A Life To Live...

by Israel Kipen

  Apart from the Kronenbergs, who had decided to make their own arrangements and leave Hong Kong on a later passage, the rest of us boarded ship on the afternoon of departure, all smiles, happy and relaxed. After six years of impermanence in any one place, I looked forward to the potential stability and continuity that my imminent new life might bring. Meanwhile, with the group of refugees still under my supervision, I kept an eye on every member, resolved to deliver them all to the Australian mainland in a mission accomplished to everyone’s satisfaction.

  On a sunny morning in May 1946, we entered and berthed in Sydney.

  8

  Australia 1946-60

  On arriving in Sydney, the first person to greet us on board ship was Mr Walter Brand, the Director of the Sydney Jewish Welfare Society. A tall, competent man, he went about the business of helping us disembark with patent professionalism. Those refugees whose destination had been Sydney left to go their way; the remainder who were heading for Melbourne were lodged in an hotel for three days.

  Having been at sea for twelve days, I was starved for news. In that early post-war, a day was a long time, and events were continuously on the move, both on the world scene at large and in the Jewish world as well. Hence, as soon as I was settled in my hotel room, I asked for a newspaper. I was given an afternoon paper. I looked at the half-page headline, related it to the sheer banality of the story that followed, and asked for another. This was no better. To the extent that newspapers were a mirror of society, the society that those two papers reflected was scarcely appealing. I could not make it understood as to the kind of newspaper I really wanted. I remained disaffected throughout the evening and decided to make further enquiries about the range of papers Sydney had to offer. I was directed to the “Sydney Morning Herald”, the sight of which proved reassuring and eased the trepidations I had harboured till then.

  That day – the day after our arrival – we were taken on a tour of Sydney in private cars by members of the Welfare Society. Being early post-war arrivals and the first to come via the East, our arrival had an exotic touch about it and our guides were eager to talk with us. The day passed most agreeably. The friendliness with which we were treated was touching, while, for us, to be back in a Western society after four years in the Orient was itself a relief and a pleasure.

  The next day, I sought a Mr Walter Duffield to deliver a ring which had belonged to his mother and was forwarded through me by Rabbi Ashkenazi of Shanghai. I found him and learnt that he had, on the preceding weekend, become engaged to a Sydney girl. Walter Duffield was later to come to Melbourne where he was to play a major communal role as General Secretary of the State Zionist Council, with which I too became involved for many years. I also learned from him that the opening of the Palestine Appeal was to take place that very evening at the Maccabean Hall and that a special emissary had arrived from Palestine for the purpose. I decided I should also attend. In the meantime, another public function had been organised by the National Council of Jewish Women to welcome us, as new arrivals, to Australia. Tables were set in their premises, Dr Fanny Reading welcomed us officially, and, as leader of the group, and having no option, I responded as well as my very poor English would allow. After the formalities were over, a lady approached me and introduced herself as Ida Wynn from Melbourne, adding, “If you had the courage, with your English, to stand up and make a speech, then it will not be long before you will be speaking in public.”

  That evening, I went as planned to the Maccabean Hall. The place was packed to capacity. Presiding at the function was Max Freilich, with the emissary Captain Shimon Hacohen and two or three high-ranking Australian military men who had served with Hacohen in the Middle East flanking him. The atmosphere was at once festive and tense. Hacohen was the first emissary to come to Australia after the war. His address, in which he told of the Jewish struggle with the Palestine Mandatory authorities to secure a home for the survivors of the concentration camps, was deeply moving and assured a successful appeal. While the actual collections were underway and Hacohen was in conversation with the colonels alongside him, I walked on to the stage, approached Hacohen, and, scarcely giving the matter conscious thought, introduced myself to him in Hebrew, adding that I had but the day before arrived from Shanghai. It took Hacohen a moment to absorb what I was saying, upon which he grabbed me by the shoulders and asked “Where is your Hebrew from?” Aware of the public scrutiny we were attracting and of the Chairman’s displeasure, we moved to one wing of the stage. Shimon Hacohen was a farmer and a soldier. He was tall, broad-shouldered, blue-eyed and earthy, and had a forthright and unambiguous manner which made it easy to evoke a responsive chord in him. He mentioned that he would shortly be coming to Melbourne and asked me to keep in touch with him.

  For me, the evening was a momentous one. I felt I was back where I had left off six years earlier on the other side of the world. I was recharged. A total stranger when I entered the hall, by evening’s end, I felt I belonged. That second day dispelled the bleakness that had beset me the previous evening, while it also compensated in part for some of the leanness and isolation that had sorely attended my years as a refugee.

  We had the last day in Sydney to ourselves to make the most of our transit through that city. Then, in the evening, we boarded the train for Melbourne. As I walked off the train, I was sought out and found by Moshe Dorevitch and his wife, Rivka, Mother’s cousin, who had together secured my entry permit. Till then, we had known each other only through correspondence. Moshe was then forty years old and of medium height, with a face expressive of warmth and goodness. I took to both Moshe and Rivka immediately, and it soon became clear that we had much in common quite apart from being relatives. We drove to a two-storey building at 10 Ellesmere Road, Windsor, where they lived on the upper floor, while the lower was occupied by Moshe’s older brother, Haim. Moshe and Rivka had four children, the oldest, Abe, then in his matriculation year, David, Yaffa and Gideon who was still a small boy. Shortly after arrival, we sat down to a long lunch over equally long conversation, largely about my experiences, that extended well past afternoon tea when Haim and his wife Rose came up. That first day in the heart of my new family was spent in a glow of intimacy, the warmth of which I had by then almost forgotten.

  Among the friends I had made in Japan was an Abram Solomon who had been among the fortunate few who by-passed Shanghai altogether on his way to Australia. I phoned him in greeting. He offered to call for me the next day, a Sunday, and take me to the home of a prominent communal leader who was just celebrating his son’s Bar Mitzvah. I should then have an early opportunity to meet with many leading members of the community. So I came to know Hemda and Benzion Patkin. Patkin greeted me in Hebrew and promptly extracted from me the fact that I had but the day before arrived from Shanghai. To my embarrassment for diverting so much attention from the truer purpose of the festivity, I became quickly surrounded by a sizeable crowd directing all manner of questions at me. As Abram Solomon had foreshadowed, I did establish contact with a considerable number of leaders of the community. As we headed to the table for refreshments, a man approached me, gave me his visiting card and requested that I telephone his office as he wanted me to come and see him. I took the card, promising to follow up his request. Another who engaged me in conversation and bade me visit him on a given evening of the following week was Rabbi Gurvitch, a man of distinguished appearance who commanded immediate respect. I accepted his invitation also. As Abe Solomon and I left the Patkin house, I showed him the visiting card I had been handed. Solomon insisted that I should indeed contact the man. John Baron was one of the more substantial members of the community, he said, this fact being subsequently verified by my relatives. The day had been a full and stimulating one, but I was left to wonder what John Baron wanted of me.

  Moshe and Rivka Dorevitch had come to Australia via Palestine. They had been pioneers who had found it impossible to make a living there in the early period of the Mandate, and were compelled reluctantly to re
linquish their idealism, leave the country and seek out better opportunities in Australia. They had a clothing factory in which they both worked, the while securing education for their children. Their home was both traditionally Jewish and Zionist. Moshe was involved in the Jewish National Fund and was also a member of the Victorian Zionist Organization. Being homely, down to earth, and unpretentious, the Dorevitches made my stay in their home most pleasant and relaxed. Moshe’s older brother, Haim, was the senior partner in a wholesale softgoods business in Flinders Lane, while a younger brother, Alec, had but recently been demobilised and was taking his first tentative steps in establishing himself independently.

  On the Monday morning, I went with them to their factory. It was located on the third floor of an old building in Little Collins Street opposite the Victoria Palace Hotel. The lift worked through a series of pulleys worked by hand by a lift-man. The premises were amply lit and consisted of a large stockroom, office and workroom where the main production line at the time was girls’ winter overcoats. As the factory was situated in the city centre, I went down to explore the streets, a practice I have adhered to ever since in seeking to acquaint myself with every new place I come to. I learned quickly that Bourke Street was the main retail thoroughfare, while Flinders Lane was the hub of softgoods manufacture and wholesale trading. The rhythm of life in the streets was sluggish. The men wore mostly dark-blue three-piece suits with badges in their lapels denoting the particular armed forces they had served with, and felt hats on their heads. The women wore hats and gloves. The sandwich I ate for lunch consisted of square slices of white soggy bread which – so it was explained to me – was for toasting and the only one available. I had, however, three morning papers to choose from: the “Argus”, the “Age” and the “Sun”. I walked about at leisure, taking everything in and developing impressions in a relaxed and unhurried frame of mind, establishing for myself an idea of the place where I had chosen to settle.

  Over subsequent days, I learnt a number of mores peculiar to Australian society. For instance, a fully acceptable and welcome way of beginning a conversation with a stranger was to make reference to the weather or to the sport then in its season. Indeed, the more conversant one was with sport, the more easily could one establish contact with one’s fellow. To discuss politics or religion with strangers was in bad taste, for it could potentially offend the other’s sensibilities. I also learned early about the central social role played by the “pub” and about the final six o’clock pre-closing swill.

  Later in the week, I telephoned Mr Baron and arranged a time to meet him. His office was in Brunswick Street, Fitzroy, a short tram ride from the Collins and Swanston Street corner. Almost imperceptibly, as the tram wound its way out of the city towards Brunswick Street, the scenery changed and I found myself in a neighbourhood that was clearly poor. I was startled by the difference.

  The address I had been given proved to be that of a comer shop. A woman and a young man were there, and, having introduced myself, I was shown into Mr Baron’s office. This was a very small room in the back, scarcely designed to impress. As I sat down, Mr Baron fixed me with his gaze and, after short deliberation, began to speak. He prided himself— he said – on being a good judge of people; he seldom made mistakes about them; and he was fairly satisfied that his first impression of me had been correct. I found this a most curious introduction. He proceeded then to say that he had varied business interests, some of which took him abroad from time to time. The young man I had seen on entering was his son, but he was still too young to assume responsibility for running the business during his absence. As he was soon to go abroad once more, he wanted me to manage his local interests at a starting salary of twenty pounds per week. (The weekly wage current at the time, I had already learnt, was about six pounds ten shillings). I heard him out, thanked him for the offer, but, with scarcely any hesitation, declined. My reasons, as I saw them, were both logical and simple. I had only just arrived and had not yet properly sounded out the general opportunities available. I feared that, were I, from the outset, to take up such a lucrative offer, I might find it exceedingly difficult to give it up, thereby locking myself into a salaried position and foreclosing any opportunities for self-employment that could arise. I preferred in my new circumstances to be as independent as possible. Further, I was still single and free of immediate obligations, and I wanted, for the moment, to take my time before committing myself totally. Mr Baron accepted my explanation graciously, perhaps even approvingly, and did not try to make me change my mind. We talked a while longer about different matters, after which I left.

  As a postscript to that encounter, I was later to have dealings with John Baron and his son for many years and in different areas. I conducted business with him when I established a factory in Brunswick Street, and later became a major purchaser of lambswool from J. Baron and Son, and, on winding up my knitting mill, sold his son some of my plant.

  When I returned from the interview with John Baron, Moshe and Rivka found it difficult to understand why I had passed up such a prize opportunity, when very few people in those days could command twenty pounds per week, so far above the average wage. Nonetheless, my instinct told me I had done the right thing, and I resolved to bide my time.

  The following week, I visited Rabbi Gurvitch in Carlton. His eyesight was by then impaired, but his was a magnetic personality, and I spent at least two hours with him satisfying his curiosity about refugee life in the Orient.

  Soon after arrival, I opened a bank account. On the advice of Moshe Dorevitch, I opted for the Union Bank in Little Collins Street opposite the Australia Arcade. Although Moshe himself did not bank there, he did know it for its liberal credit policies. Shortly after, the embroidered tablecloths I had bought in Shanghai also arrived and I had to pay for them. I had the money to pay for it – the money that my friend Rozanski had insisted I take with me – but instead of tying up all my possessions in that one parcel of merchandise, I called upon the bank manager to discuss my situation. The manager, a Mr Cooney, then in his late fifties or early sixties, listened to me attentively, studied my shipping papers, thought for a while, and said, “Young man, I will give you an overdraft of five hundred pounds – go and do business!”

  I thanked him for his confidence in me and walked out of the bank. On the outside step, before reaching the pavement, I paused, as if riveted. I started analysing the content of the interview and, try as I might, I found it difficult to comprehend the manager’s action. After all, I was a newcomer to the land; I had negligible assets; I had no business or occupation; nor even any idea of what I should turn to. The only thing in my favour to indicate any initiative was a consignment of tablecloths, on the strength of which I was seeking money from the bank. Yet, I had been offered credit with such ease. Coming from a state such as Poland where the individual was presumed guilty until proven innocent, I had to adjust to the converse notion here that an individual was a priori decent and trustworthy. In one sweep, I saw into the essence and foundations of a democratic society, this being a revelation at once novel, revolutionary, and elating. What I had gained from that bank manager was more than a mere overdraft. What he had opened to me was a set of social values till then unknown to me, and, still more, an assurance that my intuitive gravitation to Australia had been a correct decision. I could now, as it were, “unpack” safely and with confidence.

  The consignment was duly cleared and delivered to the Dorevitch factory. It consisted in the main of card-table-sized embroidered cloths with a few larger dinner-table-sized ones, two of which were outstanding in design and workmanship. Rivka examined them and suggested I sell them privately. To my delight, and exceeding all expectations, these larger tablecloths fetched forty pounds each. Had I known beforehand of the likely interest in these, I should have brought out more; but I had not. The smaller tablecloths drew less attraction, for the same were already available locally. To gain maximum profit from them, the best I could do was to hawk them door to door
around the neighbourhood. I set out along Dandenong Road, Windsor, undertaking an activity I disliked. Most people would not accept me across the threshold; here and there, a housewife showed interest; I also netted a number of sales. The denouement of this episode came when I knocked on one door which, much to my embarrassment, was opened by an Ada Pitt, whom I had already met before. I tried to excuse myself, but she invited me indoor. There I explained how I came to be knocking at her door. She made me feel at ease. By the time I left, I resolved to cease hawking. I subsequently sold the remainder of my merchandise to a shop in the old Colonial Mutual Building in Collins Street that handled Chinese tablecloths.