Each week, Samantha Lewis shares her insights on various topics, from exploring new health trends to re-imagining personal growth.
Here’s a remarkable story of kindness.
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This story was given to me in a letter from my great aunt Margie, my beloved Nan’s sister.
It is the story of my (Swiss) great-grandfather Hans Hobi.
‘During the Depression, my father headed off to Queensland, as like many others he heard there were more work opportunities.
Feeling very down as his last job ended, he wrote to Mum with this story:
He had walked to a park in despair and sat on a bench next to an older gentleman.
After passing each other and a little chat, the older gentleman asked my father, “Why are you looking so sad?” Dad told him that there was a job advertised asking for “good, healthy, strong men”, but he could not go for it as the ad specified, “must have strong work boots”.
He lifted his feet up, and the gentleman saw that the soles of his boots were threadbare and nearly missing.
After a short time, the gentleman stood up and said goodbye and pressed a 10-pound note into my father’s hand.
“Go buy your new boots, and you will get the job,” he said. After Dad refused to take the money, the kind gentleman insisted, so Dad asked, “What is your name and address so I can find you to pay you back if I get the job?”
The gentleman simply responded,
“You will find me if you need to.”
And walked away.
Dad did as he was told — bought strong boots and turned up to stand at the big iron gates among dozens of other men.
The gates opened, and a man came out, walking among the group and checking them over.
Eight men were chosen; my father was one of them.
Years later, Dad often spoke of that period of his life and how he wished he could thank that wonderful man — how his life changed for the better.
I was about six or seven years old when I remember us kids sitting at our mother’s knee listening to her reading that letter.
Later, Dad often mentioned it to me.
When I was 16, waiting to train as a nurse’s aide (I had to wait until I was 17 and a half before I could enrol), I worked at Paterson’s Cake Shop, very well known in Windsor.
It was run by a Swiss man, Mr Stauber.
I loved the cake shop.
Mr Stauber was like the grandfather I’d never had.
The girls in the shop, much older than me, took me under their wings.
All the pastry cooks were Swiss men so they took this shy Swiss Miss (they called me ‘Sunshine’), and treated me like a princess.
My time there was wonderful.
Sometimes, when money permitted, my parents went to the Swiss Club in the city; we went along too.
In August, the Swiss Club held an annual ball, as happens in Switzerland each year.
When May or June started, I’d ask if my family would be there in August.
Dad said my parents could not afford to this year.
When pay day came, Mr Stauber handed me my envelope and as he left I realised there was more than I usually received.
I went to the office and told Mr Stauber he had given me the wrong envelope.
He said, “No,” and, handing me some tickets, added, “I forgot to give you these.”
Seeing the surprise on my face, he said, “They are tickets for you and your family to attend the August Ball.”
I was speechless and could not thank him enough.
He then said, “There is an extra ticket if you want to take someone,” thinking I had a boyfriend.
In disbelief, I replied, “But you’ve still given me too much money.”
The dear man replied, “For if you have to buy a new dress or something.”
I left the office in tears.
I’ll never forget the wonderful kindness of this man — all his workers loved him.
Rudy, one of the Swiss pastry cooks, gave me a beautiful necklace made from butterfly wings to wear to the ball.
Another gave me a posy of beautiful flowers.
How kind everyone was.
The big night arrived.
Mum, Dad and I approached the entrance to the Swiss Ball.
As we walked through the door, I noticed my boss, Mr Stauber, on the far side of the room.
My mother had already met him before, so I said to my father, ‘Boppa’ (as we called him), “Come and meet my wonderful boss.”
As Boppa’s eyes followed my pointed finger, Mr Stauber looked up and met my father’s gaze.
Next thing, they both met in the middle of the room and were hugging each other.
Dad kept saying:
“This is the wonderful gentleman who gave me the money for my boots — who changed my life! I always wanted to pay you back.” He pulled out a note from his pocket and pressed it into Mr Stauber’s hand.
I always look on this as a miracle, as my boss told me later he had only been on a short visit to Queensland.
There was my dad, a Swiss man, and Mr Stauber also from Switzerland.
Neither knew this at the time.
It was very hard to say goodbye to all the lovely people at Paterson’s Cake Shop — especially dear Mr Stauber.’
***
I’m not crying — you are! Seriously, I’ve tried retelling this story without crying several times now — still to no avail.
My great aunt has led an incredible — often heartbreaking — life, and many say she is a gifted storyteller.
I feel compelled to publish her life stories with her consent, so my new project, Letters from Auntie Margie, can be followed on my website: liferegenerated.com.au
Samantha