.com/storiesofkrugersdorp