Winnipeg! I am reminded of a poem I recited in school almost seventy years ago. "'Twas a smiling day in May" when we stepped down from that smelly, crowded colonist car.
What a relief it was to be on the platform where the air felt so pure and refreshing. We were all physically exhausted and aching all over, but we were so happy at long last to be in Winnipeg.
My father had been the first to step out. He waited for the rest of the family, then beckoned us and some others to gather around him on the platform. He then recited a prayer:
Baruch atah adonay elohenu melech ha-olam sh'hecheyanu v'kimanu v'higiyanu la-zman ha-zeh
Blessed art Thou, O Lord, our God, King of the Universe who has kept us in life and hast preserved us to reach this moment.
We were escorted by railroad officials to the nearby Immigration Hall where we were again examined by a doctor, while other officials examined our papers. We were then allowed out to greet Harry, Uncle Beresh and his family. Those other immigrants who were vouched for by their friends were also allowed out. A few more remained in the hall to continue their journey farther. My mother, tense with emotion, began to weep. Father was silent for a long time but we could see tears running down his beard. There were many sad good-byes and emotional embraces among those who had accompanied us in our exodus and shared our experiences.
While Harry and my father were busy gathering our baggage, the rest of us walked along Higgins Avenue towards Main Street where we heard a lot of noise. We could see men, horses and machinery working in an area below the street level. Some men held the handle of huge scoops harnessed to teams of horses, straining and struggling to scrape up the earth for what we learned later was to be a subway under the C.P.R. tracks.
When our baggage was finally assembled, it was loaded on a horse-drawn baggage express wagon. We all climbed up, with father, Harry and the driver on the front seat. We were driven along Higgins Avenue to Patrick Street, and then along Patrick to Henry Avenue, at the corner of which Uncle Beresh had his store.
After we had looked over the store and had some refreshments, we were taken to see our new home.
It was a small house located in the back yard of a larger residence which faced Patrick Street. Many homes were built that way to provide low-cost housing for friends and relatives who were continually arriving as immigrants. The front house stood next to Uncle Beresh's store, and he had found the smaller one for us. His family lived above the store.
The front house had running water, a toilet and a bath. Ours did not have any of these conveniences; we obtained our water from a pump just back of our house. Occasionally in winter the pump would freeze, and then it was necessary to melt snow on our wood stove and prime the pump to get the water flowing again. We had two tiny bedrooms, a front room and a large kitchen. Each bedroom had two beds separated by an area hardly a foot wide. The boys slept in one room, the girls in the other, and our parents slept on a folding bed in the front room. All the social activities took place in the kitchen. In summer, it was the coolest room and, in winter, it was the warmest because of the wood stove which was always going.
We had numerous visitors in our house at first, for many who had been in Winnipeg for some time were anxious to learn about their people who still remained in the Old Country. These new friends helped us to get to know the city and gave us advice on where to find work.
My father had some difficulty finding employment as he spoke no English and was not proficient in any trade. Eventually, he secured a job in a bakeshop as a clerk and bookkeeper. Anne started work as a seamstress and Mary in a sweater factory. Jack and Abe worked in a cigar factory, and in a few months I became a newsboy. I sold newspapers because it was the only job I could get that did not interfere with school. Almost all the newsboys were immigrant kids so it was natural that I would become one of them.
Our family was on its way. We were an industrious lot. What a wonderful feeling of accomplishment we had when we were able to bring home our earnings!
God bless Canada - land of freedom and opportunity!
Harry was proficient in several languages. It was compulsory in the Old Country for all boys in the higher grades to learn the languages of the countries adjacent to their own. Harry had made English an extra subject for study, having in mind his eventual migration to Canada.
Every evening after supper we would gather round the kitchen table and Harry, with dictionary in hand, would open a page at random and pick out a word, for example, "woman". He would then discuss related words, such as scrubwoman, saleswoman, waitress, and we would make up sentences using these words.
We learned the meaning of words but we were not quite ready for spelling and grammar. The word "freedom" had a beautiful meaning for us, since we came from a country where there was little of it.
Later, Harry subscribed to a magazine called Correct English and How To Use It. From this we learned to speak with confidence. There was not much else we could do in the evenings. We came home quite tired from school and work and these sessions were relaxing and enjoyable.
Shortly after our arrival, Molly, Sam and I were enrolled in the Dufferin school. I was eight years old by then. I had two years of schooling in Roumania, and besides Roumanian, I spoke German and a smattering of English. I was placed in Grade 2.
Dufferin School was quite different from my school in Ploiesti. For quite a while I was bewildered. The rooms were so large and boys and girls were in the same class, although they played in separate parts of the playground. There were youngsters from many different nations - Sweden, Germany, Italy and others. In the playground, they naturally gravitated to their own nationality, and I, being the only Roumanian, was a loner. Some were kind to me, but others were rude and played tricks. They wanted to fight, and I, not being pugnacious, had many difficult moments.
Every morning we began classes with the Lord's prayer, and every day we sang God Save the King with Rule Britannia or the Maple Leaf Forever. On inclement days, we would gather in the assembly hall for exercise and then march around the hall to the tune of "Men of Harlech" played on the piano. We were encouraged to sing as we marched. Our principal must have been a Welshman for we always had "Men of Harlech". But I always felt that "Onward Christian Soldiers" was a better marching tune for it had much more rhythm. (I always liked that song, ever since I first heard it played by the Salvation Army band on Main St.)
Most children recall one or two teachers whose influence remains with them. In my early school years I had several teachers who left a deep impression on me. My first teacher in Grade 2 was Miss Symes. She was an angel, small in stature, so gentle and kind. She took care that I understood and pronounced every word correctly. When my father passed away in 1911, she sent a note - "My deepest sympathy in your sad bereavement". To this day, when I find it necessary to send a message of condolence, I often use those very words.
In Grades 5, 6 and 7, I had a dedicated teacher, Margaret Cameron. She commanded respect and full attention from everyone. Like Miss Symes, Miss Cameron never left a subject until she was sure we all understood it. She encouraged us to come to her with our problems, both inside and outside school. She even occasionally took the class to her home. For me, this was a treat and an adventure, for few outside of our family ever visited us, or - we them. When the First World War broke out, Miss Cameron was among the first to volunteer. Her deeds overseas were often mentioned in dispatches and in the press.
We had a music teacher, Miss Pullar who, like Miss Symes, was a tiny person. She taught us the joy of song. She would stand on the platform in front of Miss Cameron's desk, sound a pitch pipe, round her mouth into an "O" and sing "Do-do-do" and then change into a half smile and sing "Ray-ray-ray" and so on. Every note had a different expression. The boys in class had difficulty restraining their laughter and did not always succeed. The girls, in all seriousness, imitated her posture and sounds. I always enjoyed these periods. It was fun when Miss Pullar led us in a song we all knew.
Monday was special to many students at the Dufferin school. It was "Bank Day". Most of the working parents were paid on Saturday, and after taking care of the usual home expenses, a few leftover coins would be given to the children for banking at school on Monday. First thing in the morning, those with money for deposit would line up by the teacher's desk and she would enter the amount to be deposited in each child's own bank book. The principal would collect all the money and the books, and the biggest boys would be delegated to take it all to the bank. At the end of the year, everyone would be given a statement. What joy for us when we learned that we had so many dollars in our savings account. The interest was like money found.
The plan went on for many years until the banks decided to discontinue the arrangement. The newspapers condemned the banks but despite the storm of protests from everyone, the banks still felt the program was not worth the trouble. We were told to continue the banking but as we had to go directly to the banks, it did not work. It was unfortunate that the program ended because it taught the children a very fine lesson in systematic saving.
Another program that proved popular was the school cadets. In the summer, the boys would march in the school yard. Those who became most proficient would be formed into a company and drilled in army formation. We became known as the Dufferin School Cadets. As such, we were given wooden rifles and taught to "shoulder arms", "present arms" and "change arms", to form sections, platoons and battalions. We marched in the school yard, in two ranks, twenty to a line, one line behind the other. I was an end boy, responsible for keeping my column straight and in step. To assist myself, I hummed slowly the old Salvation Army refrain, "Onward Christian Soldiers". If my Jewish mother had known my method for keeping in step, heaven help me. Our drill master, a professional soldier named Colonel Billman, would shout "Left, right, left, right...look up...chest out...eyes front."
We would be marching in good formation when Colonel Billman would shout "Company halt! Prepare for cavalry!" The line would stop suddenly, form an arc, the front line getting down on one knee, the back line standing up, facing front, looking ahead, rifles at the shoulder pointing forward. We were told that it was a formation the British Army was noted for. There were no tanks in those days, and this formation was most effective in battling the on-rushing enemy cavalry. What a fierce look appeared on our faces as we stood there facing the enemy..."Theirs not to reason why - theirs but to do or die."
Once a year, a competitive drill would be held at the Victoria-Albert school. It was a proud day when our company, composed largely of immigrant boys, was selected for competition.
Some time later, we moved to the North End. My father had helped to build a synagogue on Charles Street, and our family moved to Robinson Street to be nearer the synagogue and our Jewish friends. I enrolled in Norquay school. Here, the pupils seemed to be bigger and tougher, more unruly than those at Dufferin. They were mostly Polish, Russian and Ukrainian. The discipline was not very good and I was quite unhappy.
One afternoon when I was in Grade 7, we had a music lesson with our class teacher. She was a very unkind woman, mean to all her pupils, and her almost constant harassment had already made school a miserable place for me. During this particular lesson the boy sitting across the aisle called and I turned to speak to him. The teacher caught us talking. She told both of us to stand and sing the last refrain from the lesson. We just sat there and refused to stand. She told us to stay after school for disobeying.
I thought of my paper route and the sales I would lose. I was so frustrated that when the schoolbell rang, I walked out with the others and never went back. What a contrast to the Dufferin school and the teachers whom I learned to love and respect.
I was quite upset about leaving school. I so badly wanted an education. I discussed the situation with my parents, and as I was 14 and big for my age, we agreed for the time being I should look for a steady job.
I took on a morning paper route. That meant I had to get up at 5:30 a.m. to deliver the Free Press morning edition. I remained downtown to sell the papers on the streets until noon. When the afternoon editions came out, I was back downtown selling papers. It was some years later before I resumed my education.
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