Our First Christmas in Canada
In the first week of Advent of this year I finally carried the last relic of a toy which I received that first Christmas to the garbage bin. As one gets older, reason demands that one must discard many of the things one has collected over the years, out of consideration for those who will at some time inherit the problem of dissolving our household of worldly goods. This is no simple task, considering the mass of accumulated keepsakes I have collected for sentimental reasons. For years I have tried to get rid of these little useless but for me valuable articles, piling them into cardboard boxes and wiping out the empty drawers – they are all destined for the thrift shop the next day. But by lunch time, I have already replaced half of the treasures that hold so many memories for me in the drawers, and by evening there remain only a few trivial articles in the box. It doesn’t pay to take them to the thrift shop, and soon they, too, occupy their usual places in the drawers. I go through this process every Advent, so everything will be neat and tidy for Christmas, but this year I pulled myself together and tearfully discarded the last remains of our first Canadian Christmas. Solemnly I gather up several bits of rusty tin from the drawer and put them into the garbage bin, just in time for the garbage collectors. As soon as the bright yellow garbage truck has disappeared around the corner, a peculiar feeling of emptiness, of loss, comes over me, as though a part of me has gone with the little pieces of tin I put in the garbage. They represent a little metal monkey, a toy I received the first Christmas we were in Canada; it was completely corroded and actually its preservation had made no sense for years. And yet – I just wish that brightly coloured red monkey cap hadn’t waved in the wind as the truck moved away! A wave of memories washes over me.
We arrived in the tiny hamlet of Rosenfeld in Manitoba, on the 6th of October, 1925, and were received most cordially by an uncle of my mother’s, Anton Funk, and his large family. Uncle Anton Funk was a brother to my maternal grandfather, Heinrich Funk, and had emigrated to Canada with an acquaintance or relative family as an orphaned seventeen-year-old in 1878; he later settled on the flat plains of the Canadian prairie. The entire land area or “district” between Altona in the east, Morden in the west, the US border in the south, and Lowe Farm in the north, was settled by Mennonites. The virgin soil was exceptionally fertile – black earth everywhere – and through hard work, sweat, and persistence, most of the settlers became prosperous farmers. How clearly I remember our arrival at the farm of Uncle Anton Funk (we always called him that, never just “Uncle Anton,” and my mother was always addressed by all the Funks as “Dickshe” rather than by her first name; no doubt, this was a sign of mutual respect). Uncle Anton Funk drove us from the station to the farm a few miles away. It was a fine property which deserved to be designated as a model farm, with its solid big house, built strictly according to the Russian Mennonite architectural style, and was joined to a large stable and barn. Large well-tended garden areas surrounded the house, and in a remote corner of the front garden (Vorgarten) the family graveyard was situated, where Uncle Anton Funk’s first wife, several children, and also grandchildren had been buried. I always felt a little uneasy in this quiet spot, and avoided the “garden of the dead” (Totengarten) after sunset. Behind the many farm buildings, such as machine shops, pig barns, chicken barn, and the bake-oven, which I thought was wonderful, the farmland gently sloped toward the north, where a small stream called Buffalo Creek wound its way through Uncle Funk’s fields and meadows. Willows grew on its banks, and in spring one could hear the songs of the innumerable birds such as red-winged blackbirds and bobolinks, which were unfamiliar to us (we particularly revelled in the lilt of the meadowlark, which sang, as we were told, “Doft Wieb, Doft Wieb, stoh up!” [David Wiebe, David Wiebe, get up!]), and the croaking of the bullfrogs close to the water’s edge. I remember I was most ecstatic about the beautiful, broad driveway, shaded by tall trees, which led into this idyllic home, where peace and serenity reigned. We knew that in this comfortable house we would not be persecuted; indeed, the doors weren’t even locked, our safety secured by Teddy, the friendly dog, who conscientiously drove the cows to pasture. For my mother this farm was a haven of refuge after the terrors we had lived through in our lovely home village in Russia after my father was murdered. Here, among these wonderfully kind people, she felt safe – here she could put her head on her pillow and sleep.
The day when we arrived on the Funk farm, we were almost overcome by the abundance of food on the long table in the big kitchen-dining room. There were platters of fried ham (Schintjefleish), mashed potatoes, sliced white bread, butter, milk, and coffee – things we hadn’t seen in our homeland for a long, long time. Right after we had left the table, a number of buggies and Model T cars, and even a sedan, or Glauskoa, drove up the driveway. They were the Funks’ married children and grandchildren who came to greet us and make our acquaintance, as well as neighbours from the surrounding farms who were looking for farm help. Around five o’clock, after a wonderful Vaspa (afternoon coffee), the last vehicles left the yard, and only our mother, my little five-year-old brother Mitja (Dietrich, Dmitri in Russian) and I remained – all my siblings had been hired out to good employers, and the only difficulties that loomed in the future were our homesickness and our longing for our home (Tüs). Our mother and Mitja and I were given the Grotistov (living room) as our quarters, something we just couldn’t understand – these relatives who knew nothing about us, except that we were half starved, had three dollars in cash, and a thousand in debt for the CPR transport from Moscow gave up their best rooms for us. With loving consideration our hosts tried to make us feel at home and totally accepted us as a part of their family. They were honest, sincere Mennonites, who had become prosperous by dint of their diligence and hard work. They had money in the bank and in the orphans’ bureau (Waisenamt), but it never seemed to have been of great importance to them. They lived frugally but with dignity, as did most of the families in the district; they insisted on buying necessities of good quality, and never considered buying what Jihaun called Schunt (junk). They helped people in need, were extraordinarily soft, kind-hearted, and generous, and were delighted that we had arrived just in time for the Christmas preparations.
What a fine family they were! It consisted of “Onkel and Taunte” Funk; a grown son, Jihaun, who, like his father, had a wonderful sense of humour and almost bubbled over in his zest and joy of living; a gentle, highly intelligent older daughter, Aunsch, who was an avid reader and became great friends with our mother; and a pretty six-year-old daughter, Neta, who, being so much younger, was doted on and spoiled by all. It took us several weeks to get used to the peaceful life on the farm, and much longer to accept as natural the abundance of the good things of life, especially the well-set table, the treasures of the pantry and cellar, the absence of worry about material things. When we arrived, we each had one set of clothes – I remember how we hated to stay in our cabins on the old ship Melita which took us across the Atlantic, so that our mother could wash our underclothes while we stayed under the blankets. Wickedly, we were glad when she became very seasick in a terrible hurricane that struck us when we were nearing the North American continent, and we could wear our one set of underwear for several days without getting it washed. The first night before we went to bed, Aunsch and Taunte Funksche had selected complete new wardrobes for all three of us, including coats and buckled overshoes, from the Eaton’s catalogue. They had ordered “substitutes” as well, so that we were well dressed within a week! School had been closed down due to a scarlet fever epidemic, but it reopened right after the Eaton’s order arrived. Neta and I were driven to school every day, either by Uncle Funk or Jihaun. Mitja was too young to attend, but attached himself to our Uncle, and they became fond of each other, Mitja trotting after Uncle Funk through barnyard, stables, pigsties, and hen houses. We soon became used to living “out of the full,” as our mother called it, and we were happy.
As soon as all the fall farm work had been taken care of and pig-killing time was over, the social life in the community, which consisted of visiting, picked up. The Funks’ children visited their parents frequently, and many neighbours and friends came over for Vaspa in the afternoon, or right after supper. I think our relatives must have been popular, for in the hindsight, it seems to me they hardly ever went out in the evening; perhaps the sleigh bells announcing the coming of visitors prevented them from going away before the Omtjis and Mumtjis (misters and missusses) alighted from sleighs or Model Ts to enter the house. Since we occupied the living room, the guests were always asked into the dining room (Atjstov), to my mother’s embarrassment, since she was well aware that, had we not been there, the visiting would have been done in the Grotistov. I mentioned before that the house was modelled on the room divisions in the Russian Mennonite homes, with the floors in these two large rooms painted yellow, as they were in Russia, while the large kitchen (Koakstov) sported a linoleum of good quality. The big chrome-trimmed cook stove was always shining clean, and in winter, a fire burned in the grate all day. We always liked this room best, especially in the evening where the cozy lamp with a hand-painted opaque shade hung from the ceiling, casting a warm light on the table around which we sat.
Aunsch, my mother, and I were always reading the German magazines she subscribed to: Nordwesten, Hausfrau, and others. Jihaun looked at catalogues, while Neta and Mitja played “cars” – i.e., they lined up chairs, Mitja sitting in the driver’s seat holding the round, iron coffee trivet in his hands for a steering wheel, Neta sitting behind him, cooing to the doll on her knee in good Mennonite tradition. Uncle and Aunt usually sat in the Atjstov, often joining us at some time in the cracking of roasted sunflower seeds.
I always liked best the evenings when no visitors were there. On occasions, our Uncle would head for the cellar door with measured steps, sometimes asking us children to join him. Always when we were allowed to go into the cellar with Uncle Funk, we half-starved Russlaender were deeply impressed by the abundance, the fullness, of this storage room. There were long shelves lined with glass jars of canned fruit, arranged neatly and attractively (Aunsch had a flair for the artistic). Since our greatest worry in Russia had been the lack of bread – “Where do we get a loaf of bread tomorrow?” (Woa nehm wie Morjen ein Stettj Brot hea?) our mother often asked in despair when there was nothing edible in the house – Mitja and I were most reassured by the many sacks of white flour, either Purity or Five Roses (I’ve forgotten), as well as numerous bags of rye flour and bran, that had been carefully placed on tables. Big barrels of pickled pork (Sillfleisch) stood on the floor, and smoked hams and “red” (meat) sausages, which had been transported from the smokehouse for the Christmas season, were hanging on large hooks. There were huge stone crocks and barrels of pickled cucumbers and watermelons, and tall tin pails full of lard, cooked pork ribs (Repp spea), liverwurst, crackles (Jreewen), and crackling lard (Jreevischmollt, a bread spread), while potatoes, beets, carrots, and green cabbage heads were stored on the cool, meticulously scrubbed cement floor. Uncle Funk then gave me the lantern to hold, since I was the oldest (southern Manitoba at that time had no electricity), and filled a large bowl (Kumm) with apples stored in the two wooden barrels – one contained the smaller red “snow apples” that were bright red on the outside and had a snow-white interior, the other the yellowish-green, rusty coloured “russets” that were softer and blander. Our uncle had a great sense of humour, and somehow the apples in the huge bowls always rolled over the edge and a few dropped on the floors. He chuckled quietly and said, “Whoever picks up the apple first may keep it” (Wea dän Aupel aum easchten opphäft kaun am holen). We quickly bent down and sometimes crawled on hands and knees to retrieve an apple although we could eat as many as we wanted from the bowl for the asking.
Communication between parents and children, relatives, and neighbours was generally lively, and on days when visiting had to be dispensed with due to inclement weather, the telephone was put to heavy use. Most of the Mennonite homes, perhaps all of them, had a party-line system and knew the number of rings for every neighbour. When the call was too long, a neighbour would just pick up the receiver and say “Waiting.” When we heard two short and one long ring, Taunte Funksche would go to the phone and listen. “That’s Mrs. Klassen” (Daut’s dee Kloasche), she said. “I guess her flu is over, since she can call. I’ll phone her later,” and she put the receiver back on the hook. But we had time enough to hear a number of click, click, clicks, because naturally all neighbours were listening in to find out how Mrs. Klassen’s flu was progressing. Actually, Mrs. Klassen and everyone else knew that most of the receivers were off the hook; indeed, sometimes the whole listening audience got involved and there were lively conversations carried on by numerous persons at one time. I think that there was even a general ring when urgent messages were to be given to all people in the community. After some years, party lines made way for private lines generally, and listening in on telephone conversations was considered to be bad manners – being caught in illicit listening could be most embarrassing. I know that as late as 1940, my mother-in-law, who lived on a farm near Winkler, was bored on an afternoon when a heavy blizzard was raging, and decided to listen in, just to get some contact with the outside world. Gently she took off the receiver, but unfortunately she had broken in on a very private conversation between two young lovers. She was almost speechless when the young man admonished her in no uncertain terms, “Mrs. Siemens, get off the line!” (Mumtji Siemeschi, goht ––– vom phone). “How did you know it was me?” (Wo weet ji wea etj sie?), she asked helplessly. “We can hear your Kroeger clock striking” (Wie headen juni Tjreajashclock schlohnen), was the terse answer. At the time we lived with the Funks, listening in was quite appropriate and acceptable. We children were never allowed to use the phone, and certainly not to take the receiver off. “That’s for old people” (Daut’s fe oli Lied), we were told.
Three weeks before Christmas, our mother, Mitja, and I were invited to go to Altona with our uncle and aunt, because they wanted to buy Christmas gifts for the older children and grandchildren, as well as for Aunsch, Jihaun, and Neta. We were packed warmly in fur rugs in the light “Sunday” cutter with the green plush upholstery, hitched to a beautiful white stallion that Mitja adored. There were many sleighs on the road – it appeared to be an unwritten rule in the community that the third Saturday before Christmas was the time to do family Christmas shopping.
It was a cold day, but there was no wind, and the wintry roads (Schlädbohn, or sleigh tracks, as Jihaun called them) were excellent for sleigh traffic. Uncle Funk, who had good horses and fine harnesses, was in the driver’s seat and waved his whip cheerfully at Jihaun standing near the barn door after he had stowed us all into the vehicle – his mother, my mother, Mitja, and me. As soon as we had left the yard and entered the main “line” where all the action was, our uncle couldn’t resist the temptation to pass the sleighs ahead of him. With an elegant flourish, he whizzed by the other travellers, whom he overtook effortlessly, because his horses were in excellent condition, and we had an excellent driver, as my mother proudly acknowledged. “My father always did that when I was a child; you are much like him,” she remarked to the great delight of her uncle. The sleigh bells were ringing merrily as we glided along, and even our mild, soft-spoken Taunte Funksche smiled and said, “How nice to hear the sleigh bells jingle so cheerfully” (Daut jeit ji eefach scheen wann dee Tjlinjasch so tjlinjern). I don’t think all the farmers had sleigh bells, and in hindsight I suspect that they may have been considered too worldly. The pleasant ride seemed too short for us as we stopped in front of the general store in Altona, where well-padded Omtjis and Mumtjis were already selecting their purchases.
There were sturdy hitching posts in front of the building so that the driver could tie up his horses. They were carefully covered with horse blankets. It was colder than we had assumed sitting in the warm sleigh, and the hot breath of the horses formed a thick layer of ice rime around their mouths and nostrils. Mitja felt so sorry for the beautiful horse that he begged to be allowed to rub the frost from his nostrils with his woolen tuque. “You’re a real horseman,” Uncle Funk said, and secretly popped a peppermint candy into Mitja’s mouth. Mitja was quite oblivious to the compliment that had been paid to him when he was pronounced a “real horseman” – all Mennonite farmers wanted to be known as “real horsemen,” and took as much pride in their fine horses as today’s car owners take in their Cadillacs or BMWs. We “Russlaender” noticed that all the Mennonites we had met were very well dressed, albeit not stylishly, but their clothes were of good quality, and well made. Nearly all the older men wore deep black coloured velour caps with a little visor or shield on the front. We learned that these head coverings which the Omtjis wore were made in one of the Mennonite villages, but I no longer know its name or location. Their sons were more modern and wore felt hats or becoming fur caps which they ordered from the Eaton’s mail order catalogue, together with their Sunday suits, spats (buttoned anklets of felt worn over the shoes), and their overalls or work clothes. The younger women and girls also filled their wardrobe needs with items from the catalogue. Deviating from the customs of their mothers, they despised the beautiful black lace caps (Hauben) which were conjured up of laces and ribbons by a cap-maker (Haubenmacherin) in one of the villages. Instead, they wore widebrimmed hats with colourful flowers, and red cherries and wide grosgrain ribbons. Our girls had also been given those fancy, romantic hats by their kind employers. We did not recognize them the first time we saw them in their new clothes – our half-grown children had suddenly fully grown up. Most of the people we met in the Altona store were older, and dressed conservatively.
The Mennonite men were certainly not very polite to their marriage partners, neither had the Mumtjis expected modern courtesies. They peeled off the fur blankets which had kept them warm, drew the big, warm shawls (daut groti Döak) more closely around their shoulders, stomped through the snow, and waddled over the threshold into the store, a bit out of breath, for none of them were underweight. At that time the older generation of Mumtjis still wore the long, wide, pleated skirt with a tight bodice called a Joop or Waanick, buttoned right up to the throat, and had long sleeves, somewhat gathered at the shoulders. On Sunday on the way to church they would proudly wear their beautiful black Hauben, literally works of art, but today was Saturday, so their second-best lace cap (tjleen Sinndoagsche Huw) was good enough. While the men grouped themselves around the potbellied heater and visited until it was time to pay for their purchases, the women happily did their “older family” Christmas shopping.
I observed them closely. It seemed to me that they all bought almost the same items – understandably so, since all the families were large and required many gifts. Nearly every Mumtji had the same order: 9½ yards of cotton material for the featherbed covers, the pattern with the red roses and the green apples, for our six married girls – you understand? 9½ yards times six! (9½ yards Bierenkortün, daut meet de rode Rosen an jreene Appel, fe onnsi sass befriede Mejalles. Vesteist? Sass Mol 9½ yard!) Six pairs men’s gloves and six handkerchiefs – the best – for our six sons (Sass poa Maunshaundschtji und sass Schneppeldeatja, vonni baste, fe onnse sass sahns); for our five older unmarried daughters each a pretty sugar and cream set (fe onnsi fief onnbefriede Dajchta jieda ein schmockitt jläsanett Zockadings onn Schmauntkauntji); and for each three yards of that brown corduroy for a new dress (onn fe jiedre dree yard Maschossta tom Tjlett, von dem dunkel brünen). For the grown boys each a large pocket knife (fe de ütjivossne Jungis een enoret Kjnippsmassa); and seven red and seven green woolen tuques for the older grandsons, fourteen in all (onn saven rode onn saven jreene Wollmetzen ferri ellri Grotsähns).
The gifts having been taken care of, the Mumtjis then proceeded to purchase the traditional Christmas goodies or Nauschwoatj, and were joined by their husbands, who apparently liked to put their word in when it came to choices of candy. Again and again one heard the same conversation: “Pop, how many peanuts shall we buy?” (Vurratji, wo väl peanuts well wie nehmen?), or, “Buy enough chocolate candy; the little ones like them best!” (Tjeep mau jinoag von dee Schoklatcandy; dee eate dee tjleeni Tjinja aum leewsten!). Our eyes grew wide in wonder as the large brown paper bags on the counter were filled to the very top with the wonderful sweets and nuts we had never seen in the last ten years in Russia. There were peanuts and great quantities of walnuts, hazelnuts, almonds, and Brazil nuts. Wooden boxes of oranges and dried apricots, packages of jellies, and candy of all types were lined up on the counter in long rows. Baked goods were of course made at home, but at Christmas time a special delicacy, store-bought cookies (Jikoffte Koaken) were purchased – big brown chocolate cookies covered with shocking pink icing and coconut shreds, packed in metal boxes labelled as “Christie’s Biscuits.” Mitja and I were each given a cookie as a special treat. We both didn’t like them but mother looked at us in a very serious way, which meant absolute obedience, and we ate them, but very slowly and without enthusiasm. (For the first time in years I saw these same cookies in a store, and in a fit of nostalgia, I bought three. They still tasted as terrible as they did then, like sweet cotton batting, and I didn’t even offer them to my grandchildren.)
Uncle Anton Funk paid cash for the whole bill, almost incredible for us. And then we climbed into the warm sleigh; Jihaun had warmed some bricks and placed them on the floor of the vehicle, and the cover of the fur rugs had kept them nice and warm. Uncle flourished his whip, and once we were on the good road, he allowed the eager horse to gallop all the way until we turned into the snowy driveway. The odour of fried red sausages, fried potatoes, and applesauce greeted us as we entered the warm, pleasant home. While Aunsch set the table for supper, we joined our uncle and aunt in the Atjstov, where they were talking to Neta, who had missed them. Uncle Anton Funk still had a little homesickness (Heimweh) for Russia, which he had left as a teenager, knowing full well he would never see his siblings again. He frequently asked our mother to tell him of our life there, our customs and usages; mother was a good storyteller, and we all enjoyed listening to her animated description. That evening she described our Christmas traditions, our Christmas trees at school on the Christmas Eve programme, and our own tree in our home. Uncle Anton had become very thoughtful after that. “Well,” he said finally, “I’m afraid you are going to miss your Christmas tree this year. The Sommerfelder congregation to which we belong to does not approve of Christmas trees.” Mother quickly assured him that a tree was certainly not a necessity for celebrating the Christ child’s birthday. But after supper when we went into our Grotistov, both Mitja and I cried softly – we couldn’t imagine Christmas Eve without a tree.
Early in the next week when Uncle Funk dropped Neta and me off at school, he asked our teacher, Mr. Driedger, for a chance to speak to him. Very likely he was on the trustee board, but at that time we were not aware of this. I was a bit worried, and wondered what had been the object of the visit. I had been so good, I thought, and I loved and admired our kind teacher. What had I done?
Early on the 24th of December we saw Uncle Funk and Jihaun leave the yard on the big farm sleigh. In a short time the sleigh returned at more than a canter (Jihaun was a “horseman,” like his father) and Neta, Mitja, and I, who stood at the window, spotted a little green Christmas tree on the back seat. In great triumph Jihaun brought it into the Atjstov while we cheered in glee. Uncle Funk had that roguish little smile on his lips which Mitja and I loved, but his soft-hearted wife anxiously asked, “Aren’t we going to suffer pangs of conscience for this?’’ But Uncle Funk chuckled merrily and comforted her by saying, “God will be as pleased with this tree as we are, set your heart at rest on that score.” And she did, I’m sure, because she trusted his judgment in everything. They had bought candles and candle holders – actually they had a stroke of luck to get them in Rosenfeld, because the store there did not carry many Christmas ornaments. The Mennonites did not have trees, and the Lutherans bought most items of that sort in Altona or Winkler. It was a fluke that they had a box of candle holders left over after the Lutheran customers had had their supplies met, but there were no decorations. We had no problems with trimming the cherished little tree under the guidance of our experienced mother. Enthusiastically, Jihaun firmly fastened the holders on the fresh green spruce branches and Aunsch hung some of her beautiful cookie hearts and stars made of peppernut dough. We children polished the little red snow apples till they shone and mother tied thread loops on them and hung them on the branches. The tree lacked the usual crown angel top, but we all felt it was a most beautiful tree.
When we entered the schoolhouse for the programme at six o’clock, our eyes grew wide in wonder. A beautiful, tall Christmas tree sparkled and glittered in the twilight of the room. Uncle Anton Funk had made the arrangements for the tree with “Teacher Driedger’’ when he spoke to him that day, not about any iniquities of mine! Apparently our uncle had taken full responsibility for this deviation from the district rules, privately and also with the school board – the tree was bought! In hindsight, I think he must have financed the whole project, for “Teacher Driedger” was asked to drive to Winkler and buy everything that was necessary for a “good, beautiful Christmas tree.” Mr. Driedger was elated by the suggestion, although he was fully aware of possible repercussions, such as losing his job. I remember him as a fine, understanding, kind teacher who taught us many extracurricular activities, especially German songs. I still have a scribbler of them.
After our return from the concert, we were to light our lovely tree, although the gifts (Bescherung) were to be received the next day when the married children with their families were coming for Christmas dinner. But when Jihaun lit the first candle, pretty, shy Neta screamed, “I’m so afraid! Blow out that candle! The whole house will burn down!” Her parents could not calm her, and we all thought that this was the end of the Christmas tree lighting. But Jihaun wanted those candles lit. He grabbed Neta by the arm and said, “Neta, now be still, or I’ll take you into the barn!” (Net, nöu best stell, oda etj go met die emm Staul!). The screaming stopped instantly, and while Jihaun almost reverently lit the candles, we sang our dear old Christmas songs. The Funks did not know some of the songs since the tree was a first for them, so “Der Christbaum ist der schönste Baum” and “Kling Glöckchen” were unfamiliar. Mother, Mitja, and I, who knew those texts so well, sang heartily, and the rest hummed the melodies, joining in the well-known hymns of the Gesangbuch, such as “Dies ist die Nacht da mir erschienen,” etc.
Christmas Day we marvelled at the many dinner guests who were in a happy, festive mood. The yard was full of cars, five or six at least. Their hoods were covered with fur blankets (Pelzdatjin), since, at that time, block heaters or car warmers were unknown. Uncle Funk still travelled by horse and buggy, but his sons and sons-in-law were more modern and used cars. The Funks had six married children, who all had three or four children, some even more. Uncle Funk had had a married daughter who died, leaving several children. Her husband remarried, and he and his wife had several more children, who were all treated exactly like all the other grandchildren. I never knew until I grew up that there were numerous half-brothers or sisters in this large Funk clan. Besides the Funks’ married children there were in attendance that day two further sons, still unmarried; our family with ten members, although one of them was a five-month-old baby, our oldest sister’s son; and a dear cousin of ours, Hans Wieler who had come to Canada on his own, since his parents and other family members were unsuccessful in leaving Russia until 1928. The long wide dining table was set four or five times, although fourteen persons could eat at one sitting. Neither tablecloths nor spruce greens decorated the table, as had been customary in Russia. (Our mother later remarked to our sister Katja, the oldest, that that had been about all that was on the table in Russia, since our food supply was almost nil.) But here in this hospitable home the table was graced by an oilcloth with big red roses on it which shone in its “newness” and the atmosphere was so festive and happy that no one even missed a white tablecloth. All the women and girls except Taunte Funkshe, our mother, and Uncle Funk’s eldest daughter helped to serve the dinner, which consisted of the traditional Mennonite holiday fare: cold plum soup (Plumimoos), cold cooked ham cut in deliciously thick slices, and little double buns (tjleeni Tweebak), with mustard and dill pickles as condiments. The guests must have enjoyed the savory fare; there were so many refills that Aunsch’s face had become quite hot and red from her efforts to put more meat on the huge platters and replenish the serving bowls (Mooskommen). Even I was asked to help with the dishes after the meal was over. I was only too happy to dry the dishes since it gave me the opportunity for listening in (oppschnacken) and could hear all the interesting things the grown-ups were talking about.
Right after dinner, the gifts were to be distributed. We children all sat on the floor of the dining room, and the others all found seating accommodations, either on benches or chairs. Jihaun lit the candles on the tree once again, and once again we sang “Welch’ ein Jubel, Welche Freude,” because it was best known to most of the people there. The singing went well this time; everyone joined in the hymns (Gesangbuchlieder) which all knew, and the Christmas carols (Christbaumlieder) were indeed noteworthy since every member of our family except for Mitja knew the song texts by memory. Our girls, with their lovely voices, supported by our brother Hein, Hans Wieler, and our brother-in-law Jasch Krueger, sang with happy hearts, and if I remember correctly all guests hummed the tunes, which were fast becoming familiar to them. At last it was time to find the plates we had put on the table. Aunsch had placed a note with the name of each child on a plate, and Uncle and Taunte Funk had assumed the role of the Nätklos (Santa Claus). Mitja and I were dumbfounded by our large plates filled to capacity with goodies of every kind. On top of our full plates we (at least Mitja and I) found a colourful amusing toy, the aforementioned little monkey. The monkeys wore clothes on their tin bodies and a melancholy expression on their faces, like real monkeys. Their little tin hands clung to a thin metal pole with a key in a little motor-like contrivance which allowed us to wind up the toy. Once it was wound up, the monkey slid up the pole with a great deal of noise and incredible speed, and then slid down again. What we liked best was that he grinned from ear to ear while he was sliding on the pole and laughed a jolly, tinny laugh every time he hit the top or bottom.
My monkey had a little red cap and red pants; Mitja’s was in blue. I was really too old for the gift, but I loved it as much as Mitja loved his “Grishko,” as he had named him on the spot. We both kept on winding our toys up over and over and made so much noise that mother wisely took the keys away from us for the afternoon.
When we left this lovely farm and serene life in spring to make our own home, Mitja and I carried our toy monkeys in our hands, lest they get damaged during the move. Mitja particularly enjoyed his Grishko and must have taken better care of him than I did of my toy. It seems to me that a few years before Mitja’s death I saw Grishko quite hale and hearty sitting on the edge of the bookcase in his office. But I’m not quite sure whether my memory is reliable here – it’s so long ago. In contrast, I brutally put my childhood toy, or the remains thereof, into the garbage, although with deep sadness – not because of the dashing little monkey, but because I cast away a part of my lost childhood, and only the memories are left.
Elisabeth Peters was a long-time contributor to Mennonite publications in both English and German and the author of a number of prose writings.