“Oh, yes they would,” Aaron said. “I’ve heard the same speech from my teacher. She says we all need to be “God fearing Christians” and then we’ll be good citizens and make a great success of our growing country. She says there is no room for us to hold on to our old ways.”
“This is what they are teaching you in school?” Zev stared at his younger sons.
“Yup,” answered Mendel. “We even learn songs and sometimes we march. I like when we sing Onward Christian Soldiers.” At this Mendel jumped up and started singing and marching in place. A dark curtain seemed to fall over Zaida Baruch’s face. Baba shook her head and brought her napkin to her lips as Mama put a hand on Mendel’s shoulder to quiet him. Zev spoke first.
“Mendel, it is good that the Christian children should have their songs and their religion, but it is also important that you and other Jewish children will have a school where you can learn to be proud to be Jew. We will one day have such a school in Winnipeg.”
Shifting in his seat, Aaron looked at Isaac’s bruised, swollen face and then at his father.
“You have something you would like to say, Aaron?” Zev nodded to his son.
“Yes, Papa. How come we can’t be Jews at home and more like everyone else when we are at school? It’s hard to be a Jew when so many people think it’s bad. Look what happened to Isaac. You know my friend, Petie? See, he’s a Christian but he likes me and I like him. His pop saw me playing tippy sticks with Petie and all of a sudden it’s like I was caught stealin’ or something. Petie’s father started hollerin’ and chased me away. Oh, was he yelling! You know what he said?” Aaron caught his mother’s stern look out of the corner of his eye and his voice trailed off as he wound up his story. “He was yelling words I can’t say at the table.”
“This happens. It is complicated.” Zev answered quietly.
“Papa, we’re just a couple of kids playing a game,” Aaron continued. “We don’t care that we don’t say the same prayers or celebrate the same holidays. We never talk about it. Why is it wrong for us to be friends?”
Zev rubbed his brow and took his time before responding. “Aaron, there is nothing wrong with you being friends with Petie. It is very sad that you have these problems that come from adults who only know hatred toward anyone who is different. Your zaida is right. There are people who hate Jews. Some live only to see Judaism destroyed. You need to know these stories, this history. The truth is you haven’t been properly educated. It is my fault.”
Zev caught himself as he saw the pain on his father’s face.
“My dear family, this is not the time to discuss this,” Zev said.
“No, Zev, you are right to talk to the children about these things.” Baruch told him. “Without knowledge, we cannot know what to believe. Already you see how it starts, hmm? These little invitations to stand and march and sing a pretty song. Then in two or three generations, who will count himself as a Jew? Will you? Will your grandchildren be raised to know and love Torah?”
The weight of his words had quieted the clatter of cutlery. When he continued, it was in Yiddish so the language could flow easily in the telling of a difficult part of his history.
“Aaron, and Mendel, I am going to tell you a story so you should understand that it is not so easy to just throw away what it means to be a Jew. This story is not like the ones you know from the Torah. This story is from Russia.”
The family sat quietly as Baruch calmly told the story of the czar’s army of boys, the cantonists as they were known, in Russia. It had started under Tsar Nicholas. In 1827 he had issued a decree requiring the conscription of Jewish boys between the ages of twelve and twenty-five. Younger boys, often as young as eight or nine, were also taken into the czar’s army.
His goal was to strip the Jewish boys of their religious and national identity. In this way, the government created divisions in the Jewish communities, setting quotas for new inductees and demanding that selecting the boys be the job of the Jewish leaders in the villages. It was a dreadful time in Russia for the Jews. Parents hid their children with relatives. Some resorted to cutting off the index fingers of their sons, so that they would be unable to shoot a rifle, and therefore be unsuitable to be a soldier.
Once inducted into the army, most of the boys never returned home. Their mandatory service of twenty-five years officially started only after they turned eighteen. Not only were they denied kosher food and the opportunity to pray, they were also beaten and tortured to accept baptism to the Orthodox Church. Only when Czar Nicholas died in 1855 did the kidnapping of Jewish children for the army come to an end.
Baruch closed his hands in front of his plate and said nothing more. Isaac, familiar with the story, answered the question he knew was on Aaron’s mind.
“Zaida served in the Russian army for ten years. He was kidnapped and forced to be a soldier at age nine. The same age as you are now, Aaron.”
Nine-years-old, and taken from his family. Aaron couldn’t imagine how he would survive such a terrible thing. “How did you get out of the army, Zaida?” he asked.
His grandfather hesitated and seemed suddenly very tired.
Isaac picked up the story. “It’s only because of the change in the law that Zaida was able to leave the army in 1859, when he was nineteen. All the cantonists under twenty were released. Zaida went home and very soon after, he married Baba. He remained a Jew, despite all of the suffering. It is a miracle that we are here, because it is a miracle he survived.”
“You know your history very well, Isaac,” Zev said approvingly. “Even the dates.”
Isaac shrugged. “I think that if we have to memorize all of this business about the Magna Carta at school, I should at least remember my own history.”
The story hit had Aaron like a thunderbolt. He searched his grandfather’s face for validation. “This is true, Zaida?”
Baruch nodded and spoke softly. “Yes. That is all correct. Isaac you are a good boy to want to know and to remember these things. You make your zaida proud. It is only if we know and we tell the stories that we will remember and we will have a way to be sure it does not happen again.”
Aaron was dumbfounded. Many of the kids from school went to the Greek Orthodox Church on Stella Avenue. “You think some of these goyim who beat us up might have had grandfathers who were Jews who were forced to convert?” His mind filled with thoughts of every boy that had ever swung a fist at him.
Baruch considered before answering. “This, I do not know. What I do know is that many thousands of men and boys were forced to convert. A few later went back to their families. Others never found them again. And here we are, so many years later in a new country with no thought about that suffering. Old country, old stories. New country, new opportunities. But never forget what came before. If you do, the suffering was paid for nothing. It is not so easy to be a Jew. This is true. It has always been true. It is what we are, and what we always will be.” He shook his head. “That’s enough now.”
Aaron and Mendel turned to whisper to each other. “I can’t wait to ask Petie if he thinks his family might be Jewish instead of Ukrainian!” Aaron’s words were loud enough that the entire table heard him.
Isaac backhanded him across the shoulder and before he had a chance to return the strike he felt the familiar thump of his mother’s hand on the back of his head. “Stop that!” She glared at them.
“Well, I’m just sayin’ that a lot of goyim like Petie’s father, who hate Jews, might be Jews themselves,” Aaron defended himself.
“Ignorance and bigotry are hard to remedy. There will always be difficult people touching your life,” Zev said. “Don’t make them more important than necessary. You miss the interesting people when you worry too much about the ones who make you angry. Enjoy your friend Petie. Stay out of trouble with his father.”
The next day Isaac went to see Mr. Gunn at his bakery and got lucky. One of his employees had just quit to take a higher paying job in Rat Portage and Mr. Gunn needed help
right away. Isaac was hired to help stoke the fires for the baking ovens and to get things ready to start the bread rising.
In no time, Mr. Gunn was so pleased with Isaac’s work that he had Isaac working as many hours as the boy could manage. He got up at two o’clock and worked at the bakery for three hours in the early morning before running to sell his papers. He worked another three or four hours after school. On Sundays he got up early and went from one door to the next looking for all the extra work he could find. He dug a garden for Mrs. Fuga, cleaned out a shed for Mrs. Bachynsky, and helped deliver grocery orders for Mr. Matas, who had a meat shop over in Point Douglas. Mr. Ripstein sent him to his mother’s house to help with her spring cleaning. The dimes, nickels and occasional dollars started to add up.
Every day, Isaac admired the new bicycles Mr. Ashdown brought into his store. They were selling like hotcakes, he said. But he told Isaac that he had put the special black bike in storage for him, for when he was ready.
His sleep suffered, but he tossed off Mama’s worried looks. He caught a few hours here and there and somehow managed to keep up with his schoolwork and his chores around the house.
One night in mid-June, Zev came in from a late meeting at the synagogue and found Isaac asleep on top of his books at the tiny table in the front room that he used for studying. The oil lamp had burned low and his brothers were sound asleep in their makeshift beds in the room. Zev watched Isaac for a time and considered how fortunate he was to have dreams of success burning so brightly in his sons. This was what he had fought for in their desperate flight from Russia.
Isaac stirred and slipped from the table, jarring himself awake.
“Papa! What time is it?”
“It’s after eleven. You should get to bed.”
“I’m fine Papa. I have to study for a test in history for tomorrow.”
“How are you doing with your savings for the bicycle?”
Isaac grinned widely. “Three more weeks, Papa. I just need eight more dollars.”
Zev looked at his determined son, and the words he wanted to say got stuck in his throat. He rubbed Isaac on the head as he left the room to go to his own bed.
An hour later, Isaac jolted awake again. He looked at the clock and saw it was close to midnight. His picked up his books and underneath them was startled to see a fresh, crisp five-dollar bill. A short note in his father’s neat writing was under the bill.
“Isaac, you make me proud to be your papa.”
Chapter Twenty
Blackmail
April 26, 1900
The letters of congratulation and the invitations for social engagements came in almost faster than Beth Willows could keep up with them.
The national magazine, The Dominion Coast to Coast, had published a very flattering story about Rupert’s success as a politician and his great influence as a new member of the Winnipeg Board of Trade. The writer had identified him as a fine example of “the new breed of man” that was shaking things up in Manitoba.
Beth was overjoyed at the instant fame that the article brought and was only too happy to respond to the letters on his behalf. To facilitate the task, Rupert had installed a temporary desk for Beth in his library at Ravenscraig.
“Rupert, dear, take a look at this one,” she called to him from across the room. “It’s in some foreign language. I can’t make out a single word. They’ve got your name right, though.”
“Is it local?”
“No. The postmark is from Toronto. Quite a lengthy letter, though,” she said as she peered at the writing.
“Beth, darling, I’m terribly busy. You can’t bother me for each of the letters. If you don’t know who it is, put it aside. Or throw it out. I needn’t respond to every immigrant who aspires to find his fortune in Canada. I’m sure the bloke is looking for free advice. Imagine not even taking the time to write in English. Give it the toss, will you?”
Beth scrutinized the envelope and touched it to her nose.
“Smells like cheap cigars. No wonder. Let’s see, the return address is to a Mr. I. Volinsky. The handwriting on the envelope is not very neat but it is legible. Yes, that’s it. V-O-L-I-N-S-K-Y. Let’s see if I can’t pitch it into the fire from here.”
The hair had come up on the back of Rupert’s neck and his heart was hammering.
“No, Beth!” he shouted as leapt for the letter. “You don’t want to be scattering ashes all over my lovely carpet now do you?”
“Oh, Rupert, you never let me have any fun!”
“Beth, dear, you have been at this all afternoon. That is quite enough for one day. Off you go, I have a couple of telephone calls to make and I will see you for cocktails in about forty-five minutes. How would that suit you?”
“Splendidly. I’ll go up and change for dinner, darling. You do know me so well.”
She reached her arms out to him and he obliged with an affectionate embrace and kissed her on the cheek as she swished her way to the door and winked back over her shoulder.
“Don’t work too hard, my love,” she cooed.
“I’ll be right along. The faster I get through my work, the sooner I’ll be able to listen to all your news over drinks.”
As the door closed, he sat down with the letter. It was in Russian. Rupert looked at the familiar handwriting and felt his skin prickle. This was the last thing he ever expected to have to contend with. The poison of the message was the same as that which flowed in the blood of the writer.
Hello Rupert,
How surprised you must be to be to reading this letter. I am writing in Russian because there is an obvious advantage to keeping this little secret for the time being. I can imagine how happy you are that all of those years ago I forced you to learn to read and write in the language of the old country. You must also be happy I chose Russian and not Yiddish for this correspondence.
Such plans I had for us in those years. I believed we would leave our stupid little farm and go to New York. I believed we would be in the diamond business with my uncle and that by now I would be rich and sitting in a beautiful home, working only if and when I pleased.
Your mother, that whore, ruined everything for me. Every dream, every plan, every opportunity. Here I sit in Toronto, working on Bloor Street. A captain of industry? No. Just a regular slob with a magazine stand in the financial district. But I see that there is hope. There is a wonderful opportunity that came to me in one of those magazines. Imagine that. I believe it was my destiny.
You see, all of the years I searched to find that woman who bore you came to nothing.
Don’t misunderstand. I did not want her back. I wanted to not be working so hard and I had reason to believe her family had money. That turned out to not be true. But, now it seems that I was looking for the wrong family member.
Last Monday started as every day. I was selling the papers and calling out to my regular customers. What should happen, but one comes running back to the newsstand, shouting and laughing. What is it? I asked of him. Look, he told me. Here you are in the magazine, the spitting image of you, with a fancy costume. This Rupert Willows in Winnipeg looks so much like you.
I looked at the magazine and I saw it for myself. It was a big enough photo that I could bring a spyglass to it and I saw the scar on your neck. Why did you not hide it? It must be you wanted me to find you. Is that right, Reuben?
So now, it seems the great Rupert Willows has lots of money of his own. And now, with your slut of a mother dead and buried, here is my chance, a second chance to find my way to an easier life. I understand it must be very important for you to have a quiet and respectable life. I don’t wish to disrupt this. Naturally, if I did, there would be no hope for my plan.
My idea is simply this. With all your money, there must be enough there to afford a little help for your father who with his seed gave life to you.
I want money, “Rupert”. Not enough that will break you because it is my idea to live with comfort for many years, and I am not stupid. So this is
what you will do, my long lost son. You will send to me, to the post office address in the bottom of this letter, the amount of sixty dollars a month. Not a great amount you will see. Just maybe three times what I am making at the newspaper stand. If you decide not to go along with the plan, I have the copies of all of the documents that attest to the birth and name change of Reuben Volinsky to Rupert Willows. I found everything I needed and have it in a safe place. I also have my own documents that will prove that I am your father.
How proud are you that the blood of a Jew flows in your veins, Rupert?
Yours truly,
I. Volinsky
Rupert folded the letter and placed it in his desk. He opened his liquor cabinet and poured a stiff drink. Then, he picked up the phone and called his lawyer. Grenville Doddsworth had proven his worth as a most trusted professional and he was the only one who could help him.
“Doddsworth. I expect to see you here in twenty minutes. No. I will tell you when you get here. No, not thirty. Twenty.”
Rupert went to his safe and pulled out a stack of bills and divided them into two piles. He then put two envelopes on his desk. On one he wrote “Doddsworth”. On the other, he wrote “from R.J.W.”. By the time Doddsworth arrived, Rupert had every aspect of the plan in place.
It would be Doddsworth’s responsibility to handle the payment and all future correspondence from Mr. Volinsky. This turned out to be a most appropriate solution that was to work very well for a good many years.
It was only when Mr. Volinsky became too greedy that matters changed.
Chapter Twenty-One
Alrightniks and Dreamers
July 15, 1900
Malka waited, but no one came. It was only a hope. But hope was what she had lived on for most of her life. She watched as the Winnipeg train station went from being jammed to the walls with passengers and the families meeting them until almost empty. The train had pulled out of the station and no one had come for her. Well, on with it then. Maybe the letter she wrote about the change in her schedule never got to them.
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