Without an attacker’s face to analyze or eyes to look into, everything that came off the side of the barn was a guessing game. I began to develop the ability to anticipate the ball’s angle and react in a split second. Over time it was something that would set me apart from many other goalies.
But that’s getting ahead of the story.
* * *
School in my village was a one-room experience. For the 20 farms there was one teacher, and he covered everything from grade 1 to grade 6. If you were destined to take over your parents’ farm and needed to get to working, grade 6 was often as far as you would go. Since there weren’t very many people in the village, the school began and took place on a rotating basis. One year it would be grades 1, 3 and 5. The next year it would be 2, 4 and 6. This meant that the teacher only had to juggle three curricula at a time instead of six. But it also meant that, if you weren’t quite old enough (six) when it was a grade 1 year, you had to wait two years to get into grade 1.
That was me.
So I began grade 1 an entire year behind most North Americans. In our grade 1 class (though two birth years because of the delay) there were four of us: my friends Jacob and Abram and a girl named Annaliese. There were usually somewhere between 10 to 15 kids in the entire school, so it was a completely different experience than anything you’d typically see in North America.
* * *
The morning was the same as any other, though my feet didn’t walk to the school with the same bounce and spring they usually did. When Jacob and Abram came running by, I didn’t run with them. The walk seemed to stretch into an hour, the school building looming and seemingly ever-distant.
The first subjects came and went the same as they always did, but my attention wasn’t quite there. Along with all the usual subjects, we also had singing. This was fine when the 15 of us in the classroom were singing together. But today was different. Today our teacher was going to be testing us. And testing meant that, one by one, we would have to sing.
As it came around to my turn, my hands began to sweat. Stand me in front of a soccer net with a ball whistling at my head and I was in my element. But this, this was unbearable. I had already chosen my song, one of the only ones I could adequately remember, and started out by singing loud enough that all could hear, “Hanschen Klein ging allein in die weite Welt hinein,” translated as “Little Hans went into the wide world alone.”
Towards the end of the first verse my volume had already diminished, and I was fading.
“You can stop,” the teacher said.
I nearly bit my tongue, I stopped so fast.
Abram was whispering to Jacob, and I couldn’t hear what he was saying.
“I know more of the song,” I said, though I didn’t want to sing. I just didn’t want to hear what he would say next.
“That’s okay, Arvid,” he responded. “You failed.”
I could hardly believe it. It was grade 2, and it was the only time I had ever failed a test—and remains that way to this day.
Some of the people in the class laughed. He hadn’t even given me a chance. “You should really only sing when you’re alone.”
To this day I have listened to him. If those around me in church were to all of a sudden stop singing, you wouldn’t be able to hear me. I move my lips, but hardly any sounds come out.
* * *
If things weren’t going well in music class, gym was a different matter. The volleyball court was split down the middle, and the teams were lined up on the sides. Even though I was younger than a lot of the students in the school, I was always picked near the top. The team captain was on the opposite side from his team, standing at the back line of the volleyball court.
The game of dodge ball started, and I moved away from the centre of the court, standing near the sidelines. It was the best vantage point. Only from there could you see the entire team—on my left—and their captain—on my right. Since the team could lob balls to their captain, the attack could come from any side. One came at me from the right, aimed down at my feet. I dodged it deftly, avoiding being hit while moving across the centre of the court so as not to remain a stationary target too long. I pulled up on the other side, glancing left and right. The captain was usually the strongest player, so you had to be wary of him. But there were numerous attackers on the other side of the court, so you had to keep an eye out for them as well.
Because of my speed and skill, it didn’t take long for them to start attacking me. A few of the weaker players would already be hit, though they didn’t have to leave the court. Getting hit meant your team lost a point. Catching the ball meant you gained a point—and this was where I became the biggest dodge ball star Friedensfeld had ever seen.
Another throw came at me, and I started to move. It was coming too fast, and my hands snapped up to catch it. I wasn’t fast enough, and it bounced off my arm. The other team was already celebrating—this was early in the game to have a hit against me. But the ball had lobbed up and away, and I reacted quick. With a dive like a soccer goalie, I flew through the air with my hands outstretched. I caught the ball between my hands and cushioned the landing, rolling back up onto my feet, ready to dodge again or attack the other team.
“Nice one!” Jacob called out. The other team jeered but didn’t have much to say.
“Stay alive!” I called back to him, jumping over another throw and spinning to face their captain at the same time. I had seen the ball lobbed to him over my head and knew an attack would be coming. Just as he cocked his arm back to throw, I dropped the ball in my hands and maintained my position. From only 15 feet away I reacted quickly and caught the ball, gaining my team another point. They cheered, and I smiled. Frustrated, their captain threw another ball wildly in my direction as the game came to an end.
We had won, my last-second catch the deciding point.
The training against the barn wall had honed my reflexes, and dodge ball had made my hands a trap for any ball that came near me. Combining these two skills laid the groundwork for the years to come.
* * *
Dad never gave up on his dream of coming to Canada. Though the process would span several decades, it was finally coming to a head as I went through elementary school. When the school year finished (in November) after my grade 6 year, we thought the process was almost complete. We would be moving. With time, we would become Canadians. The religious persecution that had forced Dad to flee Russia combined with the health concern that prevented him from going directly to Canada had meant long and hard years in Paraguay. Canada looked like the Promised Land, and for many of us it was. But just like the Israelites, we were delayed for a while during the time that things sorted themselves out.
Because we were almost accepted, I didn’t go to grade 7 nine kilometres away when the school year started again in February. We were going to be going to Canada, and I’d be joining the school year there.
* * *
Our long journey to Canada was delayed, again. This time, thankfully, only until the winter (Canadian summer). In August of 1970 we set out for Canada, elation evident in the smiles on our faces as we boarded a plane for the country of promise.
Arvid, standing on the cistern in a family photo.