Forster Secondary School - Spartalogue Yearbook (Windsor, Ontario Canada)

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“THE SPARTALOGUE” 19 5 3 Page Twenty-Three THE DECISION Jackie Welch, 13A He stood alone in his chamber watching the sun rise. Near the doors that opened out onto the balcony, he could see his city—his people—still asleep. This was the only time he felt really superior to them, when he could stand here and look out over their homes. It was strange how people thought a ruler or king was some¬ one sacred, intangible, someone you heard about, but never saw. He had always thought he was a strong person, leading his flock, as he thought of them, wisely. Now he realized that he was the one who wos subject —subject to them. As the warmth of the sun dispersed the early morning mist, the city cleared before the eyes of its governor. They were sharp eyes, shrewd ones, set in a naturally dark and inscrutable face. A big nose, in¬ herited from proved Roman ancestors, helped to com¬ plete his features. His chin was cleft and fitted into firmly set jaws that remained clamped when he was angry or thinking, as he was now. His face revealed determination, his body power. But he did not always appear a god of strength. There were times when he felt shaken—fearful—and this was one of them. He felt n aked before his conscience. Looking down into the empty streets, he knew that soon they would be jammed with the people. At first they would only mill about. Then the dis¬ contented grumblings would reach his ears. Later would come the shouts and perhaps even stones, for his people were a strong race, easily excited to anger and often fickle. His thoughts were prophetic. Not long afterwards, the crowd began to assemble. Time was running short; he must decide. If he had been a religious man, he might have turned elsewhere for help, but he was not so. Hearing the growing restlessness, he moved towards the doors and looked out to see soldiers mingling among the people. He hoped there would be no mob violence. However, he knew even soldiers were no match for an angry mob. It was this group who had put him in office as governor. To protect and please them was his duty; yet he still felt they were wrong in this matter. The witnesses had not been consistent. Some swore one thing, some another. Surely they could see there was no sound case against the man. A servant moved into the room. The crowd, sir, clamours for you to give them your decision. They grow wild. You will have to speak to them soon. Yes—yes I will, soon. First, bring me the prisoners. Soon they stood before him. One was rather small, gentle looking with eyes like calm waters, and in their light you felt peace. The other was big, not as big as the governor, but a big man with an ugly, evil face. He was the murderer and robber. The frenzied screams of the mob snapped the leader back to reality. He walked out onto the terrace and the prisoners stumbled after him, under the force of the guards. He spoke. I find no evil in this man.” He motioned to the quiet one. “I— But the crowd roared in unison its disapproval of his decision. He whispered to a nearby servant who then hurried away. How could he show them they were wrong? A few pebbles fell around him as a warning of how the crowd would react if he went against them. Yes, his people were a strong race, but right now they were a mob of hysterical, frenzied madmen, crying for blood. When the servant returned, he placed a bowl of water on the ledge of the balcony. Slowly dipping his hands into the water, the governor raised them dripping before the audience. “Behold, I am innocent of the blood of this just person, he cried. The multitude repeated its cry. When he saw that he had prevailed nothing, but rather had caused a tumult, he raised his still cleansed hands for silence and beckoned to the real criminal. It is the custom that I release unto you one at the passover. I give you Barabbas. He looked at the guards, a broken man. I find no fault in him, but you have heard the voice of the people. Crucify Him! And for the second time that day, Pontius Pilate felt the power of the people. The Beauty Parlour Betty Holdsworth, 13A The surest remedy I know for curing the “blues is a visit to the beauty parlour. Even now, as I push the gleaming glass doors open, my spirits begin to rise. My feet take wings on the soft-as-a-cloud carpet; soft strains of a Viennese waltz caress my ears; the scent of expensive cosmetics embraces me, and I am once more absorbed in the luxury of this house of beauty. A model of perfect grooming from his well-polished shoes to his sleek black hair is Monsieur Francois, the glorified male receptionist. He greets me in the charm¬ ing manner for which the French are famous. Assuring me that Marie, my special hairdresser, will come for me shortly, he asks me to wait. Sinking into the roomy, modernistic lounge, I glance about me. I see a second time the pictures of the models with their sculptured hair smiling down at me, and I grin in return, confident that soon my hair will gleam in a style as chic as theirs. Marie pert and petite in her crisp uniform beckons; we pass several other booths and soon reach her own small cubicle. A bouquet of colourful autumn flowers before me, green walls in a clear but not glaring light attend as the real beauty work is begun. A quick brushing reveals the true condition of my tresses and all its possibilities, a brief consultation, and then the scissors. Skilled hands sound “snip, snip , expertly shaping my new hair style; a last snip and every hair fits perfectly in this new creation. Now comes the shampoo, my favourite operation in the cure for a de¬ flated ego. Oh, how good it is to have my scalp rubbed and scrubbed until it tingles, to feel the spray of warm water and smell the refreshing odour of the shampoo-liquid! We return to my grooming chair be¬ fore the flowers for the next step, the setting. Silently (Continued on Page 44)

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Page Twenty-Two “THE SPARTALOGUE 19 5 3 WHY I LIKE TO LIVE IN CANADA By Zenon Zubrycky 1 IB I like to live in Canada, because here I enjoy free¬ dom of speech, of religion, and of enterprise unheard of anywhere else in the world. In other words, Cana¬ dians live in the true democratic state. In order to make you understand why I choose to live in Canada, you must see the contrasting life of the country where tyrants rule over millions of enslaved people. This unfortunate country is Ukraine which along with many other states is suffering under Russian communist domination. I have lived in Ukraine, a beautiful country which Russians transformed into hell and called “paradise. There was a time in my country when the farmer was a free man. He was master of his own property, but now he is merely an unwilling slave on the collec¬ tive farm. Every day he must perform the menial tasks assigned him by the overseer. One work-day of 10 hours day labour is the measure of pay for the peasant. For one work-day, one receives 3 pounds of grain, mainly rye or barley, since the Ukrainian wheat is taken chiefly to Russia or exported to foreign countries, two pounds of potatoes, and 2 to 5 rubles in cash. But one must consider the value of the money; a blue serge suit of clothes costs from 700 to 800 rubles. All the farm workers get paid once a year, in the fall. No sooner has the worker brought home his treasure, than some member of the village council appears with the question; “How much ' surplus ' grain that you have beyond your needs, can you sell to the government? “Beyond my needs? answers the farmer, I don ' t know how I will pull through on what I have until next harvest!” The conversation usually ends with the peas¬ ant selling “of his own accord as much grain as the council had already consigned to him, according to orders from above. For anyone who refuses to sell, the door is quickly opened to Liberia. The Soviet regime has developed to the stage where a 20-minute lateness for work, except for some unusual reason or sickness, carries a penalty of one year ' s hard labour in concentration camp. I have never seen a Canadian punished so severely for being late for work. From the beginning of the Soviet regime millions of people have been exiled to slave labour camps in the forests of Liberia, where they are subjected to slow death. Some Canadians will ask: Who are these people and why are they there?” These people are peasants who refused to join the collective farms, manufacturers, merchants, and professionals. Their only “crime was love for the land they tilled and a desire for a better method of farming. The farmers who submitted to collective farms lost their whole property. The bound¬ aries between fields were ploughed under; all the horses, cattle, swine, and poultry were driven to the collective farms. Then each peasant was ordered to report to the state labour. The whole collectivization was enforced in the most brutal method. I think that no Canadian farmer would give his claim to his land and wealth for which he has worked so hard, and willingly submit to being a serf. The Soviet Union is held together by the terrorist grip of the NKVD, the political police, which uproots the least suspicion of opposition, punishes every word of criticism of the government, and forces the people to pray to Stalin and keep their mouths shut. As for elec¬ tions, they are merely for propaganda purposes. How can the people have any choice, when the party execu¬ tive has already selected its candidates and when there is only a single list of names? Such elections are called democratic by the communists from Moscow. You can see how fortunate I am to escape from behind the Iron Curtain, and live in Canada where the government is chosen by the citizens of Canada who, by voting, control the changes in the government and its actions. This I call the true democratic government. Here in Canada the communists, owners of good homes, autos, and other property work as spies and propagandists for Moscow. They work under the pro¬ tective wing of democracy for the overthrow of the very government which assures such freedom for all inhabi¬ tants of Canada. These people won ' t believe that in the Soviet Union the production plan provides just three socks and two-thirds of a yard of woollen goods for each person. Loyal Canadians who are concerned for their coun¬ try ' s welfare should rouse themselves to the menace of the communist fifth column and be on guard to defend their country against communism which under its entic¬ ing slogans of freedom and prosperity brings un¬ restricted police terror, poverty, and the domination of Moscow. After comparing the way my countrymen live, under Russian terror, with the life you enjoy here in Canada, you can see why I enjoy so greatly the freedom Canada offers me. MISSING No cross to mark his resting place, (Save that which in my heart I bear); No eyes to look on that loved face, No gentle hands to smooth his hair. At that dear head no stone will tell His name, to careless passers-by; Only the Sea intoned his knell, And sobbing Wind and weeping Sky. But God who walks the lonely deep. Brooding, watchful, (as in the past), Will gather him from this last sleep And bear him safely home at last. Judy Steadman, 12A. A TRIBUTE In the early days of Sandwich High, A helping hand was always nigh. The self-same hand is helping still Our students climb the slippery hill. A kindly word, a genial smile Guides us o ' er each rocky mile. Our thanks to this dear friend of ours And wishes too for happy hours. We give Three Cheers for J. L. Forster And wish we could do much more Sir . Elizabeth Anne McLister.

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Page Twenty-Four “THE SPARTALOGUE 19 5 3 LIBRARY STAFF Front Row: Back Row: Inset: Absent: Judy Steadman, Miss Philpot, Diane Yates, Catherine Copeland, Anne Haeberlin. Marilyn Sinclair. Caro Armstrong. Susan Hallett. Shirley Shangenuk. Books are keys to wisdom ' s treasure, Books are ships to lands of pleasure, Books are paths that upward lead, Books are friends. Come let us read. The first four books ore recommended for senior reading, the next three for Juniors and the last two are of interest to all who are looking forward to the Coronation. The Silver Chalice—Thomas B. Costain weaves an in¬ spirational story about the cup used by Christ at the Last Supper. Its fictional hero is Basil of An¬ tioch, a skilled artisan, purchased from slavery to create a casting for the Chalice. Braving the perils of Christian persecution and the ire of Nero, he pursues his task, diverted only by two women. It is a story of spectacular beauty, power, and spiritual insight. Out of This World—Here is your invitation to high adventure! It is Lowell Thomas Jr.’s exciting tale of the journey that he and his father made into the forbidden land of Tibet. Only a handful of west¬ erners have ever been permitted to enter Tibet and the Thomases were granted this rare privilege. The pictures taken at that time depict a spectacular and unequaled life in that secretive land. High Bright Buggy Wheels—The bright buggy wheels and the flying feet of Maida were to take Tillie Shantz, daughter of a Mennonite family, far from home and friends and into a world of laughter and warmth. Marriage outside the faith meant giving up her family and friends. But it also meant George Bingham ' s love, an awakening to colour and music, the lure of an expanding, wonderful world for Tillie. It is an absorbing story about a little-known element of Canadian life told by Canadian-born Luella Creighton. My Three Years in Moscow—This is the first full-length accounting to the people of the free world by an American ambassador to Moscow since before the war. It covers three crucial years of the cold war, telling what the author saw and did and thought in the world capital of Communism. Walter Bedell Smith gives us a vivid picture of Russia during a period of deepening crisis. (Continued on Page 26)