Dreams Do Come True

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“Move along, be quick. Get in line.”

Harsh voices, loud noises, pushing and shoving. It’s late 1937, two years before the Second World War and the place is a Latvian orphanage.  A desolate and very unhappy young girl is living a miserable existence, her legs scratched and bleeding from the rough woollen socks she is forced to wear and her feet are wet because she has no gumboots.

She is lonely and she is sick. For you see she has spent most of her young life in a hospital isolation ward for tuberculosis of the spine. When it was time to leave, she had no family to go to. Her parents and her grandmother had long since died, and her only close relative, her grandfather, had fallen on hard times. He lived in a cramped one-room attic, and the authorities would not allow him to take her, so she was placed in Riga Orphanage. She was admitted on 7th September 1937, a week after her 14th Birthday.

“Get your hands off, that’s mine.”

Too many bullies. The safe refuge of the hospital that was home for nine long years is gone, and daily life is now about the survival of the fittest. But unfortunately, her lungs and spine are badly damaged and still weak, and having to fend for herself and deal with the harsh daily regime is not easy. She sleeps in a twenty-bed dormitory, her only private space, her bed. And her life is dominated by bells. There is a bell for everything; for washing, for dressing, for eating, for school, and for sleeping. Bell after bell controls her every movement. There is never a moment to recover. She has, to be sharp and fast, something that is difficult for a girl who is not physically strong. She even has, to fight for food – breakfast is a case of the quick or the dead, and she is not quick.

“Don’t you know how to walk!”

It’s slow. Getting around is difficult. There are lots of steps. She doesn’t walk like other children, nor can she run or play as she still wears a back brace. And because her gait is different, the other children ridicule her and often push her over. Years of living in an institution has left its mark – she is insecure, fearful, and lacks self-esteem. So, she speaks to no one, and no one speaks to her.

“Please, send me a miracle.”

She prays every day. When she was discharged from hospital, she was given a parting gift – a book of her favourite stories. One of these stories, about an angel sent to earth at Christmas to find a child for a mother who had lost hers, had captured her heart. The angel searches and searches, and on Christmas Eve, finds the child he is looking for – a destitute orphan who desperately needs a mother. And in the words of the book, ‘with the love in the light of a candle flame’, the angel brings them together.

With her very soul, this young girl believes it is a true story, and with burning faith, believes it is also her story. She sleeps with the book under her pillow and whispers the words every night, praying to God and the angels for her miracle to come true. So, deep and intense is her belief that she is convinced her prayers will be answered with the coming of Christmas, only weeks away. She is sure the angels will send her a mother, exactly the right mother, to fill her life with love.

“Oh, my child, my heart bleeds.”

The rescuer comes. In this lonely existence, one day she has an unexpected visitor – her grandfather. He has come to see what her life is like. And what he finds not only shocks him, it makes him very angry. He is not prepared to lose his granddaughter to a life of poverty and struggle. He is still owed money from the days when he was a wealthy man, and if he couldn’t get the money, he was going to make damn sure his granddaughter’s needs were met. And so, without ceremony, he turns on his heel and makes his way to the doorstep of the man who owes him the most.

His actions set powerful wheels in motion. Karline, the wife of the man he visits decides to go to the orphanage to see for herself, this child he is so passionate about. She is a kind and loving woman, and it is with a caring heart that she sits beside a tiny, frail young girl, in the dormitory of the orphanage. And as if it is heaven sent, the girl beside her instantly knows this is the miracle she has been praying for. This kind lady with the loving eyes is her mother. She is certain of it. And without a second’s thought, she looks up into the face of compassion and utters the words which are the turning point in both their lives.

“Mother, when are we going home?”

This was indeed the miracle she had been longing for. The young girl was my mother and the kind stranger was the only grandmother I ever knew. And so, it was that my mother spent her first Christmas in ten years in the care of a loving family. And as the weeks went by, their bond grew. With the blessing of my mother’s grandfather, in February 1938 they adopted her, and Omi and Opaps, as we always called them, became my grandparents. Omi did everything in her power to bring my mother back to health and Opaps lived up to his responsibility and gave her everything she needed, and more.

So, yes, dreams do come true and debts are paid in the most miraculous way. And the gift of love lives on.

© Inara Hawley 2017

Note: This is a university writing assignment with a limit of 1000 words, and a rewrite of a family memoir story I wrote in 2013 with the same title. You can find it here if you wish to compare them. It’s not vastly different, but I like to think the changes I have made have improved the piece.  I hope you do too!

A Beautiful Thing

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Writing Exercise – Placing an Ancestor’s Object in History

“I can’t leave it behind. What if I don’t come back?” said Karline, as she looked at her most precious piece of porcelain.

Karline, my grandmother, was preparing to leave Latvia and the Russian onslaught that was coming. She was packing her most prized possessions and sending them to a friend in the country. The piece she held in her hand represented the life she and her husband, Theodore had built for themselves.

As her husband’s business, had grown, so had their social standing. Karline learned to cook French cuisine, a dressmaker was hired to make new clothes, and she visited the hair salon regularly. On weekends, like all well-to-do people, they walked in the parks, listened to bands and drank coffee at cafes. They even had a private box at Riga’s Opera House.

And of course, they entertained often. Guests arrived in the early afternoon; the gentleman played cards and the ladies chatted, while they nibbled on French tartlets and cakes before dinner was served. This is the life she was leaving. The life the porcelain piece represented.

She could not leave it behind, and she didn’t. She carried it through war-torn Europe, as they moved from city to city and as the bombs fell. They survived the annihilation of Dresden and they survived the refugee camps. And miraculously, the porcelain that held my grandmother’s memories survived as well.

Today, I am privileged to own it. A beautiful handmade Jessen soup tureen – not only a tangible memory of my grandmother’s glory days, but a symbol of survival and a life well-lived.

(262 words)

© Inara Hawley 2017

Leaving Latvia

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Writing Exercise – A ‘Point of No Return’ Event for An Ancestor

For my mother’s family, leaving Latvia was inevitable. When the Russians were close to regaining Communist control in 1944, it was time to prepare for escape.

My mother’s adoptive parents sent their porcelain and crystal to friends, then packed clothes, bedding, and the barter goods they would need. Next, they packed preserved food. Black bread, fish, vegetables, butter, jam, and tea. And my mother, who was still in high school, packed photos of her deceased parents, and her books.

When they heard the guns and saw the fires burning – the Germans were destroying Latvia as they left – it was time to go. On 4th September 1944, they fled on the last ship to leave Riga for Europe, a cargo vessel full of animals, injured soldiers, and terrified people.

With no available sleeping quarters, my grandfather bartered for beds. He bribed the crew with alcohol and cameras. My mother, the smallest, slept in a bathtub.

They arrived safely in Danzig two days later, lucky to have not been bombed. A month later, in October 1944, Riga fell.

My mother did not take in the full seriousness of the situation, nor the fact that they were fleeing to a Europe in the full grip of war. However, in a moment of true defiance, on the day she left Latvia, my mother expressed her true feelings for the first time, without fear of retribution. She scratched, ‘I HATE COMMUNISM’ in large letters across her desk for all to see.

She believed she would return. They never did, and not only did they leave behind their life and their possessions, they left behind their most precious ideal – Latvia’s freedom.

(275 words)

© Inara Hawley 2017

A Hospital Home

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Writing Exercise: An Account of An Ancestor in a Frightening Place

Antonija died of tuberculosis aged 31, but it was her four-year-old her daughter, Ksenija, who would bear the brunt of the disease for the rest of her life.

Ksenija had been diagnosed with a spinal injury which required attention, but as her family was in the grip of grief, she was kept quietly at home until her mother died. In her weakened state, however, exposure to tuberculosis was to have serious consequences. It was only after her mother’s funeral that her grandmother took her to the City Hospital in Riga for further tests.

It was a visit, she remembered well. To a small child, it was an ominous place. The rooms were huge, the windows, enormous, the beds impossibly high, and thunderous footsteps echoed through the halls. But most of all, she remembered the fear. In her child’s mind, the doctors were white giants who spoke words she didn’t understand.

The test results confirmed a diagnosis no-one wanted to hear: tuberculosis of the spine, a crippling illness which required long-term treatment in an isolation ward. She was then five years old, but in the 1920’s there was no gentle easing into an extended hospital stay. One day she just didn’t go home.

She entered hospital a confused little girl, and left, nine long years later, an insecure teenager. She had lost her mother, the safety of her home, and the loving kisses and hugs that only her family could give her. The hospital, a bleak, loveless environment, became her home, one from which she couldn’t escape.

In her own words: “The days turned into weeks, the weeks turned into months, and the months turned into years”.

(276 words)

© Inara Hawley 2017

Man of Honour

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Writing Exercise: Walking in The Shoes of An Ancestor

I was surprised to see Jekab on my doorstep. Even more surprised to find him sober.

He didn’t wait to be invited in. He barged in blustering and demanding to be heard, and a few minutes later, I knew the reason why.  And now I have a decision to make.

Yes, I owe him money. A lot of money. Yes, I am obligated. And no, I will not give a drunk money. I do not trust him.  I will not pander to the demands of an alcoholic. He knows that, and up until today, has not come begging.

But now he demands! He says the child’s needs must be met, and I have the money. The hide of the man! It is his disgraceful behaviour and irresponsible neglect that has cost him everything, not the debts he hasn’t collected. He has only himself to blame.

I abhor weakness and I abhor irresponsibility. Jekab is both of those things, but I abhor dishonour more. So, I have decided. Tomorrow, my wife will go to the children’s home and see for herself. She will tell me what is needed to be done for this granddaughter of Jekab. Then I will see if he speaks the truth.

And if he does, I will gladly pay my debt… on one condition. The money must not grace his palm. It is the child I will be helping, not him. He doesn’t deserve it, but I am not heartless. I will help the child.

After all, I am a God-fearing man of honour.

(257 words)

© Inara Hawley 2016

Lost and Found

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Writing Exercise: An Event in the Life of An Ancestor

Born in 1869, my great grandfather was both a man of means and a pauper during his lifetime. A tradesman – painter of murals in churches, he rose to become a man of property and a man of business. He lived with courage and purpose.

He married and had three beautiful daughters. Life was good. But one’s character strengths can crumble all too quickly when the heart is broken. By 1928 he lost all three daughters to tuberculosis – the great white plague. Within 6 months they were all gone, and his five-year-old granddaughter was hospitalised with tuberculosis of the spine. She spent the next 9 years in a hospital ward, during which time, his wife also died.

It wasn’t long before my great grandfather was living alone in an attic crammed full of memories, his only solace, alcohol. He had lost everything.

When his granddaughter, was released to a State Home, he visited her and what he found appalled him. She was in a pitiful state with a back brace. She could barely walk.

Suddenly, courage and purpose dormant for so long gripped him. He knew what he had to do. He knocked on the door of a wealthy man who still owed him money and demanded his granddaughter be cared for.

And she was. They adopted her in February 1938.

These are the stories my mother told me when I was writing her memoirs. She remembers it all. Others may have seen her grandfather as a good for nothing drunk, but in saving her, his heart was revealed. It was strong and true.

(263 words)

© Inara Hawley 2016

A Family at Last

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Writing Exercise: Hooking the Reader with a Family History Story

For the first time since she was five years old, my mother experienced family life. Adopted at the age of 14 her life was now taking a very different path from her Seventh Day Adventist beginnings. She would be christened in the Lutheran Church and have a far more structured existence than her birth family could ever have imagined.

While the little family of three lived together happily, there was a genuine undercurrent of sadness for my mother’s adoptive parents – they were estranged from their son. He had married a woman they did not approve of.

They had not attended the wedding, nor had their son been to visit his mother. Almost a year had gone by since she had seen her son. But circumstances had now changed. He had heard of the adoption.

Having a young girl to love and care for did much to fill the void, but a mother’s heart for a lost son will always ache. Whenever the doorbell rang, with a hopeful heart, she said, “That may be my son…”

Her husband, however, was still very angry and made it clear their son was not welcome. But he was not there the fateful day the knock on the door came. My mother was the one who ran to answer it. When she realised who, it was she threw her arms around him with pure delight. In her mind, he was her brother and she welcomed him with an open heart.

He had no such inclination. Consumed with jealousy and rage, he pushed past her and marched into the living room, into the waiting arms of his mother.

(272 words)

© Inara Hawley 2016