Finally, we had arrived in Montreal, Canada. Our goal had been to move to the home of my father’s cousin—our sponsor, Louis Wolinsky, who lived in Yorkton, Saskatchewan, Canada. It had been a long and difficult procedure to find any person to help us leave Germany.
For many years my mother had written to numerous relatives, friends, and acquaintances in all parts of the world. The answers were always disappointing. Even one month before the Pogrom Nacht in 1938, Wolinsky wrote, “Do not despair; have hope; have patience.”
The events of the Pogrom Nacht changed the minds of many who before did not seriously believe that the Nazis would execute their plan to kill all Jews. This horrible action showed the world Hitler’s and his henchmen’s “handwriting on the wall.” This attack against a defenseless people was unthinkable. It made the world come closer to understanding that the Nazi’s unchangeable goal was to exterminate all Jews wherever they could reach them. Thirty thousand Jewish men were dragged in nightgowns out of their homes and sent to concentration camps. About 400 synagogues were set afire and burned down. But the German press did not write about this. In my hometown of Bremen alone, five Jews were brutally murdered. My mother, Selma Zwienicki, was one of those victims.
Again, we wrote to Wolinsky. This time our plea struck a nerve. He contacted local government officials and succeeded in obtaining “landing cards”—permission for my father and us four children to immigrate to Canada. After much negotiation and luck, we finally were permitted to leave Germany. Our voyage was quite eventful. We had left the German port of Hamburg on May 31, 1939, and arrived in Montreal on June 15, 1939. We thought we would continue on our journey to meet and perhaps live with our sponsor and his family. When our ship entered Canada, the Jewish Immigrant Aid Society (JIAS) came onboard and informed us that they had government orders to send all immigrants (refugees) immediately to their destinations.
But that was not to be. Our boat had arrived on a Thursday night, and all other refugees found their relatives, who met them and took them to their homes. We were the only ones left. Since the Canadian law permitted passengers arriving after nine p.m. to stay on board overnight, we did so. In the morning— it was a Friday—the JIAS officer came again. He gave us a very disappointing report. They had received a telegram from Wolinsky stating that he was glad we had come, but, he wrote, “Unfortunately, we had a drought and cannot bring you here.” The “landing card” he had obtained for us had been just a proviso to get us out. The Jewish agency, nevertheless, was intent to ship us west. They took us to a small cafeteria for breakfast. Then they brought us and our baggage to a small Canadian railroad station. “At noon your train [a freight train with one passenger car] will come for the five-day trip to Yorkton, Saskatchewan, your destination. Have a good trip.”
It was a very hot day, and the place was stuffy. My father tried to find a way to stay in Montreal. It was not only the approaching Shabbat, but he also remembered a letter from another cousin, a friend of his by the name of Kaplan, who had moved to Montreal 12 years earlier. Among the letters we had written for help getting us out, the one to that cousin had been returned to us marked “unknown, not found.”
The time passed. It was now 10:30 a.m. Just then the door opened and two nuns entered. They went behind a small desk in the waiting room and put on a light: Travelers Aid. My father said, “I am so sure, my cousin, Kaplan, still lives here, and if he knows we are here, he will let us stay with him. I’ll go over to the nuns; perhaps they can help us find him.”
He approached the desk. The nuns did not understand him. My father did not speak English well enough and did not speak French at all, the two official languages of Canada. On a whim, he tried his native tongue, Russian. To his great surprise, one of the nuns also understood Russian. He explained our dilemma and asked if perhaps they could help us. He told them that this particular cousin had been a playmate in Russia. He had been living in Yekaterinoslav. His name was Baruch Kaplan and his wife was named Bebe. He was a tailor by profession. The nuns quickly started their search with address books and by telephone. There were many Kaplans listed, some beginning with a “K,” some with a “C.” After they had contacted about 18 people unsuccessfully, they reached one family where a young boy answered. “I will call my mother to the phone,” he said. We waited anxiously.
“There are some refugees here who came from Germany,” the one nun explained. “They say you are their cousin.”
“Please let me talk to them,” the woman on the other end of the line replied.
My father took the phone. He seemed like he was talking to an old friend. “Yes, I am Jossel [as he was called by close family]. I am here with my children and the Canadian government wants to ship us off to Louis’s by noon today.”
“No, no,” Bebe interrupted and shouted back. “You will all stay with us. My son will pick you up within less than half an hour and bring you to us. Baruch, my husband, is still in the shop. He’ll be home later in the afternoon. We heard all about Selma, your wife, and what’s going on in Germany. We feel for you; you’ll stay with us.”
In less than 20 minutes we were picked up by their son. We were received with joy and tears, an unforgettable reunion. A miracle had occurred! Yes, changes can sometimes happen unexpectedly. We were sure it would not be possible, and certainly not in our power, to remain in Montreal. We felt relieved. The endless tunnel, we saw, had suddenly opened up to a light at the end.
©2006, Rabbi Jacob G. Wiener. The text, images, and audio and video clips on this website are available for limited non-commercial, educational, and personal use only, or for fair use as defined in the United States copyright laws.