Let me preface this entry by saying that none of the following comes from my own experience. I didn't know the Ottawa relatives until I was brought into their orbit on an airplane at age six. I don't remember the names of the relatives nor do I remember their children. I was a foreigner in that family. I never stopped feeling foreign in their midst. I did have a sense of belonging with my grandmother, whose love embraced me. My Uncle Ken filled me with awe and wonder. He took time to show me the natural world and he was young enough to be approachable.
Winky#2 Was a beautiful grey, Persian tabby cat that my grandma adopted to take my mind off the Winky we left in Holland. Since we were living in Ottawa at my grandparents house after our arrival, Winky #2 was moved in as a kitten. He immediately adored Grandma and ignored me. He became her cat. Though cute, he certainly couldn't replace my Dutch Winky. It was not difficult to leave him behind when my parents moved me to Montreal six months later. The KLM office was operational and my father found us an apartment that had an outside back staircase that I recall liking.
We were not supposed to have pets, but we were soon adopted by a stray, jet black tom we named Ebony. At first he slept in a nice house on the back balcony that my dad made. He came into the house to eat. Eventually, he came in to rest from his tom cat adventures. Ebony had a home and I was happy.
So let me set the stage for my Canadian life, with an introduction to my mother's family - the Balharries. Her grandparents came over from Scotland with three sons and a daughter. They started a modest bakery and shop in Ottawa and as their children grew old enough, they all helped in the business. My mom's father was James (Jimmy) and he was the delivery and counter man. He set out daily with horse and wagon to deliver bread, pies and baked goods to the many households on his route. He had a jovial demeanor and was well liked by his customers.
One customer in particular liked him a lot. She caught his eye, because she was an elegant dark haired beauty who was the daughter of a genteel English widow, poor but with "pretensions" (his words, not mine). Florence Gilchrist had a musical education and was quite well known throughout the Ottawa Valley as a Church soloist. She made a modest wage as a guest soloist, performing in different churches. She was blessed with a rich clear soprano voice and a very poised delivery.
The voice I remember, was no longer so rich and clear. She was much older by the time I entered her life, but she still carried a tune well and loved to sing and play the piano. She had a vast repertoire of really "old" oldies that I would learn to sing with her, like: "Bird in a Gilded Cage", "Dinner for One", "Rubber Dolly", "Always in the Way" and an assortment of popular hymns. To this day I can sing "Jerusalem", "Onward Christian Soldiers", "The Old Rugged Cross" and the"23rd Psalm". Alas, I can only remember snippets of her popular classics which Maya and her friend Tracy fondly called my snippet collection. They made frequent requests to hear my snippets when they were kids. So Grandma remains in the old songs.
My grandfather married my grandmother (even though her family was penniless) and they started a family. The first born was Watson, the wunderkind architect. Next came Florence, nurse and my mother, and "surprise" thirteen years later Ken was born. He had a twin, but his sister Claire didn't survive. He was and continues to be an award winning nature photographer.
Over the years, the family bakeshop had grown into a very large bakery business with many drivers and routes all over Ottawa. By the time I came into their lives, the Balharrie Bakery was a a household word in Ottawa, a huge success as were the Balharrie heirs. My grandfather's older brother Jack was elected Mayor of Ottawa, his sister Jessy married very well and my grandfather and his brother Dave ran the family business. The Balharrie men were Masons and community leaders. Being canny Scots, they were very thrifty and became wealthy. When his father died, Grandpa decided to sell his share in the family business and become a mortgage lender. This permitted him to be home most days to survey his domain and oversee my grandmother.
She, the happy church soloist had abandoned her career because her husband believed her place was in the home. Traveling around the countryside singing in Churches and meeting heaven knows who, was an unnecessary frivolity. So she retired from the sacred music scene, raised her family and modestly remained in the background except during the years my Great Uncle Jack became Mayor in the late thirties. His own wife was homely and painfully shy, so my grandmother was deputized as the official hostess for the Mayor. She loved people and had the style and poise that made her a natural hostess. Even my grandfather had to agree to let her assume the first lady role. So Grandma did get to spend a few years in the limelight, "putting on airs" as my grandpa described it. That was the last opportunity she got to put on airs because she was grounded for good after that. Her hostess skills were directed inward toward family only.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Coming to Canada
Well we're on our way aboard a KLM Turboprop plane on a 14 hour flight to New York with stop overs in Iceland and Preswick, Scotland. I remember the excitement I felt, the little plane toy and the pin depicting pilot's wings I was given by the stewardess. There was a lot of engine noise and vibration that gave my mother a headache. There were brown paper bags for airsickness, a common occurrence then.
Did you know that air passengers received a blanket and a pillow each, that meals were served on real plates with real cutlery and that KLM stewardesses had to be registered nurses to qualify? Those were the early days of trans Atlantic passenger flight. The planes were terrible but the service was excellent. Luggage never was lost.
We were flying to New York because there was no KLM service to Canada yet. That was the point of our moving to Canada. My father was being sent to launch the KLM name in Canada. It was a new beginning for us but also for Canada.
It was early July and extremely hot in New York where we had to wait several hours for a connecting flight to Ottawa. Kennedy Airport was called Idlewild then and was much smaller. I remember having breakfast in a restaurant where my Dad ordered corn flakes which arrived at the table dry, in a bowl, accompanied by a jug of milk. He never dry cereal before so he began spooning up the dry flakes. He was not greatly impressed with this American icon. My mother laughed and set him straight. It tasted better with milk. I tasted my very first Coca Cola. It was fizzy, spicy-sweet and a total surprise in my mouth. It tasted like an other world necter.
We boarded our little plane for Ottawa and continued to vibrate our way to the capital city of Canada. Grandma, Grandpa, my Uncles Ken and Watson were at the tiny airport to meet us when we came down the stairs to the tarmac. Watson filmed our arrival and those black and white frames revealed a happy, skinny kid skipping down the steps followed by two tired, bedraggled and terribly thin parents in ill fitting clothing.
Without the home movie footage, I would have little memory of our arrival. Total strangers were hugging me and passing me from arms to arms. My grandmother and mother were crying and hugging and even my grandfather was emotional, pumping my father's hand. This was my first introduction to my Canadian family. Much later, I understood that until the liberation and the return of those Canadian soldiers who had visited us in Den Haag, my mother's family had no idea whether we were alive or dead. They had received no word from Holland for over three years. Our arrival heralded a return from their worst nightmare.
Did you know that air passengers received a blanket and a pillow each, that meals were served on real plates with real cutlery and that KLM stewardesses had to be registered nurses to qualify? Those were the early days of trans Atlantic passenger flight. The planes were terrible but the service was excellent. Luggage never was lost.
We were flying to New York because there was no KLM service to Canada yet. That was the point of our moving to Canada. My father was being sent to launch the KLM name in Canada. It was a new beginning for us but also for Canada.
It was early July and extremely hot in New York where we had to wait several hours for a connecting flight to Ottawa. Kennedy Airport was called Idlewild then and was much smaller. I remember having breakfast in a restaurant where my Dad ordered corn flakes which arrived at the table dry, in a bowl, accompanied by a jug of milk. He never dry cereal before so he began spooning up the dry flakes. He was not greatly impressed with this American icon. My mother laughed and set him straight. It tasted better with milk. I tasted my very first Coca Cola. It was fizzy, spicy-sweet and a total surprise in my mouth. It tasted like an other world necter.
We boarded our little plane for Ottawa and continued to vibrate our way to the capital city of Canada. Grandma, Grandpa, my Uncles Ken and Watson were at the tiny airport to meet us when we came down the stairs to the tarmac. Watson filmed our arrival and those black and white frames revealed a happy, skinny kid skipping down the steps followed by two tired, bedraggled and terribly thin parents in ill fitting clothing.
Without the home movie footage, I would have little memory of our arrival. Total strangers were hugging me and passing me from arms to arms. My grandmother and mother were crying and hugging and even my grandfather was emotional, pumping my father's hand. This was my first introduction to my Canadian family. Much later, I understood that until the liberation and the return of those Canadian soldiers who had visited us in Den Haag, my mother's family had no idea whether we were alive or dead. They had received no word from Holland for over three years. Our arrival heralded a return from their worst nightmare.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Moving beyond the war years
I am really impatient to leave the war years and move on with my story, so I'm compressing the last year 45 and 46 into one significant event. In 1946 my parents moved me to Canada. My Mom was going home and my Dad was returning to the country he loved. I didn't have much to say about it. I was six. I had been well prepared to accept the move from all the wonderful stories my dad had made up about Canada. I knew we were going to a special place.
My father was returning to the country he was forced to leave years earlier. Only now he was returning not as a farm labourer, but as the first representative for KLM Airlines in Canada. He was assigned the responsibility of opening and effectively launching the Canadian KLM air service. International air travel was going to be a big thing and KLM wanted to be in on the ground floor. My father, with his past Canadian experience, his Canadian wife, and his performance record during the occupation was the logical choice to head up this branch operation. A couple of years later he requested that his good friend Gert van den Steenhoven be sent to Canada to assist him. Thus my Oom Steen arrived back in our lives in Canada.
On reflection now, as an adult, I realize that our departure must have been a very sad blow for my dear Dutch family. It meant the tearing apart of a closely knit unit that had supported and helped each other survive during some of the worst years in Dutch history. Oma would no longer play an important role in the development of her only grandchild and my Tantes, the teachers, would not play any role in my education.
On departure day, I was upset because Winky would not be coming with us. Since my birth Winky was part of my life. That cat and I had become inseparable and leaving him broke my heart. I was inconsolable. While the adults bade each other tearful farewells before the ride to the airport, I was in a corner hugging and kissing my cat.
Arrangements had been made for Winky to live out his life at a friend's home in the country where he would be able to go outside and hunt to his heart's content. Later letters told us that Winky had indeed settled well into country life and that he lived to the ripe old age of sixteen.
He was a true survivor.
My grief was soon forgotten in the excitement of a plane trip. At six, I was quickly swept up in all the new adventures. The tearful goodbyes were quickly forgotten and I was into a new chapter of life. Children are virtuosos at living in the moment and I was no exception.
My father was returning to the country he was forced to leave years earlier. Only now he was returning not as a farm labourer, but as the first representative for KLM Airlines in Canada. He was assigned the responsibility of opening and effectively launching the Canadian KLM air service. International air travel was going to be a big thing and KLM wanted to be in on the ground floor. My father, with his past Canadian experience, his Canadian wife, and his performance record during the occupation was the logical choice to head up this branch operation. A couple of years later he requested that his good friend Gert van den Steenhoven be sent to Canada to assist him. Thus my Oom Steen arrived back in our lives in Canada.
On reflection now, as an adult, I realize that our departure must have been a very sad blow for my dear Dutch family. It meant the tearing apart of a closely knit unit that had supported and helped each other survive during some of the worst years in Dutch history. Oma would no longer play an important role in the development of her only grandchild and my Tantes, the teachers, would not play any role in my education.
On departure day, I was upset because Winky would not be coming with us. Since my birth Winky was part of my life. That cat and I had become inseparable and leaving him broke my heart. I was inconsolable. While the adults bade each other tearful farewells before the ride to the airport, I was in a corner hugging and kissing my cat.
Arrangements had been made for Winky to live out his life at a friend's home in the country where he would be able to go outside and hunt to his heart's content. Later letters told us that Winky had indeed settled well into country life and that he lived to the ripe old age of sixteen.
He was a true survivor.
My grief was soon forgotten in the excitement of a plane trip. At six, I was quickly swept up in all the new adventures. The tearful goodbyes were quickly forgotten and I was into a new chapter of life. Children are virtuosos at living in the moment and I was no exception.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Back to now - Willy and Tomson Highway
Yes the cat currently sharing my home is a two year old, brown, tiger striped bundle of mischief called Willy. Willy is a very bright, funny and talkative cat that brings laughter to my life. I'm writing about him to identify this entry as an up to the minute description of events that are drawn from my past.
I'm now in the final stages of my second sculpture from the mourning series. The first, "Grief" was finished last week and I'm nearing the end of he second in the series "Grief and Comfort". These two sculptures are small versions of the life sized pieces I did back in the sixties. When I told Julie about making them again in miniature, she was very still for a moment and then said "oh Claire I'm so glad, it's like spitting in Alfie's eye". I was so surprised by the happy vehemence in her voice, I whooped with laughter. So unlike Julie to be bitchy.
Later Freya and I went to Market Hall to see Tomson Highway and Patty Cannu in a Cabaret performance of songs from Thomson's plays. It went back to the The Rez Sisters and through to Rose the last in the series to date. Did tonight's marvellous performance ever take me back to the late eighties and early nineties - happy days at The Native Canadian Center in Toronto studying Ojibwa language and culture. I met Tomson when he was Artistic Director of Native Earth Performing Arts, and I saw all his plays at the little theatre in The Native Canadian Center. He was a young struggling playwright then and I was newly assigned to develop strategies for communicating and consulting with Aboriginal communities for the Ontario Ministry of Natural Resources. I knew very little about First Nations issues and even less about Aboriginal cultures but I was very keen to learn. I saw this assignment as an opportunity to learn and make a positive contribution. It was also a huge challenge.
One day, I had lunch with a board director from Native Earth who was bemoaning the financial shortfall between the grants they received and the actual cost to send the Native Earth cast and crew to Edinburgh. Native Earth Performing Arts had been invited to bring the Rez Sisters to the Edinburgh Festival in 1991. A very big honour and coup was endangered for the lack of $30,000. Before I knew what was happening, I heard my voice saying "I'll raise that money for you".
I struck a committee of Junior League doers to raise the money. We had three months to accomplish this. We needed to meet every few weeks take stock. I was so firmly convinced by the merits of sending an Aboriginal Canadian theatre company to Edinburgh, that I was convinced we would have no trouble raising the funds needed. Well, I was wrong. I met prejudice against "Indians" head on in the highest corporate offices. In the end, we only raised about $6,000 in cash and the rest by in-kind donations, such as Air Canada shipping all the sets, props and luggage free if the cast flew Air Canada. Since they had to fly anyway, this was a huge help. These in-kind donations really worked out well in the end, but I became very discouraged. Companies like Beaver Canoe and Roots that identified themselves with all things Canadian and natural, had no interest in helping an indigenous Canadian theater group go to an internationally recognized arts festival. Beaver Canoe's imagination only extended so far as wanting to hire some dancers and drummers to perform at the opening of a new store. I was close to banging my head against a door in frustration.
Well, in spite of all that, they got to Edinburgh, and I got to know Tomson through those awful fundraising meetings at my house. He would arrive and quietly seat himself next to the refreshments while we droned on about shortfalls, corporate presentations, and targets. Every so often we asked him a direct question about technical requirements, cast needs etc. He would answer and quietly eat all the refreshments, then rise and slip away. He always walked downtown form my North Toronto home. He didn't take the bus. It was hard to equate this quiet shy man with the clever, whimsical and multi-talented performer on stage. This was shortly before the time that Tompson lost his incredibly gifted brother Rene to HIV/Aids.
Tonight I had the opportunity to meet Tomson again after the show. He didn't immediately recognize me asking, "are you Swedish?" No Dutch, I replied. He said, "what's your name?" I told him and his face crinkled into a huge smile followed by an even bigger hug. He turned to another woman standing with us and said "Claire helped us get to Edinburgh". The woman was one of the original cast that went with The Rez Sisters to Edinburgh. She hugged me too and I basked in the warmth of recollected moments before we started comparing how old we all are now and how fatiguing it is holding our stomachs in - all very funny and good natured.
The performance was brilliant, moving and sooo professional. The meeting was genuine warmth and totally goofy. I had a wonderful evening and came away so glad to be alive. Freya had a great time too.
The irony is that I didn't contribute much to understanding Aboriginal culture while in the government, but it seems I did contribute to the success of Aboriginal theatre in my corner of the world.
I'm now in the final stages of my second sculpture from the mourning series. The first, "Grief" was finished last week and I'm nearing the end of he second in the series "Grief and Comfort". These two sculptures are small versions of the life sized pieces I did back in the sixties. When I told Julie about making them again in miniature, she was very still for a moment and then said "oh Claire I'm so glad, it's like spitting in Alfie's eye". I was so surprised by the happy vehemence in her voice, I whooped with laughter. So unlike Julie to be bitchy.
Later Freya and I went to Market Hall to see Tomson Highway and Patty Cannu in a Cabaret performance of songs from Thomson's plays. It went back to the The Rez Sisters and through to Rose the last in the series to date. Did tonight's marvellous performance ever take me back to the late eighties and early nineties - happy days at The Native Canadian Center in Toronto studying Ojibwa language and culture. I met Tomson when he was Artistic Director of Native Earth Performing Arts, and I saw all his plays at the little theatre in The Native Canadian Center. He was a young struggling playwright then and I was newly assigned to develop strategies for communicating and consulting with Aboriginal communities for the Ontario Ministry of Natural Resources. I knew very little about First Nations issues and even less about Aboriginal cultures but I was very keen to learn. I saw this assignment as an opportunity to learn and make a positive contribution. It was also a huge challenge.
One day, I had lunch with a board director from Native Earth who was bemoaning the financial shortfall between the grants they received and the actual cost to send the Native Earth cast and crew to Edinburgh. Native Earth Performing Arts had been invited to bring the Rez Sisters to the Edinburgh Festival in 1991. A very big honour and coup was endangered for the lack of $30,000. Before I knew what was happening, I heard my voice saying "I'll raise that money for you".
I struck a committee of Junior League doers to raise the money. We had three months to accomplish this. We needed to meet every few weeks take stock. I was so firmly convinced by the merits of sending an Aboriginal Canadian theatre company to Edinburgh, that I was convinced we would have no trouble raising the funds needed. Well, I was wrong. I met prejudice against "Indians" head on in the highest corporate offices. In the end, we only raised about $6,000 in cash and the rest by in-kind donations, such as Air Canada shipping all the sets, props and luggage free if the cast flew Air Canada. Since they had to fly anyway, this was a huge help. These in-kind donations really worked out well in the end, but I became very discouraged. Companies like Beaver Canoe and Roots that identified themselves with all things Canadian and natural, had no interest in helping an indigenous Canadian theater group go to an internationally recognized arts festival. Beaver Canoe's imagination only extended so far as wanting to hire some dancers and drummers to perform at the opening of a new store. I was close to banging my head against a door in frustration.
Well, in spite of all that, they got to Edinburgh, and I got to know Tomson through those awful fundraising meetings at my house. He would arrive and quietly seat himself next to the refreshments while we droned on about shortfalls, corporate presentations, and targets. Every so often we asked him a direct question about technical requirements, cast needs etc. He would answer and quietly eat all the refreshments, then rise and slip away. He always walked downtown form my North Toronto home. He didn't take the bus. It was hard to equate this quiet shy man with the clever, whimsical and multi-talented performer on stage. This was shortly before the time that Tompson lost his incredibly gifted brother Rene to HIV/Aids.
Tonight I had the opportunity to meet Tomson again after the show. He didn't immediately recognize me asking, "are you Swedish?" No Dutch, I replied. He said, "what's your name?" I told him and his face crinkled into a huge smile followed by an even bigger hug. He turned to another woman standing with us and said "Claire helped us get to Edinburgh". The woman was one of the original cast that went with The Rez Sisters to Edinburgh. She hugged me too and I basked in the warmth of recollected moments before we started comparing how old we all are now and how fatiguing it is holding our stomachs in - all very funny and good natured.
The performance was brilliant, moving and sooo professional. The meeting was genuine warmth and totally goofy. I had a wonderful evening and came away so glad to be alive. Freya had a great time too.
The irony is that I didn't contribute much to understanding Aboriginal culture while in the government, but it seems I did contribute to the success of Aboriginal theatre in my corner of the world.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
The Canadians are coming...
Liberation and the end of the war in Europe brought many changes to my young life. I was allowed outside to play with other children on my street. I learned very quickly that playing freely with children my age was a lot of fun. There were games of hide-and-seek, and jump rope with lots of laughter. At the age of five I discovered a childhood social life.
My mother was happy too. As the liberation was drawing nigh, my mother was feverishly sewing. She had managed to collect enough red, white and blue cloth to sew together a Canadian Union Jack to hang out of our window. She was sending a message to the Canadian liberators that said "WELCOME and THANK YOU! The Canadians liberated Holland and within their numbers were many young men from the Ottawa area that either knew of my mom or were told to look her up by friends and relations. Canadian soldiers were turning up regularly to visit, sleep over, have a meal (that they provisioned from their rations) and generally check up to see if Florence and her family needed anything and were were OK.
One day, as I was playing with other children, a Canadian soldier walked up and asked in English
"Does anybody know where the Hogenkamp family lives?" He said he had little hope of anyone understanding but asked anyway. A small voice in the group piped up in perfect English, "I do, that's my house". He was Uncle Jimmy (I suddenly had a lot of Canadian uncles) a second cousin from the Ottawa valley. He offered candy bars to all the children, but they refused to take them. We had been so indoctrinated to refuse anything offered by a soldier during the occupation, that when the Canadians first arrived, we wouldn't take stuff from those soldiers either. I turned to my playmates and in perfect Dutch I told them it was OK to accept treats from this soldier. He was so impressed that when he went back to the Ottawa valley, the bilingual exchange became part of family folklore.
Through these visiting servicemen, my mother's family learned we had survived and were well.
They had not received a letter or heard a word about us for three years. They were overjoyed to discover we were still alive. Visits from these wonderful Canadians brought food, laughter and a lot of English conversation into our home. I don't know how long these Canadian visits continued, or how many there were but I do remember that time as very happy. My parents were light hearted and very merry around the house. It was a good time for us all.
My mother was happy too. As the liberation was drawing nigh, my mother was feverishly sewing. She had managed to collect enough red, white and blue cloth to sew together a Canadian Union Jack to hang out of our window. She was sending a message to the Canadian liberators that said "WELCOME and THANK YOU! The Canadians liberated Holland and within their numbers were many young men from the Ottawa area that either knew of my mom or were told to look her up by friends and relations. Canadian soldiers were turning up regularly to visit, sleep over, have a meal (that they provisioned from their rations) and generally check up to see if Florence and her family needed anything and were were OK.
One day, as I was playing with other children, a Canadian soldier walked up and asked in English
"Does anybody know where the Hogenkamp family lives?" He said he had little hope of anyone understanding but asked anyway. A small voice in the group piped up in perfect English, "I do, that's my house". He was Uncle Jimmy (I suddenly had a lot of Canadian uncles) a second cousin from the Ottawa valley. He offered candy bars to all the children, but they refused to take them. We had been so indoctrinated to refuse anything offered by a soldier during the occupation, that when the Canadians first arrived, we wouldn't take stuff from those soldiers either. I turned to my playmates and in perfect Dutch I told them it was OK to accept treats from this soldier. He was so impressed that when he went back to the Ottawa valley, the bilingual exchange became part of family folklore.
Through these visiting servicemen, my mother's family learned we had survived and were well.
They had not received a letter or heard a word about us for three years. They were overjoyed to discover we were still alive. Visits from these wonderful Canadians brought food, laughter and a lot of English conversation into our home. I don't know how long these Canadian visits continued, or how many there were but I do remember that time as very happy. My parents were light hearted and very merry around the house. It was a good time for us all.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
The Placi Years - A Digression to 1979
I digress - sorry but if I don't enter this now, I'll forget it. When Maya was approaching three, I swung a deal with Avianca Airlines that got Elliot and me a sweet ten day vacation to Cartagena, Columbia. In return I was to take a series of travel photos for the airline. So we headed for South America with joy and anticipation. We were both sober and in control of our lives. There was nothing to fear from the rumours of easy drugs.
Things went well for about five days and I took many photos. We hired a boat to the Rosario Islands where we snorkeled, swam, walked on white sandy beaches and looked for shells. It was a peaceful unpopulated island among a chain (rosary) of other similar islands. Some wealthy Colombians had cottages on a few islands, but mostly it was parkland. I found a conch shell there that I still have. Back in Cartagena, we enjoyed the old world grace of our hotel, its lovely pool and the fine dining. I did a lot of exploring in the old town, but the old fortifications fascinated Elliot more. I was beginning to notice though, that he would decline to join me more often as the days progressed.
He hung out a lot with another US couple and they frequently were joined by a couple of seedy local men. My antenna went up and it became clear to me that Elliot had fallen thunderously off the wagon. Even more alarming was the type of people he chose to be with. He was taking crazy risks to connect and I was sure trouble was immanent. We had to get out of this mess soon and fly home. Elliot had no wish to leave. He was in bliss and refused to give it up. I had to leave alone.
Elliot spoke Spanish but I didn't, so how was I going to change flights, cash travellers' cheques, do last minute shopping and leave? I had no idea. Then I remembered the tour guide that hung out at the hotel. He often took guests on guided tours of the city.
Things went well for about five days and I took many photos. We hired a boat to the Rosario Islands where we snorkeled, swam, walked on white sandy beaches and looked for shells. It was a peaceful unpopulated island among a chain (rosary) of other similar islands. Some wealthy Colombians had cottages on a few islands, but mostly it was parkland. I found a conch shell there that I still have. Back in Cartagena, we enjoyed the old world grace of our hotel, its lovely pool and the fine dining. I did a lot of exploring in the old town, but the old fortifications fascinated Elliot more. I was beginning to notice though, that he would decline to join me more often as the days progressed.
He hung out a lot with another US couple and they frequently were joined by a couple of seedy local men. My antenna went up and it became clear to me that Elliot had fallen thunderously off the wagon. Even more alarming was the type of people he chose to be with. He was taking crazy risks to connect and I was sure trouble was immanent. We had to get out of this mess soon and fly home. Elliot had no wish to leave. He was in bliss and refused to give it up. I had to leave alone.
Elliot spoke Spanish but I didn't, so how was I going to change flights, cash travellers' cheques, do last minute shopping and leave? I had no idea. Then I remembered the tour guide that hung out at the hotel. He often took guests on guided tours of the city.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
D-Day 65 years later.
Yesterday was the 65th Anniversary of D-Day. Maya and I watched a documentary on PBS and were greatly moved by the images of the Battle of Normandy, the liberation of the concentration camps, and the terrible price paid by the allies and particularly the Canadians as they stormed the beaches. So few are left to remember and this will be the last anniversary for most of the remaining veterans.
In the "Legacy of War" Walter Cronkite broke down and wept at the memorial site as he was saying that the terrible human losses in the Second World War should have been enough to deter all further wars. We know with hindsight, that nations have continued to wage wars and that atrocities have piled up year after year. The great liberator of WW 2, the USA has gone on to commit its own atrocities in new wars; the victims of the concentration camps settled in an Israel that is now committing atrocities as well. The Arab world remaines mute in the face of atrocities being committed by their cohorts. Yes, it is enough. What is wrong with the human race that we know how to kill and maim, but we're not real good at compromise and peace?
I actually remember the liberation of Holland (1945) as sound. All my short life Holland lived under the curfew of the Nazi occupation. Streets were devoid of human sound at night. The sounds we heard were the buzz bombs, air raid sirens and jack boots, but never, ever song, music and laughter. So of course I would remember the late night sounds of partying and jubilation in the streets as I lay in my bed. I was infused with a sense of joy and some fear as well, because these were very new sounds to me. I also remember the night was bright not dark. Could that have been lights, because the blackout was lifted? I don't know because I never asked anyone. It was awe inspiring.
Just like the Swiss bread air dropped in the food parcels, those sounds of jubilation will never leave me.
In the "Legacy of War" Walter Cronkite broke down and wept at the memorial site as he was saying that the terrible human losses in the Second World War should have been enough to deter all further wars. We know with hindsight, that nations have continued to wage wars and that atrocities have piled up year after year. The great liberator of WW 2, the USA has gone on to commit its own atrocities in new wars; the victims of the concentration camps settled in an Israel that is now committing atrocities as well. The Arab world remaines mute in the face of atrocities being committed by their cohorts. Yes, it is enough. What is wrong with the human race that we know how to kill and maim, but we're not real good at compromise and peace?
I actually remember the liberation of Holland (1945) as sound. All my short life Holland lived under the curfew of the Nazi occupation. Streets were devoid of human sound at night. The sounds we heard were the buzz bombs, air raid sirens and jack boots, but never, ever song, music and laughter. So of course I would remember the late night sounds of partying and jubilation in the streets as I lay in my bed. I was infused with a sense of joy and some fear as well, because these were very new sounds to me. I also remember the night was bright not dark. Could that have been lights, because the blackout was lifted? I don't know because I never asked anyone. It was awe inspiring.
Just like the Swiss bread air dropped in the food parcels, those sounds of jubilation will never leave me.
Friday, June 5, 2009
More about the Jewish connection.
I wrote about Tante Betsy's harrowing period in hiding and her return to active life after the war. The family had a lot of respect for her. But my recollections of her are not strong. I know that I was raised to respect and identify with the Jews and that my life has been intertwined with Jewish faith, culture and people. My two husbands were Jewish and I lived within the Jewish cultural and community life. How is it that I'm most comfortable in that world and most uncomfortable in the Christian Protestant world that I was born and raised in? It can't be Tante Betsy's influence, I hardly knew her.
Yet, she left a deep imprint on my mother and father. My parents were deeply affected by her plight and felt profoundly guilty about sending her to Arnhem. It must have been traumatic and they believed they failed her. Of course they did the best they could, and my father found her a safe house, and she survived. She never blamed them, but they blamed themselves.
Did those complex feelings get transferred to me, or was it Tante Ina's remorse and guilt for not being able to protect her Jewish students? It has been and always will be part of me. I am a spiritual Jew. My child is Jew-ish, and her father, the love of my life, was Jewish.
He asked me, when Maya was born, why I had registered her as Jewish? Without hesitation I replied, I'm giving one back. He was very touched, but he had no idea how significant that statement was. Looking at it now, it is evident that, given those formative experiences and the emotion associated with them, I had no other choice.
Such is the power of collective family emotion.
Yet, she left a deep imprint on my mother and father. My parents were deeply affected by her plight and felt profoundly guilty about sending her to Arnhem. It must have been traumatic and they believed they failed her. Of course they did the best they could, and my father found her a safe house, and she survived. She never blamed them, but they blamed themselves.
Did those complex feelings get transferred to me, or was it Tante Ina's remorse and guilt for not being able to protect her Jewish students? It has been and always will be part of me. I am a spiritual Jew. My child is Jew-ish, and her father, the love of my life, was Jewish.
He asked me, when Maya was born, why I had registered her as Jewish? Without hesitation I replied, I'm giving one back. He was very touched, but he had no idea how significant that statement was. Looking at it now, it is evident that, given those formative experiences and the emotion associated with them, I had no other choice.
Such is the power of collective family emotion.
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Marco believed that I was forced to fly home immediately because my child was ill and took his job as my protector very seriously. I needed him because I didn't speak Spanish and almost no-one spoke English. All the stuff I had hoped to do over the next few days had to be compressed into one. Those photos needed to be completed to honour the deal with Avianca Airlines. In Colombia an American woman alone is fair game. Marco's savvy and protection was a Godsend.
So while Elliot was out of his face by the pool, I was out taking care of business. Marco was tall for a Colombian man, and missing a few teeth (normal in Colombia). He had hired a car to pick me up at the hotel the next morning and rode with me to Barranquila, stopping in villages to buy local foods for me to taste and explaining the history. He was very attentive, stroking my hair and caressing my hand. He was hoping he could change my mind and return to Cartagena to stay with him. Utterly insane, but strangely good for my morale under the circumstances.
He no longer believed my sick child story because he realized that my husband was the idiot he was supplying with cocaine back at the hotel. In Marco's fantasy I was the independent woman who was leaving her idiot husband and that made me available. Since Colombian women wouldn't dare walk away from their men like that, I was very exciting to him. But I stuck to my sick child story. All I wanted was to get to the damned airport without a new drama in the back seat of the taxi.
At the airport, he got me through check-in, kissed my hand and then suddenly, ever the Latin romantic, he grabbed me tight around the waist for an intense farewell kiss. It was like a bad romance novel. I was so relieved to be free of him that I let him play out his fantasy and waved good bye. He wanted people to see him saying good-bye to a lover not a client. I hope he went home and bragged all around the cantina about his romantic tryst with the tall, sexy blond American woman. He deserved that story.
He was a Colombian small-scale entrepreneur, living by his wit and English skills to provide the tourists with whatever they wanted. With us, he made money coming and going: supplying the husband with drugs, and rescuing the wife from the fall out. Had he also seduced the wife, his life would have been perfect.