by Israel Kipen
Australian food was, for me, inevitably, another novelty to adjust to. Jewish cooking apart, the standard menu in the post-war period was very limited and not particularly imaginative. Even the better restaurants offered little more variety than a selection of two or three roasts, soup and a choice of puddings. I was fascinated to observe people pouring heaps of salt and pepper on to their food before yet tasting it. Also intriguing was the fact that eating was actually secondary to drinking. Perhaps the climate had something to do with it, but where the European way was to enjoy the piquancy of food, here, in Australia, food was an appendix to the consumption of alcohol.
In no other area has post-war migration had such an immediate and revolutionary effect as in that of cuisines. I recall a new migrant opening a bread shop in Little Collins Street, on the corner of Royal Arcade. Crowds of housewives came and queues of city employees formed to buy the newly-introduced varieties of European bread. Italian restaurants and ethnic eating places began to proliferate. Such changes in the manner of food consumption and food appreciation would not have been believed if predicted in the 1940s. In this respect, multiculturalism truly overwhelmed Australian society, leading to the refinement of the Australian palate and to a finesse of discernment in tastes light years away from those in existence forty years ago. Likewise, drinking patterns also changed in the post-war years. Drink was generally equated with beer. Six o’clock closing and the “swill” that preceded it were common everywhere. People would crowd the bars; the noise within would attract attention from without; while in the summer, drinkers would stand outside with glass in hand and support the walls. Friday afternoons were the most busy, crowded and noisy. BYO restaurants had not been legislated into being. But with time, the introduction of these, the extension of hotel opening hours to ten o’clock, and the gradual shift to the more leisurely drinking of wine with meals in contrast to the hurried last-minute swill, all contributed to the modification of drinking habits for the better. In both of these matters – eating and drinking – had anyone in the 1940s predicted such changes in taste and refinement taking place over the ensuing years, he would have been met with total incredulity.
One institution which I positively did welcome was the weekend. Pre-war Europe either did not have it or could not afford such a luxury. Australia clung to its weekend with an ardour approaching religious fervour. To begin with, it was part of the British heritage. Further, Australia was in the economic position of being able to afford it. Most importantly, the weekend was the tangible expression of the view that one worked in order to enjoy one’s leisure, and not the reverse. The majority of people worked a forty-hour week spread over the five week-days. On Saturday mornings, only banks, post-offices and shops were open, only those who provided service from behind their counters actually working. At 12 noon, however, all business activity stopped, and after that, the only folk who worked were those who provided entertainment for everyone else. Sporting events, theatres, concerts, cinemas and other forms of amusement thus drew the crowds. Sunday, by contrast, was observed as a day of rest. The Church at that time held sufficient sway over the civic authorities to secure the prohibition of nearly every form of public entertainment on Sunday. On that day, people created their own amusements. The streets were then nearly deserted. Some went to Church. Others stayed at home, tended to their gardens, or leisurely did odd jobs and other chores about their homes. Nobody rushed. Theirs seemed an idyllic suburban existence, devoid of the European cafe life, true, but at the same time unmistakably blissful in its simplicity and freedom. If anyone was disadvantaged, it was the young for whom little social outlet was provided. For myself, however, who had come through years of war and turmoil, I was, on balance, content to exchange the attractions elsewhere for the quietude and peace that were here to be had.
Another adjustment that a newcomer had to make was to the Australian manner of speaking. As indicated already, people overall spoke quietly, in measured tones and with obvious circumspection. This was in marked contrast to the animated Slav manner I had known in Poland and Russia, and certainly to the vigorous, demonstrative Jewish way of speaking, in which content was far more relevant than the manner of delivery, even if the Talmud did teach that “the words of the wise are heard in repose”. I liked the tendency to understatement of English conversation; I liked the seeming in-built regard for one’s listener which the quieter manner of speaking inferred; I liked the softer voice and the calm of human exchange, independent as it was of the subject at hand. To me, this was among the first attractions that English culture had for me and which I tried to assimilate into myself. I did not always succeed in this. There were times when, at the height of discussion, I raised my voice too loudly simply because my temperament was not one readily given to English calmness and detachment. But I remained nonetheless impressed with the self-control and restraint that such composure in speaking represented.
On the subject of speaking and of language, I am a lover of words. A word is, to me, both a tool and a mirror of the mind. English with its richness fascinates me. Its synonyms and preciseness on the one hand and its nuances and subtleties on the other have ever been an inexhaustible treasure, and, as such, it has drawn me closer to the culture it has created.
Inevitably, English was not free of crudeness, even when employed in normal conversation. The not infrequent obscenities that laced much of ordinary speech was not necessarily malicious; it was but a reflection of the coarseness or foul-mouthed bent of those who were given to using it in this way. But, rather than demeaning the language, these very obscenities were still further proof of the rich expressiveness of the language, of its plastic versatility and of its piquancy.
While the acquisition of English opened up a splendid culture to me, the scope for actual cultural activity was limited. Quite conceivably, the war had set Australian culture back. Clearly, the absence of so many young people abroad who might otherwise have both contributed to it and consumed it could only have had an adverse effect; further, those who remained were inevitably more concerned with advancing the war effort than with the advancement of culture; while at war’s end, when a generation was seeking to settle back into normal civilian life, cultural pursuits were far from the most pressing of national or individual priorities. At the time of my arrival, the prime cultural concern of many returned soldiers was enrolment into the universities. I understood the phenomenon and motivation well from my own experiences in Poland. From Vilna I had sent my Warsaw University documents to the Hebrew University with the aim of eventual admission; while much later, on reaching Australia, I had written to Melbourne University, enquiring into the possibility of being accepted. I received no reply to the query; but I did learn later that the likelihood of success had in any case been minimal, as returned soldiers were – understandably – given first priority. Cultural creativity and involvement, though not absent, thus took a back seat. The cinema was probably the major cultural outlet. War films and authentic war footage served as more than simply entertainment. They were potent means of conveying recent history in its most vivid form. Theatre was returning into its own, with small performing groups being created and staging new and innovative plays at the Atheneum or at Melbourne University’s Union House to packed audiences. Public lectures increased in number; so did periodical publications burgeon then. Radio, which had played an enormously vital role during the war years, continued to exert a powerful influence for at least another decade after it. It served variously as an on-going source of news about the reconstruction of the post-war world in general and of Australian society in particular; it offered discussion of issues of interest and importance to the nation at the time; it was the major transmitter of music and of drama. For me, radio became my pre-eminent educator and companion to this day. In addition, the ABC Symphony Orchestra was in existence under the leadership of Professor Bernard Heinze who shaped it into the cohesive musical force it was to become, with concerts well attended, and with most of the audiences consi
sting of a disproportionate number of Europeans.
The advent of television in 1956 almost eclipsed both radio and cinema over the subsequent decade. Its novelty, the marvel it instilled at the advance of technology, and its gradual but progressive penetration into the living room of every household exerted a profound effect on the cultural standards and tastes of the society it served. Cinema audiences thinned out, with picture theatres being forced to close. Many people stopped going out. Just as to the English, the home was a man’s castle, so did it now become the average person’s entertainment castle as well. Meanwhile, television came to be preferred to radio, which, in many cases, simply could not compete with that offered by the screen. The social effect of television, too, was significant. The congregation of households around the television set brought a new cohesiveness into the home. This was in its way a gain, even if it was achieved at the expense of public and outdoor life or of inter-personal communication. In addition, the experiences gained by the servicemen who had served abroad, combined with the impact with which the wider world was brought into the living room, helped bring about changes in the Australian attitude to that outside world. Until then, public and private attitudes towards the world at large were singularly parochial. Words like “foreigner”, “reffo”, “dago” and “wog”, among others, were in no way edifying, and where they were not used in open hostility, they were, at best, derogatory. They also reflected attitudes that had become deeply entrenched in the local culture. How they became so entrenched was not difficult to understand. A people, living on a vast sparsely-populated continent and, till then, largely isolated geographically from the outside world, could not but become introspective and self-absorbed. Against this, in the aftermath of the war and in the light of what it was seeing on its television screens, the nation began to sense that its precious isolation was coming to an end and did not much like the change that was in the offing.
The post-World War II immigration policy, headed by Labor Minister Arthur Calwell, of opening the country’s doors to people streaming from war-torn Europe, was a decisive factor in the ensuing transformation of Australian society. First, however, the nation had to confront a moment of truth. On the one hand, it faced the moral question inherent in sealing off indefinitely a near-empty sparsely-populated continent at a time of unprecedented human need for refuge. On the other, clear memories of the Depression made people fear that their economic security might yet again be compromised through competition for jobs and resources. There prevailed also a suspicion and unease about the influx of different peoples who would bring in different and incomprehensible cultures, languages and habits. Many expressed the concern that Australian ways, ethos and self-identity would be undesirably diluted and compromised. Such old, ingrained notions, fears and apprehensions died hard, and, in the face of changes that were brought into the country, some of these amounting to forms of culture shock, local Australians were compelled to undergo considerable adjustment.
In the beginning, then, post-war European migration was fraught with tensions, both potential and real. But in time, the nation at large, save for the more bigoted, came to appreciate both the fact that immigration brought prosperity rather than decline, and that, instead of destroying institutions held dear, the new arrivals brought added benefits in terms of ideas, culture and taste into the mainstream of Australian life. With increasing proximity and interaction of old Australian and new, mutual adjustment became easier. Language barriers slowly resolved, new values were absorbed, perspectives changed. As the nation’s population more than doubled in the four decades following the war, Australian parochialism gave way progressively to a multicultural cosmopolitanism that prevails today.
One particular conflict that did arise in the wake of increased migration stemmed from the religious factor. Throughout Australia’s history, the primacy of the Church of England in religious affairs was clearly evident, although the Irish element, so significant in the development of the United States, also played a comparable role in Australia. By the time of my arrival in 1946, the Catholic Church had also become firmly entrenched, and the sway that Melbourne’s legendary Archbishop Mannix held over public life was powerful. With the post-war escalation of migration, the Catholic Church’s political influence increased still further as Catholic immigrants in disproportionate numbers arrived from Italy, Spain, Portugal, Poland, Hungary, the Baltic States, Yugoslavia, South America, Germany and Austria.
This accretion to Australian Catholicism was to have tangible political consequences. The Irish, historically the poorer elements in the mosaic of all newly-formed societies, were traditionally found on the labor side in politics. With their marked increase in numbers, they gained a firm grip on the Australian Labor Party. Melbourne was the most radicalised centre of Australian Labor; hence it was also the scene of greatest tension. Within one decade of the post-war migration boom, the political muscle of Church-backed factions of the Victorian Labor Party was making itself felt. The consolidation of these factions within the Party led to deep internal divisions which culminated, in turn, in a split in 1955, with the emergence, at both State and Federal levels, of the off-shoot, the Democratic Labor Party. This split was to leave Labor in the political wilderness as a continuing Parliamentary Opposition for more than two decades.
Another aspect of Australia’s religious life that struck me was the commercialisation of Christmas. Having grown up in Poland, I was only too acutely aware of the pervasive influence of religion upon Poland’s native Catholic population. The manifestations of that influence were, however, of an almost exclusively religious nature; there was none of the commercialisation and lavishness with which Australia approached and celebrated the festival, nor were Poland’s economic circumstances such that would permit the sort of extravagance I came to see in Melbourne. That people should, even in the face of a coupon-regulated post-war economy, engage in a pre-Christmas shopping spree astounded me, and continued to astound me all the more as, with increasing prosperity through the ‘fifties and ‘sixties, such spending took place in what almost amounted to a carnival atmosphere. For me, as for many other Jews well-acquainted with the more worrisome expressions of Christian religious fervour – around Christmas in part, but far more menacing, and sometimes murderously, at Easter – to see a religious holiday approached with such lightheartedness, gaiety and goodwill, was both a radical and a very welcome departure from my past experience of the season.
The most profound of all impressions made upon me by the new country were its democratic attitudes, tradition and practices. Nothing else about Australian life, no matter how novel or startling it may have been, affected me so positively as the equality accorded to every citizen in theory and in practice – a reality so ingrained as to be taken for granted and perhaps hard to appreciate fully, except by one who has known life in a police state or under the heel of a totalitarian regime. The simple incident of hearing a mother tell her child that a policeman was a friend whom one could always trust and ask for help was, to one like myself who had been raised in a milieu where mothers would mention the police to frighten recalcitrant children, extraordinary and almost unbelievable. To learn that an individual had a right to refuse entry to a policeman into his home without a warrant; to discover that every individual had inalienable rights which were defensible even against the authority of the state; to be told that John Citizen could bring a grievance against the Crown with the knowledge that he had a fair chance of having his case upheld before the law – these seemed, at first, to be elements of some Martian fairy-tale, they bordered on the anarchistic. There was something refreshingly exhilarating to be had in breathing freely, in being at liberty to speak one’s mind, in being unmolested and safe from malevolent and unjust intimidation, in being able to go about one’s business without harassment, in short, in doing as one pleased, with only the public good and the observance of decency being the limits to such freedoms. After living in Poland, after experiencing German occupation, after learni
ng something of Stalinist “brotherhood”, I could not be other than excited by living in a country where the concepts of freedom, safety, dignity and equality were so positively translated into observance and action. If this was the effect on me, how much more meaningful must it have been to those who had actually endured, and survived, the Nazi death camps and Soviet socialist totalitarianism! For a time, I was not only geographically, but also philosophically displaced. To be seen as human in my own right and never having to prove my innocence against presumed guilt were, at once, liberating, revolutionary, and reassuring.
I do not recall how long it took me to accept that a public servant was precisely what the name implied – one who served the public, rather than one who was its master. In Poland, it was with trepidation that I approached any official, whether in municipal halls or government departments or the taxation office. How unreal it seemed, then, to hear an individual asking from behind his desk, “What may I do for you, sir?” The first time I heard it, I fancied the question to be a peculiar quirk on the part of that person. When the question was repeated, I suspected it to be merely an agreeable mode of speech, but basically devoid of meaning. It took me some time to recognise the gambit as more than a social nicety and as a truer reflection of the fact that the purpose – and expectation – of the public servant was actually to assist those seeking assistance. It suggested a cardinal assumption held by society in the essential goodness and decency inherent in every human being, in contrast to the opposite credo I had till then been witness to in Bialystok and elsewhere. It was salutary to discover a new yardstick by which to gauge the measure of man.