A Life To Live...

by Israel Kipen

  The 1950 winter season closed with a turnover at Coles amounting to twice the value of the original order. No sooner was this season over than I received next season’s order that matched the final turnover of that year. Consequent upon this escalating demand for my goods, the storage capacity of my premises became totally inadequate, so I moved to an old building in Brunswick Street, Fitzroy. It was well-lit and particularly commodious, containing sufficient space for knitting machines, an enlarged finishing plant, separate storerooms and offices. I also needed to enlist more commission knitters, finishers, embroiderers and other workers to cope with production. My reputation as a manufacturer grew rapidly, and as new immigrants arrived in the 1950s, learned the trade and bought their own machines, they found that they could depend on me to give them work.

  The end of the war marked the beginning of an economic boom that, apart from temporary setbacks, was to continue for the next twenty-five years. Mass production, where geared towards supplying chain stores in bulk, did not always necessarily imply large profits; but in those hungry years, the potential opened to such a manufacturer seemed unlimited. The more dependable I proved to the fast-growing Coles enterprise, the more relied upon I became as its supplier.

  While continuing my search for usable machinery, I came upon a man called Zvi Rosenfield who owned a knitting plant of circular machines in Hawthorn Road near Balaclava Junction. He had earlier, before branching out on his own, been in partnership with Benzion Patkin, who was his brother-in-law. Rosenfield operated machines which knitted children’s jumpers. The samples produced were an instant success and Coles again placed a sizeable order. First, the transition from flat knitting machines to circular ones, and, then, the successive development of ladies’, men’s and children’s wear, expanded the scope of my manufacturing enterprise. The product was an immediate success. It was new on the market; it was a scoop for Coles; and orders began to come in from all over Australia. This, in turn, required a further acceleration of production. As I could not find any more of these machines, I instituted night-shifts and seven-day round-the-clock production. Yarn requirements grew and I sought out new suppliers. Diversifying my sources of supply was based on other considerations as well, not least of which was the necessity to maintain very considerable credit with them between July and December when I was producing goods at full speed, but not actually selling, which no one spinning-mill could be expected to carry.

  One day, I received a call from the Coles buying office, informing me that its Moonee Ponds store had received sub-standard girls’ wear. I went to the store to inspect them. A finisher had clearly mixed up bundles of sleeves, so that the larger sleeves had been sewn to the smaller garments, and the smaller to the larger. I apologised for the error and offered to take them back. To my surprise, however, the store manager declined the offer, saying, “No way, we are not returning the goods; we will sell them as they are. We wanted only that you should see the mistake, so it will not happen again.” To me, that episode said more than anything else about the hunger for goods prevailing at the time.

  By the mid-fifties, I had supplied Coles with 200,000 garments in a single winter season. The work kept me constantly on the run. Yarn had to be delivered from the mills to the knitters, the knitted goods to the embroiderers, the embroidered goods to the finishers, and from the finishers to the store-rooms. In addition, I made it a point of visiting all my external contractors every morning. There, I inspected the products, directed the work and had production continually moving, keeping the entire network of inter-related, sometimes complex and complementary activities clearly in my mind.

  By the mid-fifties, I had been in Australia ten years; my family was re-united and secure; and I had two children of my own, Aviva born in October 1952 and Doron in December 1955. Had I chosen to do so, I could have extended business with Woolworths who also sought my goods, but I resisted the temptation, remaining content, for the remainder of the ‘fifties, to maintain a steady level of business with Coles. Whatever variations I subsequently introduced into my manufactured goods were aimed at extending trade solely with individual stores.

  By that time, Father, too, had bought a set of circular machines geared to the manufacture of multi-coloured patterned knitted cloth. The final product was good, but the timing was not right. The fashion of fair isle men’s wear was just passing, while, in the wake of new machine technology emerging in England, Germany, Switzerland and elsewhere, Father’s machines became prematurely obsolete. Flat-knit garments gave way to much finer and stronger circular knitted ones which were manufactured much faster. Ladies’ fashions entered a new phase with the advent of the twin-set which took the market by storm. Coles continued to do well with my flat-knit garments and took everything I produced.

  The premises in Brunswick Street, Fitzroy, which only a few years earlier had been ample for my requirements, also progressively became too cramped. Clearly, I had once again to find bigger premises. This time, however, I did not think in terms of renting space, but of building a factory to my own requirements and specifications. At about that time, the section of Toorak Road between Chapel Street and South Yarra Station on the northern side was rezoned from residential to light industrial. My friend, Berl Dzivak, had just built a factory in Claremont Street. Standing almost opposite, at the corner of a lane that led through to Yarra Street and the railway station stood an old dilapidated house for sale. After due consideration of its location in terms of its proximity to the city and its easy access to both tram and trains, I bought it. The property itself was not worth the very substantial sum of 7,000 pounds asked for, but more important than its market value at the time was the great potential inherent in it. Shortly after, my father-in-law, who was by then a prominent liquor producer operating under the Baitz label, came to look at the property. When he learnt the price I paid, he was visibly disturbed and must have wondered what had possessed me. We had but recently sold our own lovely comfortable carpeted and curtained home for a similar amount and it seemed wrong to be paying out the same for a shack that was about to be pulled down. I understood his reasoning, but instinctively knew that I had acted rightly and had to rely on the passage of time to bear this out.

  Having secured the land, I commissioned Theodore Berman to design and build a two-storey factory. The upper floor would be for manufacturing and letting, and the ground floor for storage and administration. In due course, the firm of Morrison built the factory. In addition to the more evident benefits gained from working in the new and larger premises, the near-simultaneous move of our family home from Ormond to Caulfield and of the business from Fitzroy to South Yarra saved me at least a half-hour’s travelling time between one and the other.

  Manufacturing proceeded satisfactorily, but I sensed certain changes to be in the offing. The earlier widespread hunger for consumer goods of any sort had generally abated and only the self-deluded could expect demand to be maintained at the same high level. But there was more in the wind. And, towards the end of the ‘fifties, it came – a new technical breakthrough with the advent of the fully-fashioned knitting machine. It took the entire world by storm, and prosperous Australia, too, came to want only the best and latest. When the first machines arrived in Melbourne, their impact on the knitting industry was decisive. All preceding modes of manufacture were in one swoop rendered obsolete. Garments shaped and stitched came now to belong to a bygone age. A diagonal line extending from neck to the armpit became the badge of fashion. My premonitions thus materialised. Those circular machines, which only a few years before had pointed to new directions in manufacturing, overnight became passé, abdicating to the four-headed monster which was 25 feet long and needed eight inches of concrete underpinning on the ground floor to support its weight and absorb the force of its pounding.

  I saw that I had to make major decisions without delay. Seeking out Miss Gannon at Coles, I explained to her the new trend in knitting and stated that I was prepared to update my plant if they remained intereste
d in having me continue to supply them with knitwear. To my surprise, her answer was a dissuading one. Coles’ customers were remaining content with my goods; there was no need either for modifications on my part or for altered commitments on theirs. As I left, I could not but compare the seeming conservatism of Miss Gannon’s response with the enthusiasm I had received a decade before, which had led to our sustained co-operation throughout that time. Notwithstanding Miss Gannon’s discouraging reply, I could have embarked on a program of modernisation which, through the attendant acceleration of production and delivery, may have persuaded Coles to keep up with the times. But I reasoned otherwise. If such persuasion had to come from outside rather than from within, then it meant that their attitude towards such softgoods as mine was in a process of flux. It seemed that the Coles management had, in the short term, simply been cashing in on the public hunger for clothing after the war. Its longer-term aims were to abdicate their share of that trade to specialist retail outlets geared towards maintaining a wide and selective range of knitwear, Coles itself being able to carry little more than a few basic lines of any one particular kind of merchandise.

  G.J. Coles & Coy Ltd Certificate of Commendation.

  I recognised also that my business with Coles had passed its peak. In the light of these considerations, some admittedly resulting from interpretations and hunches rather than on solid fact, I resolved to invest in new plant; not, however, for my trade with Coles, but to expand my men’s wear range. By then, I owned and operated the latest machines most suited to men’s knitwear production as my reputation in this area had grown. It was, therefore, logical that this should be the direction for future expansion. In keeping with this, I broadened my boys’ and men’s range, established a wider network of agents, both in country areas and interstate, and began more actively to promote this part of my activity. In contrast to my earlier manner of operating, the quantities produced were smaller, the number of separate accounts was greater, and distribution was much more costly, but the profit margins per item were better. A new equilibrium developed. It took another five years before I stopped supplying Coles altogether.

  In my experience, Coles Stores always conducted its business most fairly. Its buying staff, from Mr Watson at the outset, through to Mr Rowe and Miss Gannon under the supervision of the controller, the late Mr Dinning, were always based on mutual trust, dependability and harmony that characterised our every transaction. It pleased me greatly to have had my firm, “mentioned in dispatches”, as it were, as a Number One supplier at a meeting of the Coles’ board, and at one pre-Christmas party to receive a Certificate of Merit for services to the company.

  9

  Australian Society

  The Australia to which I arrived in 1946 was not the multicultural society it is today. It was a thoroughly anglicised country; it was still an outpost of the British Empire, whether in social, cultural or political orientation and thinking. To be Australian was still, in essence, to be British. Though Australian nationalism did exist to an extent, it was neither particularly vociferous, nor outwardly striking to the new arrival. The “mother country” about which so much was heard referred invariably to England; while overseas events were inevitably translated to mean what was happening in, or to, Britain. The rest of the world scarcely rated a mention, let alone specific attention.

  The war had just ended, the sense of victory and comradeship with the British forces under whose general command with whom Australians had lived and fought, heightened, for a while, the sense of kinship and belonging, usually proudly displayed and referred to. Nationalism was a normal by-product for victor and vanquished alike. In the case of Australia, as far as I could observe with my untrained eyes, the immediate post-war Australian society suffered from a dual personality in its collective self-image. Being so far away and restricted in the manner it could offer help, the very distance made Australian hearts grow fonder about “home”. The demobilized soldiers, whatever their personal experiences may have been during the war, and whatever their consciousness about Gallipoli in the previous war, the outward homage and loyalty to King and empire were unmistakable and borne with pride. The sentimental bond persisted for a long time, overshadowing the first tentative overtones of awakening Australian nationalism.

  I recall, some time in the mid-fifties, attending a reception given by the Lord Mayor of Melbourne, Councillor Nielsen in honour of Joseph Sprinzak, the Speaker of the Israeli Parliament, who was then visiting the city. In his welcoming remarks, he made reference to his understanding of the sentiments of the Jewish people towards their newly-won political independence in Israel, there represented by the guest of honour. Then he drew a parallel with his own feelings and said that, though he had always lived in Australia, for him Britain remained the mother country, adding, “whenever I go overseas on business, which I often do to England, I am going home.” I remember his words clearly, for it confirmed my initial impression on arrival of the influence this sentiment had on the tenor of Australian society, on its life patterns and attitudes. It took time, and many political, economic and migrationary changes to permit the new sense of Australian self-awareness to gain parity and, ultimately, the upper hand.

  Australia’s population at that time totalled 7 million, of which 1.3 million lived in Melbourne. The tempo of daily life was slow. By comparison with Shanghai, Melbourne’s streets looked empty, people walked leisurely, they spoke quietly and undemonstratively, sometimes they smiled, and they were always polite. Conversations almost invariably opened with some reference to the weather and closed on a similar note – a carry-over from the British Isles that were so much at the mercy of the elements. Outwardly, I adapted easily enough to this social quirk, even if I could not as easily relate to its banality.

  The forms of dress did not strike me at once. To see ladies in hats and gloves was nothing extraordinary, nor to see men in dark three-piece suits and in hats in autumn, which was when I arrived. It was spring and summer that brought home to me the basic conservatism of dress, particularly among men, who continued either to wear the same outfits or heavy tweed jackets in the summer heat. I recall one particular Sunday morning in summer when I was teaching at the Bialik Sunday School in Carlton. It was very hot and, as I knew that the strictness of dress was somewhat relaxed during weekends, I wore a white short-sleeved shirt, white shorts and long white socks which I had brought with me from Shanghai. After school, I went to Cohen’s restaurant in the vicinity for lunch. Mr Cohen, a colourful character in his own right, but who ran his establishment according to “the rules of propriety”, came to the door, looked me over in my attire, was clearly aghast, and unceremoniously told me to get out, abusing me for as much as expecting to be admitted into a respectable eating-place the way I was dressed.

  In contrast to the men, the ladies seemed more sensibly dressed, even if the range of their clothes was limited. At the time, clothing could still be obtained only against coupons as a consequence of the wartime and early post-war shortages, while the supply of coupons was not particularly generous. A single light woollen dressing-gown I bought at Ball & Welch in Flinders Street claimed nearly all my coupons.

  Another characteristic of society which drew my early attention was the individual’s loyalty to the Crown. Having lived under a republic in Poland, such a degree of affection towards rulers was a thing unknown to me. This loyalty manifested itself with extraordinary force on the occasion of the unexpected death of King George VI in 1952. Public mourning for a head of state is normal and finds its expression in each society according to social precedents. What startled me was the very visibility of mourning among individual persons. Having my office in Oxford Chambers, in the very heart of the legal and corporate district of the city, I noticed men wearing black ties. I do not remember how long the official mourning lasted, but I was struck by the formality that I saw.

  Another aspect of Australian life was the place of sport in the personal and national value system. I knew that sport was import
ant in the life of any society and even served as a vehicle for international aggrandisement. I remember very clearly the day in 1937 when a black U.S. boxer knocked out the leading German boxer of the time and what a day of shame it was for the Aryan race at its height of racial arrogance. But to find a society where a person was gauged by the sports he or she pursued was very difficult for me to understand. Sport was then, as it is today, an all-year-round obsession. Only the heroes changed with the seasons to dominate the attention of the people.

  At the turn of the ‘fifties, Australia had a succession of outstanding tennis players who stirred the national mood to a pitch of excitement and pride that exceeded my comprehension. Cricket, too, was at its zenith, with Donald Bradman receiving a knighthood and seen to be strolling with King George VI in the Royal Gardens, this being seen as a measure of the nation’s coming of age. Such success in sport bolstered a recognition of, and confidence in, the capacities and talents inherent in this distant outpost of Empire which could nonetheless contribute its share to the British way of life. Football, the pleasure of which I could still recall from my boyhood days, continued ever to excite people, regardless of age. I liked Australian Rules even if I could not distinguish the finer points between it and European football, or soccer, which came late upon the Australian scene, having been brought to the country by waves of post-war immigrants. Rowing – and particularly winning head-of-the-river regattas – were tied up with status and I could not get excited about it. There were clearly things that existed – and would continue to exist – outside my own, narrow, value system. Never having assimilated into this core ingredient and linch-pin of Australian-ness, I have sometimes wondered whether, in the face of my continuing obtuseness to sport, I truly merit this country’s citizenship.