Out of Tune (9 page)

After lunch my parents would lie together on the blanket we brought with us and sometimes they would cuddle when we children
went off to play. Nearby were the docks where the big ships came in from abroad. We would scurry down there whenever we saw
a boat come in. These foreign ships and their crews seemed terribly exotic to us, and we played all kinds of games, dreaming
up tales of pirates and fortune hunters. David and I, being the eldest children, would sometimes think about Europe and the
ships that our parents had arrived on. We were already old enough to know the fate of those who hadn’t made it to Australia—“the
lucky country” as it is fondly known by its grateful peoples. These otherwise happy childhood moments were tinged with sadness
when we thought of our parents’ families and the others who didn’t make it.

Another place we used to frequent on family outings was Hyde Park, near our home in Highgate. This was a beautiful place,
with manicured lawns and gardens and plenty of benches on which to sit and gaze at the peaceful surroundings. Often on weekends
we went there to feed the ducks and swans and stroll around the tranquil lake. Sometimes we also went to King’s Park, an area
of untouched bush land that Perth’s nineteenth-century founders had deliberately preserved in the center of the city. King’s
Park overlooks the Swan River and is very close to the University of Western Australia. We used to run around amid the gum
trees and wildflowers there and take in the magnificent panoramic views.

School naturally played a big part in our lives. In Perth we first went to Highgate State school. Later, when we moved to
a working-class area some distance away called Maniana, David and I went to Queen’s Park, which was a fairly poor school with
many aboriginal children. When we moved back to Highgate, we split up—I studied at Mt. Lawley High School and David went to
Forrest High School for Boys.

Romance did not play a large part in David’s teenage life. Immersed in music, he didn’t seem to be very interested in girls.
During the entire period before he left for London at the age of nineteen, I don’t recall him going out on a single date—although
there was no shortage of female music students who developed crushes on him after hearing the magic he produced at the piano.

I, on the other hand, had reached an age where I wanted to go out with boys. Clothes were always a problem, though. I was
quite adept at thinking up all kinds of ways of renovating old clothes so that they would look a little different. I would
sew braids on them or embroider them with beads and sequins to give them a fresh burst of life. For instance, I removed some
brightly colored buttons from an old cardigan and sewed them on a skirt to create the sort of effect I imagined Gypsies might
make.

In the early days in Perth we went to the synagogue fairly regularly, and some members of the Jewish community used to offer
us second-hand clothes. Although my father abhorred charity, he did not like to be rude, so he accepted their gifts. I was
once given a lovely dress from one of these handouts, and wore it to synagogue for Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year. When
a girl came up to me and said, “Oh, I used to have a dress just like that,” I felt mortified. I could have sunk through the
floor. I quickly made up a not particularly credible story about my parents having just bought me the dress from some shop.
I wanted to save myself from the shame of receiving handouts. It was only many years later that I realized that charity could
be a good thing. Indeed, Judaism dictates that one should give 10 percent of one’s income to the less fortunate. At the time,
however, I merely felt like a victim of poverty, and this was a terrible source of embarrassment.

Despite my discomfort about my clothes, I went out on my first date when I was sixteen. I was asked out by a very handsome
boy, who was three years older than me. He took me to a drive-in movie— these were very popular in Perth because of the city’s
warm weather. There were two full-length feature films on the program and by the time they ended it was fairly late. But since
we were famished, we joined two other couples for a quick late-night bite at Bernie’s Hamburger joint on Riverside Drive,
next to the Swan River.

When he dropped me home, the boy, who I thought was absolutely gorgeous, asked me if I would like to go to a party with him
the next evening. Thrilled that he seemed to like me, I could hardly get the word “yes” out quickly enough. But when I went
through our front door, much later than planned, I found Dad waiting up for me, worried about his precious eldest daughter.

“You can’t go,” Dad said to me when I told him I had already accepted a date for a party the next night. My father was very
angry about my coming home so late without warning him. But on the following evening, being a defiant teenager, I waited till
my father and David left the house to go to a concert in which David was playing, got dressed, and concocted a dummy body
for my bed, made up of blankets and pillows to give the appearance of a sleeping person. I then swore the whole household
to secrecy. “Don’t you dare tell anyone,” I cautioned my little brother and sister sternly.

When my father came home with David, he peeked into the bedroom I shared with Suzie, saw the dummy, and presumed I was asleep.
Some months later I discovered that my mother had told him the truth and that in any case he had not been fooled by the dummy,
but had decided to play along with my prank. Perhaps he was rewarding me for my boldness and initiative, or perhaps he thought
there was no point in trying to control his rebellious teenage daughter and that to discipline me would only make things worse.

All in all, I was going through quite a rebellious phase. For example, my father didn’t like me wearing makeup. “Natural beauty
is far better than artificial beauty,” he told me. But I went ahead and smeared myself with all sorts of colors, just to show
Dad that I would do what I liked. Not surprisingly, he went off in a huff when I did.

My mother at this time had her hands full with my four younger siblings, including a two-year-old baby. So, in search of a
sympathetic female ear to listen to my woes about boys and other adolescent problems, I turned to my younger sister Suzie.
Although she was eight years my junior, Suzie possessed an understanding and maturity well beyond her years. She would listen
patiently to my concerns and then give me her advice: “Mom and Dad will be furious if they see you in that new green eye makeup”;
“You should choose this boy because he treats you nicely, rather than that one who is better looking,” she would say. Although
Suzie spent most of her time at this age playing with friends, she was already a good listener and giver of advice, skills
that served her well later in her career as a social worker.

Meanwhile, my youngest sister Louise, although only two years old at the time, was beginning to make her presence felt. Her
curiosity knew no bounds. She would muster up all the energy in her tiny body and haul the large science and nature books
off our shelves. She would turn over the pages, studying the pictures diligently. The next step was reading and writing, which
she learned very quickly. She began writing poems at the age of seven and never looked back. Many of her poems have been published,
and the plays she has written have been performed. Her latest work, a musical called
The Bridge,
about destitute street kids, was staged in July 1997 in the theater in Mandurah, a town one hour’s drive south of Perth.
Among my favorite of Louise’s poems is
Freudian Slips,
a humorous account of Freud’s “trek through the jungle of the psyche,” and another one that explores the way people communicate,
or don’t communicate, when they sit opposite each other in trains.

I left school at the age of fifteen and spent three years working as a secretary in a big shoe shop. It never occurred to
me to go on to higher education because I knew this wasn’t financially feasible. As the eldest child, I also knew my contribution
would greatly help my parents. So my wages were divided into board for my parents and of course a portion for myself. As soon
as I received my paycheck every week, I would rush out and buy myself a new piece of clothing—a cardigan, a skirt, stockings,
or a pair of shoes. It was a great feeling finally to start buying my own things and to become independent.

I had some brief periods away from home. At sixteen, I stayed in Melbourne with my grandparents for a few weeks and took part
in the Jewish Sports Carnival. I was picked to play on the girls’ hockey team representing the Jewish Community of Western
Australia, though I was in fact a very poor hockey player, running away if the ball came at me too hard. But I had great fun
at the two-week carnival and made many new friends.

Two years later I returned to Melbourne for several weeks and worked for a fashion business. Upon my return to Perth, I worked
for two years for a firm that supplied paint, easels, and drawing equipment for artists. I used to love the aroma of the paint,
and the artistic types who would wander in and browse among the glowing colors. After that, from 1965 to 1968, I worked as
a check-typist for the State Electricity Commission (SEC) of Western Australia. My father had already been working at the
SEC for many years as an electrical fitter in the meter shop, and Leslie also started working for them as an electrician in
1966. Although we all worked for the same government department, we didn’t see each other much at work, because our workplaces
were in different locations.

My father worked in the meter shop until he retired in 1968 at the age of sixty-five. He is famous among his workmates for
bringing his violin in to play. At first they wouldn’t believe a blue-collar worker could play a classical instrument. Dave
Bowron, the chief engineer in charge of the meter shop, told my brother Leslie recently: “We didn’t really believe Peter could
play, so we dared him to bring his violin in. But when he took up the challenge and brought in his fiddle we were all very
impressed.”

It was only in my early twenties that I decided to go back to studying, taking my Associate in Music exams, which were issued
by the Australian Music Examinations Board, under the auspices of the University of Western Australia. Previously I had thought
that higher education was only for the very rich or for students gifted enough to obtain a scholarship, and it had never occurred
to me when I left school that I could do something more ambitious. Later, at the age of thirty, when I moved to Israel, I
took a bachelor of arts degree in History and English Language at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem.

David, too, left high school after earning his Junior Certificate, even though my parents very much wanted him to stay on
and obtain his Leaving (Higher School) Certificate. But he was obsessed with the piano; he just wanted to devote his entire
life to it.

Louise, my youngest sister, was the only one of us who stayed on at school beyond the age of fifteen and then continued her
education at university where she gained bachelor’s degrees in psychology and creative writing. Suzie, like me, took a break.
She left school young, worked for a few years, and then later went on to higher education. She took a degree in social work
at the University of Western Australia and now helps adults with alcohol and drug problems. Leslie, who left school with a
very respectable score of eight subjects for his Junior Certificate, is a qualified electrician, but now earns his income
as a musician.

Although there were many material things that I craved in my childhood, I realize now that growing up poor is not without
its benefits. I will always appreciate being able to enjoy material comforts—buying clothes and so on—in a way that I might
not have done had we always taken such things for granted. And growing up without many possessions also meant there was a
much greater emphasis on enriching our childhood in other ways—from music to chess to acrobatics—for which I am truly grateful.

O
ne day, out of the blue, David announced to my father that he intended to go and live in England. His plan was to study at
the Royal College of Music in London to work toward a performer’s diploma. David said that he had already been talking for
some time to several members of the Jewish community whom my father didn’t know. They had agreed the idea was a good one,
indeed they may even have thought it up themselves; and they had promised to help organize and fund the trip. David said he
had also been discussing the plan with Frank Callaway, professor of music at the University of Western Australia.

My father had mixed feelings about David leaving. He wanted the best for his son’s career, which he himself had done so much
to foster. But he also knew that David’s behavior was not quite normal, and he was worried about what might happen when he
was left to look after himself alone in London, a city so much bigger and more cosmopolitan than Perth. But as they talked,
he could see how much David had set his sights on going. It was 1966, David was now eighteen and no longer a child, and though
he was still legally a minor (under Australian law at the time, the age of majority was twenty-one), my father felt that in
practice he had the right to decide for himself.