The war over, seven-year-old Lydia and her family are destined for a new life in Canada, but not before a stay in the processing camps that sprinkled drama into the exuberant joys of childhood. See the earlier chapters: The story begins here and Part 2 is here.

@ @ @ @ @ @ @ @

Our waiting period in Hollich before we could board a ship to Canada was a few months, but because we were in several places going through medical checks, I can’t remember which places we were in when some of the following events happened. Luckily this was in the late summer and early fall, so the weather, at least, was pleasant, if not the memory of shots, X-rays and other procedures we all had to undergo. Mother was several months pregnant with her fourth child but I, of course, wasn’t aware of this fact.

Memories of bunk beds in large rooms, divided by curtains to create privacy, stick out in my mind. One of my fondest memories is drifting off to sleep to the sound of a softly strumming guitar or harmonica and someone softly singing some song. I think we had these kind of accommodations in every place we were in, and these must have been army barracks. I have pictures of the buildings and they looked like apartments.

Each floor had a large washroom with several cubicles and a dining area where we all ate. At some places someone would hold an impromptu school, but mostly Brother and I were taught by Father, who had nothing to do once the medical tests were completed. Mother, of course, still had Sister to look after and washing, mending and other everyday things to do, on top of being very pregnant.

At one place I had to supply a urine sample, and my body just refused to obey the order. It was Father’s job to try and make me go, and we must have spent an hour at the facility, me drinking gallons of water, playing under the tap, going outside barefoot to walk on the cold grass and anything else Father and the nurses could think of. I finally gave them a dribble, but it must have been enough because the procedure wasn’t repeated.

Another time, Brother and I were sent to one of the makeshift classrooms where children of different nationalities and ages were crammed together to get a bit of education, and probably to get us out of our parent’s hair for a while. I had just started Grade 2 before we left Hollich, but Brother was older, and because Father taught him, I picked up quite a bit of knowledge.

The one day I remember, the teacher was working on multiplication problems with some Grade 3 or 4 children and none of them could answer his questions. Instead of doing my own work, which was too easy for me anyway, I was listening and figuring in my head. When the teacher asked if anyone knew the answer, I raised my hand and, wonder of wonders, was right. I guess I remember this episode because that teacher praised me up and down and held me up as an example. Was I proud!

Being in cramped quarters didn’t do anything for my behaviour, and I got in a lot of trouble now and again. At one place we were occupying beds on the ground floor and, although crowded, managed to have our own spaces. One lady was lucky to be beside a window and that window was quite low, had a wide sill and opened inwards, like a door. This was near our own space and much closer than the door, at the other end of the large room. When no one was around, I would climb on the sill and exit through the window and go to play. No one caught me for a long time, but one day, coming back in, I pushed the window in so I could get through and in doing so, cracked that lady’s soap dish on the sill. She was lying down, heard the crack and grabbed me. I managed to wriggle free but her threats of dire punishments when she told my parents followed me out the proper door.

Now I was scared. Not of her but of what my parents would say or do because of that broken soap dish. So I decided to hide. Our building wasn’t very safe so I went into the next one, went into one of their bathrooms, hid in a cubicle and stayed there for what seemed like hours. I did go out once in a while to the end of the hall and looked out the window to see if anyone was looking for me. When I saw Father standing in the courtyard, calling me and holding a folded rope, I was sure it was meant for whipping me, so climbed to the top floor and hid in that floor’s bathroom. Again, I don’t know how long I stayed hidden, but hunger must have driven me home for my punishment, which I didn’t receive. That lady never told on me and the rope was a skipping rope for me. (My guilt and imagination have caused me a lot of unnecessary time hiding from what I feared, only to inflict worse punishment upon myself.)

We had brought any toys we had along with us, and that plaster car was one of my prized possessions that I guarded from others. While we were out one time, a small boy, who must have seen me playing with it, went through our stuff until he found it and then ruined the car by putting it in a tub of water. I cried and wanted that boy punished, but Mother and his mother explained he was too small to understand and didn’t mean to destroy it. I didn’t care and later told him if he ever came near our stuff again I would whip him myself. He stayed away.

Sometimes there were long periods of time between medical tests and, if we weren’t needed, Father would take us for walks in the country. The fall weather was lovely and as we walked I would gather all kinds of late wildflowers which Mother carried for me. When we came to a small town there was some kind of religious procession going on and someone noticed the huge bouquet of flowers Mother carried and asked if they could have it for some float. We stayed to watch the parade go by and saw a pretty girl holding our flowers.

These places were mostly run by American soldiers and there was still a lot of traffic around, driven by army personnel. Once, when we were playing, something caused us all to run to an area where there was an accident of some sort. As soon as word got out that a child was killed, all mothers ran to see if it was one of theirs. I remember hearing a mother saying it couldn’t be her son because someone told her it was a girl with a red ribbon in her hair… but it was her son, with blood on his scalp. I can still hear her shrieks of agony.

These same soldiers also provided us kids with what we thought were balloons but found out later were condoms. We didn’t care. What fun to blow these things up and play with them! Once in a while someone would find one on the ground, behind a building or some bushes, but we were told to never touch or pick up one of these. Some kids must not have listened or weren’t told, because they did pick them up and blew them up. This time I listened to my parents and did as I was told.

On Sundays, we always went to church services, and one day Sister wasn’t feeling too well so Mother left her in bed with me minding her. It was a beautiful fall day, warm and pleasant, and I could both see and hear other children playing outside. Since Sister was sleeping, I saw no harm in going out for a while so I did. I must have been gone longer than I thought because the next thing I knew, Mother was coming up the walk, carrying Sister, who woke up wet, discarded her bottoms and trotted on down to the church, calling for Mother. I’m glad I didn’t get into too much trouble that time, but I used to laugh with the rest of them when Father told the story of this bare-bottomed three-year-old coming down the aisle during the service, calling for Mother. Everyone had a good chuckle over that one.

One Sunday, Father, who liked to dress in nice crisp white shirts and light-coloured pants, was taking us for a walk around the compound when a commotion caused us to investigate the source. These army barracks had a cement pool, with sloping sides, and now in the fall it wasn’t maintained. The water in there was green and had a lot of debris floating in it. Somehow, a small girl had slipped in, and the crowd around the edge just stood there, wondering what to do as someone ran for help. Father sprang into action because the girl was exhausted and going under. He only had time to kick off his shoes before he dove in and pulled the nearly dead girl out. By then her mother was there, as were medical personnel, who revived her and tended to Father as well. He was hailed a hero and much was done about the fact that of all the people around the pool, he was the only one to jump in. But all I could think of was that his nice clean, white clothes were now green and ruined.

The time was drawing nearer for us to get ready for boarding the ship when Mother went into labour. Although the baby was full-term, something went wrong and the placenta was delivered before the baby was, cutting off the oxygen supply to the infant, who couldn’t be revived. The hospital was run by nursing nuns, and Mother wasn’t given much hope of surviving. We were all called in to be with her, in case it was the last time. Her bed was fixed so her legs were higher than her head, to stem the blood flow, and she was near death. Someone took pictures of us, thinking this might be the last time we would be together. Father and Brother are at the back, Sister on the bed, and I’m by Mother’s head.

Well, Mother pulled through, but lost a lot of blood and was very slow recovering.

Shortly after that we were on our last leg of the journey to the ship and travelled by train to Bremmenhaven, where we were to board the USS Langfliet. We again had pictures taken, outside the boxcar we travelled in, and those were the last pictures taken of us on European soil. I’m the girl with a white bow in my hair to the right of Father. Mother is to the right of me, looking at Sister, and Brother is the boy on the right.

On the ship, the men and women were segregated and Mother, Sister and I were put in a large room below deck with other women and small children. Brother stayed with Father and enjoyed himself with the other boys. Mother, who still wasn’t well after her ordeal, became sicker and the ship’s doctor had her moved to a cabin on deck with a porthole.

There were two bunks set into the wall and a large drawer under the bottom one for clothes or blankets. I loved being in the upper bunk with Mother on the bottom and Sister in the pulled-out drawer. With proper medical attention Mother’s condition improved, and she would tell me about the lost baby … another girl. I was ready for the responsibility of a baby by then, being eight and a half, and wished this wee soul could have lived.

Brother, in the meantime, was having the time of his life, getting as much food as he could eat, including oranges, which he ate constantly, and having the run of the decks. I stayed fairly close to Mother, feeling that because of her poor state I should be around to help her with Sister, but I did manage to get away once in a while. We made friends during our processing in Germany, and one family had two children around Sister’s and my ages. Since they too were Ukrainian, we all became even closer on board and we children played together. Father had a lot of time on his hands and decided to make me a pair of pyjamas out of that pink blanket that German lady had given me during the war. He had me stand still while he measured and cut, then stitched by hand and tried them on me. It seemed like hours and hours, but eventually I had a pair of pink pyjamas with a white collar that I wore until they fell apart on me.

One day we were all watching the sailors washing the deck and pushing the dirty water out an opening by the rail. Our new friends’ girl, Ivanka, was very curious and got down on her hands and knees to see the ocean rushing by. Her brother saw her and tried to pull her back but she lost her balance and fell overboard. A sailor jumped in after her, a siren alerted the captain, the motors were stopped and a search was begun. Luck was with her, because the sailor grabbed her and she was soon on board, wet but safe. (Years later, we again met up with Ivanka and her family, but she didn’t remember anything of her dip in the Atlantic.)

Father came to get us one night so we could all sit on the deck and watch the red moon on the horizon. He loved to show us the beauty of nature, and many times we received science, history and other lessons that we didn’t know we were receiving.

As we were nearing Canada, someone told Father that the Canadian authorities would punish anyone found to have German money on them and wanted Father to give it to him to exchange. Now, Father wasn’t born yesterday so he declined, but when talking to others, he got worried about the bit of money he had saved for us and, not knowing what to do, threw it all overboard. Only after we were settled in Ancaster, with the nuns, did he learn that it was all a lie about the money, and he could have exchanged it for dollars in Halifax.

At last we came into Halifax harbour. On disembarking, everyone had to go through a fumigating process, as well as all our belongings. We were then loaded onto trains to our final destinations. We said goodbye to many friends along the way to Toronto, but our own journey wasn’t over yet. We had to transfer to another train, which took us on to the Hamilton. I remember the high ceiling of the echoing station, and a group of black-clad nuns waiting for us, one being my aunt, Sister Josephata.

I don’t remember what time we got in but it was light outside, so it must have been late morning or early afternoon. We were piled into a dark green station wagon and I remember trying to sound out the name on the dashboard: P-L-Y-M-O-U-T-H. For years, I thought the car’s name was Ply Mouth, until I spoke it out loud and Brother killed himself laughing.

We arrived at Mount Mary Immaculate, the most beautiful place I had ever seen. The house was a huge mansion with tall chimneys on top of a hill overlooking Dundas and Hamilton. It had lovely trees and hedges around it. We were ushered into a small room just inside the front door, where a table was set with bowls of cornflakes, something I had never seen before. At first I wouldn’t eat any, telling my parents it reminded me of frog’s skin, but on seeing the others dig in, I tasted a spoonful and much to my delight, loved it. Once fed, I looked out the window, making plans as to where I could make a playhouse for myself among the many bushes. It was only later I learned that this was the nun’s convent and residence, and that we were to live in another building.
After a pleasant visit with my Aunt and the other nuns, where I had to recite my poem to St Nicholas, we were shown to our quarters, one room in the upstairs of the house where orphaned and boarding children lived, and were supervised by several other nuns. Mother was to help here and Father was to take charge of the livestock and the vast grounds. Because our room was only a bedroom, Brother was put into another building that housed the bigger boys. Thus we were settled in our first home in Canada.

Continue to Part 4.