A Life to Live …

An autobiography

ISRAEL KIPEN

Published by Hybrid Publishers

Melbourne Victoria Australia

© Israel Kipen 1989, 2014

This publication is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced by any process without prior written permission from the publisher. Requests and inquiries concerning reproduction should be addressed to the Publisher, Hybrid Publishers, PO Box 52, Ormond, Victoria 3204, Australia.

www.hybridpublishers.com.au

First published 1989

Second edition 2014

ISBN 9781742983301

A life to live is not a field to cross.

– Russian saying

In the art of living, man is both the artist and the object of his art; he is the sculptor and the marble, the physician and the patient …

– Erich Fromm, Man for Himself

Acknowledgements

I wish to thank Dr John Foster from the Department of History, University of Melbourne, for reading the manuscript and for encouraging its publication.

I wish to thank Dr Serge Liberman for editing the text and for his special involvement and advice.

I wish to thank Itiel Berenson for reading the text and for his encouragement to have it published.

Finally, I wish to thank my wife Laura for her help and critical opinion throughout the process of writing and revising.

Contents

Introduction

Preface

Bialystok

Home

Family and Education

Living in the 1930s

Vilna

Russia and Japan

Shanghai

Australia: 1946-1960

Australian Society

Jews in Australia

Mount Scopus College

Zionism in Australia

First Trip Abroad from Australia

Victorian Zionist Organization

Bialik College

1961-1986

In Retrospect

Dr Kipen’s Address after Receiving Honorary Doctorate

Introduction to e-book version of A life to Live

By the time you come to read this e-book introduction to my autobiography A Life to Live you might have already read my original introduction, as well as the literary assessments printed on the inside flaps of its dust jacket. They would have given you the opportunity to form a first impression of me as the author of the content. Even if this is a first encounter with my story, the only thing that has changed is that 25 years have passed since its initial publication and mercifully I am able to add this second introduction.

The e-book is identical to the printed version in that I have not updated it by adding further content covering those 25 years. Why has it taken so long to e-publish? At age 94, my first encounters with the internet have been very recent. About 6 months ago my academic work Ahad Ha-am: The Zionism of the Future was published as an e-book and I was overwhelmed by the universal response to it. That convinced me of the merits of e-book publishing and confirmed the opinion of many who encouraged me, that my biography is also an invaluable historical document in its own right.

The new readership is very different from the original one. Those more familiar than I with this new form of sharing books, the generations who have grown up with the digital world, understand the technicalities, which I do not. I don’t own a computer. My copy of the book remains on the shelf in my study. For those who now read it electronically, it is up to you, dear reader, to form your own view of the life I have lived.

Israel Kipen

Melbourne

March 2014

Note

If you would like to communicate with the author about this book, please email: dvir@unimelb.edu.au

Preface

The date was the last Friday of 1984. My wife Laura and I had returned a week earlier from the United States where we had been visiting our daughter Aviva and her family, and we had just arrived at Mount Martha for our summer holidays.

At midday, a friend, Eva Faine, came by to greet us and invited us to her home for supper that evening. There, whilst recounting some of our experiences abroad, I happened also to refer to different wartime events and happenings in which I had been involved. In the course of the conversation, my hostess turned to me and, like so many others before her, asked outright, “Why don’t you write down all these experiences?”

Over the years, I had grown somewhat immune to such promptings. True, in early 1984, I had partly succumbed to urgings imposed upon me. But in the process of outlining an autobiography, I discovered that my memory was no longer as reliable as I would have wished it to be. What was particularly hazy in my mind was the historical dimension of my recollections in that while many events were still clearly vivid, their actual chronological sequence proved more elusive, and the realisation of this shortcoming unsettled me to the extent that I put my notes aside unfinished.

Having answered my hostess to this effect, her husband, Solly Faine, countered my reluctance by saying that my reservations did not matter. I should not look upon my recounting of events as a thesis, but simply as a record of my experiences to the best of my ability, even if I was on occasions uncertain about that third element, time.

Nonetheless, I still found myself in two minds.

It was one thing haphazardly to recall isolated experiences in the course of a casual conversation, but something quite different to commit them to paper. With the benefit of hindsight, I came to regret not having kept a diary, particularly during my years of wandering, for, being by nature always mindful of the correctness of what I said, by recording my past, I risked transgressing this very basic precept.

On the other hand, I had long been under pressure, most particularly from my wife, to write my story. Further, on reflection, I became more clearly aware that my life spanned a period in human history that had seen both the most cruel and terrible aberrations known to man and the most promising achievements in human affairs. As a Jew, too, I had lived through the most tragic events ever to befall my people in its long and tortured history, yet had been privileged also to witness its most remarkable rebirth as an independent nation in nearly two thousand years. These considerations alone worked to persuade me to take up again the challenge. But one last argument decided me upon my course. Because, in the aftermath of the brutal wartime upheaval that had come to bear, so few of Europe’s Jews had survived, I, as one such survivor, became conscious of the added obligation to bear witness to that which had taken place.

In the end, these latter considerations won out. My offering here is seen as but a humble, modest contribution to that which has already been written about the past fifty years of my people’s history; but if, in however small a way, it helps succeeding generations to understand the nature of the events described and aids some future historian to unravel yet another strand of the reality as I have known it, then, my apprehensions notwithstanding, the writing of this account may yet prove justified.

1

Bialystok

The town of Bialystok, where I was born in 1919 and lived until the age of twenty, lies in the north-eastern part of Poland which, at the time of my birth, had just been reconstituted as an independent nation by the Treaty of Versailles. It is situated midway between the Polish capital Warsaw and the capital of Lithuania, Vilnius, known as Vilna when under Polish rule.

Historically, not only Vilna, but also Bialystok belonged to Lithuania, which had been a large and powerful political entity during a goodly part of the second millennium. Bialystok was first established as a village around 1320 by the Lithuanian grand duke Gediminas on a part of his extensive land holdings. In 1514, King Zygmunt of Poland offered the village to another Pole, the overlord Raczkowicz. In 1749, Bialystok received town rights and the heads of the Jewish community were permitted to take part in its municipal elections. At the time of the Third Partition of Poland between Prussia, Austria and Russia in 1795, with Bialystok passing to Prussia, the town comprised 459 dwellings and 3,370 inhabitants, and had become an important administrative centre with a public service, judiciary, military garrison, and other facilities. With the eastward advance of the Napoleonic armies, the Prussians hastily departed, and Bialystok passed to Russia under the Treaty of Tilsit signed on 7th July 1807. A year later, Tsar Alexander I proclaimed the town a regional capital (oblast), endowed with a governor’s seat. According to the Polish historian Bobrowski, there were 6,000 inhabitants in Bialystok in that year, of whom two-thirds were Jews and the rest Poles, Russian Unitarians and Germans.

After a brief interlude of French occupation, Russia regained the town in 1812 and retained it for over a century until after the end of the First World War. During this time, the town expanded. In 1857, its inhabitants numbered 13,787, of whom 9,547, or 70%, were Jews. In 1913, its population was 89,000, of whom 61,500 were Jews, 11,000 White Russians, 6,000 Poles, 5,500 Germans, 4,000 Russians, 1,500 Lithuanians, and 200 Tartars. In 1932, Bialystok numbered 91,207 souls, of whom 51.6% were Jews, 38.6% were Catholics, 6.2% Eastern Orthodox, 3.2% Evangelists, and 0.4% others. (The data is taken from Pinkas Bialystok by the local historian A. S. Herszberg.) The seeming fall in the proportion of the Jewish population from 1913 to 1932 is less real than being the result of an “adjustment” of figures for political reasons. Certainly nothing happened between those years to reduce the absolute numbers of Jews living in the town. Rather, in order to reduce the proportion of Jews living there, the populations of some fifteen outlying agricultural settlements were brought within the borders of Bialystok, thereby swelling the total number of inhabitants recorded with other surrounding peoples. At the outbreak of World War II, Bialystok had a population of approximately 100,000, of whom about 70,000 were Jews.

As a town numbering 100,000 inhabitants, Bialystok was held to be a sizeable place. It represented the administrative centre of the Bialystok Province (or wojewodztwo), whose gubernatorial seat was situated in the magnificent palace of the wealthy Branicki family, erected in the eighteenth century and known as the Podlassie Versailles. Opposite the palace stood the only hotel of international standard, the Ritz, with its circular facade overlooking the palace and the beautiful city gardens which offered its citizens acres of lawns and benches, not commonly to be had in a city renowned more for its industries than for its public amenities. Though, withal, a provincial city, Bialystok commanded international renown. Among its own illustrious sons was Ludwik Zamenhof, the creator of Esperanto, whose home, a green-painted house, served as a Mecca for congresses and pilgrimages of Esperanto societies the world over.

It was as a textile manufacturing centre that Bialystok was best known. It specialised particularly in the production and export of woven cloth, fabric most suited to overcoats, military uniforms and blankets. In contrast to worsted cloth which uses fresh wool clips as its raw material, woven cloth relies on woollen wastes as a base for its manufacture. The Bialystok textile industry was a major consumer of such material, the greater part of which had to be imported from abroad. Accordingly, it established firm commercial contacts with the outer Western world. Through extensive export of its finished product, as far as the cities of Harbin and Tientsin, it extended its contacts also with the East. The Jewish firm of Stein handled a major part of the trade, and its reputation with foreign trading firms as a transport and warehousing enterprise was of such standing that letters of credit established with it were honoured. The largest textile enterprise, meanwhile, was that of Sokol and Zylberfenig who together ran a chain of spinning and weaving mills and gave out work to other smaller concerns besides. Both principals, Abraham Sokol and Yudel (Selwyn) Zylberfenig, were in time to survive the war and independently to find their way to Melbourne.

My father was among the many engaged in the textile industry. In the years just prior to World War II, he was involved with the production of artificial fur – known as Watoline – an industry allied to the main textile activity of the town, using some of the same raw materials. At the time, I had already gone into the family business and received a consignment of Dutch second-hand men’s woollen socks, bought as waste for further manufacture. When the customs authorities opened the bales for inspection, they found the merchandise to be of such excellent and still-usable quality that they ordered it to be chopped up and mangled to prevent it from being re-sold as socks to the locals. It occurred to me then how superior the living standards must have been in the West if people there could so discard such perfectly good items of clothing – something that living standards in Poland could in no wise have permitted.

While, in the service of the textile industry, spinning mills and weaving shops abounded, such industries as tanneries, lumber mills and dye-works, among others, were not excluded. The fact that most of these were in Jewish hands provided the town’s community with a sound economic base, this in turn, facilitating entrepreneurial opportunity, rendering Bialystok’s Jews economically self-sufficient, and promoting an independent and forward-tending social structure and outlook.

As a consequence of the economic soundness of Bialystok’s industrial base, Jewish co-operative banks came into being and provided added thrust to the economy, the basis of which was credit. Being predominantly an agricultural nation with a large indigent peasantry, particularly in its eastern reaches, Poland’s overall wealth was meagre, its buying power poor, and its commercial activity sluggish. People, on the whole, did not possess private bank accounts and ready money was scant. Accordingly, payment was made on the strength of promissory notes extending credit from sixty to 180 days, which meant that some source of cash was needed to keep the economy moving. It was here that the co-operative Jewish banks came into their own. There were a number of such institutions, each designed to serve different sectors of the economy. The major activity of the banks was to discount promissory notes in order to enable entrepreneurs to pay their wages and meet their other outlays, to sustain the more widespread cottage industries and, at times, to support even the self-employed who had to accept promissory notes to subsist. With the passage of time, the involvement of Bialystok’s Jews in the town’s economic life assured them of a sound and solid place within its society.

Polish Jews had for some considerable time enjoyed self-government. This was granted by law by the Polish parliament. The law was less the result of any altruistic liberalism that might have motivated the government than a way of meeting the administrative difficulties caused by the country’s unique socio-demographic structure. Of the 33 million citizens who comprised the newly-formed Polish state, after the First World War, only some 20 million of them were Poles. The rest belonged to other nationalities living in concentrated enclaves in different parts of the country. Thus, millions of White Russian peasants lived in the north and central parts of eastern Poland; millions of Ukrainians lived in the southeast; there were, further, numerous Lithuanians in the north, Volks-Deutschen in the south, and Germans in the north-west and bordering the western rim of the state. In addition to these, there were a further three million Jews spread right across the country, concentrated from the capital down to the smallest hamlets. The combined voting power of the representatives of all these very substantial minorities compelled the Polish government to enact measures that would not compromise Polish dominance over its territories. It did this by permitting some degree of self-government to each of the ethnic minorities within its jurisdiction, combined with the freedom given to each to preserve and maintain its own distinctive language and culture.

In the case of the Jews, such a precedent was already in existence. Internal self-management had long before been implemented through the Va’ad Arba Ha’Aratzot, the Council of the Four Lands, a recognised legal instrumentality instituted by Napoleonic law which, acting as a democratically-elected miniature parliament, on the one hand possessed the right to levy taxes on the Jewish population to administer its many and diverse internal institutions and, on the other, represented the political, economic and cultural interests of the people to the central authorities.

The most extensive and effective aspects of the Kehilla’s work were in the field of social welfare. One needs to remember that prior to World War II, such measures of relief as unemployment benefits were not available. When Winston Churchill as England’s Chancellor of the Exchequer introduced the first Bill committing the British government to paying threepence per week to the country’s unemployed, he thought he might have undertaken a responsibility beyond the capacity of the Treasury to cope with, and entertained doubts about the very viability of the scheme long after he had relinquished the Treasury portfolio. In the newly-reconstituted Poland of the post-World War I era, such programmes of welfare could in no wise be entertained, not least because the majority of its population would then quite justifiably have been entitled to be beneficiaries of any such government largesse. The government was already hard put to raise sufficient taxes for its administrative needs, and it was not unknown for tax-defaulters to be stripped of their last sticks of furniture or their last cow in lieu of payment.

Within the Jewish communities, the responsibility of supporting the poor fell upon the Council, or, as it was also known, the Kehilla. The need for individual aid was considerable, and always exceeded the meagre resources that its institutions alone could muster. Some of these needs were of a cyclical nature, corresponding often to the Jewish calendar. Before each festival, most particularly before Passover, measures were taken to ensure that the needy were provided, for instance, with matzoth. At the onset of the long and severe winters, supplies of wood and coal were ensured. Individuals struck by hardship or tragedy were forever appearing at the doors of the representatives of the Kehilla which did its best to disburse funds according to its constituents’ needs.

Meanwhile, organised Jewish life enjoyed full freedom of action and its activities proliferated unhindered under the authority of the central Council body. A multitude of communal organisations – social, cultural, medical, paramedical, financial, among others – were formed, not the least of these being political parties subserving a wide spectrum of ideological views. Political consciousness among Jews was scarcely a theoretical exercise. It arose from the very conditions of their existence. The industrial underpinning of Bialystok society led to an inevitable social stratification that brought equally unavoidable political cleavages in its train. On the one hand, there existed a well-to-do class of industrialists, merchants and professionals as well as a middle-class stratum consisting of shopkeepers, tradesmen, teachers and public servants. On the other, there was a very substantial Jewish proletariat who worked long hours in the mills or at their weaving looms at home, ekeing out a living as best they could, when work was available, by the labour of their hands.

Such social divisions, based on disparate income levels, prepared the leaven for social tensions, these in turn providing the basis for a diversity of both political expression and outlet. While these class divisions, ensuing social tensions and political expressions had their counterparts in the post-Industrial Revolution world at large, in the Jewish context, other factors also became entwined, the most salient of these being that of Jewish national aspiration. The two contrary ideologies that came to occupy central stage in Jewish existence between the wars were Zionism and Bundism. They contested each other both on the basis of real-politik relating to the conditions and the needs of the people extant at the time and, still more sharply, on philosophical grounds relating to the short-and long-term future, nature and direction of Jewish life in the Diaspora.

The respective points of view of the Zionists and Bundists were diametrically opposed on almost all aspects of Jewish life, whether in the interpretation of Jewish history, the place of Jewish religion and customs in daily life, the use of Hebrew or Yiddish, or in the political and social affiliations the Jews should form with those about them.

The Zionists, still at the beginning of the road in the years following the First World War, argued that the Jews as a people had no future in the basically anti-Semitic nations of central and Eastern Europe. Their aim was to extricate the Jews from being minority groupings in their countries of residence and reconstitute them as an independent and distinctively Jewish nation, with its own language, Hebrew, and its own political, economic, social and cultural forms. While theirs seemed essentially to be a negative response to the conditions of Jewish life in the dispersion, the more urgent thrust behind their philosophy was the wish to radically transform Jewish self-awareness, self-esteem and assertiveness. What lent strength to their appeals and arguments were the capitulation in 1917 of the Ottoman Empire which had held Palestine for the preceding four hundred years and the Balfour Declaration of the same year which recognised the historical right of the Jews to their ancient land (which was now under British jurisdiction) and which promised to facilitate the realisation of that right.

The Bundists, who came into existence as a political movement in 1897, the same year as the Zionist Organisation, represented the very antithesis of everything that Zionism stood for. The Bund was a Jewish workers’ party which based its tenets on elementary socialist principles and propounded a universalist social-democratic philosophy as this was understood in the nineteenth century. Its adherents held socialism to be the key to the attainment of the brotherhood of man and saw in it the sole solution to the unjust economic order that had throughout history governed society. With regard to themselves as Jews, the Bundists held that, rather than be transplanted to another territory, as the Zionists preached, they ought make common cause with the peoples about them in the creation of a just, tolerant and egalitarian society, even while fighting to secure their own civil rights in their country of residence. Instead of Hebrew, they championed Yiddish, to which end they fostered the establishment and development of Yiddish schools, Yiddish theatre and other such cultural activities as would raise Yiddish, till then the most prevalent language of daily discourse, to literary status. Above all, being a socialist party, the Bund organised the Jewish workers into Jewish unions, in this way forging a major electoral base within Jewish life more attuned to the immediate and tangible problems of the working masses and less concerned with longer-term remoter and even nebulous issues of national deliverance of the Jewish people as a whole.

In Bialystok, both streams found fertile ground for their flourishing. For the traditional Jews, in whom religion was not only ingrained but was also an integral part of national Jewish identity, Zionism held an emotive appeal. In other words, national and religious identity as Jews were as one, and it is significant that one of the earliest proponents and stalwarts of Zionism, the great and noted Rabbi Shmuel Mohliver, hailed from Bialystok. It was he who had travelled to Paris to discuss the implementation of the Zionist dream with Baron Rothschild, meeting with substantial success, while it was he who had been among the early pioneers of the Jewish National Fund. Another Bialystok Jew, an eccentric doctor, Joseph Chazanowich, conceived the idea of creating a Jewish national library in Palestine and himself collected some 63,000 books to that end. Though he died in 1919, his vision was in due time realised, the National Library attached to the Hebrew University in Jerusalem today bearing his name. By and large, Bialystok Jews were intellectually, emotionally and spiritually prepared to adopt Zionism as the fulfilment of the national dream as well as a means of personal redemption.

Zionism, it must be said, was not a monolithic ideology. It was a very plastic philosophy which concerned itself with one cardinal aim – that of national redemption through the restoration of an independent Jewish nation. It did not stipulate a priori the nature of that restored society, and therefore, as long as the basic tenet was accepted, it did not exclude anyone for reasons of being too far either to the left or to the right in political orientation. Hence, within the Zionist movement, there existed a wide range of political outlook and opinion.

On the right of the spectrum was the Revisionist grouping which advocated the conquest of Palestine by force of arms, promoted the idea of a capitalist-based economy and argued for a traditional Jewish way of life. Bialystok had a strong Revisionist contingent which included a well-organised Betar youth group.

More towards the centre sat the Orthodox-national Mizrachi movement which included the Hashomer Hadati youth group. Its main thrust was to render it incumbent upon every religious Jew to seek to live an authentic Jewish life in the land of the Bible. The striving towards fulfilment of that aim was, for its followers, an implicit religious command. The Mizrachi movement was also strongly represented in Bialystok and maintained there the very influential Tachkemoni schools, which I attended for a time.

In the centre of the Zionist spectrum was the General Zionist Organisation which, in orientation, sentiment, temperament and general outlook, represented the majority of Zionists. Its attitude was predominantly pragmatic and, as such, gave little room to strong doctrinal left- or right-tending leanings. While moderation and practicality could be a strength, they could also constitute a weakness, in that its platform was insufficiently specific to cater for those who held particularly strong views. In Bialystok, as elsewhere, it was both.

Left of the General Zionists was the labor party, Poalei Zion, which was the counterpart of the dominant party in Palestine. Its leanings were social-democratic, and in its early days included the more radical Marxist wing which later split off as Mapam. Poalei Zion had a considerable following among the working class. It fought ideological wars against the Bund. The youth movement Hashomer Hatzair, unlike its adult counterpart, was always radical in its socialism and had a large following.

Far left, and, as already indicated, non-Zionist at all, stood the Bund, and still further left, the Communist Party which was illegal. Its adherents, mainly passionate young Jewish idealists who looked forward to a new revolutionary order, not infrequently took part in public demonstrations and acts of defiance, thereby risking imprisonment. While many were, in time, to be sobered by the Stalin purges, which also demonstrated an unmistakable anti-Jewish bias culminating in the notorious Jewish Doctors’ trials of the ‘fifties, at the time of the Russian occupation of Bialystok in 1939, there were organised Jewish cells waiting for the arrival of the Soviet advance units whom they met in the centre of the city waving red flags.

While these represented the major ideological and political movements in Bialystok, there existed also other smaller groups occupying intermediate positions along the spectrum, as also more marginal ones not so readily accommodated by it.

One such group was the Aguda, which held to a staunchly ultra-religious orientation. In contradistinction to the Mizrachi, the other religious movement, but in common with the Bund, it believed in the continuation of the Jewish Diaspora. It fought Zionism on the grounds that a return to Zion could only follow the advent of the Messiah. Accordingly, any Zionist activity undertaken by men to secure national redemption represented a preempting of God’s Will and Purpose and had, therefore, on religious grounds, to be resisted. To the extent that the Bund was fundamentally anti-clerical, there could be no harmony between these two groups, even though Yiddish was another common denominator. Their differences did not, however, prevent them from concluding deals when such might prove politically expedient. Their numbers were moderate.

Also worthy of mention were the Territorialists who believed in the feasibility of creating an autonomous Jewish state outside of Palestine. One of the regions seriously considered for such settlement were the Kimberleys in north-west Australia. To this end, Dr Isaac Nachman Steinberg, in the late ‘thirties and early ‘forties engaged in negotiations with the Australian government, but ultimately without success.

Modest as was the renown of Bialystok to the world at large, to Jews everywhere, it was a city most highly prized and esteemed. The reasons for this were manifold.

Geographically, it formed, with Vilna and Kovno, one of the points of the golden triangle of Lithuanian Jewry, famous for its learning and its cultural attainments. Here, “King’s Yiddish” was spoken, that is, a pure Yiddish, a literary Yiddish, uncontaminated by such dialects and alien linguistic inclusions as disfigured the language in the more central and southern parts of Poland.

Further, Lithuanian Jewry, so defining itself in order to be distinguished from Polish Jewry, had other characteristics which clearly demarcated it from its neighbour. Polish Jews, by and large, were Chassidic, they tended deliberately to highlight their differences from other Jews through their mode of dress, their mores, and their life philosophy, while the centre of gravity of their Jewish ethos was piety, and the underpinning web of their Chassidism was populism. In contrast, Lithuanian Jews were, in the main, non-Chassidic. They dressed more in keeping with the wider prevailing styles of the times. Their Jewish ethos centred on learning, while piety was held to be a private affair. In addition, they were, on the whole, more frugal, more even-tempered and less exhibitionist; they were more analytical than flamboyant – some would tend to describe them as “colder”. To them, too, was due the credit for having established the most renowned talmudic academies from whence came the largest number of rabbis to serve the Jewish communities of Europe and beyond, while, parallel with this, they had established major secular institutions as well, of equally world-wide repute to Jews. The YIVO Institute for Jewish Research originated in Vilna and today operates from New York. Nahum Zemach, the father of the Habimah theatre came from the little township of Horodok near Bialystok, incidentally the birthplace also of my mother.

Even allowing for the more temperate disposition of Bialystok Jews against that of eastern European Jews at large, the internal battles fought out within Jewish life were charged with such intensity as bore witness to its inner vitality, dearly-held convictions and genuine, if at times naive, concerns.

The competition for the hearts and minds of the people benefited Jewry in keeping with the Talmudic saying that “the envy of writers proliferates wisdom”. Because all segments of the community were anxious to establish their bona fides in the socio-political arena, they competed with one another in establishing schools, cultural institutions, aid societies, medical and paramedical clinics, loan societies and a variety of other service organisations that came to form the common possession of Bialystok Jewry as a whole.

The focus of the education system at the time was upon primary school. The average child could not expect to continue its education beyond that stage. The government provided free primary education; there were only two government secondary schools in Bialystok, this being an almost exclusive preserve for the children of the Polish elite. By way of contrast, there were numerous Jewish primary schools as well as five Jewish secondary schools reaching to matriculation, and a well-endowed Jewish trades school, yeshivot and other institutions of learning.

As in the rest of the country, the widest network of Jewish schools was in the primary division. This incorporated the “cheder” – an old-fashion type unstructured school run by individual teacher-owners –, a chain of Yiddish schools, Tachkemoni schools, a well-established Tarbut Hebrew primary school and primary divisions of all the Gymnasia.

At the secondary level, in four out of the five Jewish schools, the language of instruction was Polish. Only in the fifth, the Hebrew Gymnasium, was Hebrew used as the general language of instruction; the only subjects taught in Polish being Polish language, Polish history and geography. All these secondary schools – the Hebrew Gymnasium, and the Druskin, Gutman, Zeligman and Spoleczna High Schools – were privately owned and run as business concerns. There were both clear and more subtle differences between them in terms of assimilationist tendencies, the amount of Hebrew taught, and the emphases given to other Jewish subjects. The numbers of students attending these high schools and their primary divisions ranged between 2000 and 2500.

There were yeshivot, too. Young people from the provinces studied Talmud here from one to four years in place of high school, sometimes entering these without completing a formal primary education. Many of them were poor and unable to feed themselves. Accordingly, it was customary to allocate yeshiva students to private homes to eat “days” – to be hosted to eat at different homes on a rotation basis. Our home also had one such student. The yeshivot were perennially in financial difficulties and issued constant appeals for support through the prayer-houses.

Synagogues and houses of prayer, known as “shtiblech” – literally “rooms”, sometimes located in a tenement house – abounded. Their names and origins can make a fascinating study in its own right. Some names, like the butcher’s synagogue – “Der Katzowiczer Beis Hamedrosh” – or the shoemaker’s prayer-house are piquant and instructive, often revealing something of the stratification of that ambient society. The vicinity around the central, or Great, synagogue, a magnificent edifice which was to be burnt down by the Nazis with some 1500 Jews inside, had a high concentration of prayer-houses. This area was aptly known as “Shul-hoif”, or “Synagogue Square”.

All synagogues were Orthodox, but they ranged in degree in their strength of Orthodoxy. As in the case of Zionist ideologies, in religious observance, too, the synagogues traversed a spectrum from right to left.

Towards the extreme right were located a number of Chassidic prayer-houses. These were made up of different tributaries emanating from the mainstream Chassidic movement that had earlier, from the eighteenth century on, arisen and spread through central and southern Poland. Hence, there were Gerer, Kotzker, Karliner and other Chassidim, each group extending special allegiance to its own spiritual leader, the Rebbe. Their presence in Bialystok in their traditional long black coats and distinctive caps and hats added a sense of colour and the exotic to the streets, particularly when a number would arrive from Galicia to purchase textiles. They would appear in white socks, silk caftans and shtreimels, wide-brimmed fur-rimmed hats, causing us to reflect on how relatively modest were our own Bialystok variety by comparison. The dream of every chassid was to pay a visit to his Rebbe and obtain from him a personal blessing. Such pilgrimages for those who could afford it served as sources of spiritual renewal and heightened self-esteem. Bialystok, too, possessed a home-grown Rebbe who lived in his prayer-house midway between the Takhemoni school and Druskin’s Gymnasium, there being a touch of irony in this, given the assimilationist bent of the Druskin school.

Towards the left of the synagogal spectrum were Bialystok’s two major synagogues: the Great, referred to above, and the Choral Synagogue, seemingly inappropriately situated in a narrow street amongst the city’s butchers, nonetheless a highly visible landmark in the midst of the multiform and multitudinous shtiblech. These two synagogues served the wealthier Jews of Bialystok. They employed top-quality cantors; their choirs, all male, were first-rate; their Presidents wore cut-away coats and top-hats, imitative of wider West European formality and manners; while the emphasis in each was less the degree of religious observance than formal association with the congregation.

In contrast to the practice in the new world where any congregation worthy of the name considers the installation of a rabbi as its spiritual leader a matter of prime importance, this was not the case in pre-War Eastern Europe. There were relatively few rabbis in Bialystok directly serving congregational enclaves. Those who did hold such positions, in tandem with the Dayanim —judges who sat on the Beth Din, or rabbinical court – were more involved with the religious duties of the courts they served, such as the supervision of dietary laws, than with the day-to-day running of the affairs of their synagogue. The reason for their relative paucity is clear. The more religious – Chassidic – congregations did not need a rabbi either to lead them or urge them in prayer; the people came most readily of their own accord. Further, the congregants themselves were in most instances sufficiently versed in the Law to handle alone any problematic issues that may have arisen. And as for the regular lessons, or shiurim, engaged in the learning of Talmud, these were often conducted by laymen, many of whom were scholarly and most capable of conducting such classes. The role of the rabbi, then, in some of the larger synagogues which could afford to employ them, was as much decorative as it was spiritual.

The Beth Din, that is, the Rabbinical Court, played a major social role over and above the religious functions associated with the institution. Apart from exercising exclusive rights in rulings concerning religious issues, as also marriage, divorce, family law and other related matters, the Beth Din was often called upon to act as mediator, arbitrator or judge in purely commercial disputes. This was in keeping with the established tendency for Jews living in the Diaspora to seek solutions to their disputes within their own community. It was rare for aggrieved Jewish parties to seek redress through civil courts of law.

In commercial disputes, as an alternative to the Beth Din, there were also renowned and trusted individuals within the community who were recognised for their analytical abilities in discerning the validity of claims and counter-claims, and who were accordingly approached to adjudicate in complex matters. These individuals, called Borerim, generally men of business, were the secular counterparts of the Beth Din which was often glad to give over its judicial functions and responsibilities to arbitrators with more expertise in concerns such as these. Their decisions and judgements, once made, were binding.

Inevitably, given its network of political, educational and religious vibrancy and diversity, Bialystok was also culturally well-endowed. At the hub of that cultural life was the Yiddish theatre, well-equipped and host to local theatre groups and visiting troupes, individual actors, singers and other performers. The spacious hall of the Bet-Am (the People’s House), Bialystok’s central Zionist address, was often home to frequent lectures, discussions, literary readings and addresses by overseas speakers, while another mainstay of the town’s cultural activity was the Sholom Aleichem Library which housed tens of thousands of volumes in Yiddish, Hebrew and Polish to serve a wide readership. A local serious daily Yiddish newspaper was published under the editorship of Pesach Kaplan. Although there was no symphony orchestra in Bialystok, small musical groups did exist, and music lessons were not rare among those who could afford it.

An age-old Jewish tenet runs thus: “All in the house of Israel are responsible for one another”. In keeping with the spirit of this dictum, social and medical facilities in Bialystok were particularly well organised.

There existed a fully-equipped Jewish hospital, an out-patients’ clinic run by OSE (a Russian acronym meaning Society for the Protection of the Health of Jews), sick-visiting societies, an old people’s home, and an institution called Linas-Hatzedek, which ran a pharmacy for the disadvantaged and an interest-free loan society, and which provided financial support for the needy. Other assistance was provided by loan societies, self-help organisations and a particularly noteworthy institution known as Help Anonymous (Matan Beseiser). When hearing of individuals or families who had come upon bad times, this self-effacing body would, through discreet and sensitive means, render assistance to those who had fallen into need, but had for an assortment of reasons not ventured to solicit help.

Governing the social, and even the commercial, life of the town was the Jewish calendar. In pre-War Continental Europe, as indeed in many parts of the world, a sixday working week was the norm. Making ends meet was difficult, and the need to do so obliged each individual to work hard and long throughout the week. What remained of either time or energy at the end of each day to enjoy life’s other offerings was very little. It was scarcely surprising, therefore, that the Sabbath was ever anticipated with delight. Not only was the Sabbath a day of rest, but for the observant it was still more a day for spiritual uplift. A well-known maxim has it that the Jew lives the whole week by the Sabbath; until mid-week, he continues to enjoy the glow of the Sabbath just past, while thereafter he lives in the anticipation of the coming one. This was certainly not far from the truth in Bialystok.

Fridays were for all, but more particularly for the Jews, exceedingly busy days. People completed their purchases on that day; women prepared hot meals for the following day; shop-keepers did brisk trade, being urged by the more observant to close their shops in time for the Sabbath. Some zealots would spy on those who drew their shutters but remained inside. By late afternoon, the town came to a standstill. Even in Bialystok, where the degree of observance was more moderate than in the towns and villages of Central and Southern Poland, publicly at least the strictures of the Sabbath were observed. It took a very courageous man to smoke a cigarette in the street on that day. However, for many, particularly the young, the Sabbath was a day for strolling along a certain stretch of one or two streets in the centre of town. Along those same streets where Jews thronged and met and talked on their day of rest, the non-Jews did the same on Sundays. On Friday nights, picture-theatres were open. The less observant flocked to them. What also attracted the enthusiasm of the non-religious, much to the consternation and frowning disapproval of the devout, were the football matches between Jewish teams played on the Sabbath. On this matter, in my own early teens, I confronted a dilemma. I was still accompanying my father to a modest Chassidic shtibl where, for reasons of family tradition, he and his brother continued to pray on Sabbath mornings even though they were not themselves Chassidim. After the midday meal, my father would usually test me on my weekly Talmud learning, an experience which I did not relish but could not avoid. But no sooner did he relax or close his eyes awhile than, taking my chance, I would sneak out and make my way to the outskirts of town to attend a match. This was not so easy. To enter, one had to buy a ticket; but to carry money on the Sabbath, even if one had any, was out of the question. So one would burrow under the fence and squeeze through, provided the mounted policeman patrolling the perimeter did not come to the scene too soon. On those few occasions when I proved successful, my suit told the full story of my escapade, much to my mother’s chagrin and with more than mere displeasure on my father’s part.

For most of Bialystok’s Jews, then, the cycle of the week revolved around the Sabbath, while the High Holy Days, at least for me, left an altogether indelible impression. For those two days of the Jewish New Year, succeeded by Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, were more than a time to down all tools in a general state of civic paralysis; they led to a totally altered state of mind and heightened awareness, and young and old, observant and non-observant alike flocked both to the customary and to makeshift houses of prayer.

This notwithstanding, one cannot but tell of the deliberately assimilationist tendencies held by a few, even alongside the vibrant self-generating and highly consciously Jewish majority. The outward manifestations of this assimilationism were at first linguistic. As Yiddish was the language of the Jewish masses, distancing oneself from the community at large took the form of adopting Polish as one’s language. Doctors and lawyers in Bialystok, for instance, all fully understood Yiddish, but frequently chose not to use it. Others followed suit in their everyday transactions, seeing nothing untoward in doing so but simply a normal process of life. Many, indeed, did not deliberately go beyond this. But they did inadvertently set the pattern for their offspring for whom Polish in due course became their mother tongue, and Polish manners and concerns their way of life. While assimilation was one of the results of that process – or, perhaps more correctly, of that progression –, at the extreme there came to exist a fringe group, albeit very small compared to those in places further west, which suffered from self-hatred and a deliberate bending backwards to escape their Jewishness, whether of identity or sense of belonging.

Bialystok Jewry, then, into which I was born and in whose midst I spent the first twenty years of my life until the outbreak of the Second World War, presented a complexity of attitudes, expressions, idiosyncrasies, attractions, religious, political and cultural nuances, and copious strengths and weaknesses. But despite all social, economic and ideological differences that were at play within it, that Jewry, moving towards ultimate destruction on the conveyor-belt of history, in my time by and large constituted a vital, vibrant and close-knit nationally-committed community.

2

Home

To my earliest recollection, our family unit consisted of three adults, namely, Father, Mother and my paternal grandmother, and, ultimately, five children of whom I was the eldest.

Father, whose name was Yudel, was tall and lean. He sported a reddish moustache beneath a finely chiselled aquiline nose and had a penetrating gaze. He was reserved and stubborn by nature, forthright in manner and had not a trace of deviousness in him. His honesty was not negotiable, nor was his simplistic religious faith. Logic was his driving force and he was careful not to permit his sentimental self, which was unmistakably present in him, to come to the surface. His father had died of tuberculosis at the age of thirty-three when Father was himself three years old and too young to remember him. He received his formal education in the traditional cheder, but was forced by family circumstances to go out to work early. His only brother, Abraham-Dov, whom we referred to as Avrom-Ber, was three years older than Father, somewhat taller, had a pronounced black moustache, and wore a pince-nez on his nose. He looked the brainy man he was. Self-educated, he was an accountant by profession.

Grandmother, whose name was Malka but whom we called Bobe (Yiddish for Grandma), was a typical old-fashioned lady whose life was sadly disrupted by the early death of her husband, my grandfather, which left her with two young children and no means of support. She opened a food shop in a poorer part of town and struggled against all odds to rear her two sons. Tending to the shop was shared between herself and her children who would amuse themselves while waiting for customers by solving mathematical problems on wrapping paper. From early on, Bobe was father, mother, breadwinner and protector, the while securing for them a traditional Jewish household which, normally, was patriarchal in structure. In the event, she acquitted herself most admirably, and when her younger son – my father – married, she moved into his family home to remain there to the last day of its existence.

My mother Sheindl, née Marantz, was born in Horodok, a small town not far from Bialystok. Hers was a larger family. She was good-looking, remarkably poised, sensitive, serene and caring. She was also proud and self-assured, a fine conversationalist with a strong liking for company, and a well-educated and nationally conscious Jewess. She lost her mother when she was in her teens and grew to adulthood in the home of her uncle Chaim Goldman, a textile manufacturer in Bialystok. She subscribed to Hebrew periodicals such as Hamelitz and others at the time, something rather uncommon in those days, and all the more so in a small town. Her knowledge of Hebrew was good and her retentive capacity could still astound me when at eighty she corresponded in Hebrew with relatives in Israel.

My parents married in 1918. The First World War was nearing its end, the Bolshevik Revolution was scarcely a year old, and in their wake economic dislocation was quite considerable and the political future uncertain. By that time, Father had accumulated sufficient funds to venture out on his own and bought a set of spinning frames with the intention of becoming a textile mill owner. He lost everything in the enterprise and turned to knitwear. The decision was a logical one. Knitting was a new industry, promising in its potential. The capital outlay was not great. Unlike the huge spinning frames for which sizable factory premises were required, a knitting machine of the flat-bed hand-driven prototype could be placed in the corner of any room in one’s home. That was how Father started.

My earliest recollections date back to the age of two. We lived then on the second floor of an apartment-house at the comer of Rozanska and Kupiecka Streets. It was a solid three-story brick structure with a respectable staircase and two apartments per floor. Our apartment was to the right on the top landing. It was a moderate-sized apartment. The front chamber served as the dining room and parallel with it was the main bedroom. Off the dining room to the right was a very long room where the knitting machines stood, and this led on to another bedroom and the kitchen. On the same floor lived a family called Banczewski who came to Australia before the war. Their daughter, Rachel Banczewski, who was a playmate of mine at the time, is today a prominent member of the Melbourne Jewish community.

I believe I was about five years old when we moved to a larger apartment at Kupiecka Street No. 7, only half a block from the Rozanska corner. The move was necessary because business had developed and larger premises were required. Our new home was in a two-storey building which contained four apartments and two shop fronts facing the street. The larger of the two shops was a foodstore backing on to a dwelling behind; the other had a succession of occupants, the last of which was a barber. The second of the ground-floor apartments was occupied by a carpenter and his family and incorporated a carpentry workshop. This faced an outer yard. Above this was another residential apartment which also housed a buttons and sewing-cotton business, while our own, which stood opposite, faced the street and sported a double-length balcony which spanned the entire front of the building. It consisted of five rooms and a kitchen, but had no internal toilet or bath facilities. The front room was big and served the dual purpose of dining room and retail shop for which Father’s business had become renowned. From this room, an entrance led to another very spacious sunny one where the knitting machines were installed. This entrance, however, was blocked by a two-tiered buffet which could be placed against no other wall. Hence, the entrance to the work section led through the children’s bedroom which separated the workshop from my parents’ bedroom. There was also a room for Bobe. The White Russian live-in slept in the kitchen. Each of the rooms designated as living quarters, like the large front room, fulfilled a double function. The children’s bedroom, for instance, doubled as the sewing room, and it was here that the first overlocking machine was installed. My parent’s bedroom served also as a storeroom for yarn. At the time, industrial knitting yarn was sold in hanks and packed loosely in bundles. Each factory rewound the yarn on to spools, a process that, early on, one performed by hand, by turning a large wheel connected to a smaller one by means of a cord, on the axis of which a spool was placed for winding of the yarn. Some time later, a motor-driven 12-spindle winder was installed, it too being squeezed into the room occupied by the knitting machines. Even Bobe’s little bedroom was put to other use, a big industrial wardrobe being built into it, whether for storage of yarn when my parents’ bedroom could hold no more or alternatively for keeping edibles there for the duration of the winter.

The kitchen had a large country-style stove for all major cooking and a primus burner for quick and simple meals. In winter, the stove was not frequently used, for the wall ovens that heated the house had cooking facilities built into them. For years, a big iron-ringed keg containing sauerkraut, was placed in the kitchen in winter, while in summer, smaller vessels of fermenting cucumbers were put there, these filling the kitchen with piquantly pungent and appetising smells in addition to the more customary pervasive ones of daily cooking.

Knitting in its earlier days was a slow and tedious process. Each stage was performed by hand, with each part of the garment being knitted separately and the correct trunk and sleeve lengths and sizes of arm holes being arrived at by the piecemeal stopping of the machine every couple of rows and transferring the outermost stitches as required. It was the early equivalent of what, in the 1960s and 1970s, became known as fully-fashioned knitwear. Because of the slowness of production, the machines were in use day and night. This meant that we had to sleep nearly constantly to the accompaniment of the clatter of operating machines. We were so used to the noise that on Friday nights when all work was ceased, we actually missed it. In those earlier days, the sewing together of the garments was performed by contract workers who would collect the knitted parts and bring them back completed. Because of the way the individual pieces were manufactured, the garment was not cut at all and could thus be re-used simply by unpicking the seams and unravelling the part, much as a person using hand-knitting needles still does today. It was not uncommon, therefore, for people who had worn a garment for a season or two to have it re-knitted when, for instance, it went out of shape.

The big revolution that took place in the knitting industry was the development of the overlocker. It performed two functions at once: it both cut the material and sewed the parts firmly together, these processes obviating the need to spend as much time as before on the separate shaping of each piece by hand on the machine. It was worth wasting a little bit of yarn by cutting some away in the making of an armhole out of a square piece of knitted material rather than lose so much time shaping it on the machine. Once this was comprehended, the entire mode of production changed, the result being an increase both in the tempo of manufacturing and in the output achieved. The new technique did, however, introduce cutting as part of the whole knitting process and led to a garment having a single life-span only.

In time, Father acquired another machine of a still more revolutionary nature: a power-driven pattern-making machine which produced continuous material rather than individual pieces and was cut like woven cloth, thereby further enhancing the efficiency of knitting process – although it did nearly cause our house to be burnt down when one day it sparked and ignited the dust on the wall around it. The machine was in time sold to a Mr Fink who had it shipped in a heavy wooden crate to his sons in Australia, those sons being none other than the Fink brothers of United Carpet Mills fame in Melbourne. Noone in my family had then considered that Melbourne would in time become our home as well. After arrival in Australia in 1946, I traced that machine to Sydney where it was still in use. I offered to buy it from its owner, but he declined the offer. Meanwhile that same Mr Fink Senior who had bought the machine from Father in Bialystok, and his wife, had left Europe before the war and I subsequently met him in Melbourne.

Daily domestic life revolved around the manufacturing and business activities of the household. In all the years we lived at Kupiecka No. 7, our home was never a private place for the family. For, apart from the machinists, the contract workers and assorted service people who forever came and went, the apartment, particularly the dining-room, doubled as a shop, the dining table serving as a counter and the shelves as wall decorations. The reputation of Father’s knitwear was good, not only among the city-dwellers but also among the peasants. It has remained a constant source of bafflement to me how they even came to know about us.

To sell a garment, it was often necessary to bring out dozens from the shelves and pile them on the table while the prospective buyers tried on one after another. Purchasing goods in those days was a much more deliberate and circumspect procedure than the act of acquisition seems to have become today with its almost absent-minded or unthinking ease. A garment was an investment which merited the fullest concentration and consideration, and once the customer decided upon an item, in contrast to the present-day protocol of taking it to a counter and paying for it without demur, what customarily followed was a process of give-and-take bargaining and battle of wits, with bluff and counter-bluff which made buying and selling such a intriguing and entertaining sideshow.

This was one charade not seen in our case. Father instituted the unheard-of rule of firm prices. There was no room for bargaining and any such attempts would yield the customer nothing. Such a rule was against the established order of things to which buyers were accustomed and it was with fascination that I would watch them go through the motions at least to beat down the price through the most eloquent oratory and dramatic pose and gesture, any acquiescence to a stated price without some show of struggle being unthinkable. Battle was joined by Father in a mutual meeting of argument with counterargument, but in the end, all rational discourse having been exhausted and a substantial degree of heat generated, the transaction was finalised. The customers parted with their money with resignation, but also in the knowledge that they had done their best to avoid being deemed to be meek or foolish through an unquestioning acceptance and payment of the stated price. Father, or his seller, on the other hand, could feel good at having concluded the deal on his own terms but without betraying any pleasure in his victory.

Father’s day began with early morning prayer at the neighbourhood prayer-house. On his return there were many tasks awaiting him that brooked no delay. If there were no customers to lay claim upon his time, he would breakfast by eleven o’clock; otherwise he might have done so at noon and occasionally even later. He ate lunch, the main meal of the day, at seven in the evening; and ate his last meal about midnight, after which the table would be converted into a cutting bench to prepare work for the overlocker for the following day. This was his regular unerring pattern for six days out of seven, seldom leaving the house, save to attend the prayer-house or go to the bank or taxation-office before I was sufficiently grown to be sent on such errands. At intervals he had to travel to Warsaw and Lodz to purchase large quantities of yarn. These were particularly important occasions and stood out as landmarks in his otherwise repetitive cycle of routine. Not that he could not obtain yarn from his suppliers by mail. He generally did, and was very proud of the fact. All it required was a postcard detailing his requirements and within days carriers would arrive with the goods. No money was sent; no written commitments were entered into. Nor was any restriction imposed on his commercial credibility. The bigger the order, the more obliging were his suppliers. His signature at the foot of the postcard sufficed and was to him a source of pride, for it conveyed the degree of trust and esteem he commanded in the trade, even at a distance, in the big wholesale houses that supplied the trade on a national scale. However, from time to time, he found it necessary to travel. He did so to settle accounts, to keep in tune with the pulse of the trade, to stay abreast of fashion colours and learn of new developments in the knitting industry at large.

The day before such a journey, he made his final preparations. A few hours before leaving, he would sit at the table counting the accumulated cash which he took with him to settle his accounts. The amount was often of the order of 5,000 zlotys which was then the equivalent of 1,000 American dollars which was considered substantial capital. That money moved Father to self-satisfaction. It evoked pride in him at being in league with reputable businessmen whose word was their bond and whose honesty never needed questioning. This in turn gave him a sense of worth and social recognition that justified his labours. For the journey, he packed his prayer-shawl, phylacteries and a few items of clothing and also usually took with him a huge brown canvas bag filled with empty wooden spools which he carried with him on the train and placed on the rack in his compartment opposite his own seat. He always took the midnight train to Warsaw in order to begin business on arrival the following morning. We children then looked forward to his return, for he usually brought back Warsaw kaiserkes, which were small round white bread rolls which were heaven-sent, both because they tasted differently from the rolls baked locally and still more because they had been bought especially for us, something that Father did not often have the opportunity or mind to do.

Mother’s role at home was no less absorbing, albeit more ambiguous in the division of her duties as both housewife and store-keeper. In matters of house-keeping, she had two people to help her: Bobe and a domestic help. Mother would shop for food and clothes and for whatever household goods were needed. She followed us, as children, in our progress, watched us more than we realised at the time, represented our interests in family decisions and shielded us from Father’s anger when roused by our frequent misdeeds. She was spared many household chores as the apartment was a business establishment first and foremost. In the business, her sole role was in selling. Father attended to the manufacturing aspects.

Bobe was an institution within the house. Reserved and quiet, and with wisdom and tact, she made her contribution to the running of the household and the upbringing of the children. Bobe in the main cooked the meals and entertained us and fed us. Hers was not an easy situation to be in for it must have tested the tact and emotions of all three adults. For her part, Bobe had to exert her influence and impress her opinions without usurping Mother’s role; Father, in turn, had ever to be circumspect, being constrained to show respect to his mother while also paying due attention to his wife; while Mother had to be continually accommodating in working with her mother-in-law. As children, we enjoyed the double attention lavished on us by Mother and by Bobe. We loved them dearly. Bobe was religious and old-fashioned. Her breakfast did not by much precede Father’s, for she would not eat before she recited in full the morning prayers, no matter how often they were interrupted by the activities in the house. Busy as she was, she did sometimes, although only when necessary, also serve customers.

Father’s financial situation placed him securely in the middle class category. He made a reasonable living by the standards prevailing at the time and dressed us well and provided us with a good, private and costly education. We also ate well with red meat, duck or goose as a matter of course. Food had first priority in the household budget and here he neither set limits nor ever questioned Mother about expenditures incurred on it. Every other household expenditure, however, was carefully scrutinised and judged by whether it was a necessity or a luxury. Necessities were always provided for; luxuries were deferred. This was not merely a matter of prudent house-keeping, but had to do with the values and norms which Father set down upon our lives as a family. He would never, for instance, sanction the spending of money on children’s toys, but would readily make money available for books. He may have refused his own children, but never a neighbour who came for a short-term interest-free loan. In Jewish life, aid of this kind was deemed both basic and morally mandatory when requested. Father would, through such deeds, have well earned his share in Paradise, in which he believed. While he himself, to my knowledge, never sought assistance of this kind, many other businessmen often came to him for a loan. Such loans were given on trust. No signatures were taken; nothing but the money changed hands. Father simply recorded in a little book what money he gave to whom. In later years when he had accumulated some funds, he discounted promissory notes. There were always some men who acted as agents in the money market and were looking for better deals than the banks offered. This became a sideline for Father, coinciding as it did with the decline in the potential of the knitting industry in Bialystok which came to be challenged by the larger enterprises in Warsaw and Lodz. This competition led later to buying ready-made garments from those centres to augment the cottage manufacturing practices at home.

The oncoming Sabbath stood in sharp contrast to the rest of the week. The preparation of the Sabbath meals of the Friday evening and the following day was in full gear by Friday afternoon. A transformation took place in the household. The tempo of domestic activity heightened as the women in the house raced against time to have everything ready. The factory and shop receded as the private home took over. The workers went home; the machines fell silent; nobody intruded from outside. All goods were cleared from the table and sideboard and stacked on the shelves over which a curtain was drawn, while the sideboard itself with its central mirror and glass inserts, cleared of the week’s accumulation of bits and pieces and wiped clean of its dust, became fully revealed in all its attractiveness. The sizeable dining-room table which served many different purposes during the week regained its truer function. A white damask cloth was spread over it and the candlesticks placed at the foot of the table at the end opposite the one where Father sat. The light from the eight-bulb electric lamp which was normally muted now reflected off the white bedecked table and, blending with the candle lights, lit up the room more brightly. We, the children, were scrubbed and changed into our Sabbath clothes and a mood of euphoria and expectation fell upon the home. The specially-fitted clock was set to turn off the dining-room light at eleven o’clock, as in Orthodox homes it was considered work to turn off lights manually and hence forbidden on the Sabbath.

On Friday evenings, Father prayed as he did in the mornings in the neighbourhood prayer-house to which I sometimes accompanied him. My own preference was for the Great Synagogue where the cantor would lead the prayers. I was then the first to be ready to leave for the synagogue, decked out in my finer clothes and sporting a bow-tie, almost a dandy, in happy anticipation of both the spiritual and culinary rewards in store. At the Great Synagogue, I loved to listen to the cantor’s sonorous voice which echoed in the synagogue’s very large and beautiful cupola dome. I loved too the melodies and the exquisiteness of their renditions. I knew them by rote and could never hear enough of them. From time to time, world-renowned cantors would come to Bialystok to lead the Sabbath prayers at the Great Synagogue. The number of worshippers became commensurate then with the reputation of the cantor. When the world-renowned cantor Gershon Sirota came, the Synagogue was packed to capacity and tickets were required for entry. It was a major event in town. The impact of his performance, the nuances and range of his voice, his unique interpretation of certain passages of the liturgy were met with patently visible eagerness and delight by the audience. The singing of Moses Koussevitzky, Chief Cantor of the Tlomacka Synagogue in Warsaw, was equally popular. Koussevitzky later fled Poland eastward and survived the war in Russia where he became an opera singer. There were two more Koussevitzsky brothers, also cantors, both of whom came to Bialystok where I heard them.

Even on Friday nights when there were no visiting cantors, the service in the Great Synagogue took longer than in Father’s prayer-house and the family waited for my return. By that time, it was dark outside but the dining-room was alight with the double sets of candles which Mother and Bobe had blessed respectively. Whenever I watched them as they covered their eyes with the palms of their hands and recited the blessing, I would feel a lump rise to my throat, for even after the blessing they would stand there a while in continuing meditation over the candles, the flame adding to the mystical moment of stillness when everyone’s eyes were turned towards them and a sense of communion was intuitively felt. These were moments of supremacy and glory for the women of the household. Recalling those moments of family unity and spiritual cohesion, I have come to recognise how such observances as the Sabbath with its repose and spirituality and such rituals as lighting Sabbath candles both cemented families in Orthodox homes and reaffirmed one’s identification with one’s historical tradition.

The meal that followed, although its menu never varied, was anticipated with pleasure, and as the evening progressed, a sense of ease set in with the promise of an ensuing day of rest which must have made my parents’ enjoyment of it all the sweeter.

On Saturday morning, everything took place as if in slow motion No-one hurried. Father went to pray, this time as did his brother at the modest Karliner prayer-house, so-named after the respected Chassidic Rabbi of Karlin. While neither of them were themselves Chassidim, whether in appearance, disposition or outlook, they maintained their affiliation with that particular community in keeping with family tradition, for Father’s uncle, that is Bobe’s brother, and all his sons and grandsons also prayed there, constituting a sizeable proportion of that congregation.

That particular affinity of Bobe’s two sons for her branch of the family had sound basis. First, there were no relatives from my paternal grandfather’s family resident in Bialystok. These lived in Pinsk and its surrounds, hence contact with them and interaction or identification with them were scant. On the other hand, a major branch of Bobe’s family did live in our town, and while there was also little social interaction between Father and his cousins and their families, some degree of family encounter took place through attendance at prayer on Saturdays and the Holy Days. A second, perhaps more compelling, if less conscious, reason for their stronger leaning towards the Goldstein, that is, Bobe’s family, was that this branch could trace its ancestry back 500 years.

Usually, Zeide, Mother’s father, would visit us on Saturday mornings. He would pray with the first congregation at seven in the morning and arrive at our home just as we were ourselves leaving for prayer. Hence we generally had a most fleeting encounter with him. There was always a glass of vodka and cake awaiting him, he being the only one who drank at all in the family. He lived in retirement with his son Aaron and his family, in the same way that Bobe lived with us. He had cataracts in both eyes, but despite that handicap taught Talmud at his synagogue every afternoon.

By noon, we were home again and sitting at table all together over our traditional meal. It was the only day of the week that Father’s meal coincided with everyone else’s. By dinner’s end, Father was very relaxed and sorely tempted to indulge in the time-honoured institution of the Saturday afternoon snooze. This was a pitfall which he tried to struggle against, for, as he understood his fatherly duties, of which he regrettably had had no personal experience, it was also a time for taking an interest in his sons’ education and review their progress over the week. In this context, education did not refer to such subjects as mathematics, much as he valued this as a mind-sharpener and tool for later life, but to Talmud which was more apt for a Sabbath afternoon and did not necessitate the use of pencil and paper, proscribed on that day. If his tiredness won out, I would escape, usually to see the football. But if he managed to stay awake, I was caught indoors, often to my distress or worse.

At that time, between the years of ten and fourteen, I attended a school where the first half of the day was given over to Talmud learning and the afternoon to secular studies. I cannot say that I was a particularly enthusiastic Talmud student. If, during those Sabbath afternoon lessons with Father, I managed to display a reasonable understanding of the intricacies of a particular law, then Father warmed to the discussion and treated me with approval, if never with demonstrative praise. If, however, I proved hazy or could not explain to his satisfaction the meanings of certain statements or propositions, then I had to face most stern admonition at my flippancy of attitude towards that subject that was the most important of all in my curriculum. This was the only part of the Sabbath I did not look forward to, but I had no choice but to comply with Father’s demands. I envied those among my friends who were free to indulge in whatever games and frivolities they chose.

On most Saturdays in the latter part of the afternoon, Father’s brother, my Uncle Avrom Ber, and his wife Sara-Dina would come to visit Bobe. Apart from Zeide’s morning visit, this was the only form of regular socialising in our home. Bobe looked forward to these visits, as did I. For Bobe, they were an implicit sign of filial respect; to me, they represented a miniature gathering of the clan. Uncle had a very imposing presence and a brilliant mathematical mind, for both of which I admired him. The rest of the afternoon was spent in discussion – among the women most frequently about their respective domestic servants, which made me wonder repeatedly why they did not deal with more important concerns of which they were quite knowledgeable and capable of discussing – and, after light refreshments, the visits came to an end, for there were afternoon prayers to attend.

I had a particular weakness. I loved those late afternoon Sabbath prayers and often went on my own to the prayer-house. The service itself was short, but what drew me were the particularly haunting melodies sung at this time. Where the Friday evening prayers were hymns of joyous praise in welcome of the Sabbath Queen and the melodies of the Sabbath morning prayers reflected the same joy as also the physical and spiritual repose of the day, the melody of the amidah at the close of the Sabbath was sadder, conveying a sense of loss inherent in the awareness that the day’s beauty and spirituality were about to end and the more mundane regular cycle of the week about to begin. That melody drew me most powerfully. By the time the ‘third meal’ of the Sabbath was eaten, traditionally in the prayer-house, and the time had come for evening prayers, the transition back to the ordinary was complete. The prayers were again those of the day-to-day. Both melody and tempo clearly signified such return.

The Jewish calendar is replete with festivals, holy days and days of mourning. It celebrates national triumphs and acquisition of freedom; it commemorates defeats and dispersions; it rejoices in harvests and in the receiving of the Law. Its cycle enhances the Jew’s consciousness of nationhood and continuity through a long and often tortured history.

In our home, each of these occasions had an implicit meaning and clear outward expression. Passover, and the preparations preceding the festival, were for me the most exciting time. Such preparations had to begin early usually in February with wine-making, fermentation of beetroot as a soup additive, washing of all linen and full house-cleaning, these being performed once a year to that degree and therefore so significant and noticeable.

The washing of the linen in particular was a major chore and event in the house which required considerable physical exertion on the part of Mother, Bobe and a washerwoman specially engaged for the occasion. The whole process took three days. At that time, no washing machines yet existed while even a washing trough and water-heater formed no part of common household conveniences. The kitchen stove was worked constantly to supply the hot water required, the centre of the kitchen was taken up with a huge circular wash-tub made up of curved slats held together by two iron bands like wine and beer barrels. By the second day, the accumulation of steam that filled our apartment affected the wall-paper so that it lifted from the wall in bubbles and looked as though it may peel off completely at any time. For the final rinsing and complete whitening of the linen, some blue chemical was used, its acrid smell adding to the general unpleasantness that pervaded the place. For drying, the linen was hung on long ropes in part of the attic. The floor of the attic was covered with dust and remnants of the broom manufacturing engaged in by the occupant of the other part of the attic. When the linen was finally taken down during the winter, it was half-frozen and stiff, and had to be thawed in the apartment itself at the same time as the customary business and manufacturing activities were taking place. As Passover drew nearer, the house was also thoroughly spring-cleaned, the clean and ironed window drapes re-hung, red polish applied to the floor-boards and the Passover cutlery, crockery, pots and pans taken out of storage, the apartment taking on the face of a minor mansion. It was also a time for new clothes for children and adults alike. Being the oldest, I had the privilege of always getting new clothes and I was proud of them. Sailor suits and patent leather shoes were the fashion of the day. Enhancing the joy to be had through the beauty and delight of the festival was the sunshine, warmth and balminess of the northern spring.

In contrast to the happy atmosphere of Passover, the approach of the High Holy Days in the autumn was matched by a mood of more sombre contemplation mounting progressively over the month preceding the New Year and culminating in the Day of Atonement ten days later. It was a time of self-appraisal and of reflectiveness about God and the meaning of life and the individual’s place in the process of creation and regeneration, and in its wake, the household became enveloped by a deeper earnestness and sense of accountability, while the seriousness with which Father would approach this period, the midnight prayers he went to on the Saturday night before the New Year and the mental preparation he made remain engraved in my memory.

It is just such seriousness that to this day remains with me as an impression of those younger days. Life and living were more serious for everybody. Old and young alike knew that they stood or fell by their own efforts. There was no recourse to blaming ‘the system’, however much people may have been inclined to do so privately. Such blaming may have served as an emotional palliative for failure, but it did nothing to alleviate the burden imposed by the realities of life. Nobody owed anybody or was owed a living. The notion that a person was not entirely master of his own life and fate was seen as a questionable retreat by the individual from both mental and ethical responsibility and accountability, while it was that very accountability to self and to family, notwithstanding the difficult conditions and limited opportunities, that drove my parents and their generation, as it did all their preceding generations, to take upon themselves in full earnestness the burdens and business of living. Grateful for the bread they ate after having blessed it, they were ever mindful of the fragility of existence and, as a consequence, aware of their earthly responsibilities and scorning of levity and flippancy. In my own home, there was little laughter. Every minute of my parents’ lives was pervaded by a certain compulsion and sense of purpose, continually, diligently and dedicatedly committing their physical and emotional energies towards the making of a decent and respectable living. For our part, as children, our duties were towards our studies. The seriousness with which we applied ourselves and the progress we made in learning were the yardsticks by which we were assessed and the parent-child relationship was governed. We knew that our parents loved us, cared for us, and concerned themselves deeply with our well-being; but there was no embracing, no kissing, no particular praise, no inflation of egos either to be had or expected. Such outward manifestations of affection were not part of our home.

As the eldest child, it was primarily upon me that my parents most concertedly practised parenthood as they understood the demands of parenthood to be, even though it was at times severe. Every discussion relating to my upbringing centred upon my progress in learning. My whole future was predicated on my attitudes towards my school-work. There was constant demand upon me to increase and intensify my knowledge, and on this score they permitted themselves no laxity. Nor was there room for praise or self-congratulation; these were deemed counter-productive and potentially debilitating. Praise was reserved for God. People, on the other hand, had to work, to strive through exertion and to improve themselves. This made for character-building, honesty and decency, these being essential preconditions for self-respect and success. Whenever as a youngster I became too verbose, Mother put me in my place with a single-line retort: “Empty vessels make the most noise”. My parents’ greatest concern was that we should not turn out to be “empty”.

Such frames of mind made our play almost a cause for self-reproach. According to the scale of values we absorbed, play was time wasted, it betrayed levity, it was the stuff of frivolity. Sholom Aleichem’s story in which his lead character tells his ten-year-old son that “in three years you will be Bar Mitzvah, thirteen years old and a man, it’s time for you to become serious” is not a figment of the author’s satirical imagination; it is a mirror of the reality that imbued the times. All this said, however, children were children and boys were boys even then and particularly when there was the prospect of a football game. One then threw seriousness to the wind, forgot all admonitions and abandoned oneself to play, which became so sweet precisely because it was frowned upon. None of the boys in my neighbourhood with whom I played in fact possessed a football. Our “ball” was simply yarn wound firmly into a ball, while the only empty space where we could play was behind the house situated at Kupiecka Street No. 5. The space was surrounded on three sides by outdoor shacks which served as stores for firewood for their owners’ apartments. There were, however, in that space open drains full of water into which our ball often landed. As a result, being made of wool, the ball became soaked and heavy, with the further consequence that the soles of our shoes frequently became detached from their uppers and in need of equally frequent repair.

Shoes and drains apart, our football games were attended by other problems. The surrounding shacks were of moderate height and often a vigorous kick of the ball would land it on one of its roofs. Its retrieval was fraught with certain dangers. Not so much the danger of falling from the roof— that was deemed child’s play —, but having to contend with the landlady who watched us from her window. Her years notwithstanding, the moment she saw us on the roof of the shack, she would come running, shouting, cussing, brandishing a stick and swearing retribution for breaking the fragile roof. As long as we stayed on the roof, watching her was an entertaining spectacle for we delighted in her impotence. But later having to face our parents to whom she would report us was quite another matter. Father did not always have the time or mind to deal with me on the spot. Instead, he bided his time – in itself a punishment – and the longer I had to wait for his inevitable wrath, the more tense I became. By the time he ended his lecture about the frivolousness of play, my disrespect for other people’s property and the shame I brought upon my parents by my childish behaviour, I felt both truly guilty and wholly contrite. This is not to say that I did not join in such games again, but when I did, it was only after inner struggle between the demands of reason and the wiles of temptation.

Topics of conversation at home most frequently related to world politics, the state of the Polish economy, antisemitism generally and in Poland in particular. There was never any talk about recreation or entertainment. I do not recall my parents ever attending the cinema or even the Jewish theatre, even though some of the plays were of a high standard. Had Mother married a more worldly man than Father, her life would have been considerably different, even within the limitations and strictures that governed Jewish life at the time. For she was by nature a particularly vivacious, fun-loving and out-going person. She herself would have loved theatre, enjoyed being among people, was pleasingly articulate and relished airing her thoughts, which she did well. But Father set the tone and measure of the family’s life. Mother had to adjust to it. She did so fully, but at the expense of constriction of her own more natural inclinations.

There were only two occasions that I recall my parents going to the Palace Theatre, myself accompanying them. The first was the celebration of the tenth anniversary of the founding of the Hebrew Gymnasium of which I was later to be a pupil. At that celebration, Yitzchak Grinbaum, the leading personality of Polish Jewry, leader of the Jewish deputies in the Polish Parliament and a world leader of the General Zionists came from Warsaw as the main guest speaker. The second occasion was a visit to Bialystok by Vladimir Jabotinski, the world leader of the Zionist Revisionist Movement. He was a short man, not particularly physically attractive, and wore thick glasses. He spoke for a long time. I did not then comprehend much of what he was saying, but the audience seemed transfixed, and, on leaving, I do recall Father commenting that he was a great orator. It required the presence of such outstanding personalities in town for my parents to depart from their more customary routine. The episodes are also indicative of their approach to my upbringing that they saw fit, on such occasions, to take me with them.

A major concern for every businessman at that time was the annual tax assessment. This was before formal book-keeping for taxation purposes was obligatory. The mode of levying taxes was by guild assessments. The taxation office had a number of assessment commissions drawn from the different trades. These people were ostensibly well informed about the individual assets of every trader and manufacturer, and on the basis of such ‘scientific’ analyses, the turnover of each business was assessed and two separate taxes levied. One was for the actual turnover; the other was based on the profit of every turnover. How the individual businessman fared in such assessments was in effect a lottery. More often than not, assessments bore little relation to the actuality and each year saw a pilgrimage to the taxation office to have injustices rectified. The public servants dealing with these matters had little time, patience or sympathy for their supplicants. By virtue of their position as government employees in the Polish police state, even the most minor officials, in contrast to the Western democratic notion of public servant, were vested with exaggerated summary powers which made them officious and resistant to such appeals. This system of arbitrary tax assessments lasted well into the ‘thirties and compounded the difficulties of making a living. When, however, book-keeping became mandatory, other apprehensions ensued. The majority of traders never employed a book-keeper to order their accounts. Whatever books the trader held were kept erratically whenever he found the time and release from other more pressing matters to attend to them. Accordingly, these books were often not up-to-date. The taxation department employed inspectors to audit such books and when the news spread that they were now in a particular neighbourhood, that day was a black one indeed.

In the late ‘twenties, the government introduced a modest bill for workers’ accident insurance. This created additional book-keeping problems, for the employer was obliged to deduct a weekly contribution to the fund from his workers’ wage and make over the total deducted amount at regular intervals. The matter became a topic of conversation at home and captured my imagination, for to me certain contradictions arose. In cases of serious injury, the support of a disabled person would surely cost the government a great deal of money; and yet by all accounts, the government was poor, so how could it undertake such unpredictable commitments as these? On the other hand, how could a government be poor at all when it printed its own money? I was sufficiently troubled by these vexing questions to approach Father over the matter. I recall his smile if not his answer. It was about the time, I was to learn later, when the British Government decided to remove the pound sterling from the gold standard and all nations feared that the entire world financial order would collapse as a result.

In such adult matters I was particularly inquisitive. I would ever drift towards serious discussion, and the more complex were the issues and the less I understood, the more I remained riveted. It was no use chasing me away or bidding me leave to do my homework. The only way to get rid of me was to terminate the conversation. Often, during my teens, and particularly during the winter, I would walk in the evenings around town, musing as if compelled over the issues that had been discussed. In my solitude, I felt then a sense of inner reward at having my mind exercised by such abstract concerns, even if they were to me still hazy, unclear and confusing. Perhaps this gave me the illusion of emerging from childhood and childishness and a more conscious awareness of growing up. I never discussed this with any other boys. I accepted my turmoil as my own affair and my own exclusive problem.

Where Winter had been reserved for reflection and introspection, the advent of spring usually brought a change of mood. The first rays of warm sunlight thawed mind and body alike. Easily affected by nature, I could not but be moved by the burgeoning of flower and colour and the sense of promise in the air. Even in our neighbourhood where a blade of grass was to be had at a premium, spring could not be missed. For it happened that at the very back of the yard at Kupiecka No. 7 where we lived, one of the neighbours, a grocer, kept a vegetable garden whose proliferation of vegetables and sunflowers with their high stalks and yellow heads redeemed the otherwise drab and colourless setting. This garden was fenced off with chicken wire, but its progressive unfolding and its colours and smells could nonetheless be savoured, marvelled at and enjoyed. I spent many hours of contemplation before that miniature oasis.

Another outlet for me was the railway station. Trains have always been every boy’s attraction and I saw nothing extraordinary in my own wanting to see the trains come and go. There was a narrow elevated pedestrian bridge spanning the whole width of the extensive railway network in Bialystok and this afforded the best vantage-point to observe the scene. Though the station was a considerable distance from my home, I nonetheless enjoyed the walk there. Once I assumed my position at the centre of the bridge I was elated. The sight of the huge locomotives, the power of their pull, the shriek of their whistle transmitted to me an awareness of their very force inherent in them and this played on my youthful imagination. The people who disembarked from those trains appeared in my eyes as super-human for they came from other cities and travelled long distances, which seemed in itself heroic. Watching them also instilled in me a sense of unlimited space and a desire for the distant and unknown, these feelings particularly enhanced by the arrival of the international trains which transported me in my imagination to strange lands with strange languages beyond the borders of my own home. These trains looked much more spacious, their exteriors were of a different colour and the inscriptions of their destinations on them – Moscow-Berlin-Paris – caused my pulse to quicken. I learnt when these trains would be arriving and made it my business whenever I could to be at the station in good time for the treat and excitement and release from my otherwise confined existence in Bialystok that their arrival offered. Little did I know that when time came for me to travel in such a train, the mood would be anything but euphoric.

Enchanting as spring was, the summer that followed held its own rewards. As a rule, we went on holidays for the duration of the summer when the schools were closed. The choice of holiday places ranged from the nearby woods to the faraway pine forests of Mileiczyce. The logistics of organising the expedition were complex. We would rent a unit consisting of a room or sometimes two rooms with kitchen facilities. Usually, no bedding was provided, nor kitchen utensils – though if they were, these would be of no use because of the laws of kashrut. Accordingly, setting out on holidays involved a major operation of unsettling ourselves, packing and then installing ourselves into the unit. With the need for separate milk and meat utensils, we virtually had to transfer an entire household. All of these were loaded on to a horse-drawn cart. If our destination was fairly near, we would travel on the same cart, sitting on the bedding. If, however, our destination was more distant Mileiczyce, the goods were despatched in advance by horse and cart and we followed some time later by train to one of two stations, one of which was seven kilometres, the other fourteen kilometres from the holiday site.

The train journey which, in those days, was slow, particularly on a backwater line, proved to be a reward. We were in no hurry. We had the pleasure of seeing a European countryside in summer with its fields of ripening corn and its quilt of coloured patches denoting other vegetation. As children, we delighted in the successively changing scenes outside the train window, but the real joy for me was our actual arrival at our chosen station, to be collected there to undertake the last part of the journey by road to the holiday place. The country air was fresh, the smells redolent and yielding of inordinate pleasure. The cart was laid out with straw for the comfort of our feet; the seats were plain wooden boards without any back support; the horse that drew the cart was thin and undernourished, as was the perennial driver at the station nicknamed Dai-Boch (may God give) who would forever be waiting for the summer season to bring the holiday makers to the pines of Mileiczyce.

Dai-Boch was the living embodiment of the countless literary types so sensitively described by the Yiddish writers of the late 19th century. He was the prototype of a man without anchorage, a man of the shtetl insecure and hopeless who lived day by day in keeping with the whims of circumstance and of unpredictable chance. Nonetheless, whenever we met up with him, either on arrival or departure, he was in perpetual good humour. For he had passengers to cart which meant that he was earning that day, and so could wax ecstatic over his good fortune. So he was talkative and entertaining while his buoyant conversation was laced with his observations on life and frequently touched with a black humour which made us laugh on our journey over the uneven, rutted country roads beneath the iron rimmed wheels of the cart. For me, this Dai-Boch had a magnetic attraction. His thin face, emaciated body, rickety wagon, artificial humour and what seemed to me a crying of the soul that came through his utterance, drew me to him. He was the incorporation of all his people; in him was reflected their physical and spiritual condition. He loomed large in my family’s conversations. Whenever Mother wanted to stress our own good fortune, it was this Dai-Boch she would evoke; and none could ignore, let alone be blind to, the contrast.

The holiday that followed was a happy and leisurely time, all the more so for Mother and Bobe who truly deserved it most, and when Father came to stay over the weekend, we were a happy and united family.

The holiday houses stood in the thick forest smelling intoxicatingly of pine sap that was oozing from the trees. Swaying or sleeping in a hammock strung between two trees came closest to our understanding of paradise.

Not far away from these holiday homes, or villas as they were called, stood the town of Mileczyce itself. It was a typical shtetl in size, appearance, architecture and lifestyle. The main street was very wide. At one end, nearer the forest, the white-washed church with its spires dominated the township. On Sundays, naturally, it came alive. It did not so much serve the townspeople, most of whom were Jewish, but rather the peasants from the districts all around. Some of these peasants came by cart in their Sunday best, leaving their wagons in a clearing behind the church. Others came barefoot, carrying their shoes tied by shoe-strings over their shoulders. Outside the church, they would clean their feet, wrap them in cloth in lieu of socks and then put on their shoes to enter the church. That the Polish peasantry was poor was not a revelation; but those shoes slung around their shoulders accentuated the deplorable reality of their economic condition and backwardness so vividly; a pair of shoes was such a major acquisition that might have to last them for most of their life that they could only be worn most sparingly and then only when – so it seemed – necessary.

Towards the other end of the main street stood the synagogue. It was a surprisingly big building of red brick with a pleasant interior. Opposite the synagogue was the only two-storied brick building in the township, this housing a provisions store. It was spacious and well-stocked. Otherwise, lining both sides of the street in what could be a scene taken from Chagall stood wooden buildings in varied states of disrepair, some half leaning, with thatched roofs and tiny front porches where the inhabitants would sit in the summer afternoons to draw fresh breath and watch life which moved at a faster pace with the advent of the holiday makers. This shtetl has ever since remained with me as the prototype of provincial life in pre-War Poland.

The two months on vacation satiated all my desire for carefreeness; and with the onset of autumn and the return to school, the cycle of the regular year would resume, myself being that bit more mature, observant, analytical and aware.

As referred to earlier, across the landing from our apartment lived a family whose buttons and sewing-cotton business took up part of their apartment, much as knitwear did in our home. Between the two businesses, the current of people coming and going was brisk and the pulse of life active. This next-door family had one son who was much older than I. He owned a bicycle which stood against the wall inside the entrance to the apartment. I spent long hours handling and fondling that marvellous object glittering with its chrome frame, handle-bars and spoked wheels. For me, still a boy, it encapsulated the totality of my desires. I felt privileged to be able to touch it and even mount the saddle and idle the pedals backwards. I dared not hope to possess one myself, but it must have been part of a deeply-felt desire at the time, one that was never fulfilled. That neighbour’s son was a member of a communist cell and was caught shooting up a red flag on the electric wires in the street. He was arrested and served, I believe, two years in prison for the offence. When he was released, he was totally altered in appearance. Both his looks and behaviour had been taken over by a deep sadness and I realised that the prison experience must have radicalised him even further.

There was one summer vacation when I was in the company of another boy who owned a bicycle and who let me actually ride it. It was a Friday afternoon and I must have truly let myself go in riding back and forth in ever-accelerating speed and a delight and satisfaction in the ease and adroitness with which I handled it. Then Father arrived. He found me flushed and perspiring and high-spirited over my exhilarating experience. He was not at all pleased. To him, my bicycle riding had been very foolish. First, I had exposed myself to dangers on an open road. Second, speeding as I had been, I risked falling off the bicycle and injuring myself. Third, the very act was counter-productive to the purpose of the vacation which was to rest, relax and gain weight and not to run around, wasting energy and thereby losing weight, in turn undoing all the good work Mother did in feeding me. By the end of his reproof, I felt rather foolish, but deep within I knew that there existed counter-arguments against those of my father which I could not yet muster.

The two apartments on the ground floor in the house we lived in were taken up by the foodshop in the front and the carpenter’s family behind. The foodshop was run by the owner’s wife who, I think, ran everything in the life of this couple. She would sit behind the counter enthroned in a position of command while her amiable husband, Shloime-Dovid, took orders from her in constant effort to please her. Nothing was too much for him. He was always ready to oblige, always beaming, always of a friendly disposition even when weighed under by the basketfuls of provisions he delivered to his customers’ homes. He seemed not to mind the weight of those baskets he carried. First, those customers to whom he delivered the goods usually paid on the spot, contrary to those who came to the shop and frequently bought on credit, having first to be scrutinised by the “boss” behind the counter. And second, while on the road, he was able to stop to chat and be a person in his own right, and escaped being pushed around and dictated to by his domineering wife.

The carpenter also worked from home. The workshop windows faced the courtyard and the noise issuing from there was tolerable. Once a year, the carpenter came into prominence. That was after Yom Kippur when he built a large succah to accommodate all neighbours both in our own building and from a second apartment house that stood further back in the courtyard. Two of the walls of the succah were comprised of the back of the house and the brick fence which stood at right angles to it. All that was required was the erection of the other two walls, the installation of a door and the provision of cross-planks on which to spread out the schach (palm or pine branches) overhead. Although Jewish Law dictated that a succah had to be a flimsy, impermanent structure, symbol of the Jews’ wanderings and unsettled way of life, our carpenter ensured that through its solidity, his succah would reflect his competence as a craftsman. His was a succah that the most well-to-do could be proud of, and all ate there in a firm spirit of camaraderie.

When, in later years, the carpenter moved out, each family had to fend for itself. Father would put together a very tight succah on the front balcony of the house, using unhinged doors and the iron bars of the balcony as supports, fastening these together by rope. In terms of flimsiness, his succah certainly complied with the letter of the Law; it was temporary in every sense of the word. I found myself dreading that it might not see out in full the eight days of the festival. One major advantage was that the food could be eaten hot, being passed directly into the succah through the apartment window whereas earlier, when the carpenter’s succah had stood in the courtyard, the food was already less than warm by the time it was delivered there from the respective apartments.

The building towards the back of the courtyard, which was also of brick and stood two stories in height, housed a shoe-polish factory on part of its ground floor and two apartments on the upper floor. Work in the factory was conducted only on an irregular basis. At such times, I recall long rows of tin containers being filled with the polish and being left standing to solidify before being sealed and packed and sold. To judge by the infrequency of activity there, one could only conclude that the business was not a particularly thriving one. Of the upstairs tenants, I recall only one – an old man by the name of Einhorn who was the father of the well-known “Haint” journalist in Warsaw.

As the early ‘thirties moved into the middle years of that decade and I became more aware of events taking place around me, I began to entertain my first doubts about the way we lived.

The early favourable developments in my father’s business could not be indefinitely sustained. Times were changing. In the big industrial city of Lodz, a knitting industry on a national scale came into being, with new fashions and products following with unheard-of swiftness. Mass production brought about economies which smaller outfits like my father’s could not compete with. Therefore, Father had to bring in ready-made garments from outside, thereby becoming more of a middle man-retailer than a manufacturer.

As our family grew, conditions for living and working in the same premises became increasingly difficult, while at the same time the business was taking a downward turn. For my part, not one to be particularly compliant even as a youngster, as I neared Bar Mitzvah, I became progressively more critical about our lifestyle. Intuitively, I felt that our mode of living – mingling the private with the occupational – was basically wrong, a feeling that strengthened to conviction when I saw such distinct separation of the two in the homes of my friends. I became at once both critical of and sorry for my father whose set old-fashioned ways of making a living so absorbed him and gave him little opportunity for change, let alone for re-appraisal. Urging change, I made my views increasingly known, whether at the Sabbath table, or at discussions between my parents and business associates who visited our home. I denigrated our way of life, I pressed my parents to see that their rigidity of outlook and practice could not continue, I argued that change was inevitable and that they must welcome it and adapt rather than turn their faces from it. I must have been convinced at the time that I was the only member of the family who recognised all this; but I suspect now that they knew it too, but having settled into a rut, they could not readily extricate themselves from the inertia and complacent submission to their lot. It took not weeks, or months, but years of continuing argument coupled with changing conditions finally to bring about a change.

At last recognising the inevitable and acting on it, Father began to look out for opportunities in other directions. He came across an outfit manufacturing industrial cotton wool and artificial fur (watoline) owned and run by two brothers-in-law who needed financial support to carry on and expand the business. This was a branch of manufacturing with which Father was essentially familiar as it incorporated elements of knitting and spinning, and he thus became involved in it, first as a sleeping partner while continuing with his own knitwear trade, and then more concertedly. By the time that business closed on account of the bankruptcy of one of the partners, Father was sufficiently well-versed in the industry to venture out on his own. This last decision enabled Father to liquidate his knitting activity; it brought in its train the end of a fixed, seemingly immutable lifestyle; it necessitated a move to different living quarters; and it led to the transformation in our life as a family in terms of lifestyle, habits and self-awareness – all of these changes I had so long argued for and that I believe my parents too must have wished for.

Shortly before we ceased producing knitwear, a cousin of my father’s, Sender Kipen, came to stay with us for a while. His purpose was to learn the knitting trade on the eve of his intended departure for Chile. What he learned from Father was in time to stand him in good stead in Santiago and enable him at the outbreak of the War to bring out his father, my father’s only paternal uncle, and two sisters, all of whom settled and prospered there.

While we were still living in the old apartment at Kupiecka No. 7,1 celebrated my Bar Mitzvah. It was a modest affair, fully in keeping with our ever-limited social aspirations and standing. A kiddush at home for our family followed the Sabbath morning prayers, after which my classmates came to a homely afternoon tea which was honoured by the presence of my headmaster, Mr Maizel, at the head-table. Although I did experience the faster heartbeat and tension on being exposed to the public when called to the Law for a first time, I did in the end acquit myself well and without undue unease or fuss. The only thing that rankled then – even as it remains unacceptable to me to this day – was the wording of the father’s obligatory pronouncement over his Bar Mitzvah son whereby he publicly renounced continuing responsibility for his son. That pronouncement freed the father from having to bear the burden of his son’s transgressions, that son, now adult before the Law, having to bear them on his own account. What I resented was being so renounced at what was the most important moment of my life till then. Such renunciation could scarcely contribute positively to the mood of a sensitive youngster at the threshold of religious responsibility and manhood. Whoever had drawn up the formula and wording had certainly not been possessed of particular psychological insight.

In contrast to the low-key formalities attending the event, my personal anticipation and euphoria relating to it were very strong. According to custom, the prospective Bar Mitzvah boy was provided with phylacteries which he wore at everyday morning prayers, excluding the Sabbath and holidays, for one month before his actual thirteenth birthday. The aim behind this was to have the boy become fully familiar with the duty and fluent in its accompanying blessings by the time he assumed the religious obligations of adulthood. I looked forward to that preliminary encounter with great eagerness. I well recall the day when Father brought home the tefillin he was to give me in their new shiny beautifully embroidered velvet bag and opened it to take out those two cubes with their long straps which, Father explained, were of particular value if made out of one continuous skin, as these were. He was very proud of those tefillin. They were his way of showing how much he cared for me by having spared no expense in furnishing me with the best. I knew what it meant to him and I fully appreciated his gesture.

I waited impatiently for the first day of that trial Bar Mitzvah month to arrive that I may put on those phylacteries. Being made of leather, they retained, when new, their clear, sweet, natural smell. It was with excitement that I wound the strap of the one phylactery seven times about my left forearm, placed the other upon my head, and completed winding the arm strap about my left hand and fingers to create the symbolic Hebrew letters referring to God, and prayed with the fullest intensity stemming from contentment with life and the consciousness of imminent new privilege. Those were sweet mornings. I would wait in bed for day to break so that I could indulge unhindered in that ritual that, as an expression of adulthood, would permit me, in turn, to take my lawful place in any gathering of ten men for the purposes of communal prayer. It was all heady stuff for a thirteen year-old boy. The feeling of self-worth became almost tangible, the sense of responsibility more potent, and the prospect of being counted tantalising. At the same time, I understood that I would need to change in outlook and concerns, having to undertake the burdens and obligations incumbent upon an adult Jewish male. Mentally, I was prepared for this and did not need to force myself. Indeed, I relished the prospect, even though I knew that to be a Jew in the Poland of the ‘thirties was by and large anything but a source of particular pleasure.

As matters turned out, the intensity of my approach to my Bar Mitzvah and its implications proved inversely proportional to its durability. Within one year, my prayers became increasingly irregular.

In time we moved from Kupiecka No. 7 to Kupiecka No. 19. Although our new home was only a block away from the earlier one, the transfer marked a total transformation in our style of living, our attitudes and our expectations, and was a most welcome advance. That move in fact entailed two moves: one for living in, the other for business. The new address was not altogether unknown to me for my first cheder had been located there ten years earlier.

Fronting the street at that address was a three-storied apartment block through which one entered a deeper complex of buildings extending back on both left and right of an inner courtyard at the back of which was another three-storied apartment block. Our apartment was on the first floor of this building. Having been used to living in a home that faced upon the street, it took me time to adjust to the relative isolation of a rear location, removed as it was from the current and rhythm and movement of vehicles and people that were street fare, always there to be watched, studied and followed whenever I had felt hemmed in by the overcrowding of my former home. However, the improvements in our conditions were such that in the end it proved not too difficult to accept the loss of the one for the gains of the other.

Our new apartment contained a den to the left of the entrance hall, a well-proportioned room with a window looking out upon the full length of the inner courtyard. From this den which served as my bedroom and study, a door led to the dining-room which also had a separate door to the hallway. This room was large and rather dark as it had only a single window at one corner to admit the light. The furniture which had seemed to fill our previous dining-room was totally dwarfed here; so much so that Mother bought two wide tall plants to reduce the emptiness. Those plants were a welcome substitute for the two shelves our previous dining room had contained. The dining-room table, meanwhile, liberated from its multiple purposes, now regained its rightful uses and remained at all times covered with a table-cloth as if a perpetual Sabbath had entered into the house. The buffet, likewise, regained its originally designated splendour. Its glass insets and its central mirror continually sparkled in their cleanliness. They were no longer strewn with those odds and ends of garments as in the past; their shelves were no longer the place for buckles and buttons. Instead, they were used to display whatever ornaments Mother bought to brighten the room. The large divan which had earlier served as my bed stood with its high padded back against the wall that separated the dining-room from my den. It continued to bear the marks of long abuse, having during the day also found utility as a display counter or storing bench for Father’s knitwear. Overhead, the big and solid ceiling light with eight separate bulbs around a central frosted plate drew deserved attention and shone majestically, particularly during the winter months. Where, previously, in our old home we had seemed to be intruders seeking to snatch moments of privacy from surrounds not designed for privacy, here we could consider ourselves welcome and truly at home in an ambience of spaciousness, repose, orderliness and peace.

To the left of the dining-room was another hallway which led to the kitchen, the bathroom and a toilet. The bathroom contained a full-size cast-iron bath and a water-heating facility heated with firewood. To the right of the dining-room were three moderately spacious bedrooms. The one nearest the entrance had three beds for my three younger brothers; the middle one was my parents’; the third was for Bobe and my sister.

The other tenants on our landing were an elderly couple and two young blonde girls from Krinki. These girls survived the war in Russia and came to Melbourne. One was to marry Jack Liberman, a prominent Melbourne businessman, and the other married a Garkawe. On the landing above us lived two families in their respective apartments: the Belochs, husband, wife and only son, a university student, and the Eisenstats, a chassidic family. Mr Eisenstat involved himself deeply and influentially in communal affairs and was much respected. On Saturdays and holidays, the singing of festival songs that reached us from their apartment blended well with the spirit of our own home.

Beneath us, there were also two apartments, these separated by a wide thoroughfare through which carts would carry firewood to the storage area that stood at the very back. These apartments were both occupied by the same family. One served as a home, the other as a sweets factory. There were two adolescents in that household. The sweets factory was but one of a number of enterprises operating on the ground floor of that quadrangle of buildings that made up Kupiecka No. 21, among them a candle factory, a clothing firm and a wholesale cloth business. The total effect was one of industry and quickened tempo. What I found hard to accept was the communal garbage disposal container into which refuse would be thrown unwrapped and remained uncleared for longer periods than our sense of smell was prepared to tolerate. Together with the adjoining out-houses in the courtyard, it stood as a reminder that while our lot had been bettered, there was still considerable room for improvement.

Our move had an impact on all the family, but on none was it as telling as on the women. Mother, freed from her earlier role as Father’s saleswoman in the knitting firm, finally came into her own as housewife and mother to her great satisfaction. She now gained more composure, she became more deliberate in everything she did, she was certainly more attentive and relaxed and bore herself with increased gracefulness, clearly enjoying the new circumstances. She gladly took over some of the duties earlier left to Bobe. Father was now out of the house for most of the day – something she had to get used to – and she anticipated his return with gladness. Bobe, for her part, who was by then well into middle age, also appreciated the quiet and the slowing of the pace of daily living, and had more time to herself.

For the household in general, new issues rose to the top of the family agenda. Suddenly, new contingencies became evident, relating less to my parents’ life than to the older two children. My younger sister Shifra, having entered her teens, required special attention and consideration. Visits by school-mates coming ostensibly on business or socially alerted my parents, and Bobe in particular, to the march of time and to the need to view things differently now and to understand and make allowances for adolescence. Bobe on one occasion floored me by suggesting that I should learn to dance. What overwhelmed me was not the suggestion itself though it was symptomatic of a turning-point in my elders’ way of thinking, but the fact that it should have come from Bobe of all people whom we, as children, perceived as old and as a model of piety. Yet she was sufficiently wise and bold to take the initiative in the tendering of such advice ahead of Mother from whom I would more likely have expected it.

Father’s factory was located at the other end of Kupiecka Street, across the bridge over the Biala River (White River) from which the city took its name and which was polluted with the effluent from the dye-houses and tanneries that operated in town. Just past the bridge on the left, approaching it from home, stood a three-storied factory occupied by the Spoleczna Gymnasium. Past this edifice stood another cluster of factories, two of whose buildings Father rented for his enterprise. It was here that he engaged in the manufacture of watoline.

Watoline was essentially a knitted material, a continuous length of woollen fabric held together by cotton netting, but leaving the woollen yarn sufficiently exposed for brushing. The brushing yielded a very bulky product which served as a form of artificial fur placed in winter overcoats between the outer cloth and inner lining for added warmth. The ability to manufacture it was a consequence of improvements made in knitting machinery. The particular machine used to produce it was a cross between a loom and a knitting machine, called Raschel, which carried two beams of woollen yarn and one of cotton which fed the machine during operation. These beams had to be loaded and wound, a tedious and complex procedure involving the simultaneous use of dozens of spools of yarn and requiring much space. The final product was usually black and therefore had to be kept apart from the manufacture of industrial cotton wool which was a sister production line to watoline, however different they were in their nature.

This cotton wool was manufactured in the other, smaller building rented by Father. Its raw material was cotton imported into Poland in water-pressed bales from India via the Baltic Sea. They weighed 400 kg each and were ordered in quantities that filled a goods rail truck. The tightness of the bales was such that if set on fire, the cotton would only be singed on the outside; despite the flammability of the material, no fire could penetrate any more deeply. However, when the metal bands holding the bale together were cut, the compressed material came apart to occupy its more natural space. I recall finding from time to time some Indian bus-tickets in the cotton. This gave an air of the exotic to the bales that came in.

Compared to the manufacture of watoline, the production of cotton wool was rather simple. A single large combing machine used in the process of yarn-spinning performed the whole operation, combing the semi-compressed cotton fed into it at one end into a smooth, even and fluffy cotton mass emerging from the other. After it came off the machine, the cotton wool was packed in bales, compressed by hand into a wooden crate lined by sheets of paper inside and wound around the outside by second-hand jute cloth sewn together with a long industrial needle and string by the packer. By the time the bale was packed, it was still very bulky but not particularly heavy. The material produced was used extensively in bed quilts needed against the cold northern winters. The most striking characteristic of the whole process was its dustiness. The combing caused flying fibres to settle everywhere. The walls were perpetually covered in fine dust, as were the machines and everything else in the building. The machinist and packer worked with kerchiefs tied around their faces, and it was inadvisable to visit the premises dressed in black.

Both of our products were sold widely along the eastern border of pre-War Poland. Cotton wool was an easily saleable commodity; there was no unused accumulation of stock; nor was there room to store such bulky bales in any quantity. Small orders of one or two bales were dealt with by a foot-carrier. With impressive agility, he would load the bales on to his back, tie them around his trunk, form loopholes for his arms, and then make off with them, only the lower parts of his legs being visible under his load.

In the main building to the left of the entrance, a spacious office had been installed with two desks and a telephone. Its interior was wallpapered. It took time for Father to adjust to the luxury of having an office, feeling ill at ease in the role of management separated from the manufacturing floor beyond his wall, and he would often gravitate to the noisy machines and to the scenes of action, treating his paper work as a cumbersome if necessary inconvenience. Such a change from the familiar, however, was inevitable. His supplies could no longer be obtained by means of a brown postcard with a brief message written in Yiddish. He had now to deal with agents, determining credit ratings, establishing letters of credit, planning cash flow, organising production and directing sales representatives. These administrative activities absorbed him fully; they extended him financially; but they also instilled in him a renewed sense of self-worth, permitted him more time with his family, and afforded him the opportunity to follow unfolding developments within it with more interest and objectivity.

3

Family and Education

Father’s origins were not in Bialystok. Most of his paternal family lived in Pinsk and its environs which were due south of Bialystok. I never received satisfactory explanation how it came about that Father lived apart from the other Kipens. My guess has always been that it was in some way connected with my grandfather’s early death and the fact that Bobe’s brother lived in Bialystok.

Another mystery that intrigued me was the origin of our name Kipen. It was an unusual name among Jews. Although himself uncertain of it, Father suggested that it may have been related to the Russian word kipiatok which meant boiling water. Family legend had it that one of my great grandfathers, a scholar, would rise from sleep in the middle of the night, set the samovar boiling to make himself tea, and proceed with his study of the Talmud until the hour of morning prayer. This explanation did not satisfy me.

In the late ‘fifties or early ‘sixties, I read an account of the later stages of the Russian-German war which emphasised the tactical manoeuvres of the Russian army after the turning of the tide in its favour. One such offensive was a pincer-like northward advance of two columns moving from Leningrad and Tzarskeye-Sielo respectively to meet at a point named Kipen near the Russo-Finnish border. As a general rule in the etymology of surnames, it is axiomatic that if a name corresponded to an actual location, then in all probability its bearer hailed from that place. However, the more I contemplated the matter, the less persuaded I was that the rule applied in our case. There was never any indication that our family had lived so far north. All other Kipens and their associated branches had lived around the marshlands of Pinsk well to the south. Furthermore, our name, written in Russian, was spelt with a soft ‘n’, which further complicating matters. I have also learned since of a place called Kipen in Scotland, but any ties of our family with Scotland are all but improbable.

Of all our relatives, my strongest affinity was for Father’s brother Avrom-Ber and his family. The reasons were manifold. The fact that they were Kipens made that closeness particularly natural. The regular Sabbath meetings at the prayer-house in the mornings and Uncle and Aunt’s visits to Bobe in the afternoon cemented it. Further, their eldest son was, like myself, named after Grandfather Israel Chaim, while their daughter Miriam had been a classmate of mine in the last four years of high-school. When we came together on a Saturday afternoon, Uncle would sometimes entertain us by posing mathematical problems for us to solve in our heads. My cousin, who was younger than I, would solve them without difficulty; as for me, they were generally beyond my capacity.

Uncle Avrom-Ber was a tall and imposing man with a high forehead and strong intellect. Stories would circulate about his mental dexterity. An accountant, he would multiply sums in roubles and kopeks by four-figure numbers and produce the answer in a blinking, or similarly add four-digit columns of numbers at a glance. Against this, in manual matters, however, he could not as much as hammer a nail into a wall.

Aunt Sarah-Dina was a squat plump woman who wore her wavy hair pulled tightly back to her nape. She came originally from the town of Suvalki where her two brothers, the Zylbersteins, were stocking manufacturers and highly respected people. Separated from her family, I suspect she was a lonely person. Once a year, during Passover, we visited her and Uncle in their home. I looked forward to that visit. Being our family’s only combined outing for the year, it was a major social event and, for my part, I looked forward to the variety of Passover sweets that were served then. Uncle and Aunt had four children. They had lost their first-born daughter at eight. Their second daughter, Miriam, was tall and had her father’s features and large eyes. She and I graduated together from high-school in 1937 and, immediately, her mother set about finding a match for her. Their two sons were both red-headed; the older was a mathematician in the genius class. He cruised effortlessly through his secondary education and in 1939 went to Lublin to pursue university studies. He never saw his family again. The younger son, Hillel, was of average ability. The whole family, together with Bobe, perished during the liquidation of the Bialystok ghetto.

The family on Mother’s side was more numerous, though also more distant. Mother had three brothers, one of whom lived in Grodno where he was the administrator of the local yeshiva. I have no recollection of him. The other brothers lived in Bialystok. The older of these, Aaron Marantz, was a moderately successful textile manufacturer. His wife owned a crockery shop. They had three daughters and a son. At one stage of my youth, I went daily to Uncle Aaron’s house where my maternal grandfather gave me lessons in Talmud. Mother’s third brother, Raphael, had a speech impediment which he fully exploited for our amusement. He was married but childless and owned a weaving loom, taking in commission work.

The other major branch of Mother’s family was that of her mother’s brother Chaim Goldman, his wife Sorka, and their seven daughters and one son. As indicated earlier, Mother practically grew up in her uncle’s house after her mother died. There was a patent affinity between her and those Goldmans. It so happened that members of that same family had some effect on my own life early on. One of the Goldman daughters, Naomi, was both my class teacher and natural science teacher at the Hebrew Gymnasium. She left in 1935 for Palestine and the class presented her with an album containing the photographs of every pupil in the class. Naomi today lives in Haifa and still possesses that album. Three other sisters – Yaffa, Yehudith and Malkah – also moved to Palestine before the War. Of these, Yaffa is no longer alive; the other two live on kibbutzim. A fifth sister, Rivkah, who had made for Palestine left subsequently for Melbourne with her husband, Moshe Dorevitch. It was these Dorevitches who obtained an immigrant permit for me after the War and brought me to Australia, thereby introducing the Kipen line to the Australian continent. The sixth Goldman daughter, Leike, lived in Bialystok married to an accountant by the name of Boyarski and had one son, while the seventh girl, Rachel, married an Eisen and lived a happy and comfortable life in Sokolky not far removed from Bialystok. The only Goldman son, David, became a successful textile manufacturer in Bialystok where he married the daughter of a well-known identity, a Mr Gertz. At the outbreak of war, they escaped from Bialystok to Vilna. Shortly before my departure from Vilna for Japan in February 1941, they came to see me. They had not sought visas for themselves, believing that they could see out the war in Vilna. By this time, all possibility of obtaining necessary papers for evacuation had run out and the Goldmans were gloomy about their future. Rachel, still very attractive and dignified, broke down when they farewelled me. They were later to perish.

Further towards the periphery of Father’s family were the numerous Goldsteins, among them Father’s uncle and his four sons and their families. Apart from meeting with the menfolk on Sabbaths at the prayer-house, we had no social contact with any of Father’s cousins. We did however conduct business with one of them whose name was Aryeh and who ran a carrying concern, handling the despatch of Father’s goods. Unlike his brothers who were red-headed, he was tall, dark and very handsome and had beautiful handwriting which I greatly admired. A part of our production was also given to another young man surnamed Daiksel for despatch, one who hailed from Bobe’s family and had come from Pinsk. He survived the war and today lives as a successful building contractor in fashionable Savyon in Israel.

Father would from time to time refer to certain illustrious forebears of our family. Among these was the author of the tractate “Yesod V’Seder Ha’Avodah” by which name the venerable rabbi whose grave in Grodno Father had once been bidden to visit. He duly went there. When he asked to be directed to the grave, stating that he was an eighth-generation descendent of the rabbi, his guides stepped back as a mark of respect. According to family tradition, only ten generations were permitted to come unto his grave. It is sobering to reflect that the tenth generation, along with the eighth and ninth, was to be annihilated and there is no-one left in Europe to return to do him honour.

On the eve of my leaving home in 1940, Father suggested that as I was travelling to Lithuania, I should contact its chief rabbi, Rabbi Avram Dov (Ber) Shapira, who bore the same names as my uncle. When I did make contact, I was well received. Rabbi Shapira was a majestic figure, tall and broad-shouldered and wearing a flowing white beard that added character to a most beautiful face. He lived in a two-storied brick house next door to the Lithuanian Presidential Residence in a short street off the Leisves Alee in the centre of Kovno. His son was Professor of Hebrew at the Kovno University at the time. When, in audience with him, I detailed the family connection as precisely as I was able, sufficient it seemed to gain a letter of introduction from him in Hebrew in which he referred to me as She’er Bsari, that is, as a blood relative. On that visit, I was invited to his Purim Seuda (feast), thereby sharing his table with a number of prominent Polish rabbis, by then refugees. Among them was Rabbi Kotler who managed to reach the United States and became one of the catalysts of the Yeshiva movement there.

As a family we are also related to the rabbinic house of Soloveitchik, the dynasty of Brisk (Brest-Litovsk) rabbis of whom Chaim, then Isaac Ze’ev Halevi (Velvel), and today Joseph Dov Soloveitchik of Boston, the greatest living talmudic authority of the present generation, form a continuous line. We can also trace back our lineage to Samuel Eliezer ben Judah Halevi Edels, known as the Maharasha, this being an abbreviation and acronym of his name. He lived in Cracow some 400 years ago. Another ancestor was the renowned Rabbi David ben Samuel Halevi, known as the TaZ, this being the acronym of his work Turei Zahav, a commentary on the Shulchan Aruch.

The sad bottom line in the story of our family is that of the entire Goldstein-Kipen branch claiming this illustrious lineage, not a single individual on the Goldstein side survived, and on the Kipen side only my father and his family. Of the other branch of Kipens, that which had in the pre-War years moved to Chile, most now live in Israel, but these have no connection with the Goldstein linkage of the family tree.

Education

My education experiences involve the full gamut of what was available in Bialystok in my years there. They encompass the most modern as well as the most archaic in the Jewish education spectrum.

My earliest recollections are of a bright and spacious kindergarten which I attended. In the early ‘twenties, kindergartens were uncommon. Mine was situated in the same complex as the trade school (the Hantverker). The Hebrew “Tarbut” primary school and kindergarten stood side by side. I recall large rooms, games and a concert in which I participated. Many years later, Father was approached by a stranger in a barber-shop, asking, “Does your son still throw buckets of water?” That stranger had been the director of the kindergarten during my period there. It appears that one day I had wanted to play the piano but he had refused me permission to do so. Whereupon, I went to the kitchen, brought back water and poured it over him.

My first true schooling began in Fablinski’s cheder on the first floor of one of the apartments at Kupeckia 19. It was a dingy home with both little light and little air. I must have stayed there two to three years, and then transferred to a proper school in Jurowiecka Street. This was a one-storied long red brick building facing the rather narrow street. The classrooms were big and airy; the desks were well separated and there was plenty of room to move about. The institution was run as a school with a staff and a director, a very imposing man called Dr Tileman who had but recently come from Galicia to take up his first appointment. In one large step he soon after became principal of the prestigious Druskin Gymnasium in which he remained until the war.

I had enjoyed that school, but after a short period, perhaps less than a year, I was removed to another cheder which was a retrogressive one measured by any standards. This cheder was also on Kupiecke Street, relegated to the end of a very long courtyard. Inside the courtyard was a saw-mill and its shrill sound was a constant accompaniment to our studies. Between the mill and cheder was a small vegetable garden which in summer leant colour and fragrance to the drabness around. The cheder itself was a single small room off the kitchen containing a few desks with barely sufficient space to sit at. The apartment was occupied by our melamed (teacher) who was an old, tall and lean man and who taught all the Jewish subjects himself. These subjects were Bible, a little Hebrew and Mishnayos, a preparation for Talmud. There was no set timetable. We – about a dozen boys – would arrive at nine in the morning and wait for him to appear. It would be lunchtime before we took a break. Our teacher would always be armed with a long-handled broom and no sooner did he notice one of the boys not paying attention than he would swipe the miscreant with it without himself having to move.

The main distractions were the vegetable garden outside and the morning sun streaming through the window, these contrasting with the dreariness of the subjects and the tedium of the teaching.

The lunch break lasted an hour or more, depending on how long our teacher would sleep after his meal. Refreshed, he would then return for a second stretch of the same. We would by then be tired and unavoidably less attentive, this opening us to still greater reproaches than before. It was only with the fading of day that we had a change of teacher and subjects. His son-in-law would arrive, a small and funny-looking man, who taught us Polish and arithmetic using the blackboard for which our melamed had no use. While we welcomed the change from our religious studies, we could no longer concentrate. We thought only of returning home, which we finally did at seven in the evening. In winter, we lit our way by making portable lanterns from empty tins. We struck holes in the tin with a nail, fitted it with a wire handle, placed a candle inside, and so went home after a ten-hour day.

But school life was not all gloom. There were in fact other opportunities for a break, particularly when the melamed had something to discuss with his wife or engaged in argument with her, a thing which was not rare. Then we knew our time was our own and we did as we pleased, such as throwing water around in the kitchen or whatever else took our fancy, except going outside which our teacher would not permit. For my part, however, I had other problems to contend with. Our teachers’ broom was not visited upon me particularly often. I usually knew the lesson and, hence, by his own sometimes indiscreet admission, earned his affection. But such affection was not without its price. That price was to down my lunch quickly and coach one or other of the slower learners during the break while he retired a while. The tutorial room was a narrow bedroom adjacent to the cheder. Two beds were separated by a little table, and it was at this table that I tutored my charge. I would have mixed feelings about this extra-curricular duty. On the one hand I was pleased at being the star pupil; on the other, however, I was continually aware that while I was slogging to impart knowledge in that airless room to a not too bright boy, the others had free time to themselves. I would hear their shouting and their laughter, and would have been prepared to forego my teacher’s affection for a bit of free time for play.

I must have stayed two years in this ‘academy’. It was probably the last remnant of the old system of learning which survived in town and I must have been among the last to pass through it. In retrospect, I do not regret the experience. Old-fashioned as its ways were, the cheder did at least instil a respect for and commitment to learning against the more natural youthful inclinations to the contrary.

I have often wondered why Father took me out of the earlier school to place me in that antiquated cheder. He must have been aware that, educationally, it was a retrogressive step. He was not an other-worldly man. What prompted him then? I can hazard two guesses. One is that he wanted me to experience the sort of education he had received, thereby maintaining a certain continuity. The other, which may have been more consistent with his intentions as I was later to discover, was to prepare me for study at the Mir Yeshiva, one of the most highly regarded of talmudic academies to which he had considered sending me probably to have me become a rabbi.

From cheder, I moved on to the Tachkemony school. This was an educational complex owned and run by the religious Zionist Mizrachi movement which had a wide network of other such schools throughout Poland. The Bialystok school had both a primary and a secondary division. The primary school, situated on the first floor, held to a normal structured curriculum with a substantial amount of Hebrew and religious studies integrated into its secular programme. In the higher school, which was on the ground floor, the curriculum was structured differently. Here, the learning day was divided into two almost equal halves. The morning was allocated exclusively to the study of Talmud; the afternoon hours were given over to a full secular curriculum attuned to meet the Polish gymnasium requirements. There were only four classes in the higher school. The last four years of high school had to be taken elsewhere. The grounds were spacious and the classes roomy. Lessons were conducted according to a timetable with a bell sounding every hour. The Talmud teachers, while patently religious men, wore modern dress and their beards were clipped. They fused their religious beliefs and observances with the Zionist ideology the school espoused. They were also professional teachers, although one had been a businessman in the provinces who had fallen on hard times and returned to teaching for a livelihood. The head of the school was a man called Maizel, a stern administrator, and both punctilious and idiosyncratic. As a rule, he did not teach Talmud himself, but substituted for any regular teacher who might have been away.

The progressive grading of talmudic studies from year to year was clearly noticeable. The degree of sophistication, the depths of argument entered into, the analyses of textual problems posed by the Talmud, and our responses to them also became progressively more complex, while our successive teachers were rabbis with increasing expertise.

Author at the age of 13, seated right.

In the afternoon given over to secular studies, we had a different teacher for an hour for each separate subject. Most of these were not particularly inspiring. There was, however, one exception. This was our teacher for Hebrew Literature, Aryeh Leib Fajans. He was the son of the Chief Rabbi of Bialystok and a man of encyclopaedic knowledge who could locate any given word anywhere, not only in the Bible but also in the Commentaries. I always looked forward to his classes. He would make Bialik and Tchernichowski come alive and render their poetry relevant to our everyday. He would also teach us Hebrew songs, singing in a sonorous voice which I found exciting and delighted in. In time he left for Palestine, where he later became a distinguished member of the Vaad Halashon, the National Institute for the Hebrew Language whose task was to update the ancient language to meet the requirements of a modern scientific and industrial age.

The student body consisted of many boys from the provinces. There was a kitchen annexe attached to the school that provided hot meals at reasonable prices for those who needed it. Soon after coming to the school, I noticed that some of these out-of-town boys did not go to the annexe for a meal. Watching them, I came after some enquiries to realise that they simply did not have the money to pay with. The kitchen manageress confirmed my suspicion. Accordingly, with the principal’s permission, I began collecting money from the other boys during recesses, walking about the playground with receipt book in hand. I gained student support and entered into an arrangement with the kitchen management whereby the disadvantaged boys would eat with everyone else without being made to feel uncomfortable about it.

The most memorable event of my years at the Tachkemony school was a visit by the poet Chaim Nachman Bialik in 1932 in Poland. Bialik was the living embodiment of Zionism. His poems had stirred two generations of Jews to a sense of national awareness. His presence in the flesh had a galvanising effect, particularly for boys raised in the spirit of his poetry. When he came, all students were gathered in the school’s synagogue. Our teacher Fajans’s welcoming address was full of emotion, his quotations from the poet’s “Al Saf Bet Hamedrash” (“On the Threshold of the House of Prayer”) so appropriate. Bialik’s round face broke into a smile of acknowledgement and appreciation and he then spoke to us, in a way we all understood. That experience was the major event in my life to that time and an inordinate privilege. His death in 1934 was a heavy blow to world Jewry.

My four years at the Tachkemony school gave me a solid grounding in Jewish knowledge through the study of Talmud and of Hebrew language and literature. Talmudic studies helped me to understand the fundamentals and origins of Hebrew and to become conversant also with the Aramaic that was so often intertwined in its text and its commentaries. What contributed to the earnestness with which we approached these studies were the country pupils who were generally older than those of the city and appreciative of the opportunity to acquire learning. Hence they were not inclined to waste their time and that mood transmitted itself to the rest of us.

On finishing at the Tachkemony school in 1934, it was almost taken for granted that I should proceed to the Hebrew gymnasium to complete my secondary education. To Father, it was the best of the available options even if it fell short of his ideal. While the other gymnasia used Polish as the language of instruction, which my parents saw as assimilationist and therefore unacceptable, the Hebrew gymnasium taught in Hebrew, it was strongly Zionist in orientation and religiously traditional. My sister Shifra had been a pupil at that school, so my parents knew what they could expect for me and my move there became a foregone conclusion. Further, it had a student population of 800; its laboratories were spacious; it had a doctor’s surgery and a gymnasium that, with its stage, doubled as a school hall.

For my part, I was particularly eager to attend the Hebrew gymnasium. Its religious and Zionist principles matched my own, its coeducational nature had a positive social value, while its standards of tuition were excellent, many of the teachers carrying doctorates in their respective teaching fields. Indeed, the very excellence of its standards caused me to lose a year. I should have entered into the fifth class, but Tachkemony graduates were accepted only into the fourth. Because of this, my sister and I found ourselves in the same year, but in different classes. The day I started, I was placed in a class where a lesson in Hebrew literature was proceeding under the outstanding teacher Moshe Zabludowski. He was a short rotund man with pink cheeks and clever piercing blue eyes. He sat me in the front row, gave me a pencil and paper and asked me to write on a given subject. I had scarcely completed the first sentence then he came back, glanced at the two lines I had written and said: enough. He had concluded his judgement from that one sentence. I never looked back after that, particularly in my Hebrew studies.

The student population ranged across a wide social spectrum, from well-to-do families through lower middle class to clearly poor children, even if these were in a minority. The gulf between the extremes was easily felt, and particularly by the poorer children. Being tall, I was seated at the back of the class with another tall boy who was, however, terribly thin, almost to the point of emaciation with a limp left hand without independent use. To hold his paper on the desk, he would raise the left hand with his right and place it in the required position. He was intelligent, taciturn and serious and ever mindful of his handicap. I made friendships with the other students, both boys and girls, and went to their homes, particularly sensitive to our differences in living standards as we were still in Kupiecka No. 7 at the time. Nevertheless, I integrated well and by year’s end was unanimously elected chairman of the class committee, something quite unexpected as I was still, in effect, a novice.

At the time, the division between humanities and sciences, with the right to choose between them, was unknown. Twelve subjects were taught and all were mandatory. My own predilections and skills had always tended to the humanities. Mathematics was not a strong subject of mine and became progressively more troublesome as I advanced through the school; similarly with physics, chemistry, and other sciences.

My second year at the school in 1935 coincided with a double celebration: the 800th anniversary of the birth of Maimonides and the completion of the first decade of the existence of the Hebrew University in Jerusalem. Our school honoured these events with a special function. In preparation, our teacher Zabludowski appointed a classmate of mine Moshe Porozowski to deliver a lecture on the Hebrew University and myself to speak on Maimonides. Of the two assignments, mine was the more difficult and laborious one. Teacher Zabludowski invited me to his home where he directed me to thick tomes on Maimonides and explained the extent of the research I should have to undertake. The task seemed beyond my years and capacity. Far better would it have been for a seventh-year student rather than a sixth-year one like myself to tackle the subject, allowing that the eighth-year matriculation class could not permit itself such sideshows. Book by book I worked on the subject and when Zabludowski looked through the material I had assembled, he told me to proceed with the writing of my lecture. This was my first attempt at scholarship and I approached it with considerable trepidation.

On the occasion of the celebration, the school hall was packed. My companion Moshe Porozowski and I sat on the stage, one on each side of the principal and surrounded by the other teachers. I was to be the first to speak and I dreaded the thought that I might not meet my teachers’ and others’ expectations. As it turned out, the evening proved successful; so much so that the next day my teacher suggested that if I was prepared to translate it from Hebrew into Yiddish, he would seek to have it serialised in the daily newspaper Unser Leben. I was alarmed by the suggestion, afraid of becoming exposed to the possible criticism of the entire community. Therefore, I did not proceed with the translation. Soon after, a series of articles about Maimonides did appear in the paper and I came to regret my timidity.

That public lecture, however, enhanced my reputation throughout the school among students and staff alike. This became clear in different ways. For instance, after one parent-teacher evening, Father returned home beaming in patent satisfaction, something particularly unusual for him. It had happened that my teacher Zabludowski, upon meeting Father in the corridor, had praised me with a compliment in the form of a Hebrew aphorism: “Such as he should multiply in Israel”. I had never seen Father, who ordinarily held tight rein on his emotions, so euphoric. For myself, unaccustomed to compliments and not knowing how to take this one, I was both pleased and embarrassed. Nonetheless, that compliment became a private treasure stored deep within my consciousness to be evoked whenever my fortunes took a downward turn.

That was the year in which we moved to our Kupiecka No. 19 home to take up a more normal private life. I now felt more at ease about inviting my peers to our home instead of my going repeatedly to theirs.

Year six saw a major change in the direction of the curriculum, with senior teachers now taking over a number of the subjects and setting a new tone to the studies overall. At that time, the mood among Jews was a downcast one. Hitler had come to power three years before and daily events made it clear that something potentially cataclysmic lay in store for us, though nobody could imagine its likely nature. One day, Dr Schepper who taught Polish history and geography entered the class without his customary books. Some event that had just taken place cast a deep pall upon us all and we could not concentrate on learning. Instead of a usual lesson, Dr Schepper chose to talk instead about the outlook for Polish Jews in the light of recent developments. His subject never touched on Jewish issues; I had often felt that he deliberately avoided them. Unlike many of the other teachers, he was not a Zionist and may have been the most assimilated member of staff. But on that occasion, he made compensation for all previous opportunities he had permitted to pass by. His despair on behalf of the Jewish people brought tears to his own eyes and left us in an abysmally depressed mood. Nothing in our earlier experience compared with this coming face to face with such a steep descent in our fortunes both as individual Jews and collectively. We had certainly learnt about the abnormality of Jewish existence in the lands of the dispersion. We understood the unhealthy structure of the social stratification that characterised Jewish society. We knew of the Jews’ sometimes precarious dependence upon the whim of the rulers and people in the countries in which they lived, such whim leading variously to discriminatory legislation, expulsions and pogroms. In the pogroms of Kishinev and Bialystok in 1903 and 1905, violence was confined to a given community at one particular time. But now, without precedent, there were mounting indications of a catastrophe about to befall Jewry on a continental scale where they were most populous in number. As I recall, that was the year Vladimir Jabotinsky pleaded with Polish Jewry that one million of their number should leave Poland without delay. He counted on the Polish government, out of self-interest, to facilitate such an exodus. The Bund excoriated him for as much proposing the idea, undermining as it did the very fundaments of its belief that there was a future for Jews in Poland. But gloom prevailed, and in the face of this, I found it hard, as a sixteen-year-old with a zest for living and a belief in the goodness of humanity, to square the seeming realities with my own ambitions, plans and dreams for the future. My studies overall progressed well; I was elected School Chairman of the student self-help committee; it was the year Father entered into partnership in the production of watoline and cotton wool.

During the following summer vacation we stayed home. I was encouraged by Father to help him in his new enterprise which I gladly did. He wanted someone to represent him while he himself was absent. He felt too that there was room for improvement and he charged me to look for weak spots in the running of the new business. It was not long before I learnt how disorganised and unreliable was the whole administrative operation, particularly in that buyers were being advised that orders could not be filled for lack of goods where those very items were in fact sitting on the shelves awaiting despatch. Father’s partner, did not possess the necessary competence to manage a business with the efficiency required and as the time drew near for me to return to school, Father discussed the factory with me and made it clear that he wanted me to forego my studies to take over its running which, if left to continue in the same way, would surely lead to the loss of his investment. I was distraught by this sudden turn of events, but in the end I conceded. He was placing a heavy burden upon my young shoulders but, against this, I could not take upon myself the responsibility, by denying him, for the failure of the business towards which it was in fact clearly heading.

When the school year resumed, my sister returned; I did not. We did not give the school notice. I simply was not there.

Starting out in the business, I involved myself immediately in all its activities, took over control of orders and deliveries, and very soon the enterprise took an upward turn. I became increasingly absorbed in the work and had virtually put out of mind my intentions to complete my schooling. It happened some six months after I had been with the factory that Father went to the school to settle my sister’s fees and while there he took the opportunity to visit a number of the teachers. One of them, having listened to Father’s explanation for my leaving school, became irate to the point of telling Father he had no right to deny me my education. Father became defensive, arguing that, while he could see that he may have been wrong in withdrawing me, the present situation had become a fact of life and that I had lost too much of the crucial seventh year to return to school so late. Whereupon the teacher replied that my standing at the school was good; that Father should simply send me back; and that the teachers would take over from that point. That evening, at home, Father was tense and ill at ease, but putting on his best face, he asked whether I would be interested in returning to school. I had thought the matter resolved long before and saw it as no longer pertinent. Father’s question came as a surprise and I raised the objection that I had already missed too much to resume now. But Father recounted the incident, reassured me about my credit at the school and left the decision to me. I faced a difficult choice. Certainly, on the one hand, I wanted to pursue further study; on the other, however, I would be at considerable disadvantage with a potentially detrimental effect on my final results, while in the business, I was playing a key role. If I turned my back on it, what might it cost the family?

In the end, it was Father himself who made my decision easier for me. He assured me that now that more systems had been established in running the business, he was more hopeful about its further prospects and that it would continue well without my presence. Free from this responsibility and weight upon my conscience, I opted for a return to school and did return the very next day to a warm reception from my friends.

The year proved a highly significant one for me. Inevitably, the seriousness with which the subjects were taught was at a still higher plane than in preceding years. But the lessons I most looked forward to were the fascinating ones of Dr Welger in world history, a highly regarded subject free of parochial limits covering the most important events in world history. We possessed appropriate Hebrew texts but Dr Welger dispensed with these, preferring to lecture, university-style, as we took notes throughout. He was by nature a rather phlegmatic man who spoke very slowly and in a monotone, but transcending these were the insights he offered into the socio-economic context of historic events that he taught about as distinct from a mere dry disjointed listing of dates, places and names to be committed to memory without logic or cohesiveness. One lesson I recall in particular was one on Adam Smith and his thesis about the basic laws of the market economy. By the end of the hour, I was affected less by the physical and mental exertions required to record and understand all he told us than by the realisation that we had reached a level of educational sophistication in which we were ready to see into the fundamentals of the workings of the world and have a tool with which to understand events of history past and present. I found that history was beginning to compete with literature for attention and immersion. I continued to savour the issues that emerged from Hebrew literature. Whether they were Bialik’s poems castigating his people for their other-worldliness and humbleness or praising them for their steadfastness to religious sources and observances as the means of their survival in dispersion, or Saul Tchemichowski’s iconoclastic poem “Opposite the Statue of Apollo” or his socialist-inspired aspirations for a better tomorrow, or the logic, clarity and subtlety of Ahad Ha’Am’s essays – I loved and identified with them all. But Dr Welger brought me to a different plane. I came to realise that there were issues of world dimension calling to be seen from universal perspectives, against which my earlier outlooks, so strongly Jewishly national, now appeared as considerably parochial. I felt increasingly drawn to issues and concerns of wider human interest which in no way contradicted or effaced, however, my earlier preoccupation with the Jewish problem. Indeed, Dr Welger’s lessons led me to understand the origins and forces that underlay that very problem.

I passed my seventh year creditably enough, though not as well as formerly, but my horizons had expanded, I felt more challenged, my curiosity had been stirred and I looked forward, after a holiday, to my last year at school, the crucial year eight with matriculation as its reward.

During those months in which I was at school in year seven catching up for time lost, Father’s business declined again. His partners had had financial interests and investments in other businesses as well, these collapsing and leading to their bankruptcy. The upshot of the matter was that this latest enterprise had to be terminated at the very time when Father wound up his knitting concern. The concurrence of these two events placed considerable strain upon Father who had a family of eight to support, with five of those eight being taught at private schools. He did, however, have one outlet. The partnership, short-lived as it was, had indicated that prospects for the production of watoline and cotton wool were still good. What he had to do was to gather together his resources and proceed independently.

That summer he disclosed to me his plans for re-establishing the business machinery bought from his partners in new premises that he had rented. But its future hinged on me again. The work of installing new machinery, setting production into motion, establishing a distribution network was beyond his capacity on his own. He also needed the experience that I had gained the preceding year.

This time, the situation was more serious still than it had been before and, though it hurt me to have to forego my last year of education, I could not in all conscience under the circumstances decline Father’s request. Accordingly, with my answer in the affirmative, we proceeded at high speed to execute his plan. Once again, when school resumed, my sister returned while I was fully immersed in the setting up of the new plant. The pace was feverish and everything fell progressively into place. Some six to seven weeks into the school year, however, Father received a call from the school seeking explanation why I had not returned. As before, Father explained the circumstances. The response from the other end of the phone was most direct, even aggressive: “How dare you do this to your son?” They were hard, bitter and challenging words that must have bitten deeply into Father’s already troubled conscience. He was distraught to be made to feel – by strangers, what’s more – that they cared more about his son’s education than he himself appeared to be. Again, we faced the dilemma we had wrestled with the previous year, but, with the pros and cons being this time even more acute, a resolution was commensurately harder to reach. Father remained uneasy for days. In the end, having most likely taken counsel from Mother, Bobe and perhaps his brother, he resolved to have me return to school, no matter the state of the embryonic business. I wavered, afraid that I might not succeed, having already lost a quarter of my eighth, and crucial, year. I harboured serious doubts. Father, encouraged by the school’s confidence in me, assuaged my doubts. Still I debated the issue, but when the die was cast and I returned, I threw myself into my studies with total frenzy. We were by then in the new apartment. My den became a self-imposed cell. Returning from school, I worked long hours each day until, slowly, surely, by the time the “100 days” – that is, 100 days before the final examination – came around to be marked by a traditional social celebration at school, I had gained abreast of the rest of the class and feeling confident.

The “100 days” celebration took the form of a dinner attended also by the principal and entire teaching staff of the matriculation year. It was an occasion with a dual aspect. On the one hand, it represented a moment for pause, for catching one’s breath, and for forgetting one’s worries and uncertainties; on the other, it was a moment for reflection that the most precious years of our lives were about to end. For most students, completion of gymnasium marked the realisation of their educational aims; few planned to proceed to university; even fewer would in fact get there. So the celebration was an occasion for farewelling our youth and the mood was one of tempered joy. A suitable address was delivered by Pinek Adler, our representative and older son of our Polish literature teacher, others also expressed sentiments appropriate to the occasion, while at supper I too gave an impromptu address, having been prevailed by a delegation of students to do so.

The examinations, when they came, consisted of three-hour written papers in six subjects and oral assessments in eleven. By the time the written examinations were over, I felt reasonably at ease over my effort. At the subsequent orals in the presence of a government educational representative, students were admitted into the examination hall in groups. My turn came at five o’clock in the afternoon; it was eleven at night by the time I finished. Hebrew and Bible were among the eleven subjects tested, but for these, non-governmental examiners were brought in. These subjects were endowed with special importance and candidates were generally tested by some outstanding personality. In 1936, the poet Saul Tchemichowski had been brought out from Palestine for the occasion.

In the event, I passed the examinations satisfactorily, though not brilliantly, and returned to the family fold and Father’s business which awaited me.

Matriculation class 1937; author bottom row right next to school building.

4

Living in the 1930s

My parents married in 1917, in the year of the Russian Revolution. I was conceived while the world was still at war and born four months after Armistice Day.

Nineteen-seventeen was a watershed year in both modern world history generally and in Jewish history more particularly. The consequences flowing from events of that year continue to this day.

Throughout the centuries, the Jewish condition was such that whenever history afforded an altered circumstance whereby Jews might better their lot, they were in the forefront of those who strove, laboured and argued for change. In the 16th and 17th centuries, they followed messiahs who proved to be false. Coming to question religiously conventional notions of messianism and redemption at the End of Days, the Jews of Western Europe later vested their hopes in the liberty, equality and fraternity promised by the French Revolution. In the 19th Century, they continued to follow every false start, and, in the process, threw away their lives at the altar of expected deliverance, only to see it undelivered, themselves the while being left, at best, unaccepted and remaining on the periphery of events.

In the East, on the other hand, in the Pale of Settlement along the western frontier of the Russian empire that was home to pogroms, poverty and degradation, the aspirations of the frustrated and increasingly secularised segments of Jewry found outlet in the thrust that led some ultimately to their identification with the reorientation of a society towards the Russian Revolution of 1917 and the creation of a Communist order. This was a momentous event in its own right for the world at large, and more specifically, for the Jew. It is scarcely to be wondered at that many who had been victims and scapegoats under the older order, and all the more so as that order was increasingly beset by internal rumblings of change fanned from the west, that they embraced the new with intense and committed ardour. The Jews had always had an over-abundance of dreamers; and given its history, it is not difficult to understand why. In my parents’ time, this was no different, and it was clear that the further the process of secularisation of life in general and Jewish life in particular progressed, the less were young Jews ready to wait for the messianic End of Days and believed it was their historical duty to unite their hopes with the hopes of the many invested in the establishment of any new order. The Revolution of 1917 seemed to promise such hopes to those who were prepared to believe in it.

The second event in 1917 that was to prove decisive in the history of Jewry’s modern-day deliverance was James Balfour’s letter to Lord Rothschild in which he expressed the British government’s position, viewing with favour the establishment of a homeland for the Jewish people in Palestine. This was balm to those Jews who did not accept the premise that emancipation of society at large would necessarily secure their own eventual deliverance. The Balfour Declaration spoke specifically to the Jews and was in full and sensitive accord with their own needs.

This declaration, rather than the Revolution, captured my parents’ imagination. Mother had been brought up in a Zionist spirit and nurtured on modern Hebrew literature that expressed hopes for the restoration of a Jewish nation. Father, who daily prayed for the coming of the Messiah, was sufficiently progressive to see no contradiction between that religious hope and the very practical terrestrial implications of the document. Here lay the basic difference between modern Zionism and age-old messianism. It was against this background that my parents married, together fusing their religious beliefs and their national aspirations which were to be my inheritance, as also of their other children.

The first ten years of my life coincided with extraordinary events which tempered my parents’ world. The attempts to overthrow the Bolsheviks who now governed Russia; the assault by the new Polish army upon Russia; the counter-strike by the “barefoot soldiers” reaching the very city of Warsaw; the incendiary situation in Germany culminating in the demise of the Weimar Republic and the collapse of the German Mark with their attendant economic and psychological effects – these formed a part of the background of my fledgling years. Added to these, the unsettled early years of newly-acquired Polish statehood could not but affect that generation. The Grabski era – so-named after the Polish Finance Minister at the time who introduced the spectre of the “Grabski wagon” that took away the last stick of furniture from tax-defaulters or the cow from the Polish peasant – also had far-reaching repercussions, to the extent that it fuelled Jewish emigration to all corners of the globe and which, in relation to those who went to Palestine, became known as the Grabski aliyah. This decade – 1919 to 1929 – culminated in the Crash which brought the Depression in its wake and, in a cascade of subsequent events, the Second World War another decade later.

If life for all was uncertain and unstable in the inter-war years, it was still more so for Polish Jewry. Anti-Semitism, historically indigenous to Europe, found particularly fertile ground in Poland where the Jewish population amounted to 10% following Poland’s independence in 1919. On the assumption that official and popular anti-Semitism may be directly proportional in intensity to the given numbers of Jews living in a society, then Polish anti-Semitism was “explicable”. What made the Jews a “problem” was their widespread distribution throughout the Polish state, but concentrated most predominantly in the cities.

When one reflects upon the individual and corporate psychology of Jews in Poland between the wars, one is struck by the ambivalence and total illogicality of the situation. In my own home town of Bialystok, for instance, whose population was overwhelmingly Jewish, a Polish child could nonetheless hold potential terror over me. He was liable without provocation to throw stones at me or at older folk, not needing to fear retaliation, for such was our mind-set as Jews that we were the ones who dreaded the possible consequences if were we to retaliate. Such a sense of vulnerability was so deep-rooted and endemic that Jews lived in constant suspense and uncertainty, and I, for one, used to be inwardly grateful that, when passing a Polish boy, no incident occurred. While the British image of a policeman is of one who can be relied upon to protect a citizen from harassment and the accepted wisdom of justice is that an individual is presumed innocent until proven guilty, Poland was from its inception a police state. The individual charged by a policeman was considered ipso facto guilty unless proven innocent. Where this prevailed as a general rule for Polish society, with regard to the Jews, whatever the circumstances objectively, the dictum was absolute: the Jew was always at fault. Anti-Semitism was as much integrated into government attitude, policy and legislation as it was a sentiment prevalent among the common people. At the very highest administrative levels, Polish deputies and functionaries used Jews as scapegoats for any number of social ills beyond their capacity either to ameliorate or eradicate. The Jewish press reflected these debates. Hostility abounded all around.

Little wonder then that, as Jews, we were already conditioned to fear the other – the police, the petty functionary, the state, the surrounding population – before our powers of reasoning had developed sufficiently to apply the tools of rational analysis to the situation. Such an outlook then became self-perpetuating, and there were no shortages of instances that would serve to reinforce these fears.

And yet the paradox was that, side by side with these ever-existing uncertainties, one could still live as a Jew in a homogeneous self-sustaining community that was capable of endowing the individual with the illusion of tranquillity. Such duality must have had a very deep psychological impact on the Jews beyond their own comprehension. Life had taught them to live simultaneously on two different levels, constantly trying to balance the two vastly disparate, seemingly irreconcilable, realities into a mental as well as physical accommodation.

Against this, to give the other side of the picture, the indigenous Pole was also party to a certain duality within his environment. He was Polish-born, Polish-bred, and the son of Polish parents in an independent Polish state. Yet when he walked out into the streets of Bialystok or Vilna or Brest, among many other towns, the majority of those he saw were unlike himself or his parents. Moreover, he was heir to stories taught at school, or in his church and often at home, these rendering him not particularly favourably disposed towards the Jew, let alone inclined to accept the reality as it was. He too thus became party to mistrust which, coupled with the observable facts of life around him, made the bridging of the gulf inevitably existing between Pole and Jew exceedingly unlikely. For what he saw was that the Jews were not the peasants and the Poles were not the traders, while whatever material progress and improved living standards were being made was in the cities, where expectations of self-betterment and of opportunity were most surely to be had, but whose dwellers were, in larger part, the Jews. In order that the Poles, too, should benefit from these improvements, the ruling classes sought a way not so much through transforming a largely impoverished, agrarian, backward and illiterate peasantry into an urban proletariat, as in opening up to their own Polish folk those economic activities till then historically assigned predominantly to the Jews. According to Polish logic, the first step towards the implementation of such a programme was to rid Poland of its Jews and have Poles occupy the vacated places. One slogan that made its appearance then was “Zydzi do Palestiny” (“Jews to Palestine”). Though it was only a slogan, for the 3 million Jews in Poland it marked a signal of intent, while at the same time it fired in the populace at large expectations of being inheritors of good fortune, thereby leading to excesses on both individual and organised levels. Instigated by those at the upper range of society, these notions trickled down to all levels, and the simpler and more unsophisticated were those who received them, the more naively did they hold to the hope of their immediate realisation, seeing themselves the while as the unchallenged beneficiaries of the anticipated change. Throughout the ‘twenties, therefore, tensions mounted, to which the Wall Street Crash of 1929 and the subsequent Depression, made another most telling contribution.

It was in this mood that Polish society entered the ‘thirties. Though the country was polarised within, it was united in its hatred of the Jews. Not even the professed brotherhood of socialism would bring the Jewish proletariat within the framework of the Polish Socialist Party (PPS). The unions found no room for them. Jews had to organise themselves into their own unions and fight their own class battles and strive for improved work conditions and wages on their own.

Then a new providential phenomenon came into being. In Germany, beyond Poland’s western border, Adolf Hitler caught the headlines. While the antics of his ragtag bands may have been at first shrugged off by the solid German middle class and been a mere sideshow to the rest of the world, to the Jews the new contingency looked different. The more Jewish shop windows the rabble in Germany smashed, the more newsworthy did they become and the more of an example did they set for others to follow. With the accession of Hitler to the position of Reichschancellor, anti-Semitism and its outward manifestations became, in neighbouring European countries, more “respectable” and therefore not beneath emulation. In Poland, politicians no longer had to camouflage their sentiments and intentions behind diplomatic double-talk about the Jewish problem. They could now permit themselves to be more open, more clear and more explicit. When the economic campaign against the Jews intensified, the operative word was owszem – “by all means” or “go ahead”. The government gave its formal blessing to wage open battle to remove the Jews from their economic positions. This included not only commercial positions, but also others that were means of advancement, such as the free professions and the universities where measures such as numerus clausus and numerus nullus were introduced into faculties like medicine, law and others which offered the highest potential for eventual status and financial reward. Only arts faculties remained unrestricted since they held no particularly attractive remunerative future for their graduates. Hence the Jews were still permitted entry into these in 1937. Meanwhile, the Polish government used what it saw as its good offices with the British government to permit a greater immigration of Jews into Mandatory Palestine, though the more desperately the Jews tried to get to Palestine, the more violent became the Arab reaction to those Jews who were already there.

The more bold and far-sighted among the Jews sought a way out. Usually, these were people who had little to lose by leaving. In the post-Depression years, no country was prepared to absorb immigrants in large numbers. Immigration quotas to the United States, for example, incurred delays of more than ten years for the many who wanted to enter. Where flight was achieved, it was on the basis of individual initiative. For the mass, however, the Evian Conference of 1938 was a true reflection of the general unwillingness of nations to accommodate more than token numbers of German Jewish refugees in the late 1930s. As for the millions of Polish Jews, they had no ready escape; they were quite literally trapped.

This was the general background against which my adolescence was played out. My generation sensed the dangers but could do little more than be constantly mindful of its progressive worsening. As there was no clear way out, young people my age went about their lives in a seemingly normal way. We played our games, dreamt our dreams, and continued to make private plans. We re-enacted the age-old human tendency to accommodate both hopelessness and cheerfulness simultaneously, not letting the prospect of doom rob us from one fleeting moment of joy or gratification. As the Romans had said: Carpe diem – we lived for the day.

From the Jewish viewpoint, in the circumstances prevailing in Europe in the ‘thirties, Zionism became the most logical and compelling solution. Whichever way one looked at the situation, there was little reason for wishing to continue living in a state of limbo such as we had been pushed into in Poland. But, this notwithstanding, the reality was that few found the courage to uproot themselves, while even those who did contemplate leaving found that the gates of Palestine were almost closed, only a trickle being permitted to enter. Those idealists, mostly single youngsters, who did resolve to leave, first had to undergo a process of physical, mental and emotional adjustment to the conditions and rigours they could expect to encounter in Palestine. Most of them came from the provinces; among them were many who felt that Poland held out little worthwhile prospect for them; while there were other particularly strong personalities – a number of personal friends among them – who mustered the self-discipline to leave their comfortable homes with the express aim of migrating to Palestine. To this end, chalutzic (pioneering) units were established. The members of these units lived on a communal basis, performed the most demanding and back-breaking jobs for minimal return, and huddled in primitive conditions, which were particularly severe in the long and bitter winter months. One could not but admire their single-minded commitment and determination and their readiness to forego the relative comforts of their homes.

For my part, I found myself undergoing an inner struggle. My home was Zionist. My secondary education, too, was gained in an environment profoundly Zionist in spirit and in orientation. The Hebrew literature on which I had been nurtured challenged me personally as it did my people collectively. I felt as if I were personally charged by Leib Yaffe, one of the leaders of Palestine Jewry who visited my school, to create a revolution in my home and persuade my parents, if they were not themselves ready to move to Palestine, then at least to let me go on my own. I was sixteen at the time. I knew that Yaffe stood on firm ground in advocating aliyah, but I also knew that my family circumstances were such that, in practice, such a departure for Palestine was unattainable for me. Hence, I was caught between two opposing forces and felt myself dangling in mid-air.

In addition to the oppressiveness of life inside Poland, the intending emigrant to Palestine had to surmount the difficulties imposed by Britain in administering the country. True, a number of Jews did get to Palestine. But this is no way implied any readiness by the British Mandatory authorities to permit easy access or acceptance into the country. British policy in 1930s Palestine reflected the sterility and harshness of a colonial empire unable to come to terms with its changing role and influence in the world. Its prime motivation being self-interest in the retention of whatever might it still had, Britain was unmoved by the needs of a people singled out for harassment and worse in the wake of a resurgent Germany under Hitler. The contempt with which Hitler treated the world, the occupation of Austria, the frenzied arms build-up, the German demand for the return of the port of Danzig by Poland, and Hitler’s incessant harangues against Poland grew shriller by the month. And yet, Poland itself, German’s immediate neighbour to the east and clearly under notice, found it difficult to concentrate on such “mundane” matters. Its national parliament had more important and pressing issues to debate, one of which was ritual kosher killing of animals by its Jewish population. Absurd as it was, the mind of Poland could not concentrate on ways to resist Hitler; it was too concerned with fighting Jews.

In June 1937, I completed my secondary education and returned to my father’s factory. During my matriculation year, Father had managed as best he could alone, even though the work was truly beyond the capacity of one man. He had refused to employ extra hands before I came back. When I did come back, I was eighteen, I was familiar with the manufacturing process and privy to certain production secrets, and I was willing to throw myself into the work with full enthusiasm and with keenness to prove myself. There was plenty to do.

One of the trade secrets I learned in the production of watoline was the choice of raw materials for the composition of the yarn we spun. The products differed in quality, distinguished by the degree of softness and height of pile they yielded after their final brushing. The trick was to so create a mixture of waste components to achieve the best results at least cost. Father taught me the kinds and proportions of serge and woollen wastes to use in preparation for the spinning, and when he left the supervision of the process to me, I began to experiment with different ingredients myself with satisfactory results. One particular yarn resulting from a combination of materials I had devised was so pleasing that Father, inspecting the first roll to come off the machine, not knowing the while that I had been experimenting with raw-stuffs, turned to me and said with patent satisfaction, “You see, I was right in my choice of raw materials and proportions”. “Yes, Father” was all I could say. I dared not reveal the truth. Had he known it, he may well have praised me for grasping the intricacies of the trade so well, but I lacked the courage to let on I had acted contrary to his own specifications. From then on, however, I did contribute to discussions relating to combinations of materials and at times Father accepted the “risk” of testing out my suggestions.

Ours being a relatively new industry, we had to battle to gain a foothold in the market and this required ingenuity as well as risk in permitting credit to buyers. This was the most difficult and unpredictable part of the business, for the entire distribution system was based on credit supported by promissory notes. The true or effective value of those promissory notes equalled only what the buyer could afford to pay, even though it was legally underwritten by everything he possessed; and one major problem was that many of the shop-keepers to whom our sales agents sold the goods possessed very little indeed. This was an aspect of the business that disturbed me greatly, not only because of the losses we sustained through dealing with less than credit-worthy buyers, but because it made me confront certain formerly unknown or unexperienced realities.

By the end of my first uninterrupted season in the factory, a very considerable number of promissory notes returned dishonoured. Father suggested I tour about the country to reclaim whatever could be salvaged. So it happened that I came to see Jewish life as it was lived in the many scattered townships of the Polish eastern hinterland, and what I saw was a very sorry picture indeed. The poverty and forlornness that I encountered in my dealings with the predominantly chassidic people were heartbreaking. Little half-empty shops were strung along the streets; their merchandise was laid out in such ways as to conceal to best effect the essential barrenness of the shelves; the shopkeepers, on the whole pale and drawn, waited behind counters for customers to cross their thresholds, something that occurred not particularly often. These people, I realised, could only subsist on credit, there being no way, short of miracles, for them to redeem the promissory notes. I saw for the first time – and to my distress – how fragile human existence was and how bitter the daily struggle for survival of those Jews could be. Even this ‘fortune’ the Poles were also intent on taking from the country’s Jews. By the time I returned from that trip, our financial situation had not greatly improved, but I was cast into deeper personal misery. What I had seen haunted me and robbed me of my peace. I felt myself too young, too soft and too vulnerable for the task, and it was in this frame of mind that I decided upon a return to study, persisting with my wish until Father let drop whatever resistance he put up and agreed to my enrolment in the university in Warsaw.

Pre-War Warsaw was a beautiful city by any European standards. Its population was not more than one million, but its streets, buildings, parks and shops were a delight.

The university stood in one of the most exclusive parts of the city and one entered into it through an iron gate, adorned with a symbolism peculiar to the institute. To be educated there, even as late as 1938, was still something rare. The university was blatantly elitist both in spirit and in essence; the medieval system of fraternities still prevailed, with students wearing caps which denoted their own particular fraternity; while it was also the centre of Polish nationalism and, with regard to Jews, it had long been a crucible of anti-Semitism. In the ‘thirties, as already mentioned, Jews were excluded from the faculties of medicine and law; they were also particularly liable to physical assault, knuckle-dusters being very much in vogue at the time. The very looks of some of the students were often enough to thwart any wish to attend, while, walking through the campus grounds, I found myself often almost waiting to be struck, such was my apprehension of the place.

This notwithstanding, I did feel a near-magnetic attraction towards it. I had no true notion of what it was I wanted to study; I simply wanted to learn and to know, and, in a hazy way, I wanted also to belong. I certainly had no thought-out plan, though my choice of history as my major subject did tell something of my predilection. So did I enter the University of Warsaw at 19, drawn to learning for its own sake, even as I feared walking through it. In completing the application forms, I had to state the language I used at home. In truth, I should have written Yiddish; instead, I wrote Hebrew. This was my personal statement of defiance as a deliberate counter to the nationalistic intent of the question. Not that the authorities needed to know my spoken language to identify me. My name, Israel-Chaim, told them all that was necessary. However, the application form required details of nationality and religion, for in Poland, Jews were regarded as much a nationality as Ukrainians, Lithuanians, Germans and others, even if their citizenship was Polish. With my acceptance into the university, I received a number of documents, the main one of which was called an Index. It was a thin hard-cover booklet which the subject lecturer had to sign testifying to a minimum number of attendances at lectures by the students. As I opened that booklet, I found on the first page a photograph of myself beneath which a rubber-stamp imprint informed me that I was to sit exclusively on the left side of the lecture hall. I looked at the imprint with incredulity and dismay. I had known that segregation existed in university lecture theatres, this being because Polish students did not wish to sit in close proximity to Jewish ones. Till then, however, I had viewed this as an unwritten convention. But seeing the official directive in black on white what was in effect my first passport, I was hit hard and walked away dejected, wondering whether attendance at the university was worth the indignity incurred, let alone the potential physical danger entailed. In the event, the deeper the hurt penetrated, the stronger became my resolve not to yield to such deliberate insult. Though not free of ambivalence which was to dog me throughout my stay at the university, I resolved to go ahead with my course. I found board with a Chassidic family and tried to settle into the unfamiliar environment of big city life and student lifestyle. I remained, overall, alone and friendless. Two former schoolmates had also enrolled, but I was not particularly drawn to them.

Four particular episodes remain with me clearly to this day.

One was a certain lecture I attended. The lecture hall was on the first floor, the staircase was narrow. As I walked into the hall, I saw Jewish students in the back taking notes in a standing position as they often did. Not giving the matter a second thought I took a seat on the right side of the hall. Looks like daggers were continually being directed at me, so that I could barely concentrate. When the lecture was over I went quickly with others to the lecturer’s stand to collect my index book. As I waited, another Jewish student warned me of a gang waiting for me at the head of the narrow staircase. There was no other exit from that place. I decided to wait until all other students had secured the lecturer’s signature and answers to questions that had occurred to them, and then, when I was on my own, to engage him in discussion relating to the lecture he had just given. To my salvation, he was in no hurry and was quite amiable and ready to talk, and the more ready he was to talk, the more questions did I pose. We must have been together for some considerable time for in due course the sounds outside the lecture hall abated and when we left, the two of us together, I saw to my relief that my would-be assailants must have dispersed. I hurried down the stairs and in the direction of the gates, looking back only when I was outside. I had been lucky, even if dare-devilishly foolish.

On another occasion, I had to obtain a signature from a professor in the Law Department. Jews were not permitted to enter that sacrosanct place and other Jewish students obtained the required signature by giving their index books and fee to the orderly at the entrance of the building and collect it later. Being incorrigibly reckless, I decided to do it my way, and as other students streamed into the lecture hall there, I entered in their company. The orderly did not see me. The building was a modern one with a large tiered lecture hall that was packed. What held my attention far more than the lecture throughout the hour that I sat there were the diverse people sitting there – middle-aged and even elderly men, military men of high ranking, nuns and most elegant-looking men. At lecture’s end, I collected my book from the professor and made for the exit. This time, the orderly did spot me and seemed to hesitate over what he should do. During that moment of indecision on his part I walked from the building with measured step, doing nothing to draw attention to myself for the offence I had just committed. Once again I was lucky.

The other two recollections of that time uppermost in my memory were unconnected with the university.

One evening, in the company with two others, I attended the opera. The opera being performed was the Polish work “Halka” and we decided to see it. The only tickets we could afford were in the “gods”, located on the fifth floor of the magnificent Warsaw Opera House. Unused to such splendour, we felt the need to stop and admire the huge glittering crystal chandeliers, the columns and the wide and sweeping staircase. The interior, meanwhile, was classical in design and decor; the gilded walls, the elegantly dressed people and the atmosphere of excited expectation reached us at the very summit. Just before us sat an elderly poorly-dressed man. He was heavily built, wore rimmed glasses and had a stand in front of him. At first, we paid scant attention to him, but as the lights dimmed, a hooded light came on over this man’s stand on which the full score of the opera was laid out. For the duration of the opera I watched him as much as I did the performance on the stage. I was fascinated. The man followed the score conducting the music to himself, clearly absorbed and oblivious to everything else around him in a state that was patently for him a spiritual experience. I learnt from the door attendant that he was a shoemaker and opera buff. As far as I was concerned, that old man stole the show.

The fourth incident revolved around a decision we – I and a few friends – made to have a night on the town. We went to an entertainment hall where music and dancing were to be had. The hall sat 2000 people and was packed. To enter, one was obliged to buy at least a glass of wine which cost 5 zloty, then the equivalent of one dollar and an extravagance on a student budget. The mood there was one of relaxation and merriment. When the band struck up its number, the huge dance-floor became crowded with couples dancing the tango which was so popular at the time. The longer I sat there, however, the more morose I became. I could not fathom how people could indulge in what seemed to me to be such mindless frivolity. Images of poverty and misery and of the more bitter realities of existence beyond those walls came to me and filled me with shame and remorse that I should be sitting there having spent five zlotys which could have been better spent on such who truly needed it to feed themselves. I proved thoroughly miserable the whole evening, my friends unable to understand why I was so withdrawn. They clearly did not feel the way I did and, for my part, I did not elaborate.

At the university, cadetship towards officer training was a compulsory duty. The military commission of inspection sat at the walled fortress of the Paviak where we were required to present ourselves for medical examinations. Among the questions asked was one relating to known physical disabilities or past illnesses. All Jewish boys answered the question in the negative, fully aware that as far as they were concerned the whole procedure was a sham, for no Jewish student was admitted into the officers’ corps.

The one lighter aspect connected with my Warsaw days was my assignment from Father to visit his customers in that city from time to time. Entering the hub of the Jewish business district of Nalewki, I found myself among Chassidic Jews who would rib me with “Litwak, red Yiddish” (“Litvak, speak Yiddish”), the word “Litwak” denoting that I was from eastern Poland, that I was not a Chassid and that my Yiddish was not authentic Yiddish, in other words not theirs, so different was it in intonation, inflection and accent. Such banter and mock-derisiveness had a constant good-naturedness about it and produced a considerable amount of laughter with it.

But the predominant reality with which I lived centred around the university which, with its stigmatising and restrictions, weighed darkly and heavily upon me. My much sought-after learning for learning’s sake was tempered by a distaste for attending lectures caused by the insolence and the constant fear that attended me on campus. The learning I pursued had no practical application beyond itself, while, against this, I knew of the difficulties my absence from the factory meant for Father and the business. In addition, the general political situation was deteriorating, bringing with it increasing certainty that war was approaching. And yet the city of Warsaw laboured under a spectre of unreality, its council undertaking in 1938 a city beautification process with property-owners being compelled by decree to spend vast sums on whitewashing walls and improving their properties so that when the bombs started to fall, the city should look its best. True as it was extraordinary, during the first half of 1939, Warsaw took on a greatly improved appearance.

For a 19-year-old to make sense of such contradictions was very confusing. In those days, teenagers were not yet convinced that they knew better than their elders; respect for age and greater experience still counted for something. And yet how was that teenager to reconcile the two realities which, juxtaposed, constituted an absurdity: the whitewashing of Warsaw to beautify it at the very moment when war was in the offing through the defiant stand of the Commander-in-Chief of the Polish armed forces in telling Germany that not only would Danzig not be returned but also “not as much as a button”?

After some six to eight weeks in Warsaw, unable to endure the place anymore, I packed my bags and returned home. Perhaps in letting me go in the first place, Father had gambled on this. Whatever the reason, he had proved judicious. I could thereby bear him no grudge for denying me a most coveted opportunity while I was now able to get the university out of my system, even though I resolved that this in no way marked forever the end of my studies.

The situation at home was as it had always been. My three younger brothers attended school, my sister Shifra was enjoying a post-school freedom and social life. Young men had begun visiting our home, all of whom I had known from the gymnasium. We discussed the political situation with detached sobriety in ways that were enlightening and intellectually satisfying. And truth was that there was plenty to discuss. Europe was visibly hurtling down into the abyss with accelerating speed. The protracted and inconclusive Anglo-Russian negotiations were the enigma of the time. Everyone tried to place a different interpretation to its purpose and its potential contribution to the aborting of the oncoming disaster. In Europe, people talked politics in the way the British talked cricket. To some extent, the intensity with which we engaged in discussion served as an escape through intellectualism and rationalisation from the reality which was becoming increasingly dire.

A certain unreality also asserted itself in the conduct of our business. The purchase of raw materials had to be planned well ahead of actual requirements. Commitments were therefore entered into with contracts signed for Indian raw cotton, Dutch secondhand socks and British serge, and long-term credit, risky at any time, extended, all on the assumption that the rhythm of life was to proceed as it had always done, undisturbed. There was a Kafkaesque aura about our existence. But we had to carry on regardless, for none could anticipate with any certainty when and how the final “crunch” would come.

With the threat of war that hung over Poland, the ill-fated diplomatic mission of the British Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain and American isolation, the intensity of the Jewish drama deepened. In the face of the almost universal refusal by national governments to admit German Jewish refugees, the only legitimate recourse for these was Palestine. But successive Conservative British governments through their Mandatory jurisdiction over it remained unmoved by the Jewish plight. Indeed, home policy conspicuously hardened with the most clearcut evidence of it manifested through its White Paper of 1939 effectively closing Palestine off to Jewish immigration. The desperation and bitterness of Jews at this patent expression of cynicism and hard-heartedness bit deep, all the more acutely as, unlike traditionally anti-Semitic Poland, Britain was reputedly liberal, enlightened and fair. Its behaviour now belied its reputation and stirred in Jewish minds the suspicion of a world conspiracy being forged against the Jews, with the arch-instigator being Adolf Hitler.

Winter 1939 came and passed and in its wake there was left a tide of dishonoured promissory notes. Financially, this was alarming and I found myself travelling once more through the backwaters of eastern Poland carrying a large briefcase with defaulted promissory notes. My journey coincided with the rape of Czechoslovakia and Chamberlain’s ensuing trip culminating in his seemingly triumphal return to England. The newspapers carried what was to become an historic picture showing Chamberlain alighting from his aircraft with an umbrella in one hand and waving a slip of paper with the other. I was stunned into disbelief. When shortly after the Molotov-Ribbentrop agreement was announced, no room was left for illusion. Germany had secured for themselves untrammelled freedom of action in Poland with the end result being to carve up the country for itself and its new-found ally in Russia.

The die was cast. On a bright August morning, I saw at the train-station of Siedlce the first batch of conscripted youths being farewelled by their parents, this same scene being re-enacted at every station I passed. Returning to Bialystok, I saw details of civilians carrying spades on their shoulders to dig defensive trenches.

In due course, war, as anticipated, came. That first day of northern autumn, September 1939, was a fine and clear one in Bialystok. The day before, heavy troop concentrations on the Polish-German border had been reported. At 4.30 a.m., they crossed into Poland. By the time we rose that day, the war was two hours old. Ours was a bizarre feeling. Though we had prepared for war for so long, when it came we were at a loss as to how we should act. Nothing could be the same again, and yet for the moment everything around us seemed to be continuing normally, except that people everywhere clustered around radios to listen to official government communiqués even as they knew that these had to be taken with certain reserve. At 9.00 a.m. precisely, the city’s sirens began wailing. Shortly after, standing in the courtyard of our home, we saw the first aeroplanes flying overhead in the direction of the railway station followed by explosions that shattered the quiet. Every fresh explosion struck terror into us. It took time to become accustomed to the sound, while with every bomb we saw released from the aeroplane carriage, we could not but ask whether any of them were meant for us. That first raid did not last long. Kupiecka Street was not part of the German itinerary that morning. Their brief was to demolish railway junctions, disrupt communications, and destroy certain stores.

When the all-clear was sounded, certain duties became clearly apparent. We took to sticking strips of paper across windows to save them from shattering and covered them further to ensure total nocturnal blackout. Food was bought and stocked, while at a neighbourhood civil defence meeting which I attended, arm-bands were distributed and duties allocated. These consisted primarily of night-guard duty with special attention being given to inadequately covered windows. With the descent of night, an eerie feeling enveloped the city. To walk in darkness under normal circumstances was a haunting experience; to do so in a state of heightened tension caused the imagination to run to fear.

On the first day of the war, news was scanty. Rumour-mongering had not yet had time to crank its motors. The only thing that interested us now was: how would Britain respond? The news over radio told of the British Cabinet sitting in urgent session and we expected important news to be issued very soon. And indeed, by the end of the second day, Britain declared war on Germany. That announcement proved energising. In our eyes, Great Britain was still an empire, a mighty power, and we were ready to credit her with the strength and capacity to assert her will in a way that befitted an empire. Surely Poland would now find the resolve to be a match for Germany.

On the third day of the war, it was announced that the Chief of the British General Staff, General Ironside, was coming forthwith to Poland to consult with the Polish government. There was muted jubilation. Such a visit, undertaken so quickly, must have meant the imminent infusion of requisite military materials. We knew by then that Germany was advancing with a wall of tanks that destroyed everything in its path, while the Polish army had pitted its magnificent cavalry to meet the onslaught. The disequilibrium was patently obvious, but if one were to add a British commitment to help, then Poland would attain to a position to resist. The Polish army was “regrouping”; so was the nation told.

In the meantime, a new development took place in Bialystok. Jews from the western borders of Poland reached our city as refugees. First they were a trickle; then they swelled to a flood. Families could be seen on the pavements, dejected, homeless. The month being September, the days and nights were becoming cooler. It struck the residents of Bialystok that they had neither the time nor the luxury to feel sorry for themselves. Into their midst had come Jews whose needs were greater than their own. Within two weeks of the beginning of the war, Jewish Bialystok had tripled in number. These added folk had to be sheltered and fed, but to do so effectively was beyond the official Kehilla’s capacity to cope. Every family had to contribute to this necessary effort.

Into our own home we welcomed first a rabbi and his wife and daughter, who lodged in the den; then another family called Liberman with two children. Mother and Bobe took to working full-time in the kitchen preparing warm food for such as needed it. Towards evening, Father would have me scour the streets for Jews needing shelter. More often than not, I would return with such needy in tow. My own bed was given to them; like my brothers, I slept often on the floor. The acute 200% increase in population placed greatest stress on the availability of food. The number of bakeries were too few to cope with the added demand and that basic commodity, bread, became scarce. To obtain a loaf, I would nightly rise between two and three, and join the long extending queue in the cold outside the bakery until I could be served. I did not miss a night.

By the second week of the war, Poland’s position had wholly collapsed. Its defences had crumbled, its bigger cities were encircled and the German army drove on relentlessly. Confusion and disarray spread all around. Fresh attempted call-ups of young men came to nothing; the opposing forces were so disproportionate in equipment, might and morale that Poland was utterly unable to overcome the Germans let alone contain them in their advance. No amount of Polish heroism could stem the tide of iron and fire. Within two weeks, Germany occupied Bialystok intact. It took its army a day to take charge of the town. There was no fighting there and orders were given for shops and businesses to continue operating. Meanwhile, the Russian army crossed the eastern border in a westward advance across Poland. That a division between the two powers had been agreed upon was clear, though less so was the actual demarcation line.

The uncertainty of the preceding two weeks turned into a reality to which swift adjustment was required. On the second day of the occupation, Father received a summons from the Chamber of Manufacturers to attend a meeting there by order of the German military. He went. The meeting was brief. Manufacturers were ordered to continue production in their factories; the Polish National Bank would stand ready to provide such credit as was required; a body was established to co-ordinate and supply the raw materials necessary for continued manufacture. Each man’s position and obligations were made clear at that meeting as also the penalties that were to be incurred for disobedience.

While we were amazed at the efficiency with which the German authorities took over the town and set about organising its life, which had over the preceding fortnight lapsed into chaos, such promptness was not without its reasons. The restoration of seeming normality was one thing, but more important was the fact that Bialystok industry constituted a vital contribution to the German war economy and military machine. The cloth produced in Bialystok was the very material the German army used for its uniforms, hence the question of likely customer did not arise. So within 48 hours, Bialystok returned to order and calm of a sort, however temporary this was expected to be. People went about their business, minding their own affairs, trying above all to be inconspicuous. German soldiers walked where earlier Polish soldiers had walked. They looked well-fed, well-dressed and were temperate in their behaviour, and their officers bore the satisfied look of victory as they paraded along Lipowa and Sienkiewicza Streets.

On the eleventh day of the occupation, the Russians reached the outskirts of Bialystok from the east and stopped there. A new uncertainty fell upon the town, for it transpired that according to the German-Soviet agreement, the German army had not been meant to take Bialystok in the first place. The pact had stipulated that it was to go to the Russians. According to rumours, military delegations representing the two sides met outside the town where maps were unfolded and argument ensued. In the event, the Russians remained adamant about their rights; the Germans relented, whereupon with the same efficiency they had manifested in establishing their hold upon the town, they relinquished it and withdrew westward. On their departure, the centre of town filled with people, the interregnum being marked by a sudden lifting of tension and accession of clear relief. But almost immediately, red banners began to appear on prominent buildings in Sienkiewicza Street. Soon after, a small detachment of Red Army soldiers entered the centre of town looking sloppy and battle-weary. A number of people greeted them effusively. A new era seemed to be ushered into Bialystok which within a mere four weeks was host to three successive authorities so disparate in culture, political doctrine and structure.

The transformation of society under Russian rule as also the nature and efficiency of its administration were in total contrast to those which had prevailed under the German occupiers. The first act of the Russians was to release the jail’s prisoners, many of whom had been Communist activists. Further, unlike the Germans who had governed by decree imposed from above and relied on its military to implement those decrees, the Russians established a leadership from within the society they had taken over, installing as leaders such people who showed allegiance and readiness to take the reins, notwithstanding their experience or lack of it in administration. Contrary to the German way, there was no-one to dictate to the people what to do or not to do, whether to keep factories open or not, or if they were to keep them open, then how to go about their work. In our own factory, the workers came as always, but their disposition was now different. They were unhurried and more ready to smile. They looked upon Father and myself differently. Our ownership of the factory was not challenged, but we had taken on a different mien in their perceptions.

Another change, too, became evident. With the German authorities gone, the most potent market forces operative were those dictated by the capacity of the local inhabitants to buy. And what was remarkable was the fact that people in great numbers came to buy. Some had been previous customers; others were total strangers. There was a rush on our products; before long, our stocks were depleted, even when the items were not for immediate use. Nor did the buyers ask for credit. Everyone suddenly came forth with ready cash, with Polish currency and Russian Tchervontsy mingling in the same money-bags.

Two factors contributed to that enhanced business activity. First, the people knew the state of affairs in the Soviet Union concerning the availability of goods; hence the possession of any commodity for re-sale or exchange was a decided asset. And second, the Russian soldiers themselves had an intense thirst for acquisition, whatever the goods.

Chasiki (watches) were the most sought-after items, but even these aside, they simply mobbed the shops. Story had it that one soldier stumbled upon a shop selling prayer books and other religious artefacts. Taking a fancy to a prayer-shawl, he determined it would make a fine dress for his wife. His friends were so impressed with the idea that the shopkeeper sold his full stock of prayer-shawls in quick time.

In the short term, then, Bialystok was not dependent on outside markets. Whatever it produced it sold. Goods became available at a premium, activity boomed, and for such manufacturers and traders as my own father who but a few months before was compelled to conduct business on most chancy credit arrangements, the change was welcome. In the excitement, it was easy to overlook the reality that had brought it all about and not take pause to reflect whether the money one gained was worth anything at all, or whether one would be permitted to keep it. I was not caught up by the same fever that had come to possess Father, and viewing with detachment his seeming accession to good fortune, I begged him to stop and ponder over the situation, asking him particularly whether he really believed that the Russians had come simply to make him rich and whether the paper money he hid in a suitcase under his bed truly represented any real security. He was impervious to my appeals. He was caught up in the same frenzy as others were.

Soon after, rumours began to circulate that Vilna to the north-east of Bialystok which Poland had taken twenty years before was to be returned by the Russians to Lithuania. In 1939, the small state of Lithuania, as also its other two neighbouring Baltic states of Latvia and Estonia, was independent. Although prudence should have warned me that I ought not bank on Lithuania’s continuing independence, to move there represented a legal way of escaping Russia’s immediate jurisdiction. My intuition dictated that I ought not become too involved in the business activity that had so overtaken Father. I recognised its success as ephemeral and as carrying the danger of infatuation with a potentially sorry delusion. Unlike Father, I had not lived through any war myself, but I could not but believe that if escape from the arena of actual or future war was possible, the seizing of such opportunity ought not to be passed up. If under the circumstances anything mattered, it was survival pure and simple. And in the hold of this conviction, I resolved to exploit the legal opportunity that still offered and move to Vilna.

Father resisted the idea. His arguments were two-pronged. He questioned my rationale for leaving town in the first place. If it stemmed from my involvement with manufacturing, I had only to look at other manufacturers, more established and prosperous than he, who were scarcely showing signs of fleeing. If they were not afraid of remaining, what could possibly justify my own fears? Where lay the logic in my own flight? If, on the other hand, it was the knowledge of my Zionist involvement that rendered me vulnerable, once again where lay the logic in flight when such other Zionist leaders as Klementenowski, Nochimovski and others were also remaining? On the face of it he was right. The facts he cited were beyond dispute. I could only answer that he was being as short-sighted as those he cited. I saw things differently. I felt that the people around me were in the hold of a grand delusion.

A sixth sense, as it were, urged me to leave. Against Father’s pleas, I packed a few personal belongings and made my way to the station to catch the night train to Vilna. I bought a ticket without difficulty and walked on to the platform. The train stood in total darkness. There were scarcely any passengers about on the platform. Every door I tried to open was either already locked from the inside or every carriage so packed that no further space was left. I realised my error. Those passengers who had managed to secure their place had clearly known better than to reach the station so close to departure time. They had obviously come much earlier in the day to be sure of getting away. I had left my own decision to leave till late in the day.

Pacing along the platform, I grew more forlorn. Only minutes remained before the train was scheduled to leave. Coming upon one carriage door, I acted in a swift and dare-devil flurry of desperation. I pulled at the door with all the force I could muster, ostensibly oblivious to every protest from other passengers that arose around me, and secured a foothold in the carriage, caught hold of an overhead rail and thrust my pack on to the baggage-rack above me, shutting the door behind me, its handle protruding into my ribs. I was inside at least, even if I was standing on one foot, there being no room on the floor for the other. And then the train moved off. The darkness was total and the silence complete.

The journey took eight hours. I was inclined to believe that most other passengers on the train had left for much the same reasons as myself, and that they too might be subject to the same reflections that were possessing me. For in the midst of that prevailing silence I had ample time to consider the step I had taken with the possible consequences that might ensue. I had been accustomed to travel, to being away from home and to adapting to whatever modest conveniences provincial townships could offer. This move, however, was wholly different. It was unprecedented. I had quite consciously set out upon a course that, unlike earlier ones, could not be predictably charted. No ready wisdom would help here in the planning of each successive step. I was apprehensive, to be sure, but what saved me from depression was the belief, or intuition, that I would still, in time, see my family again. I had left Bialystok, but not Poland. With Vilna still legally a part of that country, I was still close enough to home not to have to feel a final, complete and irrecoverable separation.

I knew Vilna from my previous business trips there, and had an address where I could stay. We had an agent in the town and Father must have found a way of notifying him of my coming, for he obviously expected me. He was at the time housing another refugee, a middle-aged man from Warsaw, with whom I shared a room. Our agent must have welcomed my coming for, not being a man with means, the money I paid for board appeared certainly to have been of use to him and his wife.

I learnt of the presence in Vilna of several of my former classmates and I made contact with them. We spent considerable time together, there being little of especial interest in that city to divert us. One of these friends was Moshe Porozowski with whom I had been particularly close at high school and who had delivered the oration on the Hebrew University when I had spoken on Maimonides. One day he took ill with high fever. I suspected he probably had pneumonia and there was one night on which I feared he might not survive. I sat with him throughout that night, sponging him repeatedly to lower his fever and, indeed, by the following morning his temperature had fallen. He had passed through the crisis that night. When his parents learned of his illness, they came from Bialystok to visit him. They stayed a short time before returning, Moshe being sufficiently recovered by then to farewell them at the station. I believe that was the last time he saw them.

Vilna was an old university town and I elected to enrol there. Although I knew that my study there would be of only short duration, it would at least provide me with a tangible interest and help to fill my days. I had brought my Warsaw papers with me and had no difficulties in enrolling. One lecture I attended was on nature study, a subject which held no strong interest for me. Nevertheless the hall was packed and I found myself entranced both by the lecturer’s oratorial abilities and by the way he presented his subject. His was a symphony of words. He could not have been more than in his early thirties, but through his clear brilliance he stirred out of dormancy my earlier appetite for learning.

One Tuesday morning I was on my way to the university. The streets were peculiarly empty. Shops were closed, there was little movement of any sort. I had heard nothing till then to prepare me for any change, other than a rumour that the Lithuanian authorities were to take over formal possession of Vilna any day. The reason the rumour had not been actualised, according to some humorists, was that during daytime the Lithuanian army was too ashamed to come, and during night too afraid. I spent half a day at the university, having seen nothing untoward in that time, and by midday I was ready to return home.

As I came out of the campus grounds, I saw a large gathering in the open space before the gates. Before I knew what to make of it, I caught the word “Zyd” (“Jew”) being shouted and saw fingers being pointed at me. I became immediately surrounded, beaten to the ground and kicked repeatedly until a policeman appeared on the scene. By then I was bleeding profusely from the nose; my face was a congested pulp; my eyes were half-closed from swelling. The officer escorted me to a gate opening out on a courtyard where he took down my name and address and accused me of disturbing the peace, threatening the while to take me to the police station. In the end, he departed, leaving me alone. The caretaker’s wife who had opened the gate for us took pity on me and gave me water to wash away the blood and cool compresses to reduce the swelling and heat in my battered face. I was in no hurry to leave the courtyard. I could not see through the closed gates the size of the crowd outside; I only knew that the longer I delayed, the safer would I be. By the time I took leave of the caretaker and his wife who had proven themselves most decent folk, the streets were empty again.

My landlady nearly collapsed when she saw me. I learned then that I had been the victim of a pogrom on what was to become known as Black Tuesday. The anger of the Poles in Vilna had been steadily mounting in the wake of the declaration that their town would be ceded to Lithuania, for they stood to lose doubly from the transfer. First, they were to lose their independence as Poles and, second, they were to lose their elitist status to which they had become accustomed. These considerations in tandem with the shortages and dislocations they experienced in the face of war fuelled frustration among them which, unable to release against the occupying Russians, they vented against their perennial ready target, the Jews who were, like myself, attacked in the streets or had their shops smashed and looted. My own injuries were a broken nose and black eyes for some considerable time which I concealed behind dark glasses. Loth to return to Bialystok in that state, I deferred any intention to make my way there to persuade my family to leave. By that time, return meant crossing the border illegally, for the Lithuanians had finally come to secure Vilna. The Lithuanian police dressed in the uniforms reminiscent of Napoleonic soldiers as they patrolled the town made the streets at first sight resemble an operetta stage rather than the grim reality that in fact they had become.

By the end of November, my face now recovered, I decided to return to Bialystok. The necessary contacts were made, money was paid in advance and on the appointed night I joined a returning party. It was a moonless night, ideal for crossing borders. As we neared the targeted perimeter, it began to rain and we heard dogs barking in the distance. We were passing through a cluster of scattered dwellings when our guide spotted an unfinished house and directed us to take shelter in it. We did as bidden and then heard footsteps approaching. As we crouched beneath a window hugging the wall, two soldiers also entered. They had apparently come in for a smoke. One of them struck a match which lit up the interior of the house. While shielding their faces to light their cigarettes, they failed to notice our silhouettes strung along the wall but a few feet away. We dared not breathe. The soldiers proceeded to finish their cigarettes, stayed on for a while out of the rain, and finally left. How long they had stayed I could not say, but it did fray our nerves. For myself, the episode represented my first experience of real fear.

In due course, we resumed our passage. It was still raining, the ground was soggy and movement more cumbersome, but our guide urged us to move faster. Almost mesmerised by his influence upon us in our frightened state, we responded to his command and actually ran. As though miraculously we eluded the border guards and the dogs, cleared the border and made it back to Bialystok.

On my return, life in town was much the same as it had earlier been. The most noticeable difference was in the political re-alignments that had taken place. The Russian grip on life had visibly strengthened; the social hierarchy had altered; and where working people had now assumed positions of influence, the former elite had been displaced from theirs.

As I proceeded to renew contacts with my Zionist friends to learn what was happening, I was surprised and dismayed to hear that all the local Zionist leaders were still in town. I approached my friend Shmuel Iwry who was at the time Principal of the Tarbut primary school and the most eloquent spokesman for Zionism in Bialystok to suggest to him that we go together to the President of the General Zionists, the lawyer Klementinowski, and persuade him to leave. Iwry agreed, made an appointment, and two days later we went to Klementinowski’s home. Klementinowski lived in Sienkiewicza Street in a three-story building next to the bridge that straddled the Biala, just one floor below Chief Rabbi Dr Roseman. It was a beautiful apartment. He lived there alone, having been divorced not long before. He received us in his tastefully decorated study. He wore a short sporty type of jacket somehow out of keeping with both his professional and leadership status. We talked a long time. He told us he was being shunned both professionally and socially; his former colleagues ignored him, socially they avoided too close proximity. When I tried to impress upon him the imminent personal danger he was in by virtue of his position, he countered, saying, “Look around you. It’s not a bad place to live. The maid still brings me my cup of coffee each morning. It’s not easy to give it all up.” My response was to indicate that he would not find the coffee served in Russian prisons particularly to his taste. For me to talk to him in this way was chutzpah of a sort. He was older than I and superior in status and in many other ways. Yet he acknowledged my right to speak as I did, perhaps because he inwardly agreed with what Iwry and I were urging him to do. Hearing us out, he nodded in mute resignation. We left at midnight, uncertain however whether we had truly persuaded him in any decisive way. I laboured under a premonition that the time available to him to act was very short. As matters turned out, our effect upon him must have been most telling. He left the next day, eluding by a mere few hours the authorities who knocked at his door the following night to arrest him. He crossed into Vilna where Iwry and I met up with him again five weeks later.

A fortnight after my return, the inevitable happened. The authorities confiscated our factory and, next, an ill-dressed Russian arrived at our home accompanied by a local official. The Russian wore a black shiny satin Tolstoy shirt under his well-worn winter coat. After introducing himself, he announced that he had come to requisition our house furniture. Whereupon he drew out some paper and proceeded to note down an inventory of every piece of furniture in the house. Our buffet he described as wardrobe. Before leaving, he warned us that our furniture was now public property, and though we could for the time being continue to use it, we were not permitted to abuse it, damage it, sell it or in any other way dispose of it.

Reality had finally caught up with us, with my family. To repeat the arguments I had vented upon Father six weeks earlier was now futile. Our situation was clear enough to him, but now we could not very well flee across the border. It was he who this time suggested I return to Vilna alone, something I was intending to do anyhow. So I said my farewells to my family. Father gave me a new fur coat he had made for himself but which it was unthinkable to wear in Bialystok under Russian occupation. And on the 30th December 1939 I left for Lida.

Among those crossing the border with me were three former schoolmates. We kept close. Our guides were peasants who knew the area well. They worked in cahoots with a city contact who negotiated all costs of passage. It was deep winter and very cold. Mercifully, I had the fur coat and I carried my other belongings in a rucksack on my back. In places, knee-deep snow covered the earth and the going was hard, notwithstanding that we were, most of us, young and strong. We stopped from time to time to pause for breath and slake our thirst with the snow. After a while, one of our party, Volodia Katzenelenson, who had always been physically weak, started falling behind. Supporting him under an arm, I helped him along as best I could, but after a while he paused, slumped to the ground and said, “You walk on. Whatever is to happen to me will have to happen”. We were in a dilemma. Nonetheless, two of us, one on each side, now supported him, ourselves falling behind the party but following the footprints in the snow to keep to the route. It was an excruciating experience. Swaddled in my heavy fur coat, I found myself increasingly and uncomfortably hot; my pack seemed progressively to become more heavy; sweat poured from me for most of the night; while the march was accompanied by intense and constant fear. And yet for half the journey, scarcely athletic myself, I supported in his passage another man, in this way in the end crossing the border to an outlying village from whence by means of horse and cart we reached the outskirts of Vilna. There, to divert attention, we broke up into smaller groups and entered Vilna by morning.

5

Vilna

So did I on the first day of January 1940 find myself a second time in Vilna. The psychology – the frame of mind – in which I went there this time was altogether different from that which had motivated me on the earlier occasion. The seeming normality of life I had left behind in Bialystok was no more. My parents were by now deprived of their possessions; they had no means of earning a living; they were designated as enemies of the people by virtue of their belonging to the “exploiting class”.

On reaching Vilna I took a room with a family named Gurvitch. This family had lived in Bialystok until 1938 and their older son and I had been in the same class. Mr Gurvitch was in the timber business but by the time the war broke out, his business too was finished and he rented out a room as an aid to the family budget. I was glad to find a room in his house. Mr Gurvitch was a sociable man who was in good control of himself despite his altered circumstances. Mrs Gurvitch was tall and ample, less loquacious but friendly and motherly. Their son resembled his father in disposition while there was also a daughter who was in her middle teens. I was made to feel very much at home.

However, after some time, my resources were depleting and, having come to an agreement with the Gurvitches, I cast about for a suitable companion with whom to share the room. I found one, a young man from Warsaw ten years older than myself, who was tall, good-looking and blue-eyed. His name was Mietek Elbaum. He was a pleasant fellow with a most disarming, almost naïve, affecting smile. His family had been renowned wholesale textile merchants, highly regarded in Warsaw’s business district of Nalewki. We established prompt rapport, which became increasingly consolidated with each passing day. Having been in charge of his family’s concern before the war, he had developed considerable expertise in business and set about establishing contacts among the Warsaw fraternity in Vilna. He was a ‘natural’ in the way he adapted to his new surroundings and through him I too became involved in business ventures, such as they were at the time. With Mietek as constant companion, I was kept well informed on such matters as business activity in the community, the exchange rates of the dollar and the pound sterling on the money market, and on other economic and political events to which we had continually to pay heed.

Vilna, renamed Vilnius after the Lithuanian takeover, changed in character. It regained its status as constitutional capital, the de facto capital during the preceding twenty years under Polish jurisdiction having been Kovno. Vilna was much larger and considerably older than Kovno. Its university campus consisted of a cluster of historical medieval buildings. Napoleon had stayed in that city during his army’s assault on Russia. The city itself however possessed no sense of wholeness or architectural harmony. The Jews lived in a patently ghetto-like enclosure; the rest of the city was large and spacious. The two parts looked so disparate that a clear dividing wall might once have separated them. Adding to whatever difficulties the Jews faced there was the renewed imposition of the Lithuanian language and other institutions upon them; they had also to cope with the hostility of the deprived and aggrieved Poles, as had already been starkly manifested through the Black Tuesday pogrom; while those who were refugees, even if like myself, they chose to flee, had to contend with separation, uprootedness, unfamiliarity with new environments and loneliness.

To deal with these, a number of Jewish refugee clubs catering for different needs and interests were established in Vilna. One such club was the Zionist Club, created on the initiative of a number of leading personalities of the General Zionist movement in Poland. Its function was more than a purely social one of bringing like-minded individuals under a single wing for companionship. With the membership including personalities like Dr Moshe Kleinbaum and the lawyers Polakiewicz from Warsaw and Klementinowski from Bialystok among others, who had until recently occupied positions of leadership in their respective communities and throughout Poland. It served as a centre for the welfare of arriving refugees. It was an “exclusive” club of sorts with acceptance into it being very selective for fear of infiltration by government agents. It was nothing if not prudent to screen the identity and credentials of every applicant who sought entry.

On the basis of my active Zionist association in Bailystok, I was invited to join. The club occupied the whole of the upper floor of a three-storey block of apartments. It contained a number of large rooms for its activities and was open and well frequented in the evenings. For many who were both homeless and living in refugee conditions, the club fulfilled a most necessary social need. But it did more than that. Its members being ever attuned to the many rumours current at the time and to new political developments and the opening up of opportunities, they came also to exchange news, information and experiences. Added to the social aspect of the club was another political and cultural dimension, the place being a venue for the delivery of lectures on current affairs. For me the club was a very important outlet and I gravitated towards it at every opportunity.

A few months after coming to Vilna, I learned that Father had left Bialystok to join me. When he did not arrive, I became distraught. I had no way of finding out what had happened to him – whether he had been caught at the border and was now in some prison or even alive. One morning, Mrs Gurvitch noticed my distress. Hearing me out, she suggested I seek out a certain fortune-teller and proceeded to tell me a story of her own.

Her brother, she said, had been conscripted to war at the end of which he did not return home. His young wife was worried and, on recommendation, went to see a fortune-teller who assured her that her husband was alive and well and would be home on a given date. The woman returned home and counted the days. On the appointed day, she awaited her husband’s homecoming but when by the afternoon she saw her waiting was in vain, she disguised her appearance and returned to the fortune-teller. As he saw her come in, the fortune-teller turned to her and said: “What are you doing here when your husband is waiting for you at the door of your home?” Thereupon she ran home and, sure enough, her husband was there.

Had anyone else told me such a tale, I would have dismissed it out of hand, but it related to her own brother, whom I had come to know by then. I reasoned that I had nothing to lose and made my way to the same fortune-teller. This diviner lived in a cellar on the other side of town. His waiting-room was bare, apart from the presence of a few old chairs. Its walls were painted stark blue, the colour chosen by Arabs for their window and door-frames to ward off evil spirits. I was the only person waiting; another was inside. I was tense. I had the feeling of one being handed down a life-sentence. In due course I was admitted into a room which was also bare, the only furniture here being two chairs separated by a meagre table. The man who faced me was tall, had a strange face and was wrapped in an old overcoat against the cold. When I had seated myself, he started to shuffle a pack of cards, took out one card after another from the pack and placed them face upward on the table. As he did so, he spoke. He began by relating some events that had taken place in my home before the war; he then told me my Hebrew names Israel Chaim without difficulty and my sister’s Hebrew name as well. I was astonished by his accuracy. He proceeded to say that Father was at that moment in a government house and was well, and went on to relate other factual details of past events, the truth with which he recounted them sending shudders through my body. Finishing with the cards, he studied my palm. He predicted that I would soon receive an important letter from certain people abroad who did not know my whereabouts. When I emerged from his room into the street, I was unsteady on my feet and walked like a drunkard unable to keep to a straight line. Telling Mrs Gurvitch and the others of what had transpired at the fortuneteller’s, I felt emotionally drained.

That day I wrote a letter home, telling Mother of my experience through euphemisms and synonyms that would not arouse the censor. I also began to wonder about that letter from abroad that I was to receive and concluded that it could only be from Father’s cousin in Chile, whose father, my own father’s uncle was a shochet, a ritual slaughterer. I decided to write to them first, reasoning that there would not be particularly many shochtim in Santiago. But the question arose as to how any letter would reach them when I had no precise address. I hit upon an idea. Surely, there must be a rabbi in Vilna who conducted some correspondence with other authorities abroad. Making appropriate enquiries, I did find one rabbi who carried on a global correspondence relating to matters of marriage and divorce. I sought him out, placed my position before him and asked for the address of a rabbi in Santiago. He obliged. And so I returned home to write two letters – one addressed in rabbinical Hebrew to the rabbi in Santiago requesting him to pass on an enclosed letter to a shochet by the name of Moshe Yudl Kipen, should such a person be found; the other in Yiddish to the Kipens, explaining my own family’s situation and asking for whatever help they could give. I sent the letters air mail and had all but forgotten about them when some two months later a reply arrived. The Santiago Kipens promised to contact Mother who was still in Bialystok and do whatever they could. I wrote to Mother conveying this and took care not to lose the Santiago address which was to serve me as a talisman throughout the war.

One of the early problems confronting the leading personalities in our club related to a small group of the more fortunate individuals and families. Whilst the policy of the British Government towards immigration into Palestine dictated the 1939 White Paper which for all practical purposes halted the flow of immigrants, there was one category of people that was not affected by the restrictions and quotas imposed. Any Jew who could prove that he possessed one thousand pounds sterling and was ready to bring the money with him into Palestine could obtain a capitalist certificate. The very term “capitalist” conveys the pre-War worth of one thousand pounds. The paradox was that while those who wanted most to emigrate were the idealists and the poor, those Jews who did possess such money were the least inclined to uproot themselves and start afresh in Palestine. Nonetheless, some of these latter more favoured folk were prudent. They applied for and obtained such capitalist permits as were issued and kept them as a form of insurance policy. Such action made good sense, and for those who could afford it was a premium well worth paying, for when war broke out, they were in possession of a potential escape route from a beleaguered Europe. Many did in fact make use of their permits, coming to Vilna from which they either left by ship through the Baltic or by air and sea to Denmark or Sweden, where they arranged for further visas and means of exit. Others, however, lacked the same sense of urgency, being lulled by their certificates into a feeling of security, unable to switch their perspective from that of seeing their certificates as insurance policies to the increasingly real one of being certificates of life. These folk were, to my mind, committing the most grave of mistakes under the circumstances and that was to believe that time was still on their side. Suddenly they were caught. As long as they saw other people leave, they were in no hurry to do likewise. But with the continued worsening of the situation in Europe, all means of escape through the north abruptly ceased. The only way out was by a southward land route to Odessa from whence access to Palestine by sea was still possible. But for this, one had to obtain a Russian transit visa, a document not to be had for the mere asking.

The heads of our club considered the plight of those permit holders. To save them, they concluded that it was essential to make representations to the Russian ambassador in Kovno, bidding him in turn to approach Moscow for a ruling on the matter. With the assistance of a Mr Rubinstein, the editor of the Kovno Jewish daily, an appointment was obtained and a delegation consisting of Rubinstein himself and Dr Kleinbaum from our club waited on the ambassador. Dr Kleinbaum was about forty years old at the time and was second to Yitzhak Grinbaum, the acknowledged General Zionist leader of Warsaw Jewry. He was one of the chief ideologues of the movement which espoused a philosophy of political and economic liberalism as the basis for the future society in Palestine, a philosophy distinctly different from Ben Gurion’s Labor Party which was to hold sway in Palestine and, later, Israel with increasing settlement there.

The mission by Rubinstein and Kleinbaum was held to be of great importance. Official contact with the Russian authorities had potential ramifications far beyond the immediate issue about which the delegation approached the embassy. As it turned out, Rubinstein and Kleinbaum were well received; the ambassador promised to relay the matter to Moscow; and, after some time, much to everyone’s surprise, a favourable reply was received. Those Jews holding the required capitalist permits were issued with Russian transit visas and made their way via Odessa to Palestine. These transit arrangements set a precedent for a much larger movement of Jews across Russia, a movement which affected many people, myself among them.

As an aside: Moshe Kleinbaum reached Palestine before the proclamation of the State in 1948. He became leader of the then-underground Haganah and played a major, if controversial, role in the affairs of state throughout its early existence until his death from cancer in 1972. This Moshe Kleinbaum was none other than Moshe Sneh, one of the Communist deputies in the Israeli Knesset, his new name, in Hebrew meaning “small bush”, being an allusion to the Biblical burning bush. Formerly one of the leaders of the liberal General Zionists, he had undergone a radical ideological transformation. Numerous others, carried away by the Soviet victory over Nazi Germany, had become communist too, but many of these in time renounced such allegiance in the wake of the post-war excesses of Stalin’s Soviet Russia towards the Jews in particular. Moshe Sneh at no time reneged upon his acquired allegiance. Though my view is but a private hunch beyond substantiation, I suspect that his transformation was quite possibly linked to that fateful encounter with the Russian ambassador in Kovno in 1940. After that, Moshe Kleinbaum – Moshe Sneh – was never the same man again.

While this issue of emigration to Palestine was, along with others, occupying our attention, political events in Lithuania followed their own course. Vilna, which had been returned to Lithuania with such magnanimity, found itself together with the rest of the Lithuanian state swallowed up by Russia. So, as Jews and as refugees, we found ourselves returned to the status quo ante, a condition familiar to us even if novel for Lithuania.

This new political development opened up some possibilities for making money, however risky the exercise. For suddenly people in Kovno wanted to exchange their currency for Russian roubles which those in Vilna were in a position to supply. I began to travel regularly between Vilna and Kovno, delivering supplies back and forth, as did other refugees. The distance was short and one could make the inter-city journey in an hour. At one time I could not really tell where I was living, for I spent my time almost equally in both places. In Kovno, I would stay in hotel rooms, a silly and reckless thing to do, for to obtain a room in a hotel, one had to procure a police permit, which I usually managed to get. But spot checks by secret police on hotel guests was a common, indeed normal, practice. On one occasion I was woken by a door-knock at two in the morning for just such a check. My papers proved to be in order and I escaped with no more than an inquisitive and obviously hostile look from the policeman. It proved lucky for me that he did not look under my pillow. On another trip, I left myself wide open to what could have led to a most desperate situation. I had arrived in Kovno and was so busy attending to my affairs that I forgot to go to the police station to secure the customary permit. By the time I realised it, the permits office was closed and my only recourse was to obtain the permit from the NKVD. But I had a problem. I carried with me a briefcase filled to capacity with Russian roubles which were not yet legal tender nor safe to have in one’s possession. I had nowhere to leave the briefcase, nor did I dare stow it anywhere, so I walked to the NKVD with the briefcase in hand. The action was reckless; it represented a double madness, for, even if I did not have such damning possession upon me, truth was that no sane person ever walked into the NKVD voluntarily. Perhaps my stupidity attested to innocence; the man at the desk issued the permit without much ado. My thoughtlessness was clearly countered by inordinate luck. Even now, I cannot understand why I stayed in hotels in the first place when in Jewish Kovno I could have easily found a private room paid for on a weekly basis which might indeed have proved cheaper than hotel rooms and certainly safer and less exposed. In my defence, I can only plead that I was then 21 and that, despite my worldly experiences to that time, I had not yet acquired commensurate wisdom.

Between business transactions, I spent much time in the modern cafe in Leiseves Alley, the Konrad. It was a large place with decor and service that placed it on a level with other European high-class coffee houses. There were always refugees there who whiled away their empty days over coffee. In their enforced idleness, rumour was rampant. But at a more practical level, the cafe served as an unofficial bourse where the pulse of the market was gauged, current exchange rates discussed and verified and acquired information exchanged. Information was the life-blood of our existence.

With the fall of France in June 1940 and the events at Dunkirk, a new contingency had arisen. People sharpened their mental processes by evaluating the situation and trying to predict the next German move with its implications for us in our indeterminate day-to-day existence. Though the capitulation of Poland and its dismemberment between Russia and Germany in accord with the German-Russian pact was grim, we could console ourselves with the fact that the West was militarily intact and that the combined political and military weight of Great Britain and France would yet restrain Hitler in his purposes. This had served as a moral crutch for those who sought hope of release from their situation, however elusive that hope was. For many years, Europe had been nurtured on the inviolability of the Maginot line. My own intuition told me, however, that the French were no more a counterweight to the disciplined and modernised German army than Poland had been, even if its army was superior to the Polish one; and though I had no hard facts to support my instinct, I came to believe that the day would come when the French too would crumble before the Germans. I was therefore saddened by the forlornness of those who had to give up such hopes. By that time, as against that of September 1939, the political situation in Europe had greatly changed. With the exception of the Iberian Peninsula, all of Europe was under German-Axis occupation. For so long both historically and geographically landlocked, Germany now acquired the eastern Atlantic as a mare nostrum with resources for new industries at Hitler’s disposal. Also, flushed with the extraordinary success of its military might, Germany now turned its attention towards the east. The Ribbentrop-Molotov pact now came to be seen for what it truly was – as a ploy resorted to by both Germany and Russia, the one seeking to render neutral its rear, before embarking on its European adventure, the other, knowing that war was ultimately unavoidable, buying time to prepare its forces and its people for the coming conflict. With the fall of France, the writing was on the wall.

To us as refugees, this presented not so much a new reality as an accelerated urgency to seek new ways of escape. Those who had made their way to Lithuania were refugees who understood that flight from the firing line was their supreme priority. They needed neither prodding nor clarification of what the fall of France might mean for them. Time was suddenly against us, and in the face of this reality, passivity or prevarication on our part would incur a heavy price. But where did one turn from here in a bid to escape? We seemed to be in a hermetically closed capsule with every route for further flight seemingly sealed off. England was living through its darkest hours, while the Vichy government in France was unfavourably disposed to Jewish refugees. Our mood therefore became increasingly morbid as days, and then weeks, went by. People looked for new ideas, new perspectives; there were many clever individuals among them so some creative solution might have been accepted, but none being immediately forthcoming, the refugees continued to think and continued to fret…

In the meantime, I learned that Mother and my brothers and sister had been deported from Bialystok by the Russians. The information came from the son of the Beloch family that had lived in the apartment above our own in Bialystok, and who had now found his way to Vilna. According to him, at about seven one morning, a military truck had driven up to the house and its soldiers came into the apartment announcing that they had orders to take my family away. They permitted Mother a half hour to pack and then herded her and the children into the open truck. As they approached Bobe to wrench her from the house, she fainted. They thought she was dead and left her on the floor as they drove off. The Russian action was a consequence of Father’s arrest. Questioned by the authorities, he had to reveal his origins, his former occupation, details of his family, and other information. Designated on the strength of his trade as an enemy of the people and an exploiter, his family was also doomed. Hence Mother and the children were rounded up and deported to southern Siberia. Bobe, after reviving, went to live with her older son and shared the gas chambers with his family.

Father, then, was in a Russian prison, somewhere, I had no inkling where; Mother and my brothers and sister ranging in age from eleven to eighteen were in Siberia. I was in despair, having to force myself to concentrate on my own future even as I felt myself tossed on waves of events beyond my control. If my instinct had early on induced me to run, the new circumstances that had so engulfed my family compelled me all the more determinedly to seek ways of escape and of survival. There was little doubt in my mind that in letting me leave Bialystok, my parents were taking a gamble on me, opening out to me prospects different and possibly better than their own. My resolve to escape and survive mounted as despair at events in Europe escalated with each passing week. Time dragged on. Summer came but brought no new glimmer of hope.

I continued to commute between Vilna and Kovno. On the eve of Yom Kippur in 1940, I found myself in Kovno. I had had no particular reason to return to Vilna as I was equally homeless in both cities. As the sun set, I made my way to the central synagogue only to be stopped at the door and told that entry was by card only. Having none, but determined nonetheless to attend the Kol Nidrei service, I went to the suburb of Slobodka renowned for its yeshiva and attended service at a prayer-house there. It was the sort of service to which I had been accustomed at home and, standing there in prayer, I could not but reflect on what had happened to the world in a single year since the preceding Yom Kippur. Nor could I desist from thinking of Father in some prison cell and of Mother somewhere in Siberia that night. The following morning I sought entry again into the central synagogue and had no problem this time. The synagogue was packed. I stood among the worshippers towards the rear without a prayer-book, reciting the prayers by heart, catching from time to time the glances of others about me. I spent the entire morning in the synagogue, then left, not returning for the remainder of the service. My emotions had so welled up in the incessant contemplation of my family’s fate that I could take no more. I preferred to roam the empty streets in the afternoon.

Soon after Yom Kippur I received a card from my uncle Avrom Ber from Bialystok containing Mother’s address in Kazakhstan. It later transpired that Father had also managed from prison to communicate with his brother and learn of Mother’s whereabouts.

Copy of visa to Curacao.

One day, a rumour swept the refugee circles in Kovno that a Dutch yeshiva student caught by the outbreak of war in Poland had travelled to Vilna with the MIR Yeshiva. The student managed to obtain from the Dutch Consulate in Kovno a visa to Curacao, which was under Dutch rule. On the strength of this visa, the Japanese Consulate in turn gave him a transit pass. The news fired the imagination of the entire refugee community and shortly afterwards, on one early autumn morning, the Japanese Consul in Kovno was woken by a commotion in the street. According to his own testimony, when he got out of bed and looked out through his window, he saw a multitude of Jews standing outside the Consulate doors. The MIR Yeshiva students were waiting for him, seeking the same transit visas through Japan that he had granted the Dutch yeshiva student a short time before. It was one thing, however, to grant an individual transit visa in a genuine case, but something quite different to let hundreds of people into Japan on the strength of Dutch visas to Curacao which everyone knew were fictitious, there being in fact no immigration into Curacao at all. When the fact is recalled that Japan was by then a member of the tripartite Axis alliance together with Germany and Italy, the spectacle outside the Japanese Consulate must have been truly bizarre. However, as matters turned out, the Consul contacted Japan for directives and after two days, with the crowd of yeshiva folk still at his door, he acted on his own initiative and granted them all transit visas for a period of ten days.

The news spread like wildfire and people then had to determine whether they were prepared to consider such an uncharted, unpredictable route, even if it might not materialise. For a major question still remained: how was one to reach Japan? This new glimmer of an opportunity caught everybody unawares and unprepared and appeared also too farfetched and unrealistic to pin too much trust on it. To most, the whole idea was an exotic one, a hare-brained fantasy unworthy of rational consideration, and best shelved until its results could be more clearly seen. I did not belong to this majority. No sooner did I hear about the scheme than I decided to chance it. I had nothing to lose; I had every reason to seek a way out. Accordingly, I obtained a Curacao “visa” and then a Japanese transit visa in a procedure which was by then well established. I proceeded to persuade others to do likewise, the first among them being my roommate Mietek Elbaum. He proved sceptical and resisted the whole idea however hard I pressed. He was not mentally attuned for such an adventure and would not be persuaded.

In the meantime, I became one of the “Dutch Consuls” to supply those Curacao visas on request. As Polish citizens, we laboured under a particular difficulty in that we were under the suzerainty of Lithuania which was still officially at war with Poland as a consequence of Poland’s occupation of Vilna after World War I. We were, therefore, as Poles, enemy subjects. A legal solution was eventually found to circumvent the problem. We were issued with Lithuanian Nansen passports which, having been approved by the League of Nations in such situations, carried international validity.

With these visas and transit passes in our possession, the next problem was that of getting to Japan. No-one had yet given thought about what we might do when we got there. What concerned us first and foremost was reaching the place. A study of a map indicated that there was only one feasible route and that was to traverse the vast Russian continent to its easternmost point and from there to cross the narrow strait that separated Japan from the Asian mainland. But how was one to obtain permission for transit through Russia? Did one dare even risk applying for such a transit visa? Such information as was available to us was very disheartening. We had heard of an incident that had taken place in the city of Lublin in Poland shortly after Russian occupation there. The Orbis travel bureau had placed a notice in its window requesting all holders of overseas visas and people with plans to travel to register within a given period. People queued there for days. Advised that the Russian authorities would facilitate their departure from Lublin, they were subsequently gathered together and, having clearly shown that they were not willing to remain in their city, were all deported to Siberia.

In the light of this precedent, it took much courage to come to a decision leading to action. In Vilna, the only agency that could issue such visas was the NKVD, the very mention of which sent shivers down the spine. The likelihood of obtaining transit visas was not rated high in the first place, while to apply for favours from the NKVD at all was literally to take one’s life into one’s hands and gamble with it. Nonetheless, I applied, being among the early ones. Having done so, we had to make ready for travel. As we realised that we might as easily finish up in Siberia as in Japan, we prepared ourselves accordingly. Time then began to weigh very heavily. Administrative wheels at the best of times never moved particularly fast. In this instance, considering the extraordinary nature of the request and the known attitudes of the Russian authorities, we settled for a long agonising wait. Meanwhile, I renewed the pressure on Mietek Elbaum. When I felt that his resistance was weakening, I took him to Kovno and made him go to the Japanese Consulate to obtain visas for himself and his brother who also lived in Vilna. Back home once more, he proved reluctant to apply for a Russian transit visa and again I had to persuade and pester and push him until finally, unable to take any more from me, he relented and secured the pass.

By that time, a new vigil had started. This time it was not outside the Japanese Consulate but in the dingy corridor of the NKVD. We went there daily to enquire about the progress being made with our applications. The waiting was nerve-racking. One day it was announced that formal notification would be made on the following Tuesday. Whether my name appeared on the first notice that appeared on the promised day or on a second list issued soon after is now unclear in my memory. But what does remain very vivid are the small plain sheets of paper pinned to the wall, the crush of people seeking out their names, my heart racing as though I were standing in a dock awaiting sentence, and almost unbelievingly, seeing my own name bright and clear in the list, both on first inspection and on a second confirmatory one. As I retreated to allow others access, I had a distinct sensation of having won a ticket to life, but very quickly reminded myself to take hold of the situation, the wider general one and my own, remained so volatile and unpredictable that anything could still happen to throw all hopes and plans askew.

Soon after, an Intourist office opened in Kovno to process travel arrangements. The granting of the first Russian transit visas had a major impact upon the refugees. Those who had previously been sceptical or reluctant or cautious now decided that the scheme might be feasible after all. Consequently, a new rush for visas was set in train, with the earlier trickle swelling into a flood. This acute increased demand for visas, however, in the end proved counter-productive. As long as the numbers of applications were modest and steady, the procedure had progressed without attracting the attention of the higher echelons in the decision-making process. The increase in the volume of applications had apparently created an administrative problem which in turn became a political one, and one day it was announced that no more transit visas would be issued. The tap was turned off and the last escape route sealed.

Those of us who held the Russian visas were advised by the Intourist office that we would have to pay for our tickets in American dollars at the exchange rate of five roubles to the dollar. While the possession of, and dealing in, United States currency was officially forbidden, the fact did not deter the Intourist agency from capitalising on its benevolent gesture, taking into account that some 2000 Polish refugees were estimated to have obtained the requisite visa and that the cost of passage across Russia amounted to the equivalent of U.S. $275 – Intourist thereby pumping a half million American dollars out of private hands into its coffers. The cost of the ticket left me almost without funds, but that was a secondary consideration and I paid the money very cheerfully indeed.

The set date for departure was early February 1941.

6

Russia and Japan

The train was due to leave Vilna at four o’clock in the afternoon. Our immediate destination was Moscow via Minsk. Most passengers came to the station early. We had to undergo customs inspection as our nearest stop would be within Russia proper. Where most customary inspections revolved around a search for dutiable items, here every item of personal belonging was thoroughly examined. I was calm throughout the procedure, having no reason for apprehension. But when I saw the official get hold of a bundle of personal papers, looking at each piece separately, I became afraid. I realised suddenly that I was in grave danger, for the next document in his hands was an extract of my birth certificate obtained shortly before from the Bialystok municipal records by post and which was in Russian with the Soviet sickle and hammer insignia on it instead of being in the original Polish. That document could well have made me appear a Russian citizen. Terrified, I watched the official as he took the green-grey paper folded in four and partly unfolded it, then, after momentary hesitation, put it down again. I had slipped out of danger and passed the rest of the inspection without a hitch. I then proceeded to the train, which was already there, settled into the coupe and, with plenty of time on hand, awaited the departure. I used the time available to me for reflection. I walked out into the Pullman carriage corridor and looked through the window at the Vilna railway station. On the one hand – I thought – Father was imprisoned somewhere not far from there; on the other, my forthcoming journey would take me through a region not far from where Mother, my brothers and my sister presently found themselves in circumstances beyond my imagination. The realisation that I was about to leave Europe for good brought back images of happier times and a nostalgia for a world that was at that very moment undergoing destruction. I was farewelling not only a place but a whole way of life. Turning away, I saw a fellow passenger nearby and was moved to say, “Take a good look at it all for there will not be a stone of it left to come back to.” The other answered me with no little anger, saying, “How can you say such a thing?” But I replied that this was how I felt and that many changes were to take place. In those moments, I released myself from a thousand emotional ties connected with birthplace, family, friends, youth and dreams, and though I came close to outward tears, inwardly I wept.

Finally the train moved out. I stood as if riveted before the window, glanced out a last time, waved one more time in my imagination to the now-empty platform and took a last look back as the locomotive gathered speed and we were on the way. I returned to the coupe as did everybody else. A silence enveloped us. Each was involved with his own thoughts; each recognised the momentousness of the occasion in the forging of each one’s individual destiny; each, I assumed, must have been feeling emotions parallel to my own. After a while, we snapped out of our separate privacies and began to talk, permitting that which had been internalised to be released and shared. We grew calmer, we ate, we dozed. The sound of the speeding train and the rhythm of its wheels had a double effect on me. On the one hand, it lulled me to repose with its rocking motion; on the other, it provided something of the background music that film-makers used to enhance the drama of an evolving situation heading towards a climactic denouement. Throughout the passage, I discerned meaning in everything around me and invested it all with my thoughts and feelings. As we neared Minsk which we were expecting to reach at about midnight, we were notified of a two-hour respite before resuming the journey, during which time we were permitted to move about the station. We were also assured that our carriages would be locked and guarded, so that no anxiety need be felt about our belongings. As the train stopped and before we had time to disembark, our attention was drawn to a scuffle on the platform punctuated by some very explicitly colourful expressions in which the Russian language is particularly rich. It turned out that two prospective thieves had been awaiting the train and were caught boarding it. I made a mental note of the incident.

The Minsk railway station was a vast and impressive building in the style of the 19th Century clearly built in the time of railway supremacy, but nonetheless seemingly out of proportion to the size of the town it served. On arriving passengers, it made a strong and favourable impression which was all the more enhanced by its recent freshly painted appearance and the tastefulness of its decorations. And yet those very decorations troubled me. The gold leaf of its facades was more suited to an opera house than to a railway station and I found myself contemplating the reasons for such out-of-place opulence. And then it occurred to me. The station was something of a showcase. It was the first major station to greet a Western traveller coming to Russia and had been so designed to impress. I entertained an image of travellers in Czarist times dressed in all their finery, their appearance harmonising with the elegance of the station’s decor. The actual scene which greeted us, however, when we entered the building was decidedly post-Revolutionary and the magnificent structural backdrop only accentuated now the opposite of what it had originally been designed to achieve. The place was packed with people. Some moved about, many were stretched out on benches, or occupied whatever inch of floor space was available. These folk were poorly dressed and had pitiful bundles beside them. I had already had considerable experience of travel but never had I seen anything like this. And that while Russia was still at peace with its internal life proceeding normally. But this raised the question: in the Soviet Union, what was normal? Falling into conversation with a number of them, I learned that those who slept there had to wait for up to two days at a time to catch their connections and hence had no option but to make themselves as comfortable as circumstances allowed. At the first sign of a ticket office being opened, they would queue until all tickets for the next train were sold out, those who missed out having to resume their wait in the hope that the next issue of tickets would favour them.

I paced the station from one end to the other, continually observing the changing scenes, watching the people, trying to read their faces and gain insight into their natures. At one particular spot, ice-cream was being sold. In the middle of a wintry Russian February, it was scarcely a much sought-after commodity. But, as I heard one local remark, that was why it was available. Then I saw three men walking together. They looked Jewish, so I approached them. They were indeed Jews, carpenters returning from a carpenters’ trade meeting and waiting for a connection. In telling of life in Russia, one of them said with unexpected openness that times there were changing. After the Revolution, almost everything was available except the money to buy it with. Now the situation was reversed: everyone had money but there was little to buy with it. In that man’s statement, I saw the mutual criticisms of communist and capitalist theoreticians revealed in action.

The stipulated two hours’ respite at the station passed. I had gained a number of impressions which left me, I felt, enriched and enlightened. We returned to the train. It was 2 a.m. We were weary and made ready to get as much sleep as the sitting position allowed. As far as we knew, we were joining the same train which had brought us from Vilna and had Moscow as its destination. I soon learnt otherwise. As the train moved off with the lights dimmed, we slept. I woke at about seven in the morning feeling very dry after eating whatever food I had left and made for the restaurant carriage for a cup of tea. It was a long train composed of modern Pullman carriages with the corridor to one side. I walked from carriage to carriage when, suddenly, as I opened the door at my end the door at the other opened simultaneously and to my horror recognised a man approaching who was the last I would have wished to meet. He was the husband of one of our former factory workers and had himself sometimes worked overtime for us. He had risen quickly in the hierarchy after the Russian takeover and was the man who had accompanied the Russian who had sequestered our household. As we passed one another I chose to look him directly in the eye with the curiosity of one who sees another for the first time. His own look, one of clear recognition, suggested the question: what are you doing on this train to Moscow? Yet my direct, detached look seemed to confuse him. He appeared momentarily unsure of himself. I maintained my pace unchanged until I closed the opposite door behind me and then ran to the restaurant car. But it occurred to me that if I sat down at a table, I was making myself ready quarry for his inquisitiveness. I decided therefore to return to my carriage, walking back very slowly with every cautiousness, lest he intercept me. When finally I reached my seat, I felt an acute exhaustion come over me and fell into a deep sleep lasting about four hours. On waking, I discovered a Russian army officer in my compartment and my first reaction was that he was there waiting for me. It subsequently turned out not to be so. How he came to be in the cabin I did not know but he proved both friendly and talkative and pointed out the flat table-land we were passing through, the historical fields of Borodino where Napoleon’s army suffered its most devastating defeat. A remark he made especially intrigued me, when he likened people in those days to radishes: red on the outside and white on the inside. It gave me an inkling of the split in the Russian character.

We reached Moscow’s central station at about one o’clock in the afternoon and were taken by Intourist buses to the Novo Rosyiski Hotel, one of five hotels reserved for overseas visitors, located on the far side of the Red Square that faced the Kremlin. It was a 19th-Century solid building, on each floor of which a middle-aged woman at a desk observed the comings and goings of the guests.

The four-hours’ sleep I had had earlier that morning must have had some therapeutic benefit, for by the time I reached the hotel I was in a tranquil frame of mind. I showered, changed, went down to the dining-room to learn I had missed the midday meal, and stepped out to see the city. Another young fellow joined me on a long walk. We walked back into the centre of Red Square and past the enormous famous Gostorg emporium where I was startled to see in its window a display of bread, not of the real thing, but made out of wood. A little further on a corner stands the Hotel Moskva with its 1000 rooms and beneath it was one of the more ornamental metro underground stations. I had heard about the Moscow underground and together my companion and I went down the escalator to see it. What I saw exceeded my expectations. The beautiful murals, chandeliers and surrounding luxuriance made me stop in my tracks to absorb it all. But as had happened in Minsk the night before, after the first impact and the excitement subsided, I became aware again of the dichotomy between the backdrop and the people who used it. Here too the people wore drab dress and carried sticks of bread under their arms. Not only were the two – the station and the people – disparate elements; they actually negated one another.

On emerging again into the street, we came face to face with the famous church outside the Kremlin wall with its gold-covered onion-shaped roofs, and parallel with the Kremlin walls with a line of buildings which, among others, included the American Embassy, the Moscow University and the Palace of Culture. We turned right into Gorki Street where I sent a cable to Uncle Avrom Ber simply to keep in touch. On the return journey, we detoured via the Bolshoi Opera House where Evgeni Onegin was being staged and I resolved to attend the performance the following night.

By the time I returned to the hotel, dinner was well under way and the dining-room was packed. A string trio was playing and the mood within was as jovial as one might have expected in any comparable place elsewhere. Although all tables were taken, I was given a seat at a small table at which a Russian couple were dining. We confined ourselves to very basic customary conversation. The man, who seemed to be in his mid-thirties, had come to Moscow on official business from a southern city, that business entitling him to two dinner tickets at this most exclusive hotel. The young woman in her early twenties was an acquaintance of his who had the good fortune of being invited for the treat. After a while, our conversation broadened and I felt with discomfort that the woman was looking at me with quite extraordinary intensity, which made me feel uncomfortable. She responded progressively less to her companion’s attentions, the one topic that had grabbed her imagination being that of life in the West. If I had thought I had been deliberately set up as a foreigner at the table of native Russians, these fears were soon dispelled. They seemed genuinely moved and affected by their novel and unexpected experience of meeting with a foreigner, and, what was more, in such a congenial setting. The woman commented on my suit, a light grey double-breasted flannel. Then the man took up the theme and asked about the availability of clothes in the West. He went on to ask whether I would consider selling him any item of clothing I could spare. I tried to sidestep the question, but he kept at me until I agreed to have them come up to my room. Stepping out of the lift, I saw the floor attendant shoot me an inquisitive look from her desk. We entered my room where the man examined every item of clothes with a covetous eye. Not that my luggage contained anything of substance or value, either in terms of quantity or quality. All I had to show was in fact a most modest array of underwear, shirts, another suit and slacks, and my fur coat given me by Father. Having also looked over the contents, the woman could contain herself no longer and with tears in her eyes said, “Now I see that we truly have nothing”. I became apprehensive; not because I feared a provocation – I knew by then that they were genuine – but rather on their account for having so dropped their guard, particularly the young woman. Then the man began to plead with me to sell him my slacks. As he did not desist, I let him try them on, knowing that they would not fit him. He went into the bathroom and while he was there, the woman became somewhat sentimental. I knew that her companion was returning home the next morning, so I suggested that as I was planning to attend the opera the following evening, I should be pleased to have her join me. She instantly accepted the invitation. As I had expected, the slacks did not fit the man. I finally let him have one of my ties and some other item and it was nearly midnight when they left.

That encounter kept me awake. I was less troubled now by the matter of Soviet living standards which I had come to know about long before through my experiences with the Russian soldiers in Bialystok and Vilna, but by the intensity of the emotions of those two young folk touched off by a few mere items of clothing and displayed so openly before a total stranger. I was haunted by the way they bared their very souls to me. And they had not been ordinary working people in whom deprivation might have been expected. The man was a manager of sorts attended by some considerable status whose responsibilities brought him to the capital to deal with high authorities, and yet when I saw the fond way this stranger handled a mere handkerchief my heart went out to him. I felt sorry for them both, as much for their material deprivation as for the other restrictions of a non-material nature which Soviet society imposed on them. I recalled so vividly the enthusiasm with which the Russian army had been greeted in Bialystok. I recalled too the staunchness and readiness for sacrifice of communist idealists back home. And I recalled the face of our young neighbour after his release for raising a red flag and found myself asking: “In what lay the reward?” Though young myself and often in the company of just such young folk who pinned their hopes on Communism, I had never followed those inclinations. I now found myself vindicated in my belief in the axiom that stated the strength of an ideal was inversely proportional to the distance from its enactment in practice.

The next morning was dull and cold. The skies were grey and light snow was falling. The first thing I wanted to see was Lenin’s tomb and, together with a multitude of others, I joined a long queue in Red Square and shuffled along slowly but steadily through the snow. Most of those in front and behind me were women, heavily clad for their long wait in the open air and as uniformly drab as the grey sky overhead. No-one spoke. They all seemed well-versed in the art of queueing and the long meandering line added a surreal element to the reality. At last I came to the steps leading down to Lenin’s tomb. The black granite tomb itself is larger than any picture of it conveys. Soldiers with grim expressions and fixed bayonets stood positioned around the glass casket intently watching every person. The queue was not permitted to halt. It moved in a line that enabled the people to view Lenin’s body first from one side, then face on, and again from the other side on the way out. Lenin’s face was intact. His body was dressed in a dark suit, white shirt and red tie. His presence conveyed a sense of continuity, as if he were still among his people, not dead but a sublimely active force. There was also an unmistakable glow of reverence in the expressions of every viewer that moved me profoundly.

From Lenin’s tomb, I went on to the Lenin museum nearby where his full life history was on display. The last item was an overcoat he had worn showing the bullet hole in the sleeve where he was shot.

I recall little else of that first whole day in Moscow, except that it passed quickly, that I repeatedly feared meeting again the man who had been on the train, and that I had a date with the young woman I had met the night before. Towards evening, we met as arranged outside the metro station at the Hotel Moskva. She was already waiting when I arrived and together we made our way to the Opera House close by. I obtained two tickets without difficulty. The place was filled with people. The restaurant was overflowing. The atmosphere was gay. As I handed over my fur coat to the coat attendant, I felt all eyes upon me. The coat, along with my double-breasted suit, clearly gave me away as a foreigner and I became particularly aware of the material gap between those Russians, some patently high-ranking men among them, and myself. I tried as quickly as possible to escape such public scrutiny and led my young companion to our box.

I cannot say that I showed my guest much attention that evening. From my box-seat, I had an excellent view of the whole theatre and could not keep myself from studying with tantalised curiosity everything I saw. The first thing which struck me was the party in the adjoining box. In the very front sat a woman in her fifties or older, beautifully groomed in a black dress of a past age and social order. Her bearing was aristocratic and her composure, manner and personality inordinately stately. She was so patently different from anyone else around her. I found it hard not to keep staring at her. It also struck me that the 24 years intervening since the Revolution had scarcely affected her. She remained something of an anachronism in a society that had been greatly levelled. Most of the other patrons in the hall were middle-aged. The interior of the building, designed and decorated in a Classical Italian style, lacked the lustre of the Warsaw Opera House, as did the foyers where at least one huge tapestry was decidedly aged and betrayed neglect. Nor was the performance particularly memorable while the costumes could have done with some upgrading. On the whole, however, the evening proved enjoyable and I managed to put out of mind, if temporarily, the realities outside. After the performance, I took my companion home by tram. The tram was decked within by a solid blanket of ice while the passengers were mostly young folk who looked no different from any other late straggler returning home after a night out. As I was leaving the young woman at her door, she asked whether she would see me again. I placed the onus on her, asking in turn whether she could afford to be seen in my company on three successive nights. Her answer in the affirmative seemed to me unconvincing, but she brushed aside any doubts she may have had and we agreed to meet again the next evening.

On rising the following morning, I visited the famous Tretiakov Gallery which was billed as holding the second largest collection of art after the Louvre. I had never truly understood visual arts. Till that time I had no experience of major art exhibitions, apart from one on display in the Gubernatorial Palace in Bialystok before the War which had left me unmoved. Here, however, from the very outset, as I walked through the first rooms which displayed early church paintings, I sensed that I was witnessing something quite different. Some pictures arrested my attention more than others and I tried to absorb as much as I could. As I passed from hall to hall and studied the changing subjects and themes, my appetite became increasingly whetted and my aesthetic senses more discriminating. Here and there, an artist sat behind a canvas, copying a famous painting. Comparing the two – the original and the copy – one could the more clearly appreciate the masters. As I continued on, I suddenly came across a sculpture standing very close to the entrance of one particular hall, half obstructing it. It stood six to seven feet in height, was hewn from grey-green marble, and depicted a king on his throne. On glancing at it, I persuaded myself that it must be the famous sculpture of “Ivan the Terrible” by the Vilna-born Jewish sculptor Mark Antokolski on whose house of birth I had seen a commemorative plaque recently. The catalogue confirmed it. I stood before it a while. I recalled a lesson given by my Hebrew teacher Moshe Zabludowski who, in discussing the nature of cultural assimilation, cited Antokolski’s sculpture. His argument was that if Antokolski had not been culturally assimilated, he would not have needed to resort to a Russian subject for his masterpiece. Had he been conversant with Jewish history, he could as readily have used as his subject the Jewish King Herod who was known for his fierceness and implacability. Moving away from the sculpture, I continued to tour the vast gallery with enhanced interest, roused all the more by seeing the originals of what earlier had been mere photographs in history books.

I emerged from that gallery about three o’clock in the afternoon. On my return journey, I paused to inspect more closely the department store opposite the Kremlin that I had passed the previous day. The notion of a department store was novel to me. There were no such stores either in Bialystok, Vilna or Kovno. Even in Warsaw I had not seen one; and if such existed there, I knew nothing about it. Entering, I was overwhelmed by its enormity. It was huge; the central ceiling rose four or five storeys in height; wrought-iron balconies were a striking feature of its decor. There were many people inside. What also struck me was the process of purchasing goods. When customers had selected their merchandise, they were obliged to queue before another counter to pay, and then return to the original one to await their turn to collect it. The total time wasted through that procedure must have cost the economy very dearly in terms of man-hours which could have been more profitably spent in productivity or purposeful relaxation.

In all, the day had proved an eventful and enlightening one, opening my senses to new cultural experiences till then known to me only at second hand. Considering that at that time travel was the privilege of very few and that I was travelling less as a free agent than as a refugee with artistic pursuits scarcely a high priority under the circumstances, those two days in Moscow were a distinct bonus in extending my outlook on life and its riches. Even so, the day was not yet done. I had still to meet again with the young woman I had taken to the opera the previous night. I had no clear idea how and where we should spend the evening. As it turned out, it did not matter. She did not appear. I waited for some considerable time at our appointed meeting-place uneasily, uncertain whether she had taken seriously my comment about it not being in her best interest to meet with me in such quick succession or whether she had come to some harm over her spontaneity with me.

That day at an end, one more half-day remained to me in Moscow. I spent it roaming the streets and absorbing mentally everything I could about day-to-day life in that large metropolis. In the early afternoon, together with the others who were tracing the same route as myself, I was driven from the hotel to another railway station to resume the forward journey. On the way, I caught sight again of yet another queue, this time outside a bakery. Some folk carried bread; others missed out; and this at a time – February 1941 – when, unlike Poland or Lithuania which laboured under conditions of war, internal Russia was far from the front and not at war. The sight was a most sobering experience.

The train we boarded had been specially put on for us. The carriages were not of the Pullman sort. Each cabin accommodated four people, this being the number it could sleep overnight, with upper bunks being lifted out from the walls. A restaurant car provided three meals a day. Tea and hard sugar were available from the carriage guard on request.

The journey took twelve days and nights and was by and large uneventful. Stopping stations were days apart. At some of these we were permitted to step out and look around. At Khabarovsk, for instance, I was struck by the long lines of full soup plates set out on tables in the dining-room for the locals, as also by the people’s excitement at seeing us. Elsewhere, we were not permitted to come among the people, as was the case in one station where I saw a number of them pressing against a wire gate, staring at us as though we had come from another planet, and begging for certain things. We reached Irkutsk on a beautiful day. The sky was clear and the temperature minus 40 degrees centigrade. Yet I walked about without an overcoat. The air was crisp and dry and the cold not too severe.

Towards the latter part of the journey, the train stopped at Birobidjan which was of particular interest to us all. There, we were permitted to leave the train, there being no locals present for us to meet and mingle with. Our interest in Birobidjan lay in the fact that the place had been designated in the early ‘thirties by the Russian government as a Jewish autonomous region with the promise of cultural autonomy. As such, it had caused great excitement among Jewish communists around the world who, in their naiveté, left everything behind them to live there. The stories, both written and oral, that subsequently emerged from there told of evaporated dreams, vanquished hopes and ruined lives. The station building was little more than a dilapidated wooden structure carrying the name Birobidjan in Russian and in Yiddish. It symbolised well the ruins attending promises unfulfilled.

On leaving Birobidjan, we continued on towards Lake Baikal, the largest inland sea in the world. For a full day and a half, the rail tracks skirted the water line. The beauty of the region was breathtaking. Then, at last, we reached Vladivostok. Arrival there proved a release for all of us. The protracted confinement in restricted surroundings with people thrown together by chance and not always compatible had made the journey unwholesomely tedious. In all, I have little recollection of those people. I was too preoccupied with the almost unbelievable reality of actually leaving Russia against all odds and the uncertainty of what still awaited me. In addition, the knowledge that we were still in Stalin’s Russia made us circumspect in our conversation and expressions of opinion.

We stayed overnight in Vladivostok, where, with considerable excitement, I boarded the vessel that was to take us across the narrow straits into Japan. It was the first time I had seen the shore of a sea or been in a boat. That boat was a converted Japanese cattle-boat, and we were housed in the hull in conditions that were indeed more suitable for cattle than for humans. Nonetheless, our mood was one of elation. The long eastward journey was almost behind us. A Russian officer came on board to escort the vessel out to sea. Some way out, he was lowered into an accompanying Russian craft. With this we recognised that we were now in international waters, we became still more elated, and ate dinner heartily, much to our later regret. For, as the vessel proceeded on its journey, the waters became rougher. We went down to our communal sleeping quarters below deck, there on the floor trying as best we could, each at his neighbour’s expense, to find positions of comfort. By midnight, the boat was being tossed like a match on giant waves and people became sea-sick. Midway through the night, I too had to run on deck, where I spent the next four hours in excruciating retching. There were moments I wished I were dead and it took all of whatever little strength I still had left to grasp the rails and not be swept overboard. As the morning star appeared on the horizon, the sea calmed and I saw that I would reach Japan after all. What we had not known at the time and learnt only long after was that, on leaving Vladivostok, we were about to cross one of the roughest straits on the globe in a craft that was no longer sea-worthy.

At midday we arrived at the port of Tsuruga. Recovering from the ordeal of the night before, I was glad to be setting foot again on firm ground. The relief was overwhelming. It was the first time in some eighteen months that I felt myself to be out of perpetual danger. My spirits soared. I was also struck by the contrast between two so-different realities brought so close together. Throughout the trans-Siberian journey, I had seen Russian railwaymen going about their tasks in bulky, thickly padded, dirty coats. Here, on the other hand, in the railway marshalling yards, the first man I noticed was a Japanese railway worker walking along the lines. He was dressed in a light-blue work uniform and wore clean white gloves on his hands in which he carried a long stick with which he picked up every bit of waste he spotted. The yards were clean; everything conveyed the impression of order and neatness. That Japanese in his white gloves, whom I could not but see as a quirk of an exotic culture, reminded me of chimney sweeps who wore top-hats as trademarks.

Before long, a locomotive passed us by while shunting to a different set of rails. It was a classical steam locomotive, but what was again so striking was the fact that both the driver and fireman wore white gloves, even as the fireman shovelled coal into the furnace. The contrast between the picture I carried in my imagination and the reality which unfolded before me was great. I knew nothing of Japanese society; the only Japanese I had ever seen were in photographs. To a European, the country and its people were as quixotic as they were mysterious. What I saw at the Tsuruga marshalling yards seemed to mock that which was European. I was led to admire what an oriental culture could do when it adopted Western technology, and marvel at how it could put the originators of that technology to shame. Then, I noticed some people walk about with gauze masks over their mouths and noses, held in place with loops over their ears. Some of the kimonoed women also wore these masks, which looked particularly out of keeping with their otherwise dainty appearance. I learned later that the masks were commonly-used safeguards against respiratory illness. It said something about a society motivated by the wish to protect the well-being of others around oneself, rather than be concerned with one’s appearance.

First impressions have long been important in the formation of attitudes. The railway station at Minsk, for example, had been built precisely with that wisdom in mind. It was large, spacious and grand. Here, however, in Tsuruga, in Japan, there was no sign of any premeditated effort to impress. Not a hint of ostentation could be discerned. On the contrary, there was a distinct understatement about the setting which made my first impression here, too, so distinctly and agreeably overwhelming. I found myself both buoyant and optimistic, even though, had I looked at my situation objectively, I should have had scarce reason for such headiness. After all, I had arrived in Japan with little money, the Intourist ticket having accounted for nearly all my cash. I held a mere ten days’ transit permit, with nowhere to go from there. We, all who had come there, had some vague advance information that the American Joint Distribution Committee had set up some basic care facilities in anticipation of our arrival, but even this was hazy and uncertain. Yet, despite all, I was – and, I suspected, most of the other arrivals too – in a frame of mind of easy contentment and satisfaction with my lot.

From Tsuruga, we were taken by train to Kobe where we were to spend the next six months. Kobe had a minuscule Jewish community which consisted mostly of Russian Jews from Harbin and Tientsin engaged in the export trade. They had a little synagogue of their own. It was in the vicinity of that synagogue that accommodation was found for us, a number of rented houses furnished with mattresses and bedding. The number of people to a room was conditional upon the number of mattresses the floor could accommodate. The house I stayed in was on a steep hill rising from the synagogue. There were eleven people in my room.

On the evening of the first day in Kobe, I set out towards the business centre of the town to become acquainted with my new surrounds. I found my way easily. The shopping centre was in a long street, closed off to all but pedestrian traffic. The houses on both sides of the mall, mostly single-storey buildings, abutted on one another. The displays, the lighting of the streets with Japanese lanterns, the shop-fronts, the milling crowds, the women almost exclusively in kimonos, the clatter of their wooden shoes on the pavement, the sounds of Japanese music coming from different directions – all these mingled into an enchanting scene that resembled a fairy tale more than any living reality. By the time I returned to my room, I was ready for a night’s sleep, irrespective of the number of mattresses on the floor.

Our life as a refugee community quickly settled into an orderly pattern. I was in the second influx of arrivals. Some degree of communal organisation had been established by then, centred in the rooms adjoining the synagogue. My Vilna room-mate, Mietek Elbaum, arrived with the next influx and was found accommodation in a private hotel at the foot of the hill leading to the house where I stayed.

In the first weeks following our arrival, we were idle. We did not know what we could do, while, against this, there was little we could do. We were officially in transit through Japan by the grace of its government and, hence, had no legal right to engage in work. Everyone’s mind turned beyond the Pacific Ocean. America became the magic word in our lexicon and the ultimate objective of everybody’s thoughts. Increasingly drawn by the possibility of getting to America, some tried to recall any contact there while the optimists among us set out to learn English. My name appeared on a list of Zionist askanim, (communal activists), forwarded to the Zionist Organisation of America for special attention and rescue. This was at a time when a Zionist refugee committee had come into being with the purpose of co-ordinating rescue efforts aimed at securing passage of Jews to Palestine and the United States. On the committee, among others, sat Zorach Warhaftig, the Mizrachi leader, who was to become the Minister for Religion in the first Israeli Ministry after independence and in a succession of later ministries. With him sat Leon Ilutovitch, former secretary of the Jewish deputies in the Polish parliament, later to become executive director of the Zionist Organisation of America based in New York, and Shmuel Iwry, former headmaster of Bialystok’s Tarbut primary school, later to become head of Baltimore Hebrew College and ultimately Professor of Biblical Studies in Baltimore and Johns Hopkins Universities. The local office for refugee affairs was managed by a short, thin and wiry man called Chodorowski who was, much later, as Menachem Savidor, to serve as Speaker of the Knesset during the Begin Ministry.

The financial needs of the refugees in Kobe were met by an allocation of one yen and ten cents per person per week. This sum, for which we queued outside the communal centre each week, was a rock bottom amount, just adequate for sustenance. On one occasion, a short elderly man was standing ahead of me, leaning against a wooden fence. He was no other than Senator Szeroszewsky, the owner of the largest private Jewish bank in Warsaw to whom old maids from the provinces would entrust their dowries. Seeing him there also in the queue prompted me to reflect how war levelled all and to wonder how he, as a onetime moneyed tycoon, must have felt standing in that line in full public gaze.

Our daily social highlight was lunch at the local fish restaurant managed by a woman we came to call our Mama-san. The refugees literally took over the place. The fried fish we had was a most welcome meal while the atmosphere, especially for single people, proved particularly sustaining. For my part, I turned out to be unusually lucky. Among the folk in Kobe at the time were the Surawitch family that hailed from Bialystok. Mr Surawitch had been a partner in a large manufacturing firm back home that sold its wares as far away as Harbin. Shortly before the war, a consignment of goods had been sent there by their firm and Mr Surawitch managed to collect payment. As a consequence, the Surawicz family – husband, wife and son – found themselves in time in Kobe as members of a new plutocracy there. Theirs was a respectable rented home and they led a comfortable life. I had not known their son, Liova, before the war, and as he was about my age, the Surawiczes encouraged the development of friendship between us. Accordingly, their door remained always open to me, Mrs Surawitch treated me with maternal care, while their dinners to which they frequently invited me were, under the circumstances, sumptuous. Their solicitude proved to be an important support and a counter-balance to the otherwise total homelessness and solitude in which I had been cast.

The weekly subvention of 1.10 yen was actually insufficient to feed ourselves. Accordingly, the more enterprising among the refugees devised ways of earning extra money. My activity involved travelling between Kobe, Tokyo and Yokohama as a messenger. Holding only transit status in Japan, we were not permitted to leave Kobe at will but were obliged to obtain police passes, these being endorsed and our return guaranteed by the Jewish community. I managed to obtain such passes whenever necessary.

The journey from Kobe to Tokyo took 12 hours. I would take the night train, travelling third-class, the carriages being open with seats abutting a central passage-way. Sitting in their midst, I permitted myself to observe my fellow passengers, all Japanese, and study their personal habits. I regretted that we could not communicate; the absence of common language between us represented a missed opportunity. Among the details that early on drew my attention was the fact that at no time did any of them throw rubbish out of the window. Instead they placed all food waste on the floor to be swept clear later by cleaners at the other end of the journey. I was also fascinated in the early morning by the sight of folk of all ages walking about brushing their teeth, even old toothless women who observed the ritual as though it were a national imperative.

One thing I could not countenance for myself was breakfast. This consisted of a traditional Japanese dish which included some small living creatures swallowed alive.

On my first stay in Tokyo, I booked into a huge modern hotel alongside the railway station. It had been built in anticipation of the 1940 Olympic Games which did not, however, materialise on account of the war. Its enormity coupled with its Spartan modernity contrasted starkly with the different lodgings I had known on my travels in the backwaters of Eastern Poland. One detail that especially struck me as novel was watching the preparation of food on an open grill in full display of the public. I was particularly captivated by the dexterity of the cooks, and it occurred to me that what I was watching had most likely been adopted from America and to that extent this represented for me an encounter, albeit indirect, with the American way of life. It was certainly not European.

One constant attraction in Tokyo was the Ginza. This was a bustling thoroughfare with a multitude of neon signs and big stores. While it was unequivocally and authentically Japanese, it lacked the intimacy and exotic character of the Kobe mall. Beyond the business district, Tokyo was a vast sprawl of single-storey traditional Japanese houses.

Later travels took me to Yokohama, a short train ride from Tokyo. Yokohama was quite different in character from Tokyo. Its main attraction was its beautiful waterfront, with wide lawns, paths and seats along its edge and some lovely buildings on the other side of a broad road. I loved Yokohama and always looked forward to further visits there. On one occasion I stayed at its renowned Grand Hotel which was opulent in its 19th Century decor and table silver. Its beds were net-covered and each room had cold water contained in a thermos flask. This notwithstanding, it had very few guests at the time. How I came to be there, I no longer recall. I only know that it matched neither my refugee status nor my means. The Grand was to become General Macarthur’s headquarters after the American occupation of Japan.

We had arrived in Japan in 1941 and remained there six months, both through the cherry-blossom season and the ensuing summer. The weather was balmy. The blossoms surrounding us at the top of the steep hills where we lived had a calming effect upon our nerves.

In that summer of 1941, the Germans invaded Russia, thereby fanning to fullness the European conflagration. As refugees, we came to be perplexed by a seemingly unaccountable mystery. Japan was at the time a major partner in the three-cornered Axis alliance and therefore influenced by Germany. Yet when we, as refugees in Vilna, had applied for visas to escape Europe, the Japanese, who in truth owed us nothing, had most generously issued them. Further, the Japanese authorities were unaccountably lenient with us. The ten days for which our transit visas were valid came and went and no-one came to tell us that we had outstayed our welcome. We were provided with a serviceable daily ration of bread even when the Japanese may have had to limit their own, and whenever a travel permit was sought by one of us, the local police obliged.

It was only after the war that a coherent picture emerged to explain this leniency. Unbeknown to us, we were pawns in a chess game of international magnitude. Japan had at the time been seeking a last-minute accommodation with the United States and believed that, by playing the Jewish card, it might have had potential bargaining power. Like many chancelleries in the First World War, the Japanese believed that the Jewish influence on American policy was considerable. The fact that Morgenthau was Secretary of the Treasury and that his signature appeared on every greenback reinforced the myth. The British Government’s Balfour Declaration of 1917 issued at the height of World War I was another, earlier, example of the same assumption. For the Declaration had not been issued, as is commonly supposed, for the simplistic reason often given that the British wanted to repay Chaim Weizmann for his chemical inventions which contributed towards turning the course of the war in favour of the allies. Rather, it had been the attempt by Britain to ingratiate itself with American public opinion, also in the belief that Jews held a special position in the United States, that brought about the Balfour Declaration. At the same time, too, though less well known, while the British conducted negotiations over the establishment of a national Jewish home in Palestine, the Kaiser in Germany had been negotiating with representatives of German Jewry with a similar end in view, but also with an eye turned to America to gain sympathy there. That myth of Jewish influence had become so entrenched that the Japanese government, too, felt that when the time was ripe it may be able to use Jewish leverage. From the Japanese viewpoint, the strategy was not without logic. Japan had by then occupied vast stretches of Manchuria and needed skilled people to develop its resources. It therefore turned to the leaders of American Jewry with the proposal to accept and resettle one million European Jews in Manchuria in exchange for a political accommodation with America. To prove their bona fides, the Japanese government pointed to the 2,000 Polish Jews who were then in Japan and treated well. Known among the higher echelons of the Japanese government at the time as the Fugu Plan, it seemed to the Japanese a most tangible proposition. In the event, the plan did not materialise. One can now only speculate as to what might have happened if it had succeeded. Would a million Jews indeed have been saved from Europe’s furnaces? How different would the course of my own life have been?

Our sojourn to Kobe as refugees had been no accident. In that port city there existed a tiny Jewish community of 25 families, all of whom had come from Russia and were occupied there in the export trade. The leader of the community, Anatole Ponivejski, who hailed originally from Irkutsk and later from Harbin, represented his family’s textile business in Japan. According to Marvin Tokayer and Mary Swartz, authors of the book “The Fugu Plan”, it was he who had obtained open credit from the Joint Distribution Committee in America to pay for the upkeep of the refugees and received explicit instructions from the Committee “to save the Jews”. It was also through Ponivejski’s Jewish committee in Kobe that the transit visas were extended from ten days beyond the legally stipulated maximum of twenty-one days to an indefinite stay. Tokayer and Swartz’ description merits retelling.

A certain Japanese, Hebrew-speaking Christian minister named Dr Setsuzo Kotsuji served as an adviser to the South Manchurian Railways. He had interested himself in the Jewish question and appeared at conferences of Far Eastern Jews in Harbin in 1937-38 and 1939 which he addressed in Hebrew. Dr Kotsuji’s superior was a Yosuke Matsuoka who, at the time of our arrival in Kobe in 1941, was Japan’s Minister for Foreign Affairs. Dr Kotsuji had recently returned to Japan from Manchuria and lived in the city of Kamakura, at short remove from Tokyo. Although he had no official standing with the Japanese government, the Kobe Jewish committee of rescue considered that he may be in a position to help. Accordingly, Anatole Ponivejski travelled to Kamakura to enlist his aid. Dr Kotsuji promised to do what he could. His representations on behalf of Kobe’s Jews to the lower echelons of the bureaucracy were unsuccessful. He therefore went to Tokyo to see Foreign Minister Matsuoka who was at the time engaged in negotiations to set the Fugu Plan in motion. Matsuoka, having regard for the political situation and Japan’s liaison with Germany, was reluctant to discuss such a controversial subject as the saving of Jews in his office and suggested a walk. On that walk, Matsuoka asserted his belief to Kotsuji that “Japan might benefit greatly at some time in the future if we could in some way manage to help the Jews now”. They discussed the matter at length and over lunch Matsuoka offered a suggestion: “Kobe is not Tokyo. If the local authorities were to extend the visas, acting on their own, without informing the Tokyo authorities of what they were doing, we would probably never even know about it. Can you direct them to understand that?” Making it doubly clear that the matter should never be formally referred to Tokyo, Matsuoka further suggested that the visas be handled by the Jewish committee with himself, Dr Kotsuji, as overseer. Kotsuji accepted the charge, went about his task in the accepted Japanese social manner and managed to persuade the local authorities to continue extending the transit visas.

As the last of Japan’s international political ploys failed and the decision to bomb Pearl Harbour was taken, the Japanese saw no further need to keep the Jewish element, potential enemy aliens all, on its soil and saw in these Jews an added burden. The clear imperative of the hour was to get rid of them.

Before any action was taken, however, a number of more fortunate Jews had left Japan. The Pacific Ocean was as good as its name. It was still an ocean of peace and anyone who possessed valid visas, permits or Palestine certificates managed to find some ship to take them away. These were very few and far between, but some made passage straight from Japan to Australia; others found their way to London. The overwhelming majority of us, however, were caught, we were hostages awaiting some form of release. We had known that our extended interlude of tranquillity could not last; we simply did not know when it would come to an end, why that end had not come sooner, and what form it would take when it came.

As the weeks dragged on, we came increasingly to doubt whether the Zionist Organisation of America would mount the rescue operation we had talked ourselves into. For myself, wishful thinking had had its day. I saw that, even though my name was on the list of Zionist askanim, I would not get to America, and I reactivated instead my contacts with my Chile relatives. In anticipation of my eventual departure for the western hemisphere in the wake of this resurrected correspondence, I travelled the short journey to Osaka to try to establish such business connections there as might prove useful in the future. Osaka was by then the industrial heart of Japan. As one approached the city by train, the sight of factory chimneys everywhere gave evidence of its creative pulse and economic strength. It was not a place for tourists, but it did make good sense to go there and look around. In my attempts to establish a link, I came across a large plastic concern. The plastics industry was at the time still in its infant years. I was well received and the Japanese owner offered me the agency for his products for the entire South American market. I was to contact them as soon as I arrived in South America to formalise plans for a future working relationship. How, given my youth and my most meagre knowledge of English, I managed to impress them sufficiently to take me seriously, I still do not know.

As I had been in the habit of travelling from Kobe to Tokyo by night, I had never had the opportunity of seeing either the stations or the country-side along the way. I had travelled to Osaka by day and passed through Takarazuka, a town which lay midway between Kobe and Osaka and existed exclusively for the entertainment of these two major centres. I noticed that the majority of passengers embarked at that station which almost had a carnival atmosphere. They were mostly women and children. The mothers wore colourful kimono dresses and carried their picnic goods in strikingly bright cloths while the children in their exotic dress made of the place a scene of such magnetic charm that I decided to return there one day – which I did. Takarazuka was in every way a playground, particularly for children. The customary attractions of any amusement park were there, as well as a zoo, while I also treated myself to a Japanese live show which was a combination of opera, drama and samurai chivalry, all accompanied by the strains of traditional Japanese music. Taking into consideration the industrially-polluted air and noise and bustle of Osaka and the dearth of green open spaces in the busy port city of Kobe, the idea of setting up an amusement town in semi-rural surrounds seemed to me a particularly progressive one.

In all, the time I spent in Japan, amidst people and a culture so different from any I had known, was valuable, broadening and enriching. I delighted in its manners, habits, dress and social courtesies. It could not but have an effect on my values, my thinking and understanding.

Then, one day in September 1941, the unknown but expected was proclaimed. We were to be shipped from Japan to Shanghai. The reason for the choice was simple. Shanghai was an open city; no visas were needed to enter it; it lay relatively close to Japan.

The illusion of security I had nurtured while in Japan had been proportional to the distance I found myself from Europe. Taking into account my vulnerability from the very first day of war, it had been no mean achievement to out-manoeuvre both Hitler and Stalin and find myself at the opposite end of Asia. On learning of my impending but inevitable departure, however, I felt the welling up in me both of a nostalgia for a place to which I had no rights but whose way of life nonetheless attracted me and a sense of trepidation in the face of further unknowns. New questions arose: what next? What does the future hold for me? Will I be able to manage in another strange land, and if so, for how long? I was troubled by forebodings, I was beset by the sense of constant unpredictability, I brooded over what had happened to my family. The knowledge that Bialystok was once again in Nazi hands further depressed me, while the thought of boarding another ship after my earlier experience at sea filled me with horror.

On the appointed day, Mietek Elbaum and I, among others, boarded ship. Unlike the previous vessel we had sailed in, this proved a very large modern passenger liner, while the voyage on the calm waters of the Pacific, while it lasted, turned out to be a holiday at sea.

We arrived in Shanghai in October.

7

Shanghai

Autumn is the loveliest time of the year in Shanghai. In September, the searing heat of summer moderates to a more pleasant and bearable warmth, while the oppressive humidity of the preceding months lifts and one can enjoy wearing a shirt. The first tinges of yellow begin to touch the leaves of the tree-branches and a general calm pervades the morning. October is still pleasant, even if less inviting than September.

For us, refugees who arrived in the Shanghai autumn, the weather was accommodating enough. The voyage from Japan had truly been a holiday at sea and we had enjoyed it. But, having arrived, we did not know what to anticipate. What we did know was that while the Chinese were also Asians, as were the Japanese, their life and culture too were different from anything in our own experience. How different, however, we did not know. No-one had considered Shanghai as a likely destination after Japan; hence, it occurred to no-one to learn something about the Chinese. As before, we would have to learn about our surroundings through direct experience.

Shanghai in 1941 was a cosmopolitan place. Its political status as an open city was reflected in the composition of its population and in its distinct territorial divisions. It was not a uniform city; it lacked the homogeneity of Japanese cities. It was rather an amalgam of nationalities and cultures, notwithstanding the fact that the majority of its inhabitants were Chinese. The business district with its famous Bund along the waterfront was in the International Concession, a virtual English enclave. The major banks were there, the customs house, the major commercial offices, the enclosed Sassoon court and the money exchanges. In that part, the pulsating rhythm of big city activity was constant. Yet even in the midst of this vibrant activity, the Chinese way continued unaffected. From the windows of the solid buildings on the Bund, one could look out upon the waterfront with its junks and small craft on the water and watch the Chinese coolies carry their diverse merchandise ashore on bamboo sticks to the accompaniment of a rhythmic sing-song of a crew engaged in unloading operations. The wealth of the Bund on one bank of the waterway co-existed with the poverty and squalor lining the other. They seemed to exist in natural harmony, as if they needed one another to enhance the contradiction. The famous Nanking Road set off at a 90 degree angle from the middle of the Bund was, in those days, the hub of shopping activity for the more affluent sections of the many millions of Chinese in the city.

Separated from the International Concession by several sections of standard colourless unexciting Chinese streets was the French Concession. This differed totally from all other areas in that it was a residential European enclave in a Chinese sea, administered as the name implied by the French. Its street names were French; its police were French. The buildings, shops, the people, the tempo of activity – all these bore a markedly European character. The streets were clean, well laid out and free of congestion, and were it not for the rickshaw stands on a number of street corners and the occasional food-vendor cooking his dim sims on an open hot-plate brazier, it was possible momentarily to forget that this was Asia.

Shanghai also contained two distinct Jewish communities. In the main, they lived apart and differed in origins, cultural backgrounds and language.

One group was the Sephardi community, most of whose members hailed from Baghdad. This community developed as a result of remarkable successes achieved by a few outstanding families with a world-wide reputation and international business interests, among which were the Sassoons, Kadoories and Ezras. In the wake of their solid business success, many other Baghdadi Jews flooded into Shanghai, some claiming family ties in the hope of reaping the benefits from the achievements of their precursors. Thus, a well-knit and financially viable Sephardi community came into being with its own particular communal structure, synagogue and internal cohesiveness based on shared Sephardi traditions reinforced by a British cultural framework superimposed on a past Arabic foundation. Although of similar origin, the Sassoons, Kadouries and Ezras were worlds removed from the rest of the Sephardi community. They were British subjects assimilated into the British way of life, their leading lights having been knighted and belonging to the upper echelons of British colonial society in Asia in its heyday. The lustre of these families, along with their commercial connections and political influence gave backbone to the Sephardi Jews and kept them apart as a self-proclaimed elite within Jewry. This claim dated back to the Golden Age of Spanish Jewry that bridged the 10th and 12th centuries. The very name Sephardi hailed from that time, Sepharad having been the Hebrew for Spain. That Jewry declined into a considerable degree of eclipse following the expulsion of Jews from Spain in 1492 and the rise of European Jewry, much of it centred in Germany (hence Ashkenazi, Ashkenaz being the Hebrew for Germany), and a veiled tension has persisted to this day between these two disparate communities of Jews.

Separate, but parallel with the Sephardi community, was a Russian-speaking Jewish enclave in the French Concession. This group, culturally homogeneous and likewise cohesive, derived mostly from Siberia and Eastern Russia, driven further east by the Russian Revolution and the events following in its aftermath. They had originally moved to Harbin, Tientsin and Tsingtau, but later came to Shanghai, supposedly because of the better opportunities to be had there in that cosmopolitan city. These Jews had their own Kehilla (Obschina), a magnificent club, which was the focus of their social life, a modern synagogue, a weekly Russian-language newspaper edited by a Mr Rabinovitz, a Zionist organisation and other more ad hoc smaller societies. Most of them engaged in trade and shop-keeping while a few were in the professions; they were in the main of the upper and lower middle class. Theirs was a national Jewish consciousness rather than one more tradition-bound or observant – in this, differing very substantially from the Sephardi community.

Set in the midst of an ambient mainstream Chinese culture, each foreign group established its own norms by means of which it could come to terms with the surrounding culture. These norms emanated from the expressed wish for separateness and a retained identity on the one hand and the expediency of partial integration to further their respective interests.

The British, for instance, had a long tradition of colonial rule which they had adapted to Shanghai and which, we were told, had left much to be desired in terms of their relations with the indigenous community. The French were self-absorbed and tried to bring their own colonial style and cultural eminence, as represented by its French Club, into their geographical region. Other national groups, such as the Russian émigrés, the remnants of the defeated Kolchak army who had fled east, lived in a fantasy world of their own, regarding their exile (already some 25 years long) as temporary and constantly dreaming of a return to the mother country. The spirit that unified them as a group was a loyal adherence to the memory of the last tsar, Nicholas II, whose picture was at the entrance to their newspaper office. That newspaper fed their fantasies of a return, even against all reason or true cause for hope. That fantasy was akin to that of the Chinese Nationalists Chang Kai Chek and his followers who, having been driven to Formosa, now Taiwan, after the war, continually dreamt of an early return and liberation of mainland China. Unrealistic as this was, this illusion was at least supported by a separate geographic base, an army, powerful allies abroad and the prospect of maintaining a viable and successful life as a political entity on their island. The Russian émigrés had none of these. They viewed the German invasion of Russia in 1941 as the moment of keeping an appointment with their national destiny and clung to their hopes throughout the war years. Their delusion was not wholly negative. In their efforts to sustain the spirit of their community, the émigrés maintained a constant vitality that became translated into art forms. They staged plays and operettas and organised other cultural events which thereby added a dimension to a society that gave neither particular recognition nor high priority to such concerns. To the extent that the events were in Russian, they offered the Russian Jewish community and those refugees who understood the language a modicum of cultural enjoyment in what would otherwise have been a culturally arid situation.

Into that multi-faceted business-oriented conglomeration of peoples and cultures entered a shipload of Polish Jews in October 1941. While we were authentic war refugees, we were by that time not at all unique, for a substantial number of German and Austrian Jews, in fleeing from Hitler, had preceded us to Shanghai well before. Those Jews constituted a community of some seventeen thousand souls who lived in a compact area in Hong-Kew where they recreated a minuscule German-Jewish society with language, mannerisms and social values and etiquette unmistakably resembling those of their former home. Gentlemen could be heard greeting each other “Guten tag, Herr Doktor” as if they were still in Berlin or Vienna rather than in the outpost that was a poor district in Shanghai. Following Hitler’s accession to power, this community had grown considerably and was largely sustained by the American Joint Distribution Committee which had an extensive relief organisation to assist such a major concentration of refugees.

In contrast to the German and Austrian refugees, the new arrivals from Poland moved into the French Concession and in proximity to, and amongst, the Russian Jewish permanent residents of Shanghai. Such settlement there was not planned. It was more an intuitive action. Not only was the area more attractive to us, but we found there a common language with the Russian Jews which we lacked with the others.

As soon as we reached Shanghai and found accommodation, we began to consider possibilities of further escape. The Palestine Office was re-established, contact with the British Consulate made, and the people who possessed certificates entitling them to go to Palestine were helped in finding passage there. Within six weeks of arriving in Shanghai, we were farewelling a group of olim, immigrants to Israel, from the Shanghai wharf. I do not know whether Herzl ever envisaged that the return to Zion would include Polish Jews setting out from Shanghai. But fact was that we danced a hora to Hebrew melodies on the Shanghai wharf, while, above us, the fortunate passengers looked down from the ship.

I found a room with a young family in the French Concession which I shared again with Mietek Elbaum. The husband was a municipal employee. One evening, he returned home and told me that the port authorities were recruiting people for the water police and urged me to apply. I was startled by the suggestion, finding it difficult to envisage myself as a policeman of any sort, let alone on water, in the pursuit of Chinese smugglers of contraband. All manner of “opportunities” come one’s way in life, but this one I politely declined, to my host’s dismay.

Then, on the 12th December, Japan attacked Pearl Harbour. Within an hour, the Japanese army, which had been on the Chinese mainland since the invasion of Manchuria in 1931 and was stationed nearby, took Shanghai without a fight. The only hostility took part on the waterfront where the Japanese fired upon a British vessel. Other than this, the takeover was a bloodless one and we found ourselves again under Japanese domination, albeit one different from that we had known on Japan’s home-ground.

The outbreak of war in the Pacific brought with it the realisation that all further notions of escape had to be abandoned. We were now hemmed in and cut off from the West, the only possible source of help. It was a bitter realisation which required a total re-orientation on the part of each of us. Those who had, till then, been most dependent on financial support from abroad were the hardest hit. As the days of northern winter grew colder, the destitution of people became more patent. Folk who only weeks before had held to some form of dignity found themselves suddenly in a state of want. To seek manual labour in Shanghai was unrealistic, as none could compete with the coolie nor subsist on the pittance for which he worked. People were left yet again to their own devices and cunning to cope with the new reality.

Remarkably, many met the challenge well; indeed, the more difficult conditions became, the more resourceful they proved themselves, as if some natural, innate instinct directed them in the business of survival. Theirs was a positive zest for living which no setback could daunt or weaken, while their wiliness and success owed more to wit, imagination and natural talent than to education.

In a city like Shanghai, which had always been open to individual ingenuity and opportunity, even war, occupation and shortages did not wholly deny openings to the quick-witted and enterprising. Currency trading had long been a normal and vital part of economic life in Shanghai, as the exchange shops in Chusan Road amply testified. Soon enough, some of the more clever folk among the refugees worked out a system whereby they could set up trade in American dollars even within sight of the more regular exchange outlets. Interestingly, neither rivalry nor animosity arose between the established Chinese traders behind their shop counters and the foreigners on the pavements outside. Indeed, the two elements seemed to stimulate each other’s activities and attainments. Where the foreign traders acquired their initial capital and connections to enter the trade at all and to be continually informed about the sensitive fluctuations of the money market they kept a trade secret. The war situation also created other opportunities for initiatives not undertaken in normal circumstances. While American dollars and gold bars had been objects of trade in Shanghai even before the war and it was not unusual to see a Chinese bearing two handfuls of gold bars mounting a rickshaw with his precious commodity not even wrapped from sight, the dollars and gold were not the only goods bartered on the market. At intervals, a demand would suddenly spring up for a particular item and feverish buying would ensue. At one time it would be razor blades, at another, sewing needles. When such demand arose, one would roam the labyrinthine alleys and lanes with their plethora of Chinese shops, buy up all stock available and bring them to the open market, making sure that one sold as quickly as one bought, lest one remained in possession of excess non-disposable stock. I did a little scouting of this kind myself and earned some money from it. As a consequence of these activities, the successful dealers became the first of a new elite that emerged in the evolving stratification among the refugees.

Not everybody, however, was endowed with such boldness and creative thinking. In the changed circumstances, those who had constituted yesteryear’s elite – respected intellectuals, professionals, industrialists – found themselves in very precarious straits. They could not let go, unfold their minds, open their hands to new ventures. They seemed unable emotionally to bridge the gap between their former status and the reality of their present position, being thereby robbed of their dignity, self-respect and drive which had, at an earlier stage, made them what they had been. Their world had collapsed and they lived, as it were, in a state of suspended animation, helpless before the dictates of the hour and impotent in any attempt to reconstruct their shattered spirit. Many fell into this category and were in urgent need of help.

Among the Russian Jews, there were many public-minded individuals. They formed a committee to provide relief for the more destitute. They were zealous in their efforts to do whatever they could for their newly-arrived brethren from Poland. One of the members of the committee was a man called Oppenheim who must have been in his sixties and would walk from one office to another with a book under his arm soliciting money for the Jews in need. There was also among the Polish refugees themselves another man whose name was Lederman. He was middle-aged, always seemingly preoccupied, always busy and something of a loner, keeping his distance from others, but not out of haughtiness or false pride. Early in 1942, rumours arose that a refugee kitchen was to be established in the French Concession. It transpired shortly after that Lederman was behind the scheme. To this end, and with the assistance of the relief committee, premises were rented on the Avenue Joffre in the heart of the French Concession. The kitchen provided a hot midday meal at a nominal price. The enterprise proved a crucial and timely intervention for many, as most refugees were men who lived in shared accommodation devoid of adequate cooking facilities or who, even where such facilities were available, did not cook for themselves. Meanwhile, restaurants were beyond their means. Poor nutrition, therefore, compounded by the penetrating cold of the wet Shanghai winter, led to deterioration in their health. The establishment of the kitchen by the relief committee at Lederman’s instigation was a master-stroke. It touched the very core of the daily existence of so many people, both in the physical and social sense, becoming a focal point for the refugees. It had a permanent staff of Chinese cooks and was run by Lederman himself. A ladies’ committee from the local Russian Jewish inhabitants supervised and assisted with the day-to-day running of the kitchen, one or other of them also being always on hand to serve the meals.

My own fortunes during the early days of my sojourn in Shanghai were mixed. Having given up the offer to become a water policeman, I was given work assisting in a soap factory. I learned something about soap production, but became more intrigued by another activity. Next to the soap factory was a Chinese primary school where the children learnt their early lessons through singing. I thought at first that they were simply singing normal songs, but was subsequently informed that this was the orthodox way of teaching the “alphabet” in China. I stayed only a short time at the soap factory. In the meantime, Mietek Elbaum and I changed accommodation, moving to a first-floor apartment occupied by an elderly couple hailing from Tientsin. The man had been a shammas (verger) and wore a kippah. His wife was a sharp-tongued woman who ruled over us with a mixture of motherly care and iron discipline. Mietek liked to tease her. She proved repeatedly gullible and this provided amusement in circumstances which seldom offered much cause to be amused. I would often wander about the business district with Mietek and talk with people, observing them in action; but I was decidedly an outsider. I simply did not belong. Along with many others, I too attended the relief kitchen, lingering there with them well after the meal was over in that hall that served as a club and home as well. Watching them was painful for me. I was a mere twenty-three at the time; I had spent two years as a refugee; I had not yet established myself in any way or made my mark. I had simply taken life as it came – as I had but little choice to take it – and had not yet accumulated any past attainments on which to look back or to dwell upon. This was in sharp contrast to the many who patronised the kitchen – lawyers, doctors, journalists, industrialists, merchants – whose youth was behind them, who had had a successful and influential past which they kept reliving in their talk, and who now faced a distressing present to which they could not adapt and an unpredictable future shorn of prestige, dignity and self-worth.

One day after lunch, Mr Lederman approached me and said he would like to talk to me. In his office, he was polite, correct, with a touch of weltschmerz reflected in his expression. I was at first puzzled by his purpose in revealing to me what seemed wholly private. The Polish consulate in Shanghai, which had by that time come to represent the Polish government in exile in London, had been ordered to close and its staff to come to London, passage having been arranged. Lederman had received an offer to go also, and he faced a grave personal decision. He would only go if he could find someone willing to take over the kitchen; otherwise he would forego the opportunity. In my innocence, I said that, surely, out of the many accomplished men who came to the kitchen, he should have no difficulties in selecting a successor. To this he replied that I had not understood what he was saying. He had already selected his successor. That person was me! I sat there, scarcely able to believe my ears. Of the 250 others who would have jumped at the offer and who were far more adept than myself he could have chosen, why me, I asked myself, why me? Also we scarcely knew one another except to greet one another in passing, there was a generation’s age difference between us, and I had done little to earn his trust. Overcome, I tried to direct the discussion away from myself, but he permitted no digressions. He was adamant: me or nobody! We agreed in the end that I should be given time to think the matter through. I came to hope that Lederman’s offer was an impulsive act which would cool and be resolved of its own accord. So I played for time. While not setting out deliberately to avoid him, nonetheless I did not come too close. One day he gestured at me as if to ask, well what is your answer?, while several days later he approached me directly and told me bluntly that his future lay in my hands. He had little time left himself to give the answer demanded of him by the consulate. Hence he wanted mine very soon. Where, before, we had set no time limit upon my decision, this time we agreed upon a specific date. Clearly, the issue was not about to go away, while the manner in which he put his position to me – that his destiny, in effect, rested in my hands and, by implication, with my conscience – left me with only one possible response. He received my acceptance with relief, though with no trace of elation. I suspected that deep down he felt guilty about leaving his fellow refugees behind. He might also have been somewhat uneasy about his choice of successor and the fate of his kitchen which was such a vital institution at that time and that place. For my part, the nearer the day came for me to take over the enterprise, the more diffident did I become. I felt that Lederman had imposed me upon the community and was troubled by the consideration that at my age I could not command the necessary respect of the people, particularly in a setting of bitterness, frustration and not a little envy of the next man’s slightest advantage. Lederman’s announcement of my succession to his position upon his taking leave proved no less a puzzle to the folk who came to the kitchen than it had been to me. There was, however, no discernible dissent or protest even if some among those present harboured private reservations.

In the weeks immediately preceding Lederman’s departure, I worked with him as he instructed me in my task. I met the approval of the ladies’ committee, but the adjustment to the daily routine demanded by the job proved less easy. On six days out of seven, I had to rise at 3.00 a.m. to go to the market. In the face of the large quantities of food needed and the fact that refrigeration facilities were not available, the food had to be obtained fresh daily. I had to learn to differentiate between meat cuts and become expert on the desirable qualities of live chickens. There was at the market a Chinese kosher butcher who had learnt the intricacies involved in the handling of kosher meat. A shochet for the killing of chickens was also at hand. Further, one required expertise in the buying of rice. One particular street in Shanghai was reserved for the rice trade and, there, Chinese dealers lined the path with bags of rice open for display. One learnt quickly to draw up a handful of rice from the bottom of the bag and compare it with that on top. By the time all the vegetables, meat and rice had been laden on a hand-drawn platform, it was usually 7.00 a.m. The kitchen staff had already arrived to take delivery of the goods and had five hours in which to prepare the meal – usually ample helpings of thick and nourishing soup, a main course of meat and vegetables, followed by a cup of tea. The job was a full-time one. There were books to be kept, moneys to be accounted for, staff to supervise, public relations work among the daily diners to engage in and a working relationship to be maintained with the ladies committee. Often, evening meetings were called by the ladies to discuss particular problems. On such evenings, I could consider myself fortunate if I grabbed four hours’ sleep.

Overall, I adapted to my role with ease and succeeded in rendering the transition phase of the kitchen from Lederman’s more autocratic hands to my own less experienced ones trouble-free. I often wondered what my mother would have thought had she seen me handling chickens and debating the commodities with the wily Chinese dealers. When I took up my rounds of the market, it was still autumn and I found it easy to deal with the weather. But winter, involving as it did rising in the middle of the night and spending three hours or more in freezing conditions amidst market smells and nerve-racking noise, tested my stamina. There was also the purely economic consideration. The budgetary constraints were obvious, but so also was the dependence of the refugees on the daily meal for sustenance. I had to stretch each dollar to its fullest while ensuring that maximum nutrition was extracted from all the ingredients used by our Chinese chef. The chef was an out-going amiable fellow always ready to oblige, this lightening my task. In fact, the Chinese as a whole were seen as obliging, clever, enterprising, wise and self-effacing, being bearers of an old culture. We found it easy to get on with them. We understood how they thought, we could anticipate their attitudes, and we held their age-old ingrained national characteristics in high regard.

The social milieu of the ladies involved in the auxiliary is worth noting. None of them belonged to the well-to-do, none of them carried themselves with any pretensions. The leader of the group, Madame Podolskaya, was perhaps the most representative of them. Her husband was a paid employee and they lived in a small flat with their only daughter. Originally from Bulgaria, Mrs Podolskaya exuded self-confidence and authority without undue effort. She knew her mind and commanded the allegiance of her committee. Among the others were two sisters-in-law, the Madames Rabinovitch, one of whom was short and wiry and the wife of the editor of the Russian Jewish weekly, who owned a children’s toy shop where she had to make special arrangements for its management on her rostered day on kitchen duty, the other tall and well-groomed and the wife of an architect. Another volunteer, Madame Radomistelskaya, who was related to the Rabinovitches was the wife of a lawyer who served as chairman of the community council. She was always modestly dressed, reflecting her simple way of living. I established close rapport with them. The new responsibility I acquired also gained me a number of fringe benefits, though none of them financial. By virtue of my central position within the Jewish refugee community, I had become something of a public figure. Everybody knew me, while I, in turn, came to know not only the diners at the kitchen, but also the families of the auxiliary ladies and an increasingly widening circle of Russian Jews whose club I began in time to frequent. My social standing in the community thus became enhanced.

One afternoon, about midway through my stewardship of the kitchen, two Japanese officials arrived, requesting to speak to the manager. I was in the office attending to paperwork at the time. I invited them in. They proved to be from the secret police. One of them, after asking how many people attended the kitchen and what other activities were engaged in there, proceeded to suggest that the kitchen was in actual fact a camouflage for organised Zionist activity which, by its very orientation, was dependent upon Britain and therefore, by definition, an extension of enemy activity perpetrated under Japanese rule. I did my best to explain the real function of the kitchen in maintaining the nutrition and health of the refugees, but the official accepted none of this. He repeated, with slight variation, his original charge. Again I replied that the function of the kitchen was to feed the needy whose efforts simply to survive left them with little concern for political issues. Indeed – I went on – many of the people had been so assimilated in Poland that they had no interest in organised Jewish life, let alone in Zionism to which a large number had in fact been opposed and had done whatever they could to thwart it. This remark clearly irked one of the officials who turned upon me and said: “Do you expect us to believe that there are Jews who do not want a country of their own?” The fact clearly did not make sense to him. As a Japanese nationalist, he found such a possibility beyond conceiving. The very idea was irrational, and with the limited English at my disposal I could scarcely persuade him of its actuality. I could only stand my ground and invite the two Japanese back some other time to see for themselves that their allegations were without foundation.

By the time they left, I was drained and worried – not because there was anything to fear in so far as the kitchen’s activities were concerned, but because we had come under political surveillance and official suspicion, this presaging grave danger to us all. The more I reflected upon the matter, the more I came to understand that the visit could not be dealt with in isolation from all else that was taking place. It was merely one component of a wider storm that was descending upon us, clearly recognised by the communal leaders to whom I tendered a report of the event.

A manifestation of it was already evident in relation to the Sephardi community in Shanghai. Following the Japanese seizure of Shanghai in early 1942, the British subjects of that community – who had also been its most prominent members – had been ordered to wind down their interests and prepare for internment as enemy subjects for the duration of the occupation. The Kadoorie family faced an additional problem pending their internment. That family had established and funded a Jewish day school for German Jewish refugees in Hong-Kew. That school had some 550 pupils. On the eve of their internment, the Kadouries turned to the Russian Jewish community with the request that it take charge of the school during their internment. The proposition was a sensible one. However, the Russian Jews possessed little expertise in Jewish education and were at a loss as to how to administer the school and assess its work. As it was known that I had been a graduate of a Hebrew gymnasium, I was invited to join in an inspection tour of the school. The community’s leaders wanted my views before they were prepared to commit themselves to a responsibility of this nature.

The school we were led through by our host, Sir Horace Kadoorie, was a modern building with large vented classrooms which were more impressive than those in the other Chinese school I had seen some time earlier. In the course of our inspection tour, we came across one class where a Hebrew lesson was in progress. A short thin man wearing a kippah (skull-cap) and holding a Hebrew primer stood before about a dozen pupils, the boys too wearing kippot, teaching them about trees and birds. I was struck by a certain novelty here and lingered on in this room longer than in the others, probably to the annoyance of my co-visitors and our host. On leaving, I asked our host why the teacher and pupils wore kippot in this class while I had not seen kippot in any of the other classes, particularly as the lesson was neither in religion nor in Bible studies, but in something as secular as birds and trees. Our host, who was tall, broad-shouldered and bore himself with full self-assurance, clearly appeared embarrassed by the question and lost for an answer. When he finally collected himself, he said, “I do not know the reason, except that this is how Hebrew is taught in England.” I made a mental note of the answer, little suspecting at the time how valuable that snippet of information was to be much later on a different continent and in different circumstances. In the event, I supported the idea of the Russian Jewish community taking responsibility for the school.

While we were in Hong-Kew, we elected to pay a visit to the offices of the Joint Distribution Committee and visit the “homes”, the communal living quarters known as Heime, not far away. Some 5,000 hot meals per day were provided there. As the situation deteriorated, the quality of the meals fell to 1350 calories. The JDC also provided a wide network of social supports which in some way assisted up to 7000 refugees, this representing one in every two inhabitants of the Hong-Kew ghetto. We were well received, all our questions were generously answered, and we were then invited to visit the dormitories. For me, this was a depressing experience. The building which housed the dormitory must at one time have been a warehouse, the space now being occupied by a succession of double-storied bunks. There, we found people, at the height of day, just whiling away their time lying in their cots or playing cards on the lower bunks. To me, this conveyed a sorry picture of the debilitating and corrosive effects of existing in a state of dependence and lack of purpose. I was troubled that time might be working against us all to the same conceivable end.

As 1942 drew to an end, Mrs Aida Rabinovitch gave a New Year’s Eve party in her home to which I and others among my refugee friends were invited. Being Russian Jews, our hosts and their acquaintances were relatively well-off and, unlike the British subjects, were left alone by the Japanese. They continued in their business and professional concerns and were grateful at not being caught up in the war. For me, that evening was different on several counts. First, in our home in Bialystok, there was no such thing as celebrating a December 31st New Year’s Eve. We lived by the Jewish calendar, the New Year being an occasion not for celebration but for soul-searching. On leaving home, I had ushered in the year 1940 illicitly crossing the border into Vilna. In turn, entry into 1941 saw me fretting over the impending decision of the NKVD vis-a-vis the issuing of an exit visa. Those festivities were therefore novel and, in a sense, for me, unreal.

On the 18th February 1943, another blow came in the form of a military Proclamation ordering all refugees to move into a small designated area of Hong-Kew where many of the German Jewish refugees had lived since their arrival. This was to be both a de jure and de facto Jewish ghetto, the first in the history of the Far East. Though daily living became more repressive and difficult under the new laws, it did not match that which was happening in Europe in the wake of a more sinister plan by Germany with regard to the Jews.

The Gestapo chief for Japan, China and Manchuko was a Colonel Josef Meisinger, who, as Chief of the German Secret Police in Warsaw, had earned himself the title of “Butcher of Warsaw” and had so excelled himself in his murderous enthusiasm that, in 1941, he was posted to the Far East to oversee the loyalties of non-Jewish Germans to the Reich. In mid-1942, he was sent on to Shanghai to assist the Japanese in “solving” their Jewish problem. Shortly after arriving, he unveiled his plans vis-a-vis the refugees to two Japanese, the Japanese vice-Consul in Shanghai and specialist in Jewish affairs, Mitsugi Shibota, and the director of the office for refugee affairs, a former naval officer, Tsutoma Kubota. The details of this episode – the Meisinger Plan, Shibota’s humane act in warning Shanghai’s Jewish leaders of the scheme, and the subsequent cloak-and-dagger manoeuvres undertaken to foil it – are contained in Tokayer and Swartz’ already-mentioned book “The Fugu Plan”. My own recollections of the affair hark back to my acquaintance with the head of the Russian Jewish community, Boris Topas, a proud, self-assured and impressive man, who was to pay a high personal price for the ultimate neutralisation of the Meisinger plan. He was arrested with a number of other leaders, but was the only one held in custody and subjected to brutal treatment at the hands of the Japanese secret police. On his release, I scarcely recognised him. His face was disfigured and he was a broken man.

Compared with the possible implementation of the Meisinger Plan, the Japanese military Proclamation confining Jews to Hong-Kew must in retrospect be viewed as a benevolent act. We were given three months in which to move into the designated ghetto. This involved considerable uprooting of our re-established lives and adjustment to already overcrowded conditions and other difficulties. But the initial distress and panic attending the transfer soon gave way to a necessary pragmatism. Each person in his or her own way, recognising the futility of lamenting the situation, learned the lessons needed for survival. What had to be done was to secure new accommodation within the ghetto and find someone willing to verify that they were being employed at the time, this enabling an exit pass from Hong-Kew to be obtained to cover the hours of work. As a consequence of the new situation, the kitchen of which I had been in charge was disbanded. It had played its role. But for the vision of Lederman who had established it in the first place, many of the Jews who attended it for their daily noon-day meal would not have survived their first winter in Shanghai.

With the creation of the Hong-Kew ghetto, a sad chapter was written into the history of the Jewish refugees of Shanghai. Where, before, they had enjoyed freedom of movements and activities, they now became subjected to new and harsh military regulations which were something of a nightmare for everyone. In accordance with the Japanese Proclamation of 1943, a new office for refugees was established in Hong-Kew with which all refugees had to register and all requests, applications for visas and other concerns had to be lodged. It was manned by Japanese officials who, while they were civilian in appearance, conducted its affairs with relentless military brutality. The man in charge, one Ghoya, to whom everyone had to present, was a manic sadist who was forever in a rage and given to physical violence. His power over the refugees was total, and no appeal was possible against his whims, capricious decisions and outrageous behaviour. His assistant, a man named Okura, went beyond mere kicking and punching, and imposed jail sentences that were often paramount to death sentences, the jails to which he sent the refugees being infested with typhus to which more than one person succumbed and died. I, too, had to face them one day. In preparation for the worst, I placed a small bag of camphor crystals about my neck as a precaution against typhus in case I earned their displeasure. Luck was with me that day.

Where, earlier, living in the French Concession, the Polish Jewish refugees had set up their own assistance schemes, in Hong-Kew, where they constituted less than ten percent of the refugee population, they were compelled to yield up their separate group identity and rely on such established aid societies as existed for the benefit of all Jewish refugees. However, once again, as far as they could, many individuals from within this stream proved independent and resilient. By and large, the Polish Jews did not let themselves fall back on communal dormitories. With whatever meagre resources they possessed, they secured alternative accommodation, obtained the required employment papers from the permanent residents with whom they had had commercial connections before the Proclamation, and gained exit passes from the Hong-Kew ghetto to their place of work beyond. To the best of my knowledge, they were not molested by the Japanese authorities.

My personal situation following the closure of the kitchen was again in flux, as was that of many others. But, as before, the invisible hand of good fortune favoured me. Shortly before our arrival in Shanghai, the Russian Jewish community had opened a Jewish hospital in the French Concession. It was located in Rue Pichon. The building belonged to the Catholic Church and was occupied by the Polish diplomatic mission which vacated it as a result of the war. The Jewish community took out a lease on it and installed a hospital containing sixty beds, an operating theatre and other support facilities. The building stood surrounded by beautiful spacious gardens. At the time of the Ghetto Proclamation, the management of the hospital was in the hands of a middle-aged refugee from Poland. It appears that his performance did not meet the hospital committee’s expectations, for scarcely had the kitchen closed than I was offered the post of general manager of the hospital. As part of the deal, I would be provided with a room, full board and some payment in cash. There was in the offer an extraordinary silver lining. While the Japanese Proclamation was all-embracing, it did permit one exception; namely, that people working in hospitals with quarters on the premises were exempted from the general regulation and permitted to remain at their place of work. After giving the appearance of thinking the matter over, I accepted the post; so that, at the very time when most people moved into the restricted and overcrowded conditions of Hong-Kew, I moved to the gardens of Rue Pichon, settled into my room and threw myself into the new task with enthusiasm.

The hospital was run by a board of honorary members. Its Chairman was Isak Kirilovich Kagan, originally from Riga, who lived in a modern block of flats opposite overlooking the hospital. He was the undisputed boss of the entire enterprise who made sure that noone forgot the fact. He would appear at the hospital each morning on his way to work and attend to whatever matters required attention, letting no detail escape his eye. He had an office downtown. His only son was headmaster of a Jewish day-school which stood in the International Concession close to the Sephardi Synagogue.

The Vice-Chairman of the board was Semion Liberman, a man with a blander personality and younger than Kagan. His even temper contrasted with Kagan’s impetuosity. He was an accountant by profession and owner of a noted cafe in Nanking Road, close to the corner of Chusan Road. His son was an active leader of the Zionist-Revisionist Youth Movement in Shanghai who later went to Israel and played an international role on behalf of Herut. Semion Liberman left Shanghai after the war for Japan and became the director of the Jewish Club in Tokyo. The board treasurer was a Mr Citrin who was refined and pedantic. His wife, a grey-haired lady of commanding presence was the chairperson of the ladies’ committee of the hospital with particular responsibility for the running of the kitchen and house management. One member of the Citrin family was later associated in an honorary capacity representing Israel in Hong Kong.

The hospital’s medical superintendent was a Dr Steinman, an energetic Jewish doctor from Poland who had a fine sense of humour, was approachable, and would conduct ward rounds twice each day, issuing orders often on the run in a quick-fire staccato manner. Working there, too, was a resident doctor by the name of Dr Klinger who, with his wife, wished only to return to Germany after the war – which I believe he did at the first opportunity. The other senior person on the medical staff was the matron, Vera Alexandrovna, who hailed from Siberia via Harbin. She was a short, wiry, greying woman who held an iron grip on her nursing staff. The other top personnel consisted of a young woman called Nina who tended to financial matters and was to marry Shmuel Iwry and later settle in Baltimore, U.S.A., and Kuba Kronenberg who served as accountant. Kuba and his wife had been on the same boat as I on the journey from Vladivostok to Japan and were in time to leave Shanghai together as well. As Kuba Kronhill, he later became an identity in Melbourne. It is interesting to note that the senior three persons connected with the general non-medical administration of the hospital – Nina, Kuba Kronenberg and myself – were all refugees from Poland.

The doctors who used the hospital for their patients represented a microcosm of European settlement in Shanghai. A number of outstanding German Jewish surgeons operated there. The name of Dr Marcuse comes readily to mind. He was a short man, always in good humour and forever whistling a tune from the classics. Being a musician of note and an orchestral conductor, he gave the impression that music was his first love while surgery served as a means of making a living. Another excellent surgeon was Dr Heilborn, tall, thin, taciturn and withdrawn. He never spoke above a whisper but he had the staff hanging on to his every word and responding to every twitch of a muscle. Further, two rather picturesque doctors, a brother and sister called Blumenthal, both long-standing residents of Shanghai, came often. They were unmarried. While the brother tended towards reserve, the sister, an obstetrician, was more jovial, not particular about her appearance, always dressing in Chinese garb, and frequently joked about certain aspects of her specialty. The radiology department was run by a Russian Jewish radiologist and the pharmacy by a German Jewish pharmacist, assisted by a younger man called Blatt, a Polish refugee who later came to Melbourne. A number of Russian non-Jewish doctors also worked regularly at the hospital.

My integration into the hospital administration went without a hitch. As the factotum involved in some way in all aspects of house management and in constant contact with the medical staff, my hands were always full. In addition, I had to manage the public relations aspects of the hospital at two levels, with both the board and the ladies’ committee. I kept my own books, controlled stock, co-ordinated the duties of the Chinese staff through their supervisor, and worked with a tough Russian Jewish lady who managed the kitchen and might have minced meat but not her words. The place was always buzzing with gossip, this affecting all of us working there, but also adding spice to the performance of daily chores. Patients’ meals were issued under the keen-eyed vigilance of the matron. By then, the nurses had eaten and were able to assist in feeding the patients. Matron and I were the last to eat. We were treated with deference by the kitchen staff and ate well and in style. Overall, however, my relations with the individual members of the board and ladies’ committee were of a business nature, such relations not spilling over, as they had earlier, in the refugee kitchen, into the social domain. The nature of my hospital work, the constancy of responsibilities and the magnitude of the whole enterprise rendered personal involvements with these persons rather marginal. On the other hand, the large staff afforded extensive interaction within the organisation. With the majority of acquaintances living in Hong-Kew, a number of us who worked at the hospital created our own small social nucleus, although after a long day’s work there was neither much time nor energy for socialising. On occasions, time permitting, one could snatch a short respite on a bench in the gardens around, delighting in the weather or the colours all around, chatting to convalescing patients, and putting, if only momentarily, the harder reality out of mind.

My room was in a detached two-storey building which housed the chef and his assistant on the ground floor, and the operation-theatre sister, Nina the office secretary, the manageress of the linen department and myself on the upper floor. Another couple who lived within the compound consisted of a middle-aged Russian Jew, a handyman called Brodsky, and his wife. Brodsky would wait to be called upon and, when in fact called, would respond to any call that came by first making it clearly understood that were it not for him the whole institution would grind to a halt. He would then stride with tool-box in hand through the hospital and surrounds with an air of indispensability, quite convinced that he commanded obeisance from all, from the superintendent down. In his eyes, he was not simply an odd-jobs man; he was at least the equal of the surgeon, who was dependent on him for the functioning of the hospital steriliser which, being very primitive, was in constant need of repair. A kind word would make him climb mountains to please, while the least suggestion of disrespect would bring down the wrath of the gods on the offending person. Watching him made me muse that there may be a suppressed Brodsky in all of us.

Considering that Shanghais Russian Jews numbered some 4000 souls, the establishment and maintenance of a Jewish hospital was a major credit to the communal spirit and enterprise of those people.

Admittedly, there were telling reasons why it should have been established in the first place. For one, the general Shanghai Hospital was far from the French Concession where the Jews lived. The difference in standards of living between Europeans and Chinese was another factor. In addition, a considerable number of Jewish families could not afford medical or hospital care; consequently, a hospital was needed which could waive fees for the indigent. At bottom, perhaps, was the whole concept of communal self-help that gave impetus to those who brought the hospital and other service institutions into being.

The Jewish High Holy Days in Shanghai left me with a number of memories. Among the Polish refugees was the cantor of the Bialystok Choral Synagogue, Mr Podrabinek, who was engaged by the Russian Jewish community to lead prayers that year. In that community so remote from the more familiar world, his presence was billed as an extraordinary event. I particularly recall Kol Nidrei night of that year. The synagogue was packed; Cantor Podrabinek’s magnificent voice and masterly renditions of the prayers thrilled the congregation, some of whom had never had the opportunity to savour such an experience. At the end of the service, the people’s excitement was unmistakable. One woman likened the cantor’s performance to opera rather than to a religious service, so strong was the impact made on her. For me, too, it was a far cry from the kind of service with which I had been familiar back home. In Bialystok, Orthodox Jews wore white rubber-soled shoes to the synagogue on Kol Nidrei night; there, they had walked to the synagogue while, here, the worshippers arrived in cars; and the very atmosphere pervading the place was different.

Polish Jews contributed to Shanghai Jewry in a number of other ways also. One particular personality among the refugees who made his mark in Shanghai, as he was later to do in Melbourne, was the Yiddish writer, critic and essayist Yehoshua Rappoport who had, like myself, also hailed from Bialystok. Being fluent in Russian, he fitted well into the community, contributed to the Russian-language Jewish weekly edited by Rabinovich, and at times delivered public lectures before audiences at the Jewish Club. There was one lecture in particular that I vividly recall. In the course of talking of the peculiarities of historic Jewish experience, he said: “Look at me. I’m a Jewish writer who uses Yiddish, the language of the Jewish masses, as my medium. And yet, here I am among my own brethren who would like to read my writings but for whom, to make them accessible, I must translate them from Yiddish into a foreign language. This is one aspect of the tragedy that besets Jewish dispersion and cultural assimilation.” His words stuck in my mind, even though their deeper validity and significance did not fully strike home until much later in Australia.

With regard to my contacts with my scattered family, I kept up a desperate correspondence with Mother. I wrote in Russian in order to facilitate the passage of my postcards past the censors. In the light of the widespread disruptions of mail and other services by the war, I did not hold out much hope that my letters would actually get to her; however, I did not wholly rule out the chance possibility of them doing so. While my spoken Russian was reasonably fluent, my command of its written form was quite a different proposition; the letters must certainly have amused the censors as well as Mother and my brothers and sister when, as I learnt from replies that came some eight or nine months later, they did eventually receive them. Some of the questions I asked them in my letters clearly betrayed my naiveté and inability to conceive their lot at the time. For instance, one such question about how they were managing with kosher meat evoked laughter and tears. Little did I understand or suspect the poverty in which they found themselves, living in a dug-out cavity that served as a dwelling, subsisting on a diet of potatoes and little else, and themselves having to grow whatever they ate, survival in such conditions being contingent on one’s personal ingenuity – all this, in an alien environment with a harsh climate. Against this background, my question concerning kosher meat was nothing short of absurd and wholly disingenuous.

It must have been in that year, 1943, that I learnt that Father had been reunited with the family in Kazakhstan. I rejoiced at the news, for, with his arrival, all had a better chance of survival, the family’s bread-winner having joined them. But I had no inkling of his state of health on arriving there. This, I learnt about only well after the war, in Melbourne, my informant, a certain Lazar Kagan, having been a fellow prisoner of Father’s. Father had, from the outset in the Russian prison, been uncompromising. The first, most obvious issue was that of non-kosher food. Once a day, the prisoners were fed some hot mostly watery gruel containing some vegetable and fatty substance which he would not touch. Despite his fellow inmates’ importunings and the insistence of the prison authorities, he refused to eat it. To overcome the problem, he would exchange his soup for another’s potato or bread, remaining unbending against all admonitions that he would never survive on bread or potato and water alone. So much for day to day existence. But a still more threatening time for him was Passover. Not only did he refuse the daily soup for the eight days of the festival, but he also declined all bread. He therefore subsisted almost solely on potatoes bartered for his own rations. According to Kagan, such strength of will gave all his fellow inmates the added resources to cope with their situation and endure their deprivations and periods of despair. By the time his sentence came to an end, Father was quite literally skin and bones, his sole motivation towards survival being the possession of Mother’s address in Kazakhstan. My brother, Lazar, was later to tell me of Father’s return. Early one morning, on his way to work, Lazar noticed someone approaching him through a mist. As they approached each other, Lazar thought he recognised Father’s gait, even as he considered the possibility unlikely. But it was Father. He had reached his family on the last stage of travel by foot. He had arrived emaciated with the very last of his physical reserves, rendering his efforts all the more incredible and superhuman. Gradually, Father regained his strength and turned to vegetable growing on a small allotment of land some considerable distance from their home. Summers were short; the winters long. Hence, Father would work from daybreak to sunset with little food, aiming to accumulate a harvest ample enough to tide the family through the winter. It took a year before their lot improved. They had harvested sufficient crop to be able to sell a portion of it as well, and with the profits bought themselves a cow. Now they had milk and milk products to supplement their meagre diet and improve their general nutrition.

Mother and Father in Khazachstan 1944.

By early 1944, having been with the hospital for over a year, I became restless on several counts. In particular, did the news reaching us about the more favourable progress of the war buoy our spirits, while the knowledge that my parents and brothers and sister were re-united evoked in me a recovered sense of responsibility for them. For, had it not been precisely because Father had vested his hopes on one member of the family – me – to restore, in time, the family’s existence in more favourable circumstances that he had given his blessing to my initial departure? These and other considerations made me restless and dampened my earlier enthusiasm, a natural consequence, in any case, of working overlong in the same position. In the event, I relinquished my post. However, the hospital board continued to consider me formally as a member of staff and permitted me the use for sleep of a room at a day clinic which the hospital managed in the centre of the French Concession.

By then, I had enough money to live on and was able to supplement this with some other business activity I undertook at the time. A sought-after commodity among the Jewish furriers in Avenue Joffre was brown lining for the fur coats they produced. To obtain this, I went to the Chinese parts of town, made contact with reliable suppliers, and began to gather stock which I kept in my provisional room at the clinic. As I became more involved in business, new lines developed and these brought added opportunities. I came to consolidate my connections within the Russian Jewish community, and, as long as I could evade the restrictions imposed by the Japanese authorities and retain my freedom of movement, I was able, too, to earn a living.

In the meantime, the oppressive activities of the Japanese office for refugees worsened. As the earlier Japanese military successes turned into disasters, the hatred and barbarity of the sadistic official in that office mounted. The number of people sent to jail increased as did the number of deaths. It fell to me on one occasion to deliver a eulogy for one of the victims, this being my first experience of speaking beside an open grave. Feelings were running high, words had to be used with care, and personal emotions had to be kept under check. The loss of life was so senseless and wholly regrettable as there was no case for sending people to jail in the first place. As for Europe, the news emerging from there in relation to the fate of the Jews was still rather scanty. Rumours circulated that ghettos were being forcefully evacuated; but no-one was prepared to give credence to the stories, noone permitted the horrors inherent in them to take hold of their minds. Life in the Russian Jewish community continued normally. Its club continued to function as the social centre it was intended to be; dinners, card parties and other activities were the on-going order of the day. People could afford it. Money came easily to the business establishment; speculation thrived; money-changers had never had it so good. Gold and currency fluctuations set the adrenaline flowing with ever-renewed vigour in these money-dealers every day as they worked in a feverish excitement I never tired of watching. As Shanghai was to all intents and purposes for us a closed city, the market forces and influences worked from within. The offices of the people I knew may have been busy with commerce, but the real sources of the boom were in the labyrinthine alleyways of Chinatown. There, in what seemed to the European eye to be a lifestyle both backward and poor was the true mainspring of commercial wealth and power. Here and there, I would, on my forays into this part of town, see an elderly Chinese walk with a self-effacing downward-gazing dignity, his hands tucked into the wide sleeves of his long silken fur-lined coat and wearing his traditional round cap on his head. His was the mien of comfortable, but unostentatious, ease coupled with a deep sense of the richness and depth of his culture. People of his kind had long predated the new surge of wealth which came in the wake of the war. They were the ones, possessing status and connections, who, barely seen by the outside world and detached from the hustle and bustle of daily commercial dramas, more truly regulated the pulse of Shanghai’s wartime economic activity. This detachment, so authentic a part of these upper echelons of Chinese society, held a magnetic attraction for me, all the more so as I became aware of an inner vitality that drove these people even as it remained concealed behind a seeming serenity. In contrast with the West, wealth, here, was hidden and there was none of the Western ostentation so commonly associated with the possession of it. To me, this modesty and restraint added lustre to my impressions of Chinese culture at its most traditional, and yet I could not but feel that what I was observing was the sunset of a culture increasingly confronted by new imperatives in a changing modern world. I did not know at the time of the political transformations that China at large was undergoing – this would come later – but, intuitively, I sensed myself privileged to be witnessing a world on the eve of extinction. If I had to explain that intuition, it stemmed from my belief that in the wake of the war that we were living through, the inevitable changes that would ensue would not by-pass even China. Perhaps the fact that I myself belonged to an ancient culture sensitised me to the ever-recurring contests between old and new, resulting in inevitable changes in their wake.

Not only the older wealthier establishment was under threat. The shop-keepers, too, whom I dealt with, were unlikely to be spared. I observed them closely and came to know their routine. One such routine revolved around the midday meal. This meal would be brought to them by a messenger carrying many dishes in round flat straw baskets balanced on a bamboo rod. A large round table would be hastily set up on the middle of the store and the diverse dishes placed on it. The entire staff, from boss to junior – whether all were of one family or included hired hands as well – would sit around it without any semblance of hierarchy. What struck me about this were two things: first, the general social levelling of all, a phenomenon not normally associated with old societies, and second, the over-supply of people engaged in what were essentially small shops. The latter aspect reflected the over-population of the nation as a whole – 600 million at the time – militating against the productivity and gainful employment of many who simply hung redundantly around establishments which, in turn, could not well remunerate them for inactivity. Such a situation could not last indefinitely, particularly in large commercial cities like Shanghai. Many fell by the wayside, cast towards the fringes of society. There, they represented less a social or moral challenge than a burden for which that society was little disposed to feel any obligation. Those who thus turned to vagrancy stirred revulsion rather than empathy; at best, they were met with indifference by those more favoured. In summer, the destitute somehow managed to survive, or, at least, were not seen to be dying within public view. But with the onset of winter, being without shelter, they were at the mercy of the elements, dying in the streets from hunger, cold and exposure. The only time anyone took interest in them was when civic employees came with hand-drawn platforms to pile up the dead and carry them away. I recall one scene where these “undertakers”, seeing that there was still life left in one body they had picked up, put it back, looked at each other as if to say “this one will have to wait till tomorrow”, and went away. Such a state of affairs could not exist indefinitely; some basic societal change would have to come in time.

So, 1944 came and passed. The war both in Europe and in the East was drawing to a close, with victory swinging towards the Allies. As refugees, we came to believe that, short of some cataclysmic happening, we would survive the war, and, as a consequence, we gave our minds and imaginations rein to contemplate the future. For my own part, I did not make plans or set specific targets as others did – conditioned to dealing with the dayto-day, I had lost all gift for long-range planning – but I did home in on one resolve: that, after the war, I should not remain in Asia but return to some form of European society as soon as I could. That urge was not prompted by any intuition of oncoming political upheaval that awaited China. On the contrary, the immediate post-war period would in all probability offer opportunities particularly attractive and tempting and worth remaining there. But there were other considerations. Grateful as I was to providence for my very survival, I had already lost six years of the best part of my life; I knew that whatever I turned to, I should have to start out from scratch; while, most telling, I had a family still living that relied upon me to restore them to normal living. Given all this, I had no intention being sucked into an alien environment, whatever the temptations.

Although I did harbour doubts about returning to a Western civilisation – Germany in the twentieth century had brought a serious question mark upon the very notion of civilisation – I knew that I had no alternative but to do so. I felt inwardly that, in the aftermath of the Jewish tragedy, which was by then more reliably talked about, the obligation was vested in me in some way to make good the Jewish loss, both individual and national. I was, in a sense, more than one man alone; my value to my people exceeded that which I, as individual, could lay claim to; I thought of the dozens of members of my family who had perished in the war, and, as such, it was only by making good my own life that I could in some way rehabilitate their memory and bring to fruition of a sort the multifold and magnificent potential which had been lost through their deaths. In the hold of this notion, I kept thinking of my namesake cousin, the son of my uncle Avrom Ber, who was a mathematician of great potential. When I contemplated how much intellectual potential must have been lost to humanity through the crematoria of Europe, I felt acutely my own inadequacy in attempting to compensate for such waste, but I knew, also, that I could not desist, however modestly, from trying to salvage something of the name and reputation of my murdered family. This became a compulsion superimposed upon the more customary limited drives and ambitions that were more in keeping with my character.

At that time, I was asked by the vice-chairman of the hospital, Semion Liberman, to help him manage his cafe in Nanking Road. I agreed. It was while working there that I heard of the surrender of the Japanese. I walked outside to note the reaction of the indigenous people. There was none of the spontaneity I had expected to see. The Japanese, although defeated, were still in town, and prudence, a strong and admirable quality among the Chinese, dictated emotional restraint. Meanwhile, the arrogance of the occupiers turned to fear. They walked clinging to the walls and with their eyes downcast, hoping not to be noticed. They had been humiliated; they may also have feared personal retribution.

Once again, with Japan’s capitulation, as had earlier happened with Japanese occupation, the status of Shanghai changed without a single shot being fired. In no time, the American navy came to Shanghai and living took on new forms and offered new possibilities. The coveted American dollar, so long treated as a commodity, was turned into currency. The Americans sought certain goods that needed satisfying, and people quickly learned to make hay while the sun shone. I, too, found myself caught up in the whirlwind. The head of the X-ray department at the Jewish hospital had his own clinic and laboratory. One day, I was approached by one of his partners with the proposition that we distill spirits for the insatiable thirst of thousands of GIs coming ashore. The laboratory was fully equipped to set about production, but wanted me to run the enterprise so that the staff would not be seen to be implicated in an activity that was less than professional. I do not recall the terms of the deal, but I consented and added another trade to the string of occupations I had practised in Shanghai. The work kept me in the laboratory till late at night. The distilling process itself took little time. What drew out the work into the night hours was the phase of purification of the brew which had to be done by particularly primitive methods, the liquid being purified by passing it through a canvas bag filled with charcoal. I did not work long at the task, but it did permit me a living and provided me with the extra means I should require in due time on leaving the place.

A post-war refugee rehabilitation office was now set up by the Joint Distribution Committee to facilitate the departure of those with somewhere to go and find destinations for the others. This office did sterling work.

My own moment of decision, too, had now come, but in the event, my future fell into place almost of its own accord. Early on, in considering where I should wish to move to, I came to confront the first basic dilemma that required resolution. When I left home in 1939, I had done so with the aim of getting to Palestine. This was most consistent with my Zionist upbringing and beliefs. While in Vilna in 1940, I had sent a number of my university papers to the Hebrew University in the hope of being accepted there. Conceivably, if Japan had not entered the war and taken over Shanghai so soon after my arrival there, I might have realised my ambition, for, one day before Pearl Harbour, 100 certificates of entry into Palestine arrived at the British Consulate in Shanghai, these having to be locked away in the Swiss Consulate which represented Britain during the war. Each certificate could potentially have saved a family. Being single, I was at a disadvantage, but I did nurture some hope of receiving one. In 1945, when the full extent of the horror that had befallen the Jews was becoming known and more than anything else validated the basic tenets of Zionism, Palestine once more became for me the first destination to be considered. However, Palestine quickly fell by the way as a likely destination. By then, the Attlee Government was in office and Ernest Bevin was Minister for Foreign Affairs. His handling of the Palestine issue was to leave him with the dubious and lasting reputation of notoriety. As early as 1945, it was plain that intending immigrants to Palestine were not destined to be expeditiously accommodated. I, for one, did not intend to stay put in Shanghai waiting for some resolution to the Palestine issue that was clearly distant in the coming.

I was compelled, therefore, to look at other options. Of these, there were two main ones. The one centred upon the Kipen family in Chile; the other involved one of Mother’s cousins, Rivka Dorevitch, who lived in Melbourne. I decided that I would opt for the first opportunity to leave that presented itself. I wrote to both families and received encouraging replies from each. I was placed in the position of having to choose. I knew that Father’s cousin in Santiago had done very well for himself. Not only was he in a position to help, but he would in fact have been more than willing to do so, owing his very success to what he had learned in Father’s knitting firm in Bialystok. Against this, the Dorevitches in Melbourne were unknown to me. Rivka Dorevitch had been a Goldman back home, but had left Bialystok early and come to Australia via Palestine. I had never met her and had little knowledge of her and her family. In the end, however, I opted for Australia. What had truly decided the matter was most simply my disinclination to live in South America, this being sufficient to nullify the benefits to be gained by joining my kinsmen there. I wrote to the Dorevitches and the Kipens in turn, accepting the offer of the one to apply for an immigration permit on my behalf, thanking the other for their willingness to help and asking them to be as generous to Father and the rest of the family, should they in their time need their aid.

The papers from Australia were attended to most expeditiously, along with all other formalities including the purchase of tickets. Together, a total of twenty-seven people, mostly middle-aged and elderly German Jewish refugees, were heading for Australia. The only other Polish family consisted of Kuba Kronenberg, his wife Lilka and their daughter Irene. The Joint placed me in charge of them, entrusting to me all necessary papers and instructions. As the time for departure drew near, one Motie Ruzanski, a permanent resident of Shanghai who had married a refugee classmate of mine, called on me and insisted that I take with me U.S. $500 as a loan which I could repay in my own time. I had scarcely expected such a gesture, but nonetheless accepted it most gratefully. With this capital at my disposal, the idea came to me to order $500 worth of embroidered tablecloth to be paid for at destination against the presentation of documents. I could not take the goods with me, as the journey was to be divided into two stages. We were, first, to fly from Shanghai to Hong Kong, and from there to travel by sea to Australia. The Joint gave me the air tickets, while the boat tickets, they said, would be waiting for us at the shipping office in Hong Kong.

I took leave of Shanghai with mixed feelings. The many friends I had made since leaving Vilna had become my extended family, joined together by the commonality of our destiny. Moreover, other bonds had also been forged, as reflected in the Ruzanski gesture of lending me money.

In the weeks preceding departure, the political climate in Shanghai became more highly charged. I recall General Marshall’s historic mission to China in his quest to resolve the challenge being mounted against Chiang Kai Shek and his entrenched family. We, as refugees, were not fully aware of the high stakes that were being played for in Chinese internal affairs at the time. What we did know was that the old regime was now on shaky ground, that the ruling family was taking full advantage of its remaining power, and that the status quo had become unstable, insecure and transitory. I sensed that some of the smart business people among the Polish refugees were looking at me somewhat differently. My interests and occupations had long made me something of an enigma to my erstwhile friends and acquaintances.

Among the learned and professional, I had been a businessman; among the men of business, I was a melamed (literally, an old-fashioned teacher, but in the pejorative, a person detached from reality). There was, in fact, truth in each group’s appraisal, but, rather than leading to my exclusion from either, each group felt itself reasonably comfortable with me in its midst, in so far as I conformed to its own norms, even while not shedding alternative values and comprehensions of life. Each could claim me as its own, but only up to a certain point. However, as the departure date drew nearer, some of the businessmen who until then had probably not credited me with more that 50% on their scale of values began to talk to me differently. People who had been puzzled by my determination to leave began to seek me out for my views about the situation, ready not to dismiss my single-mindedness as the light-hearted flightiness of a young man but as a well-considered plan. Some begged me to write from Australia to tell them of conditions and opportunities that prevailed in that faraway land.

The Russian Jewish community of Shanghai seemed on the surface to be at ease and enjoying the boom of the post-war period. If any did nurture misgivings about the future – and some of them probably did – they did nothing to betray such thoughts. However, from my reading of the situation, I came to be more troubled for them than for the refugees. The refugees, true, had been destitute during the war. But, given the opportunity, any decision they arrived at to leave would be a relatively easy one, there being nothing either material or sentimental to keep them there. Sad memories and bitter experiences were scarcely the stuff of which homes were made. For the established Jewish community, however, Shanghai was home. Moreover, they had not been affected adversely by the war, while, with the war over, they now actually found themselves in an up-swing stage of an economy which seemed to be opening up new business opportunities to them. It was reminiscent of the period following the Russian occupation of Bialystok. The comparison seemed to me a valid one, but far from seeing in it encouraging signs for the Shanghai community, I felt more of a pessimism on its behalf. I had learnt how quickly situations could swing from one extreme to another, and, intuitively, I sensed that the hour of reckoning for Shanghai in general and for its European contingent in particular was near at hand.

As before, when I had stood at the window of the train taking me from Vilna to Moscow, then again on leaving Japan, I was beset by an acute nostalgia for Shanghai. I had spent three-and-a-half years there – much longer than in Vilna – and, again, I was farewelling a part of my life I knew I was leaving for good.

One morning in May 1946, those of us who were leaving were instructed to assemble at the corner of Bund and Nanking Roads at 5.00 a.m. At that hour of the morning, it was bitterly cold and we were warmly dressed as we waited an hour and a half for a bus to take us to the airport. We were to fly Cathay Airways which was owned by Madame Chiang Kai Shek. The plane itself was an American military plane. Apart from ourselves and the two members of the crew who were Europeans, there were no other passengers in it. We sat strapped along its sides. It was my first flying experience. There was little conversation, everybody, like myself, I guessed, deep in private thought and in a state of mind in which the elation of departure mingled with anticipations and uncertainties. By the time we were given sandwiches, which I did not expect, the mood brightened. The flight to Hong Kong took about six hours. At the airport, the heat was intense, people walked about in shorts, while our own clothes, worn against the Shanghai cold, were an uncomfortable burden. We were taken to the Peninsula Hotel in Kow Loon, which was still under military command, with some of its windows sand-bagged. We were greeted sympathetically by a Captain Davidson. As I served as the appointed spokesman of the group, he invited me to follow him. He showed me the accommodation which consisted of stretchers on the mezzanine floor. I refused to accept these, arguing that many of my companions were elderly and exhausted, they were overcome by the sudden heat they confronted, and were in need of proper accommodation. He looked at me quizzically. Being a military man, he was not prepared for my refusal, but relented. We were allocated rooms, and after a quick wash and change of clothes, Kuba Kronenberg and I made our way to the shipping office to make arrangements for the sea voyage. When we presented ourselves to collect the tickets that we had been told were awaiting us there, we were informed that no such tickets existed. We were informed, too, that the ship was sailing the next day at 4.00 p.m. That placed us in a difficult situation. I asked who was the leader of Hong Kong’s Jewish community and was advised to seek out Sir Lawrence Kadoorie. Kronenberg demurred about the idea. We were mindful that we may in fact not be received. But decisiveness was necessary as we had only twenty-four hours in which to act. I clearly remember the Kadoorie office. As we entered, I was drawn to a big multi-panelled Chinese screen. A European woman who asked about the purpose of our visit was taken aback by our request – and insistence – to see her employer without an appointment. Much to our surprise, we were ushered into Kadoorie’s office with little delay. Kadoorie was a short man in his forties. He received us politely, though with some wonderment. When I laid before him our position, he asked what I expected of him. There were two things, I said: first, to telephone Shanghai to verify my story, and second, to help us secure the necessary shipping tickets from the shipping line. To that, he raised an eyebrow and studied me intently. He must have been struck by my chutzpah which, while expressed in less than adequate English, made him sit up. As he sat there reflecting over what he should or could do in what seemed an inordinately long time, his secretary knocked at the door and brought in a cable. Kadoorie read the cable and smiled. For what he was holding was a cable from the Joint office in Shanghai confirming our story. The timing of its arrival was near-miraculous. I hate to think what turn events may have taken had the cable not arrived when it did. From then on, we had no further problems. Kronenberg and I parted from Kadoorie with smiles and handshakes, but it took me several hours to overcome my accumulated tension.

Apart from the Kronenbergs, who had decided to make their own arrangements and leave Hong Kong on a later passage, the rest of us boarded ship on the afternoon of departure, all smiles, happy and relaxed. After six years of impermanence in any one place, I looked forward to the potential stability and continuity that my imminent new life might bring. Meanwhile, with the group of refugees still under my supervision, I kept an eye on every member, resolved to deliver them all to the Australian mainland in a mission accomplished to everyone’s satisfaction.

On a sunny morning in May 1946, we entered and berthed in Sydney.

8

Australia 1946-60

On arriving in Sydney, the first person to greet us on board ship was Mr Walter Brand, the Director of the Sydney Jewish Welfare Society. A tall, competent man, he went about the business of helping us disembark with patent professionalism. Those refugees whose destination had been Sydney left to go their way; the remainder who were heading for Melbourne were lodged in an hotel for three days.

Having been at sea for twelve days, I was starved for news. In that early post-war, a day was a long time, and events were continuously on the move, both on the world scene at large and in the Jewish world as well. Hence, as soon as I was settled in my hotel room, I asked for a newspaper. I was given an afternoon paper. I looked at the half-page headline, related it to the sheer banality of the story that followed, and asked for another. This was no better. To the extent that newspapers were a mirror of society, the society that those two papers reflected was scarcely appealing. I could not make it understood as to the kind of newspaper I really wanted. I remained disaffected throughout the evening and decided to make further enquiries about the range of papers Sydney had to offer. I was directed to the “Sydney Morning Herald”, the sight of which proved reassuring and eased the trepidations I had harboured till then.

That day – the day after our arrival – we were taken on a tour of Sydney in private cars by members of the Welfare Society. Being early post-war arrivals and the first to come via the East, our arrival had an exotic touch about it and our guides were eager to talk with us. The day passed most agreeably. The friendliness with which we were treated was touching, while, for us, to be back in a Western society after four years in the Orient was itself a relief and a pleasure.

The next day, I sought a Mr Walter Duffield to deliver a ring which had belonged to his mother and was forwarded through me by Rabbi Ashkenazi of Shanghai. I found him and learnt that he had, on the preceding weekend, become engaged to a Sydney girl. Walter Duffield was later to come to Melbourne where he was to play a major communal role as General Secretary of the State Zionist Council, with which I too became involved for many years. I also learned from him that the opening of the Palestine Appeal was to take place that very evening at the Maccabean Hall and that a special emissary had arrived from Palestine for the purpose. I decided I should also attend. In the meantime, another public function had been organised by the National Council of Jewish Women to welcome us, as new arrivals, to Australia. Tables were set in their premises, Dr Fanny Reading welcomed us officially, and, as leader of the group, and having no option, I responded as well as my very poor English would allow. After the formalities were over, a lady approached me and introduced herself as Ida Wynn from Melbourne, adding, “If you had the courage, with your English, to stand up and make a speech, then it will not be long before you will be speaking in public.”

That evening, I went as planned to the Maccabean Hall. The place was packed to capacity. Presiding at the function was Max Freilich, with the emissary Captain Shimon Hacohen and two or three high-ranking Australian military men who had served with Hacohen in the Middle East flanking him. The atmosphere was at once festive and tense. Hacohen was the first emissary to come to Australia after the war. His address, in which he told of the Jewish struggle with the Palestine Mandatory authorities to secure a home for the survivors of the concentration camps, was deeply moving and assured a successful appeal. While the actual collections were underway and Hacohen was in conversation with the colonels alongside him, I walked on to the stage, approached Hacohen, and, scarcely giving the matter conscious thought, introduced myself to him in Hebrew, adding that I had but the day before arrived from Shanghai. It took Hacohen a moment to absorb what I was saying, upon which he grabbed me by the shoulders and asked “Where is your Hebrew from?” Aware of the public scrutiny we were attracting and of the Chairman’s displeasure, we moved to one wing of the stage. Shimon Hacohen was a farmer and a soldier. He was tall, broad-shouldered, blue-eyed and earthy, and had a forthright and unambiguous manner which made it easy to evoke a responsive chord in him. He mentioned that he would shortly be coming to Melbourne and asked me to keep in touch with him.

For me, the evening was a momentous one. I felt I was back where I had left off six years earlier on the other side of the world. I was recharged. A total stranger when I entered the hall, by evening’s end, I felt I belonged. That second day dispelled the bleakness that had beset me the previous evening, while it also compensated in part for some of the leanness and isolation that had sorely attended my years as a refugee.

We had the last day in Sydney to ourselves to make the most of our transit through that city. Then, in the evening, we boarded the train for Melbourne. As I walked off the train, I was sought out and found by Moshe Dorevitch and his wife, Rivka, Mother’s cousin, who had together secured my entry permit. Till then, we had known each other only through correspondence. Moshe was then forty years old and of medium height, with a face expressive of warmth and goodness. I took to both Moshe and Rivka immediately, and it soon became clear that we had much in common quite apart from being relatives. We drove to a two-storey building at 10 Ellesmere Road, Windsor, where they lived on the upper floor, while the lower was occupied by Moshe’s older brother, Haim. Moshe and Rivka had four children, the oldest, Abe, then in his matriculation year, David, Yaffa and Gideon who was still a small boy. Shortly after arrival, we sat down to a long lunch over equally long conversation, largely about my experiences, that extended well past afternoon tea when Haim and his wife Rose came up. That first day in the heart of my new family was spent in a glow of intimacy, the warmth of which I had by then almost forgotten.

Among the friends I had made in Japan was an Abram Solomon who had been among the fortunate few who by-passed Shanghai altogether on his way to Australia. I phoned him in greeting. He offered to call for me the next day, a Sunday, and take me to the home of a prominent communal leader who was just celebrating his son’s Bar Mitzvah. I should then have an early opportunity to meet with many leading members of the community. So I came to know Hemda and Benzion Patkin. Patkin greeted me in Hebrew and promptly extracted from me the fact that I had but the day before arrived from Shanghai. To my embarrassment for diverting so much attention from the truer purpose of the festivity, I became quickly surrounded by a sizeable crowd directing all manner of questions at me. As Abram Solomon had foreshadowed, I did establish contact with a considerable number of leaders of the community. As we headed to the table for refreshments, a man approached me, gave me his visiting card and requested that I telephone his office as he wanted me to come and see him. I took the card, promising to follow up his request. Another who engaged me in conversation and bade me visit him on a given evening of the following week was Rabbi Gurvitch, a man of distinguished appearance who commanded immediate respect. I accepted his invitation also. As Abe Solomon and I left the Patkin house, I showed him the visiting card I had been handed. Solomon insisted that I should indeed contact the man. John Baron was one of the more substantial members of the community, he said, this fact being subsequently verified by my relatives. The day had been a full and stimulating one, but I was left to wonder what John Baron wanted of me.

Moshe and Rivka Dorevitch had come to Australia via Palestine. They had been pioneers who had found it impossible to make a living there in the early period of the Mandate, and were compelled reluctantly to relinquish their idealism, leave the country and seek out better opportunities in Australia. They had a clothing factory in which they both worked, the while securing education for their children. Their home was both traditionally Jewish and Zionist. Moshe was involved in the Jewish National Fund and was also a member of the Victorian Zionist Organization. Being homely, down to earth, and unpretentious, the Dorevitches made my stay in their home most pleasant and relaxed. Moshe’s older brother, Haim, was the senior partner in a wholesale softgoods business in Flinders Lane, while a younger brother, Alec, had but recently been demobilised and was taking his first tentative steps in establishing himself independently.

On the Monday morning, I went with them to their factory. It was located on the third floor of an old building in Little Collins Street opposite the Victoria Palace Hotel. The lift worked through a series of pulleys worked by hand by a lift-man. The premises were amply lit and consisted of a large stockroom, office and workroom where the main production line at the time was girls’ winter overcoats. As the factory was situated in the city centre, I went down to explore the streets, a practice I have adhered to ever since in seeking to acquaint myself with every new place I come to. I learned quickly that Bourke Street was the main retail thoroughfare, while Flinders Lane was the hub of softgoods manufacture and wholesale trading. The rhythm of life in the streets was sluggish. The men wore mostly dark-blue three-piece suits with badges in their lapels denoting the particular armed forces they had served with, and felt hats on their heads. The women wore hats and gloves. The sandwich I ate for lunch consisted of square slices of white soggy bread which – so it was explained to me – was for toasting and the only one available. I had, however, three morning papers to choose from: the “Argus”, the “Age” and the “Sun”. I walked about at leisure, taking everything in and developing impressions in a relaxed and unhurried frame of mind, establishing for myself an idea of the place where I had chosen to settle.

Over subsequent days, I learnt a number of mores peculiar to Australian society. For instance, a fully acceptable and welcome way of beginning a conversation with a stranger was to make reference to the weather or to the sport then in its season. Indeed, the more conversant one was with sport, the more easily could one establish contact with one’s fellow. To discuss politics or religion with strangers was in bad taste, for it could potentially offend the other’s sensibilities. I also learned early about the central social role played by the “pub” and about the final six o’clock pre-closing swill.

Later in the week, I telephoned Mr Baron and arranged a time to meet him. His office was in Brunswick Street, Fitzroy, a short tram ride from the Collins and Swanston Street corner. Almost imperceptibly, as the tram wound its way out of the city towards Brunswick Street, the scenery changed and I found myself in a neighbourhood that was clearly poor. I was startled by the difference.

The address I had been given proved to be that of a comer shop. A woman and a young man were there, and, having introduced myself, I was shown into Mr Baron’s office. This was a very small room in the back, scarcely designed to impress. As I sat down, Mr Baron fixed me with his gaze and, after short deliberation, began to speak. He prided himself— he said – on being a good judge of people; he seldom made mistakes about them; and he was fairly satisfied that his first impression of me had been correct. I found this a most curious introduction. He proceeded then to say that he had varied business interests, some of which took him abroad from time to time. The young man I had seen on entering was his son, but he was still too young to assume responsibility for running the business during his absence. As he was soon to go abroad once more, he wanted me to manage his local interests at a starting salary of twenty pounds per week. (The weekly wage current at the time, I had already learnt, was about six pounds ten shillings). I heard him out, thanked him for the offer, but, with scarcely any hesitation, declined. My reasons, as I saw them, were both logical and simple. I had only just arrived and had not yet properly sounded out the general opportunities available. I feared that, were I, from the outset, to take up such a lucrative offer, I might find it exceedingly difficult to give it up, thereby locking myself into a salaried position and foreclosing any opportunities for self-employment that could arise. I preferred in my new circumstances to be as independent as possible. Further, I was still single and free of immediate obligations, and I wanted, for the moment, to take my time before committing myself totally. Mr Baron accepted my explanation graciously, perhaps even approvingly, and did not try to make me change my mind. We talked a while longer about different matters, after which I left.

As a postscript to that encounter, I was later to have dealings with John Baron and his son for many years and in different areas. I conducted business with him when I established a factory in Brunswick Street, and later became a major purchaser of lambswool from J. Baron and Son, and, on winding up my knitting mill, sold his son some of my plant.

When I returned from the interview with John Baron, Moshe and Rivka found it difficult to understand why I had passed up such a prize opportunity, when very few people in those days could command twenty pounds per week, so far above the average wage. Nonetheless, my instinct told me I had done the right thing, and I resolved to bide my time.

The following week, I visited Rabbi Gurvitch in Carlton. His eyesight was by then impaired, but his was a magnetic personality, and I spent at least two hours with him satisfying his curiosity about refugee life in the Orient.

Soon after arrival, I opened a bank account. On the advice of Moshe Dorevitch, I opted for the Union Bank in Little Collins Street opposite the Australia Arcade. Although Moshe himself did not bank there, he did know it for its liberal credit policies. Shortly after, the embroidered tablecloths I had bought in Shanghai also arrived and I had to pay for them. I had the money to pay for it – the money that my friend Rozanski had insisted I take with me – but instead of tying up all my possessions in that one parcel of merchandise, I called upon the bank manager to discuss my situation. The manager, a Mr Cooney, then in his late fifties or early sixties, listened to me attentively, studied my shipping papers, thought for a while, and said, “Young man, I will give you an overdraft of five hundred pounds – go and do business!”

I thanked him for his confidence in me and walked out of the bank. On the outside step, before reaching the pavement, I paused, as if riveted. I started analysing the content of the interview and, try as I might, I found it difficult to comprehend the manager’s action. After all, I was a newcomer to the land; I had negligible assets; I had no business or occupation; nor even any idea of what I should turn to. The only thing in my favour to indicate any initiative was a consignment of tablecloths, on the strength of which I was seeking money from the bank. Yet, I had been offered credit with such ease. Coming from a state such as Poland where the individual was presumed guilty until proven innocent, I had to adjust to the converse notion here that an individual was a priori decent and trustworthy. In one sweep, I saw into the essence and foundations of a democratic society, this being a revelation at once novel, revolutionary, and elating. What I had gained from that bank manager was more than a mere overdraft. What he had opened to me was a set of social values till then unknown to me, and, still more, an assurance that my intuitive gravitation to Australia had been a correct decision. I could now, as it were, “unpack” safely and with confidence.

The consignment was duly cleared and delivered to the Dorevitch factory. It consisted in the main of card-table-sized embroidered cloths with a few larger dinner-table-sized ones, two of which were outstanding in design and workmanship. Rivka examined them and suggested I sell them privately. To my delight, and exceeding all expectations, these larger tablecloths fetched forty pounds each. Had I known beforehand of the likely interest in these, I should have brought out more; but I had not. The smaller tablecloths drew less attraction, for the same were already available locally. To gain maximum profit from them, the best I could do was to hawk them door to door around the neighbourhood. I set out along Dandenong Road, Windsor, undertaking an activity I disliked. Most people would not accept me across the threshold; here and there, a housewife showed interest; I also netted a number of sales. The denouement of this episode came when I knocked on one door which, much to my embarrassment, was opened by an Ada Pitt, whom I had already met before. I tried to excuse myself, but she invited me indoor. There I explained how I came to be knocking at her door. She made me feel at ease. By the time I left, I resolved to cease hawking. I subsequently sold the remainder of my merchandise to a shop in the old Colonial Mutual Building in Collins Street that handled Chinese tablecloths.

So did my first venture into business come to a swift end. I was again left with no notion of what to do or where to begin. In the many discussions that took place about work opportunities for new arrivals, a frequent suggestion was to look for a shop in a country town. If one found suitable business connections, then one could well succeed in such an enterprise. The idea did not particularly appeal to me, but with the same advice being given repeatedly, I relented and one day set out with Moshe by train to inspect a shop in Benalla. Nothing came of the trip. The prospect of chaining myself to a shop for three to five days each week away from communal life and public affairs, let alone a Jewish environment, and of having constantly to travel between that sleepy township and Melbourne, was less than appealing. I let go the whole idea.

The weeks following my arrival turned into months, and month followed month with no suitable work materialising. I remained watchful and continued to make enquiries, but even as winter came and went, I found myself groping in the dark and becoming impatient with myself. I was teaching at Bialik School, then in Drummond Street, North Carlton, on Sundays and twice during the week.

One afternoon, as I walked into the building housing the Dorevitches’ factory, I saw ahead of me a man carrying a large bale of woollen cloth over his shoulder and heading for the lift. Even though I did not see his face and his posture was distorted by the load, I recognised the figure and the gait. Scarcely hesitating, I called out: “Berl!” Sure enough, it was Berl Dzivak, a schoolmate from Bialystok who had emigrated to Australia before the war. The reunion was an emotional one as he recognised me and dropped his load and marvelled that I was still alive. Soon after, I visited him and his wife Peshka. I learned a good deal from him about local business prospects.

The scarcity of goods was felt everywhere in the immediate post-war period. Demand had increased, but supply lagged far behind, while rationing was still in force. Such factories as were in operation worked at 25% of normal capacity. Not only were young men not yet back in the workforce, but women, too, could not be found to work in the factories. On one occasion, I received a query from friends in Shanghai about the availability of tinned fruit for export. I made enquiries at a large cannery in Prahran, and was advised to save the soles of my shoes. The problem in business was not to sell but to buy. I finally understood that, considering my financial situation, it made little sense to look to shop ownership or retailing as a viable activity. What was more feasible and sensible was to uncover sources of supply, after which the rest would take care of itself.

Once I came to this realisation, I knew what to do. Once again, I went from door to door, this time, however, not to sell but to buy. Lygon Street, Carlton, was then the hub of manufacturing of underwear, socks, knitwear and the like. In October, then, I began my rounds of these factories, prepared to be refused, but determined nonetheless to persevere. On the whole, the owners had no time for me. The short “No” I repeatedly received said everything. Their response was understandable. Each factory had its own customers to supply and saw no reason to divert its production to a middle-man. However, I persisted in the expectation of an eventual breakthrough. One day, I walked into a factory called Victoria Gloves run by two brothers named Hirsh. As well as manufacturing ladies gloves, they produced ladies’ underwear, a most sought-after commodity made of shiny knitted material called swami. The underwear was not available, having sold out, but the brothers were prepared to offer me the ladies’ gloves if I was interested in the line. I knew by then that women in Australia wore gloves both summer and winter and I agreed. The samples they showed me looked good to me. They were basically summer gloves made of cotton and available in different colours. I was also shown mittens, for which I could see little use, there being no fingers other than the thumb issuing from that peculiarly-shaped tube of cotton. I was assured that these too were a saleable commodity, even if not on the scale of the more customary gloves. I was ready to accept this; surely, if there were no demand for mittens, they would simply not be manufactured. I took home a range of samples. I had something tangible in my hands and an accompanying sense of expectation. I could also expect a profit margin ranging between eight and ten shillings per dozen pair of gloves and mittens.

The following morning, the 4th November 1946, was an unusually hot day for that time of year. My spirits matched the brightness of the day. I set out as soon as the shops opened and, wherever I went – Myer’s store, Foy and Gibson, Mantons, Georges, Peters, and others – I secured orders. By the end of the first day, I sold 240 dozen pair of gloves at a net profit of ten shillings per dozen. When I told them, the Dorevitches were amazed. Next day, I ordered the goods from the brothers Hirsh, had them delivered to Moshe’s factory, and within two days supplied each customer with the required stock. Within a few days, I was phoned by one store for immediate delivery of another order. This became a daily pattern. Some buyers took to calling at the factory when they needed more stock, taking with them several boxes at a time. I was clearly in business. Thanks to the availability of sufficient stock to continue meeting the buyers’ demands, I gained a reputation for reliability and service. By the end of the first month of trading, the Hirshes could say that I had outstripped the major warehouse of Patterson Lang and Bruce who had till then been their main outlet. By the time Christmas of 1946 came around, I had made good the six months of inactivity and knew that I was on the right path. I was turning my small capital over quickly and continuing to add to it all the time.

As soon as the factories re-opened after the summer vacations, I set out in search for ladies’ underwear and persuaded a Mr Yudel Slonim to sell me some. I do not recall the circumstances, but a man, recently demobilised, contacted me and offered to buy my whole stock and paid cash on the spot. I opened dealings with him, and he would come twice a day to take whatever other stock of underwear I had in the interim acquired. In turn, I went daily to Slonim’s factory to replenish my own reserves. As the demand grew, I also looked elsewhere for supplies.

One day I walked into Mantons in Bourke Street to be met by an order for 10,000 dozen pair of ladies’ underwear. I was taken aback, knowing that I could not possibly obtain such a quantity of merchandise and suspecting that the buyer, himself, must have doubted my capacity to supply all these. Nonetheless, I did secure – to my buyer’s delight – 500 dozen pair.

By that time, certain decisions had to be made. I had no further need to burden the Dorevitches with my presence in their home, nor was it appropriate to continue conducting my business from their factory. I had, by that time, also established other contacts and widened my range of goods to include woven woollen material which was also at a premium. Because of its bulk, I looked for a warehouse. I soon found premises on the first floor of a building in Swanston Street between Little Collins and Bourke Streets at a rent of ten pounds per week. Moshe Dorevitch, when I disclosed to him of what I had done, roundly told me that I had made a mistake. The carriers would not deliver goods upstairs without a lift. I had made a basic and monumental blunder, he said: I should have consulted first with him.

He was clearly right and I decided to correct my error. I learned that the Oxford Chambers, where Eagle Insurance stands today, were being let as office and warehouse space. Here I found an office in the basement which suited my purposes. The building had a side lane with a direct opening to the basement, thereby resolving the problem that made the other premises unsuitable. The rent asked was five pounds per week and I accepted the office on the spot. Moshe’s concern now was over my dual rent obligations. I did not worry unduly. I was on an upswing; I was self-assured – a hallmark of youth, even if not always warranted; and I would not be deterred. Shortly after, I made over the Swanston Street premises to the Imp ballet shoe manufacturers who used them as display rooms. They were as happy to acquire the place as I was to unburden myself of it. Next, I moved to a rooming house in St Kilda.

My transfer to a private room had a profound side-effect I had not anticipated at the time of moving. Where my intention had been to end my dependence on the Dorevitches who had been warm and hospitable, the side-benefit was the privacy I gained and, with it, the freedom to listen to the radio at will. At that time, 3LO was the only ABC station that provided classical music as regular fare. I had had little opportunity to listen to such music till then, the oriental music I had heard for several years not having touched me in any particular way. As soon as I began to listen to European classical music, these became a passion with me. I could not get enough of it. I would stay up till late at night, listening to every classical music program. On Sunday mornings, the program between ten and twelve featured the very best. Beethoven and Tchaikovski came to lead my list of favourite composers. I began also to attend symphony concerts.

With the onset of autumn, the demand for summer gloves abated and I turned to looking for knitwear and socks for winter. Again, I made Lygon Street my first destination. Walking from one factory to another, I came upon one owned by three partners, Bergman, Ehrlich and Honig. They were amiable men who took a personal interest in me. I recall Yehuda Honig, whom I came later to admire through our communal involvements, saying that if he were in my shoes, starting from scratch, he would not go into the clothing business. He would turn rather to plastics which was a new industry with unlimited applications and potential. Plastics was a field totally unknown to me and I could not entertain the idea of becoming involved in such an industry without adequate capital when I found it relatively easy to make profit out of buying and selling without over-committed investment. Though I knew, rationally, that he was right, I decided to pursue the course I had already set out upon.

Slowly, I acquired supplies. B & G Knitwear sold me matrons’ cardigans; a man by the name of Ackman sold me whatever wares remained on his shelves at the end of each week; Sender Burstin gave me socks. A pattern of a sort steadily developed in my merchandising. When I phoned the buyer of ladies’ knitwear at Myer’s that I had goods for him, he would come promptly to my rooms at Oxford Chambers and, more often than not, would say, “Send in the lot”. So desperate did buyers sometimes become to obtain goods at that time of general shortage that they would literally stand in a queue waiting to be served. I particularly recall one such scene at a men’s knitwear factory owned by a Mr Bender in Carlton where buyers, some from interstate, waited patiently to be admitted into the warehouse.

I was in business. Most of my time was spent roaming the factories and buying up whatever was for sale. There was no cause for being too particular. There was no such thing as bad merchandise. Nor was one concerned whether the product was first-rate or medium. Everything was saleable. One afternoon, I was examining a delivery of swami bloomers I had just received, checking each pair against the light to sort out those garments that had runs in them. Just then, Berl Dzivak walked in. Catching me in the act of stretching out a pair of extra large bloomers for inspection, he said that if our teacher Moshe Zabludovski could at that moment see what I was doing, he would turn in his grave.

I replied that I considered myself fortunate to be able to do even this.

While I had spent the greater part of the war years in Shanghai, my parents, brothers and sister had been in Russia.

In 1942, in the first year of the German-Russian war, Russia concluded an agreement with the Polish Government in exile in London which resulted in the mobilisation of Polish nationals being transported through Southern Russia to North Africa to fight the Germans there. This was to become known as the Sikorski Agreement.

My brother, Hershl, who, though eligible for military service, was not called up, nonetheless joined this force along with many other young Poles. However, he set off without identification papers; but, without such papers in Russia, a person was a non-entity. He was arrested in Samarkand, imprisoned there for several months, and returned home, barely alive, in 1943. Father, who, having been imprisoned in Osmiany in Lithuania and sentenced to 5 years’ hard labour in the Komi region of northern European Russia, after being caught at the Lithuanian border in February 1940, was released in 1943 as part of a 1942 amnesty extended to Polish nationals as a consequence of the Russo-German war. He joined Mother and the rest of the family in Pavlodar in September 1943. At about this time, Hershl did enter the army, conscripted this time into the newly-formed Polish Army by order of a provisional Polish government based in Lublin, then under Russian occupation. This army, known as the Wanda Wasilewska army, participated in the Russian offensive against the German forces. Hershl advanced with this army to Berlin itself, remaining unharmed. The Polish government in Lublin then entered into another agreement with the Russian government which provided for the return to Poland of all Polish citizens who had spent the war years in Russia. Father also applied for repatriation, but was told that he was ineligible as he was a Jew and not a Pole. In the face of the refusal, he stood his ground, insisting on his Polish nationality, and won through. The family as a unit left Russia for Poland in May 1946.

I had learnt, prior to my departure from Shanghai, about their imminent return, and wrote a letter to them, care of the Jewish community office in Bialystok on the assumption that they would pass through the town on their westward journey. As it turned out, they were taken directly to the northern Baltic city of Stetin, only my brother Lazar venturing to return to Bialystok where he collected the letter I had written. Hershl, who was still in the army, had kept touch with the family by correspondence and joined the others in Stetin after demobilisation.

From Stetin, Father, Mother and my sister left for a Displaced Persons’ camp in Kassel in West Germany. My brothers Hershl, Lazar and Simcha joined a General Zionist Ichud Kibbutz with the aim of going on to Palestine. The kibbutz was in Stetin where they spent six months. Subsequently, the entire kibbutz decamped and travelled in a westward movement that was called breicha through Silesia and the Carpathian Mountains into Czechoslovakia. There, they stayed for a week in Prague and moved still further west, via Germany, to the south of France. My brothers here left the kibbutz unit and went on to Paris.

Parents in Paris 1948.

In the meantime, I managed, with the help of Moshe Dorevitch to obtain immigration permits into Australia for my parents and my sister. They left the DP camp and sailed from Marseilles in February 1948, reaching Melbourne a month later.

The day of their arrival was foggy. Waiting for them at the foot of the gang-plank, I was assailed by a flood of emotion. Eight years had passed since I had last seen them. The events that had affected each of us separately, events fraught with dangers, privations and uncertainties, were extraordinary in themselves, while our survival and imminent reunion as a family bordered on the miraculous. In the grip of these thoughts, I paced the dock, wondering, among other things, whether, after my own experiences, I should be capable of returning fully and fitting into the family. When I finally saw Father, Mother and my sister descending the gang-plank, I found myself as if riveted to the spot. They approached me, but my own feet resisted all efforts to move forward. How long that lasted, I do not know, but finally I did embrace them, feeling the while that what was happening was unreal, and having to persuade myself repeatedly that they were actually with me and that it was not all part of a dream.

That day coincided with the festival of Purim which commemorated the deliverance of the Jews of Persia from Haman 2500 years before. The date of my family’s arrival could not have been more appropriate, theirs, too, having been a miraculous deliverance.

I had rented for them a modest house in Byron Street, Elwood, this being within easy walking distance from Elwood Synagogue which was then in Avoca Avenue. The house was simply furnished, while Mother’s delight at walking into a small kitchen of her own was patent. We sat down to a traditional Purim meal that evening, opened a bottle of wine to celebrate the reunion and talked long into the night. Having undergone vastly different experiences during our separation, we had, of necessity, to get to know one another again. In the two years that I had already spent in Australia, my thinking and outlook had evolved in ways that differed greatly from their concerns being dominated still by issues of survival.

Father was elated at his new circumstances. For the first time in eight years, he felt genuinely free and rejoiced in his freedom. He kept repeating how, in his darkest hours, he would tell himself he was destined to survive and regain his dignity. The first taste of it was to him very sweet indeed. Mother was still in a daze. She found everything – her past experiences, her new surroundings, her emotions – too much to assimilate at once. Added to this was the fact that she had left her three youngest children on their own, this concern depriving her of total peace.

With my parents’ arrival, new contingencies presented themselves. They had come with a pitiful few items of clothing as the sum of their possessions. Their immediate needs were to be many, but, above all, Father needed occupation. He was then 59 but, despite his privations, full of energy, and restless to set about making good the preceding wasted years and to regain his self-esteem by earning his own living. However, that could not be immediately achieved. As days extended into weeks of inactivity, Father’s mood darkened. It became obvious that I must do something for him. I bought a few old rusted knitting machines, rented premises in Little Bourke Street where the Navy House stands today, and got Father busy restoring the machines to re-usability. My next aim was to secure yarn. This was almost an impossibility at the time. Spinning mills would not supply me with yarn. However, we were able to buy some yarn and set about producing matron’s cardigans. Our first garments were as wide as they were long. I showed it to one of my regular customers who, despite its disproportion, bought it.

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 this 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 people 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.

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 interested 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 important 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.

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 consisting 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 learning 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.

For me, this alone would have sufficed. But there was more still that excited me that seemed unique to Australia, a dimension of Australian life that had been consecrated through its history, conserved through its increasing self-sufficiency, and protected and consolidated through its geography. That was the concept of mateship. Enshrined in European culture and its associated social protocols and courtesies were attitudes of distance and deference between people. Sometimes visible, sometimes invisible, partitions kept individuals and classes apart. Whether one addressed another as Monsieur, Herr, Pan, Gospodin or other similar appellation, one was not permitted more than to follow it with that other’s surname. English etiquette required that a letter was to be headed “Dear Sir” and that verbal address was in the form of “Sir”. One could only write “Dear Mr Brown” if one had actually met Mr Brown. In Russia, one addressed a person one knew by his or her first name followed by the patronymic. In Japan, one’s name wore the suffix “san” as a mark of respect. In formal matters, Australia had continued to employ the British “Sir”, but the broader mass of people, in the main, dispensed with such artificial and divisive protocols. The next man was a “bloke” or a “mate”, whether one knew him or not. Unused to this, I found such informality difficult to adjust to, both in the receiving and in the reciprocating. My deeply-ingrained deference to a stranger, coupled with my early sense of insecurity or uncertainty as a newcomer, made me nervous and ill at ease with such “unnatural” means of human intercourse. Even today, more than four decades after my first encounter with this national trait, I have not yet mastered this informality in the folksy sense indigenous to the people. The European influence continues to lurk deep within me, holding me back from fully crossing the threshold of those opened doors.

Historically, similar means of ease of social interaction had been attempted before and in other places. The French Revolution had introduced the appellation “Citizen”; the Russian Revolution had brought in “Tovaritsch”, that is, “Comrade”. Each, in essence, was akin to the concept: “mate”. But truth was that the new phraseology, in its artificiality, was both empty and irrelevant. I had both seen and heard low-ranking individuals address their superiors in keeping with the new revolutionary dictate, yet tremble in their boots before them even as they used the title “Comrade”. Where Australia differed radically was in the spontaneity with which a stranger could call another “Mate” and act with an out-going friendship and helpfulness as if to confirm that he truly meant it. In time, I learnt other expressions that basically meant the same as “mate”. But the word that intrigued me most was “cobber” because of its similarity in both sound and meaning to the Hebrew chaver. I was later to learn that cobber was indeed derived from chaver, this indicating, however indirectly, of the presence of Jews among Australia’s early settlers and of their contribution to the egalitarian idea of mateship in the harsh conditions that had then prevailed.

On recalling how my high-school Polish literature teacher had insisted on being called “Professor”, and having heard a Frenchman at an international conference being introduced in the same way when he, too, was but a high-school teacher, I have learned to understand and value the Australian spontaneity and distaste for pretentiousness all the more. At times, however, it has seemed that Australians had gone overboard in accentuating its egalitarianism and liberty-taking informalities. What is worthy of note is that the world at large has changed, while the stiffness and formalities that have for so long been part of social intercourse everywhere have increasingly been more relaxed as bridges for human understanding and rapprochement have been laid down between peoples.

Though hailing from a city, I had come from an essentially agrarian country. Poland’s population was overwhelmingly rural; its economy was largely rural-based. Therefore, at first glance, I had no difficulty in countenancing the existence of a large rural element in Australia – which had for long identified itself as an agricultural and pastoral society. However, on closer analysis, my Polish experience had not prepared me for the existing antipodean realities which were so different from my till-then accepted norms. In Poland, the land-workers, the peasantry, was poor, while rural living was synonymous with deprivation, backwardness, illiteracy and ignorance, and with naive susceptibility to exploitation by the city folk with whom they traded. My image of the peasant may have become a stereotyped one, but the sight of one such peasant walking to church on a Sunday morning with his shoes dangling from his neck until he reached the churchyard has remained with me as a vivid symbol of the Polish peasantry as a class. What first struck me as different in Australia was the fact that when people spoke about men on the land, they did not do so with any tone of compassion or sympathy for an unfortunate, deprived and helpless class. Rather, they did so as if those men of the land constituted an elite. This emerged repeatedly, whether in the newspapers, or on radio, or in political discussions. People on the land were equated with wealth, power and self-assumed meritocracy. To a newcomer with a background so patently different from a multitude of things I was encountering in Australia, this constituted yet another intriguing puzzle. Part of the solution was easy enough to assemble. Australia was an enormous land mass with a population of only 7 million, compared with 33 million in pre-War Poland settled in an area that, by comparison with Australia, was very diminutive. The Australian farmer, therefore, had certain objective factors in his favour. But even that could not be all, I reasoned, to explain the high-ground he held in society, nor his self-assurance, nor the attention and deference accorded him by the urban sector. The fuller solution came to me one day as, on emerging from my office in Oxford Chambers, I caught sight of a new poster that had been placed in the showcase of the old Dalgety’s adjacent building. The poster depicted a fat, heavily-woollen lamb, beneath which a bold-lettered inscription ran: “AUSTRALIA’S WELL-BEING RIDES ON THE SHEEP’S BACK”. I studied that poster a while, trying with my limited English to comprehend its meaning. In the end, I understood, and, in understanding, felt myself initiated into one of Australia’s semi-hidden truths. Seeking to understand more of the rural dimension of Australian life, I was told stories of wealth and power, of a class that was competent and confident in its competence, of folk who, pitted against the elements, reaped whatever benefits nature had to offer, even while tackling, and usually mastering, the ravages incurred by bushfires and floods, rainless seasons and soil erosion. I was told, too, of the country’s primary industries – wool, wheat, barley, grain, dairy foods, fruit and cattle; I listened to stories of golden crops and the silos to store them; I learned of a railway system geared to serve an agrarian economy; and heard of a shipping network carrying the land’s produce to all corners of the world. There was fascination to be had in those tales I collected of families who owned a quarter of a million acres of land, or of jackaroos and their nomadic escapades, of month-long fence-mending activities, of the accumulation of wealth, Rolls Royces and Jaguars, and of the country-man’s own distinctive pecking order and value system so different from urban norms. A whole exotic mythology had been constructed about this landed aristocracy. It lived by its own rules, dressed according to its own fashions, conducted itself in line with its own protocols of etiquette, and looked down upon city slickers with a mixture of detachment and scorn. I understood, of course, that not every farmer was a millionaire; I was aware of the government’s post-war rehabilitation schemes of settling returned soldiers on the land and of those raw settlers’, often unsuccessful, struggles to tame the land to their advantage. On the other hand, there was no talk of absentee landlords. The farming community was identified with hard work and rightful wealth, the latter not always evident to judge from their ruggedness and often unprepossessing external appearance.

Also allied to the land – an aspect for which I had not in the slightest way been prepared – were the Aborigines and the social issues they represented. In Europe, Aborigines were, at most, an anthropological curiosity. They were certainly not seen in any political or social light. The presence of an Aboriginal in a Melbourne street was an infrequent occurrence at the time of my arrival. When I did, finally, come face to face with an Aboriginal, I was overwhelmed by the encounter. His appearance evoked a variety of responses. By then, I had become very familiar with Asian features; similarly, with the physiognomy and blackness of Negroes. The Aboriginal, however, was different. The man’s facial features, his gait, the colour of his eyes all told a story of transition and evolution. More momentous than that initial response, however, was the challenge the encounter stirred in me to seek to learn more about the Aborigines’ origins, culture and lifestyle, and of the impact of white settlement upon them – a lesson that opened out on many issues, among them the less salutary ones of shameful dealings, national guilt and political expediency, which remain to this day on the front burner of Australia’s political dilemmas.

Being a city dweller, I knew of rural Australia more by proxy than by direct experience. Melbourne itself, however, provided me with ample opportunities to acquaint myself well with Australian life.

The first impact Melbourne made on me was its geographical size and the almost uniform possession of separate homes by most of its people. Such homes may have been very modest cottages or dilapidated, almost tumble-down structures, but they were at least the occupants’ own. They invested their owners with pride and self-esteem, and, more than being seen in terms of financial value or as castles of security, the possession of a home projected a sense of permanence, of rootedness and of inviolability of one’s rights which were every citizen’s prerogative and overriding aspiration.

In middle school, I had been taught about the world movement of “house and garden” as a desirable mode of living. The concept, which was so unrealistic in the cramped and crowded conditions of Europe, was here, in Melbourne, a wholly realised actuality. This was quite new to me. I had grown up in apartment blocks, in what were called flats in Melbourne, of which there were still very few when I arrived in 1946. Allied to this, what was novel, too, was the amount of time and effort an owner put into his home, the care with which he tended to his garden, and the knowledge he had of his flowers and of their separate properties and requirements. Meanwhile, the streets were uniformly empty of people. Here and there, a car would pass, a baker’s van would make its rounds, or a horse-drawn cart would bring milk in the morning or perhaps a block of ice wrapped in a jute bag which was carried over a shoulder and delivered to households for their ice-chests. Sometimes, women put on their hats and gloves to go shopping and engage in chats with other shoppers. Otherwise, the streets were ghostlike, curtains were usually drawn, people were invisible.

The workplace, too, was different from that which I had known in pre-War Europe. In overcrowded Poland, work was scarce, people were discounted. In Melbourne, the converse was true. Jobs of all sorts were available in plenty; workers were in constant demand. (Admittedly, during the depression of the ‘thirties, it had not been so; but by 1946, these were already but bad memories). Also, organised labour had a long history of power and influence which went back virtually to the country’s very beginnings. Allied to this was a sense of national pride. Demobilised, the victorious soldiers, on returning, wore their service buttons in their lapels as badges of honour and privilege and, armed with a new self-assertiveness which transmitted itself to the wider population, they set about to claim their rights, exerting their collective muscle to secure them.

I sensed very early that organised labour had a strong influence on society. The structure of the union movement was clear enough, but not so the mainsprings that gave it its strength. This remained a mystery to me for a long time, for thirty years in fact, until I came upon the Louis Hartz’ celebrated theory on “The Founding of New Societies”. In telling of such societies, Hartz, in 1964, wrote as follows:

“When a part of a European nation is detached from the whole of it, and hurled outward onto new soil, it loses the stimulus towards change that the whole provides. It lapses into a kind of immobility.”

“It is the irony of that impact that it has hurled back at the fragments… the very Western revolution they originally felt.”

“It is reborn, transformed into a new nationalism arising out of the necessities of fragmentation itself. Feudalism comes back to us as the French-Canadian spirit, liberalism as the American Way of Life, radicalism as the Australian Legend.”

In a separate and analytical essay contained in the same book, Richard Rosencrance, describing “The Radical Culture of Australia”, wrote: “Australian society today has umbilical connections with the egalitarianism of the gold camps, the struggles of exclusives and emancipists, and even the sullen resentments of the early convict settlements. More than other frontier countries, perhaps, Australia was isolated from the mainstreams of European culture: in consequence, it was destined to find its political and social tendencies immanent in the foundation population… The Australian social adult of today is prefigured in the social embryo of yesteryear… Australia was and is a land of toilers, and even the graziers have not been notable exceptions to this rule.”

He made another penetrating observation in the same essay:

“In Australia the state has never… represented a ‘final value’, nor has it enjoyed nationalist legitimacy. Because of the social basis of nationalism, the state has been primarily instrumental in character. It was not the embodiment of the nation; it was the nation’s tool… To be Australian was to adopt the radical myth… [and yet] Henry George had much more impact in Australia than Marx.”

The internal political situation in Australia at the time of my arrival in 1946 had an assortment of puzzles waiting for me. The fact that a Labor government was in power was nothing extraordinary, considering the political events that took place in England immediately after the war. But a number of the government’s actions were difficult to understand. For instance, the restrictive immigration policies for which Australia was renowned had generally been attributed to the Labor movement which was anxious to protect the jobs of the workers against any influx of newcomers. And yet, just after the war, it was the Labor government in office which had radically changed its tradition towards immigration, with Arthur Calwell, the Minister for Immigration at the time, actually going abroad to enter into inter-governmental discussions regarding immigration from Italy, Greece and the D.P. camps with the positive intention of opening Australia’s gates to European migrants over and above the component drawn from England. Mr Calwell had even sent a prominent Melbourne Jewish personality, Mr Alec Masel, to Shanghai to investigate the potential of Jewish migrants from there. Such a new attitude represented a political about-face, monumental in terms of Australia’s future, however unorthodox for the Australian Labor Party.

Still another paradox was brought out in the wake of the miners’ strike in the Hunter Valley. This strike paralysed heavy industry in New South Wales and threatened the nation’s post-war economic recovery. In response, it was again a Labor Prime Minister, Ben Chifley, who acted against the workers that the Party represented, by sending in troops to break the miners’ stranglehold on the economy. At about the same time, Chifley sought to nationalise the nation’s private banks, a radical step even in terms of socialist philosophy and practices of those days and a policy that brought about Chifley’s fall from office and the subsequent misfortunes that befell Labor. In opposition, the Labor movement considered the time ripe for strengthening and radicalising its rank and file. The top leadership of some of the essential industries fell into the hands of members of the Communist Party and the political climate of the day took on a dimension of acute combativeness and confrontationism which lasted till 1983 when Robert J. (Bob) Hawke regained government for Labor on an election platform of consensus.

I often wondered during the ‘fifties and ‘sixties about a particular characteristic of the Australian worker. It happened often that when a new arrival joined a work gang in a public works job or in a factory assembly line and worked in the way he had been accustomed in Europe, he was gently, but firmly, advised by his mates to slow down and observe the established norms of output. He could ignore such advice but only at his disadvantage. An invisible hand controlled work, dictated the numbers of people that a certain task should employ, determined the levels of productivity and bargained a quid pro quo for any increase in these. Such ploys were understandable from the unions’ point of view, but they were less than constructive in benefiting the nation as a whole. Whenever I questioned such destructive manoeuverings – commonly referred to as “bloody-mindedness” – on the part of the unions, I was told that the secret behind them was the fact that every Australian knew in his heart that the country was well-endowed by nature, that it was potentially rich, and that no matter to what excesses the unions ran to, none of them would disturb the basic enormity of the nation’s wealth; hence, the workers, both individually and collectively, could afford to indulge in such actions. Accordingly, no excuse was so petty that it could not be used to provoke confrontation with management. As if by some pre-determined strategy, one union and then another would submit its demands – or log of claims, as it was known in union parlance – to squeeze further concessions from the market place, continually keeping the industrial cauldron boiling. The practice set into an established and predictable pattern.

I was by then in manufacturing, but I had no cause for concern that the textile industry would go out on strike, for the simple reason that it lacked the national clout to impose its demands on society. Even if all the knitters, spinners, weavers and finishers stopped work, national life would proceed quite successfully, with no-one having to go without clothing. On the other hand, the elite unions – railway employees, electricity workers, tanker drivers, postal staff, among others – could hold society by the throat, defying both national and state governments, even at the cost of the country’s economy and their own reputations for reliability and dependability. Such union politics did not have a homegrown origin. It took its cue and leadership in large part from the mother country, the difference being that in England, the workers’ struggle was for the justified ends of winning improved work and living conditions, even if England’s economy could not sustain them, while in Australia, industrial action seemed more concertedly to be predominantly exercises in strength. Such behaviour, of which union mayhem is but one example, has troubled me. I have long been appalled to see how people can so misuse their freedoms to the detriment of the national interest. Even now, in the mid-eighties, a shadow of self-destructiveness hangs over Australian society. Forces are in operation which defy both logic and common sense, whereby people might step out of their intense parochialism which, in its present form, obscures their vision of the common good and distorts any objective appraisal of the present and consideration of the nation’s possibilities for the future. Education seems not to help. The issues dividing Australia are many, some of these being universal, others being home-grown. But the more educated society becomes and the more articulate the expression of its views, the deeper, not narrower, become the cleavages within it. I remain grateful for the rootedness of the democratic tradition of the country. It is this which is the ultimate bulwark in its preservation and continuity as a free land.

Alongside the seeming self-destructive behaviour of the many parochial interests, another aspect of Australian life that has had me perplexed has been a peculiarly pervasive negative attitude to learning and to learning institutions. As a European and a Jew, I found difficulty in reconciling myself to it. In the history of European civilisation, the struggles for pre-eminence between France, England, Germany and Italy were based as much on socio-political development and economic strength as on cultural and intellectual sophistication and attainment. Leadership in Europe was predicated upon this very sophistication, whether in literature or science, in philosophy or economic theory, in music or the other arts. Where Germany undoubtedly contributed more to music than England, England could claim to be more advanced in economic theory; but in each, the respect for learning was paramount and a reputation for learning was widely coveted. When I walked along the narrow lanes of the Jewish ghetto in Shanghai, hearing the greeting “Guten tag, Herr Doktor” was as natural as its Australian counterpart, “How are you, mate?” The Polish and French conventions of addressing mere high-school teachers as “Professor” bear further testimony to the over-riding respect these societies gave to learning. Meanwhile, within my own Jewish tradition, there is no greater distinction to be had than to be learned and no greater compliment than to be called a “ben Torah”, literally, “a son of Torah, or learning” or a talmid haham, a clever pupil. This latter compliment generally reserved for particularly erudite folk, may, at first glance, seem odd and difficult to comprehend. Such a man would scarcely be a “pupil”. The explanation offered by the sages is that as long as one is willing to be a pupil – that is, as long as one continues to wish to seek knowledge – one is, ipso facto recognised as wise. And it is a well-established precept among Jews that the more learned one is, the more one thirsts for further knowledge. Thus conditioned, I found the widespread scornful attitude to learning in Australia to be enigmatic. The scholarly person was an “egg-head”; the average man distrusted him; in his turn, the learned man was reluctant to display his knowledge. Indeed, such men often went out of their way to camouflage their learning, deliberately suppressing their more educated speech and behaviour in order to become acceptable to their less sophisticated fellows and not to stand out in company like the proverbial sore thumb. The popularity of the Prime Minister at the time of my arrival, Ben Chifley, was largely due to the fact – so I was told – that he had been a train-driver, this giving him the status of a “mate”. Robert Menzies who followed him could stake no such claim, nor did he pretend to; he was the clever lawyer born in Jeparit, in Victoria’s Western District. Nor did the next Labor Prime Minister, Gough Whitlam, ever attain a strong personal following, even among his own rank and file; he too was a lawyer and, what was more, the son of a well-placed family. But nothing illustrates my point more tellingly than the instance of Prime Minister Bob Hawke. Bordertown-born, son of a clergyman, educated in an elitist school and a Rhodes scholar, he frequently put up an ingenious front of folksiness, adopting both the Australian drawl in his speech and reverting often to expletives in a seeming bid to conceal his unmistakable superior education and intellect.

During the brief courtship of my future wife, I had occasion to learn something from her about education in Australia. Laura had been born in Melbourne and educated at Methodist Ladies College. In the senior school years, one had a choice of subjects, but only four were required to matriculate. My suggestion that one could not well consider oneself educated without at least a knowledge of world history was met with an uncomprehending stare. When I said further that for my matriculation I had been tested in six subjects in writing and eleven in orals, it sounded to her as if I had just landed on earth from outer space. I was to be involved with educational matters for a period of 35 years and to see the education system from different angles, in particular in its theoretical-philosophical dimensions and in the more practical aspects of its implementation. I came in time to accept the basic division between the arts and sciences and the notion that students had early to identify their vocational predilections. What I have never been able to accept is the narrowness of the educational system and the relatively little in terms of range that is expected of a student, even in the best of private schools. The notion that a student inclined towards the sciences is exempted (with the exemption of English) from learning non-science subjects is as incomprehensible to me as the converse – that a student tending towards the humanities need have little knowledge of the sciences. In each instance, learning is narrowed to an obligatory minimum.

Another aspect of the Australian education scene has been its parochial and even political undertones. A number of factors are responsible for this none too rosy state and serve to explain the passions aroused in the ever-ongoing debate on education. The most telling of these is the fact that primary and secondary education are divided between government and private schools. While the greater number of private schools is run by the Catholic Church, the steadily increasing proportion of students attending private schools overall – about 28% at this time – is a sad reflection on, and no compliment to, the government-run tuition-free system. It reached a stage in 1984 when leading educationalists banded together to restore the classic 3-Rs into government schools. In the same year, a review was undertaken by the Victorian Institute of Secondary Education (VISE) of Higher School Certificate standards with the intention of “opening up” the opportunities for matriculation to a wider number of young people who would otherwise have dropped out at Years 10 or 11. It was deemed that the best way to achieve this was to “broaden” subject areas specifically for these. A seminar organised by the private schools organisation was addressed by a representative of the Government Schools Commission who advocated the adoption of the proposed liberalisation. After discussion in committee stages and re-assembly of the delegates to present the outcome of their deliberations, the last word was again allotted to the government representative. She elaborated on her earlier presentation and, as if to clinch her argument, said in effect, though I paraphrase her words:

“Look at our boys who went out to fight the Germans during the Second World War. They were, on the whole, simple boys without much education who had been called upon to fight Germans who were well educated. Judge for yourselves, in the light of the outcome of the war and the conduct of the warring parties, about the role that education plays in the formation of the character of a nation.”

The implications were clear, however difficult I found it to believe that such arguments could be presented to a body of educators by an educationalist herself who represented government education policy in the state. I mention this experience merely to indicate the lop-sided value system by which means education is determined today and the patent tendentiousness and politically-motivated considerations which influence Australian educational policy – all this to the detriment, in my view, of society as a whole and of the individual student in particular. Education has throughout the nation’s history been one of the weakest of the country’s institutions and remains to this day the Achilles heel in terms of the nation’s future.

No society is so blessed as to have no shadows cast across its face. I have touched here on some of the more disconcerting matters as I have seen them. These notwithstanding, however, the bottom line on the overall balance sheet of Australian society is a very positive one. Australia is a land of freedom and guaranteed human rights. It is a just society, bustling with vitality and opportunity. It is a Western community, with all the revolutionary post-war technological appurtenances and gadgetry of Western communities everywhere. It offers the average person a good life with plenty of sunshine and open spaces, and it gives to each the opportunity “to do his own thing”, even if that opportunity is sometimes misused. Further, it is a society whose people continue to evolve, intermingle and recreate themselves, and a nation open to ingenuity and enterprise no less than to hedonism and parasitism.

I became an admirer of the country of my adoption very soon after my arrival. I recognised its assets instinctively and made allowances for its deficiencies. When I left Shanghai for Australia, people asked me to write back, to them about it. I had no hesitation in recommending the country to potential immigrants, and a number of these people indeed came and settled in Australia on the basis of my enthusiasm for it. My admiration remains, but, mindful of the problems affecting other societies in the world and noting the developments and advances in those societies closer at hand in the Asia-Pacific region, tomorrow’s Australia will have to exert itself more strenuously if it is to cling to its claim of being “the lucky country”.

10

Jews in Australia

Wherever I stopped during and after the war, I was fascinated by the local culture. Parallel with this general inquisitiveness, I entertained a more specific interest in any manifestation of the Jewish cultural component. Such interest went beyond a mere concern with current issues, but extended to a delving into the origins of the particular Jewry that existed in those places, an examination of the nature of its internal development and organisation, and an appreciation of its motivation and self-awareness. I looked into these Jewish manifestations at two levels: the first, as a subculture in the host community, the second, as one specific entity in relation to Jewish existence world-wide.

Inevitably, I was keen to study Jewish life in Australia. After all, it was among Jews living in this country that I was to make my home. Given the relatively short history of white settlement – only a little over 150 years at the time –, I expected that the history of its Jewry would be easy to trace, its organisation amenable to ready analysis, and its future direction or orientation not at all difficult to surmise. But throughout, whenever I attempted to draw comparisons with the earlier existence I had known or to make judgements, I had to consciously remind myself precisely of white Australia’s relative youth. Consciousness of this fact, in its turn, made me appreciate Australia all the more for all it had achieved during that short time span. It was within this frame of reference that I also looked at local Jewish life, making allowances, however, for the isolation and distance of the country’s Jewry from its pre-War, mainly European, mainsprings.

Australian Jewry in 1946 was concentrated predominantly in Sydney and Melbourne, where each community numbered about 15-17,000 souls. Smaller communities existed in Western Australia, South Australia, Tasmania and Queensland, mostly in their capital cities, but a relatively smaller number in country towns. These Jews were overwhelmingly Ashkenazi, that is, European in origin, and divided into two groups: those originating from England and those hailing from the European continent. In tune with society at large, organised Jewish life followed the British model. The representative body of each community was the Advisory Board which, shortly after my arrival, changed its name to the Board of Deputies, fashioned on the London Board in structure and outlook. The majority of delegates to these Boards were appointed by the different congregations, which, in the Anglo-Jewish model, were regarded as the bricks from which a root communal structure was to be erected – this view reflecting the Anglo-Jewish perception of itself as primarily a religious entity. The members of the Boards were not elected, but delegated by the synagogues, they were themselves very British in outlook, and, at best, tolerant of their non-British brethren. Their expectations from Jewish life was parochial, their interest in world Jewish affairs limited. In very many ways, the system stood in stark contrast to that of the Jewish Kehila structure I had known in pre-War Poland.

The two “establishment” synagogues were the Melbourne Hebrew Congregation in Toorak Road and the St Kilda Hebrew Congregation in St Kilda’s Charnwood Crescent. Besides these, other Orthodox synagogues then in existence around Melbourne were the East Melbourne Hebrew Congregation, the Hascolah Synagogue and Stone’s Synagogue, both of which were in Carlton, the Brunswick Talmud Torah, and the up-and-coming synagogues, the Elwood Talmud Torah and Caulfield Congregation. Shortly after my arrival, these latter synagogues invited the Gutnick brothers, Chaim and Sholem respectively, to be their rabbis. The sole Liberal synagogue at the time, Temple Beth Israel, in St Kilda’s Alma Road, was led by and in every way identified with Rabbi Herman Sanger.

The Boards of Deputies of each state spoke on behalf of its Jews in internal affairs. A roof body incorporating all of these on a national basis was seen as essential, and one man who was instrumental in creating such a body – the Executive Council of Australian Jewry – was Maurice Ashkanasy K.C. of Melbourne. Ashkanasy was an outstanding barrister and a legal adviser to the Victorian Government. He was, contrary to many of his confreres, an unabashed, proud and demonstrative national Jew and a Zionist. He presided over Melbourne’s Jewry with firmness and shared, on an alternating basis, with his Sydney counterpart, Sidney Einfeld, the Presidency of the ECAJ for many years. Though he was an outstanding exception among the local Anglicised Jews, he was by no means the only one. Two others who, through their perceptions and communal work, had helped restore some balance to the existing self-definition of the Jewish mainstream were Dr Jacob Jona and Mr Alec Masel, both of them former Presidents of the Zionist Federation of Australia.

Other organisations active in Melbourne at the time were the Zionist Movement, the Welfare Society, the Montefiore Homes for the Aged, the Yiddish Cultural Centre and Library “Kadimah”, the Yiddish Theatre, and a number of afternoon and Sunday schools attached mostly to congregations. A number of landsmanshaften sprang up, of which the first and leading one was that of the Bialystoker, all of which were to play a pivotal role in the integration of the post-war immigrants who were then beginning to arrive. So integrated, these migrants were, within ten years, to double the size of Australian Jewry; they were to make a lasting and revolutionary contribution to Jewish self-definition; they were to create a Jewry that was to enjoy a high reputation in the Jewish world at large; and they were to contribute to the progress and development of the adopted country.

The years 1946-47 were politically difficult times both for world Jewry in general and Australian Jewry in particular. The British Prime Minister Attlee and his Foreign Minister Ernest Bevin were still playing colonial politics on a grand scale, while those who had survived the gas chambers were caught in limbo, waiting for some place to go – in the case of many, to Mandatory Palestine. The obduracy of British policy vis-a-vis Jewish refugees is well-known and scarcely belongs to any of Britain’s finest hours. Its inflexibility outraged not only Jews but decent human beings worldwide; and it was hard to reconcile the earlier beneficence of a nation which had issued a much-cherished Balfour Declaration favouring the establishment of a Jewish homeland with its insensitivity a mere thirty years later. By then, of course, Britain was trying against all odds to hold together an empire that had all but collapsed, but its manner of doing so grievously compromised its humanity.

Relations between Britain and world Jewry, then, were strained. Australian Government and public opinion, still being very much attuned to London, by and large sided with the British Government. The rift between United States President Truman and the British over the latter’s refusal to admit 100,000 Jews from the concentration camps into Palestine stirred international opinion against England. Australia’s assimilated Jews, as indeed those of Britain itself, faced a true test of dual loyalty. In its wake, there evolved a situation where certain sections of Anglo-derived Jewry throughout the Empire were pitted against other streams of Jewry. In Australia, the most prominent of the Anglo-oriented Jews was the former Governor-General of Australia Sir Isaac Isaacs who was highly vociferous in declaring his anti-Zionist views, and who was supported by Sir Archie Michaelis, later to become Speaker of the Victorian Parliament, and for a time by Rabbi Jacob Danglow of St Kilda Hebrew Congregation. Tension within Melbourne Jewry ran high, sometimes near to breaking-point. Accusations of disloyalty to the country of adoption were directed at those who spoke against the inhumane policies of the British Government. In turn, those who defended the British were considered as uncaring and obtuse to the sufferings of their brethren at their time of greatest need. Meanwhile, Zionist activities were under scrutiny by security authorities and official Zionist demands stretched the tolerance of both public opinion and government temper.

Zionist activity went on nonetheless. I recall the enthusiasm that greeted emissary Shimon Hacohen on his first post-war mission to Melbourne and the generous financial response of Melbourne’s Jewry to the Zionist cause. The mood of that Jewry – as indeed of all world Jewry in 1946 – was no longer one of obsequiousness to governments and empires. World Jewry was in no frame of mind to employ the diplomatic niceties, so much a part of international political protocol. It was bad enough that the Allied powers had permitted the tragedy in which one-third of the Jewish people had perished to happen when they could have, with little effort, prevented it from becoming the holocaust it became. Those who survived were in no way going to agree to again becoming helpless impotent pawns in the last rites of British colonialism.

Myself a victim of the war, albeit a more fortunate one, I, too, choked on my rage against those who resisted Jewish renewal and self-assertion and entered into the fray to help, in some way, to rescue and rehabilitate the camp survivors. This resolve was not so much an obsession as, more simply, a logical and moral imperative – the more so as I had earlier than most been reprieved from my refugee status. Involvement on behalf of the refugees began quite literally from the very day I reached Melbourne. It was, however, not my sole commitment. When my friend Abram Solomon took me with him to Benzion and Hemda Patkin’s home on the occasion of their son’s Bar Mitzvah where I met many leading communal personalities, one of the first questions I asked of them was: how many Jewish day-schools do you have? To my disappointment, the answer was: none. Instantly, I saw what had to be done, given that the highest priority for Jews everywhere was that of survival and continuity. Internationally, every political and financial effort had to be made to resolve the matter of a Jewish state in Palestine, while internally, within the Melbourne Jewish community, the most basic and urgent need was the establishment of Jewish schools. Even with hindsight, I remain as fully persuaded about the correctness of these convictions as I was when they first came to me.

The agency through which I became communally involved was the Victorian Zionist Organization. Its orientation was that of a general Zionist nature, essentially middle of the road, liberal in outlook, and free of the polarisations I had known in Bialystok and that were, in time, to evolve in Melbourne. Abram Solomon had already introduced me to a number of communal personalities. Through him, I also met Joseph and Lily Solvey, a fateful encounter that was to lead to much interaction and a harvest of communal achievements through our many and diverse common interests. Joseph Solvey, an engineer by profession, was the intellectual as well as nominal leader of the General Zionists in Melbourne. Although he was ten years older than I and had a string of academic degrees to his name, at a personal level, we established instant rapport. We were both “Litvaks”, in that he came from Kovno and I from Bialystok, these being two corners of the “Lithuanian” Jewish triangle, the third of which was Vilna. We also complemented one another, he being a man with an even temper and mathematically logical mind, and I being more emotional and flamboyant. Yet, these personality differences notwithstanding, our values, political persuasions, interpretations of history and of current affairs, and our views about the desired directions for Australian Jewish life were remarkably similar.

Dr. Chaim Shoskhes, Bialystok landsman, renowed world traveller on a visit to Melbourne in the mid 1950s with the Committe of the Bialystoker Centre.

Seated l to r; W. Davis, A. Sokol, Dr. Ch. Shoshkes, M. Pitt, A. Zbar, M. Kornan.

Standing l to r; A. Gibgot, I. Kornan, A. Serry, the author, J. Slonim, Ch. Dorevitch.

Apart from the broader concerns of Zionism and education, I identified myself with another – albeit, more specifically parochial – body. This was the Bialystoker Landsmanshaft, which was the forerunner of a wide network of successive similar associations which were to become the building-blocks in the post-war structure of Melbourne Jewry. In 1946, the Landsmanshaft was still in its embryonic stage. Of the four personalities associated with its early leadership, three were pre-War immigrants: Abrasha Zbar, Michael Pitt and Velvel Davis; the fourth, Abram Sokol, had come to Australia via Japan during the early stages of the war. The ideologue of the Landsmanshaft movement was Abrasha Zbar. A man of learning who contributed frequently to the Yiddish press and spoke in public with polished eloquence, he ran the affairs of the Landsmanshaft from his office in an old building which stood at the comer of Swanston and Collins Streets, which was in time demolished to be replaced by the City Square. He gave the organisation a great deal of time, often to the detriment of his business concerns, motivated by a dedication that arose from his recognition of an increasing need among Jews as the tragedy of the war years unfolded. His became an address for any person originally from Bialystok who had survived the war. He, himself, was at times feverishly involved in contacts with immigration authorities, accepting responsibility, sight unseen, for many people for whom permits had been obtained. On visiting him one day, and seeing how he freely appended his name as guarantor to the mass of immigration applications that littered his desk, it struck me that Abrasha Zbar had not thought through the consequences of what he was doing. I knew that ships bringing immigrants were beginning to leave Europe and that very soon the first of them would be arriving. But I also knew that their passengers were almost uniformly destitute. Where would they go, I asked Zbar. How were they to be looked after in the first few weeks or months in an alien environment without means, without language, and so on? With nowhere else to turn, might they not with their bundles simply land on his doorstep, his name and address being the only one they knew from their immigration papers? He was placing himself in an unpredictable situation. Recalling the precedent of transitory homes for new arrivals in Palestine, I suggested that the Bialystoker Landsmanshaft establish a similar home as a matter of first priority. A generation older than myself, he looked at me as if to ask why he had not thought of it himself. As a consequence, the idea of an immigrant reception centre was born and a substantial building situated at 19 Robe Street, St Kilda, was purchased as a focal-point and transition-home for Bialystok Landsmen coming to Australia. It also served as a centre of co-ordinated immigration activity and became a model for other similar societies which sprang up to help their own kinsmen. (This fraternity or Landsmanshaft idea was neither novel, nor peculiar to Melbourne. It followed a long-established tradition of similar associations elsewhere, most notably in New York, where the Bialystok fraternity, under the leadership of David Sohn, had developed a number of communal institutions).

Zvi (Grisha) Klementinowski pre-war leader of Bialystok Jewry, postwar World Chairman of Polish Jewry and prominent Israeli personality greeted on arrival in Melbourne by representatives of the Bialystoker Centre and the Zionist Federation.

L to r; A. Zabar, S. Wynn, Z. Klementinowski, S. Stock, M. Pitt, S. Lewin and the author.

The Bialystoker Centre came into being just in time. It helped the new arrivals not only with temporary accommodation, but also in individual ways. Interest-free loans were given on request to help people establish themselves in business or to move into private homes. In cases of need, help was discreetly given. The Centre accommodated people of different classes, with different political opinions and with various interests. It also evolved into a cohesive social force and, in time, grew to take on new forms and activities. From the mid-1950s to the end-1960s, the opening function of the United Israel Appeal was organised around the Bialystoker Centre. In this, it became a trend-setter in the community, and the many other Landsmanshaft fraternities that sprang up all followed the Bialystoker example, both in UIA and other communal appeals.

Because the Landsmanshaft comprised people with a wide range of interests, opinions and political outlooks and leanings, the society’s leadership prudently kept out of direct political – as distinct from humanitarian – involvement in communal affairs. This assured for it a climate of internal tranquillity in which it could carry out its tasks. Only once did the Centre become embroiled – and then, unwittingly – in an issue with emotive political overtones. This happened around 1949, when the Government, in reviewing its immigration policy, opted for more selective criteria, relating to age, origin and qualifications, in its approval of future migrants. The policy review was communicated to the Executive Council of Australian Jewry, then centred in Melbourne and presided over by Maurice Ashkanasy. As the timing of the review coincided with the first waves of immigration of displaced persons into the newly-established State of Israel with all its attendant political, economic and security problems for the fledgling state, the proposed change in policy by Australia carried far-reaching implications for Australian Jewry. What the foreshadowed policy meant was that Australia was being prepared to admit only able-bodied people, it was the old, the sick, the maimed and the less productive Jewish survivors who were, in effect, turned away to go to Israel, there to become an instant social burden on a society struggling for both its physical and its economic survival. The ECAJ called a national Jewish conference to discuss this most sensitive of issues. It was held in the ground floor board room of the Toorak Synagogue and lasted a full day. Sydney was represented by a sizeable delegation, headed by Sidney Einfeld who was then President of the Jewish Welfare Society in that city. The Bialystoker Centre was invited, and I was its delegate. The issue on the agenda was unclear as no particular directives had been given to me by the Centre. However, the concerns became quickly evident and a passionate debate ensued. The Welfare Society representatives, whose spokesman, Leo Fink of Melbourne, advocated the acceptance of, and accommodation to, the Government’s proposed selective immigration procedures. As proponent of the view that opposed such acceptance, Paul Morawetz argued that, from the Jewish point of view, and having regard for the unfolding drama of events in reborn Israel at the time, it was a dis-service to Israel to deny her the creative elements in Jewry and burden her so largely with social cases only, which the country could so ill afford. At times, tempers flared, and Maurice Ashkanasy had to call for an interruption in proceedings to permit the adversaries to recover calm. The dilemma was one for which Jewry had no precedent to call upon. The participants found themselves in a situation of having to make a very far-reaching decision which had real and immediate implications for the migrants who had yet to arrive, for the beleaguered State of Israel, and for Australian Jewry. It was a very difficult situation, the more so as there were patent political undertones in the arguments presented by both sides. Ashkanasy, as Chairman, was in an unenviable position; he was torn between two loyalties. On the one hand, as President of the ECAJ, it was incumbent upon him to champion an Australian Jewish point of view; on the other, as a Zionist, he felt morally uncomfortable in endorsing the Government’s intended policy changes. Debate had already extended into the afternoon with no acceptable resolution on the matter yet in sight. It was then that I asked to speak. I raised issues till then not yet mentioned in the debate. Speaking through the Chair, I asked Sidney Einfeld to elaborate upon the infrastructure he had prepared for the Jews who had already arrived and for those whom he still intended to bring to ensure that they, and their children, should remain Jews in Australia. For example: how many Jewish schools were there to ensure Jewish continuity, not only of future immigrants, but also of the existing population, old settlers and new arrivals alike? What kind of guarantee could he offer that the new arrivals would continue living as Jews in the conditions then existing? If there were no answers in the positive to these questions, how could he advocate the adoption of his position in the matter, that is, the endorsement of the Government’s selective immigration procedures? As I sat down, there was silence in the hall. People looked at me, most of them not knowing who I was or whom I represented, the only thing certain to them being the fact, broadcast by my English, that I was myself a recent newcomer to the country. When directed by Ashkanasy to respond to my questions, Einfeld was lost for an answer. No-one at the conference had thus far approached the matter from this angle, and the questions had the very effect that I had intended. It telescoped the specific issue under discussion to challenge the very assumptions on which Jewish life in Australia was based at the time. They revealed Australian Jewry’s greatest weakness. It became clear that no answer satisfactory to all could be given and people became restless and ill at ease in their seats. The ultimate vote endorsed the Fink-Einfeld line, but all knew that, as communal leaders, they were challenged by questions that, to me, were most simple, obvious and basic.

I did not make many friends that day, but I did leave the conference buoyed by the fact that I had seized the day to speak to the leading personalities of the ECAJ, whom I should otherwise not have had the opportunity to address and debate with. More than this, however, I felt that I had made a contribution to the debate which went far beyond the specific issues under consideration, and that my questions had touched a very raw and vulnerable spot in the overall communal consciousness, an effect of which might be to galvanise the community into some positive thinking.

11

Mount Scopus College

At about the time of my arrival in Melbourne, the Jewish Advisory Board had invited Mr Abe Feiglin to serve as its full-time education officer with a brief to prepare a report on the advisability and feasibility of opening a Jewish day-school. Abe Feiglin was a member of an extended Jewish pioneering family which, on coming to Australia from Safed in Palestine, settled in Shepparton, there to take up farming and orchard-growing – a clear departure from the more usual Jewish tendency to gravitate towards the cities and to urban occupations and enterprises. The family brought with it a code of Jewish behaviour and observance which it practised uncompromisingly even in the isolation of country life. It was a well-established fact that if Jewish immigrants could not find employment in Melbourne itself, they could count on seasonal work in the Feiglin orchards.

Abe Feiglin had been educated in Shepparton; he was a teacher by profession; while his attitude to Judaism was, in conformity with the rest of his family, unwaveringly orthodox. He was on all these accounts considered a particularly suitable person to advise on matters of Jewish education. His report, when completed, urged the establishment of a Jewish day-school, but his recommendation did not meet with general acceptance. While many saw in the creation of a Jewish day-school a turning-point in the fortunes of Melbourne Jewry, others – primarily some members of Anglo-Jewry – adamantly opposed the idea, seeing in it a dangerous parochialism and self-imposed ghettoisation. These detractors from a Jewish day-school system feared that its graduates would be a social sub-species, unable to meet their Christian peers on the cricket pitches or football fields with the kind of élan they wished for their sons and daughters. The very notion of voluntary Jewish schooling was abhorrent to them, notwithstanding that the elite schools in the community, to which many sent their own children, were themselves private and attached to one or other Church denomination. Added to this revolutionary concept of a Jewish school in Melbourne was another one, without precedent in any of the denominational schools: that such school as was proposed be co-educational. Between these extreme positions, the majority of the community was ambivalent to the idea. Most surprising of all, however, was the resistance, some of it overt, some covert, that appeared from the least likely quarters. Some leaders of the United Palestine Appeal, as it was then known, were worried that such a major undertaking would drain the capacity of the community to contribute to the funds so urgently needed at the time by the Jewish state in the making.

I, for one, was an early enthusiast for the establishment of a Jewish day-school, even before Abe Feiglin’s report formally recommended it. At every opportunity, whether at meetings of the State Zionist Council or at Zionist assemblies, I promoted the cause of education as the only viable force that could counteract the pressures that were at the time moving the younger generation towards assimilation. Yet the very notion of a Jewish day-school seemed beyond the comprehension of even some of the most sincere people in the Zionist movement. For instance, on one occasion, when I argued for Zionist initiative and support for the establishment for such an institution, Abe Sicree, a most charming, genuine and generous man, rose and had this to say: “I do not understand what the young man wants. We have Hebrew kindergartens here, and there is talk of a Yeshiva being planned. What do we need a day-school for?” There was neither malice intended nor premeditated opposition. His was the response issuing from innocence and naiveté.

Nineteen forty-seven was a year of high tension in Melbourne’s Jewish community. The troubled events in Palestine, compounded by the forced return by the British authorities of boat-loads of DP survivors from Palestine’s shores, had shocked not only Jews but Western public opinion as well. With the addition of heated debate and argument over the contentious issue of establishing a Jewish day-school in Melbourne, the earlier staid, almost lethargic life of the community became, as if suddenly, galvanised and highly-charged with emotion and passion in the face of new and vital challenges.

Rabbi and Mrs. J.L. Zlotnik greeted on arrival in Melbourne from South Africa in November 1947 to conduct the first appeal for Mt. Scopus College.

L to r; S. Yaffe, G. Rose, the author, Mrs. G. Rose, A. Samuel, Rabbi Zlotnik (obscured) and Mrs. Zlotnik.

No sooner had the Feiglin report been presented and adopted than Benzion Patkin found a building at 414 St Kilda Road opposite the Toorak Synagogue and paid a deposit for it even before gaining formal communal approval. He had been the moving spirit behind the idea of such a school from the very first. Benzion Patkin was Russian-born and had, in his early youth, gone to Palestine where he was one of the founders of Kibbutz Nes Ziona. A passionate nationalist and lover of Hebrew, he had struggled greatly in those early days of his Palestine interlude. Eventually, he came to Melbourne with the aim of improving his lot financially, and stayed, joining his brother-in-law Zvi Rosenfeld as a partner in the knitting mills Patros. His uncle Dr Aaron Patkin had preceded him to Australia. When I first met him, Benzion Patkin was in his early forties, and was both passionate and stubborn about those things in which he believed. Zionism, Jewish education and Jewish culture were dominant among his concerns and he championed these day and night, often letting his business interests play second fiddle. He knew the kind of school he wished to see; he was totally committed to its establishment; hence it was natural that the task of translating the Feiglin report into reality fell to him. And the task was enormous. The problems to be confronted on all sides were truly daunting. There were considerations of personnel to be faced, and of public opinion, financial resources, aims and directions of such a school, governing structures to run it, and many more. In the end, as Rabbi Dr H. Freedman and Judge Trevor Rapke wrote in their joint Foreword to Patkin’s account of the school’s emergence, “Heritage and Tradition”:

“Mount Scopus College was born and established amid doubts, warnings, indifference, hostility, lukewarm assent, faint praise, but little backing. There were few open enthusiasts and workers…”

When it finally opened in the beginning of the 1948 school year, 153 pupils were enrolled in the primary school. A very important factor in the wider acceptance of the school by parents was the fact that the children of leading communal personalities such as Maurice Ashkanasy, Trevor Rapke, among others, sent their own children there. The launching of the school into reality, however, was an act of faith; it was a feat of determination; and, under the circumstances, it was, arguably, an irrational act, considering that virtually none of the doubts and difficulties it faced had yet in the least been resolved at the time of its opening. Indeed, the problems only intensified and plagued the school throughout the whole first decade of its existence. True, there were problems of finances, of ambivalent acceptance of the school and even open hostility to it from influential quarters. But, in my view, the gravest issue it faced was that of its ideological direction. Those who opposed the school could easily enough articulate their objections; it was more difficult for those who supported it, however, to define the kind of school they most truly wanted. For example: how much Jewishness was to be incorporated into its curriculum, and what sort of Jewishness was it to be? Should such Jewishness be purely religious or purely cultural? If it was to be religious, was this to be compulsory? Should the “geography” of the Siddur, or prayer-book, take pride of place in Jewish instruction and the Bible be the textbook for Jewish history, or should Jewish history be taught as the history of a nation as gleaned from history books, and, if so, from which history books? How should the establishment of the Jewish State, almost synchronous with the opening of the school, be integrated into its spirit, and how should Hebrew be integrated into its program?

There were none associated with the school at the time who had been exposed to any precedent in the running of such an institution which might offer some degree of guidance. I recall my first visit to the Principal’s office. The sole decoration on the wall was a Japanese etching. There was nothing else in any way visible that might affirm the Jewish content or spirit of that school. Abe Feiglin, who became the school’s first Principal, had, at the time of his appointment, never seen a Jewish school in action, let alone been part of one. Different people held different ideas of how to direct its development and where to locate its centre of gravity. Maurice Ashkanasy believed he could influence the school from his office at Selbourne Chambers. Joseph Solvey and I argued against him, affirming that the ultimate authority and direction had to be vested with the Principal – an argument which he later conceded. Meanwhile, Abe Feiglin as headmaster could do no more than model the school according to his own understanding of what a Jewish school should be, even if it did not wholly tally with the understanding of many of its founders or with the majority of parents who sent their children there. For the College seemed to be developing in a way that was out of step with the tantalising and vital issues that affected world Jewry at that time. Whatever Jewish spirit was inculcated in the pupils had more to do with the Biblical past, while its spiritual or religious aspect seemed limited to the teaching of different blessings, grace after meals, daily prayers and of some Biblical texts. Even those who sat on the School Council seemed oblivious to this basic issue of the school’s remoteness from events of the day. The concerns that taxed them more deeply were the school’s financial difficulties which they sought to correct; they were also more troubled by details such as their children’s appearance, the school uniform, and the surface gloss, while such considerations as what the College stood for, as where it had to head, as the kind of child it aimed to produce, were left untouched, for these were wholly beyond their experience and, therefore, beyond their capacity to articulate. Benzion Patkin, who had known very clearly the kind of school he had wished to see, was a prisoner of the people he had surrounded himself with. In theory, his initial concept had been sound, but the practice and execution of the project had become subject to tugging in so many, often contrary, directions that what was left was a compromise situation that left the College with little in the way of a distinctive face or living Jewish spirit.

To take charge of the Hebrew part of the curriculum, Rabbi Dr E. Schwarz was brought from overseas. He was a young man at the time and a scholar, but was also first and foremost a rabbi. Hence, the thrust of his programme was predominantly of a religious nature. Despite our ideological differences, I enjoyed a good personal relationship with him. He saw that I knew what was required of a modern Jewish school and understood my expectations. However, he was constrained not only by his calling but also by the directives he was given by the school’s administrators. He would at times confide his difficulties to me, and told me on one occasion that when he presented a particular programme to Abe Feiglin for approval, Abe responded by asking, “What will Kipen say to this?”

From 1949 onwards, I was a member of the School Council, representing the State Zionist Council. I took over this position from Joseph Solvey when he was elected Chairman of the Education Sub-Committee of the Victorian Jewish Board of Deputies and sat on the School Council in this capacity. The Zionist movement was vitally interested in the existence and development of the College. It fought the opponents of the scheme in the preliminary stages prior to any final decision at sub-committee levels; it argued its case on the plenum of the Advisory Board and held many internal meetings and assembly sessions to define the philosophy and character of the College. In my role as State Zionist Council representative, I expressed its concerns about the school’s shortcomings from the perspective of the Zionist movement. In doing this, I had to argue sometimes in the face of overwhelming odds. But, these odds notwithstanding, I was not deterred from speaking my mind, however uncomfortable my views may have been to some; while the presence and support of Joseph Solvey on the School Council made my task more effective. What I must here record, however, is that despite my frequent criticisms of different aspects of the development of the College, the disputes I engaged in never spilled over into personal animosity. I fought many battles with Abe Feiglin, for instance, but on a personal level we remained the best of friends. The same was true in relation to other members of both the Executive and the Council. I suspected, however, that many members of the Council intuitively and emotionally supported my position on the issues I was constantly raising, but for reasons of their own never ventured to air their views.

Those matters which concerned me most were the spiritual and intellectual direction of the College, particularly vis-a-vis its Hebrew studies content. I argued repeatedly that, although the study of Jewish tradition and religion was not unimportant, Mount Scopus College as a communal school had to mirror the majority sentiments and concerns of the Jewish community at large. Specifically, this meant that as a school established after the Second World War and in parallel with the emergence of the Jewish State in Israel, it had to incorporate such realities into its program and reflect, positively, the spirit that was then animating the Jewish people all over the world, not least in Melbourne itself. Accordingly, I pleaded for a broader and more enlightened program of Jewish studies which would incorporate a contemporary interpretation of Jewish history, a study of modern Hebrew literature and some notion of contemporary national Jewish issues. This plea stemmed from my conviction that it was incumbent upon a modern Jewish school to convey to its students such knowledge as would stimulate them to appreciate and identify with the concerns and aspirations of their own generation and thereby become an integrated part of a rejuvenated Jewish people. Were the school not to do so, the very rationale behind its existence and its very purpose would be placed under a serious question mark.

Though my views may have seemed obvious, they did not necessarily fall on receptive ears. Other members of the Executive and Council were less than persuaded that such broadening of Jewish Studies should be implemented. Those representatives representing religious interests, in particular, were opposed to any divergence from a fully religious orientation in the school’s Jewish education. Meanwhile, anti-Zionists argued that national Jewish sentiments should have no such integral place in a Jewish school in an English-speaking country. Other members sat on the fence, committing themselves neither one way nor another.

Such opposition notwithstanding, I persevered with my campaign within the governing structure of the school. My own situation sometimes became untenable at Zionist assemblies at which harsh criticism was often voiced against the Governors of the College over the direction the school was taking. At such times, my task became one of ameliorating the mood of those assemblies, for I knew that any changes in the direction of the College could only be achieved by concerted and persistent argument, debate and persuasion from within, without letting the fledgling school become a communal political football. In time, I was invited to serve on the Executive of the school as well, where actual policy decisions were made. Here, too, I continued to press for reform, seeking, as before, to upgrade and broaden the Jewish content of the curriculum.

Jewish studies were not the only problem area. With the opening of the secondary division, certain shortcomings were emerging with regard to the general standards of the College and to its chances of producing a successful matriculation class, when the school opened in 1949 with a full primary division, it accepted all applicants. Unavoidably, some of the children enrolled were of less than average ability, while others had problems which they brought with them into the school. Consequently, the first matriculation results attained were anything but pleasing. The College faced a crisis. Parents of children confronting matriculation the following year began to doubt the wisdom of keeping those children there. The impact of the results was such that, even at lower levels, there were insufficient enrolments to start a first year primary class. The College had to face its first moment of truth. It was decided to place an advertisement in the Australian Jewish News to the effect that only a few places remained for the following year’s Grade One class and that enrolments would close by a certain date. The advertisement paid off. Those parents who had been hesitating till then suddenly became anxious not to miss out on the few places and a stream of new enrolments followed.

While the results of the first matriculants had a negative effect in one way, they had another, more positive, consequence as well. Until then, the complaints that were voiced by the Council members had to do with the insufficiency of sport at the school. Nobody complained that the standard of education was inadequate. All this now changed; the educational purposes of the school were measured by a new yardstick; and, suddenly, people became more attuned to my original pleas for the intellectual and spiritual improvement of the school, and responsive to my arguments that such betterment was not simply a luxury, but an absolute necessity if the entire enterprise was ultimately to succeed.

After years of pleading, I finally persuaded the executive to devote a special meeting to the formulation of policy in relation to Hebrew studies. Such a meeting was called and held at the home of Alwyn and Yetta Samuel in Airdrie Road, Caulfield. Apart from the Executive, Rabbis Rappaport and Danglow, of the Melbourne and St Kilda Hebrew Congregations respectively, and Manuel Gelman were invited to attend and advise. I remember clearly the private conversation between the two rabbis before the meeting started. They were discussing attendances at their synagogues. Rabbi Danglow said that he was not concerned how people came to his synagogue on the Sabbath as long as they came. (Travelling on the Sabbath is forbidden according to Jewish law). Whatever his private views may have been, Rabbi Rappaport declined to endorse such a position. I also recall Rabbi Danglow remarking that the Jewish religion had become one of pots and pans, at which I pricked up my ears, considering that he was an Orthodox rabbi.

When discussion about Jewish education at Mount Scopus College opened, Rabbi Danglow was the first to speak. What he said stunned me. “I do not want the pupils to speak Hebrew,” he said, “I do not want them to write Hebrew; all I expect from them is that when they come to the synagogue they should be able to follow the service.” I expected there to be a challenge to the Rabbi’s statement which, to me, was unacceptable, but, to my astonishment, there was complete silence. Hence, as no-one ventured to engage him in discussion, I asked to speak. I must have spoken with some feeling, for, after I had finished, I felt someone tugging at my sleeve. It was Rabbi Rappaport who, leaning over, whispered to me in Hebrew: “Divrei chachamim b’nacht nishmaim”, which translated as: the words of the wise are spoken with equanimity. In other words, he was telling me to mellow my tone, though without necessarily changing my line of argument. What this whole episode attests to is the mood prevailing in the Executive at the time. The very fact that a rabbi who was philosophically opposed to the creation of the College in the first place should have been invited to advise on its curriculum is in itself instructive. Being familiar with Rabbi Danglow’s views, the Executive could have had little doubt about the advice it would be receiving. But it was symptomatic of that body’s collective mind that in matters which pertained to Jewish education, one turned to a rabbi as an authority, regardless of what his views may be. This episode took place seven or eight years after the establishment of the College. It indicates how much the school was still groping in the dark about fundamentals, and indicates, too, the kind of advice it was receiving in the cause of its educational betterment.

The struggle for both higher educational standards and improved Jewish studies was hard and frustrating, but not in vain. Changes for the better did take place, even if these were at times slow and barely perceptible. Some excellent Hebrew teachers came to the College. Mr Klag, a European Hebraist, who was the principal of the Bialik Sunday School, accepted the position of senior Hebrew master. Dr J. Ronda, who hailed from Czechoslovakia and was a very competent teacher and specialist in Hebrew grammar joined the College. Other Hebrew teachers were brought from Israel through the Torah department of the Jewish Agency. These were orthodox individuals whose approach to Hebrew teaching yet differed markedly from the prevailing norm that existed before their arrival.

By the very nature of their Israeli origin, they brought Israel and its spirit into the classroom. The men were not only obliged to have their heads covered while at school, but were further expected to observe the Sabbath in public. One Hebrew teacher was carpeted for having been seen carrying a newspaper under his arm on the Sabbath.

Further, emissaries were brought from abroad to conduct the annual fund-raising appeals for the College. They were usually rabbis who served the dual purpose of raising money and imparting a religious character to the image of the school. This was deliberate. The overwhelming majority of parents who sent their children to Mount Scopus College were non-religious, while some were even anti-religious. Their purpose in sending their children to the school was to provide them with a Jewish environment and cultural surrounds. Having made their decision, these parents had no option but to accept the added religious dimension of the school – which many did with a simple shrug and dismissive, self-persuading argument that “it will do no harm”. Against these, there were some ultra-religious parents for whom the school was not religious enough. However, as Mount Scopus College was, at the time, the only Jewish day-school in Melbourne, they were glad to accept whatever was available. By the nature of its monopoly on Jewish education in the early 1950s, the College was a communal compromise. What was not enough for some was too much for others. This applied to religious studies as it also applied to the teaching of Hebrew. While some parents were highly vocal about the emphasis Hebrew and Jewish studies ought or ought not be given, the majority were more pragmatic and laissez-faire on the matter, tending to regard these subjects as simply the icing on the larger cake that was a sound general education that would enable their children to enter whatever professional careers they should choose.

Such compromises as took place were not without their price. Trying to be all things to all people leads often to pleasing only very few. At Mount Scopus College, there were two distinct groups which were not prepared to compromise their convictions. On the one hand, the religious Zionists, centred around the Mizrachi movement, were unhappy both about the paucity of depth in Jewish learning and the lack of a more pronounced Zionist spirit. On the other, the non-religious Zionists were frustrated by the absence of a national Jewish identity in the school’s approach to its Jewish program and by its lack of demonstrative identification with, and fervour towards, the newly reborn State of Israel. They also objected to the tendency to teach Jewish national history in terms of religion and to treat Hebrew as the language of the Bible and prayer-book as against the living thriving language of a new, authentic and creative society in Israel. They, too, in unison with their Mizrachi counterparts, demanded greater depth of Jewish learning with emphasis upon present-day Jewish existence seen in its own right.

Of these two groups, it was the non-religious Zionists who fought for their beliefs within the school Council, and it was as a result of their persistence that some improvement in Hebrew learning at Mount Scopus College occurred. However, while such improvement was fought for both from within the College and, externally, on the Victorian Jewish Board of Deputies, it was clear that it would not be possible to achieve the desired longer-term results in the face of the prevailing atmosphere. The Mizrachi representatives were in a much more uncomfortable position. Nominally, the College received their full support. But within the Mizrachi movement, there was a great deal of ideological dissatisfaction and muted grumbling about the direction the College was taking.

Independent of one another, but with a remarkable unanimity of analysis, both groups came to the conclusion that if they wanted to see the sorts of school they believed ought to exist, then they should have to create them. By the end of the first decade of Mount Scopus College, it became clear to me, as it must have to others involved with the shaping of the spirit of the school, that we had reached a point where, for a while, little more could be achieved to accelerate change from within, and that, because of the nature of the original all-embracing compromise, it would from here on probably continue at the level to which we had managed to bring it.

The idea thus began to germinate in Mizrachi and General Zionist circles separately, though centred within the Victorian Zionist Organization, that the stage had been reached for further diversification of Jewish education in Melbourne, that is, for the establishment of new schools in the community. Both groups had nuclear structures around which to build and develop their own educational institutions. Both groups had a following which would give support to them. All that was needed was resolve on the part of committed individuals to take the necessary first steps to translate those embryonic ideas into practice.

By that time, a second day-school had already been functioning in Melbourne. This had been established by the Chabad movement, made up of Lubavitch Chasidim. I recall the first visit, in 1947, of a young, tall, broad-shouldered rabbi named Groner who arrived from the United States to survey the situation in Melbourne. I recall debating with him in a public forum at the communal hall of the Toorak Synagogue the concepts of modem Jewish education. The Lubavitch movement had some followers in Melbourne. The pioneering Feiglin family of Shepparton were probably the first Lubavitchers here, while others arrived in the early 1950s direct from Russia. Among them were Reb Zalman Serebranski, Reb Nachum-Zalman Gurevitch, Mr Althaus and his brother-in-law Mr Kluwgant, and their families. They quickly organised themselves into a self-contained community, and, with a single-mindedness so characteristic of the movement worldwide, and prompted by directives from Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneersohn in New York, they gained an increasing number of adherents. David Feiglin became the founding President of Yeshiva College in Hotham Street, East St Kilda, where an existing house was donated to them by the Liba family.

The education offered by the Yeshiva was thoroughly religious not only in name but also in essence. The atmosphere of the school was deeply religious; its ideology was clearly defined and practised. Its Judaism was of an Orthodox Chassidic brand which was observed both individually and communally. In contrast to Mount Scopus College, it made no concession to the pressures and wishes of the market, and insisted that all students who enrolled in the school must accept the rigorous religious demands basic to its teachings. What has proved so remarkable about the school – and the movement behind it – is the fact that it has established itself in a society which, by and large, did not identify with its extremism, but has nonetheless emerged, in the face of numerous difficulties, as a potent educational and social force in the wider Jewish community.

The emergence of Yeshiva College had a major psychological effect on the community and its leaders. The fact that a breakaway school with a specific ideological orientation was established alongside Mount Scopus College severed the psychological stranglehold that the older school held. Once the community absorbed the fact that more than one school could exist in Melbourne, the community learnt to accommodate to a new notion which, a decade earlier, would have been considered both outrageous and audacious. Where the contemplation of the establishment of even one independent Jewish day-school had but a short time before been deemed unwarranted and undesirable, people were now thinking in terms of two or three or four schools, each with different ideological orientations, and beginning to discriminate between them and voice considered opinions about the sort of school they preferred for their children. Such a rapid change in attitudes represented a quantum leap in the collective thinking of the Jewish community.

What facilitated such a transformation in these attitudes was, of course, the concurrent change through which the Jewish community at large was just then undergoing. In those immediate post-war years, the influx of migrants had not only substantially increased the absolute number of Jews in Melbourne; it had also brought an array of Jews from a diverse range of backgrounds bearing their own clear understanding of what Jewish life was all about and bringing with them outlooks based as much on their pre-War upbringing as on their experiences during the war. This influx of people and ideas became the fountainhead for the communal and institutional expansion that has taken place in Melbourne since the war and is directly responsible for the diverse and multi-coloured community that is Melbourne Jewry today.

It was around 1958 that I felt that I could achieve no more at Mount Scopus College. My intuition, in tandem with developments that were taking place in the community, persuaded me that it was time to become involved in new initiatives and, with regard to Jewish education, to advance new ideas to the community and work towards realising them in practice. Hence, I withdrew from Mount Scopus College. It was a hard decision to make. I had invested much work, hope and emotion into the school, while our daughter Aviva was a student there at the time. I had to overcome all the sentiments and long-standing connections I had built up, on the whole creative and fruitful, but, these notwithstanding, I was being drawn away. It was important for me now not to settle into a rut. I made my decision to leave Mount Scopus with a heavy heart but with a sense of purpose, however undefined it still seemed.

Six years earlier, Benzion Patkin, the school’s founding President who had fought hard for its establishment and who had tried desperately to imbue it with an identity and a soul, lost his fight on ideological grounds. In a regrettable scene, an independent Council chairman requested him, on the pretext of Constitutional provisions, to leave the meeting which Patkin attended as immediate Past President. I was the only Council member who had the courage to speak out against its conniving and then left the meeting as an act of solidarity with Patkin. I stayed on the Council for a further six years after his departure to continue Patkin’s struggle. By the time I left, the Hebrew component of the curriculum at Mount Scopus College was more clearly defined and more widely understood, even if its implementation was marked by considerable tardiness. Jewish studies overall had attained by then a certain plateau. More time would be needed for the next upward spurt to take place, and when that would come about, and who would be its catalyst, I could not then know. As it happened, it took another six years after my departure. In 1965, Arnold Bloch took over the Presidency. In the mid-fifties, he had been openly critical of Mount Scopus College at Zionist assemblies. As a member of the State Zionist Council Executive, I begged him “not to snipe at the school from behind” and suggested that the only way he could change things was from within. I may have contributed to his decision to become directly involved with the school. Be that as it may, with his accession to the Presidency, the school’s fortunes underwent a major transformation. Consolidating its borrowing and obtaining remarkably favourable support from the Commonwealth Bank – this in itself representing a turning-point in the school’s security – Arnold Bloch stabilised the erratic finances of the College. More than this, however, as a religious man with a knowledge of Hebrew and the background to know what a school required, he was the first President after Benzion Patkin who was conscious of the nebulousness of the school’s direction and aware of its spiritual drifting. Given his authority, he was neither questioned nor challenged, and it was he who saved its soul.

What gave added urgency for change in the school was the fact that by the time Arnold Bloch became President, two more Jewish day schools, apart from the Yeshiva, had been established. These were Bialik College and Yavneh College, both of which opened for the 1963 school year. Each had a distinctive character and clear aims in terms of Jewish orientation and philosophy, and proved not only that they were attractive alternatives to the schools already in existence but also that they could obtain results in Hebrew studies previously undreamt-of. These schools were a challenge that no intelligent leader could ignore. To his credit, Arnold Bloch understood the situation precisely and proceeded to initiate and accomplish certain changes. By the time he stepped down, the College had undergone major changes of personnel at the top. Abe Feiglin had left; Mr Max Walhaus from South Africa had been Principal for eighteen months; and Alexander Ranoschy had come to the helm. As Mr Ranoschy had originally come from Galicia, he knew what Jewish education should be and could be. Had the College management not put certain constraints upon him and given him greater freedom, he would probably have attained a better balance in Jewish studies. Nonetheless, he succeeded in building a bridge between the College and the Melton Centre attached to the Hebrew University in Jerusalem, whose new educational ideas for the Diaspora were tested. Thus, Israel-oriented direction entered into its program. Fifth-form students were encouraged to spend three months in Israel on an Ulpan, a centre for Hebrew learning, to gain in this very direct way insights into a different kind of life and reality as well as appreciation of the spirit that animated Israeli society. Many graduates from Mount Scopus College subsequently deferred their formal tertiary studies for a year, choose to spend the time in Israel.

The spirit in the secondary division of Mount Scopus College was greatly influenced by the infusion of Yavneh and Bialik College graduates at the secondary level. Both colleges imbued their students with a distinct Zionist spirit which they carried with them. In addition, Yavneh students brought with them a more pronounced religious fervour gained in their primary education. The sustained objections by Mount Scopus College to the extension of the other schools into secondary levels were not only for the reasons given, but also for the unstated reason that the College wanted the Yavneh and Bialik students for the extra dimensions they would contribute.

Officially, Mount Scopus College always claimed that Melbourne’s Jewish community could not carry the financial burden of a diversified secondary education system. This has from the outset been a contentious issue. The financial aspects of private education in Australia has a history of its own. In post-war years, with the major influx of new arrivals from Europe, many of whom have been Catholic, the Catholic education system became grossly overtaxed, and a persuasive case was argued for government support to denominational schools, which, when approved, had to be all-embracing.

The funding of private schools was one of the achievements of the Whitlam government. The legislation came at a time of desperate need for the entire private school sector, and it saved the denominational system which catered for a quarter of the total number of Victoria’s school children, at the same time removing the financial burden of their education from government shoulders. For, by subsidising the private sector, the government bought itself off very cheaply, simultaneously enabling private schools to bridge their operating deficits which fees alone could not meet, especially in those years of massive wage increases for labour generally and for teachers in particular. For a decade the system worked. With the ever-increasing demands of social expenditure, however, the Hawke Government, through its Education Minister, Susan Ryan, began to revise the system of education support to meet the political feelings within the Labor Party. Because of the need of Jewish colleges, unlike other schools, to employ two tiers of staff, both for secular and for Jewish studies, this placed the Jewish school network under particular stress. However, a formula was in time arrived at which resolved the problem.

By the mid-eighties, there were about 5,000 children receiving education in Jewish day-schools, of whom half were at Mount Scopus College. Another 800 attended Yeshiva-Beth Rivkah College (Beth Rivkah being the girls’ counterpart of Yeshiva College), and 200 were taught at the ultra-religious Adass School. The balance of 1,500 children were at Yavneh (religious Zionist), Bialik (General Zionist), King David (Liberal), and Sholom Aleichem (Yiddish) schools. Not all have yet attained to fully-developed secondary levels, and the need for more secondary schools remains. This is not to deny the crushing financial burden imposed by such education on any school, but time will probably permit the meeting and fulfilment of this need.

In 1985, Mount Scopus College was on the eve of a major change. Alexander Ranoschy retired after twenty years at the College, sixteen of them as Principal, and a young Canadian-born, Rabbi Dr Steven Lorch took over.

Around the same time, far-reaching changes were to be made to secondary education in Victoria as a consequence of the Blackburn report. The main thrust of the recommended changes was the termination of secondary education at the end of Year 10. Years 11 and 12 were to be spent in special colleges so structured as to provide a broader range of subjects for all students. Inevitably, the implementation of such restructuring, when it comes into effect, will also affect Jewish schools, but one cannot yet determine precisely in which way.

12

Zionism in Australia

I arrived in Australia one year after the end of the Second World War in Europe. The Holocaust was by then common knowledge the world over. Morally, the West stood accused for the tragedy by its deliberate inaction in the face of information available as early as 1942 on the destruction of European Jewry and of the pleas made to them to destroy the gas chambers.

Meanwhile, post-war England had a newly-elected Labor government led by Clement Attlee, whose Foreign Minister was a one-time union leader Ernest Bevin. While the political philosophies of the country’s Conservative and Labor parties were distinctly different, their attitude to Palestine was identical. The White Paper of 1939 prohibiting Jewish immigration into Palestine remained intact and observed to the letter. The plight of the dispossessed survivors of the concentration camps was not sufficient to move the supposedly “progressive and humanitarian” British Labor to respond to President Truman’s request that 100,000 Jews be immediately admitted into Palestine. Boats carrying refugees attempting to land in Palestine were intercepted by the British navy and their passengers interned in Cyprus. Those who managed to get ashore were hounded down.

The mood of world Jewry in the face of the revelations that continued to emerge about the Holocaust was one of despair and disbelief. If Zionism ever needed proof for its historical validity and inevitability, the war and its aftermath provided such proof. The nations meeting at Evian in 1938 had denied the Jews of Germany the opportunity to escape while there was still time. During the war, the Allies had refused to bomb the crematoria and, thereby, destroy the means of mass slaughter, President Roosevelt having supposedly said that he had “no time for Jewish wailing”. And even after the war, when the full extent of the Jewish tragedy was laid bare, a democratic country like Britain still found it possible to refuse the beleaguered surviving Jews a haven in Palestine that had, but a generation before, been designated for them. – Given the facts, in whom could a decimated Jewry believe?

Apart from the 500,000 Jews who then lived in Palestine under British Mandate, there was one Jewish movement which was at once emotionally attuned, politically aware and structurally organised to act under the circumstances. This was the World Zionist Movement, which threw itself into the twin battle of physical rescue on the one hand and political activity on the other. There was by then little doubt that a political solution to the Palestine question could be delayed no longer. The more stubborn British policy became and the more inhumane the consequences of its stubbornness, the more obvious was it that the hour of reckoning was drawing near. Zionist organisations everywhere began to act on a political level in their respective countries to arouse support for a just and equitable solution to the Palestine problem.

In October 1946, Britain and Egypt initialled a draft agreement securing complete British withdrawal from Egypt by September 1949. In early 1946, 250,000 Jewish survivors of the Holocaust had reached Allied zones in Germany, but were stranded there. As late as July 1946, a British-American plan known as the “Grady-Morrison Report” envisaged the establishment of separate Jewish and Arab provinces in Palestine under British control, allied to a strictly limited immigration policy for Jews. The Zionist Movement rejected the plan, as did President Truman. It took the mounting pressure of world opinion, coupled with violence against the British in Palestine for Britain to decide in February 1947 to pass the Mandate to the United Nations. In April 1947, an eleven-nation commission of the United Nations went to Palestine. Its recommendation, issued on August 31 of that year, was to partition Palestine into sovereign Arab and Jewish states. Palestinian Jewry accepted the recommendation in principle; the Arab representatives flatly rejected it. On November 29, 1947, the United Nations General Assembly voted in favour of partition.

I remember that day very vividly. It was a sunny Saturday in Australia, and that weekend I was at Jack Skolnik’s Maroondah Lake Hotel in Healesville which was a fashionable holiday spot at the time with a sizeable Jewish clientele. A wireless had been set up on the veranda. As the vote was transmitted live from the United Nations, the atmosphere was as tense in Healesville as it must have been everywhere in the Jewish world. With bated breath, we waited for every vote to be recorded. The tension was hard to bear, but when the USSR. cast its affirmative vote and a sound of applause came through on the radio from the United Nations gallery, it became clear that the partition plan would pass with the necessary two-thirds majority. At the end of it all, everyone around me sighed with relief. One guest, Sam Aloni, ordered drinks all around for a l’chaim. Some had tears in their eyes. Otherwise, the reaction on the whole was muted. As if instinctively, each person felt that it might be too early to celebrate; the true struggle would only now begin.

Those historical events at the United Nations had an Australian input with far-reaching consequences. The federal elections in September 1946 had returned a Labor government to office with Ben Chifley as Prime Minister and Dr Herbert Vere Evatt as Minister for External Affairs. According to Max Freilich of Sydney, a leading personality in Australian Jewry who was to play a vital political role in Australian Zionism, the Labor victory was “providential for the Zionist movement in Australia and indeed for the world Zionist movement”. Written in 1971 with the benefit of hindsight, this statement may have been sweeping, but it was not, in fact, exaggerated. At the time, the Zionist Federation of Australia was centred in Sydney under the chairmanship of Rabbi Dr Max Schenk. One of the active arms of the Federation was a department in Melbourne which was presided over by Dr Machover who left Australia permanently in 1946, but who nonetheless represented Australian General Zionists as a delegate to the 22nd Zionist Congress in Basle.

The United Nations Special Commission on Palestine started work in Jerusalem on June 16, 1947. Two months later, the ship, the Exodus, left Marseilles for Palestine with 4,500 Jews on board, but was returned to France after the British refused its passengers entry, this act provoked a global outcry. Moshe Shertok, who was then the Head of the Political Department of the Jewish Agency, urged Horace Newman of Sydney, the Vice-President of the Zionist Federation at a meeting in Zurich, to push on with political work in Australia. Max Freilich and Abram Landa, a prominent Labor politician in New South Wales, travelled to Canberra to plead for Australian support for the Zionist cause at the international forum. While in Canberra, Landa asked to be included as a member of the Australian delegation to the United Nations. The request was refused, but he did gain an invitation as an observer, an invitation which he accepted.

Dr Evatt was to lead the Australian delegation to the General Assembly of the United Nations. He was a candidate for the Presidency. He had gained recognition two years earlier at the San Francisco Conference of 1945. As it happened, Dr Evatt was defeated for the post of President of the Assembly by Dr Aranha of Brazil; but Dr Aranha suggested in turn that Dr Evatt stand for the Chairmanship of the Ad Hoc Committee on Palestine, to which he was unanimously elected. This was a crucial position to occupy in so far as the fortunes of Palestine were concerned. The Great Powers were trying to influence the composition of the Ad Hoc Committee and, consequently, the outcome of its deliberations and its final report to the United Nations Assembly. The final vote of the Ad Hoc Committee was 27 votes in favour of partition, 13 votes against, and 17 abstaining. Dr Evatt from the Chair had cast the first “yes” vote on behalf of Australia. New Zealand abstained. This abstention was a considerable disappointment to the Jewish Agency. In its wake, the personal efforts made by Max Freilich of Australia and Isaac Gotlieb of New Zealand to present the Jewish case to the New Zealand Prime Minister Frazer helped secure a “yes” vote in the ultimate voting in the General Assembly on the 29th November.

The sustained political activity of the Australian Zionist movement leading to the United Nations vote continued. An idea of the extent and direction of this activity may be gained from the minutes of the Annual Assembly of the State Zionist Council of Victoria held on March 9, 1948, at which the following resolutions were passed:

The State Zionist Council resolved to recommend to the Zionist Federation of Australia and New Zealand

a. To approach the Labor government through the Australian Council of Trade Unions and Trades Hall Council for the Australian delegation to continue to support the Zionist cause.

b. To formulate memoranda to be submitted to the Australian delegation at the United Nations.

c. To send cables to governments of countries which might support the Zionist cause and urge such support.

d. To request that a representative of the Jewish Agency be sent to Australia to direct political work with government departments or alternatively to appoint a leading local Zionist spokesman to conduct the work.

It is only when one looks at these events in retrospect, keeping in mind the fact that there were a mere 35,000 Jews in Australia at the time and that only a limited number of these identified themselves with Zionism, that one may begin to appreciate the historic role that the Zionist movement in Australia played in those fateful days.

The uncertainties over the six months that followed the partition vote kept us in a state of constant tension. During that interval, the United States applied assorted pressures on Palestine Jewry to defer the proclamation of statehood. Secretary of State, General Marshall, threatened to remove the Palestine Appeal from the list of deductible charities; Moshe Shertok flew back in haste from New York to Palestine to urge the postponement demanded by America. It was only when the Zionist General Council met in the Tel Aviv museum on Friday afternoon of May 15, 1948, and David Ben Gurion publicly proclaimed the creation of the Jewish State to be known as Israel, that the tension we had lived with could lift.

However, the relief and rejoicing of the Jewish world were short-lived. Independence brought the immediate invasion by Arab armies. The precarious alignment of forces, the pitiful state of the Hagana’s preparedness and the losses of life and the destructions incurred placed burdens upon world – and Australian – Jewry for which they were not prepared. The defeat of the combined Arab armies, followed by the United Nations-sponsored ceasefire agreement in November 1948, this time permitted a more sustained respite from the anxieties with which the Jewish world had been living.

Israel had come through its first test by fire militarily victorious, but economically shattered. With the opening of the gates of Israel from 1949 onwards to all Jews who came, many of them having neither work nor shelter to turn to, world Jewry swung into action in the most practical way it could – in the provision of funds for the rehabilitation of the immigrants who could at first be housed only in makeshift tent-cities and had to be provided with food and social amenities on an unprecedented scale. A new sense of mutual responsibility thus sprang up among world Jewry. Jews everywhere who till then had at best been spectators looking detachedly upon the unfolding drama, suddenly recognised the demands of the hour, became morally involved, and felt committed to respond to calls for help from the Zionist movement. Not all Jews, however, responded. The anti-Zionists in the community were unmoved, while many simply remained on the sidelines as by-standers, either emotionally unable or unwilling to cross the threshold to personal commitment. I remember one episode in which, together with a man named Blumenthal, I was taking up a collection in the Oxford Chambers where I had my office at the time and which was tenanted almost entirely by Jews. In the corridor, we met up with a tall young Jew from Central Europe. We explained to him what we were doing and asked for a donation. He was aghast at our temerity. “What has it to do with me?” he said in German and walked away in disgust.

Apart from the raising of funds, other forms of aid for Israel became a large and urgent task. Clothing and anything else transportable were collected and shipped to Jews in transit camps. The activity became a well-organised enterprise led by Lazar Suchowolski who later left Melbourne for Israel.

The first Consul-General of the State of Israel to Australia, Mr. Harry Levin and Mrs. Ruth Levin.

Amidst the worry over Israel and the work directed towards its welfare, Australian Jewry had reason for rejoicing when the first official representative of the new State arrived to open the first Israeli mission in Australia. This mission was initially at a consular level, located in Sydney, with Mr Harry Lewin and his wife Ruth as the incumbents. After settling in, they arrived on an official visit to Melbourne in October 1949. There was great excitement over the visit; the very notion that we should be hosting a diplomatically-accredited representative from Israel had a fairy-tale quality about it. The State Zionist Council geared into action to arrange a suitable reception and I was placed in charge of arrangements, with assistance being given by Essia Nemenoff of the Women’s International Zionist Organization office, Lily Solvey of the Victorian Zionist Organization, and Walter Duffield, General Secretary of the State Zionist Council. We hired the Melbourne Town Hall and arranged a dinner for some 1,200 people. Invitations to the dinner were at a premium and many people had to content themselves with watching proceedings from the upstairs gallery. The function was an event the like of which Melbourne Jewry had never seen before, and was attended at once by elation, exultation, pure joy and disbelief.

As an aside, as the person responsible for the arrangements, I was asked by Mrs Lewin, who was a painter, whether it might be possible for her to do some painting in the city gardens. I called for her at the Menzies Hotel the following morning and, with easel in hand, led her to the Botanical Gardens. As we crossed the bridge over the Yarra, Ruth Lewin noticed a neon sign reading Kraft on a building on the south side of the river. When I explained that Kraft referred to a cheese-manufacturing company, she related the story that during the siege of Jerusalem, when food was scarce, she had had a tin of Kraft cheese at home which she would not open until the siege was broken. It was with that tin of Kraft cheese that she and her husband celebrated the liberation of Jerusalem!

Melbourne Jewry’s reception for the Lewins was both a great success and a major psychological turning-point for many local Jews. The presence, in the flesh, of official representatives of Israel in our midst had the effect of translating into palpable reality what, earlier, was often a nebulous content and perception of Zionist aspirations. The impact of the visit was thus both inspiring for the Zionist movement and positively contributory to its practical work.

Reception given by the State Zionist Council of Victoria to Consul-General Mr. Harry Levin and Mrs. Levin at the Melbourne Town Hall, At the Head Table l to r. Dr. & Mrs. J. Jona, Rabbi & Mrs. Stranski, Mr. A. Sicree, Rabbi Dr. & Mrs. H. Freedman, Mr. & Mrs. J. Solvey, Mr. Doron (Consul of Israel), Mrs. J. Rapke, Mr. H. Levin (C-G of Israel), Mr. Sam Wynn (Chairman of function), Mrs. R. Levin, Mr. H. Newman (Sydney), Mrs. Doron, Dr. & Mrs. A. Patkin, Mr. M. Ashkenasy KC & Mrs. H. Ashkenasy, Rabbi & Mrs. Gurvitch, Mr. & Mrs. A. Brekler (Perth), Mr. & Mrs. A. Maisel, and Rev. W. Rechter.

In order to put into perspective my private life and communal involvement, it is appropriate here to record that I became engaged on the stroke of twelve on New Year’s Eve 1950, just several weeks after this major event, and married on March 9th. In fairness to my future wife, I had warned her that I was deeply involved communally and that evening meetings would often keep me away from home. What I did not know myself was precisely the extent to which events throughout the ‘fifties would make demands on my time. In fact, I had to leave Laura at home alone most nights of the week. It was clearly the wrong thing to do to a young bride, but events were cascading with such rapidity and urgency that my involvement mounted with each passing week. By November 1951, I was a member of the Executive of the Zionist Federation of Australia and New Zealand, representing there the State Zionist Council of Victoria. The Zionist Federation carried the burden and responsibility for Zionist policy making in Australia, this body being the country’s representative of the Jewish Agency and the World Zionist Organization. Belonging to the Zionist Federation added fortnightly meetings to my schedule which was already crowded with attendance at meetings as a member of the Victorian Zionist Organization, which was one of the constituents of the State Council of Victoria, whose executive I had joined on February 15, 1949, and of the United Israel Appeal which was an undertaking of both the State Zionist Council and the Zionist Federation and engaged in a number of separate activities, each of which required meetings of their own. Such meetings had often to be held during one’s lunch hour as well as in the evenings. Concurrent with these, I was involved with Mount Scopus College, first as a member of the School Council, then, from August 1952, as a member of the Executive of the College, this doubling the number of meetings I was obliged to attend, not to mention other serious responsibilities which membership of all these bodies carried with them.

At the time of my arrival, the offices of the Zionist Organization were at Carlow House, situated at the corner of Flinders Lane and Elizabeth Street. The place was very cramped and restricted in the operations and administration of the Organization’s ever-increasing affairs. We sought new premises to house all branches of the body and found suitable ones in Collins Street next door to the Melbourne Club. A deposit was paid, but a permit for our activities in the immediate vicinity of the Melbourne Club was refused. The premises had, of necessity, to be re-sold; but the resale netted a profit of 10,000 pounds. A further search resulted in the acquisition of an old house on large grounds at 584 St Kilda Road, Melbourne. According the minutes of the State Zionist Council of October 30, 1952, Mr Solvey, who was then President of the State Zionist Council, announced the purchase of the property for 19,000 pounds.

The thrust of Zionist activity was overwhelmingly in fund-raising, with the United Israel Appeal being the chief agency in this activity. By agreement with the Keren Hayesod and the Jewish National Fund, the Women’s International Zionist Organization (WIZO), the Hebrew University, and others, all their separate appeals were merged into a single appeal, with the Keren Hayesod Head Office apportioning a certain percentage allocation of the total proceeds to each. This permitted a united and co-ordinated action on behalf of Israel with a contribution of personnel and facilities by all groups within the Zionist spectrum, as well as the possibility of an agreement with other organisations over the allocation of time slots in the communal appeal calendar. Accordingly, a specific time could be set aside each year for the United Israel Appeal to launch its campaign. The word “United” in the name of the appeal related to the organisational aspect of fund-raising activity. The actual appeal techniques and the efforts exerted to raise funds were quite another matter. The need was unprecedented. The coffers of the Keren Hayesod were empty and it could not possibly collect all the moneys required for the reception of the immigrants who flooded into Israel. Hence, the demands made by the Keren Hayesod Headquarters for greater exertions to raise funds were constant, and the translation of these demands and exertions into money collected proved a year-round responsibility. In those days – the early ‘fifties – money was not easy to come by. The very notion of the size of donations had remained more in tune with pre-State days. It required, therefore, a major psychological adjustment among people who were in a position to contribute to give in measure to the country’s immediate needs. To facilitate an adjustment of the kind needed, appeal emissaries from Israel were brought to Australia. They told of the State’s economic situation, of immigrant absorption, of the ma’abarot (makeshift tent-cities) and of the desperate privations and endurances of the impoverished new arrivals. Barely recovering from the War of Liberation and from the losses in terms of life and limb which affected the small Israeli community at the time, the State had, simultaneously, both to accommodate and rehabilitate the newcomers and to proceed with nation-building and sustain a crushing defence budget. The number of emissaries available who spoke English was not particularly large, nor was their stature particularly great, the relatively small Jewish community of the day – and its financial returns – not being such that would reward the sending of any particularly outstanding personality to Australia. Individuals of station were more likely to be sent where the returns of an appeal were more promising. Hence, we made do with whomever the Keren Hayesod could spare and generated added enthusiasm with local talent, which proved not unimpressive, but was less effective than overseas personalities if only because they were familiar. Often, we would exchange speakers with Sydney for the sake of a new name and new attraction. In those days, drawing-room meetings for the appeal were major social events in the community. To be invited to an Appeal-opening dinner was to be accorded status, while the organisation under which auspices the dinner was held gained communal credit.

In addition to the speakers who came from overseas and interstate, the personnel of the Consulate and later of the Legation of Israel were invited to address organised gatherings. In mid-1950, the Levins returned to Israel and Mr Joseph Linton took over as the first Israeli Minister Plenipotentiary. Mr Linton had been Director of the Political Department of the Jewish Agency in London in the days of struggle with the Mandatory power. He was also a confidant and associate of Chaim Weizmann.

Interstate conference of the Zionist Federation of Aust. & N.Z. held in Sydney in the mid 1950s.

Front row from left; I. Roseby, the author, P. Ungar, Dr. F. Benfy, Dr. A. Benfey, Rabbi Dr. H. Freedman, H. Newman, M. Freilich, S. Wynn, N. Jacobson, M. Friedman. Back row; Dr. E. Krauss, A. Newhouse, Hovev, J. Solvey, T. Mahemoff, M. Wassner, Dr. M. Ferstanding, R. Cohen, H. Kessler, T. Freilich and A. Kessler.

Linton was followed by Max Nurock as the first Israeli ambassador to Australia. Nurock was originally from Ireland and very much a product of British culture and manners. He possessed all the refinement required of an ambassador, but did not convey the authentic ebullient spirit of Israeli society.

By that time, the Zionist movement worldwide found itself in a quandary, in terms both of philosophy and practical politics. Zionism internationally was led primarily by General Zionists, whose counterpart in the Israeli Knesset were the Liberal Party who sat on the opposition benches. Meanwhile, the State was governed by the Labor Party (Mapai) under the towering leadership of David Ben Gurion. Further, the recipients of the funds raised, the Jewish Agency-Keren Hayesod, were also Mapai-controlled. This was one source of disaffection. Another was the fact that Israel’s expectations of a mass immigration of Zionists from abroad did not materialise. While Zionists everywhere threw themselves feverishly into work and donated money, time and effort for the benefit of the State, the overwhelming majority of Jews elected to stay where they lived. That was a particularly bitter emotional blow to Israel’s leadership and people, which, consequent upon their attainment of independence and their victories in the field of battle, alighted upon a proud nationalism that came to claim that no Jew could call himself a Zionist who did not live in Israel. Gradually, the word “Zionism” changed its meaning, and, instead of indicating something edifying, turned to an expression of derision. In the ‘fifties, when an Israeli wanted to tell somebody he did not know what he was talking about, he would say, “Ata medaber Zionut” (You are talking Zionism).

The outcome was that a significant ambivalence enveloped the Zionist movement worldwide. Israel’s position was not without a clear logic of its own. If Zionists did not physically participate in building the State, then in what way were they any different from non-Zionists? If anything, they were the non-Zionists who were the large donors to Israeli causes; big money was rarely to be found in the Zionist camp. Now that the State had its own ways of bestowing honours and attention on individuals without being politically obligated to them, it followed that Israel could begin courting the Jewish non-Zionist leaders in the wider world and thereby extend the range of people working on its behalf with possibly more satisfactory results. The Israeli leadership knew that the Diaspora Zionist would continue working for the State, no matter what policies and attitudes the State assumed. Its new orientation was predicated on a premise of having much to gain and little to lose.

In line with this, a strong World Zionist Organization was not perceived by Israel (read Mapai) as being in its best interests. By way of illustration: Dr Abba Hillel Silver, the outstanding American Zionist leader, had, at the 22nd Zionist Congress, been the moving force behind the stand adopted there towards Britain – a stand which forced Chaim Weizmann out of the Presidency and out of the Congress itself. In persuading the Congress to adopt the stand, he had had an ally in David Ben Gurion. Yet when he visited the established State, he was both ignored by Ben Gurion and kept in private and political quarantine by Mapai. The shift in Israel’s interests was not lost on other sections of world Jewry, the non-Zionists, who came to be courted more concertedly by Israel. Their “farsightedness” in not being officially Zionists was now rewarded by a certain recognition of their prominence and importance. In America, they diminished the standing and prestige of the Zionist Organisation of America by depriving it of the control of the Appeals Funds which they had earlier let slip from their control. To deprive the Zionist Organization of its effectiveness was to keep hold of the purse-strings.

Dr. Morris Perlzweig of the World Jewish Congress on a visit to Australia in the 1950s. On the stage; M. Ashkenasy QC (speaking), Dr. M. Perlzweig, N. Jacobson, S. Wynn and author.

In global terms, the fate of the Zionist movement was sealed by the successful manoeuvres of the Israeli leadership acting within American Jewry. For obvious reasons of sheer number, no other Jewry in the world had as much clout or as many dollars to merit such special attention as the American. Increasingly, as American Jewry was swayed, so was world Jewry, the telling argument being that one did not have to be a Zionist to be a friend of Israel. Those who had been detached from Israel, or even hostile to the idea of a Jewish state, joined the ever-increasing numbers of supporters of fund-raising appeals. To give money for Israel became the litmus test for friendship and recognition. The Zionist organisations everywhere were still doing the same things, making the same efforts, and being as emotive in their ingrained commitments and philosophical convictions, but they were no longer the organisations they had been. This was the new reality behind Zionist work.

Then came 1956, and the combined English, French and Israeli move against Nasser’s nationalisation of the Suez Canal. The lightning strike of the Israeli forces across the Sinai desert and its accomplishments, all within 100 hours, contrasted starkly with the ineptitude of British planning and French support. The world at large was treated to the second instalment of Israeli military prowess, only to be followed by the Eden Government fiasco which sealed its political fate. A new surge of enthusiasm swept world Jewry as it witnessed the unbelievable feat of mobility and tactics displayed by an army only eight years old. It all came to nought, however, by the intervention of Foster Dulles who reflected the American view that the Suez action was a throwback to old-style British and French colonialism and vying for supremacy in the Middle East. In the event, Ben Gurion was compelled to recall the Israeli army, and thereby save Nasser.

At that time, Nathan Jacobson had been President of the State Zionist Council for a year and I was one of its three vice-presidents. Jacobson himself was out of Australia during the Suez War. The news caught the world at large, and the Jewish communities besides, unawares and unprepared. In terms of accepted international protocol, the situation was very delicate. There was an obvious need for Jewish spokesmen to come forward to explain the background to the conflict and the reasons behind the unfolding events. On the second day of the campaign, I received an urgent call to attend a lunch-time meeting at the office of the Jewish Board of Deputies. Aaron Leibler was then the President of the Board, Trevor Rapke was its Chairman, and Maurice Ashkanazy was President of the Executive Council of Australian Jewry. There were only the four of us. I represented the State Zionist Council. There was a widespread apprehension about events and a feeling that some action on the part of the Jewish community must be undertaken. Leibler agreed on communal representation while Ashkanazy offered to go before the public to justify events. I supported them; Trevor Rapke demurred. While we were still discussing the issues, Ashkanazy bade me to go to the phone and book a hall for a public meeting at short notice. I did so. On my return, the tension around the table had risen; Rapke, arguing that “only over my dead body would a public meeting be held”, stood his ground against all efforts to dissuade him; and, at meeting’s end, the hall, booked a mere half hour earlier, had to be cancelled. Rapke was at the time a renowned barrister and Judge-Advocate of the Australian Navy. He was later to become a judge of the County Court.

By 1957, the closure of the Suez Canal to world shipping was affecting the international economy as well as Israel. The State Zionist Council called a public meeting at Samuel Meyers Hall, St Kilda, to discuss the situation. The speakers were Dr H.V. Evatt, Arthur Calwell and myself. Nathan Jacobson, as head of the State Zionist Council, presided. The hall was packed. Dr Evatt fittingly took the opportunity to recall some poignant moments in the battles that had taken place in the Palestine Committee of the U.N. a decade before, and the momentous sequelae. After the close of proceedings, I was surprised to see Mr Calwell come towards me, take my hand and congratulate me “on a very fine speech”.

The Appeal emissary for 1956 was Joseph Sapir. It signalled a significant advance in the Australian Jewish community’s standing in Israel, for he was a man of high calibre in the yishuv, a member of a long-established family, and both leader of the Liberal Party and Minister of Commerce in the coalition government. Being a General Zionist, I shared a number of interests with him and a mutual affinity developed between us.

The Suez affair had created a new momentum in the Jewish world and accelerated the process of Jewish awareness and identification with Israel’s fortunes. Further, the events had such grave political repercussions upon England, while the closure to world shipping had such far-reaching consequences for the world economy that they long remained an issue in the international press. Through that singular event, world interest became continually focussed upon the Middle East, and where Israel had earlier been of merely parochial concern among supporters and detractors, it now became a central feature in global news and attention. Jews no longer had to wait for weekly Jewish newspapers to learn of what was taking place in Israel and its surrounds. The most prestigious news agencies came continually to concern themselves with what took place there – and to do so in a positive way. This focussed attention had an inevitable flow-on effect on world Jewry at large. For if Israel could become a legitimate point of international interest, then it was legitimate too, and indeed persuasive, for Jews who had earlier stood as spectators on the sidelines to become intellectually and emotionally involved as well. Jews could not escape the issue, for it had taken on a universal dimension and catapulted itself into the world’s wider orbit.

It was in this context – and in an atmosphere of pride – that we received the news that Moshe Sharett, the first Minister for Foreign Affairs (later to become the second Prime Minister of the State of Israel) was to be the guest speaker at the 1957 Israel Independence Day celebrations in Melbourne. His visit confirmed the upgrading of Australian Jewry in Israel’s estimation. The visit was a timely shot in the arm in bolstering the community’s enthusiasm.

The reception planned for the Sharetts was on a scale different from any other till then undertaken. As organisers, we had no doubt about the likely response of the community to his presence. Without hesitation, we booked the Festival Hall which seated 8,000 people. We were proved right beyond our expectations. The house was sold out, the atmosphere electric, the event unforgettable. Further, the public relations aspect of the visit was also unprecedented. The Sharetts were invited as guests of the Government of Victoria. I accompanied them to Parliament House where Mrs Sharett and I were given a box seat, while Moshe Sharett sat within the Chamber of the House beside the Speaker and was formally welcomed by a motion passed on voices. Parliamentary etiquette provided that such visits took 30 minutes while the guests listened to parliamentary proceedings, after which they were escorted from Parliament House. On our way back in my car to their hotel, Sharett said that I probably assumed his sympathies in the parliamentary debate rested more naturally with Labor, which was then in opposition. “You will be surprised if I tell you that my sympathy was with the Government and Mr Bolte, for the simple reason that I know only too well what tzores (troubles) an opposition can cause.” I was indeed surprised, but, on reflection, I both appreciated his honesty and understood the pragmatism of his outlook.

The following day, the Sharetts went to Canberra as guests of the Federal Government. The visit – as Sharett was later to report on his return to Melbourne – proved very successful. There had been one episode, however, that had left him troubled. Having again sat on the floor of the House of the Parliament during its session, Moshe Sharett was afterwards tendered an official luncheon. He had been sitting to the right of Prime Minister Robert Menzies, and the conversation turned to the ingathering of Jews into Israel, to the ma’abarot, to the enormous financial costs of rehabilitating those newly incoming Jews, and to the bitter reality, both in political and ideological terms, of having some of the new arrivals leaving the State for America and other destinations. Whereupon, according to Sharett, Mr Menzies had turned to him and said, “Much as I sympathise with you in this, you should not be surprised that this is happening. After all, what have you to offer the people? You have housed them in tents, you cannot employ them, nor can you give them political stability and security. Look at us. We go to England and to the most poverty-stricken areas of the country, the mining regions, where we meet with the miners who seldom see the sun or the light of day, and we offer them free passage to Australia. We guarantee them work, accommodation, open spaces, and present them with a choice of climates, and when they come they receive everything promised to them. However, after a while, some decide that they do not like the local pub or the local newspaper or whatever. They pack up and return to the grime and poverty and leave everything offered here behind. Why, then, should you be surprised that some of your immigrants leave for other places?” It was this parallel comparison between Jewish immigrants to Israel and British immigrants to Australia that had left Sharett troubled, all the more worrying in the light of the difficult economic circumstances that prevailed in Israel at the time.

Among my most memorable experiences connected with the Sharett visit was our tour to Tasmania. The minuscule Jewish community there was in dire straits. Geographically isolated and dwindling in numbers, the island’s Jews were in a general state of apathy. We decided to inject some enthusiasm into the community by taking the Sharetts there. I accompanied them to Hobart. As we flew over the Tasman, Sharett turned to me and said, “Israel, you are taking me under false pretences. You told me we were travelling interstate, but I see that we are going overseas!” Mr Jacobs, the Chairman of the Jewish community of Hobart was awaiting us at the airport. So were a photographer and interviewer from the Hobart daily, which ran a front-page story about Sharett’s visit in the afternoon edition. Hobart was frosty in May. Mr Jacobs was wearing spats, something I had not seen since leaving Europe. He took us to his home for a sumptuous lunch, during which Mrs Sharett remarked that we were at the very end of the world. It was an observation and sentiment I well understood. After lunch, our host insisted on driving us about the city. Sharett was weary, but he accepted the invitation nonetheless, even though he could scarcely keep his eyes open during the drive around the Derwent River where every curve revealed new panoramas of late autumn beauty. We returned with time to rest before dinner and the function that had been scheduled for 8.00 p.m. in the historic Hobart Synagogue.

As we arrived, people were coming to the synagogue, police were present, as was also a lone enthusiast from some missionary society who insisted that Moshe Sharett take a leaflet from him. Among the audience were assorted people numbering about 50-60 in total, some young, others no longer young, but all clearly pleased that their small community had not been overlooked or ignored. As we waited, Mr Jacobs pointed out one man who was a professor at Hobart University. Before that occasion, no-one had known he was Jewish. After Sharett and I had spoken and a collection was conducted for the United Israel Appeal, I was approached by a man with darkish skin and an undefinable appearance. He introduced himself. His name was Spanish. “I’m a descendant of the Marranos,” he said. At that, a shiver went through me. I was incredulous, and I found it hard to speak, as, here, literally at the end of the earth, there came forth a man with a most complex past seeking to identify himself and wanting to be known and counted. In that moment, five hundred years of Jewish history flooded my mind, compounded by both a sense of pride and of national tragedy blended into one. As he talked, I had the impression that by revealing his past and affirming his belonging, he was simultaneously unburdening his soul. I was deeply shaken by the experience, as were Mr Jacobs and the Sharetts when I told them of the encounter. Moshe Sharett had similar stories of his own to tell, particularly relating to his visits as Minister for Foreign Affairs to various Jewish communities. On one occasion, on his arrival at Buenos Aires, a huge crowd awaited him on the tarmac, some on horseback. These had proved to be farmers living on Baron de Hirsch colonies, a number of them having ridden over 400 kilometres to greet him.

Another episode that has remained with me of Sharett’s visit is a conversation several of us had with him about Australia. In the course of the conversation, mention was made of certain private land holdings in Queensland and Western Australia being as large as a quarter-million square miles, and that it would take jackaroos months of constant work just to mend the fences around such properties. As the figure of a quarter-million was dropped, he winked and said, “I like and respect you, but I find it impossible to believe what you are telling me.” His response was wholly understandable. It was almost inevitable that a man who represented a country of a mere 8,000 square miles should have difficulty in believing that single holdings should be of such magnitude. To prove the matter, we arranged for Queensland colleagues to invite him to such a homestead.

The visits of Joseph Sapir and Moshe Sharett placed Australian Jewry on the Jewish map. Despite the geographical distance between Australia and Israel and Australia’s isolation from the main nerve centres of the Jewish world, relations between Israel’s leadership and Australian Jewry developed in mutually beneficial ways. From the Zionist Federation standpoint, such evolving closeness was of the utmost importance. The internal structures of the World Zionist Organization and the allocation of annual budgets to the Federation and to its constituent State Councils were managed through the World Zionist Organization. Every visit by leading Israeli personalities, in turn, served to extend Israel’s knowledge of the Zionist movement in Australia and enhanced Australia’s image in its eyes. For, what those visitors found was most unique and impressive. The Zionist Federation at the federal level and the Zionist Councils at state level were the true and effective umbrella organisations that brought together the diverse fund-raising bodies, political parties, youth movements and other groups into a single, harmonious, coordinated framework that, in turn, worked for the benefit of Israel and local Zionism alike. Such harmony and co-ordination were wholly essential; with Australian Jewry being numerically as small as it was, no organisation could develop and function independently of the whole. Consensus was thus the only effective way each could achieve its purposes. Beyond this, the Zionist Federation, usually in conjunction with the Executive Council of Australian Jewry, had formal relations with the Federal Government and its ministers. The Australian model worked so well that it became the envy of much larger communities in the world. The internal struggles that were waged within the Zionist movement in the U.S.A. and the problems associated with two Zionist Federations such as existed in Great Britain were often, to their discredit, contrasted with the state of internal peace that prevailed in Australia. In the English-speaking world, only the Zionist Federation of South Africa compared in structure, harmony and effectiveness with the Australian Federation, Australia’s sister organisation being, however, more energetic, a consequence of that country’s greater Jewish population and stronger ethnic cohesiveness.

After the Sharett visit, new expectations were established. The emissary for the 1958 Appeal would have to be none other than a member of Knesset. Anyone of lesser standing would represent a retrogression. The Keren Hayesod headquarters in Jerusalem came to understand these expectations well enough not to question its Australian representatives on the point. Accordingly, the emissary in 1958 was Minister Yosef Burg. A world leader of Mizrachi, he had been a member of the Israeli Cabinet from its very inception eight years earlier. A man of inordinate durability as a politician through continually volatile circumstances ranging over nearly four decades of the nation’s history, he was still in the government when he visited Australia as Appeal emissary in 1985. Over the years, he had held a variety of portfolios, and had been involved in the negotiations with Egypt that culminated in the Camp David Accord of 1978. The Appeal was highly successful with collections and pledges exceeding those of earlier years.

That same year, 1958, was not simply a year like any other. It represented the tenth anniversary of the establishment of the Jewish State and, to celebrate it, it was considered appropriate to bring a special guest speaker to Australia for the occasion. The man we brought was the renowned and much-admired James J. McDonald who had been the first United States ambassador to Israel and a long-standing friend of Israel.

Dr. Yosef Burg at an appeal meeting organized by the Vic. Zionist Organization at the Chevron Hotel. Seated from left; Laura Kipen, Dr. Burg, the author and Sam Wynn.

We booked the Melbourne Town Hall and I deputised in the chair for Nathan Jacobson, President of the State Zionist Council, who was then abroad. The house was packed to overflowing and McDonald, on completing his address, received a standing ovation. I also recall seeing my father in the auditorium. Ordinarily not one to attend such celebrations, he had come nonetheless – to see how I was acquitting myself in the Chair, I suspect.

James McDonald was an exceptional personality with a charm and warmth that made him both popular and easy to be friendly with. He had been a close friend of Chaim Weizmann and a regular observer at Zionist Congresses. For me, being in McDonald’s company was a particularly enriching experience.

Later that year, Ambassador Max Nurock completed his term of office and returned to Israel. His place was taken by Moshe Yuval who was a much younger man and of a different disposition. I met him and his Canadian-born wife at the home of Thelma and Morris Cohen, and we became good friends.

International trade was at that time feeling the effects of the closure of the Suez Canal. Huge tankers had to be built to carry oil from the Middle East around the Cape of Good Hope south of Africa all the way northward to Japan, while, conversely, all shipping from Asia and Australia had to follow the same long and expensive route to Europe. Australian Jewry had the added difficulty in that its mail to Israel did not move normally as a consequence of the Suez closure. It was felt that appropriate representation to the Federal Government ought to be undertaken by Australian Jews in relation to such difficulties. A date was set for a meeting with Mr Garfield Barwick, then Minister for Foreign Affairs in Canberra. The delegation consisted of Maurice Ashkanasy, President of the Executive Council of Australian Jewry, and myself, as Acting President of the Zionist Federation. I was then in Sydney on business, so I met Ashkanasy in Canberra to discuss our approach. Noticing some concern on my part regarding our imminent visit to Barwick, Ashkanasy assured me that I had nothing to worry about. Barwick had been his junior counsel and we would be well received. As we entered Kings Hall, we saw Arthur Calwell at the top of the stairs. He greeted us effusively, telling us that he had put some questions that same morning to the Minister regarding the repercussions of the Suez Canal closure and about Israel. At 3 p.m., the time of our appointment, we were shown into Barwick’s office, and I was surprised to see the cramped conditions in which a minister had to work. Barwick sat in a small room filled with numerous files and papers. A secretary who showed us in occupied the ante-room.

We were indeed well received. Discussion proceeded in friendly formality. Barwick informed us that he was due to make a statement to the House regarding the Middle East that very afternoon, and, before leaving, Ashkanasy left a memorandum with him which Barwick promised to study. On departing, I noticed Ashkanasy hesitate. He then stopped walking and said, “I cannot possibly be in the House and not pay a courtesy call on my leader.” Ashkanasy was a prominent Labor man. So we turned back and headed for Dr Evatt’s office. We were shown in. His was a large room. He greeted us without enthusiasm and then, much to my surprise, took me by an arm, and proceeded to ask me about the situation in Israel, all the while ignoring Ashkanasy. I had never felt so uncomfortable, either before or since. On Evatt’s part, it was a studied insult to Ashkanasy. The reason for it was clear. By that time, three years had passed since the split in the Labor Party. Evatt had led his party to the left, while Ashkanasy was of a different political hue. The split had left many personal animosities rankling and the encounter between the two men confirmed it.

Nineteen fifty-eight was an eventful year for the Zionist Federation and one in which the principle of harmony and consensus was sorely tested. The executive of the Zionist Federation was to revert from Sydney to Melbourne and the question of its leadership became a heated issue between the two contenders, Joseph Solvey and Nathan Jacobson, who each staked a claim to it.

The breakthrough came when, after prolonged negotiation, Solvey and Jacobson agreed to split the four-year term of office. Solvey would head the organisation for the first two years and Jacobson for the rest of the term.

By the end of that year, it became clear that Jacobson would not continue as President of the State Zionist Council. It became equally clear that I would be taking over from him at the forthcoming Annual Assembly. Accordingly, all preparations for events to take place in 1959 were made in the knowledge that they would ultimately be my responsibility. The business of the Zionist movement was transacted on different levels. There were the regular meetings of the full committee which represented all organisations affiliated with the Council. There were the frequent executive meetings called to deal formally with ongoing issues, and frequent consultations among office-bearers besides. The most constant fixture, however, during the latter ‘fifties were the daily luncheons at the Sonora Cafe in Little Collins Street, almost opposite the Australia Arcade. Nathan Jacobson had his office on the corner of Elizabeth and Little Collins Streets; Arnold Bloch’s office was on the corner of Elizabeth Street and Flinders Lane; while I would come from Brunswick Street in Fitzroy where my factory was located at the time. This was a set arrangement. Often, other executive members would join us, knowing they could always find us there between 1.00 and 2.00 p.m. There, on a daily basis, we would analyse communal events, assess various situations and clarify opinions. These gatherings, one could say, were daily meetings of the State Zionist Council inner cabinet. That pattern of constant consultation and direct interaction greatly facilitated the harmony and smoothness of the decision-making process and gave us considerable opportunity for being each other’s sounding boards for new ideas and initiatives.

As anticipated, I became President of the State Zionist Council. My senior Vice-President was Arnold Bloch who had earlier served under Jacobson as Honorary Secretary, this position being taken over by Thelma Cohen. In my acceptance speech at the annual Zionist Assembly, I called on the young intelligentsia in the community to come forward and join the ranks of workers and leaders of the movement. I was then forty years old and Arnold Bloch not yet thirty. The generation of leaders who had fought for the establishment of the Jewish State was still there, but, to my understanding, time and events, both within the community and abroad, made such a call not only necessary but urgent. I also gave a commitment to see Bialik afternoon and Sunday school developed into a day-school.

As guest speaker for the 1959 Independence Day celebrations, we secured Dr Israel Goldstein who was a leader of American Zionism and a personality of high repute throughout the Jewish world. He arrived in Australia, accompanied by his wife, herself a leading figure among the Labor-oriented Poalei-Zion ladies’ circles in the United States. On their way to Australia, they had stopped over in Abyssinia (Ethiopia) to visit the Falashas and in Persia (Iran) where the 2,500th anniversary of the reign of Xerxes (Ahashverosh of the Book of Esther) was being then observed. As a prominent member of the executive of the World Zionist Organization, his range of interests spanned the globe while his personal standing enabled him to deal with world leaders at the highest level. Both Dr and Mrs Goldstein exuded authority and commanded instant respect.

The venue chosen for the 1959 Independence Day celebrations was the Olympic swimming pool which seated 5,000, twice the number as the Melbourne Town Hall accommodated. The house was packed. In my capacity of President of the State Zionist Council, I chaired the evening. I introduced the innovation of making my opening remarks in Hebrew and in Yiddish, in addition to English, an action that brought sustained applause and was commented on in the Yiddish press. The editor of the Yiddishe Post, Gedaliah Shaiak, quoted my Yiddish opening verbatim in his report of the proceedings. Arnold Bloch, the year after, and Julian Mercer, during his tenure of the office, followed the procedure.

The 1959 Israel Independence Day celebration at the Olympic Swimming Pool, Melbourne.

On the stage from left; Max Freilich, Nathan Jacobson, Maurice Ashkenasy QC, Mrs. I. Goldstein, Dr. Israel Goldstein, the author, Moshe Yuval — Ambassador of Israel, Joseph Solvey and Sam Wynn.

During Dr Goldstein’s stay in Melbourne, a meeting was held at our home where he addressed the executives of the Zionist Federation and State Zionist Council about internal and political issues of Jewish concern at that time. The address was both interesting and informative, and the meeting very cordial. As he was about to leave, he turned to me at the door and, in the presence of Solvey and Mercer, said, “I take my hat off to you Australian Zionists. You understood to keep hold of the Appeal; we in the United States did not.” It was a matter that must have weighed heavily on his mind in those days, for by giving up control of the Appeal, American Zionists had permitted their political clout vis-a-vis the authorities in Israel to be undermined. Dr Goldstein had spoken in a moment of frankness and deep sincerity. Having watched developments within the world Zionist movement, we were not surprised at the regret sounded by our visitor. We knew that, sooner or later, we, too, in Australia, would have to yield control. What was to surprise us, however, was the fact that a mere 18 months later, Dr Goldstein accepted the Presidency of the World Keren Hayesod, thereby becoming the chief executive of the very policy he had so genuinely regretted.

Shortly after Dr Goldstein’s departure, David Hacohen and his poetess wife arrived as principal emissaries for the 1959 United Israel Appeal. David Hacohen was a prominent Labor leader in Israel, one of the chief executives of the Histadrut, and Chairman of the Foreign Affairs Committee of the Knesset. He was a cousin of Shimon Hacohen, who had been the first post-war emissary in 1946. David Hacohen was as contemplative and quietly-spoken as his cousin had been ebullient. The Hacohens’ stay in Australia proved a lengthy one. We subjected him to hard work. In those days, the Landsmanshaften were at the peak of their communal strength and were insisting on individual and separate meetings for their respective appeal functions. The enthusiasm, self-esteem and self-perceived status in the community of the many groups did not permit a rationalisation of appeal meetings. Hence, appeal gatherings were held every night of the week and at least twice on Sundays. The moneys raised were substantial, to be sure, but the emissaries were kept monotonously busy and became stale by the end of their stay.

Mr. & Mrs. David Hacohen greeted on arrival. From left; I. Leibler, S. Maranz, I. Roseby, Altman, S. Wynn, D. Hacohen, M. Zablud, C.H. Brown, Mrs. Hacohen, M. Jacobsen, the author, A. Bloch, T. Cohen, R. Harrison.

For myself, the attaining to the Presidency of the State Zionist Council turned out to be an anti-climax. Not that I did not know what awaited me. By then, I had been doing the same work for a dozen years. The title of the office was no recompense. On the contrary, I came to dread opening the Jewish News on Fridays. Invariably, my picture would stare out of the page; often it would do so more than once in the same paper. I did not particularly like it. Nor did I enjoy head-tables and the spotlight. As President, I had to endure it. What was more troubling to me, were the political rumblings in the world Zionist movement, the attitudes towards Zionism held by the Israeli government and its people, and the first politically-motivated stirrings over the future of the United Israel Appeal in our own yard. Simply to be chairman at Independence Day celebrations, no matter how big the crowds, was scarcely sufficient inducement for me to spend months in their preparation. On the other hand, the annual Appeal, too, was never my strongest point. The community had better money-raisers than I. However exalted the presidency was then, and still remains, the position simply did not carry enough challenge for me. I felt that I ought to be more creative and to do things that begged to be done, even if these were less glamorous and remunerative in terms of immediate communal recognition.

As a consequence, I resolved not to seek re-appointment the following year. I had no moral difficulty in making that decision. Arnold Bloch, as my Vice-President, was by then ready to take over. No-one could doubt his ability and his capacity to handle the job. I let my friends know of my intentions, and the transfer of the reins to Arnold Bloch was as smooth as it was natural.

Danny Kay addressing 600 young adults at the Stanmark Reception Rooms: Melbourne.

By the first half of the ‘sixties, Zionism in Australia was working well. In Melbourne, the affairs of the State Zionist Council were in Arnold Bloch’s capable hands. As the immediate Past-President, I was still involved in that body, but free of ultimate responsibility, which I found to be a comfortable position to be in. However, with regard to the United Israel Appeal, international trends were catching up with Australia. An initiative was taken to separate the administration of the Appeal from the State Zionist Council and the Zionist Federation, thereby making the Keren Hayesod an independent entity. That move, which owed its development to local personalities and politics, found a ready ear with the parent body in Jerusalem. There were certain objective factors which rendered the proposition beneficial to the Appeal. While annual donations had been steadily increasing over the preceding years, such increase was relative to an initially low starting baseline. What was needed was a new, more open and generous concept of giving in order to bring Australian contributions in line with those of other Western countries. Israel’s financial needs to rehabilitate and integrate its new arrivals were paramount, while, for the individual Jew outside Israel, giving was the most tangible and expressive form of identification with, and commitment to, the new State. Those who moved to detach the United Israel Appeal from the Zionist Organisations had the means of personally setting new standards of giving and of persuading others to follow their example. Time had made Zionist ideology vacate its primacy to the more pressing issues of practical financial help. Israel desperately needed such help and world Jewry responded to that need in ever-increasing numbers.

13

First Trip Abroad from Australia

In July 1960, shortly after relinquishing the Presidency of the State Zionist Council, I travelled to Israel. It was my first visit to the country and I went alone. I learnt that July and August were not the best months in which to travel there, for not even the Shanghai summers had conditioned me for the heat and oppressive humidity I encountered, particularly in Tel Aviv.

Before boarding the flight in Sydney, I had lunch with Ambassador Moshe Yuval at the Australia Hotel. I remarked that I was somewhat concerned about my competence in Hebrew. After all, twenty-three years had passed since I had left school and ten years since I had used the language in Australia. I was also mindful that it had fallen well behind its up-dated form in the country. Moshe Yuval assured me that I had no cause for concern. The very sound of the language around me, he said, would bring it back to mind. I was dubious at first, but he turned out to be right. For, no sooner did I descend upon the tarmac than the language, as if by magic, sprang to the forefront of my mind and I found myself speaking it with reasonable ease throughout my visit.

My arrival had been delayed several hours, which meant that a number of people who had come to greet me had been kept waiting. Among these were a Mr Temkin of the British-Australia office and a Dr Berman of the Keren Hayesod who had come to take care of me. In addition, there were two of my mother’s cousins, Naomi Noff, my former teacher, and her sister, Yaffa. I was in a dilemma. As courteously as I could, I thanked the official representatives of their respective organisations for their efforts and explained that I was expected to stay with my relatives, whereupon, I set out for Haifa. In 1960, the road was still a two-lane thoroughfare that twisted close to settlements along the way, such as Hedera, which brought Shimonovich’s idyllic poem BaYaar Be-Hedera to mind. The trees in the distance truly confirmed the authenticity of that poem. As we continued on in our taxi, the hilly countryside to the right looked as if it was literally jumping by. In my first letter home, I commented on it and quoted from the Hallel prayer, “The mountains skipped like rams, the hills like unto lambs.” I spent my days in the home of the Noffs on the Carmel, but slept at a nearby hotel. The air was much cooler there, while the panorama created by the bay below left a lasting impression. I had not seen Naomi since she had left for Palestine twenty-five years before, and she produced an album containing the photographs of my classmates and the farewell address I had inscribed on its front page. It was with mixed feelings that we turned the pages, saw the faces and recalled the names of youths still in their bloom but who, with very few exceptions, had been destined not to reach the age of twenty-five.

The first few days in Haifa were a true holiday for me. Naomi was still teaching, as she had been back home, but as the schools were closed for the summer vacations, she was free to show me hospitality. I was relaxed and fell easily into the slow unhurried pace of the life around me. While my thinking underwent a change and I began to view life from a different perspective, I was careful, nonetheless, not to let my emotions with regard to Israel take hold of me; I knew how vulnerable I was on that account. I was also mindful not to jump to hasty conclusions on the basis of random observations or encounters.

Of my stay in Haifa, one particular incident remains with me to this day. The owner of the hotel on the Carmel where I stayed kept a close eye on his guests. The house was occupied mostly by American tourists. Apart from basic civilities, I did not trouble him, nor did he show any particular interest in me. On the third day of my stay, however, I noticed that he was suddenly paying me more attention. He was, in fact, going out of his way to be attentive and to concern himself with my comfort. The matter puzzled me at first, but became clear when, towards evening, on my approach to collect my key, he said that Joseph Sapir M.K., former Cabinet Minister, had been trying to reach me.

My notes from the trip – the only diary I possess – are devoted quite extensively to Naomi Noff. I quote here verbatim:

“I knew her as an idealist… as teacher… I was only 14 when she left… but from the minute we entered the car… every sentence of hers was a revelation of a person who lives in a world of higher values, penetrates deeply to understand and evaluate events and possesses a natural degree of humility that is the privilege of (the) truly great. Her love and pride for Israel is so abounding… and yet the understanding for the Jew from outside is there without malice, although she did not hold herself back, already in the car, from asking me the obvious question: why don’t you come to settle here? As soon as she said it she admitted that she failed in her resolve not to raise the question… What an inner peace is in her heart and mind because of her sense of perspective… her understanding of the human soul is fascinating.

“I rang David Hacohen M.K. to say ‘Shalom’ and within an hour he was at my hotel and took me for a drive. The same evening he came to take me home for dinner. I met there a very prominent American lady, an Israeli poet Susman, a painter Meirovitch and his wife who is a novelist. The Hacohen home is an unbelievable treasure house, more a private museum than a home… pottery nothing younger than 2,500 years and glass… of similar vintage… earlier this day the Russian ambassador lunched there.”

From Haifa, I went by train to Jerusalem. As we neared the city and began to climb the steep mountains around it with the engines straining in the ascent, I gained an insight into the topographical problems the defenders and liberators of the city had faced during the Arab siege of 1948. I arrived in Jerusalem at 7.00 p.m. and made my way by taxi to the King David Hotel. It so happened that I came on the eve of Tisha B’Av, the day of fasting and prayer in commemoration of the destruction of the Temples in Jerusalem. I became acutely mindful of the coincidence inherent in my arrival to that city, which was just then the focus of all religious Jews throughout the world. It also occurred to me that the dining rooms at the hotel might be closed. But as I passed for the first time through the revolving doors of the King David Hotel, I was astonished to come upon a scene so at odds with the dictates of the calendar. It showed not the slightest hint of Tisha B’Av. Instead the lobby was packed with people in high spirits. The dining-room, to which I came down after changing, was as packed as the lobby. Nearly all of those present were American Jews, and the waiter barely managed to find me a seat in the midst of one group. What caused this high-spirited activity was, I learnt, the official opening of the new Hadassah Hospital in Jerusalem. Hundreds of women belonging to the Hadassah movement in America, and their husbands, had come to Israel to witness and participate in the historic event.

I had official business to attend to in Jerusalem. I visited the Hakiryah where the Ministry of Foreign Affairs was located. There I met Harry Levin, the first Consul in Australia, who made a point of telling me that he now ranked above Mordechai Nurock. I also visited the Jewish Agency on Keren Hayesod business. While there, I called on Mr Yaacov Tsur whom I knew from Australia and who had recently taken over as Chairman of the World Board of the Jewish National Fund. I had intended to stay with him for a few minutes only, but when he saw me, he greeted me most warmly and bade me sit down. That same morning, he said, he had also been visited by Benzion Patkin. After some time, he began to open his heart to me. He proved to be in mood different from the one I would have expected, given his promotion to an important position. What troubled him was that he was at a loss as to how he may go about his task, particularly as, a few days earlier, Ben Gurion had risen in the Knesset and made disparaging remarks about the very existence of the Jewish National Fund. Ben Gurion, in fact, denigrated the whole Zionist movement, along with its activities and its very raison d’etre, sparing not even the JNF which had been the first Zionist fund and the earliest form of worldwide Jewish identification with the dream of national redemption through the reclamation of the Land and ownership of its soil. “How do they expect me to carry on its work under such circumstances?” Yaacov Tsur said. He was patently distraught and held his head in his hands in desperation. I understood and appreciated his dilemma.

Here, I cite from my travel diary again:

“After leaving Tsur (I spent) half an hour with Temkin of the Federation Office, then half an hour with Kreutner (Keren Hayesod), then with Dr Lovy (Jewish National Fund) and in Dr Berman’s office where the staff was very kind and helpful and my tours have been arranged for Sunday to Beersheba and Sdom and for Monday and Tuesday to the Galil. At 1.00 p.m. I was invited to lunch with Eliyahu Dobkin, Ussoskin and Berman of the Keren Hayesod at Hotel Eden which is close to the Knesset and where all the top brass are dining. We discussed emissaries and appeal techniques and some very frank statements were made by them as well as by myself… Returned to the hotel for a break… and before I left for my second appointment with Kreutner at 5.00 p.m. I received a call from the secretary of the General Zionists in the Knesset inviting me to come there as a guest. I’m going there right after dinner at 8 for 1 hour.

“The building of the Knesset is temporary and so are all other facilities. I came at the time when Moshe Dayan (then Minister for Agriculture) was answering in the debate on agriculture… After staying there for half an hour in the gallery, I was invited to the Parliamentary buffet, met Member of Knesset Zelman Abramov of the General Zionists and then… at 9 they took me into the Knesset proper, showing me around.”

The “very frank statements” referred to related to the quality of the secondary emissaries who were sent for the United Israel Appeal. Many of those who came to continue the “donkey work” after the star openers had left were insufficiently equipped for their task. Often their English was inadequate and their articulateness limited. The goodwill of Australian Jewry towards Israel deserved better, I argued. In reply, the officials of the Keren Hayesod admitted that they were well aware of the problem, but, unfortunately, the fact was that suitable representatives such as I requested were in short supply.

My second meeting with Kreutner was very significant. He had an invitation to the official opening of the Hadassa Hospital which was to take place that afternoon, but he decided to forego what was essentially a status symbol event to spend time with me. We sat in a cafe where we discussed different issues pertaining to Israeli society at the time. In particular, we touched on Israel-Diaspora relations, on the widening gap between Israel and world Jewry in general and on their respective attitudes to Zionism in particular. The whole subject was a sensitive and emotive one at the time. Kreutner admitted that the attitude of his own children to Jewry outside Israel was one of indifference, which reflected the atmosphere prevailing in the classroom and in society beyond. I posed to Kreutner the rather bold rhetorical question whether the time was not ripe for world Jewry to send emissaries in turn to Israel, informing Israeli youth of Jewish communities outside with whom they may then develop a greater sense of kinship. Kreutner knew very well what I was driving at and appreciated my concern. On leaving, I had the distinct impression that I had left him with food for thought.

Jerusalem’s impact upon me was both emotional and spiritual. From the moment I stepped out of the train, I was aware that my every step was linked to authentic Jewish history – whether in the old narrow streets or in the wide modern roads where the whitestone buildings were built from rocks hewn out from the surrounding hills and with such studied forethought as to preserve a consistency of architecture and singular uniqueness of character. The hills surrounding the city which was at the time still divided seemed unreal in their distance. The sight of barbed wire arbitrarily separating the two parts of the city with trans-Jordanian soldiers manning the other side was not a happy picture. It brought home fully the severity of the Arab-Israel problem and the seeming intractability of the situation. The King David Hotel was on the very edge of the divided city. Its rear faced the dividing line. The view from that point was as enchanting as it was challenging.

I bade a very reluctant farewell to Jerusalem on the morning of August 4th and arrived in Tel Aviv at 10.00 a.m. The first impact made upon me by that city was not a favourable one. It lacked both the character of Jerusalem and the scenic beauty of Haifa. Yet this was the largest Jewish city in the world. The Dan Hotel where I stayed had the advantage of a sea-front in those hot summer days. I had intended to travel next day by plane to Eilat with Naomi who had agreed to join me. The Arkiya internal airline operated a DCS service to Eilat. To my disappointment, I was told that only one seat was left, but I decided, nonetheless, to take it. When I arrived at Lod airport early the following morning and entered the plane, there were only three other passengers in it, one of whom happened to be a secretary from the Zionist office in Sydney. I was deeply saddened by the episode. I subsequently recounted the incident to Naomi. She, in turn, was embarrassed by it. I could not get it out of my system, while it rankles me even to this day. Eilat at the time had one hotel and little else.

While in Tel Aviv, I was invited as a guest to dinner at the ZOA House (Zionist Organization of America) and to listen to a symposium of non-Jewish masters of the Bible. The ZOA House was then a landmark for the cultural life of Tel Aviv as well as a focal point for American tourists. It was in constant use. After dinner, I joined a party of American visitors who were guided around the house by a very smart American woman who had settled in Israel. As we passed from room to room, she stopped before one door. We could not enter there because Moshe Sharett was just then lecturing there. She would, however, go in herself to enquire how long he might still be speaking. At this, I suggested she mention my name to Sharett, a suggestion which she clearly was not sure whether to take seriously. On emerging, she came straight towards me with a message from Moshe Sharett that I should wait for him. Immediately, all others in our party became curious about me and plied me with all manner of questions. Eventually, I met again with Sharett and spent considerable time with him.

The Jewish Agency made special arrangements for myself and three other passengers to tour the country and placed a car at our disposal. Those who travelled with me were a middle-aged woman who had been secretary to the pre-War leader of German Zionists, Dr Kurt Blumenfeld; a young Belgian woman who was an official of the Keren Hayesod there; and a red-headed girl of nondescript personality but intriguing presence. On the tour, our driver was competent and relaxed and made our two-day tour very interesting and enjoyable. In those two days, we visited Kfar Hanasi, where Australian olim (settlers) were predominant, Tiberias, Safed, the Huleh Valley and Nazareth and returned via Haifa. The middle-aged woman was taciturn throughout, the Belgian girl was very talkative, while the red-headed girl remained mysteriously silent. It was only on the second day of the tour that the young Belgian woman confided in me the story of the girl in her charge. That red-headed girl was a Jewish child who had been given away by her parents to a Christian family. She had been raised as a Christian, but had since been told of her true origins. This had led her to an agonising mental and spiritual quest both for a personal identity and for a search for belonging. Her erstwhile guardian had brought her to Israel to see authentic Jewish life in its national setting at first hand, seeking thereby to help the girl sort herself out. I was very touched by the girl’s situation, suspended as she was between two worlds. When, on visiting the church in Nazareth, I saw her get down on her knees and become completely transfixed, I could not but reflect upon the tragic aftereffects of the war still shadowing the Jews, leaving some of them numbed, torn and almost mute in their struggle to find a way between institutionalised ritual and personal identity, belonging and belief.

Safed, where we stayed overnight, was as picturesque as its kabbalistic image and reputation conveyed. We came across no old-time mystics there, however. Instead, we found a colony of artists living their own transcendental form of life in close quarters and practising their art, inspired by the same environmental forces that, centuries before, had been conducive to producing kabbalistic masters. In all, those two days of touring the country were most enjoyable, even if I did feel at times that the monetary cost incurred by the Jewish Agency could have been diverted to more constructive use. But in those days, such hospitality was perceived as correct.

On August 9, 1960, I made the following entry in my diary:

“My real enjoyment in Tel Aviv was the wonderful reunion with Moshe (Porat – Porozowski), Asher (Gorfain) and Pinek (Adler), all classmates, and their families. The spontaneity and cordiality of the reception within an hour of ringing Moshe was really overwhelming and heartwarming. Memories and names came up like a fountain, but admittedly I had forgotten a great deal. I was amazed how fresh it all was in their memories and they in turn couldn’t understand how I could have forgotten so much. I have already been to Moshe’s new home and to Asher’s and am inviting them out tomorrow to be my guests… It is the third night in succession that they are keeping me company.”

The next day, I wrote:

“My list of appointments today reads like a very busy businessman’s diary rather than that of a tourist. I was woken up at 7.30 by a call from Jerusalem about some shaliach (emissary) matter from Perth. At 7.45 Patkin rang that he wants to see me and we fixed 2.00 p.m. for a meeting. Mrs Brzoza, correspondent for the Australian Jewish News, came… she questioned me on my impressions and I discussed with her some of my views. She is going to write to the Jewish News. I didn’t realise how the two hours went and I had the next people coming to see me, namely the president and the secretary of the Association of Olim from Australia. I invited (Leo) Fink to stay on with me when we discussed the problems… The discussion was pretty successful and I hope that they will get going now. I’m glad that Fink was with me. He was obviously impressed with the discussion and suggested cooperation with the new enterprise regarding employment for Australian olim (settlers).”

The enterprise referred to was a project developed by a group of Melbourne Jews to establish some venture in Israel that would link Australia and Israel economically. One suggestion – that of building a wool-tops plant in Israel to convert raw wool into a product, ready, in turn, for spinning yarn – caught the imagination of a number of people who, thereupon, formed themselves into a share-holding company to work towards that end. The idea itself and the spirit behind it were a reflection of the attitude of Jews around the world who felt that, they could make a lasting and constructive economic contribution to the country by setting up industrial enterprises within it. Among those enthusiasts was Leo Fink, a textile manufacturer in Melbourne. He had the technical knowledge about the machinery required as well as the business acumen to determine the viability of the projected enterprise. To bring the plan into realisation, Leo Fink and his wife, Mina, left Australia for a full year to live in Israel and work on the project. With Israel as his base, where the government had allocated land for the proposed plant in the port city of Ashdod, Fink travelled to Europe, using his expertise to buy the requisite equipment from different machine-building firms, thereby putting together a first-rate plant ready to begin manufacturing. His task had been a difficult one on many counts. Dealing with government departments demanded much patience and shrewdness. Leo Fink possessed both in good measure, but he had found them taxed to the limits. He also had to tackle particular issues relating to foreign exchange as well as to negotiate with the spinning industry in Israel in order to secure a receptive market for the output of the newly-established firm. At the time, woollen tops were still brought in from overseas. On one such visit to a leading spinner in Tel Aviv, Leo Fink invited me to join him. I gained a personal insight then into the difficulties he faced, and it is only apt to record that, had it not been for his tenacity, persistence and dedication to the idea, the whole project would not have materialised.

Altogether, I spent two weeks in Israel. During that time, I had experienced spiritual elevation, emotional excitement and national pride, as well as certain disappointments. Despite my Bialystok origins and command of the language which, theoretically, should have made me fit in with ease, I unexpectedly felt insufficiently attuned with Israeli culture. Perhaps my preceding fourteen years in Australia had their impact, or I was in a state of mind that was not accommodating.

I left Israel for Athens and then travelled on to Italy. I had time to relax and enjoy visiting the treasure-houses of antiquity there. From there, I went to England on business matters, and then to the United States. It was there, in the U.S., while I was dining at the Park Avenue building of the Jewish Agency with Dr Emanuel Newman, the acknowledged leader of American Zionism, that which had been nebulous in my state of mind crystallised. I was relating to him my impressions of Israel when, without premeditation, I put a question to him. “Dr Newman,” I said, “how long can a one-sided love affair last?” I was startled by my own formulation of the question which, till then, I had not consciously articulated even to myself, but which had patently troubled me. He could not afford to comment. He did not know me sufficiently well to share his private thoughts on a subject that was, at the time, too exquisitely sensitive. We talked around it fully enough, however, for him to realise that my observations of Israeli reality and the extent to which it affected Zionism worldwide were not superficial.

The political realities in the Middle East, Nasser’s intransigence, and his skilful game of playing off the West against the East to further his pan-Arabic and anti-Israel designs kept world attention focussed upon this part of the globe. The slow but unmistakable Russian penetration into the region, their construction of the Aswan Dam and their involvement in training, equipping and directing the Egyptian army became more ominous with each passing month. The apprehension amongst world Jewry about the fate of Israel in the wake of these circumstances continued to increase, leading to a concomitant strengthening of its commitment to the nation, expressed primarily through enhanced financial contributions. Nasser’s closure of the Straits of Tiran which aimed further to strangle Israel economically led to the 1967 Six Day War which wrote a new chapter into the history of warfare for nations large and small alike, as military academies the world over were to study the tactics and results of the campaign. More than this, however, the unprecedented swiftness of the operation, the totality of the destruction of the Egyptian, Syrian and Jordanian forces, and the occupation of the West Bank, the Sinai and the Golan Heights wrought a marked change in outlook both in Israel and among world Jewry beyond. What the war conveyed was the internal cohesiveness of Israeli society, the strength of its army, and the permanence of the Jewish nation as a geographical and political reality in the Middle East. It was also a turning point for Jews everywhere in that many who had long been mere observers, keeping their distance, became converted into active participants sharing both in the struggles of the reborn State and in the relief and euphoria that had attended Israel’s triumph.

In this context, the Six Day War could not have come at a more auspicious time. The State of Israel had by then been in existence for nineteen years. The first impact of the modern-day re-establishment of the Jewish commonwealth had begun to be taken for granted. What was needed was some extraordinary event that would galvanise anew Jewish communities around the world to maintain their support for the State. The 1967 war succeeded in achieving this. Still more powerfully and profoundly did the ensuing liberation and unification of Jerusalem affect world Jewry. The return of the Old City to Jewish hands, permitting Jews to pray again at the Wailing Wall and Jewish tourists to lodge their deepest wishes on paper deposited in its crevices, had an unimaginable effect. It was tangible proof both of national liberation and of spiritual redemption and made all recognise the incontrovertible nexus that existed between the State of Israel and all Jewish communities large and small around the globe.

It may be stated here that, in another sense, the Six Day War, having exceeded all expectations, the nation’s success was, in time, to prove to a degree counter-productive. Three successive victories against all odds could well intoxicate far stronger and larger nations than Israel. And Israel, too, began to believe in its own invincibility. This belief affected the individual citizen as it did the leadership, thereby affecting the government’s political judgement.

The effect of these events on Jewry everywhere was profound. The stronger the identification of each Jew with Israel became, the more did the distinction between the Zionist organisation and the general community fade. When one compares the Zionist organisations in Germany of the 1920s which were a miniscule minority by contrast with the Jewish Centralvereins representing 90% of German Jewry, or Zionism in 1930s Poland fighting political battles against the Bund and the Aguda, or the Zionist countering of assimilationist tendencies in England and France before World War II, one may then appreciate the significance of this rapprochement between Zionism and the general temper in the Diaspora after 1967. The scales had tipped radically away from that which had pertained before. It is safe to say that Israel could claim the support of some 80-90% of the world’s Jews. This increased support of the Jewish State did not necessarily lead to a larger membership of the local Zionist organisations. The people knew where their sympathies lay and were content in that knowledge. Against these, there were the perennially inevitable few – in the main, assimilationists – who remained unmoved by events, or righteously stubborn in their doggedly-held contrary positions, no matter how refuted by reality.

The years succeeding the Six Day War were times of internationally enhanced Jewish consciousness. In Australia, this expressed itself in the strengthening of organised Jewish life, in the proliferation of Jewish day-schools, and in the conscious effort by young Jewish parents to imbue their children with an awareness of their Jewish identity, culture and religion.

Contributing to the enhancement of the individual Jew’s physical and mental identification with Israel has been the growth of international travel. Many people made Israel their sole destination; others included Israel in their itinerary. Such first-hand observation had its pitfalls no less than its positive aspects. Clearly, Israeli society was then a long way from solving its enormous social problems, and it is virtually human nature for the transitory visitor to notice those elements needing rectification than the day-to-day achievements so patently taken for granted. On balance, however, tourism has served to bring Israel and Diaspora closer in mutual understanding while contributing to the State’s economy.

Diaspora identification with Israel, while positive, has not been without its traumas. For, just as the 1967 War roused world Jewry to enthusiasm, the Yom Kippur war of 1973, despite its ultimate success, left it with an unmistakable anxiety and despondency over the State’s vulnerability. The mental and emotional scare attending the early days of the war created a scar on the hitherto unblemished image of Israel’s might, not eradicated by the outstanding military prowess subsequently shown by the Israeli Army in wholly encircling and isolating the Egyptian Third Army. Where the 1967 War had stirred euphoria, the 1973 War was followed by gloom, and both Israel and Diaspora shared in them.

One early respite from the post-1973 gloom was the Entebbe affair, in which the Israeli air force rescued a plane-load of Jews held hostage in Idi Amin’s Uganda. The event injected a dose of badly-needed self-reliance into Jewry, it enhanced the standing of Israel’s leadership, then in the hands of Yitzchak Rabin, and restored faith in the armed forces. In addition, it taught the world how to deal with self-appointed tyrants of Idi Amin’s ilk, and showed authorities elsewhere how one might deal with airways piracy, terror and blackmail.

This respite was, however, temporary. The government itself had become subject to the same weaknesses and problems that beset the country at large; and, almost inevitably, one of the most direct consequences of the Yom Kippur War and the changed mood of the nation was the accession of the opposition parties to government after 29 years of uninterrupted Labor rule.

Another boost to the temper of the Jewish world was the visit of President Anwar Sadat of Egypt to Israel, then governed by Menachem Begin and his Likud Coalition, this being followed by negotiations culminating in the Camp David Accord of 1978. Israel and world Jewry alike hoped that events in the Middle East as a whole had turned a corner and that some accommodation between Israel and the other Arab nations could be reached. These hopes were roundly dashed with the total isolation of Egypt by the rest of the Arab world and with the assassination of President Sadat.

With the increasing hold on Lebanon by the Palestine Liberation Organisation and that group’s increasing harassment of Jewish settlements in Israel’s north, the Israeli army, on the directive of Ariel (Arik) Sharon, mounted an invasion on its northern neighbour. Where Sharon, as the man who in 1973 had led the Israeli units across the Suez towards eventual victory, had been deemed a hero, the same Sharon, as Minister of Defence, embarked on an adventure that turned out to be an unmitigated disaster politically, financially, and in terms of human cost, diplomacy and public opinion. Israel’s continued practice of an open society in war as in peace proved an ill-affordable luxury such as few nations permit themselves in states of war. Israel made the mistake of letting world correspondents and cameramen accompany its forces and file eye-witness reports. The Western press, with few exceptions, was by then anti-Israel, and newscasts and film footage were presented with undisguised political bias with the intent of creating a picture of callous Israeli indifference to suffering. The massacre of Moslems in the Sabra and Shatila camps by Christian Arabs was blamed squarely on the Israelis and further inflamed world opinion. Those same visual telecasts were not without their effect on Jews as well.

After three years, the Israeli troops withdrew from Lebanon. Within the country, the invasion was roundly seen as a failure, and voices were loud in demanding an investigation into the origins and decision-making processes that led to it. For, while Israel had managed to administer a hard blow to the PLO infrastructure inside Lebanon, forcing the Palestinians’ evacuation in humiliation and defeat, it found itself in confrontation with the majority indigenous Shi’ite Arab population in place of the PLO.

The condition of the nation after the Lebanon invasion was, and presently remains, one of political polarisation, manifested in parliament by a compromise arrangement of alternating leadership by the leaders of Likud and Labor joined in an uneasy coalition. The arrangement is precarious, while below the surface, Israeli society, too, is ominously and unpredictably cleaved. The nation’s economy, one of the casualties of the prolonged Lebanese invasion and occupation, does not permit society the luxury of internecine rifts. Internally, tension is high and simmers near to boiling-point. Whatever the mood in Israel, the Diaspora has closed ranks behind the State. Aside from personal feelings about the invasion and the personality of Arik Sharon and his claim to the leadership of Herut, world Jewry has remained silent and officially uninvolved in the country’s internal ferment. It is a sign of the maturity of world Jewry that it keeps its opinions to itself, even as it watches the political, economic and social developments of Israel and of the whole Middle East in every aspect touching upon the prospects of peace in the region. There was a time when the Diaspora was inclined to render advice to the leaders of the fledgling State, even if such advice was unsolicited. That time has passed. Israel’s political decisions are today perceived as being solely the prerogative of its citizens. Zionist congresses, too, recognise this, and, when they meet, do not deal with matters relating to the management of the State and to its policies, but with matters of information, education, aliyah and Zionist ideology in the many and separate Diaspora communities.

The United Israel Appeal, which has for the past twenty years functioned independently, is not part of the Zionist Organization, even if it partakes in its activities. Looking back at the evolution of the United Israel Appeal and its fortunes, one is struck by the irrelevance of so many of the issues which, a generation ago, were the subjects of so much passionate debate, heartache and divisiveness. What happened to the Appeal in the United States in the ‘fifties and in Australia a decade later was based on a precedent set in the mid-’twenties. The Keren Hayesod was established in 1920 as the financial arm of the World Zionist Organization to facilitate the development of Jewish autonomous life in Palestine by financing the yishuv’s economic infrastructure in keeping with its requirements. This was the second national fund, the first being the Keren Kayemet Le’Israel (Jewish National Fund) which was concerned with the purchase of land and its preparation for agriculture. In the late ‘twenties in Germany, where the overwhelming majority of Jewry at that time was anti-Zionist, yet was the Keren Hayesod, under the skilful chairmanship of the banker Oscar Wasserman, keeping itself scrupulously independent of Zionist control (D.L. Niewyk: “The Jews in Weimar Germany”). The subsequent expansion of the Jewish Agency was prompted by the same wish to involve larger numbers of world Jewry in the building of the yishuv. In the early years of statehood, the United Israel Appeal was a major contributor of income and foreign currency to the fledgling State’s economy. The Jewish Agency could then ease the government’s burden in matters such as housing and education, leaving to it to deal more exclusively with matters that pertained predominantly to the State. The political power of the Zionist Organization and the Jewish Agency was commensurate with the financial role each played in assisting the State. As, with the passage of time, State budgets grew and United Israel Appeal contributions remained relatively static, the proportion of these progressively diminished to represent today a mere 2-3% of total government outlays. Therefore the United Israel Appeal is in no position to continue to exercise its earlier political clout. With its contribution falling relative to the expansion of Israel’s budget, the Keren Hayesod can at best adapt itself to such projects as it deems urgent and fall within its financial capabilities. The major activity which currently involves the contributions and energies of Australian Jews is “Project Renewal”, the upgrading of housing for the less privileged strata of Israel’s population. The person most firmly identified with the work of the Keren Hayesod in Australia for the past 20 years has been Isador Magid, currently a member of the Executive of the Jewish Agency and the Chairman of the Immigration Department of the World Zionist Organization.

The true problems of post-State Zionism are neither organisational nor related to matters of influence. It is one of the ironies of history that the ideological vindication of Zionism and its practical realisation through the establishment of the Jewish State actually brought about a new philosophical and ideological crisis.

The original idea of Zionism – which propounded the principle of physical national statehood, as distinct from a purely religious construct – had two cardinal proponents. Theodore Herzl, regarded as the father of political Zionism, saw in the establishment of an independent Jewish state, preferably in ancient Palestine, the panacea for the problems and sufferings endured by the Jews through their long history of statelessness and wanderings. He assumed that statehood would both lead to an ingathering of Jews from the Diaspora and also bring about an end to anti-Semitism. His vision was thus a materialistic and political conceptualisation of Jewish rebirth which would in time be followed by a wide-ranging national intellectual, artistic, spiritual renaissance.

Parallel with Herd’s program, there evolved a different thesis of Zionism, this being propounded by the Hebrew writer-philosopher Asher Ginsberg, known as Ahad Ha’am. His concern was with the nation’s mind and spirit, especially in Eastern Europe where the Jewish masses predominantly lived. He questioned Herzl’s assumption that the trappings of statehood would suffice to cleanse the Jewish mentality of two millennia of oppression and subjugation. To him, statehood alone was not the be-all-and-end-all in solving the Jewish problem. His concern was the nature of the new society that would emerge in the ancient land, actual statecraft being, to him, secondary to the moral and spiritual values which were to underpin such a state. He further questioned Herzl’s basic assumption that the existence of a Jewish state would, ipso facto, lead to a return of Diaspora Jewry to its ancient homeland and thereby resolve all difficulties that had plagued Jewry for so long. Indeed, he deemed Herzl’s expectation of such a mass return as unrealistic, arguing that if the new proposed autonomous entity would attract a number equal to only the annual natural increase of the 12 million Jews the world over, this would be a major success. In other words, the liquidation of the Diaspora was both unrealistic and Utopian. What Ahad Ha’am advocated instead was that Zionism should concentrate on creating a society in Palestine which would serve as a national-spiritual centre for the millions of Jews who would continue to remain in Europe, exposed, as time passed, to the increasing pressures of assimilation which would decimate them both nationally and spiritually.

Official Zionism, in the event, opted for Herzl’s line and aimed for Jewish statehood, which ultimately came into being fifty years after Herzl first proposed his plan. The realisation of Herzl’s vision through the establishment of the Jewish State was a watershed, both ideologically and philosophically, for Zionism, even if statehood did not come about in the way that Herzl had envisaged. The circumstances which pertained at the time of the State’s creation were vastly different from those in which Herzl propounded it. By 1948, when Herzlian Zionism saw the establishment of the Jewish State, millions of the European Jews whom Herzl had sought to repatriate had perished in Hitler’s crematoria. World Jewry had been reduced from 18 million in 1939 to 12 million. Some of the remnants of European Jewry did go to Israel. These were joined by Sephardi Jews from Arab lands fleeing for fear of retribution from their Arab hosts angered by the creation of the State. But these still represented a minority of Jews in the world. Three million more lived in Soviet Russia who were unable to leave even if they wished to; while the remaining millions continued, of their own free will, to live in the West, predominantly in North America, but also in South America, Europe and many other smaller countries. According to Herzlian theory, these latter Jews ought to have uprooted themselves and migrated to Israel. The reality is that the majority did not. These Jews have watched with fascination the unfolding of events in Israel, they have opened their hearts and pockets to the State, and they have also travelled there to see the country for themselves. But in the end, they have stayed at home. Herzlian Zionism, put to the test, has been found wanting. The voluntary ingathering of Jews has not taken place; nor has anti-Semitism disappeared with the advent of statehood. What has more clearly emerged is that Israel has become a focal point for world Jewry, the central magnet of its collective emotion, even if not quite the spiritual centre that Ahad Ha’am, arguing against Herzl, had envisaged.

In the light of these realities, the need arose to face up to uncomfortable truths in relation to Zionist philosophy and adapt to them. It was at the 27th Zionist Congress held in Israel in 1972 that the major philosophical and ideological adjustment of theoretical Zionism was promulgated and formalised in what became known as the “Jerusalem Program”. The essence of the Program was contained in the proclamation affirming “the centrality of Israel in Jewish life”. The Program thereby legitimised the status quo within the Jewish world, unpalatable as this must have been to Herzlian theoreticians, and, of necessity, endorsed the principle Ahad Ha’am had enunciated long before.

Following the establishment of the State, voices throughout the Jewish world were heard arguing that there was no further need of a Zionist movement. This was an opportunistic attitude that could not be taken seriously. Zionism being a living ideology attuned to a continually evolving process, it affirms its very vitality by its readiness and ability to adjust to the needs of the time. Were it unable to do so, it would ossify and become irrelevant. Truth is that the Zionist movement continues to be relevant and has every reason to take pride in its attainments, notwithstanding the pernicious 1975 United Nations Resolution, pushed through by the Arab bloc, equating Zionism with racism. One of the most recent manifestations of Zionist commitment and vitality was in the evacuation of the Falashas from Ethiopia to Israel at a time when hunger and disease in that country was decimating thousands of people. The whole operation was a further confirmation of the centrality of Israel in Jewish life, for, needless to say, without the State, the rescue of these black Jews could not have happened. It also confirmed the ongoing commitment to the Zionist view of Jewish solidarity in times of need, wherever and whenever such need arises.

I am not prepared to anticipate the future role of Zionism in Jewish history. I would hope that the world at large will not regress to such a stage where the original Herzlian assumption of ingathering will become an urgent necessity.

14

Victorian Zionist Organization

On my arrival to Melbourne, I became involved with the Victorian Zionist Organization which was by nature of General Zionist orientation. Its name predates its political affiliation. The Victorian Zionist Organization was the original Zionist body in Melbourne and was, in its early days, apolitical in any party sense. Its Minutes Book, beginning in 1937, shows Dr Leon Jona to have been its President and Morris Cohen its Honorary Secretary. My first participation at committee level was on April 1, 1947. By that time, Joseph Solvey was President. Both his intellect and his political outlook appealed to me, and we were drawn into a partnership in fruitful communal endeavour over and above our personal friendship. Other personalities who were then, or who, in the ensuing ‘fifties, became, involved with the Victorian Zionist Orgnization were Dr Fred Benfey and Dr Ernest Krauss, Samuel Wynn, Julian Mercer, Nathan Jacobson and Robert Zablud. The Victorian Zionist Organization was then a major force in the Zionist movement. It had an office at 77 Bourke Street and employed a full-time secretary. It would, at intervals, invite guest speakers from interstate, and both these occasions and other public functions drew sizeable audiences, such gatherings being important cultural and social events in the community.

The strength of the Victorian Zionist Organization both in Melbourne and federally was in great part attributable to the personalities who led it. The early history of Melbourne Zionism is very much identified with such General Zionist figures as Alec Masel, Dr Aaron Patkin, Benzion Patkin, S. Wertheim, Dr Leon Jona, Samuel Wynn, Dr Machover. The same may be said of Sydney Zionism, while the Australian picture as a whole was typical of Zionism the world over, General Zionism having at all times been most central in the mainstream of Diaspora Zionism. Already as far back as the very first Zionist Congress in Basle in 1897, the overwhelming majority of delegates were of the middle class. This has remained a constant ever since. In Melbourne, with the singular exception of Arnold Bloch who led the State Zionist Council from 1960 to 1966, all Presidents well into the 1970s were General Zionists. Similarly, national leaders of the Zionist Federation up to 1983 have been of the same ideological mould. While Jews holding more polarised doctrinal positions along the Zionist spectrum have formed themselves into clearly-defined organisational groups entailing the active commitments and duties of membership, the majority of Jews in the Australian community, as elsewhere – tradesmen, shopkeepers, businessmen, manufacturers, and others – have identified with this General Zionist stream of Zionism; but because they represent the liberal and pragmatic majority, they have been less inclined to be paying members within any organisational framework. Probably the best way to characterise these large numbers of Jews is to see them less as Party-minded General Zionists than as Zionists in General.

As with other parties, General Zionists, too, were subject to internal nuances. In pre-War Poland where the largest Jewish community capable of internal Jewish activity lived, the General Zionists were in the majority. These were, in turn, made up of two wings: General Zionists A and General Zionists B. The A group, corresponding to the small-‘L’ liberal definition and led by Itzhak Greenbaum and Dr Moshe Kleinbaum (later Moshe Sneh), dominated the northern General Zionists centred around Warsaw. The B group, with its hold upon the south, centred around Cracow, and led by Dr Yehoshua Thon, was more conservative. This distinction persisted into the post-war period. In the United States, for instance, Hadassah, the large women’s organisation, led for many years by Rose Halperin, followed the inclinations of the A group, represented in the States by Dr Israel Goldstein. The Zionist organization of America, on the other hand, was philosophically closer to the B group, whose leaders were Abba Hillel Silver and Dr Emanuel Newman. In the ‘fifties and ‘sixties, the intensity of this internal General Zionist cleavage led to the formation of two parallel General Zionist world federations: the World Confederation of General Zionists led by Dr Golstein, with Hadassah and the British General Zionists as its mainstay, and the World Union of General Zionists, led by the Zionist Organization of America. This polarisation had as much to do with issues of personalities as with philosophical differences. In practical political post-State Zionist realities, the role of the Goldstein-Halperin group was decisive in the domination of the World Zionist Organization and the Jewish Agency by the Israel Labor Mapai Party with whom they collaborated on many aspects of policy. This situation prevails even now in some form, even though its relevance in the ‘eighties is of dubious validity and consequence.

The issue of differing political ideologies within the overall framework of the Zionist movement, understandable as it was in pre-State days, became very contentious from the ‘fifties onwards. As already stated elsewhere, there were some who thought that the Zionist movement had lost its raison d’etre altogether with the establishment of the Jewish State. Therefore, to have distinctive political parties in the Diaspora continue as the organised backbone of the movement seemed to some absurd, for any political decisions taken by the State could belong only to the State and to its citizens. Nonetheless, despite this self-evident truth, such parties outside of Israel persist to this day. The reason for this lies in the unchanged modus operandi of Zionist Congresses which continue to base their representation on old pre-State formulae and also relate to the voting strengths of the parties in Israeli general elections. To judge from the current state of the Zionist parties in the Diaspora, a new formula for Diaspora communal representation at the Zionist Congresses will need to be devised. The task of depoliticising an essentially political movement is a tall order which will tax the abilities of those charged to devise a new formula as also of the leaders at the time who will have to adhere to it.

The Victorian Zionist Organization which identified itself with, and became an affiliate of, the World Union of General Zionists at one time found itself in such a state of ambivalence. On the one hand, the independent State engaged in a desperate bid to cement its shaky security and economic existence. On the other hand, the United Israel Appeal acted as the independent financial arm of world Jewry to help the State in the social tasks of immigrant absorption and other needs. Thus the actual working agenda for Zionist organizations was basically limited to education, youth work, promotion of aliya and public relations. Most of these tasks would have been most effective if approached in a unified manner than in a splintered organisational way. As far as youth was concerned, General Zionists in Australia (and elsewhere) were remiss in not creating a youth movement as other more doctrinal parties had done. Admittedly, their pragmatism lacked the more radical slogans of the Left and the Right or of the religious bodies to attract the attention of youth – a problem everywhere. But the creation of such a youth movement could have been achieved, and General Zionists can only blame themselves for having forfeited the opportunity. With regard to public relations and education, the record is better, while, in relation to aliya, this has usually been most closely linked with the youth movements.

When Joseph Solvey assumed the Presidency of the State Zionist Council around 1950, I took over the Presidency of the Victorian Zionist Organization from him. By that time, however, altered circumstances precluded the Victorian Zionist Organization from continuing the role it had played in the 1940s. The emphasis had shifted from theoretical issues to very urgent and practical ones. It was the decade of the ingathering, of desperate need for material help. The centre of gravity of Zionist activity shifted from theory to money-raising appeals and other forms of aid. These came under the umbrella of the State Zionist Council and were directed at the entire community rather than being organised on a parochial party basis. As a consequence, the accent shifted away more enduringly from these more esoteric and narrow parties in favour of the larger framework represented by the predominantly General Zionist-oriented State Zionist Council.

The implication of all this was that my years in the Presidency of the Victorian Zionist Organization were played out against a different background from that of my predecessors and were attended by different potentialities. That does not mean that the VZO went out of business. Far from it. It remained politically very cohesive and vibrant; it served as a caucus where State Zionist Council policies were discussed and assessed before they came to the Council table; it dealt with issues relevant also to the Zionist Federation, the United Israel Appeal, and to other groups reliant upon it. In addition, there were issues of a local nature in which the VZO adopted attitudes that were not necessarily the same as other affiliates of the State Zionist Council. One of these, for example, related to Mount Scopus College. While the VZO was of one mind with the Mizrachi movement regarding Zionism in general, their respective views about Mount Scopus College differed. On such issues, the SZC became a forum for argument and political contest rather than of unified action. The future of the Bialik afternoon and Sunday School was another such issue. Matters on the agendae of the Victorian Jewish Board of Deputies and the Executive Council of Australian Jewry were often those where no unanimity could be reached within the Zionist movement. In addition, the VZO remained involved in concerns such as the organisational issues of the General Zionists on a global scale, World Zionist Congress elections, and delegate allocations, among others.

Where the VZO did decline in the ‘fifties was in its public profile. During Israel’s War of Liberation from May to December 1948, Joe Solvey, Julian Mercer and I were conducting weekly information and discussion evenings at the Kadimah Hall, where we commented on the political events of the day. In the ‘fifties, however, people went instead to listen to emissaries who spoke on behalf of the State. To that extent, the outward orientation of the VZO inevitably shrank and changed. At the end of my term, I, too, like my predecessor Joseph Solvey, took over the Presidency of the State Zionist Council. In turn, I handed the Presidency of the VZO to Julian Mercer.

Mercer, who was ten years older than I, had pre-War personal connections with the leadership of the world Zionist movement. He was intellectually and, in terms of Zionist philosophy, a very suitable leader of the General Zionists. He enjoyed high international regard and was elected member of both the world executive of the General Zionists and of the World Zionist Organization. However, in relation to activities on the local Victorian scene in the ‘sixties, time was even more against him than it had been against me in the preceding decade. The political ineffectuality of Zionist parties which set in after 1948 continued to worsen to the point of debilitation. Repeated attempts to draw the next generation into the Zionist movement failed, for reasons that were not difficult to discern. These young people, mostly local-born and educated, did not carry with them the same political sensitivity ingrained in the older generation and brought from Europe at a time when political issues mattered very greatly and were vigorously and tenaciously fought over. Whatever interest the young did have in Zionism was reflected more in their wish to find some practical outlet for their involvement than in theoretical concerns. Thus, some, for instance, became involved in the United Israel Appeal or in work for schools, but issues of ideology and inter-party politics they left to the older guard.

Julian Mercer passed away in 1975. His widow, Zosia Mercer, a successful President of Victorian WIZO, was in 1984 to become President of the State Zionist Council, the first woman to occupy this position.

The man who succeeded Julian Mercer to the Victorian Zionist Organization Presidency was Robert Zablud. He had arrived in Australia from Brest Litovsk before the war, having shared both a birthplace and a friendship with Menachem Begin. A pre-War law graduate from Warsaw, he had lived in Albury ten years before moving to Melbourne where, like Julian Mercer, he repeated his law studies. This accounts for the delay in his communal involvement after arrival, but once he entered into communal service, he rose through the ranks to become successively President of the Victorian Zionist Organization, the State Zionist Council and the Zionist Federation of Australia and New Zealand. His wife, Ann, attained acclaim in her own right, having been President, first of Victorian WIZO and then of the national body. Robert Zablud maintained excellent relations with the international General Zionist leadership, serving as Australian representative on its world executive and at its congresses. He was also to become President of the Victorian Jewish Board of Deputies.

The political heir in Israel to pre-State General Zionism was the Liberal Party. Its leaders at the time of the State’s establishment were, among others, Peretz Berenstein, Dr E. Rimalt and Joseph Sapir. Their political fortunes at the Knesset elections in the first two decades of statehood varied considerably, considering that the Labor Party would poll some 40% of the vote. The proliferation of political parties and splinter groups in Israel, due to the country’s electoral system of proportional representation, rendered successive Israeli governments vulnerable.

It was this vulnerability which persuaded the major political actors in Israeli politics to join forces to create a system closer to the British system of government and opposition. To achieve that end, the parties on the left – with the exclusion of the Communists – joined forces, for electoral purposes, into the Ma’arach bloc. Those on the right, namely Herut and the Liberal Party created the Likud led by Menachem Begin, which, in 1977, wrested power from Labor after 29 years of continuous government. To facilitate the creation of Likud, the two parties entered into an electoral pact which favoured the Liberals in the proportional numbers of candidates on the list of potential deputies it could field in the Knesset. Begin knew that Herut would not attain government in its own right. By means of acumen, expediency and generosity towards his Liberal partners, he made change in Israeli politics possible. As a consequence, the Knesset elections of 1977 were a watershed in Israeli politics. The return of the Likud at the subsequent elections and again in 1983, when Begin had departed from the scene, not only consolidated the realignment of political forces, but also placed the Liberal partners of the Likud coalition in a dilemma. Prior to the formation of the Likud, Herut would poll more votes than the Liberals. Begin’s personal charisma had attracted a strong following among the ever-increasing number of Sephardi voters. Thus the number of Liberal deputies in the Knesset was considered by Herut to be disproportionate to the Liberal vote and inflated at its own expense. In internal matters, the coalition was not tested. The views of Herut and the Liberals were in harmony. In external affairs, however, there were clear differences which continued to persist and were aggravated by certain Herut personalities.

As long as Simcha Erlich, who had led the Liberals into the coalition, was alive and Begin was in command, the coalition worked well. But after Erlich’s sudden death and the subsequent departure of Menachem Begin from the political scene, new pressures began to surface within the Likud, aimed at amalgamating the two parties into a single entity. Both the initiative and the pressure came from Herut and were already evident in the composition of the 1983 election candidate lists where the Liberal share was reduced. The pressure exerted subsequently led to a three-faction split in the Liberal party. One faction fully supported the merger; another fully resisted it; and the third, led by Liberal leader and Minister of Finance Modai, adopted a wait-and-see position.

The reason for this elaboration on purely internal Israeli politics is that it has a strong bearing on the fortunes of General Zionism the world over. While the creation of the Likud coalition in Israel made good political sense, subsequently confirmed by events, such union was not emulated by the parties’ respective supporters abroad. First, the General Zionists and Herut outside Israel were neither emotionally nor philosophically disposed towards any union. Second, the proportions of each in the wider Zionist movement were the opposite of what they were in Israel, the majority outside being liberal in orientation and ideologically distant from the Herut position. Were a true amalgamation to come about in Israel, I would predict that the two parties in the Diaspora would nonetheless continue to remain apart. All that can be predicted with any assurance is that in the event of a merger coming into effect in Israel, then the faction opposing such a merger would split off from the unified party and bring about a new re-alignment of political forces in the nation. Such an eventuality would, in turn, create a new orientation within the General Zionist movement, particularly in the United States, where the two distinct wings currently in existence could conceivably unite. The number of scenarios possible are multifold.

My personal view has, from the outset, been against a merger of Liberals and Herut. When the idea was first mooted, I drafted a comprehensive statement enumerating the arguments against it and submitted it for discussion before the Victorian Zionist Organization. After the committee endorsed the statement, I forwarded it to Mordechai Dayan who was then Chairman of the Liberal Party in Israel. He acknowledged the document and assured me that its contents would be considered in any future debate on the issue. To be sure, my arguments were framed from a Diaspora viewpoint which could well carry little weight in the balance of Israeli realpolitik. Nonetheless, I felt that my arguments were worth presenting so that the people coming to a final decision should clearly and unambiguously know the feelings of their friends around the world. These views having been made known, no-one in Israel could then argue that they had acted without knowledge of Australian feelings.

15

Bialik College

The history of Jewish education in Melbourne dates back to the beginning of organised life in the community. To provide religious education for the young has always been a basic tenet and function of such a community. Religious classes were usually an active component of every congregation’s activities. About one hundred years ago, a Jewish day-school was established in Melbourne, but it did not last. Up to the eve of World War II, the afternoon and Sunday religious schools were the only form of Jewish education in operation.

With the arrival of Joseph Solvey from Kovno in 1941, a new conceptualisation of Jewish education crystallised, modelled on the Hebrew day-schools that had flourished in Lithuania, Poland, Rumania, Austria and elsewhere. These were Hebrew-language oriented with an emphasis on secular Jewish culture alongside basic traditional values and religious practices. An enthusiastic band of people gathered together in Melbourne to create a school on similar lines. Among them were Yehuda Honig, D. Ryzman, Israel Sacks, Yosef and Ania Ginzburg, J. Yaffe, Philip Bloch, J. Rymer, Rachel Laube, and others. In 1942, under the chairmanship of Joseph Solvey, they opened a Hebrew kindergarten and afternoon school in Carlton, named after the Hebrew poet, Haim Nachman Bialik. Subsequently, a house was purchased in Drummond Street for the school and a modern two-storey building was built there for the kindergarten. At the time of my arrival in Melbourne, Sholem Marantz was the headmaster, Yehuda Honig was its president and D. Ryzman its treasurer. Marantz was succeeded as headmaster by A. Klag who was later to become senior Hebrew master at Mount Scopus College, who was in turn followed by Y. Taub, later editor of the weekly newspaper, the Yiddishe Neies. Concurrent with the establishment of the Bialik School, Joseph Giligich founded the I.L. Peretz Yiddish afternoon and Sunday School, also in Carlton.

The first decade of post-war Jewish Melbourne witnessed a major population shift from its previous centre in Carlton to St. Kilda, Elwood, Caulfield and Kew. Accordingly, the established communal facilities, also predominantly located around Carlton, became progressively less frequented and therefore increasingly redundant. This applied to synagogues, schools, the Yiddish cultural centre Kadimah, the Chevra Kadisha burial society and other local services. Schools were the first to be affected for they catered for the needs of young families, who were the first to move out from Carlton. As a consequence of this demographic shift, it became obvious to the management of Bialik School that its continued existence north of the Yarra begged further justification and that its future was due for renewed assessment. The establishment in 1948 of Mount Scopus College as a day-school proved to be a catalyst for Bialik, for it pointed a new direction in Jewish education, away from a marginal role to one where Jewish education could be comprehensive and viable on a full-time basis. While the very idea was radical and revolutionary at the time – as indicated in the earlier chapter on Mount Scopus College – those connected with Bialik did not have to be persuaded about the inevitability of full-time Jewish education. They were in fact the ones who urged and supported the creation of Mount Scopus College as a day-school. Yet it took Bialik another decade for its thinking to crystallise. Its administrators wished first to determine the economic viability, educational success and communal acceptance of Mount Scopus College, as also its ideological and intellectual orientation which had, at the outset, been so nebulous and unpredictable. By the time Mount Scopus College celebrated its first decade of existence, it had proved itself a successful experiment and testing ground, and Bialik administrators could draw pertinent conclusions.

Bialik School was created by Zionist members of the community. Its first legal owners were the Victorian Zionist Organization. Its purpose was to instil into the pupils a love of Hebrew, a respect for Jewish traditions and a spiritual affinity with the revived Jewish creativity in the then Mandatory Palestine. To the extent to which, in the early years, the spirit of Mount Scopus College had an orthodox religious orientation and little, if any, Zionist content, the Zionist movement, which had been so instrumental in supporting the establishment of the school against a strong factional opposition, had good reason to be disappointed with the tone and direction chosen by the College. This dissatisfaction grew as time went on and found an echo in the discussions of the State Zionist Council, at both its annual assemblies and its regular council meetings. In turn, the concerns of the Zionist movement regarding the direction of Mount Scopus College was often voiced at meetings of the Victorian Jewish Board of Deputies who were the nominal owners of the College. Although some changes did come about there, these were limited and likely to remain so into the foreseeable future. Consequently, the establishment of alternative schools were considered, which offered a wider range of choice in Jewish education. The religious section of the Zionist movement, which was spiritually closest to Mount Scopus College, came to a similar conclusion.

In July 1958, Julian Mercer took over the presidency of Bialik from Yehuda Honig. The change of leadership in no way reflected any alteration in the school’s ideological orientation. What it did represent was an active involvement and concern for the future of the school by younger men. When I assumed the Presidency of the State Zionist Council eight months later, I pledged to help in the conversion of Bialik from an afternoon and Sunday school to a day-school, and one of my earliest acts as President was, in fact, to authorise the Bialik management to investigate the feasibility of such a step. By that time, the State Zionist Council was the school’s legal owner, having myself facilitated the transfer of ownership to the Council during my term as President of the Victorian Zionist Organisation.

The problem of finding suitable land or premises for the purpose was fraught with political as well as financial and other difficulties. Because the property in Carlton where the school stood belonged to the State Zionist Council, its sale had to be ratified by the General Assembly. The declared intention to move the school to Caulfield raised objections from some quarters who had an interest in not having the school established there. The school’s relocation thus became a hot political issue. Anti-Bialik votes were traded and high office bought in the train of the whole unsavoury business. In the end, a site was found by Lily Solvey at 6 Shakespeare Grove, Hawthorn, which, being resisted by none, was acquired for the school. There was a considerable measure of irony inherent in the purchase of this particular property. It had initially been built to house the German Consulate. The neighbouring property, which housed a girls’ finishing school at the time, had earlier been home to Victoria’s first parliament. Two houses removed, in Chopin Street, stood the house where Sir John Monash had lived. The two-storey mansion bought for the school was built from bluestone and stood well back from the street. It had extensive front lawns and much space behind the house itself which was suitable as a playground. In terms of location, it stood midway between Kew and Toorak.

The building was prepared during 1962 and opened its doors for the beginning of the 1963 school year as Bialik College. Pinchas Ernest who was then readying himself for aliyah served as headmaster for the first nine months. The popular Chava Wertkin, who was a kindergarten teacher at Bialik, continued in her role, and the school was off to a fine start. The College already enjoyed a good reputation, and its kindergarten, in particular, was eagerly sought by parents. With its conversion into a day-school, its reputation was further enhanced as increasing numbers of children came to be enrolled.

One of the earliest decisions that had to be made revolved around the kind of headmaster who would best suit the school. In line with its intended Zionist spirit and orientation, there was only one obvious source for such a person, namely Israel. While all involved with the school’s administration agreed on the matter, we were also mindful of the fact that such an arrangement locked the school into a situation of impermanence of leadership at the head, for teachers released by Israel were permitted only three to four years’ absence abroad. This had inbuilt shortcomings, but it was felt, nonetheless, that these were outweighed by the advantages of having an Israeli headmaster. Accordingly, Abraham Chovers and his family were brought out in 1964 to take charge of the school, and a house at 7 Shakespeare Grove across from the school was rented for them. Abraham Chovers was a very amiable man. Softly-spoken and with much personal charm, he enhanced Bialik’s reputation by attracting ever-growing numbers of parents. In the course of his work, he established an authentic Zionist spirit in the school, he devised its Hebrew program, introduced modern Hebrew songs and instilled into his young charges a sense of Jewish pride. His working relations with the committee were excellent, and he was uniformly liked and respected by all. The school attracted a particular type of parent, some of whom travelled long distances twice daily in order to have their children taught at Bialik. They were discerning parents who had closely studied the differences between available educational alternatives and had chosen Bialik precisely for what it represented and taught. They welcomed the spirit that pervaded the school and the way Jewish subjects were taught that made them constantly actual and relevant.

1965 “Speech Day” at Bialik College. On the stage; the author, A. Chovers and M. Cohen (first chairman of Bialik Appeal).

The school grew fast. In 1965, a new kindergarten wing, named the Dora Cukiert Memorial Kindergarten, was added to the main building. While the addition of these kindergarten classes was a very timely and major one in terms of space, it automatically provided a two-stream primary division. By 1966, the financial burden of running the school weighed heavily on Julian Mercer. He had by then given the school eight years of continuous leadership and seen it through the difficult period of transformation into a day-school. He approached me with the suggestion that I take over the school’s presidency from him. I was heavily involved in business at the time, but, recognising the reasons for his request, I acceded to his suggestion. The school’s financial situation was certainly not rosy; but within a year the school emerged from a backlog of debts.

In 1967, I learned from the headmaster that the landlord of his house was also the owner of the property at 4 Shakespeare Grove adjoining the school and that he wished to sell it. The house which stood there was old and dilapidated, and built from hand-made Hawthorn bricks which are today a rare and expensive commodity. We inspected the property and considered it to be of marginal use. In my mind, however, it represented an opportunity that the school could not afford to miss. In the end, we bought it through direct negotiation without the property ever appearing on the market.

The committee and executive of the school’s management consisted mainly of young parents who had a direct interest in the development and improvement of its programs and facilities. These parents’ enthusiasm was growing and a Parents’ Association was formed with David Black as its first chairman. The school’s well-being became a factor in cementing the parent body into a cohesive and creative social entity. A separate Mothers’ Committee under Chana Levick undertook the publication of a Jewish cook-book which was a major success in terms of its popularity and financial reward to the school. This cookbook has since gone through a number of editions and is still sought today, being used as a basic manual in many Jewish homes. Neville Ashkenazy who lived in Shakespeare Grove also became a parent and enthusiast for the school, and in time its Vice-President. Other early participants were Esther Gross who showed outstanding organisational ability and dedication and became Honorary Secretary; Charles Cukiert and his wife Ena, Charles becoming the second Vice-President; and Yitzhak Spiegel, for a number of years the Honorary Treasurer.

Annual appeals were introduced in 1967. Lily Solvey, a competent appeal administrator who knew the community well, conducted the school’s appeals in an honorary capacity for many years from her office at the Victorian Jewish Education Board. The first Appeal President was Morris Cohen. The budgets of the school in those days were relatively small. Nonetheless, school revenue in the form of fees alone could not cover expenditures, especially when capital investments were continuously on the school’s agenda. The kindergartens built in 1965 brought temporary relief, but by 1968 the problem of insufficient space again became very acute. Plans were drawn up for the redevelopment of the acquired property at 4 Shakespeare Grove to accommodate 350 pupils. When the Hawthorn City Council advertised Bialik’s intention to expand, objections from neighbours led the Council to refuse the school’s application. The neighbourhood was a source of constant trouble for the school. We had been fortunate to have obtained a permit to open a school in the neighbourhood in the first place. But no sooner did the school open its doors than parents twice daily created obstruction to the flow of traffic outside the school in delivering and collecting their children, this leading to complaints to the City Council by surrounding neighbours and to organised opposition, led by a city coroner who lived on the corner of Chopin Grove, when we applied for a new building permit. As a consequence, we became desperate for additional space.

Abraham Chovers had by then returned home and Moshe Meretz was brought from Israel to replace him. He was a very energetic man and a disciplinarian and authoritarian who ran the school on strict lines, consolidating the reputation which Chovers had established. He drove his staff hard and obtained excellent results which, in turn, drew more parents seeking admission of their children into the school. The limitations of space were a constant irritant and a source of frustration to Meretz and his staff, as it was also to the school executive.

The City Council’s refusal to grant us a building permit placed the school in a difficult situation. With nothing to lose, the executive chose to appeal against the Council decision in court. It was a risky step, for we neither wished to strain our relations with the Council nor to attract still more complaints by the local ratepayers against us. However, we had little option. Town planners were engaged and special counsel briefed, with the result that the Appeal Board over-ruled the Council refusal, directing that it issue a building permit to the school with the proviso that the total number of pupils attending the combined premises at Nos. 4 and 6 Shakespeare Grove did not exceed 250. Though the verdict fell short of our needs, we were nonetheless elated. We learnt, further, that the Council harboured no animosities against us for bringing it to court, even though it also had to bear the expenses of the action.

Following this victory, new plans had to be drawn for the development of the site. Having to keep within the constraints imposed by the Appeal Board, they were, of necessity, more modest in scale than the original plans. Joe Alexander, who was a school parent and committee member, and a builder who had created the TRAK complex in Toorak Road, undertook to build the two-storey four-classroom block for a very modest price. Samuel Wynn gave a donation equivalent to ten percent of the cost. Plans were approved and the building, which was to carry the Wynn name, erected in quick succession.

Avraham Schenker of the W.Z.O. Jerusalem on a visit to Bialik College, Shakespeare Grv. Hawthorn. From left; Moshe Meretz, A. Schenker and author.

This addition gave the school some breathing space. But from the first, we recognised that the new building could afford only temporary relief. It was not yet the full solution. The increasing number of children needed more playing grounds that were simply not there. Meanwhile, other facilities too were required which could not be provided for lack of space. Further, much as our most recent land acquisition and erection of the building forced us to increase our borrowing and debt-servicing charges, it was clear that the amounts we were operating with were still paltry in comparison with those which expanding the school would later necessitate. By the time Moshe Meretz returned to Israel, Bialik parents were becoming restive. They loved the school and its spirit, but they also felt that their children were entitled to better facilities than were being provided. There was no question that they had right on their side, and it is fitting here to pay tribute to all those parents who showed patience and restraint in the face of the cramped conditions which their children had to endure. Their forbearance could only be explained by the obvious happiness of their children at school, this having out-weighed other inconveniences in the short-term but which could not be ignored over a longer period.

During Meretz’ headmastership, the school reached Grade Six and had to relinquish hold on its pupils for them to seek their secondary education elsewhere. As a matter of policy, we recommended to parents that they send their children to Mount Scopus College, thereby encouraging them to pursue their secondary education in a Jewish environment. It soon became clear from reports of our pupils at Mount Scopus College that not only did they shine in their Hebrew knowledge but that their general standards compared more than satisfactorily with those of their new classmates. Mount Scopus teachers could identify former Bialik pupils in their classes without having formally to ascertain where they were from. This was, of course, a most rewarding reflection upon Bialik and a source of pride. However, human nature being what it is, it could not for long be satisfied by existing attainments. Success was a breeder of confidence, and this, in turn, pushed one on to further challenges and demands. Thus, Moshe Meretz proposed that the school should consider expanding into Junior Secondary years. The educational arguments for doing so were persuasive, not only because of the school’s record to-date, but also in consideration of the children’s ages at this level of education. It was considered unfair that children should be moved to a new social environment at a time when they were preparing for their respective Bar Mitzvahs and Bat Mitzvahs which they were entitled to celebrate in familiar settings. Whether this in itself was a sufficient consideration or the ambition of every professional person worth his or her salt to prove themselves, all factors taken together combined to make a strong case towards planning the next stage in the further development of the school.

The opinion of the executive and committee was not unanimous on the issue. Joseph Solvey, who had been a senior member of the executive since its inception, argued against expansion into a secondary school. His fear of the economic burdens that would follow such a move outweighed all other considerations. The majority of the other members, however, favoured such extension. I understood this support for the venture to imply a clear commitment by those parents to have their own children continue at Bialik. My own attitude in favour of further development was shaped by an additional consideration. I reasoned that if Bialik College was to prove itself philosophically – and ideologically – it could not do so through the primary levels alone. Children who would leave Bialik College at the age of 11 or 12 would in the long term not recognise the difference between one concept of Jewish schooling and another. It was only at secondary level that a school could begin to make any impact on pupils with its particular philosophical, religious and spiritual bent. Hence, to forego the establishment of a secondary level was to fall short of the very purpose behind the school’s creation in the first place. Therefore, the Bialik committee voted in favour of expansion and in 1969 the first Year Seven opened.

The man who, in 1970, replaced Moshe Meretz was Shlomo Uni. Once again, the difference in personalities between the retiring and incoming headmasters was as striking as that between Meretz and Chovers before him. Shlomo Uni was small in stature, self-effacing and had a clever twinkle in his eyes. He was also modest in manner, intense in his convictions and fully alert to the task he was undertaking. He saw himself as a pioneer breaking new ground for modern and progressive Jewish education. His beaming smile quickly endeared him to the parent body, whose support he mustered when it was most needed – at a time when the school was wrestling with new problems regarding its future.

Bialik College 1973 “Speech Night”; Shlomo Uni (principal).

The most pressing issue for Bialik in the early ’seventies were those of space and facilities. The limit imposed by the Board of Appeal on the number of children we were permitted to accommodate at Shakespeare Grove forced our hand. The school had a sound scholastic record. Its popularity with the community was constantly growing. The participation by its children and their display of fluency in Hebrew at Israel Independence Day celebrations were envied by other schools. But parents expected standards of classrooms and playing fields comparable with those of Mount Scopus College. Accordingly, the over-riding preoccupation of the school’s committee became the search for suitable real estate. The more the committee looked, the more obvious it became that any locale found in the inner Melbourne area would be subject to the same limitations already operating on the existing premises. No open land could be found commensurate with our understanding of the needs of the school or expectations of the parents. Moreover, during the decade that had passed since Bialik had opened at Shakespeare Grove, City Councils had tightened considerably their policy of granting permits to schools in inner areas, and, unless premises were found where a school had previously existed, the likelihood of obtaining permission to establish a new school in a built-up area was virtually nil. This consideration, coupled with the fact that property values priced existing school premises out of the affordable range, forced us to look at the outer suburbs where many and large vacant lots were still available. We also had to take into account the geographic distribution of Melbourne’s Jewish population. The school was offered land belonging to the Gas Company in Nepean Highway, opposite the site of the present Southland Shopping Centre, but this was considered unsuitable. Having regard to the locale from which the school’s children came, it was more logical to look east, more specifically along the Burwood Highway extension of Toorak Road. We contacted estate-agents in the outer area, and after a while were offered ten acres of land fronting Burwood Highway in Wantirna. The position was absolutely magnificent. With the Dandenong Mountains in the background, the air clean and its rustic environment still unspoiled, the property presented an idyllic setting for a school. Adjacent to it, at the corner of Burwood Highway and Cathie Road, the government owned 140 acres of land ear-marked for a tertiary education institution and officially designated “Education Park”. The Whitlam Government was then in office and Mr Race Mathews was the Federal Member for Wantirna. The City of Knox, in which the property lay, was eager to have a private school developed there and promised us every assistance.

There was one major drawback with the property, and that was its distance from the inner centres of living. In terms of actual travel time, the land lay a mere seven minutes further than Mount Scopus College. This extra distance was not thought to be of such magnitude as to counteract the area’s obvious attractions. But as the news of the land under consideration became public knowledge among parents, there rose a swell of vocal opposition to it on those very grounds of distance. Remarkably, the very parents who had demanded open spaces and playing fields were the first detractors of the idea once it seemed to come within our reach. The committee wrestled with the plan for a considerable while. Repeatedly, its members would go out on Sunday mornings to inspect the land, to walk among the neglected apple-trees and admire the setting, and eye one another quizzically to determine whether we were getting any nearer to making a decision. No-one was prepared to ignore the issue of distance. But, against this, the attractiveness of the setting, the reasonableness of the price and the potential for developing a high-school there for some 800 pupils with full, and even enthusiastic, municipal approval were all factors weighing in its favour. We invited the architect, Joshua Pila, to inspect the land, and he too tendered a positive report on its suitability for our purposes. As we inched nearer to the realisation that we must make a firm decision lest some developer pre-empted us in its purchase, the committee elected to call a General Meeting of parents to discuss the plan. Many parents attended and the atmosphere was tense. I chaired the meeting. On analysing the arguments of those who argued against the Wantirna idea, it occurred to me that they were more prompted by considerations of personal convenience than by any particular concern over the long-term development of the school. Some of them were sending their children to Bialik solely for the kindergarten period; others also had no intention of keeping their children there past the primary grades. Their motivations, it struck me further, were in diametric opposition to the thinking and planning purposes of the school executive. It thus became obvious that we would not be able to act by consensus. The more I saw through the real reasons for such opposition as was voiced, the more strengthened did I become in my resolve to proceed with the venture. What I failed to recognise at the meeting was that while there was a sizeable vocal opposition to the scheme, there was no matching number of parents who vocally endorsed the scheme. I took this relative silence as affirmation. I was correct in that conclusion only to a degree.

The meeting did not help to galvanise the resolve of the executive. Most of its members being parents themselves, they must have had feedback from the wider parent community – which I did not receive – and hence remained ambivalent. My own inclination was to believe that once the decision was made and the school erected, parents would come to appreciate the new facilities, and these would out-weigh all other considerations. Mindful also of the buoyancy of the real-estate market – and reasoning further that, if necessary, we could always re-sell it, possibly at a profit – I feared that we might miss out on a sound opportunity if I let the executive procrastinate over a decision. Thus, we elected in the end to buy the land and bought it in 1972 for $147,000.

Given the pressure for space at the Hawthorn school, once we were in possession of the property at Wantirna, development became irresistible. Joshua Pila prepared a master-plan, and a scale model was commissioned to give our vision a tangible perspective. It looked beautiful and we warmed to the idea. Negotiations with our bankers resulted in securing the necessary funds for the first stage of development, and Joshua Pila was authorised to prepare full drawings for the first building. The design he submitted was a novel one. It consisted of a two-storey rectangular building surrounding an inner open courtyard. The classrooms were large, and he incorporated into his plan all the facilities that had been lacking for so long. An application was lodged with the Schools Commission for funding of the project, and the sum of $160,000 was voted by the government as its contribution to the $500,000 that construction of the building was to cost. Because the government participated in the funding, it appointed a supervisor to watch the progress of the project. Tenders were called and the contract was awarded to Mr D. Shallit’s Construction Engineering firm. Before actual building could begin, a major program of ground preparation had to be undertaken. The orchard had to be uprooted and the land laid out with a network of underground agriculture pipes, an elaborate drainage system, and gardens, paths, playing fields, parking areas and other amenities. This phase took several months to complete and absorbed 20% of the total cost of the first stage of development. Once building started, it proceeded as anticipated, marred, however, by a building workers’ strike, which was not unusual.

The development of the Wantirna site had both positive and negative consequences. On the positive side, the school’s parent community could see the promises made by the school materialising, while the prospects of modern facilities and open playing grounds in such a magnificent setting excited the imaginations of some of the parents. On the negative side of the ledger, however, those parents who opposed the project made up their mind to withdraw their children. The effect of their decisions was to sway other, wavering, parents to follow suit.

In addition to these sequelae, another additional consequence followed Bialik College’s decision to move to Wantirna. The Liberal Congregation had, for some time been debating the idea of establishing a day-school of its own. Rabbi Levi was at the time himself a satisfied Bialik parent, but opposed the move to Wantirna. By sheer coincidence of events and timing, the Rabbis Levi-Fox camp won the battle within the Liberal movement to establish a school and had the extraordinary good fortune of finding a suitable property, the Bible House in Kooyong Road, Malvern, which was registered with the City Council as a school and which had just then come up for sale. They bought the property and opened a new sub-primary and primary school right in the heart of the area from which many of Bialik College’s pupils came. Inevitably, with parents free to weigh up the encumbrance of sending their children to Wantirna against the sheer convenience of delivering them to one in the immediate neighbourhood, the newly-opened King David School gained where Bialik College lost out.

Shlomo Uni served as Principal for four years and returned to Israel in 1974. By that time, the character and spirit of Bialik College was firmly established. Its distinctiveness from other existing schools was recognised and appreciated by the community at large. When we faced the problem of replacing Mr Uni, we had to face the fact, too, that the lack of continuity beyond four years at a time in the professional leadership of the school could only have adverse effects. By then, the original reasons which had prompted us to seek a headmaster from Israel were less compelling. Circumstances had changed. The school now had a junior Secondary school which it had not had before, while further extension into higher classes was also considered. Such expansion at that stage of the school’s existence could not be carried out with an impermanent headmaster. I faced a dilemma. My intuition was that it was time for a radical re-orientation in the internal leadership structure of the school. However, the large financial commitments incurred by the school, the uncertainties engendered by the possible split within the parent body, and the concern that the division of the school into two campuses, with the kindergartens and first two grades remaining in Shakespeare Grove, would require internal stability, persuaded me to postpone the break with established convention, and to seek out for one more term a principal from Israel. Shlomo Uni was thus in 1974 succeeded by Yehezkiel Meiri.

The arrival of Meiri and his wife Barbara coincided with an unsettling period at the school with the arguments over Wantirna still very audible. There were Bialik parents who continued actively to canvass anti-school sentiments, even though they had already determined to withdraw their children, giving little thought to the harm they were doing the school. It was scarcely an auspicious beginning for a new headmaster.

No sooner did the Meiris find their feet in their new milieu than the transfer of a part of the school to Wantirna had to be set in motion. The move took place during the second term vacations in August 1974, with fewer pupils than anticipated, particularly in the Junior Secondary division. Those children who did attend Wantirna loved their new environment immensely. To travel an extra ten minutes in the bus beyond Mount Scopus College was no problem to them; they enjoyed the ride. What was more, they looked forward to the spaciousness of the new surroundings, the fresh air and the beautiful scenery around them. Soon, we received reports from parents that their children were returning home, ravenous. Apparently the clean rustic air in which they spent the day markedly increased their appetites as though they were perpetually in a holiday setting.

A visit by Moshe Dayan to Bialik College at Wantirna. From left; Y. Meiri (principal) J. Solvey, C. Edwards, M. Dayan, the author, J. Pila.

Nineteen seventy-five passed, and the beginning of 1976 saw the same shortfall in numbers as before in that some parents did not send their children on to Wantirna, this stultifying the growth of the Upper Primary and Secondary divisions. The truth then began to sink in. Our argument – that the property at Wantirna was a mere seven minutes further away than Mount Scopus College – had overlooked a very basic detail; namely, that when Mount Scopus College bought its Burwood property and moved there, it had also done so against substantial parental opposition, but it had had no competition to worry about. If parents had wanted a Jewish education for their children, then they had to quell all objections. I had drawn upon that fact to persuade myself that, ultimately, the same would happen with the dissent of Bialik parents. But I had not reckoned with the alternatives that then existed.

We came increasingly to realise that the Wantirna experiment would not succeed. For me it was a moment of very bitter truth, for I had been the prime mover of the entire venture and I could not escape the moral responsibility for what was looming as a failure. The 1977 school year again brought an enrolment below expectations, and the fact could no longer be ignored. What was remarkable, however, was that despite the school’s stunted growth, its finances were maintained. Those were times when all private schools benefited from government subsidies for recurring expenses, without which not even the most solidly established school could carry its financial burdens alone. Just the same, while we coped with the financial aspects of running the school, the problem of its lack of growth nagged at me, robbing me of peace of mind and challenging my sense of communal responsibility. I kept asking myself repeatedly how we could now turn things around. To abandon the physical space and comfort of Wantirna would be a regressive step; on the other hand, where could one find comparable facilities in Melbourne’s inner suburbs in the late ‘70s, and, what was more, to find these at an affordable price? This dilemma taxed me constantly, and was superimposed on some other major decisions of a private nature I had to make at the time.

The next year, 1978, was the last of Yehezkiel Meiri’s tenure as principal. Deliberations over his replacement brought back the problem we had faced four years earlier, but far more starkly. For, despite the limited growth at the upper level of the College, the conviction grew among us that we must aim at a complete secondary school to meet the wishes of those parents who wanted their children to continue at Bialik. That year was thus destined to be one of far-reaching decision-making for Bialik College. It was also, still unbeknown to me, to be a year that held in store a terrible family problem for us.

The first decision we made was to review our policy of employing school principals from Israel. In the light of past experience and future plans, we made a most radical departure from precedent and decided to advertise the position worldwide, stressing the need for experience in secondary education.

David Goldsmith (principal) and author.

One application that caught our attention was from Michael Pincus from South Africa who was thirty years old at the time and was Vice-Principal of the Herzlia Primary School in Capetown. Another that merited serious consideration was from David Goldsmith from New Zealand who was then Principal of a government secondary school with 1300 pupils. After sifting through these and many other applications, the choice narrowed down to Pincus and Goldsmith. Pincus had in his favour the fact that he had worked in a Jewish day-school and would thus be familiar with the specific issues peculiar to such a school and the fine tuning involved in providing an integrated Jewish and general education. Against his appointment were his relative youth and the limit of his experience to the primary school sector. Goldsmith, on the other hand, had both age – he was forty-six years old – and experience in secondary education on his side. But he had no experience in Jewish education, he had not seen a Jewish day-school in operation, nor had he had the opportunity of any extensive Jewish learning in New Zealand.

We faced a dilemma, and the choice before us was not an easy one. One extra factor had to be considered before a final decision could be reached. This was the filling of a new position that had just been created, that of Director of Hebrew Studies. As long as the school’s headmasters came from Israel, the tasks of supervising Hebrew studies and setting the tone and spirit of the school were given over to them. However, with the switch to a non-Israeli as headmaster, a need for a director of Hebrew studies became crucial. It went without saying that this position could only be filled by an Israeli. With the establishment of this position, some of David Goldsmith’s shortcomings became less weighty, and it was his experience in secondary education that finally tipped the balance in his favour. In mid-1978, the School Council invited him for interview and further appraisal, and in December 1978, he and his family arrived in Melbourne.

There were two major priorities facing Bialik College in 1979: the appointment of a Director of Hebrew Studies and a search for alternative premises to those at Wantirna.

To secure the former, advertisements were placed in the Israeli press, these attracting 70 applicants. Meanwhile, with regard to our second priority – the search for suitable property – we followed every lead, spending days and weeks inspecting anything that sounded even remotely suitable, but, for all that, without reward. Our frustration continued to mount until, one day, on returning from an inspection of one property, we passed through Tooronga Road and noticed an estate agent’s billboard attached to a fence announcing the auction of three-and-a-half acres of land fronting Auburn and Tooronga Roads. The property was owned by Nu-Brick and was a landmark in the area with its huge chimneys dominating the skyline. Beside the land was a multi-acre pit which served as a source of raw material for its brick production. The lay-out of the place, its kilns and unusual structures presented more of a moonscape than a future school site. Nevertheless, we were instantly attracted to the place and recognised its potential. On returning, I phoned the estate agents handling the property and learned from them that the firm of solicitors acting on behalf of the vendors was N. Jacobson, Chamberlain and Casen. This was a good omen, for the same firm were the honorary solicitors for Bialik College. I followed this call with another, this time to Max Casen who was handling the matter and obtained more information, whereupon I called together my executive and, after an inspection of the property, decided to bid at the forthcoming auction. The agents had foreshadowed a sale price in the vicinity of one million dollars, but this seemed to us an unrealistic expectation, and we were not dissuaded. On behalf of the College, I visited the bank manager, Mr Tickel, of the ANZ Bank in Little Collins Street, who promised to inspect the locality and returned enthusiastic about the site’s potential. I negotiated bridging finance in the event of acquiring the land and, given the unpredictability of auctions, awaited this one with some anxiety and not a little trepidation. While waiting for that day to arrive, we continued nonetheless to make further enquiries from the local authorities. It so happened that the property lay within the farthest boundary of the Hawthorn City Council to which our Shakespeare Grove property also belonged. We learned from the Surveyors’ Office that not many enquiries had been received regarding the land. As for the Council’s attitude to a school being erected there, we found initial reaction to be positive. We had ourselves reasoned that the Council would be favourably disposed to the idea, for it carried with it the possibility that Bialik College might in time transfer its sub-primary division from the Shakespeare Grove campus, thereby relieving it of its continuing headache there. We learned further that the pit beside the brickworks, which had belonged to the Board of Works, had been handed over to the Council which had intended to fill it and subsequently convert it to a 15-acre park and sporting complex for the locality. This information was of particular interest to us, as this complex could also become a natural sports facility for the school if our bid proved successful. What detracted from all this was the more unsettling information we gained that the Freeway Authority had the site in its own sights as a possible compensatory offer of parkland to the public in exchange for land used in its future planned extension of the nearby South-Eastern Freeway, such compensation being in keeping with its charter. I, therefore, visited the head of the Authority and was shown its plans in relation to the Nu-Brik property, and left with a distinct feeling that its interest in it was marginal. Even so, the situation cast a long shadow over our attitude to the property and caused me additional anxiety. I apprised the school executive of my apprehensions in the light of the Authority’s intentions, but we decided that the risk was worth taking, reasoning that similar uncertainties would have a dampening effect on other potential buyers and, hence, upon the price. The decision weighed on my mind nonetheless.

Those who attended the auction on the school’s behalf were Lionel Krongold, John Eisner, Eddie Kutner and myself. We placed a bid for a half-million dollars. There were no other bids, and the property was passed in. We proved ourselves the only interested party and thus became the subject of the vendor’s attention, whereupon the agents were in constant touch with me, repeatedly probing into our intentions and gently drawing us towards a higher offer for the land. To the extent that it seemed that we were the only prospective buyers, I felt that a cool and detached attitude on our part was the most sensible. Thus, after two months of mutual manoeuvring, we offered $600,000. For me, those were nerve-racking weeks. I knew only too well that the opportunity that here existed was the very thing I had wanted for the school and I asked myself repeatedly whether it was really true and reachable. Yet, I had, as the school’s representative in the negotiations, to remain completely in cool control, no matter how keen we were to buy the land. Then, one day I received a call from the agent advising that another party was showing interest in the property. At first, I suspected that this might be an agent’s tactic to press for a decision from the buyer. But truth was that another party did indeed show interest and had increased the offer by $25,000 over the $650,000 we had by that time gone up to. The situation became critical. The gravity of the situation was compounded by an obscure real-estate agent who called on me and talked about the property as if he had already acquired it on behalf of the other party. That other buyer had already lodged for approval a preliminary application with the City Council for the building of an extensive indoor sports centre on the site. The subtlety of the visit was not lost on me. I realised the school was in a touch-and-go situation. Forty-eight agonising hours followed. We had to improve upon the bid to regain the vendor’s interest in us. We thereupon made an offer of $685,000 which was accepted, much to our collective elation and to my personal relief. We won the toss by virtue of the fact that we already possessed Council approval for our plans while the other party had still to wait for a reply.

The joy and relief in obtaining the land were indescribable. After having searched for suitable grounds for all of eight years, we could scarcely have anticipated that such land could be found so near to Toorak Road, right in the heart where so many of the school’s children lived, and 15 kilometres nearer than Wantirna. The parents, too, were ecstatic in approval; we welcomed the change from the battles that had waged over the preceding four years; while the school’s stocks soared and a new interest in its future became immediately apparent.

The task before us was enormous as it was urgent. The Wantirna campus was placed on the market with a price tag of one million dollars. This figure also represented the projected cost of building the new school. A first priority was for a major sponsor for the project with naming rights, coupled with a need for an urgent appeal for funds. As we tried to cope with these issues, we were approached by the neighbouring shoe-firm Ezywalkin whose warehouse fronted Auburn Road whose land was encroached upon by our own irregular border. What Ezywalkin proposed was a boon to us. The firm owned a strip of land along a lane on our site which it offered to exchange for that bit of land that protruded into its property, so that it could be bordered by a straight line. We accepted the offer which gained us 6,000 square feet of land over and above that which we gave away. The transaction also opened for us the use of the lane as a direct driveway into the car-park, thereby reducing the traffic in the main campus area.

On behalf of the College, Lionel Krongold approached the Smorgon family who agreed to meet with us. Basic plans, drawings and costs were by then in hand and a delegation consisting of Lionel, Sam Lipski and myself travelled to Brooklyn for the appointment. Victor and Sam Smorgon, surrounded by other members of the family, gave us an attentive hearing. After Lionel introduced Sam Lipski and myself, Sam spoke about the needs in Jewish education at the time and I followed with a presentation of the actual scheme in all its detail. We were then asked some pertinent business-like questions which I answered to their satisfaction. Specifically, what we had come to ask for was a donation of $200,000 towards the cost of building the school. During the interview, a secretary entered to convey to Victor Smorgon a message that Canada was on the phone for him. He instructed her to inform the caller that he would have to call back in half an hour as he was presently engaged. Hearing this, I was amazed and heartened that he should give our delegation such priority and undistracted attention over what had presumably been an important overseas call. The questioning over, the family retired to another room. Within five minutes, they returned, with Victor Smorgon saying, “We have decided not to bargain with you. We will give you the $200,000 you asked for.” Further agreement on specific details followed, after which Victor turned to me to ask a variety of questions about myself. This led him, in turn, to reminisce about his own life and his past and I felt a bond being established between us. He seemed in no hurry to dismiss us despite the fact that it was a mid-morning hour of business, and both he and Sam Smorgon gave the impression that they derived genuine satisfaction from the gesture they had just made towards Bialik College. When we left, our spirits were high. What buoyed me up most and gave me renewed courage was not only the substantial monetary pledge, but also the incident relating to the call from Canada. For, more than anything, it made me appreciate as much the manner in which the pledge was given as the actual amount that was given. I have not forgotten the gesture. The first main building erected, to consist of twenty-four classrooms and associated amenities, was, when completed, to carry the name Smorgon Family House.

The project was thus off to an excellent start. News of the Smorgon donation spread like wildfire throughout the community, for until then, no other Jewish school had succeeded in obtaining a single donation of that magnitude. It gave us heart to approach other people. We visited Jack Liberman, a grandparent of children at the school, for a sizeable donation which he promised to consider. He subsequently acceded to the request, displaying a manner in the giving which was also heartwarming and encouraging. A floor in the new building was named after the Libermans in recognition of the donation.

A similar donation was negotiated with David Bardas, given for the specific purpose of erecting a sports pavilion in the future (I personally regret that, to this time, no such pavilion has yet been built, though I have reason to believe that it will soon materialise).

Following these approaches, a successful campaign was undertaken to “sell” rooms in the new building. As the plans for the building were being considered, it was decided to display them in the staff room for teacher comment. It turned out to be a wise, if costly, idea, for one of the teachers suggested that every two classrooms should share a smaller remedial room between them which would facilitate more individual teaching and activities as the need arose. Although the innovation was to add an extra $150,000 to the cost of building the school, which we could ill afford, we nonetheless adopted the revised plan, for it gave us a built-in expansion potential and prospects for enhanced manoeuvrability with smaller classrooms in the future.

The problem of raising finances remained with us. A renewed application for assistance from the Schools Commission was rejected, despite personal representation by Nathan Kuperholz, who was Honorary Secretary of the College, and myself before a meeting of its Victorian division under the chairmanship of Sir Louis Matheson. The only concession to which they agreed was the transfer of the residue of equity in the Wantirna project upon its sale towards financing the erection of the Auburn Road building. A search in the money market led us to the superannuation fund of the Gas and Fuel Corporation who were prepared to remit the $1,150,000 required, provided that the loan was guaranteed by the Victorian Government. Provisions for such guarantees were in force and theoretically feasible. Nathan Kuperholz, who, as well as being the school’s Honorary Secretary, was also its Honorary Solicitor, took all legal steps to obtain the required guarantee. With its procurement, the finance for the project was secure. The loan obtained was for a period of ten years at 11.5% interest, or $132,000 per annum, payable quarterly.

Lionel Krongold who headed a construction firm won the contract to build the school, and work started as soon as a building permit was obtained. The proximity of Joshua Pila’s architect’s office to the building site proved very beneficial as it permitted a degree of supervision otherwise hard to achieve. It must also be recorded that Joshua Pila charged half the scheduled fee for his services, which barely covered his costs, and he must thus be deemed to have given those services in an honorary capacity.

While the school’s construction was proceeding, the Hawthorn City Council set about filling the excavations beside our property, and by the time our own project was ready, the Council’s work, too, was completed and thus fifteen acres of potential playing fields and sports facilities had become available. The time taken for earth to settle is ten to fifteen years. Hence, those grounds are still awaiting final grading and conversion to a public sporting amenity which will, in time, greatly facilitate the needs of both Bialik College and Gardiner High School on the other side of the field.

At the same time, Mr Sam Kliger who acted as our agent for Wantirna advised us that Taylor’s Coaching College was interested in purchasing the property. After lengthy negotiations, we sold Wantirna for $825,000. The sum obtained covered the cost of the land and the buildings as well as the interest we had paid during our period of ownership. Some $500,000 of the money received was used to repay the ANZ Bank’s bridging loan for the Auburn property and $300,000 was set aside for the proposed sports pavilion. The Wantirna campus closed at the end of 1980 and the 1981 school year was inaugurated at Auburn Road.

The official opening of the new school took place on August 16, 1981, in the presence of His Excellency, the Governor General Sir Zelman and Lady Cowen, numerous dignitaries and a crowd of 1,000 people accommodated in a large marquee erected specially for the purpose. It was a festive and memorable occasion.

As already indicated, the move met with enthusiastic parent response and pupil enrolments grew. By the second year of operation, in 1982, the entire building was occupied and we began to talk of plans for expansion which seemed warranted on the basis of forward predictions of enrolments. The school’s executive and committee were at the time pre-occupied with material issues and did not have sufficient time to attend to other aspects of the school’s development. As we settled into the new premises, however, and the immediate financial and technical pressures upon us were brought under control, new matters relating to the educational administration of the College, with associated disaffection surfaced among parents to claim our attention.

The author greeting the G.G. Sir Zelman Cowen on arrival for the opening of the new college campus at Auburn Rd. Hawthorn in 1981.

In accord with the original contract, David Goldsmith and his wife embarked on a world trip in 1982, with special emphasis placed on Canada, South Africa and Israel which had much to offer in terms of established practices of Jewish education. In 1982, also, a need became apparent for a second-in-command to take charge of the primary division with its 350 children. In South Africa, where David Goldsmith attended a national conference of Jewish educators to which he had been invited, a young man caught his attention. Goldsmith approached him and sounded him out as to whether he would be interested in a vice-principal’s position in Melbourne. That man proved to be none other than Michael Pincus who had been David Goldsmith’s chief contender for the Principal’s position. On his return, Goldsmith, unaware that Michael Pincus’ name and background were familiar to us, reported that Pincus was interested in coming to Australia. On the strength of this report, the Council decided to invite Pincus, reasoning that with the appointment of a vice-principal, some of the administration problems might be alleviated. We were pleased to meet with Pincus in Melbourne and to learn that he was prepared to consider the vice-principal position, notwithstanding that he was a principal in his own right in Capetown. For our part, we had no doubt about his suitability and we offered him the post. He returned to South Africa, promising to answer in due course.

Part of the crowd at the opening ceremony of the SMORGON FAMILY HOUSE. Sitting from left; Mr. W. Jona M.P., Mrs. & Mr. Victor Smorgon, Mrs. L. Kipen, Sir Zelman Cowen, the author, Lady Cowen, Mr. & Mrs. D. Goldsmith, the Mayor of Hawthorn Councilor Wunderlich and Mrs. Wunderlich, Mr & Mrs. Sam Smorgon.

At the school’s Annual General Meeting held in November 1981, I gave public notice of my intention to retire, agreeing, however, to accept the Presidency for one more year. I had by then been involved with the school for eighteen years, fifteen of them as President. The time had come for me to withdraw. Had the Wantirna venture succeeded, I would have retired earlier, but I felt morally obliged to resolve the impasse. By the time I did resolve it and saw, as well, a new magnificent property secure in the hands of the College, I felt I would be handing over to new blood an established and well-regarded school.

In 1982, the College invited a team of educational experts from Monash University headed by Dr Paul Gardner to assess and report on all aspects of the school’s activities. The three-man panel probed deeply into the whole structure and functioning of the institution and presented the School Council with a wide-ranging report that contained both criticisms and recommendations.

The Annual General Meeting in 1982 elected John Serry to the College Presidency at the head of a newly-elected Council on my assurance that I would not walk out of the school upon his doing so. At that meeting I delivered my final report and a supplementary address which was received with a standing ovation. I had by then completed nineteen years of uninterrupted involvement with the College.

With the school’s presidency lifted from my shoulders, I enjoyed that year’s summer vacation at our Mt. Martha home. John Serry, however, found the burdens of office overwhelming and after three months, he unfortunately resigned. The action was a serious blow to the new executive and threw it into chaos. Lionel Krongold, as the senior Vice-President, had to stand in as Acting President and deal, among other matters, with the painful issue of the Principal’s continuing employment. Serry’s resignation led, in turn, to David Goldsmith’s retirement in March 1983.

As a consequence of Goldsmith’s departure, the credibility of the new administration was called into serious question. Each Council member recognised that steps had to be taken to restore public trust and confidence in the school. With this consideration uppermost, I was approached to resume again the leadership of the Council. I was thus placed in an unenviable position. I recognised that if I declined the request to return, I would be blamed for any further unpredictable, and possibly regrettable sequence of events. After considerable agonising, I acceded to the executive’s request on the clear understanding that I would, under no circumstances, stay in office beyond the end of 1983. The condition was accepted, and Lionel Krongold, heaving a sigh of relief, handed over “the ship of state”, himself resigning from the executive shortly after.

The task that faced me was daunting. Menachem Zimet, Director of Jewish Studies, had, on Goldsmith’s departure, been prevailed upon to step in as Acting Principal. My own first act on resuming the Presidency was to contact Abe Feiglin, former Headmaster of Mount Scopus College, inviting him to come out of retirement and take on the management of the College as interim School Administrator. Within forty-eight hours of my resumption of office, Abe Feiglin was installed. He, too, confronted an unenviable task. But the very fact that a man of his calibre and experience was at the helm of the College gave staff and parents some comfort about the immediate future. Abe Feiglin, in turn, gave of himself unstintingly to restore an atmosphere of calm and confidence to the daily running of the school.

Having secured Abe Feiglin for the school, I turned next to the delicate task of renegotiating terms and conditions with Michael Pincus who was due to assume the role of Vice-Principal in July 1983. I knew only too well that the events of February and March 1983 might well have decided him against coming. It took much patience and calm persuasion to restore his confidence in his decision and purpose in the steps he had already taken to organise his family’s departure. At the same time, I knew, too, that the installation of a third person within six months as Principal of the College would renew difficulties of adjustment for the staff and uncertainty among parents, but the appointment of a permanent head was a necessity I had to see through. Abe Feiglin stood by the school magnanimously, giving to it all of his accumulated experience, authority and teacher support, these contributing greatly to staff satisfaction. He was equally accommodating when Michael Pincus arrived in early July, stepping back graciously into the shadows to permit the new Principal to establish his authority and style. By common consensus, which incorporated a request by Pincus himself, Abe Feiglin remained at the College until the end of the 1983 school year.

That same year had been a time of considerable anxiety for all private schools in Australia and for Jewish school in particular. In that year, a federal Labor government was returned under the Prime Ministership of Bob Hawke, while Labor under Premier John Cain also consolidated itself in Victoria. The Federal Minister for Education was Susan Ryan who, as a former spokesperson arguing in favour of the state school system, was not expected to have any particular political or emotional sympathy for private schools. While private schools in general had cause for concern, Jewish school had still more, for, over and above the staff required for the teaching of regular subjects, these also needed substantial numbers of extra teachers for the teaching of Jewish subjects. Categories of schools in terms of entitlement to government assistance were determined by means of a computer-model based on a staff-student ratio. According to the model, most Jewish school, by virtue of their extra staff, thus fell into Category A, in company with the richest and most endowed school. What the model did not allow for, apart from the extra financial demands made by the provision of Jewish studies, was the fact that Jewish school, without exception, were open to every child who wished to attend, irrespective of whether or not the parents could afford to pay. Thus, about 20% of children in all Jewish schools were either given free tuition or received very substantial concessions. These factors in combination imposed severe financial strains upon Jewish schools. When, therefore, Senator Ryan in 1983 announced a 50% cut in subsidies to Category A schools, it augured financial disaster for Jewish schools in particular. As if that action, at a federal level, was insufficient, the State Labor government, too, which shared the federal purse on a dollar-for-dollar basis in subsiding schools’ recurring expenses, began at the same time to cut its subsidies to kindergartens by 75%. Jewish day-schools faced ruin. In response, the Organisation of Jewish Day-Schools in Australia, headed jointly by Professor Ron Sackville in Sydney and Arnold Bloch in Melbourne, geared into concerted action. The Melbourne committee, which consisted of representatives of all Jewish schools of which I was a member, worked hard at the highest levels to persuade the authorities of the specific disadvantages faced by Jewish schools. The issue of subsidies to private schools had become a political issue in the community at large, and, with about 28% of all Australian children attending private schools, the cut-back in those subsidies carried major political and electoral implications for the Hawke Government. It took almost two years for the Ministry of Education to accept our argument supported by exhaustively detailed submissions to keep expenditure in Hebrew studies separate from the school’s general administration costs, so that an equitable comparison of income and expenditure and staff-student ratio could be made for purposes of categorisation of Jewish schools within the broader framework.

Until the argument was accepted, however, Bialik College in 1983 faced a shortfall in government subsidies for 1984 of $130,000, this amount representing 10% of its annual budget. This was not the only shortfall that confronted it. As the year drew to a close, it became apparent that, as a consequence of the disruptions earlier in the year, 1984 would see a sharp and larger than expected decline in student enrolments. The ensuing loss of revenue from this source combined with the reduction in subsidies foreshadowed a deficit for 1984 of $250,000.

Bearing in mind that, at the end of 1983, I would be handing over the reins to a new management, I wanted to ensure that I was not leaving it with an insupportable burden. Also, Bialik College could ill afford to accept a deficit of a quarter-million dollars. Hence, I called for a detailed review of existing and projected staff-student and class-pupil ratios, and, on analysing the information received, I saw that there was room for economy. When, however, I called the executive together to discuss the budgetary forecasts for 1984 and presented Michael Pincus with my figures, he flatly refused to put my recommendations into effect. Pincus had by then been in Australia only a few months and did not yet appreciate the particular conditions under which we functioned. He believed that if he stood firm and defended his staff, the executive would in time find the ways and means to bridge the enormous financial gap which stared at us from our documents. That meeting ended in deadlock. When we convened again – I had meanwhile talked in private with both Pincus and Zimet – Pincus conceded to reducing staff by one and a half teachers, but no more. Further explanation, reasoning and pleading with him at both this meeting and at a third held in November on the eve of my retirement failed to budge him. While there was not a shadow of doubt in my mind that at least four or five teachers could be stood down through a re-organisation of classes in 1984, he refused to countenance even this compromise. In the end, after much debate, a motion was moved to accept the Principal’s staffing figures. It passed with my sole dissenting vote. With that decision, I told the executive, it had that day bankrupted the school. Most of the members there knew in their heart of hearts that I was right, while I left the meeting with a sense of doom. My twenty years of service to the College left me with no illusions of the ultimate implications of that decision.

The Annual General Meeting that year was a muted affair. I stepped down and the Presidency passed to Jeff Mahemoff. He had by then had a long association with Bialik College as a member both of the Council and the executive. It must be stated that he had not been a member of the executive in the latter half of 1983 and that, therefore, he had played no part in the decisions of the out-going committee. He thus inherited a burden resulting from a vote taken by others, the consequences of which they would not need to shoulder.

In the attempt to raise funds, an early effort was indeed made by the new executive. A specific chairman to plan and launch an appeal was appointed and elaborate plans were outlined. But little eventuated. This failure seemed to seal the financial fate of the school. What was more, my predictions made in 1983 materialised in 1984 with accelerated speed. When I left, the school’s overdraft on existing accounts stood at $150,000. A further sum of $120,000 was kept in a separate account to cover teachers’ holiday pay. The $300,000 put aside from the sale of the Wantirna land and ear-marked for the building of a sports pavilion was safely invested and brought $35,000 per annum. The picture 12 months later at the end of 1984 was different. The College now owed the bank $427,000, and by the time the executive presented its forecast for 1985, it faced a further deficit of more than $400,000. With every month that passed in 1985, the situation grew more desperate, and, to resolve it, Bialik College had only two viable options. These were either to close the school altogether or to amalgamate with the only other school that could absorb its financial troubles. As total closure was unthinkable, delicate and covert negotiations were undertaken over a period of three months with Mount Scopus College. The proposed amalgamation of the two schools was made public by Mr Phil Symons, President of Mount Scopus College, on July 1, 1985, at a monthly meeting of the Victorian Jewish Board of Deputies.

Resigned to the inevitability of the situation, Bialik’s executive and Council had to face the parents and reveal the well-kept secret of the school’s financial straits and, in addition, the prospect of its proposed amalgamation with Mount Scopus College. The president’s report fell like a bombshell upon the parents. They were dismayed at the news but, to the executive’s surprise, did not accept the amalgamation as inevitable. Some parents rejected the notion altogether and chided the executive for not taken them into its confidence much earlier. Three parents in particular stood out against amalgamation. They were Mark Blankfield, Leigh Goldbloom and Steve Horton, who urged that any action on amalgamation be postponed, pending discussion by a group of parent volunteers and elaboration of a possible solution. At this, a committee consisting of 25 parents was formed with the express purpose of saving the school’s identity and independence. They undertook to return with alternative proposals within one month. They proved as good as their word and subsequently presented an elaborate, complex and foolproof scheme of solving the school’s financial troubles. The scheme was based on a two-pronged action. They proposed, first, that a minimum of 171 parents commit themselves to a five-year advance payment of fees in co-ordination with a bank, and, second, that an appeal be set in train to raise one million dollars over the same period. The scheme was ingenious, the arithmetic correct and the commitment to it highly enthusiastic. While the scheme was being devised, this new volunteer committee prepared the ground to gain from the parents a positive response, while the executive kept Mount Scopus College abreast with developments. Much to everybody’s surprise, the required number of parents promptly signed the new fee arrangement, thereby putting new heart into the dispirited and dejected executive. With one leg of the rescue operation so successfully attained, the College decided to turn to the community for funds. Buoyed by parent backing and with excellent and open publicity, it set itself a timetable of four weeks to raise the required one million dollars. Within that month, the appeal committee, headed by Goldbloom, raised $1.2 million from less than 200 donors. The College was saved.

This remarkable drama played out in full public view, through the pages of the weekly Australian Jewish News, thrilled parents, School Council and the Jewish community alike. Contained within the story were more than one lesson for the Melbourne Jewish community which has never failed any worthwhile cause directed towards its self-preservation and advancement. The most important lesson of all, as I saw it, was the existence within the younger generation of a wealth of talent and sense of public responsibility that could with such élan and dedication galvanise it to action in an hour of need. Ability, coupled with sincerity, and topped with youthful energy created a heady brew to inspire in any community a belief in its self-worth and capacity for continuity and renewal. For communal workers of my age, this was the greatest gift I could ever have wished to receive.

The finale to the Bialik saga to this stage proves the old Hebrew adage that “there is nothing that stands in the way of the will”. It must be recorded that Jeff Mahemoff as College President was the decisive factor in the last-minute turn-around in the school’s fortunes. He found in himself the strength and endurance to lead under very demanding circumstances and to him is due to a large degree the credit for the success of the communal appeal.

16

1961-86

As is clear from the previous chapter, my main communal preoccupation between 1963 and 1983 revolved around Bialik College. Also, in 1963, at the behest of Lily Solvey, I served as President of the United Jewish Education Board’s Annual Appeal. The Board then had greater communal validity and a much wider body of adherents and supporters than today. The Appeal was launched in the presence of the Victorian Minister of Education, Mr Bloomfield, and set a record in the moneys raised. Midway through the Appeal, I took ill and was compelled to withdraw.

With regard to my business concerns, the 1960s were a time of intense activity and readjustment. As anticipated, my involvement with Coles progressively declined and I set to manufacturing men’s and boys’ knitwear for the wider Australian market. The nature of business at large also changed. Emphasis on mass production of a few basic lines was giving way to a more specific market orientation which required an awareness both of trends in fashions and of the technical ability to produce the required merchandise at the right time. This, in turn, involved a constant investment in new machinery to satisfy the particular demands of the market, the establishment of a distribution network with representatives in all states and in country areas, and a new assertiveness. Having by then been so steeped in the production of basic merchandise, and having little artistic flair for fashion, I continued to produce basic lines in men’s wear. In favour of this approach was the fact that such merchandise did not tend to date. However, if one had the flair and was attuned and ready with the right product to the call of the market, the remunerative rewards were usually greater, provided one knew also when to withdraw a given line. My goods received a good reception, their reputation for quality became firmly established and their penetration into the market was rapid. Being free, between 1960 and 1963, of any communal leadership responsibilities, I was able to concentrate on building up the new arm of my business. I travelled a great deal, met major buyers and assisted sales agents wherever they were. With Sydney accounting for the largest market, I visited the city often and established sound relations with leading people in the knitwear trade. It was gratifying to me that, during the ‘sixties, my productive potential was pushed to capacity to meet demand and that throughout that decade I did not know a single slack period, and this despite the fact that 1961 was a year of recession.

The author with the Victorian Minister of Education Mr. Bloomfield at the opening of the United Jewish Education Board appeal in 1963.

That same era of the ‘sixties was marked, however, by two developments that could not be ignored.

First, the market for the first time in twenty years showed signs of over-supply. The war-time shortages had by then been filled, continuous public buying had abated and the market was satiated. Had it not been for the immense post-war migration, the boom would have slowed down much earlier.

More threatening still to the knitting industry was the sudden appearance in Australia of Asian knitted goods at absurdly low prices. By the mid-’sixties, the knitting industry at home recognised it faced a major challenge to its existence and saw that unless organised action was undertaken at a national level, its future would be grim.

The knitting industry in Hong Kong, Taiwan, Korea and other Asian cities was making enormous strides. It concentrated on a range of new products with a view to challenging the industry worldwide by penetrating markets in North America, Europe and Australia through the low cost of its products and establishment of international fashion trends, this in turn creating a demand for the imported goods in preference to the local ones. What was clear was that the situation was not one of fair competition. Australia, where the cost of labour at the time was $2.00 per hour, could in no way compete with countries paying a meagre $0.20 per hour. The only way to protect the industry was to regulate the volume of imports and thus prevent a flooding of the market. Meanwhile, there were businessmen and manufacturers who sensed new opportunities, obtained import licences and, suddenly, knitwear poured in. The Knitting Council of Australia through the Chambers of Manufacturers in Melbourne and Sydney undertook urgent and sustained action to bring the matter to government attention. In response, a quota system was introduced and bounties and other measures were applied, but the tide of imports was unstoppable. Import figures climbed alarmingly. A national debate about the merits of the local industry began. An Industry Assistance Commission inquiry was set up to analyse the situation, directed by the Department of Customs which, historically, was influenced by the traditionally anti-manufacturing Country Party. Submissions were sought, individual manufacturers were interviewed and proper protocol was adhered to, but the net result was at best unhelpful.

Textiles, footwear and motor cars were the most vulnerable products challenged by cheap imports. To exacerbate matters, a debate among economists bracketed these industries together and branded them as “inefficient”. This was a reckless and cruel generalisation. Admittedly, Australia’s car industry, in the wake of its limited market and short production runs, could not compete with Japan’s mass production methods which challenged even the mighty motor manufacturers of the United States. To bracket labour-intensive industries such as those of clothing and footwear together with such highly automated industries as motor-car production, and then pronounce them uniformly as inefficient was patently wrong, unfair and mischievous. One scarcely needed to be an economist to understand that labour costing $2.00 per hour could not compete with labour costing a mere twenty cents. That automated machinery imported from England or Germany worked at the same speeds whether installed in Melbourne or Hong Kong was obvious. But one could not measure with the same yardstick two industries in which one paid its workforce in aggregate holiday pay almost as much as the other paid its worker for a whole year’s labour. Yet some economists writing for the media added insult to injury and denigrated an entire industry over circumstances beyond its control.

I became involved in the work of the Victorian Knitting Council as a member of its management committee. We were under no illusions regarding the future of the industry in the face of the challenges before it. The Liberal-Country Party of the day seemed unmoved by its plight, although one exception was the Federal Leader of the Country Party and Minister for Commerce and Industry, Mr John McEwen. Despite the Country Party’s long-entrenched stand against secondary industry, he showed insight into the ramifications of the gathering disaster and went out of his way to assist industry, fight its detractors and counter the negativism of the Industries Assistance Commission.

I appeared twice before the commission of enquiry of the Industries Assistance Commission. The first coincided with an historic day – that of the American landing on the moon. The event was of such universal interest that, at the expected time of the landing, the Commission hearing was interrupted, a television set was installed in the room and all watched astronaut Armstrong set foot upon the moon. That simple interruption cast a new light upon the hearing. For, after witnessing the achievements of modern technology, the issues we were dealing with seemed to be trivial and in universal terms insignificant. Nonetheless, for the knitting industry, survival seemed as difficult a feat as the spectacle we had just witnessed. The Melbourne Knitting Industries Council was headed by Jack Brady, the Chairman of Crestknit. He was a determined leader and fighter for the industry. His connections were good, his standing vis-a-vis the authorities as head of Australia’s largest knitwear manufacturing firm commanded attention. All leading firms joined a concerted action undertaken at federal and state levels. The Director of the Victorian Chamber of Commerce was then Ian McPhee, later to become a member of the Liberal Party’s shadow cabinet under John Howard. Brian Powell took over from McPhee on the latter’s entry into parliament. The Associated Chambers of Manufacturers offices in Canberra under Mr Henderson worked hard to present the knitting industry’s case to the government. The Textile Workers Union, too, with its membership of 130,000 joined the fight. Country communities where a knitting factory was a major source for employment, particularly for women, stood to lose a significant part of their already shaky economic base. But even this did not help. The economists, through the media, continued to assail the industry with charges of inefficiency; they persuaded public opinion to think of it likewise. The Liberal Party, then in government, became increasingly immune to the industry’s appeals. The upshot of all this was that imports continued to grow, commercial activity, retail and service industries entered into an ascendancy, while manufacturing became a dirty word and looked upon as a relic of a bygone age.

In 1970, Jack Brady stood down from the chairmanship of the Victorian Knitting Industries Council and pressure was put upon me to take over. On looking back, it is clear that Brady had judged the situation hopeless. The fact that I commanded neither his prestige nor connections seemed no longer to matter. I regret having accepted the chairmanship. What my period in office amounted to were four years of frustration. I had continually to fight a rearguard action with little chance of success. We continued to call meetings of members which were well-attended. People let off steam and sought eleventh-hour solutions. But the writing was on the wall. Overseas reports told of a decimated knitting industry in the United States. Television programs screened pictures of idle knitting plants in North America, these reinforcing in the public mind the inevitability of the accelerated decline of an industry which, a mere decade earlier, had been justly proud of its role in Australia’s economic life. By the turn of the ‘seventies, my firm had successfully exported a particular line to Canada; it had received high praise from the Australian commercial attaché on the West Coast of North America; it had drawn laudatory letters from consumers abroad. But nothing helped.

In 1972, Australia had a change of government. For a brief period, industry believed that a Whitlam Labor government would take a different view on an issue that meant the preservation of tens of thousands of jobs in Australia. But the ensuing revaluation of the dollar combined with a major liberalisation of imports dissipated any such hope. Changes of ministers holding the industry portfolio made it even more difficult to establish dialogue at ministerial level. Lionel Bowen was distraught when, on assuming the portfolio of Commerce and Industry, he learnt what had happened to the knitting industry. When James McLelland took it over, however, he found it necessary to advise that knitting manufacturers would be wise not to invest in new machinery.

In 1974, I resigned as Chairman of the Victorian Knitting Industries Council. By then, I had been led to think seriously and critically about my very future in the industry. There was little objective reason for me to persist and, the following year, I took the actual decision to disengage. It subsequently took two years to wind up the business, culminating in the auction of the machinery in November 1977.

Our daughter, Aviva, who became a teacher, had married by then. From 1978, she lived abroad, both in Belgium and the United States. She is currently in London studying at the Leo Baeck Institute.

The major problem with which I had to grapple then was a purely personal one; namely, what did a man of 57 do after thirty years of business and of more than normal exertion. The notion of retirement was both psychologically and existentially unacceptable to me. I knew that I wanted one thing more in my life. That was to make good the lost opportunities of the past and resume tertiary studies. My wife Laura encouraged me in this. But doubts then rose to the fore. Would a university accept me at my age? Would I be capable of studying in a formal and sustained manner? Would my knowledge of English, never formally studied, be adequate to meet tertiary requirements? In the hope that some way might be found to overcome these obstacles, I obtained translations of all documents I still possessed from the University of Warsaw and applied for admission to Melbourne and Monash Universities. Each rejected my application. A late application, made in desperation, to LaTrobe University met with the same fate. I decided, however, not to give up. Figuring that LaTrobe may be the most amenable, I sought personal interviews, repeatedly failing until a Dr Hewish from the Department of History agreed to talk to me. I presented my case and handed my documents to him. His initial response was that while he accepted the fact that I had matriculated and been accepted into Warsaw University, he could not be sure that after an interval of almost forty years I would be capable of studying. At that moment, I knew that unless I could offer a satisfactory answer to this most basic reservation, my chances were nil. So I searched my mind and referred to a number of academics at both Melbourne and Monash Universities whom I knew personally and who could vouch for me. I named other professors, too, as potential referees, but it was only when I mentioned one more who was then teaching at LaTrobe that Dr Hewish looked at me, said, “You are accepted”, and handed me a note addressed to the university secretariat with instructions to enrol me. On passing me the note, Dr Hewish asked why I had not used such personal contacts when I had been rejected by the other universities. I replied that it had simply not occurred to me to do so.

I enrolled in the Department of Arts and took Politics, Philosophy and American History as my first-year subjects. I left La Trobe University a very happy and contented man that morning, secure in the knowledge of what I would be doing for the ensuing three years. At the same time, I also enrolled at Melbourne University in Year 1 Hebrew for the study of Hebrew language and literature as a non-accredited student in a course of continuing education, this being an alternative to matriculation.

So, in March 1977, at the age of 58, I started my university career from scratch. I was very fortunate with my lecturers. First-year Politics was conducted by Hugo Wolfsohn, who, in a course popular with all, developed a most comprehensive foundation to political theory. I enjoyed every minute of it. American History was taught by Dr Schulz, who conducted his own tutorials, while Philosophy was split between three lecturers, each teaching for a term.

In that same year, 1977, Professor Moshe Peli came from New York and presented a series of lectures in Hebrew Literature in the Department of Middle Eastern Studies at Melbourne University. He took an interest in me and probed me about my presence in a first year course. Shortly after, the late Dudley Hallam, who was then Head of the Department, came up to me at one of his lectures. He was concerned, he said, about maintaining my interest in the faculty curriculum and was forthwith promoting me to second year. The promotion was apparently a consequence of Moshe Peli’s intervention. I completed my first year at LaTrobe University with excellent results, gaining an A+ in History which was the second such grade that Dr Schulz had ever awarded. As a consequence of my performance, I received letters from each of my subject departments inviting me to enrol for an Honours degree in their respective disciplines. Armed with these results, I decided instead to try again to gain entry into Melbourne. This time, I had no difficulties and was eagerly accepted into the Faculty of Arts. That year proved one of the happiest in my life, and I could not have hoped for an easier transition from one lifestyle to another. I had worked hard, but for the first time in many years I was doing something which I truly enjoyed. At the same time, I served as Bialik College President, but to me there was no dichotomy in being a student on the one hand and the lay head of a school on the other.

My second academic year was an easy and interesting one. I was required to take three subjects, but as I had already completed the equivalent of two years of Hebrew in the preceding year, I concentrated on Politics towards an Honours degree. I was attracted to International Relations taught by Dr Philip Darby and also took two units in American and European politics. The International Relations course dealt mainly with post-colonial developments in Africa and Asia and opened to me some new vistas of historical and political backgrounds in the developing world. In the light of the momentum of events taking place in the Third World at the time and its increasing political role in the wider world, I found the subject both instructive and fascinating. I was fortunate in having an excellent lecturer who negotiated an emotive minefield of a subject scarcely betraying any inkling of his own sympathies and leanings. On the rare occasions when some degree of subjectivity was unavoidable, it came through so delicately that, with few exceptions, his audience barely noticed. For my part, I detected early his orientation in historical and current events. I happened to agree with him; hence, I found the subject all the more intellectually attractive and stimulating.

American and European politics were, by and large, well known to me, and while they required the customary research and writing of essays as did other subjects, to the extent that they did cover familiar ground, they were less challenging than International Relations. I completed the year very satisfactorily and looked forward to the long summer vacation break.

November 24, 1978, was a warm beautiful spring day. I had left the house in the morning to go to my office which I had continued to maintain in South Yarra. No sooner did I arrive there than Laura phoned to say she had just received a call from our family doctor asking that she be at his surgery at 4 p.m. when he would also be seeing our son Doron. Doron had not been looking well for several months, but doctors could not determine any reason, other than to attribute his appearance and cough to being generally run down. As he did not improve, Laura insisted that he return for a thorough examination and X-rays. Those X-rays he had had the day before, and when we entered the doctor’s surgery, his tense manner and the way he displayed the X-rays confirmed the forebodings with which we had passed the day. Subsequent biopsy was followed by therapy which had clearly devastating effects on our son, but, though he left home and moved to Sydney midway through the treatment, in the end it had the desired effect. He remains completely cured, has married and works as a sound production engineer.

The immediate effect of learning of our son’s illness had a devastating effect on both Laura and myself. We felt that our lives had caved in. As the illness coincided with my vacation, I had three months in which to learn to adapt to the reality of the situation. When the time came to return to the university, I had to force myself to do so. On the other hand, I recognised that the diversion offered by study could well help me in my distress. My third year of study thus proceeded under the pall of Doron’s illness and differed starkly from the joy and satisfaction of the preceding ones. I persisted nonetheless, at times forcing myself to concentrate and work and finished the year well. Whereupon I embarked upon my Honours year, still labouring under the need to force myself, though with each passing months our hopes had cause to rise. My Honours work in Politics was supervised by Katherine West, while in Hebrew, my essay was to be assessed by Ziva Shavitsky. Its topic was “The relative relevance of Herzl and Ahad Ha’Am to Jewry in our time”. When completed, the work exceeded the requirements of an Honours degree.

The subsequent graduation ceremony took place on August 1, 1981. Prior to it, I received a note from the University administration asking whether I had any story of special human interest to tell. I replied that I did, and was then invited to submit my story. I obliged and thought no more about it. But after the ceremony, I was asked to pose for a photograph and later discovered a half-page devoted to me in the University of Melbourne Gazette. I was also contacted by “The Age” for an interview, to which I was asked to bring my documents from the University of Warsaw. The fruit of that interview appeared in the “Sunday Press” of August 2, 1981, headed “Uni Studies Span 43 Years” and sub-headed “Worthy of Full Marks!” The Australian Jewish News also received material for publication from the University’s public relations office. While readers of the paper were only too familiar with my photograph, the article headed “Degree – 44 Years Later” was an angle until then not associated with my public life.

“Sunday Press” of August 2nd, 1981.

Professor Muraoka who had arrived in the latter half of 1980 to take over the Chair of Middle Eastern Studies read my Hebrew Honours essay. When I visited him to discuss my intention to proceed to a Master’s degree, he urged me to concentrate on Ahad Ha’Am as a logical extension of my earlier work. He suggested that I give thought to an appropriate topic and return to him when I had decided. I agreed with the suggestion and decided there and then on a topic, which he immediately accepted. The topic was to be “Zionism and Realism in the Philosophy of Ahad Ha’Am”. A problem was, however, that I would not be able to obtain the necessary sources in Australia.

The first unexpected sequel to obtaining my BA (Honours) degree was an invitation from the Department to undertake part-time tutorial work. Surprised and gratified as I was to have received the offer, I could not accept it as I intended to go abroad to engage in research towards the thesis.

I left for Israel in early 1981 and spent five weeks in the Hebrew University Library at Givat Ram. There, all the sources I needed were at my finger-tips. I had also taken with me several letters of introduction and was particularly fortunate to have attracted the attention of Dr Gideon Shimoni, who showed an interest in my research and invited me to attend a tutorial on Zionism he was conducting. After those five weeks of concentrated work, I presented Dr Shimoni with a list of the material I had covered. He was surprised at how extensive my research had been and perhaps dubious about the bona fide of my list, but when he recognised that it was genuine, he said that I had covered the ground and could now return home to write the thesis. On returning, it took me a further six weeks to sort out my notes and then another month of solid writing to complete the thesis, which I submitted in October 1981. Professor Muraoka had supervised my work. Two copies of the thesis were sent abroad for assessment: one to Professor Yudkin at Manchester University, the other, unbeknown to me, to Dr Shimoni in Jerusalem. While I was awaiting the results, I was again offered tutorial work with the Department. This time, I accepted, even while doubting my competence for the job. Thus I began to teach when others of my age were already retiring. I found that my trepidations proved ill-founded and I enjoyed teaching as much as, earlier, I had enjoyed studying.

The final assessment about my thesis was gratifying. Dr Shimoni was complimentary even though he did dispute one aspect of my analysis. Professor Yudkin was critical of the English rather than the content. My early apprehensions about my lack of formal teaching in English were realised. The Department accepted the thesis, however, but requested that its language be corrected where necessary by a qualified person. I asked Dr Ralph Beebe to do it and, the work done, I re-submitted it. Dr Beebe left for overseas within a day of completing his work on the thesis and happened to be in Israel at the time of Israel’s invasion into Lebanon in 1982. On his return from abroad, he phoned me and said how fortunate he had been to have worked on my essay, for it had given him an insight both into the complex issues confronting the country and the events which he had witnessed. He also urged me to combine my BA (Honours) essay with my Master’s thesis, add one further chapter to bring it up to date and aim towards its publication. Others who have read the works have made the same suggestions, but I have so far not done so.

What was now in the forefront of my own mind, however, was whether to proceed towards a PhD I wished to continue in my field of special interest which was the vexing contemporary problem of Israel-Diaspora relations. Early Zionism could not have anticipated the post-World War II situation and the unpredictability of the realities and inter-relationships that would respectively affect the State of Israel, Israeli Jewry and Jewry outside of Israel. The problem is so marked by numerous complexities and ambivalences, constantly changing also with time, that it defies any precise formulation. To research the subject, both in its theoretical aspects and in its practical manifestations, would have meant the need to go abroad for several years, a consideration which was for us at the time beyond contemplation. We did, however, travel overseas in December 1982, during which time I looked into the prospects of working towards my PhD at Brandeis University whose collection of Judaica was world-renowned outside of Israel. I had conducted previous correspondence with the authorities here and carried with me a letter of introduction from Professor Muraoka. But no sooner did we arrive in Boston, in the middle of its harsh winter, than Laura, being Australian-born and suffering even Melbourne’s winters badly, said, “Forget it”. So our first contact with Boston put paid to all projected plans. It transpired further that American universities required two years of course work over and above work towards a doctoral thesis, another consideration which was unrealistic for me to contemplate at my stage of life. The upshot was that any notion of studying abroad had to be shelved.

The Inaugural Meeting of the International Center for University Teaching of Jewish Civilization held in Jerusalem on 27-28th of December, 1981, at the Residence of the President of Israel. At the Head Table from left: Mr. Leon Dulzin (chairman of Jewish Agency), President Y. Navon, the Hon. Philip Klutznik (speaking). Facing the camera, the Australian invitees; Mr. & Mrs. Weis (Sydney), the author and Arnold Bloch (Melbourne).

In 1981, a committee was established in Melbourne which had as its aim the furthering of Jewish studies at tertiary level. The initiative stemmed from the International Center for the University Teaching of Jewish Civilization which had just begun to function in Jerusalem under the auspices of Mr Yitzhak Navon, the President of the State of Israel, and directed by Professor Moshe Davis. Arnold Bloch was approached to set up a committee, on which I was in turn invited to serve. The International Center aimed to constitute itself into a world body and invited Arnold and myself to an international conference at the President’s residence on December 27, 1981. Some fifty people, among them outstanding scholars and leaders of our time, took part in the meeting which constituted itself as a Board of Regents under the Chairmanship of the Hon. Philip Klutznick, former Secretary of Commerce in the Carter administration and a past World President of B’nai B’rith. President Navon chaired the meeting which discussed guidelines for the International Center’s activities. Arnold Bloch and I participated in the discussions. During the lunch recess, Philip Klutznick sought me out to ask about Australia’s possible financial contribution to the project. In my view, I said, Australia could still only be looked upon as a beneficiary rather than as a contributor. I added, too, that any money that was raised locally would be wholly absorbed by local needs. Arnold Bloch and I returned from that meeting reinforced in our awareness of the urgency of tertiary Jewish educational needs for Australian Jewry.

Nineteen eighty-three saw the dramatic and difficult events at Bialik College of which I have already written. In addition, I was teaching and became increasingly involved with the Joint Committee for Tertiary Jewish Studies. In that year, too, the university was beset by financial problems which also affected the Department of Middle Eastern Studies. The tightening of budgetary allocations to universities forced Melbourne University to review some of its courses. One consequence of this was that the lectureship in modern Hebrew came under threat. A sum of $10,000 had to be found to enable the course to continue. Support was also needed for Jewish studies at Prahran College. An amount of $15,000 was required annually to maintain the existing Jewish Studies course intact. As Arnold Bloch and I were the two business people on the Joint Committee, it fell to our lot to raise the money. Where, in 1983, funding arrangements with Melbourne University and Prahran College were made on an ad hoc basis, in 1984, the university pressed us for a more formal commitment over a longer period. Professor Muraoka was abroad during the first half of 1984, so I conducted negotiations with the Chairman of the Middle Eastern Studies Department, Dr Kazi, on behalf of the Joint Committee. It was during these negotiations that I learned the grievous news of Arnold Bloch’s terminal illness. I had, thereupon, to assume the leadership of the Committee as Acting Chairman. In that capacity, I concluded the negotiations, agreeing on a three-year funding program with a continuing annual commitment.

Having secured the continuity of the existing programs at Melbourne University and Prahran College, the Committee began to look at ways and means of expanding the range of Jewish subjects offered at tertiary level. While the Jewish community’s achievements at primary and secondary levels were exemplars to others, the Jewish studies scene at the universities gave scant reason for pride. Melbourne University, with a Jewish student enrolment of 300-400, offered only Classical and Modern Hebrew courses for which matriculation Hebrew was a prerequisite. In its Department of History, some Jewish history was included, but only within the context of German History as taught by Dr John Foster. Monash University, which had a still greater number of Jewish students, offered no Jewish studies at all. Attempts were set in train in 1983 to rectify these shortcomings by investigating the possibility of introducing Jewish history into the respective History departments at Melbourne and Monash universities. The universities themselves showed interest, but specified that these subjects could only be introduced through external funding. We considered the possibility of naming rights to a lectureship in return for funding. Monash University’s policy with regard to funding was at the time very strict and we were unable to implement it there.

The author in conversation with Philip Klutznik in the presence of Prof. E. Rackman President of Bar-Ilan University.

Melbourne University was more amenable to the idea and we thought we might begin with a trial three-year lectureship. We soon realised, however, that there were intrinsic problems and we shelved the notion. After Arnold Bloch’s death in 1985, the idea of a lectureship in Jewish History at Melbourne University was revived. The Committee concluded that a capital investment of $300,000 would bring sufficient return to pay for a tenured permanent lecturership. Tenure was viewed as highly important, as this would attract the better candidate to the position. It was also unanimously felt that the lectureship should be named after Arnold Bloch who had been the original instigator of the idea. The decision to raise $300,000 was taken at the April 1985 meeting of the Joint Committee and fell upon Professor Louis Waller and myself to implement. In August, Professor Yehuda Bauer of the Department of Contemporary Jewry at Jerusalem visited Australia. He was also a leading member of the International Center for Teaching Jewish Civilization in the Diaspora with which our Committee was affiliated. We used his visit to organise a one-day conference on August 21, in tandem with our Sydney counterpart. Professor Muraoka, Professor Bauer and I met with Professor Geoffrey Blainey, the Dean of the Faculty of Arts at Melbourne University, who responded positively to the idea of a lectureship in Jewish History. Also discussed was a system of mutual recognition between the Universities of Melbourne and Jerusalem, this facilitating the possibility of having PhD candidates undertaking research in Israel. The same support for the proposed lectureship was subsequently given by Professor G. Denning, Head of the Department of History, when Professor Muraoka and I discussed the project with him. The groundwork having been done, it was time to finalise arrangements. At a meeting held in the office of the Vice-Chancellor, Professor David Caro, and attended by Professor Blainey, Dr John Foster, Professor Louis Waller and myself, all issues relevant to implementation of the project were discussed and settled. The agreement cleared the way for all concerned to inaugurate the Lectureship in Jewish History at Melbourne University in 1986.

At the 1986 meeting of the Board of Regents of the International Center at the Residence of the President of Israel. From left; Prof. Rabbi René Sirat of France, Prof. Natan Lemer, the author, President Chaim Herzog.

The funding for the lectureship was ultimately obtained through the generosity of a handful of benefactors, two of whom provided the sum equivalent to the lecturer’s salary for the first three years. An appointment to the position was then made, with the course set to begin in March 1987. For reasons beyond control, however, the appointed candidate could not assume the position. Subsequently, Mark Baker of Melbourne was appointed Lecturer for an initial period of three years and he took up the position in January 1988, with a class of some sixty students, well above our most optimistic expectations and to the delight of all concerned.

At a dinner tendered by the Dept. of History, University of Melbourne, on May 5th 1988, to mark the inauguration of the course in Modem Jewish History, and naming it in memory of Arnold Bloch.

From left; the author, Prof. G. Denning (chairman, Dept. of History), Mr. Mark Besen, Prof. David Penington (Vice-Chancellor), Mr. Richard Pratt, Mrs. Elaine Bloch, Prof. Louis Waller, Mr. Mark Baker (lecturer in Modern Jewish History).

17

In Retrospect

In the Introduction to this book, I recalled the circumstances which prevailed upon me to write it. Having now completed it, I still ask myself whether it was worthwhile or justified. I may have lived an eventful life, some of it dictated by historical chance, but even so, “eventfulness” is a relative notion. Every human life is eventful in a private sense, and who is to say that mine merits recording? I remain far from certain, even if it is already post-factum.

The reason for this is basically two-fold. First, I have, by nature, not liked to look back on my life, nor to contemplate any past event and ponder over the wisdom or folly of any decision I have made. Second, I feel that the act of recording one’s own life story smacks of adding extra value to oneself, it contains an implicit judgement of one’s own importance, it carries with it a certain arrogance, something which is basically against my nature. For both of these reasons, then, the writing of this book contradicts the way I have lived and the way in which I see myself.

To write one’s autobiography is, in a way, to relive one’s life. On looking at the reconstituted mirror of my life, some basic questions come to the fore. Having witnessed the falling of German bombs over Bialystok on the first day of World War II in 1939 and the surrender of the Japanese in Shanghai six years later, and having in the interim managed to outmanoeuvre Hitler, Stalin, imprisonment, ghettos and other ordeals known to that generation, I am prompted to ask how such a chain of events rates on the scale of free will, inevitability and destiny. As usual, it is far easier to pose the question than to answer it.

In retrospect, some basic decisions that I had taken were seemingly acts of free will. The most fateful were my decisions to leave home against my parents’ pleadings, and to seek a Japanese transit pass on my Curacao “visa”, thereby becoming one of the early escapees through Soviet Russia. Through these actions, I enhanced my chances of survival, even if, at the time, no-one could imagine gas chambers, death-camps and the other measures that would be used to annihilate European Jewry.

Given these decisions, the ensuing consequences could be logical or, probably, even inevitable. But where, then, does destiny enter? How am I to understand, or explain, the fact that shortly after I received my transit visa from the Russian Secret Police, the NKVD, the issuing of such visas ceased? Or the reprieve won in that unfinished house on the border a few steps from the Russian guards who sought shelter from the rain and lit up cigarettes but did not notice my companions and myself? Was this sheer luck? Was it destiny? I find these nagging questions difficult to answer. I recall my father citing instances from his own life in which he had made certain decisions, determined to follow them, only to have “an invisible hand”, as he termed it, lead him into the opposite direction. He was a deeply religious man, and therefore had no difficulty in ascribing the “invisible hand” to destiny. For me, the ambivalence remains, adding to the uncertainties of human fate from the moment one is thrown by birth into the uncharted waters of life’s endless possibilities.

The reader who has endured reading this book will by now have formed some evaluation of its central character. The circumstances and actions described will have permitted the reader to gain at least an outward picture of the narrator. But what of the inner person with his feelings, motivations, personality, promptings and values, among other things? An autobiography cannot provide sufficient insight into all this. What has been the prime purpose behind this book is the wish to record the major events of the times through which I have lived and to bear witness to some issues of public interest, on which, through my involvement, I may, with some intimate knowledge, shed some light.

And yet, on reflecting upon the matter in the attempt to understand myself, my actions, my human relations and priorities, I must conclude that overall the underlying trait is a constant dualism which seems to have directed my life and held it in balance: the dualism of realism and of dreaming, which prevented me from going overboard beyond either extreme.

This balance between the two possible extremes has dictated my political-economic orientation and given me a yardstick by means of which to understand events. History has a strong fascination for me. It intrigues me, it draws me to its mysteries. The lessons it offers are endless in their variety, even while the motivations of men and nations reveal strong similarities through which we may comprehend events occurring in our own time. It has led me further to philosophy of history and, successively, to general philosophy, political science and economic theory, all of which have come to absorb me greatly through their interlocking circles of seeming cause and effect which I have tried to unravel in my limited attempts at comprehending past and present. Given the spectrum of human thought accumulated over the ages, it is not difficult to be eclectic. To whichever branch of wisdom one turns, there one will find variety of opinion equal to the number of adherents. Even if thinkers are fundamentally of the same hue, their individuality unmistakably comes through to add colour or shading to the basic concept. A wealth of nuances thus arises which gives cause to reflect with whom to identify and how much of that inexhaustible storehouse of human thought to accept. From Plato’s classical abstractions through to contemporary existentialism, the dual processes of evolution of thought and of social development have seemed to be marching hand in hand. Once one has managed to grasp that formula, one begins to sense that one has finally got hold of the Ariadne thread which may help to guide the mind to safety through the labyrinths of contradictory ideas, subjective logic and emotive reasoning of hypothetical and other propositions.

My life story spans three continents and traverses some of the most heart-breaking and most salutary events in human experience. Insofar as the Jewish dimension of that experience is concerned, I have attempted, in the early part of this narrative, to re-create that pre-War world as I knew it “that is no more”. Tragic and barbaric as was that chapter of European history and no matter how deeply it touched anyone who was part of it, and survived, one had to get on with the business of living.

Australia to which I came at war’s end has proved a haven both for me and for my surviving family. I cherish its freedom, its political institutions and its sense of fair play which, by and large, pervades it. I have witnessed immense changes in the development of this continent, while the process of change is still on-going. As I see it, Australia is still at the beginning of its historical destiny in the world community at large and in the Pacific region in particular. The 21st century will probably see serious challenges confront the nation. As an outpost of Western civilisation in close geographical proximity to a resurgent East, it will be faced with both opportunities and pitfalls that will tax the wisdom of its population and leadership alike. I would like to believe that the current post-war multicultural restructuring of the nation which is relatively less burdened by those pernicious nationalistic notions of the older world will serve to broaden Australia’s collective outlook. The self-assurance and national pride that has attended its successful post-war development should not hinder the nation from finding its rightful place and contributory role in tomorrow’s world.

On a more specific note, Jewish life in Australia has evolved almost beyond recognition since my arrival here. There are some who are pessimistic about the long-term future of Jewish life on this continent. I am more optimistic. What concerns me here is the definition of “Jewish life”. The parameters contributing to such a definition have both local and global sources and are, to a degree, bound up with future relations between Israel and Diaspora Jewry, relations which may become more complex as time goes on. Similarly, Zionism, though it will remain a historical-political concept, will probably continue to change in content. In philosophical terms, I have always been an Ahad Ha’Amist in my understanding of Zionism, none of the events of the last forty years being such as to make me reconsider this orientation. That is, I have continually held, with him, that a Jewish state must also be a “spiritual centre” for world Jewry. What troubles me profoundly is that not only has this view not materialised fully, but that, in the wake of present trends in Israel, there may in fact develop a deterioration of the relationship between world Jewry living in free and open societies and an Israel coming increasingly under internal influences and pressures. These differences between the two carry seeds of dissonance which may dilute the Ahad Ha’Amic ideal, as well as the existing ties between the two.

This, then, is my postscript. In the Jewish understanding of life, “it is not for you to finish the work, nor are you altogether free to desist from it.” The first part of that statement is reassuring. A life’s work can never be completed and to that extent the wisdom of the sages salves one’s conscience at a time when nature tells one to let go, to loosen the grip. As for the second part of the aphorism, it has come to carry as much applicability in old age as in one’s creative years. In the past, I did not consider myself free, in this context, from responsibilities other than to myself. Indeed, it became an axiom with me that if my life was to have any meaning, I had to extend the boundaries of my concerns beyond those of self-interest. That imperative has remained with me till today, when arguments to desist may appear the more compelling.

And yet, having said all this, I must admit to doubts. I am led to reflect upon the Solomonic view of life as a “vanity of vanities”. Are all the rationalisations, justifications and analyses of one’s actions and attitudes nothing but well-disguised vanity which, seen in the best light, is the constant subconscious factor of our conscious motivations? If this is so, what can one do about it? Is it sensible to accept Ecclesiastes’ conclusions and summations about life as the ultimate truth? And if one does so, particularly early in life, what incentive is left to live one’s own life and fill it with whatever purposes one would otherwise bring into it?

Surely, the Solomonic conclusion is considered wise because it was reached in retrospect after a life lived and because it makes the ultimate reality acceptable with greater equanimity. We usually do with our lives what we can and hope for the best. What lies in store in every tomorrow is life’s challenge, while every enigma mocks one’s self-assurance and self-reliance. Some of the most cherished hopes and aspirations invariably remain unfulfilled, while the apprehension of inadequacy in the face of such helplessness is the constant reminder of the limits that are built into a person’s presumed capacities.

To the sum of all these doubts, one more question taxes me now, namely: Is there life after an autobiography?

18

Dr Kipen’s Address after Receiving the Degree of Honorary Doctor of Letters

Occasional Address – Dr Israel Kipen, 14 March 2007

Chancellor, distinguished guests, graduands, ladies and gentlemen.

An interesting anniversary falls for the English-speaking world this year and I mark it tonight. In 1807, the then President of the Royal Society considered that it would be disastrous if working men could read, since it was feared that these literate men would then spend their time reading Tom Paine. Whilst that was usually considered inappropriate for the working class at the time, we stand tonight to demonstrate the academic progress of the last two hundred years. That same time span of two hundred years also approximates the years of European settlement here. The magnitude of the development of Australia in such a relatively short period parallels the growth of the availability of general education and university education to the masses. We stand before the academy this evening as proof of that progress.

With time, the demands of society resulted in changes within universities. With the development of science came technology and employment opportunities, which required that universities become skill-oriented. Early European universities oriented primarily toward the humanities, which were considered basic for a university education. The emergence of science faculties and the huge cost of pure knowledge made it almost impossible for the well-educated scholar to emerge as a university graduate with both the original foundation of the humanities and technical/vocational qualifications. Some would say that those once-preeminent humanities were sidelined in the process. A bold change has been embarked upon by this university, under the leadership of its current Vice-Chancellor, Professor Glyn Davis. It is to the great credit of the University of Melbourne that the shift back to humanities is restoring Arts to their rightful place in the terrain of the tertiary education landscape whilst also enabling students to gain technical/vocational qualifications, as double degrees are increasingly available and desired. Perhaps, other universities will follow this post-modern pioneering spirit.

Sixty years ago, the British philosopher Bertrand Russell was of the opinion that “the teaching of history as opposed to literature, a smattering would be of great utility. Such a course should deal with the history of men, not with the history of this or that country and should begin with the oldest facts known through anthropology and archaeology and should give the sense of gradual emergence of those things in human life which give men such a place in our respect, as he may deserve.” Very specifically of higher education, he then went on to say, “I think that higher education should do what is possible, whilst promoting not only knowledge, but wisdom”. He continued, “every educator who has engaged in the attempt to make the best of their students to whom he speaks, must regard themselves as the servant of truth and not of this or that political or sectarian interest. Truth is a shining goddess, always veiled, always distant, never wholly approachable, but worthy of all the devotion of which the human spirit is capable.”

Whilst his comments about male and female gender roles reflect his own time, I share with you now some of my own journey throughout my life. Throughout my life, my interests have been philosophy, history, politics and economics. The interconnectedness of these disciplines is illustrated by Benedetto Croce (1866–1952), the Italian political philosopher of the early 20th century who suggested that “the history of philosophy is the philosophy of history”. I could go on in great detail about the geopolitical placement of the Australian continent, relative to its colonizing motherland, England. I could review the past notion of the geographical separation from Europe, in what past faculty member Emeritus Professor Geoffrey Blainey named The Tyranny of Distance (1966). However, those yesteryears have been reshaped by the virtual shrinkage of the world. Australia might now be said to rejoice in “blessed proximity” instead. Australia in the south is now placed firmly within a broader understanding of Asia. On the one hand, we have links to the Indian subcontinent in the west and on the other hand, to the nations of the eastern seaboard; Japan, China, Southeast Asia and those in between. This places Australia at a new regional apex. Oh what a lucky generation you are, to be young, educated, and living under a system of government in which democracy, fair play, stability and mateship are still the core characteristics of our society. Equality of opportunity is enshrined in our national ethos. Our polyglot, multicultural society is at the base of our social structure here and underwrites our individual and collective wellbeing.

And now, my personal journey. When I was your age, I applied for admission to the University of Warsaw, in the capital city of my home country, Poland. I was admitted in 1938, the year prior to the outbreak of World War II, to the only academic faculty still admitting Jewish students under the restrictions of “numerus clausus”, the restrictive quota system which discriminated against Jews. Whilst I could attend lectures, I was marked out as a Jew because I could only take my place in the “ghetto” which operated within the lecture hall. I had to seat myself on the left-hand side of the lecture theatre, which was reserved for us Jews, alone. Jewish students preferred to decline those allocated seats and stood in protest at the rear of the hall, taking notes without the benefit of desks.

I refused to comply with the two-tiered system which anticipated much more sinister consequences that would come within only one year. So, I left the university under my own volition in 1938. I could see the clouds on the horizon. I became a refugee when Poland was invaded by Nazi Germany. In 1940, I ran away to Lithuania and took up residence in its capital city Vilnius. I was not able to register as a student there, but I was entitled to audit all the classes. However, I was soon made to realise that it was time to withdraw once again, when because I was a Jew, I was attacked at the gates of the campus. I was thrown to the ground and kicked repeatedly. I finished up with a multi-coloured face and a broken nose. They would be the only souvenir of my Polish and Lithuanian university educations. I was deprived of the opportunity to study until conclusion of my working life as a new immigrant in Australia. Tonight, I perform dual tasks. Not only have I accepted the honour of delivering this address, but as a fellow past Arts graduate, I also take the opportunity to thank the University for providing affirmation of those long-past solid European academic foundations and a fully-fledged Australian BA, whose benefits I could only attain in my retirement.

This largely youthful graduating class tonight has had the great advantage of having achieved graduate status in the freedom of this great university. And whilst you are yet to take advantage of the education which you have received here, I extend on your behalf, your thanks to our university for the privilege of having become its latest graduating class. Dear fellow graduands of the University of Melbourne, if your lives are enriched by the experience of having studied here as mine has been, you will hold this moment to have been a triumph of opportunity, one which makes a mockery of the elitist musings of the former President of the Royal Society. As you commence your journeys as graduates, I hope you look back on your student days here with an affectionate nostalgia. And as you accumulate success in your chosen professions, I hope you will pause in your future lives for moments of gratitude to the teachers who have launched you to become what you truly hope to be.

Thank you, Chancellor.

The occasional address delivered at the graduation ceremony of The University of Melbourne on the occasion of the conferring of the degree of Honorary Doctor of Letters at Wilson Hall on March 14, 2007