Many strangers have written to me about my final column as a volunteer Community Voice for the Dallas Morning News. Some comments have been from members of my generation. An equal number have come from my father's generation. The column ran on September twelfth.
Each trip to visit my elderly father makes me contemplate what I can only call our “human accumulation tendencies.” Dad’s basement contained enough National Geographic magazines to construct a small step pyramid in his driveway.
Neither your public library nor Half Price Books want your old magazine collection, so why not build something special with them?
Have you needed to consult your 1953 federal tax returns lately? Anything that was ever marked “Please retain for your records” during the course my parents’ long marriage remains in its archeological stratum. My sister and I have begun the massive work of clearing out our childhood home. We’ve shredded canceled checks from the ’40s, along with those tax returns.
Humor is absolutely required in this job. A sense of wonder helps, too.
We found four coffee makers complete with receipts and instructions in their original boxes, each taped closed with a note, “Doesn’t work.” Why, why, why did they save them? For the same reason they never threw away a ketchup packet from McDonald’s or the twist tie from a loaf of bread, I suppose.
At Dad’s I unearthed what can only be called the “Grudge Dossier.” This file held the complete background information for every family feud, scandal, inheritance injustice or unpaid loan back to the Great Depression. Our family is lighter with that record shredded.
The summer wasn’t all mind-numbing hours with the paper shredder. Did Mom know the fun my sister and I would have finding favorite clothes from our childhood? The evening my niece modeled those outfits for us was a blast. So was our discovery of a box of elbow-length gloves that inspired Supremes imitations of “Stop in the Name of Love.”
I’ll have to cut my grown sons some slack about all the things they have warehoused in my condo. This summer I finally moved my college artwork out of Dad’s house just 32 years after I flew the nest.
In 2039 my sons will gather to clean out my condo and finally cart away their childhood treasures. They won’t care that I have dutifully preserved family photos and documentation of their ancestors who came from Bohemia to make a new life in northeast Nebraska.
When the guys stop by to visit my assisted-living facility, they’ll grill me about where I stored their treasured “good wood rifles.” It’s true. I let my young sons run around the back yard with toy guns. The boys turned out just fine, thank you, and they are sentimental about their toy guns. Those small objects hold the key to their sense of what it was like to be children.
Maybe my daughters-in-law will be interested in the current collector’s value of Grandma’s crystal, but I’ll be preoccupied ranting about the lumpy gravy and cold mashed potatoes in the nursing home. The crystal is precious because of Dad’s stories about the village where it was made, and how he sent it to Nebraska for his dear mother and future wife. I heard those stories sitting around Grandma’s dining table at her famous midnight suppers. Grandma could whomp up “a little something” with homemade steamed tamales and sugar cookies. It was the best eating on earth. Sadly, no one will remember those occasions, or use the expression, “whomp up.”
Maybe it is time to let go of the rocking chairs that belonged to ancestors I barely remember. My home doesn’t have to become a repository. I don’t want cleaning it out to be a burden hanging over my kids’ heads. I just want to save the small keys to their memories seasoned lightly with family history and served with a midnight supper. Let’s see what I can whomp up.
© 2009 Nancy L. Ruder
Showing posts with label WWII. Show all posts
Showing posts with label WWII. Show all posts
11/9/08
The Three Rs...
Relax reading book reviews!
What a lovely day at the library reading nonfiction book reviews from recent issues of the Wall Street Journal--and even getting paid to do it! If I had all the time in the world to read, I would find these books at my library. Not having that luxury, I recommend reading these book reviews. They piqued my curiosity. A well-written book review informs the reader about the subject of the book. It also critiques the author's writing, research, bias, and conclusions. A really excellent review brews the synopsis and evaluation with some spicy writing to make a quick and potent shot of intellectual salsa.
Buyology: Truth and Lies About Why We Buy, by Mark Lindsrom. WSJ review by Andrew Stark. While "neuromarketing" has an Orwellian aspect, it is intriguing to learn how marketers are using MRI brain scans. Those cutesie-wutesie Mini Cooper cars actually trigger the part of our brains that responds to human faces. That's why you want to call Minis "iddle widdle wuzzums".
Lili Marlene, by Liel Leibovitz and Matthew Miller Norton. WSJ review by Daniel Ford. The review explains briefly how a poet's synthesis of two experiences in WWI impacted troops on both sides during WWII.
Vertigo Years: Europe 1900-1914, by Philipp Blom. WSJ review by Arthur Herman. It's unlikely I could actually read this book, but I love reviewer Herman's phrase, "the economics of panicky elites," and his hints at parallels to the current financial situation.
Righting the Mother Tongue: From Olde English to Email, by David Wolman. WSJ review by Cullen Murphy. Wonderful eccentrics have tried to reform English spelling over the centuries. Now spell-check, email, and text-messaging are changing our orthography habits for good or evil.
© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder
What a lovely day at the library reading nonfiction book reviews from recent issues of the Wall Street Journal--and even getting paid to do it! If I had all the time in the world to read, I would find these books at my library. Not having that luxury, I recommend reading these book reviews. They piqued my curiosity. A well-written book review informs the reader about the subject of the book. It also critiques the author's writing, research, bias, and conclusions. A really excellent review brews the synopsis and evaluation with some spicy writing to make a quick and potent shot of intellectual salsa.
Buyology: Truth and Lies About Why We Buy, by Mark Lindsrom. WSJ review by Andrew Stark. While "neuromarketing" has an Orwellian aspect, it is intriguing to learn how marketers are using MRI brain scans. Those cutesie-wutesie Mini Cooper cars actually trigger the part of our brains that responds to human faces. That's why you want to call Minis "iddle widdle wuzzums".
Lili Marlene, by Liel Leibovitz and Matthew Miller Norton. WSJ review by Daniel Ford. The review explains briefly how a poet's synthesis of two experiences in WWI impacted troops on both sides during WWII.
Vertigo Years: Europe 1900-1914, by Philipp Blom. WSJ review by Arthur Herman. It's unlikely I could actually read this book, but I love reviewer Herman's phrase, "the economics of panicky elites," and his hints at parallels to the current financial situation.
Righting the Mother Tongue: From Olde English to Email, by David Wolman. WSJ review by Cullen Murphy. Wonderful eccentrics have tried to reform English spelling over the centuries. Now spell-check, email, and text-messaging are changing our orthography habits for good or evil.
© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder
10/18/08
Demolition of the Canaan house
Late this week the former Honorary Consulate of both Monaco and Germany was demolished in the Town of Highland Park, Dallas County, Texas. The house at 4700 Saint Johns Dr., had intrigued me over the many years I worked nearby. Sitting back from the streets on a half-acre corner lot overgrown with myrtle groundcover, the 1910 house was low-slung with a broad porch around two sides. Near the front door were the plaques designating the residence as a foreign consulate for Texas.
The residents were an elderly couple with a tiny pinkish unstyled poodle mix dog. Whenever we passed on the sidewalk they would smile, but stay quiet, even the little dog. I eventually learned their last name was pronounced kuh-NON, and that the tiny, frail man in the overcoat had been an architect. His wife seemed somewhat younger and stronger. I vaguely wondered if they were keeping a diplomat somewhere inside their house.
I'm not a hard-core preservationist. Old structures are expensive to maintain and to adapt for current uses. In most situations, owners need to be able to use their property to suit their needs. Still, I like to learn about the history of a property, and the lives of its owners. I was sad about the demolition in part because I suspect an over-the-top faux castle will soon replace it.
I didn't even know how to spell kuh-NON when I went searching for information about the house tonight. Gershon and Doris Canaan were interesting people to research. Doris Canaan was commended by the Texas State Senate for being the Honorary Consul of Monaco in January, 1973, according to papers in the University of Texas Library.
A German Jew whose family fled to Palestine before the Holocaust, Gershon Canaan contemplated his religious and cultural roots after his arrival in Texas. Mr. Canaan was the Honorary Consul of the Federal Republic of Germany for Texas when he founded the Dallas Goethe Center in 1965 to promote reconciliation and understanding between Americans and Germans. The Dallas Goethe Center continues to promote those aims. The Center's 2002 memoriam of Gershon Canaan is beautifully written. Each time I read it I learn more. I hope the Center will not mind that I have reprinted it below. The influence of Mr. Canaan will last far beyond the demolition of his home.
The tiny man with the pinkish dog was also a student fellow of Frank Lloyd Wright at Taliesin West in 1947-48. The house at 4700 Saint John's had a certain Wright Prairie Style feeling. Perhaps I can learn who designed the house when the book about Highland Park architecture becomes available in November.
Dallas, TX
June 29,2002
Dear members of the Dallas Goethe Center,
With great sadness I have to report to you that yesterday, June 28, 2002, Gershon Canaan, the Founding President of the Dallas Goethe Center, passed away in his sleep. A great life has ended.
Gerhard Kohn grew up in Friedenau, a small middle-class district in Berlin, between Steglitz and Schöneberg. Marlene Dietrich is from there, and I lived there shortly in the seventies. Promptly, with the "Machtergreifung" of the Nazis, the Kohn family had to go into hiding in the Bismarckstrasse in Charlottenburg. Gerhard's father was a banker with the Dresdner Bank, and therefore an immediate target for the SA. The Kohn family succeeded in fleeing to Palestine, where young Gerhard became Gershon Canaan, who attended the Technicon in Haifa to study architecture. Then came the war. Gershon volunteered for the "Jewish Brigade" of the British Armed Forces. He fought in both the African and European theaters. After the war, the Jewish Brigades were instrumental in secretly, and against British policy helping concentration camp survivors and Jews who had come out of hiding. These "displaced persons" were herded in camps mainly in Southern Germany. The Jewish Brigade helped these people break the British blockade of Palestine. Upon discharge from the military, Gershon went to the United States to further his studies in architecture. He became an apprentice with Frank Lloyd Wright at Taliesin West, a compound near Scottsdale, Arizona. But soon, military duty called again. Israel had to defend herself in the first Arab-Israeli war in 1948. Gershon now assumed the rank of captain and fought for the survival of Israel. Having that accomplished, he returned to the United States and ultimately settled in Texas, where he married Doris.
As his architecture practice thrived, Gershon found time to contemplate his religious roots as a Jew and his cultural roots as a German, and found them not mutually exclusive. Consequently, he set out to devote his life to promoting mutual understanding between Americans and Germans. He was a driving force behind the recreation of the "German Day in Texas", again celebrated on October 6, during the State Fair of Texas. He was the Founding President of the Dallas Goethe Center, an organization devoted to foster German language culture. He became the Honorary Consul of the Federal Republic of Germany, and for all his accomplishments the German President bestowed upon him the Bundesverdienstkreuz. I mention the latter as the epitome of the all too numerous honors that Gershon Canaan had received. He enjoyed each one of them, and the brief limelight that came along with them.
A victim of the darkest hours of German history, Gershon was an unlikely candidate to become a leader in the German community in Texas. But it may have been just that; Gershon Canaan saw that for peace to happen there needs to be understanding between the people. So, in overcoming the divide caused by recent history Gershon Canaan became a giant of a man. A victim, a military hero, he became an architect of human relations, of reconciliation and understanding. His wife shared with me that Gershon was excited about the prospect of a "Goethe-Haus" in Dallas, and would have loved to design it. It is too late for that now, but following the wishes of the Canaan family, the obituary will suggest memorial donations to the Dallas Goethe Center. Hopefully, sometime in the future, Gershon's dream may come true. One thing is true: the Dallas Goethe Center will honor the memory of Gershon Canaan as long as it will exist.
Tillmann Hein
President
© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder
3/25/08
ESL by Avodart
I rarely turn on my television, so visiting my dad is like learning a foreign language by the total immersion method. If a family arrived in the United States and wanted to learn English by watching television, the first phrase they would master would be, "ask your doctor about." Soon they would be able to recite "in the rare event of an erection lasting more than four hours, seek immediate medical attention to avoid long-term injury."
True, Dad's viewing tends toward ESPN, the Golf Channel, the Weather Channel, CNN Headline News,and MSNBC, with some local news broadcasts thrown in. The ads on those stations repeat ad nauseum. I'm somewhat embarrassed to report that the most effective ads for holding my attention (although not longer than four hours) are the Avodart museum miniature model ads.
When I grow up, I would love to work in a museum creating exhibits. Museums always feel like home to me. So even though the actor has to make frequent trips to the restroom, I think he's got a cool job.
My small sons loved the army miniatures at the 45th Infantry Museum, and the great model railroad layouts at the Omniplex in Oklahoma City and the Union Pacific museum in downtown Omaha. Their all-time greatest hit was the huge miniature model at the Alamo. When will the Avodart guy remember the Alamo??? Maybe the next ads will feature the prostrate actor creating a miniature Iraq for the Bush Library!
Just what is the tag line for the commercial? Our hypothetical language-learning family and I can never decide if the man has a going problem, a growing problem, or a groin problem. Learning English on t.v. is going to be grueling.
© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder
True, Dad's viewing tends toward ESPN, the Golf Channel, the Weather Channel, CNN Headline News,and MSNBC, with some local news broadcasts thrown in. The ads on those stations repeat ad nauseum. I'm somewhat embarrassed to report that the most effective ads for holding my attention (although not longer than four hours) are the Avodart museum miniature model ads.
When I grow up, I would love to work in a museum creating exhibits. Museums always feel like home to me. So even though the actor has to make frequent trips to the restroom, I think he's got a cool job.
My small sons loved the army miniatures at the 45th Infantry Museum, and the great model railroad layouts at the Omniplex in Oklahoma City and the Union Pacific museum in downtown Omaha. Their all-time greatest hit was the huge miniature model at the Alamo. When will the Avodart guy remember the Alamo??? Maybe the next ads will feature the prostrate actor creating a miniature Iraq for the Bush Library!
Just what is the tag line for the commercial? Our hypothetical language-learning family and I can never decide if the man has a going problem, a growing problem, or a groin problem. Learning English on t.v. is going to be grueling.
© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder
12/7/05
1433 Q Street
Dad was a young college student at the University of Nebraska in 1941, about the age of my youngest son. He first heard about Pearl Harbor at his boarding house near the campus. That is on his mind tonight.
Difficult to imagine, but when Dad was living in that boarding house he would mail his dirty laundry to his mom. She would mail it back clean and folded, with homemade cookies tucked into the box. What a different world!
This is what Grandma's house looks like now, but in those days it was surrounded by tall, gracious elms, spirea bushes, and hosta. The porch floor was painted gray, not covered in outdoor carpet escaped from a miniature golf course.
Grandma was a fabulous cook. She could womp up a "midnight lunch" more satisfying and fun than you can possibly imagine. When I was small, my sister and I always slept in the Pink Bedroom next to her dining room when we visited. No matter what time I was sent to bed, I would keep myself awake so I could eavesdrop on the adults' conversation and stories during "midnight lunch". Sometimes I would sneak out of bed to open the door just a crack. If it was warm, I would be listening to the bugs and small town night sounds through the open window, so it was very difficult to wait up. I had to make up stories about the porcelain figurines on the dresser to stay awake. The porcelain bride and groom would dance on the lace doily, circling the hairbrush. The bride would sing a song with the words in the frame on the wall.
It's easy enough to be pleasant
when life goes by like a song,
but the man worthwhile
is the man with a smile
when everything goes dead wrong.
Difficult to imagine, but when Dad was living in that boarding house he would mail his dirty laundry to his mom. She would mail it back clean and folded, with homemade cookies tucked into the box. What a different world!
This is what Grandma's house looks like now, but in those days it was surrounded by tall, gracious elms, spirea bushes, and hosta. The porch floor was painted gray, not covered in outdoor carpet escaped from a miniature golf course.
Grandma was a fabulous cook. She could womp up a "midnight lunch" more satisfying and fun than you can possibly imagine. When I was small, my sister and I always slept in the Pink Bedroom next to her dining room when we visited. No matter what time I was sent to bed, I would keep myself awake so I could eavesdrop on the adults' conversation and stories during "midnight lunch". Sometimes I would sneak out of bed to open the door just a crack. If it was warm, I would be listening to the bugs and small town night sounds through the open window, so it was very difficult to wait up. I had to make up stories about the porcelain figurines on the dresser to stay awake. The porcelain bride and groom would dance on the lace doily, circling the hairbrush. The bride would sing a song with the words in the frame on the wall.
It's easy enough to be pleasant
when life goes by like a song,
but the man worthwhile
is the man with a smile
when everything goes dead wrong.
12/25/04
It's not beans
The magical fruit is the one that can help get my mom back on track, or tract. I have great faith in bananas even though I am personally allergic to them. They are the very best things for babies and grownups with upset innards. They are also the thing to eat if you want to weigh enough to get into the Army.
My dad ate a bunch of them before he went for his Army physical. He was very cute and skinny in those days. He was the age my own sons are now, so I worry a lot about our Rummy's No Exit adventure in Iraq.
This is how to make gluten-free smoothies:
Place one peeled banana in the blender. Add 4 oz. or more of plain yogurt. Add 1 T powdered milk for extra protein. Add 4+ oz. milk or juice. Throw in frozen fruit--5 strawberries or 8 peach slices or 20 raspberries (any combo). You can also throw in one peeled kiwi, or 1/2 peeled orange, 1 ring of pineapple, 1 fresh mango, or just about anything fruititious. Make sure you added the milk or juice.
Start with the low speeds on the blender, then slowly accelerate through all the speeds. Baby, you were born to be wild! Eat it with a spoon or sip through a straw. Freeze the extra for a home-style sherbet.
My dad ate a bunch of them before he went for his Army physical. He was very cute and skinny in those days. He was the age my own sons are now, so I worry a lot about our Rummy's No Exit adventure in Iraq.
This is how to make gluten-free smoothies:
Place one peeled banana in the blender. Add 4 oz. or more of plain yogurt. Add 1 T powdered milk for extra protein. Add 4+ oz. milk or juice. Throw in frozen fruit--5 strawberries or 8 peach slices or 20 raspberries (any combo). You can also throw in one peeled kiwi, or 1/2 peeled orange, 1 ring of pineapple, 1 fresh mango, or just about anything fruititious. Make sure you added the milk or juice.
Start with the low speeds on the blender, then slowly accelerate through all the speeds. Baby, you were born to be wild! Eat it with a spoon or sip through a straw. Freeze the extra for a home-style sherbet.
11/10/04
Elevens through tears
Howie says he will cry tomorrow. He asks us to all stop and think at the eleventh hour of November eleventh. I will be wearing my dad's pin representing the 406th Infanty Regiment of the 102nd Infantry Division. The regimental motto is "To the front." I will be holding all the sons and daughters in Fallujah in my heart and prayers. May they all survive to be octogenarian veterans.
6/13/04
Father's Day
I've been getting a gift for my dad on the internet, but not by shopping. Howie is eighty-one now. He doesn't need stuff. He needs connections and memories, challenges and things to anticipate.
Everyday this week, Howie will receive at least one envelope in the mail. I am meeting my parents in Santa Fe in August, so I have sent the information about the O'Keeffe Museum and the MOIFA (Museum of International Folk Art) schedules and special exhibits. We'll be attending the Santa Fe Opera, so I sent all the info about the opera venue, and about "Don Giovanni". I also mailed info about Petroglyph National Monument in Albuquerque, but I'm not sure if my parents will be able to get around on the trails to see the petroglyphs.
I'm planning to reread Willa Cather's Death Comes For the Archbishop before the trip, and to visit the Santa Fe Cathedral. My ancestors were Catholic a few generations ago. That got me to wondering more about particulars of their change to the Congregational Church. I've been researching in http://www.rootsweb.com/~neethnic/czechs/. I wrote my questions for Dad on post-it notes on the print-outs.
You may know I posted some of my dad's WWII letters and stories, and I thank you for your comments. I've collected them for him. He will appreciate knowing that many people still understand why Americans fought in the war.
I found information on-line about the young Czech Nebraskans who died in the WWI fighting and influenza epidemic. My dad had two delightful spinster aunts who lost their boyfriends to that horrible war. Just reading all the Czech names transports me back to sitting around my Grandma's dining table telling stories after a wonderful dinner of roast duck and sauerkraut...Mastalir, Liska, Synovec, Turek, Havlicek, Hvorka, Kovanda, Korinek, Novak, Folda, Kubysta, Lundak, Broz, Pospisil..
I hope this will give us lots to talk about when we get together. Besides, what would he do with a necktie?
Everyday this week, Howie will receive at least one envelope in the mail. I am meeting my parents in Santa Fe in August, so I have sent the information about the O'Keeffe Museum and the MOIFA (Museum of International Folk Art) schedules and special exhibits. We'll be attending the Santa Fe Opera, so I sent all the info about the opera venue, and about "Don Giovanni". I also mailed info about Petroglyph National Monument in Albuquerque, but I'm not sure if my parents will be able to get around on the trails to see the petroglyphs.
I'm planning to reread Willa Cather's Death Comes For the Archbishop before the trip, and to visit the Santa Fe Cathedral. My ancestors were Catholic a few generations ago. That got me to wondering more about particulars of their change to the Congregational Church. I've been researching in http://www.rootsweb.com/~neethnic/czechs/. I wrote my questions for Dad on post-it notes on the print-outs.
You may know I posted some of my dad's WWII letters and stories, and I thank you for your comments. I've collected them for him. He will appreciate knowing that many people still understand why Americans fought in the war.
I found information on-line about the young Czech Nebraskans who died in the WWI fighting and influenza epidemic. My dad had two delightful spinster aunts who lost their boyfriends to that horrible war. Just reading all the Czech names transports me back to sitting around my Grandma's dining table telling stories after a wonderful dinner of roast duck and sauerkraut...Mastalir, Liska, Synovec, Turek, Havlicek, Hvorka, Kovanda, Korinek, Novak, Folda, Kubysta, Lundak, Broz, Pospisil..
I hope this will give us lots to talk about when we get together. Besides, what would he do with a necktie?
6/8/04
Keeping things in perspective
This is a mind-blowing report my dad sent back to his local newspaper during WWII. The date is 5/10/45, the Pierce County Leader (Nebraska):
V-E Day means many things--but one thing that cannot be wiped out by the signing of the peace pact is the crimes of the German prison camps.
Our soldiers who have viewed these atrocities will not be satisfied with an "easy" peace.
St. Sgt. Howard Mastalir is one of these soldiers, who has written a vivid description of what he saw in Gardelagen, which he wanted published in The Leader so that those at home could know why they are fighting.
His letter follows:
"Somewhere deep in Germany"
April 18, 1945
It has been a long time since I last wrote. But you know as well as I that there have been good reasons. I am happy to say that I have received a good deal of mail for which I am grateful.
Now, I have something rather gruesome to relate but it is on my mind and I feel I must write it to somebody. You will read about it in the papers and see pictures but mine will be a first-hand account. You can hand it to The Leader if you like.
I have just returned from Gardelagen, Germany: just a typical German village, but one that is in the news. Out of that village comes another story of Nazi brutality. This is an account of their latest infamous crime.
About six weeks ago the Nazis started moving a large group of prisoners from the area threatened by the Russian advance. One group, numbering about 1,800, was a mixture of political prisoners and Russian and Polish war prisoners. These doomed men were making the march on a ration of six potatoes a day. They were guarded by a few trusted prisoners, who were promised freedom for their work, several more Wehrmacht and SS troops.
These prisoners reached Gardelegen last Friday, the 13th, on their way to Hanover. By now there were ony 1,100 of them. At this time their escort discovered that Hanover was in American hands. Late in the afternoon they were herded a short way from the village to a large hay barn. The barn is a brick structure approximately 120 by 40 feet. This, supposedly, was to be their sleeping quarters for the night. But inside, the prisoners found the floor spread with straw and soaked with gasoline or kerosene. At about 6 o'clock that evening, with the prisoners inside and the doors bolted, the straw was ignited but the prisoners beat out the fire. So the Nazi maniacs threw in several concussion grenades, followed these with white phosphorous grenades, incendiaries and flares. That did the job.
The imprisoned men rushed for the smallest of openings, forced a brick out here and there, tried to squeeze under the doors or dig out under the foundation. Two or three men did free themselves and escaped. At one time about 50 men stormed the back entrance and broke out into the open. Here they were immediately mowed down by machine gun fire. The Nazis did the job well.
The next morning several hundred of the victims were removed and thrown into huge trenches around the buildings. Some were only partially covered.
The village of Gardelegen fell to the American troops Saturday evening but the scene of this atrocity was not discovered until Monday morning. This morning I visited that building--stepped into its entrances, walked around the mass graves, looked over the bloody open ground. I am still sick and furious from that sight.
Why did this horrible thing come about, what was accomplished by this mass murder? What sort of man is it who can do such things? The same men who expect mercy and gentle treatment when they throw up their arms and yell, "Kamrade." Let no one wonder why we fight.
It isn't a nice story nor a pleasant one to read, but it will remind you how important the job is we are doing. It will also explain why the job must be completely and thoroughly done.
Love,
Howard
V-E Day means many things--but one thing that cannot be wiped out by the signing of the peace pact is the crimes of the German prison camps.
Our soldiers who have viewed these atrocities will not be satisfied with an "easy" peace.
St. Sgt. Howard Mastalir is one of these soldiers, who has written a vivid description of what he saw in Gardelagen, which he wanted published in The Leader so that those at home could know why they are fighting.
His letter follows:
"Somewhere deep in Germany"
April 18, 1945
It has been a long time since I last wrote. But you know as well as I that there have been good reasons. I am happy to say that I have received a good deal of mail for which I am grateful.
Now, I have something rather gruesome to relate but it is on my mind and I feel I must write it to somebody. You will read about it in the papers and see pictures but mine will be a first-hand account. You can hand it to The Leader if you like.
I have just returned from Gardelagen, Germany: just a typical German village, but one that is in the news. Out of that village comes another story of Nazi brutality. This is an account of their latest infamous crime.
About six weeks ago the Nazis started moving a large group of prisoners from the area threatened by the Russian advance. One group, numbering about 1,800, was a mixture of political prisoners and Russian and Polish war prisoners. These doomed men were making the march on a ration of six potatoes a day. They were guarded by a few trusted prisoners, who were promised freedom for their work, several more Wehrmacht and SS troops.
These prisoners reached Gardelegen last Friday, the 13th, on their way to Hanover. By now there were ony 1,100 of them. At this time their escort discovered that Hanover was in American hands. Late in the afternoon they were herded a short way from the village to a large hay barn. The barn is a brick structure approximately 120 by 40 feet. This, supposedly, was to be their sleeping quarters for the night. But inside, the prisoners found the floor spread with straw and soaked with gasoline or kerosene. At about 6 o'clock that evening, with the prisoners inside and the doors bolted, the straw was ignited but the prisoners beat out the fire. So the Nazi maniacs threw in several concussion grenades, followed these with white phosphorous grenades, incendiaries and flares. That did the job.
The imprisoned men rushed for the smallest of openings, forced a brick out here and there, tried to squeeze under the doors or dig out under the foundation. Two or three men did free themselves and escaped. At one time about 50 men stormed the back entrance and broke out into the open. Here they were immediately mowed down by machine gun fire. The Nazis did the job well.
The next morning several hundred of the victims were removed and thrown into huge trenches around the buildings. Some were only partially covered.
The village of Gardelegen fell to the American troops Saturday evening but the scene of this atrocity was not discovered until Monday morning. This morning I visited that building--stepped into its entrances, walked around the mass graves, looked over the bloody open ground. I am still sick and furious from that sight.
Why did this horrible thing come about, what was accomplished by this mass murder? What sort of man is it who can do such things? The same men who expect mercy and gentle treatment when they throw up their arms and yell, "Kamrade." Let no one wonder why we fight.
It isn't a nice story nor a pleasant one to read, but it will remind you how important the job is we are doing. It will also explain why the job must be completely and thoroughly done.
Love,
Howard
3/9/04
Good weather, good reading
The North Texas weather is generous to those of us too broke for a road trip over spring break. We get to savor the best that Texas weather has to offer, so nanny-nanny-boo-boo to everyone on the slopes or the beaches.
Read out on the patio for hours this week. It's not quite warm enough for the little lizards to wake up and sunbathe on the fence, but quite pleasant in shirtsleeves if you are out of the wind. I'm so glad I got bifocal sunglasses this time!
I've been spending my time off in Maine, Nebraska, and North Dakota, letting cold winds clear my mind, and acts of human kindness warm my heart. These books each have their own delights:
Once Upon a Town: the Miracle of the North Platte Canteen, by Bob Greene. Greene interviews those vets who experienced the generosity of a community who greeted and fed every soldier on every troop train crossing the U.S. during WWII, as well as the community members who showed the very best of the American war effort on the home front.
Daniel Plainway: or the Holiday Haunting of the Moosepath League, by Van Reid. The third installment in this wonderful series continues to satisfy in the manner of James Herriott's stories or The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency series. These books have healing voodoo. Get well soon!
The Master Butchers Singing Club, by Louise Erdrich. I hope that Master Butchers is the beginning of a new set of novels intertwining Delphine, Fidelus, and Cyprian's families in the way Erdrich wove and embroidered tales of her Ojibwa ancestors in earlier books. That the writing is by turns stark, poetic, and convoluted fits with my own experiences of family story-telling and family secrets of the Great Plains and the Great Depression. The book may not be for those who lack the patience and curiosity to listen at family reunions.
Read out on the patio for hours this week. It's not quite warm enough for the little lizards to wake up and sunbathe on the fence, but quite pleasant in shirtsleeves if you are out of the wind. I'm so glad I got bifocal sunglasses this time!
I've been spending my time off in Maine, Nebraska, and North Dakota, letting cold winds clear my mind, and acts of human kindness warm my heart. These books each have their own delights:
Once Upon a Town: the Miracle of the North Platte Canteen, by Bob Greene. Greene interviews those vets who experienced the generosity of a community who greeted and fed every soldier on every troop train crossing the U.S. during WWII, as well as the community members who showed the very best of the American war effort on the home front.
Daniel Plainway: or the Holiday Haunting of the Moosepath League, by Van Reid. The third installment in this wonderful series continues to satisfy in the manner of James Herriott's stories or The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency series. These books have healing voodoo. Get well soon!
The Master Butchers Singing Club, by Louise Erdrich. I hope that Master Butchers is the beginning of a new set of novels intertwining Delphine, Fidelus, and Cyprian's families in the way Erdrich wove and embroidered tales of her Ojibwa ancestors in earlier books. That the writing is by turns stark, poetic, and convoluted fits with my own experiences of family story-telling and family secrets of the Great Plains and the Great Depression. The book may not be for those who lack the patience and curiosity to listen at family reunions.
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