During my studies at University of Toronto I had taken up fencing. Got to love the sport, which I have continued to this day, at veterans' level.
In 2009 I was invited to attend a ceremony where , among 15 other athletes, I was inducted into the university Sports Hall of Fame. The award was for my result in the 1962-63 school year, university intercollegiate champion.
My acceptance speech ( with a bit of humor 😅)
Saturday, 16 March 2019
Wednesday, 24 June 2015
Judge: Hitchens , how do you plead, are you a socialist ? (or a man of the Left?)
Hitchens: yes, your Honor, with an explanation...
This 'explanation' is more than adequately done in 'Hitch 22, A memoir' which I happened to have been reading during last summer, just at the time when I was about half-way through my chemotherapy and Christopher Hitchens was diagnosed with cancer.
Some authors, whom we have been lucky to experience in various media in addition to writing only, leave us with a more palpable personal touch.
Hitchens was not happy with many of the descriptions that were "inflicted" on him, as he said, in the chapter Something of Myself. He would have preferred the simple term
"oppositionist", as someone who tries to do his own thinking. And thinking for himself he did all through his life. His memoir, so sadly but accurately timed for publication just on the eve of his, as proved to be, fatal diagnosis.
Reading through it last summer I have found myself, as countless others no doubt, feisty and ready to argue and fight with him on various issues and opinions.
Fortunately, for most of us, a one on one confrontation with him could never materialize because given Hitchens' formidable knowledge and debating skills, we would have been laughed off any venue.
We did what was available to us, writing hasty, sometimes angry, sometimes acquiescing penciled notes on the margins of his book. At times, such as his enthusiastic support of the Polish and Czech anti-Moscow resistance, his almost total lack of evaluation and appreciation of the Hungarian Freedom Fight of 1956 left
many of us dumbfounded. No bigger event had taken place in Eastern Europe since the end of WW II.than the 1956 Hungarian Freedom Fight, yet Hitchens totally ignored it in his book. Although he refers to it once, the Index makes no mention of Hungary at all. How can this be explained? But short of an explanation, there is a revealing passage in Hitch 22, towards the end. Hitchens explains that he always felt the lack of courage of being a soldier or a "real dissident". He had preferred to be an intellectual partner to causes and ideals. The Hungarian Revolution was for him, most probably, too bloody, too real. (Or vehemently against all left-wing causes).
Hitchens: yes, your Honor, with an explanation...
This 'explanation' is more than adequately done in 'Hitch 22, A memoir' which I happened to have been reading during last summer, just at the time when I was about half-way through my chemotherapy and Christopher Hitchens was diagnosed with cancer.
Some authors, whom we have been lucky to experience in various media in addition to writing only, leave us with a more palpable personal touch.
Hitchens was not happy with many of the descriptions that were "inflicted" on him, as he said, in the chapter Something of Myself. He would have preferred the simple term
"oppositionist", as someone who tries to do his own thinking. And thinking for himself he did all through his life. His memoir, so sadly but accurately timed for publication just on the eve of his, as proved to be, fatal diagnosis.
Reading through it last summer I have found myself, as countless others no doubt, feisty and ready to argue and fight with him on various issues and opinions.
Fortunately, for most of us, a one on one confrontation with him could never materialize because given Hitchens' formidable knowledge and debating skills, we would have been laughed off any venue.
We did what was available to us, writing hasty, sometimes angry, sometimes acquiescing penciled notes on the margins of his book. At times, such as his enthusiastic support of the Polish and Czech anti-Moscow resistance, his almost total lack of evaluation and appreciation of the Hungarian Freedom Fight of 1956 left
many of us dumbfounded. No bigger event had taken place in Eastern Europe since the end of WW II.than the 1956 Hungarian Freedom Fight, yet Hitchens totally ignored it in his book. Although he refers to it once, the Index makes no mention of Hungary at all. How can this be explained? But short of an explanation, there is a revealing passage in Hitch 22, towards the end. Hitchens explains that he always felt the lack of courage of being a soldier or a "real dissident". He had preferred to be an intellectual partner to causes and ideals. The Hungarian Revolution was for him, most probably, too bloody, too real. (Or vehemently against all left-wing causes).
Thursday, 19 March 2015
Dear Mr.Prager
I have been your enthusiastic listener for more than ten years. Of the three regular talk shows I listen to, Hewitt, Medved and yours, I have a hard time to justly allocate time. However, I often manage to listen and enjoy most of the shows, even if many of these I have to listen to after the fact, that is on podcasts, both in the US and Europe.
You have many listeners and differences of opinion on topics, discussions, opinions can and do vary.
I am not going to talk about the many wonderful hours you have given your listeners on many , many topics. You don't need accolades, you hear them , live, every day of the show.
However, I have some observation about some aspects of your discussions which need to be corrected. I have waited, literally some years, before I decided to write you an open letter on these issues. I would like to tell you about these, as well as your listeners , via Twitter, so they get a different view from that of yours.
You are , unfortunately, not well informed about Europe. You make groundless generalizations about some aspects of European lives, particularly about present lives. Having lived some 3 months in a UK college , decades ago, cannot qualify you as someone knowledgeable about present day Europe.
You often state that "Europe has no talk radio", and then make some rather sweeping conclusions about this.
Let's take it from the beginning.
Mr.Prager, today's Europe is comprised of some 50 countries. Nearly as many languages are also spoken on the continent. How do you mean that Europe has no talk radio? If there were, in what language would they broadcast ? And what company would sponsor such a "talk radio"? What market opportunities would they represent to someone like Salem Radio Network?
You are trying to equate the US with her uniform language and market place from coast to coast with that of Europe and bemoan the lack of "talk radio", as you know it.
But let's suppose you meant just a few big "markets" , like Germany, France, UK, Italy, Spain.
You are sadly mistaken about these as well. There are many radio and television shows, with diverse and colorful differences of opinion from politics to everyday living. Some of these are state owned , and some are privately owned. Nearly all of them offer a variety of "talk shows" with commercial sponsors, as well. State owned tv and radio is not closed to diverse points of view at all. Just as other means of media, they are free from censorship, even in today's Russia, opposition is still alive , although becoming more difficult under Putin.
You may argue that many of the leading publications, broadcasters are left leaning. You may be correct. But they don't have a monopoly in any European country on public opinion of today. There is plenty of alternative viewpoint, and not all current governments are centre left. There is plenty of change from election to election, perhaps more so than in the US in recent years.
Your listeners are not served well by you giving a false picture about Europe today. If there are notions about Europe that come to the surface, the reasons for these must be elsewhere than in the absence of "talk radio", as you know it.
Respectfully,
Peter Urban , aka @eurobird
You have many listeners and differences of opinion on topics, discussions, opinions can and do vary.
I am not going to talk about the many wonderful hours you have given your listeners on many , many topics. You don't need accolades, you hear them , live, every day of the show.
However, I have some observation about some aspects of your discussions which need to be corrected. I have waited, literally some years, before I decided to write you an open letter on these issues. I would like to tell you about these, as well as your listeners , via Twitter, so they get a different view from that of yours.
You are , unfortunately, not well informed about Europe. You make groundless generalizations about some aspects of European lives, particularly about present lives. Having lived some 3 months in a UK college , decades ago, cannot qualify you as someone knowledgeable about present day Europe.
You often state that "Europe has no talk radio", and then make some rather sweeping conclusions about this.
Let's take it from the beginning.
Mr.Prager, today's Europe is comprised of some 50 countries. Nearly as many languages are also spoken on the continent. How do you mean that Europe has no talk radio? If there were, in what language would they broadcast ? And what company would sponsor such a "talk radio"? What market opportunities would they represent to someone like Salem Radio Network?
You are trying to equate the US with her uniform language and market place from coast to coast with that of Europe and bemoan the lack of "talk radio", as you know it.
But let's suppose you meant just a few big "markets" , like Germany, France, UK, Italy, Spain.
You are sadly mistaken about these as well. There are many radio and television shows, with diverse and colorful differences of opinion from politics to everyday living. Some of these are state owned , and some are privately owned. Nearly all of them offer a variety of "talk shows" with commercial sponsors, as well. State owned tv and radio is not closed to diverse points of view at all. Just as other means of media, they are free from censorship, even in today's Russia, opposition is still alive , although becoming more difficult under Putin.
You may argue that many of the leading publications, broadcasters are left leaning. You may be correct. But they don't have a monopoly in any European country on public opinion of today. There is plenty of alternative viewpoint, and not all current governments are centre left. There is plenty of change from election to election, perhaps more so than in the US in recent years.
Your listeners are not served well by you giving a false picture about Europe today. If there are notions about Europe that come to the surface, the reasons for these must be elsewhere than in the absence of "talk radio", as you know it.
Respectfully,
Peter Urban , aka @eurobird
Wednesday, 3 December 2014
Jean Beliveau, my all-time sport hero, passed away.
As a very young man I had the good fortune to start my adult life in Canada.Like millions there, I have become an ardent hockey fan, and a Montreal Canadiens fan at that.
Not an easy chore living in Toronto, going to school at St.Michael's College at that time, home of the local Blues!
I have never played ice hockey , never had skates on my feet.
Later in years I had been transferred to Montreal by my company and had a chance to see real live hockey at the old Forum, proudly (openly!) support the Canadiens. And on one occasion I had seen my team win the Stanley Cup, celebrating with thousands on St.Catharine St.
Everybody loved, respected and appreciated the skills and behavior of Jean Beliveau, Le Gros Bill, on and off the ice. They said he was a gentleman in one of the roughest body contact sports, and if you know hockey, you know it is not easy to be and remaining a "gentleman" in that sport.
His life's accounting will be left to others so much better qualified than this European import who had never played the game, or skated on ice.
But I had met twice Mr. Beliveau and I can attest to all the accolades you hear about this wonderful man. Once I was waiting for my flight at Dorval (Montreal) airport for Winnipeg, when I saw this imposing figure among the waiting passengers. It was Mr. Beliveau. I was hesitating to approach him, to say hello and how it is nice to meet him, but didn't.
I didn't have to. I was seated next to him!
He had smiled and greeted me before I had a chance to recover my senses. After quick introductions and pleasantries , we had the most enjoyable and it seemed , genuinely interesting conversation for the next 3 hours or so. He had actually more questions about me and my life, background than I had a chance to ask him about anything. I had to tell him about the 1956 Hungarian Freedom Fight, and our miserable existence in Hungary that led to this revolution. My arrival in Canada as a 19 year old, my early struggles to learn and live and prosper as millions before me. My love of sports and fencing in particular which led me to become a member of the Canadian Fencing Team in the 1976 Montreal Olympics.
What an experience, sitting with Jean Beliveau for all this time, and humbling in the sense that this giant of a man, in the land of hockey, had gently insisted that I talk and he listens most of the time.
At the end of the flight we had said good bye, not knowing that there will be one more chance meeting between us.
It happened in the summer of 1985 , when Toronto hosted the first ever Masters' Games of several sports, including fencing. I was "representing " the Nederlands at that time, living and working there. On arrival we had to register our participation at a hotel across City Hall in Toronto. There was Mr. Jean Beliveau in the hall, as honorary chairman of the first ever Masters Games, warmly greeting the arrivals.
He had a pleasant chat for a few minutes and it seemed to me (wishful thinking?) that he remembered the Hungarian refugee from a few years before...
We often hear about the great personalities in our times , so often magnified and polished for posterity, but seldom have we the chance to verify all that we hear and imagine.
All that you hear and read about Jean Beliveau is genuinely true.
Big Jean, is now on the limitless ice of the heavens.
Thursday, 20 December 2012
Friday, 9 November 2012
What if Obama would have lost the election by 2 % of the vote?
Should we be elated if Obama had lost the election by 2% of the popular vote? If some 58 millions of voters were cast for 4 more years of the same policies and omissions as the last 4 years, would that be cause for celebration?
Just read this quote from a Czech newspaper, the Prager Zeitungon:
"The danger to America is not Barack Obama, but a citizenry capable of entrusting a man like him with the Presidency. It will be far easier to limit and undo the follies of an Obama presidency than to restore the necessary common sense and good judgment to a depraved electorate willing to have such a man for their president. The problem is much deeper and far more serious than Mr. Obama, who is a mere symptom of what ails America. Blaming the prince of the fools should not blind anyone to the vast confederacy of fools that made him their prince. The Republic can survive a Barack Obama, who is, after all, merely a fool. It is less likely to survive a multitude of fools, such as those who made him their president."
Eking out a win for the GOP while 58 million voters are wishing for a continuation of the Obama Administration would hardly be reason for contentment. There is just a very real , steady development of the country moving to the left, already resembling the social democracies of Europe. When the upfront socialized, even 'communized' countries have proven to be foolish utopias at best and unbridled dictatorships at worst, post-Soviet Europe is slowly embracing economic and political systems that led to the dismal failures of the Soviet empire, Cuba , North Vietnam and others.
That, in spite of historical precedents of failed social experiments, a large part of the US population is blind and ignorant about the dangers it courting, is cause for real concern for the future of the Republic.
It may take years, still, or even another 2% win for 'progressives' as they call themselves, but the final act of this drama could be cataclysmic.
So, losing or winning by 2% does not change the dangerous shift of the Republic towards economic and political suicide.
Large blocks of the US electorate are poisoned by class envy, false future entitlements and absolution of individual responsibility. The 2008 recession was the direct result of the 'affordable' housing fiasco. Look for of the same result for the 'Affordable' Obamacare, just about to be implemented. If you want to be certain about ANY program that will be a costly failure, look for the moniker 'affordable' .
In social democracies 'affordable' means, not corresponding to real cost , subsidized, usually by taxpayer funds.
It will take only days to watch the Obama administration becoming emboldened to enact their agenda for redistribution and 'social justice' . After all, they have 60 millions of our fellow citizens' support to do so.
Just read this quote from a Czech newspaper, the Prager Zeitungon:
"The danger to America is not Barack Obama, but a citizenry capable of entrusting a man like him with the Presidency. It will be far easier to limit and undo the follies of an Obama presidency than to restore the necessary common sense and good judgment to a depraved electorate willing to have such a man for their president. The problem is much deeper and far more serious than Mr. Obama, who is a mere symptom of what ails America. Blaming the prince of the fools should not blind anyone to the vast confederacy of fools that made him their prince. The Republic can survive a Barack Obama, who is, after all, merely a fool. It is less likely to survive a multitude of fools, such as those who made him their president."
Eking out a win for the GOP while 58 million voters are wishing for a continuation of the Obama Administration would hardly be reason for contentment. There is just a very real , steady development of the country moving to the left, already resembling the social democracies of Europe. When the upfront socialized, even 'communized' countries have proven to be foolish utopias at best and unbridled dictatorships at worst, post-Soviet Europe is slowly embracing economic and political systems that led to the dismal failures of the Soviet empire, Cuba , North Vietnam and others.
That, in spite of historical precedents of failed social experiments, a large part of the US population is blind and ignorant about the dangers it courting, is cause for real concern for the future of the Republic.
It may take years, still, or even another 2% win for 'progressives' as they call themselves, but the final act of this drama could be cataclysmic.
So, losing or winning by 2% does not change the dangerous shift of the Republic towards economic and political suicide.
Large blocks of the US electorate are poisoned by class envy, false future entitlements and absolution of individual responsibility. The 2008 recession was the direct result of the 'affordable' housing fiasco. Look for of the same result for the 'Affordable' Obamacare, just about to be implemented. If you want to be certain about ANY program that will be a costly failure, look for the moniker 'affordable' .
In social democracies 'affordable' means, not corresponding to real cost , subsidized, usually by taxpayer funds.
It will take only days to watch the Obama administration becoming emboldened to enact their agenda for redistribution and 'social justice' . After all, they have 60 millions of our fellow citizens' support to do so.
Sunday, 4 November 2012
The student loan cliff is coming...
An article this weekend appeared in the WP, citing the plight of a young woman. She was teary eyed and in rapture in the evening listening to Barack Obama's acceptance speech in Grant Park, back in 2008. She was a college student then and felt a new world was opening up for her with Obama in the White House.
Today she is still, if somewhat disillusioned , believer in the magic of Obama and liberalism. Having graduated since then, she has found the real world less than Utopian , unable to find a job, she has applied for more student loans to continue with graduate studies.
Where did young people learn today that if a college degree does not get you a job , the next best thing to do is to take more student loans and keep on studying? Is this the same mentality that is spawned by Obama and his party that economic setbacks can be resolved by borrowing more and spending that borrowed money? This is what they see from today's Administration. Economic ills, social ills have a simple solution: money. And if that money is not available, it is borrowed. But it's not the government's money and it's not government of the moment that is responsible for repaying that money.
Student loans have escalated to unprecedented heights, and repayment of the these taxpayer "advances" are increasingly in jeopardy. Of the threatening fiscal cliffs, the student-loan-cliff is going to be cataclysmic in the not too distant future.
Today she is still, if somewhat disillusioned , believer in the magic of Obama and liberalism. Having graduated since then, she has found the real world less than Utopian , unable to find a job, she has applied for more student loans to continue with graduate studies.
Where did young people learn today that if a college degree does not get you a job , the next best thing to do is to take more student loans and keep on studying? Is this the same mentality that is spawned by Obama and his party that economic setbacks can be resolved by borrowing more and spending that borrowed money? This is what they see from today's Administration. Economic ills, social ills have a simple solution: money. And if that money is not available, it is borrowed. But it's not the government's money and it's not government of the moment that is responsible for repaying that money.
Student loans have escalated to unprecedented heights, and repayment of the these taxpayer "advances" are increasingly in jeopardy. Of the threatening fiscal cliffs, the student-loan-cliff is going to be cataclysmic in the not too distant future.
Saturday, 6 October 2012
How the Obama admirers changed in just a few hours...
The much anticipated first presidential debate presented a pleasant surprise for Romney followers and a bitter disappointment for the Obama camp. Scores of Obama idealists rushed to berate their own creature, an ambitious politician coveting the highest political office in the land, without the minimum of qualifications. No presidential candidate had been vetted less than Obama leading to his nomination in 2008. His promoters in the media, who now critique Romney for not providing "details" about his plan for the next presidential term, were happy with the emptiest of slogans then. And ,of course, the speeches of the most gifted orator of modern times received accolades galore.
The debate on October 2 changed everything. Obama's adulators now suddenly discovered scores of problems with their appointed hero. All that was missing from their "investigation" of the then presidential candidate is now becoming painfully apparent. Obama is no gifted orator, in fact, which has been plain from the beginning, without a prepared text, read from a teleprompter, he is just ,at best, ordinary. If he is not in the mood, or the subject matter is not to his liking, embarrassingly sloppy and dragging on his delivery. As far as substance was concerned, Obama offered far less details running for office than any of his competitors, yet the MSM was satisfied with his looks and not being Bush, whom they hated.
The supporting media was either stunned, or at least "expressed puzzlement " (e.g. Dana Millbank, WP) after this last debate. How could Obama do so poorly?
Neither his delivery nor his substance met the approval of his royal followers. He was not prepared, but aloof, detached, uncomfortable, angry, distracted, peevish. Scores of explanations followed the next day which must have been a day of hand wringing and anguish for the MSM. Obama just hadn't practiced enough, held too few confrontational discussions, avoided hard questions and situations, preferring the soft media like The View. On and on ad nausea.
Yet, the explanation for his "performance" has been there all along since his meteoric rise in the last few years.
The man has been created, molded, desired by the Utopian left and its subservient media. He had just so fitted the image, but not the substance, of a gifted, compassionate, youngish, good and clean-cut man with an obvious mission in life to bring healing and cure for a guilty nation. Guilty of past injustices, of painful wars, of real and imagined disadvantages of minorities, of international slights, all that can be surely righted by the right man, at the right time.
Thus, Obama was identified and he happily accepted, in fact actively sought, the role of Healer of Nation, never mind that no president before him had less qualifications, emptiest resume than Barack Obama.
Now the reckoning, in just one night, for the willfully blind and guiltily sloppy MSM.
The debate on October 2 changed everything. Obama's adulators now suddenly discovered scores of problems with their appointed hero. All that was missing from their "investigation" of the then presidential candidate is now becoming painfully apparent. Obama is no gifted orator, in fact, which has been plain from the beginning, without a prepared text, read from a teleprompter, he is just ,at best, ordinary. If he is not in the mood, or the subject matter is not to his liking, embarrassingly sloppy and dragging on his delivery. As far as substance was concerned, Obama offered far less details running for office than any of his competitors, yet the MSM was satisfied with his looks and not being Bush, whom they hated.
The supporting media was either stunned, or at least "expressed puzzlement " (e.g. Dana Millbank, WP) after this last debate. How could Obama do so poorly?
Neither his delivery nor his substance met the approval of his royal followers. He was not prepared, but aloof, detached, uncomfortable, angry, distracted, peevish. Scores of explanations followed the next day which must have been a day of hand wringing and anguish for the MSM. Obama just hadn't practiced enough, held too few confrontational discussions, avoided hard questions and situations, preferring the soft media like The View. On and on ad nausea.
Yet, the explanation for his "performance" has been there all along since his meteoric rise in the last few years.
The man has been created, molded, desired by the Utopian left and its subservient media. He had just so fitted the image, but not the substance, of a gifted, compassionate, youngish, good and clean-cut man with an obvious mission in life to bring healing and cure for a guilty nation. Guilty of past injustices, of painful wars, of real and imagined disadvantages of minorities, of international slights, all that can be surely righted by the right man, at the right time.
Thus, Obama was identified and he happily accepted, in fact actively sought, the role of Healer of Nation, never mind that no president before him had less qualifications, emptiest resume than Barack Obama.
Now the reckoning, in just one night, for the willfully blind and guiltily sloppy MSM.
Sunday, 15 April 2012
Ch.15 St.Michael's College, University of Toronto, 1959
ST.MICHAEL’S COLLEGE.
THE FIRST YEAR, UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO
1959.
The poor prospects of life in Hungary in the fifties had concerned both ambitious students and their parents. Continuing studies after high school depended not only on exam results; on the contrary, especially not on those but on the so called “class origins” of the aspirant. It was critically important what kind of family background, from what “class” did the student come from. The reigning communist government decided who could make it to the universities, colleges. They were trying to educate those who were politically acceptable, so that their future would be assured. While in the West, academic achievements and financial means determined one’s continued education, continuing on to higher education never seemed like a life or death struggle as in the East. The young refugees of 1956 believed exactly this in order to lay the foundation of their new lives. The time spent waiting for admission in refugee camps, the time needed to learn the languages of their adopted countries stole years from their lives.
As back home, the freshmen in Canada were excited starting their academic studies. The seniors, according to tradition, were busy with the initiation rites. The various sport competitions were under way, particularly among the rival schools, as everywhere in the world.
After finding his course schedules, Peter had to find the various lecture halls, spread out in a wide area of the university. Getting to and from lecture halls in the 10 minute breaks they had between lectures was not much, so he had to choose course with an eye on schedule conflicts , as well as being interested in the topics. Appropriate text books for the chosen course were available in the university book store, at fairly steep prices when comparing these to the salary of a hospital orderly. There must have been cheaper ways of finding text books, but the excitement, a definite feeling of elation, and a good degree of anxiety about the immediate future deprived him of getting the best information. His English was still hesitant and full of errors, and he knew it. And there were so many new expressions, concepts that the new students had to grapple with. Anything that had to do with schooling was virtually a new concept. From the grading system to the special student “lingo”, there was little that he understood at first. He took time to learn the system of higher education, and a system in another continent, exercised in a strange language, until he had found the resources that could help with his studies.
Both the anxiety and the elation he felt of just being there, had its reasons. A manual laborer, one arriving in just over 2 years before, who hardly speaks and reads the language of the land, who from one drab and unassuming day to the next intellectually demanding one, in spite of every difficulty felt happy and satisfied. These momentary joys were, however, short lived, as soon as he had rationally looked at his prospects. He felt as if he were an impostor as he was contemplating one of the other course offered in front of the long wall listing the course, schedules, names of lecturers and requirements for each, having great doubts about his chances for some of those courses. He had absolutely zero Canadian high school background, never set foot in any of those schools.
The students milling about him were at the height of their excitement as they were selecting one or another of the numerous English literature courses, all promising rewarding learning experience, and most requiring prerequisite studies. In their cases, there could not be any question about their readiness for advanced English literature, indeed 80 % would choose one or two of the several offered this leading to an Arts degree. But how could Peter or somebody in his shoes with similar disadvantage dream about advanced studies of Shakespeare or Chaucer?
Fortunately, all English literature courses were “strongly” recommended and not compulsory. But the other course groups caused just as big of a dilemma. One foreign language course was compulsory for all Arts students, and this being officially a bilingual country it was rather easy for the English speakers, they chose French , and it is assumed, those living in French Canada, they chose English, it they were smart.
But what could a foreign student choose, who had not learned, ever a formal course in either language? Besides, at the University of Toronto, students could not choose English as a “foreign” language, it being the native tongue.
So English was not being thought as a language, were it but true! And taking French, as most chose in Toronto, required years of high school French, thus unavailable for Peter.
Once more he had checked through the language courses offered and the prerequisites and felt that he would have problems here, when his eyes caught the most improbable item he would have ever imagined among the languages listed!
In 1959, at the University of Toronto, first year students could choose to learn, from scratch, Russian language and literature!
Nearly 3 years after the 1956 Revolution and Freedom Fight in Hungary, in spite of the accumulated hatred and contempt against the Soviet dictatorship, and the much hated compulsory Russian language in all schools and all levels of learning, now had to be accepted, even cherished in order to reach his goal and graduate from this university! It was not easy to befriend the thought of voluntarily learning Russian,again and really learning it, not like back home when most everybody out of sheer hate had sabotaged this task at every step. Now Peter, through free choice, (how on earth will he explain to the folks back in Hungary?) had to accept Russian, as an everyday preoccupation, along with the other “foreign” language, English. This very thought had caused the immigrant days of grief in addition to the many new concepts and changes in his life those days.
Never could he have imagined that after escaping to the West, from the Soviet imposed totalitarian regime with its obligatory Russian language rammed down the throat of all students, that he would once again cultivate Russian and especially doing it with diligence and earnestness! But there was a good side to this. The language was being offered for total beginners, which meant that Peter who had been exposed to it for many years, never mind that his level of knowledge was fairly low, was still familiar with the basics, including the totally different Cyrillic alphabet. That meant one less subject that he had to worry about.
Psychology, economics and political science, these were, curiously separate in a “capitalist” country, philosophy, zoology and mathematics made up his course palette, in addition to Russian. He found out only a little later that one of those courses had to be his “major”. So logic suggested making that Russian, to which then Russian and Slavic literature was added for good measure. This latter was, fortunately, lectured in English, with most of the works being read in translation, English. He had welcomed, actually, classical Russian literature, as many of those great writers were among his favorites, and happily such modern greats as Pasternak, Babel, Solzenitsen and others were also listed in his course outline. He was eagerly looking forward to the promised discussions on the post 1917 Bolshevik revolution’s effort to popularize “socialist realism” in literature , as an essential tool to achieve socialist goals. A dictate, indeed, which was imposed on any creativity by force. The frank and open discussions of these trends in a free society promised to be a real treat to someone coming from the other side of the political divide.
The weight of the humanities courses he chose to study, beside Russian, threatened mostly his faulty and weak language capability. This became evident right on the first day when he took home the textbook of political science, 1 A.
The textbook for the study of the Canadian government, with its rich historical development in Canada’s not quite 100 years of existence, spread over several hundred pages. Its heavy legalistic text and seldom used everyday expressions, made it difficult reading. Forever remained in his memory that afternoon, when on his day off from the hospital, he had to write a précis for the next day on this first chapter of that book, spread over 17 pages. With his English-Hungarian dictionary, it took him more than one hour to translate and understand the first page!
And so it went on for the next several pages. From all this effort, he had to summarize the essence of the chapter in a written assignment of not more than 2 pages!
He remembered, as dawn was slowly breaking in the early September morning and falling asleep, that after a few hours of sleep he would start again, the work which had really amounted to no more than a translation assignment, given to a dilettante.
Practically all his courses gave him similar grief, understanding, retaining and showing proof of accomplishment, as was demanded. In spite of the everyday language frustrations he felt encouraged by the progress he was making, that within short he would be speaking and writing on the level of university students.
However, the 40 hour night shift at the hospital, from midnight to 8 am, took away precious time from studying or from resting. The nurses working on the ward had been watching him with great empathy, when the young orderly reported for duty for the graveyard shift, loaded with books. In general, the nights were not very busy, although all staff had certain routine work every night. At times he could study for hours, or if he was particularly well liked by one or another nurse they would even let him sleep some on one empty stretchers on wheels. In these instances he could, after a warm shower in the hospital, turn into a regular university student and appear in classes in reasonable shape on the following morning.
But there were chaotic nights also at the hospital when several crisis situations could develop with one or more patients at the same time, when every doctor, nurse and orderly on duty were rushing from room to room, when neither studying nor sleeping was possible the whole night. While on mornings like these he was capable getting ready physically and getting to classes, but often he had slept through lectures with half open eyes, when he would not understood the lecture even if had it been presented in his native tongue, let alone in English.
It had occurred to him once or twice that his fellow students may be even jealous of him thinking that he perhaps had a wild night when he was caught dozing in the classroom. The fact was he never once discussed with anyone in the university environment, student or teacher, that he lived a double life, working at night and trying to study during the day, never discussed his private life. He could not explain it then and it is till mystery today, whether it was a sense of shame or a notion of pride the reason why he had never spoken of his private life in school. In fact, there were very few students whom he may have befriended, and occasional words with these were for school work almost exclusively. Perhaps his heavy accent and the perceived stigma of an immigrant, or the loss of precious time that would have been sacrificed, it is difficult to say which held him back from any socializing. The fact remained that in this first year at U of T he was persona incognito. He was seen in the libraries or the student cafeterias to the tune of a head-nod, but friendship and mainly friendship of girls was missing in his life.
As the neighbor to the South, Canada, too, became the land of immigrants. However, the arrival of the masses went on through hundreds of years, so there were always the early arrivals, even first, second and third generations of these immigrants, and their successors. There was a definite distinction between early and new comers, especially if they opened their mouths, and declared when they may have arrived in the “new” country. In addition to the “arrival” time, there were other sociological differences between the English speakers in the English speaking provinces, or the French speakers in the French speaking province, and the “other” tongued immigrants. While the English, Irish or Scott immigrants, even with little schooling got fairly good jobs on account of their language skills, a well educated non-Anglo European professor could go to clean houses in his first years.
However, the “other” language immigrants had usually less schooling , coming from the poorest countries – or the most prosecuted- in Europe and emigrated for reasons of survival. This group of immigrants was always the bigger, so anyone with a heavy accent was considered to be less educated, cultured. This was that certain stigma that every non English speaking immigrant was confronting every day.
The university, college years, in every society, played a great role in the lives of students as they developed into adults. While they are studying their chosen profession, they are spending their best 4 or 5 years in each other’s friendly company. They usually had opportunities to develop in other fields than the chosen professions, in the fields of culture, arts and many sports. Those who had to earn their living while studying had little time left for these rewarding and exceptional opportunities. So Peter was very limited outside his daily hospital routine and language handicap to engage in most of these enriching activities.
Right away, in the first days of the school year, the somewhat older student had caused a small stir as he appeared in jacket and tie. Nobody had any doubt that he was a foreigner in 1959, when there were few foreigners and minority students at U of T. The majority of the students were of white, Anglo-Saxon background, or white immigrants’ children born in Canada. The first years Arts students had formed massive classes. For example the economics class had more than 200 students, and was held in the biggest lecture hall of the university. Asking questions, clarifications during lecture was next to impossible. The lecturers communicated via postings on the walls in the corridor. This was education in its most impersonal way. Anyone could come, or come late, or not at all, attendance lists were not kept. Because of its impersonal, mechanical style this had become Peter’s most neglected, least interesting subject. He had mostly nodded off during the lectures that started at 9 am. The presented material seemed dry and boring.
His most successful course became the one that was forced on him and everyone else in the old country, the one that had to be also chosen due to the “foreign” language requirement, Russian language and literature. There were 10 or 12 lecturers on the newly formed Faculty of Slavic Studies; mostly Polish and Ukrainian post war immigrants to Canada. There was not one ethnic Russian speaker among them. Almost all were seeking historical authenticity and understanding vis a vis the Russian language and the political reality of the Soviet Union. So it happened, that Peter’s Russian teacher was an Englishman, graduating from Oxford, who for a mysterious reason had fallen in love with the language and got a job in this Canadian university. His real public school education and particularly his superior British accent did not disturb him at all in developing an excellent grasp of classical Russian. He thought it well, too. But the most favored of all these teachers was the lady professor from Poland who was a graduate of the famous, pre war Krakow University and now was teaching Russian literature.
Accordingly, all the lecturers on the Faculty spoke with some kind of an accent, which felt so comforting to self-conscious Peter. At least here he did not have to be embarrassed because of his linguistic shortcomings. His fellow students on this course were all Canadian born, but mostly from Ukrainian, Polish, Slovak immigrants so they have grown up with accented English in their houses. Their parents’ tongues were close to Russian, were brought up partially in these languages, but they did not know the Cyrillic ABC, so they had to start with the basics. There were practically no students with a Russian background in the fifties in Canada.
Peter had a great advantage with the language, however inadequate, that was forced on him in Hungary, but still knew more than the basics. While the other students were learning reading and writing in Russian, he could be spending time with other courses. They were learning proficiency in the Russian; Peter was trying to learn English so that he could understand the philosophy, psychology and the other subjects.
The first year students taking Russian were no more than 14 of the 40,000. He had managed to get closer to some of these in the first few months, but they also knew little about the mysterious Hungarian quickly disappearing after lectures. He was always absent from the frequent weekend dances, concerts and guest performances, and nobody missed him.
They had most probably believed that he was not interested, and perhaps felt above these events, that he was a snob.
Within a few weeks there was already some degree of accounting for the learning material presented in all courses. Other than the Russian language material which was going well, the literature part afforded opportunities to excel in class, even if some of his written material had plenty of errors. The lady professor was particularly accommodating with regard to spelling mistakes in his assignments. During her lectures she had often initiated discussions in class by calling on Peter first for a point of view or comment that set the stage for a debate with the others.
Probably that was the only area in his studies where he could claim some degree of competence compared to his fellow students at the university in 1959. This knowledge, literary background and political maturity that would have prompted the professor to call Peter into her office one day, acknowledging his contributions in class and encouraging his work because she thought he had signs of talent and ability in the field of Russian-Soviet literature. This good work could further be helped , eventually, with a Rhodes scholarship, and if Peter may have such ambitions she could find support for this in the Department of Slavic Sudies.
The first year student was in seventh heaven for this early sign of encouragement. How strange is the way God works, he begins to study Russian reluctantly and out of sheer necessity and a gleam of hope for his future flashes before him! This was so welcome, yet he knew that he will have to excel in all the other courses as well. Indeed, there were ominous warnings from the lecturers of the other subjects. One of his early précis in political science was signed with this cautioning: “I will let this go through now, but your English will simply have to improve if you want to pass this course by year’s end…”These kinds of remarks did not help at all for the student struggling with work, sleeplessness and language frustrations daily. On the contrary, they had embittered him. Then there was the impatient lecturer who had returned one of his papers because “he could not read his funny handwriting.” It was a fact that those in grade one in 1944, amid the worst part of the war, had received a haphazard and inadequate first year of reading and writing instructions, with all the daily changes in routine, teachers and aerial alerts. Their teachers may have changed weekly, and so did the methods of teaching to write. Peter’s handwriting belonged to the worst in class, and he recognized early this liability. He was envious of some of his classmates who had handed in carefully prepared, even typed documents as their assignments, fetching of course much better grades.
It was interesting how much impression the course in philosophy had on the new student. He had little knowledge of the scientific study of wisdom before, and was eager to know all that Professor Schonleber had to teach them. He read and tried to understand most of what the prescribed books had to say. He noted the Aristotelian thesis that one must philosophize, and if someone states that this is not necessary, than that has to be philosophized, that is discussed, so in any case philosophy is essential. Once so understood, then the Descartian notion that cogito ergo sum was more comprehensible.
This new, discovering phase of Peter’s life, his first steps in the field of human inquiry and study seemed noble and uplifting compared to the near past and the bleak presence of his present daily life. Every nuance of his body desired new knowledge, authors and their work. The library of his college with its thousands of volumes, the small writing-reading desks, the winding labyrinths in the stacks which provided all necessary conditions for reading, contemplative study, were happily discovered. How happy he was here! How much more time he would have liked to spend here, than was his. He could forget here the frustrations of the past, the disappointments. He was informing his family back home about this far away university, its structure, culture and the possibilities in the far future…that was surely to come his way. Who knows, he could even become a teacher of Russian someday, although all this seemed pretty remote just then, a few weeks into the first half of his first year
THE FIRST YEAR, UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO
1959.
The poor prospects of life in Hungary in the fifties had concerned both ambitious students and their parents. Continuing studies after high school depended not only on exam results; on the contrary, especially not on those but on the so called “class origins” of the aspirant. It was critically important what kind of family background, from what “class” did the student come from. The reigning communist government decided who could make it to the universities, colleges. They were trying to educate those who were politically acceptable, so that their future would be assured. While in the West, academic achievements and financial means determined one’s continued education, continuing on to higher education never seemed like a life or death struggle as in the East. The young refugees of 1956 believed exactly this in order to lay the foundation of their new lives. The time spent waiting for admission in refugee camps, the time needed to learn the languages of their adopted countries stole years from their lives.
As back home, the freshmen in Canada were excited starting their academic studies. The seniors, according to tradition, were busy with the initiation rites. The various sport competitions were under way, particularly among the rival schools, as everywhere in the world.
After finding his course schedules, Peter had to find the various lecture halls, spread out in a wide area of the university. Getting to and from lecture halls in the 10 minute breaks they had between lectures was not much, so he had to choose course with an eye on schedule conflicts , as well as being interested in the topics. Appropriate text books for the chosen course were available in the university book store, at fairly steep prices when comparing these to the salary of a hospital orderly. There must have been cheaper ways of finding text books, but the excitement, a definite feeling of elation, and a good degree of anxiety about the immediate future deprived him of getting the best information. His English was still hesitant and full of errors, and he knew it. And there were so many new expressions, concepts that the new students had to grapple with. Anything that had to do with schooling was virtually a new concept. From the grading system to the special student “lingo”, there was little that he understood at first. He took time to learn the system of higher education, and a system in another continent, exercised in a strange language, until he had found the resources that could help with his studies.
Both the anxiety and the elation he felt of just being there, had its reasons. A manual laborer, one arriving in just over 2 years before, who hardly speaks and reads the language of the land, who from one drab and unassuming day to the next intellectually demanding one, in spite of every difficulty felt happy and satisfied. These momentary joys were, however, short lived, as soon as he had rationally looked at his prospects. He felt as if he were an impostor as he was contemplating one of the other course offered in front of the long wall listing the course, schedules, names of lecturers and requirements for each, having great doubts about his chances for some of those courses. He had absolutely zero Canadian high school background, never set foot in any of those schools.
The students milling about him were at the height of their excitement as they were selecting one or another of the numerous English literature courses, all promising rewarding learning experience, and most requiring prerequisite studies. In their cases, there could not be any question about their readiness for advanced English literature, indeed 80 % would choose one or two of the several offered this leading to an Arts degree. But how could Peter or somebody in his shoes with similar disadvantage dream about advanced studies of Shakespeare or Chaucer?
Fortunately, all English literature courses were “strongly” recommended and not compulsory. But the other course groups caused just as big of a dilemma. One foreign language course was compulsory for all Arts students, and this being officially a bilingual country it was rather easy for the English speakers, they chose French , and it is assumed, those living in French Canada, they chose English, it they were smart.
But what could a foreign student choose, who had not learned, ever a formal course in either language? Besides, at the University of Toronto, students could not choose English as a “foreign” language, it being the native tongue.
So English was not being thought as a language, were it but true! And taking French, as most chose in Toronto, required years of high school French, thus unavailable for Peter.
Once more he had checked through the language courses offered and the prerequisites and felt that he would have problems here, when his eyes caught the most improbable item he would have ever imagined among the languages listed!
In 1959, at the University of Toronto, first year students could choose to learn, from scratch, Russian language and literature!
Nearly 3 years after the 1956 Revolution and Freedom Fight in Hungary, in spite of the accumulated hatred and contempt against the Soviet dictatorship, and the much hated compulsory Russian language in all schools and all levels of learning, now had to be accepted, even cherished in order to reach his goal and graduate from this university! It was not easy to befriend the thought of voluntarily learning Russian,again and really learning it, not like back home when most everybody out of sheer hate had sabotaged this task at every step. Now Peter, through free choice, (how on earth will he explain to the folks back in Hungary?) had to accept Russian, as an everyday preoccupation, along with the other “foreign” language, English. This very thought had caused the immigrant days of grief in addition to the many new concepts and changes in his life those days.
Never could he have imagined that after escaping to the West, from the Soviet imposed totalitarian regime with its obligatory Russian language rammed down the throat of all students, that he would once again cultivate Russian and especially doing it with diligence and earnestness! But there was a good side to this. The language was being offered for total beginners, which meant that Peter who had been exposed to it for many years, never mind that his level of knowledge was fairly low, was still familiar with the basics, including the totally different Cyrillic alphabet. That meant one less subject that he had to worry about.
Psychology, economics and political science, these were, curiously separate in a “capitalist” country, philosophy, zoology and mathematics made up his course palette, in addition to Russian. He found out only a little later that one of those courses had to be his “major”. So logic suggested making that Russian, to which then Russian and Slavic literature was added for good measure. This latter was, fortunately, lectured in English, with most of the works being read in translation, English. He had welcomed, actually, classical Russian literature, as many of those great writers were among his favorites, and happily such modern greats as Pasternak, Babel, Solzenitsen and others were also listed in his course outline. He was eagerly looking forward to the promised discussions on the post 1917 Bolshevik revolution’s effort to popularize “socialist realism” in literature , as an essential tool to achieve socialist goals. A dictate, indeed, which was imposed on any creativity by force. The frank and open discussions of these trends in a free society promised to be a real treat to someone coming from the other side of the political divide.
The weight of the humanities courses he chose to study, beside Russian, threatened mostly his faulty and weak language capability. This became evident right on the first day when he took home the textbook of political science, 1 A.
The textbook for the study of the Canadian government, with its rich historical development in Canada’s not quite 100 years of existence, spread over several hundred pages. Its heavy legalistic text and seldom used everyday expressions, made it difficult reading. Forever remained in his memory that afternoon, when on his day off from the hospital, he had to write a précis for the next day on this first chapter of that book, spread over 17 pages. With his English-Hungarian dictionary, it took him more than one hour to translate and understand the first page!
And so it went on for the next several pages. From all this effort, he had to summarize the essence of the chapter in a written assignment of not more than 2 pages!
He remembered, as dawn was slowly breaking in the early September morning and falling asleep, that after a few hours of sleep he would start again, the work which had really amounted to no more than a translation assignment, given to a dilettante.
Practically all his courses gave him similar grief, understanding, retaining and showing proof of accomplishment, as was demanded. In spite of the everyday language frustrations he felt encouraged by the progress he was making, that within short he would be speaking and writing on the level of university students.
However, the 40 hour night shift at the hospital, from midnight to 8 am, took away precious time from studying or from resting. The nurses working on the ward had been watching him with great empathy, when the young orderly reported for duty for the graveyard shift, loaded with books. In general, the nights were not very busy, although all staff had certain routine work every night. At times he could study for hours, or if he was particularly well liked by one or another nurse they would even let him sleep some on one empty stretchers on wheels. In these instances he could, after a warm shower in the hospital, turn into a regular university student and appear in classes in reasonable shape on the following morning.
But there were chaotic nights also at the hospital when several crisis situations could develop with one or more patients at the same time, when every doctor, nurse and orderly on duty were rushing from room to room, when neither studying nor sleeping was possible the whole night. While on mornings like these he was capable getting ready physically and getting to classes, but often he had slept through lectures with half open eyes, when he would not understood the lecture even if had it been presented in his native tongue, let alone in English.
It had occurred to him once or twice that his fellow students may be even jealous of him thinking that he perhaps had a wild night when he was caught dozing in the classroom. The fact was he never once discussed with anyone in the university environment, student or teacher, that he lived a double life, working at night and trying to study during the day, never discussed his private life. He could not explain it then and it is till mystery today, whether it was a sense of shame or a notion of pride the reason why he had never spoken of his private life in school. In fact, there were very few students whom he may have befriended, and occasional words with these were for school work almost exclusively. Perhaps his heavy accent and the perceived stigma of an immigrant, or the loss of precious time that would have been sacrificed, it is difficult to say which held him back from any socializing. The fact remained that in this first year at U of T he was persona incognito. He was seen in the libraries or the student cafeterias to the tune of a head-nod, but friendship and mainly friendship of girls was missing in his life.
As the neighbor to the South, Canada, too, became the land of immigrants. However, the arrival of the masses went on through hundreds of years, so there were always the early arrivals, even first, second and third generations of these immigrants, and their successors. There was a definite distinction between early and new comers, especially if they opened their mouths, and declared when they may have arrived in the “new” country. In addition to the “arrival” time, there were other sociological differences between the English speakers in the English speaking provinces, or the French speakers in the French speaking province, and the “other” tongued immigrants. While the English, Irish or Scott immigrants, even with little schooling got fairly good jobs on account of their language skills, a well educated non-Anglo European professor could go to clean houses in his first years.
However, the “other” language immigrants had usually less schooling , coming from the poorest countries – or the most prosecuted- in Europe and emigrated for reasons of survival. This group of immigrants was always the bigger, so anyone with a heavy accent was considered to be less educated, cultured. This was that certain stigma that every non English speaking immigrant was confronting every day.
The university, college years, in every society, played a great role in the lives of students as they developed into adults. While they are studying their chosen profession, they are spending their best 4 or 5 years in each other’s friendly company. They usually had opportunities to develop in other fields than the chosen professions, in the fields of culture, arts and many sports. Those who had to earn their living while studying had little time left for these rewarding and exceptional opportunities. So Peter was very limited outside his daily hospital routine and language handicap to engage in most of these enriching activities.
Right away, in the first days of the school year, the somewhat older student had caused a small stir as he appeared in jacket and tie. Nobody had any doubt that he was a foreigner in 1959, when there were few foreigners and minority students at U of T. The majority of the students were of white, Anglo-Saxon background, or white immigrants’ children born in Canada. The first years Arts students had formed massive classes. For example the economics class had more than 200 students, and was held in the biggest lecture hall of the university. Asking questions, clarifications during lecture was next to impossible. The lecturers communicated via postings on the walls in the corridor. This was education in its most impersonal way. Anyone could come, or come late, or not at all, attendance lists were not kept. Because of its impersonal, mechanical style this had become Peter’s most neglected, least interesting subject. He had mostly nodded off during the lectures that started at 9 am. The presented material seemed dry and boring.
His most successful course became the one that was forced on him and everyone else in the old country, the one that had to be also chosen due to the “foreign” language requirement, Russian language and literature. There were 10 or 12 lecturers on the newly formed Faculty of Slavic Studies; mostly Polish and Ukrainian post war immigrants to Canada. There was not one ethnic Russian speaker among them. Almost all were seeking historical authenticity and understanding vis a vis the Russian language and the political reality of the Soviet Union. So it happened, that Peter’s Russian teacher was an Englishman, graduating from Oxford, who for a mysterious reason had fallen in love with the language and got a job in this Canadian university. His real public school education and particularly his superior British accent did not disturb him at all in developing an excellent grasp of classical Russian. He thought it well, too. But the most favored of all these teachers was the lady professor from Poland who was a graduate of the famous, pre war Krakow University and now was teaching Russian literature.
Accordingly, all the lecturers on the Faculty spoke with some kind of an accent, which felt so comforting to self-conscious Peter. At least here he did not have to be embarrassed because of his linguistic shortcomings. His fellow students on this course were all Canadian born, but mostly from Ukrainian, Polish, Slovak immigrants so they have grown up with accented English in their houses. Their parents’ tongues were close to Russian, were brought up partially in these languages, but they did not know the Cyrillic ABC, so they had to start with the basics. There were practically no students with a Russian background in the fifties in Canada.
Peter had a great advantage with the language, however inadequate, that was forced on him in Hungary, but still knew more than the basics. While the other students were learning reading and writing in Russian, he could be spending time with other courses. They were learning proficiency in the Russian; Peter was trying to learn English so that he could understand the philosophy, psychology and the other subjects.
The first year students taking Russian were no more than 14 of the 40,000. He had managed to get closer to some of these in the first few months, but they also knew little about the mysterious Hungarian quickly disappearing after lectures. He was always absent from the frequent weekend dances, concerts and guest performances, and nobody missed him.
They had most probably believed that he was not interested, and perhaps felt above these events, that he was a snob.
Within a few weeks there was already some degree of accounting for the learning material presented in all courses. Other than the Russian language material which was going well, the literature part afforded opportunities to excel in class, even if some of his written material had plenty of errors. The lady professor was particularly accommodating with regard to spelling mistakes in his assignments. During her lectures she had often initiated discussions in class by calling on Peter first for a point of view or comment that set the stage for a debate with the others.
Probably that was the only area in his studies where he could claim some degree of competence compared to his fellow students at the university in 1959. This knowledge, literary background and political maturity that would have prompted the professor to call Peter into her office one day, acknowledging his contributions in class and encouraging his work because she thought he had signs of talent and ability in the field of Russian-Soviet literature. This good work could further be helped , eventually, with a Rhodes scholarship, and if Peter may have such ambitions she could find support for this in the Department of Slavic Sudies.
The first year student was in seventh heaven for this early sign of encouragement. How strange is the way God works, he begins to study Russian reluctantly and out of sheer necessity and a gleam of hope for his future flashes before him! This was so welcome, yet he knew that he will have to excel in all the other courses as well. Indeed, there were ominous warnings from the lecturers of the other subjects. One of his early précis in political science was signed with this cautioning: “I will let this go through now, but your English will simply have to improve if you want to pass this course by year’s end…”These kinds of remarks did not help at all for the student struggling with work, sleeplessness and language frustrations daily. On the contrary, they had embittered him. Then there was the impatient lecturer who had returned one of his papers because “he could not read his funny handwriting.” It was a fact that those in grade one in 1944, amid the worst part of the war, had received a haphazard and inadequate first year of reading and writing instructions, with all the daily changes in routine, teachers and aerial alerts. Their teachers may have changed weekly, and so did the methods of teaching to write. Peter’s handwriting belonged to the worst in class, and he recognized early this liability. He was envious of some of his classmates who had handed in carefully prepared, even typed documents as their assignments, fetching of course much better grades.
It was interesting how much impression the course in philosophy had on the new student. He had little knowledge of the scientific study of wisdom before, and was eager to know all that Professor Schonleber had to teach them. He read and tried to understand most of what the prescribed books had to say. He noted the Aristotelian thesis that one must philosophize, and if someone states that this is not necessary, than that has to be philosophized, that is discussed, so in any case philosophy is essential. Once so understood, then the Descartian notion that cogito ergo sum was more comprehensible.
This new, discovering phase of Peter’s life, his first steps in the field of human inquiry and study seemed noble and uplifting compared to the near past and the bleak presence of his present daily life. Every nuance of his body desired new knowledge, authors and their work. The library of his college with its thousands of volumes, the small writing-reading desks, the winding labyrinths in the stacks which provided all necessary conditions for reading, contemplative study, were happily discovered. How happy he was here! How much more time he would have liked to spend here, than was his. He could forget here the frustrations of the past, the disappointments. He was informing his family back home about this far away university, its structure, culture and the possibilities in the far future…that was surely to come his way. Who knows, he could even become a teacher of Russian someday, although all this seemed pretty remote just then, a few weeks into the first half of his first year
Wednesday, 28 March 2012
Ch.14 Onward and Upward, Toronto 1959
ONWARD AND UPWARD, TORONTO, 1959
They realized gradually, from the Hungarian newspapers printed in Toronto, that while Ottawa was the capitol, Montreal and Toronto were the really significant , important cities which were developing and progressing much faster than small, provincial Ottawa. The three friends moved on to Toronto, in fact Andy had gone even further south, as he had reconnected with a childhood sweetheart in the US and married her. The jointly owned car had been sold and this was the first time they had realized that cars are not good investments in North America.
Peter had started to seriously think about going back to school, starting university. He had written to many schools, inquiring about bursaries and help but none was available in 1959, at least none that would allow him full time study. So self financing was the answer, and finding a job that would allow somehow full time schooling.
While this was complicated, finally the chance came when he had found a job in Toronto’s St.Michael’s Hospital, as an orderly. The personnel manager who was a Polish immigrant himself, was a bit skeptical about Peter’s request for permanent night-shift duty, so that he could attend regular daytime courses at the University of Toronto. It seemed as if the middle aged manager exhibited some jealousy, mixed with a degree of superiority when he questioned, probed Peter. Why on earth was any European immigrant trying to get a university degree, when he, himself, he had already graduated from the University of Warsaw, and look, all that he could “attain” was this miserable little job, with a basement office, in a nuns’ hospital? Not much sense in studying for any degree because the “big” jobs will never be given to immigrants in this country, if they are not of Anglo-Saxon background!
In the end, he obliged and gave Peter a permanent night shift that is from September on, should Peter get accepted at the University of Toronto. But this was still at the beginning of summer in 1959, so Peter was given his training on the afternoon shift, supervised by a fellow orderly, from the south of Italy, called Vito. Poor Vito had immigrated to Canada in the late thirties, and, according to many, Vito had a tough assignment speaking English, while he himself was convinced of speaking fluently! Indeed, within a few hours, Vito could convince one that he mastered English, if all gesticulations, with hands and all were allowed. So formal training did not exist, and Peter had started on the 1-A surgical ward, with Vito, learning as he went along.
The colossal hospital was run by catholic nuns, but all the personnel from doctors to nurses came from the secular part of society. Every ward was run with military precision and the greatest of conscience by a Sister Angelica or a Sister Agatha or some such.
On the 1-A ward were the most needy or uninsured patients, in multi-bed rooms. People from accidents, unconscious and of no fixed address, from barroom brawls and the like usually ended up here. But there were also patients with advanced cancer and other serious ailments, too. The daily chores were excellent for language training. Patients, nurses and student nurses, the hospital had attached to it a nurses’ college, too, with many young trainees on the job, getting experience, they all spoke English.
Student nurses, St.Michael Hospital,1959
In addition to the regular duties, he had a chance to spend time getting to know the odd patient as well. Some had no family or friends to visit them; for them the hospital personnel became occasional “family” or friend with whom they met daily, received some help and sympathy, often the only source of human contact.
A young boy suffering from inoperable cancer became Peter’s favored patient. They would play a few games of chess on quiet evenings. He recalled his younger brother whom he had left back in Hungary, how he had taught him, just before the revolution, to play chess. This sick boy in the hospital was also very grateful for the attention, but it was even more meaningful that at least he could make this boy happy even while missing his brother.
Aside from homesickness, many Hungarian immigrants, especially those who had left families behind, felt strong pangs of conscience, too, for each richer moment, for anything that may have seemed on the level of luxury for the folks back in Hungary. Each better mouthful, each piece of clothing, the freer and worriless life caused inevitable mental anguish. Many tried to help those back in the old country, according to their means available. There was already a travel agency that dealt primarily with Hungarians located in the Bloor and Spadina streets’ vicinity which then was known as the Hungarian quarter. Peter had heard that 100 forint Hungarian bank notes could be purchased there, for about $5, and smuggled in plain letters sent home to his mother and little brother.
Later on, the immigrants could send so called IKKA parcels home, legally, with the cynical acquiescence of the Hungarian government, as they took a substantial percentage from these dollar transactions. They needed that hard currency. Many helped their families, parents with such means.
Thanks to Vito, the newcomer soon learnt the trade and even got new responsibilities. The nuns asked him to go upstairs one day, to the women patients’ ward, as his help was needed. A dead patient had to be placed on a gurney and the nurses could not manage the weight. After helping with the task, the chief nun had entrusted Peter with being responsible for the morgue, also, while he was on his shift. That consisted of opening the morgue and handing out the corpses to the funeral home people, or taking cadavers up to the autopsy rooms. At the beginning he had a rather tough time getting used to the responsibility, but then this proved to be a simple and ordinary job. Many patients had given the staff much more grief at times than those who had passed away.
Orderly, St.Michael’s Hospital, Toronto, 1959
Then again, the cooled morgue was always so much more pleasant in the terrible, damp heat of the Toronto summer than the 1A ward with stuffy and hot rooms. He would not dare to tell anyone that often he would hide watermelons in the empty, refrigerated boxes that were nicely cooled during his shift.
The job in the hospital presented excellent chances for meeting various kinds of extremely interesting people. For example, one of the patients’ elevators attendants was a well read, intelligent gentleman. He read anything and everything about philosophy. He was in contrast with most of the other workers who were invariably newcomers, non Anglo-Saxon immigrants, while this man was born in Canada, spoke fluently both languages of the country, but other than that no one knew anything else about him. And particularly why on earth did he work in this simple job with his intelligence and wisdom? Peter was struck by this intriguing man’s reading habits, as he never saw him without a book, whether in his elevator, or in the hospital’s cafeteria. If they started a conversation, he had many questions about the other person but would never allow any detail about his life. He would cite long monologues from one or another of his well researched philosophers, but declined to answer specific questions about himself. He had lent Peter many obviously well read and annotated books, and while most of these had been over his head in terms of text and thought, he had started to know something about Thomas Merton, St.Thomas Acquinas,Kahlil Gibran, Cyrill Connolly.
What could have been this man’s life story? He never found out. He would only smile when questioned about his present or past life. But this smile suggested superhuman inner strength and self confidence, exerting great positive impression on those he was engaging in conversation.
Within a couple of months Peter was invited to train the next new orderly on the afternoon shift who happened to be a sympathetic young Hungarian. Miklos was an actor who had also escaped after the 1956 Revolution was crushed, who struggled with maintaining an existence and learning English. His wife was a well known actress who now worked as a waitress.
The Hungarian duo at St.Michael’s Hospital became somewhat well known for their exceptional height and humor in many situations. They worked well together and soon shared the responsibility of the morgues as well.
Peter, who came from the country, appreciated the young actor’s savvy from Budapest, particularly the many stories about the theater which still held magic for him. Neither knew at that time that they would soon be sharing the stage of the immigrant Hungarian theater in Toronto, which was to open a year or two.
The time drew near when the forms had to be filled out for university entrance. Since Peter’s high school diploma was from abroad, he had to pass the so called English proficiency exam and his diploma had to be translated into English. After two years in Canada, this did not seem insurmountable, but was nevertheless difficult. Finally, he passed the test and was admitted.
They realized gradually, from the Hungarian newspapers printed in Toronto, that while Ottawa was the capitol, Montreal and Toronto were the really significant , important cities which were developing and progressing much faster than small, provincial Ottawa. The three friends moved on to Toronto, in fact Andy had gone even further south, as he had reconnected with a childhood sweetheart in the US and married her. The jointly owned car had been sold and this was the first time they had realized that cars are not good investments in North America.
Peter had started to seriously think about going back to school, starting university. He had written to many schools, inquiring about bursaries and help but none was available in 1959, at least none that would allow him full time study. So self financing was the answer, and finding a job that would allow somehow full time schooling.
While this was complicated, finally the chance came when he had found a job in Toronto’s St.Michael’s Hospital, as an orderly. The personnel manager who was a Polish immigrant himself, was a bit skeptical about Peter’s request for permanent night-shift duty, so that he could attend regular daytime courses at the University of Toronto. It seemed as if the middle aged manager exhibited some jealousy, mixed with a degree of superiority when he questioned, probed Peter. Why on earth was any European immigrant trying to get a university degree, when he, himself, he had already graduated from the University of Warsaw, and look, all that he could “attain” was this miserable little job, with a basement office, in a nuns’ hospital? Not much sense in studying for any degree because the “big” jobs will never be given to immigrants in this country, if they are not of Anglo-Saxon background!
In the end, he obliged and gave Peter a permanent night shift that is from September on, should Peter get accepted at the University of Toronto. But this was still at the beginning of summer in 1959, so Peter was given his training on the afternoon shift, supervised by a fellow orderly, from the south of Italy, called Vito. Poor Vito had immigrated to Canada in the late thirties, and, according to many, Vito had a tough assignment speaking English, while he himself was convinced of speaking fluently! Indeed, within a few hours, Vito could convince one that he mastered English, if all gesticulations, with hands and all were allowed. So formal training did not exist, and Peter had started on the 1-A surgical ward, with Vito, learning as he went along.
The colossal hospital was run by catholic nuns, but all the personnel from doctors to nurses came from the secular part of society. Every ward was run with military precision and the greatest of conscience by a Sister Angelica or a Sister Agatha or some such.
On the 1-A ward were the most needy or uninsured patients, in multi-bed rooms. People from accidents, unconscious and of no fixed address, from barroom brawls and the like usually ended up here. But there were also patients with advanced cancer and other serious ailments, too. The daily chores were excellent for language training. Patients, nurses and student nurses, the hospital had attached to it a nurses’ college, too, with many young trainees on the job, getting experience, they all spoke English.
Student nurses, St.Michael Hospital,1959
In addition to the regular duties, he had a chance to spend time getting to know the odd patient as well. Some had no family or friends to visit them; for them the hospital personnel became occasional “family” or friend with whom they met daily, received some help and sympathy, often the only source of human contact.
A young boy suffering from inoperable cancer became Peter’s favored patient. They would play a few games of chess on quiet evenings. He recalled his younger brother whom he had left back in Hungary, how he had taught him, just before the revolution, to play chess. This sick boy in the hospital was also very grateful for the attention, but it was even more meaningful that at least he could make this boy happy even while missing his brother.
Aside from homesickness, many Hungarian immigrants, especially those who had left families behind, felt strong pangs of conscience, too, for each richer moment, for anything that may have seemed on the level of luxury for the folks back in Hungary. Each better mouthful, each piece of clothing, the freer and worriless life caused inevitable mental anguish. Many tried to help those back in the old country, according to their means available. There was already a travel agency that dealt primarily with Hungarians located in the Bloor and Spadina streets’ vicinity which then was known as the Hungarian quarter. Peter had heard that 100 forint Hungarian bank notes could be purchased there, for about $5, and smuggled in plain letters sent home to his mother and little brother.
Later on, the immigrants could send so called IKKA parcels home, legally, with the cynical acquiescence of the Hungarian government, as they took a substantial percentage from these dollar transactions. They needed that hard currency. Many helped their families, parents with such means.
Thanks to Vito, the newcomer soon learnt the trade and even got new responsibilities. The nuns asked him to go upstairs one day, to the women patients’ ward, as his help was needed. A dead patient had to be placed on a gurney and the nurses could not manage the weight. After helping with the task, the chief nun had entrusted Peter with being responsible for the morgue, also, while he was on his shift. That consisted of opening the morgue and handing out the corpses to the funeral home people, or taking cadavers up to the autopsy rooms. At the beginning he had a rather tough time getting used to the responsibility, but then this proved to be a simple and ordinary job. Many patients had given the staff much more grief at times than those who had passed away.
Orderly, St.Michael’s Hospital, Toronto, 1959
Then again, the cooled morgue was always so much more pleasant in the terrible, damp heat of the Toronto summer than the 1A ward with stuffy and hot rooms. He would not dare to tell anyone that often he would hide watermelons in the empty, refrigerated boxes that were nicely cooled during his shift.
The job in the hospital presented excellent chances for meeting various kinds of extremely interesting people. For example, one of the patients’ elevators attendants was a well read, intelligent gentleman. He read anything and everything about philosophy. He was in contrast with most of the other workers who were invariably newcomers, non Anglo-Saxon immigrants, while this man was born in Canada, spoke fluently both languages of the country, but other than that no one knew anything else about him. And particularly why on earth did he work in this simple job with his intelligence and wisdom? Peter was struck by this intriguing man’s reading habits, as he never saw him without a book, whether in his elevator, or in the hospital’s cafeteria. If they started a conversation, he had many questions about the other person but would never allow any detail about his life. He would cite long monologues from one or another of his well researched philosophers, but declined to answer specific questions about himself. He had lent Peter many obviously well read and annotated books, and while most of these had been over his head in terms of text and thought, he had started to know something about Thomas Merton, St.Thomas Acquinas,Kahlil Gibran, Cyrill Connolly.
What could have been this man’s life story? He never found out. He would only smile when questioned about his present or past life. But this smile suggested superhuman inner strength and self confidence, exerting great positive impression on those he was engaging in conversation.
Within a couple of months Peter was invited to train the next new orderly on the afternoon shift who happened to be a sympathetic young Hungarian. Miklos was an actor who had also escaped after the 1956 Revolution was crushed, who struggled with maintaining an existence and learning English. His wife was a well known actress who now worked as a waitress.
The Hungarian duo at St.Michael’s Hospital became somewhat well known for their exceptional height and humor in many situations. They worked well together and soon shared the responsibility of the morgues as well.
Peter, who came from the country, appreciated the young actor’s savvy from Budapest, particularly the many stories about the theater which still held magic for him. Neither knew at that time that they would soon be sharing the stage of the immigrant Hungarian theater in Toronto, which was to open a year or two.
The time drew near when the forms had to be filled out for university entrance. Since Peter’s high school diploma was from abroad, he had to pass the so called English proficiency exam and his diploma had to be translated into English. After two years in Canada, this did not seem insurmountable, but was nevertheless difficult. Finally, he passed the test and was admitted.
Monday, 27 February 2012
Although he has been dead for over two months, I keep searching for more Hitchens
and I find something always that was not known about him, at least to me. So, hitherto a proud one-book author, I find the following quote by Christopher Hitchens:
"Everyone has a book inside them, which is exactly where I think it should, in most cases, remain." OUCH! I knew it...
"Everyone has a book inside them, which is exactly where I think it should, in most cases, remain." OUCH! I knew it...
Wednesday, 21 December 2011
Christopher Hitchens, earthly existence and heavenly writing.
"It could be that all existence is a pointless joke,but it is not in fact possible to live one's everyday life as if this were so." (Christopher Hitchens in Hitch 22)
Readers sometimes develop very close relationship with authors.Most never meet in person. Yet it often seems so real, so intense -and almost always unilateral.In the past we usually got to know the writing first, then we may have decided to search for the persona behind the work.
Today's multimedia platforms provide us with several encounters. I have "met" Christopher Hitchens on radio first, then on TV and then started to look for his writings.
I have started reading Hitch 22, his memoirs, in the middle of my chemotherapy last summer, and very shortly after, on the eve of his book tour for Hitch 22 he told the world about his cancer. A fellow sufferer, loved and revered by many, despised by some for his views on religion and God.
Word got to him and he was asked in public whether he'd mind if people would pray for his recovery. While he was obviously touched by these gestures, he doubted whether prayer would help.
That was what most of us could do for him.
Reading Hitch 22 during my illness last year, while watching for any news about him brought him intimately close to me. His last contribution for Vanity Fair, an article to appear, ironically in the January next issue was particularly personal to me, as I have gone through some of the procedures at MD Anderson in Houston just a year before. As he said often, he was in stage 4 of his cancer, there not being a stage 5.
Perhaps prayer.
But Mr.Hitchens missed the point of prayer. It helped us in our impotence
to do something, anything for him. And for ourselves, in our pain and concern, lest our existence is a pointless joke.
Readers sometimes develop very close relationship with authors.Most never meet in person. Yet it often seems so real, so intense -and almost always unilateral.In the past we usually got to know the writing first, then we may have decided to search for the persona behind the work.
Today's multimedia platforms provide us with several encounters. I have "met" Christopher Hitchens on radio first, then on TV and then started to look for his writings.
I have started reading Hitch 22, his memoirs, in the middle of my chemotherapy last summer, and very shortly after, on the eve of his book tour for Hitch 22 he told the world about his cancer. A fellow sufferer, loved and revered by many, despised by some for his views on religion and God.
Word got to him and he was asked in public whether he'd mind if people would pray for his recovery. While he was obviously touched by these gestures, he doubted whether prayer would help.
That was what most of us could do for him.
Reading Hitch 22 during my illness last year, while watching for any news about him brought him intimately close to me. His last contribution for Vanity Fair, an article to appear, ironically in the January next issue was particularly personal to me, as I have gone through some of the procedures at MD Anderson in Houston just a year before. As he said often, he was in stage 4 of his cancer, there not being a stage 5.
Perhaps prayer.
But Mr.Hitchens missed the point of prayer. It helped us in our impotence
to do something, anything for him. And for ourselves, in our pain and concern, lest our existence is a pointless joke.
Thursday, 15 December 2011
Ch.13 Getting a job, tobacco picking in Southern Ontario
On the tobacco farm, 1958 August.
By the summer, the news spread in the immigrant community that in the south part of Ontario there are huge tobacco fields, whose harvest in late summer could present a major new source of income. The terribly hard job of tobacco picking lasts for 4-6 weeks but the pay is exceptional, too.
The tobacco farmers were, for the most part, former Hungarian land cultivators, peasants who came around the turn of the century and were particularly successful growing tobacco in Canada, mostly situated in the area of Tillsonburg and Delhi, Ontario.
The three friends had given up their secure but poor paying, bleak prospect jobs and traveled to the tobacco farms area. Here, in one of the small town’s main square an informal “recruiting” center was set up on a given Saturday morning. It was a real market place for human beings! The local farmers had kept on coming and after an intensive scrutiny, where the judgment had to be made at what the naked eye saw from a physical point of view and after a brief bargaining, which was easy as almost everyone spoke Hungarian, for the daily stipend, the hiring was done.
The farmer wanted only their first names and within minutes they were on the back of a pickup truck speeding to one of the many farms in the area.
Their quarters were prepared in a part of the huge barn, furnished with simple wooden furniture and hay filled mattresses on iron beds. Shortly they were called to dinner which was served on long, covered tables, under huge chestnut trees in the farmer’s courtyard. The “gang” as they were now called consisted of 6 young men. During their short Canadian stay they have never experienced such a generous feast, vying with such a wedding feast that they had occasionally seen in the old country. Any delicacy that could be found and prepared by a well to do farmer in rural Canada with several experienced women chefs and that was steaming on the long table. The gang that to this point hadn’t worked a single hour made a valiant effort to be up to snuff and had achieved an appreciable success putting away most of the food. Tastes and aromas, reminiscent of Hungary came to be savored, almost to the point of shedding a tear or two, after long months in refugees camps and since over a year, in simple circumstances. The son of the farmer had sat with them, too, towards the end of the feast. Michael had a thick accent speaking Hungarian, he was Canadian born, but still managed to detail what was expected of the fresh farm hands.
The start of the tobacco picking season is always determined by the ripening of the so called sandy leaves, near the ground. That year the start happened to be on a Sunday. Only the sandy leaves near the ground can be picked off the plant. As the higher leaves continue ripening, the pickers move slowly higher. During the harvest there are only workdays, without any breaks, except for steady rain. So next day the wake up will be at 5 am, breakfast starts at half past five, so they are on the fields some kilometers away by 7am.
“ But in a few days the picked tobacco will be tied in bunches and placed on long sticks by the women, then wake up will be at 3 am so the tobacco laden sticks can be placed in the huge kiln-houses, for drying” continued Michael.
They didn’t really understand all that, but after the sumptuous dinner and the brief outline as to what will follow in the next few days, they knew that there would be a great need for very rich and nourishing food to cope with work demands.
Their first night on the tobacco farm, near the peaceful, ruminating farm animals, with billions of shiny stars in the August sky could not be spoiled even by the prospect of the early morning call. So close to nature, in such a quiet and peaceful place was such a change for these young men, after months of rather crowded refugee camps and then very Spartan basic city life after their arrival in Canada.
Following the generous dinner the night before, their breakfast was equally fitting and several farm matrons were asking them, one by one, whether they would like omelets from 4 or 6 eggs, with bacon, ham and cheese. By then the gang was getting just a little suspicious of all this attention and generosity ! Shortly after breakfast they hopped up on the cart, pulled by a massive tractor and soon they arrived on the tobacco field. Each green tobacco line spread for up to a kilometer in length, as far as the eye could see.
Tobacco field, Tillsonburg, Canada 1958
Michael had immediately occupied the first row in the field, bent to the ground and with a half circle of his right arm, he tore off the leaves of the tobacco plant. Then, still bent over, he stepped up to the next plant. Then the next and the next…
“You see, only the sandy leaves, the lowest ones you are allowed tear off…” he said looking at their faces for understanding, “…then as they ripen we keep on moving up on the plant. By the end of the season, it will be much less demanding on your backs…” he promised. It seemed simple and logical for these young men, reared in the city.
The six tobacco pickers had occupied their rows and began to work.
Behind them, a docile and “experienced” horse was pulling a wooden sled between the rows into which the collected, “sandy”, tobacco leaves from under their left armpits were carefully placed.
“Don’t break the leaves!” cautioned Michael.
They did not have to advance more than the picked sandy leaves of 10 tobacco plants, so that it can be stated that: they mastered tobacco picking. However, the continually bent backs had started to complain at each next plant, with each step they took towards these plants. After only a half an hour, while continually bending almost to the ground, the pickers believed they could not go on.
But Michael was there and by example he was jumping into one or another’s row, helping out, until somehow, miraculously they reached the end of their first row! At that point the six boys had just fallen to the ground, could only moan from the excruciating pain coming from their backs. Fresh water was brought by Michael and after a short rest they have started a new row.
Every step from now on was a painful maneuver, but goading each other on, the young and tenacious bodies, somehow, with many rest stops they lasted until noon, when Michael, literally picked them up one by one, and brought them back to the farmhouse. Again, a rich table was set up for them under the chestnut trees, but other than a few spoonfuls of soup, they preferred just to lie in the shade. After an hour’s rest, back to the cart and out to the fields. This struggle just to survive the day went on until 5 PM on their first day.
By the time they were back at the farm, they only had strength to wash up from the dust, sweat and the sticky sap from the broken tobacco stems, which dried and matted on their hairy arms, so much so that it simply could not be washed off by soap and water. Frankly, they could not care less about it.
Every part of their body was aching, especially their thighs and backs, so much, that none of them showed up for the evening meal. Within a short time, the whole gang was in deep slumber, awaking only for the pain caused by turning in their sleep.
If the unusual work seemed difficult and caused them pain on the first day, then the stiffness on awakening the following morning surpassed any such experience in their lives. One of the six had politely taken his leave that very morning, and the owner paid him fairly for his one day of work. The other five, overcoming the terrible pain, stubbornly began their second day of tobacco picking. They were still at the “sandy leaves” or sand lugs, as they were called by the farmer and they were still having the greatest pains with each step forward. They were encouraging each other, singing even, and also cursing all those who smoked, blaming them for this inhuman, bestial work! Where did the effort come from after each step taken forward with a back bent almost to the level of the ground, row after tobacco row? They could not explain even today perhaps.
They had overcome the greatest physical challenge of their lives then, in the first days of the tobacco leaves’ harvest. After the second Hungarian had given up and left on the third day, the rest had now stayed just out of spite and sheer bravado. In the meantime Michael had found three new pickers in the nearby town who were experienced, veteran farm hands who joined them and did their job without a word of complaint.
And as the bodies of the newly graduated farmhands adjusted to the physical demands, the muscle cramps abated and the task seemed easier. The veterans educated them on how they should shave their arms so that the sticky, gummy sap of the tobacco plant would not mat the hair on their arms.
Within days the muscles had adjusted, the body accepted and bore the daily punishment, the appetite returned. But by then the women had tied all the picked leaves on long, wooden stick which had to be racked in long, even lines in special places, called kiln- houses to dry. This was done on most mornings when they got up at 3am and emptied and refilled these kiln houses.
Tobacco drying kiln-houses, Tillsonburg,Ont.1958
These simple, wooden, under-roof drying places, with heating inside, were constructed inside of vertical and horizontal beams, resembled more monkey cages than anything else. They had no stairs, ladders inside, while two stories high, the lads, balancing on the horizontal beams, like monkeys handed each other the tobacco laden stick which were placed 3-4 feet apart on the beams, right up to the roof. Only the bravest dared to climb up to the top, one bad move could have resulted in serious injury. On most days the morning program from 3am to 6am was this acrobatic exercise, followed by a generous breakfast and out to the fields. If there was no rain they worked 7 days a week. Their wage was 25 dollars a day, with room and board included, as much as Peter’s first weekly stipend in Quebec City!
As the tobacco was ripening, so did “ease” their daily effort, since the top leaves could now be picked without bending over. It was life’s irony that the most difficult days of tobacco picking happened to be the very first days on the job.
Peter and the gang after several weeks in the country of the August summer in South Ontario were the color of chocolate, muscular and in top physical shape, had graduated possibly from the greatest physical challenge of their lives.
After a “tobacco picking ” session…
At the end of the harvest the Hungarian tobacco grower was satisfied with the boys’ work and paid them all in cash. Those who had survived the first days on the job had to be justifiably happy; their wage seemed like a small fortune. They had heard the stories about those who after many weeks of hard toil wagered all the money in horse races within hours, maybe the very day they were paid. But they had spent days deciding what to do with the money. It seemed they could always find work to look after their daily existence, but the one thing they thought was missing in their lives was the almighty automobile, which stood between happiness (girls) and frustration. Since they could not buy a reasonable car individually, even with the small “fortune” they owned, a few hundred dollars, pulling their money would get them a good used car.
On returning to Ottawa they found a car dealer who would sell them a 1954 Ford Meteor auto. The 4 year old car was in good shape and they believed the dealer that this exceptional automobile was owned by a retired lady school teacher. Since only one had a driver’s license, he taught the other two to drive.
The real purpose of the car purchase was their firm belief that the way to meet local girls was via the ownership of 4 wheels. Of course, the three way ownership resulted in alternating the days or evenings for usage. Of course, the logistics never worked out and the boys remained, for the most part, without significant relationships.
The object of their desire and the owners in their “ Sunday” best
Among the immigrants were many gloomy people who did not know, or realized perhaps only after many years, the opportunities of their new country. Which host country could have made it possible for immigrants capable only of manual labor, without language or professional skills, within a year of their arrival, to have an acceptable standard of living, that a working family could even afford the ultimate status symbol in the fifties, the purchase of a reasonable car?
The wealth from tobacco picking was not all invested in the car purchase, so Peter could realize his long held dream of owning a set of drums. His friend, Andy played on both the piano and saxophone, so their plan was to form a small band, maybe with a third countryman of theirs. However, the “drummer” was only an enthusiastic dreamer since he had no musical training whatsoever. He had practiced diligently in the basement of their flat, especially when the landlady was not at home, since she had many misgivings about the drums when they have arrived, with reason.
The student-drummer, in the basement , Ottawa, 1958
Towards the end of the fifties, when rock and roll was on its peak, light jazz music was not really a desired product. The small and intimate piano bars they had known back in Hungary were not really in vogue in those days. All they could achieve on the field of light music was the occasional Sunday afternoon entertaining the patients in old age homes, gratis.
Perley Hospital, (senior citizens’ home) Ottawa, 1958
By the summer, the news spread in the immigrant community that in the south part of Ontario there are huge tobacco fields, whose harvest in late summer could present a major new source of income. The terribly hard job of tobacco picking lasts for 4-6 weeks but the pay is exceptional, too.
The tobacco farmers were, for the most part, former Hungarian land cultivators, peasants who came around the turn of the century and were particularly successful growing tobacco in Canada, mostly situated in the area of Tillsonburg and Delhi, Ontario.
The three friends had given up their secure but poor paying, bleak prospect jobs and traveled to the tobacco farms area. Here, in one of the small town’s main square an informal “recruiting” center was set up on a given Saturday morning. It was a real market place for human beings! The local farmers had kept on coming and after an intensive scrutiny, where the judgment had to be made at what the naked eye saw from a physical point of view and after a brief bargaining, which was easy as almost everyone spoke Hungarian, for the daily stipend, the hiring was done.
The farmer wanted only their first names and within minutes they were on the back of a pickup truck speeding to one of the many farms in the area.
Their quarters were prepared in a part of the huge barn, furnished with simple wooden furniture and hay filled mattresses on iron beds. Shortly they were called to dinner which was served on long, covered tables, under huge chestnut trees in the farmer’s courtyard. The “gang” as they were now called consisted of 6 young men. During their short Canadian stay they have never experienced such a generous feast, vying with such a wedding feast that they had occasionally seen in the old country. Any delicacy that could be found and prepared by a well to do farmer in rural Canada with several experienced women chefs and that was steaming on the long table. The gang that to this point hadn’t worked a single hour made a valiant effort to be up to snuff and had achieved an appreciable success putting away most of the food. Tastes and aromas, reminiscent of Hungary came to be savored, almost to the point of shedding a tear or two, after long months in refugees camps and since over a year, in simple circumstances. The son of the farmer had sat with them, too, towards the end of the feast. Michael had a thick accent speaking Hungarian, he was Canadian born, but still managed to detail what was expected of the fresh farm hands.
The start of the tobacco picking season is always determined by the ripening of the so called sandy leaves, near the ground. That year the start happened to be on a Sunday. Only the sandy leaves near the ground can be picked off the plant. As the higher leaves continue ripening, the pickers move slowly higher. During the harvest there are only workdays, without any breaks, except for steady rain. So next day the wake up will be at 5 am, breakfast starts at half past five, so they are on the fields some kilometers away by 7am.
“ But in a few days the picked tobacco will be tied in bunches and placed on long sticks by the women, then wake up will be at 3 am so the tobacco laden sticks can be placed in the huge kiln-houses, for drying” continued Michael.
They didn’t really understand all that, but after the sumptuous dinner and the brief outline as to what will follow in the next few days, they knew that there would be a great need for very rich and nourishing food to cope with work demands.
Their first night on the tobacco farm, near the peaceful, ruminating farm animals, with billions of shiny stars in the August sky could not be spoiled even by the prospect of the early morning call. So close to nature, in such a quiet and peaceful place was such a change for these young men, after months of rather crowded refugee camps and then very Spartan basic city life after their arrival in Canada.
Following the generous dinner the night before, their breakfast was equally fitting and several farm matrons were asking them, one by one, whether they would like omelets from 4 or 6 eggs, with bacon, ham and cheese. By then the gang was getting just a little suspicious of all this attention and generosity ! Shortly after breakfast they hopped up on the cart, pulled by a massive tractor and soon they arrived on the tobacco field. Each green tobacco line spread for up to a kilometer in length, as far as the eye could see.
Tobacco field, Tillsonburg, Canada 1958
Michael had immediately occupied the first row in the field, bent to the ground and with a half circle of his right arm, he tore off the leaves of the tobacco plant. Then, still bent over, he stepped up to the next plant. Then the next and the next…
“You see, only the sandy leaves, the lowest ones you are allowed tear off…” he said looking at their faces for understanding, “…then as they ripen we keep on moving up on the plant. By the end of the season, it will be much less demanding on your backs…” he promised. It seemed simple and logical for these young men, reared in the city.
The six tobacco pickers had occupied their rows and began to work.
Behind them, a docile and “experienced” horse was pulling a wooden sled between the rows into which the collected, “sandy”, tobacco leaves from under their left armpits were carefully placed.
“Don’t break the leaves!” cautioned Michael.
They did not have to advance more than the picked sandy leaves of 10 tobacco plants, so that it can be stated that: they mastered tobacco picking. However, the continually bent backs had started to complain at each next plant, with each step they took towards these plants. After only a half an hour, while continually bending almost to the ground, the pickers believed they could not go on.
But Michael was there and by example he was jumping into one or another’s row, helping out, until somehow, miraculously they reached the end of their first row! At that point the six boys had just fallen to the ground, could only moan from the excruciating pain coming from their backs. Fresh water was brought by Michael and after a short rest they have started a new row.
Every step from now on was a painful maneuver, but goading each other on, the young and tenacious bodies, somehow, with many rest stops they lasted until noon, when Michael, literally picked them up one by one, and brought them back to the farmhouse. Again, a rich table was set up for them under the chestnut trees, but other than a few spoonfuls of soup, they preferred just to lie in the shade. After an hour’s rest, back to the cart and out to the fields. This struggle just to survive the day went on until 5 PM on their first day.
By the time they were back at the farm, they only had strength to wash up from the dust, sweat and the sticky sap from the broken tobacco stems, which dried and matted on their hairy arms, so much so that it simply could not be washed off by soap and water. Frankly, they could not care less about it.
Every part of their body was aching, especially their thighs and backs, so much, that none of them showed up for the evening meal. Within a short time, the whole gang was in deep slumber, awaking only for the pain caused by turning in their sleep.
If the unusual work seemed difficult and caused them pain on the first day, then the stiffness on awakening the following morning surpassed any such experience in their lives. One of the six had politely taken his leave that very morning, and the owner paid him fairly for his one day of work. The other five, overcoming the terrible pain, stubbornly began their second day of tobacco picking. They were still at the “sandy leaves” or sand lugs, as they were called by the farmer and they were still having the greatest pains with each step forward. They were encouraging each other, singing even, and also cursing all those who smoked, blaming them for this inhuman, bestial work! Where did the effort come from after each step taken forward with a back bent almost to the level of the ground, row after tobacco row? They could not explain even today perhaps.
They had overcome the greatest physical challenge of their lives then, in the first days of the tobacco leaves’ harvest. After the second Hungarian had given up and left on the third day, the rest had now stayed just out of spite and sheer bravado. In the meantime Michael had found three new pickers in the nearby town who were experienced, veteran farm hands who joined them and did their job without a word of complaint.
And as the bodies of the newly graduated farmhands adjusted to the physical demands, the muscle cramps abated and the task seemed easier. The veterans educated them on how they should shave their arms so that the sticky, gummy sap of the tobacco plant would not mat the hair on their arms.
Within days the muscles had adjusted, the body accepted and bore the daily punishment, the appetite returned. But by then the women had tied all the picked leaves on long, wooden stick which had to be racked in long, even lines in special places, called kiln- houses to dry. This was done on most mornings when they got up at 3am and emptied and refilled these kiln houses.
Tobacco drying kiln-houses, Tillsonburg,Ont.1958
These simple, wooden, under-roof drying places, with heating inside, were constructed inside of vertical and horizontal beams, resembled more monkey cages than anything else. They had no stairs, ladders inside, while two stories high, the lads, balancing on the horizontal beams, like monkeys handed each other the tobacco laden stick which were placed 3-4 feet apart on the beams, right up to the roof. Only the bravest dared to climb up to the top, one bad move could have resulted in serious injury. On most days the morning program from 3am to 6am was this acrobatic exercise, followed by a generous breakfast and out to the fields. If there was no rain they worked 7 days a week. Their wage was 25 dollars a day, with room and board included, as much as Peter’s first weekly stipend in Quebec City!
As the tobacco was ripening, so did “ease” their daily effort, since the top leaves could now be picked without bending over. It was life’s irony that the most difficult days of tobacco picking happened to be the very first days on the job.
Peter and the gang after several weeks in the country of the August summer in South Ontario were the color of chocolate, muscular and in top physical shape, had graduated possibly from the greatest physical challenge of their lives.
After a “tobacco picking ” session…
At the end of the harvest the Hungarian tobacco grower was satisfied with the boys’ work and paid them all in cash. Those who had survived the first days on the job had to be justifiably happy; their wage seemed like a small fortune. They had heard the stories about those who after many weeks of hard toil wagered all the money in horse races within hours, maybe the very day they were paid. But they had spent days deciding what to do with the money. It seemed they could always find work to look after their daily existence, but the one thing they thought was missing in their lives was the almighty automobile, which stood between happiness (girls) and frustration. Since they could not buy a reasonable car individually, even with the small “fortune” they owned, a few hundred dollars, pulling their money would get them a good used car.
On returning to Ottawa they found a car dealer who would sell them a 1954 Ford Meteor auto. The 4 year old car was in good shape and they believed the dealer that this exceptional automobile was owned by a retired lady school teacher. Since only one had a driver’s license, he taught the other two to drive.
The real purpose of the car purchase was their firm belief that the way to meet local girls was via the ownership of 4 wheels. Of course, the three way ownership resulted in alternating the days or evenings for usage. Of course, the logistics never worked out and the boys remained, for the most part, without significant relationships.
The object of their desire and the owners in their “ Sunday” best
Among the immigrants were many gloomy people who did not know, or realized perhaps only after many years, the opportunities of their new country. Which host country could have made it possible for immigrants capable only of manual labor, without language or professional skills, within a year of their arrival, to have an acceptable standard of living, that a working family could even afford the ultimate status symbol in the fifties, the purchase of a reasonable car?
The wealth from tobacco picking was not all invested in the car purchase, so Peter could realize his long held dream of owning a set of drums. His friend, Andy played on both the piano and saxophone, so their plan was to form a small band, maybe with a third countryman of theirs. However, the “drummer” was only an enthusiastic dreamer since he had no musical training whatsoever. He had practiced diligently in the basement of their flat, especially when the landlady was not at home, since she had many misgivings about the drums when they have arrived, with reason.
The student-drummer, in the basement , Ottawa, 1958
Towards the end of the fifties, when rock and roll was on its peak, light jazz music was not really a desired product. The small and intimate piano bars they had known back in Hungary were not really in vogue in those days. All they could achieve on the field of light music was the occasional Sunday afternoon entertaining the patients in old age homes, gratis.
Perley Hospital, (senior citizens’ home) Ottawa, 1958
Tuesday, 13 December 2011
http://www.vanityfair.com/culture/2012/01/hitchens-201201
If you have been wandering about how Christopher Hitchens is getting on in his fight against disease, you will get it here "up close and personal."
Wednesday, 14 September 2011
US military bloggers respond to Paul Krugman's shameful blog.
Paul Krugman, of the NYTIMES, published a truly gutless piece in his blog, titled 'The Shameful Years' (those post-9/11), slandering practically all of the US military. Now the many bloggers from the US military respond, like this one: www.unknownsoldiersblog.com
Wednesday, 24 August 2011
Ch.12 - May I have the next dance? Learning dance etiquette in the era of rock and roll.
Even Christmas gifts were given to each employee, a British Columbia commemorative silver dollar, the province where he was originally to be sent from the boat!
The first winter was approaching its end and Peter and his friends, young men in their most virile youth, when they had dared to entertain thoughts of making new friends, which really meant “going out” with girls.
He had a steady job, with a paycheck every two weeks that allowed him to purchase, on a 12 month credit arrangement, a brand new dark blue suit, white shirt and tie. He was happy to take home the new treasures, his first significant purchases in the new world. The new immigrants’ grapevine had suggested that the best place to meet girls is the Saturday nights dances at the local YMCA. The last dance he could recall was in his high school, oh so long ago, on another continent, in a far away land, and even farther epoch. Then the youth was going to these dances in a rather old fashioned way, according to old traditions, both in clothing and behavior. The boys in festive, dark suits, shirt and tie, and cute little dress the girls. Hungary and the other Eastern European countries were carefully shielded from the influences of the “evil” capitalist states in the West, including individual expression and style.
While in the Ottawa YMCA the young guys were comfortably rocking in their jeans and shirts, at home boys of the same age were sweating in their heavy suits and ties.
Peter and his friends were just amazed when a guy would just sidle up to a girl and casually take her by the hand and within seconds they would be furiously jiving away, a form of dance totally unknown to these immigrant boys. However, they recalled the English Dictionaries and language books, written decades before, how these were emphatically teaching the task to be performed:
“We approach the chosen lady, and with slight bow and polite demeanor, we “ask her for a dance “in a clear voice and appropriate manner, thusly: May I please?”- repeated to himself Peter, at least for the tenth time, being very careful of his accent and pronunciation, being very grateful that the verbal plea did not have a single “r” in it, which had been the downfall of so many foreigners, the sure give-away that the speaker is from “some other country”. In the best of cases one was to be a French Canadian, in the worst the foreigner was from some unknown land who was displaced due to the war: a DP!!
The friends were already nervous on this first daredevil move towards “fitting” into society, that is the company of young men and women, due to their accented English, the lack of their dance repertoire caused even more worry. An even more obvious and ominous problem was, that did not even occur to them at first, their clothing was totally out of place and painfully unique in a 1958 YMCA dance hall.
One can imagine what made-for-the-stage appearance was created by the three young immigrants, on the very peak of rock and roll, in their dark blue suits and ties, stiff and obviously awkward, when they entered at opening time, just after 8 PM in the dancehall.
Other than a couple of dozen young ladies and a few chaperons there were no others in the hall, as it turned out the local boys had started wondering in, nonchalantly little later. This time period gave an excellent chance to the girls and their mothers to observe and scrutinize the three funeral directors, standing in a corner and talking with each other. Even though they have felt uneasy at the beginning, over time they have ceased to remain the object of curiosity, while the dancing was starting to liven up. It was entirely certain to all the ladies present that none of them could possibly become the victim of any attempted terror action, emanating from either one of the other strange looking characters.
Finally it was Peter that was able to overcome the inertia they all felt, spiced up by his ever present compulsion to prove himself. He felt confident enough, so he thought, that after a thorough summing up the situation, he had ascertained by quick looks over and over that the chosen lady had absolutely no chance of being asked for a dance by any self respecting young man that evening, our hero had confidently strode up to the lonely wallflower and said:
“May I please?” sounded the expression , mainly to be found in the vocabularies of those studying British literature, but not anywhere in Canada in 1958, in the Northern region of the New World.
Perhaps it was his determined steps, the resolute expression on his face, maybe the lips that were so stubbornly resistant to full opening, that would allow the oft repeated expression to come out properly, but if not any of these then the unimaginable fact, that one of these Mars inhabitants had zeroed in on her of all people, who had not even danced once that evening, and as a result of this impertinence may not dance at all, that was more than bearable!
Since she did not believe her ears, or she did not understand the antiquated expression, struggling between anger and incredulity, she could only hiss through her teeth:
“What?”
Even though Peter had guessed that there was not much chance for the desired dance, in his last desperate moment he had to attempt just once more the well practiced phrase.
Failing to give it one more try, when his two friends have not even made their first move with which to take the first steps to fit into Canadian society, who were so attentively watching their heroic friend and those sitting around the chosen lady watching the unfolding drama, it was simply not possible.
The chance of failing, again, had flashed in his mind for a moment, but the hopes and investments that they have made to get that far, the plans made in the basement flat, the clothing they have bought were stronger. Now going for broke just then, so that the lonely nights and weekends, the movies houses with the 3 films in one show they have frequented, would again fill their free time?
Bowing just ever so deeper than before, and with a shade less volume in his voice, and a little more humility in his eye, Peter had repeated the plea:
“May I please?” and now he had nodded pointedly towards the dance floor, so that the plea would be well understood by this beauty.
It seemed like eternity until this insulted lady had found her faculties and with the look of the coldest Canadian winter, the indifference of the Canadian tundra, and the Brit colonials’ politeness, she uttered only:
“No,thanks!”
By then the sweat beads had pearled up on his face as he was creeping back to the safe sanctuary of his friends. They all knew that much more had transpired here than simply a gal’s refusal to dance on a particular evening. All reverie had become insignificant behind the more than one year that was spent away from their homes, and all things familiar. While up to now the effort was to establish a modicum of existence, this mostly restrained the testing of the boys’ feelings. Now they had to admit that the much desired melting into Canadian society and the potential rewards that this would bring will not happen for some time. The oddly dressed and accented strangers, without their own “cars”, will not easily gain the graces of young, local women.
The first winter was approaching its end and Peter and his friends, young men in their most virile youth, when they had dared to entertain thoughts of making new friends, which really meant “going out” with girls.
He had a steady job, with a paycheck every two weeks that allowed him to purchase, on a 12 month credit arrangement, a brand new dark blue suit, white shirt and tie. He was happy to take home the new treasures, his first significant purchases in the new world. The new immigrants’ grapevine had suggested that the best place to meet girls is the Saturday nights dances at the local YMCA. The last dance he could recall was in his high school, oh so long ago, on another continent, in a far away land, and even farther epoch. Then the youth was going to these dances in a rather old fashioned way, according to old traditions, both in clothing and behavior. The boys in festive, dark suits, shirt and tie, and cute little dress the girls. Hungary and the other Eastern European countries were carefully shielded from the influences of the “evil” capitalist states in the West, including individual expression and style.
While in the Ottawa YMCA the young guys were comfortably rocking in their jeans and shirts, at home boys of the same age were sweating in their heavy suits and ties.
Peter and his friends were just amazed when a guy would just sidle up to a girl and casually take her by the hand and within seconds they would be furiously jiving away, a form of dance totally unknown to these immigrant boys. However, they recalled the English Dictionaries and language books, written decades before, how these were emphatically teaching the task to be performed:
“We approach the chosen lady, and with slight bow and polite demeanor, we “ask her for a dance “in a clear voice and appropriate manner, thusly: May I please?”- repeated to himself Peter, at least for the tenth time, being very careful of his accent and pronunciation, being very grateful that the verbal plea did not have a single “r” in it, which had been the downfall of so many foreigners, the sure give-away that the speaker is from “some other country”. In the best of cases one was to be a French Canadian, in the worst the foreigner was from some unknown land who was displaced due to the war: a DP!!
The friends were already nervous on this first daredevil move towards “fitting” into society, that is the company of young men and women, due to their accented English, the lack of their dance repertoire caused even more worry. An even more obvious and ominous problem was, that did not even occur to them at first, their clothing was totally out of place and painfully unique in a 1958 YMCA dance hall.
One can imagine what made-for-the-stage appearance was created by the three young immigrants, on the very peak of rock and roll, in their dark blue suits and ties, stiff and obviously awkward, when they entered at opening time, just after 8 PM in the dancehall.
Other than a couple of dozen young ladies and a few chaperons there were no others in the hall, as it turned out the local boys had started wondering in, nonchalantly little later. This time period gave an excellent chance to the girls and their mothers to observe and scrutinize the three funeral directors, standing in a corner and talking with each other. Even though they have felt uneasy at the beginning, over time they have ceased to remain the object of curiosity, while the dancing was starting to liven up. It was entirely certain to all the ladies present that none of them could possibly become the victim of any attempted terror action, emanating from either one of the other strange looking characters.
Finally it was Peter that was able to overcome the inertia they all felt, spiced up by his ever present compulsion to prove himself. He felt confident enough, so he thought, that after a thorough summing up the situation, he had ascertained by quick looks over and over that the chosen lady had absolutely no chance of being asked for a dance by any self respecting young man that evening, our hero had confidently strode up to the lonely wallflower and said:
“May I please?” sounded the expression , mainly to be found in the vocabularies of those studying British literature, but not anywhere in Canada in 1958, in the Northern region of the New World.
Perhaps it was his determined steps, the resolute expression on his face, maybe the lips that were so stubbornly resistant to full opening, that would allow the oft repeated expression to come out properly, but if not any of these then the unimaginable fact, that one of these Mars inhabitants had zeroed in on her of all people, who had not even danced once that evening, and as a result of this impertinence may not dance at all, that was more than bearable!
Since she did not believe her ears, or she did not understand the antiquated expression, struggling between anger and incredulity, she could only hiss through her teeth:
“What?”
Even though Peter had guessed that there was not much chance for the desired dance, in his last desperate moment he had to attempt just once more the well practiced phrase.
Failing to give it one more try, when his two friends have not even made their first move with which to take the first steps to fit into Canadian society, who were so attentively watching their heroic friend and those sitting around the chosen lady watching the unfolding drama, it was simply not possible.
The chance of failing, again, had flashed in his mind for a moment, but the hopes and investments that they have made to get that far, the plans made in the basement flat, the clothing they have bought were stronger. Now going for broke just then, so that the lonely nights and weekends, the movies houses with the 3 films in one show they have frequented, would again fill their free time?
Bowing just ever so deeper than before, and with a shade less volume in his voice, and a little more humility in his eye, Peter had repeated the plea:
“May I please?” and now he had nodded pointedly towards the dance floor, so that the plea would be well understood by this beauty.
It seemed like eternity until this insulted lady had found her faculties and with the look of the coldest Canadian winter, the indifference of the Canadian tundra, and the Brit colonials’ politeness, she uttered only:
“No,thanks!”
By then the sweat beads had pearled up on his face as he was creeping back to the safe sanctuary of his friends. They all knew that much more had transpired here than simply a gal’s refusal to dance on a particular evening. All reverie had become insignificant behind the more than one year that was spent away from their homes, and all things familiar. While up to now the effort was to establish a modicum of existence, this mostly restrained the testing of the boys’ feelings. Now they had to admit that the much desired melting into Canadian society and the potential rewards that this would bring will not happen for some time. The oddly dressed and accented strangers, without their own “cars”, will not easily gain the graces of young, local women.
Sunday, 24 July 2011
Michael Medved interviews Congressman McDermott
The Michael Medved Radio Show, July 21,2011.Hour 3.
If you want to have an insight into the mind of a liberal democrat regarding the debt limit debate,this is just the ticket.All happened during the Michael Medved Radio Show on July 21, 2011.
This is the congressman who visited and courted Sadam Hussein,as the US was pressuring the dictator to come clean aboout his intentions and plans to acquire/build WMD's.
During this interview, McDermott obfuscates, spins and lies about every single issue, question put to him. Medved tried, very diplomatically,to get a direct answer from him several times, never succeeded. McDermott, trying to play smart, though, made a fool of himself, again and again.
Question: would he approve budget reductions without tax increases?
Answer: (after a long,embarrassing silence)he threw another question back at Medved, never answering the original question put to him.
According to McDermott, we have an impasse about the debt limit increase, becasue we have lost our ability to 'compromise'. For 40 years , says he, there was compromise in the US Congress. Right, and the US has ended up with 14 trillions of debt. That is "compromise" for a liberal democrat.
When a listener had phoned in and asked this incredibly slippery "congressman", which part of the cut,cap and balance he didn't agree with (as he voted NO with 97 Dems on the motion), again, after long silence he tried to give a lecture about how he would never accept the possibility of not 'ever' raising taxes, for example, in case of war. When Medved immediately reminded him that the bill from congress (which Medved did read, but apparently McDermott didn't)specifically ALLOWED tax increase by a simple MAJORITY in congress in case of war, and any OTHER tax increase where 2/3 of congress deemed necessary, he had no answer, ignored the remark. Then immediately attacked Mitch McConnell for 'filibustering' every move by the majority dems in the senate.
What a dishonest, transparently fibbing windbag!
Michael Medved remained politely, maybe too politely affable during this sad spectacle of a liberal democrat, who was dodging all questions,exhibiting a callous disregard for any discourse on the issues.
And McDermott dared to utter the word 'compromise'...
If you want to have an insight into the mind of a liberal democrat regarding the debt limit debate,this is just the ticket.All happened during the Michael Medved Radio Show on July 21, 2011.
This is the congressman who visited and courted Sadam Hussein,as the US was pressuring the dictator to come clean aboout his intentions and plans to acquire/build WMD's.
During this interview, McDermott obfuscates, spins and lies about every single issue, question put to him. Medved tried, very diplomatically,to get a direct answer from him several times, never succeeded. McDermott, trying to play smart, though, made a fool of himself, again and again.
Question: would he approve budget reductions without tax increases?
Answer: (after a long,embarrassing silence)he threw another question back at Medved, never answering the original question put to him.
According to McDermott, we have an impasse about the debt limit increase, becasue we have lost our ability to 'compromise'. For 40 years , says he, there was compromise in the US Congress. Right, and the US has ended up with 14 trillions of debt. That is "compromise" for a liberal democrat.
When a listener had phoned in and asked this incredibly slippery "congressman", which part of the cut,cap and balance he didn't agree with (as he voted NO with 97 Dems on the motion), again, after long silence he tried to give a lecture about how he would never accept the possibility of not 'ever' raising taxes, for example, in case of war. When Medved immediately reminded him that the bill from congress (which Medved did read, but apparently McDermott didn't)specifically ALLOWED tax increase by a simple MAJORITY in congress in case of war, and any OTHER tax increase where 2/3 of congress deemed necessary, he had no answer, ignored the remark. Then immediately attacked Mitch McConnell for 'filibustering' every move by the majority dems in the senate.
What a dishonest, transparently fibbing windbag!
Michael Medved remained politely, maybe too politely affable during this sad spectacle of a liberal democrat, who was dodging all questions,exhibiting a callous disregard for any discourse on the issues.
And McDermott dared to utter the word 'compromise'...
Saturday, 23 July 2011
Ch.11 Arriving in Ottawa-assimilating into society.
Ottawa City.
At the railway station he confidently asked for a ticket to „Ottawa”, but it was a struggle for the proper pronunciation of the word. „AA- TOVA” repeated the unfriendly French Canadian cashier, which was not even close to the Hungarian, that is, phonetically pronounced, word.
The new language, particularly its pronunciation had caused great difficulty for most immigrants. The more sensitive souls were maybe embarrassed, or slightly peeved , but many had reacted aggressively in delicate situations, and for them melding into society had become quite difficult. Their language frustrations have exaggerated the many cultural differences between Europeans and North Americans. Some have rebelled against making advances in their language skills over the most dire necessities. Refused to change their lifestyles, were reluctant to even try new dishes. In the extreme cases some looked down on anything that was not somehow „European” in style, taste or presentation.
From salted butter to the huge , but very weak coffee everything seemed second rate and unacceptable. The accumulated frustrations and the refusal to accept local customs and forms like slowly administered poison was effecting some immigrants. The worst conflicts were between the so called „old Canadians”, immigrants who had already spent some years in the new country and the „new Canadians”, folks who had just arrived.
Like most immigrants in Canada or the USA, in a relatively short time, every diligent and ambitious newcomer had achieved a fairly high standard of living. Thus the „old Canadians”, who had most of the initial difficulties behind them, were justly criticizing the grumbling and impatience of the newcomers about accepting life in society. The misplaced refugees of the second world war who made up the largest part of „old Canadians”, unlike the refugees of the 1956 Revolution, often spent long years in camps until they could get visas and fares paid for by some charitable organization.
However, during the splendid train ride from Quebec to Ottawa, problems of assimilation into Canadian society did not cause any mental anguish to the 19 year old. In a few short weeks, this was his second ambitious undertaking in his new homeland, moving to Ottawa, to be with English speaking natives! He had gotten off the train with high expectations. Since the station was in the heart of the city, he had a great chance to do his first sightseeing having but a small bag all his luggage.
Other than the majestic Parliament buildings , the center was quite a disappointment, it resembled more of a small, but up and coming provincial town than the capitol of an immense country. While passing through Rideau Street there were a few dozen or so people in , what seemed, a large empty store, listening to an intense looking gentleman, with an impressive baritone, obviously making some sort of political pitch. Peter could not have understood a single word but the speech seemed convincing and emphatic that was delivered by the gaunt and straight backed orator.
This was his first, if passive, participation in a free, public and democratic opinion expression. Peter happened to be witnessing a campaign speech preceding the 1957 fall elections, where he had experienced, with awe, the participants’ various and amazing reactions to the statements of John Diefenbaker. There were catcalls, too, amid the enthusiastic applauders, cynical remarks and laughter, people in pairs arguing with each other while the speech was being delivered. All kinds of behavior! Only one thing was missing, not a policeman or secret service man to be seen anywhere.
Not the center of the capitol, not the splendid stores on Rideau Street, not the elegant hotels that grabbed Peter’s attention in these first hours of his arrival in Ottawa.
The unfolding, live democracy , people’s open expression of their likes or dislikes as they have reacted to the politician’s words was what seemed so utterly wonderful!
This is, then, a free country!
He could not have known at that time, that the sympathetic orator was to become Canada’s prime minister that fall, and that several years later he would have two personal meetings with Mr. Diefenbaker. One of those meetings happened in a hotel in Saskatoon, as he was having an early morning breakfast. John Diefenbaker called over from his table, asking to join him if he was alone. The eventual winner of several elections and having been prime minister more than once, was just sitting there without any bodyguards, inviting a total stranger to his table! Then and there he had to tell John Diefenbaker the event from Ottawa in the first hours of his arrival, which deeply touched the former prime minister and warmly shook the „new Canadian’s” hand.
A rooming house, full of Hungarians , was run by the „old Canadian”, Mrs. Mitro, was his new home. The Mitro family had immigrated to Canada even before the war, the children were all born in the new country, but to the family’s merit, they all spoke Hungarian. This was even more appreciated by Peter and his friends when subsequently met other Hungarian families whose Canadian born children often did not speak a word, or very little, of their elder’s native language.
So the parents who managed to teach their Canadian born children their ancestors’ tongue were held in great esteem as it was a very difficult and frustrating task.
The Mitro house gave home to mostly single, young men and it was easier here to wrestle with problems of loneliness and the strange, new ways of society. On the other hand, it was to everyone’s disadvantage to be with Hungarians when the English language demanded daily practice. While in their simple work places like cleaning, dishwashing, construction there was some limited chance to practice English, their free times should have been passed with English speakers. Fortunately, the Hungarian rooming house was only a short stop as he had found new employment immediately, in the Royal Ottawa Sanatorium, quite far from the Mitro house. As an „experienced” dishwasher and general kitchen helper he had started to work in the wing of the ambulatory patients, those recovering from tuberculosis.
The Royal Ottawa Sanatorium, August 1957
He had asked for and received temporary quarters, a room near the power plant of the hospital, which he shared with an older Ukrainian immigrant working in the plant. The man spoke almost zero English, but insisted telling Peter his life story every night, in Ukrainian, when he had found out that Peter knew some Russian from his school back in Hungary.
Fortunately, they only met at night, when under the excuse of fatigue he could escape most of the Ukrainian’s endless monologues.
His work had become much more interesting. The ambulatory patients came to have their meals in the large dining hall, all dressed up, which was portioned out by two immigrant women and served by Peter. The meals had arrived from the main kitchen on steam containers on wheels.
Within days a rather pleasant and enjoyable relationship developed between him and most patients, who appreciated the young man’s effort and enthusiasm. This work had the human touch, encouraged the development of relationships with people, particularly with people on the mend from illness.
He learned, and was encouraged, much to his surprise, to call most of the patients by their first names, regardless of age or sex. It was already difficult to do away with the polite form, an essential element of most languages, and now on top of that he was to call these ladies and gentlemen by their first names like “Jim” or “Mary”. He had kept on trying for a while with the Mr. Jim’s and the Miss Mary’s, but the patients have insisted, with a few exceptions, that he is to call them by their first names, that soon enough he was used to this straight forward, natural form of communication, not well practiced anywhere in Europe.
Back in the camp in Melence he met and befriended a young man from the nearby village to Baja, eventually becoming chess partners. Mike had been sent straight to Ottawa, after landing in Quebec. He had worked at construction awhile, but the extremely cold Ottawa winter had chased him to the much less profitable, but warm work environment, the Sanatorium. That made it possible for the pair to seek and find their own flat, close to their workplace.
They have rented the half basement of a simple Canadian house, right next to the washing machine and not far from the furnace. The “flat” consisted of a large bed, a wooden dresser, and they paid 3 dollars weekly, each. But the rented place was close enough for getting to work on foot and it was spartan but warm. There was entertainment, too, besides work and that was provided by Mrs. Sutherland’s weekly language class, in a classroom of the local secondary school. The workplace and self-study brought some progress in this field, but the difficult English pronunciation made real conversation still difficult. Daily language frustrations were plentiful. When they were convinced that they have made some progress, some incident would happen to take their self-confidence away in the field of the mysteries of English pronunciation.
Like it happened one Sunday afternoon, when Peter caught some little kids of the neighbors peeking through their basement window. Forever ready for any practice opportunity for the use of English and always very grateful when native Canadians were to be engaged in conversation, especially kids who are always sincere and well meaning! With great courage he had walked up to the little window, mustering all his language skills and with a broad, encouraging smile he said something like:
“Halo, kiidsz, verr iiiz juur fadderr?” to which the kids answered in unison,
“Ejjjh???”
Peter‘s lips and tongue now in their most coordinated position possible, very slowly, carefully formatting the treacherous and foreigners gravest sound enemy, the “r”s, softening their rough edges, he had repeated the question.
The little kids looked at each other, then the oldest and wisest said:
“We don’t speak French!”
Unavoidably, situations much more humiliating happened due to lack of language skills. On one occasion, when Mike and Peter were traveling on a local bus, they observed that those passengers wanting to be let off at their stops have signaled to the driver by pushing a little button near the door. They also saw that getting off was from the rear. Confident in these important bits of familiarity, the new Canadian passengers coming from the rural areas of Hungary not really having been on any public transportation in the fifties, now felt confident and signaled to the driver that they would like get off the bus at the next stop. The bus stopped and they have patiently waited for the door to open. Since it did not, Peter had pressed, once more, now longer and firmer the little button for the driver. The driver looked up in the rear view mirror and with just a bit raised voice he had said something to them. The door still would not open.
By then the driver was gesticulating with both hands, what’s more now a passenger or two also got into shouting, but the boys still could not figure out the puzzle of opening the door.
The driver then, after pulling roughly on his hand brake, had rushed towards the rear with aggressive steps, and then stepped onto the last step of the door and as if by magic, the door opened. The driver’s less than complimentary remarks were still audible as they were rushing away into darkness.
There was no other solution; they had to start a formal language training course, designed specifically for new immigrants. The evening course led by the very kind Mrs. Sutherland was populated by a rather motley group of new immigrants. From the 50 years old German engineer to the almost illiterate, young shepherd boy from Sicily, there were immigrants from every conceivable nation and age. This multicultural group was to be thought by the ever smiling, patient and brilliant literature teacher, Mrs. Sutherland. This mixed background and nationality was the best asset of the class, as the pupils had no other choice but to communicate with each other in one language only, English. Here, nobody was afraid of making a mistake in pronunciation, or committing a grave grammatical error, everybody was in his or her natural awkwardness for the ordeal of communicating in English. And Mrs. Sutherland achieved results, because most of her charges had enriched themselves to the tune of their own language aptitudes and openness.
The fall season came and that also meant for all Hungarians at home and in foreign lands, that one year passed since the most proud and also the most tragic autumn, the one in 1956.
The Hungarian newspapers, written and printed in Canada, were also available in Ottawa and after Sunday mass they would buy them at the Hungarian church. These became their sources of information from home and the world. Soon the papers were calling all Hungarians in the West to get ready for big protest demonstrations on October 23, the anniversary of the Revolution, in front the various Soviet Embassies. Every able Hungarian was there, with candles in hand at the Soviet Embassy in Ottawa. Peter and his friends came with several bottles of red ink, which were tossed at the building’s walls. There was some mild police interference, but not before the building was full of the ugly red marks, reminding the world of the brutal and murderous assault by the Red Army on Budapest a year before.
These demonstrations took place in every major Western city, with exactly the same results, bringing the world’s attention back to the events a year before.
The work in the sanatorium’s serving kitchen was pleasant, particularly due the patients’ kind and appreciative disposition; however it has been a nagging concern for Peter that after all he worked in the ward of patients suffering from tuberculosis. He would not even dare write to his parents about it, since his right kidney was removed in Budapest just 2 years prior, due to an infection with TBC. One can live with one kidney for many years, counseled the famous surgeon, Professor Babics, who during the revolution became the Minister of Health of the short lived revolutionary government. But without any kidney, in the fifties, meant death. The salary in the sanatorium was also lower than out there in the open “market”, so he had decided to seek a new job.
By the time their first, really cold winter had arrived around the beginning of December Peter was already working in the newly built Westgate Shopping center on the edge of town.
The Simpson Sears department store had a large cafeteria which shoppers and staff frequented, and the “experienced” young man was hired in the kitchen of this cafeteria, ran by the huge local bakery, Morrison Lamothe. In addition to dishwashing he had been given extra duties, the daily collection of all the garbage bins throughout the store, daily, before the night cleaning brigade had arrived.
The kitchen chef was German, his assistant Portuguese, the waitresses mostly French Canadian women. The unofficial, but well known “second class” citizens and immigrants made up then, and even today, the serving-cleaning needs of Canadian society. And among these the poorly spoken newcomer Hungarian became the “last” man of the department store. However, it seemed like a promotion, that unlike in the previous job, here he was given every morning a freshly washed and starched white shirt, with not so stylish, but useful striped pants. These little perks counted a lot in the life of immigrants. However, those dirty nails on his hands were hopeless, full of tiny bits of food particles that seemed so difficult to clean, causing great vexation.
The staff of the cafeteria was friendly. They would have their morning coffees together, just before opening and it was impressive for Europeans to experience a uniform acceptance of everybody at the tables. No privileges or exceptions in terms of rank or position, everybody sat with anybody, everybody calling the others by their first names! At least at work, society was without pretenses and formalities.
Around Christmas of 1957, the season’s songs were being played non-stop during opening hours, among them many rock inspired Christmas songs. All that seemed so new and interesting, every experience, every new English word, every new custom, behavior, rock number had continually and incessantly evened the road toward assimilation into society. The initial difficulties and uncertainties, the real and imagined hurts had slowly, very slowly been softened, exchanged for the satisfaction of salaries earned from daily labor, the momentary joys of a successful English dialogue with someone. Just before Christmas the company running the cafeteria had organized a party for the employees. This was his first experience being a guest in a better Ottawa restaurant, served a splendid dinner by - other immigrants.
Even Christmas gifts were given to each employee, a British Columbia commemorative silver dollar, the province where he was originally to be sent from the boat!
At the railway station he confidently asked for a ticket to „Ottawa”, but it was a struggle for the proper pronunciation of the word. „AA- TOVA” repeated the unfriendly French Canadian cashier, which was not even close to the Hungarian, that is, phonetically pronounced, word.
The new language, particularly its pronunciation had caused great difficulty for most immigrants. The more sensitive souls were maybe embarrassed, or slightly peeved , but many had reacted aggressively in delicate situations, and for them melding into society had become quite difficult. Their language frustrations have exaggerated the many cultural differences between Europeans and North Americans. Some have rebelled against making advances in their language skills over the most dire necessities. Refused to change their lifestyles, were reluctant to even try new dishes. In the extreme cases some looked down on anything that was not somehow „European” in style, taste or presentation.
From salted butter to the huge , but very weak coffee everything seemed second rate and unacceptable. The accumulated frustrations and the refusal to accept local customs and forms like slowly administered poison was effecting some immigrants. The worst conflicts were between the so called „old Canadians”, immigrants who had already spent some years in the new country and the „new Canadians”, folks who had just arrived.
Like most immigrants in Canada or the USA, in a relatively short time, every diligent and ambitious newcomer had achieved a fairly high standard of living. Thus the „old Canadians”, who had most of the initial difficulties behind them, were justly criticizing the grumbling and impatience of the newcomers about accepting life in society. The misplaced refugees of the second world war who made up the largest part of „old Canadians”, unlike the refugees of the 1956 Revolution, often spent long years in camps until they could get visas and fares paid for by some charitable organization.
However, during the splendid train ride from Quebec to Ottawa, problems of assimilation into Canadian society did not cause any mental anguish to the 19 year old. In a few short weeks, this was his second ambitious undertaking in his new homeland, moving to Ottawa, to be with English speaking natives! He had gotten off the train with high expectations. Since the station was in the heart of the city, he had a great chance to do his first sightseeing having but a small bag all his luggage.
Other than the majestic Parliament buildings , the center was quite a disappointment, it resembled more of a small, but up and coming provincial town than the capitol of an immense country. While passing through Rideau Street there were a few dozen or so people in , what seemed, a large empty store, listening to an intense looking gentleman, with an impressive baritone, obviously making some sort of political pitch. Peter could not have understood a single word but the speech seemed convincing and emphatic that was delivered by the gaunt and straight backed orator.
This was his first, if passive, participation in a free, public and democratic opinion expression. Peter happened to be witnessing a campaign speech preceding the 1957 fall elections, where he had experienced, with awe, the participants’ various and amazing reactions to the statements of John Diefenbaker. There were catcalls, too, amid the enthusiastic applauders, cynical remarks and laughter, people in pairs arguing with each other while the speech was being delivered. All kinds of behavior! Only one thing was missing, not a policeman or secret service man to be seen anywhere.
Not the center of the capitol, not the splendid stores on Rideau Street, not the elegant hotels that grabbed Peter’s attention in these first hours of his arrival in Ottawa.
The unfolding, live democracy , people’s open expression of their likes or dislikes as they have reacted to the politician’s words was what seemed so utterly wonderful!
This is, then, a free country!
He could not have known at that time, that the sympathetic orator was to become Canada’s prime minister that fall, and that several years later he would have two personal meetings with Mr. Diefenbaker. One of those meetings happened in a hotel in Saskatoon, as he was having an early morning breakfast. John Diefenbaker called over from his table, asking to join him if he was alone. The eventual winner of several elections and having been prime minister more than once, was just sitting there without any bodyguards, inviting a total stranger to his table! Then and there he had to tell John Diefenbaker the event from Ottawa in the first hours of his arrival, which deeply touched the former prime minister and warmly shook the „new Canadian’s” hand.
A rooming house, full of Hungarians , was run by the „old Canadian”, Mrs. Mitro, was his new home. The Mitro family had immigrated to Canada even before the war, the children were all born in the new country, but to the family’s merit, they all spoke Hungarian. This was even more appreciated by Peter and his friends when subsequently met other Hungarian families whose Canadian born children often did not speak a word, or very little, of their elder’s native language.
So the parents who managed to teach their Canadian born children their ancestors’ tongue were held in great esteem as it was a very difficult and frustrating task.
The Mitro house gave home to mostly single, young men and it was easier here to wrestle with problems of loneliness and the strange, new ways of society. On the other hand, it was to everyone’s disadvantage to be with Hungarians when the English language demanded daily practice. While in their simple work places like cleaning, dishwashing, construction there was some limited chance to practice English, their free times should have been passed with English speakers. Fortunately, the Hungarian rooming house was only a short stop as he had found new employment immediately, in the Royal Ottawa Sanatorium, quite far from the Mitro house. As an „experienced” dishwasher and general kitchen helper he had started to work in the wing of the ambulatory patients, those recovering from tuberculosis.
The Royal Ottawa Sanatorium, August 1957
He had asked for and received temporary quarters, a room near the power plant of the hospital, which he shared with an older Ukrainian immigrant working in the plant. The man spoke almost zero English, but insisted telling Peter his life story every night, in Ukrainian, when he had found out that Peter knew some Russian from his school back in Hungary.
Fortunately, they only met at night, when under the excuse of fatigue he could escape most of the Ukrainian’s endless monologues.
His work had become much more interesting. The ambulatory patients came to have their meals in the large dining hall, all dressed up, which was portioned out by two immigrant women and served by Peter. The meals had arrived from the main kitchen on steam containers on wheels.
Within days a rather pleasant and enjoyable relationship developed between him and most patients, who appreciated the young man’s effort and enthusiasm. This work had the human touch, encouraged the development of relationships with people, particularly with people on the mend from illness.
He learned, and was encouraged, much to his surprise, to call most of the patients by their first names, regardless of age or sex. It was already difficult to do away with the polite form, an essential element of most languages, and now on top of that he was to call these ladies and gentlemen by their first names like “Jim” or “Mary”. He had kept on trying for a while with the Mr. Jim’s and the Miss Mary’s, but the patients have insisted, with a few exceptions, that he is to call them by their first names, that soon enough he was used to this straight forward, natural form of communication, not well practiced anywhere in Europe.
Back in the camp in Melence he met and befriended a young man from the nearby village to Baja, eventually becoming chess partners. Mike had been sent straight to Ottawa, after landing in Quebec. He had worked at construction awhile, but the extremely cold Ottawa winter had chased him to the much less profitable, but warm work environment, the Sanatorium. That made it possible for the pair to seek and find their own flat, close to their workplace.
They have rented the half basement of a simple Canadian house, right next to the washing machine and not far from the furnace. The “flat” consisted of a large bed, a wooden dresser, and they paid 3 dollars weekly, each. But the rented place was close enough for getting to work on foot and it was spartan but warm. There was entertainment, too, besides work and that was provided by Mrs. Sutherland’s weekly language class, in a classroom of the local secondary school. The workplace and self-study brought some progress in this field, but the difficult English pronunciation made real conversation still difficult. Daily language frustrations were plentiful. When they were convinced that they have made some progress, some incident would happen to take their self-confidence away in the field of the mysteries of English pronunciation.
Like it happened one Sunday afternoon, when Peter caught some little kids of the neighbors peeking through their basement window. Forever ready for any practice opportunity for the use of English and always very grateful when native Canadians were to be engaged in conversation, especially kids who are always sincere and well meaning! With great courage he had walked up to the little window, mustering all his language skills and with a broad, encouraging smile he said something like:
“Halo, kiidsz, verr iiiz juur fadderr?” to which the kids answered in unison,
“Ejjjh???”
Peter‘s lips and tongue now in their most coordinated position possible, very slowly, carefully formatting the treacherous and foreigners gravest sound enemy, the “r”s, softening their rough edges, he had repeated the question.
The little kids looked at each other, then the oldest and wisest said:
“We don’t speak French!”
Unavoidably, situations much more humiliating happened due to lack of language skills. On one occasion, when Mike and Peter were traveling on a local bus, they observed that those passengers wanting to be let off at their stops have signaled to the driver by pushing a little button near the door. They also saw that getting off was from the rear. Confident in these important bits of familiarity, the new Canadian passengers coming from the rural areas of Hungary not really having been on any public transportation in the fifties, now felt confident and signaled to the driver that they would like get off the bus at the next stop. The bus stopped and they have patiently waited for the door to open. Since it did not, Peter had pressed, once more, now longer and firmer the little button for the driver. The driver looked up in the rear view mirror and with just a bit raised voice he had said something to them. The door still would not open.
By then the driver was gesticulating with both hands, what’s more now a passenger or two also got into shouting, but the boys still could not figure out the puzzle of opening the door.
The driver then, after pulling roughly on his hand brake, had rushed towards the rear with aggressive steps, and then stepped onto the last step of the door and as if by magic, the door opened. The driver’s less than complimentary remarks were still audible as they were rushing away into darkness.
There was no other solution; they had to start a formal language training course, designed specifically for new immigrants. The evening course led by the very kind Mrs. Sutherland was populated by a rather motley group of new immigrants. From the 50 years old German engineer to the almost illiterate, young shepherd boy from Sicily, there were immigrants from every conceivable nation and age. This multicultural group was to be thought by the ever smiling, patient and brilliant literature teacher, Mrs. Sutherland. This mixed background and nationality was the best asset of the class, as the pupils had no other choice but to communicate with each other in one language only, English. Here, nobody was afraid of making a mistake in pronunciation, or committing a grave grammatical error, everybody was in his or her natural awkwardness for the ordeal of communicating in English. And Mrs. Sutherland achieved results, because most of her charges had enriched themselves to the tune of their own language aptitudes and openness.
The fall season came and that also meant for all Hungarians at home and in foreign lands, that one year passed since the most proud and also the most tragic autumn, the one in 1956.
The Hungarian newspapers, written and printed in Canada, were also available in Ottawa and after Sunday mass they would buy them at the Hungarian church. These became their sources of information from home and the world. Soon the papers were calling all Hungarians in the West to get ready for big protest demonstrations on October 23, the anniversary of the Revolution, in front the various Soviet Embassies. Every able Hungarian was there, with candles in hand at the Soviet Embassy in Ottawa. Peter and his friends came with several bottles of red ink, which were tossed at the building’s walls. There was some mild police interference, but not before the building was full of the ugly red marks, reminding the world of the brutal and murderous assault by the Red Army on Budapest a year before.
These demonstrations took place in every major Western city, with exactly the same results, bringing the world’s attention back to the events a year before.
The work in the sanatorium’s serving kitchen was pleasant, particularly due the patients’ kind and appreciative disposition; however it has been a nagging concern for Peter that after all he worked in the ward of patients suffering from tuberculosis. He would not even dare write to his parents about it, since his right kidney was removed in Budapest just 2 years prior, due to an infection with TBC. One can live with one kidney for many years, counseled the famous surgeon, Professor Babics, who during the revolution became the Minister of Health of the short lived revolutionary government. But without any kidney, in the fifties, meant death. The salary in the sanatorium was also lower than out there in the open “market”, so he had decided to seek a new job.
By the time their first, really cold winter had arrived around the beginning of December Peter was already working in the newly built Westgate Shopping center on the edge of town.
The Simpson Sears department store had a large cafeteria which shoppers and staff frequented, and the “experienced” young man was hired in the kitchen of this cafeteria, ran by the huge local bakery, Morrison Lamothe. In addition to dishwashing he had been given extra duties, the daily collection of all the garbage bins throughout the store, daily, before the night cleaning brigade had arrived.
The kitchen chef was German, his assistant Portuguese, the waitresses mostly French Canadian women. The unofficial, but well known “second class” citizens and immigrants made up then, and even today, the serving-cleaning needs of Canadian society. And among these the poorly spoken newcomer Hungarian became the “last” man of the department store. However, it seemed like a promotion, that unlike in the previous job, here he was given every morning a freshly washed and starched white shirt, with not so stylish, but useful striped pants. These little perks counted a lot in the life of immigrants. However, those dirty nails on his hands were hopeless, full of tiny bits of food particles that seemed so difficult to clean, causing great vexation.
The staff of the cafeteria was friendly. They would have their morning coffees together, just before opening and it was impressive for Europeans to experience a uniform acceptance of everybody at the tables. No privileges or exceptions in terms of rank or position, everybody sat with anybody, everybody calling the others by their first names! At least at work, society was without pretenses and formalities.
Around Christmas of 1957, the season’s songs were being played non-stop during opening hours, among them many rock inspired Christmas songs. All that seemed so new and interesting, every experience, every new English word, every new custom, behavior, rock number had continually and incessantly evened the road toward assimilation into society. The initial difficulties and uncertainties, the real and imagined hurts had slowly, very slowly been softened, exchanged for the satisfaction of salaries earned from daily labor, the momentary joys of a successful English dialogue with someone. Just before Christmas the company running the cafeteria had organized a party for the employees. This was his first experience being a guest in a better Ottawa restaurant, served a splendid dinner by - other immigrants.
Even Christmas gifts were given to each employee, a British Columbia commemorative silver dollar, the province where he was originally to be sent from the boat!
Sunday, 3 July 2011
Ch.10 Arriving in the New World
Quebec City,Canada,June 30,1957
The long train was full of Hungarian refugees, coming from several camps in Italy, transporting them to Le Havre, France, where a bit aged, but newly painted ocean liner was waiting for them.
While everyone was excited that finally they are on their way to the new homeland, leaving the continent proved to be very emotional to most, as they had tears in their eyes, realizing that, now, their lives are definitely and drastically changing.
The Italian registered ASCANIA made just one more stop as they have left Le Havre, before charging the open Atlantic, briefly mooring in Southampton and taking on British emigrants, bound for Canada. Peter was standing near the main bridge in the early morning darkness , when had heard the first really British English, which was so very different from the English that was attempted to be taught by a couple of Italian language teachers, just before they were leaving for Canada ( with very poor results). Shortly they were on their way.
Most passengers were present for breakfast that morning in the main dining hall, but as they were heading out to the open sea and the waves were becoming increasingly huge, for most, the voyage had become a new experience that they just as soon not have had! By lunch-time less than half of the passengers were present for the meal and by dinnertime, only a handful of the nearly 400 on board were brave enough to even think about eating. Peter had taken a few oranges to his seriously ill friend, with whom he had become friends since Melence, but the poor soul was just lying on his bunk bed with the greenest of faces, and wanted to die.
The next few days were pure hell for most of the passengers.
They could not eat, became weak, and the waves of the ocean were not getting calmer. It was taking the better part of 6 or 7 days by the time when most passengers have somehow acclimatized themselves to the ever present swaying and dared to show up on deck. Then on the ninth day they caught glimpses of the rather big chunks of ice formations as they were floating by in the mouth of the St.Lawrence where their ship was now steaming to its destination. While it was towards the end of June, the passengers, seeing the ice floats, were expecting the worst as they were getting ready for the June 30th arrival. Every conceivable warm clothing they could find in their meager luggage they put on, including heavy winter socks to brave the docking in Quebec City, it seemed they would be landing on the North Pole!
By the time they have arrived in the early morning hours, the thermometers of the Port signaled near 85 F! Added to this was a humidity index that made the 85 much worse in terms of comfort.
The arrival formalities were conducted still on the ship, they were given temporary id cards, documents. The Hungarian refugees were sorted out according to profession and need for labor in the various parts of the country, and then train tickets were handed out and finally everybody received 5 dollars.
Peter’s Entry Visa and destination in Canada.
Peter was directed to Vancouver, given train and meal tickets that were valid for several days and in his i.d. card they wrote „General labor”. He thanked them and asked the immigration officer where this Vancouver actually was in Canada. The obliging Canadian led him to a huge wall map and showed him the city on the foremost Western part of Canada. In answer to his question they have explained that, by and large, Vancouver is as far away from Quebec City, as Quebec City is from... Budapest!
The very moment within which he had decided that he will not go „that far”, that is „ farther” even from Budapest than Quebec , came back to haunt him for many, many years. Every time he realized that he made a hasty and unwise decision in such a fateful situation. If he knew what were to become the result of this quick decision , surely then he would have accepted it. However, he had declared, almost heroically, that he would rather not go to Vancouver. They accepted , without a word his decision, received his 5 dollars, and informed him that he was to stay in Quebec, there is no other alternative. They offered him temporary shelter in the sailors’ dormitory at the Port until he found a job and living quarters.
He had a quick farewell with his new friends from the various camps in Europe, who were sent to various cities of Canada and looked for his new living quarters in the Port.
He was quickly assigned a top bunk in the dormitory and within minutes he was climbing the steep road to the old center of the city which was just above the port, high up a hill.
This was the summer’s busiest long weekend, both from the Canadian and American side, and the French Canadian city was one of the most popular on the continent. Huge luxury cars were sparkling in the summer heat, throngs of people everywhere, shops, parks, streets. There was noticeable joy and happiness on the people’s faces, music blared from the cars, rock and roll was just coming into vogue that summer of 1957.
Peter had no destination point, but had already made some specific short range plans back on the ship before disembarking. It was not difficult to assess the possible skills and talents that he had to offer, but even if he had any marketable skill the lack of language would have rendered these unmarketable. Lack of both English and French meant the pursuit of an occupation which required no speaking or writing.
His only consolation was remembering the famous stories of (mostly American)millionaires who had started with nothing and through perseverance and a little bit of luck made it to the top, often becoming fabulously wealthy. If on this first day of his new country, a hot and humid day, he was not dreaming of millions , an inner force was pushing him towards the most elegant part of town, until he found himself in front of the famous Chateau Frontenac. One quick look at the hotel and the doorman, who looked like a colonel in full army gear, was enough to discourage him of trying his luck there. But opposite the hotel, on the other side of the corner of the square stood a very elegant restaurant, called the Old Homestead.
The Old Homestead restaurant, side street staff entrance, in 2005, after 48 years.
Awkwardly, but with some gusto he had entered through the main entrance and a well dressed, bearded, smiling man rushed towards him, with what looked like a bunch of files in his hand, and said something which did not sound English or Italian. Peter tried to muster at least some of the English words he had learned.
„Hallo, I...me...want job, I make...good work.”
The Greek owner, who spoke only Greek and French, took a good look at the entrepreneur and without any ceremony he had nodded to follow him. They went directly to the kitchen at the back through the happily chatting and eating crowd of people. The man put a large apron on Peter, led him to a huge sink full of dirty pots and pans.
„OK, you start now.” said the Greek. He never even asked his name. The three young chefs were also so busy that they could not devote any time to the newcomer. The task seemed simple enough. When he had finished washing the big pots, the waitresses were already showing him how to sort out the used dishes brought in from the dining hall, how to feed them into the monstrous washing machine at one end, how to rack them up when the freshly washed and steaming plates and glasses came out the other end. Within hours a certain routine established itself, much like in some wholesale factory. Peter had to smile when he thought of his dad , often admonishing him because he was reluctant to help his mother at home washing-up the few plates after their meal! Well, there was some washing-up to do now!
Was this 19 year old, on a new continent, without language or skill, able to create and sustain an existence?
Fresh off the boat, the young immigrant, in spite of his youth was not unfamiliar with physical work. The fifties in Hungary did not allow too many young people to escape hard work. His mother’s wages were enough only for the basic necessities. What his father could send home from his various jobs in the country was also too little to clothe and school the kids at home. It was evident that if he wanted to go to school in the fall in decent clothes and shoes he had to earn this during the summer. This is how he got a job far away from home, in the newly built „socialist” city of Sztalinvaros.
The communist leaders had planned to change the country from a predominantly agricultural land to an industrial power. The economic base for this scheme was to be able to „purchase” (at high prices)from the Soviet Union raw materials, then turning these into finished products „selling” them back(cheaply) to the Soviets. Buying dearly and selling cheaply was the most blatant exploitation of all the Eastern European countries in the fifties.
The reigning government was ready for any sacrifice to make this insane idea successful. People came from every part of the country to the town named after Stalin, because there was work and the pay was better than anywhere else. So Peter had signed up and became water boy for a team of transporters. The team worked hard, 12 hours a day, with very few days off. They emptied freight ships on the Danube, railway cars, transported cement and bricks and so on.
The boy, still in his puberty, had started learning from the school of life, perhaps somewhat too early in his life, how men had lived off manual labor. He had learned to smoke as the others did in the brigade, heard the first curse words and vulgarisms and saw up close how men, far from their families had behaved, often unfaithful to their wives. He was growing up quickly, indeed.
The weekly good-times had started often even before the week was over, at times his water container would be filled with beer or wine from taverns on the way.
This was how he spent the summer of 1951, from the first day of the school recess to the last days of the summer vacation.
Page from his diary in 1951:”…I got to love people. Now I know what it means to be a worker. I appreciate them more than any other…”
The following summer he had arrived as an experienced „worker” in Sztalinvaros and secured a job as surveyors’ helper, carrying measuring sticks and equipment for engineers. This was a real promotion, but alas less money although he was now a year older.
In the following year, 1953, a new „socialist dream city” was emerging in the North, Kazincbarcika. So the summer school vacation was now in a new venue, even much farther from his home. Here, too, engineers’ helper was the job, now with hands on experience. He lived in workers’ barracks, his window opened up to the courtyard of the adjacent forced labor camp, housing political prisoners, building the „socialist dream”. Every dawn began with the guards’ deafening shouting as they were organizing the ranks of the prisoners, getting them ready for the day’s work. Among these abused souls were priests, university professors, merchants, former army officers, judges, the so called undesirables, class enemies who supposedly threatened the dictatorship of the proletariat!
This is how he spent three summer vacations. But during school year there were some chances to earn some pocket money, too, thus helping the family to cope. The neighbors all relied on him to carry in the wood, coal in the fall that was just dumped in the front of their homes. He had an ongoing job at the house of one his well off friends, too, pumping full with water, once a week, the water tank of their bathroom. The weekly 4 hours of pumping by hand assured him that he could continue his favored sport: swimming and water polo. Since his hometown had no indoor pool for the winter, their practice took them on Sundays , by train, to Pecs, some 100 km's from Baja to the university’s swimming pool.
The junior water polo team, Bajai Honved,1954-front row:+Csere Robi,+Bánhidy Tilu,Galántai „Guszti”,back:Urbán Péter,Szepessy Kálmán,Krikovszki Józsi,Szepessy Laci.
These all day trips came free with train tickets, but food was the responsibility of each participant. The simple, one dish, home cooked meals could not be brought on trips like these, and cold provisions were too expensive for his mother to buy. But with the pumping job he earned enough each week that allowed the purchase of cold cuts and bread for these trips.
In spite of the many months of idleness in the various refugee camps and the hard choice that had to be made on disembarking the boat, it seemed incredible the ease, or perhaps the sheer luck with which , on his first day , at the first chance he could find work! There was no time to be afraid , to be lamenting the difficulties of a new world, strange language , the frustrations that should have surely followed within a short time. If there ever was the first step toward the BIG DREAM, toward life here on the new continent, then right there, in the old town-centre of Quebec, in that restaurant, it was taken.
Within a couple of hours , when the chefs found a little break, they checked out the tall, skinny guy from some strange land. With various sign language, and some words they could share they found out where the new dishwasher came from. Once they knew he has from Hungary, he immediately became a hero! The most famous Hungarian soccer team of all time, in 1954 , had carved into the hearts of ardent fans admiration everywhere in their world by coming second of all nations, barely losing to Germany in the World Cup final.
Peter was celebrated as if he were a member of that famous team. And the 1956 Freedom Fight and Revolution had substantially increased people’s admiration for the tiny country and her people.
The chefs had immediately begun work and within minutes they had Peter sit in front of a long table laden with every imaginable food, most of which was totally strange to the newcomer. After the so called fruits of the sea appetizer, boiled lobster claws, and what looked like raw, bloody slices of beef was served. Peter was able to eat some of these strange delicacies, but others he had to leave due to their bizarre consistencies, not well known to a Hungarian lad on his first day in North America.
But the friendship was instant and warm, which made these first hours on the job very pleasant. The hours were flying by, as more new customers came in for supper and everybody was busy with their tasks. When the last guest was gone, Peter still had the big pots to do, and towards one a.m. in the morning the owner showed him how to sweep and wash up the main dining room while he was busy with the cash register.
By 2 a.m. the newcomer had everything ready, but the owner insisted that he stay the night. They went behind the kitchen, to the storage room where from potato sacks and blankets a makeshift bed was made, being in July the cool room was a welcome change from the hot and steamy kitchen.
There was just one more “new” discovery left on this, for him, historical, day: in the storage room there were boxes and boxes of Coca Cola! The communist government and party in Hungary in the fifties had tried with every means of propaganda to depict the “imperialist West” as the devil. It meant to throw at it the worst possible criticism, whether in politics or culture. Thus the capitalists had used Coca Cola to drug and stupefy the poor working people. Well, Peter had found himself, alone, with boxes of Coca Cola, of which he had heard only bad things, that is, from a teenager’s point of view, exciting things, but never ever tried! He could not resist the temptation and opened a bottle, but after just one gulp from the strange tasting , lukewarm liquid he had enough. Poor imperialists of the West , he thought, you will never succeed with such a dismal tasting “drug”.
In less than 24 hours, the European, “landed immigrant”, said his document, had found, according to his qualifications, employment, friendly co-workers and even without knowing the amount, a salary, he apparently had room and board: what more could an East European guy have hope for in the New World in 1957?
He had tried in the next few weeks to get in to several Canadian Universities via the Immigration Office in Quebec via interpreters, but there were no answers, not at least until he was in Quebec City. Universities and colleges in Quebec had declined to take him on, with full room and board, without tuition fees. They had advised him to try other provinces.
In the meantime days were spent at the Old Homestead restaurant in the French Canadian capitol, from 3 pm until closing, for $25 weekly, plus all the delicious food he could eat and even a place to sleep if and when he wanted.
On his days off, Mondays, he was off to see the few English language films which were showing in the original, with subtitles for the French.
During his short stay in Quebec city only one embarrassing incident happened that remained in memory for a long time. On the second Sunday, before his afternoon shift at the restaurant, he went to mass in one of most beautiful churches. The huge church was full of worshippers, a magnificent organ led a truly amazing choir. He could only find standing room at the back. After the sermon, all of a sudden he had found in front of him a collecting box with a tiny bell attached to it, held by a straight backed and serious looking gentleman. The little bell that rang was sudden, but he had realized instantly that he should now produce some coins and place them in the box. However, only some banknotes were in his pocket that represented to the immigrant a rather big value, his stipend from the work in the restaurant, without any coins.
He could not do this, could not permit himself to take any of those dollar bills and donate them to the church! The man with the collecting box had now stepped closer to him and the little bell had signaled that he should give some money. Embarrassed, but he shook his head. The determined collector was not deterred and shook the little bell once more. With a red face, Peter did not react and the man passed on with a scornful face.
He felt ashamed and did not dare to go to church again in that city.
After some weeks he had said good bye to the Greek immigrants’ restaurant. There was an emotional farewell from his co-workers, who had retained rather bizarre memories of him. They smiled at his method of learning English during working hours by attaching a new list of words to his long dishwashing machine and reciting these words , loudly, each day. They have tried to understand his country’s political history and the recent events in 1956 during their coffee breaks, which he had presented with a mixture of English and Italian words. They understood his reason for moving on so that he could be exposed to a totally English speaking environment, it was his choice. Ottawa, however, did not seem right to them, but they did not mention this to him.
There was one important visit he had to make before getting on his train to Ottawa, in the city of his Canadian arrival. As in many other days, he sought out the most open space in the Port, where the huge ocean liners were docking, and sat on the most comfortable piles of ships’ rope. His eyes were searching, in vain, for the continent he had left behind, so long ago it seemed, in the far distance. Searching for the country which was once again surrounded by barbed wire and minefields, shot away from the world and the revolution’s victorious two weeks. These were painful and homesick hours, the acknowledgement of stark reality, that he was thousands of miles away from his family, friends, from all that gave him his identity so far. To bid good bye to Quebec City, which was his first home on the new continent, in Canada, seemed now almost as bitter as walking out of his hometown on that rainy November day. He recalled his walks here among the big ships during the mornings, before he went off to work, how often he was seriously considering sneaking up on a Europe bound ship and hiding as a stow away!. The loneliness, the strange environment, the daily frustration with the language, and that which was the most difficult to fight, the homesickness that all immigrants feel in the beginning, that had caused many to despair. Those without families and friends had a tougher time in the initial stages of a strange country.
Maybe Ottawa would help to get out of this dark mood!
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