Jaci Byrne - The Music Maker of Auschwitz IV

This book has been a collaboration of love and there are many people I would like to thank for helping me getting this inspirational story to print.

Of course, my first acknowledgement goes to my grandfather, Henry Barnes Jackson, 1898-1964, without whose war diary this story would not have existed.

My mother, Joan Barnett, and aunt, Mona Jackson, Harry Snrs last remaining offspring, for giving me permission to publish their fathers diary and photographs and giving freely of their memories.

My cousins: Harry Jackson Jr for graciously allowing me to write of his secretive birth, adoption and childhood and providing me with information pertaining to our grandfather and grandmother. Patricia Coyle (nee Byrne) (the late Betty Byrne (nee Jackson) and the late Bill Byrnes daughter) for providing me with documentation pertaining to family, and for reading the manuscript prior to publishing, despite how confronting it was for her to do so. Family historian Jean McDowell (nee Cranston) (the late Bert and Marjorie Cranstons daughter). Jackie Baldock (nee Sumner) (the late John and Mary Sumners daughter) for providing information, photos and documentation on the Cranston clan.

My brother, Gary Smitham, and my son, Liam McCallum, for help with photos.

My husband, Doug Byrne, for his enduring patience, encouragement and relentless reading of redraft after redraft of The Music Maker of Auschwitz IV. He is a man of whom I know my grandfather would heartily approve.

Kenneth G Ross, Australian playwright, for his endless constructive comments and suggestions.

Angela Farmer, artwork.

Bev Harrison, proofreading.

Denny Neave, Pat Kan and all the Big Sky Publishing team.

Rosemary Peers and Lynk Manuscript Assessment Service, editing.

Harry Jackson was my grandfather. All his grandchildren called him Grandda Jackson. My mother Joan is his and Mabels youngest daughter.

As a child, Id adored my grandda. I can still see his face in my minds eye: his twinkling eyes, ruddy complexion, laughing mouth, his red hair transfused with grey like a mix of exotic spices. I can smell his earthy, hops-laden breath filling my young nostrils. I can recall sitting on his lap stroking his vast pendulous earlobes, their velvety feel between my thumb and forefinger a constant soother for me.

My grandfather was indeed an accomplished musician. He particularly loved playing the piano, a permanent fixture in any of his homes that my family visited. I have a fond memory of watching him lead a marching band in the streets of Whitehaventhe uniforms flamboyant, the drums loud and powerful, all men marching in time, my grandfather at the helm, twirling his mace around, his expression proud. I also saw him perform on a stone bandstand in Castle Park, Whitehaven. From the perspective of a little girl, these experiences become woven into a colourful tapestry of adult memories.

Harry Jackson had a wicked sense of humour. Shortly before my family headed off to Singapore in 1963 (one of my fathers overseas postings with the Royal Air Force), I surreptitiously whispered to Grandda, Who is your favourite grandchild?, giving him only a choice between myself and my older brother. He chuckled in his unique way, and then raised a gnarled, nicotine-stained finger at me, wagging it back and forth before shaking his head: Ill not say, Jacqueline.

I pleaded with him to tell me. After all, I was going away, a long way away, to an unknown tropical country on the other side of the world. So, with this in mind, surely I could leave civilisation behind as someones favourite? I turned a crestfallen face to my grandda and my ruse worked. He chuckled in resignation, pulling me close to him, nestling me into his rattling chest as he whispered, You are, my pet, but you didnt hear that from me.

I didnt understand. How could you not hear something from the person who said it? I asked him that question, and he roared with laughter.

That was the last time I ever saw my grandda Jackson. He passed away a year later in 1964 at the age of 65.

Mona Jackson, Harry Jacksons eldest living daughter, brought his World War II diary and photographs to Australia in the early 2000s, where my family had emigrated from England years prior. She left them in my mothers keeping.

My grandfather started writing his diary in January 1941, and some of the dates, sequences of events, times and places prior to this time (and even after) are a bit of a jumble, understandably so given his horrific situation, so I have had to rearrange and add to some entries. Granddas spelling of cities and villages was not great and also many borders and names of places have now changed. As a result of my persistent research I believe I have recorded his journey and timelines fairly accurately. Some events he only alluded to, obviously due to the danger he would have faced had his diary been discovered by the enemy, and I have expanded upon them. I have also taken the creative licence of adding emotional tones to certain diary entries. Men in those days simply didnt express their emotions, and certainly not in war diaries. In relation to Harry Jacksons life prior to and following the war, I have relied upon family oral and written history and research. Every effort has been made to seek permission to use material provided by others in my grandfathers diary.

1939

Whitehaven, England

There are times in a mans life when he must search deep inside himself. When he must strip away all that he thinks he isor isntand rely on his very essence in order to survive. War is one of those times, perhaps the most fundamental of times. I know this, having served my country before.

I was but a mere boy when I ran away from home and my job at a colliery to fight Jerry in World War Ifoolish lad that I was back then. The recruitment officer knew I was too young; I could see it in his smirk when I turned up to enlist. God, one look at my scrawny body, scraggly neck and sunken chest and he would have knownof course he would have. But the two bob and sixpence I waved under his nose for taking underage chaps the likes of me did the trick. Britain was getting desperate for men and, with a wink and a wave of his hand, the recruitment officer pointed me to the long line of new recruits. He said the food would do me some goodfatten me up a bit.

By the time I returned at the end of 1918 from what was named The Great War, I had just turned 20 years of age, but I felt like an old man, I can tell you. There had been nothing great about it. The wind had been knocked out of me and I was no longer as puffed up as a toad by cockinessmore like a subdued pet frog. Working down the Haig Pit here in Whitehaven alongside my dad had been a haven compared to the muddy trenches Id come to call my home. At least at the colliery Id been able to return to a comfortable home to eat and sleep after work. At war, wed bunkered down like scared rabbits in a warren, huddled together in dark, damp tunnels deep underground, tons upon tons of dirt above us as we attempted to sleep in airless quarters far underneath the trenches where we fought by day. As for the food, well, I certainly didnt fatten up.

My poor dad and mam were so pleased to see me return in one piece that they forgave me everything, and my skipping off to fight was never mentioned again. Still, I was pleased that wed defeated the Germans, not that the bastards were admitting anything of the sort. They said it was simply an armisticeor something just as stupid. Said they couldve won had they continued on fightingsaid theyd been forced into agreeing to the terms of the armistice. But our country stood firm in the belief that Germany would never again be a threat to Britain.