Max Margarete Hans Chris Schlechta

EMIGRATION: 1951

My parents, both born in 1907, had experienced two world wars and the turmoil, destruction, and hunger that followed. But my father had an excellent job and a promising career, and by 1951 things were really improving in Germany. Reconstruction of the bombed-out buildings was speeding up. Food was no longer so scarce, except for luxury items like coffee. The stores, including some big new department stores in Frankfurt, were filled with amazing goods. We were able to do a little traveling. If my father had been more patient, our lives would have been quite different. But he wasn't. He was very pessimistic about the future of Germany. The country was divided and he was convinced that the Soviets would never give up their tight grip on East Germany. The Russians were only two hours away from Frankfurt. They were also in Austria, occupying Vienna, and he had no hope for that country either. Already, when the Korean War broke out in 1950, we were back to rationed sugar and cooking oil. What did Germany have to do with the Korean War on the other side of the globe? Hans' and my educational future was unsatisfactory also, because as Austrians, we were foreigners in Germany. Having endured two world wars and their aftermath, my father had had enough. He had to get out. He had to give his children a better, safer future, one without war.

Where to go? Australia was accepting immigrants, but it was too far away. It would take four weeks to get there, and would we ever be able to return home? The South American countries of Argentina, Chile, Uruguay, were popular with many Germans seeking to emigrate, but my father had already had one bad experience with Argentina and was not about to go back. He did not trust the political situation in any South American country. South Africa was another possibility, but there was always turmoil there. The United States did not want us. Lemberg, where my father was born, once in the Austro-Hungarian Empire, was now behind the Iron Curtain, and that made us unacceptable. We were probably Communists; it was the 1950's after all. The U.S. was unacceptable to us, too, for they had the military draft. The main reason for my father leaving Germany was so that his children would be free from war, with no chance of Hans ever being drafted into the military. He was right, too. Hans would have been the right age for Vietnam.

That left Canada. We did not know much about Canada; it never made the news. We knew that it was a huge country with few people, that English and French were spoken there, that it was cold, and that there had not been a war on Canadian soil in a very long time. Some of these were good points, some not so good. I remember seeing a film that was supposedly set in Canada. It was about a family who lived in the middle of a swamp and fed raccoons. It didn't look like a very inviting place to me, though the raccoons were cute.

My parents applied and set in motion the long process of screening, medical examinations, running from one agency to another, trying to get through the enormous bureaucracy. Everything had to be done long-distance. I remember once the whole family having to go to Karlsruhe, about 200 km south of us, and sitting in a waiting room all day, in order to obtain the necessary stamps in our passports. In the end we were told one day that yes, we were desirable candidates as my father was an engineer, a profession that was much needed in Canada.

Once we were accepted my parents had to make some major decisions. Where in Canada should we go? Since none of us spoke English we were advised to go to Kitchener because there we would still be able to get along with German which was supposedly widely spoken there. What would we leave behind and what should we take? Most things were left behind. We took only what fitted into two wooden crates, carefully packed by professional packers so that nothing would break. All of my mother's beautiful furniture and other things had to be disposed of.

On December 10th, 1951, in the evening, we boarded the train at the central station in Frankfurt and our adventure began. Our neighbour was there to see us off, and so were our friends the Rabichs, and Tante Hedi. They were all crying. We slept in our compartment overnight and in the morning we awakened to a blue sky and the brilliant sunshine and sparkling snow of the Swiss Alps. It was gorgeous: the roofs laden with snow, the fir trees bending over under the load, the people out with their sleds. Everything was so neat, so clean, so perfect. Then, as suddenly, the mountains and snow were behind us as we crossed the Po River Valley in Italy where damage from a recent major flood was everywhere in evidence. It was raining too. At last we arrived in Genoa, our final destination in Europe. We spent the night in a place called Casa San Giorgio, some kind of a hostel that provided accommodation for emigrants. I remember it because of its toilets: a square pan set into the floor, with a hole in the middle and a foot rest on either side. It was pretty scary!

On December 12th we boarded the S.S. Argentina, one of the fleet belonging to Home Lines, and we set sail. The S.S. Argentina was a white, double-funneled piece of junk which, my father claimed, was held together only by the paint. It was scrapped a few years after our voyage. We prayed that we would not encounter a storm.

We sailed south from Genoa, between the islands of Elba and Corsica, my father keeping us on deck most of the time so he could point out the landmarks. He was in his glory on the sea. Twenty-four hours later we sailed into Naples. Mt. Vesuvius, a thin plume of smoke rising from the crater, rose above the city. We were docked for four hours, long enough to go ashore and explore.

Before sailing away the ship took on 400 Italian immigrants, the poorest of their nation, carrying their few belongings in tattered suitcases. We then sailed west, along the southern shore of Sardinia. In the middle of one night my father came to wake us for we were sailing through the Straight of Gibraltar. We could just see the outline of the Rock and he pointed out how the naval station on shore was signaling to the ship via Morse code, lights flashing on and off in quick succession. Then we were into the open Atlantic with no land in sight for about eight days.

We were traveling tourist class which meant that we ate in an elegant dining room, the tables covered with white linen, and there was always a flask of wine in the centre. The food was Italian and very good, served by an all-Italian crew. Only on one day was the sea so rough that the small rails, which hung down along each side of the table, had to be raised so that the dishes wouldn't slide off.

There was also a first class. We were not allowed into that part of the ship, but we saw the passengers, small in numbers, usually elegantly dressed.

Then there was steerage in the bowels of the ship, and this was like something out of the movies. This was the place where most of the Italians who came on board in Naples ended up. There were several very large rooms. Each was filled with bunk beds with many adults and children on them. Some people lay on the floor. There were tables, too, where they were served their meals. Many of the Italians became sea sick; who wouldn't when they had to breathe in the foul air around them? So, during the night, many opted to sleep on deck in the fresh air, and in the morning, if we came out early, we had to step over and around them and their vomit.

Our cabin had two upper and two lower bunks, a cupboard for our clothes, and a sink. I think we had a porthole, so it was an "outside" cabin. The toilet was down the hall through a maze of corridors. I don't think there was a shower or a bath tub anywhere. My mother was seasick for several days. I was sick one day, and the cabin steward brought me a plate of food including some mouldy cheese. When I complained to my mother she laughed and told me I had been served a great delicacy, probably gorgonzola.

It was Christmas Eve, 1951, when we arrived in Halifax at Pier 21, after 12 days at sea. Some time that afternoon it had started to rain, so that we did not see the approaching land, and by the time we docked, at 9:00 pm it was pouring so hard that we could not go on deck to watch.

We were led into the large assembly hall lined with benches where we had to wait until our names were called. Then we were processed and our documents were stamped with the designation of landed immigrant.

Unfortunately, or rather fortunately as it turned out, Hans had gotten sick just a few hours before our arrival. This meant that he had to be quarantined, and because he had become sick on board ship, the shipping company had to pay all the cost. It also meant that we had a place to stay over Christmas. I don't know what we would have done otherwise. Hans was taken to a hospital room and the rest of us were shown to a room containing several metal bunk beds. We had the room to ourselves and it became our home for several days.

During the night the rain turned to snow and we awoke to a winter wonderland. Huge amounts of snow had fallen and many of the Italian immigrants got their first job in Canada when they took shovels and cleared the snow off the tracks so that the trains could run. It was Christmas morning in a strange, cold land.

We were well fed during our stay in Halifax, and especially on Christmas Day. For breakfast I received a bowl full of some strange stuff called corn flakes. We also had very hard-boiled eggs. And we were given cups of strong tea with milk and sugar, also strange. From the staff at the hostel I received a colouring book and wax crayons which kept me occupied for many days. That evening we had our first-ever turkey dinner with stuffing, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce and gravy.

During the day we ventured out to explore Halifax, which in spite of the fresh, sparkling snow, we found to be a gloomy, dirty city.

When Hans was better we boarded the train and went to Montreal, a trip that took several days. It was now after Christmas and I remember after dark seeing colourful Christmas lights on evergreen trees around many houses. This was something new. I had seen Christmas lights in main squares in Germany, but always white. Outdoor lights on houses were unheard of because of the high cost of electricity.

At one point the train came to a stop at a small station. In the distance, across the white expanse, we could see a town. We were told that the train would be stopped here for an hour and if anyone wanted to go to town to buy supplies, we could do so. So my parents went and when they returned they were carrying a bag full of food. I don't remember what all was in that bag, but one thing stood out: a bag containing one dozen oranges. I had never seen so many oranges at once and couldn't believe that people actually bought them by the dozen. We had indeed come to a land of plenty.

We stayed in Montreal for two weeks. My father had some letters of introduction to a couple of firms in Montreal and one in Sherbrooke, but nothing came of them. Why hadn't someone told us that in winter in Canada the economy slows down and unemployment increases. And the week between Christmas and New Years is the worst because so many companies shut down completely. My parents weren't used to seasonal fluctuations in employment; it didn't happen in Germany.

We lived in a tourist home in one of those typical row houses in Montreal with outside steps leading to the main floor. We had one room. We must have had a hot plate where, I believe, my mother was able to heat a few things. There was a small variety store down the street and when Hans and I were sent to buy sugar, the salesperson couldn't understand us because we had learned to pronounce it "shucker". Once or twice we went to a restaurant just to order some soup. We were amazed that on each table there was a container filled with sugar, and no one stole it.

What I remember most about Montreal was the blue sky, the clear air, and the intense, bone-chilling cold. One Sunday we walked to the top of Mt. Royal and watched children tobogganing on strange-looking wooden boards that curved up at the front. We longed for our beautiful Alpine sled where we sat on a webbed seat about 30 cm above the ground. It had been a gift from our Austrian grandmother and we had, of course, had to leave it behind. Standing beside the cross on the top of the mountain, we looked across to the mountains of Vermont to the south and the Laurentians to the north. It was a vast and cold landscape. On New Year's Day we attended a German church service. The sermon made us cry; we were so alone, and everything seemed so hopeless.

When we were on the train again, heading for Kitchener, I looked in vain for more of the colourful Christmas trees. But there were none; Christmas 1951 was past.

Our first three years in Canada were extremely difficult. Apartments in Kitchener were scarce and expensive because of the huge influx of immigrants. The four of us lived for months in a 10" by 10" room before we finally found an apartment of our own. My mother went to work as a dishwasher to help pay for the high rent. My father, a mechanical engineer with several patents to his name, well respected by his German peers and on track to become chief engineer of a large German firm, never again found work in his profession. His qualifications were not recognized in Canada and he spent his remaining working years as a low-paid draftsman. He was often unemployed as the firms where he worked closed down or laid off workers during slack times.

As we watched Germany recover and prosper in the 1950's my parents often wondered if they made the right choice. Life in Germany would have been so much better for us. But they persevered, very slowly our situation improved, and we were free from war.