…On the other hand even with all that we are seeing here in the United States as it relates to management-audirtor fraud it is pale in comparison to what goes on elsewhere in the world, i.e. the South African stock market is also headed for a fall in tTOotTOooooooooooooooooos=even Desmond Tutu has to have worked this one out. He along with the rest of the Blacks in South Africa would probably pay quite a lot of attention to what I have to say but I will wait just a short while for our friend Trevor Manuel to respond in kind.

Back in the late 1960s Natie Kirsch was nothing more than a very shrewd trader who could add while doing what surely was a “hand shake deal” for it made no sense to anyone who could read a balance sheet why a company with such a trade name, amazing real estate assets would go for a song, not even an auction, let alone a Dutch auction, more likely a Dutch sandwedge. Natie, although schooled at varsity probably had an accountant at his side who could add. At some point it probably occurred to Natie that he could offer Sol Moshal and the trusting Gevissers what their “audirtors” had valued the properties, placing a value at the same price, which my grandfather had paid for properties, which had been accumulated over a period of 60 years, all for the cash.

So how stupid was David Gevisser whose mother was a Moshal and Bernie Gevisser, my father. Charles Englehard thought enough of David Gevisser to make him chief executive of his worldwide estate. At 19 years old my father was flying fighter-bombers over North Africa and Italy. True he played the occasional game of rugby and with his good looks most assuredly tackled one or possibly two young French ladies. My father though has never been a gluten and nor did he get injured during his 71 missions despite his aircraft taking more than a beating on several occasions. Most of my friends’ father’s growing up sat on their tochas either on Durban’s Bay of Plenty or in a prisoner of war camp contemplating their navels.

It did not take, however, rocket science to run a trading company; just a good name for both vendors and customers to return time and again. My grandfather understood when he was a kid how to add value, picking up unbroken bottles, place them carefully in a retrofitted broken down wheelbarrow, trade up to animal bones, ultimately leveraging his very good name for good effect for a period of 60 odd years. Both Bernie and David Gevisser had to have got that aspect of the business down pat. My father, though, could not be bought and those who did business with him, knew that. Jonathan Beare, perhaps the most successful Jewish South African over the past 30 odd years would certainly attest to that to mention little of my father not one to try and shake down.

At the time my grandfather was going on 80 and what he cared about most was to make sure his children and grandchildren were properly provided for and he simply looked to the professional man who had helped manage the company after graduating from university as a Chartered Accountant. It was my Dad, however, who gave me the honors of sticking it right to Sol Moshal.

In 1981 when I returned to South Africa for the first time after picking up a virus on one of my “wind-world” trips my Dad took me to visit with “Uncle Sol.” I was just starting my recovery but still feeling pretty crummy. I was staying at the Benns just down the road from where “the little King” as we referred to him was resting up. He had just taken his tea and was sitting in a rocking chair with a blanket covering his legs. I shook his hand very gently and said,

Hello, how are you feeling?

He muttered something along the lines,

So what are doing with yourself, your father tells me you are living in America, what’s so great America?

I then got up and walked toward his left side, slowly so as not to frighten him and then I bent down and whispered in his ear,

I have been doing pretty good, paying my own way. There are though, enough Gevisser boys who are not gay to keep the young girls happy and the rest of the time I have just been hoping that I would get to see you one more time to let you know that you can be certain that at least one Yank Gevisser upon returning to Durban will always come by and piss on your grave. Now tell me if you need a hand going to the toilet or should I call the maid or is that your wife?

I had a linen serviette in my left hand to catch the spit mixed with crumbs as it exited his mouth. Then I called out to his wife who was by this time also all fobbed out to help him back to his room,

I think he wants to lay down now.

She responded,

He generally likes here at this time of the day. Did he say he wanted to be moved?

I replied,

He was mumbling something but I was just focused on picking up the crumbs. You don’t mind if I feed them to the birds. I am sure they will enjoy the Eat-sum-mores even if they have a sprinkling of saliva; one man’s trash is another one’s survival, wouldn’t you agree? I think he mumbled something about Mark Gevisser perhaps he had me mistaken for my cousin. I suspect we have similarities although I have never met Mark.

I took my time before leaving. Now the very old looking “little king” never said one more word. Only when I saw his eyes close did I then I grab my Dad’s arm to let him know about an appointment to meet with my doctor.

By the way there was a guy that worked for Moshal Gevisser by the name of Sidney Fobb. Mrs. Moshal really liked this guy. Sol Moshal though rarely exited his office to know really what was going on. My Dad would often take me to the company’s headquarters where there was a showroom on the ground floor and I used to play with all the latest and greatest toys and by the time I was 9 he let me go play with the real cars and trucks in the back where the trains used to come in. One day I was driving my mother’s triumph motorcar trying to pull off a move I had mastered many times previously when the steering column broke loose. Where it not for the quick action of the staff it is possible that Sol might have had to leave his office and venture into the back where the heart and soul of the company congregated to see how well my father more so than anyone in that entire organization was appreciated.

A few years back I was in a New York cab when the same thing happened. The taxi though was doing about 60 mph. Fortunately, we were in a tunnel that was curving to the right which allowed us to come to a rather gentle stop. I then hitched a ride and made a new friend.

One of my best friends though was the now deceased Dr. Michael Moshal…