by Alan Collins
Although the members of both groups were mainly teenagers who were the children of postwar migrants from countries where politics were part of everyday life, there were also those who were children of Australian-born Jews. To their parents, Zionism raised the question of divided loyalties. As the antagonism between the British forces in Palestine and the Jewish settlers intensified, the Anglo-Jewish community entered into a dilemma. Anglo-Jews put their loyalty to Empire ahead of their aching desire to see the remnants of European Jewry saved and resettled in Palestine.
Ruth had to face her own personal quandary. She was now a university graduate with a degree that would be of little use for life on a kibbutz. Her mother saw her in the more socially desirable occupation of teaching, with marriage to a young Jewish professional or, failing that, the son of a prosperous businessman. Jacob Kaiser, the printing tradesman, did not rank very highly in the marriage stakes.
Jacob was chilled by the thought of this additional complication. The sun had now dropped below the top of the rocks and no longer warmed him. Already he was experiencing the fear of rejection. He dressed quickly and climbed out of the crevice. The tide had risen, so he rolled up his trousers and picked his way across the rocks until he reached the beach.
Now he began to see his future in a quite different light. At twenty-one surely it was time for his life to take off in an entirely new direction. He really could see himself as a kib-butznik, draining the swamps and turning the desert into fertile farmland. He flexed his muscles at the mere thought. He pictured himself and Ruth in a setting much like the posters at the Eureka Youth League, which showed sturdy young Komsomols beside their beloved tractor on vast Russian farmlands. He walked close by the tanned beach inspector, whose sturdy body showed to best advantage in white shorts and a blue singlet. He caught a whiff of the man’s sweat and envied him. Would his own slight physique cope with long days in the field?
From the flat below Mrs Rothfield’s came that smell of cooking bacon, which never failed to put an edge on Jacob’s appetite. The fact that this was a proscribed food heightened his sensibilities. He had no real desire to eat pig meat in any form. Mrs Rothfield had often described the animal as being riddled with trichina, the intestinal disease common in the Middle East but virtually unknown in Australia.
All the way in the tram grinding its way up the hill from the beach, he had struggled to find a way to tell Mrs Rothfield of the events of the afternoon at the Lewis’s. Now the old lady sat in her lumpy armchair unravelling the wool from her last dreadful attempt at knitting a jumper. The wool was kinked from two previous attempts, but this would not stop her from yet another go at it. Jacob stood by the veranda window, silhouetted against the setting sun.
‘‘So…how was it?’’
‘‘What? The house? The Lewises? Ruth? What are you asking?’’
‘‘What, do I mind? Tell me from the beginning. Or maybe you just want to tell me what you had to eat? Like nothing important, eh, Yakov?’’ she said with cunning. Noticing his discomfort, she changed tack. ‘‘Did it make you sad, Yakov?’’
Jacob moved over to the mantelpiece and stared intently at the photo of Shulamit and Yosef Rothfield in a rock-strewn Galilean landscape. It was treeless; not even a furrow showed. In the middle distance, the man on the horse cradled his rifle. Far from being a heroic figure, he frightened Jacob like a dark shadow that would forever watch him.
‘‘Nu?’’
‘‘Sad? No, I don’t think so, Mrs Rothfield. Well, I did a bit, when I saw the steep grass in front where Solly and I used to roll down. Then I remembered Solly and what a little bugger he could be at times.’’
‘‘That’s all you’ve got to tell me from a whole day?’’
Jacob turned to the photograph again.
‘‘What’s with the picture, Yakov? Nothing changes in it. Thank God, eh? In the picture I don’t get any older!’’ She sighed. ‘‘Okay. I’m listening already, so speak.’’
‘‘Ruth and me, well, we want to go to Palestine. We want to be settlers on a kibbutz. Well, that’s not quite true, I asked her and she didn’t exactly say no.’’
Mrs Rothfield began unravelling the wool again. ‘‘And she didn’t exactly say yes, eh, Yakov? Do you know what I think? For you I’m not surprised you think this way. A young Jewish boy with no strings to this country. It makes sense. I’m wondering why it took you so long.’’ She put down the wool and asked Jacob to hand her the photograph. ‘‘Look at me. How old was I? About the same as Ruti is now. Is that right, Yakov? Oy, was I a tough little cookie, let me tell you.’’
Jacob looked at the sturdy figure of Mrs Rothfield as a girl. He said defensively, ‘‘Don’t make any mistake about Ruth, she can look after herself too.’’ Searching for evidence of her resilience, his mind raced back to that night on Bondi Beach when Ruti had shown a hard and unrelenting side to her character. But he could not tell this to Mrs Rothfield. Instead, he said, ‘‘she knows the rules of kibbutz life better than I do.’’
‘‘Oh, wonderful,’’ Mrs Rothfield said sarcastically. ‘‘Listen Yakov, I can read all the recipes in the Women’s Weekly but even my best friends know I’m a terrible cook.’’ She held out a hand to him. ‘‘Chaver — you know this Hebrew word for comrade is what the Australian ‘cobber’ comes from? Australian soldiers in Palestine in the Great War learned it. So chaver, come here to me. This is a girl with a mother. That’s number one. That mother wants for her daughter a good marriage and a little family right beside her. After all she’s been through, who can blame her? Now go and put the kettle on and come back and we’ll talk some more.’’
Jacob went into the little kitchen. When he came back Mrs Rothfield had discarded the wool and stood by the fireplace with the picture now back on the mantelpiece, level with her head. In view of the discussion they were having, it was unnerving for Jacob; as though there were two adversaries for him to convince.
‘‘Are you trying to talk us out of going?’’ he said.
‘‘God forbid. Palestine needs healthy young Jewish boys and girls even more than back in 1917. What it doesn’t need is idealists with no courage or…’’
‘‘Girls who have arts degrees?’’
‘‘Listen, just because I had no education doesn’t mean I’m against such things. But I saw so many idealists back in those early days with enough degrees, you could paper the walls with them.’’ She laughed. ‘‘Still, some, a few, they stuck it out. Now I see their names in the papers, famous they are for throwing hand grenades. So much for education!’’
There was no denying the truth of what Mrs Rothfield was saying. There was also no room for wavering in Jacob’s new found direction. If anything, he was more frightened of indecision than decision. He was at that point where even decisive failure could prove better for morale. He tried not to dwell on the example before him: of Mrs Rothfield, who had tried and palpably failed, even though she attributed a large share of that failure to her intellectual husband.
Jacob came back with two cups of tea. Mrs Rothfield had lots of sugar and a large slice of lemon in hers. She offered him a piece of her homemade honey cake, but Jacob knew it too well and declined.
He sat down opposite her. He told her things he had never discussed before, matters that had troubled him for years and which he had always kept to himself. For once, she listened without fiddling with bits of wool or some other distraction for her hands.
‘‘Do you know what it is like to be a member of a community and yet not really a part of it?’’ he asked. Not expecting an answer, he went on: ‘‘It wouldn’t be so bad if the community itself was not so divided’’ — he shook his head at the dimensions of the problem — ‘‘it is just about impossible for me to find a place in it.’’
Mrs Rothfield took the empty cup from him. ‘‘Being Jewish, Yakov, has never been easy — the hard part is sometimes made harder by the anti-Semite but also by the self-hating Jews.’’
‘‘Sometimes I think it would
be better for us if we had a Pope to lay down the rules for us, to tell us we’ll be in big trouble if we disobey.’’
Mrs Rothfield said softly, ‘‘We need that like I need a hole in the head. But I know what you mean. Instead of one question with one answer, what have we got? Questions, questions, all the time with the questions and everybody thinks they’ve got the right answer.’’
‘‘What I’m trying to say is that right here in Sydney, in 1947, it’s very hard for me to find my own position. What am I? A tradesman, twenty-one and no family, looked down on by the well-to-do Jews who were born here, and treated like a Jewish peasant by the refugee Jews who come here speaking half a dozen foreign languages, whose kids show me pictures of the shops and factories they used to own in Europe. Tomorrow I go to work at the printery. Here I’ve got another problem. The papers show pictures of Jews fighting British policemen in Palestine, or dirty old ships full of dirty displaced Jews who have been sailing around the Mediterranean for months trying to get ashore in Palestine while the British army turns them back. Mr Williams, the foreman can’t resist having a go at me as if it’s all my bloody fault. ‘Well, Ikey,’ he says, ‘is that what we fought for’ — which is very funny because he never went to the war.’’
Jacob paused and was not surprised to find himself in an angry sweat. He had the full attention of Mrs Rothfield, whose only comment was the laconic ‘‘So what else is news?’’
Jacob took a deep breath. ‘‘Will it be different in Palestine?’’
‘‘Different, I can promise you, Yakov. So why don’t you ask will it be better? That’s what you really want to know. Well, for one thing you may have Ruti to share with — believe me, that’s worth something. Also, you won’t have anti-Semites like that horrible Mr Williams. But — better? Yakov, it is many years since I lived there so on a day-to-day basis I cannot give advice. But this I must tell you, if you are troubled within yourself, first find the cure and do not take troubles with you to a new land.’’
She stood up and held out her arms to Jacob. He found himself in a half-embrace from the stubby little figure. After a moment, she pushed him away.
‘‘Enough already with the philosophy! It’s a working day tomorrow, Yakov.’’ She waddled off to her bedroom. ‘‘Put the cups in the sink, tomorrow’s another day.’’
EIGHT
Jacob felt a twinge of conscience that he had not taken part yesterday in the traditional Eight Hour Day March. He had done so on the past three occasions. The custom was to meet with the other members of the Eureka Youth League in Market Street, down near the wharves, form up under their banner of the Hammer and Sickle and fall in behind the adult members of the Australian Communist Party. The previous year there had been a small contingent of Jewish young people calling themselves the Bund, also carrying a red flag. Some of them he knew to be refugees; he was puzzled by their association with a working-class movement.
He had tried to keep this side of his life secret from the dreaded Mr Williams. Communism was another of the foreman’s pet hates. Come to think of it, there was very little Mr Williams was for, unless it was his football team, the South Sydney Rabbitos; even then he was a fair weather supporter.
The week at work was a long and tiring one for Jacob. The printery was especially busy with orders for a huge Masonic function — the boss was a big wheel in the Freemasons. When he was already worn out from the day’s shift, Jacob worked back at night. He made some silly mistakes which earned him abuse from Mr Williams. But the harsh words had little meaning for him now; his thoughts were occupied with his new direction — and it did not include Mr Williams.
He was called a ‘‘dopey bastard’’ by a man he liked and even that didn’t worry him. Mr Williams goaded him with ‘‘Ikey’’ but Jacob merely felt as though he was disembodied, floating, floating where the clank of printing presses became the steady chuffing of farm machinery. By Friday night he was physically exhausted but exhilarated at what he imagined was to come. On the Saturday, he washed all over but did not try too hard to remove the week’s grime from his hands. Mrs Rothfield noticed.
‘‘So where are you going, Yakov, that they don’t mind you should have half the printery under your fingernails?’’
Halfway out of the door, he called over his shoulder: ‘‘Eureka Youth League meets this arvo.’’ He was aware that Mrs Rothfield took more notice of his appearance on the Sunday, when he would attend the Zionist Youth meeting around the corner in George Street.
Jacob knew that he was prone to swagger a little as he entered the dingy Eureka meeting rooms. It gave him what he thought was a working-class masculinity. On the other hand, there were times at the Zionist Youth meetings when he wished he wore glasses and maybe talked with an accent!
The red flag was still pinned to the back wall. Tobacco smoke hung like a haze in the streaky sunlight. A man he knew slightly called out to him.
‘‘Missed the March this year, comrade. Had to get someone else to carry the Printing Union banner.’’ Jacob was about to reply when a girl’s voice from up the back called out, ‘‘He’s too weak, he couldn’t lift the skin off a rice pudding.’’
Before he could reply, a young woman came forward and gave him a warm hug. It was Peg Piper…Peg, the trainee nurse he had met over three years ago.
After a long moment, she released him and pushed him away at arm’s length.
Jacob felt a tremor of excitement. ‘‘Oh, Peg, just look at you — you look bloody marvellous.’’
Peggy’s green eyes shone. ‘‘Can’t say the same for you, Jack. I thought all you Yids were nice and plump, but you look like a match with the wood shaved off.’’
Jacob’s thoughts went back to earlier times. He remembered how they had snuggled together in Peg’s narrow uncomfortable bed in her dreary Darlinghurst room, cold and frightened, and how he had crept away without proving his manhood. Now Peg had shed her former gawky appearance and become a woman — perhaps more than he had become a man.
Comrade Chairman was calling to them to celebrate the end of British rule in India. ‘‘The last bastion of British Imperialism has fallen!’’ he shouted as though he had personally contributed to its demise. Jacob was only half-listening; he did not bother to challenge the speaker that British Imperialism still ruled in Palestine. He stood beside Peggy. Her rounded stocky figure, legs slightly apart, arms akimbo, was the epitome of cocky self-assurance. She wore a white cotton blouse with scooped neckline, tucked into a wide belt tightly drawn in at the waist and a flowing floral skirt. Standing by her side, he glanced down at her short bobbed hair, saw the freckles on her breasts rise and fall. He found her hand and held it. He drew strength from her prosaic matter-of-factness. As the speaker’s exhortation took on a hysterical note, Jacob and Peg edged their way towards a side door and in a moment they were free together in the afternoon sunshine. They threw their arms around each other and sang:
‘‘The working class can kiss my arse,
I’ve got the boss’s job at last.’’
They both burst into giggles. The tension between them was broken. ‘‘Go on Peg, ladies first,’’ Jacob said, ‘‘tell us what you’ve been up to. Crumbs, how long has it been? Three years since — since…’’
‘‘Darn near four, Jack, I reckon. Gosh, I’ll never forget how surprised I was when I woke up and you’d shot through like a Bondi tram. But then I thought, well, he’s only a kid.’’
‘‘So were you, Peg. But what’s been happening? I know you went back to Bathurst.’’
They headed towards Circular Quay. Peg told him that she had to leave nursing at Sydney Hospital to go home to Bathurst, where her father was dying. She finished her training at the District Hospital there. ‘‘I know it’s silly,’’ she said, ‘‘but my Dad, who never did anyone any harm all his life, dies on the same day as that bloody gangster Al Capone and the papers are full of it.’’
Jacob pressed her hand in sympathy. ‘‘What did you do after, after…’’
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br /> ‘‘Well, Mum was okay. She had Dad’s pension from the railways and they owned the house we lived in, which she could stay in until, well, y’know —’’ She fumbled around in her skirt pocket for her handkerchief. ‘‘So I decided to come back to Sydney and do my midwifery — you know what that is, Jack? It’s delivering babies and all that.’’ She dug him in the ribs with her elbow. ‘‘Y’haven’t got one have you, Jack?’’
Jacob flushed. ‘‘I’m not even married, Peg.’’ He swung her around to face him. ‘‘You’re not, are you?’’ he asked anxiously.
Peg laughed. ‘‘Just because I’ve put on a bit of condition since you saw me last doesn’t mean — oh Jack, you are a ninny, but I do like you. So tell me — I’m busting to know — do you own David Jones yet?’’
Jacob steered them towards Mitzi Strauss’s coffee shop. Frothy Vienna coffee and curly cream cakes had made her famous among the Jewish refugees, and now the more adventurous Australians were beginning to patronise the Vienna Wald. It was a warm October this year and Mitzi’s iced coffee in parfait glasses was very popular. They entered and sniffed the aroma of coffee and nutmeg appreciatively. Peg’s eyes were wide. ‘‘Nothing like this in Bathurst,’’ she said. ‘‘Just the usual greasy spoon cafe with coffee essence or a pot of Bushells.’’
They found a seat in one of the dark wood booths. Foreign languages floated over the partition. Peg was a little bit nervous. ‘‘D’you reckon it’s right for them to be chattering away in their own lingo?’’ she asked Jacob. He was about to answer when the bustling figure of Mitzi Strauss stood squarely in front of them. Jacob was not too sure how he stood with Mitzi since his Uncle Siddy had shot through — after the police asked awkward questions about where she got her supplies of scarce butter and eggs.