THE MARINE PERCH ARRIVED in Halifax early in the morning on July 25, 1948 and docked at a place called Pier 21. The pier was shrouded in mist, and it was still dark. Bela couldn’t believe they had actually arrived at a city — it looked like a deserted rocky outpost. He could barely make out a few surrounding warehouses. Many of the sea-weary passengers skipped the breakfast being served on board, their stomachs churning with excitement and apprehension.
The ship was eerily quiet. Most people had slept little, knowing their arrival to their new homeland was just a few hours away. They were elated that the frequently rough seagoing journey was coming to an end. That expectation soon turned to disappointment and depression, however, on seeing the port of Halifax.
A small group of stern-looking immigration officers stood waiting for them as they disembarked. The officers got to work, checking lists, making sure everyone’s papers were in order, handing out tags. The tags were affixed to the jacket or blouse of each newly arrived passenger, like luggage identification labels — everyone was “labelled” according to destination.
Bela’s tag read “Cornwall Employment Office.”
The immigration officers seemed anxious to process the group quickly — they barely looked up at them as they checked for their names on the lists. No one said any welcoming words, no one smiled.
Where had they come to? After leaving the beautiful port of Genoa, Bela thought they had arrived at the ends of the earth.
There was little processing to be done — they had passed their medical exams in Europe. After they received their tags they walked through the warehouse and were directed to board trains standing behind Pier 21. The individual train cars were elegantly emblazoned with “Canadian National Railway.”
Bela grabbed a window seat in a compartment with his fellow Hungarians. The inside of the train was sweltering. Bela had put on his dress pants, black shoes, and a white shirt in preparation of meeting his new employer. The sweat was already gathering in the small of his back.
Officially, Canada took in 10,151 Hungarian displaced persons between 1948 and 1952. Displaced persons could enter Canada under two schemes: the Close Relative Scheme, whereby an individual could be nominated by relatives living in Canada, and the Specialized Workers Scheme, whereby immigrants were contracted to work in a specific industry for one year. Canada required men for employment in heavy industry, farm labour, rural construction work, building construction, lumber camps, and mines.
At mid-morning the train pulled out of the station and headed west, they passed through what must have been the outer edge of Halifax. Houses made of wood, here and there painted light blue and green, occasionally yellow. Hardly a building of note to be seen. An ad for Black Cat cigarettes painted on the side of a garage. In a short time, there were fewer and fewer houses. The train ploughed through seemingly endless low-growing brush, trees, and bushes, rushing past glimmering lakes and over rivers.
The locomotive slowed each time they passed through a smaller community. Bela was surprised to see black people in front of tiny houses that looked more like sheds. Little children were playing in front. The adults stared silently and sadly at the train as it passed, as if they wanted to get on board themselves.
They travelled all that day, and through the night, making a number of stops along the way, arriving in Montreal some twenty-four hours later.
When they finally arrived in Montreal, Bela felt relieved that there was life in this country: they rode past roads with row upon row of big automobiles, the kind military officers rode around in in Europe, and saw multi-storey buildings. As the train slowed, they saw the sidewalks were crowded with elegantly dressed people.
Bela’s friend, Janos, the mechanic, who had been dozing through most of the journey, suddenly became animated.
“See that?” He was pointing to a large black sedan. “That’s the newest Ford. I read about that one in Europe. It has a lounge car interior, and hydra coil for a smoother ride in front.”
Bela didn’t know what any of that meant, but nodded anyway.
As they pulled into Montreal’s massive train station, they saw there were dozens of lines and thousands of people milling about, conductors blowing whistles, couples hugging and saying goodbye, children crying.
Another passenger, Dora, had been translating French billboards along the way. As the train came to a full stop in the station, she suddenly became gravely quiet. Then she started to quietly translate a billboard at the station, and something in the timbre of her voice forced everyone to become silent.
“The Liberals will allow into our country 180,000 immigrants who will grab your homes, your businesses, your work, your capital, your farms, your future, your positions. Duplessis won’t bring or allow —” Dora stopped and questioned her translation, then continued after taking a breath. “Any more immigrants.”
“Who is Duplessis?” someone asked.
But no one in the compartment knew the answer. They sat quietly and pondered the message — the excitement of arriving in Montreal vanished.
The trip to Cornwall from Montreal was forty minutes, just on the Quebec-Ontario border, but in Ontario. Bela and his travel companions were pleased to get off the train. It was hot, they had slept little, and they were hungry.
Cornwall must have been even smaller than Halifax. Two men in uniform were there to greet the seven Hungarian men who got off the train. They all had contracts to work as farm labourers for one year.
One of the uniformed men asked, “Do any of you speak English?”
Bela raised his hand a bit and the official said, “Okay, you’ll be our translator. Will you tell everyone to follow me?”
Bela translated.
The seven men were led to a truck, benches on two sides on the inside, light coming from one window in the back. They sat quietly, tired from their long journey. The short ride led to the employment office. The first person Bela noticed was a bald short man with wire-rimmed glasses pacing up and down impatiently outside the office. When he saw the group coming toward him, he stopped and grimaced, looking at his watch.
“You told me they would arrive by nine this morning,” the bald, short man barked at the official. He spoke about them as if they weren’t yet there.
“I told you, Mr. McGee. These things cannot be predicted precisely. The train was late.”
The new arrivals were lined up. Other local men started to arrive.
“Does anyone speak English?” the bald man McGee asked.
“I do,” Bela said tentatively.
McGee looked at Bela’s form and asked, “What’s your name?”
“Albert.”
“So, you’re Bert,” he replied.
Bela nodded.
McGee went over to one of the officials, signed some papers, then told “Bert” to come with him.
Bela was led to a blue Ford Fairlane covered in dust. He recognized the car from the many American magazines he had seen in Europe.
McGee started the engine and drove. The engine sputtered a bit, then ran smoothly.
“What nationality are you?” McGee asked, giving Bela a sidelong glance.
“Hungarian.”
“So, you are the enemy.”
“No,” Bela tried to explain. “Ex-enemy.”
McGee’s lip hardened.
“No,” McGee remained adamant. “Enemy.”
Bela again tried to argue the point and clarify his official status.
“The war is over, and my official status is ‘ex-enemy.’”
“No, no, you’re wrong,” McGee stated in deliberate manner, without taking his attention from the road. “The war is just starting between you and me.”
Bela glanced at this bald man and thought he undoubtedly had a small brain to match his small body.
He realized there was nothing further to say.
What was there to argue with someone who was well-sheltered from it all here in Canada?
Why should I bother, Bela thought, explaining to him what it feels like to lose your home, your country, to have your family ripped up and scattered about in all directions?
They sat in silence. The car passed a sign that read, “bainsville,” then shortly afterward McGee turned down a short driveway and stopped before a small, ordinary farmhouse. It was midday.
McGee showed Bela to his room and said, “Get changed. We’re going to bring in some hay.”
Bela’s little room was tacked on to the house like an afterthought. It was built above the mudroom, and the stairs leading up to it opened from the kitchen. It had a tin roof. It contained a bed, a chair, and nothing else. The room was sweltering.
He changed and found a washroom where he threw some cold water on his face and took a drink with cupped hands directly from the faucet, giving some relief to the parched feeling in his mouth and throat.
Suppressing his hunger, Bela gritted his teeth. “If it’s war the old man wants,” he decided, “then it’s war he shall have.”