Sunday, 29 June 2014

The Impact of History on the Lives of Women





Last year I read Robert K. Massie's Catherine the Great: Portrait of a Woman. Massie specializes in writing about the Russian royals. He has a son with hemophilia and that inspired him to write Nicholas and Alexandra (1967). (The Russian tsar and his German-born wife also had a son stricken with the disease.) Massie went on to write Peter the Great (1980), The Romanovs (2011) and Catherine the Great (2012) for which he won the Pulitzer Prize. As I was reading Catherine the Great I kept thinking, this is an historical account, but her life reads like a novel; someone should write it as a novel." 

Shortly after I read Massie's book, I came across Eva Stachniak's The Winter Palace: A Novel of Catherine the Great (2012). I could not put it down.

Reading the historical account and the novel almost simultaneously was an interesting experience. However, there were certain things neither the historical version nor the novel fully explored for me. I really wanted to know more about how Catherine herself personally felt when her first husband rejected her and they went to bed night after night with no intimacy. Finally, after ten barren years, Catherine took a lover. Again, I wanted Stachniak to flesh out this relationship, and how it affected the empress. There were several more liaisons, one of which resulted in the murder of her first husband and Catherine's ascension to the Russian throne.


I don't know what prompted Stachniak to write another novel about Catherine the Great, Empress of the Night, but this second novel fleshed out all the missing aspects of the first one for me. One almost gets the impression that Stachniak felt she needed to rewrite the story from a different angle. It is written from Catherine's perspective instead of from the point of view of her personal servant Varvara, as is The Winter Palace. A review by Cheryl Girard in the Winnipeg Free Press calls this "the weakness of the novel." She writes, "Far too much time is spent dwelling on moonlight trysts and not enough on the historical accomplishments, politics and intelligence of the empress who was one of Russia's most influential female leaders." Perhaps the reviewer didn't read The Winter Palace, where Stachniak emphasizes all of that but neglects the emotional aspects.

Catherine the Great voraciously read the works of the French philosophers of her time and was idealistic enough at the beginning of her reign to try to emulate them and liberate the Russian serfs who suffered greatly and were treated like slaves. However, she was completely discouraged by her advisers from implementing these reforms and eventually gave up trying to do so. One wonders how history might be different had she persisted and insisted on these endeavors.




While I was still immersed in Russian history, someone alerted me to a fascinating memoir, Wild Swans: Three Daughters of China by Jung Chang (1991). The person who recommended this book was reminded of it after viewing a painting Ray Dirks did on his Road to Freedom exhibit of The Three Katharinas (pictured below -- my great-grandmother, my grandmother and my mother, all of whom were born in Ukraine and eventually found their way to Canada).







A blurb on the back cover of this book reads, "Wild Swans is a riveting account of the impact of history on the lives of women. This is a powerful, moving, at times shocking story of three generations of Chinese women ... ." -- Mary Morris

Wild Swans portrays a different aspect of Communism than the one with which I'm familiar. The author's parents saw the Communists as liberators from the oppressive Japanese, instead of as enemies as my parents did. However, even though Jung Chang's parents are completely dedicated to Communism, their view gradually changes as the novel progresses. The corruption rampant within the party offends their purist and idealistic version of Communism, which they have embraced with every fibre of their being. Because they are courageous enough to object to Mao Zedong's narcissistic style of government which is destroying their country once again, they are severely punished and the family experiences incredible suffering, as does the whole population of China. The courage and amazing resilience displayed by the author's mother and grandmother in the face of personal tragedy and great loss is almost unbelievable and a testimony to the strength of the human spirit.

Reading Massie's historical accounts of the Russian nobility, Stachniak's historical novels, and Jung Chang's memoir caused me to ponder my family's own personal saga. I was again struck by the two opposing forces so evident in history: the power to corrupt and the strength and stamina to withstand corruption. The main characters are these strong bigger-than-life women of endurance and great courage. They just never give up, no matter how terrible the circumstances.of their lives.



Tuesday, 24 June 2014

Remembering is a Way of Meeting

"Each time we embrace a memory we meet again with those we love, for the heart never forgets."

If someone were to ask me, "What was the saddest day of your life?," I would answer that question in a heartbeat, even though I have had many sad and many joyful days in the span of my seventy years.

The saddest day of my life was May 24th, 1969. That was the day we lost our first-born son, Harold Mark. It was preceded by the most joyful day of my life, the day he was born. Joy and sorrow, birth and death, so closely linked, so deeply experienced. "What is the meaning of it all?" I questioned sadly:



Blossom so white, so pure,
made to delight
with your lovely aroma and sight!
Why must you die
when you've barely started this life?

Harold Mark was born on a  cool dry-season day in Kinshasa, Zaire (now DR Congo), just outside the doctor's office, six weeks prematurely. We had one look at him just after he was born. Then he was whisked away to the nearby Catholic hospital and put into an incubator. Our hopes were high, but the next morning a nurse came with the words, "The sister was not able to save your baby." The saddest part about all of this is that I never saw him again. I never said good-bye. I never made closure.

Cut off too soon
from the root and the stem that bore you,
leaving it lonely and bare,
spilling its white sap-milk uselessly 
to the ground.

Our son's little grave was one of many fresh graves. Buried in this same cemetery were about sixty innocent young men, university students who had protested against the authorities and had been shot point blank. Every time we went to his gravesite, we were met by soldiers who looked at us with suspicion and asked us why we came there. I wondered if the mothers of these students were ever allowed to visit their graves.

Three months after our son's death, we moved to the provincial town of Kikwit. Friends of ours agreed to look after his grave.

We left DR Congo in 1984 and have not returned, but "the heart never forgets." Each time one of our three daughters left home, the sense of loss I experienced at the birth of our only son intensified. I knew I needed to make some sort of closure but I didn't know how.

It has taken a long time, but just recently the answer came to me and I acted on it. May 30th (my mother's birthday) dawned bright and sunny. On this day we remembered our son and our brother (who would be 45 years old had he lived) by planting a golden ash on our church property. Two of our daughters and their families as well as our care group and one of my sisters attended this ceremony. It was not a sad occasion, but a wonderful life-affirming time.




Our two strong sons-in-law and our oldest grandson helped our friend and care group member Edd lift the tree from the truck and brought cartloads of soil to pack around it.




The younger grandchildren sat around the tree and played happily, their bare feet digging into the moist rich soil. They were experiencing Harold Mark in their own way.

After we planted the tree, we had a short dedication service in which each of us had a part. We read the scriptures that were read at Harold Mark's graveside service so many years ago as well as a Bible passage that had become personally meaningful to us during that time. I also read a poem I had written; a sad little poem in which I questioned the meaning of this life-changing event:

Blossom, so white, so pure,
what were you meant to be?
Blossom, too soon you died.
The answer is lost to me.




Over the years I found that this life-shattering event could also be interpreted as life affirming and I could be at peace with it, but I needed something physical, something that I could touch and say, "This is in memory of someone who lived a very short life and might otherwise be forgotten." I don't want the event to be erased as if it never happened. Harold Mark is our son and part of our family and we want to remember that.

                    Together, our family vowed to remember:

                    At the rising of the sun and at its going down, we remember.
                    At the blowing of the wind and in the chill of winter, we remember.
                    At the opening of the buds and in the rebirth of spring, we remember.
                    At the blueness of the skies and in the warmth of summer, we remember.
                    At the rustling of the leaves and in the beauty of the autumn, we remember.
                    As long as we live, you too will live, for you are now a part of us.
                                                                                    -- Gates of Prayer [Reform Judaism Prayer Book]