I Asked Ni Moshôm, What Were Death Marches?

When I was 7 years old, I squeezed in between my parents, sitting at the kitchen table in between my mother and father, all three listening closely to my mother's father, Frank (my Nimoshôm—Grandfather), our family's WWII war hero who was only 19 when he began... he fought in Italy and into interior Europe against the Nazis for Canada and USA. He was injured by a Nazi sniper, sent back to England for medical attention, eventually sent back to mainland Europe to continue to fight against the Nazis, then captured by the Nazis and eventually escaped during a death march near the end of the war.

While listening to my grandfather, I asked my Nimoshôm, "What is a death march, and why did you have to do that march, Nimoshôm?" My question angered my parents so quickly, telling me to not ask such awful questions in this house!

I had no idea; I was instantly embarrassed and felt so horrible for my Nimoshôm. I had no idea he would re-live such horror. My Nimoshôm hated the Nazis within his soul, we can feel it in our soul. Our home felt that hatred and fear.

My Kookum or Memere (Grandmother) was standing next to my Nimoshôm with her hand on his shoulder. While my parents were giving me a tongue-lashing in Cree, Michif, French, Ojibwe, and English swear words, I quickly noticed her hand gently tapping my Nimoshôm's shoulder. Frank quickly said to my parents, "It's fine. DD has asked, and he should know and have some understanding."

My Nimoshôm began to explain soldiers and civilians that were caught by the Nazi soldiers were sent to concentration camps (jails). If the camp was too full, the Nazi soldiers would select individuals for the death marches. Very few individuals would make it back to the camp. My mother put her head down on the table, quietly crying; I could tell it hurt my dad severely.

Then my Nimoshôm continued with details of the physical abuse, the beatings, the shootings, the stabbings, and the strangulations that took place. I was in total shock at such evil actions toward harmless, unarmed people. He said, "I saw the horror and frightening eyes of civilians and my soldiers."

He said he saw death in their eyes, in their souls and how his Jewish camp friends and he were able to escape on one of the death marches. My Nimoshôm said they stabbed two Nazis soldiers — one in the eye and one in the chest; both Nazis soldiers said, "No! No!" My Nimoshôm was relieved and thank God. They ran into the forest, Ni Moshôm knew how to survive in the forest. Ni Moshôm said, "natives survive in the woods, that's our home."

He explained to me people of Jewish or brown skin were murdered by Nazi soldiers to prove their loyalty to their army. My Nimoshôm had very brown skin, and his first languages were Michif, Ojibwe, Cree, French, and Canadian English.

My mother sat weeping, and my father had red, bloodshot eyes of awful, deep sadness. All the while, my Kookum stood strong and proud beside her husband. I then understood how this experience affected my family. I had so much sorrow for my Nimoshôm, my mother, and my father. My Kookum was strong; she was unbelievable. I did not understand where she got her inner strength.

Now, why have I mentioned this family moment? At that time, almost 30 years after the war, families of soldiers were re-living the horrors of war - inhumane treatment and death of innocent people.

My parents had so much hate for the Nazis because they murdered so many Jews and Catholic theologians and people of colour.

While reading this outstanding New Yorker article, "The Life of Yahya Sinwar, the leader of Hamas in Gaza" by David Remnick...

I will deconstruct from a commoner perspective for the next two days.

https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2024/08/12/yahya-sinwar-profile-hamas-gaza-war-israel