A fascinating account of the eve of Yom Kippur in Ballarat, 1853 was first published in the Westralian Judean in 1938. It was written by Nathan Spielvogel, and vividly paints a picture of what Jewish life looked like 171 years ago. The events described here were the precursor to the Ballarat Synagogue, which was built shortly afterwards, and is still in use until this very day, with a service for Yom Kippur taking place this weekend.
Hundreds of young, bearded diggers. Red shirts, high boots and heavy cloth hats.
All of them feverishly seeking for pleasure.
Along the planked footpaths are scores of boozing shanties, gambling dens and bawdy dancing saloons.
Hundreds of smoky, evil-smelling whale oil lamps light up in the narrow, crooked street.
Though it is midnight, all the shops are wide open. At the doors of these rickety stalls, stand the proprietors, bawling in raucous voices the merits of their goods inside.
The crowd of diggers stroll along, singing scraps of ribald ditties, yelling greetings to passing comrades or swearing stupidly in half a dozen languages. A scene that only Gustave Dore could have put onto canvas. ‘Here comes a man, pushing his way through the boisterous crowd. He is a very tiny man, not five feet high and thin. But on his face is an expression of grim resolution. As he moves along, he is jostled good humouredly and greeted with good natured banter.
“What ho! Charlie!” “Here's Ikey Dyte!” “Hello! Charlie the Yid!” “Say Charlie! Do you vant to buy a vatch?”
But the little man grins back and is quick in his retort to the jeers: “Hullo! Johnny Pigface! When did the traps give you your ticket of Leave?”
“Hey! You! How did you get away from Van Dieman’s Land?”
‘Do you want to sell a watch? First tell me where did you steal it?”
His jibes evoke roars of noisy laughter from the diggers, enjoying the discomfiture of their comrade. But the little man pushes his way along, receiving and returning a running fire of lively insults that have no venom in them.
He stops in front of a shop, built like most of the stores of rough packing cases. Outside the door, under the light of a smelly oil lamp, stands a tall dark man in his shirt sleeves.
‘Picks and shovels!” he bawls. “Picks and shovels! Straight from Birmingham! Lowest prices! Come and see! Picks and shovels!”
The little man worms his way till he is close. Then he whispers: “Cohen! Six tomorrow at the Clarendon Hotel!"
The big, black bearded man nods his head to Dyte and resumes his shouting.
Away goes Dyte, squeezing himself through the noisy taunting crowd till he comes to another shop. Over the doorway is a crudely painted sign, “The Littles Wonder". Here on a box stands a thin, red-headed man yelling. “All wool and a yard wide! All wool and a yard wide! All wool and a yard wide! Shirts! Shirts!
Shirts! Dirt cheap! Come in and see!”
“Bernstein!” whispers Dyte. “Six tomorrow night at the Clarendon Hotel!” “Yisha Choach!” murmurs the red-headed one and goes on with his yells.
But Dyte pushes his way further on till he comes to the Montezuma Hotel. Here the crowd is denser, for attached to the inn is a large wooden building flattered by the name of ‘Theatre’.
There is a blaze of odorous flares. On a high stand is a man with black whiskers and shaven chin. In a loud voice and with a strong foreign accent he tells the crowd about the wonders of the show inside.
“Valk in! Valk in! Only von bob! Der besterest singers and der pootiest gals in Ballarat. Only von bob! Valk in! Valk in!”
‘Morwitch!” whispers Dyte. “Six tomorrow night at the Clarendon Hotell!”
“I’ll be der!” murmurs Morwitch and resumes his wordy endeavours to cajole shillings from the pleasure-seeking diggers.
Away goes little Charlie Dyte on his mysterious mission.
“Hey, Charlie! Have you got a bit of pork in your pocket?”
‘Bit of pork!”, laughs the little man. “What! Have you lost your brother?
“Hullo, Charlie! How's things in Jerusalem?”
“Hullo, Paddy! When did the police let you out of the Logs?”
Noise! Banter! Laughter!
Now he stands with a crowd that is laughing at the naughty witticisms of a stout little man who is selling by auction all sorts of articles. The merry diggers toss a more or less indecent jests at him, but he is quick and replies with the same base coin.
“Hollander! Six tomorrow night at the Clarendon Hotel!”
Hollander nods his head and throwing off a handful of perspiration from his forehead, turns with a grin to howl his naughty jests in his broken English to the ring of his laughing clients.
On to Levy from the top of whose store hangs a big wooden boot!
On to Benjamin who proudly boasts that he has five hundred clocks inside.
On to Harris who tells the world that his pies are the biggest and juiciest in Ballarat.
On to Abrahams who squeals that he gives a higher price for gold than the Banks!
On to Davis who implores the diggers to come in and see his grand collection of tents!
On to Levine who loudly defies any one in Ballarat to sell better or cheaper cigars!
Now the little man mixes among the crowd till he finds Josephs and Salmon and Isaacs and Dimant and other diggers, rollicking along and enjoying themselves like all these other young, bearded pleasure-seekers.
He pulls each head down to him and whispers those mystic words. From each he receives a nod or a word of thanks. Then he pushes his way on.
Next night, just as the sun dips below the horizon, some twenty men assemble in the large dining room of the Clarendon Hotel, kept by Henry Harris.
This is a quiet, respectable inn, far away from the busy, noisy Main Road. Twenty men!
Yes! Twenty young exiles from the ghettos of Russia, Galicia, Romania, Germany, and England!
Young exiles who had left their far-away homes to seek their fortunes in the Golden South!
And this evening they had gathered to observe Yom Kippur. They wrap their cloth Tallaisim around their shoulders and listen with bowed heads to the poignant words of the Kol Nidrei. The cantor, clad in the red shirt and high boots of the digger, solemnly and tunefully chants the old and melancholy dirge. He learnt his Chazannot in far-off Lemberg! “Oooshamnu!” his rich voice wails, and the minds of those twenty young exiles float back to homes: on the other side of the world.
Lumps rise in throats! Tears form in eyes! With bowed heads they listen to the prayer and beat their breasts as they had been taught to do in their own distant synagogues.
The revellers in the bar pause with their glasses in their hands when they hear that strange, mournful wail and wonder what it can mean.
They do not guess that it comes from the remnant of Israel remembering that it is Kol Nidre night.
They do not know that these young exiles are uniting with millions of their own blood in all parts of the world to show their recognition of the mercy and justice of the Most High.
Taken from ‘The beginning of the Ballarat Hebrew Congregation.’ Written for radio and first published September 1938 in the Westralian Judean.
Image: AUSTRALIA: GOLD RUSH, 1852. Forest Creek. Mount Alexander. From Adelaide Hill. Lithograph, Australian, by George French Angas, 1852.
