tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82194588572114454202024-03-18T21:01:21.264-07:00 gabriele goldstone exploring mysteries of family historiesGabriele Goldstonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04481625919437738131noreply@blogger.comBlogger603125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8219458857211445420.post-19696826110662301352024-03-14T09:35:00.000-07:002024-03-14T09:35:56.937-07:00Reading Kate Morton<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgEPfXjY3VsuIYm1LFWDBMKaHZJQYRvRq-ks21YDNLIC2lGkYocyZR7wVu9cIgfN6IjQFGRMwfCKNmh1XVkrlwUpQo-Z6BxzVg9fB9wD6CNADfGpzUFbVujQulYEvw83oiNr-saCOX9soEFxeiWzkPfjRLMCKvBMRyK_SubwLDBeDW1BVCuxrF24zhjr0/s4032/homecoming.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgEPfXjY3VsuIYm1LFWDBMKaHZJQYRvRq-ks21YDNLIC2lGkYocyZR7wVu9cIgfN6IjQFGRMwfCKNmh1XVkrlwUpQo-Z6BxzVg9fB9wD6CNADfGpzUFbVujQulYEvw83oiNr-saCOX9soEFxeiWzkPfjRLMCKvBMRyK_SubwLDBeDW1BVCuxrF24zhjr0/s320/homecoming.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div>Kate Morton’s one of my favourite novelists. Her latest novel, <i><a href="https://www.simonandschuster.ca/books/Homecoming/Kate-Morton/9781982149352">Homecoming,</a></i> had been on my TBR pile for a while. I’ve really lost myself in the worlds of two of her earlier novels, <i>The <a href="https://www.katemorton.com/behind-the-forgotten-garden/">Forgotten Garden</a></i> and <a href="https://www.katemorton.com/the-clockmakers-daughter/"><i>The Clockmaker’s Daughter</i>.</a> This new one, <i>Homecoming</i>, however, was not quite as compelling. The pace seemed plodding, the characters and POVs too confusing, and the convoluted plot line more irritating than intriguing. What saved it was the writing!<p></p><p>I love Kate Morton’s writing. Her novels evoke mood through a neglected natural setting. Besides nature gone wild, there are the inevitable neglected homes in her stories ... revealing complicated pasts. I’m reminded of the r<a href="https://www.alamy.com/stock-photo/ruins-east-prussia.html?sortBy=relevant">uins of East Prussia</a> inside modern Kaliningrad. Here in Canada, ruins are sparse. If we have any ruins, they're soon razed for new development or burned by homeless people keeping warm. </p><p>Besides nature and history, Morton’s ardent love of books and old things infuses her work. She braids mystery, nature and human frailty into compelling narratives. </p><p>Here are some of my favourite lines from <i>Homecoming</i>. <br /></p><p>About story:</p><p> “…the first and firmest human addiction is to narrative.” (p. 116)</p><p>About walking:</p><p>“…to walk was to think, to think was to breathe, to breathe was to stay alive.” (p. 193)</p><p>About home:</p><p>“Home, she’d realized, wasn’t a place or a time or a person, though it could be any and all of those things: home was a feeling, a sense of being complete.” (p. 543)</p><p>About time:</p><p>“…a sense of timelessness, of nature, older and more pervasive than anything human beings and their histories could generate, grew thick and warm around them.” (p.544)</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="white-space: normal; white-space: pre;"> </span></p><p><br /></p>Gabriele Goldstonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04481625919437738131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8219458857211445420.post-78693115877381315762024-03-07T11:52:00.000-08:002024-03-10T11:15:57.224-07:00about travelling<p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4AFY3lljyUu3_Ne6wZsEN1To0zVScaGvdkBLx9LKJkC9GCWaEamAOMnEo8BCRszZGrSh-fS39wE2g5fR0rS44MuvajEI_wNCwXC3lKIhCvfsIiW-bdyN6LtOi9E_UBdD8UuqBGiNRu7qe6E-XSKwQl8u6jf6EUIw7P8WA6YKxyQ1DxFQWJaAt355aD5E/s2288/P5060177_1.JPG" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2288" data-original-width="1712" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4AFY3lljyUu3_Ne6wZsEN1To0zVScaGvdkBLx9LKJkC9GCWaEamAOMnEo8BCRszZGrSh-fS39wE2g5fR0rS44MuvajEI_wNCwXC3lKIhCvfsIiW-bdyN6LtOi9E_UBdD8UuqBGiNRu7qe6E-XSKwQl8u6jf6EUIw7P8WA6YKxyQ1DxFQWJaAt355aD5E/s320/P5060177_1.JPG" width="239" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Me and Lenin in Zhytomyr in 2004</span></td></tr></tbody></table>People travel for different reasons. Some, of course, travel because of work. But many deal with the stresses of new time zones, busy airports, and passport controls by choice. Some travel to escape … and any random destination will do. Some travel to re-connect … with people, times, or places. Some travel to get lost. Some travel to find themselves. Some travel because of weather. In spite of our warm houses, warm cars and layered clothes, we still wimp out on the cold. Some travel to relax in spite of luxuries in their own homes. Some travel for adventure. Some travel, not by choice … some are exiled. <p></p><p>Others don’t travel much at all. Like me. I’ve been restrained by finances and family health issues. Past family travel carefully avoided the big (expensive) spectacles of the world and focused on local, nature-centred camping trips. </p><p>As I youngster, I had my first suitcase at age three … a round blue-with-white trim affair, with a slot for an umbrella. I was sent on a journey as my parents prepared for the arrival of my only sibling. I guess that trip made me an exile.</p><p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnZ0WetbWKMbPnOpTbdm3mofTXmSwDPy0GZ5uVxNiay3MNbezZoqNIAY6DlvePQOejP5ixkH4n2QBPJ4j0XvG4U61gSU2H7YkGyTr14v20jTfbyI6fS0B0p58JtJ-xDkektI4UlUB-t9eyFr7xILbYQnxQOKS8hoJVgAZdqx18A0G17hK-_YA58FkwB-A/s3862/IMG_3942.HEIC" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3862" data-original-width="2230" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnZ0WetbWKMbPnOpTbdm3mofTXmSwDPy0GZ5uVxNiay3MNbezZoqNIAY6DlvePQOejP5ixkH4n2QBPJ4j0XvG4U61gSU2H7YkGyTr14v20jTfbyI6fS0B0p58JtJ-xDkektI4UlUB-t9eyFr7xILbYQnxQOKS8hoJVgAZdqx18A0G17hK-_YA58FkwB-A/w116-h200/IMG_3942.HEIC" width="116" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">sunset in Bucerias</span></td></tr></tbody></table>As a student, I traveled to escape and find myself … doing the requisite year-long backpacking trek through Europe. Later, the few trips I managed to squeeze in while raising kids focused on exploring my roots. <div><br /></div><div>This last trip was the first time, in 40 years, that I went on a trip for fun. Holidaying in Mexico, last month, was weird. I felt strangely out of step with my fellow tourists. Hedonistic even. This is what people do? Eat in restaurants, have drinks, buy stuff they don’t need and get too much sun? Just for the fun of it? <p>It doesn’t explain why I’ve booked a holiday in Mexico for next year. Practice, perhaps? I need to practice. But mostly, I promised my family that I’d share. After all, they were house-sitting, care-giving, and dog-walking while I was soaking up the sun. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX7pCEUHhQfsSiLBMRWhVfKUUJorPEoVjKWMnFW7jUO6-R9EwJ9jNzPHDmhsRWCsR2VPkkgQux6eXggscjmIgwIU_BPczrxeqnKdOPXSJgXJZ6K6FWcOpQNWrmjKDqhFHtSgIF2xc0I83RLPfctYQMdtSE443CNB8x9s_GvSIz0gUqi9ggzBkzsVPR5sE/s2263/IMG_1791.HEIC" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2263" data-original-width="2243" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX7pCEUHhQfsSiLBMRWhVfKUUJorPEoVjKWMnFW7jUO6-R9EwJ9jNzPHDmhsRWCsR2VPkkgQux6eXggscjmIgwIU_BPczrxeqnKdOPXSJgXJZ6K6FWcOpQNWrmjKDqhFHtSgIF2xc0I83RLPfctYQMdtSE443CNB8x9s_GvSIz0gUqi9ggzBkzsVPR5sE/s320/IMG_1791.HEIC" width="317" /></a></div>Truth be told, I find reading to be an awesome way to travel. Right now, I’m in southern Australia, soaking up the drama of a <a href="https://www.katemorton.com/books/homecoming/">Kate Morton historical novel</a>. Love how she time travels between present and past. <p></p><p>And for me, time-travel is the best kind of travel!</p><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p></div>Gabriele Goldstonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04481625919437738131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8219458857211445420.post-64886661639551835562024-02-27T09:46:00.000-08:002024-02-27T12:04:04.672-08:00Déjà vu<p>I recently learned about <a href="https://www.cnn.com/2024/02/20/europe/russia-arrest-us-dual-citizen-intl/index.html#:~:text=World%20%2F%20Europe-,Russia%20arrests%20US%2DRussian%20citizen%20for%20treason%20after%20she,%2451%20to%20Ukraine%2C%20employer%20says&text=A%20US%2DRussian%20dual%20citizen,Californian%20spa%20where%20she%20worked.">Ksenia Karelina’s </a>arrest in Russia. According to CNN, “Ksenia, a dual citizen, went to Russia to visit her 90-year-old grandmother, parents and younger sister. She has been accused of treason for allegedly donating $51.80 to a Ukrainian charity in the US.”</p><p>She became an American citizen in 2021 but Russia does not accept dual citizenship and she now faces a potential 20 year prison sentence if found guilty. Treason? Because of a fifty-dollar donation supporting Ukraine? Boggles the mind. Putin’s re-creating a Stalin terror-state.</p><p>My grandfather was found guilty of treason back in 1937. That was under Stalin. A person charged under <a href="https://bolashaq.edu.kz/en/novosti-en/article-58-treason-against-the-motherland/">Article 58 </a>was considered an ‘enemy of the people’ and a counter-revolutionary. The law was in place until 1958 under Nikita Krushev. That was the same year my surviving relatives received letters of ‘rehabilitation’ from the Soviet government, entitling them to pensions. </p><p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-A-iyG2jE76dpyvg9U5L4O96V1M3sX87r9FY9Ba17mn9M0FPDVUl_IpEKwUdAHlj73vm6eo8HWAHi02XLfCdogKVWCvBu3ow3smBH7WWQTVoupa2Gfqksv0MLWUmWWKqzLw6g8uTQl4HLc-Z5cb8t6_pYsnB5vWtTE_mxVlrlKOT6k6vJ5TAJihzIPFs/s3777/IMG_4489.HEIC" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2984" data-original-width="3777" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-A-iyG2jE76dpyvg9U5L4O96V1M3sX87r9FY9Ba17mn9M0FPDVUl_IpEKwUdAHlj73vm6eo8HWAHi02XLfCdogKVWCvBu3ow3smBH7WWQTVoupa2Gfqksv0MLWUmWWKqzLw6g8uTQl4HLc-Z5cb8t6_pYsnB5vWtTE_mxVlrlKOT6k6vJ5TAJihzIPFs/s320/IMG_4489.HEIC" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">With Yuri, translator who helped me peruse a thick file<br />involving my grandfather in the secret police files/Zhytomyr</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br />Modern Russia’s version of Article 58 is <a href="https://www.jurist.org/news/2023/12/russia-opens-unprecedented-number-of-treason-cases-in-2023/">Article 275,</a> updated in April 2023. It defines treason as "espionage, disclosure of state secrets, or any other assistance rendered to a foreign State, a foreign organization, or their representatives in hostile activities to the detriment of the external security of the Russian Federation, committed by a citizen of the Russian Federation."<p></p><p>It’s been 20 years since I accessed the secret police files in Zhytomyr, Ukraine. With the help of a translator, I read through my grandfather’s file along with the files of his brothers. On thin pink papers, I read of the money he received from family and a church group in Poland and East Prussia. Eight DM (Deutsch Marks) in July, 1934, 11 DM (Deutsch Marks) in November, 1934, another 8 DM in April, 1934. A pittance of money to help him survive as he struggled to get an exit visa out of the country. A pittance was all it took to charge him with treason. Translated, from his file:</p><p><span></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbvwM9itRJyUEMuPSCPedPy55bsu3tkbrtnW3HjyROiMk6LgJxsXvhv3cwP13JllZbJnEL2FIF1YjPAQ9WlcHveSAkoNwiz1_PnIM9UCeWh80QcLeWPdqcWjnp5KfTat2PitAUr1CCukD7we3wXzJChKt7nVC2RgF5H4aVu8RgoPl9FNk2Yt8wVXLQRqo/s3959/IMG_4491.HEIC" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2895" data-original-width="3959" height="234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbvwM9itRJyUEMuPSCPedPy55bsu3tkbrtnW3HjyROiMk6LgJxsXvhv3cwP13JllZbJnEL2FIF1YjPAQ9WlcHveSAkoNwiz1_PnIM9UCeWh80QcLeWPdqcWjnp5KfTat2PitAUr1CCukD7we3wXzJChKt7nVC2RgF5H4aVu8RgoPl9FNk2Yt8wVXLQRqo/s320/IMG_4491.HEIC" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Executions were carried out in the basement of this building<br />- former NKVD headquarters in Zhytomyr</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span><br /> </span>“Found guilty on August 28 and condemned to death. This should be carried out on September 19, 1937 at 3:13.” <p></p><p>And now, a young woman, accused of treason for sending a Ukrainian charity fifty-one dollars. Déjà vu, indeed!</p><div><br /></div>Gabriele Goldstonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04481625919437738131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8219458857211445420.post-66156947522304257992024-02-07T10:25:00.000-08:002024-02-07T11:51:45.254-08:00What I'm Reading<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ0aqR11r5Skr8tkT6lkVOBffIKIZeZS-NDSKFqfrMcYVv-C5c2XlxrGGWKgsl5-umbWZqQAWdCi34Q5-UZLJPY_7SSYi0GwOyej_I6SbwlO9P0_RU3RMX_3Jk0Uw-K_In5GGmPL4rBKZZbh09vR-BcynYR3ixVneQwvxPXhaJQdfPW8Z9ER9jyGoOIRs/s4032/IMG_3867.HEIC" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ0aqR11r5Skr8tkT6lkVOBffIKIZeZS-NDSKFqfrMcYVv-C5c2XlxrGGWKgsl5-umbWZqQAWdCi34Q5-UZLJPY_7SSYi0GwOyej_I6SbwlO9P0_RU3RMX_3Jk0Uw-K_In5GGmPL4rBKZZbh09vR-BcynYR3ixVneQwvxPXhaJQdfPW8Z9ER9jyGoOIRs/s320/IMG_3867.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px;">This book, <a href="https://uwpress.wisc.edu/books/2062.htm"><i>Nancy Drew and Company</i></a>, came out in 1997 so its perspective is a tad dated. Nevertheless, as a first book I've read about the phenomena of Nancy Drew, it was insightful. I appreciated learning about series fiction in general and its influence on 20th century readers. I was an avid Nancy Drew fan and remember the stigma of being one. Not surprised to learn that it wasn't until the mid 1970s that the NYC public library would carry the series. Forever young, Nancy Drew was a role model for me and this book confirmed that she was also a role models for millions of other young readers.</span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px;">And now, because I'm going on a trip, I've pulled out a book I found this past summer in a Little Free Library ... Alain de Botton's <i><a href="https://www.alaindebotton.com/travel/">The Art of Travel</a></i>. Not sure what sort of internet connection I will have ... and don't want to risk sand on my electronics. I won't be gone long ... two weeks. But I've suddenly got 'ants in my pants' and need to <a href="https://idioms.thefreedictionary.com/get+out+of+Dodge">get out of dodge</a>!</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcGkbs1J3e4qzRa9YcQ2ZzCs7BvhasY1gSQbo7gwU2mEpZ6ZMDS_51NEL9PCQxgWrhRvVKS9l7MyJVQRqsiMWQCik5tVBXwaW_kJTtB7VoTJJmNKNeyOnHb0SyGVdfnBvFzsJcv6l3TuUG7UGSw-AaFoZMl8etVsA50TGJx8Kow37J7zf5jfG0_I2g1w4/s4032/IMG_3868.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcGkbs1J3e4qzRa9YcQ2ZzCs7BvhasY1gSQbo7gwU2mEpZ6ZMDS_51NEL9PCQxgWrhRvVKS9l7MyJVQRqsiMWQCik5tVBXwaW_kJTtB7VoTJJmNKNeyOnHb0SyGVdfnBvFzsJcv6l3TuUG7UGSw-AaFoZMl8etVsA50TGJx8Kow37J7zf5jfG0_I2g1w4/s320/IMG_3868.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p>Gabriele Goldstonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04481625919437738131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8219458857211445420.post-90390528454473274282024-02-01T10:21:00.000-08:002024-02-01T10:23:06.804-08:00puzzle pieces<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi12LFWoJIfNGWqMDWPzMbexWbqGh3xnEIZ9nOBOyiNcdfAZCKirGGUv-BsObI2wSh5fMYRGJ1eK4dg-jhmMFaYteGiIhYVLGR0QNE5ZKxWJD_WOBxtWDsRks8VUtVhggZsjcr0-zsxN3bWWVou3J_BiYQaUjHf5ICQLJW82slij8CwzR28DAxyomgVc-c/s2436/IMG_5A4DEBBDC764-1.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2436" data-original-width="1125" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi12LFWoJIfNGWqMDWPzMbexWbqGh3xnEIZ9nOBOyiNcdfAZCKirGGUv-BsObI2wSh5fMYRGJ1eK4dg-jhmMFaYteGiIhYVLGR0QNE5ZKxWJD_WOBxtWDsRks8VUtVhggZsjcr0-zsxN3bWWVou3J_BiYQaUjHf5ICQLJW82slij8CwzR28DAxyomgVc-c/s320/IMG_5A4DEBBDC764-1.jpeg" width="148" /></a></div>What I’ve tried to do through past stories is shine a bit of light on forgotten lives. Take my grandmother, Matilde, age 41. She was put into an unmarked grave in Yaya, Siberia back in February of 1931. <p></p><p>Then there’s her youngest son, Jonathan, a toddler who died along the way … left somewhere along the train tracks crisscrossing Russia. No birth or death certificates to mark their lives. Faded photographs and confused memories. Even red granite stones become anonymous over time. </p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDLq1CO64HKSO4WucoK-t6BCSYYdaBFnUllTeYXxvindrokA0iw9v7y21G__U52bXJ7do5GBxN4V2H6kuv6xrPekylez3c4783Uxk1I41XXuzyuUaupEjaEQAR16SqgmS-hBE8OvvfRTdmDX5-7VhQ8G5g_7vp0UgJ1zIWYvNf-LSDrPBrwF-rCb9rU8M/s3033/Family%20photos%201%20mama%20and%20family%20EDITED.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2325" data-original-width="3033" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDLq1CO64HKSO4WucoK-t6BCSYYdaBFnUllTeYXxvindrokA0iw9v7y21G__U52bXJ7do5GBxN4V2H6kuv6xrPekylez3c4783Uxk1I41XXuzyuUaupEjaEQAR16SqgmS-hBE8OvvfRTdmDX5-7VhQ8G5g_7vp0UgJ1zIWYvNf-LSDrPBrwF-rCb9rU8M/s320/Family%20photos%201%20mama%20and%20family%20EDITED.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">My grandmother with Jonathan on her lap</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p>Current temperature in Yaya, Siberia is minus ten. Keeping track of the weather in Yaya is a way for me to stay in touch with my grandmother. Crazy? I know. I still hope to visit the town which orphaned my mom and her siblings. To get there I need a two-day train trip east from Moscow to Novosibirsk, and then change trains for another four-hour ride. Maybe, someday.</p><p>In the meantime, there are two other youngsters I’ve been trying to remember. My father’s two sons from his first marriage were born during the war … perhaps in Posen (now Poznan, Poland) The stigma of his subsequent divorce after five years' Soviet imprisonment, of being German, and the ubiquitous nature of death at the end of the war—means their short lives … like the lives of countless other young children … flow into an anonymous ocean of tears. For our family, their lives belonged to dark closets and forbidden photo</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2FsY84AEkMSxaenkuSVDQhQ1c0epM_EKUCeJXWpeNYOIBM0tFYyH-G1q0l0rEeuHFzr8R0iod2-yluSFGCZpFxk_6zTfZW7I0XnV4vlI3EmUtiL9_jyDrgPG-asrBqliVxQJn2nFvyayr9izdYSMz8zxqK6Jc-7NCywHfpZO1RWfZvAjNuBuHiiw8yXg/s2549/dad%20and%20peter%3F.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2549" data-original-width="1912" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2FsY84AEkMSxaenkuSVDQhQ1c0epM_EKUCeJXWpeNYOIBM0tFYyH-G1q0l0rEeuHFzr8R0iod2-yluSFGCZpFxk_6zTfZW7I0XnV4vlI3EmUtiL9_jyDrgPG-asrBqliVxQJn2nFvyayr9izdYSMz8zxqK6Jc-7NCywHfpZO1RWfZvAjNuBuHiiw8yXg/s320/dad%20and%20peter%3F.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">My father with his first son in his arms</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /> albums. I’m still searching for a way to weave their brief lives into my stories. With only vague clues to their histories, my imagination meanders.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8oZvp8G4CHK0-Rkedcjg_UsWjsBT0txIUO0XCyFJmWJo83BSKP_LJzWhg8klX_7y-qSwneD38XrKbBTxFvvAXoPnQz79mR4WXkWDoJFjKGNb1zdejiZNh30i2CCBFmfV_yaCO4UC8bQ3hcmAhAlfdSYtA6OXj43zSIUrjMVRwAZKmlnk0uG_I6QSgMjE/s4032/IMG_3851.HEIC" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8oZvp8G4CHK0-Rkedcjg_UsWjsBT0txIUO0XCyFJmWJo83BSKP_LJzWhg8klX_7y-qSwneD38XrKbBTxFvvAXoPnQz79mR4WXkWDoJFjKGNb1zdejiZNh30i2CCBFmfV_yaCO4UC8bQ3hcmAhAlfdSYtA6OXj43zSIUrjMVRwAZKmlnk0uG_I6QSgMjE/s320/IMG_3851.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div><br />Did unremembered lives really live? Of course, they did. And we, the story-makers, try our best to recreate life from the lifeless. It’s like putting a puzzle together without a picture for reference. <p></p><p>This post was inspired by a <a href="https://euraknot.org/">Eurasian Knot podcast </a>I listened to last night while dog-walking. While their conversation focused on Mennonite repression, my family’s German Baptists/Lutherans shared similar stories. </p><div><br /></div>Gabriele Goldstonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04481625919437738131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8219458857211445420.post-34148596873672507292024-01-26T10:07:00.000-08:002024-01-26T18:36:27.404-08:00Curious, Kind, and Brave<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpCVNQvKFRysIAcxeFlFfyQR8l0bV8iExlLAMnaY9khQ3Z4Zrrvms73pyub4jtvnab1FEJnw_9___imcbSmcq-Rzexw1OfWy5ESEIpi6XmhyroxcOdpm7rmbRXh1IbAmXoo5mVSFApmZcRlVz7CQL_OF02PrO-0lzHFzGZtp3MaoKHDzG-h_MaefScLoc/s3450/IMG_3834.heic" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3450" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpCVNQvKFRysIAcxeFlFfyQR8l0bV8iExlLAMnaY9khQ3Z4Zrrvms73pyub4jtvnab1FEJnw_9___imcbSmcq-Rzexw1OfWy5ESEIpi6XmhyroxcOdpm7rmbRXh1IbAmXoo5mVSFApmZcRlVz7CQL_OF02PrO-0lzHFzGZtp3MaoKHDzG-h_MaefScLoc/s320/IMG_3834.heic" width="280" /></a></div><br />Absolutely thrilled that my new manuscript, “Waltraut” (working title) has been accepted for publication. This book was so much fun to write, that it barely felt like I was working. I loved playing with my protagonist, Waltraut. She’s been a good friend to me over the last few years. Re-visiting childhood memories like Saturday German school, summer church camp or the show-home dream, put me into a youthful headspace, decades away from today. <p></p><p>Waltraut also reminded me of the challenges that come with being in two worlds … the stress of fitting into a Canadian school and community. Whether it’s the obvious issue of language, or the subtler issues of culture including food, hair, clothes and parental expectations …there can be huge demands on a young person in a new country. The issues Waltraut faced back in the 1960s, still exist today. Immigration—due to war—is a current affair.</p><p>What I want readers of this middle grade novel to discover is the empowerment of being themselves … of embracing and loving who they are … of speaking their truths. Diversity is a strength. We’re all unique, all different and yet we’re all on the same journey. To be you is not a noun … not a reflection in the mirror defined by hair, skin colour or clothes. It’s not a language to speak or read, or a food to cook and eat. To be you is to be a verb … to accept, to share, to learn, to be a friend. </p><p>I thank Nancy Drew for inspiring me to strive to be curious, kind, and brave!</p><p>p.s. More information about my new publisher and release date will be coming soon. But I just couldn’t wait to express some of my excitement! </p><p><br /></p>Gabriele Goldstonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04481625919437738131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8219458857211445420.post-44317271192987526362024-01-20T10:55:00.000-08:002024-01-20T11:41:56.532-08:00what's in a word?<p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjThvS0ERqszHMVihWbyipK-Z2pzdQKvwYzdUteZZlOc9k0ZIeWTnp2mtI6Paa7JmTBKC9UWqmrdPlx11GjZ4YnlZ7kgmni0YPR6bOoN_cR56r5PQACp_J1tqldgHtwCU583kMAV4VzgovclvOCzcs6zh8IqgO5rPLeiFpJ2PQS6QbkFsUNY_NE7FItess/s458/Raphael_Lemkin,_Photograph_6_(cropped).jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="458" data-original-width="449" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjThvS0ERqszHMVihWbyipK-Z2pzdQKvwYzdUteZZlOc9k0ZIeWTnp2mtI6Paa7JmTBKC9UWqmrdPlx11GjZ4YnlZ7kgmni0YPR6bOoN_cR56r5PQACp_J1tqldgHtwCU583kMAV4VzgovclvOCzcs6zh8IqgO5rPLeiFpJ2PQS6QbkFsUNY_NE7FItess/s320/Raphael_Lemkin,_Photograph_6_(cropped).jpg" width="314" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Raphael Lemkin</span></td></tr></tbody></table>Having spent most of the last ten years immersed in researching 20th century violence that involved my own family, it’s disconcerting to view this new century’s headlines offering up real-time atrocities. Last night I listened to <a href="https://www.cbc.ca/player/play/2301931075815#:~:text=Last%20week%2C%20South%20Africa%20and,there%20violate%20the%20Genocide%20Convention.">CBC Ideas,</a> which broadcast parts of the Genocide debate speeches at the Hague. <div><br />Definition of <i>genocide:</i> a crime committed with the intent to destroy a national, ethnic, racial or religious group, in whole or in part. It does not include political groups or so called “cultural genocide”. The word, created in 1944 by <a href="https://encyclopedia.ushmm.org/content/en/article/coining-a-word-and-championing-a-cause-the-story-of-raphael-lemkin">Raphael Lemkin</a>, a Polish lawyer, didn’t get legal status until 1946. <p></p><p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5gNDULq0tg-drsgilE0lVgBffE7lfDWmHNSDBjsTr-yP3sPjZ4grTVU5hMyvoFZae0Qs0VtxiGDB7SswlW-hdQXFEcqsuZQ463AW110OyadVV5TeFM9pEnbBNI9i4Wt-qWp-frtjRlMip1gO0xe2x__Zo8pKKivPwoSlWw2kqLO7UghAP0Ryjrv0E8eo/s4032/IMG_1216.HEIC" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5gNDULq0tg-drsgilE0lVgBffE7lfDWmHNSDBjsTr-yP3sPjZ4grTVU5hMyvoFZae0Qs0VtxiGDB7SswlW-hdQXFEcqsuZQ463AW110OyadVV5TeFM9pEnbBNI9i4Wt-qWp-frtjRlMip1gO0xe2x__Zo8pKKivPwoSlWw2kqLO7UghAP0Ryjrv0E8eo/s320/IMG_1216.HEIC" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Memorial to drowning victims in Yantarny</span></td></tr></tbody></table>This month, 78 years later, the Hague's international court dithers about its application as vulnerable people suffer … ironically, being killed by a people once themselves almost destroyed by genocide. <p></p><p>January is also the month when more than 10,000 Jewish women, from up to thirty of Stuffhof’s external camps in East Prussia, were forced to march along the Baltic’s amber coast to the mine in <a href="https://www.liberationroute.com/pois/212/the-massacre-of-palmnicken">Palmnicken</a> (now Yantarny). Only 3000 made it. Instead of being stuffed into one of the amber mining shafts, as originally planned, the emaciated prisoners were forced into the icy Baltic. </p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4zJ5g35yqzd5uCT2R7b2tVw4HyvZyUD6UmcpyOWPc45p_yG7tkl8gf4aqxM-MwCw_c13LTUq5sRDyD-Tq-ANYkIIRaaYAcTL2PxJcQ8ut85EXQN_FQ3gzc1HqVzKFyQHiIYcb_qC_7oITDaMNe2EdU9frsMHCDkz0GhpI5wES4q-uSI6KUbuhtLeRqfo/s4032/balticHEIC.HEIC" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4zJ5g35yqzd5uCT2R7b2tVw4HyvZyUD6UmcpyOWPc45p_yG7tkl8gf4aqxM-MwCw_c13LTUq5sRDyD-Tq-ANYkIIRaaYAcTL2PxJcQ8ut85EXQN_FQ3gzc1HqVzKFyQHiIYcb_qC_7oITDaMNe2EdU9frsMHCDkz0GhpI5wES4q-uSI6KUbuhtLeRqfo/s320/balticHEIC.HEIC" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">The Baltic near Yantarny on a summer's day</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>I’ve blogged about this particular atrocity before, but it’s an event that I can’t help but remember every January here in Winnipeg, where it’s cold and windy. I’m grateful for the grace of life that gives me the comforts of warm clothes, food and home. </p><p>While these Jewish prisoners were dying, controlled by a heartless Nazi leadership, the East Prussian civilians were about to embark on their own trek of cold and suffering. </p><p><span style="white-space: normal;">January is a cruel month … why can’t we all just have a group hug, tend our home fires and read a good book?</span></p><p><b>“Peace cannot be kept by force; it can only be achieved by understanding.” ― Albert Einstein</b></p><p>Reading and writing books, listening to others share their stories … it’s the way towards peace. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEf6Odryt5u0GtUwhAmif6QdmZwEWb3GwNVTorUAZfgaDHDRhUEfXaRmTm2hbLBcBrQT096jSOhKLSS4qMS4H-B3BCRLL6qz2BYief49Waj5qgEtlslw-m5vJd95o7IbxNVAvswYuaFqEFdC6EBi8TUEFCs2e0H0yRN06pJzOb0iqtr13X0C6kaWXt-fU/s1197/IMG_1249.heic" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1197" data-original-width="1021" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEf6Odryt5u0GtUwhAmif6QdmZwEWb3GwNVTorUAZfgaDHDRhUEfXaRmTm2hbLBcBrQT096jSOhKLSS4qMS4H-B3BCRLL6qz2BYief49Waj5qgEtlslw-m5vJd95o7IbxNVAvswYuaFqEFdC6EBi8TUEFCs2e0H0yRN06pJzOb0iqtr13X0C6kaWXt-fU/s320/IMG_1249.heic" width="273" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Amber Mine entrance </span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></p><div><br /></div></div>Gabriele Goldstonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04481625919437738131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8219458857211445420.post-6957942570596869302024-01-11T11:54:00.000-08:002024-01-19T08:48:21.934-08:00can revenge ever be justified?<p>I’ve been reading with intense interest, Nicole Eaton’s 2023 release, <i><a href="https://www.foreignaffairs.com/reviews/german-blood-slavic-soil-how-nazi-konigsberg-became-soviet-kaliningrad">German Blood, Slavic Soil,</a> How Nazi Königsberg became Soviet Kaliningrad.</i> Eaton’s academic style makes for slow reading, but it’s jam-packed with information. Her thorough study showcases what I fictionalized in <i>Crow Stone</i>. My mother’s time in East Prussia ended with her deportation to the Urals in the spring of 1945, but her sisters stayed behind. They would have witnessed the renaming of Königsberg to Kaliningrad in July of 1946, staying in the Soviet-occupied enclave until their forced expulsion in 1948. </p><p>As I prepared for my 2019 trip to Kaliningrad, I asked a surviving cousin about her time in East Prussia after the war. She shared some place names Pillkallen (which I wrote about <a href="https://www.gabrielegoldstone.com/2023/09/tend-of-era.html">here)</a>, but it was difficult because I didn’t even know what questions to ask. Eaton’s book might have helped me understand the situation better. </p><p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghkrz7mWZ8-WkXB_sUq1bToIHXvy3CrYXFdUthk61i9TcFEIG4dezJBpJ-mXd8LnqX6Z-bncRa6qrHMd4ALR0e9Ki3oQ1Wucw2DF-q6Vz-HwCUkM4xMajaSLNIlxKagnVNTTmwi-2cRqWGE1GobuOPOCoFQh7Uhyphenhyphen7_MH8C6fU6QWdSCXhthaLGbSN38UE/s600/%D0%9A%D0%B0%D0%BB%D0%B8%D0%BD%D0%B8%D0%BD_%D0%9C._%D0%98._(1920)_(cropped).jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="423" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghkrz7mWZ8-WkXB_sUq1bToIHXvy3CrYXFdUthk61i9TcFEIG4dezJBpJ-mXd8LnqX6Z-bncRa6qrHMd4ALR0e9Ki3oQ1Wucw2DF-q6Vz-HwCUkM4xMajaSLNIlxKagnVNTTmwi-2cRqWGE1GobuOPOCoFQh7Uhyphenhyphen7_MH8C6fU6QWdSCXhthaLGbSN38UE/s320/%D0%9A%D0%B0%D0%BB%D0%B8%D0%BD%D0%B8%D0%BD_%D0%9C._%D0%98._(1920)_(cropped).jpg" width="226" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Mikhail Kalinin</span></td></tr></tbody></table>I’d read several memoirs written by East Prussian survivors, but nothing that summarized the events with objective detachment. Eaton’s research confirms, what many memoirists shared: East Prussia received the bulk of Soviet revenge. They were not liberating the civilians from Nazi rule, they were punishing them for being fascist. Eaton writes, “East Prussia, as the first German territory the soldiers entered and a place where so many refugees were intercepted during their flight, suffered the worst violence of any German conquered territory, including even Berlin.” (page 129). <p></p><p>Königsberg was renamed Kaliningrad in honour of one of Stalin's buddies who'd died earlier in the year. Changing names, changing identities. The final act of ownership.<br /></p><p>With current world conflicts raging, it’s again revenge not liberation that seems to be fuelling violence. Can revenge ever be justified? </p><p>For more about how Königsberg became Kaliningrad, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ArMLZ41jVt8">watch this </a>on Youtube.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Gabriele Goldstonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04481625919437738131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8219458857211445420.post-26661492750151013682024-01-04T12:11:00.000-08:002024-01-04T12:13:26.142-08:00the power of attitude<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlv8ST7bOg7Ia5ot_AO0ZIkAy4VuhSU1aWxtGPh-yc2LUSfEJtfkYDKToVTBb6BGqN8T-EMYAKeHOIznr6bW-RLZok1sJw6U3xz8yRIisFFSXvtoK1HlZmbD65hy7T3STQmcoaSwX-EpoDUZrnOlSvL81bVutxdmw6dDBttjE2QZDHBO65USDY9x_9DS4/s400/48711165.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="267" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlv8ST7bOg7Ia5ot_AO0ZIkAy4VuhSU1aWxtGPh-yc2LUSfEJtfkYDKToVTBb6BGqN8T-EMYAKeHOIznr6bW-RLZok1sJw6U3xz8yRIisFFSXvtoK1HlZmbD65hy7T3STQmcoaSwX-EpoDUZrnOlSvL81bVutxdmw6dDBttjE2QZDHBO65USDY9x_9DS4/s320/48711165.jpg" width="214" /></a></div>I started off the year listening to Viktor Frankl’s short essay collection, <i><a href="https://www.themarginalian.org/2020/05/17/yes-to-life-in-spite-of-everything-viktor-frankl/">Yes, to Life</a>.</i> It caught my attention because I’ve been following the alarming trajectory of <a href="https://www.amnesty.org/en/petition/russia-aleksei-navalny-putin-moscow/">Alexei Navalny</a>’s life. How does one stay positive in spite of horrendous circumstances? <p></p><p>As a Holocaust survivor, Frankl knew that attitude is the one thing that cannot be taken from a person who’s lost health, freedom, dignity and family. </p><p>In this book, Frankl posits crisis as offering opportunity. The <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/1487-the-chinese-use-two-brush-strokes-to-write-the-word">Chinese word for crisis </a>includes the word opportunity. </p><p>Like Eve in that metaphorical Paradise, we always have a choice. I need to remind myself, again and again, that it’s not strength that creates power … it’s courage. </p><p>I also appreciated Frankl's thoughts on collective guilt. Like Thomas Mann, in his <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_Mann">1945 BBC radio</a> broadcast, Frankl says that we are liable for collective actions of a society even if we were not personally responsible. </p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJwbySg_pPxhFtB1tjT9tB2Tk3o3EkS-dkxESsEO6HXIDurP9qVdeuxXS_Rydo9tOqGiEAvZrLHL8OA-r4UlL2wnbtQQGQf2xhlVAip-z-l_k2RfZMQlTVJXcReW_MmFYsdKF4JKZXz4_nhka8Or0ts0MJmHL6n3hPYPOCpk-kn8geI3hUlCuV-pB1aJY/s599/Alexey_Navalny_2_(cropped)_1.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="599" data-original-width="453" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJwbySg_pPxhFtB1tjT9tB2Tk3o3EkS-dkxESsEO6HXIDurP9qVdeuxXS_Rydo9tOqGiEAvZrLHL8OA-r4UlL2wnbtQQGQf2xhlVAip-z-l_k2RfZMQlTVJXcReW_MmFYsdKF4JKZXz4_nhka8Or0ts0MJmHL6n3hPYPOCpk-kn8geI3hUlCuV-pB1aJY/s320/Alexey_Navalny_2_(cropped)_1.jpg" width="242" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">CC by Dmitry Aleshkovskiy </span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p>Alexei Navalny, Viktor Frankl and countless unseen, untold people continue to generate hope throughout our messed-up world. May our own acts of courage empower Alexei Navalny, as he continues to <i>Say Yes to Life. </i></p><p><br /></p>Gabriele Goldstonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04481625919437738131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8219458857211445420.post-11029172710403664332023-12-28T10:48:00.000-08:002023-12-29T08:42:52.741-08:00Invisible Boy Review<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1r8BejndSskEM3TaeiDviZv4FYdkWAAqB7DLzOzRP2bx2MK029lXajs9XDqZyMzGF8g-fOAfet0pXU6YhG4iDFBvNz99adY6YIjFdNSWHHgVF-7AqKHzydWYTEzZ_TUAGPQKuTGGLdR2z14nAr8_emfG8fLs7CXt75ibu4hf0iKOSATEN6G_vDOnlfaM/s4032/IMG_3763.HEIC" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1r8BejndSskEM3TaeiDviZv4FYdkWAAqB7DLzOzRP2bx2MK029lXajs9XDqZyMzGF8g-fOAfet0pXU6YhG4iDFBvNz99adY6YIjFdNSWHHgVF-7AqKHzydWYTEzZ_TUAGPQKuTGGLdR2z14nAr8_emfG8fLs7CXt75ibu4hf0iKOSATEN6G_vDOnlfaM/s320/IMG_3763.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div><b><i><a href="https://www.harpercollins.ca/9781443463935/invisible-boy/">Invisible Boy,</a> </i></b>shortlisted for a non-fiction Governor General Award this past year, caught my attention not because of the race issues … but because of the religious ones. Both share the limelight in this memoir.<p></p><p>I’m not black and won’t try to identify with Harrrison Mooney's race struggles, a black kid growing up with white parents in BC's Bible belt. But, having been raised in a semi-fundamentalist environment (my father kept a healthy distance from the evangelicals), I was drawn to the Christian hypocrisy of Mooney’s growing-up years ... complicated by his insecurities of being an adopted child.</p><p>Mooney could never be sure of his acceptance into his adopted family’s faith community—a community where speaking in tongues was a sign of God’s grace. He could also never be sure of his white mother’s love. Mooney could never be sure if being himself was enough. And so he, the adopted boy, had to adopt a false persona.</p><p>It was heartbreaking to read: “Mothers teach love and survival … But mine taught me how to survive without love.” (page 268). </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuPkT_y0VG9DgvN9qzw6ExN9SMK7Pa2ER-LCsPqvL7y0-xVc6ok1PiEUNEUgKlfX3JuXGkdwgmf9zzaUk6Ep7jYdq4JcAcrCIofDBC4_Yr7lg870W2UnRKe7-21oMJ11_5vAV-dO93ZYAKMohX-S1tfTVGYrWDLCLilCduX07upjvnbCjgbcgWlkRs57k/s4032/IMG_3762.HEIC" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuPkT_y0VG9DgvN9qzw6ExN9SMK7Pa2ER-LCsPqvL7y0-xVc6ok1PiEUNEUgKlfX3JuXGkdwgmf9zzaUk6Ep7jYdq4JcAcrCIofDBC4_Yr7lg870W2UnRKe7-21oMJ11_5vAV-dO93ZYAKMohX-S1tfTVGYrWDLCLilCduX07upjvnbCjgbcgWlkRs57k/s320/IMG_3762.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p>People who haven’t been exposed to Christian fundamentalism might not appreciate its power to exploit a child’s vulnerabilities. A challenging, disturbing, but ultimately, uplifting and empowering book. I hope Mooney's Christian white mother will read this and see him.</p><p><br /></p>Gabriele Goldstonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04481625919437738131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8219458857211445420.post-78864242474801226622023-12-21T11:04:00.000-08:002023-12-21T11:17:22.650-08:00If Tables could Talk<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4g_Q2Mt7Y_LJ6yXUHHPx0b_yN-ACaW0uH8A7Lt3lucvZbMJdN2AKBOy_XzrcMFWoyilzqdyMisPGguvj4gBv3vdqEjn8Lr6-R5VQcjPIot7F5T8jdSEq80VuoTHNNnGs1IhHTz4BxUp9eJUgOFMZh6zBgPSn1vdzE589ZCIYr6zpL3rRrLInTgwBE2sg/s4032/xmas%20dinner.HEIC" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4g_Q2Mt7Y_LJ6yXUHHPx0b_yN-ACaW0uH8A7Lt3lucvZbMJdN2AKBOy_XzrcMFWoyilzqdyMisPGguvj4gBv3vdqEjn8Lr6-R5VQcjPIot7F5T8jdSEq80VuoTHNNnGs1IhHTz4BxUp9eJUgOFMZh6zBgPSn1vdzE589ZCIYr6zpL3rRrLInTgwBE2sg/s320/xmas%20dinner.HEIC" width="320" /></a></div>December, 1953. This photo shows my extended family celebrating their first Christmas as newcomers to Canada. The women in the photo were born in Ukraine; my dad and Uncle #2 were born in Germany.<p></p><p>Dinner was around a maple table in a rented house in the Wolseley neighbourhood. Yes, there's the ubiquitous fowl … probably a turkey, but maybe a goose … centre stage. </p><p>Because I write fiction, I won't identify these people (except my parents). They don't need to be directly attached to the stories I’ve created about them. Suffice it to say, they’ve inspired my writing. As a fiction writer I'm interested in creating stories with compelling character arcs but I strive to be accurate with the historical and physical setting.</p><p>Aunt #1: Far left. A talented seamstress who would sew any dress a young girl could imagine.</p><p></p>Next, my mom. Three months pregnant with me in this photo. She’s wearing a home-knit red vest, that I might actually still own. <p></p><p>Next to her, my father. Three years earlier he'd been released from a Soviet POW camp.</p><p>Aunt #2: Standing at the back, in the middle. As my mom’s youngest sister, she adopted a lost refugee child during the flight from the Soviets, back in 1945. Married later here in Canada and had 2 sons.</p><p>Uncle #1: Married to Aunt #1. He was 51 years old here. His history included exile to Arkhangelsk in 1915, life under Stalin, life under Hitler, time as a Soviet POW and finally arriving in Canada where he worked until his retirement as a school janitor. He made some really good homemade wine in his Okanagan home in his later years where he liked to talk about the Russian years to anyone who’d listen. We all dreaded his stories as kids. </p><p>Cousin #1: Next to Uncle #1, on the right, daughter of Aunt #1 and Uncle #1. She was the last of this group to pass on, back in September of this year. Known for her beautiful garden in the Okanagan she didn't talk much about the past.</p><p>Uncle #2: Married my Aunt #3 in 1952. I know little about him. He died of asbestos poisoning after working at Alcan smelter for many years. Mostly, he's defined in my memory as the man with the white Cadillac. </p><p>Aunt #3: Married to Uncle #2. My mom's other sister. Childless, she adopted two children.</p><div>A photograph with endless stories. Tragedies, comedies, romances, children’s tales … and big secrets. All the faces seem preoccupied. Are they thinking of the past … of the decimated old world? Perhaps they’re looking ahead ... to the potential of this new world. </div><p>The table around which these Christmas dinner guests sat has been in my house until this fall when my youngest daughter took it over to her new place, also in Wolseley. Legs chopped down to make it coffee table size, maybe it’ll continue to absorb conversation. </p><p>My immigrant family. I’m grateful for their adventurous spirit, their courage and for their stories. Maybe I was just a twinkle in my dad’s eye, or a slight bump in my mom’s lap … but like that table, I feel like I’m a part of that dinner, too. And almost 70 years old!</p><p>Happy Christmas Dinner to all. <br /></p><div><br /></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p>Gabriele Goldstonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04481625919437738131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8219458857211445420.post-7083483426128528822023-12-14T11:14:00.000-08:002023-12-14T11:32:54.788-08:00Reading By the Ghost Light<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpoTu8SxROztvLUuCeztAozvwyMbNou6E76GWIyCY2_3qssw9t7nt_aGtCLPB7ggjju7ixYMqkJ3h93WYc0x-Hn4XuP-uU3WYDIDHsgfb_A8Klm-XdFydz0AB7cdVTVrYHKZ2UEiRTa_hzpc3M1QyAk2F0G7S8peciv74XV5gWnReF6-1-VTsRMIecM3Q/s4032/IMG_3692.HEIC" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpoTu8SxROztvLUuCeztAozvwyMbNou6E76GWIyCY2_3qssw9t7nt_aGtCLPB7ggjju7ixYMqkJ3h93WYc0x-Hn4XuP-uU3WYDIDHsgfb_A8Klm-XdFydz0AB7cdVTVrYHKZ2UEiRTa_hzpc3M1QyAk2F0G7S8peciv74XV5gWnReF6-1-VTsRMIecM3Q/s320/IMG_3692.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div><br />When I heard the author, <a href="https://www.cbc.ca/books/celebrated-stage-and-screen-actor-r-h-thomson-explores-family-and-the-legacy-of-war-in-upcoming-memoir-1.6801205">R.H. Thomson</a>, being interviewed about his new book, <i>By the Ghost Light</i>, back in November, I knew I had to read it. Couldn't believe that a Canadian with British ancestry—highly regarded in the theatre world—would come down hard against patriotism. However, I'm grateful that he did. <p></p><p>His international project, <a href="https://theworldremembers.org/">The World Remembers</a>, aims to name all the First World War dead ... of every country. Here my family's losses are on par with the victor's losses.</p><p>The book's title refers to the lone light left on in a theatre after a play is done. Here’s a quote from the book: “To stand in a dark theatre after so much life has been acted out is a thrill. The only motion is the beating of my heart, the photons fleeing the ghost light, and my shadow shifting on the walls.” (page 168).</p><p>As a theatre actor, Thomson asks whether it’s worthwhile to tell stories that inevitably fade. He answers with an italicized <i>Yes!</i> (page 169). Why? Because it’s part of the “cycle of creation.” (page 169). I appreciated his nuanced approach to shameful parts of his family history ... "I understand that I do not carry guilt for Augustus' actions, but I do carry the burden." (page 301). </p><p>He shares family photos, letters, memories and encourages us to share ours. Even my family losses … silenced by so many years of Remembrance Day services that didn’t include my lost uncles, grandparents or civilian dead. I was an adult before I stopped wearing a poppy ... before I realized that the red flower celebrates military violence, rather than mourning war’s destruction.</p><p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLFDs3b1W-xwZ6NkCLaShXwJAmVXr69UQn4DLaNdV_UOHgPD6hMCIIHGq3N6n7YjIItUha9MPezkL-gNinCtVMjga9R9PkDFtNip5CmO4ZvhxCxbGDrHRj4bkP5Id2WzF4sj5Rci1jd9alSBfzOujMY0fykVF69njK9Zxg5g2fC6MJ7jYWxD-tKVQPOIc/s1024/1024px-Het_treurende_ouderpaar_-_Ka%CC%88the_Kolwitz.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLFDs3b1W-xwZ6NkCLaShXwJAmVXr69UQn4DLaNdV_UOHgPD6hMCIIHGq3N6n7YjIItUha9MPezkL-gNinCtVMjga9R9PkDFtNip5CmO4ZvhxCxbGDrHRj4bkP5Id2WzF4sj5Rci1jd9alSBfzOujMY0fykVF69njK9Zxg5g2fC6MJ7jYWxD-tKVQPOIc/s320/1024px-Het_treurende_ouderpaar_-_Ka%CC%88the_Kolwitz.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">public domain, Grieving Parents, K. Kollwitz, Belgium</span></td></tr></tbody></table>I came across a review of the book by Dave Obee, in the <i><a href="https://www.timescolonist.com/entertainment/book-review-reconsidering-war-in-by-the-ghost-light-7780173">Times Colonist</a></i>. Obee writes, “It is a complex, fascinating, and passionate book that, despite side journeys, never strays from the main theme of wars, memory and families.” I’m grateful to Obee, a BC journalist and genealogist who, along with <a href="http://www.inthemidstofwolves.com/donmiller.html">Don Miller</a>, have greatly aided me in solving my own family mysteries about the Germans from Volhynia. <p></p><p>The final image of Thomson’s book comes via the art of German sculptor <a href="https://www.moma.org/artists/3201">Käthe Kollwitz</a> (born in Königsberg), who lost her son, Peter, during the Great War. The pain of a mother grieving the loss of a son to war is universal and her sculpture, <i><a href="https://www.kollwitz.de/en/pieta-sculpture-en-bronze">Mother with her Dead Son</a></i>, has been recreated inside the Neue Wache museum in Berlin. Her <i><a href="https://artinflanders.be/en/artwork/grieving-parents-2">Grieving Parents</a></i> sculpture sits outside near Peter’s grave in Belgium.</p><p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ6OESlsZXcPp79LoUCiEHgAdm09CMlXGdh8yMsQ_06g4_bcU2UG67TKLY3mXbjzF_HeMSbUoaDlcrF4Ca6NX53V8MI3ypV85DBheYN6OMNZ_LFAf2bFFUhIZoRJj8N1jEnlMJikrFoI_BD_ns9g21-7O5CKLrcMAHiXvnMnTNY4FIXoqQkO9bdnSAU8c/s5022/Neue_Wache_innen_Berlin.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3366" data-original-width="5022" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ6OESlsZXcPp79LoUCiEHgAdm09CMlXGdh8yMsQ_06g4_bcU2UG67TKLY3mXbjzF_HeMSbUoaDlcrF4Ca6NX53V8MI3ypV85DBheYN6OMNZ_LFAf2bFFUhIZoRJj8N1jEnlMJikrFoI_BD_ns9g21-7O5CKLrcMAHiXvnMnTNY4FIXoqQkO9bdnSAU8c/s320/Neue_Wache_innen_Berlin.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">CC Neue Wache, Berlin<br />Mother with her Dead Son by Kollwitz<br />Musician67</span></td></tr></tbody></table>Again, I’m reminded how my lost family members never got graves. For a long time, they didn’t even have names. But I’ve found them, named them and given them life in my own stories. Because sharing stories is part of remembering, part of healing, part of creation. <p></p><p> Thomson's book is worthwhile reading and it's prompting me to check out Chris Hedges, whom he quotes: "Until there is a common vocabulary and a shared historical memory, there is no peace in any society, only an absence of war.." (page 152)</p><p>Christmas is near ... time for family ... time for sharing stories and always, a time for peace.</p>Gabriele Goldstonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04481625919437738131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8219458857211445420.post-36213068664289457342023-12-09T09:34:00.000-08:002023-12-09T09:49:58.864-08:00Christmas Away from Home<p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkyGtVDgN9OLXjo4oMfRtECaT350luvOqM-kSVVMvf3HQPL8CQ_wf8cL4moXyOjfYc1IfI3n2Vy6ONzQCsu03xy4JvEGc261m5yAGqNcHoAxrciqdQPjGbJ2LZw3fdbe7zVRTbEVG7r-QxGMMmhp9eQaATTpM2O1-0gjHTPJE1UY58XwVNzEuL1V47xj4/s550/Watzmann_Berchtesgaden.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="390" data-original-width="550" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkyGtVDgN9OLXjo4oMfRtECaT350luvOqM-kSVVMvf3HQPL8CQ_wf8cL4moXyOjfYc1IfI3n2Vy6ONzQCsu03xy4JvEGc261m5yAGqNcHoAxrciqdQPjGbJ2LZw3fdbe7zVRTbEVG7r-QxGMMmhp9eQaATTpM2O1-0gjHTPJE1UY58XwVNzEuL1V47xj4/s320/Watzmann_Berchtesgaden.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Der Watzmann, CC BY-SA 3.0</span></td></tr></tbody></table>I remember my first Christmas away from home. I was in Germany, in the town of Berchtesgaden near Salzburg, forever infamous as Hitler’s mountain getaway. I’d been on a university work program when I’d landed a serving position in one of the town’s pensions. The original six weeks morphed into almost a year of backpacking throughout Germany and the rest of Europe. I met interesting people and had a myriad of experiences.</p><p></p><p>In between trips, I’d return to Berchtesgaden where I’d always find work. Berchtesgaden was like Canada’s Banff, filled with tourists and always in need of workers. Serving tables was a great way for me to improve my language skills and being in Germany was my first real attempt to explore my elusive roots. Life was an adventure. </p><p>But working past midnight, as Christmas Eve became Christmas Morning, serving cocktails and caviar to well-off holiday skiers, took a toll on me. I returned to my little servants’ quarters that I shared with some fast-asleep young women from Turkey, feeling more than tired—I felt lonely. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOdH4QmuU-cjSSobQqcXtsqSYycYfNf2zM8J8T7NWGigQV3g11yFAXNebuJqapGaLroJmghNDDu_7UFMg4xVmjbgAJIyp8869T1gJmRm-pG098tiqL22oPw-nQhpffS55xZZtaXuFiasqAVqyNXTik0F-bGzjyk4FOBnwiVlqpUuZiv_rJB815-NTy-hM/s4032/IMG_3677.HEIC" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOdH4QmuU-cjSSobQqcXtsqSYycYfNf2zM8J8T7NWGigQV3g11yFAXNebuJqapGaLroJmghNDDu_7UFMg4xVmjbgAJIyp8869T1gJmRm-pG098tiqL22oPw-nQhpffS55xZZtaXuFiasqAVqyNXTik0F-bGzjyk4FOBnwiVlqpUuZiv_rJB815-NTy-hM/s320/IMG_3677.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div><br />What cheered me up? I had one gift to open from an aunt living in the opposite end of Germany … near Hamburg. I just remember the thrill of opening that present. It was a wallet with some German money inside and a note to come visit her. It made that Christmas memorable and even today I’m reminded of her kindness and of the power of gifts. <p></p><p>Christmas makes loneliness more lonely. I’ve tried to convey that in my novels, and I hope to be sensitive to those around me … to reach out and give. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div><br /></div>Gabriele Goldstonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04481625919437738131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8219458857211445420.post-11410849565688716082023-11-30T11:39:00.000-08:002023-11-30T11:47:56.379-08:00Holodomor and Family<p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB3DaFCkq70Lm9lpYx4h0w8MNzlVI3vGjrJEhmryH9OnSSHo0TTwNXn3IZbOCeW7SKC5cWbiyHd2-9MZOdeD4yoN40HZm-7gVGYwwcOBbny-aKK0USufyaS3mZAlMYrvta6GAJqkkBuULSngzDeoTEiVCJXnU8f4OTouyMWy6VPOVe_d6JCZtmy5Th4lY/s4032/IMG_4044.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB3DaFCkq70Lm9lpYx4h0w8MNzlVI3vGjrJEhmryH9OnSSHo0TTwNXn3IZbOCeW7SKC5cWbiyHd2-9MZOdeD4yoN40HZm-7gVGYwwcOBbny-aKK0USufyaS3mZAlMYrvta6GAJqkkBuULSngzDeoTEiVCJXnU8f4OTouyMWy6VPOVe_d6JCZtmy5Th4lY/s320/IMG_4044.HEIC" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">on grounds of Manitoba Legisture</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br />One of my newcomer-friends from Ukraine forwarded links to a series of three films about the Holodomor which was marked this year on November 25th. I watched the movies on <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MZTMt9Jn4M8">YouTube</a> this past week. Since the series is in Ukrainian, I needed English sub-titles. What added to the normal challenge of watching a movie with subtitles, was that I was searching for a glimpse of my grandfather in the reels from the 1930s. Didn’t happen.</p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgakR1i8Og6O-BMW_tlErpsrOz9i9od3AWIhjrMIOOaI5q0TSyyHUEEVmsRivEnjRFTdOaF0nHuUoa_tcF8gWIy07c-_VuXMgzhuIvFD71QOeo3lxkP9J-Asm_BvWZQ-eRFXPFsTfJoIYSv7b62mEtw223p1zJfvP7dGZx20BEPWldT3SJsDe1_94TCtX0" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="874" data-original-width="663" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgakR1i8Og6O-BMW_tlErpsrOz9i9od3AWIhjrMIOOaI5q0TSyyHUEEVmsRivEnjRFTdOaF0nHuUoa_tcF8gWIy07c-_VuXMgzhuIvFD71QOeo3lxkP9J-Asm_BvWZQ-eRFXPFsTfJoIYSv7b62mEtw223p1zJfvP7dGZx20BEPWldT3SJsDe1_94TCtX0" width="182" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">my grandfather, <br />shot in 1937</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>I did see a lot of white-kerchiefed peasants, thatched houses, horses—pulling wagons filled with sacks of grain, menacing pitchforks, clips of Trotsky, Lenin and Stalin … but no clips of my grandfather. He was supposedly hiding—running from village to village, using assumed names, after his release from a Zhytomyr prison in 1932. By 1937, the authorities caught up with him and he was finally tried for treason and shot.</p><p></p><p>The other thing I saw a lot of in these films was dying children. Painful to watch. My mom and her three younger siblings got out in 1931, thanks to their father’s quick thinking and selflessness. </p><p></p><p>Many Ukrainians are only now learning their own tragic history. After decades of suppression and of manipulation of their own stories, they’re finally dealing with their own trauma. This current war isn’t just about land … it’s about history and identity and about family secrets. I’m not from a Ukrainian family. My mom, her siblings and parents, born in Ukraine, were ethnic Germans. But they were also affected by Stalin, his Five-Year Plans, and his forced collectivization.</p><p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiARVqFRg78GtgkiGa7MemJpT83v3C7X_8sKKhum-Xig8kyp4nwcwhsKPd0IMpgZYUVg_37kThjupEJ78nMuYf-BoUwb6LJiDMHmwSUoKfqX5h1VsBEXTxxsvnIAQDfgdvQQsP5QCe3lvrBUt6cLDPaoaUhlYOqRxFISA33YQ25w4AOP_N-lkJyke-27lg/s2288/P5090316.JPG" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1712" data-original-width="2288" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiARVqFRg78GtgkiGa7MemJpT83v3C7X_8sKKhum-Xig8kyp4nwcwhsKPd0IMpgZYUVg_37kThjupEJ78nMuYf-BoUwb6LJiDMHmwSUoKfqX5h1VsBEXTxxsvnIAQDfgdvQQsP5QCe3lvrBUt6cLDPaoaUhlYOqRxFISA33YQ25w4AOP_N-lkJyke-27lg/s320/P5090316.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br />Thatched house in the former Federofka, Ukraine</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p>I never thought of my mom and grandparents as Germans or Ukrainians or Russians. I thought of them as family … later as displaced people simply trying to survive. Sure, they held on to some German traditions, to their mother language, but they also adapted as was necessary so that they could get along with their neighbours and build community. It’s kind of like what we’ve been living here in Canada. </p><p></p><p>It’s been nine decades since Collectivization and the ensuing Holodomor destroyed the Ukrainian countryside—a long time for the truth to be known. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Gabriele Goldstonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04481625919437738131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8219458857211445420.post-44252190686423426192023-11-25T11:54:00.000-08:002023-11-25T12:15:21.724-08:00Finding Story in the Facts<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDm08eGEIWsoX6FdIcNI1kef6kFWFchoOhyphenhyphenmlzjBeInwKmv_1WKyuG8b0D4RjnjGjeqzx3feqORCTJ-871nN1jAvO7VD0ZtvvETjMcBNgBO-NwTe1mXB-mZ0byDTVfI6GgkGo9GxeJnpgs4CYptAKfCPv6OEzMNubS0otzRIeKyY7jwcxUrTdgdIPdQ-I/s4032/IMG_3644.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDm08eGEIWsoX6FdIcNI1kef6kFWFchoOhyphenhyphenmlzjBeInwKmv_1WKyuG8b0D4RjnjGjeqzx3feqORCTJ-871nN1jAvO7VD0ZtvvETjMcBNgBO-NwTe1mXB-mZ0byDTVfI6GgkGo9GxeJnpgs4CYptAKfCPv6OEzMNubS0otzRIeKyY7jwcxUrTdgdIPdQ-I/s320/IMG_3644.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><i><a href="https://thefantasyreviews.com/2023/05/18/book-review-you-the-story-by-ruta-sepetys/">You, The Story</a></i> (sub-titled, <i>A Writer’s Guide to Craft through Memory</i>) by <a href="https://rutasepetys.com/">Ruta Sepetys</a>, was a slow read … not because it was difficult or tedious … but because it was affirming and comforting. It reminded me to trust my gut, to go with my instincts and to believe in my own story. Sprinkled throughout with user-friendly exercises, the book's a great resource … especially for beginners (of any age). And what an interesting cover!<p></p><p>Sepetys, author of a couple of my favourite novels set in eastern Europe: <i><a href="https://aboltoutofthebook.wordpress.com/2020/11/05/salt-to-the-sea-ruta-sepetys/">Salt to the Sea</a></i> and<i> <a href="https://sites.miamioh.edu/havighurst/2022/03/14/focus-on-lithuania-between-shades-of-gray-by-ruta-sepetys/">Between Shades of Gray</a></i> gives plenty of examples to showcase the power of perspective. She offers tips on using detail … “specificity is authenticity” (page 33), about dialogue, setting and courage. She reminds us that failure is a prerequisite to success. </p><p>We manipulate truth ... we pick and choose memories to highlight our narrative. As writers of fiction we can shine the light on the parts that will move the story forward. </p><p>I just finished reading <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vIjt8U3R0Mo">Anne Berest’</a>s new book, <i><a href="https://www.newyorker.com/culture/persons-of-interest/the-anonymous-postcard-that-inspired-a-french-best-seller">The Postcard</a></i>—(again with an incredible cover!) a novel strongly inspired by memory. In fact, it’s curious that it says ‘a novel’ on the cover, rather than 'a memoir'. Some readers, including a good friend of mine, say they have no time for fiction ... for make-believe, for pretend. I tend to disagree. It's through the ART of fiction that truth can be told. <i>The Postcard</i> is a prime example of Ruta Sepetys’ nonfiction guide to exploring memory. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMdmG0blPOtCqAESnm0QyZss-LZO-gikhrqviaUX3Jr4zJpLL4arIKN3ot-0Ko6B31_dc8JWna2xBX7dMaIpFsBf6gCC6g7jPgBNLigab3i9B5ZG6Dpm-YOa0RjoOhNOomEGzniGNYFLUyqXhm8EESM4iU5bvJzb5kVtoq120xSNxcdvhfVTgy4q9KoHM/s4031/IMG_3643%202.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4031" data-original-width="2714" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMdmG0blPOtCqAESnm0QyZss-LZO-gikhrqviaUX3Jr4zJpLL4arIKN3ot-0Ko6B31_dc8JWna2xBX7dMaIpFsBf6gCC6g7jPgBNLigab3i9B5ZG6Dpm-YOa0RjoOhNOomEGzniGNYFLUyqXhm8EESM4iU5bvJzb5kVtoq120xSNxcdvhfVTgy4q9KoHM/s320/IMG_3643%202.jpg" width="215" /></a></div><br />Both books, inspire me to continue solving my own family mysteries … one of which was also precipitated by a postcard. The postcard was from Berlin and arrived shortly after my father’s death in 1993. With the recent collapse of the Berlin wall, my father’s ex-wife had returned to the city to remember. Her postcard stirred up memories about my father’s life in Nazi Germany when he'd had another family. That postcard was a portal to a father I'd never known. <p></p><p>Anne’s Berest’s novel, <i>The Postcard</i>, reads like a mystery and it explored aspects of the French experience of the war that I was unfamiliar with. Yes, that war is still relevant. </p><div><br /></div>Gabriele Goldstonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04481625919437738131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8219458857211445420.post-27582308496168634672023-11-16T10:58:00.000-08:002023-11-16T10:58:39.994-08:00One Year<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhny1hvQnVtxVw8-hWmeV6Tlvrb638uLL8Yl7E_1XsEE3nDelqeDoV-BJLZRz2QDe5Z-iT7Yuef8PWfQ0UoIgr5msHEv3WqsYNI6ogMKSc8yBNwUSU_NerDJTDPStPAZlmGBkR1Y8fB3Jn9DkVN507ZWjk3J12xyT0whnNL1d8udNG7rwqRYNgaz6lhjmA/s4032/IMG_3614.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhny1hvQnVtxVw8-hWmeV6Tlvrb638uLL8Yl7E_1XsEE3nDelqeDoV-BJLZRz2QDe5Z-iT7Yuef8PWfQ0UoIgr5msHEv3WqsYNI6ogMKSc8yBNwUSU_NerDJTDPStPAZlmGBkR1Y8fB3Jn9DkVN507ZWjk3J12xyT0whnNL1d8udNG7rwqRYNgaz6lhjmA/s320/IMG_3614.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>It’s been a year since my novel, <i>Crow Stone</i>, was released. I still pinch myself that a story I carried with me since childhood has actually become a book. Turning my mom's confused memories into a narrative helped me appreciate the community of displaced people who enveloped my childhood.<p></p><p>While not topping bestseller lists, <i>Crow Stone’</i>s release, released me from the weight of my mother’s trauma ... a trauma that stayed with her until she died at age 92 ... still paranoid, but also resilient and clever.</p><p>Thank you again ...</p><p>- for support from my Canadian publisher, <a href="https://ronsdalepress.com/">Ronsdale Press</a>, even as they transitioned to new owners. </p><p>- for positive reviews from Kirkus, Booklist, Canadian Materials Review and more. </p><p>- for the book’s travels to the Frankfurt and London Book Fairs.</p><p>- for the attention from Dr. Mateusz Swietlicki, East European professor from Wroclaw, Poland.</p><p>- for German podcast listeners who got to hear me interviewed.</p><p>I’m grateful to you for sticking with me on my meanderings. My new projects … immigrant stories – one for adults and one for middle grade—are looking for homes. Traditional publishing is a challenging and crowded field. More people are writing, less people are reading. </p><p>I keep reminding myself ... it's a journey, not a destination. </p><p><br /></p><div><br /></div>Gabriele Goldstonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04481625919437738131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8219458857211445420.post-91964952652841325932023-11-09T12:09:00.007-08:002023-11-10T07:59:34.527-08:00Picking Favourites—Not Fair!<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3MRmwLjZeBENB4V2yMSfhVVbzw71gghmi6f7HIObEv_WXlK5LLyNLdL17fdWjSxmT5ftTdJ5G7fElxtwImT5YGnS4VNoPReJI9qVVpKmR2igcMuGXx86uVbHdmlBNQtNUGWI98CyHZNSnhMzR9hhyphenhyphenLLoNiNrDBrPaqP3YXOm3-jHKOM6PsT3Rmwpn3Tw/s4013/IMG_3594.HEIC" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2442" data-original-width="4013" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3MRmwLjZeBENB4V2yMSfhVVbzw71gghmi6f7HIObEv_WXlK5LLyNLdL17fdWjSxmT5ftTdJ5G7fElxtwImT5YGnS4VNoPReJI9qVVpKmR2igcMuGXx86uVbHdmlBNQtNUGWI98CyHZNSnhMzR9hhyphenhyphenLLoNiNrDBrPaqP3YXOm3-jHKOM6PsT3Rmwpn3Tw/s320/IMG_3594.HEIC" width="320" /></a></div>Shepherd, an online database of books connecting readers, authors, and their books by theme asked contributors to select their favourite books of the year. Not fair! Almost every book I read is a true treasure and I appreciate and respect the writer and their need to tell a story. <p></p><p>That said, much of my reading these past few years, has focused on the history of Ukraine, Russia, Germany, and Second World War history. Violence involving the former USSR continues to create headline news as the ‘special military operation’ grinds on into a second year with no end in sight. War and death dominate our news and Canada is flooded with 21st century war refugees. </p><p>The authors of my three book choices include: Erin Litteken, an American novelist writing for adults. Marsha Skrypuch, a Canadian novelist writing for middle grade, and Mateusz Swietlicki, a Polish academic, specializing in East European studies. To find out about the books I chose, visit Shepherd. <a href=" https://shepherd.com/bboy/2023/f/gabriele-goldstone">https://shepherd.com/bboy/2023/f/gabriele-goldstone.</a></p><p>It’s empowering to know that the experiences of our families, hidden for decades because of war, immigration and even shame, are being explored via the power of literature. These are excellent books, targeted at a variety of readers, about a history that still matters. </p><p>Thank you to the folks at Shepherd for making it so much easier to follow topics of interest. I recommend them to fellow authors, readers and teachers. A great resource!</p><p>Check out their website for <a href="https://shepherd.com/bboy/2023">favourite reads of almost 1000 authors.</a> And if you're an author, you might want to join their growing list. <br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Gabriele Goldstonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04481625919437738131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8219458857211445420.post-6951734277664416872023-11-02T11:06:00.001-07:002023-11-02T11:06:44.796-07:00Pumpkin Talk<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikU_3Xm7OeJ4NpAWN9_7kRK3P_duUluENeShv-R1FwFF-FEKQfb1Rkm8wQ-NVtmtIiPtwG2W7XlZ_I6llLRmtTaR1wUbmUtNmRMlRFsiMCB0ZRq7TNAYZ26XWEd4-iQX4o8yecBuF90ChADJRHh5YFhs7RhuG7iRAT7UYfEhNdypBDP0t4c5RJh3LdSA8/s4032/IMG_3559.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikU_3Xm7OeJ4NpAWN9_7kRK3P_duUluENeShv-R1FwFF-FEKQfb1Rkm8wQ-NVtmtIiPtwG2W7XlZ_I6llLRmtTaR1wUbmUtNmRMlRFsiMCB0ZRq7TNAYZ26XWEd4-iQX4o8yecBuF90ChADJRHh5YFhs7RhuG7iRAT7UYfEhNdypBDP0t4c5RJh3LdSA8/s320/IMG_3559.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div>I shared an interesting conversation this week with my EAL student, (I’ll call her Olga) a recent arrival from Ukraine. We discussed the North American celebration of Halloween. None of the students I’ve worked with, from South Korea, China, Iran and several now from Ukraine, are comfortable with our infatuation of scary. The immigrant church community where I grew up wasn’t too happy with Hallowe’en either. (Halloween or Hallowe’en comes from Hallowed Eve, the night before All Saints’ Day).<p></p><p>For young Canadians, Hallowe’en is about pumpkin carving, fake graveyards on suburban lawns, ghost sheets blowing in the wind and candy—lots of candy. Us older folks like scaring ourselves with a good ghost story or movie. Halloween frights equal the adrenaline rush of a roller coaster ride. Nothing more. </p><p>During our conversation, Olga and I looked at Halloween traditions around the world. In Mexico, the holiday takes place over two days and family graves are lit up with candles. I learned that in Ukraine, cemeteries are visited the week after Easter and food is left behind to nourish their souls. Here in Canada, we have no special holiday for the dead. Not even a day off work. Just an evening where kids get to dress up and go begging for candy throughout their neighbourhood. We laugh at scary.<br /></p><p>Meanwhile in Russia, they’re snubbing anything Western. This year, they have their own version of Halloween and call it <a href="https://cepa.org/article/russia-steps-up-halloween-import-substitution/">Pumpkin Saviour’s Day</a>. </p><div><br /></div>Gabriele Goldstonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04481625919437738131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8219458857211445420.post-90938168927301284722023-10-28T10:23:00.012-07:002023-10-28T10:46:44.399-07:00Art Above Politics, Love Above War<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglX0B8ZhAljeh4Vv46iimaFzLbCN59YLXlEylXNo2XtGcl6ymKvdMAjc7SPNFDBeD77WruH523no3o5ANa_OgjVf1AVXu6dmNP8UTgLmyd3yZTgXb4-ctXeUb0jJuyghkj7GuJuFKldWZQXeW6hEfD3IaUCDHmebZf5lGafYfbdSa38qkghovPLTiGWE8/s4032/IMG_3547.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglX0B8ZhAljeh4Vv46iimaFzLbCN59YLXlEylXNo2XtGcl6ymKvdMAjc7SPNFDBeD77WruH523no3o5ANa_OgjVf1AVXu6dmNP8UTgLmyd3yZTgXb4-ctXeUb0jJuyghkj7GuJuFKldWZQXeW6hEfD3IaUCDHmebZf5lGafYfbdSa38qkghovPLTiGWE8/s320/IMG_3547.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Several years ago, I met Helen, a newcomer from Russia, at <a href="https://www.gallerieswest.ca/magazine/stories/helen-sabados/">Bev Morton’s Wayne Arthur gallery</a> here in Winnipeg. (Bev sadly passed away in Nov/21). Helen’s art was as captivating as her warm personality. As a newcomer to Canada, she was eager to be accepted in our culture using her art as a universal language. During one of her doll workshops, I got to know her better while creating my little ‘kulak’ doll. <div><br /></div><div>Unfortunately, Canada is home to many a starving artist. Becoming financially independent as an artist is a huge challenge for locals as well as new residents. My Russian friend struggled to make the proper connections but money was always tight. Disappointed, she finally returned back to Russia, her Canadian husband, Ed, in tow. </div><div><br /></div><div>Helen and Ed created a home for themselves—and for Helen's art—outside of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tolyatti">Togliatty </a>(known for its Lada cars) in the Samara Oblast. <br /><div><br /></div><div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaan1-dbK6hginoHrAuN9KwBOhW6NUW7jHrlqhtSQAo1ZsBLQYdYKUU1c2BdSfT1JaVjLRl6lkIch3BAxIVrzgNiERHc0KvSMCudsbwMig8pnrE_W_77HSuOawNVONEn2_nT8R7se5Bi-3GfVJ3UBecP2KQE_8lUil1Zc46y2yDIqP3UYKSRqV-IazJ10/s3264/IMG_2067.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaan1-dbK6hginoHrAuN9KwBOhW6NUW7jHrlqhtSQAo1ZsBLQYdYKUU1c2BdSfT1JaVjLRl6lkIch3BAxIVrzgNiERHc0KvSMCudsbwMig8pnrE_W_77HSuOawNVONEn2_nT8R7se5Bi-3GfVJ3UBecP2KQE_8lUil1Zc46y2yDIqP3UYKSRqV-IazJ10/w150-h200/IMG_2067.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">My Katya doll</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div><p></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzK0fKlXt9wcGJpicqrS5_RTiDXGYjDskZJ_epSvocgspx65okLvDftK5pYrbatQSNX8VfqxY6L37NFnx0OAt55WAGyg06ARkTDOu9SEH3abLROlpeBSvSQr3RRDq33fACa6QnlQirwTVUJU4G5vKnHnaza138okuioGyjV-YEei_W6qo3aD4oF1PcvVg/s4032/IMG_3545.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzK0fKlXt9wcGJpicqrS5_RTiDXGYjDskZJ_epSvocgspx65okLvDftK5pYrbatQSNX8VfqxY6L37NFnx0OAt55WAGyg06ARkTDOu9SEH3abLROlpeBSvSQr3RRDq33fACa6QnlQirwTVUJU4G5vKnHnaza138okuioGyjV-YEei_W6qo3aD4oF1PcvVg/s320/IMG_3545.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />Before Helen left Canada, she and I had collaborated on a picture book. Time was short and the project shelved until late 2021. Finally, in January, 2022 we focused time online working on the details. Helen was determined to make this happen and I admired her tenacity. Then in February 24, 2022 Russia invaded Ukraine and our book project was again stalled.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMgQEshTq3CoIwvhswTABFUe9W2e7EWuHNnbuc9IA7z3z8XX0Qn3dc7XFhQFtusQSoeY5fevvfLVs97n-QDOmDj3wwYM0Kr9sHX_zvrAzosRaXk6ZW2fV9pMYJ12qzgrzDbcsa-omUp0Bpa1I7_b7GsFqv8MhlmVGet19q8RPrLn5k54DE4SEzgsbuUo4/s4032/IMG_3546.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMgQEshTq3CoIwvhswTABFUe9W2e7EWuHNnbuc9IA7z3z8XX0Qn3dc7XFhQFtusQSoeY5fevvfLVs97n-QDOmDj3wwYM0Kr9sHX_zvrAzosRaXk6ZW2fV9pMYJ12qzgrzDbcsa-omUp0Bpa1I7_b7GsFqv8MhlmVGet19q8RPrLn5k54DE4SEzgsbuUo4/s320/IMG_3546.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />Kudos to Helen for believing in the power of family, of friendship and of art, for finishing up this story project. I wrote the English text, Helen supplied the Russian translation and created the art, the layout and the final production. She launched the book at her gallery in Samara earlier this fall. Perhaps someday I’ll be able to visit Togliatty on the Volga River and together we can spread the message that just because people are different, doesn’t mean we can’t still love and support each other.<p></p><p>Someday this war will end and we can return to feathering our nests instead of destroying them. And someday, I will have this book about storks and cuckoos produced for distribution in Canada. </p><br /><p><br /></p></div></div></div>Gabriele Goldstonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04481625919437738131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8219458857211445420.post-29985284918067476902023-10-19T10:32:00.006-07:002023-10-19T10:55:09.832-07:00Remembering Ed Young and his Seven Blind Mice<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ6dEohVPQvihWOIbpviYX0Spa-hQW7F5exMvP1mgU3VN4hoOClhsPo7xOGaoBAWdCwK7fv5vcYJEVPV5CepjdmuiFQkqCvgHfYqyts3O8WSQeA4c1NLicMO859tWry2XpX38goczs34LRgpMDrZXfjuLS8-BaItckdZy8RcErJtJbxvm4Tsz1kj73GP4/s4032/IMG_3493.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ6dEohVPQvihWOIbpviYX0Spa-hQW7F5exMvP1mgU3VN4hoOClhsPo7xOGaoBAWdCwK7fv5vcYJEVPV5CepjdmuiFQkqCvgHfYqyts3O8WSQeA4c1NLicMO859tWry2XpX38goczs34LRgpMDrZXfjuLS8-BaItckdZy8RcErJtJbxvm4Tsz1kj73GP4/s320/IMG_3493.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>The author of possibly my favourite children’s picture book has died. Ed Tse-chun Young both wrote and illustrated Caldecott-award-winner, <i>Seven Blind Mice </i>(1992). The inspiration for the book came from an Indian fable known as “The Blind Men and the Elephant.” <p></p><p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiBffkI-jv8FdQQi6llOmkkQdt4jDftLVBkX9F9q4mmok9D2VNbSyb631_PnBXMnRbGrPRS3y06xnPnvjUFykaOAgyJVwr63bkVExckxh2aaSYTMcuvxhnxuv9RQY2DXMLzvLDn5RktQZnxOItxQGjCk0m-G31PuUCIgXaf7ZZn_Bhci0vSwWhQOSlyFps" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="599" data-original-width="399" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiBffkI-jv8FdQQi6llOmkkQdt4jDftLVBkX9F9q4mmok9D2VNbSyb631_PnBXMnRbGrPRS3y06xnPnvjUFykaOAgyJVwr63bkVExckxh2aaSYTMcuvxhnxuv9RQY2DXMLzvLDn5RktQZnxOItxQGjCk0m-G31PuUCIgXaf7ZZn_Bhci0vSwWhQOSlyFps" width="160" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">CC Alvintrusty<br /><br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table>Young received an earlier Caldecott medal in 1990, for his picture book, <i>Lon Po Po</i>. (A re-telling of the Chinese Red Riding Hood). Born in 1931, he was raised in China, a culture which influenced most of his picture books. Young is quoted as saying:<p></p><p><b>“A Chinese painting is often accompanied by words … they are complementary. There are things that words do that pictures never can, and likewise, there are images that words can never describe." </b></p><p>He moved to the USA when he was 19 and studied art, receiving many awards for his picture books ...</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAQKY48Zan4fcvux5v7r9U1SDVmK7Jin3nbihJMt1Gktoa9VpB9-Fi2WbNa8Eqa578TXWw2kiD_rC8DgXUNrOdwVyt9UcYo9Swf7Hnch5ibLTdYIR_AAMKJ8KM3dgmUf8ESGHk1mmvTKoNVB6G_TbibGyAMUq1poQ10LVGQMAAJphm7prukBDK28CRbxc/s4032/IMG_3494.HEIC" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAQKY48Zan4fcvux5v7r9U1SDVmK7Jin3nbihJMt1Gktoa9VpB9-Fi2WbNa8Eqa578TXWw2kiD_rC8DgXUNrOdwVyt9UcYo9Swf7Hnch5ibLTdYIR_AAMKJ8KM3dgmUf8ESGHk1mmvTKoNVB6G_TbibGyAMUq1poQ10LVGQMAAJphm7prukBDK28CRbxc/s320/IMG_3494.HEIC" width="320" /></a></div><span style="white-space: normal;"> ... stories that focus on Chinese and Indigenous folktales and I loved sharing them with my children when they were young. Over the years, it's the wisdom of <i>Seven Blind Mice</i> and its stark images that has stayed with me. </span><p></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;">The collage artwork in <i>Seven Blind Mice</i>, is featured on solid black. <a href="https://www.kirkusreviews.com/book-reviews/ed-young/seven-blind-mice/">Kirkus Reviews</a> said, “Exquisitely crafted: a simple, gracefully honed text, an appealing story, real but unobtrusive values and levels of meaning, and outstanding illustrations and design--all add up to a perfect book.” (1992)</span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;">Compare this to a <a href="https://www.kirkusreviews.com/book-reviews/a/ed-young-7/up-a-tree/">Kirkus review </a>of an early Ed Young book, <i>Up a Tree,</i> where the reviewer writes, “A negligible idea occupying a very few pages--to be no sooner seen than forgotten.” (1983) Ouch! Good thing Mr. Young didn’t let such a negative review stop him. </span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;">Ed Young’s mice have been my role models. Sharing other points of view lets us grow wiser. I’m grateful for his art, his vision and his stories. </span></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Gabriele Goldstonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04481625919437738131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8219458857211445420.post-83848530454529490582023-10-12T12:03:00.006-07:002023-10-12T12:38:51.211-07:00Hoarding Issues<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUbVJdV6_gOwiLXl7n_MSm3vrZRcxFkJH-DkeVT0QPqdeNWUf-olUm092WGecLJ2vdClEmVfw5QHmHVII3SJESBJYv98lQLeCkBX4xLD_zluViEBm_clA9k5XEps8hXQ8osPz2BUNoGx-WRQRnKwuJtHdzYsKTFE1deg-vbGSbjwv-cQ0AbQIXMAFUEMQ/s400/9781789383461-110899-290x400.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="279" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUbVJdV6_gOwiLXl7n_MSm3vrZRcxFkJH-DkeVT0QPqdeNWUf-olUm092WGecLJ2vdClEmVfw5QHmHVII3SJESBJYv98lQLeCkBX4xLD_zluViEBm_clA9k5XEps8hXQ8osPz2BUNoGx-WRQRnKwuJtHdzYsKTFE1deg-vbGSbjwv-cQ0AbQIXMAFUEMQ/s320/9781789383461-110899-290x400.jpg" width="223" /></a></div>I heard a fascinating <a href="https://newbooksnetwork.com/category/peoples-places/german-studies#:~:text=Clothing%20Goes%20to%20War%3A%20Creativity,for%20civilians%20nearly%20stopped%20and%20%E2%80%A6">podcast</a> which featured Nan Turner’s new book, <i><a href="https://www.intellectbooks.com/clothing-goes-to-war">Clothing Goes to War</a>, </i>discussing the shortage of fabric during the Second World War. Reducing, reusing & recycling was the norm. Fabric was expensive and clothes were usually sewn at home. Not only was cloth in short supply, but so was rubber and metal which affected elastics, zippers and the always necessary, women’s girdle. We all know about the nylon shortage and the leg make-up, and eyebrow pencil back seams. <p></p><p>During my childhood, Mom threw nothing out. Everything had a use. Snippets of elastic could hold up worn out knee highs, zippers were torn out of old sweaters and used in new sweaters. The new sweaters, of course, were made from the unraveled old sweater. I still have a clothespin bag made of a corduroy vest my mom wore back in 1950, with an ancient zipper torn out from a skirt. (It’s no coincidence that the sub-title of Nan Turner’s new books is, “Creativity inspired by Scarcity in World War II.”) </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho_0w1MTDK4pzJ6KeSH_eaaFd8dIV8ilOo8M2L2S9LhVgkZ3MyWCJNI-EFU3gwlvfTrrZekSTgRnE1vMdRg_m3eJlEbBzX8cF_KoF5xWDpG2UgTh8sXEBSZAJ9wUrZ3UJHWetCwBf1scGrOqbkDrQt128GW-j6Vrp2cJdKAqKhDuoWCXGvDSqzdReb9Lo/s4032/IMG_3446.HEIC" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho_0w1MTDK4pzJ6KeSH_eaaFd8dIV8ilOo8M2L2S9LhVgkZ3MyWCJNI-EFU3gwlvfTrrZekSTgRnE1vMdRg_m3eJlEbBzX8cF_KoF5xWDpG2UgTh8sXEBSZAJ9wUrZ3UJHWetCwBf1scGrOqbkDrQt128GW-j6Vrp2cJdKAqKhDuoWCXGvDSqzdReb9Lo/s320/IMG_3446.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p>As that war generation dies, we’re now cleaning up their leftovers. Sometimes their closets, like their stories, are jammed full of stuff we want to ignore or throw out. Some of it truly is tired old junk. </p><p>A friend of mine is currently dealing with her 98 year-old-mother’s hoarding. It can become a disease … a thriftiness that results in isolation and paranoia. But back when she lived in Schlesien or Silesia (now western Poland), during the war … during the formative years of her life … hoarding meant survival. </p><p>Advertisers, in magazines like <i>Life</i>, always mentioned thrift and supporting the war effort. But they also offered hope for the future, when there would be new clothes. <br /></p><div><br /></div>Gabriele Goldstonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04481625919437738131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8219458857211445420.post-59400572856046958612023-10-05T13:06:00.002-07:002023-10-09T10:16:06.983-07:00Come and See <p>Saw the re-mastered movie, <i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NZGRXUvN5Dw">Come and See,</a> </i>last week at Cinematheque a small, boutique-style theatre that showcases independent and international films here in our Exchange Distract. It came out originally in 1985. </p><p><i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Come_and_See">Come and See</a></i> is set in the forests of Belarus, in 1943, and focuses on the partisan movement. Some might consider the film a horror show, but it was in fact a war movie. It depicted animal cruelty, rape and violent death on the eastern front during the Second World War. According to the closing moments of the film, 628 Belarus villages were burned to the ground by the Nazis. Similar burnings happened in Ukraine. It’s no wonder a Ukrainian woman once spit in my face when I talked with survivors of such atrocities. I heard of how women and children were separated from the men, herded into barns and set ablaze. </p><p>I searched the internet for some stats on Ukrainian losses and found this: “... the world never heard about the Ukrainian village of Kortelisy which the Germans burned to the ground on September 23, 1942 and killed all its 2,892 population of men, women and children. There were about 459 villages in Ukraine completely destroyed with all or part of their population by the German Army with 97 in Volhynia Province, 32 in Zhitomir province, 21 in Chernihiv province, 17 in Kiev province and elsewhere. There were at least 27 Ukrainian villages in which every man, woman and child was killed and the village completely destroyed by the Germans. (Ukrainska RSR u Velykyi Vitchyznianiy Viyni, vol.3, p. 150). <a href="http://www.infoukes.com/history/ww2/page-20.html">http://www.infoukes.com/history/ww2/page-20.html</a></p><p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfL5K4ntJqRTrkvLrOkS35ViHgUR20ZD28NKMisE_-2gQlIp1aIjsdkpZT5er4mEGlsbZ1mb_2tXvsWbNcvuT2nZ36pPGwo3MkRCoe9iNby5kCw5JpDyGS-l6xAfSntLY24epRG9h-vRQSpkV8vIdyOqkMPF9qHLccvko3UjqZ-XpQWZKhqLiiYpUsPow/s800/%D0%9F%D0%B0%D1%80%D0%B0%D0%B4_%D0%B2_%D0%A1%D1%82%D0%B0%D0%BD%D0%B8%D1%81%D0%BB%D0%B0%D0%B2%D0%B5_(%D0%98%D0%B2%D0%B0%D0%BD%D0%BE-%D0%A4%D1%80%D0%B0%D0%BD%D0%BA%D0%BE%D0%B2%D1%81%D0%BA)_%D0%B2_%D1%87%D0%B5%D1%81%D1%82%D1%8C_%D0%B2%D0%B8%D0%B7%D0%B8%D1%82%D0%B0_%D0%B3%D0%B5%D0%BD%D0%B5%D1%80%D0%B0%D0%BB-%D0%B3%D1%83%D0%B1%D0%B5%D1%80%D0%BD%D0%B0%D1%82%D0%BE%D1%80%D0%B0_%D0%9F%D0%BE%D0%BB%D1%8C%D1%88%D0%B8_%D1%80%D0%B5%D0%B8%CC%86%D1%85%D1%81%D0%BB%D1%8F%D0%B8%CC%86%D1%82%D0%B5%D1%80%D0%B0_%D0%93%D0%B0%D0%BD%D1%81%D0%B0_%D0%A4%D1%80%D0%B0%D0%BD%D0%BA%D0%B0_2.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="530" data-original-width="800" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfL5K4ntJqRTrkvLrOkS35ViHgUR20ZD28NKMisE_-2gQlIp1aIjsdkpZT5er4mEGlsbZ1mb_2tXvsWbNcvuT2nZ36pPGwo3MkRCoe9iNby5kCw5JpDyGS-l6xAfSntLY24epRG9h-vRQSpkV8vIdyOqkMPF9qHLccvko3UjqZ-XpQWZKhqLiiYpUsPow/s320/%D0%9F%D0%B0%D1%80%D0%B0%D0%B4_%D0%B2_%D0%A1%D1%82%D0%B0%D0%BD%D0%B8%D1%81%D0%BB%D0%B0%D0%B2%D0%B5_(%D0%98%D0%B2%D0%B0%D0%BD%D0%BE-%D0%A4%D1%80%D0%B0%D0%BD%D0%BA%D0%BE%D0%B2%D1%81%D0%BA)_%D0%B2_%D1%87%D0%B5%D1%81%D1%82%D1%8C_%D0%B2%D0%B8%D0%B7%D0%B8%D1%82%D0%B0_%D0%B3%D0%B5%D0%BD%D0%B5%D1%80%D0%B0%D0%BB-%D0%B3%D1%83%D0%B1%D0%B5%D1%80%D0%BD%D0%B0%D1%82%D0%BE%D1%80%D0%B0_%D0%9F%D0%BE%D0%BB%D1%8C%D1%88%D0%B8_%D1%80%D0%B5%D0%B8%CC%86%D1%85%D1%81%D0%BB%D1%8F%D0%B8%CC%86%D1%82%D0%B5%D1%80%D0%B0_%D0%93%D0%B0%D0%BD%D1%81%D0%B0_%D0%A4%D1%80%D0%B0%D0%BD%D0%BA%D0%B0_2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">public domain, Stanislaviv, October, 1941</span></td></tr></tbody></table>My father was sent to the eastern front in October, 1944. He never talked much about it — focusing his war memories on his earlier time in the Luftwaffe, until he crashed. I think his new position in the Military Police was to discipline the failing moral of the Wehrmacht. I know that he drove a motorcycle with a sidecar … like a Nazi in the movie. I felt quite uncomfortable watching those scenes, along with the others where the Nazis drink, loot, shoot, rape and sing. The father I grew up with liked to go fishing and hunting. He liked to build things and read books. He built model Junker airplanes with my brother. So excuse my obsession with that old war. It forms part of my identity.<p></p><p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCUBDGj0i-z_sEZu4S92AG3RelFepEll8q_eYhjZ_AdCsE4gOkPT0A60AfImt_4_wRIjeJ2SnVlwsUsYLnNXQOkRYD0G7AvlTi-UtNWzTnLl81vegJS6WTMgc7ySTvqD-ozrAKG4MVtJWR2VTSlosG4UUqgMH-MR8ft4Og3ljTXzSajFuWNhuv77KEe2g/s2072/Dad%201944.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2072" data-original-width="1554" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCUBDGj0i-z_sEZu4S92AG3RelFepEll8q_eYhjZ_AdCsE4gOkPT0A60AfImt_4_wRIjeJ2SnVlwsUsYLnNXQOkRYD0G7AvlTi-UtNWzTnLl81vegJS6WTMgc7ySTvqD-ozrAKG4MVtJWR2VTSlosG4UUqgMH-MR8ft4Og3ljTXzSajFuWNhuv77KEe2g/s320/Dad%201944.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">my dad, 1944</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Last week our parliament honoured a 98-year-old Ukrainian-Canadian, <a href="https://edmonton.ctvnews.ca/head-of-canadian-ukrainian-group-defends-man-who-fought-for-unit-created-by-nazis-1.6584549">Yaroslav Hunka</a>, who had supported the Nazis in Ukraine. Canada cringes with the political fallout and Poland demands his extradition. It would be fascinating to hear Hunka’s story. Why are we so eager to seek revenge on something that can never be revenged? Hunka would have been 20 years old at the end of the war. He would have grown up under Stalin’s Five-Year Plans, experienced the Holodomor. He might have seen the Nazis as liberators from the Soviets. He might have had to choose between two evils. Until we hear his story, we might hold off on judging him. <p></p><p>The film, <i>Come and See</i>, depicted the horrors of Nazi atrocities with gut-wrenching visuals. If 18-year-old Hunka played a role in those events he does not deserve honour. But neither does he deserve my judgement. I can only be curious. What's his story? </p><div><br /></div>Gabriele Goldstonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04481625919437738131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8219458857211445420.post-82341675580179599942023-09-28T11:01:00.002-07:002023-09-28T11:03:37.355-07:00Another War Story<p>I’m grateful not to have completely lost my German language skills because I thoroughly enjoyed reading <a href="https://www.lovelybooks.de/autor/Sibel-Daniel/">Sibel Daniel</a>’s, 2020 release, <i><a href="https://www.isbn.de/buch/9782496704556/buendnis-der-herzen">Bündnis der Herzen</a></i>, from Tinte & Feder, a German imprint belonging to Amazon (parallels Amazon's English language imprint, Lake Union Publishing). Not sure why, but I find reading in another language makes me pay more attention to writing style. Perhaps simply because I’m more focused on the language itself. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK2lIIsp0lY1LH8trJnzXzUgXGk2tWpQudRHcQ8T_GsNy8DZfr5lb0r19pY_h6TlnwXZYpWENqTfwv-QSpiKVPuY54iVysDzYk5tBTbc70x1DDJs3j9CN594_uu3GjRr5vMpkdDJFCHDOeKnKKLwk-vxS2HrgcNC-T89bIHJAeXNMMTh0Z6ij19mr6cWA/s4032/IMG_3371.HEIC" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK2lIIsp0lY1LH8trJnzXzUgXGk2tWpQudRHcQ8T_GsNy8DZfr5lb0r19pY_h6TlnwXZYpWENqTfwv-QSpiKVPuY54iVysDzYk5tBTbc70x1DDJs3j9CN594_uu3GjRr5vMpkdDJFCHDOeKnKKLwk-vxS2HrgcNC-T89bIHJAeXNMMTh0Z6ij19mr6cWA/s320/IMG_3371.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div><br />Daniel’s crisp, fluid writing brings life to a world war that refuses to be forgotten. With compelling sensory details, she tells an old story with a fresh voice which invites the reader to use all their senses … to inhale the same air, hear the same sounds, taste the same food as the characters. Here’s an example from page 410, “Der Duft der Gans scheint aus der Vergangenheit herüber in die Gegenwart zu wehen.“ Who hasn’t experienced the power of smell to evoke memories?<p></p><p>Multi-point-of-view transitions are deft and seamless. The three main female characters come from different stages of life … the child, the teenager, and the mother. The male characters also span a wide range of ages and backgrounds … all with conflicting interests, all strongly affected by a war beyond their control. Greed, lust, fear, altruism, patriotism and, of course, romance, are all explored through the interactions of the diverse characters.</p><p>The novel’s set mostly in a small farming village in the Black Forest area of Germany near the end of the war. The forced labourers, recruited from nearby occupied France, live and work in close proximity to the German women and children. The story focuses on a romance between a young German woman, Klara (or Claire, for the French) and Gilbert, a French spy, posing as a forced labourer. </p><p>While a tad on the long side, I found the novel completely captivating and needed to grab a tissue to wipe away tears near the poignant end. As in earlier books I read this summer, focused on Ukrainian war history, here too the author bridges the present to the past with a multi-generational epilogue. It’s been close to 80 years now, but storm damage from the Second World War continues to resound in our lives. </p><div><br /></div>Gabriele Goldstonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04481625919437738131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8219458857211445420.post-43185582177333807072023-09-22T11:32:00.008-07:002024-01-11T11:30:08.282-08:00end of an era<p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2t2rIEZa0O6mZwTADlmWK-x5bcHQbJdRdYoVbRbZbxlc0AGWuT81DHS5tE9qndduHbBVm7Q3OtG_vzn6YYqk9J9NfeA9eOqXBRwzCSaR59SYuP_cKSjxbOP4V1Gs-F70uaS-AOVMWJOhqXkcWD7BQ6IAftgY0s6yJAcAxppkB-VtrUiyF36rVY5irDNE/s3264/IMG_2266.JPG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2t2rIEZa0O6mZwTADlmWK-x5bcHQbJdRdYoVbRbZbxlc0AGWuT81DHS5tE9qndduHbBVm7Q3OtG_vzn6YYqk9J9NfeA9eOqXBRwzCSaR59SYuP_cKSjxbOP4V1Gs-F70uaS-AOVMWJOhqXkcWD7BQ6IAftgY0s6yJAcAxppkB-VtrUiyF36rVY5irDNE/s320/IMG_2266.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Cousin Sieglinde and me in Kelowna a few years ago</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br />Sad to say that the last of my mom’s family, born in Ukraine, has passed away. Sieglinde was one of nine family members who crossed the Atlantic, from Bremerhafen to Quebec City on the Beaverbrae in July, 1953. As a toddler, she’d escaped Stalin’s attack on ethnic Germans and grew up in East Prussia before and during the war. In my novels, I fictionalized her as Susanna and will refer to her as S. in this post. <p></p><p>S. didn’t talk much about the past. With stoic resolve, she focused on her new life here in Canada and supported her family with fierce dedication. Her beautiful garden in the mild Okanagan was a treasure and I appreciated the insights she occasionally shared with me about my mom. She understood family dynamics, evolved over decades of struggle, but kept silent unless I asked exactly the right questions. Like with my mom, I had to be careful … I didn’t want to trigger past traumas. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwyJ2fl5P6fmPVdamf4s2w2btcMDPK0zad7YVCLQZqn3kvd5szkvUUEmviJeCKZysPCrbD2Hm8ZhLC4NI8yxAqLFwwUk4hzITgvYFd2kn6zjSQqOyGFTE52LT6UlGhLJklK6hNXnOGFRWwRAMRVlrccyvU9iwwN97sD5wN6GPJPmbwLSTGC2YM4oue0iA/s4032/IMG_3298.HEIC" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwyJ2fl5P6fmPVdamf4s2w2btcMDPK0zad7YVCLQZqn3kvd5szkvUUEmviJeCKZysPCrbD2Hm8ZhLC4NI8yxAqLFwwUk4hzITgvYFd2kn6zjSQqOyGFTE52LT6UlGhLJklK6hNXnOGFRWwRAMRVlrccyvU9iwwN97sD5wN6GPJPmbwLSTGC2YM4oue0iA/s320/IMG_3298.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div>S. was a young teenager when the war ended. Like my mother, a refugee fleeing the Soviets, she never made it to the safety of ships waiting on the Baltic coast. While S. didn’t end up a prisoner of war like my mother, her fate was just as arduous and lasted longer. As a farm labourer under the revenge-seeking Soviets, she was forced to work in one of the newly formed collectives in the now Kaliningrad Oblast. From the summer of 1945 until the fall of 1947, she toiled in the north eastern part of the oblast, close to the Lithuanian border, near a village known as Pillkallen (renamed Schlossberg by the Nazis) and now called <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dobrovolsk">Dobrovolsk</a> by the Russians. If you're curious, <a href="http://www.ostsicht.de/index.htm?http://www.ostsicht.de/schlossberg.htm">here's a link</a> to some before and after photos of the village. <p></p><p>Almost all the remaining ethnic Germans were finally expelled in late 1948 and she ended up re-connecting with my mom and the surviving family in Schleswig-Holstein. </p><p>I wish I knew more about those early years of the Soviet regime in the former East Prussia. I’m eager to dive into Nicole Eaton’s new book, <i><a href="https://www.cornellpress.cornell.edu/book/9781501767364/german-blood-slavic-soil/#bookTabs=1">German Blood, Slavic Soil</a></i>, which just arrived in my mailbox. </p><p>Rest in peace, dear cousin. You kept your stories to yourself, but you shared beauty, generosity and kindness towards me and I’m grateful for the family connection. Family stories—our history—live on when we share them. Whether it's through books, photos, songs, recipes, or favourite perennials ... it’s not just about remembering our past. It’s about healing for our future.</p><div><br /></div>Gabriele Goldstonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04481625919437738131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8219458857211445420.post-34626142230642222652023-09-17T11:30:00.006-07:002023-09-17T17:26:42.666-07:00stones <p>I’m drawn to old stuff. Old trees, old cheese, old dogs, old books, old stories. And I love old ruins. Most ruins around here, however, are made of wood and don't last too long.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWibWw0V-0y4VQoAMzv2wrExchsnPXBtw6wCdbDrhN-qjNHpPAF9rkbjzTyApQqKHRjl57Zbr0jkN8zMwfImKxeprL9xIeU9IwSmO1vFjvr2Qp7hQ8o5ZlzyaZIF6NXR4UNMLNzIaTJIc39CN5XTuc_3Z9QB4PJ1adPk63ptFiUO5hH8LV5BetyzAr9vM/s4032/IMG_3249.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWibWw0V-0y4VQoAMzv2wrExchsnPXBtw6wCdbDrhN-qjNHpPAF9rkbjzTyApQqKHRjl57Zbr0jkN8zMwfImKxeprL9xIeU9IwSmO1vFjvr2Qp7hQ8o5ZlzyaZIF6NXR4UNMLNzIaTJIc39CN5XTuc_3Z9QB4PJ1adPk63ptFiUO5hH8LV5BetyzAr9vM/s320/IMG_3249.HEIC" width="240" /></span></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv1-p9_kpGIBUqocLVDcdhFWT1orTXW8v3X3Md4gkCxy83E3iqpMsUdqOj-7ak_6st7oHjLFttS_P5dLhUEj2dUWjz-v6RBw_sD_k0ghPu-HTJhllkojxXEvLoepy3DXTk701L7fQO4XPshUDx5lChW_ZcqI4jNsJ5rZEJXlOyJFi__DihJT2tY_jbL4U/s4032/IMG_3250.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv1-p9_kpGIBUqocLVDcdhFWT1orTXW8v3X3Md4gkCxy83E3iqpMsUdqOj-7ak_6st7oHjLFttS_P5dLhUEj2dUWjz-v6RBw_sD_k0ghPu-HTJhllkojxXEvLoepy3DXTk701L7fQO4XPshUDx5lChW_ZcqI4jNsJ5rZEJXlOyJFi__DihJT2tY_jbL4U/s320/IMG_3250.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div>But back in the 1930s, the Catholic church—under the leadership of Monsignor Morton—created a summer camp for kids called <a href="https://www.mhs.mb.ca/docs/sites/campmorton.shtml">Camp Morton</a>, where they used stones as construction materials. Using rocks, scattered along Lake Winnipeg, they created gardens, cabins, meeting halls, a water tower and more. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpa_IfWt_g1llwt8BbBlN4rW-STIJ5Rcli_qL5DuUsyRswFVFL8WkTYaykp5NPVJxpS0mJTKsEw9xmqeo0MIXtdf2CT8p4YHpYpPOI-Cgv62XcKWsogLfm2VWWkc8QeywnRcACykJvcwfYd2wD66C5EemqviOF171biWikwVjnhRnJOC0NkkNKxOf7v1g/s4032/IMG_3255.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpa_IfWt_g1llwt8BbBlN4rW-STIJ5Rcli_qL5DuUsyRswFVFL8WkTYaykp5NPVJxpS0mJTKsEw9xmqeo0MIXtdf2CT8p4YHpYpPOI-Cgv62XcKWsogLfm2VWWkc8QeywnRcACykJvcwfYd2wD66C5EemqviOF171biWikwVjnhRnJOC0NkkNKxOf7v1g/s320/IMG_3255.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p></p><p>The Lake Winnipeg camp was gifted to the province and made into a public resort back in the seventies and the stone structures are now neglected ruins. The old is crumbling and tumbling back into Lake Winnipeg. Huge chunks of lakeshore have dropped into the water and the stones—so artfully arranged into gardens and meeting places—have collapsed as nature once again reclaims its stones. </p><p>If only the stones could talk. I've been trying to listen and have imagined some interesting stories ... so maybe they do!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM1_2g1BShyBXPiSbfl--g5BQFAp9qXXD516SfJx_kBDvDq039jBhZ4m8Z7_87YaOB0eLS8mkMbHvVy2KdnYss3Z6a6W2qv1tQS0JGtaxwU57Z6F1BrM15vwd6lnAoXXfhgUIJS64_0UuxkXzH0hMhwTFw16l4fWJvLAknG5nl3fcEAloeisaGTtloMLg/s4032/IMG_3262.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM1_2g1BShyBXPiSbfl--g5BQFAp9qXXD516SfJx_kBDvDq039jBhZ4m8Z7_87YaOB0eLS8mkMbHvVy2KdnYss3Z6a6W2qv1tQS0JGtaxwU57Z6F1BrM15vwd6lnAoXXfhgUIJS64_0UuxkXzH0hMhwTFw16l4fWJvLAknG5nl3fcEAloeisaGTtloMLg/s320/IMG_3262.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>Gabriele Goldstonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04481625919437738131noreply@blogger.com0