Brennessel

One of those curious German words that I’d hear growing up alongside Wanzen, (the dreaded bedbugs of Mom’s gulag days), and Quasselwasser (a type of drinking water that made little girls chitchat too much) was Brennessel.

Skalle-Per Hedenhös

Mom and her sisters or other women with similar immigrant and refugee backgrounds from the church would reminisce about ‘Brennessel.”  They talked about Brennessel soup, tea, salad or using it as an ointment.  They talked about Brennessel as if they loved it and as if they hated it.  Brennessel belonged ‘over there,’ in the faraway, dark and gloomy past.

Lo and behold, ‘Brennessel’ has an English translation. Of course! It’s the stinging nettle and it’s sold in health food stores as a nutritional superfood and as a possible tonic for arthritis. An interesting side effect of consuming brennessel is that it’s been known to cause miscarriages. That’s a useful bit of trivia for my writer-brain.  

I’m working on a novel set in East Prussia at the end of the war. My characters are hungry. It’s April and they’re in the woods trying to avoid the Red Army. What will they find to eat? Brennessel, of course... along with some mushrooms. Haven’t looked into those yet. But I’m encouraged by the fact that East Prussia and rural Manitoba share many plant species and have a similar climate. So, like my characters, I’ll be in these early spring woods foraging for edibles.  At least I don’t have to dodge enemy bullets, or drunk rapists while I meander. 

Cycling through the Kaliningrad region back in 2019, we passed fields of stinging nettles. I’m so grateful that we kept going. Grateful that we had no need to rely on wild brennessel for food, to end unwanted pregnancies, or to soothing our aching muscles … unlike my aunts, cousins and mom did almost eighty years ago. 

I found comfort in seeing the wild brennessel ... a confirmation to my mom's stories. 

Sumy and Memories of Second World War

The city of Sumy in northeast Ukraine has made headlines in recent days because of the horrific Palm Sunday attacks where dozens of Ukrainian civilians died during Putin’s continued ‘special operation’ that has devastated countless lives over the last 3 years. So many needlessly broken lives. Why?

Sumy is the main city in a region I’d been hoping to visit someday. Near the ancient monastery town of Putyvl, it’s an area that has seen the horrors of war before. One of my father’s friends, an agronomist, had been stationed in Putyvl during the Nazi invasion back in 1941. 

Ernst was also from Schleswig-Holstein, like my dad, and had immigrated to Canada in the early sixties.  He’d written his memoirs and in the mid-eighties, asked me, a recent German MA grad, to translate his memoirs into English. 

I knew my family had a lot of war memories and I’d been trying to figure them out through various means … travel and oral histories, and 20th century writers like Heinrich Böll, Günther Gras and Thomas Mann so I welcomed this opportunity to get an insider’s view of that war.

Fotosergio:  Molchansky Monastery

Ernst shares his efforts to keep his Nazi taskmasters happy and fed while feeding a partisan army hiding in the Sumy/Putyvl marshy woods. He shares how he supposedly manipulated the Soviets & the Nazis, killing indoor plants with too much un-drunk vodka, never being sure who to trust and even faking his own grave in an effort to hide.  It was a fascinating account and while on the outside I was a newlywed with her first house and an empty sandbox calling to her, on the inside I was learning about Nazis, partisans, Soviets and war. 

I’ve never stopped being fascinated by those years and those places. A grim reality is once again settled over  Sumy, in northeastern Ukraine and all that eighty-year-old history still matters. I’m so sad that the ‘bloodlands’ (Timothy Snyder) continue to bleed.

From Königsberg to Kaliningrad

Eighty years ago, on April 9, 1945, General Otto Lasch surrendered Königsberg to the Red Army. Where is Königsberg today? Its buildings in ruins, including the once famous Königsberg Castle, its people dispersed … washed away by war and now by time, like a sandcastle. You’ll only find it on historical maps. After 700 years as a Prussian city, with its most famous citizen being Emmanuel Kant, Königsberg was renamed Kaliningrad in 1946 … a name that also applies to the Russian oblast, an enclave surrounded by Lithuania to the North, Poland to the south and the Baltic on the west.  Along with the city, the entire province once known as East Prussia, is renamed and divided amongst the victors.  And like East Prussia before, Russian Kaliningrad remains separate from its mother land. Always in its own detached world.

By April, in 1945, many German civilians would have managed to escape the Soviet onslaught, or have died trying as they fled for  Baltic ports.  My mom had been captured during her flight earlier that winter and by April she was on her way to the Urals as a POW. Meanwhile, her two sisters and cousins were stranded … also not reaching port cities like Pillau … perhaps saved from drowning on ships like the doomed Wilhelm Gustloff. My aunts remained behind in the ruins of East Prussia.

I’m grateful to have visited Kaliningrad back in 2019. The Russian settlers who have made Königsberg their home have learned to love the city and appreciate the history and ruins of that brutal war. With the Germans are gone, the victors have had eighty years to claim Kaliningrad as their own. 

But Königsberg remains a symbol of home to the scattered survivors and now their descendants. My recent ‘cousin’ reunion down in Mexico this past winter reminded me of how memories fade away … like castles in the sand … unless we make the effort to put them into narratives. 

public domain Königsberg Castle

The Mud of Transition

Lessons for writing from nature:  calendars are nice …. BUT like chapter outlines, merely a guideline.  Spring is fickle … BUT no matter what, the days are brighter, the snow is disappearing, the puddles growing. The plot is definitely heading towards warmth, towards the light. BUT like a good book, it’s all about the journey. This muddy middle will pass.  Splish, splash towards new growth ... towards spring.

Muddling through a draft of a new novel feels a bit like slugging through some prairie slush. 

How the Past can Linger On

Heading out to a 100th birthday celebration.

The 100-year-old birthday girl is a tiny, feisty woman. Born into troubled times in Wolany, Poland (lower Silesien), she immigrated to Canada in the mid-fifties and attended the same immigrant church as my family. The war years were hard on Anna (not her real name) and left her with a lifelong hoarding affliction. Now that she’s in a long-term care home the problem is under control, but for many years her hoarding instincts caused issues. She couldn’t help herself. There was enough food in her fridge, freezer or wherever else she could store it, to feed an army. My mom had similar tendencies, but maybe not as severe. 

My mom  at 90

While younger people dismiss the past of their parents … or suggest they get over it … without support, many Second World War survivors lived with PTSD and no therapy, no way to share the traumas of a history they barely understood.

Here’s a funny story about my mom at ninety.  We’re having tea in the dining hall of her long-term care home. A fellow resident opens about four packets of sugar for her tea while my mom only uses one or two. Later, my mom asks me if everyone pays the same in their care facility. I tell her it’s prorated based on income. Mom nodded understanding. When she died, one of her dresser drawers was stuffed with sugar packets. 

My mom was sweet enough, and so is Anna. But after a difficult life, hoarding was a way to cope.  So happy 100th birthday to Anna. May she always have enough. May she always feel secure.

Meanwhile, our current world situation is ripe to breed a whole new generation who might have to deal with PTSD throughout their lives. Listening to their stories is one way to support victims of trauma. We are our stories and our stories matter. 

Happy to Be

For World Happiness Day (and the first day of spring!)  let me share my own way to celebrate. A morning walk in the woods with my favourite canine, followed by a pot of green tea and a few hours of  uninterrupted time on my laptop. 

After lunch, I’ll head out to my neighbourhood pool for a swim, stop for groceries and prep a vegetable-rich supper. I hope to spend the evening reading a soon-due-back library book, will have a few welcome social interactions, and end the day with another dog walk. Those morning and evening dog walks are comforting bookends to my idea of a perfect, happy day. 

As a retired homeowner, I'm one of the lucky ones with a pension which guarantees me a modest life-long income along with private health insurance to supplement the government plan. It's much more than what many newcomers, people with disability or mental health issues, or young people trying to find affordable apartments can even hope for. 

While I live in my protected senior bubble, I know that unhappiness is real and that people in my city are struggling and have much to be unhappy about. Canada's dropped to 18th on the World Happiness Report and we need to elect politicians who will support our quest for individual and social happiness.

I've had my share of challenging times and appreciate simple things like tea and dog walks.  I’m sure your idea of how to live a happy day is much different than mine ... may we each find happiness and pass it forward. 

From Wesselburen to Winnipeg

 

Dad at 18 in 1936

It’s my father’s birthday. Born in Wesselburen, near the North Sea in Schleswig-Holstein back in 1918, he’d be 107 today. He passed away at 75 back in 1993. While he got to witness the collapse of the Berlin Wall, he missed out on most of my kids’ childhoods. And they, missed out on having a fun-loving Opa in their lives.  

I think my dad appreciated fun because of the not-much-fun years. He joined the German Luftwaffe at 18, back in 1936. The small-town boy had witnessed his bedridden father die (possibly from a morphine overdose?) after lingering Great War wounds, the previous year. 

Young Robert was no doubt eager to leave the poverty and depression at home for the excitement and status of being a pilot in Hermann Göring’s Luftwaffe.  I know one perk was that he got to watch the diving competition during the Berlin Olympics back in 1936.  He ended up crashing a plane he was piloting, killing all 17 paratroopers on board.  After a lengthy recovery he was re-instated into the Military Police on the eastern front. That ended with five years in Soviet custody near Moscow and the collapse of his first marriage along with the death of his two sons.

Eighteen years later, I became the firstborn of his new family here in Winnipeg. 

Happy 107, Dad. It would be great to share a coffee and some Königskuchen with you today! I've got so many questions I'd like to ask you. I'm finally ready to listen to the stories about the old days. I think our world needs to remember those days ... now, more than ever!

My oldest daughter with her opa 
1987

Standing up to Bullies

Diversity mural at Bernie Wolfe School in Winnipeg

Last Wednesday was labelled ‘pink day’ supporting awareness about bullying. and I was delighted to share that theme as presented in Waltraut with local grade eight students. I suggested that a good way to not get pushed around by bullies is to have a strong sense of one’s self. When you know your own story, you aren’t persuaded to adopt someone else’s narrative. My protagonist, Waltraut, had an identity crisis and others took advantage of her vulnerability.

As Canada gets pushed around by the USA, we find ourselves re-connecting with what it means to be Canadian. In my novel, Waltraut discovers her power comes not from imitating Nancy Drew, but from owning who she is, Waltraut Weiss.

Waltraut’s parents were very proud of becoming Canadian. It was a country they chose to raise their children. It is a country that does not aspire to be more like the Americans. It is a country that aspires to be what its steady stream of new immigrants dream it can be … more Canadian.

Check out 49th Shelf’s recent newsletter for other children’s books encouraging newcomer’s self-esteem and empowerment. Grateful to have Walraut included on that list. Books can be portals to build resistance to bullies.

Mural supporting Ukrainian
Immersion program at Bernie Wolfe School 

 

Zhytomyr in the News

Recent headlines about rare minerals in Ukraine, remind me of the day trip we took while visiting Ukraine twenty years ago when I got to view a titanium mine near Zhytomyr. 

Titanium mine near Zhytomyr

Whenever I hear or see Zhytomyr in the news, I pay attention. That’s where my grandfather was arrested, interrogated and executed back in 1937. When I stayed there in 2004 it was a sleepy, maybe even depressed, town still boasting its Lenin statue. I was more interested in the secret police archives than in Zhytomyr’s mines. 

Now, Zhytomyr might become a hub for American mining companies—or not!  That will definitely bring changes to the area. I hope they’re good ones. This area, once known as Volhynia, has been through decades of dark times … expertly discussed in Timothy Synder’s Bloodlands. (Link to YouTube lecture he gave).  From collectivization to famine to Nazi terror to extreme poverty and neglect … maybe titanium will bring prosperity. But so far, Zhytomyr in 2025, has only more turmoil. 

With Lenin in 2004 town square of Zhytomyr

Zhytomyr ditch where my grandfather's body
was thrown after his 1937 execution

Ukraine Deserves Better

I've been a supporter of the Samaritan Ministries of Ukraine (SMU) for more than twenty years now. My minimal contributions have gone towards creating widow homes for the destitute women in the rural Zhytomyr region of Ukraine ... an area where my family once lived. While SMU's founder, Don Miller from Oregon, has sadly passed on, his widow, Nancy, recently posted a request of fellow Americans to stop Trump's skewed efforts at peacemaking. Ukraine deserves better!

Just in case I have American readers of this blog .... here is Nancy Miller's (of SMU) plea:

Please call on the Trump Administration and congressional leaders to do right by Ukraine. Use your voice to make a difference for Ukraine:

Calling tool (https://americancoalitionforukraine.org/) - Call EVERY DAY!

Email Congress campaign (https://www.votervoice.net/RAZOM.../Campaigns/121991/Respond) - Use once. 

Email Congress campaign (https://ujoin.co/campaigns/3568/actions/public...) 

These links will ask for a donation. We are NOT suggesting you donate to them. 

Thank you!

The Chaos of San Pancho

My time is quickly winding down here in laid back, tropical San Pancho. As I sit on my apartment terrace, sipping green tea and pondering the day ahead, I view the busy street one floor below.

Pineapple and watermelon vendors cruise the streets blaring ads for their produce. A garbage truck passes, its dirty rear end somehow less smelly as a yearning crooner serenades its workers through the drudgery of their day. Dogs meander around scooters, ATVs, golf carts, BMWs, tourists and locals. Some canines even hitch rides. 

Free-range kids play tag, free-range roosters crow, and giant, rooted cacti bloom amidst the dust and exhaust fumes. It’s an incredible cacophony of sound, of motion, of smells. 

Every few doors there’s a different beat, another song, another voice adding cadence to the mayhem of the street. Fruit stands, butcher shops, cafes, tequila and chocolate shops co-exist with pharmacies, yoga studios and meditation centres. 

Friendly nods, accompanied by ‘hola’ or ‘buenos dia’ spice up navigation along the cobbled roads. Pfew! It’s a lot for this prairie dweller to absorb. But soon I’ll return to Winnipeg where it’s -26 not +26 and I can chill back into my comfort zone. 

Room to Create

As I prepare a presentation for young readers and writers, I’m taking stock of my 'office'. Here’s a rough sketch. I like to refer my writing space with Virginia Woolf’s words, ‘a room of one’s own.’  It’s my happy place where I’m surrounded by books, maps, plants, rocks and photos. The room has plenty of natural light with a French door leading out to a garden. During the long winter, the garden turns white like a blank screen or an empty page. But in the summer, it turns green with growth.  

sleeping garden featuring my pride and joy 
... a linden tree

Inside my room, the bulletin board hosts a scramble of notes … some might call it clutter … I call it my compost pile.  Those bits and pieces are the raw materials for growing stories.  Obits,  postcards, lines of poetry, stickers, reminders, quotes, writing rules that I want to follow, etc. …  

indoor compost board

On my shelves, I have one wall devoted to history for my German side and on the other wall, the focus is on Soviet era research ... reflecting the two huge influences on my family's history and my stories.

I also have a shelf devoted to writing craft books that guide and support me on this lifelong journey.

In between the two walls, I have shelves filled with the wonderful books by writer friends. There's never enough room because my friends have had incredible success and because my friendship circle grows bigger all the time. Good thing I have other rooms with more shelves!

books as portals to other times and places

Scattered amongst the books, like garden art,  I have stones, photos, candles and random artifacts that feed my imagination.  And ... in a small corner ... I have my own little stack of published novels. Pinch me!  

Cicero said, "If you have a garden and a library, you have everything you need."  I totally agree!

Immigrants

As I prepare for a rare family reunion (in Mexico, of all places!) I remember the family members who won't be there. 

My grandmother Matilde and her youngest son, my uncle Jonathan

... both died during Siberian exile

But, at least now I know they once existed and a little bit of the story. 

Former East Prussian refugees arriving in Winnipeg, Canada, 1953

Learning about those who never had the opportunity to immigrate. 

The orphaned children left behind in East Prussia

The Wolf Children of the Eastern Front

 

The immigrant church in Winnipeg filled with displaced survivors
who turned to faith for healing. 

Where a daughter of immigrants 
tries to figure out who she is

War in Real Time

Horrific headline news from 2022 focusing on Mariupol during the early months of the ‘special military operation’ is the backdrop to Marsha Forchuk Skrypuch's new middle grade novel, Kidnapped from Ukraine. As the main character, 12-year-old Dariia, shares her fear, her courage, her passion for Ukraine the reader follows her beyond the headlines into a bizarre world of lies.

The only drawback is that this war story is NOT historical fiction. The middle grade kids in this story are inspired by real events happening NOW and that’s absolutely terrifying. I appreciated how deftly the author incorporated modern technology into the story.  It's 2022 and the children use their savvy computer skills to stay connected with each other and to channel their hope for the future.

My favourite character might be Anton—the brainwashed Russian boy. The author shows us how powerful the media can be in shaping a country’s people. It’s really important for youth to learn to be critical of news whether in school, on TV, or online. Who’s telling the story? 

A sub-story to Anton is his mother's greed ... another important aspect of how Putin succeeds to influence Russians, along with his father's perspective from the front lines. I really appreciated how Skrypuch gives young readers a view of both sides of this conflict. Plenty of discussion points here.

Novels like this one are great openers to discuss the power of propaganda, of the lure of money, and of the reality of war.

Favourite line, spoken by Daryia’s friend, Vadim on page 215, reads: “Not all soldiers hold guns.” Marsha Skrypuch is a soldier for Ukraine. 

Reunion and Memories

I’m preparing for a trip to Mexico next month. This will be different than my time last year because it includes a family reunion. My nuclear family here in Winnipeg lived quite isolated from the pack of cousins out west in BC or back in Europe. Perhaps that’s why I’ve been drawn to writing family stories … I’ve always lacked that connection.

On the Baltic

Growing up without grandparents or cousins, I got used to having no extended family and now I don’t miss having them in my daily orbit. You can’t miss what you’ve never had. Great friends more than make up for lack of family.  

On the Pacific 

But I am curious. How have the cousins dealt with family history? We share grandparents murdered under Stalin’s regime. We share lost windmills, East Prussian cooking, and folksongs. We’ve inherited unresolved trauma from war, homelessness, hunger, rape and guilt. These were our mothers, aunts and cousins who didn’t want to talk about what happened. These were our uncles who killed under Hitler’s orders. 

This family reunion will be interesting. As we walk the beaches of Mexico’s Pacific coast I’ll be thinking of the beaches I biked beside the Baltic … of the beaches near Palmnicken (now Yantarny) where Stuffhof prisoners were forced into icy waters … nothing like the sun-kissed sands of Mexico. Family reunions are for survivors. 

Baltic memorial to victims of death march

Imagine 2025!

IMAGINE my word for 2025. Thanks to John Lennon for saying it so succinctly, back in 1971. Imagine a world of peace. And let’s never stop sharing our imaginations through novels, song, dance, art and theatre. Imagine.

I guess that’s why I’ll continue to write. It’s my way to imagine. 

Grateful to have ‘imagined’ the five books that I’ve written over the last ten years. They’ve helped me to understand my family’s past in order that I could better understand my own present. And I guess that’s why I write and why I read … to understand. It’s through research and imagination that I’ve been able to create. 

10 years of imagination

Red Stone (aka The Kulak’s Daughter) focused on an 11-year-old kulak girl exiled from her family farm in present-day Ukraine. The series goes full circle in Waltraut when an 11-year-old immigrant girl in Canada finds the courage to tell her story.

We’re all stories. We all have inciting incidents, page turning plots or sagging middles, and we’re all searching for that soul-satisfying conclusion. 

Wishing us all understanding through imagination. 

 Imagine there’s no countries … 

Nothing to kill or die for

                

And no religion, too

Imagine all the people

Livin’ life in peace

You

You may say I’m a dreamer

But I’m not the only one

I hope someday you’ll join us

And the world will live as one

                                                                                                     John Lennon, 1971