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Foreword from Penny Apples by An Taoiseach, Bertie Ahern
Foreword from Penny Apples by An Taoiseach, Bertie Ahern
This is an incredible story of life in Dublin through the twentieth century. Bill’s recollection of events spans generations of Irish history. The book, though autobiographical in tone, combines fact and fiction, memory and imagination. It is full of colourful anecdotes and characters that leap off the page. For me, its greatest strength is its marvellous description of Dublin ’s places and people, which are both familiar and intriguing at the same time.
Penny Apples is essentially a story of one ordinary Dublin family and their extraordinary journey through life in an ever-changing city. It is a social and personal history that combines blunt realism with the everyday humour of northside Dublin life. From the grubby poverty of the Summerhill tenements to the life of a millionaire in a country mansion, this is a bracing story.
Cullen’s memoir, however, does much more than follow the standard rags-to-riches trajectory. Across three generations, the author, with real dramatic flair, brings to life the people, the passion, the politics, and the repercussions of historic events on a Dublin family, their circle of friends, and the wider community.
The story is told in a voice that is quintessentially Dublin, yet Bill’s powerful memoir is not just a beautifully written portrait of a Dublin family. History and fiction are interwoven, and the novel is loaded with both comic and poignant moments.
It is clearly the author’s intention to give us a close-up view of some of the seismic events in our capital, such as the bombing of the North Strand and the 1916 Rising, and to allow us to view them from the inside. Famous names, such as the irrepressible Lord Mayor Alfie Byrne, and the charismatic genius Brendan Behan, the master tailor Louis Copeland, war leader and statesman Michael Collins, and that giant of Gaelic football, Mick O’Connell, are just some of the renowned figures from Dublin life that dot the pages of this book. But the striking panorama of characters never overshadows the rich and complex tale of the Cullen family. The real story is that of Molly Darcy, Bill’s grandmother, who carried messages for Collins; it is the story of Bill’s father, “the Da,” and the dockland ganger whom Alfie Byrne helped get a job; and it is the story of 100,000 supporters crammed into Croke Park to marvel at the skills of the players.
In his memoir of poverty-stricken youth, Limerick author Frank McCourt wrote, “Worse than the ordinary miserable childhood is the miserable Irish childhood.” Bill Cullen’s novel Penny Apples contains similar wrenching accounts of poverty in the 1950s Dublin of his childhood. But the great strength of Bill’s book is its humour, not its pathos. It is this factor which carries the plot through hard times with disarming wit and the optimism for which Dubliners are renowned. It is the story of a city that has good times and bad and of a people who have prospered both in spite of and because of their past.
I want to congratulate Bill Cullen for this deeply moving and personal account of Dublin life in turbulent times. This is a family story, a history of Dublin, a social commentary, and a love story all rolled into one. Most of all, it is an incredible book. It is a work worthy of much acclaim and I have little doubt it will soon rank as a bestseller.
An Taoiseach B ertie A hern, T.D.
October 2001
“Ya know,” said Tommy Farrell one night in Killane’s pub, “this little country of ours has had tough times. But gas chambers for the poor Jews is the worst I’ve ever heard. Did ya see the pictures in the Herald? The ones they found alive in the camps. Only skin and bone. Walking skeletons. And it said six million went for a burton.”
“That Hitler has a lot to answer for,” Big Bob Darcy said, shaking his head. “And that’s a fact. I don’t think Saint Peter will be opening the pearly gates for him. Ould Nick he’s with right now. Having a barbecue.” They all laughed.
“And ya know his brother was okay. Dacent man to have a few pints with,” Bob said casually. This silenced the table.
“Are you saying ya were drinking with Hitler’s brother?” asked Mister Killane.
“Well, ya could hear me story if there was a pint of Guinness in me hand,” said Bob, looking at his empty glass on the table. “Sure, a man can’t talk if his whistle is dried up.”
Knowing the pulling power of Big Bob’s stories, Mister Killane had a pint in front of him in jig time. Bob took a swallow and smacked his lips. The others leaned forward as he began to speak, in a quiet voice.
“Mother Darcy knew him. Hitler’s brother. Used to help out in Madame Barrington’s house when she was up on Mountjoy Square . A butler he was, who used to give a hand with the parties. Molly said he worked as a waiter in the Shelbourne Hotel.” And he took a long, slow swallow of Guinness and licked the foam lovingly off his lips.
“Ah, Jaysus, Bob, that’s a hard one to credit,” said Tommy Farrell. “How do you know he was Hitler’s brother?”
Bob leaned forward onto the table and looked around as they stretched in. “’Cause Mother Darcy met him. Went over with Tommy McDonagh to the horse show in Ballsbridge to work in the kitchens there, so she did. McDonagh introduced her to this fella. Knew him well. Had some great days at the show jumping in Ballsbridge, they did. Ya know what his name was,” he said as he paused for another swallow, emptying the glass, which was replaced like magic by Killane.
“His name, me good friends, was Aloysius Hitler from Austria . Told all about the soldier maniac brother he had. But Mother Darcy said Aloysius was a great bit of fun after a few pints. And I’ll tell ya more. She also says he married Bridget Dowling from Athy in the county of Kildare .” Another swallow of Guinness.
“The brother of the bould Hitler, and he lived here in Dublin and married an Irish girl. Put that in yar pipe and smoke it,” he concluded, and with one last swallow he finished his pint as the others looked at him in amazement. “And we all know that Mother Darcy doesn’t tell lies, so that’s a fact,” he said, and out he walked.
End of story. This gave a topic of conversation in Killane’s pub for many’s the week. And Mother Darcy confirmed it was true.
Penny Apples, Page 67-68.
*This story has now been validated. Hitler’s stepbrother, Aloysius Hitler, did marry Bridget Dowling from Athy, Co. Kildare. They went to live in New York . Their son W. Patrick Hitler (name has since been changed) fought for the US Marine Corp in the Pacific theatre in WWII.
