Silent Refuge

by Margrit Rosenberg Stenge

  Our first winter in Montreal was a revelation. Coming from a country like Norway, I thought I knew everything about winter. How wrong I was! My Norwegian winter coat served no purpose in the cold, windy and snowy Canadian winter. In order to brave the elements, I splurged on a coat lined with fake fur and sporting a hood. Even though I was now dressed for the cold, the wind was sometimes so strong that it would penetrate my warmest clothing and make it difficult to walk. But like everything else, the inclement weather conditions became part of the Canadian experience.

  Stefan struggled to find a decent job, though this was not the only difficult part of Montreal for him. Since he was prone to motion sickness, the streetcars and buses he had to take to work presented a big problem, the 129 streetcar to Snowdon in particular. He often walked for miles to avoid getting sick. In his search for a career, Stefan bought a valet service that came with a truck. His travel problems were exchanged for difficulties running a business in a strange country, and after a few months, he had to sell the valet service. We bought a small English car with part of our capital, so at least Stefan was now able to get around without public transportation.

  Because Stefan now had a car, he was also able to look for different work. A small company hired him to sell the septic tank cleaner for which it was the sales agency. This led him to work for Cuthbert Industries, a large plumbing manufacturing company that was the sole distributor in Canada of the septic tank cleaner Stefan had been selling. This was the opportunity Stefan had been waiting for. Although his salary was still very modest, he felt that he might have a future with this company.

  Although Stefan knew how to drive, I did not. On a sunny Sunday afternoon, he set out to teach me. After half an hour, he declared that I would never be a driver, and both of us got out of the car in a huff. I continued to believe he was right until quite a few years later, when the instructor of a driving school proved him wrong.

  To augment our income, I began working in a second office on Saturday mornings. Stefan picked me up on Saturdays around noon, and we ate lunch in a Chinese restaurant on St. Lawrence Boulevard. The food was good and inexpensive, and eating there was a nice beginning for the weekend ahead. We often went to the movies at the Monkland Theatre that summer of 1952, which allowed us to see two movies and to cool off in air-conditioned comfort — for the price of only fifty cents each.

  In the fall of that year, we went to Bridgeport to visit Tante Selma and Onkel Gustav, where we were introduced to the I Love Lucy show on TV. Owning a TV was considered the height of luxury in those days. My uncle was still working at the lumberyard. It was very hard work, but from his earnings, they had bought a small house and their lives were comfortable although modest. The TV was a dream come true for my uncle. Now he could watch the baseball games he loved in the comfort of his home and enjoy many other shows.

  From Bridgeport, we went to New York to visit Elfriede and her husband, Erik Bender, a young man from a well-known German Jewish family, whom she married in 1952. Like his father before him, Erik was a butcher, as were two of his three brothers. The three butcher brothers ran a store on St. Nicholas Avenue in New York. Elfriede and Erik’s first apartment was within walking distance of the store.

  Elfriede had given us instructions on how to get to her home, but the approach to New York was nerve-racking, to say the least. Stefan and I felt like two country bumpkins in a big city.

  Elfriede and Erik lived in Manhattan in an older apartment, which was furnished with beautiful solid furniture. This was the first time we met Erik, and I found him friendly. Elfriede was already pregnant with their first child. Since they were both Orthodox, their lives revolved around Erik’s work, their extended family and their community.

  Despite minor difficulties, and they were indeed minor, we both loved Montreal. Here it did not matter if you spoke English with an accent, since everybody seemed to be from somewhere else and Montreal was a truly cosmopolitan city. Living among Jews as we did was also a novelty. We lived opposite the Shaare Zion synagogue, and our neighbours were mostly Jewish. And when we first visited Judith and Victor Farkas on St. Lawrence Boulevard, I was shocked to see that most of the storefronts had Hebrew lettering and that groups of Hasidic Jews were walking on the streets of an area that appeared to be completely Jewish. I had never seen anything like this.

  During the first two years we were in Canada, our friends were mostly immigrants like ourselves. In time our circle of friends grew, but most of them were originally from Hungary. We met and became friends with Huguette and Bandi early on. Bandi had gone to the same school as Stefan and had gone to France after the war. There he met Huguette, who was Parisian but had lived in the States for a while. The English spoken by our Hungarian friends was far from fluent, and whenever we got together, Bandi and Stefan spoke almost exclusively in Hungarian. Since Huguette and I didn’t understand Hungarian, this presented a huge problem for both of us and forged a strong bond between us. Even though our personalities were vastly different, our friendship endured for nearly thirty years. When a business deal involving Stefan and Bandi went sour, so did our friendship. This incident taught us a hard and painful lesson.

  We also became friends with Sanyi (Alex) and Vera Bernstein. Sanyi and Stefan had gone to the same school, lived in the same building in Budapest and been best friends. When Stefan found out that Sanyi was living in Montreal, he was overjoyed. It was not long before the two got in touch and a visit to the Bernstein family was arranged. Sanyi and Vera were the parents of an adorable eight-month-old girl named Vivian. Sanyi’s mother, who had also known Stefan, was living with them at the time. She took care of Vivian while the parents worked.

  We saw a lot of Sanyi and Vera and became close friends and also met other friends through them. In the summer of 1953, we went on a vacation together to Magog in the Eastern Townships, where Huguette and Bandi also joined us. We stayed at a small inn. The men played tennis, and we all swam in beautiful Lake Memphramagog and got tanned by the warm sun. A photo of that time shows Sanyi and Stefan goofing around, pretending to be cavemen. We all loved and took care of Vivian, who was passed around like a little doll. Those are wonderful memories. Unfortunately for us, Vera felt that she needed to escape the Canadian winters and live in a warm climate. Vera, Sanyi and Vivian left for Los Angeles in 1960.

  •

  If my letters did not convince my mother that we were doing well in Montreal, her visit in 1952 certainly did. On the occasion of her fiftieth birthday, Onkel Hermann surprised her with airline tickets to Montreal. Although my relationship with my mother had been somewhat strained in the past, both Stefan and I were as happy to see her as she was to see us. We spent a couple of pleasant weeks together, during which Stefan and I showed my mother the city and its surroundings in our free time. My mother looked wonderful and was obviously very happy in her second marriage.

  Then tragedy struck once again. Onkel Hermann, who had been in excellent health all his life, suddenly became ill and was diagnosed with liver cancer. Fortunately, he did not suffer for long and died three months later at the end of 1953. I was distraught. We were so far away, and my mother had to deal with Onkel Hermann’s illness and death all by herself. She had lost her second husband, and I could not even imagine the pain she had to endure.

  Many letters crossed the ocean in the months following Onkel Hermann’s death. He had left a lucrative business behind, and my mother suggested that we leave Montreal and come to live in Stockholm. Stefan could continue the Salomon business, which would provide us all with a good living. Since my mother was the only heir, Onkel Hermann had left her well provided for, and she promised to help us in every way she could.

  As tempting as the financial aspect of such a move was, it was pity for my mother that ultimately made us decide to move to Stockholm. I felt in my heart that we were doing the wrong thing by going back to Europe. It was not often in my life that I felt strongly that I did not want
to do something but then did it anyway for a variety of reasons.

  We sold our furniture, gave up our apartment and our jobs. Mr. Sauerland assured me that Transocean would welcome me back any time, but I knew then that I would not take advantage of his offer. We said goodbye to all our friends and flew to Stockholm in September 1953.

  The time we spent in Sweden seems like a dream today, perhaps because Stefan and I were both so unhappy. Since there was a housing shortage in Stockholm, too, we had to live with my mother in her small apartment. Stefan tried to familiarize himself with Onkel Hermann’s business but found that he was not interested in the sale of custom jewellery, of which he knew nothing at all. I was completely at loose ends, since I had been working for several years and did not know what to do with all the time I had on my hands. We met old friends, such as Ruth from my time in Alingsås, who was married to Amek Adler now, as well as Yetta Berlinger, my friend from Malmö, who was married to Kuba, and pregnant with her first child. Like Amek, Kuba was a survivor originally from Poland, and the two were friends.

  It did not take me long to realize that my instincts had been right — we should never have come to Stockholm. But how could we return to Canada now? Stefan had given up the best job he had had there, and we had no home to go back to. In many ways, we were worse off now than when we had originally immigrated to Montreal. I felt trapped and deeply unhappy. And in the middle of this emotional turmoil, I decided to become pregnant. Perhaps I thought this would lend some normalcy to our situation. The pregnancy ended in a painful miscarriage at the Karolinska Institutet in Stockholm. Nothing seemed to be going right, and, for both Stefan and me, the time for decisions had come.

  Soon after returning from the hospital, I told my mother that despite the difficulties we would be facing, we were going back to Canada. However, I suggested to her that she should think very seriously about coming to live in Montreal, where I felt that she, too, would be able to start a new life. She would have no financial problems, and, since she was a friendly and outgoing person, she would in all likelihood have a large circle of friends in no time at all.

  So it was decided. Stefan wrote a letter to his boss at Cuthbert Industries to find out whether his job was still available, and, to his surprise, the answer was yes. This improved our outlook considerably. Before leaving Stockholm, my mother handed us a cheque with which to start our lives for the second time in Montreal. With mixed feelings, we left her alone again and flew back to Canada at the beginning of 1954.

  Parenthood

  Stefan and I returned to Montreal from Stockholm in February 1954. It was very different this time around. The city was familiar, we had friends here and we were both happy to be back. The first thing we did was rent a one-bedroom apartment in a new building on Goyer Street. Then we bought furniture and a car with the money my mother had given to us in Stockholm. From the beginning, this apartment seemed like a temporary home. I missed the familiar furnishings from our place on Côte-St-Luc Road. The new furniture had no past, and since I have always been a creature of habit, it never really felt like mine as long as we owned it.

  This time, Stefan was the lucky one. He began working again at Cuthbert Industries as soon as he could, while I had some difficulty finding suitable work. There was no shortage of secretarial positions available, but one that required knowledge of German was then non-existent. I filled in an application at a large steel company in downtown Montreal. The company asked for the applicant’s maiden name. Even though I fulfilled all the requirements, I did not get the job, which convinced me that the name Rosenberg prevented me from getting hired. Eventually, I accepted a job at Goodfellow Lumber Yard, but it was just that, a job. I did not like the atmosphere at the company and decided that I would leave as soon as something better came along. In a way it did — I discovered that I was pregnant again. Stefan was very happy at the prospect of becoming a father; I, on the other hand, was beset by doubts. What kind of mother would I make? I was actually afraid of the added responsibility looming on the horizon and was anxious throughout most of my pregnancy.

  To save some money for the arrival of our baby, I had planned to work as long as I could, but it turned out differently. Just a few weeks after I began working at Goodfellow, my doctor told me that to avoid another miscarriage I had to rest a lot, which meant the end of my career at the lumberyard. I had never been able to take it easy, and I was totally frustrated. Time hung heavily on my hands, and I ate more than I should have, thereby gaining too much weight. When I was in my fifth month of pregnancy, I saw a small ad in the newspaper. A builder was looking for a part-time typist. I was given an address on Kent Street, and once I found the street with its beautiful, large duplexes, I realized that this office was in a private home.

  It did not take long for Henry, the builder, to decide — I was hired to start working immediately. Even though my work was far from interesting, my surroundings certainly were. I was installed, with a typewriter, at a beautiful dining room table over which hung a splendid chandelier. The room was spacious and furnished in excellent taste. It was obvious that the family was well-to-do, although they appeared to have been in this country for only a short time. Henry’s wife, who was also pregnant, came in to say hello and mentioned that she was having a difficult pregnancy. The couple already had a seven-year-old boy. I worked for Henry for about two months. A few years later, we would meet again at a golf club where we had all become members.

  When I was in the seventh month of my pregnancy, Stefan and I moved again, since we needed an additional room for the baby. We ended up on the third floor of a walk-up on Ridgevale Street, which was the best we could do on only one income. The building and our apartment were totally unappealing and a far cry from the comfort of our first Côte-St-Luc Road home. I realized soon that I would not be able to clean up the dirt and grime that had been left over from the previous tenants and scrutinized the newspaper. An ad promoted the services of a European woman, and that was how Mrs. Hellermann came into our lives.

  It turned out that Mrs. Hellermann spoke German and was a recent immigrant from a town on the Hungarian-German border. When she saw the condition of the apartment, she mentioned casually that the previous tenants had probably been Jews. I was shocked, and I told her that if she did not want to work for Jews, she had better leave right away. Embarrassed, she assured me that this was not the case. Mrs. Hellermann provided us with trusted help for thirty-six years.

  In order to get to the second bedroom, the baby’s room, one had to go through the kitchen with its ugly brown linoleum. Although this floor covering was the bane of my existence, we never did anything to change it. The apartment also had a spacious living room, a master bedroom and one bathroom. Once again, I felt that this would only be a temporary home until we could afford something better. I kept the place neat and clean and, after climbing the three rather dingy flights of stairs, I was always happy to be back in my own home.

  In the meantime, my mother decided to join us in Canada. It had become too lonely for her in Stockholm, and the prospect of becoming a grandmother sealed the deal for her. Because we felt that she should be close to us in the beginning, we rented an apartment for her on Ridgevale Street opposite our building.

  Judith and Victor Farkas and their family had also moved to Ridgevale Street. Judith had had a second baby, a cute little girl by the name of Sheila. One day she asked me if I would stay with the baby for a couple of hours, since she had to take her older daughter to the doctor. Sheila was about a year and a half at the time. I agreed even though I had never felt confident with babies. Judith, of course, had no idea that I would find it stressful to take care of Sheila for a few hours, but, despite my misgivings, everything went well. An older child was less of a problem for me, and my neighbour Mary on Ridgevale sometimes left her four-year-old daughter, Ricky, in my care for a couple of hours, which I never minded.

  Throughout my entire pregnancy, Stefan talked about
the son we were going to have, and as I came closer to my due date, this began to make me more and more nervous. I kept telling him that there was just as much chance that we would have a little girl, but he was adamant. When I was in my eighth month, I looked like a veritable barrel on two legs. I felt heavy and unattractive and could hardly wait for the day that I would give birth.

  My mother arrived in Montreal toward the end of my pregnancy. It must have been incredibly difficult for her to wind up all her affairs in Stockholm and take care of all the details connected with such a move. But she had always been a strong woman. Once she arrived in Montreal, she was determined to make a life for herself independent of ours. She joined an ort (Organization through Rehabilitation and Training) group, where she met women of German origin, and she bought a car and started to play bridge again. And, of course, she anxiously awaited the birth of her first grandchild.

  My big day arrived at the beginning of December, three weeks before my due date. The circumstances under which women gave birth in the 1950s differ considerably from those of today. The cheerful hospital rooms, husbands present throughout the whole labour and delivery, holding their wife’s hand and wiping her brow and coaching her through the last stage, relatives coming and going — none of these things were done in those days. The lonely, very prolonged labour with impersonal nurses looking in on me occasionally and the last stages of the delivery when I was put to sleep briefly were an ordeal that I have never forgotten.

  I did not quite realize that I had become the mother of a son until I was back in my room. Stefan was overjoyed of course — he had been right all along. When I heard that the baby weighed only five pounds six ounces, I became instantly nervous. The pediatrician, Dr. Doubilet, came and assured me that my baby was fine, but I was not convinced. My roommate had a girl who weighed ten pounds, and she looked like a giant next to my baby. After a couple of days, my little boy became jaundiced, and we were unsure if the brit milah (circumcision) could take place on time. I was frantic with worry. I could neither eat nor sleep and lost whatever weight was left over from the pregnancy even before I left the hospital.