It was a busy place, people coming and going, talking, laughing, arguing about politics.   I heard the word "socialist" a lot.   There weren't many rooms in the house, but there was always room for relatives coming from Russia to settle in Canada.   They stayed until they found jobs and could move into homes of their own.   I lived in the home on Guilbault Street until I was eight or nine years old.
Guilbault Street was a short street running from St. Lawrence Blvd. to St. Urbain Street.   The end of the street
faced Hotel Dieu Hospital - for all I know it may still be there.*
I have a scar on my right index finger which remains from a cut I got when I fell, running with a ginger ale bottle to the corner store on St. Urbain Street.   My mother wrapped a towel around my hand and carried me, crying and bleeding, to Hotel Dieu Hospital.
The nuns quietly soothed me and placed my finger into a glass containing a white liquid.   The bleeding stopped immediately and my hand was bandaged.   It was a big bandage and I felt important.   I was asked what happened to me and I explained in detail.
* Guilbault Street is still there, as is the hospital.
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