Connections in the DNA; Cranes, Evacuees... ~. by Kaija Savinainen

Connections in the DNA; Cranes, Evacuees,Fighters, and Finally Peace. My Grandad’s Continuing Story. 

After our Agawa train ride, we headed up the highway to Lake Superior stopping at Batchawana Bay, and Agawa Bay. I needed to see her - the big lake - her moods, her power, to hear her story. Ahhh, she was all of that and so much more. Standing there I let myself relax, breathing quietly, willing myself to calm down. Be in the moment. Nothing else mattered. Alone in my thoughts. I am blessed to have such choices.

As I watched the big lake in the fading evening light, I heard a familiar sound. Could it be the sound of sandhill cranes? They have an unmistakeable call that resonates over kilometres.

Holly Hock Cranes

I searched the skyline, and there high in the thermals was a large flock of 60 plus sandhill cranes heading southward. I waved, called to them, and wished them safe travels to their wintering grounds. I have never ever seen or witnessed their migration on that scale. The call of cranes is prehistoric, ancient sound. The sound of the call can penetrate your senses to the very core of your being. My first encounter with cranes came during a run with my ‘wolfpack’ of huskies. We were almost home, and there in a large recently harvested corn field amongst a big flock of Canada Geese stood four tall birds. Who were they? I stopped to observe them.
I had never seen these creatures in Eastern Ontario. Almost each time I was out for a run the tall birds were feeding in that same field. Early one evening in the fall they flew directly over farm. As they flew over head, they began to call to one another. It was incredible, the sound was nothing I had experienced previously. Bird books we have plenty, and I began to try and identify the creatures. With the help of my husband, we decided they were indeed Sandhill Cranes. I contacted a local birding group only to be told “Nope, not possible that there are Sandhill Cranes in our area”! I persisted, “no, they are not blue herons, come and see for yourself.” Of course, the cranes were elusive, almost invisible if you did not know their habits and timing. I saw them almost daily in the fall of each year. They had established a summering ground. Their numbers began to grow, and sightings became more frequent.

I consider cranes a totem, a creature with whom I have a deep symbolic connection to my past. Cranes have the ability to move on, to return to familiar grounds. There are many species of cranes. I have come across them in my travels to Yellowknife, and to northern Finland. Each time it is the call that stops me, it awakens something within. My own family has moved not always by choice, to different continents, and countries. Every generation has been affected deeply by this forced migration. The stories of our past are spoken of in hushed whispers. Our family splintered, we suffered. My father’s side of the family became evacuees in the 1920’s from Karelia now under Russian rule. And once again after WW2 fleeing as “political” evacuees from Finland to Sweden. Out of curiosity about our past I attempted to learn about grandad’s military history. I was told he does not exist. According to military archives in Finland “We have no record of such a person”. I pinch myself, I am here after all, am I not?

They fled Stalin’s land clearance escaping to Finland. Grandad nor his young wife were at home the day people from his village were collected, rounded up, forced to walk some 50 km to a central location from where they were shipped by cattle car deep into Siberian gulags. A book penned by my uncle describes many of the horrific details of their journey. The story tells of families separated, of brutal living conditions, the harsh struggle to survive knowing death was imminent. One sister of grandad’s, Fetla, slipped away during a stop while in transport to Siberia. Fetla hid, she was not missed. Eventually through cheer determination or was it that Finnish Sisu (undaunted determination, powerful internal fortitude) she made it back to her home village. During the round ups the very old and very young were abandoned. They were of no consequence or of use at a labour camp. A year-old toddler had been left behind; this was my aunt Palua. Fetla raised Paula as her own daughter. Aunt Palua remained in Russia, eventually marrying, and raising a family. I was fortunate to meet her before we moved to Canada. However, she was never allowed to bring her family nor her children as they were not permitted to visit Finland.

Aunt Paula’s story is one of much intrigue as she was recruited to become a Russian spy. Afterall, her father Pekka, my grandad, was a reconnaissance fighter for Finland. In his younger life he had risen to the rank of captain in the Russian army during WW1, Finland then being under control of tsarist Russia. He therefore possessed much valuable knowledge of the workings of the Russian army. He was fluent in the Russian language, knew the land well. Long before the war broke out, he was hired as a “trapper” by a secret wing of the Finnish army to observe and watch movements on the Russian side of the border. During the Winter War and the Continuation War Pekka along with a small band of loyal fighters that included his own son travelled by foot, on skis some 4000 km hunting the enemy or being hunted themselves. Paula crossed the border on skis into Finland, found and met with grandad. He turned her over to the military police as her story did not add up, she was sentenced to death. Marshall Mannerheim, the President of Finland, a friend my grandfather’s helped by having her death sentence commuted to life imprisonment. At the end of the war, because she was technically a Russian citizen, she was returned to Soviets to serve out her sentence in a gulag. She survived. Pekka was a wanted man eventually on both sides of the border.

Finally, when safely in Sweden, Pekka was not content anywhere else but to be immersed in nature, to be amongst trees, his sanctuary. I understand his need to connect to be safe, to feel secure. My grandfather grew up during times of great conflict, his life was filled with wars. Finally at last he told my uncle Pauli “No more running, no more fighting, a time for peace at last”. The final words by Uncle Pauli from his book Isa ja Poika Kaukopartiossa..

 “As I sit here by the campfire in the forest, I often think of my old reconnaissance mates, both father and everyone else - as they now sit by the fire on the other side of Tuonela (the realm of the dead or the Underworld in Finnish mythology), they wait for the last of the fighters to join them so they can continue their journey again. There are no weapons visible in the circle of light from the campfire, and you don’t need to sit there with all your senses alert, ready to seize shelter of the dark forest. It is a bonfire of peace”.

This is my part of history. My canvas of life. The natural world is my sanctuary.
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