Dear Irena,
I am writing to you from home even though it is the middle of the day and a Monday. Today is Canadian Christmas, so we had a day off work. My stomach is grumbling. All I can smell is the aroma of roasting turkey. Baba stuffed it with bread and rubbed the outside with garlic and pepper and it has been roasting ever since. Mama says that no one at Mrs. Haggarty’s household ever uses garlic. How can someone not like garlic?
I can hardly wait to try this turkey. Mrs. Pemlych has made a compote with cranberries just like in the old country. She says that Canadians eat this with their turkey. Imagine eating sweets with meat! Canadians have some interesting customs, and I want to try all of them. I love that we get to celebrate Canadian Christmas and real Christmas. Are you celebrating both Christmases too, Irena?
P.S.
Oy, Irena. I think I could burst. Turkey is tasty, especially the dark meat. Cranberry compote is heavenly with it.
Tuesday, December 26, 1916
Four days before Afternoon Tea with Stefan!
Dear Irena,
In the newspaper today there is a photograph of a mountain of potatoes. People in Belgium are starving, and these potatoes are for them. I feel so guilty. Here I am, still full of turkey, when across the ocean people have nothing. If Belgians are starving, what is it like in our old country? They must be starving too. I wish I could wrap up some of our turkey and send it to Horoshova.
There is also a story about Santa Claus visiting wounded Canadian soldiers in Britain. Don’t you think Santa Claus is an interesting name for St. Nicholas? These soldiers were wounded in France. I wonder if John Pember is one of them? I hope not. Do you know what the soldiers got? Turkey! I hope they got cranberry compote too!
Wednesday, December 27, 1916
Three days before Afternoon Tea with Stefan!
In the paper today was a list of Canadian soldiers who have been killed. It makes me so sad to think of this terrible war and everyone who suffers — on both sides.
Thursday, December 28, 1916
Dear Irena,
I saw that man again, and you will never believe this. He is Howard Smythe, that awful guard from the internment camp! No wonder he looked familiar. He was huddled at the same street corner, his arms crossed in front of him. It was mild today, with just a little bit of new snow, yet Howard Smythe was shivering as if he had been standing in the street for a very long time. Is he no longer a guard at Kapuskasing Internment Camp? I wonder where he works and where he lives.
Friday, December 29, 1916
Afternoon Tea tomorrow with Stefan!
Oy, Irena. It is midnight, yet I just got home from work. I have moved a chair to the window and opened the curtain just a bit so I can write by the light of the street lamp. The supervisor wanted to get the uniforms finished before the end of the month because he’s expecting another big order in January. He offered a bonus to anyone who would stay late. There were only a few of us who agreed to stay, and that included Slava, Maureen and me. He sent a messenger home to our families so they wouldn’t worry, and then we worked straight through the evening. At nine o’clock he brought in fish and chips wrapped in newspaper and he also gave us each a glass bottle of a drink called Coca Cola. The Coca Cola bubbles up on my tongue in a most delightful way. I was uneasy about eating food from a newspaper, but the supervisor said that this was a very popular dish with Canadians. The fish had a lovely crispy coating just like Baba makes and what is called “chips” is actually much like our own smazhena kartoflia, so you can imagine how delicious it is. We kept on sewing and finished the order just after 11 p.m. The supervisor took us home in his sleigh and he paid us 25¢ each. That is in addition to the 30¢ I would have made today anyway. I am exhausted and my hands ache but I cannot sleep. I am so looking forward to tomorrow.
Saturday December 30, 1916
Dear Irena,
Finally, it’s the day of our Afternoon Tea!
As soon as the factory closed at noon, I walked home quickly. I dressed in my best Sunday skirt and blouse and Stefan put on the good white shirt I made him for St. Nicholas Day. It was bitterly cold so we bundled warmly and took the trolley downtown. Oy, Irena! In all the time we have lived here, I have never been in one of those fancy stores in downtown Montreal.
Ogilvy’s has giant glass display cases filled with items for ladies, like perfumes and gloves and hats. As we wandered through, I was dizzy with the variety. And there is an elevator, Irena. We stepped inside and a man in a uniform asked us to step to the back. My heart fluttered as he closed the door with the big lever. It was like being on that crowded ship again. Suddenly, the floor moved! We took the elevator to the very top, which is where the Ogilvy’s Restaurant is. Irena, you will never guess what happened next! A man wearing a short skirt greeted us, took our coats, and led us to a table. I hardly knew where to look. He was wearing long woollen socks but his knees were bare. My face felt hot with embarrassment, but Stefan just grinned at me. He said that the man was wearing a kilt, which is the tradition for men from Scotland. Ogilvy’s is a Scottish store, Irena. His kilt was in green, black and red “tartan plaid,” which is a very pretty pattern. The cloths covering the tables had the same pattern. Once we were seated, I looked around and was glad that I had worn my Sunday best. Mostly the tables were taken up by older ladies and they were all well-dressed. A woman at a table not far from ours looked us up and down when she thought I wasn’t looking. I don’t think that was very nice of her. Her clothing might be more expensive than ours, and she may have fancy hair, but I think our manners are better!
A lady in a long (thank goodness!) plaid skirt came over and gave a menu to Stefan. He looked at it as if he knew what he was doing, then told her that we would both like the “high tea.”
A few minutes later, she came back and placed a tray on our table. On it was a flowered porcelain teapot, two dainty teacups, cream, milk, sugar, lemon and spoons. This puzzled me. Stefan had said that it was NOT just tea, but that’s what it looked like. As we let it steep, the lady came back. She placed a three-tiered tray beside the tea service. Oy, Irena, you should have seen what it held. On the bottom tier were delicate bite-sized sandwiches on white bread. Here are the different kinds — strawberry jam with butter, cucumber, salmon, egg, ham and cheese. On the middle tier were different biscuits. There were raisin scones, crispy buns and English muffins. On the top tier were what she called petit fours — beautiful little cakes that look like pastel Christmas presents. I think it must be called a high tea because the plate is so tall.
We ate and chatted for over an hour but we never did get to the bottom of the teapot. The lady kept filling it back up with boiling water. There were still some sandwiches and petit fours on the plate when we were finished, so the lady put them in a small box for us to take home. We walked through the rest of the store and then we went outside to wait for the trolley.
As the cold air hit my face, I thought of the people across the ocean with not enough food, and of all the soldiers who were fighting in this terrible war. All at once, the dainty sandwiches, buns and sweets felt heavy on my stomach. I looked at the box that I held in my hands, then said to Stefan, “There is someone I know who is hungry.”