Of a Different Time

By Mariana Chalfant

I was born in Belgrade, Yugoslavia, soon after World War II. By the time I turned twelve, my family — my father, mother, sisters, and I — left the country in the hope of finding a better life and more freedom.

It all started when we lived in England for a year, then in France for another year, and finally in Germany for two years. (This was between 1950 and 1960.) None of these countries were accepting new citizens on a permanent basis. While in Germany, my father learned that Canada was welcoming new immigrants, so we applied. His dream was to go to the United States eventually, and he thought going through Canada would make that easier.

Two years later, we were approved and boarded the ship Seven Seas bound for Halifax, Nova Scotia. From there, we took a train to Hamilton, Ontario. When the train reached Toronto, my father wanted us to get off, but my mother — who had lived through four years of Hitler’s occupation of Yugoslavia and was terrified of authority — refused. So, he got off the train and promised to find us as soon as possible.

We continued to Hamilton, got off the train with no money and unable to speak English. We took a taxi and tried to ask for Immigration. The taxi driver, realizing we didn’t understand him, drove us to the Immigration Office himself. The building was locked. He reminded us it was Sunday and asked for the fare. My mother only had German money, so he drove us to the police station instead.

Welcome to Canada!

The police were very helpful. With the support of local citizens, church members, and translators, we were able to start a new life. My mother found a job, and my sisters and I started school.

After a while, my mother began to share her memories of the war — her experiences, her fears, and her stories of survival.

Here is one of them:

In 1942, my mother was a new mother to a nine-month-old baby girl. She was married to Lazar Visich, a well-known architect who was respected by many of the city’s businessmen — some of whom were Jewish.

Lazar began to notice that many of these businessmen, after being ordered to report to the police, never returned. Concerned, he urged them not to go — but they were honest, law-abiding people who believed they had nothing to hide. One by one, they disappeared.

Soon, others shared his concern, and a small group began to secretly organize a plan to save them. They forged new identification papers and moved people from house to house until they could reach the forests and join the growing resistance — the partisans — who were preparing to fight Hitler’s army.

There were no phones or televisions then, only word of mouth. One day, a German soldier came to the house to question them. Lazar denied any involvement, but the soldier decided to stay for a while.

A few days later, one of the men Lazar was helping arrived at the house. Lazar had his new papers ready. He told the soldier that the man was his cousin. But in the reflection of the old-fashioned radio, the soldier saw Lazar and the man exchanging papers. The soldier shot them both.

Then he turned to my mother, who was holding the baby, and asked for her name. She gave him her maiden name, “Elisabeth Forst.” He looked at her and said, “That’s German — you can live.” And then he left.

There were many other stories my mother shared — stories of courage, loss, and hope. My father, who had been a friend of Lazar’s and a former police officer, was one of the men helping to save lives during that time. After the war, he took care of my mother and her baby. They married, and together they had three more daughters — one of them was me.

This true story happened far away in Europe, but it’s a reminder that acts of bravery and compassion can happen anywhere.