A HIGHWAY OF DEMONS - Chapter Three

A HIGHWAY OF DEMONS

by Whispering Jack

CHAPTER THREE – PITY THE POOR IMMIGRANT

"I pity the poor immigrant

Who tramples through the mud,

Who fills his mouth with laughing

And who builds his town with blood,

Whose visions in the final end

Must shatter like the glass.

I pity the poor immigrant

When his gladness comes to pass."

Bob Dylan [i Pity the Poor Immigrant]

I may almost have forgotten about the old necktie but recollections of it still jump out at me every once in a while, bringing with them unexpected memories I thought long buried.

These are memories of long, hot summer days, of trips to the city with uncles, aunts and cousins. Sitting on Santa's lap, squirming there with him sweating away in that ridiculous red outfit in century plus heat, and me accepting my cousin’s dare to grab a handful of white beard, tugging hard as if it was somehow an affirmation of my own identity to reveal the pale white skin of the man's face behind the mask.

Did we really hear Santa say, "shit"?

I can laugh about it now, but that was a time less than a decade removed from the liberation of my people from the death camps, of the bombing of Dresden, of the horrors of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The Cold War was upon us. People who were different in this land were welcomed after a fashion but still looked upon with suspicion.

And I had been alive for less than the span of that decade.

There had been a journey across a wide ocean, landfall at Fremantle a day or two short of my second birthday, a joyful reunion with family a week later, settling down in a new land, hardworking parents, new businesses, sharing homes with strange new people whose faces I no longer remember. The sad death of a long-awaited baby sister at just two days of age was almost more easily forgotten than the bloodied nose I received from the next door neighbour because my folks spoke a strange language and we ate unusual food at the dinner table.

Those events were well behind us as we emerged through the glass doors of the Lonsdale Street exit of the Myer Emporium, squinting into the blinding sunlight.

It was one of those hot summer days when the mercury passed through the century mark on the Fahrenheit scale and the northerly wind blew hot Mallee dust at my face and eyes. In my hands, I lovingly clutched a pale blue necktie. My cousin held its identical counterpart and, as we sat on the green tram that rattled down Swanston Street and pushed its away across a bridge that traversed the murky brown river, we marvelled at the image emblazoned on the silky surface of what was clearly the fashion statement of 1954: a man wearing black shorts and a navy blue guernsey with red yoke in the shape of a "V", kicking a leather egg-shaped object long and far into the distance.

So this was the beginning: a random decision by my mother, who had worked so many hard hours on a factory floor, to spend some of the pennies she earned on the purchase of a necktie. She could not know how important a moment this was to become in the life of her young son. If you live in this city, ownership of such a garment is the ultimate determinant of friendships, acquaintanceships, timetables, celebrations, commiserations, remembrances and every other conceivable aspect of a person's life cycle.

I looked down at the tie and rolled it up towards my face. I noticed the imprint of the man whose muscular right leg was pushed so high that the toe of his boot pointed towards the heavens.

[TO BE CONTINUED...]