A wise man's country is the world.
Astippus

Chapter 22

Go West,”Old Man”

An old sailor’s song came to mind, about a sea voyage which had many passengers hanging over the railing, feeding the fish. As the Fairsea slowly moved away from the pier and out into the Weser River estuary the first passengers were seasick already and hung over the railing to feed the fish. There wasn’t the slightest wave action or any motion of pitch or roll in the ship. Maybe some of the “feeders” had celebrated their departure too heavily last night, or were emotionally upset about leaving the land of their birth.

As we moved into the open North Sea, the wave action on the ship was hardly perceptible, but it caused quite an increase in the amount of food for the fish. I had been seasick only once, when I was in summer camp at the Baltic Sea and went on a rough small boat trip to another coastal village. About 20 of us teenagers were so sick that we refused to take the boat for the return trip and hiked back. I remembered that embarrassment, and was determined not to let it happen again. I had plenty of anti-seasick pills along. After the month long tension of my departure I was exhausted, and was soon asleep on my upper bunk.
The next morning I got up at 5:30 to beat the masses of passengers to the washroom, and hurried to the top deck to get fresh air and check on the wave action. On deck I met Walter, whom I had talked to the previous day, and we took a long walk around the deck. He had been in the German navy during the war and had sea legs. He shared his experience to help me avoid seasickness.

We had the same chow time slot, and at breakfast we noticed that already two passengers were absent from our table. Walter told me that I should not drink too much liquid, since it would slosh in my stomach. The morning was spent watching the crew fill the swimming pool on the rear deck, and we took part in shuffleboard games. Around noon the ship entered the east end of the English Channel where a boat heaved by to put a pilot on board the Fairsea.

The wave action was getting more vigorous, but it wasn’t unpleasant. I took a swim because I thought it might be my only opportunity to swim above the English Channel. I saw high cirrus clouds coming up from the northwest. Which meant a storm was approximately 24-48 hours away. We passed Dover, and the sea turned considerably rougher. When the pilot left, I watched and admired his acrobatics to get into the pilot boat. It looked like the sea was preparing some “fun” for the Fairsea and it’s green passengers. We saw the crew drain the swimming pool and tying everything down.

At lunchtime 12 of the 16 passengers showed up at the table and I took my first seasick pill. On the upper deck I had to be careful not to be downwind from the many passengers hanging over the railing and generously feeding Neptune and the fish. Walter and I couldn’t help but poke fun at some of them. Some guys were telling one of the sea sickies that he had better watch out when that black hole came up and not spit it out, because it was his asshole, which he would need later on. That kind of rude kidding was dangerous if one was in a downwind position.

Walter and I walked the deck extensively. The sick people were a pitiful lot and I felt sorry for them. The ship pitched heavily and rolled quite a bit, making walking on deck and under deck difficult. Walter showed me how to negotiate flights of stairs in rough seas. If the timing was synchronous with the ship’s motions, jumping from the top to the bottom of the stairs was quite easy.

To pee or not to pee

The worst problems were in the bathroom. The seas were so unfriendly that peeing into a urinal caused a back-splash right over one’s pants. The solution was to sit on the John, but even then I had to hold on to something tightly.

About two thirds of the passengers and a good percentage of the crew were seasick. Nobody cleaned the lower decks and stairs and walking there became unsafe. Negotiating the steel stairs was downright dangerous. The ship was in constant roll, pitch and other assorted motions. Walter and I spent a minimal amount of time below deck, because the smell alone made me sick. Walking on the open deck was difficult and we had to be constantly alert for showers of sea water coming over the bow section. Waves were 30 feet high, and occasionally much higher, and tons of water came over the deck at the roped-off bow section. Getting drenched was inconvenient, because there wasn’t any way to get clothes cleaned or dried.

Down below, I had an unpleasant surprise when I opened one of my suitcases. A bottle of wine earmarked for my friends in Grande Prairie had cracked and leaked its content into my clothes. I could only spread the clothes around my bunk and let them dry, making the whole dorm smell like a wine cellar and probably making more people sick.

At the dining table four out of the original 16 people were still present, and we had one hell of a good time. Since few people were eating, the stewards gave us outstanding service. We had to watch for sliding or falling dishes with or without contents. July 21 was the worst day with a wind-force of 9 on the Beaufort scale (strong gale, 47-54 miles per hour wind), after that it got better, or maybe we got used to it. Despite the rough seas, I watched the wave action and schools of dolphins jumping through the wave troughs. All sorts of seabirds could be seen, and I marveled at their ability to exist so far from land.

It was on the sixth day of our journey that we sighted icebergs of impressive size. I thought about the “Titanic” in connection with their appearance. Around noon the first land came in sight through the fog and haze, it was Belle Isle, at the mouth of the St. Lawrence River. The next day, the Fairsea entered the St. Lawrence River. Initially we couldn’t see any land, because of the enormity of the river estuary.
The ship’s motions finally calmed down, and the crew cleaned up the mess. Passengers crawled out of their beds and dared to come on upper deck to recuperate. I had never seen so many pale people in my life. We passed Anticosti Island and finally entered into the land of our hope, Canada.

As the St. Lawrence River narrowed, we could see houses and roads with cars. We were surprised about the variety of the roof colors, red, green, blue and yellow. In Germany the roofs were red when covered with clay tiles, gray when covered with slate, or black when covered with asphalt. It is strange what first impressions one has in a different country.

The size of the St. Lawrence River also impressed me. We had been on it for two days and were still not close to the end of the journey. Finally, after the third day on the river, and the eighth day of our crossing, the Fairsea tied up at the pier in Quebec City, Canada. It was Sunday, June 26, 1953, at about 18:00 hour. The landing pier for immigrant ships was right under the famous Chateau Frontenac, an impressive structure.

Since the immigration people didn’t work on Sunday, there wouldn’t be any disembarkation until Monday morning. That was fine with most of the passengers. But the husbands down on the pier, who were waiting for their wives and kids, were not happy. A customs’ guard at the gangplank prevented all traffic on or off the ship.

It was a typical warm and sunny summer evening. The passengers decided to make the best of it and celebrated their safe arrival in the “promised land.” We all gathered on deck and passengers who had brought musical instruments showed up with them and a regular jam session soon developed. I was impressed by a trumpet player, who already had a job offer from a band in Canada. His solos must have been audible for at least a mile around the ship.

We all talked, danced, drank, and enjoyed each other’s company. Since everybody had different destinations, people knew they would never see each other again. I regretted that I had deliberately missed out on several love affairs that were offered during the crossing.
I had to get to my destination in the fastest, cheapest way possible. I had 20 Canadian dollars in landing money, and had to cross almost the entire continent. I could not afford any extra expenses.

Just in time

The next morning, Monday July 27, (please remember July 31 was the deadline for my arrival) we disembarked. We were herded into a large, two story warehouse building, where our luggage had been piled in big, disorderly mountains. We had to find our suitcases and line up in front of the customs and immigration officers who sat behind tables with the letters of the alphabet attached to the tables. We had to step up to the letters that our family name started with.

While searching for my luggage, I met three gentlemen who were bound for Vancouver. I decided to stick with them, because Frank, the leader, had been an exchange student in the United States. He was familiar with the customs and spoke excellent English.

An Italian immigrant, with a large salami sausage in his luggage, probably a gift for relatives, was told that he was not permitted to bring it into Canada. The customs officer took it away from him, and tossed it into the nearest garbage can. The Italian was absolutely infuriated and tried to talk with hand and feet to sway the customs officers mind, but had no success. After the Italian had gone through the immigration formalities, he sneaked back behind the customs guy and tried to retrieve the salami. He was caught, and was led away by another customs officer. Apparently they got an interpreter and read him the riot act, but let him get back in line.

In front of some letter desks there were long lines, while at others, such as under XYZ, there was no line at all. Frank went over to the customs officer behind that table and asked him if he would process the four of us, even though none of us fell into his XYZ alphabetic name category. He didn’t mind, and within 15 minutes we were through the formalities. The luggage was then checked through to the final destination by railway employees.

Since most immigrants were not fluent in English, the Canadian Immigration Department, in cooperation with the Canadian National Railroad (CNR) Company, had put together a special train. They seated passengers in the cars according to destination, and then would uncouple the cars on arrival there. We had a look at the interior of these cars. They must have come out of a railway museum. We had seen that kind of rolling stock only in old cowboy movies.

We went to the CPR agent and Frank asked him if it was possible to use regular trains with the railroad tickets in our possession. The agent looked at our tickets and said there was no problem at all. He told us there was a bus line running right by the immigration hall to the downtown train station of Quebec City.

It was past noon, and we were hungry and anxious to get going. In true German tradition each of us had a briefcase, and walked to the street below to wait for a bus. However, there was no bus stop sign in the vicinity.

As a bus approached, Frank stood by the sidewalk and made a thumbs up gesture as if hitchhiking. To my surprise the bus driver stopped. We boarded the bus, but had a problem with the Canadian money to pay for the ticket. The driver gave us time and we finally got the fare together. That was the third positive impression we had of our new country, counting the courtesy and willingness of the immigration and railroad employees as the first two.

One man of the group was Paul, extraordinarily tall (probably 6'-5"), and he spoke French fluently. He had lived in Paris for several years, and was anxious to help us with his command of the language in French speaking Quebec. He was surprised and puzzled when he found that the French-Canadians could not understand him, and he didn’t understand them either. The Quebecois speak a French used in France 200 years ago. After they emigrated from France, their language got locked into that time period, because they were so far removed and isolated from France.

The four of us walked to the railroad station to find out where we would catch the Transcontinental to the west coast. Departure wasn’t until 06:10 am the next morning. That was bad news because of our tight money situation. We went to the nearest eating place, and ordered a cup of coffee and a whatever low-priced item we were able to identify on the menu. I ordered a roast beef sandwich. To my surprise the “sandwich” was buried under the roast beef and mashed potatoes with a thick sauce which made the bread all soggy. I didn’t like that and wondered why they bothered with the bread at all.

Frank asked the waitress where to find a low priced hotel, not too far from the station. We went to that hotel and the room price was C$ 10.- so two guys checked into each room to save money. Frank told us how to get our food cost down to rock bottom. We went to the supermarket to purchase what we needed to feed ourselves during the next four days on the train.

With the exception of Frank, none of us coming from war ravaged Germany, had ever been to a real supermarket. We roamed the isles to see what was on display. Many times we couldn’t identify what certain items were, and were overwhelmed by the variety of merchandise. Frank could help out most of the time, but sometimes even he was not familiar with the merchandise.

We could only buy food that would last without refrigeration. Frank had figured out that it would cost each of us $5 to feed ourselves on this trip. We would eat mostly sandwiches with cold cuts and cheese, or with jam and peanut butter. We also bought canned fruit and soup, and I couldn’t figure out what we would do with the cans of soup. Frank told us about the small kitchenettes on these long-distance trains, an unknown convenience in German trains. Frank lectured, “How do you think mothers with babies could travel for several days if they couldn’t heat the bottles for the kids?” After we filled the shopping cart and checked out, we were surprised that the total was only $ 16.- dollars. Frank asked the clerk for four cardboard boxes, we packed everything neatly and went back to the hotel.

We went out to do a little sight-seeing in the downtown area of Quebec, and were not impressed at all by the city. The architecture was uninspiring, with the exception of the Chateau Frontenac, built by the Canadian Pacific Railway in 1892 and named for Louis de Frontenac, who served as the governor of “New France” in the late 17th century. The overhead power lines that crisscrossed everywhere were ugly and spoiled the views.

Our little group, after roaming the city for several hours, observing, discovering and criticizing, finally went to a small coffee shop. I had a doughnut and a cup of coffee. I really took a liking to doughnuts, but the coffee was awful. Food in Germany, even though still scarce, was always good even in restaurants. Apparently Canadians were indifferent to the quality of their meals. The emphasis was on quantity, not quality.

At the hotel, Frank made sure that the desk clerk would wake us up so we would catch the train. The $5 per person for the room really dented my budget. I had spent half of my landing money already, and I wasn’t even out of Quebec City.

The next morning we walked to the railroad station with our big brief cases and cardboard boxes with groceries. In those days people in Quebec city were accustomed to strange looking characters walking around this major immigration port of entry. When we got to the station we found the station’s entrance gates locked. We were told the gates would open 20 minutes before departure only. This strange custom was observed throughout Canada. We went to the coffee shop, and I had my doughnut and a cup of coffee, for a total cost of 25 cents. I was getting accustomed to my new role in life, being a POGI (Poor Old German Immigrant), so get out the violins already.

Monday is laundry day all over North America?

Just before 6:00 am we boarded the train. The railroad coaches were enormous compared to the ones in Germany, it reminded us that Canada is a BIG country. We settled into comfortable seats by the windows, so that we could have a good look at the countryside. The first thing that caught my attention was laundry flapping in the breeze to dry. Every house was “decorated” by laundry on lines. We asked Frank if all women in Canada were washing on the same day, “Yes Monday is the national laundry day on the entire North American continent.” This was hard to believe, but the evidence was there for us to see. Mind you it was already Tuesday, but outdoor drying takes a while.
The scenery along the route, which more or less follows the St. Lawrence River valley, was nothing spectacular. Just low rolling hills, endless fields and forests.

Around noontime we gave our fellow Canadian travelers a luncheon show when the food boxes came out and we prepared our first rolling lunch. The Canadian coaches had a feature we had never seen before. The seats could be turned 180° so that they faced the row of seats behind. Then a fold down table between the facing seats could be brought up. We took advantage of this clever feature, and noisily prepared our sandwiches. We spiced our meal with numerous jokes and lots of laughter. I thought we annoyed the hell out of the fellow passengers, but they were all good-natured.

Some tried to strike up a conversation with us, to find out where we were going. It was obvious that Canadians had a more humanistic attitude than Germans.

At 02:15 pm we rolled into Montreal. The city looked like a European city, and we felt as if we had just stepped into France. Lots of show windows, tastefully decorated, specialty stores, sidewalk cafés and even electric tramways with interesting open sight-seeing cars. These open cars had seats arranged in bleacher fashion, so that all passengers had good visibility. I was intrigued by this arrangement.

While taking in all the sights I saw a large ice cream parlor, and couldn’t resist. I walked in, followed by the other three guys. Ordering from the long list of available flavors was difficult, because I was not familiar with Canadian ice cream. One of the things I could make out was, “Banana split” 55 cents. It was an enormous oval bowl with heaps of various ice creams, melted chocolate with nuts, topped by maraschino cherries, and peaking out from each end was a large banana. Wow, that a winner with my taste buds. I had difficulty finishing the whole thing and didn’t need any food for the rest of the day. This “meal” fully made up for the soggy sandwich the previous day.

On the Transcontinental

At 8:00 pm the Canadian Pacific Railways (CPR) Transcontinental train left Montreal. The train departs from Halifax, Nova Scotia and runs across Canada, via Montreal, Ottawa, Sudbury, Winnipeg, and Calgary over to Vancouver, British Columbia. A trip of over 3,000 miles, taking five days and nights. An equivalent European distance would be from Gibraltar to Murmansk.

The train was much more comfortable and luxurious than the CNR train at Quebec City. It had individual reclining seats in the coaches. The seats could also be turned to face a central table. It was air conditioned by large blocks of ice in compartments under the coaches, and it had a kitchenette at one end of the coach. The outside scenery was visible through huge windows that could not be opened. The train had sleeping cars which we couldn’t afford and a diner, which was also too expensive for us. We all sat together, reclined our seats, and soon fell asleep. I always had problems sleeping in railroad cars, but here my tiredness from all the sight-seeing overwhelmed me. Around midnight the train stopped in Ottawa and the crew changed. They awakened everybody to check their tickets. This was strange, and was repeated at the border of each province where crew and conductors changed.

The next morning we got a glimpse of Lake Huron, later Lake Superior, and hundreds of smaller lakes north of the tracks. After the train pulled out of Thunder Bay the picture changed abruptly. We entered the Canadian prairies, the immense flat and almost treeless plain with nothing but farms as far as the eye could see. It was spooky, I saw this seemingly endless, featureless expanse all day long, went to sleep and woke up the following day seeing the same featureless expanse, almost as if the train had not moved at all. We passed through the Provinces of Ontario, Manitoba and Saskatchewan with the same indistinct features being repeated.

We four guys got along just fine and I am sure we entertained all the passengers who were traveling with us. Every once in a while a German speaking person would try to practice their language on us, but there were few people who were fluent. We learned a lot of Canadian expressions, and a lot of Canadian customs as we rolled westward. The kitchenettes were really cute, if one stayed out of them when the mothers were trying to heat the food for their babies. The hungry and screaming youngsters were unnerving.

Every once in a while the train stopped at a smaller town. Passengers would file out to get fresh air, and I would get my doughnut and fresh coffee. When the train pulled into Medicine Hat, the scenery became more hilly. A few more hours and we would reach Calgary where I had to get off. We had our last breakfast together. The other three guys were going to Vancouver. I thanked Frank for all the help he had given me. Frank urged me to fix myself sandwiches from what was left, because I was going to go off into the wilderness, as he put it, and I did just that.

When the Transcontinental pulled into Calgary at 09:30 AM, it was over 40 minutes late. Since I had to change trains in Calgary to go north to Edmonton, I was worried. The train conductor on the “Transcontinental” assured me that the other train would wait, but that I better hurry to catch it. He said that my luggage would follow on the next train and catch up with me in Grande Prairie.

I didn’t want to bother people with questions in my school English for fear they wouldn’t understand me. I could read much better than speak, and there were signs everywhere, so I had no problems. It just took a little more time. The train to Edmonton was not a deluxe one, and the engineers must have tried to get back on time after that delay of the Transcontinental. I was sure they ran the locomotive at wide open throttle. Rail beds on secondary lines were obviously not top quality either, and we were tossed around fiercely. It was almost as if I were back on the “Fairsea”.

When I arrived in Edmonton I learned that the connecting train to Grande Prairie wouldn’t leave until four hours later. As always: Hurry up and wait. My fanny was sore from all that sitting. I was looking forward to seeing Dieter and Vera again.

I bought a paper in Edmonton, to see if I could understand what was printed, and it wasn’t easy to understand the press jargon. I understood most of what was in the paper and that made me feel much better. Just about an hour before the train to Grande Prairie departed, Gottfried walked up to me. He was the guy who had been so sick during the ocean crossing. He had opted for the immigrant train which was run by the Canadian National Railways (CNR) and which followed a more northerly route to Edmonton. Gottfried was an excellent harmonica, piano and organ player, and was looking for a job with a church and/or small radio station. He decided to join me, and go to Grande Prairie (GP), I thought that my connections there wouldn’t help him much.

When we boarded the train, I found to my consternation, that this last leg of my journey, 400 miles long, would take more than 12 hours. It stopped at every little village and loaded and unloaded milk cans and other assorted goods. The fellow passengers were also of a different kind. Most of them were farmers, housewives and blue collar workers.

Some of the older women tried to talk to us. They wanted to know what church we belonged to and whether we were married. This was odd. I could not figure out why they wanted to know all these personal things and I often declined to answer. Maybe they had daughters they wanted to marry off. What I didn’t realize was that I had encountered the oral community network. They wanted to know everybody, and especially new faces that were moving into the area, to see if they would “fit in.”
The scenery outside was flat, with lots of trees and an occasional farm, and the godforsaken ramshackle houses, with old cars and tractors around them. I felt as if I were back in Russia again. Finally after 18 hours, on Saturday, August 1, 1953, the damn train rolled into Grande Prairie at noon. Later, when the movie “High Noon” came out, they kidded me about my arrival in Grande Prairie.

Dieter or Dee as they called him here and his boss Fred Reeves were at the station to pick me up in Fred’s car. Fred was, I later found out, the biggest bullshitter in town, and came to the station just to know who arrived. We went to Dee’s house and Vera and the kids, came out to welcome me. Then Fred Reeves took Gottfried Sprecher under his wing and left.