of Andreas Thuro
Date of birth: July 22, 1899,
(in 1899 it was still Hungary, from 1918 on it was Yugoslavia)
Died: 30 September 1974,
ancestors came to Hungary as immigrants from Germany in 1785. These
colonists were sent for by the Austro-Hungarian Empire at the time to settle the
land left devastated and desolate after almost 400 years of occupation by the
Andreas Thuro was
the third child of Friedrich and Magdelena Thuro. He grew up in Beschka
and learned the merchant occupation in Belgrade. After the death of his
father he took over the mixed goods and leather business. On the 9th of
February 1922 he married Katharina Albrecht and had four children with her:
Erwin, Franz, Walter, and Oswald.
As a result of
the two World Wars all Germans including him and his family had to leave their
homeland and flee to Germany in 1944 because of the Soviet troops and the Tito
partisans. Many of those driven out did not survive.
Then he lived for
five years in Thüringen, but then he had to flee from there, as Thüringen was
handed over to the Soviets by the Americans in an exchange for a part of Berlin.
Then he lived in Bavaria. He spent his old age in Wendlingen where he died
at the age of 75.
The written word,
books, and libraries were his world. He lived peacefully and secluded.
In his free time he was often busy as a writer and poet. In the
economically bad times after World War II he hoped to earn money with it.
Unfortunately for him this dream was never fulfilled.
About 100 poems
were handed down from him, partially in draft form, which unfortunately for us
were not available until after the death of his son Walter. His only
living son Oswald was able to sort out “this inheritance” and handed them
over to the “Haus der Donauschwaben in Sindelfingen” and other Donauschwaben
institutes where his works were received as Donauschwaben culture possessions.
About the author: I, Jürgen Thuro,
born in 1972, am a son of Oswald Thuro and therefore a grandson of Andreas Thuro.
Published: Swabian market in Germany, on
March 29th, 2004.
Song of the
by Andreas Thuro, Sr.
At the plow I
learned to go,
The need taught me to stand
Through the duty I came in walking…
with the view in the distance.
The day brings
me only plagues,
the night secretly gnawing
and the hunger at the threshold,
and the thirst my companion…
The seed grows
so poorly for me,
the mower throws so terribly
and the disaster in the clouds
loaded with weeds.
The song goes
the torment crowns me on the hour,
there the fate is in doses-
and the way leads to the grave.
by Andreas Thuro, Sr.
Rustle, wave far,
Lured by the many winds,
Spellbinding in the roundabout play,
Serving in the yoke, they work, prevail.
Long hours, busily turn,
Hesitate – rear up
When it became red far in the evening,
Hurry away the wind trotting…
Leave the mill standing, alone…
It’s free, restrained,
And listen in the silent twilight
Stand in the storm
On the hill,
Darkness has power:
Roaring up from the valley and gorge,
Storm the night with fantastic force;
Wrestling wings, groaning,
Storm-tossed owls hoot;
Break – bend,
Drag – rock;
Finally whirl away the round dance –
Timidly creeps near the silence…
In the bosom of the night the storm varies.
The morning rewards
The mill hums her ancient song-
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