Category Archives: Polish

My quest to learn the Polish language and about my Polish heritage.

Slavic Dolls: Artistic Wards of Comfort and Protection

October 19, 2024Journal, Polish, Slavic Spirits (series)E.S.O. Martin

Among the Slavs, dolls were not merely children’s toys but also objects of art, mystery, and protection. They served both as cultural artifacts and mystical symbols in folklore and ritual.

From the faceless dolls that guarded against malevolent spirits to the effigies used in seasonal festivals, these dolls are a vibrant part of Slavic heritage. Here we will explore some of the most iconic types of Slavic dolls, and their significance in fairy tales and cultural practices.

Matryoshka Nesting Dolls: The Iconic Symbol of Russian Folk Art

The most famous and easily recognizable doll in Slavic culture are the Matryoshka nesting dolls. These intricately painted wooden dolls opened along the middle and came in complimentary sizes so that smaller dolls could be nested within.

The first set of Matryoshka dolls was created in the late 19th century by Vasily Zvyozdochkin, a craftsman from the Abramtsevo estate near Moscow, and painted by Sergei Malyutin, a folk artist. The concept was inspired by a set of Japanese nesting figures, and the idea quickly took root in Russian folk art. The name “Matryoshka” comes from the Russian female name “Matryona,” which was a common name among the rural population of Russia and is derived from the Latin root “mater,” meaning “mother.” This name is fitting as the dolls symbolically represent fertility and the maternal lineage passing down through generations.

Matryoshka dolls are more than just decorative items; they are steeped in symbolic meanings. Traditionally, the outer layer, the largest doll, is a woman dressed in a traditional Russian peasant dress. This figure represents the matriarch of the family, embodying strength, fertility, and the continuity of family heritage. The figures nestled inside can represent children or grandchildren, signifying family unity and the passing of traditions from one generation to the next.

In literature and media, Matryoshka dolls are sometimes used metaphorically to represent complex layers of personality or hidden truths within a story, illustrating their deep-rooted symbolism in popular culture.

The number of nested dolls can vary, typically ranging from three to more than a dozen. Each doll is painted by hand, often in bright colors adorned with floral patterns, and sometimes reflecting regional Russian costumes or historical attire. The artistry involved in painting each piece showcases the skill and creativity of Russian artisans, making each set unique.

The Marzanna Effigy

The Marzanna doll is a central figure in a springtime ritual that marks the end of winter’s chill and the rejuvenation of the earth. Made from straw and clothed in old rags, this effigy represents the Slavic goddess of winter, death, and rebirth. The ritual involves parading the Marzanna doll through the village and then drowning it in a river or burning it, symbolizing the defeat of winter and the ushering in of spring. This ritual highlights the cyclical nature of seasons and the concept of regeneration and renewal in Slavic culture.

The Faceless Doll

In Slavic tradition, the faceless doll holds a special place. These dolls, often made without distinct facial features, are rooted in ancient beliefs about the soul. The lack of a face is thought to prevent evil spirits from having a place to inhabit, thus protecting the home and its inhabitants. These dolls are typically handmade from natural materials like straw and fabric, embodying the spirit of simplicity and protection. They serve not only as toys but also as talismans, promoting peace and security within domestic spaces.

Motanka Dolls and Berehynia Dolls

Motanka dolls and Berehynia dolls are another enchanting aspect of Slavic doll-making tradition. These are thread-wrapped dolls, created by winding cloth around a cross-shaped base, typically without the use of needles or glue, which is believed to imbue them with spiritual power. Motankas and Berehynias often serve as charms for health and prosperity. Like faceless dolls, they sometimes lack distinct facial features to ward off evil spirits, and were instead embroidered with a instead of a face.

These dolls were sometimes placed throughout the household for protection, as a connection to a woman’s ancestors, and as playthings for her children. A mother might give her young child a Motanka or Berehynia Doll as a “wishing” doll. A special doll to keep under their pillow, to whom they could share their wishes and worries with.

Vasilisa the Beautiful’s Talking Doll

One of the most famous dolls in Slavic folklore appears in the tale of Vasilisa the Beautiful. This doll, a gift from Vasilisa’s dying mother, serves as her protector and guide. Unlike typical dolls, this one possesses the ability to talk and offers advice, helping Vasilisa navigate the challenges and dangers she faces, including her servitude to the fearsome witch, Baba Yaga. The talking doll symbolizes intuition and wisdom passed down through generations, illustrating the profound connection between family members, even beyond death.

Dolls: Symbols of Childhood, Motherhood, Womanhood, and Protection

These dolls, each unique in form and purpose, are more than just cultural artifacts. They are woven into the folklore, traditions, and daily lives of Slavic peoples. Whether used in rituals, as toys, or as household decorations, Slavic dolls are a vibrant expression of a rich cultural heritage, offering insight into the spiritual and artistic life of Slavic communities.

For those intrigued by Slavic history and folklore, consider subscribing to my Reader’s Club newsletter. Newsletter subscribers receive monthly updates on this Slavic Spirits blog series, as well as book reviews, and notes on my works in progress.

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UPDATE — This blog post includes text and images generated with the assistance of OpenAI’s models. I provided detailed prompts, curated the outputs, and made edits, but the majority of the content was created with AI assistance. This disclosure aligns with my commitment to transparency under the EU AI Act. Disclosure added on November 18, 2024 to align with transparency requirements under the EU AI Act.

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License. Portions of this content were generated using OpenAI’s models, with significant curation, editing, and creative input by E. S. O. Martin. AI-generated portions may not be subject to copyright under current laws.

Ghosts of Teutonic Knights on the Amber Road

September 21, 2024Polish, Slavic Spirits (series)E.S.O. Martin

Who Were the Teutonic Knights?

Originating in the late 12th century, the Teutonic Knights were a Catholic military order akin to the better-known Templars and Hospitallers. Their initial mission in the Holy Land soon shifted towards a northern crusade in the region that is now modern-day Estonia, Finland, Latvia, Lithuania, Poland, and Russia. Indigenous populations underwent forced conversion and occupation by these Christian knights.

While many of the earlier crusades were pursued by the kingdoms of Sweden, Norway, and Denmark, it was the Teutonic Order of Germany and Austria that played a particularly large role in shaping the religion, economy, and architecture of Poland and the Baltic nations. Many of their castles and fortresses still standing today were built by these Teutonic Knights, and there are a whole host of local legends about these medieval occupiers.

Although no longer crusading, the Teutonic Order is still in existence. Its symbol is a black cross on a white shield.

Architectural Legacy: Fortresses and Castles

The Teutonic Order is renown for its Gothic red brick castles and churches, which are scattered across the northern landscape. Malbork Castle in Poland stands as a well-preserved example, showcasing the strategic ingenuity an architectural prowess of the Knights. The Pomaranian city of Toruń, with its red brick walls, is another example of Teutonic architecture. These fortresses served as both military bastions and administrative centers, facilitating the Order’s control over the Amber Road and local politics.

The Amber Road: A Path of Prehistoric Wealth

Amber, valued for its beauty, is plentiful around the Baltic coast, which was once a rich primeval forest. It was once so prevalent along the beaches near Gdansk and Hel that you could walk along a beach and pick up pieces of amber as if it were seashells.

Amber is not a gem, but rather a fossilized piece of sap. It can vary tremendously in size and color—from milky white, to yellow, to orange, to even green or black. It can be opaque or translucent. It is relatively soft and easy to shape, and it is warm to the touch.

It was a desired piece of jewelry all throughout Europe and the Middle East, and there is evidence of trade routes stretching from Mongolia to Spain as far back as the Bronze Age. Because amber was such a desired commodity of northern Europe, the Teutonic Knights built roads, fortresses, and trade routes in order to seize control and profit from amber’s exports and sale.

You can still travel a section of the ancient Amber Road via EuroVelo 9, which is a long distance bicycle route that stretches 1,200 miles from Gdansk, Poland to Pula, Croatia.

Ghost Knights and Star Crossed Love: Myths and Legends

The legacy of the Teutonic Knights is not just etched in stone but also lives on in the myths and spectral tales that pepper the region.

The Leaning Tower of Toruń — The Teutonic Order was supposedly a monastic order, meaning the knights were supposed to remain celibate. However, one of the Knights stationed in Toruń fell in love with the daughter of a local merchant. When the lovers were discovered, they were both fined. The woman was sentenced to 25 lashes and the knight was sentenced to build a tower, which — according to legend — turned out as crooked as his morals.

In another version of the story of the leaning tower of Toruń, the tower itself fell in love with the nearby Wisła river, and it would lean toward the river in order to hear its bubbling music. After many years, the river and the tower began to grow closer, which caused the foundation underneath the tower to weaken. The tower then pleaded with the river to stop flowing so close, lest it cause the tower to collapse. “So fall down then,” responded the river.

The Ghosts of Łagow Castle — This gothic castle (now a hotel) west of Poznań is home to a couple of legendary ghosts.

The first ghost is of Andrzej von Schlieben, who was the leader of the local Hospitaller knights, which were also a monastic order. It was said that he fell in love with a local woman and renounced his vows to the brotherhood. As an oath-breaker, his ghost is sometimes seen wandering the hallways and bedrooms of Łagow castle.

The second ghost of Łagow is a prince who was held prisoner by a local knight and warlord. Supposedly, the prince and the knight’s sister fell in love due to the prince’s beautiful singing voice. The prince was arrested and held in the dungeons, and the knight’s sister was married off to another. But the ghost voice of the prince is still heard, singing for his lost love through the castle walls.

The Lasting Legacy of the Northern Crusade

The Teutonic Knights’ story is a complex saga of power, faith, and their impact on local cultures. Their history offers a window into the tumutuous period of the Middle Ages, where the sacred and profane were often intertwined, and the echoes of their deeds still resonate through the regions they once ruled.

If you’re fascinated by Slavic history and mythology, consider subscribing to my newsletter for monthly emails with updates to this blog series, and other works in progress.

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The Black Volga: Fear on Four Wheels

August 24, 2024Polish, Slavic Spirits (series), JournalE.S.O. Martin

Black Volga, prowling the streets of Warsaw

During the height of Soviet control, whispers of a sinister government car, a black GAZ Volga, spread across Poland and beyond, igniting fears of disappearances and foul play. This vehicle, associated with the dark times of communism and alleged state oppression, became a potent symbol of the era’s anxieties and the chilling possibility of being snatched from the streets.

Origins of the Legend

The legend of the Black Volga appears to have roots in real incidents—disturbing reports of kidnappings that were allegedly carried out by individuals using a black Volga, a car often used by communist government officials. The most infamous stories involve chilling accounts of people being abducted for horrifying purposes, such as blood and organ harvesting. One tale tells of a man who was reportedly drugged and found himself in a hotel bathtub full of ice, missing a kidney. Another recounts a young girl’s narrow escape from an attempted abduction by a couple in a Black Volga.

A Vehicle of Terror

The Black Volga soon transcended its origins as a mere government car to become a boogeyman of the communist era. It was said to roam the streets at night, an ominous presence that could appear anywhere, at any time. The legend evolved, with some versions suggesting that the car was driven by the devil himself, or by ghosts, or that it was a sentient being preying on the unsuspecting. These supernatural elements intensified the fear surrounding the Black Volga, making it not just a symbol of state terror but a creature of nightmarish proportions.

Symbolism and Socio-Political Context

The fear of the Black Volga was not just about the threat of abduction. It represented deeper societal fears—of state surveillance, of political persecution, and of the vulnerability of ordinary citizens under oppressive regimes. During a time when trust in the state was at an all-time low and paranoia was high, the Black Volga embodied the ultimate betrayal: the state as predator rather than protector.

Legacy of the Black Volga

Today, the tale of the Black Volga serves as a chilling reminder of the power of urban legends in expressing and amplifying societal anxieties. It also highlights how such stories can evolve, gaining layers of myth that reflect the collective fears and uncertainties of a community or a nation.

While the Black Volga may no longer be a present fear on the streets, its story lingers in the cultural memory of those who lived through those times and continues to fascinate those who hear the legend. Whether as a cautionary tale or a macabre piece of folklore, the Black Volga remains a powerful symbol of the dark side of authority and the enduring impact of urban legends in shaping our understanding of history and human fears.

If you would like to learn more about slavic folklore, mythology, and urban legends, check out the rest of my “Slavic Spirits” blog series. You might also consider signing up for my free Reader’s Club. Club members receive monthly emails with updates on my works in progress, book reviews, and notifications about new entries in my “Slavic Spirits” series.

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Book Review: The Book Thief by Markus Zusak

May 11, 2024Journal, Reviews, PolishE.S.O. Martin

Stealing Hope: The Story of The Book Thief

The Book Thief by Markus Zusak is the story of Liesel Meminger, a girl on the cusp of puberty, living with foster parents, the Hubermanns, in Nazi Germany. The book is narrated by Death, as he jumps back and forth through narrative time.

It is hard to comprehend the horrors of war. What this book attempts to do is step away from the atrocities and war crimes of World War II—which can sometimes seem too huge and horrible to understand—and it seeks to shrink the impact down to the size of one little girl.

This book is written for a young adult audience in mind, and is probably the kind of book that would be assigned in class as part of a World War II unit in junior high or high school. The atrocities of the Holocaust are mentioned, but the book does not go into graphic detail about it. There is a sense of Bad Things happening in the background—bad things are happening to other people—but the horror is never really experienced as a first-person event, as it is in Anne Frank’s diaries, or in Elie Wiesel’s Night. It’s more intellectual and poetically sad—rather than visceral.

To be honest, I have mixed feelings about this book.

On the one hand, The Book Thief is beautifully written. Without a doubt.

I sympathized with Liesel and the Hubermanns. I felt for the powerlessness of Max Vandenberg, the Jewish fist-fighter that the Hubermanns hid in their basement. I felt for Rudy Steiner, Liesel’s friend. In a lot of ways, these characters were stuck between a rock and a hard place and had no good choices.

But I’ll admit, it was hard for me to read this book. As a Polish-American with living family members who survived Auschwitz, reading about how hard WW II was for these fictional German characters felt a bit disloyal to me.

My real-life family fought in the Polish resistance. I had family members who were killed by Nazis. My family survived the concentration camps and suffered greatly under their German and Russian occupiers. Where is the sympathy for them?

What was redeeming about The Book Thief is that it shows how hard it is to be a moral person and to feel like you are having a good impact when your government is doing terrible things. Sometimes, the whole world goes sideways, and very few of us actually have any power or control in making it better, other than small acts of resistance. For Liesel, her small act of resistance is in stealing books, and in protecting Max Vandenberg and his story.

When I look to the world we currently live in and the heartless choices our own governments make, I have to admit, I feel a little bit powerless and overwhelmed. The humanitarian crisis at our boarders. The wars. The bombings. The terror. The global warming. The overfishing. The factory farms. What power do I have to change these horrible things?

I have voted in every election since I turned 18, but my vote has usually gone to the losing side. Sometimes I feel like my tiny little voice is inconsequential, that nobody cares. I often feel baffled by the choices and attitudes of my fellow Americans.

Books like The Book Thief are a reminder that doing something is better than doing nothing. Any act of resistance is better than being silent and complacent. So I continue to vote. I continue to support causes I believe in.

I continue to eat vegan, because that single choice has the largest real-world impact on my health, on the environment, on feminism, and in the ethics of how we treat animals and other people.

It’s important for my own sense of integrity to feel like I’m doing something.

Because not doing so would feel like giving up.

If cynicism is complacent obedience to The Man, then optimism is civil disobedience.

I refuse to give up, because I believe future generations deserve better. When my future grandchildren come up to me and ask what I did to try to stop the world from burning, I will not be like those complacent Germans in the 1930s and 1940s who did nothing because they “had no idea.” My acts of resistance make it easier for me to look myself in the mirror.

Thank you very much for reading this review of ‘The Book Thief.’ If you would like to be notified about more reviews like these, or if you would like to get updates about my own works in progress, please consider signing up for my Reader’s Club newsletter.

Book Review: The Storyteller by Jodi Picoult

April 20, 2024Journal, Reviews, PolishE.S.O. Martin

Jodi Picoult’s The Storyteller weaves a complex tapestry of narratives that delve into the depths of human guilt, redemption, and the enduring impact of historical atrocities on personal identities and familial legacies. Through the intertwining lives of Sage Singer, a baker grappling with the loss of her mother, Josef Weber, an elderly man with a dark secret, and Malinka, a Holocaust survivor, Picoult challenges the reader to confront the uncomfortable moral ambiguities of justice and forgiveness.

Interwoven Narratives:

At the heart of the novel is Sage Singer, who, while trying to navigate her own sea of grief and guilt, encounters Josef Weber, a beloved community figure with a hidden past as a Nazi commander. This revelation sets off a moral quandary for Sage, whose Jewish heritage and familial connections to the Holocaust, through her grandmother Malinka—a survivor of Auschwitz—deepens the narrative’s exploration of historical memory and its implications for the present.

Malinka’s storyline provides a harrowing glimpse into the Holocaust’s dehumanizing brutality, capturing the desperation, resilience, and the indomitable will to survive amidst unthinkable horrors. Her stories, particularly the haunting dark fantasy tale she composed during her imprisonment, serve as a testament to the power of storytelling as a means of endurance and escape from the grim reality of the concentration camps.

Themes of Endurance and the Power of Storytelling:

Picoult masterfully uses the motif of storytelling as a form of resistance against the erasure of history and the diminishment of human suffering. Malinka’s fantastical horror story, set in a Polish village plagued by mysterious disappearances and vampiric entities, not only provides a stark contrast to the real-life terror of Auschwitz but also underscores the vital role of imagination as a sanctuary from pain.

The novel’s exploration of the complexities of survivorship—highlighting the roles of luck, endurance, guilt, and the human capacity for both cruelty and kindness—resonates deeply with those familiar with the lasting scars of historical traumas. Malinka’s role as storyteller shows that stories serve a crucial function in offering temporary respite from pain. This is a nuanced perspective on the value of literature and art in coping with grief and trauma.

Personal Reflections:

This book had personal significance for me, because both my grandmother and great-grandmother survived the horrors of Auschwitz. The Storyteller acknowledges the generational pain, and the cathartic power of storytelling in processing and understanding trauma.

The Storyteller is not just a novel; it’s an invitation to reflect on the multifaceted nature of humanity and the indelible impact of our histories on our present selves.

For those drawn to stories that venture into the shadows to find the light, I encourage you to join my Reader’s Club newsletter. Here, we explore tales that, much like Picoult’s narrative, navigate the intricate dance between darkness and redemption, offering insights into both the fantastical and the all-too-real aspects of our existence. Together, let’s explore the stories that shape us, haunt us, and ultimately, heal us.

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Mokosh and the Great Storm

March 2, 2024Journal, Polish, Slavic Spirits (series)E.S.O. Martin

Mokosh: The Slavic Goddess of Earth, Fertility, and Women’s Destinies

In the rich tapestry of Slavic mythology, Mokosh stands out as one of the most revered goddesses. She is seen as the divine mother, the Earth Goddess, the goddess of weaving, agriculture, and the home.

In a culture that was often patriarchal, Mokosh was the goddess who looked out for women, their destinies, their health, their desires, their work, their sexuality, and their offspring.

Mokosh is often depicted as a powerful female figure, embodying both the sensual and maternal aspects of the harvest. She was a provider, a nurturer, and a protector.

She is closely associated with the earth’s fertility, ensuring the abundance of crops and the well-being of the community.

Symbols and Worship

Representations of Mokosh often includes symbols of fertility and femininity, such as sheaves of wheat, spinning wheels, and water. These symbols reflect her importance in an agrarian society, where the cycle of sowing, growing, and harvesting was central to survival and prosperity.

Her favorite tree was the Linden tree. Her favorite animals were the sheep and the spider.

The worship of Mokosh persisted even as Slavic societies transitioned from paganism to Christianity, with many of her attributes and symbols being absorbed into veneration of the Virgin Mary.

Mokosh: Goddess of Sensuality

Mokosh’s presence in Slavic mythology is marked by her deep connections to the natural world and the cycles of life.

She is often portrayed as having a complex relationship with both Perun, god of the sky, and Veles, god of the underworld, as both gods sought to win her affections.

Perun brought Mokosh wheat and flowers, fragrant from the warmth of the sun. With Perun, Mokosh delighted in the light, the rain, and the wind. He promised protection and strength.

Veles brought snakes and worms to help Mokosh keep the soil healthy, so that it could become more fertile. With Veles, Mokosh enjoyed the water, the moist earth, and the decomposition that returned nutrients to the soil. He promised dreams, darkness, rest, magic, and mystery.

When Mokosh became pregnant, each suitor was overjoyed, thinking he had been chosen as Mokosh’s favorite and that she would choose him as her husband.

The Great Storm: The Epic Rivalry Between Perun and Veles

Mokosh gave birth to twins, one with the golden hair of Perun, and one with the black hair of Veles. Not only had Mokosh refused to choose between the gods, she had taken them both as her consorts.

Mokosh and her twin children: Jarillo (spring/summer) and Marzanna (autumn/winter)

Perun’s jealousy flared. Thunderstorms gathered and lightning struck the earth. Perun turned into a giant eagle and challenged Veles to an epic battle over Mokosh’s affections, and the right to raise her children. Perun attacked Veles, determined to banish him from Yawia, the land of the living, once and for all.

Yet Veles, ever the shape-shifter, evaded Perun’s wrath. Veles changed his form into a tree, into a human, into a serpent, into a bull. He hid in the shadows, and he hid amongst the sheep and the trees. And finally, when Perun found him, Veles took the form of a dragon and fought back.

The world shook as the two divine suitors battled for Mokosh and for dominance over the earth—for, indeed, their rivalry predated Mokosh.

The Great Storm: The Battle Between Perun and Veles

Mokosh’s Choice

To prevent the world from being torn apart, Mokosh intervened. In her heart, Mokosh harbored love for both gods, for each represented vital aspects of the world she cherished.

Mokosh bade Perun and Veles to look at the world and at all the destruction they had caused to her lands in their jealous rage. They saw crops that had been charred and flattened. They saw people and animals, cowering in the fields and forests. They saw deserts, which had been deprived of Veles’s waters and nutrients.

Mokosh knew that a healthy landscape needed the attentions of both the sky and the land and waters, and there needed to be balance. A world with only sky and fire could not sustain life.

To ensure peace, Mokosh proposed that Perun and Veles each take the other’s child to foster and raise as their own. The golden-haired boy, Jarilo, was given to Veles to raise as his son. The dark-haired girl, Marzanna, was given to Perun to raise as his daughter.

Mokosh, in the overworld during the summer

In this way, Mokosh negotiated peace between the sky and the land below.

Mokosh’s story is just one of many in the captivating world of Slavic mythology. To delve deeper into these ancient tales and explore the legends of gods, heroes, and mythical beings, join our Reader’s Club newsletter. Receive updates on new entries in the “Slavic Spirits” series and immerse yourself in the enchanting narratives that have shaped centuries of Slavic culture.

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