The Beaverbrae

More than a quarter of a million displaced Europeans came to Canada after the Second World War. My parents traveled as newlyweds on the Beaverbrae, a converted freighter, in 1953. They left Bremerhafen and arrived in Quebec City on July 20^th along with seven other family members. These included my mom’s brother and his wife and two adult children, my mom’s sister and her new husband, and my mom’s single sister. 

These nine people had all gone through horrendous things—and it wasn’t all connected to the war. My mom’s family had been kulaks in the Soviet Union and so their troubles started back in 1930 when the farms were collectivized. They’d made their first refugee trek back in 1932 to East Prussia. Later, they tried to flee the Soviet army in 1945 when it advanced on East Prussia, but were unsuccessful. Today that part of eastern Europe belongs to Russia and Poland.

Their troubles didn’t end with the war.  My mom was a POW in a Soviet labour camp in the Ural Mountains until 1947, while my aunts and cousins worked on a kolkchoz until 1948. The time under the Soviets was something my aunts refused to talk about it.

When they were allowed to leave East Prussia, they entered the Soviet zone of Germany and crossed the border illegally into the British zone. They did not feel welcome in West Germany.  The war-torn country was over-run with refugees, making the decision to immigrate to Canada not that difficult. They had, literally, nothing to lose.

My dad, on the other hand, came from the Schleswig-Holstein area. His losses were of a different kind. He had been in the Luftwaffe and later, after a crash and a long recovery, was sent to the Eastern Front where he was captured and then spent five years in a Soviet POW camp. Upon his release, he discovered that his former wife had not heard from him and so was in a new relationship. With both their young children dead of starvation, they agreed to divorce. So when my parents met, married and emigrated, they were both middle-aged. 

I still have their wooden trunk with the destination label on it. What was in it?  Their wedding china for starters. (Seems to me dishes were a lot more important back then than now.)  A few clothes and a few photographs. I still have the smart-tailored suit my mother bought for the journey. They brought a feather duvet along, with matching pillows and a beautifully embroidered tablecloth that both worked on during the voyage. It's one of my most prized possessions, symbolizing their journey together. 

Here are some memories that my cousin, now in her eighties, and the only surviving family member of that 1953 Beaverbrae trip, shared with me last weekend. She was twenty-two on that boat.

She said the trip cost $400 per person and took 10 days from Bremerhaven to Quebec City. There were 9 to 12 beds in a room. Three layers of bunks. Women and men had separate quarters. No windows. Barely any walking room. Stifling air. Sea sickness. She remembers two young women who were chewing on some kind of green herb who didn’t get seasick.

My parents took work as farm labourers near Morris, Manitoba after they arrived in Canada. In the fall, they moved into the city and my father worked on construction projects. They had intended to move to Kitimat, BC the following year, after my mother’s difficult pregnancy (with me) was over. That’s what the other family members did.  The Alcan smelter was opening up and needed workers. However, by the time I was born in June, 1954, my father felt confident in his job opportunities and so they stayed in Winnipeg.

My parents were extremely proud to be Canadians. They were excited to get their citizenship papers and to belong to a country that gave them plenty of opportunity to prosper. They worked very hard, but they had a good life—a very good life—in their adopted home. It didn’t taken long and they had a brand new house, a cottage, a boat, a couple of vehicles, etc. My dad loved the multi-cultural aspect of their chosen land.

And I’m glad that the Beaverbrae brought them here, because I think Canada’s a pretty amazing country to live in. That seasick voyage was definitely worth it. But what were those women chewing?

On October 3rd, there’ll be Beaverbrae reunions happening in several centres across Canada. The one in Winnipeg is slated for the Lutheran Church of the Cross, 550 Arlington Street from 2-4.  It should be very interesting!

Goldelse

I recently read Eugenie Marlitt's 1867 novel, Goldelse. It was popular in its day, possibly the first ever world's bestseller, originally released in 1866 in serialized form by the popular German magazine, "Die Gardenlaube." I was attracted to the book because of its title. My mom's name was 'Else' which is derived from Elizabeth, and I was curious about her literary namesake.

Could this book have been read by my grandmother?  Considering its popularity, it's quite possible. The romantic storyline is rather predictable, but the book moves along quickly with lots of intrigue amongst its aristocratic characters. It reminds me of Daphne duMaurier's Rebecca—although the books are written seventy years apart.( Mind you, I read Rebecca many years ago and perhaps it's not a fair comparison.)

What drew me to Goldelse, like I mentioned, was the name. And then I was thrilled to find all three names of my grandmother's daughters (ie. my mom and her two sisters) mentioned as characters in this novel. So there is an Else, a Bertha and a Helene. There's even an Emil (one of my mom's brothers). The very same names my grandmother chose to name her children. Coincidence? It seems like a good possibility that grandmother Mathilde really did read Goldelse by Eugenie Marlitt. And knowing this, makes me feel a bit closer to this grandmother I never knew.

Goldelse is not just the name of a nineteenth century novel, it's also the popular name of a Berlin statue. Completed in 1873, it's a monument featuring the winged Roman goddess, Victoria, symbolizing victory over death and success in war. Due to a move in 1939 by the Nazis as they were redesigning Berlin into 'World Capital Germania' the statue missed the Allied bombings that destroyed its previous location in front of the Reichstag.

Goldelse the monument, weighs 35 tons. Hmm. How much does Winnipeg's Golden Boy weigh? Less than 2 tons. Wow. That puts things into perspective. How about height? Goldelse is 8.3 meters tall. The Golden Boy? Just over 5 meters. I guess our Golden Boy is a mere child next to her. Goldelse is considered one of Berlin's major tourist attractions.

No matter,  we're still pretty proud of our Golden Boy, even if he's not as big and strong as Goldelse. He did survive the First World War cruising about in a ship (after he'd been sculpted in France, the ship delivering him back to Canada was forced into combat) so perhaps he's a Victor. Golden Boy meet Goldelse. You both survived war. You're both victory statues, unlike the mere mortals beneath you.

The Anita Factor Writing Group

I've been privileged to belong to an amazing writing group. We call ourselves The Anita Factor and meet every second Thursday in between the books at McNally Robinson's here in Winnipeg. We've been meeting, sharing, supporting and celebrating for almost five years now.

So what makes a good writing group? Number one is the commitment of each individual member to the craft of writing. If you're not seriously passionate about being a published author, then the group dynamics can quickly peter out to being a social outing, a kaffee klatsch.

Here's our basic format. We take turns facilitating the meetings, offering pieces of advice that we think will be useful to the rest of the group. Sometimes we print up handouts. Often we will do a practice writing exercise, then share our spontaneous words.

After we've warmed up with a lesson and some unfettered writing, we turn to our works in progress (WIP). Writers share their latest chapter or story or article. Each writer shares approximately one to five pages.  Learning to listen as someone reads is a skill that takes time to develop. Often I'll jot down notes on what I like and what I think might need some work. Other members in our group seem to have photographic memories and don't need to make notes. Each of us has different listening ears. One person might focus on tension and plot development, while another connects to characters and dialogue. Some might critique the big picture stuff; others, the little details. We always offer each other positive support. Yes, writers must develop a tough skin. It's not an easy vocation. But like Mary Poppins once said, "A spoon full of sugar, helps the medicine go down..."

After we've done the work, we share our writing news. This is the sweet part, like dessert. Lately, there's been a lot of good news. But we also share the not-so-good news—the rejections, the frustrations, the 'so close but no cigar' moments. There are many of those and we've all been there.

At this point in our meeting, we look at the clock. If there's time, we head to Prairie Ink, McNally's restaurant, for tea and edible sweets. It's closing time when we head back to our busy lives, our families, our laptops, and our WIPs.

In between these regular meetings we meet at book signings—of the Anita Factor—and other local authors, at writing conferences, (most of us are heading to Prairie Horizons in the fall), and our annual writing retreat on the shores of Lake Winnipeg.

Finding the right writing group might take some time, but the synergy created when you do sync, makes the challenge of writing just a bit easier and a lot more fun.

We'll be celebrating all day at The Forks on Saturday, July 18th from 11 til 7. Come and say hello!

Celebrate The Anita Factor at McNally Robinson on July 18

Celebrate The Anita Factor at McNally Robinson on July 18

Storks

The stork delivered Red Stone yesterday and I'm grateful to the Rebelight delivery team for its safe arrival. The cover with its stork profile means a lot to me. The original was taken while I was researching my family history in Ukraine by a fellow traveller, David Lange.

It was curious, having a nature guy along on a genealogy trip. While the rest of us were hunkered down trying to decipher old files in musty smelling archives, or interviewing seniors with mouths filled with gold, David was out photographing birds. And what beautiful photos he took!

Of course, it was impossible to miss the storks. The birds are huge and during May, when we were there, they are busy parents, soaring back and forth as they feed their young. Storks like the unpopulated rural villages, and the villagers like the storks. Storks bring good luck along with the babies. They work in pairs—kind of like our Canada Geese. And, like our geese, they return to their same nest year after year.

I'm thrilled to have this stork on my cover. It represents a nostalgic rural life in Eastern Europe that is being threatened by urban sprawl with its noise, air pollution and busy-ness. To me, the stork also represents the kulaks who worked hard on the land to support their families.  I'm reminded of a story my mom shared about how as a young girl she could never quite catch the stork when it brought a new brother or sister.

I didn't catch sight of the stork delivering my book either. But then, maybe the storks are being replaced by drones!

June 3rd Lilacs

I can’t let this day in June slip by, without remembering the grandfather I never had. It wasn’t until I went to Ukraine in 2004 and searched through former KGB files in the small city of Zhitomir (Zhytomyr) that I “discovered” my grandfather. What I learned I brought back to my mother, who at eighty-six still did not know what had happened to him.

The file on my grandfather is rich with detail. In June, 1937, spring unfolded with its blooming maybells and lilacs like it always does. My grandfather shared a rented room at 66 Andriivska Street in the Polish section of town near the Teteriv River.  Of course, being a farmer, he would no doubt have preferred being on the land rather than in a crowded city. However, his farm in Federofka had been expropriated back in 1929 to make way for a collective. Since then, it appears he struggled to make a living with his horse—a sort of taxi service

When I visited the area I walked near the place of his final arrest, but the house itself was gone, turned into a vegetable plot.  Speaking of plots, 1937 and 1938 were the years that Stalin’s paranoia reached a frightening crescendo and my grandfather became one of its victims. During the ‘kulak operation’ 387, 000 former kulaks were executed.

According to the Zhitomir file, my grandfather was arrested by Officer Kawrasky of the NKVD. A detailed list was made of his possessions which included: a Bible, a letter from a friend, eight addresses written on paper and his work permit.

All summer long, when my grandfather was not rotting in the sweltering heat of the overcrowded jail,  he was being interrogated by a Troika (three person court).   In the NKVD file  I was able to read (through a translator) of my grandfather’s crimes. He tried to get a German passport in Kiev, not once but several times. (They said this was when he passed on information). He received money from East Prussia, not once but several times. (This was payment for his spying activities.) Of course, as a former kulak, my grandfather was already guilty.  Such were the times.  My grandfather was charged with counter-revolutionary activity—Article 58. Stalin was growing fearful of the rising Nazi party and suspicious of all foreigners inside his own country.

My lilacs are still blooming and now on June 3 I think of how beautiful seasons do not mirror suffering, injustice, violence or crime.  Beauty must not be mistaken for goodness. The two are not the same. 

Sounds of spring in Charleswood

Back to summer mode here in sunny Manitoba. (Last weekend was a chilling, stormy reminder that beautiful weather is a gift to be treasured.) Bird twitter fills my yard. Robins, chickadees, woodpeckers, and others that I can’t identify flit in and out of the trees.  When I take the dog for a walk up on the Harte Trail, there’s another sound, louder and more insistent than the birds. It’s the frogs. Their croaking is amazing. Obviously, they enjoyed the rains of the long weekend. And smart! How do they figure out that there’s a human and a dog passing by? Then once we’re by, they start up again...led by the lead croaker and then the chorus joins in. It’s music to all passers-by. I feel privileged to live in the city with these rural sounds around me. And yes, the construction work on Ridgeway West has begun, but the Harte Trail will survive. Let’s hope the frogs will, too.