In 1956, my father was living and working in Braunschweig, West Germany. Through his employer, he received an opportunity to transfer temporarily on a two-year contract to an associated company located in St. John’s, Newfoundland. Much to the dismay of his parents (he was their only child), he jumped at the chance. The following is his recollection of his trip to Canada, as recorded in his life story.

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In early January 1957, I received my visitors’ visa for Canada. I informed my employer, and they booked my flight to Newfoundland. Apart from the fact that I would be picked up at the airport in St. John’s, no one could tell me what to expect after my arrival. Fortunately I wasn’t too concerned about the situation, figuring I would manage somehow.

Early on the morning of January 17^th, my father accompanied me by train to Hamburg airport – he’d taken the day off work expressly to do this. The first leg of my flight took me to Brussels, Belgium. I was nervous at the outset because it was my first ever flight and I didn’t know what to expect. After landing in Brussels, most of my apprehension left me as I discovered I had enjoyed the experience of flying.

From Brussels, I next flew to Manchester, England. The landing there was rough, and several passengers got sick. Once on the ground, we all had to deplane. Upon arrival in the waiting room, one of my fellow passengers sat down at a table, put his head into his arms and sobbed uncontrollably for most of the time we were waiting. I found out later he was a Hungarian national. I concluded that he was likely fleeing his country after the invasion of Hungary by the Soviet Union to suppress the uprising that had occurred there in late October/early November of 1956. The uncertainty of a new life in the United States combined with the air sickness he had experienced must have made him absolutely miserable.

From Manchester we flew to Shannon, Ireland, which was the jumping off point for most cross-Atlantic flights. In those days all planes were turbo props with a somewhat limited range – overseas flights routinely had to stop in Gander, Newfoundland to refuel before continuing on to other parts of North America.

As we approached Gander late in the afternoon, some announcements came over the public address system. Due to my limited English abilities, I did not understand what was being said. However, I soon realized that our plane had kept flying long past our scheduled arrival time. Subsequently I found out that the plane was unable to land due to a raging snowstorm in Central Newfoundland. Instead, our flight was being diverted to Goose Bay, Labrador. Needless to say, I had never heard of Goose Bay nor did I have any real appreciation of where Labrador was located. Upon arrival in Goose Bay, we once again had to deplane. As I exited the plane, I took a deep breath of the first fresh air I’d had in hours – and my nostrils nearly froze together from the cold!

Eventually all the passengers who had been scheduled to leave the flight in Gander were called together and made to understand that we would be continuing on to the flight’s final destination – New York City. As there were no regularly scheduled flights between Goose Bay and Gander or St. John’s in those days, we might otherwise have been stuck in Labrador for several days. So for the airline it was the logical thing to do … and off we went! It was still daylight when we neared New York and I was excited to get a glimpse of Manhattan and its skyscrapers.

In preparation for landing in the U.S., we had been required to fill out a landing card with all kinds of questions: some I could understand and answered easily. However, other questions were beyond my English language abilities, so I figured it was prudent to just answer those with “no.”

The real fun started after we landed and disembarked. The first thing I had to do was hand over my passport to an official. I guess it was a precautionary measure to prevent me from getting any ideas about leaving the airport and “disappearing” in New York.

Things only got more complicated from there. Before leaving Germany, my well-meaning mother had given me some oranges and other food to take along on my trip. By the time I arrived in New York, I still had one orange left, but I had answered “no” to the question about bringing fresh fruit into the United States. The customs officer who searched my luggage began yelling at me, but of course I did not understand one word and must have looked quite bewildered. Thanks to a woman who quickly grasped my predicament and was able to speak German, the situation was resolved when I agreed to give up my contraband fruit. I was finally free to explore what was then still known as Idlewild, later renamed Kennedy Airport.

Although we had been fed on the plane, by now I was ready for a more substantial meal. I took a leisurely stroll through the airport looking at various restaurants. I finally found one that looked appealing. I entered and chose a table in one of the rooms, of which there were several. Although there were waitresses constantly buzzing by me, it soon became clear I was being deliberately overlooked – I tried to get some attention, but without any success. I concluded that I had chosen a room that was specially reserved for certain people, so I got up and moved to another room – with the same result. I concluded that I was definitely being ignored. At this point I got up to leave. As I opened the door of the restaurant to exit, a waitress tugged on my sleeve, directed me to a table and handed me a menu. After I studied it for a while, totally perplexed and not able to identify one item, I finally picked one and pointed it out to the waitress.

At this stage my mouth was watering, and I waited anxiously for the waitress to return with my order. When she did, she was carrying a large green salad, several bottles of salad dressing and a couple of slices of bread. I hoped that no one was watching because I knew my disappointment must have shown clearly on my face. To make the best of a bad situation, I made a show of digging into the salad to make it look as if it was what I had really desired – I ate the bread and about half the salad before taking my leave. Of course I was far from satisfied and headed to a nearby snack bar where I could point to the food I wanted. I ordered myself a hamburger and devoured it.

Once I had eaten, I headed back to the airline counter. There I discovered that I would be flying to Montreal later that evening, where I would have to spend the night, before being put on a flight to St. John’s the next morning. There was no mention of a hotel room, and I was too timid to enquire about that possibility.

Once in Montreal, I found the airport terminal small, drafty and crowded. I somehow managed to find a reasonably comfortable chair and settled in for the night. By this time I had been travelling for over 24 hours and I promptly fell asleep. Sometime during the night I woke up to find an American soldier sitting beside me, trying to talk to me. While I hardly understood a word he was saying, I quickly realized by his slurred speech that he was heavily intoxicated. In the spite of the fact that I did not respond, he just kept on talking. So I simply ignored him and went back to sleep.

In the morning I managed to get something to eat and eventually boarded the Air Canada (then known as Trans-Canada Airlines) flight to St. John’s. Whereas today there are direct flights from either Montreal or Toronto to St. John’s, that was not the case in 1957. My flight touched down numerous times, including in Moncton (NB), Charlottetown (PE), Halifax and Sydney (NS), and Stephenville and Gander (NL) before finally landing in St. John’s. In other words, it was the proverbial “milk run” and took the better part of a day to arrive at my final destination.

We arrived late in the afternoon, just before dark, and of course no one was there to pick me up. Again I found the terminal building small, old and rundown. I managed to find a pay phone and tried to phone the company. Fortunately I had written down the company’s telephone number from a letter I had received about my new employment before leaving Germany. A woman answered the phone, and using my broken English I tried to explain who I was, that I was at the airport and hoping that someone could pick me up. As it turned out, the woman on the line was German, which made the communication much easier for me!

Before leaving Germany, I had envisioned that I would be picked up from the airport in St. John’s by someone driving one of those big 1950s American cars and I was looking forward to getting a ride in such a luxurious vehicle. Imagine my great dismay and disappointment when a gentleman showed up in a Volkswagen Beetle.