The Industrial Spy - the roots of a personal history

"Deliver me the plans to that machine and I will make sure you get a decent roof above your head!"
The last words are still ringing in Ivo's ears as he leaves the house of Maurice Ghysbrecht.

Maurice Ghysbrecht was one of three sons in an industrial dynasty that had everything to do with wood. Their father had started out producing wooden barrels for gunpowder in his factory in Wetteren for the Belgian army, but when tin cans started to replace wood, it seemed that their industry was looking for a new market. Maurice moved to Sleidinge in the 1890s.

This small but rather rich rural village, in the early years, just after the Great War, was booming economically, with its successful brand of so-called Empress-pears, which grew in the magnificently huge orchards. Each year scores of English ladies from around Birmingham and Liverpool would come over to this little Flemish town to help with harvesting the delicious fruit from August until early October.

Ghysbrecht saw his chance and had erected a saw-mill which, among other things, would produce wooden fruit caskets for this industry. All went well, until some French firm came up with a certain "billot"-casket, which seemed much better designed, lighter but still sturdy enough and this French firm used a new revolutionary method of stapling the fine wooden components together. The "billot"-casket was oval-shaped and in relative terms could take more weight with less damage to the delicate pears.

If only Ghysbrecht could produce this new casket, he could have the lot of the Belgian fruit farmers as his costumers and that would mean a lot of work, a lot of return on assets, a lot of profit.
He would be having the monopoly in Belgium and, hang on, perhaps this Ivo might be just the man for the job.

Ivo Roegiest, at 25 is a young man in his prime. He is perhaps not one of the most handsome, but he seems quite talented. Ivo had only just returned from fulfilling his military service and according to the Belgian military laws was granted unlimited leave, which meant that he had just came back home after his transfer to the Ghent regiment of the national reserve. If all is well, he would sit out his time in the reserve and he would have to hand his military gear in to the authorities in 1934 to be officially relieved of any military duty but 1934 is still a long wait.

With only his basic primary schooling, Ivo used his military service to teach himself French, music and a certain basic knowledge of mechanics. Trained as a craftsman clog-maker, his wooden shoes seem to be well appreciated by the costumers. The rather reticent, -and somewhat mysterious-, lad apparently has golden hands when it comes down to technical things and not only that: he's a rare musical talent on his flugelhorn in the village band as well. Even his officers at his regiment acknowledged that and in the end he even played along in the regimental band as the only amateur, which was quite an achievement in his time for a peasant lad without any decent education.

But with a soldiers pay of 30 Belgian centimes per day, from January 1920 onwards until January 1922, you just don't get far. And there is this girl that he is seeing and apparently, he wants to marry her too. He needs at least some financial backdrop to convince her parents.

Ghysbrecht, in charge of his saw-mill, recognizes the technical talent of the young man, especially his more introvert and musical side. Well aware of the financial needs of the young man, Maurice Ghysbrecht asks Ivo to go on a mission which would involve industrial espionage and he promises him a house.

Ivo Roegiest is facing a tough decision. Not accepting the offer might mean him getting the sack and at the same time it's also an offer he can't refuse.
"Deliver me the plans to that machine and I will make sure you get a decent roof above your head!" It's a gentleman's promise. One man, one word.
And within the next couple of days, Ivo packs his suitcase, he grabs his flugelhorn, grabs some money and he sets off tramping through France.

The exact happenings are a mystery for a lot of people but in September 1922 Ivo's fiancée Albertha (Berthje) Van Hulle receives a card from Mussy-sur-Seine...

The text reads: "My dear Berthje, I have been lucky enough to find the façade of my 'villa' on a postal card. That is why I am most happy to send you a copy of this card. So behold and think what you might fit. The house is a little more bleached by the Sun than the other one next to it. I have drawn an arrow to point it out."

Rue du Couvent in Mussy-Sur-Seine région de L'Aube around 1922...

Ivo had located the French saw-mill in the Aube region (Champagne en Ardennes).
Whilst busking as a flugelhorn player, he is picked up by a musical director in the region. Ivo helps the conductor out as a valuable extra flugelhorn for his band and ends up transposing and transcribing scores for him.

"If ever I can do you a favour, just ask!" says the conductor.

Ivo needn't think long about a favour and expresses his dream of working at that particular saw-mill in Mussy-sur-Seine. The conductor of the French band puts in a good word for him. And one day he comes up to Ivo and says: "My dear Ivo, you can start work at the sawmill near Mussy. They need someone to adjust and sharpen the teeth of the saw-blade. This requires specialised skills. Are you able and willing to do that?"

Ivo accepts the offer, knowing very well that he technically can't do the job
"I'll take it," says Ivo "But would they be willing to grant me another two weeks? I'm about to get married!" Ivo replies.

An excuse, sees a desperate Ivo run off home. Ivo arrives back in Sleidinge with good news and bad news for his boss: the good news is that he's in, the bad news is that he can't possibly do the job and he demands a crash course for the job. The local sawmill in Sleidinge stops working to make sure that Ivo gets all the training he needs to do his new job. After ten days of emphatic heavy practice during long days, Ivo sets off to Mussy-sur-Seine once again and starts to work in his new job, alledgedly married to Albertha Van Hulle, but in truth still a bachelor.

Ivo does his work without suspicion and works along quietly. But alas, the machine is technically much too complicated for him. Ivo sends some basic sketches home and explains he needs help.

Maurice D'hondt, a technical designer, from the local saw-mill is being sent for. Ivo helps Maurice to a job at the Mussy-sur-Seine plant and both they start work at drawing up the detailed plans of the machine.
In presumably 1923 or 1924, after completion of the plans, they disappear from Mussy-sur-Seine, never to return or never to be seen again by the locals.

Upon their return in Sleidinge, Maurice Ghysbrecht immediately orders the construction of the machinery. And to everyone's relief: it all works out!
The orders flow in, the monopoly for Belgium had been achieved. Now Maurice Ghysbrecht has to live up to his promise.

And this is one small picture … the rest of the story behind Ivo's house, I will write about in another blog.

And for your information, if you'd like to know why I posted all this: Ivo is my grandfather on mother's side.

Theo ... my fine young son ... *err* ... is he?

Theo's my boy ...

Born in 1998 and with distinct features in his face of his dad (ME, *wahey*!!!) and the family of his grandad, indirectly the family has laid all their hopes on him. The hunt for similarities is inevitably on whenever a kid resembles someone, but the little boy has been showing a few weird interests and habbits over the last few years ...
Physically, Theo's undoubtedly a son to his father, but in some aspects of his character, you'd give him some qualities of my brother Luc. He's quite introvert, intelligent and stubborn (which.I'm probably less.)
He's quite able to play by himself for hours with his toy-cars, which is quite normal considering the fact that his first word was "auto", NOT "mama" or "dada" or "papa". NOPE "auto" in Dutch it was, complete with the perfect pronunciation, turning other mums in awe at the perfect ability of speech by the youngster. The disillusion of the audience that this turned to be his only word ran really deep. Yet, his diphthong in "auto" as a word was so perfect ...
His "wheels-focus" developed without any problem. He knew the different car-logos driving around before he was three, recognizing the mothers of his fellow-students at kindergarten and calling out to us who was driving which kind of car whenever a similar type of car passed us. The fishing stand at the fun-fair always produced a new set of wheels and now that he's eight, he still takes to the floor with a die-cast companion to stress out. It sometimes feels like he's a Buddhist. Instead of humming "OOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHMMMMMMM!" he simply drops down and starts with "BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRMMMMMMMM!" and away goes all his stress of the working day at school. You'd sometimes wish it was all that simple ...
So what's weird about all that? Nothing really, he's a little more introvert, he's doing allright at school, but as a proud straight heterosexual male-chauvinist-pig father, I got quite a shock whenever he brought home a pair of Barbie-pink pumps from that same fishing-stand from the funfair. His second fishing round had produced a set of plastic jewelry, with a little Miss World-like crown, ear-clips and a necklace.
When he was nearly four, we had a Scottish piperband over in our village. I had walked the streets with Theo behind the band, enjoying the music. Theo had thoroughly enjoyed this and the week after he asked me to put on some music by the "Scotters".
Picture this!
Theo had found a brown blanket which had a bit of a tartan pattern, with black, white and yellow lines to form the tartan-squares. He neatly folded this up to make a skirt and put it around his waist. He took a yellow scarf and rolled that one up to go over his shoulder across his chest down to his kilt, just like a bandmaster. Add a hobby-horse to that, which he held like a Marines drum-major by the stick and off he went on "Scotland the Brave" around the table in the livingroom.
I sometimes wondered afterwards whether this incident set him off into "other directions".
The pink pumps went on his feet, the jewelry he wore with pride. He combined this with a set of short white summer pj's and all of a sudden, my fine young boy nearly looked like a go-go girl from the thirties, ready to dance along to Cab Calloway's "Minnie the Moocher". The weirdest thing of all was that he looked EXCELLENT in it. The tapping of his pumps on our kitchen floor drove us practically mad, but he surely had the legs for it.
Theo now still loves to cross-dress. He got a long skirt that his gran used to wear. A white one with black speckles, which at first he used to wear and spin around in, like the Turkish Dervish. Lately, he's become more creative, undressing to his trunks and pulling up the skirt just under his shoulders and wearing that like a dress. He tied ribbons to the rim of his top. My mother, who gave that skirt to him, was quite surprised at the sight of her granson in her old stuff, marching by like a mannequin. I should have taken pics, I know ...
And everyone says he's got a great eye. The little boy's got taste, he knows how to dress, he's creative. We get comments that he'll probably make a good fashion-designer but everytime when he cross-dresses, my sisters sighs and worriedly tries to assure us that we'd better not fight the nature of our little boy.
I think I'm about this far that I won't do that, if I want to see him happy, but I have to admit that my sister is genuinely getting on our nerves, always repeating that we can't fight Theo's nature ...
The more she says it, the more I feel nervous about it all. Yet, whenever I saw him look at some other girls, I still think there's hope ...
We'll know more when his voice drops in a few years time ....