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  Papa’s letter went on to describe briefly what they could expect on their voyage on the steamship, and explained in detail how they would leave Zalischyky and acquire the documentation they needed to come to Canada. Zev’s lack of description of the steamship had Hannah worried that it was far worse than he said.

  “When he does not say much it is because there is a lot that is not so good to be said. He does not want me to worry,” she explained and crossed her arms over her chest. “This I know. The journey, it must be very difficult,” she added with certainty.

  “Hannah, don’t be borrowing trouble from tomorrow,” Bayla said. Then, holding her arms wide, the older woman addressed their friends. “For now, we should be planning all of us to go. No?”

  The voices grew with excitement, ensuring that before nightfall everyone in the village would be talking about the news from Canada.

  Ziporah slipped through the crowd and picked up the picture off of the table. She took it outside into the sunlight so she could take a close look at it. She examined every detail very carefully. She saw how much her father and grandfather looked alike. She peered at her father’s image, and her heart filled with gladness at the sight of his face. She was awash with relief knowing she would never again forget what he looked like. Most importantly, she saw the excitement in her father’s eyes, and she knew that everything was going to be all right. In just a few months she would run into his arms again. She hugged the photograph to her cheek and then quietly brought it back into the noisy kitchen, still jammed with as many people as it could hold, all talking in Yiddish and Ukrainian at the top of their voices about America. She nudged her way through the crowd and brought the picture back to the table. She tapped her mother to get her attention and then gently placed the photo in her hands. Mama smiled and hugged her through her tears.

  Ziporah found her way outside again and skipped down the path to the stable. She needed to talk to the cow.

  Chapter Nine

  The Head Tax on the Chinaman

  July 22, 1897

  Rupert was filled with a sense of well-being as the carriage pulled up to the Manitoba Club. His mood was brightened by the return of clear blue skies and warm weather after a week of dreary cloud cover over the city. He was looking forward to a pleasant lunch as he ran up the stairs of the stately brick building.

  “Good morning, Alderman Willows.” The doorman tipped his hat.

  “Good day, Frederick. It seems to have turned out to be a spectacular summer after all, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Indeed, it has, sir. There’s nothing more glorious than a sunny July day in Manitoba. I just wish summer was a tad longer. Seems a man just gets himself properly thawed out and the cold weather sets in again.” He laughed as he pulled the brass handle on the ornate door.

  “Right you are, Frederick. Has my son arrived?”

  “Not as yet, sir.” Frederick checked his watch and saw it was well before noon. “Are you not a wee bit early today, sir?”

  “Perhaps. Be a good chap will you? When he arrives, I will thank you to tell him not to spoil my good mood with his usual complaints.” Rupert smiled and tipped his hat as he stepped inside.

  All of the club employees knew that only the very best service would suffice when Rupert Willows was on the premises. The stories of his having verbally abused two former staff members for their lack of attention to his needs were legendary. He was also known to be very generous with gratuities when he was happy. Hence, there was good deal of fussing and flattery as Rupert was grandly welcomed and seated at his usual table.

  Comfortably settled with a robust cup of coffee, Rupert opened the newspaper he had brought along. It was a copy of The Weekly Sun, an Ontario paper that he had arranged to have mailed from Toronto and he was quickly engrossed in the news from the east.

  At the top of the hour, he spotted Alfred across the room and found himself considering how rather striking he was. Home for the summer from his studies at Harvard, Alfred was working at Rupert’s construction business. Part of his required routine was to join Rupert for lunch every Thursday at the Manitoba Club, so that he would become known in the proper business circles in Winnipeg. The young man showed great promise in the way he handled himself.

  Rupert watched approvingly as Alfred greeted and then chatted with the new insurance man in town. Hudson Allison was it? That’s right. They had been introduced in the mayor’s office shortly after he arrived from Montreal. He was very highly thought of, this Mr. Allison. And by the looks of things, Alfred had clearly made an impression on him. Rupert chuckled. His son reminded him of himself. Harvard had truly been a good choice for the boy’s education, he thought. Perhaps if business continued to go well, his two other sons would also have their opportunity for an Ivy League school. Now that he had become acquainted with several families from Harvard, it wouldn’t hurt to start making new contacts through another prestigious university. Princeton or Yale might be worth considering for Elliot.

  “Hello, Father. Am I late?” Alfred smiled and shook his hand.

  “Not at all. I was just catching up on the news from Ontario. Do you read Goldwyn Smith?”

  “You mean that insufferable bigot from Cornell?”

  “Alfred!” Genuinely shocked, Rupert dropped his voice to a harsh whisper. “Please, be careful with your tone. In this room you will find a great many influential people who happen to agree with Professor Smith on a number of subjects.”

  “Of course, Father,” Alfred swallowed his ready retort. He had no interest in starting lunch with an argument.

  “And to correct you,” Rupert continued, “Goldwyn Smith now resides in Toronto. He is retired from Cornell, although they think so well of him that there is talk of having one of the university buildings named in his honor.”

  “Very impressive, Father.”

  “I see how impressed you are. Well, in any case, he has recently bought a newspaper, The Weekly Sun, and will write regularly in it. I do so enjoy his essays. Perhaps if you read more of them you might change your opinion of him.”

  “I see, Father. And what might be the reason you are bringing this to my attention?”

  “The head tax on the Chinamen.”

  Still not sure where his father was going with this, Alfred was hopeful.

  “Do you mean to say you have softened your attitude and wish to see the abominable tax repealed?”

  “Repealed?” Rupert laughed at the unexpected comment. “What are you saying? No, no. Quite the contrary. There is a movement afoot to have it increased from fifty to one hundred dollars a head for each person coming in from China, and I am all for it. We’ll discuss it over lunch. Shall we order?”

  Alfred had only recently begun paying attention to the issue and was frankly appalled by the head tax. From the little that he had learned, he knew the Dominion government had decided to impose the immigration restrictions against the Chinese a dozen years ago, at the time of the completion of the Canadian Pacific Railway in 1885. Apparently, the country no longer had any need for the fifteen thousand Chinese workers who had come to Canada to help build the CPR and wanted to actively discourage any further immigration from China. The policy was particularly popular in British Columbia, where the greatest number of Chinese immigrants lived.

  “Father, it seems rather unfair, don’t you think, that the Chinese have become somewhat unwelcome in the Dominion. Why would the government have encouraged them to come if they didn’t want them to stay?”

  “Ah, allow me to bring you up to date with this, Alfred. You see, we needed the Chinamen. They work hard. And they are in fact, easy keepers, like mules. They manage with their own food. Imagine the money that was saved by not having to feed the lot of them on the railway crews for all those years,” Rupert paused, butter knife in hand to consider his bread plate. “God knows what the Chinaman eats. All manner of squiggly things, I’m told.” He looked up. “Oh, I do apologize for even discussing this and hazarding spoiling your appetite. Th
e main point is that the primary reason they were so attractive for the job was the saving in their wages. The workers from China were paid a third less than the other men who worked on the railroad.”

  “They weren’t paid the same wages?”

  “They are undesirables!” Rupert’s tone was petulant. “They were offered a wage. They accepted a wage. And there you have it. It became customary to pay the Chinaman less and everyone was agreeable to it. What’s wrong with that?”

  “It’s appalling, Father. That is what is wrong with it.” Emotion rose in Alfred’s voice. “They are people. Many of them are men with families thousands of miles away, who now have to pay exorbitant taxes to bring their wives and children from China or face never seeing them again. Does that not strike you as cruel in some fashion?”

  “Alfred! Please lower your voice,” Rupert glanced about the room to be certain they weren’t creating a spectacle and then continued through clenched teeth. “People don’t want more undesirables coming into the Dominion and the government must respond. I grant you they have done us a great service by laboring on the railway, but, really, well, what are we to do with all of them once they have served their purpose? The cross-country railway is long completed. What on earth are we to do with more Chinamen? More laundries? More Chinese cafes?”

  “I think it dreadful that this is the only group to have to pay to come to Canada,” responded Alfred. “It’s despicable. That’s what it is.”

  “I agree with you!” Rupert responded with enthusiasm.

  Alfred put down his fork and stared at his father, now quite confused. “You do? Why, I am both surprised and happy to hear that.”

  “Well, I’m happy to explain.” Rupert surveyed the table and nudged the flowers over an inch, so as not to not disturb the balance of the table setting but to make adequate room to open his newspaper. “Goldwyn Smith says it best. I tell you, he really has the right ideas.” At this Rupert opened the paper and searched through the copy. “Ah, here it is, hot off the presses. Smith writes: ‘What is the use of excluding the Chinaman when we freely admit the Russian Jew?’ ” He paused to be sure Alfred had the full impact of the thought.

  Alfred was rendered speechless.

  Rupert went on. “You see? He is quite right. And so are you.” He picked up the paper and waved it in Alfred’s direction to emphasize his point. “Why should the Chinese be the only group to face such restrictions? There are so many others who are equally undesirable as immigrants to the Dominion.”

  Alfred stared into his plate, his jaw pulsing with anger.

  “Have you paid any attention at all to what is going on in Europe, Father? Russia, in particular? The violence, the persecution, the hunger?”

  “And are we to take in every stray dog who needs a meal, Alfred?” Rupert had lost his taste for the conversation and flipped his newspaper aside. “There are plenty of people in various parts of the United Kingdom who would do very well in coming to Canada. They ought to be at the front of the immigration line. That’s the point of it all. I think Smith is very brave, indeed, to illuminate the numerous difficulties that arise in opening the door to all of these, well, these lower classes, Alfred.” Rupert touched his napkin to his lips.

  Alfred was horrified. “Goldwyn Smith is and will remain the most prominent anti-Semite in the country. I don’t know how you can celebrate the trash he writes.”

  Rupert set his fork down gently on his luncheon plate. He lowered his voice to a hiss and leaned in toward Alfred.

  “You say anti-Semite as if you were referring to a leper! Professor Smith is very highly regarded. He may well express strong views against the Hebrews, but he is right. You mark my words. Generations from now, a hundred years or more, students will be sitting in Goldwyn Smith Hall at Cornell University continuing to honor the man for his greatness. No one will pay a second thought to this anti-Semitism rubbish.”

  Alfred fixed his gaze on his plate. He stirred his fork through his food, but did not speak.

  Not wanting to ruin what he had hoped would be a pleasant luncheon with his son, Rupert sought to take the harshness out of their discussion. “Listen, Alfred, the Americans will also be applying restrictions on immigration soon. You mark my words. They, too, have strong feelings about the various undesirable classes among the foreign born.” Rupert looked up to see that his son had gone from perplexed to disgusted and had retreated into silence. Rupert hated to be shut out.

  “Alfred! Look at you. You disapprove! I see it all over your face. Come now, don’t be disagreeable with me,” he appealed to his son as though Alfred was still a child. “I’ve so missed your company these many months that you have been away at school and in just a few weeks you’ll be heading east again. It is so good to have you home and working in the business with me. I know it has only been a short while, but we have had a good time these last few weeks, have we not?”

  Alfred concentrated on breathing deeply and attempted a weak smile. If nothing else was gained from his life in Boston, there was the hard lesson in never losing one’s temper in society. Father and son sat in silence while the clock chimed loudly against the murmur of the conversations in the dining room. Finally, Alfred quietly placed his fork and knife together at just the right angle to close his luncheon plate and then carefully folded his napkin. At last he spoke.

  “Father, I must tell you I most vehemently disagree with your position on the head tax. It matters not to me if it is on the Chinese, or on the Hebrews, or on any soul wishing to come to Canada for that matter. I am appalled that anyone would have to pay a special tariff just to enter this country.”

  Now it was Rupert’s turn to be shocked.

  “Is this what I paid for you to learn at Harvard?” His eyes narrowed, and when he spoke there was an all-too-familiar severity in his voice. “I will state plainly and clearly to you, my dear son, that Smith’s views on the dangers of admitting the Jews are straight in line with my own beliefs, and here is why. The Jews do not assimilate. Yes, they will learn to speak English, I grant you, but that is only because the Jew will speak any language needed in order to conduct business. This is a fact. But he will not make any effort to become Christian. Jews never do. You can trust my word that the Jew is going to be a major problem for our growing country, much more than any other group including the Chinaman. The best solution is to slow, or better yet to stop them from coming. Goldwyn Smith is an authority on this, and you must admit that his arguments are very compelling.” Rupert again picked up the paper and donned his reading glasses while Alfred simmered.

  “Just listen to this. It’s one of the best quotes I’ve ever seen from Smith: ‘Two greater calamities perhaps have never befallen mankind than the transportation of the Negro and the dispersion of the Jews.’” Rupert marveled at the passage. “He’s brilliant. I wish I could express myself with that kind of clarity.”

  With this, Alfred reached his tipping point and could longer restrain himself. He spoke in a low tone but with strength of conviction that his father had never heard in him before. “Father, Goldwyn Smith is an intolerant and hateful old man who detests Jews, Slavs, Negroes and Chinese, everyone it seems, who is not blessed with white skin and English as a mother tongue!”

  Rupert dabbed a napkin at his lips and expertly nudged his moustache into place.

  “Well, I think he is right,” he answered smoothly then glared directly into Alfred’s wide-eyed gaze to head off his response. He had grown tired of the defiant ignorance of his pretentiously educated son and wanted only to win the point and move on. When he spoke, his words came evenly but with the focused intensity of a rattlesnake poised to strike.

  “Look again at what Smith states in the essay, Alfred. Look at the trouble that came with transporting the Negroes to create slavery in the United States,” he stated. “My God, son, the country went to war over the very issue. How many lives were lost in the Civil War? And it was all over what? A hoard of Africans who never would have become slaves in America
had they not been brought to this continent.”

  At this he stopped to allow Alfred time to see that there was nothing really to argue. Alfred did what was required of him, not because he agreed, but because of the obvious futility of his efforts to get through to his father. To bring the matter to a close, Alfred chose to concede the point with an almost imperceptible nod. Taking that as victory, Rupert indulged his desire to taunt his defeated opponent.

  He smiled, and teasingly added, “I truly believe the Negroes would have been much happier had they stayed in Africa in their little huts, dancing about their fire pits. I daresay only a few may have even given a second thought to coming to America. Fewer still would have been able to afford passage, and slavery would never have come to be. You see Smith’s point. You must agree that in this instance he is quite right in his assertions.” He folded the newspaper as though handling a precious document and set it aside.

  Thoroughly put off by the discussion, Alfred was looking to escape. He pulled out his pocket watch and spoke without making eye contact.

  “Father, Professor Smith is stuck in the wrong age and can do a great deal of harm spewing this hatred. Now I’m terribly sorry, but I do have work to do and I must leave.”

  “Nonsense!” Rupert turned on the charm. “Alfred, Alfred, please. We have many exciting things to discuss. Stay. You are making a lot more of this issue than it deserves. That is the truth. And that is the end of the discussion. Please, let us move on.”

  “Fine.” Red-faced, Alfred set his attention on his water glass. The waiter, who had been discreetly watching the developments at the table, saw the moment had arrived when he could safely approach without interrupting. He summoned his assistant, and the table was swiftly cleared. Pastries and coffee appeared before the two as if by magic.

  “Let’s discuss something more pleasant, shall we?” said Rupert politely to bring them out of their silence. “I received a letter from a man named Roger Harrington. He is working in the new immigration program out of Clifford Sifton’s office. He has asked to meet with me and I agreed. You do know that Sifton was elected to the federal government?”