Richard Runche KC grins and, unable to resist the pun, says, ‘Well then, my dear, let’s talk turkey.’
Jessica and Mary embrace, both of them bursting into tears, their chins resting on each other’s shoulder. ‘It’ll be orright, you’ll see,’ Jessica sobs to her friend. ‘They can’t keep your rainbow kids away from you, Mary.’
Then she jumps up and goes over and kisses Richard Runche. ‘We’re gunna beat the bastards! You’ll see, you can do it, Mr Runche!’
‘Oh dear, I feel quite faint, I really must lie down,’ the barrister says, colouring furiously. ‘If you’ll excuse me, ladies?’ He gently untangles himself from Jessica’s embrace and rises a little unsteadily to his feet. ‘The last lady who embraced me was also you, Jessica. I shall never forget that moment.’
‘We’ll buy yiz a new suit an’ all,’ Jessica laughs. Richard Runche turns to depart when he sees Mary still seated at the table, her eyes averted. He knows suddenly with absolute certainty that she would never have the courage to thank him in the same way Jessica has just done — that she is thinking that he would object to being embraced and kissed by a black woman. The Englishman leans over the table and takes Mary’s hand, bringing it to his lips. ‘We shall do everything we can, my dear. I’m getting to be an old man with few of my wits remaining, but what few you and Jessica have so nobly salvaged are entirely at your disposal, Mary Simpson.’
It is now almost two months later on a hot summer morning in late November of the same year, 1923. Jessica, Mary and Richard Runche KC, perspiring in a new serge suit, are standing together outside the Narrandera courthouse. Moishe Goldberg is inside, going over some procedural details for the hearing with the clerk of the court.
Ever since Jessica wrote to him in Sydney, enclosing with her own letter a brief from Richard Runche, Moishe has been going full steam ahead. At long last something to get my teeth into, he’s written back to Jessica. Perhaps this will be my revolution? The first thing is to locate the whereabouts of Mary Simpson’s children — can your friend describe them for me? I want to know everything, any scars or distinguishing features are important: eyes, hair, approximate height, dates of birth, birth certificates, if any. I confess, the Aborigines — the few I’ve seen — all look alike to me, I could be easily fooled. Do Mary’s girls have more than one name? Are they all called Simpson, or have they taken the names of their respective fathers? Moishe’s list of questions seems endless and Richard Runche, who remembers meeting Moishe when he was visiting Jessica at Callan Park, is suitably impressed.
‘A lawyer who cares about details, how very nice. A good case is built on details, minutiae, and sometimes the smallest things can be the turning point. He’s just the man for me, as my poor mind is like a sieve these days,’ Runche says.
‘Moishe likes to know everything. He’s a proper old stickybeak,’ Jessica laughs.
‘Stickier the better, my dear. We are about to hit the proverbial bureaucratic brick wall with a thump.’
Moishe has written to the Aborigines’ Protection Board and the Child Welfare Department, requesting to know where Mary’s children have been taken. Both authorities reply that the information is not available to the public or to the children’s family. They give no reasons.
The appearance in court this morning is so that they might obtain a court order to issue to both bodies to supply Moishe with the information he needs. It is the first step in the first court case ever attempted by an Aboriginal parent to get her children back. If Mary Simpson eventually wins, she will make legal history. Richard Runche knows that, at best, their chances are slim to non-existent and he wonders if his health will see him through to its conclusion. This morning, however, he will not be needed as Moishe is entitled to make the plea.
The little party is called into the court and the clerk asks them all to be upstanding while Mr John Sneddon assumes his place at the bench. He is a man of medium height who has a remarkable resemblance to King George, a likeness which he appears to have taken the trouble to emphasise by trimming his sandy beard and combing his thinning hair in precisely the same manner as the monarch. The only notable difference is that he wears pince-nez, a small pair of gold-rimmed glasses pinched onto the bridge of his nose. The clerk now reads out the business of the court, then announces the court is in session and asks the two lawyers to front the bench. Mr Bruce McDonald, a local attorney, is representing both the Aborigines’ Protection Board and the Child Welfare Department, while Moishe Goldberg introduces himself as the lawyer from Sydney for the applicant, Mrs Mary Simpson.
McDonald is a much-admired local who is also President of the Mechanics Institute and Chairman of the School Board. He is a large man of sanguineous complexion, bald for the most part with bushy white eyebrows and a naturally belligerent look — what Miss French the librarian calls ‘his bull in a china shop look’.
He has a countryman’s gut which spills over a broad belt holding up the trousers of his grey worsted suit. He has already loosened his collar and pulled down his black tie to the second button of his white shirt. On his feet are a pair of unpolished cattleman’s boots and it is as if he wishes to give the impression that he is more a man of the land than of the law. Compared to the diminutive and still pencil-slim Moishe, he is an imposing presence in the courtroom.
‘Mr Goldberg, up from Sydney, is it?’ Magistrate Sneddon says, taking very little care to disguise his sarcasm, though whether his remark relates to Moishe’s surname or the place he hails from, it is not quite clear. McDonald does not see the magistrate’s question as ambiguous and it earns a sly grin from the country lawyer.
‘Oh dear,’ Runche whispers to Jessica, ‘I think we may have a couple of “bush brothers” on our hands.’ Moishe appears not to notice, his expression remaining deadpan and his voice, when he replies, contains not a hint of anxiety. ‘Yes, Your Worship, I am from Sydney and I am also a Jew,’ he says quietly.
Richard Runche smiles, and his admiration for the young Sydney lawyer increases further. Moishe is a wary fish and has not risen to the magistrate’s crudely baited hook.
‘Well then, Mr Goldberg, having successfully established where you are from and what you are, we will treat this occasion as an open inquiry. You and our colleague here, Mr McDonald, may proceed in an informal manner, provided you apply the normal courtesies due to each other and address all your questions through the bench. I shall decide when to interrupt or call you to order. Perhaps you would like to begin, Mr Goldberg from Sydney.’
‘Thank you, Your Worship, my request is simple enough. I wish to locate the whereabouts of four young girls, the daughters of Mrs Mary Simpson, who have been forcibly removed from their family and placed into an institution under the jurisdiction of the Aborigines’ Protection Board.’
‘Aborigine, eh?’ the magistrate asks.
‘Well, yes, that is the children’s race, not their gender.’ Police Magistrate John Sneddon looks up sternly. ‘Mr Goldberg, if we are to proceed in an orderly fashion I must ask you to kindly refrain from using your Semite wit. The question was simple enough, are these children Aborigines? ‘
‘Certainly, Your Worship, they are Aborigines of mixed blood. My point is that, despite the apparent simplicity of the request on behalf of my client, Mrs Simpson, every attempt to obtain the whereabouts of her children from this government instrumentality has been refused. I have received nothing but obfuscation.’
Bruce McDonald lumbers to his feet. ‘Your Worship, I object. The law does not require us to state where an Aboriginal child has been taken to. It is my clients’ duty to protect these native children. We do not encourage the continuance of the bad influences these half-caste children have been subjected to by allowing visits from their degenerate parents. Our intention is to raise them up so that they may adopt the tenets of Christianity and grow into decent and civilised human beings.’
The magistrate looks at Moishe. ‘Well, M
r Goldberg, what do you say to that?’
‘Your Worship, as I have pointed out, I am not a Christian, yet I believe myself capable of being a decent human being, hopefully also a civilised one.’ Moishe turns to McDonald. ‘I ask my learned colleague, is he saying that the one condition is contingent on the other? Are there no decent human beings beyond those who embrace the Christian faith?’
Bruce McDonald half rises. ‘That is not what I wished to imply, Your Worship, merely that the children were being protected from harmful outside influences.’
The magistrate looks sternly at Moishe. ‘That is not what Mr McDonald wished to imply, Mr Goldberg. You will refrain from making implications of this nature. You are a Jew and he is a Christian and, as far as I know, the native people are heathen animists. However, I should remind you that ours is a predominantly Christian society and it is not surprising that the State would wish the children under its jurisdiction to benefit from the teachings of Jesus Christ our Lord.’
‘Oh dear, a Baptist on the bench,’ Runche whispers to Jessica. ‘I hope he has a conscience.’
Moishe hesitates, and appears to be thinking, gripping his bottom lip between his fingers, his eyes fixed on the floor. ‘With the greatest respect, Your Worship, I confess I remain confused. Are you explaining my learned colleague’s viewpoint and that of the government? Or are you instructing me to accept that the conversion to Christianity of my client’s children is a legitimate reason why she should not be told their whereabouts?’
Richard Runche is filled with admiration for Moishe Goldberg but he is also aware that the young lawyer is not winning the confidence of the country magistrate. Baiting a magistrate or a judge seldom leads to glory in a courtroom. He will have to talk to the young Sydney lawyer. It is no surprise to him therefore when John Sneddon brings down his gavel. ‘I must remind you that this is my court, Mr Goldberg, and it is I who do the cross-examination. We will proceed without further cheap asides to the bench or I shall be obliged to terminate this hearing.’
Moishe bows respectfully to Sneddon. ‘Your Worship, my original point is that decency, while being common in the Christian faith, may also be found elsewhere. My client, I submit, is a decent and caring mother who has had her children removed from her care without there being any suggestion that she cannot ensure their welfare. I should also point out that she is herself a Christian, raised on a Lutheran Mission, and that she professes herself and her children to be members of that faith.’
Bruce McDonald rises reluctantly to his feet, though he gives the distinct impression that the task is onerous and that he would much rather conduct his side of the case from the comfort of his chair. ‘Your Worship, I refer you to the Aborigines’ Protection Amendment Act of 1915 wherein it states that the Aborigines’ Protection Board does not need to prove neglect by a parent in order to remove the children from a native family. That is the law and we, the Board and Child Welfare, work within the letter of the law in this and in every other case.’
Moishe gets to his feet. ‘Your Worship, is my learned colleague saying that despite Mrs Simpson’s being both decent and Christian and well able to care for her children, the law has the right to take them from her and, furthermore, to prevent her from knowing where they are?’
The magistrate turns to Bruce McDonald, who sighs and shakes his head before undertaking the obviously tedious task of coming to his feet again. It is apparent from his manner he cannot believe his opponent’s sly inferences. ‘The reason why parents are not notified of the whereabouts of their children is quite simple,’ he growls. ‘These children are neither Aboriginal nor are they white. They are half-castes, or quadroons, or even octoroons who have the misfortune of being born into an environment which lacks the -advantages of a higher civilisation such as our own. By removing them from these primitive influences we are giving them and their children and their children’s children the opportunity to recover from this unfortunate beginning in life, for which they are not responsible.’ He looks at the magistrate and then at Moishe Goldberg. ‘They have as much right to be white as you or I, so why should they be condemned to-he black? We do not want, nor will we allow, their natural parents to influence them in their choice. We will allow them to grow up independent of any influence their parents may exert so that, when the time comes, they can make up their own minds. I have not the slightest doubt that they will wish to assimilate with the white population, and that is also what the government wants. When the time comes for them to choose, you may be quite sure they will choose to be added to and counted on the white’ side of the ledger.’ Jessica looks fearfully at Richard Runche. McDonaid, having failed in one area of defence, is now cleverly exploiting another — the concept of white supremacy which has been written into the law by the amendment he had referred to earlier.
Richard Runche scribbles a note and hands it to Jessica: A contemptible but nevertheless, in the climate of this court and country, a powerful argument. McDonaId is no fool— Moishe will need to watch his step.
‘Your Worship, my learned colleague Mr McDonald began by saying that my client’s children are being saved from neglect and moral degradation by being embraced by Christianity and taught decency and morality while being incarcerated in a government orphanage. However, now he appears to be saying that they have the right to choose whether they wish to be superior or inferior, white or black. Is this correct?’
The magistrate looks over at McDonald who, with a dismissive wave of his hand, says, ‘That is correct, Your Worship.’
‘That is correct, Mr Goldberg,’ the magistrate repeats.
‘Thank you, Your Worship. In effect, my learned colleague is saying that by removing them from the care and love of their natural mother and placing them in an institution we give them the right to choose to be white? By forbidding them to use their original language and alienating them from their roots we give them the right to choose to be white? By teaching them that to be Aboriginal is to be inferior, dirty, primitive, something they ought to be ashamed of, we give them the right to choose to be white? By removing them from the love of their decent and Christian mother we give them the right to choose to be white? Your Worship, my client’s oldest child is seven and her youngest eighteen months. Does my learned colleague honestly believe they will, at the age of eighteen, when they cease to be wards of the State, be placed in an ideal position to make the decision whether they wish to be white or black?’
‘Will you answer please, Mr McDonald,’ John Sneddon the magistrate instructs.
Bruce McDonald gives a slow, confident smile. ‘Yes, I do believe this will be the case. Ours is a great humanitarian service, Your Worship. It is our duty to remove these half-caste children from the baneful influence of their parents.’
‘You have heard your learned colleague’s reply, Mr Goldberg. Do you wish to continue?’
‘Yes, thank you, Your Worship. I should like to explore my learned colleague’s reply a little further. Is it a humanitarian service to both the child and the mother to rob a mother of her child? How humanitarian is it to place the child in an institution, or in a foster home, or let it out for adoption, without proving first that the mother is incapable or unfit to rear the child in a decent and presumably Christian manner? Is it humanitarian to take a girl child at fourteen and place her into indentured labour with a white employer, with no rights of refusal, so that she is, in effect, a slave or, at the very least, a prisoner?
‘Are children under such conditions capable of choosing whether they wish to be regarded as white or black? I ask you, Your Worship: Katie, the eighteen-month-old; Dulcie, the three-year-old; Sarah, who is five, and the seven-year-old, Polly — how will they make a comparison between the culture they have left and the misery they have had to endure for the better part of their childhood?
‘May I, Your Worship, suggest that it is hardly a Christian and decent way to treat a small child, whether such behaviour is co
ndoned by an individual or a State. Does this court truly believe that any child of eighteen months, or three, five or seven years, is better served in life by being removed from its mother? Any child, regardless of its colour or creed. Your child, my child, my learned colleague’s child, every child needs the warmth and love, care and comfort of its mother to grow into a decent and responsible human being.’
McDonald raises his hand and waves the air in front of his face as though he is diverting a bad smell. ‘Objection, Your Worship!’ The courtroom is hot and he is perspiring and uncomfortable in his heavy suit. He comes to his feet slowly. ‘Your Worship, it is precisely because the mother does not care for her child that the child is removed from her custody — the neglect does not have to be proved, it is assumed. We know these mothers are not capable of caring for, or loving, their children. It is simply not in the half-caste child’s interest to remain with the mother. It is an act of humanity, decency and, dare I say it, of Christian charity!’ He sits down and folds his arms, glaring at Moishe.
Moishe addresses the bench. ‘Your Worship, may I have the court’s permission to address my learned colleague directly?’
‘Do you mean by that, that you wish to crossexamine him? No, Mr Goldberg, you may not, you must address all your questions through the bench,’ the magistrate now says.
Bruce McDonald fans himself with his notes. ‘I have no objection to being cross-examined, Your Worship,’ he says, giving the magistrate a slow, country-boy grin that falls just short of a wink.
‘Well I have, Mr McDonald, every objection! Please proceed, Mr Goldberg,’ the magistrate snaps.
Richard Runche leans over to Mary and whispers, ‘Oh, well done, I think our lad is impressing him.’
‘Very well, Your Worship,’ Moishe now continues.
Jessica Page 48