Remembering Kim Oswalt

I'm thinking of Kim Oswalt, a dear friend of mine, who died two years ago today. Writing this blog today is my way of remembering her and sharing with readers some photos and memories of the the times I spent with her over the years, starting in the early 90s in Japan.

First, here's a picture of her in 2009, smiling and holding her sweet dog, during a walk we took in Kariuizawa, a small mountain town north of Tokyo.

Kim lived there with her partner, Mima, in a beautiful house. In the early spring of that year Junko and I visited her, enjoying the crisp cool air and the natural beauty around the house. Here's what it looked like from the outside.

And here's what it was like from the inside, revealing a lot about Kim. I spent two happy days there that spring. Note the flowers, comfortable pillows, wide views of nature, art on the walls, a dog in the background, a coat hanging on the door, ready for a walk, planned or unplanned. 

So much beauty in early spring--still the muted colors of winter, but broken by soft greens.

Kim was probably best known as a musician among friends and appreciators of traditional Japanese music. Born in Japan when her family was stationed there by the US Army, Kim spent some of her formative years in Japan before the family went back to the US. After college, Kim returned to Japan, and became one of the few westerners to study the 20-string koto at that time (1980). By the time I met her in the early 90s, she was an accomplished koto player who performed with her fellow musician, Helen Dryz.  I was a little in awe of them both then. Helen played the shakuhachi (Japanese flute), and as a duo, they performed both traditional and modern tunes. One of their concerts is recorded on youtube and it's well worth a listen. Click here (Note: concert begins a minute or so into the video.) They performed beautifully, both then and today, when I listened to their performance once again.

While living in Japan, Kim met Mima Yufu and they became life partners. Several years later, they moved to the US, to Boulder, Colorado, where Kim studied psychology and counseling at Naropa University. During their 10-year stay in Boulder, Kim received a master's degree and began a private practice. Then in 2002 they returned to Japan, and that's when I came to know Kim as a friend. 

We often saw each other at "dyke weekends", periodic gatherings north of Tokyo, where lesbians came together to socialize and share ideas. Kim had an innate gentleness and ability to listen--no doubt fostered by her training at Naropa.  Once, when I was asked to facilitate a session between two members of a group I belonged to--members who had conflict and difficult feelings about each other, Kim talked to me about facilitating strategies, and I was able to create a dialog that worked well. A success all around thanks to Kim. 

Over time we came to know each other better, perhaps due to being relatively close in age (I was 6 years older), sharing an extended lesbian community, and also having an interest in social and political change. As undergraduates, I had majored in political science and she in criminal justice. Her obituary notes that she was a "social activist-minded individual who was passionate about changing the world and worked in the Cuban Refugee resettlement, for fair housing rights for African Americans and with Acorn and Witness for Peace." We talked about many things, such as the peace movement that developed in the wake of Bush's war in Iraq, as well as the challenges facing transgendered people in Japan. Kim worked with members of that community through her private practice in Tokyo. Toward the end of my stay in Japan (2009-10), we started to meet once a month for dinner in Yokosuska, site of a naval military base near Yokohama. Kim had contracted to train counselors enlisted in the Navy. Trains made it possible for me to make the 2-hour round-trip journey from my place in Machida, and I always looked forward to our get-togethers. We both loved Japanese food and good conversation.

Then I returned to the US. Except for a brief visit in Boulder after that, I didn't see Kim again until early 2014--this time in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. She and Mima spent two months there following a visit to Kim's mother in Texas, and I came for the second month of that. We stayed in different places, but enjoyed meeting up before and after massage sessions (by a local practitioner at her home), for art events, and of course for good food and conversation. Here we are on a happy afternoon after a massage and on another at a San Miguel restaurant.

Throughout the time I knew her, Kim bravely faced a major health challenge: kidney disease. She had two transplants over a 20 year period, and when the second one began to fail, hoped to have a third. That was not to be. Kim and Mima returned to the US in 2015, primarily for Kim's medical treatment. On July 31, 2017, at the age of 64, she died in her home in Ashland, Oregon. She had been under hospice care, and from what I later learned, among loving friends who supported her in her final months. 

I think of Kim with a mixture of gratitude and regret--gratitude for the great opportunity to be her friend and regret that I didn't really stay in touch during the three years between our last meeting and her death. It comforts me that she had Mima and her friends close to her, people who could give her the daily love and support that's difficult to give over distance. Today I remember her with love, feeling close to all others who also had the great good fortune to be her friend and who still carry her memory in their hearts. 

Auschwitz-Birkenau: 75 years later

When I was first planning a trip to Poland, I thought I might pass on a visit to Auschwitz, the largest Nazi death camp and only one preserved in much of its original condition. I had been to the Dachau concentration camp on my first visit to Europe half a century ago, and in the intervening years, learned how the Holocaust had shaped postwar history. I had seen so many movies, read many books and articles. What more was there to learn or feel? But Renate wanted to go, and yes, of course, I realized, how could I not go to this place during a trip that took me so close to it.

So one afternoon during our stay in Krakow, we boarded a mini bus for the hour's ride to the Auchwitz-Birkenau Memorial. On arriving with our tour group, we were assigned a guide--in Spanish or English--and began our tour of Auschwitz I, the main camp. A sobering walk from the first moment. We filed through exhibit halls, through barracks, down a basement corridor and rooms where lethal injections took place, a room where prisoners awaited "trials", past gallows and a courtyard where people were shot. We filed past exhibits of piles of prosthetics, shoes, suitcases, and chillingly, human hair. In a women's dormitory, photos of the inmates with their direct gazes stared back at us, and I can still see their faces, mostly impassive, and all the more heartbreaking for that.

A three-kilometer bus ride to Birkenau showed us the ruins of the crematoria and a monument to the victims. We walked along the train tracks where selections were made--to one side, death, and to the other forced labor under cruel and  humiliating conditions. Most victims were Jews, but there were also Slavs (also considered an inferior race in Nazi ideology), Roma, gays, political prisoners and many others. Categories that would have included me had I lived in that time and place.

Although I was already aware of most of the facts our guide related, the emotional impact of walking in this place where such massive crimes occurred caught me by surprise. I could not take photos--how could any capture the reality of what this place once was. At Birkenau, I took just this one.

Auschwitz was clearly more visceral and overwhelming compared to the Dachau memorial in Germany. Sobered by that visit, I remember staring at "Never Again" engraved in stone. I think I believed it then--in the sense that surely the world had learned its lesson. That was in 1969, 20 years past the Nuremberg trials, well into an era of people's liberation movements rising in many colonized countries. Many of my generation shared a belief that we were well past the horrors of World War II, and that these progressive movements around the world would bring more and more freedom into being. 

Today an older me, with a half century more of history behind me, sees elements of fascism reemerging in places around the world. Just yesterday PBS carried a story of the suppression of the judiciary in Poland; of course, the US has Trump, Russia has Putin, and nationalist, anti-immigrant, anti-Semitic parties have gained power in many places. Not as toxic as the Nazi regime and without the military might behind it, but a potentiality; Never Again will always remain a hope and challenge rather than stated fact.

Renate and I spent the last day of our Krakow visit in Kazimierz, the historic center of Polish Jews, once its own city, now a part of Krakow. In a bookshop there I bought a copy of Man's Search for Meaning, by Victor E. Frankl. I remember reading this book in college, this story of Dr. Frankl's imprisonment in Nazi camps and his story of survival. "The classic tribute to hope" was the phrase on the cover of this book. I decided to read it again to counter the despair I felt after visiting Auschwitz. When we left Poland, I took it home and finished reading it just yesterday. I found more in it than I had remembered from my first reading all those years ago.

Frankl, an Austrian medical doctor and psychologist, argued that humans can endure any "how" as long as they have a "why". He saw that prisoners who could imagine a positive outcome--a reason to stay alive--often lived longer than others who had given up. A Wikipedia synopsis of the book put it this way: "Frankl concludes that the meaning of life is found in every moment of living; life never ceases to have meaning, even in suffering and death. In a group therapy session during a mass fast inflicted on the camp's inmates trying to protect an anonymous fellow inmate from fatal retribution by authorities, Frankl offered the thought that for everyone in a dire condition there is someone looking down, a friend, family member, or even God, who would expect not to be disappointed. Frankl concludes from his experience that a prisoner's psychological reactions are not solely the result of the conditions of his life, but also from the freedom of choice he always has even in severe suffering." He also notes a connection between hope and the immune system. Death rates spiked during the last week of the year, after those who vainly hoped for freedom by Christmas faced another year with no freedom in sight. 

Clearly positive thinking won't save us. On the contrary, only 1 in 20 concentration camp laborers--those who survived the initial "selections"-- would survive their ordeal, dying from typhus, starvation, cold and overwork, the random brutality of SS guards. Also, another much-less-quoted section from Frankl in Chapter 1 tells us this: "On the average, only those prisoners could keep alive who, after years of trekking from camp to camp, had lost all scruples....they were prepared to use every means, honest and otherwise, even brutal force, theft, and betrayal of their friends, in order to save themselves. We who have come back, by the aid of many lucky chances or miracles....we know: the best of us did not return." 

By 1997, when Frankl died, his book had sold more than 10 million copies and been translated into 24 languages. A gift from the past to those of us entering a future of continuing injustices around us.  

And a message to remind us that we have to create our own "why"in life, remembering we always have the power to choose our response to what befalls us.

Next: a tour of Kazmierz and the resilience of Jewish culture

Religious heritage in Poland below and above ground

Although I'm not a believer in any religious dogma--including Roman Catholicism, the faith I was born into--I was impressed with my visits to churches in Poland. Churches there are monuments to art and beauty, resilience in difficult times, and the history of culture in this country. I could feel an appreciation for all three elements on my trip to Poland this spring. I'll write about my experiences in four of them here.

Most impressive on all three counts was, hands down, the Wielczka (Vee-LEETS-ka) Salt Mine, which Renate and I visited one cool and rainy Sunday afternoon in early May. It's an hour's journey from Krakow, and we enjoyed the chance for a bus ride to this small town, made famous by the salt mine, now a UNESCO Heritage site. The mine, which closed in the mid-90s after four centuries of active mining, is full of stunning sculptures and bas reliefs, all carved from salt by the miners themselves. It was a 3-hour tour, which involved walking down countless steps, hundreds of feet under the earth. I took almost no pictures due to camera/lighting challenges, but no matter. No photos can really do justice to this place. Please take 6 minutes to watch this excellent Youtube video which will give you a taste of what we saw and learned that afternoon. Here's a stock photo of one room; the art, walls, floors--even the chandeliers--are all made of salt.

Mining has always been a hazardous occupation, especially so in the 16th and 17th centuries when one out of every 10 miners died in methane explosions. No doubt the art here was a prayer as much as an expression of beauty. Really, watch the video. You'll share in that feeling too.

Another religious site--perhaps the most revered in all of Poland--is the Wawel Cathedral on the far edge of Krakow's Old Town. It's part of Wawel Hill, which also includes the royal castle from which Poland was ruled for 500 years. Saints, kings,  and scholars are buried here in what has been called (by Pope John Paul II) the "sanctuary of the nation." With this in mind,  I viewed Wawel Cathedral more through a cultural than a religious lens. Yet, the cathedral is definitely designed for religious contemplation and awe. Here are two photos posted on Trip Advisor by a reviewer better equipped for photography than I was. The first is the nave of the cathedral with its arched Gothic vaulting. The second is the most celebrated side chapel--the Sigismund Chapel, a masterpiece of Renaissance art.

And here's a view from the outside--with me dressed for the cold weather despite the flowers of spring behind me.

On another day we visited another celebrated Catholic site in Krakow--Mariacki Church (St. Mary's), which our guidebook told us was one of the finest medieval structures in the country, dating from the 1220s. Later in the century two Romanesque towers were added, one eventually serving as a lookout tower. Legend has it that in the 13th century a watchman saw the Tatar invaders approaching and took up his trumpet to raise the alarm. He was killed with an arrow through his throat, but is still remembered today, every hour, when a lone trumpeter plays the bugle call four times from four windows. Renate went outside to listen at the appointed time, but I stayed inside, still absorbing the feeling of this ancient cathedral. Here are three of my photos. The first is of the majestic high altar with sculptures by the German master Veit Stoss (1440-1533). Unfortunately for visitors this year and next, the altar is undergoing restoration. Though much was covered we could see some of Stoss' artistry. The second photo below is my photo from a postcard.

I imagined how many prayers must have been said in this church over the centuries, how many hopes and sorrows are stored in the walls and also how much comfort and peace worshippers must have received from the beauty and light. To the left of the main altar was a bank of candles, similar to those which I remember from my church-going childhood in Hammond, Indiana. My mother used to light candles often in memory of her parents, my grandparents Leon and Barbara. They emigrated from Warsaw in the early 20th century, probably never having had the opportunity to visit Krakow's spiritual centers. I lit a candle and held some thoughts for them before leaving this exquisite space.

Although it is far less significant in size and history than the Salt Mine, the Wawel Cathedral and the Mariaki Church, a church in Wroclaw--the first city we visited in Poland--remains in my memory. On our way from our hotel to the town square, we passed St. Maria's Church several times. I remember our first stop there early in the day, a place where tourists were not congregating. and the atmosphere was very peaceful.

I sat there for awhile, letting the light from the stained glass wash over me and imagining the many human emotions that have filled this space. Later in the day, we stopped by again and listened to a group of nuns singing, with the lyrics digitized on that small black screen shown in the background. In a side room a group of parishioners were animatedly conversing in sign. I realized how churches have their daily rhythm too, and how the timing of our visit shapes our experience.

Next: The Jewish Quarter and Auschwitz

Intro to Krakow: Touring Old Town

Renate and I wanted to focus more time in Krakow--5 nights, 4 days--than our other two destinations, Wroclaw and Warsaw. We knew that as the only major city left unscathed in World War II, Krakow would have a lot to offer. Also, there were two day trips we also hoped to make from the city, one to Auschwitz, and the other to the Wieliczka Salt Mine. I'll write separately about those two places, both of which impressed me deeply.

Planning a 5-night stay made an apartment rental an economical choice. Using Booking.com, I found the Bed&Bath Novum Apartments, a short walk from the central train station. We arrived on a cool cloudy afternoon and settled in to our two-bedroom digs. It was a clean, comfortable if somewhat soulless space--the way apartments are when no one really lives there. The next morning we walked back through the train station and found our way to the Stare Miastro, Krakow's Old Town.

The area is surrounded by a beautiful park, filled with trees in shades of green. This photo, taken on another day, shows one of the decorated horse-drawn carriages that are ubiquitous in Old Town. The drivers are always smartly-attired young women.

The Stare Miastro, the walled-in social center of the city, was an easy mile-plus walk from our apartment on this cool Saturday morning. We walked through this portal, past a small shrine to the Black Madonna.

Walking past rows of shops and cafes, we arrived in Krakow's Rynek Glowny or Main Square--just in time to see a military parade. A national holiday, Constitution Day, was celebrated that weekend, in honor of Poland's first written constitution in 1791. Notice the hands and feet in this photo.

Poland's most celebrated poet and patriot, Adam Mickiewicz, was the honored historical figure in this square, but as is the fate of monument figures at popular meeting and photo spots, he didn't get much attention from this group of visitors. Behind them is one of the main attractions of the square, The Sukiennice (see more on that below).

As usual, Renate and I looked for a place to have coffee that morning--and we had many choices among cafes around the square. Apple pie a la mode was my choice that morning. Commemorating the moment rather than the food in this photo.

 Later we enjoyed one of my favorite features of Krakow cafes, fruit-filled lemonade.

Poland has a long tradition of folk art, and for a modern spin-off on it, we enjoyed browsing in Old Town shops. On another day we visited The Ethnographic Museum, enjoying varied exhibits around many themes--religion, home life, holidays and the like. You can take a tour online by clicking the link above.

The Sukiennice, a vast cloth hall built in the 14th century and remodeled in the 16th is a major feature of the Rynek Glowny. Inside is a covered market that Renate and I strolled through, enjoying the trinkets and expensive goods. Traveling light, we curbed our buying impulses. This photo is from a talented photographer who posted it on Trip Advisor.

Newest attraction in the Rynek Glowny is the Rynek Underground, a subterranean museum, highlighting the ruins of the medieval city of Krakow, discovered when the Rynek was being repaved a decade ago. It was a reminder how we all live on top of ruins, what remains of earlier times and people. I had been thinking of my maternal grandparents on this trip, Barbara and Leon, who emigrated from Poland more than a century ago. Today we know the names of their parents and grandparents, but I thought of all the nameless ones who preceded them, names and faces we'll never know. My iPad camera was inadequate for the lighting underground, so I've borrowed here from other photographers posting on Trip Advisor. First, the city below the city.

Here's what it looks like inside--exhibits, along with multimedia presentations. Most striking was this skeleton, shadowboxed below. Could this be one of my ancestors? I wondered.

It was a late, cool and rainy day when we left the underground museum, me feeling vaguely out of sorts from the pervasive smell of mold and thoughts about the passage of time. My most-recalled memory of Krakow's Old Town was one that came about on another day. We were passing a church when we noticed some musicians waiting outside. A wedding was ending inside, and soon we saw the charming bride and groom come outside and the guests line up to hug them and give them presents. I caught these moments on camera, and I still enjoy looking at them.

Next: Polish churches

Faces in places in Wroclaw

First of all, pronounce it "Vrots-waff". Or you could fall back on the name it once had before Poland won its independence in 1918--Breslau. By either name, my visit to this town in southwest Poland was just as sweet. "Vrots-waff" was the first stop on my 9-day tour of Poland in early May this year. My traveling companion was Renate, a dear friend since our teaching days in Japan. We arrived in this city--one of the most-transformed in Poland, my guidebook informed me--after a 6-hour train journey from Berlin.

We arrived in the evening, after a short taxi ride from the station, at the elegant 4-star Jana Pawla II Hotel in the Cathedral Island section of Wroclaw. Jana Pawla is Polish for John Paul, the former pope of the Catholic church, and a bust of him was one of our first sights after entering--that and the bright floor-to-ceiling chandelier in the center of the lobby. Old World elegance was ubiquitous--red drapes, flowers, and crucifixes--one above the reception desk and  another above my bed. My window overlooked floodlights on a centuries-old brick cathedral.

The next morning we chose the hotel breakfast buffet, served in a light-filled room bordering a garden. Tables of juices, fruits, cured meats and cheeses, breads, yogurt, and cakes. Best of all coffee made to order. Each of the three mornings we ate here, we enjoyed the smiles of these young women.

Cathedral Island area, known as Ostrow Tumski (Tumski Bridge) borders the Odra River. After breakfast, a short walk from our hotel brought us to the bridge and a path bordering the riverbank. It was a beautiful cool sunny morning, and we decided to take a boat ride. Our captain used a bluetooth device to offer us the English narration of what we'd be seeing. Renate enjoyed wearing his hat for a few moments. Okay--and then I did too. We got a sense of the city, passing the university quarter along the southern bank, then the zoo, the botanical gardens.

We walked as lot that day, over the bridge, down a long street of store fronts, on our way to the Rynek or main square of the city, a staple of European cities with medieval roots. It was May 1, a holiday in Poland, and the square was already full of locals and tourists. There were buskers, and then these children who didn't need to wait for the start of any show.

The square is lined with restored merchants' houses, a town hall, and rows of cafes and restaurants. Stopping for coffee and moments to just sit and watch passersby was one of our favorite activites--surpassed only by dwarf-hunting. Yes. Since 2005, the city has been filled with 350 small dwarf figurines in a municipal-supported attempt to brighten up the streets. (There's a map of them, but Renate was particularly adept at spotting them without one.)

This symbol of the town is a tribute to a group of anti-establishment activists called the Orange Alternative, led by Waldemar "Major" Fydrych. They stenciled orange dwarf images on city walls--and in other areas of Poland--and staged street events satirizing the authoritarian regime. The so-called Dwarf Revolution of 1988 brought 10,000 people in the streets of Wroclaw in "joyous, surreal protest," according to my guidebook. Later, Fydrych was not so happy about the "kitsch" appropriation of the dwarf symbol for commercial gain. He took the city to court more than once--proving perhaps that leftists tend to lack a well-developed sense of humor. Here are a couple of my favorite dwarfs below.

Another impressive piece of art we saw is called the Anonymous Pedestrians by sculptor Jerzy Kalina. They are bronze figures of ordinary people, steadfastly going about their business. They're placed on an ordinary street corner, a reminder of the declaration of martial law in 1981. They cross the street despite the oppression; Poland always survives.

This city has also always survived--though it wasn't always in "Poland". A brief history from my guidebook: Once a 9th century Slav market town, the Ostrow Tumski (Cathedral Island) section became a religious site founded in 1000 AD by Boleslaw the Brave. German merchants were encouraged to move there and they did, naming the town Breslau. Then came the Bohemian kings in the 14th century, when Germans, Poles and Czechs lived in relative harmony. Many brick churches--still numerous here--were constructed during that time. In the 16th century, the Austrian Hapsburgs arrived, and so did the Thirty Years War, devastating the population. The area became progressively Germanized, falling to Prussia in the 18th century. Throughout the next two centuries Breslau was one of Prussia's then Germany's leading cities. And then came World War II in the 20th century. Toward the end of the war,  retreating Germans decided the city should be defended at all costs from the invading Red Army, resulting in destruction:  70 percent of the city lay in ruins, and three-quarters of the population fled west.

Enter the 21st century. Renate and I discovered a city that had been rebuilt, filled with old and new features, with a flourishing tourist economy. During our two-day, three-night visit, Renate and I focused on history and people watching. We appreciated the beauty of several of those medieval churches--as well as the historic White Stork Synagogue, which gets its name from the inn that once stood on that spot. It was the only synagogue in Wroclaw to escape destruction by the Nazis, and today it is once again a place of worship, a symbol of the resilience of Jewish life and culture in Poland.

As I often feel when I travel, I'd like to go back to this beautiful city. There's so much we didn't see--art museums, the National Forum of Music (no events during our visit), Hydropolis (a museum dedicated to water), and of course more dwarf statues. But if, as is likely, this is to be my only visit, I left satisfied, with sweet memories. I'll end with a photo of my face, gazing out the train window at the canola fields, blooming under the early spring sunshine. Next stop: Krakow.

Their questions and my questions

Note: this blog entry, originally written in 2019, was updated in November, 2021.

My tour of the Emigration Museum on Veddel Island in Hamburg, Germany, ended in a room with a huge Statue of Liberty painted pink. Surrounding it on the floor were signs, each one representing one of 29 questions immigrants were asked on arrival at Ellis Island. In addition to the standard expected questions such as name, age, gender, marital status, race, national origin, last address, final destination, name of contact in America and the like, there were others, all designed to weed out unsuitable immigrants.

Leon and Barbara, my grandparents, arrived there on December 20, 1910, after a 10-day journey from Hamburg. There they faced lines--for registration and medical check-ups. They had left Hamburg with two children--2-year-old Marie and baby Kasimir; they arrived with only Marie. Kasimir had died on the journey--we have no records of the cause--most likely of illness contracted on the journey. Like most emigrants coming to America in that era, the Bogdanski family traveled in steerage, while upper and middle class travelers could book a first or second class cabin. At one point Barbara and Kasimir were quarantined in a second-class cabin. As my mother Angeline told me, Barbara believed that "a kind person" had given her the cabin--a sweet story. Yet, I wonder if ship rules mandated that, given the high concern with contagious disease on board.

On arrival, after Barbara and Leon got to the front of a long line, they had (according to the Emigration Museum booklet) 60 seconds to answer the basic questions above along with these: Have you ever been in prison, an almshouse or a mental institution? Are you a polygamist? Are you an anarchist? Are you deformed or crippled? And then there was a critical question about work: a yes answer would result in immediate deportation: Are you coming by reason of any job offer? Then as now, the possibility of immigrants filling jobs that should go to native Americans was a very sensitive subject. Another question, "What is the condition of your health?" was critical. Any answer indicating illness could also get you sent home. Hence, the many medical exams before departure and after arrival. One question never asked in this era was, "Where is your passport?" Although travel documents were necessary before departure, passports were not required upon arrival. Passengers in first and second class were usually spared all this, receiving medical checks in their cabins before being escorted off the ship.

Much has been written about the difficult conditions in steerage compared to first and second class cabins. Steerage reportedly had poor ventilation and poor facilities for maintaining hygiene. Fortunately, due to improvements in steam ships by 1910, the journey was half as long as it had been in the late 19th century. Also, Barbara and Leon were fortunate to travel on the Hamburg-America line.This line, created by Albert Ballin, who was himself an immigrant (to Germany from Denmark), created a good system for passengers waiting to board in Hamburg. (See my earlier blog When Millions Sailed from the Port of Hamburg for more information on this.)

Ballin also created the very popular "one ticket" system.* That means you could buy a train ticket from Warsaw to Hamburg and then upon arrival at Ellis Island continue all the way to your destination. What relief that must have been to anyone about to travel to a country with plenty of unknowns. If the Bogdanski family had this ticket, as is likely, that must have gone a long way to easing their minds.

   

Leon was 30 and Barbara 25* when they arrived at Ellis Island after just 5 days before Christmas. The next step in their journey was a train ride to Chicago. That's where they settled, as they had family expecting them there. Barbara's older sister, Marianna, had arrived from Poland in 1905, traveled to Chicago, and begun earning money as a seamstress. Family lore has it that she earned the money that brought her siblings to America--a common immigrant pattern in that era. In May of 2010, Barbara's mother, Agnieska Lugowska, and her two sisters, Valentina and Anna, arrived at Ellis Island, continuing on to Chicago. The destination they listed was the Chicago address of Felix Lugowski, Agnieska's husband. How long they stayed there, if at all, is unknown.

There are no diaries or handed-down stories of Barbara and Leon's experiences and impressions as they entered a new country and new life. If you visit the Ellis Island Museum or Statue of Liberty website, you'll find stories of the awe many immigrants felt as they saw the Statue of Liberty for the first time. I wonder if Barbara or Leon felt this, grieving as they must have been so soon after the death of their infant son, and possibly feeling unwell themselves. Perhaps the family's total focus was on the process of disembarkation and the continuation of their journey on land. 

When I was in 8th grade, I memorized and recited The New Colossus,  the famous poem by Emma Lazarus about the Statue of Liberty, written in 1893. The ending stays in my mind:

 “Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

I thought it was very beautiful and dramatic at the time, but it doesn't impress me so much now with phrases like "wretched refuse".  I much prefer this one instead, written very recently by Tracy K. Smith, US poet laureate 2017-19. It's called Harbor. And I like to imagine it might capture something that Barbara and Leon might have been feeling.

"Stranger, I find myself lost. Let us watch this new age gather

Overhead. Let’s see what rains onto unaccustomed skin.

Once, we were pelt, fur, hide. Only the seasons mattered. Now,

We shiver, crying out. Not from winter, but the fear in skin.

I see the tall masts of history in horizon fog. They dip

And rise. The tides they ride swell under human skin.

Be my guest. Drink tea, taste fruit and bread. The meat rests,

Cooling on the slab, but see how wine has flushed our skin?

This land you’ve sought is peopled with enemies and kin.

You’ll learn to read the whole long story written on skin.

We passengers wait. Our restless waiting forms an island.

One woman stands, sings. Her music enters through my skin.

Stranger, you’re the words to a hymn I’ve only ever hummed.

Come. Let’s erase the distance between skin and skin."

*There is some uncertainty over Barbara's birth date. We believe the likely year is 1885, but it could have been as late as 1889. 

**For an interesting view of the differences between cabins and steerage, see this short video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FSBwrCMcj_g&t=206

***For more resources on the experiences of immigrants to Ellis Island, try these sources: https://www.statueofliberty.org/discover/educational-resources/ and https://www.statueofliberty.org/ellis-island/national-immigration-museum/

 

 

When millions sailed from the Port of Hamburg

My maternal grandparents, Leon and Barbara Bogdanski, were among the millions who left Europe in the early 20th century. Their destination was the USA, specifically Chicago, Illinois, where relatives had worked to fund their passage. When I visited Germany and Poland this spring, I knew I had a chance to retrace at least some of their footsteps. First stop: Veddel Island in Hamburg, from which nearly 6 million sailed to new countries between 1850 and 1938. Leon and Barbara, living in what was then the Russian-held Polish city of Warsaw, traveled there in 1910.

What might that experience have been like? I wondered, not having known either of them. Barbara died before I was born and Leon, who I rarely saw, died when I was 9. My mother and her 7 siblings--none of whom are still alive--either did not know or did not volunteer the information. Thanks to the relatively new Emigration Museum Ballinstadt, built on the site of this mass migration, I was able to learn something of what they and so many others experienced in the days or weeks leading up to their departure.

I learned much more, as the museum looks at migration as a global phenomenon over centuries and helps viewers see just how many people have been, are or will be on the move. What is the push that sends someone away from home and the pull that brings him or her to a particular place?

The museum is spread through three low brick buildings near the Veddel train stop in Hamburg, bordered by a busy highway and much greenery as well.. Few were walking around the Friday morning in April when I arrived, this area that was once a mini-city, where travelers could stroll along tree-lined streets and ate in dining halls that could accommodate thousands at a time. The main man behind all this was shipping magnate Albert Ballin, who realized that running an emigration service in addition to cruises would boost the fortunes of what became one of the biggest shipping companies in the world.

As I followed the English guide to the German-language exhibits, I immediately saw how Ballin's enterprise put to shame current US immigration policy on the border with Mexico, where asylum seekers and children are kept in overcrowded conditions, without basic necessities and with dwindling hopes for a better life.

Thinking back to 1910....After arriving at Veddel--after a several-days-long journey--with their 2-year-old daughter Marie and infant son Kasimir in tow, Barbara and Leon were probably tired and hungry. Relief came soon. After registering, they received an accommodation assignment card that doubled as a meal ticket. They were able to stay together, being a family, while single men and women had separate living quarters. Clothing and luggage were disinfected and stored upon arrival, hand luggage only being allowed in the residence halls.

I was impressed--Were Leon and Barbara impressed too?--with the description of this little town with its numerous trees and paths. There was a church and a music hall and there were outdoor concerts on fine days. Children had a playground. Did all of this mitigate the frustration of the wait for departure? There were medical exams every morning--an important point for the shipping company, as it had to pay the return fare for any immigrant turned away at their destination for illness. There were practical matters involving waiting for travel papers and acquiring supplies for the voyage. On-site shops carried clothes, sanitary supplies and remedies for seasickness.

There were two dining halls: one for Jewish immigrants, where food was prepared according to dietary laws, and another kitchen for Christians. The kitchens, equipped with steamers and an ultra-modern potato-peeling machine could feed 3,000 people an hour. Tea and coffee, bread and butter for breakfast; soup with meat or fish, potatoes and vegetables for lunch, and tea, bread, sausage, cheese and stew for dinner.

Not that it was paradise. In the early days after its opening, the mini-city suffered from overcrowding and sanitary problems. However, a  solution was reached well before my grandparents arrived--new construction and a doubling of the size of the site. The museum has collected many letters from emigrants, and a constant theme was fear of failing a medical exam. There were delays in departure, timetable glitches and the like. Were Leon and Barbara often stressed out? Or were they patient, knowing they had tickets and people who would welcome them in their new home. Barbara's sister, Marianna, had emigrated 5 years earlier; her mother and two sisters in the spring of 1910.

On departure day, Leon and Barbara, with infant Kasimir and little Marie in tow, either walked or were ferried the 3 miles to the Grosser Grasbrook quay, the place where they would board a small feeder boat that would take them to the steamer. More waiting and still another medical exam. A nervous time perhaps, given the calamity it would have been to be turned away. Leon and Barbara and kids passed and were allowed to board the Amerika, the boat that would take them to Ellis Island. (Photo below is from the Ellis Island website.

Viewing the exhibits, I was disappointed to find nothing specifically about Poland. However, the "push" factors affecting affecting Polish emigrants were common to people in other countries as well: poverty as a result of growing population and lack of land or employment opportunities. For Jews, there was severe religious persecution. Poles in my grandparents' region,  I learned from later reading, suffered from the neglect and oppression of the Russian Empire. (Poland did not become an independent country until the end of World War I, having been partitioned for more than a century into three regions controlled by Russia, Germany and Austria.)

Family lore had it that Leon and Barbara emigrated to keep Leon out of the Russian Army. That's quite likely true, although one photo that survives shows him in a military uniform. Perhaps he was in fact conscripted, prompting him to escape by leaving Poland. According to one source, "Russian-occupied Poland experienced increasingly abusive Russification in the mid-19th century. From 1864 onward, all education was mandated to be in Russian, and private education in Polish was illegal. Polish newspapers, periodicals, books, and theater plays were permitted, but were frequently censored by the authorities. All high school students were required to pass national exams in Russian; young men who failed these exams were forced into the Russian Army. In 1890, Russia introduced tariffs to protect the Russian textile industry, which began a period of economic decline and neglect towards Poland."

Meanwhile, there was an industrializing country that wanted workers--The United States. The same source quoted above continued, "Immigrants...were attracted by the high wages and ample job opportunities for unskilled manual labor in the United States, and were driven to jobs in American mining, meatpacking, construction, steelwork, and heavy industry—in many cases dominating these fields until the mid-20th century. Over 90% of Poles arrived and settled in communities with other Polish immigrants. These communities are called Polonia and the largest such community historically was in Chicago, Illinois."

To be continued: Arrival on Ellis Island and a new life

A party at an inn in a forest by a lake

It's been two months since I returned from the event that brought me to Europe for a 3-week stay this spring. My friendship with Renate T., who I've known since my early days in Japan 25 years ago, resulted in a special invitation when R visited me in Denver last fall. She would celebrate a special birthday, her 80th, the following spring and she (along with her granddaughter Yoko) were planning a party to celebrate. Would I come? It was to be in her hometown, Aumühle, Germany, a small municipality north of Hamburg in Schleswig-Holstein.

I knew then that it was a done deal, but I waited until November to buy a plane ticket to Germany. And then this invitation came, decorated with photos of Renate as a child and the adult she is today, doing a lifelong favorite activity: reading. My anticipation grew.

Renate and I share February birthdays, but mercifully, for weather considerations, the party was planned for late April, a time when spring would be in the air and the days somewhat long. The location was the charming and historic Hotel Waldesruh am See, which translates to something like "forest rest by the lake". I would be treated to a two-night stay there. Ah--I was hooked.

This hotel, in a building dating back to 1737, is often described as "quaint"--WiFi service notwithstanding. Here's what it looks like from the front.

Both interior and exterior have no doubt changed a lot since the early 18th century, but there's certainly a feeling of previous decades--and centuries--inside: large vases of blooming shrub branches, dark wood paneling, faded photos of yesteryear's hunting parties.  My room delighted me, comfortable, with a casement window opening into the Sachsenwald Forest, now in early spring green. Here it is on the mid-morning day of departure. However, it's the untaken photo of the window in early morning, opening into a wall of green leaves filled with birdsong, that stays in mind.

In addition to the party, there was a special reunion--of three teachers who had not been together as a threesome for more than a decade. We taught languages at Tamagawa University in Japan: German by Renate, Spanish by Marimar, and English by me. We often enjoyed our "chatting power" as Marimar called it, over coffee after classes were done for the day. Then Marimar left for another university where she met and fell in love with Frank. They married, had a child, and eventually moved to Frank's home country, Germany.

Renate and I had visited several times during the past ten years, but I hadn't seen Marimar since she left Japan and moved to Nuremberg with her husband and daughter. The tears of nostalgia and joy in our eyes as we met up in the central train station in Hamburg is my strongest emotional memory. Arriving a day early, we traveled together to Aumühle. Here we are a day later before the party. From left: me, Renate's granddaughter Yoko, Renate, and Marimar.

Many other friends and family members came to the party from various places in Germany; other countries too, including Portugal, where two of Renate's cousins live. I was surprised to realize how many of the guests I had met before and well, how time does indeed pass. Renate's youngest son Fumihiko, his wife Masako and younger daughter Haruko had flown in from Japan a day earlier; oldest daughter Yoko came in from Kyoto, though she lives in Tübingen, the German university town where she's studying to be a doctor.I  had met the family when Yoko and Haruko were very young children. Renate's sisters were there, Susanne and Christine, who I met during my 2005 trip to Germany;  Susanne's partner Jo, and their two children, Johannes and Charlotte were there too. I first met Johannes, now over 30 and established in a career, when he was a tender youth of 17, staying in Japan for a few months to study Japanese. Charlotte, only 9 when I met her in 2005, is a pediatric nurse now. And there was Renate's brother, Hartwig and his wife Fadime, born in Turkey, who I first met during their visit to Japan;  and the former pastor of the German church in Tokyo came with her husband, reminding me of the church's amazing Christmas bazaar and concerts which I had attended several times during my years in Japan. And then there were the two grown children of Renate's sister Angelika, who died suddenly two years earlier. She was in many hearts, including mine, during this reunion weekend. With all of these memories, I felt tender toward this assembled group who shared my affection for Renate,  our very special friend/family member.

Here's the best of the group photos (sans me), set against a late afternoon forest backdrop. The young woman to the left of Renate, is her granddaughter Haruko, who sat next to me at the party and did a fine job as translator and charming lunch companion.

And oh, the party! There were tributes and presents, songs, a slideshow of Renate's many shared events with family over the years, even a literary quiz. Granddaughter Yoko gave an especially heartfelt tribute to the grandmother she loves and feels so much in common with. The Waldesruh staff brought us a delicious lunch of wine, cream of tomato soup, a ragout of Sachsenwald venison with green beans and potatoes (locally raised of course), and red berries with vanilla ice-cream. And during and after, smiles and conversations and catching-up stories, and photos; and it seemed to me, so much shared pleasure that this family, with its origins in a very small town in Germany, had spread so far over time and distance. Below is my favorite photo of Renate from that afternoon.

Evening came after a golden sunset, and Renate, Marimar and I had a chance to remember our language teaching days, as well as exchange news of our lives since then. An opened bottle of wine, Marimar's present, enhanced our "chatting power." I had last seen Marimar in Tokyo about a year after she had given birth to her daughter Amaya--now a cheerful, bright 9-year-old. How do I know? The following morning we Skyped with Frank and Amaya, who were at home in Nuremberg. That morning Renate, Marimar and I prepared to leave the Hotel Waldesruh shortly after a generous buffet breakfast of cheeses, meats, fish, breads, fresh fruit and yogurt, cold fresh juice, and some of the best coffee I ever had. We dined in style. A photo of the breakfast room: 

 

Then lots of goodbyes, hopes expressed for meeting again, a walk to the train station in the cool morning air. Marimar encouraged me to visit her and Frank and Amaya in Nuremberg. And who knows, maybe with Renate in Spain in two years. ("I'd like to take you there", Marimar had told us the night before.) A very good idea we agreed.

I was due to meet Renate in two days for the start of our 9-day trip to Poland, which I looked forward to. Yet, as I told Marimar, very, very sincerely, no matter how wonderful Poland would be, this weekend would remain the highlight of this journey.