A Christmas to Remember

by Carol Matas

  Saturday, December 23, 1916

  Oy, Irena, what a time we’ve been having. I am safe at home right now and it is early afternoon. Just as I was writing to you yesterday, the door to the factory opened up. A swirl of wind and sleet came through and with it, Tato and Stefan. When they saw that Slava and I weren’t at home, they came to get us.

  By the time we got to our flat, I was soaked through and shivering. Slava slipped on a patch of ice and nearly turned her ankle.

  It was much colder when we walked to work this morning, but I prefer cold to wet. The air was crisp and fresh and there was no wind. The snow sparkled like jewels in the sun. I love it when we have a snowfall. The streets look so clean.

  Sunday, December 24, 1916

  When Mama came home from work yesterday, she had a giant raw turkey. She said that Mrs. Haggarty gave each of the kitchen staff a turkey to take home for Canadian Christmas dinner. Wasn’t that nice of her? Have you ever eaten turkey? I haven’t. Mama has packed it in snow to keep it cold and Baba is going to roast it tomorrow.

  Monday December 25, 1916

  Five days before Afternoon Tea with Stefan!

  Dear Irena,

  I am writing to you from home even though it is the middle of the day and a Monday. Today is Canadian Christmas, so we had a day off work. My stomach is grumbling. All I can smell is the aroma of roasting turkey. Baba stuffed it with bread and rubbed the outside with garlic and pepper and it has been roasting ever since. Mama says that no one at Mrs. Haggarty’s household ever uses garlic. How can someone not like garlic?

  I can hardly wait to try this turkey. Mrs. Pemlych has made a compote with cranberries just like in the old country. She says that Canadians eat this with their turkey. Imagine eating sweets with meat! Canadians have some interesting customs, and I want to try all of them. I love that we get to celebrate Canadian Christmas and real Christmas. Are you celebrating both Christmases too, Irena?

  P.S.

  Oy, Irena. I think I could burst. Turkey is tasty, especially the dark meat. Cranberry compote is heavenly with it.

  Tuesday, December 26, 1916

  Four days before Afternoon Tea with Stefan!

  Dear Irena,

  In the newspaper today there is a photograph of a mountain of potatoes. People in Belgium are starving, and these potatoes are for them. I feel so guilty. Here I am, still full of turkey, when across the ocean people have nothing. If Belgians are starving, what is it like in our old country? They must be starving too. I wish I could wrap up some of our turkey and send it to Horoshova.

  There is also a story about Santa Claus visiting wounded Canadian soldiers in Britain. Don’t you think Santa Claus is an interesting name for St. Nicholas? These soldiers were wounded in France. I wonder if John Pember is one of them? I hope not. Do you know what the soldiers got? Turkey! I hope they got cranberry compote too!

  Wednesday, December 27, 1916

  Three days before Afternoon Tea with Stefan!

  In the paper today was a list of Canadian soldiers who have been killed. It makes me so sad to think of this terrible war and everyone who suffers — on both sides.

  Thursday, December 28, 1916

  Dear Irena,

  I saw that man again, and you will never believe this. He is Howard Smythe, that awful guard from the internment camp! No wonder he looked familiar. He was huddled at the same street corner, his arms crossed in front of him. It was mild today, with just a little bit of new snow, yet Howard Smythe was shivering as if he had been standing in the street for a very long time. Is he no longer a guard at Kapuskasing Internment Camp? I wonder where he works and where he lives.

  Friday, December 29, 1916

  Afternoon Tea tomorrow with Stefan!

  Oy, Irena. It is midnight, yet I just got home from work. I have moved a chair to the window and opened the curtain just a bit so I can write by the light of the street lamp. The supervisor wanted to get the uniforms finished before the end of the month because he’s expecting another big order in January. He offered a bonus to anyone who would stay late. There were only a few of us who agreed to stay, and that included Slava, Maureen and me. He sent a messenger home to our families so they wouldn’t worry, and then we worked straight through the evening. At nine o’clock he brought in fish and chips wrapped in newspaper and he also gave us each a glass bottle of a drink called Coca Cola. The Coca Cola bubbles up on my tongue in a most delightful way. I was uneasy about eating food from a newspaper, but the supervisor said that this was a very popular dish with Canadians. The fish had a lovely crispy coating just like Baba makes and what is called “chips” is actually much like our own smazhena kartoflia, so you can imagine how delicious it is. We kept on sewing and finished the order just after 11 p.m. The supervisor took us home in his sleigh and he paid us 25¢ each. That is in addition to the 30¢ I would have made today anyway. I am exhausted and my hands ache but I cannot sleep. I am so looking forward to tomorrow.

  Saturday December 30, 1916

  Dear Irena,

  Finally, it’s the day of our Afternoon Tea!

  As soon as the factory closed at noon, I walked home quickly. I dressed in my best Sunday skirt and blouse and Stefan put on the good white shirt I made him for St. Nicholas Day. It was bitterly cold so we bundled warmly and took the trolley downtown. Oy, Irena! In all the time we have lived here, I have never been in one of those fancy stores in downtown Montreal.

  Ogilvy’s has giant glass display cases filled with items for ladies, like perfumes and gloves and hats. As we wandered through, I was dizzy with the variety. And there is an elevator, Irena. We stepped inside and a man in a uniform asked us to step to the back. My heart fluttered as he closed the door with the big lever. It was like being on that crowded ship again. Suddenly, the floor moved! We took the elevator to the very top, which is where the Ogilvy’s Restaurant is. Irena, you will never guess what happened next! A man wearing a short skirt greeted us, took our coats, and led us to a table. I hardly knew where to look. He was wearing long woollen socks but his knees were bare. My face felt hot with embarrassment, but Stefan just grinned at me. He said that the man was wearing a kilt, which is the tradition for men from Scotland. Ogilvy’s is a Scottish store, Irena. His kilt was in green, black and red “tartan plaid,” which is a very pretty pattern. The cloths covering the tables had the same pattern. Once we were seated, I looked around and was glad that I had worn my Sunday best. Mostly the tables were taken up by older ladies and they were all well-dressed. A woman at a table not far from ours looked us up and down when she thought I wasn’t looking. I don’t think that was very nice of her. Her clothing might be more expensive than ours, and she may have fancy hair, but I think our manners are better!

  A lady in a long (thank goodness!) plaid skirt came over and gave a menu to Stefan. He looked at it as if he knew what he was doing, then told her that we would both like the “high tea.”

  A few minutes later, she came back and placed a tray on our table. On it was a flowered porcelain teapot, two dainty teacups, cream, milk, sugar, lemon and spoons. This puzzled me. Stefan had said that it was NOT just tea, but that’s what it looked like. As we let it steep, the lady came back. She placed a three-tiered tray beside the tea service. Oy, Irena, you should have seen what it held. On the bottom tier were delicate bite-sized sandwiches on white bread. Here are the different kinds — strawberry jam with butter, cucumber, salmon, egg, ham and cheese. On the middle tier were different biscuits. There were raisin scones, crispy buns and English muffins. On the top tier were what she called petit fours — beautiful little cakes that look like pastel Christmas presents. I think it must be called a high tea because the plate is so tall.

  We ate and chatted for over an hour but we never did get to the bottom of the teapot. The lady kept filling it back up with boiling water. There were still some sandwiches and petit fours on the plate when we were finished, so the lady put them in a small box for us to take home. We walked through the rest of the store and then
we went outside to wait for the trolley.

  As the cold air hit my face, I thought of the people across the ocean with not enough food, and of all the soldiers who were fighting in this terrible war. All at once, the dainty sandwiches, buns and sweets felt heavy on my stomach. I looked at the box that I held in my hands, then said to Stefan, “There is someone I know who is hungry.”

  We caught the trolley but got off a few stops before our flat. I explained to Stefan who I was looking for. Oy, Irena! Stefan’s face went white with anger. “After all that he did to us, you’re going to feed him?” he asked.

  It was our first argument in a long time. In the end, Stefan was still not happy with my decision, but he agreed to come with me to “protect” me. We walked to where Howard Smythe usually stood, but he wasn’t there. So I left the small box on a ledge, hoping he would see it when he came back.

  Monday, January 1, 1917

  In the paper today was a story about an internment camp in Sudbury that caught on fire. One man died and many others had to flee. Reading that story brought back bad memories, Irena. And on the way to work today, I saw Howard Smythe again. He looked right at me and I looked back, but neither of us said a word or even nodded like we knew each other. I hope he found the food that I left him. Irena, will you think I am terrible if I admit to you that — even though he is in a bad way now — every time I see him, I still get angry about what happened to us at the camp?

  Wednesday, January 3, 1917

  The same group of us worked after hours at the factory on Tuesday. The supervisor brought us fish and chips again and that lovely Coca Cola. Why is it that when I work late, I have trouble sleeping? You would think that I would be extra tired.

  Howard Smythe was standing in his usual place when I walked to work this morning, and this time he said something. I’m not sure what he said because of the wind. I had a feeling of being followed on the way home from work. I kept on turning, but saw no one. Perhaps it is all in my mind.

  Friday, January 5, 1917

  Oy, Irena, now I am frightened. When I left for work yesterday morning, I saw Howard Smythe again. He wasn’t in his usual spot. Instead, he was leaning against the building right across the road from our flat. Why was he doing that?

  Today I didn’t see Howard Smythe at all. I did tell Tato, and he and Stefan and Mr. Pemlych walked all over our neighbourhood in the pouring rain this evening looking for him. Why is it that I am more troubled by his disappearance than by his watching us? Tomorrow is Svyat Vechir, and I should be looking forward to it, but instead I am brooding.

  Saturday, January 6, 1917

  Svyat Vechir

  Dear Irena,

  As I walked home from work this morning, I was thinking about all that I have seen and done since last Ukrainian Christmas Eve. We are no longer at the internment camp, and that is a relief. I am making good money at the factory, and so is Tato at his factory. Mama’s job with Mrs. Haggarty is secure. Mykola is able to go to school again. Am I awful to admit that I am jealous of my little brother? How I long to go back to school myself. But I know that when the war ends, we all may be out of work yet again. We must save our money while we can. Although it is crowded in our tiny flat, I like living close to Stefan and his family. It makes me feel safe. I am happy, Irena. I truly am. There is just one nagging problem, and that is Howard Smythe.

  Sunday, January 7, 1917

  Rizdvo

  Dear Irena,

  I have so much to tell you, yet so little paper left.

  Last night Mykola was perched by the window, waiting for the first star so we could begin our meal. Suddenly he cried, “A man is out there, staring at me.”

  It was Howard Smythe!

  Tato put on his coat and stepped outside. From inside, all we could hear were muffled sounds. Have you been to a silent movie, Irena? I haven’t, but I think going to one must be like watching Tato and Howard Smythe through the window. Mr. Pemlych and Stefan wanted to go out too, but Mama blocked the door, saying it looked under control. They argued like what seemed forever, but then all at once it seemed over. Tato held out his hand and Howard Smythe shook it. Then the door opened, and both walked in.

  Howard Smythe removed his coat and hat and stood in the threshold. The clothes he had on under the coat were shabby and not exactly clean and he seemed embarrassed about that.

  Tato led Howard Smythe to our table and said, “We are honoured to have you join us this evening.”

  I was shocked speechless, Irena. Yes, it was Svyat Vechir, and of course it is traditional to invite strangers to share our meal on this night — but Howard Smythe? What had he and Tato talked about out there?

  At first, conversation was awkward and polite, but then Mykola blurted out, “Aren’t you that soldier who was so mean to Anya at the internment camp?”

  Tato gave Mykola a thunderous look and I could feel the heat in my face. Howard Smythe blinked and set down his fork. “You are right, son,” he said.

  Then he turned to me. “I am sorry for what I did to you,” he told me.

  I was so shocked, Irena, that I just nodded.

  Howard Smythe sighed and then his story poured out. He was dishonourably discharged from the army several weeks ago and moved back to Montreal. He cannot get a job because of his dishonourable discharge and he has been living at the YMCA and begging in the streets.

  “I know now that is was hard for you when you came to this country,” he said. “Back then, I just thought of you all as dirty foreigners.”

  I gasped when he said that, Irena. Mama went still.

  “When I came back here and saw that you had a job when I couldn’t get one, that made me angry.” He shook his head, then looked me in the eye. “I saw you leave that box of food for me,” he said. “It made me reconsider.” Then he said, “I wanted to thank you for your kindness.”

  Oy, Irena! It was such an amazing evening. I feel like I have had a thorn taken out of my heart. After dinner was over and Howard Smythe had gone home, I perched on Tato’s knee, just like I used to when I was younger.

  “For what do I owe this honour?” asked Tato.

  “I want to thank you for inviting Howard Smythe to dinner.”

  Tato hugged me and said, “It was Svyat Vechir. And yes, it does feel good to let go of the anger.”

  “I wish there was something else we could do for him.”

  “I’m thinking the same thing,” said Tato. “We need help at the factory. If I say something nice about him, and Mr. Pemlych does the same, perhaps Howard Smythe can get a job there.”

  Words cannot express how good this makes me feel, Irena. I hope Tato’s plan works. It reminds me of John Pember’s motto: Actions, not words.

  I have run out of paper, so I will stop here. Stefan and I are going to take a walk in the snow. The world outside looks like fresh paper. I have turned over a dark chapter in my life and I am anxious for a fresh start.

  I hope you like the red ribbon I used to tie all of these pages together with. I bought it at an after-Christmas sale. It should look lovely in your hair.

  Please write soon, dear Irena. I will write again when I get more paper.

  As always, your friend,

  Anya

  Devorah is still trying to make others aware of the desperate plight of Jews in Europe under Hitler’s Nazi regime. And she’s still worried about her brothers overseas, one a pilot with the RAF, one in a Japanese POW camp. A forced visit with her no-nonsense Zionist grandmother, and helping out a neighbour who has lost two sons to the War, give Dev a different take on what really makes a difference in people’s lives.

  Something That Matters

  Monday, December 6, 1943

  Murder!!!

  Murder, Dear Diary. It’s like something out of one of my Agatha Christie novels. A young waitress murdered at the Marlborough Hotel. Her body was found by her parents at 4:40 a.m. She’d been strangled!!

  Mommy actually tried to hide the newspaper from me, worried it would upset me.
Of course I feel terrible for this girl. But what was the story behind it? What could have happened? If only I were like Miss Marple or Hercule Poirot, I could waltz down there and have the whole mystery solved in no time.

  It’s all we could talk about after school at our first carolling practice. Elizabeth is organizing all of us on our street — Paul, me and Laura. I’m happy about that because I love Christmas carols. Especially “Silent Night” and “We Three Kings of Orient Are.” We hardly got any practising done, though, because we were all wondering if we are in danger now and if this murderer is wandering around Winnipeg and if we should sleep with a knife, or at the very least lock our windows and doors! The paper says the girl was in love with a tall, dark, handsome older man — a stranger until recently. I’ll certainly keep my eyes peeled for anyone like that.

  Thursday, December 9, 1943

  Today’s paper says that a mysterious man approached another girl and promised her a job in Vancouver, but she turned him down. It’s thought that he is the same older fellow who promised the other girl, the strangled one, a job too! This other girl said she’s afraid that she is next on his list!! He doesn’t sound like the type of criminal who sneaks into people’s houses — no, he plans and probably picks a pretty girl, and then entices her.

  Later

  A letter from Adam!!

  And one just for me.

  Dearest Dev,

  I can’t tell you much of anything, little sister, because the censors will just black it out anyway, but you read the papers and can see how well the Italian campaign is going for the troops there. Things are definitely looking up! Outside of the day-to-day living, which is getting worse and worse. I dream of scrambled eggs and corned beef sandwiches and pickles! Not the canned kind you get here but Aunt Adele’s, all crispy and full of garic. Mom’s packages are so wonderful — we look forward to them and also to the little things you add. Oh, how I love the Mars toasted almond bars you send.