I Lost My Brother

A long time ago I lost my brother.

Hansi (John) was born in Paraguay in February 1949. Two years before his birth our family was part of a group of Mennonite refugees who had fled war-torn Germany to arrive at one of the most sparsely inhabited areas in South America, the Paraguayan Chaco. Together, these Mennonites built a number of villages there under extreme pioneer conditions.

Hansi was a heavy baby. My sister Irma on the left, carrying the brunt of the burden while I pose for the photo!

When Hansi was two years old, my mother was expecting her sixth child and had an over-whelming work load every day. My sister Irma and I were six and eight years old and were in charge of our two little brothers, Bernie (4) and Hansi (2). We just wanted to play with our dolls and our dishes, and the boys kept spoiling our fun! Finally, I was exasperated and had a bright idea. I suggested to Irma that we tie them up so they would stop bothering us. She went along with the plan. I don’t remember what we used or how we managed to do this, but somehow we did and then happily played, ignoring their cries. After a while we went to check on them and they were gone. When we couldn’t find them, we had to go tell our mother who was very upset with us. When she asked us where they might be, we had no answer. It reminds me of Cain’s response to God’s question about where his brother Abel was after he had murdered him: “I do not know. Am I my brother’s keeper?” (Genesis 4.1-9)

Although we sometimes felt like doing so, we had not murdered our brothers! Everyone was relieved when they were finally found wandering around in the kafir field, well hidden among the tall stalks. The four of us learned to play together with our dishes and our dolls. We had treats (raisins and cocoa powder mixed with water and sugar) and the boys were the dad and the big brother. Hansi especially loved treats and we could get him to do almost anything for a sweet reward.

There was a streak of mischief in our Hansi. His big green eyes would twinkle and his whole face would light up. Sometimes this happened at very serious occasions. I remember a village funeral which we all attended. Hansi decided he was hungry and began to demand his favorite food, fried eggs!
Some of the women put their fingers to their lips and shook their heads with a very stern look on their faces. He was not intimidated but imitated them exactly, furrowing his brow and shaking his head. They had to laugh in return and some benches shook inappropriately.

Hansi was three and a half years old when we arrived in Canada in October of 1952. When he was just beginning school, we almost lost him again due to a burst appendix. He spent weeks in a big city hospital away from his family. Doctors and nurses became his best friends. When he returned, he caught up to his classmates in no time and easily rose to the top of the class.

Hansi, front left, ready to go back to school after his near-death experience

As an adult John became a successful businessman, but he always had a big heart for his employees. Children and grandchildren, nieces and nephews loved their Dad, their Opa, and their Uncle John.

In his senior years he retired in Texas. The neighbours all knew the friendly man who went for a walk every morning. Then one morning he didn’t show up. 
On Wednesday, April 3, John woke up unwell and spent the day in hospital; doctors and nurses frantically worked to get rid of blood clots, but there were too many and by evening he was gone.

I lost my little brother again but this time he’s not coming back. In birth order John is number five and it feels like some of us should have gone before him.
I picture him, running through a field of kafir, mischief in his green eyes.

Farewell Hansi! I will see you again!