“I WILL SHOW YOU WHERE THE IRON CROSS GROWS”

             Perhaps the most famous and recognizable medal of World War II is the German Iron Cross. I’ve been a lifelong student of WWII all my life. I remember watching the hundreds of WWII films that were made in the 50s, and perhaps thousands since then, and more than one film has made reference to the Iron Cross. As a teen, I had a German couple who moved next door to my family in Dallas. He had served in the German Army as a photographer on the Eastern Front. He shared with my father and me many of the photographs he had taken. Until that moment, I did not know anything about the Eastern Front in WWII. You can see my published short story I wrote about meeting this German soldier in my blog post, “Like a Good German Soldier.” Sometime in the early 1980s, I once met a veteran in Berwick, Pennsylvania, who showed me a Luger and held an Iron Cross medal he had brought back from his service time in WWII.

As a teen at  W.T. White High School in Dallas, the only class I have memories of is my English class. Our teacher had us read three books that made a deep impression on me: Romeo & Juliet (she also encouraged us to see the 1968 film), The Red Badge of Courage (I still have that paperback), and All Quiet on the Western Front, of which three movie versions would be made–1930, 1979, and 22. I was fascinated to learn that the author, Erich Maria Remarque, was a World War I veteran and that the novel was semi-autobiographical.

My interest in the Eastern Front was further stimulated by reading Alexandr Solzhenitzen’s novel August 1914, as well as the numerous references I found in reading the three-volume set, The Gulag Archipelago. Fortuitously, I discovered Willi Heinrich’s novel,  The Cross of Iron, which was also made into a movie. (You can see the trailer below).  The title of my blog post, “I will show you where the Iron Cross grows,” is a quote from the novel and from the movie, which is said to be one of the highest-rated war films of our age.  From this novel, I moved on to Heinrich’s second novel, Crack of Doom. Heinrich was a soldier on the Eastern Front. This reading was followed by The Devil’s Guard, a historical novel about partisan hunters in Russia, who joined the French Foreign Legion and fought the Viet Cong in Vietnam.

Perhaps the longest and most revealing read about the Eastern Front in World War II was a memoir, The Forgotten Soldier by Guy Sajer. It is so well written and so full of sensory information that I could feel the hunger the soldiers felt as well as the bone-breaking cold of Russia.

Here are the covers for the books I have mentioned in this blog post:

HERE IS THE TRAILER FOR THE CROSS OF IRON MOVIE: 

A SAD WALK THROUGH A POTTER’S FIELD IN NEW ORLEANS: Part Two

An Excerpt from Persephone’s Underground by Rickey Pittman, Bard of the South

Holt Cemetery
The first thing you notice about New Orleans are the burying grounds – the cemeteries – and they’re a cold proposition, one of the best things there are here. Going by, you try to be as quiet as possible, better to let them sleep. Greek, Roman, sepulchers—palatial mausoleums made to order, phantomesque, signs and symbols of hidden decay—ghosts of women and men who have sinned and who’ve died and are now living in tombs. The past doesn’t pass away so quickly here. You could be dead for a long time.—Bob Dylan

Cora said, “Morticiawill be buried tomorrow in Holt Cemetery.”
Ophelia replied, “Holt Cemetery. Such a sad place—built by the city for the destitute, unclaimed anonymous bodies found in canals and especially for poor blacks. It could be that you and I may find ourselves buried there when we die. Some have described New Orleans as a giant necropolis, a city of the dead. I wish it was that simple.”

When they arrived at the cemetery gate, Ophelia took Cora’s hand, scanned the graves and whispered, “Cemetery, give me passage! Oh, cemetery, open the way!” She tugged Cora’s hand, and they entered the gate and found the grave dug for Morticia. They watched the cemetery workers unload the cheap wooden casket from the Coroner’s transport van, deposit it in the grave, and shovel the dirt onto the casket. When the van left, Cora set a Goth bouquet of red and black flowers on the grave. She tugged on her rosary and said, “Rest in peace, Morticia.”

As they left, Cora thought, This cemetery is nothing like the others in New Orleans. All the graves here are underground. “Look, Ophelia, this cemetery is a jumbled mess. Some sections need mowing.” She picked up a stuffed rabbit lying by a wooden tombstone. The adhesive lettering said the grave was that of a little girl. The thought of a parent having to bury their child in a potter’s field made her sad. Across the cemetery, she noticed a young black mother kneeling by a grave. Her lips were moving as if she were praying. She followed Ophelia to a large, ancient oak in the center of the cemetery, passing homemade shrines strewn with personal items families had left to honor the deceased.

“It’s a miracle this cemetery has lasted this long. It floods during heavy rains, and it reached capacity long ago. It’s still in use, but every time they bury someone, they have to exhume someone. Some graves have been used by one generation for several bodies, one on top of the other. Many buried here died violent deaths, others from drugs or alcohol or natural causes. Certainly, there are lost souls here who will never rest in peace. Some notable people too. Let me show you where a few are buried.” She took Cora by the hand. “Most of these I’m sure you haven’t heard of, but the more you get to know New Orleans, the more you’ll appreciate them.”

She pointed to a gray plaque leaning against the oak. “This is the memorial for Robert Charles, whose act of murder and his death caused the Race Riots of 1900. Ahead are the graves of some New Orleans blues and jazz musicians, popular in their performing days, but forgotten at the end of their life—Babe Stovall, Jessie Hill and Charles “Buddy” Bolden.

“Have you ever heard of them?”

“No,” Cora said, “But I will try to learn about them.”

“Yes, learn about them and listen to their music. They were great musicians, but their burial shows how quickly people can forget. Just think: If you hadn’t come to New Orleans as Cora, you would never have known about them. So many stories are buried here. Ahead, there’s graves for the dead of the Upstairs Lounge. It was a gay club that an arsonist set fire to. And there’s thousands buried here whose stories we will never know.”

“It is indeed a sad place, Ophelia.” She pointed to a brick building. “What is that?”

“It’s an old crematory oven. I suppose because of how crowded the cemetery is, some bodies were cremated and their ashes buried somewhere.”

“It’s full of trash. Only a few graves seem to be cared for.”

“Families are told that they must keep up the graves or the grave is taken over by the city and used for someone else.”

“I didn’t know there was so much history here,” Cora said.

“Yes, there is much history about Holt Cemetery, but it is good for us to remember those buried here, both the nameless and known, and for us to come here to meditate on life and death. And it’s still in operation. Twenty people are buried here each day.”

“I think I will never look at graves the same way after today. Thank you for bringing me here. Maybe I should come here at night? What do you think I would see or hear?”

Ophelia stopped walking and tugged on Cora’s hand. “I came once at night, but I swore I’d never do it again. Get that idea out of your head.”

“Okay,” Cora said, but as she left the cemetery, thinking of her father, she wiped a tear from her eye, kissed her hand, and touched a tombstone that had this inscription:

Just whisper my name in your heart, and I will be there.

A SAD WALK THROUGH A POTTER’S FIELD IN NEW ORLEANS: Part One

Many cities have long had cemeteries known as potter’s fields, used to inter the indigent, the nameless, unclaimed,  suicides, the unidentified, and strangers. Many are buried in layers, and in a few there are mass graves of those lost in epidemics or war. Some, potter’s field cemeteries have suffered from neglect, vandalism, and grave robbers.

I first encountered a potter’s field cemetery in the book of Matthew.  Here’s that Biblical account in Matthew 26:14 and 27:3-10 (American Standard Version).

Then one of the twelve who was called Judas Iscariot, went unto the chief priests and said, What are ye willing to give me, and I will deliver him unto you? And they weighed unto him thirty pieces of silver. . . . Then Judas, who betrayed him, when he saw that he was condemned, repented himself and brought back the thirty pieces of silver to the chief priests and elders, saying, I have sinned in that I have betrayed innocent blood. But they said, What is that to us? See thou to it, and he cast down the pieces of silver into the sanctuary, and departed; and he went away and hanged himself. And the chief priests took the pieces of silver and said, It is not lawful to put them into the sacred treasury since it is the price of blood., And they took counsel, and bought with them the potter’s field to bury strangers in, Wherefore that field was called, The Field of Blood [Akeldama in Aramaic] unto this day, Then was fulfilled that which was spoken through Jeremiah the prophet.

HERE is an excellent blog article about Potter’s Field Cemeteries.  This post is Part One of a post describing how Cora, a character in my novel Persephone’s Underground, experiences a walk through Holt Cemetery in New Orleans. Part II will be an excerpt from my novel, Persephone’s Underground.

(Photo is from Holt Cemetery New Orleans Facebook page.)

A Vodou Dance in New Orleans

To fight evil, you have to understand the dark.—Nalini Singh
Now if I don’t meet you no more in this world, then I’ll, I’ll meet you in the next one, and don’t be late, don’t be late, cause I’m a voodoo chile—Jimi Hendrix

 Ophelia said, “It’s time for us to go to the dans. Lorcán will drive us. Rosalie Alley is a home to vodou practitioners.  The congregation is known as Guera Anciene. Appropriately, the building they meet in lies between Piety and Desire Streets. Most tourists never find it.”

They walked down the grassy alley toward a bright green building surrounded with a peristyle, passing houses with vodou graffiti, symbols of an ancient African religion and under branches of beautiful, massive oaks. They walked alongside other worshippers, many dressed in white dresses and turbans with red neck scarves. “Who are the people in white?” Cora asked Ophelia.

“Initiates,” she replied. “You might see some of their initiation rituals tonight. The first step is head washing, which deals with the spirits in a person’s head. The second step is kouche, when a person enters a time of seclusion. In that seclusion the initiate symbolically dies before he or she returns to the outside world. Finally, the initiate is given a sacred ason, a beaded rattle with a bell attached, which gives the initiate strength to start healing work and to summon the spirits.”

As they approached the green house, Cora wondered how one becomes an initiate. For the first time in her life, Cora heard the muffled sounds of conga drums and Haitian chants and the tumbao rhythm was  surprisingly stirring. When they entered, Cora whispered, “Is this their church?” She looked at the plain wood floor. “There’s no chairs.”

Ophelia said, “No one will be sitting. It’s a simple church, much like the many one will see in Haiti. One difference: The high priestess for this congregation is a white woman. You’ll see there’s no need of chairs, but at least the ceiling fans are working tonight.”
They paused by a candle-lit altar on which lay a human skull, some bones, a bottle of Klérun rum, a machete, a carafe of water, a comb, chalk symbols on a small chalkboard, an icon of the Black Madonna and a few other Catholic icons.  Several vodou flags, and banners called drapo, hunt on the walls, each decorated in beaded vévé, symbols and diagrams used to represent the spirits.  A man stood by the altar with his eyes closed as if he were in meditation, holding a coned object in his hand

“What’s that man holding?” she asked Ophelia.

“It is a paquet congo, a powerful amulet made of magical ingredients used for healing. Very difficult to make.”

Cora contemplated them and said to Ophelia, “I have much to learn. We can talk later, right?”

“Of course.” Ophelia set a bottle of rum on the altar as her gift, closed her eyes, and whispered, “When I am right, the magic prevails.”

There were three conga players, each with drums of different tuning, and each following his own secret syncopated rhythm designed to create a passageway to the spirit world. I’ve never heard anything like this, Cora thought. The rum-soaked musicians began with slow rhythms and then increased it to invite and honor the Iwa in attendance.

“The ritual dans is beginning. It begins around the poto mitan.” As worshippers began to dance around the center pole, Cora heard prayers and chants offered in the Haitian Kreyòl, and the white priestess drew some symbols in cornmeal on the floor and then poured out some rum. Two worshippers whistled shrill cries on their wooden carved whistles. She heard the devotees call on names she did not recognize—Erzulie Freda, La Sirène, Marassal, and Bondieu. It was at that moment Cora saw the lady she believed must be the high priestess. She was dressed in a long, flowing dress and white scarf on her head with an ason gourd rattle in her left hand. The rattle was decorated with coral and snake bones.

The drummers muted their music as the priestess held up both arms and said, “As we begin tonight, we invoke the blessing of Papa Legba, who stands at the spirit crossroads, open the gates between us; speaker of all human languages, guide and help us as we communicate with the Iwa tonight!”

The three drummers increased both the volume and speed of their rhythms. Cora whispered to Ophelia, “I’ve never heard drumming like this.”

“Ah, the rada music. Drums are sacred to us. There are three different drums there: the largest drum is the manman.”

Cora thought the manman drum to be nearly three feet tall. The player stood and played it with a wooden drumstick in one hand and the other with his bare hand.
Ophelia continued. “The other two drummers who are seated play the segond and the bula.”

Cora felt her pulse rise with rising drum rhythms. More dancers, including Ophelia, joined those circling the poto mitan, twirling, dipping, and bowing. One woman fell to the ground convulsing. Helped to her feet by others, she resumed her dance, but her eyes had rolled upward so that only the whites of her eyes could be seen, as if she had been hypnotized.

Ophelia left the circle of dancers. Cora handed her a bottle of water she plucked from an ice chest by the altar.

“Did you see the woman ridden by the Loa?” Ophelia asked.

Cora assumed she meant the woman who fell down in convulsions. She nodded.                                                      “Is she okay?”

“She is fine, and she is honored that the spirit chose her. Tread carefully, Cora. The spirits may choose you.”

The priestess approached them. She took Cora’s hand and smiled. “You are welcome here. This is your first time to attend our worship.”

“Yes,” Cora said, “And thank you. Ophelia brought me.”

Ophelia said, “Mambo Sharon, Cora is my friend, new to New Orleans, She carries some sadness and burdens in her heart. I was sure that you could help her.”

The mambo touched Cora’s cheek and said, “Cora, I hope you will learn from tonight’s service, I will pray that your wounded heart will be healed, and I want you to believe that I am your friend and will come to your help should you ever need me. I’ve a little botánica and art gallery in the French Quarter. Please come and see me. We can drink tea and talk.”

Cora, wondering how the priestess could sense her hurt,  felt herself choke and said, “Thank you. I will.”

When the priestess left them to return to the worship, Ophelia put her arm around Cora and gently embraced her. “You’ve found yourself a new friend. Mambo Sharon is one of the most powerful women in New Orleans. There are ten vodou priestesses in New Orleans, and even more in the swamps in surrounding parishes. Mambo Sharon is probably the most powerful.”

Cora said, “Do you think I will need her help?”

Ophelia bit her lip and looked deeply into Cora’s eyes. “Yes, just as I myself needed her help a few years ago. Take off work tomorrow afternoon and go to her botánica and art gallery. It will be such an adventure for you. In her garden she has flowers and plants from Haiti.”

“I don’t want to leave you without help.”

“Don’t worry. You can work till after lunch and then go to her botánica. You won’t regret it. She is a healer of one’s body and heart.”

Cora listened to the prayers and songs of the worshippers in English and French kriol and watched worshippers dance and fall into possession trances, their pupils dilated and their bodies contorting wildly. One shouted, “Papa Legba, open the door Antibon for us to pass now!”
      The drummers, their hands swollen and bruised, played on without pause till dawn. When the sound of the drums faded, the worshippers gathered and silently faced the open door, and as the sun rose, a beam of light fell upon the congregation like a kiss.   

An Excerpt from Persephone’s Underground by Rickey Pittman