Vol.9,
No.50, 2006 Discovering
My Roots By
Ed Janzen
My
father, Gerhard Nikolai Janzen,
immigrated into Canada in
1927 landing in St. John,
New Brunswick on January
2 having spent Christmas
crossing the Atlantic on
a CPR boat called the S.S.
Montcalm. He traveled to
Winnipeg and thence to Gretna,
a small town in southern
Manitoba where a Mennonite
High School had recently
opened. Its prime objective
was to turn out teachers
for the schools in the new
Mennonite settlements in
Manitoba. Gerhard managed
to learn the English language
and pass the exams for Grade
XI within one year, promptly
moving on to the Normal School
in Manitou, Manitoba the
following year.
Gerhard was born in Russia
in 1905 in an area now known
as the Ukraine, of German
Mennonite farmers who lived
a comfortable life along
the Molotchna River in a
village called Lindenau.
As the second youngest of
twelve he and his nearest
brother, Isaac, were given
special treatment which meant
little hard labour and extra
schooling. Gerhard had passed
the high school preparation
courses and educational training
to become a teacher in Russian
and German. By good fortune
he already had one year of
teaching experience under
his belt.
But when the Communists
took over, teachers were
forced to teach their Dogma.
Gerhard feared the loss of
freedom to teach what teachers
believe students should be
taught. In the meantime a
letter arrived inviting Mennonites
to come to Canada. Applicants
who might become teachers
were encouraged to apply.
Gerhard did. The CPR even
provided the incentive of
a free loan on the cost of
passage if the immigrant
would agree to go west. Interestingly
even the medical examiner
of applicants was a CPR doctor
(slight conflict of interest?).
Once in Manitou, Gerhard
looked for summer work. He
wrote to Mr. J.J. Epp who
also had recently immigrated
into Canada and who had in
fact been his teacher many
years ago in Russia. Eventually
Gerhard did get work on his
farm preparing for the harvest
season. Mr. Epp had two daughters,
Katie and Bertha, and one
son, Jake, in that order.
Gerhard and Bertha fell in
love and married.
On
April 18, 2006, I drove
down to Manitou on a quest.
I wanted to find that farm.
I wanted to find out if my
grandfather, Mr. Epp, had
actually owned that farm
as stated in the Family Genealogical “Bible” called “The
House of Heinrich - The Story
of Heinrich Epp (1811-1863)
Rosenort, Molotschna and
his Descendents” compiled
and edited by Anna Epp Ens
and published in Winnipeg,
Manitoba in 1980. It was
my recollection that on a
certain summer day around
1940, a strange Englishman
came by to visit grandpa.
He acted like an owner specifically
dropping in to collect money.
But what credence is there
in the memory of a curious
eight year old listening
to a one sided conversation
in a language grandpa could
not use?
I
thought the Municipality
office might be of some help.
Luckily both a man and a
woman were present in the
office. He said he knew every
corner of every section in
this area and was sure he
could find the owners of
all properties for the last
hundred years. I said grandpa’s
farm was on the right hand
side of a road leading north
out of Manitou which had
two hills, the first passing
the Cemetery where my great
grandmother, Katharina Epp,
1853 -1937, was buried. They
first produced a book containing
every name of those buried
in the Cemetery. And yes,
my great grandmother was
listed. They then scanned
another map and with me went
through the ownership of
every possible farm on the
east side of the road. No
Epp name appeared. An Ewert
name did appear as owner
of a farm across the road
and this was consistent with
my memory that there was
a second cousin with name
of Ewert near to my grandparents’ farm.
“Why don’t we
go over to the farm and see
if it feels right? I’ll
show the way.”
No sooner said than done.
He led in his half-ton pickup.
It was #244 going north of
Manitou. There was the Cemetery
as I remembered it and the
two hills. The first farm
on the right was similar
to my memory of the location.
I thanked him and waved him
on.
The long driveway was familiar.
The house on the right was
a newer bungalow. The trees
on the south side were not
the tall pines I remembered.
The small machine shed directly
facing me was of newer construction.
On the left was a level pad
on the ground that could
have been the footing for
an old house.
I introduced myself to the
charming mother comfortably
dealing with a swarm of kids
milling about on the floor.
She invited me to look around
on the yard and feel at home.
She pointed to a depression
on the left side of the yard
where an old well might have
been next to a level pad
for an old house.
I walked over and took some
pictures. I stood on the
spot where I thought I was
conceived. It felt right.
This is where it all began.
I could feel it in my bones.
Behind the willow hedge
were the rolling fields my
mother had told us about.
Here she had brought Gerhard
lunch in the field while
he stooked. Here they had
sat in the stubble in the
summer heat and rested during
a noonday break. It felt
right.
I had found my roots.
My parents were married
July 26, 1931. A tent was
arranged to house the event.
My mother told Winona, my
sister, that Gerhard did
not sleep with her the first
night. All the men slept
outside in the tent and the
women in the house.
But Gerhard did sleep with
my mother before he left
for his teaching duties in
northern Manitoba since I
was born some nine months
later, namely May 23, 1932.
My
next quest was to find
the location of Gerhard’s
first school. It is family
legend that I was born in
Manitou but that my mother
took the train with me in
her arms some time after
that, arriving “at
the edge of civilization” in
Arborg, Manitoba. However,
hunt as we might we were
never able to find the exact
location of that the old
school house.
On
one such outing with sister
Betty and her husband Dick
we bumped into a retired
postmistress quite by accident
who was old enough to have
served mail to my father’s
address but she couldn’t
remember which school Gerhard
was attached to or what the
name of the school district
might have been. However,
at the drug store we were
told that the Geography and
History teacher in the Arborg
High School might be of some
help since the history of
the area was his hobby. A
phone number put me in contact
with him. He said politely
I needed to know the name
of the school district before
he could be of any help.
He suggested I go to the
Manitoba Archives in Winnipeg.
A
visit to this excellent
institution was greatly helpful.
It just so happened that
someone had written a thesis
on this very topic. Starting
with the name Gerhard Janzen
we were able to determine
absolutely that the school
district was Rosenburg. I
was shown how to use the
film files and found the
biannual reports that every
teacher had to submit with
the list of students in attendance
in every school in Manitoba.
This document signed by a
trustee ensured the school
would receive the government
subsidy for the teacher’s
salary.
I
requested photocopies of
the school attendance starting
with 1931 since it was
my impression that Gerhard
had started teaching immediately
after marrying Bertha.
However, a request to the
Manitoba Teachers’ Society
to look up the full teaching
experience of Gerhard N.
Janzen revealed that Gerhard
had begun in Rosenburg on
September 2, 1929! In fact
there was a short stint of
six months at a school called
Rosenhoff in Morris, Manitoba
from January 8, 1929 to June
30, 1929. This we had never
heard of before!
Thus in 1927 Gerhard completed
grade XI in Gretna. In 1928
he attended Normal School
in Manitou, and in 1929 he
was a full time teacher in
the Manitoba system.
I
marvel today at the accelerated
pace of Gerhard’s education
in Canada. And he never had
the German accent many immigrants
of German descent carried
and could not shake.
On
April 21, 2006, I drove
out to Arborg. I was determined
to find Rosenburg. Once in
town I found the old train
station neatly restored.
The plaque said since the
train didn’t come into
Arborg anymore, the building
was turned around 180 degrees
and converted into a library.
It was open every day of
the week except Friday. April
21st was a Friday. Slightly
frustrated I turned to the
sidewalk to check out some
older pedestrians.
A tallish gentleman about
my age was entertaining a
younger man with stories
about his school days.
“You
know we three always laughed.
We would get the giggles
and the teacher would strap
us. Every day we would
get strapped. It was for
nothing but laughing in
class.”
No reply from the listener.
“One day we put a
thumb tack on her chair just
to get even. And she sat
on it.” Still no response
from the listener.
“My
two friends burst out laughing.
I put my face in my hands
and ducked down on my desk.
I tried not to laugh. Boy
did they ever get a licking.”
The listener stood impassively.
He may have heard the story
before.
After
a quiet minute I asked
boldly, “Would either
of you gentlemen know where
Rosenburg might be?”
“Of course. I went
to school there,” replied
the storyteller.
“Really.
My father was a teacher
in Rosenburg. Could you
show me how to get to where
the school house was?”
“It’s still
there. Just go out of town
this way. The road will turn
north. There’s the
Arborg Christian Fellowship
building on the left. Go
out about 10 miles and you
will see it on the right
hand side.”
“Thank
you. Did you have a male
teacher by any chance?”
“Yes,
I did.”
“What
was his name?”
He
thought for a millisecond. “Janzen,” he
exclaimed.
“Wonderful. That’s
my name. My father had a
car. Do you remember my Dad’s
car?”
“A coupe,” he
burst out immediately.
“You’re
right again. My Dad had
a Ford Model T coupe. It
was his first car. He bought
it a few hours before my
mother and I arrived in
1932.”
He stood smiling and agreeing.
Walter enjoyed the attention.
“Did
Mr. Janzen strap you?”
“No,
he did not. We liked him
very much.”
“Would
you like to come with me
to find the school?”
“No.
I have work to do.”
“How
old are you?”
“I’ll be 80
years old May 4,” he
replied.
“Are
you still working at 80
years of age?”
“Gardening.
I have to get my garden
in.”
“At
least I should take your
picture. Could you please
give me your name?”
“Walter.
Walter Chomokovski.”
“Great Walter. I’ll
write it down. How do you
spell your name?”
An attractive younger lady
hovered nearby.
“Are you Walter’s
daughter?” I asked
innocently.
“NO. I’m
his wife.”
“Sorry. You sure look
good,” I said. She
smiled. I did not ask her
her age.
Once out of town the paved
road headed straight north.
My chance meeting with Walter
had exhilarated me. The Buick
rolled faster and faster.
A cemetery flashed by. I
passed the green roofed church
Walter had mentioned. The
road turned to gravel; then
crushed rock. The woods crowded
in. Fertile canola fields
disappeared. Finally the
road ended. No school house.
I turned right and soon
encountered a dilapidated
and abandoned home site.
In front of this house was
an old cemetery marker with
German and Ukrainian names.
One was Meier. Indeed, one
of the attendance sheets
I had at home was signed
by Otto Meier as trustee.
A 4x4 truck came storming
up. I hailed the young driver
and asked him whether he
knew where the Rosenburg
school was. He knew and told
me to follow him. We turned
around and back tracked a
couple of miles. A left into
a side road and there it
was, on the corner hidden
from the highway by a dense
grove of poplars.
I
was alone to explore the
old school. The name plate
above the door had been removed
but what still remained was “Built
In 1917”. Gerhard was
by no means the first teacher
in Rosenburg. The wood building
was well built and still
structurally sound. I walked
in carefully to find partitions
to convert the abode to a
home: huge “living” room,
bedroom, kitchen and storage
entrance. There were no blackboards
or school desks characteristic
of a school space. There
also was a cellar which I
didn’t care to enter.
But the close set row of
seven windows was typical
of a school house. Also outside,
still barely holding their
own, were the two signatures
of a school yard: the His
and Hers biffys. I didn’t
venture too closely worrying
that they might be occupied.
I had found my roots. Here
undoubtedly my father and
mother had proudly carried
me even before I was one
year old over 73 years ago.
It did seem like the end
of civilization even today
as my mother was wont to
say. But the windows of the
schoolhouse looked friendly
and welcoming, accepting
quietly their assignment:
to preserve the long history
of dedicated teachers in
a northern outpost of Manitoba.
It was quiet.
Very quiet.
Back
home I did find the names
of the children of the
Chomokovski family: John,
Steve, Peter, and Annie in
1931 and 1932. Walter’s
name shows up in 1933 and
1934.
After five years in Rosenburg,
Gerhard moved to a school
closer to Winnipeg. My mother
must have been pleased.