Few could imagine that the commune was a largely rural space until the turn of the twentieth century. In 1830, Schaerbeek sported just 340 buildings and 1,800 inhabitants. Then a radical transformation began, rapidly turning farm and park land into a brimming conurbation, criss-crossed by roads, railways and tramlines. By 1860, there were 1,700 buildings and almost 16,000 inhabitants. By 1890, there were 7,350 and 53,000 respectively. In 1916, the commune counted 13,550 buildings and 100,350 inhabitants, and by 1930 there were almost 17,000 buildings and 120,000 inhabitants – the latter not so far off Schaerbeek’s current (2020) population figure of 133,000.

Nowhere better reflects this sense of breakneck urbanisation than one of Schaerbeek’s undoubted architectural and cultural jewels, the Eenens-Terlinden château, better known today as the Maison des Arts. To admire it, you must first find it, hidden away behind a narrow ‘porte cochère’ in the Chaussée de Haecht (n° 147) and invisible from all of the (built-up) roads that surround it. In 1826, a prosperous sheet salesman, Charles-Louis Eenens, and his wife, Anne-Marie Carlier, decided to build a country house (château) in the midst of what was then a large expanse of market gardens and parkland that they had acquired and which extended from the ponds at St Josse (long since disappeared) towards the place known as ‘Pogge’. Almost immediately, history was upon them. In September 1830, during the Belgian revolution, Dutch Prince Frederick took refuge in the house, imprisoning twenty hostages in the basement. Fearing poisoning, he refused to eat anything and drank only a cup of tea. It rapidly became clear that he would not be able to retake Brussels and he stayed long enough only to write a letter to his father communicating the bad news and then to withdraw. But the Eenens family kept the precious cup from which the Prince had drunk. It would later be donated to the commune and is exhibited in the house to this day. 

When Charles-Louis Eenens died, the château passed to his three children, who rented it out until 1867 when a son, Lieutenant-General Alexis Michel Eenens, decided to live there. He, and the château, almost immediately fell victim to a terrible fait accompli. The new commune had been busily planning its expansion and layout. The plans included the construction of two parallel roads, running roughly North-East – the rue Royale-Saint-Marie (leading to Place Colignon and the new Hôtel communale and on out to Schaerbeek station), and the Chaussée de Haecht. The former effectively cut the château’s extensive garden in half. The necessary land was compulsorily purchased, and by the time the Lieutenant-General died in 1883, the château had been surrounded by roads and the new-build upon them, and also by new civic monuments such as the covered market of St Marie (now Les Halles de Schaerbeek), which towered just behind the house. Eenens meanwhile himself undertook a lot of work on the house, building two new wings, a huge library, stables and other outhouses.

The château was inherited by Alexis Michel Eenens’s only daughter, Thérèse, and her husband, Georges Terlinden, who had followed a brilliant career as a magistrate, and was procureur general of the Cour de Cassation for twenty-five years. They moved in with their many children and a succession of nannies (frequently British). Terlinden in turn began to embellish the house, installing parquet floors, an oak-lined dining room, a stately staircase, a veranda and a new brick tower, with plumbed bathrooms for each floor and a belvedere on the roof.

On 3 July 1918, Terlinden and his family were expelled and the house, considered to be conveniently near to the airfield at Evère, was requisitioned by the German Luftwaffe and occupied by a Major Brandenburg, an ace bomber pilot, who led a squadron of Gotha bombers on frequent raids over London. (The family records include an amusing story about how Terlinden’s best wines, hidden in a defunct hot air heating system, were almost discovered by the Major’s servants who, fortunately, in the end opted to use the open fires instead.) The occupation was, by all accounts, genteel, with the German Major giving a personal guarantee that the library and its vast collection of law books would not be touched.

During the war, Terlinden meanwhile used the seniority of his position to defend the independence of the Belgian judiciary. In 1921, in recognition of his wartime heroics, King Albert I made Georges Terlinden a Viscount, and he began to embellish the château accordingly.

Since the compulsory purchases and the road building had begun in the 1870s, the Eenens-Terlindens had basically opted to turn in on themselves. The family itself built houses on the Chaussée de Haecht, in part to act as a screen and in part to generate revenue. The main entrance to the château was transformed into a winter garden, with hanging plants grown to obscure the backs of the houses on the Chaussée. And the dining room was glazed with stained-glassed windows, which gave light but obscured the increasingly urban view. At the back of the house, meanwhile, large picture windows gave onto a small, well-manicured garden with trees planted and trained once again to obscure the surrounding buildings. (A fountain and a small water feature were added by the commune in the 1960s.)

The Viscount died in 1947, at the venerable age of 96, and the château was subsequently bought by the commune and transformed into what now serves as Schaerbeek’s Maison des Arts. Today, it houses the commune’s Service Culture. The old saddlery has been transformed into an agreeable estaminet. In normal times, the converted cellars are used as function rooms. The gardens, a veritable oasis of calm, are open to all visitors during opening hours. And the house itself frequently plays host to prestigious and well-attended art exhibitions. The building was partly classed as a national monument in 1985, and completely in 2015. An ambitious restoration programme began, and it was decided to restore the house and its décor as far as possible to its condition in the glory days of the 1891-1895 Terlinden period – the painstaking work slowly continues. Meanwhile, the Eenens-Terlinden château – once a country house, then a town house, then a neo-classical château – lives on as a thriving cultural centre and a unique example of defiant survival amid urban encroachment.

Information. Visit the Maison des Arts website for regular updates on its cultural activities: It is best to visit the Maison when an exhibition (and preferably a vernissage!) is underway but, beware, parking is impossible and it is best (and easiest) to come on foot, or by bike or by public transport.

Author’s note: I would like to thank Anne-Cécile Maréchal, Artistic Director of the Maison des Arts, and her staff, for having given me a guided tour to the Maison des Arts, allowed me to consult the Eenens-Terlinden family’s archives, with their many touching documents, and made editorial suggestions to this article.

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In 1939, Brussels had one main airport, at Haren, or Evere. The new NATO headquarters building now stands on much of the land it used to occupy. The small civilian airfield had been considerably upgraded by the occupying Imperial German Air Service in 1914. During the 1920s, the Belgian Air Force used the airfield, but it was also used for international civilian flights and gradually became Brussel’s international airport. In May 1940, the occupying Luftwaffe expanded the airport, building new hangars and runways. But the suburbs were already encroaching inexorably on Haren, and so the Luftwaffe also built a new airfield a little further out, at nearby Melsbroek, which would later become today’s Zaventem airport. In September 1944, with the Haren/Evere area liberated, the original airport was designated by the advancing Allies as ‘Advanced Landing Ground B 56 Evere’, and several fighter squadrons moved in, including Royal Canadian Air Force (fighter) squadron 403.

On 3 February 1945, Flight Officer Ronald Morden ‘Tedge’ Tegerdine, originally hailing from Oakland, California, took off in his Supermarine Spitfire L.F.XVI SM483 on an armed reconnaissance mission. He was a mere two or three hundred feet up in the air when his engine cut out. As a contemporary (Air Ace ‘Johnnie’ Johnson, also based at Evere) described it, Tegerdine was ‘too low to bail out, and since he was over a densely built-up area, he tried to stretch his glide to a small patch of open ground.’ However, the Spitfire was rapidly losing height and speed and risked stalling into a nose dive. A turn was impossible. By now, as a contemporary newspaper reported, ‘he was at rooftop level, flying along behind a row of old houses. His left wing clipped off several chimney pots.

Next loomed a sloping attic roof, and the wing ploughed right into the slanting brick wall on one side and through the brick wall on the other side, with bricks, slates and rafters exploding in every direction.’ The Spitfire spun around and what remained of it ended up on the roof of N° 153 Boulevard August Reyers. The tail end dropped behind the houses. The heavy engine tore loose and buried itself in the masonry. Gloriously, the wings remained tenuously attached to the fuselage. ‘Tedge’, the slightly dazed pilot, climbed out of the cockpit and slid down the wing, ‘to be received by startled Belgian civilians who had scrambled up their attic stairs to find the entire rear half of the top storey sliced away.’ Some attic extension!

As the extraordinary photographs show, Tegerdine had had a very lucky escape. By the time his fellow pilots returned from their mission, he was back at the Evere airbase, wrapped in blankets but clearly none the worse for his adventure. Noted for the sang froid he had displayed through this episode (including cutting off his Spitfire’s fuel supply to diminish the risk of a fire), Tegerdine’s war soon came to an end. On 22 February ‘Tedge’ was shot down over enemy territory and parachuted out of his stricken craft. He survived shots fired at him as he descended. On the ground, though he dodged further shots, he was finally shot through his left lung, the bullet narrowly missing his heart, and hospitalised. He remained a prisoner of war until liberated by a British Airborne unit towards the end of the war in Europe.

Should you be wandering along Boulevard August Reyers and come to the corner with Avenue de Roodebeek, take a look up and you’ll see, above and behind the distinctive corner façade of 153 Boulevard August Reyers, the altered brickwork where a Spitfire once landed on a Brussels roof top.

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Johanna Eekman, or ‘Jo’, and known as ‘Moeke’, 1897-1960, is listed in the Dictionary of Belgian Women of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries as being a nurse, a communist and a resistance fighter. The editors could – and surely should – have added that she was a pacifist and an anti-fascist. Jo was born in the Netherlands. Her father was a progressive doctor and she followed her brother in becoming a nurse and a pharmacist’s assistant. Having witnessed the horrors of the First World War, she became a convinced pacifist, and it was during a pacifist demonstration that she met her future husband, Alexandre Eekman. ‘Alex’ was also Dutch but was born in Brussels and based in Belgium, with a house in Rixensart. He was a successful trader in textiles and tissues. The two married in 1920 and together had six children. They were both active in the pacifist and anti-fascist struggles of the 1930s. They welcomed many political and Jewish German refugees to their house in Rixensart and then, after 1930, to the house they had built in Brussels, on the corner of Avenue Plasky and rue du Saphir. Jo joined the World Committee of Women Against War and Fascism and took part in a trip to the Soviet Union in 1935. During the Spanish civil war (1936-39), Jo and Alex welcomed eight Spanish children to their house. ‘Moeke’ devoted herself to making them feel a part of the family, with the house in Rixensart becoming like a holiday home.

In September 1939, the war the Eekmans had so feared broke out and on 28 May 1940 Belgium surrendered and was occupied. Alex was initially arrested as a ‘foreigner’. Despite his parents’ pacifism, one of their sons, Tom, had answered the Belgian Army’s call for volunteers and was killed shortly thereafter when his column was strafed by German fighter planes. Jo meanwhile joined the many women’s protests about food shortages and, little by little, all of the family became active in the resistance movement, distributing leaflets, delivering messages, hiding Jewish children…. Her husband and their son, Walter, and daughter, Annette, were arrested on 9 June 1942. Alex died in Mauthausen concentration camp in December 1942. Annette was interrogated in St Gilles prison and then deported to Ravensbrück. In August 1944 Jo was herself arrested, together with her son, Johan, and also deported to Ravensbrück on one of the last transports, where she found Annette, still alive, though grievously sick after a severe bout of typhus. As a trained nurse, Jo was assigned to the infirmary, and immediately started to militate for improved food and conditions, particularly for the babies born in the camp. Jo and Annette survived and on 28 April 1945 were taken to Sweden by the International Red Cross and later repatriated to Belgium.

Jo’s experiences strengthened her commitment to the peace cause and she chaired successively the Flemish branch and the national organisation of the Women’s Rally for Peace (Rassemblement des Femmes pour la Paix). Both Jo and Annette became committed Communists during the occupation (the underground Communist Party had been prominent in organising the Independence Front) and Jo remained an active party member after the war. In 1953 she was reportedly threatened with expulsion from Belgium as an alien because of her allegedly subversive political activities. She remained, alongside her daughter Annette, an active member of the Association of Former Deportees of Ravensbrück. After Jo’s death in 1960, Annette continued in the Association and became a founder member of the International Ravensbrück Committee, established in 1965, arguing passionately that, ‘what we have learned, we have to pass on… So the goal is never to forget. And to go on and fight on so that something like this never happens again.’ Annette herself died in 1997. The International Ravensbrück Committee remains active although very few camp survivors are still alive. But the truth is that, as the living memories fade, we have largely forgotten, and few reading the laconic plaque on the Eekman’s house will do as I have done in penning this piece and learn about the extraordinary contribution the Eekman family made to the cause of peace and, above all, about the extraordinary sacrifices they endured.

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I saw that the bunker marked the end of a long, tall earthwork, usually obscured by trees and briars. I traced the wall – clearly manmade – to its end and realised that the bunker and the earthworks had once formed a cunningly-disguised trap. The wall was an anti-tank defence, impossible to drive over. The hidden bunker’s guns would have had a direct line of fire on any tank that had been halted by the obstacle. Time for a little research!

When Poland was invaded in September 1939, it was clear to Belgium that the Germans would be coming again. The first line of defence was the steep-sided Albert Canal and the natural barrier of the Meuse, with the sturdy Fort Eben Mael at the apex of the various canals and rivers. From September 1939 until May 1940, a new defensive fall back line was planned and erected at great speed. Using various contracting companies and over a thousand workers, more than 400 concrete bunkers and many kilometres of anti-tank obstacles were built, from the fortress of Koningshooikt, near Lier, in the north, to Wavre.

The backbone of this ‘KW line’ consisted of rows of strategically placed combat bunkers. Where possible, canals, railway embankments and floodplains – all difficult obstacles for tanks – were integrated into the positions. Hundreds of acres of land were flooded. Where no existing or natural obstacles existed, additional lines of bunkers were built. Tactically important sites, such as major crossroads, were protected with additional bunkers. Numerous obstacles were erected in front of the bunkers from north to south; kilometres of barbed wire fences, anti-tank obstacles (no less than 73,600 Cointet elements laced together with steel cables, fields of rails and tetrahedra) and trenches. 

On 9-10 May 1940, following a daring paratrooper raid on Eben Mael, the Germans rapidly broke through the Albert Canal/Meuse line, forcing the Belgians to fall back to their positions on the KW line between Lier and Leuven. British soldiers manned the section from Leuven to Wavre, and the French held the line between Namur and the French border.

On 15 May, battle was joined near Leuven, with the Belgian and British giving fierce resistance. Just one day later, however, the Allied High Command unexpectedly gave the order to withdraw. The German army had broken through in the south, near Sedan and, in the north, the Netherlands had surrendered. In order not to be surrounded, the allies were forced to abandon the KW line, withdrawing to weaker positions along the Ghent-Terneuzen and Boven-Schelde canals. Belgium would surrender just fourteen days later, on 28 May.

Ironically, the Germans later recycled a lot of the defensive material (especially those Cointet elements) when building the Atlantic Wall. The flooding was drained. The ditches filled in. The fields were returned to farming. And the KW line gradually disappeared back into nature. All, that is, except the bunkers, which mostly survive, and a three kilometre-long concrete anti-tank ditch at Haacht. Like its more famous brother, the Maginot Line, the KW line was never really put to the test, and for similar reasons. If you are going to build a defensive wall, it has to go all the way – even along the borders with your friends.

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Think Stagecoach; think The Searchers; think The Eiger Sanction; think Forrest Gump. What do they all have in common? Answer; the spectacular backdrop of Monument Valley, the iconic red-sand desert region on the Arizona-Utah border, with its instantly recognisable towering sandstone buttes. Why have quite so many films used the Valley in that way? After all, the US has plenty of other spectacular landscapes to offer. The answer begins in Schweinfurt in Bavaria and links the Navajo Indians to the Great Depression to John Ford and John Wayne and the Hollywood industry, as I discovered by chance on a coast-to-coast trip.

Having done the plouk stuff of seeing the ‘mittens’ and standing in the road just where Forrest Gump had stopped running, I called in at a nearby trading lodge, Gouldings. A storm broke – yep, a storm in the desert. A sign by the steps pointed to a museum. Needing shelter, I followed the sign and came to a small sandstone block building. And there, in the former trading post, transformed into an idiosyncratic museum, lies the story of one of the more obscure but arguably more influential immigrants from Europe, and the enduring influence he was to have on the Hollywood movie industry.

A first strand in the story began in Schweinfurt on 8 February 1904, with the birth of Josef Muench. When he was eleven his parents gave him a camera for Christmas and launched a lifelong passion. In his late teens, Muench worked as an apprentice landscape gardener, but he knew already that he wanted to be a photographer. In 1928, at the age of 24, Muench followed his older brother across the Atlantic to Detroit, Michigan where, despite having little English, he found a job at the Ford Motor Company. He studied English at night school and worked the assembly lines for two years, saving as much as he could.

In 1930, Muench bought a Model T and travelled north to Canada, along the Canadian border and down the Pacific coast to Santa Barbara.

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VHRA GOW! at Prescott Hill 2020. #vhragow #vhra #hillclimb #hillclimbracing #modelt #modeltford #modeltroadster #roadster #fordhotrod #hotrod #vintageracing #hotrods #traditionalhotrod #ford #fordroadster #roadsterr #vintageracecar #vintageracer #frontenac #prescotthillclimb

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His savings spent, he found work in landscaping, but he continued to indulge his passion for photography in his spare time. He started to make journeys east and so discovered the strange landscape of the Arizona desert, with its photogenic wind-sculpted sandstone formations. Though difficult to believe now, in the 1930s Monument Valley was virtually unknown in America – except to the Navajo, who called it ‘Valley of the Rocks’. Muench’s photographs would change all that.

A second strand in the story began with a trader and sheep herder, Harry Goulding, from Durango, Colorado. He’d fought in the First World War in Europe, returned to Durango and in 1923 married a local girl, Leone Knee, whose first name he couldn’t pronounce properly. He called her ‘Mike’ and the name stuck. Goulding had ambitions to open a trading post, but limited means. His work as a sheep inspector for the federal government took him all over the Four Corners region (where the states of Arizona, Colorado, New Mexico and Utah meet). He discovered the Monument Valley area and fell in love with it. He took Mike to see. She, too, was struck by its beauty. Though the area was isolated and thinly populated, they thought they could make a go of their trading post dream there. However, at that time Monument Valley was part of the Paiute Indian Reservation and property ownership was reserved to the natives.

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The Gouldings’ break came in 1923, when Utah State made an offer to the Paiute to move north to more fertile land. They accepted, and the land they had vacated became Utah State property. Harry and Mike bought a 650 acre plot at Big Rock Door Mesa for $320 and hired a diviner to find a well. This would be their new home. In 1936, a presidential decree extended the Navajo Reservation north into Utah, including the Monument Valley area. And so the Gouldings and their trading post ended up being a private island in the middle of the Navajo Reservation.

At first, the Gouldings lived in a tent and traded from another, but after a few hard years they hired some skilled quarriers who helped them build a more permanent structure from sandstone blocks to serve as the trading post, with their living quarters upstairs (that structure is now the museum). Harry and Mike traded a lot with the local Indians and became friendly with them. They also traded more occasionally with passing prospectors and wranglers and, from time to time, sold goods to an amateur photographer who was fascinated by the rock formations – Josef Muench, or ‘Joe’ as they called him. Whenever he came to the Valley Harry and Mike put him up and in return Joe gave them plenty of his photographs as mementoes.

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Gouldings We left our home away from home this morning. Our time here was very special. Memories that will last a lifetime. Thank you everyone at Gouldings that made our trip so great. We will be back! #monumentvalley #roadtrip #homeawayfromhome #tripofalifetime #heatwave #campground #acrylicart #artistofinstagram #createeveryday #artistslife

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The Navajo had already been hit hard by the Great Depression, but in 1934 the region suffered a major drought. Another occurred in 1936. The Gouldings became increasingly worried about their Indian friends, whose lamb and wool livelihoods had been destroyed and who faced the looming menace of famine. In 1938, Harry and Mike had an idea. Hollywood, they’d heard, was a profligate industry, particularly when on location. And they’d somehow heard that celebrated director John Ford was thinking of returning to a genre he had made famous – the Western. In the summer of 1938 the Gouldings got into their car and headed for Hollywood. In the car with them was a binder of Josef Muench’s spectacular 8 x 10 inch photographs of the unknown Monument Valley.

Once in L.A., Harry and Mike found the United Artists studio. Their plan was pathetically simple. Harry walked into the studios with the photographs, made for Ford’s office and asked the receptionist if he could see the director. She told him he’d have to make an appointment. Harry said fine, I’ll wait. Security was called. In the meantime Harry took out the photographs and stood them on a couch. Serendipity arrived in the form of Ford’s location manager. He was intrigued. Harry and his photographs were hustled into the great director’s office and just a few weeks’ later the entire cast and crew of John Ford’s latest film – more than 100 people – were camped outside the Gouldings’ trading post. Harry and Mike had succeeded. Hundreds of Navajos were subsequently recruited as extras, for a daily payment of $5 ($8 for those on horseback). A means of sustenance had been brought to the parched desert.

Ford’s film, Stagecoach, was a huge success, despite entrenched industry prejudice against what was regarded as a hackneyed genre from the silent era. The film was nominated for seven Academy Awards, including Best Picture and Best Director, and won two Oscars, for Best Supporting Actor and Best Score. For his leading man, Ford took a risk on a young friend, the then unknown John Wayne. It proved to be Wayne’s career breakthrough, turning him overnight into a movie star. Another star was also born; Monument Valley. Stagecoach was the first of seven Ford Westerns made on location in the Valley (including further classics, such as She Wore a Yellow Ribbon and The Searchers).

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How’s the view from your front yard? Well….this is @scott_laws_photography daily view from Gouldings Lodge at Monument Valley. To say we’re slightly jealous is an understatement! Head on over to his feed for many more stunners from this beautiful, spiritual area. TAG #westbysouthwest Selected by @nicole_pino_d ____________________________ Check out our friends: @sunrise_and_sunsets @naturesmarvels @sky_marvels @instagramersnm ____________________________ #southwest #desert #desertlife #california #washington #oregon #idaho #nevada #utah #arizona #newmexico #texas #colorado #wyoming #montana #americanwest #americansouthwest #west #westernUSA #westernstates #desertsouthwest #navajo #spiritual #gouldings #gouldingslodge #monumentvalley #wbsw_scott_laws_photography

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The Gouldings now had an industry on their hands and set about building more permanent lodgings and organising catering, and the Lodge was born. Between them, Josef Muench, Harry and Mike Goulding and John Ford had turned Monument Valley almost into a sine qua non of the American Western film. Henceforth, no Western would seem complete without a chase between the Valley’s charismatic buttes and pillars. (Most recently, Johnny Depp’s Lone Ranger cavorted against the monumental backdrop.) In time, the charisma would not be limited to Westerns. Director after director has filmed on location in the Valley, from Kubrick (2001: A Space Odyssey), to Eastwood (The Eiger Sanction), to Zemickis (Forrest Gump).

And what of Joe Muench? The 1930s marked the dawn of the age of the automobile and the open highway. Still eager to make a career as a photographer, Muench sent some of his photographs of the strange but beautiful Monument Valley sandstone formations to a magazine published by the Arizona Highway Department, Arizona Highways. In 1938, the magazine decided to run an iconic photograph of the Rainbow Bridge National Memorial. Muench never looked back, working for the magazine for more than fifty years. After the Second World War, he decided to devote himself entirely to photography and travel. He made over 160 visits to Monument Valley and visited the Grand Canyon 200 times, but travelled far beyond the American South West, visiting Africa, Asia and Europe. He published many books and in 1977 the unmanned Voyager carried a Josef Muench photograph of a snow-covered Sequoia redwood taken in Kings Canyon National Park into space and beyond our solar system. Muench died in 1998, at the age of 94, but both his son, David (an innovator in landscape photography), and David’s son, Marc (a landscape and sports photographer) have kept his passion alive.

So it was that a young immigrant from Schweinfurt, Bavaria, helped to form America’s cultural landscape and, in a sense, to this day is still influencing the country’s cinematographic and iconic image of itself. Yet when filming next gets under way in the Valley, probably nobody in the cast or crew will have ever heard of Josef Muench or Harry and Mike Goulding.

More information about Gouldings Lodge at Monument Valley can be found here

L’article Gouldings: Discovering the secrets of Monument Valley est apparu en premier sur Travel Tomorrow.