Their Canada and Mine
BACK in 1953, on the first Sunday after my return to Montreal from a two-year stay in Europe, I went to my grandmother’s house.
“How is it for the Jews in Europe?” she asked me.
My uncles reproached me for not having been to Israel, but their questions about Europe were less poignant than my grandmother’s. Had I seen the Folies Bergeres? The changing of the Guard? My uncles were on their way to becoming Canadians.
Canada, from the beginning, was second best. It made us nearly Americans.
About the Author