The Good Old Days

by Annette Arndt

I’m paraphrasing my grandmother there. When were those “good old days”, exactly? It’s not like her life was terrible, it was just difficult. Both my mother’s and my father’s side of the family came from war torn countries that were assimilated into the USSR at the end of the second World War.

It was a dangerous time of flux. My grandfather was executed when my mom was only a few months old, leaving my young grandmother a single mom. As a result, my Oma’s choices were limited and she did what she had to do—escaping East Germany to find a better life, while leaving my mom behind, in the care of family. 

A few years later, after having found work and a place to live, my Oma was ready to care for my mother again, and made arrangements to smuggle her little girl from East to West Germany. Late one night, Oma traveled to the border of East Germany and waited by the edge of a field. A family member who looked most like my Oma—a sister travelling with Oma’s passport so that hopefully no one would question her—was picked to bring my mom to the meeting place.

The first night they tried to cross the field, my mother began to cry. Oma’s sister grew more and more nervous that they’d be caught—in those days the policy was to shoot first, ask questions later.

The next night Oma’s sister tried again, promising the toddler that she was going to see her mother. That everything would be ok. That her mother would be there on the other side. Only, when they got there, my mom didn’t know who this woman was, crying again and making it more difficult to hide. Oma and her sister quickly went their separate ways, undetected.

My Oma with my mom, before she left for West Germany, 1946

photo copyright Annette Arndt 2015

My father was born into similar circumstances as my mother. His parents were the most unassuming people. If you had met them, you’d never have suspected some of the things they experienced in their earlier life together.

My calm, quiet, humble grandfather worked hard to keep his family together and safe as they fled from their home, in what is now Ukraine, to reach safety. What makes it more remarkable is that his one leg was practically useless due to a childhood illness. 

They left in the winter of January 1941. Opa sent his mother, his wife (who was 8 months pregnant with my father at the time), and his two daughters ahead west, to the larger, safer cities. Meanwhile, he packed whatever they still owned on a wagon and came after them.

He went from one city to the next, from camp to camp, trying to find them. When he finally did, they had to keep moving because the Russians were getting closer. Conditions in the camps were terrible. Lice, disease. Most of the camps were work farms, and no one was exempt from the labour.

Ten years later, they immigrated to the United States. 

Ten years.

The Buerger Family right before leaving for the United States, 1951

photo copyright Annette Arndt 2015

Everyday I am grateful to be living here in Canada. I know where I came from. I know the sacrifices that were made so that I could have a better life.

When I saw this picture of a little Syrian boy (warning: disturbing), lying lifeless in the water, I cried. It broke my heart.

If you are like me, and don’t know much about what’s been happening in Syria, then this link can help explain the history of the crisis. Illustrated like this made it much easier for me to understand.

I hadn’t planned on writing on this subject today, but when my friend posted this picture on instagram yesterday, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. 

Why would these people risk their lives? Because they consider themselves dead already. 

Here is your call to action now. At the bottom of Ann Voskamp’s blog post are many, many ways you can get involved. I encourage you to do so now.