Two Sorts of Absence by Rosa Niran

TWO SORTS OF ABSENCE

by ROSA NIRAN

Text and images copyright Rosa Niran, 2012.

Edited by Richard Freadman.

Layout and graphic design by Nicola Hardy, Secret Envelope Productions.

FOREWORD When I try to remember my childhood, I realise it is dominated by two sorts of absence.

One is the void where there was nothing there in the first place: no love, no links, and no place to belong. The second, and probably the hardest, is that which is missing: things that are no longer present. They have disappeared, gone away or are lost. I suppose this is the lot of any sole surviving child who comes to a country as a refugee with parents who are only held together by the child’s presence.

The truth about me as a daughter was that I was always a disappointment to my parents. The word disappointment has two parts, disappear and point. Something ceased to exist in me the moment I realised I let them down by being noisy, not pretty enough, forgetting something, not understanding or knowing what was left unsaid and feeling a fool.

Touch was not a sense acknowledged in my family. My father favoured smells. Flowers were his passion. My mother transferred her desire for touch onto lovely fabrics. We were isolated from one another by modest clothes, long sleeves, non-consumption of alcohol and a disdain for sport.

My father was a passionate man. He loved to laugh and joke but in a flash he would get angry and lose his temper, usually at my mother. Mainly he loved to laugh and celebrate. I fell in love with my father because he taught me to laugh. My mother was always unhappy. Her unhappiness was a fine mesh in her throat that all her words had to push past. I wanted to know who put the mesh there. She would never answer this question. She believed that it was put there in her past and everyone in the world was responsible for holding it there.

Judging by the photographic evidence my parents were never young. My father emerges at forty. He is a tall, skinny refugee in an ill-fitting suit, standing up very straight outside a derelict concrete building. A photo of my mother in her youth wasn’t discovered until close to her death. In the photo she might have been a girl of twenty but she has the rigidity and timidity of a very old woman. I think she was issued from that time completely equipped

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with all the old fashioned terrifying reprimands she always used to threaten me with. She favoured threats of cholera and typhoid, abandonment, disease and the Nazis. My father loved biblical witticisms, parables and sayings. These come to me often as I get older and I love them all the more.

I always found mothers a problem. Snow White, Cinderella, Rapunzel and Gretel all had problem mothers and absent fathers. I felt I was in the same category. Much later when we got television, I learned that there were different types of mythical parents who were young and beautiful and looked nothing like mine. Mine were more like the stepparents who were ugly and threatening and wanted the children gone.

I have tried to write down the memories that have come to me as honestly as possible. For a long time I could not remember anything. Finally after my father died I started to look at old photos and the memories floated back. I used to claim that my oldest memory was the taste of banana. This was impossible because I was 5 before I tasted bananas. When I said this, I found that people would nod their heads in agreement. No two people have the same early memories. I think that to avoid the loneliness that the word ‘childhood’ evokes we blur the lines of our subjective and unreliable memories and say to one another: “I know exactly what you mean”.

Here is what I remember. I do not require that they evoke similar memories in you.

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CINECITTÀ DISPLACED PERSONS CAMP 1949 - AGE 3 I have a memory of the DP camp and the US soldiers bringing the children food. I think it was a special occasion. It was cold. I think it was only the children that got things. There was hot food in the big eating hall. We did not queue up for our food as usual but went straight to the tables and sat down. I do remember white bread and chocolate bars. The US soldiers brought us sweet things. These were very unusual.

I have a picture in my mind of the soldiers sitting with us and helping us, a bit like our parents. They said ‘OK’ a lot. I wish I could remember more than the uniforms, the hot food and the sweet tastes. Is the boy in my memory my brother?

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CINECITTÀ DISPLACED PERSONS CAMP 1949 - AGE 3 - 4 I saw a picture in the ‘Life’ magazine files of the Cinecittà camp in 1949 and in my mind it triggered the memory of a woman who was in the camp with her husband. She was always doing the washing and then she would stand by the fence outside the women’s shed and stare across the fence like she was waiting. There were many people in the camp with strange habits stemming from their time in the concentration camps during the war.

You could leave the camp if you were a grown up and my dad did. Sometimes my mother would leave and take me for a walk. My dad went to do some sort of work and to trade.

My mother would take me to see him off. He would leave on a large tram-like contraption, maybe a trolley. He would go into town and bring things back. Sometimes it would be a thing to play with. I remember a red and blue ball with circles printed on it. He bought my mother a burgundy silk scarf with pink flowers on it. I never saw her wear it; she just kept it in the drawer. I still have the scarf he bought her. It is very thin now, sixty years later.

Maybe it was always this fine.

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BABY CHICKEN - AGE 4 -5 When we lived in Grosvenor Street my mother went out in the morning to work at a factory.

For a short time my father went to work in the afternoon at the knitting mills, probably at the same factory. My father put me to sleep after lunch. I was to stay in bed until my mother came home. This would go on until school started.

I was too old to sleep in the afternoon so they decided to get me a pet to play with. They got me a baby chicken. It was tiny and fluffy and shivered and shat a lot. My mother always arrived home late so I had many hours of playtime alone with the chicken. My mother came in with her coat on and a printed scarf around her head, smelling of the outside. One day while I was alone playing with the chicken in the kitchen, the back of the house caught fire.

There was smoke along the floor all down the back of the house. I got scared so I ran down the corridor and out of the front door, straight into the arms of a fireman. I was clutching my chicken. I must have squeezed him too hard because he died. Maybe it was the smoke.

Later in the year when I went to school I would often see the women from the flats next door talking outside. Once the women told me my mother set fire to the house. They said she was not right in the head and would be put away.

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THE PRINCESS - AGE 5 - 6 Mrs B. was my parents’ friend. Her husband was a rabid communist but she was great because she could do anything. She always wore an apron and had a little white kerchief to keep her hair back, even though it was in a very neat French knot. She worked in the market, selling knitwear with her husband. She lifted the boxes like a man although she cooked really well, like a woman. She made excellent pickled cucumbers and even when she was tired from the market she would offer me one that was only half pickled, just as I liked, to have with the huge sandwiches she made me. She always called me her little princess. I think I must have been very quiet and withdrawn because she always made an effort to make me smile or to say anything to her. She said I whispered. She made me feel very special.

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HAIRCUTS - AGE 5 My mother cut my hair. I hated it. She used to spread a sheet over my shoulders and peg it with clothes pegs. I had unruly curls and they would tangle. She would cut it so it would curl more. She thought curls were nice and wanted me to look like Shirley Temple. I wanted straight blonde hair like all the Australian girls who wore pigtails or ponytails like the American girls in magazines.

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THE MOON - AGE 5 When I was very small maybe five years old, I would walk home with my father from synagogue. It was a long walk in the dark and I was quite scared even though my father was with me. I used to look at the moon for help when I was very scared. I liked the moon because you could rely on it to be there. I noticed a very strange thing about the moon.

Wherever I walked, the moon would follow me. I asked my father why this was. He said that wherever I would go at night I had to ask the moon to come with me. When he was in Russia during the war, even when it snowed very hard, he would ask the moon to follow him.

Other people died of the cold and lost their way but the moon helped him live. I asked him where Russia was. He told me it was a country on the other side of the world where he lived during the war. It was very cold there and there was not much food and lots of Nazi soldiers.

I already knew about the Nazis. They took children like me to the gas chambers to kill them.

I also knew if I asked any more questions he would tell me horrible Nazi stories and I would have dreams of them coming to get me in the night. “Can the moon stop the Nazis?” I asked.

“No,” he said, “but it can help protect you”.

I thought about this all the way home. I was glad the moon came with me. I was very tired from the long walk home but I felt that I would be safe as long as there was a moon.

THE TROUGH - AGE 5- 6 I think I was very small when I learned that if I waited a little while and listened and watched carefully, things that I didn’t understand would become clearer. In time, the meaning of things would reveal themselves, if I just waited.

I came to Australia in January when I was four and a half. After a particularly cold winter in Italy, we touched Australian shores in Fremantle on our way to Melbourne. People came on board to welcome us. I had never even imagined an intense blue sky like the Western Australian sky, with its fierce hard heat. The welcoming party seemed very jolly and they gave each of the children a bag of fruit. I can still clearly remember the smell of the oranges and the bananas. We had never seen such fruit and had not the slightest idea how to eat them. I picked out the orange and smelled it. The impact of the orange colour and the blue sky was overwhelming. I felt it again many years later when I saw my first Matisse painting.

The officers showed us carefully how to peel the fruit and find the sweet centre. All would be revealed if I just waited and watched.

When I went to school a month later I entered another completely strange world. At home we spoke Yiddish and Polish and in public, Italian. The children at school spoke a garbled language. Slowly, the English words revealed themselves and it all made sense. By the following year, when the new refugees came from Eastern Europe with Russian and Hungarian, we helped them wait and discover English while learning their languages.

During this time, I learned that people also revealed themselves if I waited and listened.

These strange Australian kids who called us ‘reffos’ and yelled so loudly, turned out to be just like us. Well mostly. Some never liked us even when I did understand them. It was the same

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with my mother. The more I grew to know her, the more she confirmed my initial reaction, which was that I did not like her.

In the morning before school, Miriam came to my place and we walked to school together because her parents had already gone to work. In the evening after school I went to her place to stay with her mum, Mrs B, until my mother came. She was a woman who loved the sun and sun-baked at every opportunity. She told us there was never enough sun in Europe. She always had apple cake and biscuits for us after school and lots of small pears. In our house we had food from my father’s shop. My mother never cooked.

Mrs B always wore a long skirt and a dark jumper. My mother wore smart tight skirts and shoes with heels to work. At the weekends, she wore printed dresses with straight skirts and high heels that clicked. Because she had very fair hair and green eyes, she turned heads. She was proud of her figure and sewed beautiful dresses, which she wore very well. She could make patterns and do complicated beading, so she managed to get a good job in the factory making patterns and the models’ dresses.

We played in Mrs B’s back garden. It was not really a garden. It had a shed in the back and a dark latrine. It was connected to the house by a broken concrete path which had a few fruit trees on one side and a big long washing line on the other. Sometimes the kids from next door would throw their ball over the fence and we would throw it back. This was our signal to climb the fence and talk to them. They did not have the rails on their side so they stood on a pile of chairs and tables and laughed and talked to us. One day they threw the ball over and we would not throw it back. It landed on a pile of rubbish and we were scared to get it because there were rats. They started to call us ‘scaredy cats’ and we called them names in Yiddish. We climbed on the fence and taunted them. They pulled down their pants and showed us their bums. We laughed at them and tried to throw unripe fruit at them. A great battle resulted with lots of name-calling and laughing until Mrs B came out to silence us. We were promptly marched inside with Mrs B holding us by our ears. We were in trouble but for which bit? She sent us to play in the laundry until my mother came. This was not good. My mother’s behaviour could be very unpredictable.

The ‘laundry’ was a back annex that contained the hot water heater and a double concrete trough, complete with copper and wringer. We usually bathed our dolls in the trough and pretended we were at the beach. Now we sat there whispering and waiting for the doorbell.

My mother had arrived. We heard the muffled talking. It was in Polish. Not a good sign.

Suddenly my mother burst into the room grabbed me and was yelling and shaking me. She was a small woman but she grabbed my shoulders with force and started to bang my head against the concrete trough. I looked at her face and she was wild. At that moment I knew that I hated her. I felt this warm feeling on my head. I realised the warm stuff flowing across my face and eyes was blood. I had also wet myself. Then I passed out.

I woke up in the children’s hospital. It was white and clean and smelled of lemon and toilet.

The doctor was there and he asked if I could see his fingers. It was not too clear. He asked if my father had done this but I told him it was my mother when she was cross. He pointed to my arms. What about this? I did not know what he was talking about and looked down and saw purple marks. I did not know what to say. I was frightened. Soon my father came. I

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was so pleased. He picked me up and helped me dress in clean clothes he had brought. He did not say anything about wetting myself and I was really glad. All he said was, “Guess how we’re getting home?” He had spoken to me in English and I was really frightened. The nurses came to wave goodbye to me. We went outside and there was a car. We rarely rode in cars then because the only person we knew who had one was my rich Aunt A, the famous milliner. I got in the back and it was warm and dark and we rode home through the streets. It was fantastic.

AUNTIE POLA AND SNOW - AGE 6 I had an Auntie P, but she was not a real auntie. Her sister married my mother’s brother and my mother lived in her house for a while with Auntie P’s family. I think they were rich because she lived in a big house in a good suburb a long way from our place. She had three children and a nanny. They had lots of parties and served wonderful food and drinks.

To get to Auntie Ps’ house we had to get a tram to the city and then take a long tram ride to their place. I would go with my mother because my father was at work. I would always fall asleep on the journey because it took so long.

Once when we were going there by tram I had fallen asleep leaning against my mother. I was woken by a shout and a jolt of the tram. There was lots of noise. People were getting off the tram and shouting. I looked out of the window and it was snowing. I had never seen snow; only read about it in books and it was like magic. It fell so quietly. Everyone got back on the tram while it continued to snow. We had to get off the tram in a few stops and we walked to Auntie P’s house in the falling snow. It was in my hair and on my coat. It was very cold but very exciting. We arrived at the house completely frozen but I didn’t care. We had walked through the snow and had made footprints all the way down the street.

KAPPO- AGE 6 - 7 When we moved recently, I found a photo of a birthday party. In the picture we were all about six or seven. Typical European migrant kids with floppy ribbons in our hair and short dresses.

The sisters, Anne and Sylvia, were there with their wide flat faces and their cousin, Helen, with the tight pointy face. There was the baby whose name I can’t remember. All our parents were there, all very young, skinny, and happy.

I was standing there uncomfortably amongst everyone else with both a big ribbon and birthday hat on my head. Everyone was wearing party dresses. I was in my school uniform but with my best blouse. Somehow I don’t fit in. I was not smiling like the others. All of us were innocent.

We had no idea what was about to happen.

The party was in a ground floor flat in St Kilda. I have driven past the block of flats many times over the years. Sometimes I go out of my way just to look at the flats again. The1920’s block is still standing there and so are the flats next door. We were playing ball in the space between the flats and as usual the ball went over the fence. Helen got on the fence and called out to the lady to please pass us the ball. I don’t think she understood English so we all got onto the fence and called out.

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We were very naughty, calling out rude sayings in Yiddish, Polish and Russian. We made so much noise that Anne’s father came out and climbed onto the fence to see what was happening.

Suddenly he froze. The lady looked at him and stopped still. He started to yell “Kappo! Kappo!

KAPPO!” He told us to go into the backyard and play but be quiet. He went into the flat and slammed the door. We stayed in the yard until we couldn’t wait any more, then we looked into the living room through the gap in the blinds. The parents were huddled together whispering. We stayed outside and didn’t feel like playing. It was getting dark. We were never allowed to stay out after dark.

From time to time we stole a look into the room. They were still talking. We did not know what to do so we sat around for a while. Now it was getting cold. We were getting scared. I wanted to know what was going on inside so I decided each of us in turn should creep around and listen by the window. We took it in turns to listen. Sometimes we just peeked in.

“They are drawing bits of paper,” said Anne.

“What is it for? I am going up to listen.” I say.

I crept up to listen at the window. I heard someone shout: “WE HAVE TO KILL HER. AFTER ALL SHE HAS DONE.YOU DREW OUT THE BIT OF PAPER. IT’S YOUR RESPONSIBILITY!” They pointed at Anne’s father, Abraham. He looked scared. They all looked at him. “Do it soon!”

They started to pick up their things and called us in. It seemed that everything was settled. No one spoke a word. No birthday cake to take home!

My parents came and got me and we walked home quietly. They wouldn’t answer any questions and I was too afraid to ask. We walked in the dark. They walked apart from me. It was about a three kilometre walk home but no one said anything. My mother started to say something in Russian. That meant they didn’t want me to understand. They must have been angry. I didn’t want to know what it was all about. My father shut her up and we walked in the dark.

About fifteen years later I met Sylvia in a city shop. I was at university doing 5th year architecture and was very full of myself. She was just a shop assistant, working in a shop in Bourke Street. I chatted to her, showing off. I asked her about her mum.

“She’s dead. Don’t you know? She killed herself!”

Shocked, I asked, “When?”

She laughed at me. I didn’t know what had actually happened to everyone.Years had passed and I only saw the girls occasionally. I felt stupid. I wanted to hear more but I was afraid. Sylvia said “Come back at five after work and I will talk to you.” I had mixed feelings. Part of me did not want to go. Here I was a university student and she was a shop assistant and I felt I knew nothing.

At five I met her. We sat in a coffee lounge and looked at each other. Each of us was too scared to start talking. “What’s happened?” I asked.

“You are so stupid. It was all over the Kappo. Didn’t you know! They recognised her, the Kappo from the camp they were in. She was responsible for selecting and sending our family and

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others from the camp to the gas chamber and to torture. Her specialty was those medical experiments. That night they saw her they remembered everything and decided to kill her.

They drew lots just like in the bible. It fell to our father to kill her.”

“My father drew the unlucky card you know. He was too scared to do anything. In the end he was so scared my mother did it instead. She was glad to avenge her family who died in the camps.”

I did not like her mother. She wore red lipstick, lots of bangles and those scrappy high-heeled white shoes. She always smelled of strong perfume. I pushed down my emotions and focused on the present.

“What happened to your mum?” I asked.

She answered me slowly.

“Two months later my mother killed herself. She took a train ride.You know how she hated trains.”

I knew about trains. We all hated and feared trains. They took people to the camps and transported people to Siberia.

“She went to the city by tram and then threw herself beneath a train.”

I gasped but Sylvia was relentless. Her anger knew no limits. Tears trickled down her face and she continued talking in a very quiet voice.

“My father was a fool! He knew it should have been his job. I think mum did it for him because he was such a coward. After my mother’s death, dad got scared and told Anne and me about the whole thing – the Kappo, the lottery and the reason for mum’s suicide. He cried.

My sister Anne became very depressed. She ended up in a home. She may as well be dead. I hate him! I won’t talk to him.”

“He’s still alive?” I asked.

“He’d be better off dead!” She looked at me like I was a total fool.

“Didn’t you know any of this? Why didn’t you ask about anything?”

She picked up her things and walked away leaving me sitting there asking myself the same questions.

I thought I should talk to my parents about this and hear what they had to say. I invited myself around to dinner on Friday night. We sat around the dinner table and did the conventional small talk. How was uni? Fine. How was business? Fine. Next, I thought we were going to talk like grown-ups about something serious, for once. I would not let them get away with it.

I tried to steer the conversation around to other things.

“I saw Sylvia in the city today. Have you ever seen anything of the family?”

They would not say anything except, “Abraham is a complete fool!”

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I couldn’t understand it. My parents were never in the camps. They were in Russia. What was their part in all this? They didn’t have numbers on their arms like Sylvia’s and Anne’s parents.

I tried to clarify this and asked them more. I asked them about their time during the war.

They wouldn’t say anything. They said, “You don’t have to know. We have survived and you live here now.”

They changed the conversation. Round and round we went, avoiding the subject. Suddenly I realised I did not want them to tell me. I was scared. What if Sylvia was right? There had been a lot of suicides.

I went back later in the month to ask Sylvia more about it all. I was ashamed and scared that she might tell me more than I wanted to hear. I had not asked questions when she first told me. When I got to the shop where she worked, she was not there. I was very glad. I told myself I had exams and could not get involved. I wondered about it for days. Gradually my uni life took over. What could I do about it anyway? Maybe Sylvia had made it all up.

I was scared to find out anymore. But an idea nagged at me. What if this was not the end?

Should I ask my parents? What if they told me the truth - then what would I do? What if they told me nothing (which was more likely) and I would just fall into line and feel more ashamed. There was only one place to look and it was scary - the Hevrah Kadisha, the Jewish funeral service. They would have a record.

The place could hardly be called inviting. It was stark and very plain and ordinary. While I sat on the seat in the waiting area, different men with long beards and caps came through the lobby, all very busy and yelling out in Yiddish. Nobody noticed me. I had taken the trouble to wear a long dark skirt and jacket instead of my usual mini-skirt. I waited and became more afraid. In the end I picked up a brochure, pretended to read it, and when it was quiet, I slipped out.

Instead I went to Springvale Cemetery. I thought if I saw the headstones, I would have some sort of starting point. There were lots of Cohens. There were Coen, Cowan, Cohen, Cohn, Kohn. I couldn’t figure it out. I didn’t know how to spell their name. I didn’t know a date.

To make matters worse, there was the problem of the first name. They had Polish / Yiddish names. Would they be buried with their proper name or their Hebrew name? I didn’t know what to do.

I went back to my parents’ house for Friday dinner. I wanted to ask them for clarification or any information. They did not allow me to turn the conversation around to the Cohens.

They started to argue with me. They didn’t want to talk about anything. Not about the war years or about anything to do with it. All they told me was that they were in Russia and it was terrible. They were angry with me. Why wasn’t I married? Why was I studying architecture?

“No nice boy will marry a girl who is an architect.” The faculty is full of non-Jews (goyim).

“You will marry out”. “After all we’ve been through!” They wanted to force me to see a matchmaker. I knew they were manipulating me and I said nothing. I was angry and couldn’t get the words out. And I was glad because I knew half the truth. I couldn’t bear my parents to tell me the whole truth because I couldn’t believe they would tell me what I wanted to know.

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From that day forward my father refused to speak to me. He was distant and I didn’t go to visit them often. He didn’t speak to me until I announced my engagement. They were glad because I selected someone Jewish and from Israel. They didn’t like him but they were visibly relieved.

Five years later I was sitting alone on a hot autumn day on the front verandah when I saw my mother at the gate and she made her way over. I was in my eighth month of pregnancy and very unwell. She sat down beside me and asked for the hundredth time what I will call the baby. I am very hot and tired and in a fit of spite I say “If it’s a boy I will call him Abraham and if it’s a girl I will call her Sylvia.”

I watched her shrink away from me in fear.

“How can you say that,” she cried out, “even in a joke?’

I was too angry and tired to put up with her normal avoidance. Again it became very important to me to sort the whole old story out, once and for all. I went to demand an answer and suddenly the contractions started. They were much too early and very sharp. I was scared. This didn’t seem right.

“Call an ambulance!” I cried. She hesitated.

“I can’t leave you.”

“Call an ambulance, you cannot help!”

She ran inside and I heard her make the call. I slipped to the floor as she rushed back.

I started to hear her say “I will tell you all about it.”

I didn’t care any longer; the pain was terrible and I started to black out. I heard her talking and I only caught snippets. “… and then we went to Stalingrad…” “…no one knew what to do…” “… we all blamed Abraham…”

She changed into Yiddish. I couldn’t make the words and then I blacked out totally. When I woke up I was in hospital and it was all cool and clean. I was by myself in a white bed and the nurse came in to tell me everything was fine. She told me to go back to sleep and that I won’t be having any visitors today.

By the time I got home, I was tired of wanting to know the truth. The reality was I had to rest for the next few weeks and not get upset. Again, I was saved from hearing the truth.

In the past, communications between my mother and I were evasive and superficial. More than that, I didn’t want her to tell me her version of the truth because I didn’t think I would believe her.

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Thirty years later my mother was in hospital and paralysed. She was in her nineties. I had to fill in a form for her and I needed to know her maiden name. I asked her and she replied, “I don’t remember.”

I went through the things from her house and found a box. It contained a lot of her papers from the war years and the time before we came to Australia. There were forged documents, ration cards, and many passports. On each one my mother had a different birth date and a different name. I realised I didn’t know her maiden name. I didn’t know her age and I had no idea about her family. She wouldn’t say anything to me and wouldn’t tell my anything about the past. She just became angry and refused to see me. She stopped me visiting her in the nursing home. If I went there she said things like: “You are a liar.You’re not my daughter. No one in my family has ever had cancer.You are making it up.”

I was secretly glad. I couldn’t handle the truth even now.

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OOZING CHARM - AGE 7 My mother and Mrs Nicholson from next door went to town. Mrs Nicholson was the wife of the Aide de Camp of the State Governor. She knew everything about Australian society and manners. They said she ‘oozed charm’. She knew how to dress for any event and took us to afternoon tea at the Eliza Collins on the corner of Elizabeth and Collins Streets in the city. It was lovely and all lacy and had vases of orange poppies on the tables. We ate strange sorts of sandwiches cut into triangles and sponge cake.

She taught me all sorts of things about Melbourne while I was helping her in her kitchen. She groomed me to go out with her for tea – what I should wear (white gloves and white socks), how to hold my cup and saucer, what to eat (never take cake - it’s too hard to manage if you are holding your cup).

She took me with her to peoples’ places. Best of all she took me to the Nicholas household. I had never seen a house so large. It had an entrance hall, pale blue couches, red velvet curtains and Turkish rugs of all sizes. Most amazing were the pictures on the walls and the shelves of books. I saw at once that this was how I wanted to live. I promised myself I would not live with bare boards and bare walls in my house. I would live in a house with interesting and beautiful things everywhere. I realised that people could live so differently than us ‘poor reffos’. I saw that if you lived a different way to us and acted differently to us, your life was truly beautiful. It was not until I saw their garden and the grounds of the house that I heard them say that the architect had laid all this out. I knew immediately I wanted to be an architect. It was clear to me I could make lots of beautiful things and also have my own.

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23 KENDALL STREET - AGE 7 We lived at Kendall Street for seven years from when I was nearly seven until I was fourteen and in high school. I could not remember anything of that time but in my dreams even today I return to that house and I am frightened.

I dream about the outside of the house and how bits are falling off. I dream about the heavily pruned plane trees that I could see from my window. I dream about the kitchen but worst of all I dream about the out buildings and the dilapidated old garage.

It was not until my father died that I had the courage to drive up to the old house. It was now gentrified and renovated. It now stands in an attractive part of Elwood rather than being a cheap old house with an outside latrine, in a poor street with a noisy dairy across the road.

Still, nothing would induce me to walk down the lane that leads to the back of the garage. I looked cautiously down the lane from the street but I would not walk down it. Even now I know what lives down that lane.

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When I was a child, I overheard a neighbour telling my parents that the former owner had hanged himself in the garage. He was supposedly found hanging from the big beams down the back. I would go into the front part of the garage where the outside light would hit the ground and make patterns on the brickwork. I would never go to the back of the garage even though it was piled high with interesting things he had left: old bikes, sewing machines, old wind instruments and strange sorts of velvet curtains with coloured patterns.

I talked about it with the older children from across the lane. They agreed that his ghost must still be there. They had heard noises from the garage from their place. I was very curious to see a ghost and asked if we could go together to see it. After some persuasion, they agreed to come with me to the garage. We could walk in together, holding hands. If we held on tight our combined strength would be no match for the ghost. As soon as we saw him we were to yell out “Abracadabra” which was the only magic word we knew except ‘please’.

We joined hands and slowly walked into the garage. We edged forward step-by-step ready to yell out. We got half way and we saw the curtain in the back of the garage move. I was frozen to the spot. They all turned and ran. I could not move a muscle. The curtain moved again. I was not sure. Could it be a rat or a ghost? I just ran, my heart pounding in my ears. Everyone cheered but I did not care. I was terrified. Even today I can taste the terror.

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LITTLE JERUSALEM - AGE 8 There was a special spot on the lawn at St Kilda where all the European migrants would gather on a hot day. We did not have cars until many years later and then we would travel down to the beaches with their tea tree shade. We would take the number 15 or number 69 trams to the beach with all our paraphernalia. Everyone took food, blankets, towels, pillows, and even deck chairs. We would arrive at about ten in the morning to get the best spot – the higher grassy mound where you could see right down over the concrete fence to the water. The grown-ups could watch the kids from the grass and not get wet themselves. The parents could not swim. Coming from inland European cities in Poland and Germany they could only dream of the beach. They inhabited the shallows when they went into the water. The men kept hands on the sand at the bottom and stretched out, pretending to swim. The women just ducked under the water a little bit, protecting their elaborate hairstyles and their lovely big hats. My mother had a particularly nice blue hat with white polka dots. It was very tricky as it could fold up if you manipulated the edge wire, which I was not allowed to do.

Near where we sat was the kiosk. In the afternoon we were allowed to get an ice cream.

The kiosk was always crowded and there was a long wait to be served although kids had priority. I loved the smell of the heat, the sun tan lotion and the salty sea on our bodies as we crowded together to queue. Once while I was standing there a man pressed his penis against me. I was angry because he was distracting me from repeating my large order to the serving lady. Still he kept doing it and I got madder. She gave me my ice creams and before I could pay, I pushed the whole handful of ice creams into his bare chest, yelling, “Stop doing that!”

What a fuss followed. The serving lady wanted her money. I screamed at him for pressing his penis into me and the crowed got involved. Someone stepped up and said “What do you think you were doing, buddy?” Someone tried to comfort me. I was dropping the silver coins and lots of people were straining for a better view. The noise alerted the grown-ups who came over to sort out the mess. I thought I had better start howling because this way I would not get into trouble. All I could think was the ice cream was gone and I had started this. Soon my dad got into the act and started yelling at the guy. Then everyone started to call him names and called for the police. Someone took me by the hand and walked me over to where they were all sitting. They wrapped a towel around me and told me I was very brave.

After that the parents went to queue for the ice creams and we always got better varieties than before.

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BIKE ACCIDENT WITH GOURD - AGE 8 It was just before my eighth birthday when my mother had an accident with a motorcycle.

I did not take much notice of it at first because my mind was busy deciding which birthday present to ask for. I was quite used to her being absent for periods and having to go to my father’s shop after school. Birthdays were very important because it was the only time you got gifts, so the choice of gift was critical. If you had a party it increased your chances of getting gifts but you could not count on the party or the type of gift you got.

This time my mother must have been injured because she had plaster on her leg. She was confined to bed and I had to bring her drinks and food. Lucky it was the school holidays and I was at home to answer the door when visitors came. When they were there, I would go straight out to the back yard and sit on the fence talking to the girl across the lane. She was older than me and played in her yard with her dog.

They had a fabulous vegetable garden that covered a large part of their yard. She would hide the dog’s toy and he would rush around and find it amongst the vegetables. Every now and again I would hear my mother call and I would have to run in and do what she wanted.

I was so interested in anything that grew and they had wonderful things: purple beans, large pumpkins and some very special gourds and melons. I desperately wanted one of the gourds.

It was round and silvery grey and shaped like a flying saucer with ruffles. She told me it was a type of squash and you baked it. I could have one if I came over to her garden. This was not a simple task. I had to climb over my fence, drop down two metres, cross the lane and climb her fence that was also two metres but had no rails facing the lane. There was, however, a big plank in the lane. I screwed up my courage and dropped down into the lane and got the plank. I leaned it against her fence and managed to walk up the plank to the top. She climbed her fence and passed me the flying saucer squash. I took the squash and walked down the plank and did a reverse climb onto my fence.

I was so excited I ran inside to my mother to show her the squash. She was hysterical. She yelled and ranted about where I had been and why was I not helping her when she was ill. To make matters worse, she was doing it in front of two women who were visiting her. She was just screaming and yelling and hobbling towards me to belt me. They were trying to hold her back and calm her down. I just turned, grabbed my squash and ran. I climbed up the back corner of the fence behind the fig tree with my squash and waited until long after dark when my father came home and I would be safe.

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HAMILTONS’ DAIRY MEN - AGE 8 - 9 Across from our house in Kendall Street was Hamilton’s Dairy. At five in the morning it became very noisy when all the milk carts came to be loaded with crates of milk. In those days, big brown Clydesdale horses with blinkers drew the carts. By five thirty all the carts were loaded and all the men who worked in the dairy came outside for their break and a smoke. They always seemed so cheerful. I could hear their voices and their laughter from my bedroom at the front of the house. It was very comforting to hear them laugh. I would go straight back to sleep and wake at seven for school.

My father and I would get up together. He would shave and shower and I would dress, get my books together and make breakfast. It was always the same. A big slice of sweet egg loaf, white cheese and jam. My father would make the tea while I made my lunch for school. I didn’t have neat triangular sandwiches like the Australian children, I had untidy European ones. They were usually big slices of rye bread, kosher smelly sausage with pickled cucumbers, accompanied by a big green apple.

At eight o’clock when I walked to school, the men of the dairy were finishing work and dressed in ordinary clothes instead of their whites. They would wave and call hello and I would answer them. They were the happiest adults I knew.

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MISS CANDY - AGE 8 - 9 My favourite teacher ever at school was my third grade teacher, Miss Candy. She always wore her hair very neatly pinned back. She wore dark dresses with small print and lace at the collar and always smelled of flowers. Best of all she really liked me.

At the beginning of the year I was put in the front desk because the second grade teacher said I talked a lot but I never talked out of place in Miss Candy’s class. Every class she took was so interesting and I was so busy. She sat me next to the new girl, Astra, who had come from Alaska and was partially Inuit. Her father had come to Australia to work in Antarctica. He came to school and told us stories about the journeys down to the Antarctic by ships called Ice Breakers. It all sounded very exciting.

Miss Candy liked to give us lots of maths quizzes and word games. I discovered I was very good at maths. My reports from Miss Candy were always excellent. No one had ever said I was clever before. I was just the naughty talkative kid. Suddenly I was brainy. On top of that Miss Candy introduced me to reading novels. She would lend me a book and I would read it as fast as I could so I could get another. I was hungry for the world that these books portrayed. Books with happy families, children with brothers and sisters, stability and predictability. None of those existed in my life.

Miss Candy asked us to write about our family. I had a problem. I had no family, no siblings, and no cousins. Nobody. Worst of all, I didn’t know my parents’ first names. They addressed each other very formally at home, in the old German way, as Mr and Mrs Roth. My mother was very unpredictable. Sometimes she would go to hospital for long stretches and I would go to my father’s shop after school and come home with him. In the end I wrote about my father and me having sandwiches for dinner together at the shop after school.

When all the essays came back corrected, Miss Candy asked me to stay back after school for a talk. I was very scared. I must have done something horribly wrong. She sat me down and talked to me about the story and asked after my mother and everything. Then she asked me to take a note to my father and bring it back signed.You can imagine my fear.

I gave my father the note and he was quiet. After a while he read it to me. It asked if I could stay after school three nights a week with Miss Candy. I could stay in the classroom with her and do schoolwork or read. I was so happy but my father was not. He wanted me to come to the shop to do chores. I weighed out the dry goods and put them into bags and swept up.

After a long talk he said I could do it one night a week.

I loved those after school days with Miss Candy. It was a special time for me with all those books to choose from and staying with the teacher. The kids didn’t call me ‘teacher’s pet’ but they treated me differently. Astra was my only friend. I knew there was more to it but I could not understand what it was.

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JEWISH YOUTH GROUPS - AGE 8 When I was eight and half, my parents told me I would be spending a month of the school holidays at summer camp. This was a mixed blessing. On the one hand, camp sounded very exciting, being with all those other kids. On the other hand, it sounded terrifying. I had never been away from home. This was a whole month. What if I didn’t like it?

It was carefully explained to me that I could not stay at home during the holidays by myself while my parents worked in the shop. I would know lots of the other children because they went to my Jewish Sunday School. Two of my close girlfriends were going and they would share a tent with me. What did they mean ‘tent’? Was I going to sleep outside? The more they talked, the less I liked the sound of it.

The day for camp arrived. My parents farewelled me at our front door and I rode to the departure point in my girlfriend’s father’s car. She did not like the sound of the camp very much either. She was very worried about the list of things we were supposed to pack to take with us. It all sounded very sporty and she hated sport and she particularly hated swimming.

By the time we reached the departure spot she had worked herself into a state and was sobbing. I did not feel very confident either. Her parents pushed us onto the camp bus and before we could protest too loudly, they disappeared in their car.

The bus took us for a long ride to the campsite. Upon arrival, youth leaders welcomed us with big smiles and words of encouragement. This did not inspire confidence. They led us younger girls to our tents, which were filled with stretchers for us to sleep on. I made a dive for the middle one. If I was going to freeze to death in a tent I wanted plenty of company.

My initial fears about the camp were reinforced daily. The leaders filled our days with activities of the sort I would never engage in. Team games and loud singing dominated our time. Inedible food was the order or the day. Most of all we were frightened and homesick.

The night was filled with strange birdcalls and cattle noises. The days were not much better as flies and mosquitoes were equally abundant.

We waited until Sunday when our parents would come and bring us real food and sweets.

I was not sure if my parents would come. I dreaded it and at the same time wished for the sight of one of them. Finally Sunday came and my mother arrived. She had got a lift with my girlfriends’ parents. Everyone was to have a picnic lunch with their families. All their brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers were there with baskets of food. I sat under a tree alone with my mother. She had brought me lunch and it was all healthy food. No cake or chocolate. I realised how pathetic I looked, just my mother and me. People sitting in large familial groups, eating and making a noise surrounded us. They were all so happy.

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We sat quite still. I was scared my mother might go crazy if I criticised the food she brought with her. I could see she was upset that there were just the two of us sitting there. She said to me, “In the end I am all you have got.” I realised she was right. I had no other family and nor did she. I told her it was all right and that it didn’t matter. She said that for the next few Sundays she could not come. She would arrange for me to eat lunch with my girlfriends’ family so I would not be so alone.

That night we had a feast in our tent. Everyone shared the chocolate and sweets they got from their parents. I did not have anything to contributeto the group feast, but no one said anything. That night I did not fall asleep for a long time. I thought about not having any siblings or seeing my parents much. I thought about my mother not coming any more and the effort she had made to come and visit me. It had all turned out very badly. I thought about my tentmates not commenting on my lack of sweets and decided that they had been very nice about it. I realised that it was always like that. Whenever I went to anything, I was always alone, but I did not mind it. I suppose it was always like that and it was not going to change. From that moment on I started to enjoy summer camp When I was ten I joined a Zionist youth group called Habonim. A whole new world opened up to me. This was the world of the pioneer immigrant hero who came and built the land of Israel. We learned Israeli songs and dances, the names of fighters, and the history of our land. I felt sure that a migrant like me could go there and make a difference.

I was determined to be an agricultural scientist or an architect. I knew I could contribute positively to a future in Israel.

Habonim was a big organization and I met Jewish kids from all over Melbourne. They also had summer camps, which I was sure would be better fun than the first camp. Once a year they had a sports day, where I was going to compete. I was a good runner for a girl so I felt confident that I might win for my group. Unfortunately the sports day was in Heidelberg.

I had never been to Heidelberg and knew it was a long way to go by public transport.

Surprisingly my mother rang up the transport people and found out how to get to the sports ground. She even said she would accompany me so I would be able to compete.

We set off to the far away sports ground. It took many changes of trams and buses. It seemed to take all day. Finally we arrived at the sports field. All the races were over and it was just time for the final team events. We both sat there, worn out and sad. My mother could not drive and we only had one car which my father used. Now we would have to make the long journey back home again. We sat there in silence, just the two of us. This was the story of most of my mother’s efforts. Somehow they never worked out, even when her intentions were good. “Well,” she said finally, “we have travelled to Heidelberg”. In desperation, we started to laugh. There was nothing else to do. It was getting dark and we had a long way to travel back.

From then on whenever there was a difficult task or a desperate piece of news we would say it was like travelling to Heidelberg. That frustration summed up most of my interactions with my mother.

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MILK MONITOR - AGE 9 I was always elected milk monitor. This meant that just before morning break I would go over to the sixth grade classrooms and myself and a sixth grade boy would fetch a crate of milk with our class number on it and carry it back to our class. Then I would use a special white stick with a sharpened end to poke holes in each bottle and insert a straw. They gave each child a half-pint bottle of milk for morning break to ensure that even the poorest had at least some milk to drink each day. No lactose allergies at that time, just guarding against starvation.

I was elected to the position of milk monitor because I always brought back a joke from the sixth grade boys. Not bad for a kid in second or third grade. My best joke was a little rhyme, which went like this: Walking through the bushes with a belly ache Looking for a toilet (Fart) too late!!

It was so funny that nearly everyone spurted their milk out. They all got into trouble, but not me. I would definitely be voted milk monitor the following term.

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ELWOOD CANAL FLOODS - AGE 9 Our school was on the banks of the Elwood canal. Every year in summer when the heavy rains came, the canal would overflow. Then it would dry out and smell of rotten seaweed.

Our biggest challenge came when the tide was low. There were concrete fords every 200 metres at the low point with a wide channel cut in them. We would take a run-up and try to leap across the gap. Inevitably we couldn’t make it and landed in the water. As we got bigger, we grew tall enough to jump the gap in a single leap. That was terrific.

One year the storm was terrible. It rained so heavily the canal flooded its banks and was lapping into the schoolyard, which then flooded. The rain continued. The teachers made all the students from the ground floor classrooms put our chairs on the desks and march upstairs. The water was flooding into the ground floor classrooms.

If you went to the toilet and looked down the stairs, you could see the water lapping the third step. The smell that rose from the water was dank and horrible. We were told to wait in our upstairs classrooms and help would arrive. Sure enough it did. It was in the form of the Elwood Surf Life Saving Club. They brought all their boats to the school and ferried us up the street to higher ground. We were under threat of expulsion if we waded into the water. We were told it was full of pestilence and diseases.

It continued to rain all night. In the morning there were no classes. I lived around the corner from the school so I went down to the water’s edge and splashed around with my bare feet, despite the teachers’ warnings.

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EATING SNAILS - AGE 9 There was lots excitement at school one day because the new headmaster was coming to talk to us at school assembly. He was a very handsome man and he would smile at everyone.

We used to see him every lunchtime walking around the yard, talking to all of us no matter which grade we were in. Lunch times were a very tricky time because the content of our sandwiches used to divide us along national and religious lines.

The Australian kids were the easiest to pick. They had white bread sandwiches cut into these amazingly neat triangles. Their sandwiches had jam or fish paste fillings. I had never had fish paste or square white bread. They could eat their lunch without getting messy. They also had cakes with icing on top.

The Europeans had enormous untidy sandwiches that consisted of a whole delicatessen squeezed between two large slabs of dark rye. The sandwiches were never neat or easy to eat.

They had salami and pickles falling out everywhere. Invariably they smelled of garlic sausage or pickled cucumbers. There were poppy seed and honey cakes that resembled huge brown sugar slabs.

Then there was my group, the Orthodox Jewish kids, who only brought sandwiches without meat to keep it kosher; so we were totally different. We ate tuna or cheese and special cakes that changed with the up and coming Jewish holydays. We always sat in a special area outside the headmaster’s office. We were safe there from the Australian kids who always teased us about our dietary habits.

I longed to have white bread sandwiches with jam. They always looked wonderful and I thought they must taste great. Even the Australian cakes were well behaved. They were tiny orange squares with neat icing. Ours were slabs of chocolate and vanilla kugel or – worst of all – strudel. We could not swap food because their food was not kosher and we could not eat it; but we would happily give away our food just to feel accepted.

Our headmaster had a particularly pretty garden outside his office were he grew vegetables.

He would go there and pick the snails out of his garden and put them in a special tin.

One particular lunchtime we were sitting on the lawn outside the headmaster’s office when one of the kids announced, “Do you know the headmaster eats snails?” We were stunned into

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silence. Apparently this kid’s older brother told him the headmaster was French and French people ate snails. This was a piece of news so astounding that we did not dare question it. When we overcame our shock we asked all sorts of questions. Were they raw? Did they come from his garden outside his office? Did he eat the shells? The questions were endless.

One day, a group of us decided to help our headmaster by collecting a large tin of snails for him. Feeling very proud, we took our tin of snails to his office. We told him these snails were for him and his lunch. He stood there for a few minute and then he thanked us. The next day the headmaster came to our class. He thanked us very much for collecting the snails. He said we could come and collect the snails once a week. He said he would have a special bird-table built so we could put the snails on it and the birds could come and eat them. We thought he was pretty terrific for letting us do this chore to help the birds. He told us we would now be called bird monitors. We could get other kids from the Australian group or other Europeans to help with our special job. He made us feel very proud and no one said he ate snails anymore.

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FAMOUS FIVE - AGE 9 When I was nine, I read The Famous Five. I could not decide whether I wanted to be Julian (quiet and clever) or Georgina (courageous tomboy redhead). Most of all I wanted a dog. To my surprise my parents got me a fox terrier. I was allowed to call him Timmy, like the dog from the Famous Five books. I was a bit worried. Jewish orthodox families don’t have dogs. This made me very suspicious. Was something going to happen? Were my parents going to run off in the night and leave me at home alone?

I decided that whatever terrible thing was going to befall me would emerge eventually and I would just enjoy the dog. Imagine the surprise when they also bought me ballet slippers! This was the sort of thing that secret dreams were made of. I didn’t go to ballet because I went to my father’s shop every day after school (except for Wednesday, when I went to religious school after ordinary school). This was certainly becoming very strange.

I began to notice that my parents talked in whispers a lot. They used Russian, which I could not understand. Usually it was Polish and I understood enough to get the gist of the conversation. There were lots of quiet conversations. Also, there were loud arguments coming from their room late at night. This was a very bad sign. I was quite sure my father would belt my mother during these times. Who could blame him? There was no way anyone could reason with her. She would go off at a complete tangent and yell about anything. Then she became quiet and depressed.

One summer night I was told to go to bed early. It was not quite dark but it could have been 9.30 p.m. I had taken to sleeping in my ballet shoes just in case they changed their mind and asked for them back. Each night I would read a chapter of the Famous Five and then go to sleep.

During the night I was awakened by a loud crack. The wire base of my bed had slipped off its legs and I had been dumped in a mess of sheets inside the frame. My trusty dog Timmy came running in to guard me. I got up and searched the house. There was no one there.

This was a case for the Famous Five.

I went into the kitchen and looked at the table, which was strewn with lots of different letters. The only one that seemed new was a letter from Dr White with an appointment for today. I knew where Dr White was. He was across the main road at the end of our street.

“Looks like we have to go in search of them,” I said to Timmy.

I had my ballet shoes on and to this outfit I added my school jumper. I took Timmy on a lead and set out up the hill to the end of the street. To be honest, I had never crossed the main road by myself. It was a major highway and carried a lot of traffic even at night. My plan was to cross it bit by bit. It had grassed traffic islands so I figured if I was careful I could go from one to the next. Even that did not really inspire confidence. I had never crossed an 8-lane highway before by myself.

Timmy and I set out to cross the first four lanes. We were safely on the grassed median, only four more to go. I stopped to tighten my ballet slippers. I needed to be prepared just

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in case I had to run. Suddenly Timmy slipped away. He raced madly to the next median.

Cars squealed. Bang. All quiet.

I stood wondering where Timmy was. I must have stood for a while. The lady from the corner house came out and came up to me.

“He’s dead dear. We will bury him for you.”

This was not turning out like a Famous Five adventure at all. I started to snivel.

“What are you doing here in the middle of the night?” she asked more kindly.

“My parents have gone to Dr White,” I replied.

Silence. Then I heard her say to her husband “Her mum’s gone to the abortionist.”

I knew this was not good. Here I was out late at night, my dog was dead and my parents had gone to the abortionist. That sounded very serious. I did what the Famous Five would have done in a crisis. I turned around and fled home. I climbed in through the window of my bedroom and crawled under the pile of sheets. I was asleep almost instantly.

In the morning I got dressed and went straight to school. I was lucky it was Wednesday and there would be religious school after ordinary school. The best thing about religious school was that before we went in, we all pooled our money and bought chips. Even though they were not kosher, they could almost pass. This time I could not eat my share. I was too confused and worried. The really strange thing was that on that day I was wonderful in every class. I answered every question and even understood the Latin grammar. I suppose it was the effect of Timmy’s death combined with the worry.

When I got home it was late and there was no dinner left but I had a slice of bread and drank some milk. My mother never cooked. She couldn’t. We always just had raw food fruit, vegetables, cheese or sausage. It was OK. My dad could make hot drinks and cook rice with milk.

Days passed. No one noticed that Timmy was missing. I got a new Famous Five book out of the library. It was really good and I read two chapters a night. About two weeks later my dad asked about the dog. I said he had run away. I started to think I imagined the whole thing. I decided to visit the lady on the corner to have a talk. I would pretend I wanted to pick some plums from her garden and start to talk about Timmy’s death.

I went up and she was in the garden hanging washing. With a smile, she invited me in and offered me cold cordial. She had ginger snaps as well. She asked me to sit with her in the garden.

“You could have blown me over when I saw your poor little dog,” she said. “Then to top it off you talked about old Dr White the abortionist – how do you know about him?”

I dared not say, so I said, “I heard my parents talking.”

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“You ‘reffos’ are strange people talking about that in front of a kid,” she said.

I agreed. I supposed we were. How could I ask what an abortionist was after that?

The next day I went straight to the library at lunchtime. I had to have three goes at spelling the word abortionist. I read the definition over and over. I just did not understand it. What did it all mean? Being an only child with no relatives I did not have anyone to ask. It took me months to understand.

Many years later I moved back near to the area were I had lived as a child. One day when I was six months pregnant, I was sitting in a deck chair in the shade when my mother walked into the garden. They lived less than 200 meters away. For a change I was glad to see her.

“I don’t feel well.” I said, “I think I am going to faint. Call an ambulance.”

She ran inside and was out in a minute. I started to black out and feel very unwell. I had slipped out of the chair and on to the ground. I could just hear her talking to me but it made no sense.

“Are you going to die? Everyone dies! First, all my brothers, gone in the war. Nothing left.

Then my sons… I had to let them go… Next, the new baby. She was a girl. She would be just like you. She had to go.”

All that stuck in my mind were the words ‘“new baby”’ and ‘“just like you”’. I shook my head to clear it. “What new baby?” I said, “not my baby?”

She was very angry. “Not your baby, the abortion. My baby!”

I could not even absorb what she said. In an instant the ambulance was there. Everything was white and clean and cool and then dark. When I woke up in hospital they had put me on drips and were talking about all sorts of diseases I had not heard about. All that floated in my head were the words, “She would be just like you. She had to go.”

THE WEE TREE - AGE 10 In fifth grade we had a male teacher called Mr Hewitt. We all called him Pooey Hewey, because he wore aftershave. This was totally outside my experience because I was used to Orthodox men with beards. One week Pooey Hewey was on holidays with the boys cricket team and we had a substitute teacher. By coincidence she was called Miss Stern – stern by name and stern by nature. She just never smiled. She had all these new rules and expectations.

One day we drank a lot of water at lunchtime because it was hot and I desperately wanted to go to the toilet. Miss Stern was not going to let me go. She told me to wait until afternoon play break. I just couldn’t and so I wet myself in the class. My friend, Astra, burst into tears and started yelling and telling Miss Stern that she was mean. Within minutes all the girls in the class were crying and there was mass confusion. Finally Miss Stern decided that I was to

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go outside with Astra and lie on the bench in the sun with my panties exposed until I dried out. This was such a strange suggestion that we dared not say anything.

We went out to the benches next to the peppercorn trees and Astra helped me arrange my dress so my panties would dry. This was obviously going to take some time and we were out in the sun all through playtime. After a while we thought we had done pretty well – an afternoon under the peppercorn trees, no teacher, and lots of spare time.

All of a sudden everything went wrong. I started to feel unwell and my panties got all wet. I looked down and I saw blood. I did not know what this was and was very scared. Astra who had an older sister said it might be my period. I did not know what that was and nor did she.

We decided that our best option was to leave immediately and go to my place because it was closest to the school.

By the time I got home I could barely walk. I was crying and scared and had no idea about periods. I decided to ring my father at the shop and tell him. He would know what to do. He listened to me and then said he would send my mother straight home. Meanwhile I was to lie down and just stay with Astra.

Within minutes my mother was home. She rushed up to me, saw the mess I was in and slapped my face. I had no idea that this was a Jewish tradition. I just broke down and sobbed.

Astra sobbed more than me and would not let my mother near me. I heard my mother ring Astra’s mother to come over. She then rang her best friend Basia to come over. She also slapped my face! She said I was a woman now and this was the traditional way things were handled. Then she got my mother to give me a box of sanitary napkins.

I think the original purpose of the slap was to ‘slap sense’ into a newly fertile girl, warning her not to disgrace the family by becoming pregnant out of wedlock. Possibly it was to ‘awaken’ her out of her childhood slumber and into her role as a Jewish woman. I asked my mother and Basia why they followed such a custom, but was only given a blank expression and shrugged shoulders for a response.

From the time after my experience with Astra, until I was in my twenties, I always felt shock, shame, and humiliation about the menarche experience. The result of this act was totally violent and barbaric to me. Only later did I learn it was a religiously sanctioned practice. I would never mention periods and it took me years to learn about tampons.

THE OLYMPIC GAMES - AGE 10 The best thing about having the Olympic Games in Melbourne in 1956 was that the city seemed to grow up. All sorts of exciting things were happening. We could go into town with our parents and there were decorative light displays. There were flags from every country on display. There were Olympic rings on ordinary everyday things. We got Olympic rings to stick on our school books and learnt about the Olympic Games in class. All kinds of foreign visitors appeared at our house and at that of every other Jewish family. Unbeknownst to me, many of these stayed on after the games as communist ‘defectors’ and became trainers of the Australian Olympic teams of the future.

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The strangest thing to happen was television. It cost almost a year’s wages to buy one. There were sets in the electrical store in Glenhuntly Road and sometimes we would stand out in the street and look at a show (it was not yet called TV).

The first show I saw was a quiz show. It was called “I’ve Got a Secret”. Miss Australia had the secret and no one ever guessed it. Her secret, which she revealed by lifting the skirt of her lovely evening dress just a little, was that she wore long woollen underwear hidden under the layers of her taffeta skirt. That was supposed to be very funny and risqué.

Our next-door neighbour, Mr Nicholson, an Olympic official, had a television. There were all these myths about watching the set. Children could not watch at night, only during the day when their shows were on. It was only safe to watch the television in the dark. Later a special lamp was devised to assist in the watching which spread a downward light and did not interfere with your vision.You had to sit a safe distance from the screen to protect your eyes.

No one adhered to this and everyone drew nearer and nearer as the excitement of a show enthralled them. Some people believed that you could only watch for a limited time, perhaps only one hour a day. Others said you had to run the set for a specific time each day as the programmes would back up and get stuck in the television tube.

We would go around to Mr and Mrs Nicholsons’ place on Wednesday night when “I Love Lucy” and also on Friday, to see “Friday Playhouse” . For special treats I was also allowed to watch “Disneyland” on Sunday at 6.30 in my nightdress and dressing gown and then go straight to bed. My father loved Lucy. He loved comedy and red heads. He would talk all week about the episode and could not wait for the next one. Finally he made a decision. He would get a television set. It was already two years since television had started and sets were much cheaper now, though still expensive.

In order to finance the set, my father decided to sell his good gold watch, which he hardly wore. It was a Schaffhausen. He took me to Acland Street on a Sunday morning where all his cronies gathered and sometimes sold things to each other. After many discussions, he struck a price for the gold watch and managed to make arrangements for obtaining a TV. Sure enough, the next Sunday a large television in blonde wood was delivered, complete with aerial installation. The man who did the installation was a Hungarian refugee from the Olympic Games. The set was fabulous. It had a large speaker panel on the side and came with a special television light, a cone shaped metal affair with ‘TV’ repeatedly embossed around the edge. My father’s life was now complete.

THE GREEN COAT - AGE 10 When I was about ten, I got a new winter coat. We went to the factory with Mary’s parents and both Mary and I got a coat of our choice. I wanted a duffle coat with wooden peg buttons. My parents thought it was very slovenly and expected me to have a proper dress coat with a velvet collar. So did Mary’s parents. We liked having something new. Underneath I was upset. I had to get a green coat because it suited my red hair. I wanted the red one that Mary had. I wore that coat everywhere hoping it would wear out. My parents were delighted that I was getting such good use out of the garment and decided I loved it and had transcended my desire for a duffle coat. I felt like I could not out-smart them.

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THE EXPERIMENT - AGE 10 -11 I just loved the science lab. We had some grumpy and strict science teachers but I didn’t care. I loved the chemical smell of the room, the strange bones in the corners, the shells and things in bottles and most of all the glass containers of all shapes, particularly the distilling equipment.

I would do my experiments conscientiously, write them up in my best writing and look them up in the library. Once I found this great book on the experiments we were doing and it had all the questions and answers the teacher had set us. It also had all this extra information about the elements and the point of the experiments, like how the chemicals were used in industry and medicine. It had other things,too, like how to make coloured smoke and bad smells and even had how to make a volcanic explosion with bicarbonate and weak acid. This was just too tempting Naturally I went to the pantry and got the bicarbonate to take to science class. How could I resist swapping the bicarbonate with the salt that Diane Salter (every teacher’s pet) was using? The bicarbonate worked like a dream. Her whole experiment went up like a real volcano and made a wonderful noise. I screamed and whimpered in mock horror, which in turn made all six girls in the science lab scream hysterically. Within minutes we had worked ourselves up into a major meltdown. The teacher lost his cool and got the fire extinguisher.

This incited all the boys to start cheering and they all stood up on the science benches to get a better view. One idiot kicked the gas tap and the gas leaked out, causing an acrid smell as it combined with gas from the volcano. This in turn caused Diane to yell that we were all going to die and run from the room. We all followed her.

After questioning, we all got sent home. Everyone identified Diane as the source of the trouble. I was too distressed to answer any questions and, ever-loyal, would not accuse her.

She denied causing the explosion and I became her only friend because I did not say anything.

She dropped out of science the following year, did commerce and soon got a job in a bank. I never told anyone about the bicarbonate.

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LILY OF THE VALLEY - AGE 10 -11 We had a tiny but lovely garden at Kendall Street. I grew to love all the flowers. Myvery favourite were Lily of the Valley plants that grew in the damp shady side accessway outside my parents’ bedroom. I loved them most because the flower was so tiny and the scent was so strong. When they flowered in the early spring I would go out and just sit next to them and smell the scent. I would go there when my parents had a fight, which was often.

One day there was a particularly noisy fight. My father yelled at my mother and then I heard her pick up something and throw it into the bath so hard it broke. I guessed it was my father’s new electric shaver. This was serious. It was time to head out to my secret spot in the side access-way where the shade flowers grew. I sat there quietly and smelled the damp earth, played with the Lily of the Valley plants and waited for the storm to settle. It was not happening. The yelling continued for a long time. It was getting dark so I thought I would lie down on the ground for a short rest. Naturally I fell asleep.

When I woke up it was dark and quiet. I knew it was safe to go inside. I went around to my bedroom window at the front of the house and removed the fly wire and climbed into my room and straight into bed. It felt like I had only been asleep for one second when I was woken by the sound of a doorbell ringing loudly. I heard my father answer the door and I crept up to my bedroom door. Through the narrow opening I saw the men in uniform bring in a stretcher and then take it out with my mother’s body on it under a white blanket. I realised she must be ill.

In the morning my father said that during the night my mother took ill and had to go off to hospital. She would be there for a while. Strangely we did not visit her for many days. I did not know what she was suffering from; I just knew it was serious and that I would not be told. I could not figure out what had happened.

Each day I used to go and sit in my favourite shady spot and try and piece together what I knew, but it didn’t make sense. Something was badly wrong. I knew I was being lied to about the sickness. It was not until years later I realised it was a suicide attempt. Then all I knew was that I was very upset and angry. In the end I got a whole lot of washing powder and poured it all over my Lily of the Valley plants. It only took them a few days to die.

THE ST KILDA GARDENS My parents lived near the Dickens Street Gardens, St Kilda. Lots of old European Jews would meet in the gardenson sunny days. Usually the men sat or walked with the other men and the women talked with the women. Occasionally my parents got there early and sat on their special bench in the morning sun. Sometimes I would go with them and in later years my children would also go. My parents would never sit together or even talk to each other. My father would sit at his end of the bench and read the paper. My mother, ever the intellectual, would sit at her end and read her book. She knew better than to start a conversation. They would sit there until their acquaintances appeared and then they would walk away from each other.

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THE IN CROWD - AGE 11 The boys at high school always looked untidy. The tallest of them played football all winter at lunch break and cricket in the summer. They came into class hot, sweaty, and smelly.

They ran down the corridors and pushed into the girls at the lockers. I learnt to turn my chest towards the lockers because they always made a grab for our breasts. John Knight was the tallest of them and he was the captain of the football team. He was the focus of the ‘in crowd’. All the boys wanted to be his friend. Some of the girls would talk to him and giggle.

They would arrange to see him for a milkshake after school or at the pictures on Saturday. I did not do any of these things, as I was kosher and kept Saturday as a day of rest.

One day, our maths teacher put us in pairs to do maths problems. Since John and I were the best at maths, he put us together. I was very nervous since John was so big and tall and bright and I was tiny compared to him. I was determined to show him how clever I was and tackled every problem. He sat back and just acted cool. He made me so mad I told him off for not trying. I did not want any of the other kids to do better than me. Naturally we got all of the problems right.

The next day, all the kids were teasing me that I was John’s girlfriend. I was very embarrassed. I had never thought of being anyone’s girlfriend. Boys were a strange smelly territory to me. I did not understand what all the girls were giggling about. I did not write notes to boys. I was definitely unclear about the facts of life, what you did on Saturday at the pictures, or (heaven forbid), on a date.

After lots of teasing I got very angry with everyone. I told them all I could never speak to a boy who played football. I knew my parents would arrange a proper marriage for me and I would never have a non-Jewish boyfriend.

After last period, I was worn out by all the teasing. I crept back into the form room to get away from everyone. I sat in my desk by myself and tried to sort out my thoughts.

To my horror John Knight walked back into the room and got his books. He turned to me and apologised for the teasing. “I knew you would hate it, you’re so serious,” he said.

“Me. Serious?” I thought. “It’s ok,” was all I could say.

Gosh how profound. He walked out. I could see now why all the girls giggled and liked him, but it was too late.

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SIXTH GRADE DUX - AGE 11 I loved school. It was so calm and predictable. I loved the way it was organised into periods and you always knew what would happen next. I loved the way the teacher would always come up with new things for us to do. There were lovely library books and the monthly school magazine for us to read and do comprehension. I read mine the day we got it and was way ahead of the class.

In sixth grade, we had an American teacher and he gave us lots of new books to read and lots and lots of maths puzzles. Best of all he gave us interesting assignments to write about and investigate. I really wanted to please him because he made such an effort for us.

One day he called me to his desk and told me I had achieved a perfect score in my entire end of the year tests. I was the only person to do this and there would be a prize for me at assembly the next day. I had received prizes for drawing and for maths before so I didn’t give this much thought. It was usually just a certificate and notvery useful.

Next morning at school assembly the headmaster spoke to us all as it was nearly the end of the year. He said there would be a special prize giving for the Dux of the School. This was a new word for us so he explained how important this was. With a bit of a flourish he announced that I was Dux and I could come up and get my prize. I was not that keen to walk up in front of the school just to get another certificate, but my teacher came and walked up with me.

The headmaster then gave me a very large book with a shiny cover and an envelope that he said contained prize money. Everyone clapped and I walked back to my spot. At recess my friends crowded around to look at the book. We could tell it was very expensive, the sort of book that you were not allowed to borrow from the library, just look at there. I looked inside the envelope and it had quite a bit of money. I opened up the book and it had a big sticker inside that was engraved ‘to the School Dux.’ I took the book home and put it on the kitchen table for my father to see when he got back from work. I counted out the money and then hid it in the back of my dressing table drawer where it would be safe. That evening my parents had a fight so I thought I had better not mention the book. A week passed and conditions were tense in the house, so the time was not appropriate to mention the book. Gradually the kitchen table filled up with things and the book became hidden from view. I never mentioned the book prize and kept my money secret to spend in the school holidays.

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SUNDAY SCHOOL PICNIC - AGE 12 Every Sunday I went to Sunday School to learn Hebrew,Yiddish, and Jewish history. At the end of the year the school usually had a concert and party. One year the teachers decided to have a picnic. They sent home a notice that we would be going by tram to Wattle Park to listen to the tramway band. It all sounded very special.

I liked the usual concerts and parties because my parents never came andso I felt free to enjoy myself. My father was always at work and my mother was usually too disinterested to come. This picnic was different. My mother walked with me all the way to Sunday school. I realised that she intended to accompany me on the picnic like all the other parents. I was in a complete panic. What would she do if she came?

She arrived and chatted amicably with the other parents. Then I saw her talking intently to one of the other women. By the time we were walking up to catch the tram I was in a cold sweat. She really intended to come with me. I got onto the tram and sat in the corner.

Suddenly she came up to me and said that they did not have any balls for the children to play with and she was going to go home and get some. I sat there quietly and just said “Yes”. Then I started to pray. I prayed that the tram would leave before she came back. My prayers were answered. The trams moved off in a matter of minutes and I was on the tram by myself.

I did not enjoy the picnic. I felt terrible that the tram had left and she had gone to get the balls. What would happen if she came back with bags of balls and she discovered the tram was gone? After the picnic the trams came back to the Sunday School and I walked back home by myself. I was terrified of the distraught scene that would greet me. When I got home no one was there. My mother had disappeared. I continued to feel terribly guilty about my prayers for years. It took me a long time to realise that she had lied to me and didn’t want to go on the picnic. She had other things to do and wanted to avoid time with me just as much as I wanted to avoid time with her.

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DAVID THE COMMUNIST - AGE 13 Everyone I knew walked home from school. Some of the older kids rode their bikes but they missed out. The walk home from school was the social highlight of the day. We walked in groups with our friends and talked about the teachers and the events of the day. At that time I always walked with Sarah, as I would go to her place after school. I would play there for an hour until my father came to collect me after he finished work. My mother was in and out of hospital then so it was just my father and I at home. Sarah and her father David were also at home together.

The arrangements were that we would have a snack laid out for us on the kitchen table and we were to only play in the kitchen and in Sarah’s room that abutted the kitchen. This was great because Sarah had lots of puzzles and games, which we both loved. One thing Sarah and I both shared was a love of water. Even if it only rained a small amount we would take off our shoes and socks and splash in the puddles. When we got to her place we would secretly go to the cupboard in the front of the house and get towels to dry ourselves.

The front of the house was ‘out of bounds’ for us. David had his office in the front lounge room, and the floors and the couches were covered with papers. He was a publisher of a communist newspaper. Everyone my parents knew were communists or socialists of some sort. My mother was a Trotskyist, so she was special.This particular day we had got ourselves very wet coming home from school. We had so much fun splashing. We went up the corridor to get the towels and Sarah decided to go into the front room. I followed her immediately.

She opened the door and we saw her father. He was hanging from the ceiling. He had wet himself down the front of his pants and his tongue hung out of his mouth all black. We simply turned and ran.

We sat in the kitchen stunned. What could we do? If we went next door and told someone, we would get into trouble for going into the front room. If we didn’t tell then he would just hang there. We were scared and confused. Finally I decided we should tell the lady next door.

I would say it was my idea to go into the front room. We walked slowly into the house next door knowing we were going to get into trouble whatever happened. I started to tell Mrs Feinstein from next door what we saw. Sarah just sobbed. She made me say it twice before she ordered us into her kitchen and she ran next door.

The next hour was a mess. Police, funeral people, neighbours, and strangers all crowded into Mrs Feinstein’s place. They asked me again and again what had happened. I was just cold and scared and wanted to go home. When no one was looking, I ran out of the house and home to my place. I climbed in through the back window and hid in my bed.

Later that evening my father came home. He did not say anything about David’s body. He cooked me my favourite for dinner, which was rice cooked in milk. He said from now on I could just come straight home from school to our place and not play with Sarah. She did not come to school the next day or ever again.

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THE FLASHER - AGE 13 On Wednesday after school I would catch the tram from day school to religious school.

I would have enough money for a return ticket and a few pence over to pool with two other girls to get a large serve of chips. We were always starving and the chips were delicious but never enough to slate our hunger. On Sunday the trams were very irregular and I would walk the eight kilometres to school and back. Most of the other children’s fathers drove them there or picked them up, but my father was at work. I quite liked the long walk, even when it rained; but I didn’t like it much in the heat.

One particularly hot Sunday in summer it was over 100 degrees (40degrees celsius), as I walked home from Sunday school. I managed to stick to the shady side of the street. I decided to walk down a long lane rather than the road to cut down on the journey time and because it was extra-shady. When I got to the end of the lane that ended on the main road, I saw a man on a bike. He started to ride around me and I noticed he had his fly undone and was playing with himself. He rode around and around me saying all these crazy things. I was very hot and very scared. As he blocked my path I did not know what to do. Around and around he rode. Finally when he rode behind me, I started to run.

I ran across the road and down the next street. I ran and ran until I got very tired. He followed me on his bike playing with himself and talking crazy talk. I saw a house with an open gate and ran up to the front door. I rang the front door bell and yelled for them to come to the door. As soon as a woman opened the door, he rode away. I told her the man was chasing me and started to cry. I was too ashamed to tell her what he was doing.

The lady who answered the door asked me to come in and she got some water. I was too scared to sit down. I did not know her and she could also be crazy. She said she would walk me to the end of her street and watch as I crossed the main road. We walked together to the end of her street and she did not say a thing. She really scared me also.

When I got to the corner, I ran across the main road to my street and ran to my house.

My mother was at home sewing. I was so ashamed I did not say anything to her about the man. I told her the heat had made me tired and I felt sick. I lay on the couch with a wet cloth on my head and just wanted to die.

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SATURDAY WITH MY FATHER - AGE 13 After a few years my father acquired a business partner and his businesses became very prosperous. They would work alternate days in the business and so every second Saturday he would have the day off. This gave him the opportunity to go to synagogue. In the early hours of the morning, he and I would walk the three kilometres to the synagogue together and we would stay until the end of the service for refreshments. He would talk with the men and I would play outside until the service was over. Then we would walk halfway home to Mrs Fishman’s place for lunch.

After lunch, her daughter and I would play together down stairs and they would go upstairs.

Mrs Fishman was dark and beautiful with long dark hair, dark eyes, and gypsy earrings. Her daughter was also dark and very beautiful. The lounge room where we played together was crowded with all sorts of trinkets, books and dolls. Everywhere there were mirrors and lovely rugs and pillows.

After a while the grown-ups would come down and we would have afternoon tea with cake, then my father and I would walk home. My mother never came with us and never spoke about Mrs Fishman; so I never said anything One Saturday we were playing downstairs and it seemed that we had been there forever. I wanted to know what was keeping them so long, so I decided to investigate. I climbed the stairs very quietly and when I was nearly at the top I could see into Mrs Fishman’s bedroom. I could see them both in bed, kissing. I didn’t know the details but I felt embarrassed and knew I shouldn’t look. I went back downstairs and talked this over with Mrs Fishman’s daughter.

We concluded that this was one area we knew nothing about and it was probably not a good idea to ask. If I asked too many questions I probably would not be allowed to come and play and there would be no cake for afternoon tea. So we crossed our hearts and promised to die rather than tell about what I had seen.

The Saturday visits continued for more than a year. When I was a year older I went to youth group on Saturday afternoons after synagogue; so I don’t know what really went on after that. The youth group was for girls and boys and gradually I learned the ‘facts of life’. I was amazed at my father. The facts were never explained with old people in mind. I think he really liked Mrs Fishman. Over the years he had a few mistresses but she was the only one that came to his funeral.

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THE MISTRESS’S ROSE GARDEN - AGE 13 I was about thirteen when my father had his first heart attack. It happened in a strange way.

He had been working very hard and was making enough money to buy a new car. He bought an automatic Valiant. It was shiny, white, and new and had a dark red interior. It smelled terrific and he would take me for rides around the neighbourhood. He told me it was so easy to drive that even I could drive it. I badgered him to let me try. Finally he let me sit behind the wheel and I drove it up the street. It was so exciting. The following week he let me do it again.

The next week I drove again. I was sitting in the driver’s seat when he clutched his chest and rolled over. He looked at me and said that I should drive him to the hospital. He told me to go slowly and he would help me. It felt like it was taking a lifetime. I was scared and excited all at once. The car limped up to the entry of the hospital and he told me to turn off the car and get help. Before I knew it people came from all over and helped him out and took the car to the car park Eventually he returned from hospital and stayed at home to recuperate. He was a changed man. He was very quiet and thoughtful. One day he sat my mother and medown and said he wanted to talk very seriously to us. He said the doctor had told him he would not survive more than a year. Under these circumstances he was selling his businesses and going to spend the year working at what he wanted. To my surprise he said he wanted to be a gardener. He had always loved roses and grew the best ones in the street. He thought there were plenty of widows who could not look after their gardens and would need his help.

So began my father’s new career. He became a gardener for widows with roses. He would often come home with little gifts from his widows – a jar of jam, some home -made biscuits or even a hand-knitted scarf. When they rang our home to speak to him they were very nice to me. I know that he had a special customer in the next street. She was the widow with the big white house. He always wore his best shirt and trousers when he went to do her garden. I never saw any roses in her garden. On the other hand, he lived another thirty years and had a lot of hand-made scarves.

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KENDALL STREET KITCHEN In my dreams about my mother, I always re-visit the kitchen at our house at Kendall Street.

This is the scene of endless cleaning up dreams. The kitchen is one from the 1920’s, located at the back of the house with white painted floorboards. It has a particularly ugly green Kookaburra gas stove. Sometimes it works, mostly it does not. Dangerously it has a window with curtains over the stove, which is always catching fire. It also has a particularly ugly ceiling light, but it’s without globes.

Wherever I look in the kitchen there is no food. Everything is bare and the bowls and containers are empty. The cane chair is empty and I know it’s where my father should sit.

He is not there. Maybe he is at work. My mother is not there but I can feel her. I can hear her voice. She is demanding things and is complaining. I just want to get to the fridge get something to eat but she demands I help her clean up the mess. Sometimes I cannot stand it and start to clean up the mess in the empty kitchen by myself. I cannot see the mess but it is there. Whatever happens she is not going to let me open the big new fridge that I know contains some food or drink.

I know that behind me is the pantry. I can’t see it but I know it’s there. Even though it has food in it, I can’t open it because it’s dark and scary. In some dreams I turn around and I see the door of the pantry. Although the door is white I know it’s dark and scary inside.

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DOVE - AGE 13 I saw Miriam B. in the street last week. I quickly turned my back and looked into a shop window. I could see her reflection pass me across the street. I will never talk to her again.

Miriam B. and I were born three weeks apart. Except for the fact that we were born in different refugee camps, our lives were very similar. We came to Australia on the same ship. The refugees all called each other “shiffs svesters and brudders” (ships sisters and brothers). We were only daughters, clever, multi-lingual, and pretty in a middle-European way. We wore our hair with a large, single, stiff ribbon perched on the side of our unruly curls at the weekends when we were out with our parents. During the week we wore it curly and unruly like all the Australian girls at school.

Often on Saturday evenings I would go to Miriam’s place to play and sometimes sleep over. Mrs B hauled the big boxes of stock from the hired driver’s truck into the garage of her house. Mr B went to sleep. I thought he was lazy but in reality he already had cancer and was slowly dying.

He was far too mean to consult a doctor but would dose himself with bicarbonate.

Somewhere in their house his sister hid. Tauballa. Her name meant ‘dove’ and that was exactly what she was. She was seen flitting around the rooms humming and cooing to herself. She had gone mad when the Nazis had taken her children for their experiments. Coming so soon after they had shot her husband in front of her, she had responded to the events in the only rational way. She had gone crazy. Since she was quite pretty, I assumed she had also been used for their comfort in some way.

I use to be fascinated by her singing. She sang old Russian Jewish songs but she never completed them. She had a beautiful clear sweet voice. She would start off clearly in Yiddish and the song would become softer as she hummed it and at last she made little dove sounds.

Mr B had started out before the war as a communist. He had spent the war in Russia, like my parents. Unlike them he told stories of heroics and bravery in Russia. I wondered if it was the same war. My father had spent the war trading and eventually established a business making coffins for the officers. Mr B continuously re-told his war and his part in it, which was always

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heroic. Dove was never seen when there were visitors. She must have been in her room at the back of the house.

As we got older, Miriam and I would play in the house while her mother was at the market or out visiting her cousin. Dove would wander around the house and sing her strange versions of old Yiddish songs. I loved her voice and I started to sing along with her when she sang one I knew. At first she did not like it but one day she came up to me and started to sing the one I knew reallywell.

After a few times, we ended up singing songs I really liked together. They were funny songs and I clapped along. The following week she started on a lullaby, which I sort of knew. She went over and over it until we could sing it together and then she stopped. She was really happy but her eyes were filled with tears. I did not know if I had done the right thing or created trouble. I was a bit scared. I spoke to my friend Miriam about this. She was very upset.

“She used to sing that to her children and they sang along. Now she will be upset all week.”

“She wasn’t upset,” I said. “she was sort of happy.”

“She probably thinks you are her daughter. Her name was the same as yours.”

This haunted me all week. Here was this poor woman who had outlived her children and seen so much death and here was me acting stupidly just because I liked her voice. My mother never sang these sorts of songs to me. She was also crazy in her own way, locked away in her thoughts, never being accessible or affectionate. I had learned the songs at Yiddish school. All the other kids had heard them at home.

The following week when I came to Mrs B’s place she was very happy. Dove had been quiet and cheerful all week and did not make her crazy noises; only sang songs. Mrs B had a special white jumper for me from the market and called me her princess. She told me to try the jumper on in the bathroom. I was thrilled. All the girls at school had these sorts of jumpers. While I was trying it on, Dove walked in singing sweetly. She smiled at me and patted the jumper.

“You will help me,” she said. It was not even a question. She just said it and smiled. I knew instantly what she wanted and I was shocked. How could I have been so stupid? It was just like a blow to my chest. She wanted me to let her out onto the street were she could go free. I was so scared I ran from the house. I did not even thank Mrs B. I just ran home as fast as I could. When I got home my head and chest were pounding. I have to act normally, I thought, or my crazy mother will sense it. I rang Mrs B and thanked her for the jumper. I told her I was embarrassed by the generosity of the gift. This was true. New store bought clothes were very rare, except on Jewish New Year. Everything I had was hand sewn from second-hand clothes or left-over material from my mother’s factory work.

All week I couldn’t get the request out of my mind. Even at my favourite times of the day the words were still there.

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I was tortured. Even though I was only young, I knew what was at stake. Dove wanted me to let her out of the house. If she were allowed to go free, she would find a way to kill herself in the traffic. She was supposed to be kept locked up in the house and safe – but her inner self was already dead.

Eventually Saturday came. My father dropped me over to Miriam’s place to play as he went to work or to his girlfriend’s place. No parents were there, only Miriam and me. We had our lunch. Mrs B made great pickled cucumbers and left us plenty of bread and corned beef.

Dove joined us for lunch. She was smiling and quiet. The phone rang and Miriam went to answer it. I could hear it was her mother, which meant she would be a while.

I sat there frozen. I could not eat or chew. Dove started to sing the lullaby. If I join in she will know I will unlock the door. If I don’t unlock it I w make her stay here. I won’t move. Before I could think it through, I heard myself singing the song. I walked to the back door, took the key from its hiding place and unlocked the door. I did not even think about stopping the singing. She instantly slipped through the door, and was gone. I automatically locked the door and went to speak to Miriam who was still on the phone.

Miriam was laughing and talking to her mother’s cousin who had a new kitten. She invited us to come over and I hurriedly agreed. We rushed out the front door, locked it, and took the key with us. We skipped the two blocks to her cousin’s place. Skipping rope was all the rage and Miriam was particularly good at it. She had learned cross hands long before any of us.

While I was there I was treacherous. I played with the kitten and dangled the key ribbon in front of it so everyone would know we had the key with us. We had done the right thing.

When Mrs. B came home, I waited for the phone to ring. I waited and waited but there was no ring. It was almost time for my father to come to pick me up, so we slowly walked the two blocks back. I was terrified of the scene that would meet us when we got back. As we turned the corner in to Miriam’s street I strained my eyes to count how many cars and people were outside Miriam’s place. Only two. My father and Mrs B stood talking at the gate.

I rushed up, glad to see my father without my mother. He was glad to see me. There were no questions, no statements, nothing. We drove home and I went straight to bed, tired out.

No mention was ever made of Dove’s disappearance or absence. I continued to play at Miriam’s house on a weekly basis. There were always great sandwiches. No one said another thing. Only I knew that I was responsible for Dove’s death. I had killed a person with whom I shared those lullabies and I didn’t feel bad. No one seemed to notice. It was like it never happened.

Forty years later, when I had cancer the first time, Miriam came to see me. We talked about her parents’ deaths. I asked Miriam about her Aunt Dove. She could not even remember her or what had happened to her. I never spoke to Miriam again because of her response. She was the only person who had known me all my life except my crazy mother and even she lied.

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GIRLFRIENDS - AGE 14 Up until I was fifteen, I had a lot of trouble with girlfriends. I felt they were tricky and treacherous.

They never told the truth and they tended to tell on you when it was to their advantage.

I was friendly with a girl at the corner house called Helen. Like me, she was an only child and I would often play at her place because her mother fretted about her. One day we invented our own special game. It arose from a Marilyn Monroe film. The film had quite a bit of kissing in it and we were curious about the effect of all this kissing. I suspect we had some sort of immature understanding that this was sexy. We started to kiss as inthe movie and a sort of strange fondling accompanied the kissing. It was all quite exciting. We called our experimentation Marilyn Monroe and sometimes just played this instead of more conventional games.

The other girl we played with was called Halinka. She was about a year older than us and had a brother in his twenties. To us, she was very sophisticated because she had pierced ears and earrings and knew about her brother’s romances.

One day I went over to Helen’s place to play. I went to the back door and could hear Helen and Halinka talking loudly to Helen’s mother. They were saying horrible things about me and Helen’s mother was laughing. I banged on the door to catch them in the act but they pretended not to hear me and continued even louder. I was puzzled by their actions. How could they betray me with their silly talk and get Helen’s mother to join in and laugh at me? I never talked to them again.

After that, I played with Shaynee from two streets away and her next-door neighbour, Renee. Shaynee was beautiful and wealthy. She had a nanny who looked after her while her mother worked in their lingerie business. The nanny always made sponge cakes and drop scones and we had a proper afternoon tea with lots of jam. Next door to Shaynee’s place was a very pretty park with swings and slides.

Shaynee loved the seesaw and so did I. She had a special trick that she played. She slid down the seesaw and pretended to get a splinter in her bottom or her leg. Then she would go to one of the male parents and ask then to help her pull it out. They always fussed over her and gave her lollies, which she would bring over but wouldn’t share.

Renee was the complete opposite. She was a tomboy because she had two older brothers. When I went there we would play cricket or table tennis. I would make up the fourth in any game. I loved the rough and tumble of it. Boys were great. They had microscopes and Meccano sets. They were always building things or digging up stuff. They showed me how electricity worked and we rung bells and lit up globes.

When it rained they played board games and tried to beat us fairly. I loved their straight talk because I knew where I stood. I would always offer to make the iced drinks or the hot chocolate, which I thought was a cheap price for their company. They called me ‘Red’ and I liked it. More and more I hung out with them and Renee played with her cousin Barbara. They asked me to sleep over so we could have midnight feasts and try our electric constructions out in the dark. My mother would never let me stay there. She was worried what the boys might do. I could not imagine them doing anything but playing.

I negotiated with my father to let me stay until ten at night. It was great fun. My father really liked Renee’s mum so he would let me stay late and he would drink and talk to her. I would play with those boys for years rather than with girls, especially when they got a crystal radio set and a walkie-talkie.

They were better than any of my girl friends.

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LIBERTY FABRIC AND DRESSMAKING - AGE 14 I suppose that every girl in the fifties had homemade clothes. There was a whole ritual attached to them that was specific to each family. My mother was a wonderful seamstress and dressmaking was the only subject she would discuss with me calmly. Unfortunately I was not interested in home;made clothes only store- bought clothes. Despite this, I knew I had better comply with the ritual because it assured me of some peace.

The first step was to go to a big fabric and drapery store to buy a pattern. In my mother’s mind there was only one store for this and that was Buckley and Nunn in the city. My mother would start the ritual search for the right pattern by looking through the Vogue pattern book and choosing something she thought was stylish and a sewing challenge. Then armed with the pattern she would walk through the aisles of fabrics, feeling their textures until she found just the right one. Consultation with me was strictly perfunctory. My task was to guess which one she liked and then agree.

Once she got her prize home, she would straightaway lay out the fabric and pin the pattern to it, following the instructions. She would measure and chalk and chat to me very amicably.

The fabric was quickly cut out and the object tacked together for me to try on. Then with a mouth full of pins, she would adjust and fiddle until it was just right. At this point she would often run out of steam. The dream object would lie there for days or weeks unfinished until she could bring herself to sew it up. I was quite pleased because I hated the fittings, and marking the hem was an excruciating exercise in patience and endurance. I could run around in my old dress and not worry if it got dirty because it was not special.

One day my mother was very excited. We were going to town dressed up in our best clothes.

For me it meant white socks, shiny black patent shoes and white gloves. We were not going to buy fabric at the usual place. We were going to Georges of Collins Street. Off we went to walk through the elegant brass doors of the store, up the curved staircase, along the mushroom-pink carpet to the ornate elevator. There was a woman in a wonderful uniform and gloves in the lift that would take us up to the top floor where the fashion clothes were.

Everything was so plush and carpeted and everyone spoke in subdued tones. We walked around and looked at everything but touched nothing. When my mother had her fill of all the clothes and absorbed this season’s styles, she said she was ready. We took the elevator to the ground floor and then walked down half a flight of stairs to the fashion fabrics.

The whole room was decorated in a wonderful array of the most exquisite fabrics: velvet brocade, silk, and wool, all draped artfully to show off their fall and colour. I could hear my mother inhale the effect. Around and around the display she walked with me trailing after her. I could see there was no point in complaining. She would not hear me. Finally she reached the last table. She stood stock-still. The sign said Liberty Fabrics. I watched her examine every bolt of fabric over and over until I could not stand up any more. I moved from one leg to the other, fidgeting but not saying anything. Then a man in a morning suit came up to serve her. I could hear them talking about the colours and the quality until she finally made her choice. He took the bolt of fabric to a long mahogany counter and started to measure out one dress length. He cut the fabric and carefully wrapped it, put it in a special Georges bag and wrote out a large docket.

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On the tram trip home, my mother clutched her treasure. She did not speak to me. She was transfixed and I was really glad she did not talk to me. What could I say when she was so intoxicated and glowing? When we got home my father was there and my mother showed him the fabric. He called her crazy. He said she already had a closet full of fabric if she wanted to make things. He did not see her intoxication. She started to yell at him that he did not understand. She was right. Nevertheless they continued to yell at each other. He went to the closet where all the fabrics were stored and flung open the door. She completely lost control.

I decided that this was a good time to go and hide in my room and wait for the screaming to stop. It went on for a long time until I fell asleep.

The next day when I got home from school nobody was there. I went up to the fabric closet and opened the door. It was crammed full of fabrics and patterns. I looked at them for a long time and they made me feel very sad. I could not see what made my father so angry.

MY FATHER’S STROKE - AGE 15 If I think of my father today, an image of him in his seventies or his eighties appears in my mind. He still has black hair and he is hardly wrinkled. He was always an attractive man with a smile and a joke for everyone. He was very learned in the Jewish traditional way as well as wonderful at maths. He tried to speak English with an Australian accent and that always made us laugh. He did not often get angry or fly of the handle. Instead he would get very cold and serious and no one was brave enough to contradict him. He liked to wear a flat tweed hat that he even slept in when he dozed on the couch.

I think I must have been Daddy’s Girl. I always tried to please him and do chores for him because he would reward me with a smile and a sweet. I was named after his mother, Rosa, and I looked quite like her. I tried to be like him in any way I could.

One day my father and I were driving in his Valiant car. We drove down Punt Road. I sat in the front seat and felt like a film star. Suddenly he stopped and clutched at his chest. He was in a lot of pain and stopped the car. He told me to run down the street a few blocks to the Alfred Hospital and get help.

Everything after that happened very quickly. People came to help, they took me with them and together we went to casualty. My mother was called and we sat and waited in the waiting area for news. They told us my father had had a second heart attack and he also had blood clots in his arm. They called it a stroke. It was very frightening. ‘Stroke’ was a whole new world for me. My father was in hospital for a few weeks and each day I would go to the shops we had in Footscray and help out. My job was to work in the evenings after school, to collect the takings, fill in the deposit slips, and put the money in the external bank safe. This had to be done by 11.30 p.m., so I could catch the train back into the city before midnight. The last tram went from the city at midnight and would get me home before 1a.m. This went on for six weeks while my father was in hospital followed by special care.

When he got out of hospital it was like the first heart attack only worse. He had changed completely. He looked skinnier and drawn and his whole way of speaking had changed. He

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did not joke or laugh much. I heard him say to my mother that he had seen death and things would now be different. One day after school he called me into the lounge room to talk to me. He asked me how school was going and I told him proudly that I was doing well. The next year I would be in sixth form and be a senior student. He was quiet for a long time and then he said to me, “Next year you will go to work.” I was surprised. He knew how much I wanted to go to university and become an architect. I was good at maths and was sure I would get a scholarship for university.

I could see my father’s expression was angry and determined. I knew this was no time to contradict him. Arguing with him when he was angry was a waste of time. He simply said to me, “You will work and save money. Soon you will be married and then everything will be fine.” I didn’t even have a boyfriend. I never spoke to boys, except in class when the teachers made us do group work. I was not interested in marriage or children. I thought of myself pretty much as a big child. Marriage was a lifetime away. I knew when I was old enough my parents would arrange for some boy to come to the house and things would work out. I did not think that this would happen soon and stop me from going to university.

I did not say anything to my father or my mother about this conversation. Every night after school I would work very hard at my schoolwork. I would always go to help out in the business when I was told and always bring my books to study on the tram. I thought if I did very well, I could talk to my father about staying on at school for sixth form.

I was told to get a job for the end of year school holidays. I didn’t rush to fulfil this request and hoped that something would happen to prevent me having to leave school. Sure enough something did. My father became ill and could not insist on my staying at work. Slyly I went back to school to do sixth form. My mother was not pleased. She was scared my father would find out I had disobeyed him and we would both feel his anger.

I did my best to ignore my fear of my father. I studied hard and did the best work I could. I would calculate the months I had left to finish the school year and pray that I would do well.

By August the whole problem was over. My father came home to stay and wanted to know how I spent my days. I told him the first of many lies. I had a good bank job. I think if he had not been so ill he would not have believed me. I was very scared. I only had to complete three more months and university was within my reach. I felt that if I studied hard enough I would qualify for a scholarship and could go to university with their blessing. They might even be proud of me for doing so well.

The next few days were terrible. My mother and father went to the Rabbi and the Shadchen (match maker) to find me a suitable boy. In their view I should be engaged when I turned sixteen and married by seventeen. I could see no way out of the conflict. I was far too scared to ask my father if I could go to school and complete my final year. I knew my father thought that no good religious boy would marry a girl who was at university. Who in the world would marry a female architect? How many Jewish female architects could I name anyway?

As the days rolled on I knew I would have to confront my father. I mustered up all my courage, went to him after Friday dinner and told him that I was not at the bank and intended to go to school on the following Monday. For a moment he did not say anything. He then said, “I know you are stubborn and will do things your way, not the right way. My wish

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is that you become engaged and stay at work in the bank. If you don’t do this and want to live your own life the way you choose, then you have to leave my house. If you disobey me in this then you are dead to me. I will sit Shiva for you”.

I knew from his voice that there was not going to be any discussion or negotiation. I had to leave if I wanted to go to university. I said goodnight and went to my room. I thought about the options and knew there was nothing for me to do but leave. I packed my uniform and my new schoolbooks into one bag. Into another I put a few clothes and some underwear. I took my bankbook and all my favourite ribbons. The next morning, after my father went to synagogue, I took my two bags and caught the tram to a girlfriend’s house. She was at home with her two sisters who were twenty-one and twenty-four years old. Her parents were in Israel until November. Each day I would set out for school from her place. I had some money in my bank account from my summer job. I rationed out every penny and conscientiously looked for babysitting jobs at the weekend. Neither my father nor my mother made contact with me. It was all quiet.

When my girlfriend’s parents returned they were very concerned. They contacted my father and tried to make peace. He would not budge or acknowledge where I was. I became very quiet and sullen. I had only one interest and that was to do well enough to earn a scholarship.

I didn’t want to see or talk to anyone other than was necessary. Nothing anyone said would make my father move from his stand. Later when I won a scholarship to university and prizes at university, he would not acknowledge my efforts.

Seven years later when I had completed university and was getting engaged to a Jewish boy my father decided he would speak to me.

I thought then as I do now that my childhood ended at that point. I think my father could not see me as anything other than an obedient child. As an adult I could see that once I returned to his selected path he could accommodate me into his thinking. In reality he never spoke to me again as openly as he did when I was a child. He always avoided eye contact. In the end, he enjoyed playing with his two grandsons but he never addressed me directly or acknowledged any of my achievements except being a mother of sons. To this day I still adore him.

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