During the two world wars, many Canadians
were placed in internment camps. These people were immigrants from countries
then at war with Canada. Although many of them had become citizens, they were
perceived by the government of the day as posing a threat to our war
effort.
Today, these people, or their descendants,
claim that the government's action was based on prejudiced policies directed at
certain minorities. They are demanding apologies and compensation. There seems
to be a great deal of ignorance as to what really happened in those dark days
of the wars.
In an Immigration Law class I at Seneca
College in the 1990s, the professor, a lawyer and an immigrant from Africa,
asked the class, “Why is it that only visible minorities were placed in
internment camps?” In reply to what he
believed was a rhetorical question, I informed him that more than visible
minorities were interned, that many Caucasians, Germans and Italians for
example, also lost their freedom for the duration of the war. I got my worst mark from him in an otherwise
“Outstanding” report.
Let's examine a small piece of a personal
record -- my late father's memoirs. My parents, German-speaking Austrians, had
come to Canada in the 1920s. Aside from the usual expressions of prejudice and
bigotry experienced by foreigners in any country, there were no problems. It
was never clear to me if my parents were disliked because they were central
Europeans who talked funny, or because they were Catholic, or because during
the Great Depression they bought a shiny new Plymouth and two rooming houses in
lower-class Toronto. Or was it because they made their own wine, a matter that
provoked police investigation? No matter, World War Two was upon us.
Investigators from the Royal Canadian
Mounted Police visited the working places of foreign-born people (even if they
had become Canadian citizens as did my parents). In the case of my father, this
was the slaughter house of Canada Parkers in Toronto's west end. They
questioned his boss, fellow employees, and possibly others. This incident
became one of my mother's favourite jokes. The inspector asked the boss if my
father ever talked about politics. "Politics?" the boss replied.
"He never talks to anybody about anything." (He later recounted this
story to my father.)
The Mounted Police came to our home,
fingerprinted my father, and questioned him. As a seven-year old, I was always
excited by the mounties. And here they were in our dining room, but not in
uniform. “Do you have guns,” I asked hopefully. They replied no. They asked if
my father if he belonged to any clubs. "All I could say was that I was a
member of the Catholic Church at Dundas and McCaul," my father wrote in
his memoirs. They never returned.
[In 2016, a terrible thought came to mind.
At the time of the visit hanging somewhere in our home, possibly in the dining
room, was a small oil painting of my grandfather’s house in Stadl-Paura,
Austria. My parents had received it before postal service to Austria was closed
in 1939. On the reverse, several relatives extended greetings. One of them
wrote “mit treudeutschen gruss,” translated “with really German
greetings.” It was dated February 1938. Germany
annexed Austria the following month. This greeting could have been interpreted
as pro-German, making my father an enemy, and having him interned. Stranger
things happened in those days of high tension.]
Besides being a quiet-spoken person, my
father, like most immigrants of the time, had come to Canada to escape the
political turmoil of Europe, not to spread it. We never witnessed any
“systemic” government prejudice, as some would have it, directed at us or other
members of our extended family, all of whom were investigated, none of whom was
interned. In fact, my Austrian-born Uncle Richard Reininger was given special
status because his machine shop was engaged in war work.
On the other hand, a number of
acquaintances express pro-Nazi opinions, some rather vehemently. "The
government investigated all Germans and Austrians," my father's memoirs
continue. "My neighbour across the road on George Street got picked up by
the Mounted Police at two a.m. He was a member of an illegal club. He was kept
in a camp until the war was over."
This was the Gembe family, with whose son
Karl, I often played. My father added the poignant observation, "His wife
could not understand why they didn't pick me up." The mother and three
children, Hilda, Karl and Elfrieda, survive by renting rooms. Hilda was old
enough to work. (I have a vague memory of Karl sporting a swastika on his
sleeve, sometime before the war.)
Mr. Gembe was part of about 800 Germans
interned during the war. They were sent into the northern bush to carve out the
national parks we now enjoy. He spent his spare time building beautiful model
sailing ships which he sent home.
The other German family up the street did
not fare so well. The husband operated a car repair shop out of a garage. He
got shipped away one night. Without his income, the wife and one small girl just
moved away. We never learned what happened to them.
These people were quickly segregated from
the general population, and placed in internment camps. Unfortunately, this
meant great hardship to their families. But their internment was a justified
exercise in national security. Not because of who they were, but because of
what they did were these people viewed as security risks. That made them a
legitimate target of suspicion. If investigation indicated a danger to the war
effort, internment rightly followed.
Examination of the official record may well
produce examples of rash governmental behaviour. But before any further
compensation or apology is considered, there should be an impartial review of
the evidence. Let's see what really happened. Judging the facts in the context
of the time will, I believe, justify much of what occurred.
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