All this made Winnipeg's C.P.R. station the centre of activity. As now, the building had a very large waiting room. But in those days it was crowded day and night with people of all ages and backgrounds. Some were awaiting the arrival of friends and relatives from the Old Country; others were preparing to depart for their new homesteads farther west. They sat huddled together in family groups, or wandered about looking at the people and being looked at in turn. Some rooted their eyes on the big clock in obvious impatience.
In those days, of course, there was no public address system. So arrivals and departures were announced by a railway man with a big, booming voice that rang clear throughout the room. An announcement of an arrival was usually followed by a flurry of activity as people rushed to the gates.
Several trains pulled into the C.P.R. station daily, and they were almost always full. Regular scheduled trains were made up of coach cars with upholstered seats for the ordinary folk, and dining and parlour cars for the more affluent. The mass of immigrants, however, travelled in special "boat trains". Crowded together in musty, uncomfortable Colonist cars, they slept leaning against one another on hard wooden benches. Little wonder that they were generally exhausted when they reached Winnipeg.
My family made a practice of helping new immigrants whenever we could, remembering full well how bewildered we felt when we arrived. Father especially was active in this regard; when I told him a boat train had arrived he would often go to the station to help people sort themselves out and find a place to stay.
As a rule nobody was allowed into the segregated area of Immigration Hall, but a newspaper handed to the gatekeeper usually got me in. I would wander through the compound, asking for anyone who could speak Roumanian.
One occasion like this proved to be very rewarding. I actually came across a man who had known our family in Ploiesti! Right away I went to tell my parents, who lost no time in rushing to the Hall to meet him. They all had a great chat as it turned out he had lived near our former home and had news of several people we knew.
On other occasions I sometimes found someone who could read English. Naturally, my newspapers then became quite an attraction, and the two of us would collect a crowd of immigrants eager to learn of their new land, and its ways and opportunities.
Immigration Hall was more than a halfway house for newcomers - politics were also involved. Shortly after their arrival, the unattached immigrants (those who had not been taken away by friends or relatives) were taken to the Liberal Club on Salter Street. There they were treated to a hearty welcome and some refreshments, usually tea, corned beef sandwiches and pickles. A member of the Liberal Party then spoke to them about Canada's political system and the privileges of citizenship. Much emphasis was placed on the virtues of freedom, free trade and the Liberal Party. They were urged to exercise their votes once they became citizens, and were invited to use the facilities of the Club in preparing their citizenship applications.
It was the best kind of audience a politician could hope for - captive, and totally open to suggestion. The people went away believing that the Liberal Party was responsible for their successful entry to Canada. I don't know how many votes they won with these exercises, but they must have gained a few!
With such a constant and heavy influx of immigrants from so many nations, Winnipeg quickly turned into an ethnic crazy-quilt. Each group established its own neighbourhoods, and all subsequent newcomers gravitated to them.
One feature of my boyhood stands out in my mind as an illustration of this. The streetcar I usually took home was called the Belt Line. The route ran south from Logan and Main, turned down Portage to Notre Dame, followed Notre Dame to what was then known as Nena Street (now Sherbrooke) then followed Logan back to Main Street.
The passengers on the Belt Line represented many nationalities, and spoke many languages. They all had their own districts, of course, and even on the streetcar they sat together in their own little groups. I enjoyed watching the gestures and listening to their talk. Often I got so wrapped up in trying to figure out what they were saying that I missed my stop and had to ride around the Line again.
I noticed the Icelanders got off along Nena Street. The Swedes departed on Logan Ave. between Laura and Fountain, while the Germans got off around Isabel Street. I never saw any Slavic people on the Belt Line - they lived mostly north of the C.P.R. tracks in what had become known as the North End.
Not only did the various ethnic groups gravitate to their own neighbourhoods, but they also tended to enter particular occupations. Slavs generally went into outdoor work, while Italians opened restaurants or fruit and vegetable stores, Scots went into the Police Department, the Irish joined the Fire Department, and Jews went into the garment industry. Later, as they became orientated to their new country, members of these and other ethnic communities appeared in almost every occupation.
Newspapers of the time carried many articles about the achievements of these people. But very little was printed about one other ethnic group, the Chinese.
The Chinese came to Canada unobtrusively, and once here they kept mostly to themselves, even more so than the others. Many came to work as labourers on the railroad, fully intending to return to their homeland for burial among their ancestors. They sent most of their earnings to their families in China. As a result, the Chinese in Canada worked hard but maintained a low standard of living.
In 1901 there were 206 Chinese in Manitoba; in 1911 there were 885, and almost all were men. Chinese women were not allowed free entry into Canada; until 1947 they had to pay a $500 head tax. This severely restricted the immigration of Chinese families into Canada.
In Winnipeg, the Chinese established their community in the area of King Street, between Logan and Pacific, an area soon known as ''Chinatown". They lived in crowded apartments. Very few were seen anywhere else in the city.
In the absence of Chinese-language newspapers in those days, large posters were stuck on the walls of buildings along King Street. The posters were hand-printed in Chinese, and always attracted a crowd whenever a new one appeared. I never knew what the posters said, but often I could tell by the noisy, agitated gestures of the Chinese reading them, that the news was disturbing. Most of the American papers I sold carried inflammatory articles about the so-called "Yellow Peril", so perhaps that was the issue that upset them.
In those days, the quickest and cheapest way to get your washing done was to take it to a Chinese laundry. These were usually located in the oldest, most run-down buildings. Although the shops were clean and orderly inside, they often looked dingy and neglected on the outside, with all the windows covered by newspapers in place of curtains.
When you opened the door to one of these establishments you were greeted by a soapy-smelling cloud of steam that momentarily stunned you, especially in cold weather. Once you caught your breath and handed over your laundry, you were presented with your ticket: a piece of paper bearing Chinese characters dabbed on by a brush. One thing was certain - no matter what day you brought your laundry in, it would be ready in "a cuppa days".
When you returned in two days, the ever-smiling laundry man would motion for your ticket. To have lost it was a terrible tragedy - in such cases the laundry man would take a long look at you and soberly announce, "No ticket, no wash." But when he saw the look of frustration on your face, he would smile again and motion you to wait. It usually took only moments for him to check over the neat rows of parcels on the shelf, all inscribed with their mysterious Chinese characters. He always picked the right parcel. And no matter how big it was, it seldom cost more than a dollar.
For a long time we children thought all Chinese were laundry men. We never saw them in any other occupation, nor did we ever see Chinese women or children.
The laundry shops, however, were only the beginning of Winnipeg's Chinese community. More Chinese soon arrived and opened shops, selling exotic herbal remedies, imported Chinese vases, bone china, silk and similar merchandise.
Some of the newcomers opened restaurants. Unlike the laundry shops, these places were quite presentable, although at first they were plainly furnished, without tablecloths or floor coverings. Later the decor became quite luxurious, with an exotic Oriental motif throughout. The food, of course, was very different, and Winnipeggers soon took to it.
As you entered a Chinese restaurant, a peculiar aroma greeted you. I soon found this characteristic of all Chinese restaurants, including the most fancy and expensive ones. The waiters were Chinese, of course, and dressed in their traditional costume. Some wore their hair in pigtails.
A common and very peculiar sight in those early chop suey houses was the constant parade of Chinese men wandering silently through the restaurant, into the kitchen, then out again. They never bothered anyone, and soon became just part of the atmosphere.
Chinese New Year was one time of year when everyone wanted to be in Chinatown. People from all over Winnipeg would flock to the King Street district in such numbers that the police had to be on hand to keep the crowds in order.
As dusk gathered, the festivities began. Without warning a huge roman candle would burst high in the air, lighting the whole neighbourhood. Firecrackers would start to pop and crackle, and the strange sounds of Oriental music would waft through the streets.
A parade would make its way along King Street, made up of men in lively, colourful costumes. After them came the dragon, winding and twisting its way down the street. The monster resembled a long, many-legged caterpillar with a frightful dragon head. In reality it was a long line of dancers covered by a large, colourful cloth so that only their feet showed. The leader bore the head, with its fierce rolling eyes, jagged teeth, fiery breath and darting tongue. It was quite a spectacle, and people cheered and clapped when the dragon capered down the street.
After the parade there were more fireworks, rockets and roman candles of all description, bursting and flashing in the air. No one had fireworks like the Chinese!
Apart from the Chinese restaurants, it seemed all the good downtown eating places were run by Italians. To me they were a happy lot, always smiling, always friendly. Their portions were generous and their prices reasonable.
The Italian places were often a combination restaurant and store, with the owner's wife selling candy and fruit. Family names like Cancilla, Battaglia, the Julius brothers, Restivo and Pucci became synonymous with good fruit as well as good meals.
And the meals! Great heaps of spaghetti and meat balls, delicious liver and onions, ham and eggs, generous portions of pancakes smothered in butter and maple syrup. It was easy to see why the Italian restaurants were popular.
One, though, stands out in my memory more than the others. Called "Emma Pannaro", it was located near the old Post Office at Main Street and McDermot Avenue. I often went there, and for good reason.
I was always greeted with a smile and a cheery "Hello Joe" when I arrived with the afternoon paper. I would work my way along the circular counter, gently tapping each man sitting there and asking, "Paper, mister!" Then I'd wander over to the kitchen and give the cook a paper. After studying all the pots of simmering food, I'd turn to the cook and enquire, "What's good today, Tommy!" Before I knew it I'd be sitting at the butcher block with a steaming plate of food.
When we lived on Pacific Avenue my mother used to buy fruit and vegetables from an Italian peddler. He came by at around the same time every Friday driving an old wagon with a canvas top, pulled by a very patient horse. When he appeared, the neighbourhood housewives would come to his wagon and pick out the fruit and vegetables they wanted.
He was a jolly man, and we kids liked him. He never failed to hand out plums, apples or grapes to the children who gathered around with their mothers. When he moved on to the next stop, we'd all troop along with him until our mothers called us back.
Through people like the old peddler, Emma Pannaro and many others, I came to like and respect the Italian people from a very early age. The kindness they showed me was something I never forgot.
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