Benalla Migrant Camp 1949-1967

Migrant Stories

MY MEMORIES OF LIFE IN THE BENALLA CAMP The Beginning (This story was edited and permission was only granted to use it on 13/11/2019 via email.) Introduction: My name is Irena Slusarczyk and this is my recollection of my life in Benalla MAC. My mother Tosia (Antonina) was a single unmarried mother, 23 years old at the time and I was 3 year old when we left the camp in Neustadt, Germany when we started our journey to Australia. I was born in Lubeck, Germany. Mother was deported to Germany for forced labour in 1942. Mother was advised by her father, against repatriation to Poland; her father was a mason living nearby Krakow with his family and her brother Franek, was a mason like his father, was living in Scotland and then moved on to Manchester, UK. Her brother lives in Wales , U.K. today with his wife and son. We were approved to board on the ship Skaugum 111, ex Naples on 2nd March 1950 having been cleared to proceed . Mother and I had medical checks, were kept longer in Naples for some weeks until I recovered from chicken pox; mother was passed as ‘fit for work’ in Australia. On 28th March 1950 we had arrived in Sydney and were transferred to Bonegilla camp and then transferred to a farm in Bowning, NSW; mother was allocated for domestic work for a farmer’s wife. We were there for a short time, have little memory of this. On the 26.12.50 we returned to Bonegilla; transferred to Immigration Holding Centre Uranquity on 26.1.51 then transferred back to Bonegilla on 13.10.51 after H.C. Uranquity was closed down. We again, were transferred to the Bonegilla camp, my brother Robert was born in Albury Hospital. Finally on the 30.4.52 we were transferred to the Holding Centre in Benalla - we had arrived to stay for the duration until the camp was closed in November 1967. A sad and worrying time for many who had to leave their sanctuary. Camp Life: We had a choice of friends and there was so many of us; we run wild on the camp grounds, quite safe, secure and protected; all of the mothers around corrected our behaviour and directed us as was required. It was a great life for most of the children, we had so much freedom and some of our mothers gave us more freedom and held very loose leashes on their children. I was one of the lucky independent, noisy, active camp kids. The people we grew up with, our life experiences in the camp, has made us who we are today. Certainly, I do not regret the way I grew up in our Spartan accommodation, our poverty, lack of resources available for adults or the children. We grew a strong back-bone and learnt how to cope with almost everything in life – we had strong mothers as a prime example for us! We had to be seen as tough, not to take abuse/harassment and learnt to defend and look after ourselves. It had to be done this way. After all, life was tough and a struggle. Aerodrome School. I enrolled myself as a pupil in the school. My mother sent me to do so, having so little English herself, I had to fend for myself. School was fun; our teachers were great and kind and understanding with us; encouraged us to keep up with school work and involved us with sport – wonderful fun, pushed ourselves as far as we could. A lot of the children were talented with sports but there was so little training available locally. We did well with athletics/soccer/swimming – anything we could get involved in. We watched documentaries often in school; to this day I enjoy them watch them on the television. A summer day, 3rd class room in our school hut, situated between the camp church and the child-care/crèche building; our teacher Mr Spry with a calm, firm voice told all of the children to very quietly sit on top of our desks, not to look behind and do not move. Mr Spry quietly and silently reached for a perhaps a baseball or cricket bat, killed a very large snake had crawled through the open door. Any opportunity we could take absenting ourselves to go to the toilet or at recession/lunch break, we lift the lid of the garbage to ensure the snake was indeed dead. High School: It was not easy in this school; for the first time in our lives we had to study and do home-work and that cramped our after-school activities and play time available for ourselves and our friends. The first week of high school was a shocker; we were surprised to encounter a “welcoming group” of fellow-students, the town girls who would not allow us through the gate. The boys were not involved at all on either side but for the first week, it was on, a fist fight between the girls every morning. They told us to get-out of their school. In our class, the camp boys looked out for us; if we lacked or forgot something, the camp boys walked around our class room and selected the missing item and was given to us for our use. We did return our piffled rulers/pencils/text book etc to the student. It was not acceptable if they heard us speaking in our native language in their presence – we often did it deliberately to give them the pips! We didn’t care. During one of one our ‘domestic-science’ class, one of a few of our young teachers to stay after the class and had a talk with us, showed us much understanding, compassion and explained why the local girls disliked us so much and how to deal with this issue. We felt so comforted and supported from two wonderful teachers; this helped us how to cope. Earning money: Mother was employed in the camp kitchen; we were moved to the staff barracks – they were supposedly better accommodation but, it was not at all. I do not recall owning a key to our rooms – after all, we had nothing of value to steal. My mother relied on me to help out with my younger brothers; I washed and dressed them, prepared their breakfast and took them to the crèche for care, picking up my brothers after school, looked after them, entertaining them with a game or read some books until mum finished her shift at the camp kitchen. Often I took my brothers for a bath in the camp facility, preparing them for bed, reading stories. When the boys were old enough to join in play with their peers with some supervision from myself and help from available mothers, who kept an eye on us. It was a good system and it worked for the working mother and the boys were happy in crèche/child-care and in school later. Life was easier for mum with an income coming through. She did some over-time employment when it was available. For instance – the Annual Ball – mother and some of her peers were invited to help with the food and drinks serving the visitors who attend yearly for the dancing. The working ladies, at the end of their evening were invited to dance by some of the gents there. Nicely done too, the ladies enjoyed themselves, my mother did too. A decision had been made to sew curtains for all of the rooms in the camp and mum was given the extra work, earning more money; a low amount but welcoming the extra shillings per pair of curtains and was happy to do so. Mother enjoyed sewing and she bought a sewing machine, the material, patterns and sewed dresses, school uniforms for me, as well for my brothers and for herself. The working crew in the kitchen in the camp were a close-knit group, enjoyed being working together and often at the end of their work duties, they stayed on for a break for a coffee, cigarettes, lots of laughter and chat before going back to their barrack. Mixing with the locals in town: Most of the staff in shops were nice enough, some changed their attitude to us when they heard our accent – they did not like it, didn’t then and still do not today. It marks us as the ‘wogs/balts/foreigners’. We didn’t care either. We still have strong accents. We were mostly ignored, avoided often but tolerated. They did not like it when we spoke in our native language. We often did it just to annoy them. Our English was fluent and at school our English works. Our life and what we did around the camp and in town: Swimming in the river was fun; a flying-fox attached from tree to tree across the river, leaping into the water. Swinging off rope across the river – great times. A tragic incident at the river years ago occurred: We kept an eye on the younger kids at the river or lake. One day we discovered a steel drum moored at the bank; we jumped and dove into the water. One of the little camp kids named Sofie, copied us; it was quickly obvious to us she could not swim properly at all, urged her out of the water repeatedly telling her she could not do this, go back home. Eventually she obeyed us. We returned to the camp later that day, her parents were frantic, looking for Sofie; A search was organised. We were all absolutely devastated when her little body was found – in the lake. She must have returned there, not observed by anyone of us. A terrible day for the family and for us too. We did not forget and were more vigilant along the river with the younger children, were very strict with our brothers and sister – all the children. Occasionally Benalla experienced severe flooding and we took the opportunity to enjoy the rising waters along Samaria Road outside the camp grounds; we paddled and swam if the weather was warm enough, learnt how to deal and get rid of leaches – what great fun. The night was too quiet and we looked to find something to do - mischief was on the agenda! We annoyed our victims – we knocked on their doors, pestering them enough to interest them in chasing after us. Sometimes the night-patrolman was called to help (that was more exciting for us). We hid ourselves so well we were rarely caught and got away with our terrible behaviour – but what fun it was for us!! The Hangar in the aerodrome was a magnet for the camp kids; we often trespassed on the premises, exploring, searched the planes and bingo!!! What a happy find for the little kids – Free Money, as we called it, was just sitting there, a great temptation and we helped ourselves to the coins, not all of it just a little, enough for an ice-cream or lolly; our reasoning was that if we left most of the coins in the plane it may not be missed. We did this so often and one day…. Oh, we were sprung. There was three of us, all girls including myself were spotted by Mr Pollard, who chased after us with a bull-whip waving it above his head. We were petrified! Dana and Helen were nailed to the road, frozen with fear – I pushed the girls ahead of me, told them to split, one to the right, one to the left and myself straight down the road, reasoning that Mr Pollard couldn’t follow all of us. It worked, we back-tracked to the camp – safe again! We never ever repeated this again. The lesson was learnt. Many years ago, Mr Pollard was living next to my friend’s home, a neighbour; he looked and stared, he wasn’t quite sure he recognised me, I did not enlighten him, but he was trying to place me. A large group of the camp teenagers having decided to take a bike ride to Tiger-Hill – it was a long distance away from the camp. We packed cut-sandwiches, water and cordial drinks and of to our adventure. We got stuck in the mud in paddocks, cursing and swearing in temper, covered in mud on our shoes and pants. Arpard told us to forget about the dirt girls, today, and years later we would all laugh off all the inconvenience and dirt. It was true. Eventually we reached our destination, left our bicycles at the bottom of the hill, climbed to the top, enjoyed the view and sandwiches and a weary group cycled back to home. We occasionally raided gardens in private homes in town, helping ourselves to fruit. We were bussed to the snow fields – Mt Buffalo or Mt Buller occasionally during the winter season. We loved those outings; one day we came across a toboggan, it was just too irresistible and borrowed it and off we went. We did return it to the spot where we found it. What fun! In the summer we were bussed to Lake Yarrawonga during summer most years. One year Helen and I are were sitting on the bank of the lake, looking longingly at the boat moored at the bank. We watched and pondered, wondering….and we did. When the boat pulled away, without a word spoken, we looked at each other leapt onto the boat deck expecting to throw us into the lake. They did not threw off the boat, those kind adults had saw our longing and took pity on us. We so enjoyed ourselves and thanked the owners nicely when they returned from their boat trip around the lake. We gave a ‘royal-wave’ to our camp friends looking at us on the boat. What cheek we had! Activities in the camp: Indoor Games: We were given the “Library” room for the children, could borrow books, we learnt cross-stitch, basket weaving, French knitting, played monopoly, scrabble, fiddle sticks, card games, dominos, chess and checkers. Sometime later we were given a hut for use as a Club House, was used for television viewing, played gymnastics, played music and sometimes danced there. The following games were created by the older creative, imaginative clever boys. We were taught to play these with the older gang and felt we were privileged to be selected to participate in their games. A requirement was to be quick and willing to help our side to win the game. Partia: A great favourite of ours: two teams were selected, Helen, Aina and myself were often chosen possibly because we were thin, quick and agile and willing to shin up a tree or clamber onto a roof, or scuttle under the hut or hid in a garbage bin to aid and ‘save’ and ‘free’ the captured ‘prisoner’ – we were to ‘tag’ to captured prisoner to freedom and in turn capture the ‘enemy’. We did enjoy this game. Pushka: We stacked empty tins in a pyramid form and tried to knock out all of the cans and scored points – similar to playing 10 pin bowling. Palunta: Again a version of ‘base-ball’ with our rules because we didn’t know the rules. Klimpi: A round thick branch was whittled smooth by a knife and shaved into a pencil shape at each end; using a flat plank balancing the klimpi on the bat, balancing and counting each ‘safe-hit’ and wacked it as far as possible. Our secondary schooling has ended and we chose to search for work in Melbourne with friends Helen and Barbara. Mr Bain found safe accommodation in St. Anne’s catholic premises, a huge building where girls boarded there during their training and education facilities attended in the city. This was a good choice for us and we were successful being employed, loving our exciting new life in the city. It was a happy experience for us though with some misgiving. Did we miss our life in the camp? Somewhat yes. But it was the right choice for us. We missed the family and old friends left behind us and caught the train to Benalla as often as our funds allowed us to do so and re-connected to our past there. Our wedding was held in St Joseph’s church on the 4th February 1967; our Polish priest (formerly from our camp) did the service and attended the reception along with friends from the camp.  We left our hut from the camp.   I wonder today whether we were the last couple to leave the camp for a wedding.  The camp closed later that year. I returned to and reminisced walking around the camp for years after the camp closed, until the buildings were dismantled. My mother was apprehensive and unsure about life after the security and accommodation and employment ended in 1967 after the centre was closed; life continued to be a struggle but successful; for the rest of her life she walked around the grounds regularly, remembering and talking about her second home, the camp (after Poland) and had a great affection and attachment for the camp, “home” and the past and missing the old friends, right up to the last weeks of her life before she passed away. I would have never have traded my childhood in the camp for a ‘normal, regular home life” – after all, we would have missed all of the fun!!!

Stanimirovitch Story

(emailed to sabine.smyth@gmail from Alex Dupuis (formerly Stanimirovitch 25/4/2020)

Both Michael and Violette Stanimirovitch were prisoners of war.

They applied for refugee Assistance in France, for Australia 8/12/1946.

On 28/10/1950 both were accepted with their 2 children Nanette and Dushan.

Arrived in Australia 1/01/1951 went to Bonegilla for 3 months then to Benalla Migrant Camp were they stayed until 1956 with their 2 children.

Alexandre was born 31/10 1951 and Raymond 1953.

Michael studied to be an artist (in Paris) prior to arriving to Australia.

Michael held a One Man Art Exhibition in Benalla and a prospective customer gentleman said he loved the way he painted, loved his portraits but would not buy one because his name (Stanimirovitch) was too long.

In 1956 family moved to Wangaratta were they lived and children grew up.

Sadly Michael passed away June 1985 and Violette 27th April 2005.


Emailed to sabine smyth 18th March 2016 by Velta Fellowes nee Stugis. 

Stugis Story - A Latvian Woman’s Story.

This is dedicated to Marija Purens also known as Stugis, and her journey from Latvia to Australia; it is her experience of making history.

She escaped the Soviet occupation of her native Latvia and survived living in Hilter’s Germany. She miraculously escaped death many times such as when bombs fell around her. After surviving all odds she arrived in a foreign country, two small daughters by her side. There were no welcome hugs, no grief counselling, but instead she was judged as a woman alone.

It is often easier to judge than to understand, thus perhaps by explaining her travels, her journey, one can have insight to the how a person adapts, and survives any given situation.

Marija, was born Riga , Latvia, May 30th 1919. She was born to Janus and Annette Pinkoviski, younger sister to her two brothers. Her life growing up was happy, the beloved daughter in a happy household. Life was comfortable, ordinary people living ordinary lives. Riga was a vibrant place, once known as the Paris of the Baltic's. Marija loved Riga but also loved the country side side, and would often visit her Aunt and Uncle, who owned a farm.

Latvia was a truly beautiful land, freshwater lakes, pine, birch and willow trees , a safe haven for wildlife. The precious ieva tree , when in bloom scented the air with a delicious scent. The nightingales sang. Marija met, fell in love and married George Stugis. Life was good.

Alongside her content life changes were happening. In the spring of 1939 the Soviets planned their takeover of the Baltic countries- Latvia, Estonia and Lithuania. Learning to live in one’s homeland once your freedom is threatened , causes hope and fear to do battle within one’s head.

In October 1939, Marija and George were in the countryside when word came of the Russians tanks advancing. The opportunity arose to leave Latvia right there , right now. They grabbed that opportunity as they were in fear of their lives. They raced back to Riga about half and hour away from where they were. Marija pleaded with her mother, brothers and their families to come with her and George, to catch the train , to follow freedom. As surely death awaited when the Russians arrived. The fear and panic was accentuated as they could hear the rumble and vibration of the Russians tanks .

With only one suitcase between them, and after a quick tearful, heart wrenching goodbye, Marjia and George jumped on the train, leaving all she ever knew, and those she loved dearly, behind. Heading through Europe towards Germany, not knowing really where she was going, no idea what lay ahead. Her heart broke and never mended again..all gone.

Marija may have dreamed about foreign soil the high spots like Paris and Rome but this was not the way she had imagined. Fear and terror, not only the train ride, but stepping onto foreign soil was beyond her imagination. Cities no longer, replaced with rubble, starving and lost persons all around, their eyes mirrored her pain. Her soul itself was changing, this forced- by -war metamorphosis was a lonely place. However survival comes hand in hand with steely determination, the will to live and to seek options to do so, outweighs all fear.

Time was spend in Germany, difficult as it was, Marija and George’s love blossomed, and as a result two daughters were born. First born was Tamara, and a year later Aina.

From Germany the family moved to Italy. It was here that George disappeared from Marija’s life, to circumstances beyond her control.

Now she was all alone, totally responsible for her two daughters aged four and three. Marija moved into a displaced persons camp. After some time there Marija embarked on the journey to Australia on the ship Fairsea. The small family unit arrived New Year’s Eve 1949. Stepping foot on Australian soil January 1, 1950.

The decision to come to Australia was made in the transit camp in Italy. Two films were shown to the displaced persons to help them decide between Canada and Australia. In the film about Australia, Marija saw healthy sun-tanned men and women picking the biggest and brightest of oranges. The sky a vivid blue. The people smiling and happy. “This is the country for me, this is the country I want my daughters to grow up in. Australia is the place. Peace , safety , and happiness” is what Marija thought.

Arriving in Sydney, then travelling overland by train to Bathurst, left Marija breathless.

Not form the beauty but from the stark harshness. Where were the orange orchards, where was the beautiful land she was promised? The train took her through drought stricken land. All around was dry, barren dead lifeless trees, dead and dying sheep. The heat was intense.

On arrival Bathurst, she was allocated a room in a hut. Steels beds, rough grey army blankets, tin walls, and bare floor boards awaited her. The food on offer was hard to stomach, mostly lamb floating in fat. The shock was too much, Marija broke down and cried, what had she done? She felt betrayed, let down and oh so afraid. What was she going to do now?

From there she travelled to Benalla Migrant Camp. It was here Marija settled and made her home. Marija found work in various places, such as cleaning at the Broken River Hotel.

Eventually Marija found work at the Benalla Hospital as a kitchen hand , where she remained until she retired in 1985.

In 1954 , Marija fell in love and that union resulted in the birth of a daughter, Velta. It was 1955, and an illegitimate child was not well received. Against much pressure Marija would not relinquish her child.

The migrant came offered a safe haven, an affordable place to bring up her children, not the standard she herself grew up with, but none-the-less a survivable option.

Marija had a brief marriage with Alexander Purens, when that marriage dissolved returned to camp. She was away from the camp for about a year.

From 1957 until the camp closed Marija lived there with her daughters.

Tamara left the camp when she was 16 to go nursing, Aina also left at 16, only to return a few years later. Velta spend her childhood there.

Marija lived the remainder of her life in Benalla and worked at the hospital.

The camp was perhaps not the most ideal place for Marija herself, but for her children it was a wealth of happy experiences, which far outweighed the creature comforts of a well to do home. Our lives as children in the camp were so enriching in a way Marija could not have imagined. True she may not provide a home as she was accustomed to when she was growing up, but none-the-less her stay in the migrant camp was our grounding, was our home, and home is where the heart is.

Marija was the epitome of triumph over adversity, of a woman who happened to live through extraordinary times. To remain a kind and caring person despite being witness of man’s inhumanity to man. Marija is in fact a heroine and well deserving of any and all recognition as do all the displaced persons who arrived and still arrive in Australia.

Sulev Matt, Estonia

At camp 1950-55

Written down by Sabine Smyth from notes after visit to Migrant Camp Exhibition Opening March 8th 2015, with wife Sandra (Sandy)

During the flight from Estonia my mother got separated from my father. We didn’t know that he was actually alive for many years, then found out he had been taken to Sweden and had a new family.

My mother arrived in Australia as a single parent in 1955 and befriended local farmers by the name of Sherwood. They were kind and took us camping in Bright, and for visits to their farm.

Only three or four other Estonian families were at the camp and we grouped up and become friends.

As kids we played dangerously – we played in the wood heap and I used to jump from the tops of the cypress trees that grew along the mess hall.

We were not allowed to speak a foreign language on the school grounds – we would get detention.

We have a photo of us all coming off the ship at Station Pier – it was on the front cover of The Age for the 50 years anniversary since the beginning of migration.

This story was then emailed to Sabine Smyth in April 2020 by Arved Matt:

Matt Family Story

Matt Family Story (sent in via email from Arved Matt April 2020)

Adele Matt and two sons, Sulev and Arved, emigrated as WW2 refugees from Germany to Melbourne in 1949, and were settled in Benalla Migrant Camp after a short stay at Bonegilla Migrant Camp.

Towards the end of WW2, Estonia was under German control, and in September 1944, as the Russians were closing in driving out the Germans from the Baltic States, Estonians were trying to escape, many across the Baltic Sea to Sweden.

Aleksander Matt, who had been conscripted into the German forces, escaped and fled home to Saaremaa, and then to Sweden in a small fishing vessel, together with other men and boys who were in danger of being killed by the Russians. The women and children were to escape also in following days. Adele Matt, with son Sulev, and pregnant with Arved, was about to board a boat to Sweden when the Germans rounded them all up and sent them to Germany, together with the retreating German forces.

Adele and Sulev, together with many others, just avoided the Russian invasion of Estonia by hours. Many who could not escape were captured, emprisoned or killed by the Russian forces.

After the “liberation” by the lesser evil Germans, Adele and Sulev were settled in Oldenburg Refugeee camp. Arved was born in Verden during this period. Adele and Aleksander were separated by the turmoils of war and the aftermath. The horrors of the occupation by Russians, Germans, and then Russians again, were too difficult to talk about by most refugees, but we found out years later that Aleksander had escaped to Sweden and had settled down with a new family.

1949 there were mass emigrations of refugees to all corners of the world, but Adele chose Melbourne Australia as it was the furthest she could get from the horrors of war.

Adele, Sulev and Arved landed in Melbourne in September 1949, transitioned through Bonegilla to Benalla Migrant Camp, where they lived in relative luxury until 1955 when Adele remarried and settled in Wandin North.

We all made good friends in the Benalla camp, Adele worked as a machinist at Latoof and Calill, leaving Sulev (and less so Arved) to terrorise the rest of the camp.

School was complicated for the children, a mixture of ages, ethnicities and languages, and none able to speak English, initially. Somehow we all managed to integrate, communicating in a smattering of Estonian, Latvian, German, Polish, etc, and increasingly in English. Speaking English was compulsory at school, otherwise they got detention.

We as kids had a great deal of freedom, or we thought we did until we were caught by the teachers or the “Dicke Politsei”, and sometimes even our parents.

(The “Dicke Politsei” was not an actual policemen, but an officious security guard who was not keen on kids. He often chastised kids for loitering, screaming at them, thus making no friends with kids who called him names, including Dicke Politsei. )

The parents and children often walked to Benalla Township to shop, or enjoy the gardens and swimming holes in the Broken River. It was great fun and a wonderful atmosphere to grow up in.

We made friends with a wonderful farming family, the Sherwills, who had a farm just outside of Benalla. They often took our family and friends to their farm to play with the animals, and they also drove us camping to Bright. It was great to have local friends outside of the camp to provide a change of scenery and appreciation of the Aussie lifestyle outside the camp.

There were many activities and games that children got involved in, some rather risky but entertaining. Some examples are described below:

The kids used to build cubby houses in adjoining properties, and had to scavenge for materials to make them as comfortable as possible. Residents used to get the old potato sacks from the canteen and used them as doormats.

Belated apologies to the mothers who lost their doormats during a scavenge-hunt (as distinct from “robbery”) for cubby house materials.

The “Dicke Politsei” were on the case, but never found the culprits.

Climbing cypress hedges, swinging down on the branches. This activity caused a camp-wide blackout when one boy landed and released the branch, which whipped up into the power lines causing a short – circuit and blowing the transformer. Sulev and 2 or 3 others were still up in the tree when it happened (so it wasn’t Sulev’s fault).

TAA and ANA regularly used the Benalla Airport, and we were fascinated by the planes landing and taking off, especially at night with all the flashing lights. TAA had an Open Day and they welcomed children aboard showing us the controls, etc.

A group of kids embarked on a ship building exercise, building a canoe from “salvaged” corrugated iron and timber, and “salvaged” pieces of bitumen from the road pavement, which was melted and used to patch the nail-holes and seams of the canoe. It was panel-beaten into shape to hold one kid and launched in the Broken River.

The stability calculations by the “engineers” were apparently awry and it capsized in no time on its maiden voyage, and we believe the remains still rest at the bottom of Broken River.

Maybe a ‘Winged Keel” would have been handy, but it had not been invented then.

Tarzan Swings. A popular summer activity was swinging down from a tree on a rope swing and jumping off into the river. The rope had knots in it for grip, a loop for foothold, or a stick tied to it like a trapeze.

The Tarzan Pool was in the Broken River, near the Monash Bridge in the town. The other pool near the water tower on cnr Tower and Riverview Roads, was a shorter walk from the camp but was smaller, and used only by the “little” kids.

Leeches in the Swimming holes: It was very common to be attacked by leeches when in the swimming holes. Our legs and bodies often had leeches attached. Some merely swiped them off, but the best way was to insert small twigs in the tail and turn them inside out to see the blood that they had sucked out of you.

In 1954 the school took us to Benalla to see Queen Elizabeth on her Australian Coronation Tour. “I did but see her passing by….”, as did Sir Robert Menzies, and, unlike Paul Keating, no gentle pat on the bum.

Peeping Toms. Not appreciated by women of the camp, was the practice of older boys peeping through the nail holes of the shower block walls. The women knew and plugged the holes with toilet paper, but the boys easily pushed out the plugs. A constant battle.

The Camp dentist, one of the residents in the Camp, operated the Camp Dental Service. Sulev went once, but feeling brutalised refused to go again, hiding under the Nissan huts.

Playing “Chasey”, a popular game at the camp. When playing at dusk, Arved was called home by his mum, but he ran away straight into a very low barbed wire fence put up to keep people off an area. He received gashes to the knee and legs, and the scars are still very prominent today.

Broken River floods circa 1954, spread right up to the outskirts of the camp. Many kids excitedly waded through knee deep water to town, against a strong current.           



Swist Story

Swist family history for Benalla Migrant Camp website, written by Stephanie Merry (Swist) January 2020.

Boleslaw and Franciszka Swist, along with their daughter Irene, had been granted Displaced Persons status by the International Refugee Organization (IRO) after World War II. They were both Polish and had been slave labourers for Nazi Germany during the War.  They met in 1948 in a DP camps in Southern Germany and experienced many hardships together including the death of their first born son Karol. They came to Australia in 1950 as part of the Australia Governments involvement with the Displaced Persons Resettlement Scheme (DPRS).

Franciszka was pregnant with their 3rd child at the time, passage was by plane instead of the more common long trip by ship. After processing at Bonegilla then transferring to Rushworth, they were moved to the Benalla Migrant Camp around 1952. They lived at Benalla Migrant Camp for about four years - from 1952 to 1956 - with their four daughters Irene, Celina, Halina & Danuta.  They had another 3 children after moving from the camp.

As part of the DPRS, migrants were obligated to complete a 2 year work contract, Boleslaw was assigned work as a carpenter with Victorian Railways. His work took him away from home Monday to Friday leaving Mum to care for the children. Dad remained with VR for 41yrs until he retired in 1991. Mum worked as a cleaner in later years.

Although employed in their work contracts migrant families looked to supplement their income with a second job, seasonal work provided the perfect answer. The weekend and holidays would see families drive out to surrounding towns to spend the day picking hops or working in the orchards around Shepparton.

My sisters have told me of their happy memories at the camp, they recall the communal kitchens and bathrooms and the camp hall where concerts were held. They recall the fun they had playing with other camp kids, the mixture of languages from so many nationalities in the playground and the small fence built at the front of our hut to keep the little ones together. Accommodation was 1 small room and they remember a grey blanket hung from the ceiling being used as a room divider to provide a little privacy. There was no running water in the rooms and residents used tin cans to carry water from the communal taps or the laundry into the rooms for drinking and washing. Mum inventively used a small German tin bucket designed for window cleaning (Fenstereimer) to make cottage cheese at the camp, using the handle to hang the muslin cloth off. She continued making cheese this way her whole life.

Boleslaw was president of the soccer club in the 1970's and Franciszka helped out each week selling hot food from a makeshift shed built at the Churchill Reserve ground. I recall being toasty warm in that little shed during cold winter days watching soccer games. Regular fund raising events and grants allowed the building of permanent change rooms around this time. Many migrant families were involved with the soccer club as players, administrators, officials and supporters. Great memories of the 1977 Premiership win.

Franciszka spent her time knitting and sewing clothing for her children. Her most prized  article was a beaded Polish national costume which she spent many hours embroidering. This costume was worn with pride by her daughters at public events such as Benalla Rose Festival parades and functions for the Benalla Polish club.

Boleslaw and Franciszka were looking for stability, a haven from the trauma of war: I think they found that at the Benalla Migrant Camp and later in the town of Benalla.

Footnote by Sabine Smyth:

Steph Merry (nee Swist) supplied a range of original photos and documents. The Swist photos are interesting because they are so varied. One photo depicts the family group and friends in front of a hut, neatly fenced off, as was typical at the time. Another shows a card game with what appears to be RAAF staff - which supports the information I received that the RAAF withdrawal from the camp was gradual and that they initially took a role in the administration - here they are shown at leisure playing cards with the migrant families.


Steph wrote to me in an email: "In about 1975 a Polish priest started visiting monthly from Richmond, as well as Polish Mass we would stage Polish music concerts, plays and us kids would go to Polish school on a Saturday. Hated it then, but am pleased now that I can read some Polish and I can speak quite well.”

( Fr Wozniczak had been at the camp and then there were several years without a Polish priest until Fr Slowik travelled from Richmond in 1975.)

"I wore my Polish National Costume from when I was 12 or 13 up to about 16. We formed a Polish dance troupe that later performed at the Rose Festival and other events in Benalla, Albury and Shepparton. Lots of fun really.”

" Most of the dancers were my age or younger, Kristine Orzlowski was the only one who still lived in the camp when we performed, and she passed away around 1993. Janina Bender's mum and Mrs Sikora helped with the singing and coaching us along (she was also a teacher at Benalla High School). Mrs Wisniewski had a wonderful voice, there was a choir at the church with her, Mrs Pawelec, Mrs Fita, Mrs Kropkowski, Mrs Swist (my mum), Mrs Prentki and Mrs Bialy , Mrs Kubiac, Mr Janczekowski and Mr Romaniszyn. "

Stan Manek (formerly Kazimierz Szymanek) sent in this story via email on 25/1/2020

Szymanek Story

My mother Wladyslawa was born in Konopiska, Poland  6 January 1926. Some records indicate that she went to school in Blachownia, Lodz, Poland. Records also indicate that in 1938-1939 she was living at home with her mother and father.

1939-1944 Wladyslawa worked for a German person in Poland. (Forced labour, farm worker).

1944-1945 In 1944 after the Warsaw uprising she was arrested ( reason unknown ) and transported to Ravensbrueck Concentration Camp in Germany. She spent a year there until the liberation in 1945.

1945-1948 Wladyslawa was in “ unemployed camps “ for displaced persons at Rotenburg Camp, Fallsing Camp and Mariental Camp, Germany.

Wladyslawa gave birth to a daughter Janina Zofia Szymanek on the 10 March 1947 at Rotenburg. Germany.

Our records say that Wladyslawa stated ....” She had no news from her family” and “ My country is occupied by the Soviets, I cannot return”.

In 1949 through the International Refugee Organisation, British Zone, Germany, Wladyslawa applied for emigration from Germany with her daughter Janina. Through the IRO Group, resettlement to Australia (emigrants), she departed from Bagnoli Camp Italy on the ship ‘ SS Hellenic Prince’, sailing from Naples in March 1950, arriving in Melbourne, Australia in April 1950.

After being processed through the Bonegilla Migrant Camp in Victoria Australia, being an unmarried mother, Wladyslawa and her daughter Janina were sent to Uranquinty N.S.W. where there was a Royal Australian Air Force Camp. Her son Kazimierz Szymanek was born there on 16 October 1950.

Wladyslawa Szymanek, Janina and Kazimierz were then relocated to the Benalla Migrant Camp in Victoria in 1952. Janina and Kazimierz were registered in the camp school.  Living at the Benalla Camp Wladyslawa  had another daughter Wanda Ciepiela who was born 6 August 1954. In 1956 Wladyslawa married Janek Ciepiela at the Benalla camp, (she is in the centre of the picture holding Wanda, Janek is on the right). Later in 1956 they all moved to Wunghnu, Victoria where they had a son Edward John Ciepiela born 8 May 1957.

Wladyslawa Ciepiela was Naturalized as an Australian Citizen in Numurkah, Victoria on the 7 March 1967. She passed away on the 8 June 1994 at the Goulburn Valley Base Hospital in Shepparton, Victoria.


‘Women are good at forming friendships,’ Quentin Bryce told a gathering at the National Portrait Gallery, Canberra, on 14 May 2015. ‘The friendship of women, their solidarity, is very important to their survival and growth as people.’ She was referring to the women of the Queensland CWA branch her mother belonged to and found much joy and fulfilment in. 

But the former governor–general’s comments apply just as pertinently to the informal, unstructured group of migrant women who lived, worked and raised their children in the Benalla Migrant Centre. Unlike the CWA members, the majority of these migrant women were sole breadwinners. They had to work to support themselves and their children. They had few choices. With only functional English, no opportunities for further education or training, they were stuck in menial, low-paying jobs, either in the camp itself – in the mess hall kitchen – or in the Bush Nursing Hospital or chain or clothing factories. Apart from their immediate families, they had only each other for companionship and mutual support.

They knew they were disempowered. Whatever relatives they communicated with by letter were a long way away, in Europe. There was no extended family handy to consult or rely on. But there was Father Wosniczek, the Polish priest. It was he who arranged for Krystyna and me to attend St Joseph’s and later the FCJ Convent, on scholarship. Although I was separated from my friends at Benalla High School, I enjoyed the educational opportunities I received at the convent.

Educated women such as Mrs Zieds, literate in two or more languages, worked in a camp administration role, as translators and communicators of the Director’s instructions over the PA system. Her position valued good grooming and her salary enabled her to look smart and sound confident. She also had her own accommodation, near the school, separate from the rest of us. By comparison, the less well-educated women, assigned to unskilled work, seemed diffident and far less sophisticated.

In 1957, when I was 10, my family left Scheyville Migrant Centre, near Richmond, NSW, to get away from our father, Kazimierz Topor. He had a history of violence. Benalla was our refuge. My brother, Ludwik, sister Krystyna and I were enrolled in the Aerodrome School on 12/12/1957 with, ironically, my father’s name on the school register, not my mother’s name, Maria Topor. It was our mother who took us to the school on our first day and our mother who was our primary carer. This was the first evidence I had of my mother’s invisibility in the eyes of camp authorities. She had no status in her own right. We hoped our father would never find us, but he did.

Communities are a two-edged sword. They can nurture and support, but they can also create dependency. Much depends on how much power communities have. The community of migrant women I knew during the late 1950s and mid 1960s were battlers in every sense of the word. When they came to Australia, many of them were already socially, economically and educationally disadvantaged, only to have those disadvantages compounded by what seemed like a one-way set of obligations and responsibilities under a patriarchal system.

Apart from occasional, usually prurient interest in our lives, no-one in the town seemed to care about us or our stories. Value lay firmly on our mothers’ economic contributions and their children’s indistinctness: nothing else seemed to matter.

For years, whenever I opened my mouth, people would immediately say, ‘You’re not Australian, are you?’ It wasn’t said unkindly, but our accents marked our Otherness. This had the effect of reinforcing our sense of identity as migrants. Instead of striving to be and sound like the townies, we prided ourselves on our differences. For example, I was shocked one Friday afternoon after school to hear Krystyna farewell one of her St Joseph’s classmates in broad Australian. It felt like a betrayal of some kind. She was born in Australia – affectionately dubbed a ‘kangaroo’ – by our family, so perhaps she felt she needed to blend in. In a nation fond of characterising people it comes as no surprise that some ethnic groups find their strength and identity in resisting pressure to blend into a national ‘blancmange’, and in maintaining their cultural distinctness with pride.

Living on the edge of Benalla, next to the airport, we were physically separate from the town – fringe dwellers of sorts, objects of occasional curiosity and sometimes scorn. Neither our mothers nor we, as children, were ever invited to anyone’s home in town. Only former migrants living in a Housing Commission houses would invite their friends to visit. The solidarity forged in the camp held across the ‘border’ that was Samaria Road and, later, across the suburbs of Melbourne.

I had only entered townspeople’s homes as a Girl Guide, gaining experience for my badges or doing odd jobs for senior citizens during Bob-A-Job week. With the power of books, films and television, our experience of how others lived was largely vicarious.

When my brother was 14, he and a town girl, Jill, had a crush on each other. They must have met at high school. She offered me her discarded tennis racquet which I collected from her large brick house in Coster Street. That was the first time I saw how a girl a year older than me lived. She had her very own, beautifully decorated bedroom, filled with possessions. A kookaburra sat in the stained glass round window that faced the street. By contrast, our few possessions fit into a small chest of drawers and a narrow wardrobe – standard Department of Immigration issue. Jill’s interest in my brother was short-lived and we never became friends, but I bashed a ball against the massive garage doors near the camp’s entrance until the warped racquet was no longer usable.

As children we were heir to our mothers’ lack of confidence and direction in life. We had no role models – except that of the battling single mother, tenacious and enduring. Although we were ‘feral’ – left to our own devices while our mothers worked – it’s surprising how few of us ‘turned out bad’. Our parents must have instilled in us core values of decency and acceptable behaviour which were, no doubt, reinforced by weekly attendance at Mass. In fact, we had a community of mothers admonishing and guiding us when our own mothers were at work.

Outside the camp we were diffident and self-effacing. Within the safety of the camp, however, we played loudly and joyfully, unfettered among our own. We made up secret languages and wrote letters in invisible ink, knocked on doors and ran away, climbed trees, spied on people, especially young lovers – much to their annoyance – and played games such as Klipka. The idea was to place a 3-inch piece of wood whittled to a point on each end – the klipka – into the air with a plank from a fruit packing case and count the number of continuous airborne hits of the klipka. The winner was the one who could keep the klipka in the air longest. Well-formed klipkas were collectables.

While the adults idolised President John F. Kennedy, the children played Countries, a game that reflected the Cold War tensions of the time. A line would be drawn in the school playground dividing ‘the world’ into two teams, invariably America and Russia. Players would raid each other’s territories for items – usually stones, sticks or marbles – placed at the boundary of ‘the world’. The idea was to return to your own country with booty and without being tagged. If you were caught, you were a prisoner. Whichever country lost all its booty or all its people lost the game.

Marbles, knucklebones, Puszka (Kick the can), hide-and-seek, and cat’s cradle were other favourites, as were French knitting and handball. There was no end to the variety of games. With only low-tech items needed, everyone could play something. As we got older, games shifted indoors with the advent of board games such draughts, Snakes and Ladders, Ludo, Monopoly, and Chinese Checkers. Later again, listening to trannies, dancing rock’n roll and going to the movies marked our mid-teen years.

We prided ourselves on our physicality, dexterity, speed and strength, attributes soon recognised with alarm at Benalla High School. The ‘camp kids’ had to be separated at sports, otherwise we would have been invincible.

At the convent where I spent four years, the farmers’ daughters couldn’t understand how a kid like me with a funny name, strong accent and living in a tin hut in the camp, could top the class in English, term after term – and I wasn’t even Australian! No-one expected us to excel and, whenever we did, their sense of entitlement was challenged and made then uneasy. It seems not so different nowadays with the generally low expectations of marginalised people, including indigenous children, by the wider community.

Whatever abilities I had were recognised by others long before I did. For example, I wouldn’t have gone back to TAFE to complete my secondary schooling if it weren’t for the prompting of my boss – the third one I had trained. Promotions were not for young women, however promising, but for future breadwinners, that is, men.

It’s ironic that the traditional paradigm endured in my Sydney government department workplace years after I had left Benalla camp. The ‘big boss’ was an ex-Army Major and my immediate boss was an Anglo who, despite his struggles to successfully complete the HSC – his third attempt enabled him to study Economics at university – made an appointment for me to enrol at East Sydney Tech. He insisted I was ‘bright enough’ to pass first go, but I resisted for two years before enrolling. A whole new world opened up when I not only passed the HSC but also earned a Commonwealth University Scholarship.

A decade later, banks still wouldn’t grant me a home loan because I was a woman, despite the fact that I earned more money at the time than my husband. In fact, when I married my husband I was fortunate to have also ‘married’ his extended family. In the banks’ eyes, my value didn’t lie in my proven achievements and potential but in my association with my husband. The patriarchal paradigm raised more ire among women of my generation than it did before the feminist revolution. So what chance did our mothers have to move out of the camp when such inimical attitudes and practices prevailed, and still do in far too many quarters?

I longed for the day when I could change my name – no could pronounce it or spell it! I toyed with various Anglo names I could assume under deed poll. But when marriage presented me with the perfect opportunity to become Helen Stanley, I couldn’t do it. I hung onto Topor because that is who I am. It is a confirmation of my identity. My children carry the Topor name into their surname: Topor-Stanley.

Disempowered, disregarded and devalued, our mothers sought strength and comfort from each other and their growing offspring. Whatever dreams they had for themselves and their children were silent, unseen and unheard. By not leaving the camp earlier, they were judged as lacking initiative. Authorities saw all too clearly the psychological barriers for leaving, but they were blind to the structural inequalities that kept the women there far longer than was desirable for everyone concerned.

The stories of these women and their children must no longer remain hidden. They must be made public. The flourishing of their offspring is a testament to their parents’ frugality, hard work and endurance, as much as to their compassion for and solidarity with each other.

© Helen Topor

16 May 2015

Wysocki Story

(e-mailed to Sabine SMTH by Ludmila Walsh nee Pandik on 10th April 2020)

Our grandfather Mykola (Nikolai) Wysocki was born in 1889 to Yakov (Jacob) and Maria Kolecnik.  The Wysocki siblings totalled five brothers and three sisters.  The family were rural landowners in Zynkowszcyna, Ukraine.  One story told was that  when a family member married everyone came together to build a small house on the property for the newlyweds.

His history is scant but one part that's known is that he spent time as a prisoner of war in Austria and at the conclusion of World War 1 he returned home mainly on foot, also carrying with him the learning of a second language which would become an advantage as part of his future.

Our grandmother Aleksandra was born in 1900 the youngest of fourteen children to Nikofor and Agafia Worowki/Vorovki, who also resided in Zynkowszcyna, Ukraine.  Presumably, her family also were rural landowners.

During the Russian revolution of 1918 when Ukraine became part of the Soviet Socialist Republic all lands were confiscated and the Ukrainian people were  forced to work under a Communist regime.

Mykola and Aleksandra met and married and themselves became parents to five children of which the fourth was our mother Lubov, or Luba born in 1927.   Between 1932-1933  Joseph Stalin created the worst man-made famine in history upon Ukraine's population resulting in approximately 4 million deaths.   Somewhere in this time frame Mykola made the decision to move the family elsewhere.

The story told was that they arrived at a Russian farm where the owner kindly gave them permission to live in the barn in exchange for helping run the farm.  During this time they all learned the Russian language.  When it became safe to do so they returned to their home village but unfortunately lost their youngest, Yakov (Jacob) through illness.

During World War the German army invaded various regions in Ukraine and this is where Mykola's language skill became handy because he was chosen to translate for the command and secondly, report any suspicious activity in the area (apparently he chose not to co-operate with this request).  However the moment came when the able-bodied populace were transported to Germany's Labour Camps.  Mykola and Aleksandra's second children -the twins Mihail and Halya- were first to be forwarded separately,  followed by parents and our mum at some later time.  They worked in the camps and mum had an extra job in hand washing children's clothing for a family in which she received payment in bread and jam.

Upon the cessation of war in 1945 grandfather attempted to rescue the twins from the British Zone but this was considered too dangerous. They never saw them again.   It was not until between 1955 and 1957 they received information from the International Red Cross that Mihail and Halya had been repatriated and still living; correspondence commenced between them from this moment on.

Between 1947-1949 mum underwent vocational training within the Co-operative Society Womens' Tailor Shop supported by the International Refugee Organization (IRO),  gaining certificates as a Masterhelp, a Second Class Dressmaker and eventually First Class Dressmaker/Tailor at the Re-settlement Centre, Ludwigsburg.

Mum met and married Aleksandr Pandik in Germany prior to emigration. As we understand there was a choice for the displaced population:  repatriation, Canada or Australia.  Grandfather Wysocki was adamant that "they needed to get away from Europe as far as possible".  The choice was made.  The four of them embarked the S.S. "Castelbianco" at Genoa in 1950. When the ship passed through the Suez Canal grandfather was resourceful enough to trade a precious thick featherdown quilt (known in Australian English as a 'doona') for a Pfaff pedal sewing machine for his daughter; and a very precious machine it became.   Arriving in Melbourne everyone was transferred by train to the Bonegilla Holding Centre for processing,  with a number heading towards their final destination:  Benalla Migrant Camp.        (We have been informed by Sabine Smyth that we are the only family she has heard of, to have three generations included on arrival at Benalla Migrant Camp.)

Note: I will continue with the rest of the story under Pandik.  Dad's history is a lot shorter and I will include more camp life as I recall.  I have written the above history as I know it but if you need to precis this please do so.

Pandik Story

Aleksandr Pandik born in 1926 to Evgenin and Anna (Tupalova) Pandik in Konstantinovka, Ukraine.  His brother Nikolai was twelve years younger, born in 1938.   In 1941 dad was walking in the street when, without warning, a German convoy forced him onto a vehicle for transportation to Germany.  He was only 15 years of age.  (He never saw his parents and brother again).  There he worked on the trains as a fireman along the Rhine River between Koblenz and Mainz.   At the end of the war (between 1948 to 1950) he was moved to different camps: Frankfurt, Ludwigsburg then Pforzheim receiving vocational training through the IRO (International Refugee Organization) as an auto mechanic.   They also conducted English lessons for everyone. 

He met Luba Wysocka, who was also receiving vocational training as a seamstress, living in the camp with her parents, Mykola and Aleksandr Wysocki.  They married in 1950 in Pforzheim and through the Resettlement Program the four of them received paperwork for emigration to Australia. Aleksandr chose Australia as he wanted to get as far away from Europe as possible.

The departure was via Genoa, Italy on the S.S. "Castelbianco" sailing to Melbourne, their final destination being the Benalla Migrant Camp.  I was born in the camp hospital and christened in the non-denominational chapel.  Michael arrived four years later.   Our address was Hut 36/7.   As youngsters we would have been oblivious to the fact these huts had thin walls, no running water, heating or cooling but it was a home.

Everyone had a role to play in this community:  whether rostered for kitchen duty in preparing or cooking meals, the hospital, laundry and toilet blocks maintained as well the required gardening.  The largest building was the community centre which not only served as a dining hall but for various entertainments.  Amongst the huts kids attended various birthday parties.   One recreational activity involved walking to the nearby Broken River where the adults would swim and picnic in the cool shade of the trees.  

A story told by mum was that apparently I was partial to onions and made a habit of knocking on hut doors asking if they had ’boolki’ (an abbreviated version of the word tsiboolki: onions).  One memory was a Christmas pageant with Saint Nicholas dressed realistically in European style costume, however the character known as Black Peter looked absolutely evil fully dressed in black trousers overlaid with a black and grey tunic.  His head was covered in a black cap (horns added) and protruding from his mouth was a long black/grey tongue. In one hand he held a pitchfork.  Poor mum did her best to calm down a very upset child …

Eventually a house was purchased close to the town centre where a huge vegetable garden was established along with a decent sized chook pen.  Grandma, for many years, would walk to the camp pushing our old pram containing two large enamel buckets filled with her home-grown 'ohirki' or ogorki - cucumbers set in a brine added with garlic and dill - which she went on to sell.  On every occasion she would return home, naturally, with two empty buckets.  I think quite a few people will remember the" little lady with the cucumbers".

One year a dinner dance was held at the camp and mum wore a distinct chocolate-coloured chiffon ball gown.  The fabric had shots of burgundy and green which caught the light and shiny beads centered on the bodice. A pair of soft apple green suede stilettos set off the gown.  The shoes no longer exist but the gown together with an embroidered white blouse and a mushroom coloured crepe dress with bolero I have donated to the Benalla Migrant Camp historical collection created by Sabine Smyth (Benalla Migrant Camp Inc.).  

We think that the right decision had been made in choosing to settle in Australia.  Throughout her life our mother from time to time would maintain that, "Australia is the best country in the world", and state: "You'll never go hungry here".


Sabine, memory of camp life is tiny because of my early age (some photos are proof).  If you need to condense please feel free to do so.  The dress colour I may not be so clear with so please correct where necessary.  Also, the embroidered blouse you have, judging by its size, was a blouse made by mum for me to wear.


Zajac Family We sailed from the port of Naples Italy on 22 September 1945 arriving in the Port of Melbourne on the 19th October 1949 on the Ship FAIRSEA. My Mum Elfriede, my Dad Jozef, my Sister Inga and myself Franz Josef. We had all our worldly possessions in two wooden crates and two suitcases. We were processed in Melbourne and taken by train to Bonagilla from there we were transferred to the Benalla Holding Centre. My Mum was born in Wiesenfeld a small farming village in the Upper Franconian district of Bavaria Germany. She was one of five children of Josef and Berta RUB with only two surviving the war. My Dad Jozef was born in the same village as the late Pope John Paul. He joined the Polish Army and was captured by the Germans after the invasion of Poland. He was taken as a prisioner of war and interned in Stalag 13a Sulzbach Rosenburg. From here he ended up as a forced farm labourer on my grandparents farm at Wiesenfeld. As time progressed romance blossomed between my Mum and Dad much to the dismay of my Grandparents, this was a very dangerous situation as there were informers and military everywhere and Dad was regularly checked on by the authorities. After the war ended my Dad was taken by the American Occupation Army and placed into Starlag 13D at Langwasser near Nuremburg awaiting processing. He worked for the Americans at the camp until his release and then rejoined my Mum, my Sister and I in Wiesenfeld. They applied for refugee status through the International Refugee Organisation and were successful. US, Canada and Australia were on offer and the Australian Officials arrived first. We found things very difficult at the Holding Centre, fortunately Dad found work with the PMG and Mum at Latoof and Cahill clothing factory. After about 12 months we moved out into a rental property at 16 Maude St. Life in those early years was tough, we had very little furniture and Dad was away a lot with his job so it was up to Mum to keep things in order We eventually were able to place a deposit on a house at 14 Davey St and this became our family home. Dad retired from the PMG when he reached the age of 65. Mum spent most of her working life in clothing factories in Benalla. My sister and I were educated at St Josephs and the Benalla High School. Except for short periods away Benalla has been our home town since 1949.

The story is currently being written up. Watch this space.