Not Historical Fiction

STILL ALIVE, the final installment of Marsha Skrypuch’s trilogy, KIDNAPPED FROM UKRAINE, is another page turner.  Told from the points of view of twin sisters, Dariia and Rada, we get to imagine being 12 in a modern war in a contemporary setting. I've been to Ukraine. It's a beautiful country filled with history and loving people who want to live in peace like you and I.

This third in the series is a satisfying conclusion to a real-world war that shows no sign of abating. While all three of these books show plenty of heroism in spite of tragedy … I can’t help but wonder how children in Ukraine evolve as the war grinds on and their childhoods become lost … swallowed up by violence, uncertainty and sadness. 

Whether these Ukrainian children are being kidnapped in physical form to be brainwashed as future Russia citizens, migrants to a foreign country like Canada, or stuck in their war-ravaged country building drones and camouflage nets … children like Dariia and Rada have lost their innocence in brutal ways. 

Skrypuch created memorable stories in spite of the challenges of an ever-changing dynamic. This war is far from over. Her gut-wrenching fiction is no longer 'historical'  ... the war continues. Sadly, Marsha Skrypuch will never run out of material for her powerful and memorable depictions of children caught in the vices of war.   

A Novel about Self Discovery

I really liked this book by Anna Rosner and gave it a five star review on Goodreads. The theme, about self-empowerment, told with a first-person narrator, reminded me of what I explored in Waltraut, albeit through the eyes of an immigrant.  Coming-of-age perspectives are rife with opportunity for self-discovery.

In the first half, I wasn’t sure where this book was going but the writer’s voice was strong and compelling, so I trusted Aviva, the almost-twelve-year-old narrator. She kept me turning the pages. 

What was this book about? Was it the trauma of her faltering friendship with Maddy that would form the spine of the novel?  Was it about Maddy’s volatile father and the subsequent marriage breakdown? Was it about Maddy’s perfectionism with her musical goals? Was it about family shame because of an autism diagnosis for Aviva’s little brother? Was it about Aviva’s father’s lack of connection with her and the family? Was it about the unreasonable guilt of genetics? Was it a story about poetry which Aviva loves to read and write?  And so I kept reading, from chapter to chapter.

Turns out that it was about all of the above, but mostly, it was a story about Aviva. It’s not just a story about Maddy’s broken family or about Ethan’s autism diagnosis. It’s not just about not fitting in at school or being uncool. 

It’s a story about Aviva and her relationship with herself and her world.  It’s a story about accepting others the way they are … but mostly, it’s a story about accepting ourselves the way we are. Beautifully told with nuance and emotional depth that left me searching for tissue while I pondered ‘the end’.  

Trees tell Stories

I’ve been reading Sophie Pinkham’s new work of nonfiction, The Oak and the Larch. It’s a study of Russia’s forests over the centuries. Trees tell stories and Pinkham had me immersed in the complicated history of Russia’s relationship to them. Sometimes the forests were friends, for example, when they slowed down the Mongol invasion, or hid partisan armies. Other times they were to be cut down and exploited ... used to build ships or buildings.  And still some survived. She writes, “Some of the centenarian lindens still remembered the farms that had once dotted the landscape. Only trees had such long memories.” (p. 222) 

An old linden remembering?  In front of the former secret police centre in
Zhytomyr, Ukraine, site of my grandfather's 1937 interrogation and execution.

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After reading her book, I found myself yearning to be amongst our local trees here in Manitoba. The opportunity to meander alone through some wet urban woods just the other day was a welcome way to recharge after a difficult week. In between moments of silence, I heard birds chirping and frogs croaking. Wildlife, including deer, rabbits and squirrels, stared at me as if daring me to come closer. 

Along a trail in the Assiniboine Forest

A small, yellow splotched bird skipped ahead of me, determined to lead me on. I spotted wild strawberry flowers and everywhere bright green spurts of new growth. It’s happening—again—spring.  I’m grateful for the natural settings in our city and for the resilience of trees. Leaving the woods, I felt calmer and more at peace with myself and the world. They truly are our friends.

Can you find two deer?

So many stories growing in a forest. Joyce Kilmer said it best: “I think that I shall never see, a poem as lovely as a tree.” 

On Growth and Silence

 

“If you can't say something nice, don't say nothing at all." That’s Thumper speaking in Walt Disney’s 1942 movie, Bambi.  My three kids would bounce that sentiment across our dinner table while growing up. It’s also why I’ve been avoiding blog posts here for the last few months. Here’s another quote reflecting my winter: “Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.” That’s John Lennon, circa, 1980. 

It was a dark, long and cold winter and it’s been a grey, windy, cold spring. And yet, new growth emerges and I’m itching to sprout new words and return to a more regular writing schedule.  I admit to discouragement … into turning this long break into a forever break. After all, there are so many books out there, so many talented authors sharing their stories. My to-read pile keeps growing … and growing. Speaking of books ...I just finished the short bestseller, If Russia Wins: A Scenario by Carlo Masala. It's a good reminder of why history matters and why I'll keep researching the past. 

     

The crazy thing is, though, as my to-read pile grows, so does my to-write pile. Like a compost pile—my imagination overflows with characters, landscapes and histories. New ideas keep sprouting. Some, unfortunately, are only weeds, some too sensitive to the elements … while others keep returning, insisting on my attention.

I’ll take Thumper’s advice and try to only speak nice things. And sometimes I’ll say nothing at all. 

Travel and Culture and Writing

It's not the best cycling weather here in Winnipeg at the moment (although there are braver souls than me out there!).  Winter in Winnipeg is the perfect time to plan your next getaway!  And here's a better-weather cycling memory to get you going. 

February trails in Winnipeg

Grateful to Marie Powell for this opportunity to appear on the travel Substack she hosts along with Ann Marie Ackermann:   

https://travelandculture.substack.com/p/writing-a-novel-while-riding

If you're planning a bike tour in the Baltic region, check out Baltic Bike Travel because they truly offer exceptional tours and a hassle-free experience. 10 out of 10 all the way!  

Mom was an Illegal Migrant or The Tyranny of Documents

Released from a Soviet labour camp in the Urals in July 1947, my mom’s release document lists her destination as ‘Brandenburg.’  Brandenburg is now a federal state in northeastern Germany, surrounding the city of Berlin. Back in 1947, it was under Soviet control. 

Mom was released to a transit camp, or processing centre, near the border city of Frankfurt an der Oder. The Oder River acts as a natural border and slices through the city with the Polish city of Słubice sitting on the other side. Dad, on the other hand, upon release in September, 1949, was sent to Friedland, which is 230 km north of the other Frankfurt, Frankfurt am Main.

During a time when America's hunt for illegal migrants makes world headlines, it’s rather sobering for me to realize that my tiny mom (4’ 10”), had the courage to make her own illegal border crossing. She tried to cross twice, the first time she got scared off by barking dogs. While this was a common crossing in the early post-war years, it was very dangerous.  I grew up thinking she was rather meek and timid … ha! … she was anything but. 

There are many loops that immigrants need to jump through to become Canadian citizens. Sometimes we like to judge those who aren’t following the ‘rules.’  But it takes courage to break rules. We have to ask ourselves, why would people risk their lives and their families’ well-being to cross borders without proper documents. I’m not sure I’d be brave enough. Grateful to be in a safe country with a valid passport. Ah, the tyranny of documents.

The cover of Crow Stone includes an image of Mom's release document. 

 

Hill of Crosses

 

Because I’ve been reading about the Klaipeda region (former Memel), I’ve been checking out my own photos of the area. This was from one of our first stops, after spending a few days exploring the beautiful city of Riga in Latvia. 

We cycled over into Lithuania, cheated with a short van ride, and then ended up at the ‘Hill of Crosses’. Featuring at least 100,000 crosses, sitting seemingly randomly in the middle of farmland, this pilgrimage site has been growing steadily for almost two hundred years. (One memory in Ulla Lachauer's book, Ostpreußische Lebensläufe, speaks of hundreds of young Pioneers in training under the Soviets, being massacred by the Nazis in this immediate area.) Reflecting the Catholic faith and political repression, many of these crosses are homemade. This led me to the discovery that ‘cross-crafting’ is considered a UNESCO Lithuanian culture tradition (in the same way that borscht is recognized for Ukraine). 

Having little prior appreciation of how Lithuania was connected to my East Prussian quest, the ‘Hill of Crosses’, 120 kilometers southwest of Riga, was a stark introduction to this beautiful Baltic landscape that has absorbed much violence, much suffering in the name of politics. 

I could have spent all day climbing the steps, pausing over and over again at the rustic crosses put up to remember the Lithuanian victims of Nazi murder and Soviet repression (along with earlier struggles for independence).  The hill continues to be a symbol for peace and Lithuanian perseverance.

Cycling across four Baltic countries, required a different sort of perseverance and so Ramos, our Lithuanian cycling guide, dragged us away from the poignant Hill of Crosses, onward towards to the port city of Klaipeda, once known as Memel.