Commemorating Anti-Fascist Martyrs

Annamaria on Monday

This coming week marks a relatively unknown antifascist anniversary: the execution of the Gloeden family.  Here is Lilo Gloeden, and below at her trial on the 27th of November 1944.

Born Elizabeth Kuznitsky, Lilo was a lawyer who had married Erich Gloeden, ne' Loevy--an architect from a Jewish family.  Her husband had been adopted with the consent of his parents to mask his Jewish background.  Secretly anti-Nazi, during the Holocaust, Lilo and her husband gave temporary sanctuary in their Berlin home to Jews escaping persecution.  They got away with that.

Then came the aftermath of the attempted assassination of Hitler known as Valkyrie.  Thereby, as I am sure you know, hangs a tale of its own.  A greatly simplified version: the would-be assassins were almost all officers in the German army.  Their motivation was, generally speaking, not to rid the world of a ruthless, tyrannical leader and his dreadful deeds, but to save Germany of the humiliating defeat they saw coming.  They were not out to replace the right-wing government, but to extend it by attracting accommodations from the soon-to-be-victorious Allies.  Their method was a bomb in an attache case.  Which exploded.  The Fuhrer was then believed, by the escaping assassin, to be dead.  But Hitler survived.

In the chaotic immediate aftermath, some of the conspirators believed they had succeeded and began to put into place their planned new government.  Others, learning that Hitler lived, changed sides and began ratting out their coconspirators.

During the ensuing manhunt, the Gloedens took in and hid one of the Valkyrie generals, Fritz Lindemann of the Wehrmacht, whom they tried to pass off as a retired major and a journalist.  Eventually, the Gestapo got on to them and raided their apartment, killing Lindemann and arresting Lilo, Erich and Lilo's mother.

During their trial, Erich tried to save his wife and mother-in-law by claiming that they didn't know who Lindemann really was.  But the women stood up to the court and admitted their involvement.   On 30 November 1944, all three of the defendants were beheaded by axe.  Their punishment was widely publicized as a warning to anyone who would conspired against the already doomed Reich.

Lilo and Erich and her mother are commemorated with plaques near site of the apartment where they gave sanctuary.

On The (Sacred) Road

-- Susan, every other Sunday

By the time this post goes live, I'll be approximately one day into a 50-mile, week-long trek through the mountains of Wakayama Prefecture, along the ancient Kumano Kodo pilgrim trail. These sacred routes have been traveled by pilgrims for over 1,000 years, and in 2004 were declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

Wakayama is known for its ancient forests.

The Kumano Kodo consists of several sacred trails that cross the Kii Peninsula, south-southwest of Kyoto and Osaka. Pilgrims walked the trails seeking enlightenment and to pray at the three Grand Shrines of Kumano: Kumano Hongu, Kumano Hatayama, and Kumano Nachi.

While I've spent a lot of time (alone, and in the company of friends) on Koyasan - a sacred mountain that sits at the end of one of the sacred Kumano routes, I've never visited any of the grand shrines and have never had the opportunity to walk the Kumano Kodo itself (until now).

With the lovely, talented Annamaria Alfieri, on Koyasan last month.

I planned this trip more than a year ago--and made the down payment to the company that arranged my "self-guided tour" (read: solo hike, with someone else doing the heavy lifting as far as accommodations and luggage transport are concerned) before my cancer diagnosis last November.

At the time, I hoped the hike would come at the midpoint of my 100 Summits journey, giving me a chance to reflect on what the first half of my mountain quest had taught me and what I hoped to achieve on the proverbial "downhill side."

Now, with cancer surgery, chemotherapy, and a first "clear check" post-cancer behind me, I find myself looking forward to these silent, reflective miles even more.

Another of Koyasan's forested trails, similar to the ones I'll walk this week.

As it happens, the hike is also coming near the midpoint of the 100 Summits project. I've completed 43 climbs at the time of writing this, and should have finished 44 before I start the Kumano Kodo hike a little less than 48 hours from now.

Autumn is rapidly fading into winter here in Japan, and it's possible that I will see snow in the mountains of Wakayama. At a minimum, the nights will fall below freezing and the daytime temperatures should hover between "chilly" and "what-was-I-thinking." Even so, I'm excited to walk the trail.

Here's hoping it's more foliage than flakes...

For more than 1,000 years, pilgrims from every Japanese social class and every walk of life (and foreign pilgrims, too) have walked these trails in search of enlightenment and peace.

I'm taking my boots, my backpack, and as few expectations as possible. To the extent it lies within me, I'm leaving distractions behind me, too - for the next seven days, I'll have no social media, no computer, and only limited email access (by design). I don't remember the last time I unplugged this completely, and though I don't know exactly what the next eight days will bring, I suspect it will be both highly educational and deeply memorable.

Jizō Bosatsu, Buddhist patron of travelers, children, the unborn, and all souls in need.

As for the rest, I'll let you know when I get back from the road.

There's So Much to Be Thankful For

Jeff—Saturday

Yes, I know there are some who disagree with that titled thought.  Some likely VEHEMENTLY.  To those sincere souls I say, “Go with what works for you, but I prefer my perspective.” 

Perhaps I’m feeling that way because I just returned from a week on our planet’s newest bit of real estate attending Iceland Noir, and for those of you who might be considering a visit to that magical land of myths and mythmakers (from Caro’s post yesterday, I’d say that includes our very own Glaswegian Queen of Mystery), I have a warning: Your spirit is about to be overwhelmed by the raw power of Iceland’s natural spartan beauty. 

This is my third visit in four years, and I’m hooked; so much so that when I stopped in Keflavik International Airport’s duty free shop to buy licorice to sustain me on the flight to New York, I instead bought a leather-bound volume of Icelandic poetry, and completely forgot about the licorice.

I love the place more each time I go.  Even the police are nice, as I learned when a taxi driver tried to rip me off, and when I didn’t give in to his demands, summoned the police in an effort to intimidate me, only to see them courteously agree with me and send him on his way.

The taxi driver meets his match

This trip was particularly special, not just because of all the old friends I got to spend time with, and new ones I made, but because my daughter and her family had tagged along. My son-in-law wrote a school report on Iceland when he was eleven, and this was his first chance to visit.  Even the relentless rain did not dampen our spirits (please tell me I didn’t actually write that last line). All that was missing from making this the perfect holiday were my straight A’s dynamic duo Texas grandchildren who couldn’t miss school for our frolic in Reykjavik and environs. Oh well, Bouchercon 2019 is in Dallas!

Yrsa's photobomber and mine, together again

I really was working

Here's where Iceland Noir took place

In the Idno

But enough about spiritual change…something so many in the West obsess about these days.  To quote the legendary Alfred E. Neuman, “What? Me worry?”  

Some say he couldn’t write those words today, but I say of course he could.  All he need do is visit Iceland, get out into the countryside, nibble on a bit of fermented shark, down a shot or two of Brennivin, and look in any direction at what nature has put in place and Icelanders work hard at preserving. 

Here are some more photos of what I’m talking about (the best ones were taken by Barbara Zilly, as usual):

Here's the story of Iceland's fermented shark delicacy

Here's were the fermentation drying step takes place

Here's what it looks like to taste it

And in conclusion, here's Iceland Noir's newest fan with the Queen of it all.

—Jeff

And you thought things were bad!

 It is now known when the worse time to be alive was. And it’s not when sitting on the car park mistakenly called the M8 motorway on a Friday night at 5.15,  in a national rail strike, in the sleet, after a curry the night before,  with only the greatest hit ( singular) of Boyzone CD to listen to  and the car heater circulating the air somehow, in some way,  reminding you that the puppy was sick when taking it to the vet last week, and that you forgot to clean it up. 

                                             

Although I was  driving back  from Hawick, way down in the bottom bit of Scotland, after a national book week event  at midnight last night, on a very twisty high road, through thick fog with a serious lack of chocolate.

It wasn’t then either. Nope.

 The worst time to be alive on the planet earth was   536 AD.  Probably about two thirty on a Thursday afternoon. As Douglas Adams would say, it’s close to that long dark tea time of the soul, but you still have a few spreadsheets to do before the weekend.

Some of these scientific reasearchy  types have been looking into it. 

                                            

We know about the plague, the black death, the Spanish flu and many other incidents when pandemics have obliterated  mankind ( personkind?),  the totals  of lives lost being well over a hundred million.

                                              

 But these researchers are now looking back at the year 536 AD and discovering that many more lives were lost in that year, and it was all the fault of those Icelandic volcanoes again.

                                        

Yes, I have been booked to go to Iceland Noir three times now and three times something has turned up that has prevented me from going so this entire blog is just a jealous venge.

It seems that in 536 AD, the entire planet was plunged into total darkness as a huge ash cloud blocked the sun.

It lasted for 18 months. ( Can only conclude it was less windy then.)

Without solar heat, the  temperatures dropped, crops failed,  populations and domestic stock starved to death.

People who know about these things reckon that the summer temperature that year went as low as  1.5 c.  (34.7 f) The ten years that followed would be the coldest for the previous 2,300. I have no idea how they know that...

                                           

"It was the beginning of one of the worst periods to be alive, if not the worst year," Michael McCormick, historian and archaeologist, told Science Magazine. He is the chair of Harvard University, initiative for the science of the human past. With his colleague  glacier expert Paul Mayewsi, they  have been performing precise tests on the ice  from a Swiss glacier and have been slowly  revealing its secrets . It had been known that there was an ‘incident’ in the years 500 plus AD and that incident had probably involved a  cloud of something going over the sun and they could calculate the  subsequent devastating effects on life.

In the 1990s, studies had revealed that the annual growth rings in trees showed a pattern that appeared to suggest the summers of the mid 550s were more chilly than they should have been and further  evidence from the glacier  points to three volcanic eruptions around that time..

Now they have unlocked the  mystery.

The year then got worse when the  bubonic plague  infected those at the  Roman port of Pelusium, in Egypt around 536 AD that infection wiped out nearly fifty percent of the population.

The researchers found that there were no lead deposits in the ice until 640 AD, which suggests that industry and Europe  was at  standstill until that time, the lead being taken as evidence that some kind of  industrialisation was once again growing.

So  that’s cheery. In the presence of Brexit, the Orange one,  dreich weather and fog on the Ochils, at least it’s not 535AD, at midnight,   about to wish each other a happy new year.  

 Caro Ramsay

Bag and baggage

Michael (surrounded by boxes) Thursday

They say that moving home is the third most stressful event after a death in the family and a divorce. I guess the latter usually includes moving home, so there is a quantum jump there. I think the stress is largely driven by the deadline, and the sinking feeling that there simply won’t be enough time to get everything done by the time the moving truck arrives. (Oh, by the way, remember to arrange the moving truck.) This was aggravated by the much more enjoyable experience of launching Dead of Night in Johannesburg with Stan. (Cape Town in February; US middle of next year.) That left less than a week to deal with the packing. Stan and I actually wanted to fit in a short Botswana trip also for research on the new Kubu book. In desperation I contacted the purchasers of my townhouse and asked if they could give me a week’s grace. No dice – they were snowed under by commitments on their side.

With the removals truck looming first thing last Tuesday morning, we worked until 1:30 am in the morning and were back again at 7 am. The movers arrived at 10:30 am as we taped up the last box. The rest of the day was spent checking inventories and explaining what should and should not be taken. I have a few bottles of wine. No way was that going in a removals truck. My car groaned under the 300 kgs. Okay, more than a few bottles. Oh, and my best pictures. The artist has now become well known, so I could never replace them, or even insure them for a reasonable value. They squeezed in on top of the wine. Then there was my Chiwara. That had to fit in too. It's not a convenient shape. And a few clothes. And all the last-minute stuff we missed…

The Chiwara made it!

Finally there was the Skimmer. I place on record that the Skimmer belongs to Stan, although it is on ‘permanent loan from the collector’ as the art museums say. It's delicate, and we both love it. That had to travel on the passenger’s lap. For 750 miles. I can’t show you what it looks like this week, because it will not be escaping from its bubble wrap until it is truly safe. And that means when the builders, movers, TV installers, internet installers, security alarm installers, cupboard carpenters, and painters are no longer daily visitors.

The mystery bird in protective plumage

So one week ago, dirty, stressed, and exhausted after cleaning the townhouse, we set off for Knysna. After about 250 miles we stopped for the night in Bloemfontein, grateful that at least that stage was over. All was well until the next morning when the credit card used to pay the hotel disappeared somewhere between the reception desk and the car. Or into the car. So everything that could come out did. This included a toilet brush in a ceramic holder which shattered as it descended to the ground at speed. Two hibiscuses and two ferns in pots. Assorted marker pens. Some chocolate. Everything except the errant credit card. Once the whole car was unpacked in Knysna, it turned up slipped between the seats and under the carpet. It was still chuckling. That was well after it had been cancelled, of course.

So why, in fact, would one do this to oneself? Well, yesterday evening as friends in Johannesburg fought their way home through the rush hour traffic, we relaxed on the deck with glasses of Macon and watched the bushbuck making a living from the lush grasses on the hill around us. The harsh sound of automobiles was replaced by the harsh calls of Knysna turacos and the more musical ones of bou bou shrikes. And we looked out at the Knysna lagoon.

Now to unpack another box. Maybe this one will have the cutlery…

PS HAPPY THANKSGIVING EVERYONE!

The Golden State

Sujata Massey

Naomi Hirahara and me in a Japanese garden in Little Tokyo

The Golden State was the port of entry for me as a very young immigrant from Great Britain. Although my family's stint in California only totaled three years of my childhood, it has always held a mythic place in my heart. Palo Alto is where I remember collecting snails in the garden during a rainy winter and my parents getting their first car. Berkeley is where I spent a mostly ecstatic eighth grade year during in which I bought my first album (The Commodores) and had an awkward first kiss (Laurence).

The beloved house that we rented in the Berkeley Hills was destroyed to a wildfire that raged up from Tilden Park in the 1980s. So I know that fire is both shocking and a fact of life in California.

It has been terrible to follow the news of the devastating fires of Fall 2018 currently raging through residential areas in both Northern and Southern California. These fires--more than 7600--are the most destructive in California's history. There are reportedly more than 14,000 people fighting fires, including a number of volunteers and prison inmates.

Arguments abound about whose fault these fires are and whether global warming is a factor. I have no argument with global warming and the increasing dryness of California has been well-documented. This article in Slate gives a great explanation of many factors, including the dangerous conditions caused by building very close to wilderness. In some areas, like the town of Paradise, the fire jumped from building to building, and trees were actually left standing.

A vintage academic building at Occidental College

A few days ago, I flew with my teenaged son to Los Angeles County for college visits planned several months ago. I was almost certain that CalArts, the school we were visiting near Santa Clarita, would have been evacuated. It turned out the flames hadn't come that close, and the campus was open for visiting.

Historic student housing at Occidental College

It felt surreal to drive along the typical crowded highways visiting schools during the three day period. The sky was hazy sometimes, and there was something in the air that gave me slight cough, now and again--but it was manageable. Yet probably twenty or thirty miles away, everything was burned black. The reports from Northern California were even worse; one of my friends has to wear a mask when she goes outside, the air is so filled with particulate matter. And people are living with the knowledge that hundreds are likely dead, and thousands displaced with no chance of rebuilding their homes.

Most California citizens and officials have worked hard not to speed up global warming by regulating energy, cars, and potential sources of pollution. On the trip, we saw electric charging stations for cars everywhere, and my son was surprised to be billed 15 cents for a bag when he was buying sundries at a gas station. The colleges all had well-identified recycling stations and served food in compostable containers. But still--a lot of people want to live in California. And developers and towns have allowed buildings to go up very close to areas with a lot of dry brush.

Rebuilding existing cities takes on new meaning. It was heartening to see reuse of old buildings in many areas we visited. Inside Los Angeles's Little Tokyo, the crime writer Naomi Hirahara took me to an oasis tucked within city buildings--a Japanese garden that honored the neighborhood's population and was filled with lush California and non-native plants. I visited writer Jerrilyn Farmer at her beautiful 1920s Spanish home located within a completely urban district in Glendale.

At the University of Southern California, my son and  sat in a former sound stage that had been turned into a performing arts theater. The CalArts tour guide was proud to show us what may be the country's last modular theater. As I walked around Occidental College, I was taken by many lovely 1920s buildings that spoke of a nostalgic era. And just like in my day--not all the dorms had air conditioning!

The Mayfair Hotel in downtown Los Angeles

The hotel we stayed in was a recycle, too. The Mayfair was once one of the largest hotels West of the Mississippi. This 14-floor hotel was built in 1927 in what was once the heart of Los Angeles, but now is a little bit lonely.  The hotel's claim to fame is that American crime writer Raymond Chandler lived here in the 1930s. Chandler references in the beautiful renovated hotel were frequent, from Eve's American Bistro to cocktails named "Windemere" and "Farewell My Lovely." It made me smile to see 1920s design cliches like potted palms and clamshell motifs and curvy velvet conversation settees in the lobbies. And because today's creative needs are quite different from that of the 1920s, there are some interesting innovations: a soundproofed podcast studio for guest use just off the bar, and a beautiful writers room on the main floor with many seats around a long, high table. I was the only one writing there at 7 AM on a Sunday morning, but I could imagine a team of television writers breaking story there at a much later hour.

Mayfair's stylish lobby

The Mayfair's podcast room

Rain is supposed to be falling on California the day that this blogpost goes to print. I hope that it lasts long enough to give the firefighters an extra hand in quenching the fires and saving the Golden State.