Jori Bolton for The Globe and Mail

When I was 7, I was invited to a birthday party. After everyone was introduced, the adults steered me to another room and asked me if I was a German. I said I was. At that point a woman started shrieking. She grabbed a corn broom and took a swing at me, just missing my head. I ran out the door and she chased me halfway home, cursing at me the whole way.

I was obviously not old enough to be in the war. Nevertheless, I was blamed for it many times. My mother had faced even greater challenges than the rest of us. She’d been sent away from her home in Berlin after a violent event called Kristallnacht (The Night of Broken Glass, when Jewish-owned businesses, stores and synagogues were attacked). She was sent to live in a small German town as there was less trouble there than in the big cities. Now, she had come to a completely different country but people still threatened her – because she was German.

With all that said, and despite all the ill will toward us, we were incredibly given kindness by some people who came forward to help us. People took us into their homes and literally fed us when we had nothing.

Back in the fifties there was no government assistance, no welfare and no medical service without payment. Tommy Douglas had not yet convinced the government to nationalize medical care. If you were down and out in Toronto, the only help you could get was from a church or the kindness of strangers. I thank God for their kindness. I recall an Italian family that gave us dinner, sometimes three times a week. An English family gave us nice warm coats for the winter. I recall a church organizing help for us. I cannot begin to describe my gratitude to these wonderful kind people. We were not even of their religion.

As I grew up in Toronto and the sixties unfolded, the level of hatred toward German people did not ever disappear but it eased. I spoke English without an accent. I played hockey in Scarborough, went to concerts, had a great time growing up and never looked back. Now I am an old man. I am a Canadian.

Today there are thousands of refugees coming to Canada from Syria and other Middle Eastern countries where atrocities and offences against humanity have been committed. The language of these people is guttural and coarse. Their habits are odd, and some say they are evil by the nature of their culture. I have even heard that there are terrorists among them.

Some of my fellow Canadians assure me that they can tell which ones are good and which ones are bad by the way they look. A lot of folks just plain don’t want these people here.

They will be welcome at my house for dinner, however, and I will round up some nice, warm coats to donate to them, as well as what money I can give. I am not them, I understand that, but my family used to be like them. I am going to pay back the kindnesses I received in Toronto so many years ago.

Heino Molls lives in Toronto.