by Israel Kipen
The financial arrangement for the business was a delicate matter. Father had arrived penniless. He needed both to earn a living and to redeem the personal independence he had known before the war. I bought the yarn for him, attended to the finishing of the garments, and sold it for him, he himself standing up to fourteen hours a day in front of his rickety machines, meeting with renewed confidence and a new lease of life the challenge of physical labour, and delighting in having regained the independence he so cherished.
In September of that year, 1948, Hershl and Simcha arrived by air from Paris. They arrived in a state not dissimilar from that of my parents. While in Paris, my brothers had worked and accumulated some funds which, in preparation for their planned departure for Australia, they decided to invest in knitting machinery to take with them. Simcha, the youngest, had gone to Germany in search of suitable machines, buying five of them with all the capital they possessed. But on returning to France, all the machines were impounded and confiscated as they had been brought into the country without licence. For all their efforts, they had been left penniless, and, in that state, reached Australia.
Within days of their arrival, however, I found work for them at Niren’s Knitting Mills with whom I was regularly trading, and they became self-supporting knitting-machine operators. The only brother still remaining in Europe was Lazar. I sent him money to buy machines. Lazar arrived on the 20th January 1949 and, within six weeks, set himself up independently in a tin shed in Carlton for which he paid 80 pounds key money and thirty shillings per week. He had borrowed the initial capital from a finance company against my guarantee. I provided him with yarn and he did commission work for me.
At last, the family was whole again. The small house I had rented earlier proved now too small and we obtained a bigger place close by on the corner of Hennessey and Tennyson Streets. It was a two-storey house built in the Spanish style with a huge lounge room, a very ample dining room, a sun room and kitchen on the ground floor, and a sweeping staircase leading to a number of bedrooms upstairs. It was a long way from the cave-like conditions of Kazakhstan. Family life was restored. Father and all the children worked, while Mother happily kept house for her reconstituted family.
Nineteen forty-eight and 1949 were years of exceptional strain for me. The bringing out of my family and settling them in, sapped me of a great deal of time and energy and almost all of my resources. At the same time, I had to maintain the momentum of my own business concerns. As the economy improved and general productivity grew, I established new connections with an ensuing broadening of my network of suppliers and distribution outlets. While the knitting factory evolved in the new premises, I conducted wholesale business out of my Oxford Chambers premises. It was in the latter part of 1948 that I came upon a manufacturer of ladies’ underwear, a man by the name of Zerman. His product was a good one and I soon established myself as a regular buyer. After some time, as our business dealings developed, he confronted me with a proposition. He had a friend from Poland called Jack Chester whom he sought to establish on a firm footing. He proposed that I enter into partnership with Chester, while he, Zerman, would back us with his product so that we should become his chief distributors. The suggestion held much promise, for Zerman’s factory was a large enterprise, with prospects of regular supplies, and, consequently, I agreed upon the partnership. My room in Oxford Chambers became the warehouse; Chester took charge of receiving and despatch; while I was out in the field selling the goods. The arrangement worked.
I was by then 30 years old. The business activities were but part of my concerns at the time. I was also deeply involved in communal affairs. Those were the historic days that encompassed the dissolution of the British Mandate over Palestine, the United Nations vote at Lake Success in favour of Palestine partition, the Proclamation of the State of Israel, and the ensuing Israeli War of Liberation. They were heady days indeed, which drained me emotionally as my business activities drained me physically.
With the additional machines brought by Lazar, the family’s knitting production grew. Father added a finishing section to his factory which handled Lazar’s goods as well as his own. Their quality was good and I found a market for them interstate. A wholesaler by the name of Mintz, who owned a warehouse alongside the Oriental Hotel at Kings Cross in Sydney, became a regular distributor for my wares.
Nineteen forty-nine was a year of political upheaval in Australia. The Chifley Labor Government lost office as a consequence of the bank nationalisation attempt. It was also the year of the crippling coal strike in New South Wales when the Labor government called in the troops to break the stranglehold of the miners on the fragile post-war economic recovery.
As a result of the strike, business in Sydney went bad. As a consequence, I received, late in May of that year, advice from Mr Mine that he was unable to sell the stock I had sent him and that, being also unable to pay for them, he had no option but to return 2000 ladies’ cardigans. This struck me like a thunderbolt. The goods represented the sum total of my capital and I found myself suddenly in a very grim financial situation, for by the time the goods arrived, it was June, and, in terms of trading, the season for buying for the Australian winter was over. There were few retailing outlets who could possibly be interested at this late stage in such a large quantity of goods. Nonetheless, having nothing to lose, I decided to try my luck. Taking with me a sample, I went to G. J. Coles opposite Myer’s in Bourke Street, where I sought out the ladies’ knitwear purchasing officer. I was ushered into an interviewing room where a greying man of medium height by the name of Watson came to see me. He studied the sample carefully, tested it for quality, asked the price, looked at it again, then, excusing himself, left. After a while, he returned, wrapped the sample in paper and handed it back to me, saying, “Sorry, I’m not interested”. Despondently, I took the parcel and headed for the door. As I was taking my leave, he called me back. “Wait a minute,” he said, asked me for the parcel again, and once more went inside. This time, on returning, he said, “We will take it”. He presented me with an order, offering payment in seven days at a three and three-quarter percent discount. I accepted the terms and returned to the factory very relieved indeed. By the end of June, I was financial again. What was more, I had also established a major connection. Coles were pleased with the quality and sold the goods very quickly.
I then proceeded to produce a new style sample for the 1949-1950 winter season in addition to the staple women’s garments I was manufacturing. When the sample – a buttoned cardigan designed for the younger person – was ready, I phoned G.J. Coles for an appointment to demonstrate it and was met by a Miss Laura Gannon. She liked the sample and ordered 500 such cardigans. Returning to the factory, and entertaining no doubts that these first 500 would sell well, I decided to gear production fully towards manufacturing the new line. Thus, I would be both prepared for any new orders that arrived and, as a consequence, establish myself as supplier to a major chain store. On the stipulated day, I had the ordered stock delivered to Coles. Within a week, Miss Gannon came to the factory and asked whether she could have another 500 garments. When, on asking further when they could be delivered, I said “Tomorrow”, she looked at me with disbelief but departed seemingly pleased. Again, as promised, I delivered the designated quantity the following day, and it was not long before Miss Gannen called for another consignment. In this way, it did not take long for Coles to exhaust my entire stock. The store had, then, to wait a short while before more of the cardigans came off the production line. But by season’s end, I had established myself and proven my bona fides, for, while, during the war, the store had obtained its knitwear from local manufacturers on a rather ad hoc basis, it could now turn to me as the first post-war manufacturer to furnish them regularly with a good-quality and much sought-after commodity. I had also developed correct and friendly relationships with both buyer and supervisor.
In 1949, a major world event took place. Mao Tse Tung gained control of China. The effect of t
his on China’s European population was both immediate and far-reaching. The Russian Jews of Shanghai who were stateless and had had experienced a number of uncertainties during the Japanese occupation now knew, as if instinctively, that they had to leave. Some moved to Israel and a considerable number to Australia, most of them settling in Sydney. Among the arrivals in Sydney was Isak Kirilovitch Kagan who had been the chairman of the Jewish hospital I had managed in the years 1942-1943. He had greatly changed. He was by now an old man and had to begin his new life from scratch. He became my agent in Sydney and I directed as many goods as I could through him. Indeed, whatever I did not sell to Coles, I sent to Sydney, an arrangement which lasted to the end of his life.
No sooner did Coles’ buying for the 1949 winter come to an end than I was asked to submit samples and colour swatches for the following season. Soon after, I was called in and given an opening order to the value of 27,000 pounds. I looked at the order and tried to contain my amazement. As I emerged from the building, I crossed Little Collins Street towards the Australia Arcade, and, later, found that instead of heading towards Bourke Street in the direction of the factory, I had, in my haze, turned into Collins Street, still clutching the order in my hand. I was overwhelmed by the very magnitude of it. I was also in a quandary. How would I produce all those garments required of me? Where could I possibly obtain all the yarn that was needed? Where would I obtain the capital necessary for the manufacture of the goods in readiness for delivery five months away? And, having manufactured the garments, where would I store them in the interim? When, finally, I reached the factory, I showed Father the contract. He became as perplexed as I and together we sat in bewilderment and disbelief not knowing which way to turn.
Normally, I would have gone to the bank, but I did not do so on this occasion. I could not expect the bank to finance me to the full extent of my requirements. It happened that the next day, Isak Kagan phoned from Sydney about some pressing business. I disclosed to him the dilemma I was facing. On his advice, I sought out a spinning mill to obtain the yarn I needed on the strength of the contract I held from Coles. The nearer I came to the Lincoln Mills in Coburg where I was to meet a Mr Brown who was in charge of yarn sales, the more sceptical I became about the likelihood of success. Yarn was still in very short supply at the time. The mills might see themselves making a large sale, but this did not necessarily make the proposition a particularly attractive one for them if payment for the goods would not be forthcoming for many months. I might succeed, but, to do so, I had to argue a strong case, and to argue the case with a command of English that, I felt, was still not equal to the task. Nevertheless, I had to try.
Mr Brown was a reserved man, very deliberate in movement and sparing in speech. He listened to me, studied the contract, asked a number of questions, and, in the end, bade me leave the contract with him for his further consideration. Heading back to the factory, I was more hopeful than before. He had, at least, not rejected my request outright. For the next few days, I was tense. I recognised that a true opportunity to establish myself firmly had been opened to me.
Several days later, the tension eased. Mr Brown phoned, asking to see me. Lincoln Mills agreed, in principle, to supply me with the yarn I needed. We entered into discussion and came to an agreement relating to quantities and colours of yarn to be supplied, to dates of delivery and a timetable for payments. In possession of both the Coles contract and copies of orders I had lodged with Lincoln Mills, I made an appointment with the bank manager. My request was for an overdraft solely to pay wages during the production of the commissioned goods. My record with the bank was good, the documents I carried augured well, while the credit arrangements I had with Lincoln Mills seemed sound. The manager met my request. I was thus “in business”. However, even with the supply of yarn now foresworn, I still faced the problem of producing the garments in the volume required. The goods sold to Coles had been manufactured on flat hand-operated knitting machines, which were notoriously slow producers. So I began combing town for commission knitters to work for me. I found some. They were glad to receive work to last them the whole year round, without there being a limit set on their output. These people were all Jewish immigrants who had recently arrived from the camps of Europe and who now sought to rebuild their fragmented lives in Melbourne. They set about buying several pre-War hand-operated machines, had them converted to power-driven ones by George Taft, whose engineering firm specialised in such work. They then established small workshops containing three or four machines which one person could operate, thereby earning a steady if modest living. My youngest brother, Simcha, now called Sam, also set himself up independently.
The next main problem was that of finishing the garments. Father’s factory could not possibly cope with the aggregate of all the knitted goods that were to be produced. Another finisher had to be found. I found such an enterprise, albeit still in an embryonic phase, trading as L&B.
Time was now the essence. To meet the stipulated date of delivery, a strict weekly production schedule had to be maintained. Equally important was quality control of the garments produced. I had to maintain the standards I had earlier set for my products. This necessitated daily visits to the workshops to check the goods as they came off the machines, demanding greater care where the workmanship fell short, and both overseeing all stages of manufacture and coordinating the separate knitting and finishing processes. In time, a pattern of manufacturing developed which proved systematic and reliable.
Two more problems arose. One was that of maintaining an office and tending to the clerical aspects of production and despatch. I disliked being confined to an office or tied to a desk. So I gladly handed over this work to David Bienenstock who had arrived on the same plane as my brothers and who stayed with me till his retirement 25 years later.
Another problem was that of storage. This was more difficult to solve, for the space available was very limited. The lower floor of the premises was totally taken up by Father’s manufacturing. The upstairs floor, divided into two small areas by a narrow spiral staircase leading to it, was also unsuitable for the ever-increasing number of garments completed. The physically cramped conditions made for a difficult situation; but for that season, at least, we had to manage as best we could.
I never permitted all the knitwear that I manufactured to be directed solely to Coles. I preferred not to put all my eggs in one basket, even if such a policy did cause some degree of inconvenience.
In order to deal with both the chain stores and the wider market, I decided to embark on the manufacture of men’s wear for the latter. Among the early arrivals from Europe was a man by the name of Joseph Sperling. He set up a knitting-factory in in Sydney Road, Preston, in which he worked the machines himself while his capable wife did the finishing. I arranged for him to do some finishing of men’s garments for me also. Sperling was an amiable, articulate and folksy man, and a Zionist as well. We had much in common and worked well together. Early on, he would deliver ready garments without asking for payment. This had me perplexed, for commission workers were entitled to payment on delivery. When I asked why he did not invoice me, he said simply that he had no invoice book. We set about designing one. One day, he came to my office with his invoice. He seemed nervous. I checked the garments invoiced and, finding the tally to be correct, handed him my cheque. Sperling hesitated taking it. He found himself in an awkward position, he said. Pre-war Poland had taught him that at the time of presenting an invoice, bargaining ensued, irrespective of the original agreement about prices. In anticipation of such bargaining on my part, he had prepared a defence of his invoice while riding the tram from Preston. To his astonishment, I neither questioned nor remonstrated with him. His invoice was correct and my cheque was for the stated sum. The experience must have amounted to a culture shock for him. I had myself, in Poland, been witness to the practice of bargaining, and knew that some folk in Melbourne still maintained the tradition. It was not necessarily a matter of greed. Rather, many peo
ple found it difficult to give up the habit, while it also pointed to one’s adeptness as a businessman if one bargained well. There was a certain social value tied up in the process. But as I never aspired to the epithet of “good businessman” in my trade, it never occurred to me to do so.
Another major development flowed from the Coles contract. The original arrangement between myself and Father, whereby I gave him the money to manufacture the goods and then bought from him the ready garments, could no longer continue. The expanded size of the business, the need for capital, and the evolved pattern of commission work as the basis of my operations compelled me to enter a normal commission arrangement with Father. By that time, he was financially more secure, having been thrifty over the three years he had lived in Australia, and the transition was smooth.
In September 1949, the Victorian Zionist Organization, of which I was an active member, sought to expand its membership by attracting young people. We organised a cocktail party for a Sunday afternoon in early October to be held at my parents’ home, its lounge-room being particularly suited on account of its spaciousness. It proved a very successful function. Dr Ernest Krauss, Dr Fred Benfey, Joseph Solvey and I addressed the gathering and a lively discussion ensued regarding the future direction of Zionist activity in the light of the existence of the State of Israel. One of the more vocal participants was Morris Slonim who, in common with many others, held that specific political party distinctions were no longer necessary within the Zionist movement, whose fundamental objective was the support of the newly established state.
As host, I mingled widely and spoke to different people, most of whom I met for the first time. Among the guests was a young woman who stood out from the rest. She had an open face and genuine smile. While talking to the circle of which she was a part, I learned that many planned to proceed from our party to the Maison de Lux for the regular Sunday dance, organised by AJAX. I was persuaded to go. I was not prepared for the sheer numbers of young Jews, the atmosphere generated by the music, and the noise of the enthusiastic dancers. I spent most of the evening as an observer, somehow finding difficulty in participating in the gaiety. I scarcely knew anybody and found myself too shy or reticent about asking a girl, a stranger, to dance, even though this was the very purpose of such occasions. However, by evening’s end, I was speaking to the girl whom I had met at my parents’ that afternoon, learned that her name was Laura Baitz. I invited her out. From that date, it took a further six weeks to our engagement – announced at precisely midnight of New Year’s Eve, 1950 – and another nine weeks to stand under the canopy at Toorak Synagogue.