After the ceremony in the synagogue, we all drove to the Hotel Bristol on Karl Johans gate for dinner. We had only about eighteen guests, among them our former tenant, Ruth, who with her husband, Martin Markus, had come to Oslo from Elverum, despite the terrible weather. After the dinner, they offered to drive us to Lillehammer, where we were going to spend our honeymoon and which was on their way home. It was quite a drive. Stefan, who was prone to car sickness, sat in the front with Martin, and I sat in the back with Ruth as we made our way through the snowy landscape with the storm blowing all around us. It was late at night when Ruth and Martin let us off in Lillehammer. Although I spoke to Ruth on the telephone, we never met again.
At the end of our honeymoon, Stefan and I returned to Oslo and began our life together. My mother had not given up the apartment when she learned that we were getting married, nor had she taken any of the furniture to Sweden. With our combined incomes, Stefan and I could well afford the apartment. We felt very lucky. Few young married couples were able to have such a lovely home at the time, and we enjoyed it. Astonishingly, I became a totally compulsive housewife. Gone were the days when my mother scolded me for being messy. This was my home, and everything had to be in order all the time. My cooking left a lot to be desired, but I soon came to like baking, with my mother’s recipes as my guide.
Both Stefan and I were very busy. I was still working at Ole Bull A/S, but one hour less a day. Stefan soon became a partner in a business manufacturing and selling first gabardine pants and then ladies’ coats. Since there was still a serious shortage of materials, people often lined up in front of the store to buy the coveted goods, and Stefan could not turn out enough merchandise to satisfy the demand. This was his first successful venture as an entrepreneur.
We continued to see a lot of Beks, John and little Renée, whom Stefan adored. He had always loved children and would have liked to start our own family immediately. I held back, however, since I was not ready at all to face the responsibility of caring for a dependent little human being.
Around that time, Einar and Marit Wellén came back into our lives. They were already the parents of little Harald, and now the four of us laid the groundwork for a lifelong friendship.
Since practically everybody in our small Jewish community knew one another, we socialized extensively. I occasionally saw my friend Susan, who had by this time moved with her family to a new housing development on the other side of Oslo. Judith and Victor Farkas, the couple whose picture had graced the newspaper when they got married upon their arrival in Norway, lived in the same area with their young daughter, Susan. Although we did not see them much, we knew about one another.
There were also brief trips to Stockholm to visit my mother and Onkel Hermann. It was obvious that he was totally in love with my mother. She was forty-seven years old at the time, and he was sixty-three. He did everything to make her happy, and he succeeded. At last my mother had the lifestyle that she had enjoyed so many years earlier in Germany. The couple travelled a great deal on business and dined in fine restaurants, and my mother bought beautiful clothes. They had a wonderful relationship.
In 1950, when the Korean War started, it never occurred to me that I would in any way be affected. I have never been very political, but as the war continued, we began to feel somewhat uneasy in Norway, despite the fact that the fighting was so far away. It had been only five years since World War ii had ended, and, at the time, people in Europe were afraid of any war regardless of its location.
Those who were most concerned about the war were the immigrants who had come to Norway in 1947. Most of them feared that Europe would be ensnared in a new war. Furthermore, they had no roots yet in Norway, and the majority still struggled with the language and to make ends meet. To the Jewish community, they were the newcomers, and it would literally take a whole generation until they were accepted as equals.
At the end of 1950, it became known that immigration to Canada had become quite easy. All one needed was proof of work there, which could be obtained through the Jewish immigrant societies in Canadian cities. Soon many of the new immigrants prepared to leave. Since this type of exodus is contagious, people who had not considered leaving started to do so. “Immigration fever” spread like wildfire.
When Stefan and I first talked about the possibility of emigrating, too, I did not want to consider it. Norway was my home. I loved the country and its people, despite the fact that, being Jewish, I had always felt like somewhat of an outsider. And who could guarantee that I would ever feel more at home elsewhere?
In the summer of 1950, we went to Denmark on a brief vacation, taking along our bicycles. In Copenhagen, which I remember as a beautiful city with wide tree-lined streets, everyone cycled, from messenger boys to ceos. What I recall best of that trip is my struggle to keep up with Stefan on my bicycle. The traffic at certain times of the day was so heavy that I could barely see him in front of me, and I was scared of losing him or being toppled over by other cyclists. We visited some of my mother’s friends, went to Tivoli Gardens and enjoyed the wonderful Danish food.
Although leaving Norway was only a possibility at the time, the main purpose of our trip was to make some inquiries at the Venezuelan consulate in Copenhagen regarding immigration to Venezuela. We actually had an interview with the consul himself, who incredulously did everything he could to dissuade us from making his country our new home. Although immigration to Venezuela was not difficult, the requirements easily met, we decided against this idea because of the consul’s comments.
But immigration fever had gripped us. Stefan felt that business opportunities would be better overseas than in Oslo, and we had also realized that the outlook for a Jewish life in Norway was limited. We wanted our children to grow up in a more Jewish milieu. Paradoxically, even though I was reluctant to leave Norway, I suddenly wanted to leave Europe and move to a place where we would feel completely safe. The Guttmann family had already submitted the necessary documents for immigration to Canada, as had Judith and Victor Farkas. They expected to leave in the summer of 1951.
So after giving it much thought, we, too, applied for an immigration visa to Canada. With the help of the Jewish Immigrant Aid Society in Montreal, Auckie Sanft, a large clothing manufacturer, guaranteed a job for Stefan, and we received our immigration documents in a surprisingly short time.
The next few months were difficult. Our lives in the past year and a half had been so pleasant that I often wondered whether we had made the right decision. But the die was cast. We went to Stockholm to say goodbye to my mother and Onkel Hermann. I am sure it was hard for my mother to have her only daughter move so far away, but Onkel Hermann made the parting easier by promising that she could come and visit us in Canada as often as she liked. We sold most of our furniture, gave up our lovely apartment and said goodbye to our friends. Leaving Beks and John was the most difficult of all. They had been steadfast friends and a part of our lives for so many years, and we had no idea when we would meet again.
Because of the prevailing Norwegian currency restrictions, we were allowed to take only a small amount of money out of the country. We invested the rest of our savings in new living room and bedroom sets. We had kept the dining room set that my parents had shipped from Sweden to Norway, so that, too, was sent in a large container to Canada. Because we had paid for the shipment of the container, the shipping company offered us cheap tickets for the crossing, which we gladly accepted. We would be sailing for about ten days. And that was how, in mid-August 1951, we left Norway for Canada, a strange and far-off country.
Arriving on a New Shore
After a ten-day voyage, during which Stefan was extremely seasick, the first thing we noticed when we stepped onto firm land was the incredible heat and humidity. The city of Montreal seemed to be shrouded in a hazy fog, the likes of which we had never experienced before. We made some inquiries and were given the address of a rooming house on Sherbrooke Street,
where we spent the first night. When we woke up the following morning, the heat had not abated, and I realized that the summer clothes I had worn in Oslo would be much too warm for the Montreal summer. Of course Sherbrooke Street looked very different in 1951 than it does today, but we were nevertheless impressed with its width and seemingly never-ending length, all of which was shaded by trees that were still in full bloom.
My mother had given me the address of the son of an old friend of hers, who had been living in Montreal for some time. Leo and his wife, Phyllis, had obviously been notified about our arrival, and when we called them, they immediately invited us to dinner that very night. They lived in an apartment in the downtown area. A bridge table had been placed in the living room and set for four, and we enjoyed a leisurely dinner exchanging information. Phyllis, born in Poland, was a concentration camp survivor. Leo was born in Germany and had come to the United States as a young child in the early 1930s, together with his parents. An engineer by profession, Leo had a well-paid position. The couple was expecting their first child and talked about buying a house. They were helpful in suggesting the areas in Montreal where we should be looking for an apartment.
Since the crate with our furniture had arrived at the same time we did, we went apartment hunting the following morning. Even in Montreal there was a housing shortage at the time, but before long we found a spacious apartment on Côte-St-Luc Road, consisting of a large living and dining room, a well-equipped kitchen and a nice-sized bedroom. After a day or two, our apartment looked like we had lived there for years. The furniture we had brought with us made us feel at home right away, and in this new and strange city, our apartment became our sanctuary.
The Guttmann and the Farkas families had in the meantime also arrived in Montreal. As soon as we could, we visited the Guttmanns, who were living in a large, old apartment on Esplanade Avenue. They were going through a very difficult time. Mr. Guttmann appeared to be ill, and in fact he died just a few weeks later from stomach cancer. Neither Susan nor Marianne was working yet, and when their father passed away, they had no money to pay for the funeral. Initially the family was too proud to ask for assistance, but the circumstances left them no choice. They had come to Canada full of hope for a better life. This tragedy was a major setback for Susan, Marianne and Mrs. Guttmann, one that took them some time to recover from.
Victor and Judy Farkas, their young daughter, Susan, and Victor’s mother were living in a small apartment on St. Lawrence Boulevard when we first visited them. Working in his trade as a hat maker, Victor was struggling to make ends meet.
The first priority for Stefan and me was, of course, to find work. In 1951, low-paying jobs were abundant, and Stefan was immediately hired by a clothing manufacturer as a cutter at a weekly wage of twenty-five dollars. I fared somewhat better in a small import-export company, whose owner was also an immigrant. He was willing to pay me forty dollars a week as a starting salary, and I considered myself very lucky, but I soon decided that this place was not for me.
Mr. Bull in Oslo had made me confident of my office skills, so instead of scanning the help-wanted ads in the Montreal Star, I decided to place my own ad in the newspaper offering my services as an English and German language stenographer-secretary. To my surprise, I received many replies. One of the companies that phoned me was Grinnell Fire Protection Systems, a branch of which became our tenant many years later.
Picture a young woman in a green print summer dress, with a small white straw hat on her head, wearing white gloves and carrying an umbrella. That was me going for an interview with Mr. Jockelsen at Grinnell. Mr. Jockelsen was a department head, originally from Scotland. He assured me immediately that my lack of Canadian experience did not concern him at all as he had found European girls very efficient. He, too, offered me forty dollars a week as a starting salary, with the promise of a raise as soon as I had become familiar with the work. Office hours were from 8:30 a.m. until 5:00 p.m. Since the office was located on Bélanger Street, a bit far from our home on Côte-St-Luc Road, I would just have to get up earlier in the morning. I had the feeling that it would be great to work for Mr. Jockelsen, and I was so happy that I nearly skipped all the way to the bus. I could not wait to start my new job. In my excitement, I forgot my umbrella.
When I came home with the good news, Stefan put a damper on my enthusiasm. He pointed out that since the job was so far away, I would have to leave too early in the morning and would return home too late at night. I had already accepted the position, and I hated to go back on my word. I suddenly thought of my friend Susan. She was looking for a position where quick advancement was a possibility, and I was sure that Mr. Jockelsen would gladly hire her. A phone call to Susan confirmed that she would get in touch with Mr. Jockelsen. What started out as a forty dollars a week job for her grew into a position as department manager. My umbrella was returned to me, and sometimes Mr. Jockelsen asked Susan about “the girl with the umbrella.”
My next interview was at Transocean Trading Company, located in the downtown area. The company was looking for a secretary with German and English shorthand skills, and I met with Mr. Sauerland, one of the ceos, whom I judged to be in his sixties. Mr. Sauerland conducted the conversation in German, and at one point he asked me about my religion. That was not unusual in those days, and when a call the following day confirmed that I was hired, there was no doubt in my mind that this company was owned by German Jews. Surely no German company would hire a young Jewish woman. I was told that I could start immediately, and that the firm would be moving to Drummond Street in the near future.
Transocean Trading Company was run like a well-oiled machine. I immediately loved my job. Ole Bull A/S in Oslo had been importers of steel, and so was Transocean Trading. I was familiar with the terminology in both English and German, which made my work much easier and impressed Mr. Sauerland. The company’s move to Drummond Street caused very little disruption in our work. By then, I had realized that I was working for a German company and that I was the only Jewish person in the office. The principal owner of this company was a man named Stinnes, whose father had owned large metal and iron works in Germany, now defunct as a result of the war. Once I had absorbed these facts, I really did not know what to do. Here I had found the perfect job; in fact, after a few weeks, I had already gotten a five-dollar raise, a fortune in those days. However, I was working for people who might have been part of the Nazi regime. Mr. Sauerland had spent the war years in China, but what about Mr. Stinnes? After struggling with this dilemma for many days, my ambition won out. I wanted to succeed and I was on my way. If I stayed at this company for a few years, I would gain valuable Canadian experience, which would enable me to climb the corporate ladder. So, despite misgivings and a guilty conscience, I stayed.
Leonore Griffin, a Canadian-born girl and a recent graduate of McGill University, also worked in the office of Transocean. She was about my age and became not only my friend but also my mentor. She offered to correct my English letters, and I believe that she taught me the most about the English language. Leonore eventually left Transocean to marry a German doctor, whom she had met through the company, and we lost touch.
Transocean was a busy office with constant phone calls. A young woman operated the switchboard, but when she was away on her lunch hour, the other office workers had to take turns replacing her. This was the task that I dreaded the most. Although my knowledge of English was sufficient in most ways, I was completely tongue-tied on the phone. As well, the intricacies of the switchboard intimidated me, and as long as I worked at Transocean, I was never really comfortable answering the phone.
I had worked at Transocean for more than a year when a new co-worker, an engineer, arrived from Germany. His surname was von Eicken, and his demeanour made me instantly uncomfortable. It was not hard to imagine him wearing the high, black boots of the Nazi regime. Fortunately, I was never asked to do any work for him. However, one day he showed his true colours. I was
in Mr. Sauerland’s office taking dictation when von Eicken came in and whispered loudly into Mr. Sauerland’s ear that a man was asking for him and that he was sure that he (Mr. Sauerland) would not wish to see him. He thought the man was a Jew. I immediately stiffened, and my boss, seeing how upset I was, told me that he had finished and I could leave.
A few days later, I caught von Eicken and said to him, “I was insulted by what you said to Mr. Sauerland the other day. I don’t care what you think, but the time when you can say anything you want is over.”
He replied that he had not known that I was Jewish. I told him that since I was the only Jewish person in a German company, he had to have known. Angrily he retorted, “Aber er war ja ein dreckiger Jude.” (But he was a dirty Jew.) I thought I was going to faint.
Mr. Sauerland had been in his office during this exchange, and he was livid with von Eicken. I told him that I intended to leave the company, but his objections were so sincere that I continued working there for another few months. Von Eicken apologized to me during the Christmas party that year — when he was drunk. A short time later, but for an entirely different reason, I would leave the company.
My cousin Elfriede was our first visitor in Montreal. We had not seen each other since 1940, and now we were grown women. Elfriede still lived with her parents in Bridgeport, Connecticut, and was working in an office.
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