Two sons of Abraham

Bernie came to Australia in the sixties. He spent 1967 flirting his way around Europe in the great summer of love, when out the blue he got a message to call home. His Dad told him that Israel was at war and that a letter had arrived for Bernie that morning with his enlistment papers.

“It didn’t take me long to decide,” he said. “I’m more the ‘Shalom’ sort of Jew than the war mongering type. I had an aunt in Melbourne and she promised to look after me. So I caught a flight the following Saturday. I guess I was running from something. But when you think that it might have been a bullet from an Arab Kalashnikov, I don’t feel too guilty about it.

“The ironic thing is that the first guy I met at Melbourne airport was a Syrian Arab who was running from the same war. For years afterwards he’d call me up if any trouble kicked off in the Middle East.

‘Praise be to God that we’re not there,’ he’d say. And it never struck either of us as strange that we were praising different Gods.”

“I never had an argument with that guy”, Bernie said. “Except about football. He was a Carlton fanatic and I barracked for St Kilda. Sometimes I think the world would be a better place if the only thing we fought over was football.”

Bernie’s Aunt had a bakery on Acland Street that specialised in Eastern European pastries and every Saturday it was filled with Yiddish chatter mixed with heavy Slavic dialects. Bernie worked there for a while but had no time for the “Russians” as he called them.

“They came here after the war and kept up their traditions and language. And just when it was dying out, the bloody Soviet Union collapsed and thousands more of them turned up.
“They are Jewish like me, but they are not Israeli and despite what the world thinks, the two things aren’t the same. I was part of the first generation born in the new state. We saw everything as new and bright and not shrouded in the dark mists of the past. And we don’t have any allegiance to old Europe, unlike that lot," he said, as he sneered at the Café across the street.

Acland Street is the iconic heart of St Kilda with cafes and restaurants that nod allegiance to the suburb's original immigrant populations. The Western side of the street is older and has many buildings that have not seen a lick of paint since Noah was decorating the Ark. Dimly lit cake shops that sell Strudels and Hungarian buns mingle with shoe shops selling only obscure Israeli and Russian brands.

Bernie wanted to break away from this, but he got no further than the other side of the street.
“One day I was cleaning up outside my Aunt’s place, when I noticed a ‘For Rent’ sign directly opposite. I noticed that St Kilda was getting busier and that the Esplanade Hotel started opening later. So I figured I could make some money serving their customers some late night food. I travelled a lot when I was younger and the one thing people want late at night is a hamburger. So that’s what I decided to sell.”

His menu is certainly a tribute to his international travels as the variations of burger available are sorted by country. An Aussie burger will get you egg and beetroot, the Mexican some spicy sauce and the Swiss one has some cheese with holes in it. I asked why there was no Israeli burger and he gave me a resigned smile that suggested he’d been asked that question thousands of times.

“I don’t want people thinking this is an Israeli place. There are enough idiots out there who would have a problem with that.”

As he spoke I was joined at the counter by a dreadlocked African who greeted Bernie in Hebrew. Or at least I think he did. I was working on the assumption that Bernie wasn’t fluent in Ethiopian. Their conversation became heated.

“My name is Joel”, he said, turning to me for moral support. “I am also the son of Abraham. Part of the lost tribe of Israel”.

“Well, you’re in St Kilda mate,” I said, affecting my best Aussie accent. “So I’d say you’re pretty bloody lost”.

Joel had turned his attention back to Bernie. Free food was his objective and it was clear that his spattering of Hebrew hadn’t done enough to earn it. So he switched to pleading.

“I’m your brother and it is your duty to help me”. Bernie wouldn’t be in business if he gave in to that plea every time.

“The only person you can ask help from is God”, he said. But as he did, you felt that his heart sank. God doesn’t show his face very often in burger joints and a strange stillness came over the place.

“I’ll give you a hotdog,” Bernie said. “But you must promise me that you will do something tomorrow to sort your life out.”

“God is my witness,” Joel said. “A man who helps his brother is doubly blessed. And you will be rewarded in heaven.”

Bernie smiled. I sensed that he would prefer his rewards to come a little earlier than that. Joel turned to leave and had devoured most of the hotdog before he got to the door. My chips were ready and Bernie seemed shocked that I wanted to pay for them. “I’m sorry about that my friend, but this is St Kilda and there are a lot of hungry people here. God be with you”.
“How about I leave God here with you”, I said. “With some of the customers you get, I think you need him more”.

I ate the chips on the way home. Acland Street was quiet. The cake and shoe shops had long since closed and the Italian restaurants were packing up their outside tables. Joel was crouched in a doorway, trying to get some sleep after his evening feed.

“Shalom”, I said. “I hope you sleep well”.

“Shalom to you too, my friend,” he said. “I will sleep well because I don’t have to beg for it”.