East Prussia

ASVG file created by Matthead

I’m trying to understand East Prussia—past and present. Here are a few facts I’ve gleaned through my reading. East Prussia is now divided into three countries: Lithuania, Russian Federation and Poland. The Lithuanian part used to be known as Memelland with the main city being the port of Memel. Today it’s called Klaipeda.  The Russian Federation encompasses the former Königsberg (now Kaliningrad) and the former East Prussia’s northern parts. Poland gained the southern two thirds of East Prussia. These political divisions were finalized in 1946. Stalin was eager to have access to a warm seaport on the Baltic. (Now, of course—with the 2014 annexation of Crimea—Russia also warm seaports on the Black Sea. Millions of Germans were displaced. Growing up, most people of the church we attended were displaced Germans from these areas. It’s not until recently that I’ve begun to research and understand the politics behind their relocation to Canada.

I’m eager to visit the former East Prussia. The trip I’m planning involves cycling along the Baltic through three countries. It should be a good way to explore the landscape that my mom and her family traveled as they tried (and failed) to escape the Red Army. But I plan on going in September, not January. 

From the book, Als die Deutsche weg waren, (After the Germans left), I get the distinct impression that the Russian Federation is not a prosperous place. It’s a wasteland—its current citizens resentful of being forced to live so far from the rest of Russia. Only Kaliningrad received a facelift, commemorating it’s 750^thbirthday, back in 2005. Putin knows that many Germans are nostalgic for the old city and tourism is a big draw. I plan on celebrating my birthday this year by watching a World Cup Soccer game on TV to be played in Kaliningrad. 

The Norfolk Pine

I visited the Assiniboine Park Conservatory on Good Friday to say my goodbyes to Winnipeg’s version of a jungle. It’s a place my mom and I liked to frequent—a chance to breathe tropical air during a dry prairie winter. Healthy, mature trees will need to be chopped down to make way for the future Diversity Gardens. 

Along with twisted old figs and rubber trees, there’s a pair of tall hundred-year-old Norfolk Pines that won’t survive a transplant. Speaking of transplants, the pines transplanted me to a favorite book from childhood—Mutiny on the Bounty. The mutineers, (remember Fletcher Christian?), and their Polynesian wives settled first on the remote island of Pitcairn in 1790. Then in 1856, many of the Bounty ancestors transferred to the more livable Norfolk Island. The British had used Norfolk, since 1788, as a penal colony.

Norfolk Island was originally ‘discovered’ by Captain Cook and named after Lady Norfolk. The Norfolk Pine, featured on the island’s flag, is a popular export. 

Cook thought the tall pines would make good masts for the sailing ships. I wonder what the wood of the hundred-year-old Norfolk pines here in Winnipeg will be used for?  

By the way, Norfolk Island (part of Australia) is 1600 kilometers east of Sydney and more than 6000 kilometers west of Pitcairn Island. 

The current population of Norfolk is about 1500. They speak English, along with Norfuk—a dialect similar to Pitkern—spoken on Pitcairn’s Island.  

There’s an art project underway at Assiniboine Parks Conservatory. Helga Jakobsen pins electrodes to plant leaves and then uses a computer program to translate the electrical impulses into sound. She’s monitoring the plants’ reaction to the big change coming in the days ahead. Maybe she’ll hear the Norfuk dialect. 

All those beautiful plants—making music and being part of history. It makes me want to slow right down and listen. 

About Kintsugi and life

Death lurks all around.  I’m at an age where it’s not unexpected. 

I find this freeing. What am I waiting for? The time to live is now. So even though it’s a gloomy morning and the promise of spring is filled with the promise of snow, sleet and strong winds, I’m feeling energized. Every time I hear of another death, I’m reminded of what a gift it is to breathe, to see and to live.

I’m wanting to forget about perfection and make more mistakes. What’s the worst that could happen? Make a fool of myself? Done that. Hurt other people? Done that. Fail? Done that, too. Being broken is the state of being human.

So here’s to living dangerously on this gloomy March day, somewhere between winter and spring. Hope springs eternal. (Alexander Pope)

Yesterday, on the CBC, Michael Enright interviewed MaggieO’Farrell (author of the memoir, I Am, I Am, I Am and other novels). They talked about her encounters with death and the randomness of life. 

And when he asked her about writing a memoir, as opposed to fiction, she compared it to the Japanese art of Kintsugi, taking a broken object of ceramic and putting it back together with powdered gold or silver, and creating a new object. I love that metaphor.  Life as Kintsugi, creating art from shattered lives.

Billy Graham and Dad

Billy Graham died last month. He was 99, born back in 1918—the same year as my dad.

For me, there’s another connection between Billy Graham and my dad. Back when I was an impressionable youth in the suburbs of Winnipeg. . . it wasn’t the Hitler Jugend influencing my outlook on life, (as it did my dad’s), it was the Church. And I took it all very seriously.

As I young girl I prayed fervently for my father—a Lutheran—seen by my fellow Baptists as needing redemption.  I decided to take it to Billy Graham and wrote him an impassioned letter where I shared my fear that my wonderful dad would not make it to heaven with me. 

Someone in Billy Graham’s company wrote back:  yes, they would pray for my father. I saved that letter for years, trusting that my dad would be taken care of. Eventually, that prayer came true. But by then, I’d found my own—faltering, but empowering—way outside of the narrow-minded Baptist faith.

I was in grade six when I attended a Billy Graham Crusade at the old arena by Polo Park during Canada’s Centennial year. I remember the hymn, “Just as I am,” sung at a crucial time, as thousands streamed to the front to be ‘converted.’  And then the song, “I have decided to follow Jesus.”  No doubt it was a well-choreographed script.

Music performed during the Crusades was often heard at our house. (I even used a recording of “How Great Thou Art” by George Beverly Shea at my mom’s funeral only a few years ago.) Maybe it was because Billy Graham endorsed Johnny Cash that we got to hear his songs on our record player. (Beatle’s music or top ten hits were not permitted.)

The families of my church and youth came together like a beautiful choir during the Billy Graham fever—united by an evangelical fervour. Considering these families were recent immigrants from a Hitler-dominated Europe, was there perhaps a kind of nostalgia for mass rallies which promised something bigger than the individual?

 Billy Graham’s legacy is huge. He held rallies throughout the world—East and West Germany (including Nuremberg), Soviet Union, Great Britain, Africa, India, Korea, Japan, and Winnipeg. Attending a crusade was often life-changing—creating, at the very least—a life-long impression.

He was a powerful orator and had an impact our family. But today I squirm uncomfortably in the church pews of his influence.

Letter from August

Two summers ago, I visited the Okanagan where a cousin of mine lives. Born back in the Soviet Union, she’s the last survivor of the original group of nine family members who came to Canada back in 1953.

My cousin showed me a postcard from my uncle. . . my mom’s little brother. I call him Albert in my stories, but his real name was August. August Ristau.

When I returned to Winnipeg after my trip out west, I regretted not making a digital copy of that flimsy, faded postcard. Yesterday, I received a hard copy in the mail.

August sent this card on January (or is that February?)  17^th, 1945. It says: 

Dear Brothers! 
Many greetings from my prison camp. So far, things are going well for me and I wish the same for you. I hope we can see each other again soon, in our homeland.  
Greetings from your brother, August.

The date must be January, because by February, Kreuzburg, East Prussia would be empty. All the Germans were fleeing for the Baltic port of Pillau, trying to avoid the approaching Soviet Army.

No one heard from August again.  But this postcard does give me an address to search for when I visit the former East Prussia next year.

Today’s my mom’s birthday. She’d be 99. On her 26^th birthday, back in March, 1945, the Red Army captured her and dragged her back into the Soviet Union. Sometimes I feel discouraged about the publication challenges I’ve encountered after writing these stories. But then I look at these faces and I become determined —all over again.

Spring Things

The absolute best thing about being retired (four years this month!) is the gift of time. I’ve been using it for catching up on house repairs, decluttering, recharging my body (worn out from years of those letter carrier walks), and of course, focusing more on reading and writing. New writing projects still get relegated to first thing in the morning—just like when I was working. That way I’ve done the hardest part first.

 Afternoons are for non-writing activities like swimming (my favorite winter sport) biking, gardening (in the warmer weather), along with my mini-teaching gig in an after-school science program.

I read an article by Joy Kowaga in TWUC’s Write journal, the other day, where she referred to the word philoxenia, which she had used in a convocation address at University of Victoria. It means, ‘openness to newcomers,’ and is the opposite of xenophobia.

Reading that reminded me of another thing I thoroughly enjoy about retirement: volunteering with immigrants. Being the first born of an immigrant family, I relate to some of the challenges and emotions of starting over. Currently I’m helping out in an EAL (English as an additional language) class with students who are at the beginning of their English study. What a warm, enthusiastic group of learners. I really appreciate their energy.

The other day we worked in small groups trying to make conversation about what we like about spring. (We’ve had unseasonably warm weather this past week.) One woman (from Somalia) said she liked the clouds. Why? Because clouds bring rain and she loves to dance in the warm rain of spring.

Ah. Spring. Yes, it’s just around the corner. But these are the prairies, and first we have a snowstorm coming our way.