Heart Speaks

Passing Along the Legacy Through Art Work

2011-11-22T15:31:00.000-08:00

http://triblocal.com/palatine/community/galleries/2011/11/harper-students-new-book-brings-german-harvest-festival-to-life/#/5

An article appearing in Chicago Tribune.

Written and drawn by my good friend Elsa Walter. She and my mom were similiar in experiences in their post WW2 expulsion from Yugoslavia by the Russian Red Army.

Coming to America: A New Beginning

2011-02-24T10:54:00.000-08:00

President Roosevelt delivered an address on December 8, 1941 about "The day which will live in infamy", referring to the previous day's Pearl Harbor attack by the Japanese. He was absolutely correct that it would be a historic date that still holds a lot of significance in our nation's history. But for me, February 24. 1950 is the date that lives in infamy for me. Not only is it the birth date for my great-grandma Anna on my mother’s side — it also happens to be the date that my mom, grandma, and great grandparents arrived at the port of New York on the R/S Queen Elizabeth. Last year marked the 60th anniversary of them arriving on U.S. soil after surviving the Yugoslavian genocide. It’s for this reason that I love this date.

After their first taste of freedom in a refugee camp in Schalding, Germany, they began their new lives. The genocide had taken everything from them. They had been forced out of their homes and had everything taken from them. They had nothing–not even birth certificates or any identifying documents to prove their existence. They were not welcome to come back to Yugoslavia. They were people without a country.

It was while living in Germany that they began to receive packages from America, from my great-grandpa’s cousins, Roy and Helen Andersen. As a young girl of 11, my mom was told that America was filled with ‘streets made from gold. A land of milk and honey.” These packages were just as magical. Gail, the Andersen’s daughter who was a few years younger than my mom, would send gifts specifically for her. In addition to some clothes, she remembered getting a much-cherished doll, some M&M’s and a beautiful, sequined purse.

Fortunately, the Andersen’s agreed to sponsor their trip on the Queen Elizabeth. After guaranteeing jobs and boarding for my grandma’s family, they funded the journey from Germany to Cherbourg, France, where the four of them boarded the ship on February 15, 1950.

When asked about what she remembered about her journey on the famous liner, my mom would laugh. She would have loved to tell stories of exploring the big vessel, playing with the other children–dreaming of what life would look like in America. Instead, the entire family spent most of the trip being seasick and vomiting over the sides of the ship. When she was well enough to explore, she recounted getting lost in the bowels of the ship. Not exactly the exciting adventures one would hope to have on their maiden voyage. It was on the ship that she recounted her first memories of a language barrier between their family and staff. With no one able to speak English in the dining hall, she recalled flapping their arms and saying ‘bok, bok, bok’ to tell them they wanted chicken. It’s that story that always makes me smile. She also remembered swimming in a salt water pool on the ship.

After reaching Ellis Island, they settled in Chicago to work for the Andersens. My great-grandparents Anna and Thomas and grandma Anna agreed to work as indentured servants for three years at the Andersen’s hunting and fishing club in Fox Lake appropriately named the “Wing and Fin Club” During that time, they also gave them room and board on the property. About a decade later, my parents would hold their wedding reception there.

Over the years I’ve wondered about the Andersen’s. There is no record of them in my mom’s phone book, which surprises me. By now, if still alive Helen and Roy would be in their 90′s, while Gail would be nearing 70. Do they ever think of the family they so graciously helped? Was the story of the Dernetz family passed down to future generations like it was in the Olsen family? My mom had referred to them as ‘angels’ over the years. Her family was in deep gratitude to the not-so-simple gesture as to make their journey possible. Without their willingness to pave their way to America, the story of Anna and Thomas, Anna and my mom Hilda might have ended so differently. And for this reason, I too am truly grateful to the Andersen family as well. I think Neil Diamond says it best:

Far

We've been travelling far
Without a home
But not without a star

Free
Only want to be free
We huddle close
Hang on to a dream

On the boats and on the planes
They're coming to America
Never looking back again
They're coming to America

Home, don't it seem so far away
Oh, we're travelling light today
In the eye of the storm
In the eye of the storm

Home, to a new and a shiny place
Make our bed, and we'll say our grace
Freedom's light burning warm
Freedom's light burning warm

Everywhere around the world
They're coming to America
Every time that flag's unfurled
They're coming to America

Got a dream to take them there
They're coming to America
Got a dream they've come to share
They're coming to America

Motherless Daughter: A Journey of Grief

2010-08-12T11:21:00.000-07:00

Reprinted from the original publication at http://stlfamilylife.com/ in August 2010.

When my son Adam’s hamster Little Dude died recently, my heart broke along with his. There was nothing I could do to take away his pain. As a parent, I desperately want to protect my children from the emotional gunk of life. After Little Dude had celebrated his first birthday, I gently reminded Adam that the odds were that he would not live to see another one. Good or bad, hamster life spans are short—averaging two years or less.

Still, when Adam found him lifeless in his cage, my son was devastated. Fortunately, I was surprising my kids later that day by the arrival of a friend’s dog. We were pet-sitting for the week and I had decided to make Bandit’s arrival a surprise. We had watched him earlier in the year, too, and the kids thoroughly enjoyed him. It was the perfect distraction from the sadness Adam was feeling.

As I walked through the early stages of Adam’s grief this summer, I reflected back on my own grieving process when my mom passed away. Grief was not an emotion I was entirely comfortable dealing with.

Despite losing all my grand parents and various other relatives, it was not something I had ever experienced with such intensity as losing a parent. I was fortunate that my parents lived near-by and I talked with her on the phone and saw her in person often. Yet, after her pancreatic cancer diagnosis, there was sadness with each visit or conversation.

My mom was experiencing her own grief and coming to terms with the terminal diagnosis. She wanted to survive….she wanted to see her 5 grandchildren grow into adulthood and enjoy the golden years with her husband of 45 years. My mom grappled with why God was allowing her to experience such a painful and horrible end. She felt like she had suffered enough as a child. This was supposed to be her time to enjoy life. She did not want her family to watch her die.

There was a lot of sadness for me, too, in her final months—reminders of a life that was going to be lived without her in it. I thought that having a chance to say goodbye and prepare for her to die would make my pain less. I was wrong.

After she died, what surprised me the most was how alone I felt in my grief. Not that my friends and family did not understand what I was feeling, but rather, few people rallied behind me to proactively provide a listening ear and be strong when I was feeling weak. Despite having a large group of girl friends who had lost their mother, only a few regularly checked in on me and supported me. And it was only my best friend of 20 years who rallied behind me on a daily basis.

It was because of the aloneness I felt that I turned to a self-help book by Hope Edelman “Motherless Daughters” that really helped me work through the emotions I was feeling. Out of the book, there have been dozens of support groups created throughout the United States, including one in St. Louis.

Having an intimate group of women in various stages of life to turn to has been invaluable. They span every age group and life experience—some having lost their mothers as a young child, and others, well into their adulthood like me. While I rarely attend the meetings now, there is comfort in knowing that the group is there if I need them.

Still, it is through writing that I have found my greatest healing. As a family genealogist, capturing who my mother was on paper has provided the most comfort to me. One of my greatest regrets is that my daughter, who was only 2 ½ when my mom died, will never know her grandma on a personal level. Even my son, who was 7 at the time, has only faint and distant memories of his grandma. Capturing her personality and life story on paper is truly priceless to me—and sharing her memory beyond my circle of friends is a privilege.

On the cusp of my son’s grief is my own heightened sense of loss as the three year anniversary of my mom’s death is approaching. Perhaps this anniversary is one that will always bring me pain and the heightened feelings of missing her —or perhaps it is one that will fade with time. Grief is personal and unpredictable. What I have found is that it’s not the big reminders of her that are difficult—it’s the unexpected reminders like a song at church, or her favorite flower sitting in a friend’s vase. It is simply a fact of life.

Perhaps the biggest lesson I’ve learned is that grief is a process of ups and downs. Grief is not something to ‘overcome’, but rather to learn to deal with when those feelings are overwhelming, as they will be time and time again.

Bee-ing Compassionate

2010-06-24T17:46:00.000-07:00

Article as it appeared in the Suburban Journal - West County newspaper on June 23, 2010. First of four columns for me to write for the Opinion Shaper commentaries.

Carrying on a legacy of carrying for animals

By Bonnie Krueger

The "getting to know you" ice breaker question� in my women's Bible study was "List one good trait passed on to you from your family, and on the reverse, list one you wish you hadn't acquired and would change."

Compassion for animals was my immediate response for the positive trait. Not that my dad was anti-animals, but it was really my mom and grandma who exuded this from their core beings.

Having numerous conversations with my mom about her love for animals, I knew that this was a multi-generational love. In addition to being an incredible gardener, my great-grandpa Thomas cared for his bee farm where he had a successful business canning honey.

My family is enjoying the last harvested jar, which was canned on June 13, 1954. I treasure each drop,� and will find it bitter-sweet when the last of it is consumed.

I recall a summer day as a teenager watching my mom lovingly rescue a honey bee from our in-ground pool. "He is still alive, poor thing," she said to me. "It is struggling so hard to save itself." She held it softly in the palm of her hand, patiently waiting for its wings to dry out and for it to reclaim his zapped strength. After several minutes of holding it - meanwhile sharing with me bee stories from her grandpa - it finally reclaimed his strength. The bee walked around the palm of my mom's hand before finding its equilibrium and flying off into the wind.

My mom's true character shined for me in that moment. Most people wouldn't have taken the time to give the bee a second thought.

My grandma who lived in a Chicago suburb maintained a large animal farm. At the pinnacle of her farming, she owned sheep, goats, peacocks, chickens, pigeons, roosters, ducks, geese, rabbits - even a few spider monkeys and pet raccoons. Visiting her was joyful. I loved the goats. There was Ginger, Little Gin, Brownie, Cocoa, Bonnie and Clyde.

Despite the plethora of animals to enjoy at the farm, it is still my mom's example that impacted me the most. In the last 20 to 25 years of her life, she lived out her belief system in animals. She became a strict vegan and began using beauty and cleaning products that did not contain animal products, and refused to use products that were tested on animals.

Having grown up with dogs, it was interesting to see her develop a love for cats. She became active in fostering kittens and cats, with literally hundreds of them passing through the� specially designed� living area of my parent's home. On any given week her agenda would also include injured duck rescues. Yes, my mom was faithful to who she was and lived it out fully.

Knowing my mom, grandma and great grandpa's history, I certainly understood their passion. People had failed them - time and time again - but animals were always faithful.

My mom told me something that struck a chord with me that I'd like to pass on to you.� Animals cannot help themselves. They are at the mercy of other animals and the people they encounter.

She often said a person's true character was shown in how they treat animals and how animals responded to them. Treasures in heaven, she said, were stored up for those people who dedicate their lives for the least of God's creations.

Bonnie Krueger of Manchester is one of 12 West County area Opinion Shapers. Opinion Shapers are guest writers who submit a column three times a year on areas of interest to them. Krueger is a homemaker, who enjoys researching family genealogy. She blogs at bonsheart.blogspot.com and bonsbrain.blogspot.com.

A Father's Presence

2010-06-22T07:48:00.000-07:00

Appears as originally published to http://stlfamilylife.com/ on Sunday, June 20 on Father's Day

Remembering Fathers, Past and Present

Growing up, I was blessed. Leave it to Beaver’s got nothing on me. My parents provided me as idyllic a childhood as you can ever wish to have. I was raised by a hard-working father and a stay-at-home mom, who stayed happily married until her death in 2007, just shy of their 46th anniversary. While my mom worked a few seasonal jobs, for the most part her job was to take care of the house and us girls.

Now that I am a wife and mother, I am all that more grateful for the values and legacy my parents passed onto me. By all rights, my dad should be an alcoholic; a family trait that is rampant among the Olsen’s men. He made a decision to not allow that generational curse to affect him, defying the odds.

Still, it’s my mom’s legacy that always humbles and awes me. Without a father in her life or a Godly male influence, she still chose an amazing man to marry and raise a family. Again, I am forever grateful. If you were to ask her about her father, my mom would have told you that she did not have much to say about him. She only knew a little about him, and had even fewer memories.

His name was Franz Bohn, an ethnic German man who worked as a butcher. Like a lot of Germans, he was obstinate and strong-willed. Even though she was only 5 when she last saw him, she remembered him being a heavy drinker, probably an alcoholic, who ruled with an iron fist. My mom supposed my grandma Anna married this older man to escape the abuse she suffered at the hands of her own dad, Thomas. Sadly, Franz was a mirror-image of his father-in-law and the patterns of abuse continued for my grandma into her marriage.

When asked what she remembered about him, my mom could only recount one memory—and it was a disturbing one at that. While still living in their small town in Yugoslavia, she was arguing with her cousin, whom she was playing with at the time. It angered her dad and he chased her with one of his butcher knives. She could not have been more than 5 years old at the time.

Between 1944 and 1947 she had been separated from her father when the Russian Red Army invaded Yugoslavia and forced the citizens to evacuate their homes, stripping them of their possessions and belongings. The able-bodied men were taken to fight for the Russians, while able-bodied women were taken by coal car to Russia to work as slaves. For the youngest of the victims, like my mom who was 6 years old, and for the oldest victims like her grandparents, they were imprisoned in camps within Yugoslavian towns, much like the Holocaust. When my great grandparents, my grandma, and my mom escaped the camps 3 years later, they did not reunite with her father.

Her last memory of her father was a passive one. Before immigrating to the United States in 1950, she recalled someone pointing out that her father was across the street. She ignored him and continued to walk on without glancing his way. When I asked her years later why she chose to look the other way rather than reunite with him, her answer was simple. He had abandoned them after the genocide ended, making a clear decision to not be a part of his daughter’s life.

My parents and grandma returned to Yugoslavia in 1995. They reconnected with family still living in the home next door to where my mom grew up. It was during that visit that she learned a little more about the biological father she did not really know. She was also given a contact number of how to reach him. Sadly, when she called, he had already died a few years earlier. While she had not allowed being fatherless to impact her life, I imagine speaking to him would have provided a peace and allowed their relationship to go full-circle. It was not meant to be.

So as Father’s Day nears, I am eternally grateful for the dad I was blessed to have. He is loving, kind, involved and protective. He loved our mom and was a great role-model. His influence and example lead me to an equally amazing husband. Together he and I are raising our children in a healthy, balanced home. I have a lot to be grateful for—every day.

Bonnie Krueger is a mom, wife and blogger living in West County. She blogs about family, marriage and random musing at Inside my Head. Her second blog is dedicated to the memory and history of her mom who was a concentration camp survivor after WW2 in Yugoslavia. This blog, Heart Speaks, is written to educate people on the genocide by the Russians that so few people actually know about it.

A Beautiful Reminder

2010-05-04T08:33:00.000-07:00

I stumbled upon this today as I was sifting through the hundreds of e-mails in my deleted folder. The e-mail was from one of my mom's faithful buyers of the Katy Blue collection of glassware. One of my tasks following my mom's death was to answer her e-mails. This was a response I received after notifying Verona my mom had died.

I reprinted the poem for my dad and it is displayed along side a 8x10 photograph of my mom that my dad loved and was displayed at her Memorial Service.

The picture Verona is referring to was a Mother's Day picture taken before she knew she was ill. As I approach Mother's Day this year with dread, as I do every year now, I found this to be a beautiful reminder of the impact my mom had on people around her. God's timing is perfect in finding this precious e-mail.

Dear Bonnie, Roger and Family,

I am your mom's eBay Katy Blue friend. I enjoyed my visits with your mom via the Internet and over the phone. We talked about a lot of different things. I wish I could have visited her in person. I hope I lifted her spirits when ever I could by a note or mailings. She sent me a beautiful picture of her girls, herself and the grand kids. You are in a woodsy setting sitting on a picnic bench and I have kept it by my computer. She sure was a precious and rare jewel. I am deeply sadden in my human heart to hear that Hilda has left us but at the same time, I know that she is resting comfortably with our Saviour--------that she has been called home to a better place. We who are left will miss her and we grieve. Life won't be the same for any of us, but all of us who were privileged to know her have been made better by her sweetness. I thought and prayed for your mom often and sensed lately that things might be not good. I so wanted to share with her my joy in my hummingbirds this summer.

I lost my father in 1997, to Alzheimer's and my brother in law to liver disease in 2005. I know how hard it is to watch our loved ones go through pain, suffering and deterioration. May you find comfort in celebrating her life for she truly was special. May God fill the void from Hilda's absence with hope and special memories shared together.

For me, one source that I found comfort from was Isaiah 57:1-2 and from this unauthored poem, that I share with you.

God saw she was getting tired,
And a cure was not to be.
So he put his arms around her
And whispered, "Come to me."

With tearful eyes, we watched her
And saw her fade away.
Although we loved her dearly,
We could not make her stay.

A golden heart stopped beating,
Hard working hands at rest.
God broke our hearts to prove to us,
He only takes the BEST.

Thanks so much for letting me know about your Mom. I treasure her memory and am thankful for my time with her. Feel free to email me anytime. Take care of each other and treasure your moments.

With prayer and love, Verona

The Forgotten Genocide: A Reflection

2010-03-22T14:32:00.000-07:00

I believe in divine appointments. Rather than chance encounters and coincidences, I believe that God orders our days within the parameters of the free-will decisions we make.

My story of one of these divine appointments actually begins in July or August 2009 when a friend of mine from Facebook encouraged me to start a blog--even sending me the blog link to get started. "Artists draw, painters paint and writers write" (paraphrased), he wrote me in admonition when I found myself waffling on the idea. I'm not the most secure person and the thought of others reading and (gasp) judging my opinions definitely stretched my comfort level. But, lo and behold, I took the plunge and now have somewhere around 45 entries between my original site http://www.bonsbrain.blogspot.com/ and this one. The feedback has been largely positive, with only a few critical readers offering up a counter-point in vast opposition to what I penned. That's OK. They e-mailed me their ideas privately rather than posting them to my blog itself. Maybe they aren't so secure either....

Watching my mom fight her cancer and cope with the idea that her time on earth was coming to a close made me examine my own life closely. Approaching my 40's at the same time was unfortunate timing that managed to exacerbate my feelings of loss. It was only in hindsight that I realized how much my mid life crisis was related to my grief in preparing to lose her and then the actual acceptance once she died. For three years I can honestly say I was in emotional and physical turmoil. Outwardly, my life was in order. I cared for my kids and my husband and functioned successfully within my world; but inwardly, I wasn't sure I recognized myself and even wanted the life I had chosen for myself.

While I sought couples and individual counseling, attending a Weekend to Remember marriage conference with Tony, and participated in a very intense personal Bible study on marriage and another one on coping when life gets hard, it wasn't until I started writing that I truly began to emotionally heal.

The entries about my mom have been a safe way to redirect my grief. I've long been of the opinion that the suffering she endured while in the Yugoslavian genocide camps needed to be documented. Sadly, this ethnic cleansing experience is one that is largely unknown. Now that the youngest of the survivors are approaching 70 years old, time is short to document this historic event from an eyewitness account

One night I rented the movie "Julie & Julia", the story line based on a woman cooking and blogging her way through Julia Child's French cook book. Since this movie was based on actual events, it was no surprise that her blog was discovered. Still, I found this encouraging. For just a moment I pondered how fun that would be to be "discovered" and what that could mean. Certainly I had built a good readership to that point, which includes several friends and even three strangers who had found my blog and liked it well enough to become a "follower". But I mused to myself, wouldn't it be fun to be discovered by someone interested in my mom's story?

As unbelievable as this may sound, the next morning I open my blog and find that not one, but three, people interested in the topic of this genocide had discovered my blog and commented on the "Coming to America" entry. The third reader, Ann Morrison, was in the process of finishing a documentary on the subject and was hosting a conference on the topic. Clicking on her link, I can hardly believe my eyes when I read that the conference and premiere of the documentary will be taking place two months later in my current hometown, just 4 miles from my house. Thus, my divine appointment. I quickly e-mail her and tell her of the turn of events and offer my assistance and ask if I can be a part of this historic event. She's equally delighted by this "coincidence" and I'm welcomed to participate, even helping with some of the local arrangements. In addition, she asks if she can link my blog site to her website. While I was flattered by her offer, I realized that people wanting to read about the genocide were going to have to sift through 40 other entries about my life. More than they bargained for. So, I quickly created this separate blog site, dedicated to the memory of my mom. I was truly honored to be linked to her site. Her website discussing the plight of the Danube Swabian people is http://annsfilms.com/.

The first person to leave the comment was Anita Pare. She was actually the one who found my link and passed it along to the others. Living in Canada, Anita and I became fast friends via the internet. She forwarded links of interest on the topic and was kind enough to answer my questions about the genocide. More knowledgeable than me, her insight was invaluable and she never made me feel silly for asking some pretty basic questions. Anita graciously translated a few hand-written Yugoslavian letters and a poem -- and composed a response for me after one of my mom's distant relatives contacted me via Ancestry.com, who was still living in Europe (another "coincidence"??) . We met the first morning of the three day conference. She joined a small group of us and asked about the documents I was preparing for the visual library display. In an "a-ha" moment, we realized our connection without the formal introduction and giggled over the way we finally met. Spending time with Anita was priceless and I look forward to a continued relationship with her.

On Thursday I was able to attend the first three of four scheduled speakers. The first speaker was Elizabeth (Elsa) Walter who wrote the book Barefoot in the Rubble, which is a memoir of her life as a child survivor of the genocide and her life in coming to America. She was my inspiration to start penning my mom's story. My relationship with Elsa began almost a decade ago. When Tony and I were researching this topic, she was one of the few published links I found on the web. Information on the topic was scarce. I contacted her during my research and thus, we formed a long standing friendship. Elizabeth was invaluable to me in helping me to understand the history behind the genocide and to understand some of the specifics regarding the Russian slave labor camps. Elsa reminds me of the fun aunt or your best friend's mom. She's outgoing, fun, talkative and just plain spunky. Her husband Mike intimidated me at first. He is more of an introvert, or so it seemed to me. Also a child survivor, Mike is a man of few words. But when he has something to say, listen up. He's intelligent, well-spoken, and humorous. He is the quiet strength behind Elizabeth's success. They make an awesome couple. Nothing but good things to say about this amazing couple.

In another God-directed coincidence, Elsa would speak once a year at a local library within 30 minutes of my home. It was in 2004 I attended her speaking engagement and was able to meet her and her husband Mike in person for the first time. A year later I attended again, but this time with my mom. We all went to lunch and visited during that time. Six months after my mom died, I heard Elsa speak one more time. It was infinitely more difficult for me and I spilled many tears during her lecture. The evening exposed such raw emotions that Mike and Elsa avoided eye contact with me. I cannot think back to that experience without feeling overcome by emotion again-- even 2 years later. And it all stems from a piece of string.

In the summer of 2008, Elsa and her husband Mike invited my family to a local German restaurant during our extended weekend in Chicago for my Olsen family reunion. They graciously invited us back to their home to talk and enjoy a traditional German strudel for dessert. When Elsa was asked to read my blog this winter, she smiled and said she already knew me. Small world. Very small world. Being a part of this conference with the Walters was fitting and I was looking forward to seeing both of them. Fortunately, I had the opportunity to have them over for dinner on the Tuesday night preceding the conference. I admitted to Mike I was a litle nervous about cooking for him. He had shared with us that he's not a fan of most American cooking. When he helped himself to a second plate of a recipe I had never tried before (bold move of me--or maybe it was just stupid!), I sighed in relief.

The conference resumed on Friday morning. Having a young daughter still home with me during the day I knew I would not be able to attend the 7 hours of scheduled speakers and had to make an educated decision of which speakers to be present to hear. I opted to attend from 11 a.m. to 2:30 p.m. As I snuck into the auditorium around 10:45, I distinctly remember Elsa patting the seat next to her and whispering "I was looking for you. Did you just get here? You haven't missed much but Brian is up next. You're going to really enjoy him. He's great". And he was. It was a great way to kick off the next four hours of speakers. Also known as Dr. Landry, Lt. Col., Professor Landry and Coach, Brian spoke on the psychological aspects of camp survivors. It's only because we became friends at the conference that I can poke fun at his myriad of titles and accomplishments. Brian stumbled upon the subject of the Danube Swabian post WWII genocide when he was earning his Doctorate of Philosophy. As Lieutenant Colonel in the United States Air Force and Assistant Professor of Leadership and Ethics, he had intended the subject of his dissertation to be on prisoners of war and the psychological aspects in survival. It is my understanding that the direction of his study changed course upon the chance encounter and interview opportunity of a child survivor of the genocide. Changing topics was no small undertaking at this point in his pursuit of the doctorate degree.

I have to admire someone to pursue this topic without a famial connection. With his military career, I imagine choosing the prisoner of war overview would have been inside his comfort zone and knowledge base. But to start with zero knowledge on a topic and write a 200-250 page dissertation? I think that speaks volumes on his heart for the topic, his intelligence and his determination. Luckily for me, he made the dissertation CD available to the conference attendees. Wanting to do the topic justice (and he did), he was granted permission for the paper to be well over the 200 page guideline -- with the final product being over 350 pages. As a survivor's child, I am indebted to Brian for not only giving a voice to the topic, but to do it with excellence and sensitivity. Much to his surprise, I think, I read the dissertation from front to back. Certainly, I could have read only the 150 pages of Chapter 4, which was the interview portion with the 3 female and 3 male survivors. However, his paper was so well written that I found all of it pertinent and engaging. In the meantime, I'm trying to convince him to convert what he's written and turn into a book form. Or better yet, write my mom's story for me. Hmmm....I might be onto something, Brian....

Katherine Flotz was one of the people Anita referred to my blog, and she left an encouraging comment. Unbeknownst to her, she did not need to introduce herself to me. Katherine was inspired to pen her memoirs in a book entitled A Pebble in My Shoe. After purchasing and reading Elsa's book, I then purchased and read hers. While I found Elizabeth's story to resemble my mom's story more closely, there were certain aspects of Katherine's experiences that paralleled my mom's as well. I had the opportunity to meet Katherine shortly before Brian spoke. She autographed my book copy as well at the time. Unfortunately, I did not see her again until moments before the documentary premiered, which is when I had our photo opportunity. I also met her husband George that weekend. My regret is that I did not have a chance to speak to them more. While Katherine was more quiet, I saw a spirited aire about her husband. They, too, seem like a great couple to get to know. Fortunately, with all the time I've spent with Elizabeth, she's shared a lot about Katherine with me so I feel like I know her on a personal level.

The last memorable couple was Tina and Kevin from the Chicago area. Tina was an extrovert and had an infectious personality. Talking with her was a hoot. I found myself giggling and joking with her like we had been friends for a long time. During the reception on Friday night we laughed about some funky shoes and fishnet stockings a young woman was wearing. She pulled it off and we wondered if we would have been bold enough to wear them. Would I have had the confidence at her age, probably not. Could I pull it off now? Wouldn't dare. Tina and I also bantered back and forth about Gakowa, "The escape camp". It wouldn't necessarily be funny to anyone but us and trying to explain it...well, I won't even try. Kevin was her "younger" husband. Being a people watcher and making casual observations, I made note that this was another married couple with one extrovert and one introvert. Not that Kevin wasn't friendly. He was. But I noticed he was the quiet sidekick carrying around an awfully big camera. When asked what he did for a living, various terms surfaced: Oprah....photographer...models....magazine. The terms were not necessarily related and in that order but it made for a spirited conversation. And that's all I'm sayin' about THAT conversation.

My husband accompanied me to the documentary premiere Friday night, and I was thankful he could attend. Surprisingly, this was the first time I felt emotional during the conference. Obviously, I missed my mom and wondered what she would have thought of the weekend dedicated to this topic. Honestly, I think from her perspective she would have found the whole conference self-indulgent. I doubt she would have participated, except for perhaps the film itself. I think to understand why I believe this, it goes back to her opinion of being a "survivor", which I'm not sure she liked being called. One day I asked her how she was so resilient and had overcome so fully the trauma she experienced. Her response was interesting. She had nightmares for years, with them slowly fading away once she got married and started her family. It felt almost like an out of body experience, she told me. Like it happened to someone else. She didn't think of herself as anything but an American. She fully Americanized and rarely comtemplated her short life in Europe. She forgot sometimes, she said, that she wasn't a natural born citizen of the country she loved. I doubt she'd want to revisit this experience in such a concentrated way. Certainly she talked about that part of her life, and even granted the interview for Spielberg, but to immerse herself in the memories for a weekend? Undoubtedly not my mom's style.

The final event of the weekend was the dinner and dance at the German Cultural Society Hall in downtown St. Louis on Saturday night. Tony and Adam had a Billikins basketball game that night, so I attended with Elise. Honestly, I wasn't sure how I felt about it. Maybe without Elise I'd had a different opinion, but I did fret a bit on how she would fair for the night. German schnitzels or bratwurst and a polka band, while hanging out with a bunch of grandma and grandpa types might not go over so well. I talked it up and really got her pumped up for the night, how we'd mingle and I'd introduce her to a lot of people. She was psyched for a good night. And what a good night we had. It was a perfect culmination of a historic weekend. Elise and I sat with the Walter's, the Flotz's, Tina and Kevin, and Brian. Thankfully they served fried chicken (hallelujah) and polka music was fine with Elise. So long as she could dance. And dance she did. After wearing me out, Brian graciously offered to dance with her. After she wore him out she moved on to Dr. Kearn Shemm, who spoke after Brian on Friday morning on the World Wide War Against the Germans. Finally, she moved on to Katherine. It was very cute actually to see her flit around the dance floor. She was charming and social all night. A mother's dream considering it was not the most child-friendly environment.

Part of the evening was to have a few speakers come to the podium and express their gratitude for the weekend and offer up congratulations to Ann for the success and vision of the weekend. While the others spoke in broken english, one woman speaker came up and spoke in German for a solid 3 or 4 minutes. At one point I leaned over to Brian and said "You getting this?"

"No...although I think I heard Ph.d." he responded.

"Good. Me neither. Although I think I heard the word radishes. Did you hear it?"

Brian smiled. But how could Brian had ever have known 30 years ago in high school that German might be a good foreign language to learn and would help him as he worked toward his doctorate. I, however, took 4 years of German (yikes!) so I have no excuse for not being able to read and write and understand the language. Maybe I shouldn't be admitting this but I only took German in school out of family obligation. I mean, how could I not? I hated it though and it never really stuck. Now I'm just too old and lazy to learn it again. And yes, I feel sufficiently guilty for feeling that way and as an adult I think its one of my educational regrets in life. And no, I don't feel that way about the German language now.

It was a great weekend that I wish didn't have to end when it did. I miss my new and old friends alike and hope that there will be another opportunity for us to reconvene--and that this is a catapult for future reunions. It seems fitting that the men and women represented by the conference were survivors and not only rose above their adversity, but flourished. Rather than this being a somber, sad conference, it was a celebration of the new lives they had created and a chance to say with forgiving hearts, "I win".

Regret

2010-03-02T13:54:00.000-08:00

Regret is a powerful emotion. It's the implication that you should have....would have.....could have.....but didn't. Whether it's involving regarding career choice, or perhaps it was what city to call home, or maybe it was on whether or not to marry and/or have children, each decision carries weight, and with it the power of possible regret. Sadly, often our clarify in a situation is only in looking back. Hindsight, they say, is 20/20. Personally, I have plenty of regrets. Relationships I wish I had fought harder for, while others I wish I had cast aside much earlier. Even regrets involving my college education and career choice.

When speaking to other women dealing with the grief over losing their mom, regret is a pervasive theme. Perhaps their mom's death was unexpected. A car accident, a house fire, even suicide. How differently our conversations would go if we knew the last time we spoke would truly be the last. Ever.

Fortunately, whenever the topic of regret following the death of a loved one comes up, I have peace of mind. For better or for worse, my mom's illness spanned 17 months. Personally, I made sure that I said everything to her that I wanted to share -- even including some difficult conversations. In line with my personal beliefs, I also feel that God prepared my heart along the way. I felt very strongly that when I said goodbye to her that Sunday afternoon it would be the last time I would spend time with her on this earth. My final words were "I love you, Mom" to which she replied "I love you, too". I paused a moment and said "No, Mom. I mean it. I really, really love you.". In a half smile and squeeze of my hand, she replied "I love you, too, honey".

She died 7 hours later.

Despite not grappling with the angst of regret in the early process of my grief, I found it hit me in a way and in a place I least expected. About a month before his grandma died , my 7 year old son Adam had approached me about wanting to donate money to an animal charity. He said he felt that he needed to help others. I explained that this would make Grandma especially happy because she loved her animal work and it would make her happy for us to do this in her honor. We picked one of her favorite organizations to donate to. I also agreed to match Adam's contributions dollar for dollar. At that point, life distracted me and we put his plan on hold.

Adam would occasionally remind me of his desire to empty out his piggy bank to donate to charity, but I always had a reason to say "later". Its dinner, its bedtime, I'm tired; you name it. In reality, I was simply was too lazy to follow through. Perhaps burdened with the start of school and being emotionally drained from the symptoms of decline, the excuses were plentiful. None were justified.

Following her death, in lieu of flowers, we had asked her friends to make a monetary donation to one of her favorite animal charity. It was then when I realized that I had never made good on my promise to Adam. I had also not mentioned his intent to my mom, which would have brought her such joy. It would have made her so proud of her grandson, whom she was not going to see grow up.

Together we opened his piggy jar and counted out his coins. We made a posthumous donation of $13.72 apiece to the bird sanctuary that my mom loved. It would be the same wild bird sanctuary we would take our injured baby Cardinal to a year later.

Maybe it sounds silly in the wake of bigger regrets to have, I suppose. But somehow I feel that I failed my son and my mom in that moment. Sometimes it's about picking up the pieces, dusting off the feelings of regret, and making the wrong situation right again.

The Heart of Man

2010-02-05T11:31:00.000-08:00

I'm a poor judge of character. I'd like to think it's more a matter of giving people the benefit of the doubt and then finding out maybe I gave them too much credit. But over and over again, I've found people have disappointed me. And it has changed the way I view new relationships and has spilled into the life of my children. Case in point, Adam's preschool experience. There was a little girl in Adam's class for two years who was his best friend. They were inseparable out of school. On a weekly basis, our kids would have a play date, while we moms hung out too. I felt the relationship I had with her mom equalled the friendship Adam had with Becca. However, with the end of the preschool year, both relationships flat-lined. And it wasn't from a lack of trying. Her mom stopped taking my calls or returning them. Nothing. No explanation, no qualification. Did I offend her or is it in her experience of having older kids she knew that unless they were moving into kindergarten together the relationship would fade? I guess I'll never know. In my own innocence I felt that the relationship could be maintained with effort. Sadly, Elise's preschool experience is marred because of it. While I am certainly cordial and nice to the other parents, I don't seek out their companionship or encourage play dates between our kids. I figure it's a moot point. Instead, I encourage friendships within our subdivision and with the younger siblings of Adam's classmates. These will be the same kids she attends elementary school with and with whom she will likely develop sustaining relationships. Maybe this is sad or maybe it is wise. I guess it depends on your perspective. Sadly, the list is long of people who have hurt and disappointed me. Some intentional, and some only situational, but the end result of hurt feelings is the same.

The Bible tells us that man has an inherently wicked, sinful and selfish nature. When Adam and Eve sinned against God we no longer lived in a world where we could commune with God and bask in his presence. God atoned for sins by giving us Jesus, and if we accept his death and resurrection as that atonement, and accept Jesus as our Lord and Savior, we can once again be in fellowship with God. The way to the Father is through his Son. Ask that your sins be forgiven and they will be.

But what about the hurtful, wicked and depraved people have made their mark on our world? From Adolph Hitler to Marshall Tito, and more recently, Osama Bin Laden -- there is a laundry list of truly evil people who have lived among us.Their desire to annihilate people based solely on their ethnicity is evil beyond what most of us have experienced in our lifetimes. When I read eye-witness accounts of the Holocaust or of other genocides, I wonder about the people who work under the direction of these leaders. Are they as evil as their leaders? Do they delight in the torture and shedding of innocent blood? I suppose it's in my nature to want to believe the best in people that I'd like to think some of them were victims as well. Let me explain.

In an undated newspaper article, my grandmother gave eyewitness account of a partisan, half German, half Serbian, who guarded the border and had to kill 12 persons to get a leave to go home. One saw a woman walking toward him at a distance and filled his quota by shooting the mother he was going home to see. Another looked into the face of his father after he had fired into the truck full of persons. The father told him he had killed the rest of his family when he fired into that truck. The partisan killed himself."(Written as quoted in the newspaper article)

It is unfathomable to me that able bodied men were under duress to become a guard in order to escape their own imprisonment, I imagine. Murdering in the interest of gaining freedom. Those guards were living their own nightmare. Not imprisoned within the confines of walls or borders, but living a nightmare much harder to escape from. How many of them yielded their weapons while despising the position they were given?

Certainly there were the guards who enjoyed the power and found it exhilarating to kill. My mom recalled a story of hearing shots in the night, the capture of two young mothers in the village trying to go outside the confines of their borders to find food for their starving children. That next morning a guard ordered that the two dead bodies, bloodied and beaten and finally executed, be lowered by stretcher in front of their children (about 8 total), and in the presence of the other villagers to say goodbye. In reflecting back, my mom wasn't sure if that was an act of callousness in nature, or for more a sympathetic cause to allow the children to truly say goodbye. Horrific to witness nonetheless. No one was safe and consequences were severe. The guards had never made it clearer.

Starvation is what my mother remembers the most. That never-ending desire for food. Parents and grandparents were desperate to provide for their little ones. Hunger was constant and unrelenting. One day my mom was playing Ring Around the Rosie with a group of children while a guard stood nearby. In his hand was a chunk of bread. She found herself mesmerized by the man as he ate. She was hungry, so hungry .She had stopped playing, just watching the man as he ate. Finally their eyes met and he broke off a piece and gave it to her.

That is the story I remember the most. It is the one story, the only story, that brought my mom to tears while interviewed for SHOAH. I've wondered about the guard. Does he realize the simple act of kindness was a lifeline to my mom? The one story of humanity and compassion of a stranger mixed into stories of pure evil. Man is evil. No doubt. But even if the worst of times, man can be good if given the chance to shine.

In the Valley of the Shadow of Death

2010-01-01T08:20:00.000-08:00

The fear of death has gripped me lately; my death or maybe the death of one of my children. Perhaps it is part of the grieving process to think about your own mortality or those of your loved ones, but occasionally I find myself actually paralyzed with fear over the thought of it. My heart pounds, my pulse races, my thoughts are jumbled -- much what I imagine a panic attack would be like. It does not stem from my unsurety of where I will go after I die. The Bible tells me that after I die I will leave my earthly body and be joined with Christ in heaven, receiving a new body. My eternity with Him will outshine the greatest days here on earth. Death itself does not create a fear in me. It is for the people I leave behind. The thought of my precious children living life without me, especially in these early formative years, makes me incredibly uneasy. I think about the experiences I want to share with them and how much my children would hurt if I were not there for them. Yes, fear runs deep in my heart at the thought of what death would do to their world.

The loss I have experienced is limited to grandparents, my aunt and uncle, my pets from my child- and adult-hood, and my mom. Occasionally I experienced the pain of a young person dying but I have been truly protected in my experiences. Until my mom, I am not sure I had ever experienced the heart wrenching grief that comes with losing a loved one. Death was an abstract concept for me until 2 years ago.

My mom and I talked -- a lot. She and I were friends my entire life. I think it takes a great parent who can be the role-model disciplinarian and yet a great friend, too. Not every parent can achieve this, but my mom did it with excellence. We had the type of relationship that was effortless and we openly and freely discussed every topic you can imagine. Death was no exception. As we knew her time was coming short, we talked about heaven and who she wanted to see. I mentioned the two babies they had lost to miscarriage and how awesome it would be for her to meet them. And to see her mom and grandma. Quickly my mom stopped me and said that yes, she would want to see her grandma, Anna. She died in 1962 at a young age of 61, far sooner than my mom was ready to say goodbye. Her death was described to me as the most difficult loss she had ever experienced. My mom expressed frustrated that her grandma not live to see the birth of her grandchildren and that she was cheated out of the golden years of her life. Yes, seeing my great grandma would be at the top of her list.

Death used to grip my mom in fear as well. As you can imagine by her history she had experienced her share of death and in more ways than most people can fathom. Her earliest memory of death was at age 4 or 5 while still living in Yugoslavia before the Russians invaded. She recalled going to a cemetery with her mom. They would walk there from their home, with some degree of frequency, picking wild flowers along the way. Her mom would tend to a little grave with a homemade marker that either only gave the birth and death dates or perhaps there was a small tribute. Her mom would take the time to clear away dirt and debris and say a prayer for the little girl. Grandma demanded reverence at the grave site, sad that no one visited the grave based on the condition they would find it. A forgotten little girl with a story but no one to share it. It was obvious that no one visited this little girl and my grandma thought that someone should care for her. Even in death, no one deserved to be alone.

With my grandma's death in 1999, we had found little reason to travel back to Chicago where my grandparents are buried. However, in 2008 we were there for a family reunion and decided to go to my grandma's grave. By God's grace, or by a stroke of luck, or maybe a combination of the two, I found myself back at my grandma's grave for the first time since her burial. It was an emotional realization that she was all but forgotten in this world and I had no reason to believe anyone had visited her in nearly 10 years. She had no living relatives in the area and no friends to mourn her death. She had lived the latter part of her life in isolation, not wanting to trust those who tried to help her. She was alone in her life and in her death. Tony carefully rid the headstone and vase holder of the weeds and cobwebs that had grown from years of neglect. Tearfully, I stood by as I remembered the story my mom had told me years before and I found the ironic parallel: How life had come full circle and under the saddest of circumstances.

In the camps, death was an unavoidable part of the experience. While she was fortunate not to have lost any of her close relatives due to neglect, abuse or starvation, she witnesses many deaths over the three years. Because the Red Amy required the able-bodied people to work, it was only the youngest of victims like my mom or the oldest, most feeble of the Yugoslav's, who made up the imprisoned. The oldest cared for the youngest so it was usually the older folks who would die. Sacrificing their own health for the care of the defenseless young children who were too young to be workers, but often old enough to realize the conditions under which they were forced to live. The old protecting the young.

Deaths may have been common place but no matter how often, the adults had a small funeral in the intimate setting. They wanted to honor their lives and give their death honor. Perhaps in the wake of seeing death so often, there is a complacency that could have taken place in the heart and mind of my mom. Putting myself in her place, I cannot imagine being 6, 7, 8 or 9 years old and watching people die horrible and painful deaths.

I recall my paternal grandma staying with us following her knee replacement surgery just a few years before her death. During a conversation with my grandma who was beginning to suffer from Alzheimer's, my mom visibly shuddered and chastised her for saying "I'm sure she's rolling over in her grave". Her reaction was a strong one and I knew there had to be a story. There was. A woman's husband had died and the elders of the group walked out to the local town cemetery with the husband sewn up in a potato or gunny sack that would serve as his coffin. As they laid him down in a make-shift grave and began to cover him with the loose dirt around him, he moved and then sat up. Quickly someone slit a mouth hole for him to breathe. He had nearly been buried alive. Because of witnessing that frightening image, she had recurring nightmares of the man chasing her, long after her days of freedom. That experience placed such a fear of death in her heart that when her own mom asked her to place a mirror in front of her nose and mouth in the wake of her death to be assured she was truly gone before a coroner was called, my mom was quick to oblige. She understood.

It was not until her own grandmother's death in 1962, a full 15 years into her freedom and new life, that my mom was physically or emotionally able to attend a funeral. My dad recalls having to physically hold my mom through the wake and funeral. Those fears ran deep and took years to overcome. The one person she loved most in this world was her grandma who had saved her life while in the camps. Devotion came easy but saying goodbye had never been harder--and for more reason than we can truly understand in our white washed protected world in which we live. The love she had for her grandma is the same kind of love I have for my mom.. Her grandma was her hero....and my mom was mine. I'm glad she knew it while we were both on this earth together.

Lesson to be Learned

2009-12-18T12:30:00.000-08:00

My heart is burdened today. I've just come off a refreshing three day scrapbooking retreat. Along with completing multiple pages, I took the time to really slow down my life. I enjoyed three leisurely solitary walks along the paths of the retreat center. The weather was gorgeous...a short but appreciated Indian Summer, if you will. I drank in the sun, saying goodbye to the warmth and brilliance in yellow, preparing my heart and mind for the short days and long nights of winter--my least favorite of all the seasons. I lost myself in the second book of the Twilight series, recalling days of my youth when falling in love was new and totally intoxicating. Good food, good conversation and even a little restful sleep.

Returning back home, my mind shifted to the demands of the week....a cooking class with my daughter, a den leader's meeting, fall parties, Halloween, sending in the corrections for the school fundraiser, and at the top of my list, finishing my Bible study for this week's time of teaching and worship. I'm studying the book of Esther, a specially designed study guide for women by Beth Moore. Esther has been a revealing look at God's character, his faithfulness and how He provides for those who trust Him, even through events most of us would see as tragic. The struggles of life recorded in Esther between 460 and 350 B.C. and the struggles of today haven't changed much and are still quite pertinent. Along the way I've learned a lot of historic facts of times and places and political/social climate in those pre-Christ days and have noted over and over within these pages that history has found a way of repeating itself into the 20th and 21st centuries.

On Thursday night I found myself mid way through my Bible lesson and emotionally drained. This week was a tough lesson. Genocide, ethnic cleansings, a pre-Hitler holocaust captured and recorded within the pages of Esther. As I closed the book telling myself I would finish the lesson on Monday, a heaviness began creeping in my heart and stayed with me. Even during those quiet walks I found my mind wandering back to the lesson and they continued to sow heaviness and sorrow within my heart and mind. Returning to that lesson today re-opened those raw emotions for me.

One of the greatest gifts we have in today's century is the ability learn about those past events, both blessed and horrific, that have shaped us as a people or nation. The Holocaust is undoubtedly one of most horrific events experienced in our {parent's} generation and there has been a wide array of publications--books, newspaper and Internet articles--even a historically accurate film Schindler's List--to educate and remind us.

For me the Holocaust is personal. Way personal. From October 1, 1944, to August 10, 1947, my mom Hilda, my grandma Anna and my great grandparents Anna and Thomas were imprisoned in the Yugoslavian genocide and slave labor camps that were established by the Russian Red Army under communist Marshal Tito in retaliation of the war. Few people are aware of this genocide. Two million ethnic Germans died in this massacre. No, they are not considered part of the Holocaust nor are their numbers included in the estimated 11 to 17 million people victimized in the hate crime. It is important to make the distinction between the Holocaust and this Donauschwaben account. While linked by the revenge of war, this genocide was a slap in the face to the Germans.

As a society, we are tragically uneducated in this part of our history. Even my own mother was dismally misinformed of her own history. Let me go back to 1993 and the release of Schindler's List. I grew up with knowledge of my mom's history and when asked, she would speak of those years she spent as a child in the camps. The movie release started a dialogue in our country and Steven Spielberg created The Shoah Foundation (Hebrew word for Holocaust) to educate and document actual eye-witness testimony in a visual history format. While my mom openly spoke of her experiences, my grandma would not. My mom was the tender age of 6 when they were initially taken from their homes but my grandma, a very young mother, was only 22 years old. Because she was young, healthy, strong and beautiful, the Russians sent my grandma to Russia to work as a slave laborer. Her experiences were so horrific, so terrifying and so life-altering she could not and would not speak to us about what it was she suffered. Up to her death my grandma refused to speak of those days. Those emotional and psychological wounds were too deep and by sharing her story, she would be sharing the pain--or so she believed. My mom pleaded and begged her to give account--to leave the history for her grandchildren and future generations. Ultimately probably in part because of my grandma's silence, my mom gave me her blessing to contact Steven Spielberg on her behalf. I smile in amusement as I recall her stating that while what her mom went through was important, nothing a 6 year old lived through would have any impact on the world. Mr. Spielberg, she added, would never be interested in her story....

another's feet.

In the shadow of Shoah, it became abundantly clear to Tony and me that while my mom recalled the dates and experiences, they were not lining up with the Holocaust. She was too old for the war. It was in the awesome age of Internet that Tony and I spent probably hundreds of hours researching her history. I began meeting other survivors via the Internet, finding books published about these special camps. In a year's time we were able to present to my mom details of what she went through and why. We began to grasp what it was my grandma had suffered and lost. It was in my quest to understand my mom's heritage that I began to understand the importance of leaving a legacy for our children and to preserve the history. For our history to be correct and documented.

In the final months of her life my mom wondered why she suffered so much in the beginning of her life -- and now again in the end. Hadn't she paid enough as a child? I told her that I didn't know why God would allow one person to suffer so much but I said that her testimony gives hope to the hopeless. She not only overcame the obstacles in her life, she triumphed and chose victory over defeat, determination and will over failure, and God over Godlessness. Her story needed to be told....needs to be heard.....Maybe now my heavy heart will find that peace.

Coming to America

2009-12-18T12:27:00.001-08:00

On this Veteran's Day there is a lot of buzz about being an American and the freedoms that allows us. I wonder how many of us really contemplate what that freedom truly means? I presume that for many Americans it's not something they think about --except on holidays such as this or Memorial Day, Independence Day, and maybe Thanksgiving. And that is sad.

For me being an American is part of my family heritage and an important part of my testimony. My mom emigrated from her Yugoslavian born heritage via the Queen Elizabeth, arriving at the port of New York's Ellis Island on February 24, 1950 at 11 years old. After escaping the third ethnic cleansing camp Gakowa (also known as Kakowa and Gakova) on August 10, 1947 a few months before her 9th birthday, they walked over 100 miles to the first steps of freedom crossing into the Hungary border. Can you imagine their relief and elation taking a step into a country where they were no longer in daily fear of losing their lives? To understand what 'Freedom' looked like, you have to understand from the situation in which they came. For three years they were under the Russian Red Army control. Over the duration of three years they lived in three Yugoslavian towns -- Molidorf, Gudriz and Kakowa -- converted into concentration camps, surrounded by armed guards. They had been stripped of all their worldly possessions and all the documents that gave them their identity. They were prisoners of war who had no proof of who they were or where they came from. They did not exist in the eyes of the government of Yugoslavia and had nothing to present to explain their identity. All the documents of today: birth certificates, passports, driver's licenses, state identification cards-- none of them existed for them any longer. They had all been destroyed in the attempt to wipe out the Yugoslavian country. They were people without a country. Literally. Stepping out of a country of bondage to the first steps of freedom. You can almost hear the sigh of relief.

The third camp Kakowa was known as the 'escape camp'. If you were fortunate enough to be taken there and had the financial or physical means to bribe a guard, escape was entirely possible. My family is among the 'lucky' ones who were able to convince the guards to turn a blind eye to their escape, even aiding them to start out on their trek for Hungary. Walking was done only at night in the darkest hours so they could not be seen. Refuge from the day had to be found in fields or barns and often in the safety of homes and farms along the way who were sympathetic to their cause. No one had much in this time of war but people were generous in sharing what they had. Our family had nothing but a kind smile, a thankful word and a grateful heart to give back. The journey lasted nearly a month. Another image plays in my mind when I think about this long, arduous journey. My great grandparents were in their late 40's by this time but their bodies were broken. To quote my grandma's newspaper interview "My mother was beaten with slats with nails in them because she would not tell where (her husband) was. She could not. She did not know. She was like a clump of dead meat, all black and blue. She died several years ago, never able to fully recover from the mistreatment she endured". My grandma, who was sent to Russia to work as a slave laborer while the rest of the family resided in the camps in Yugoslavia, endured her own terror as she would worked to the bone, nearly dying from overwork. These physical ailments had to be overcome to travel the hundreds of miles that lay in front of them. And my mom traveled at the tender age of 8 -- incomprehensible to me to endure what she did in what should have been a carefree childhood. Personally, I cannot wrap my brain around the pain and fatigue and fear that accompanied their every step.

From Hungary, my mom, my grandma and great-grandparents then traveled on foot to Austria where they lived with distant relatives. It was reaching Austria that they finally felt safe. Now in neutral territory they no longer had to fear being turned over to their homeland. From Vienna via the train, they travelled to a refugee camp in Schalding, Germany. It was there they found a sponsor, a distant relative (The Andersen's) of my mom's to leave from the port in Cherbourg, France to sail to America on the Queen Elizabeth. From New York they traveled to Chicago to work for the Andersen's as indentured servants for three years.

To finally arrive in America and to live in freedom for the first time in many, many years was nothing less than a miracle. God's hand of protection was with them at every turn. They were given a second chance to create a life--a new life. And they did. They worked hard taking nothing that they had been given for granted. They learned the language and worked hard to become honest citizens of this great country of America but never forgetting the life that they had left behind and the men and women who sacrificed to save them.

As a Candle Burns

2009-12-18T12:25:00.000-08:00

For the first time I noticed a candle today at my dad's house. A large burnt light red candle with dried wax along side of it's awkwardly-shaped remains. It certainly was not a pretty candle--one that I imagine wasn't pretty to start with. It sits on the second shelf over my mom's computer desk. And there it still sits even two years after her death. From the looks of it, the candle was well-used and now sat dormant along side the corner of the office free from use.

My parents each had their own desk with my mom's being far more elaborate and useful than my dad's. From the looks of it, my mom's desk is generally untouched. My parents converted our old billiards room in the front of the house into their office or den area. For not working outside the home for many years, my mom's desk was utlilized fully. She had files for her very successful E-Bay business; had filing cabinets full of her animal charity work--and even some files dating back to the days when she worked for her attorney-friend sending out collection letters.

Most noticeably, though, are the trinkets and personal affects that adorn the shelves. My favorite piece is the ceramic baby harp seal. That was the first animal rights cause my mom joined. In fact, I wrote a very well-received term paper my senior year about the plight of the baby harp seals. That cause was a platform for my mom to realize that there were a lot of animals who needed human intervention to keep them safe and protected. That seal speaks volumes to me in who my mom was, what she believed it, and what she was passionate about.

Another favorite piece is a beautiful ceramic African elephant planter. She got that as a gift from the neighbor across the street on her last Christmas. This was just one of many elephant pieces she owned. Honestly, I never understood where she developed a love of elephants. On a Friday, Pam and I spent a day cleaning their house as a surprise for when she came home from the hospital. I remember so vividly dusting the shelf that proudly displayed several elephants, carelessly breaking off the trunk of her favorite one. I got disproportionetly upset about it , knowing even in the moment that it wasn't really about the elephant. Fortunately, my dad was able to repair him. Unfortunately, my mom never made it home.

Gazing across the desk, I also noticed a box of tissues. It seemed oddly out of place. Opening her drawer, looking for a paperclip I scanned the contents. Surely my dad had rummaged through the office supply drawer looking for a post-it-note or highlighter, but it struck me how largely it was untouched.

Even today, as I entered the front door to my parent's house, I gazed to my left as if looking for my mom. It was at her desk she spent most of her time -- either working or playing games. Gem Shop was her favorite game, although she loved Iggle Pop and Jewel Drop, too. It was at that desk that my mom grew suspicious of the cancer growing inside her. She started experiencing back and belly pains and often noticed it while at the desk. The doctor had suggested getting a new chair. I think even the weeks leading up to the diagnosis--one that should not have taken so long to get--she knew something was wrong beyond the ill-fitting chair the doctor claimed it was. Although my dad would defend the doctor, my mom shared with me her frustration in the 3 months it took to be diagnosed--even with all the advancements and clear indicators of a serious illness. Three months is valuable time lost with a pancreatic cancer diagnosis and she knew it. My mom was rarely sick -- rarely ever visited the doctor-- so for him to put her off for so long really "irked" my mom, as she would say.

My dad has been steadfast and dilligent in remodeling the house--directing his grief in a positive manner. The office is one of the next projects. Although "next" seems to be the operative word. He has acknowledged that my mom's desk would be better suited for him--that it would be beneficial to combine work spaces and get rid of excess furntiure. Easier said than done, I wonder. As he remodels the house, it has become his space -- one that does not include her. The office is the last space in the house that still embodies her and can tell a story of her life.

Maybe the day will come when the desk will be dismantled, the ceramic animals dusted and put away. And maybe that day will be sooner rather than later. And as ugly as it is, the candle will find its way home with me. It's time to burn it again--and see what was so special about the ugly red glob that graced her desk.

What's in a Name?

2009-12-18T12:23:00.000-08:00

When asked "What is Elise's middle name?" I usually smile as I answer "Kathryn, after my mom." It's not the name that makes me smile...it's the story behind the name that cracks me up.

My mom's first name is Hilda--an Ethnic German name meaning "Battle woman", which I think is appropriate for a woman with her heritage. Yugoslavian born, she was given a common name for the time. Her mom used to call her Hilde, with the distinct pronunciation difference. I wonder if her birth certificate would have actually shown the alternate spelling rather than the "a" With birth certificates of that time destroyed, we will never know. Those documents simply do not exist--anywhere.

My mom's middle name is Kathryn, which does not in my mind jive with her first name. Totally not ethnic German; in fact, Kathryn is Greek for "pure". My mom did not know why her middle name was Kathryn -- although I think I have an explanation. Maybe. My grandma had an older sister who died at the tender age of 6 months. Her name was Katharina. It wasn't until my mom discovered a little booklet with birth and death dates--and dates of their internment in the camps--that we even knew she existed. By the time we knew of Katharina, my grandma had died, so there was no one to ask the details. It makes sense to me that my mom was named after her deceased aunt.

Being so young at the time they emigrated from Yugoslavia, my mom never was able to explain how they could make "legal" travels without proof of who they were. My grandma wouldn't explain, either. My mom seemed to believe that there were a lot of falsified documents along the way and it was only by God's grace that they were never caught--and able to declare naturalization as citizens after they came to the United States. I wonder if my grandma gave my mom a more Americanized identity and intentionally changed her middle name from Katharina to Kathryn. Just a theory, I suppose, but Katharina translates to the American Katherine. Totally plausible if not substantiated.

One day while in my last trimester of pregnancy with Elise, I was visiting my mom at my parent's house. She asked me to grab her driver's license from her wallet. Glancing at the license, I notice her middle name was Catherine. Red flag for me -- her granddaughter was going to be named after her.

"Mom, that is not how you spell your middle name." I said, matter of factly."You know I am naming Elise after you and we are spelling it the way I know it to be."

"Oh, honey." she responded. "I never remember how to spell my middle name. It never mattered before."

"Well, it matters now since I am naming her after you. At least after the part of your name that you like." adding with a smile. My mom never liked her name, which is probably no surprise. She even went by the nickname Kitten in high school. Thankfully, her nickname did not follow her into adulthood. At one point as a young adult, she had considered changing her name, but did not want to offend her mom--and she wasn't trying to alter her past so figured it was best just to keep it "Hilda." I recall a horribly stupid television show called The $1.98 Beauty Pageant. It ran back to back with the equally horrific The Gong Show. My mom was horrifed when one of the contestants was a fat slobbish housewife named Hilda Olsen. Yeah. That was not my mom's favorite moment. It wasn't funny at the time--and truthfully, I don't think she ever found the humor in it.

Fast forward to early to mid 2007. My mom was completing a "Grandmother Book" for my sister's daughter at a request by my sister; hopefully, putting onto paper the Grandma her young daughter would never otherwise know. Fortunately my sister had the forethought to do that since her daughter would barely be two at my mom's death. Because she was working on this book, my mom called me on the telephone one day.

"Honey, now HOW do you spell my middle name again?" she asked.

I remember smiling on the other end of the receiver. Well if nothing else, my mom was consistent. And we all know the answer to that question now. Everyone except maybe my mom herself!

Humble Beginnings

2009-12-18T12:12:00.000-08:00

"Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is Christ the Lord. This will be a sign to you. You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger (because there was no room for them in the inn." (Luke 2:12b,7b).

Arguably this is one of the most well known and retold stories of all time. Growing up I can imagine Jesus asking his mother to retell the story time and time again. The odd circumstances surrounding his birth -- from his conception to his actual birth. A miracle given from God for all time. I also imagine Mary never expected her first born child to be born under the intrigue and hand of God Almighty himself.

Personally, I look at the details surrounding my birth and find them rather unremarkable. Yes, I had the RH Factor resistance and received 7 blood transfusions pre- and post-birth after being given almost zero chance of survival. My mom said you have never seen a needle until you see one long enough to be inserted through your abdominal wall and into your womb. Never mind the little injection needles; they are nothing, she would say with a smile. Perhaps my story is fascinating enough that my children, particularly Elise if she is lucky enough to be blessed by children, would enjoy hearing retold over time.

I suppose it is the ordinary nature under which most of us are born that I never really thought much about my parent's early years either. Obviously my mom has a unique story of her childhood, but honestly, I never really took a closer look into the life she lived before the internment until this last spring as I watched the SHOAH Foundation tapes.

She was born one wintry day in the late 1930's in a little village named Veliko Srediste in the South Banat district of Yugoslavia. Despite the translation in German for Veliko to mean "large", this small Serbian town is often not found on maps. The largest town nearby would be Vrsac located near the Hungary border. Before the Russians invaded her small village, my mom recalled beautiful trees and gardens that cascaded across the acres often found between homes. Mountain peaks were visible along the outside of town. The small homes were overshadowed by the beauty of the countryside. Yugoslavia was a beautiful green, lush country.

Born to mother Anna and father Franz Bohn, her earliest remembrances began around age 5 while living with her mom's parents Anna and Thomas Dernetz and her Uncle Josef, who was approximately 15 years old. It was not uncommon for multiple generations to live under one roof. The house the six of them lived in was a small white-washed home with dirt floors. When asked about the details of the home for her visual history testimonial, she could only recall two rooms, the kitchen and a bedroom. The central piece of the kitchen was the homemade kitchen table and chairs. The memory of the bedroom was limited to one, recalling sitting on the edge of a bed playing with her doll as her mother said goodbye-- the prison guards waiting nearby to escort her to go by coal car to Russia as a slave laborer.

When asked she could only recall a handful of happy memories from the first few years of her life. Sadly, even the earliest of memories distinct from the concentration camps were marred with abuse and hardship. Her favorite memory was of a beautiful mulberry tree in her yard. The fruit was plentiful and she recalled being covered in red juice from eating as much as her belly desired. She also remembered going in the orchards with her mom as her mom worked. She would run and play and explore nature, gathering small flowers, trying to keep out of her mother's way. Times were not easy but my mom remembered them being carefree days since my grandma insisted she was too young to help out.

As she was recounting memories, it struck me that what she did remember was solitary. The other children she remembered interacting with were older school aged children, who were too busy with school work and helping out with chores to take time out to play with her very often. Having grown up as an only child without memories of having friends until she was in America, my mom was very purposeful in providing us siblings and to create a lot of happy memories for us growing up. Every generation wants their children to be happier and have more than what they had the generation before. My mom was no different in that desire. And neither am I. I want to give my kids as good a childhood as I had, if not better. We cannot change or re-write our history but we can preserve it by talking about it and making sure that we do not leave this earth with stories that are better shared. Every day we are creating that 'history' for our children to one day talk about with their children and the generations to follow. And that legacy is one I am proud to claim as my own and pray will become a family tradition.