When I was growing up in downtown Toronto, I did not have a clear idea of my origins and my identity.  Neither my parents nor my brother said much about their experiences before immigrating  to this country. 
 

I knew I was Jewish and born in Europe and had lived there for a few years before coming to Canada.  What was missing from all of this was content.   I learned more about Passover from the movie “The Ten Commandments” than I did from anything else, including my time at Jewish afternoon school.   I was hungry for connection.
 

When I was almost 10, my parents came home and announced we were now Canadians.  I saw my citizenship papers and there it stated I was born in Linz, Austria.  My mother confirmed this to me and I became fascinated with the possibility of being Austrian.
 

I began making friends with the Austrian and German boys in the neighbourhood.  My friends were Hans, Jurgen, Werner, Paul and Siegfried.   We used to hang around the Tyroler House, a restaurant on Bay Street, because Jurgen’s father owned it.   We discovered that our home languages were to some extent mutually comprehensible, especially in counting.   We developed codes based on German numbers which we used in the games at school.
 

Our mutual admiration society was hampered by the fact that I never went to Church and, being Jewish, I often had no idea of what references they were making to the Eucharist or other items. Siegfried, the German boy, was Protestant and he was the first to drift away.  Gradually, over a six month period, all our bonds loosened, but Paul and I remained close.
 

Both of us were fascinated with reading and with books about Greek mythology.  Eventually, when it was just the two of us, we would go over to his place, a fourth floor flat, at the top of the tenements at Yonge and Wellesley, accessible only from the back alley, using the  wooden stairs and metal fire escape that were attached to the outside of the building.   The alley was usually strewn with garbage and old newspapers, the children in the yard of the building usually dirty and ragged, and at least one of the adults usually drunk. 
 

In the spring and summer, there were clothes hanging everywhere on lines stretched to telephone poles or just across the balconies that were found outside each flat.  Sometimes, in climbing to the top, we had to make our way through hanging sheets at lower levels, penetrating gradually through  curtains and veils to some inner sanctum.
 

Paul’s flat was in fact a haven compared to the other flats in the building.   Everything was neat and in its place.  Paul’s mother was at home and well dressed any time I came over.  Paul’s father, an insurance salesman, also appeared occasionally.  Both were invariably friendly, polite and welcoming.
 

Paul’s room was neat and full of books and toys.  His toy soldiers were especially interesting and we played with them for hours.  We seldom went to my house except for a snack.   Both my parents worked in the store and I had no toys or books except what I took out of the library.   I was always embarrassed by the shabbiness of our rooms compared to the perfection of his flat.   His mother and father seemed to be endlessly cleaning and painting and fixing up.  Mine, repairing, running harried up and down the stairs and hardly ever available.
 

In the late summer of that year, Paul and his father introduced me to archery.   Paul’s father had bought a target, a bow and a few arrows.   We drove to the countryside and practiced shooting.   Paul’s father taught me how to stand and how to tell whether I should shoot from the left or the right.  “It’s the same for firing a rifle,” he explained.  So I learned I was right handed but left eyed.
 

Over the next few weekends, Paul and I went hunting for arrowheads.  We discovered a veritable gold mine of shale and slate behind the Sigmund Samuel Library of the University of Toronto.  Even though we knew these pieces had fallen off the roof of the building we could simultaneously imagine them to be the remnants of weapons of Indian warriors or Greek heroes.  We gathered the best fragments and took them back to Paul’s place, where Paul’s father let us use some wood dowels and pigeon feathers to make a few arrows.
 

When we tried them out on Sunday, they would not fly straight or far.   Paul was very angry demanding to know what went wrong.   “It doesn’t matter,” I ventured, “we had fun making them anyway.”
 

Paul looked at me like thunder, glowering.  “My father says that anything worth doing is worth doing well.”  He did not speak to me on the way home and we parted with minimal goodbyes at the foot of the stairs to his flat.
 

The next day, he was his usual warm self, greeting me with his big warm smile and twinkling brown eyes.  “Guten Tag, good buddy.  How about coming to my birthday party this Sunday?  It’ll be just you and me and my parents.”
 

I readily accepted and looked high and low for all my spare cash.   I gathered all our pop bottles and cashed them in, saved all my allowance money and took a little cash off my parents’ dresser.   I was able to buy one arrow for my trouble and wrapped it in newspaper.
 

On Sunday, a bright sunny day, Paul’s father and mother, Paul and myself drove out to the countryside.  Paul’s mother packed a picnic and we ate on a blanket on the grass.   Paul and I shot arrows at apples and climbed trees to recover them or chased after them in the meadow when they missed everything entirely.  A few times, we were able to knock down apples, which were plentiful on the ground anyway.
 

At the end of the day, it became a little chilly and we drove back to the city to Paul’s place for cake and hot chocolate.   We sat around the table in their immaculately clean kitchen and Paul’s mother brought in a cake with 12 candles.   We sang happy birthday, Paul blew out the candles and we sat down to our feast.
 

“I understand from Paul that you are a very good student,” Paul’s mother said.  “It is important for Paul to have friends like you.”  She smiled at me broadly as her son did.    I noticed again that apart from that smile, Paul in no way resembled his parents.  His hair was dark brown and straight, his complexion darker too.   Both his parents were blonde and blue eyed with wavy hair, straight sharp noses and small mouths.   Paul was generously endowed with a broad nose and large lips.
 

“Well, I do my best,” I said, turning red and burying my face in the mug of hot chocolate. “This is delicious.”
 

“I hear you speak German too,” she went on.
 

“Well, sort of,” I replied.  “It’s really Yiddish but it sounds a lot like German when Paul speaks to me, especially the numbers.”
 

Paul now joined in, “Oh yes, and, father, we speak in German numbers sometimes, like a secret code so no one else will know what we are saying.”
 

Paul’s father laughed briefly and then arranged his face more seriously, “But this is not a polite thing to do, is it.”
 

“No father, but it’s just for fun.”
 

“Well, be careful not to insult others or hurt their feelings.”
 

I was amazed at the formal way, Paul and his parents addressed each other.  It seemed to be a type of ritual which I had witnessed here before.  At my house, we rarely had such conversations.
 

“You were not born here, then?”  Paul’s mother asked.
 

“I was born in Linz, Österreich,” I answered, “after the war.”
 

“Why that is not far from my own home town,” she went on.  “Where were your parents during the war?”
 

“I don’t know.  But they ended up in Linz where I was born.  Then we went somewhere in Germany and then here when I was very young.  I don’t remember anything though.   Where were you during the war?”  I asked, thinking this the polite thing to do.
 

“I was in Austria but my husband was away.”
 

Here Paul jumped in enthusiastically, “Yes, father was in the SS.”
 

“What is the SS?” I asked.
 

“Oh it’s just a unit in the army,” Paul’s father answered with a smile.   I could see he was being modest.
 

Paul went on excitedly, “ Dad wore a black uniform with white gloves and a cord around his shoulder.  He had a Luger and a whistle and he used to drive important people around in the sidecar of his motorcycle.”
 

I closed my eyes momentarily and imagined myself in a clean black uniform with white gloves, a handgun holstered at my side and whistle hanging from my neck, sitting astride a large motorcycle, saluting generals, giving orders, meeting Prime Ministers and Kings.
 

“You must have been very important,” I said in admiration.
 

Paul’s father again waved off the praise with a smile.
 

“No not really, I just drove where I was asked to.   Besides, this is all history and it is something we should forget.  Let us talk of other things.”
 

“But father,” objected Paul, “you were a hero, fighting to the bitter end, even knowing the war was lost…”
 

Without a smile now, Paul’s father said quietly, “I was a hero of the Third Reich Paul, and all that is dead.  And anyway, it is not heroism when you do not get to finish your job.  Anything worth doing is worth doing well or not at all.”  Then, looking at me, he said, “Besides, we did not have much choice.   We did dirty things in those days, dirty things…”
 

I imagined Paul’s father fighting at the bitter end, driving through mud, dirtying his clean black uniform.
 

“But dirt washes off,” I said, “and the war’s over now.   My parents say we should forget the war and all be friends.”
 

Paul’s father looked at me, almost startled.  “Your parents are right.   There are some things it is better not to speak of.”
 

“But father,” Paul said again but stopped as soon as he saw his father’s expression.
 

“So, where are you going to school next year now that they are closing Wellesley?” asked Paul’s mother.  
 

“I am not sure, maybe Church St., maybe Jesse Ketchum.”
 

I finished my hot chocolate in an uncomfortable silence and then volunteered, “Well I should be going soon anyway.   Maybe we could talk about this again someday.   I would really like to know more about the country I was born in.”
 

Paul’s father answered, “well perhaps, but you could get even more from books if you are a reader like Paul.”
 

I thanked Paul and his mother and father for having me that day, put on my jacket and walked to the door.  As I reached the door, I turned.  “You know Paul, I like your father’s idea.  Why don’t we get together tomorrow after school and go to the library and look up Austria and the SS?”
 

Paul was about to agree, I could see, but his father intervened and said, “Paul is busy tomorrow after school.   He will not be able to join you.”
 

The tone was neutral but was not warm either.
 

I went out the door and down the stairs.  When I returned home that evening I promptly forgot the whole conversation with Paul’s father other than my image of him as a hero, like one of Paul’s toy soldiers.
 

Paul soon after this left the school and moved away with his family as his father had received a promotion and a job offer in another city.  My Austrian identity evaporated after Paul left and I did not go to the library to discover Austrian history.
 

It was only gradually and over many years that I learned of the meaning of SS and of my own true heritage.   And that I finally remembered and understood the words of Paul’s father.