Category Archives: language

by Joel | 25 November 2025 · 3:37 am

Poland to Manchuria and Back, 1940s

My latest compilation from Culture.pl has a long story about a Polish boy who went to Manchuria and back during the 1940s: Untold WWII Stories: A Boy’s Wartime Journey from Poland to Manchuria & Back. Here are a few excerpts:

Jerzy Sikora’s childhood was a whirlwind of war and exile. His father, a spy, vanished; his mother died, leaving him alone in Manchuria with his young sister. Arrest, hunger and betrayal shadowed his early years until an American soldier plucked him from chaos, setting him on a path back to Poland. But survival was just the beginning – reunion, loss and resilience would define the rest.

…

The story might have begun in 1936, when I was born, but let’s start with 1939, when my parents and I fled east after the war erupted. My mother (1909–1946) and my father (1907–1957) traveled as far as Busk, a town 40 kilometres east of Lviv. It was there that I was baptized, most likely in the Roman Catholic Church of Our Lady of the Rosary and St. Stanislaus. But our time together was short. On 15 September 1939, we were forced to separate from my father. The Polish military gave the order – it must have been in response to the Soviet invasion of Poland from the east. My mother and I suddenly found ourselves trapped in Soviet-occupied territory. Under the cover of darkness, we made a daring crossing of the Bug River, fleeing westward. After a long and arduous journey, we reached Siedlce, where fate intervened. By sheer chance, we encountered my uncle; with him, we made our way back to Warsaw.

…

Then, in early 1940, a Japanese man appeared at our door. Perhaps he was connected to the Japanese Embassy – I will never know for sure. But he carried something that would change everything: a letter from my father. In it, he begged my mother to apply for an official passport from the German occupation authorities to seek permission to leave for Japan. Somehow, money was arranged – perhaps through the Japanese messenger – enough to fund our journey. And so, in the spring of that year, we left Nazi-occupied Poland. Our escape was surreal – Berlin, Rome, Naples. We traveled by train, crossing hostile territory, until finally, we boarded a ship – the Hakozaki Maru. The journey carried us through the Suez Canal, across the Indian Ocean, at last reaching Japan, where we reunited with my father.

Our time in Japan was brief. Before long, we set sail once again, this time bound for Manchuria, eventually arriving in Changchun (then known as Hsinking). We settled in a small, single-story house with a garden, in a neighbourhood inhabited primarily by Japanese families in the northern part of the city. I spent my days playing with the local children – Japanese boys and girls from the neighbourhood. I picked up enough of their language to communicate with them easily. Childhood, even in the shadow of war, had its moments of normalcy.

…

On 29 January 1942, my sister, Anna Elżbieta, was born. At first, I barely registered her presence in my life. It wasn’t until nearly a year later that I truly ‘noticed’ her – when she sat down on our cat, and the cat did nothing. I was stunned. My own relationship with that cat had been nothing but claws and scratches. Whenever I tried to pet it, it defended itself fiercely. And yet, when Anna plopped down on top of it, the cat didn’t protest at all. Life changed again around that time. We moved into a larger, multi-story building, closer to the city centre. My father had an office on the upper floor, a space that was strictly off-limits to me. And yet, of course, that only made it more tempting. I snuck in a few times. Inside, I found kind, polite Japanese adults, but nothing particularly exciting. No grand mysteries, no hidden treasures – just stacks of paper and colourful pencils.

…

One day, I found myself witnessing a remarkable event: the last emperor of China, Puyi, being driven through the city. A convoy of cars made its way through the streets, and what struck me most was not the sight of the emperor himself but the fear that surrounded him. Fifty metres from the road, policemen blocked all movement. No one was allowed to approach. Worse still, we were ordered to turn our backs to the procession. No one was to look directly at him. One man hesitated – perhaps he didn’t obey quickly enough. A policeman slapped him across the face. I managed to sneak a glance. And what did I see? Just a few cars. That was all. And yet, the air was thick with tension, as if a single wrong move could change everything.

…

Not far from where we lived stood a Franciscan convent complex, surrounded by a high, solid wall. It wasn’t just a convent – inside, there was a chapel, a shelter for the poor, a small hospital, a school with a boarding house for girls and even a farm with cows and pigs. In the fall of 1945, I was admitted to the school as an exception – the only boy in an all-girl class.

Once again, I was faced with the challenge of forming letters into words – but this time, in English. I still resisted it, just as I had with Polish. Far more interesting were the mandolin lessons and drawing classes, especially because the drawing teacher was not a nun. She was a young woman, different from the others. I still remember how patient and kind she was, guiding my hand as I struggled to draw a pear. She showed me how to use three colours – yellow, red, and green – to make it look real. Her name was Larysa Ogienko. At the time, I knew little about her. Only later did I learn that she was the daughter of a White Army officer who had fled Russia during the October Revolution. I didn’t know it yet, but she would play a crucial role in my survival in China after I lost my parents.

The end of World War II was not a sudden event for me – it was a slow fading of the world I had known. The Japanese gradually disappeared from our surroundings. My father stopped going to work. I remember him sitting at home, carving wooden clogs. Was he trying to earn money? I’m not sure. Despite the massive changes happening around us, I didn’t sense hostility from the local Chinese. Life seemed to go on. And then, one day, everything changed.

…

It was the fall of 1945. I was playing outside in a courtyard with my friends, completely unaware of what was about to happen. Suddenly, my mother came running. There were tears in her eyes as she hugged me tightly. ‘Your father’s been arrested.’ I didn’t understand. He was often away from home – wasn’t this just another one of those times? The drama of the moment blurred even more the next day, when my father returned – escorted by two Soviet officers in uniform. They weren’t aggressive. They didn’t shout. They were calm, formal. They told me they had brought my father so I could say goodbye. I still didn’t grasp what that meant. At that age, I admired soldiers. Their uniforms, their posture – they seemed powerful, fascinating. I didn’t realize then that I could be seeing my father for the last time.

…

By then, it was warm outside – probably March or April 1946. Anna and I had regained consciousness in the hospital. But we were weak, frail and starving. I couldn’t even stand. The first time I tried to get up, I collapsed. My legs wouldn’t hold me. I could only crawl.

We were given very little food – they said that after typhoid fever, the body couldn’t handle large meals. But hunger doesn’t care about medical explanations. It consumes you. It burns inside you. It’s a feeling you never forget for the rest of your life. And then – something unexpected happened. One day, a visitor arrived at the hospital – Larysa Ogienko, my former drawing teacher. She was around 30 years old, with golden hair. She wasn’t just a friendly face – she had brought food. And more than that – she fed us. I asked about my mother, but she didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. Because what she did next saved our lives. After we were discharged from the hospital, she took us both into her home.

Larysa lived with her mother, whom I would soon call Babuszka [grandmother in Russian, AD]. She was without a doubt the most caring, loving person – and in the near future, she would become our only protector.

…

Then, one day, an American soldier arrived at Larysa’s home. His name was Henry, and he asked me a single question: ‘Would you like to go to Poland?’

The answer was obvious. I would go anywhere – as long as it meant escaping. At that time, a few Americans had arrived in Changchun. The city had briefly been retaken by Chiang Kai-shek’s Nationalist army, pushing back Mao Zedong’s forces. Henry and others like him were working with UNRRA (the United Nations Relief and Rehabilitation Administration) and the International Red Cross, searching for people who wanted to be repatriated from China. Everything happened quickly. Mao’s troops were preparing to encircle the city again, and it was only a matter of time before they stormed back in. Among the few belongings I managed to take with me was my father’s collection of postage stamps, acquired during his time in Manchuria.

In May 1947, we boarded a DC-10 aircraft with Major Henry, departing from Nanking (Nanjing). We spent a few days there, though I learned only later that it was in Nanking that the Polish consul had issued us passports. I still have mine to this day. It was also there, on a beach by the Chinese sea, that I tasted something extraordinary for the first time – an ice-cold Coca-Cola. The next flight took us to Shanghai, and I quickly discovered that early aircraft had a terrifying flaw – whenever they hit thinner air, they would suddenly drop, plummeting before stabilizing again.

The feeling was horrible, but after a few days of travel, we grew attached to Henry. And then – another unexpected separation. In Shanghai, Henry was not allowed to continue with us. Instead, we were placed in the care of another American – Erling Logan. At first, I felt uneasy, even afraid. Henry had been our guardian, our protector – who was this stranger? But the fear didn’t last long. Erling Logan wasn’t just kind and protective – in some ways, he reminded me of my father. Even his age was similar.

We stayed with Erling in a luxurious hotel, a stark contrast to everything I had known. It was blisteringly hot, and to our surprise, taking a hot bath turned out to be the best way to cool down. For the first time in a long while, I felt safe.

…

In June 1947, we boarded the SS Marine Lynx – our final passage out of China. Our cabin housed four people: me, Anna, a German woman, and her young child. Meanwhile, Erling Logan was in charge of the entire transport of about 700 emigrants to Europe. We saw him only occasionally, as he was busy overseeing the journey. The voyage from Shanghai to Naples, Italy, lasted nearly two months, but despite its length, it was anything but boring. The sailors created a small pool for the children, stretching canvas to form a makeshift basin where we could splash and cool off.

…

The last leg of our journey took us by train to Warsaw, arriving at the Main Railway Station. From there, we rode in a horse-drawn carriage to Hotel Polonia, where we spent our final night together with Erling. The next morning, on 7 September 1947, we traveled to Anin, to the home of my aunt – my father’s sister. Our return to Poland was even mentioned in the newspaper Wieczór (Evening). And then – it was time to say goodbye to Erling. I was not happy about it. Once again, I felt that I was being handed off like an object, given away to someone I barely knew. I only learned many years later that Erling wanted to adopt us. He had no children of his own and had grown deeply attached to Anna and me. But to make it official, he needed my aunt’s permission. And she refused. At the time, I thought I was saying goodbye to Erling forever. There was no reason to believe our paths would ever cross again. And for years, with no word from him, rumours even surfaced that he had died during the Korean War.

After returning to Poland, I found myself in the home of my extended family. We lived in a modest apartment with my aunt and uncle, Irena and Wacław, along with their four children – Hanna (born 1934), Jan (1936), Tadeusz (born 1945) and Marek (born 1946). Also living with us was Aunt Wilunia (my grandmother’s sister) and her daughter. For a child, adaptation is instinctive. The will to survive is powerful, and at a young age, the mind is still flexible. Within a few weeks, I regained my ability to speak Polish, and soon I began making new friends.

…

In early spring of 1954, some family friends in Anin mentioned that they had received a letter from my father. I was stunned.

Why had they not shown us the letter? It seemed impossible that my father could be alive. Then, about a month later, a phone call came from the local post office. I picked up the receiver. And on the other end, I heard my father’s voice. He asked for directions to where we lived, and we arranged to meet at the crossroads near our house.

And just like that, it happened. He walked toward us as we approached from the opposite direction. He was thin, unshaven and wore a quilted jacket and trousers. His entire life’s belongings were packed in a bundle slung over his back. It’s impossible to describe the feeling of that moment. It was so unreal that none of us could fully comprehend it at first. For nearly eight years, my father had no idea whether we were alive. For nearly eight years, we had no idea that he was alive.

…

I was fortunate to preserve my father’s handwritten biography, written by him in 1954. From this document, I was able to reconstruct key moments of his life.

Leave a comment

Filed under China, Germany, Japan, language, migration, military, Poland, U.S., USSR, war

by Joel | 23 November 2025 · 8:41 pm

Ukrainian Rikishi Wins Emperor’s Cup

Aonishiki Arata, a 21-year-old rikishi from Vinnitsya, Ukraine (sister city of Kielce, Poland), won the Emperor’s Cup at the just-completed Kyushu Basho in Fukuoka, Japan. The talented, fast-rising youth in former rikishi Aminishiki‘s new Ajigawa Stable is now being considered for Ozeki (Champion) rank in Sumo’s Top Makuuchi Division. Congratulations to him. おめでとう！

Leave a comment

Filed under Japan, language, migration, sumo, Ukraine

by Joel | 14 November 2025 · 9:34 pm

Where RLS Learnt Lallans

From Storyteller: The Life of Robert Louis Stevenson, by Leo Damrosch (Yale University Press, 2025), Kindle pp. 82-84:

Louis picked up much of his Lallans from a shepherd named John Todd, known as “Lang John” for his height, with whom he would tramp for hours in the hills while the sheep were grazing. “My friend the shepherd,” he said later, “speaks broad Scotch of the broadest, and often enough employs words that I do not understand myself.” Louis recalled Todd in an essay entitled “Pastoral”: “He laughed not very often, and when he did, with a sudden, loud haw-haw, hearty but somehow joyless, like an echo from a rock. His face was permanently set and coloured; ruddy and stiff with weathering; more like a picture than a face.”

But it was Todd’s eloquence that captivated Louis. “He spoke in the richest dialect of Scotch I ever heard, and this vocabulary he would handle like a master. I might count him with the best talkers, only that talking Scotch and talking English seem incomparable acts. He touched on nothing, at least, but he adorned it; when he narrated, the scene was before you.” Many of Louis’s original readers would have recognized a famous phrase that Samuel Johnson composed in Latin for his friend Oliver Goldsmith, Nihil tetegit quod non ornavit: “He touched nothing that he did not adorn.” The allusion is a beautiful tribute to the old shepherd, ranking his skill in language on a level with a writer of great distinction.

It was Todd, Louis said, who taught him to appreciate the spirit of the hills.

He it was that made it live for me, as the artist can make all things live. It was through him the simple strategy of massing sheep upon a snowy evening, with its attendant scampering of earnest, shaggy aides-de-camp, was an affair that I never wearied of seeing, and that I never weary of recalling to mind: the shadow of the night darkening on the hills, inscrutable black blots of snow shower moving here and there like night already come, huddles of yellow sheep and dartings of black dogs upon the snow, a bitter air that took you by the throat, unearthly harpings of the wind along the moors; and for centerpiece to all these features and influences, John winding up the brae [slope], keeping his captain’s eye upon all sides, and breaking, ever and again, into a spasm of bellowing that seemed to make the evening bleaker. It is thus that I still see him in my mind’s eye, perched on a hump of the declivity not far from Halkerside, his staff in airy flourish, his great voice taking hold upon the hills and echoing terror to the lowlands; I, meanwhile, standing somewhat back, until the fit should be over, and, with a pinch of snuff, my friend relapse into his easy, even conversation.

Though the shepherd’s casual talk might be “easy,” it was direct and to the point. In another essay Louis contrasted it with the conversational style in England, where “the contact of mind with mind [is] evaded as with terror. A Scottish peasant will talk more liberally out of his own experience. He will not put you by with conversational counters and small jests; he will give you the best of himself, like one interested in life and man’s chief end.”

Swanston people remembered that Todd used to say of Louis, “He is an awfu’ laddie for speirin’ questions about a’ thing, an’ whenever you turn your back, awa’ he gangs an’ writes it a’ doon.” A “speirin” questioner is prying and inquisitive. Years later some old-timers told a visitor the same thing. “Stevenson would dae naething but lie aboot the dykes. He wouldna wark. He was aye rinnin’ aboot wi’ lang Todd, amang the hills, getting him to tell a’ the stories he kent.” “Lang Todd” prompts one to wonder if John passed his nickname on to Long John Silver in Treasure Island.

Leave a comment

Filed under Britain, education, language, literature

by Joel | 6 November 2025 · 10:03 pm

Escaping Russia to Riga, 1921

From Kosciuszko, We Are Here!: American Pilots of the Kosciuszko Squadron in Defense of Poland, 1919-1921, by Janusz Cisek (McFarland, 2025), Kindle Loc. 2673ff.

The last prison that Cooper was in was Vladykino. Here with two Polish officers he decided to escape. This time he succeeded. In a way he was forced to escape by his Polish counterparts. In his report filed after reaching Warsaw, he wrote that the two Polish prisoners managed to brake into the prison office in order to forge a few documents for the escape. At this point there was no return. Cooper was very well aware that not only the two direct perpetrators might be shot dead on the spot. He, after all, was considered to be a dangerous anti-revolutionary and enemy of the people. The escape must have happened at the beginning of March, 1921.

Since Cooper himself did not know Russian, he pretended to be mute, and on the long march from Moscow to the Latvian border, Lt. Stanisław Sokołowski and Corporal Stanisław Zalewski facilitated everything for him. They marched in the direction of Wielkie Łuki with Latvia as their general destination, which was then, as through the entire inter-war period, the most efficient crossing point between the workers’ paradise and the outside world. It was through this very border that Boris Savinkov, the famous terrorist, returned to Russia, lured by the mirage of the great anti–Bolshevik conspiracy. Food was obtained by exchanging the clothes they had received in the Amcross packages. The escapees brushed with arrest several times. They were, after all, moving across completely unknown territory with neither a compass nor a map. Cooper recalled that he spent one night up to his neck in water. In any case in an expedition covering over 800 kilometers, the sympathy, or at least indifference, of the local population had to play a crucial role. The last five days of the route to the border was on foot through mud and swamps. At the last minute, a smuggler they had engaged tried to betray the escapees by refusing to lead them across the border. Only threatened with death did he decide to fulfill his part of the contract. The border was crossed at 2:00 A.M. on April 23, 1921. “We came to ‘Amcross’ in rags and without shoes, hungry and completely fatigued,” as Cooper wrote in his first dispatch from Riga.

The shoes were payment for the smuggler who had led them across the border. Cooper would not have been himself if he had not immediately expressed his gratitude to Amcross and brought attention to the need for better care of the American prisoners still held by the Bolsheviks. He wrote about this a few weeks later, to Hoover among others, including a few practical hints. He brought attention to the still existing legal avenues of action by Western charitable organizations in Russia, he stressed the attitude of the two Polish officers and the local population. As an eyewitness, he was also a credible source of information about the conditions prevailing under the communist rule in Russia: “Cooper, a prisoner in Russia, states that Russia is full of propaganda against United States, France and Great Britain; people are told that these countries are responsible for all trouble in Russia. German influence is strong and popular.” In another report he confirmed the level of control by the new regime. “Absolute control of Bolsheviks, either they will stay in control or anarchy.” This experience of the nature of the communist system, gained through direct contact with the iron hand of terror, remained with Cooper throughout his life. He became an unrelenting opponent of the system, and he intended to write a book about his experiences. However he never fully realized his intention. The only fragments were included in his book Things Men Die For. It is worth mentioning here the durability of the anti–American propaganda, whose influence is present even in contemporary academic works. Simonenko, already mentioned in these pages, states in an article about the Kościuszko Squadron that after the signing of the Polish-Bolshevik peace in Riga, Cooper was most ordinarily released from prison and arrived to Poland without any problems. He does not say, however, why he had to overcome the boundless Russian territory in rags and on foot, nor why he crossed the border illegally.

…

Meanwhile, the Polish authorities and the squadron airmen awaited the miraculous rescue of their comrade. His journey from Riga to Warsaw began on April 29, his train reached the capital on May 3, the day celebrated by Poles as Constitution Day. As a witness to the event recalled, “he received a great ovation.” It so happened that this was the first time that Constitution Day had been celebrated without a major war being waged, although the borders had not yet been officially recognized by the Conference of Ambassadors. It is true that in Silesia the third uprising had broken out against the Germans, but Poland was not officially involved in that conflict. Help was provided to the insurgents unofficially using paramilitary organizations such as the Polish Military Organization. Thus, the 3rd of May in 1921 was celebrated solemnly and in an atmosphere of peace, as the new constitution was declared in March and a peace treaty was signed with Russia.

Leave a comment

Filed under Baltics, language, migration, military, nationalism, Poland, U.S., USSR, war

by Joel | 3 November 2025 · 7:02 am

Ubiquitous Street Signs in Poland

Zapraszamy lit. ‘We invite’ (= ‘Welcome’) is on nearly every storefront, but I haven’t seen it on welcome mats. One also sees Dziękujemy ‘we thank you’.

Among the most common prohibitive streetsigns are: Zakas Parkowanie ‘No parking’. Many streets have paid (Płatny) parking zones with one interactive Parkomat meter per zone. Blue signs with P mark the beginning, and often specify whether parking is parallel, angled, or perpendicular to the sidewalk. The ends of paid parking zones are marked with blue signs reading Koniec ‘end’.

Many shops and restaurants also display Zakas Palenia ‘no smoking’. Lots of Poles smoke or vape and you often encounter groups of people standing around outside taking smoke breaks (in the cold) before going back inside. It took me a while to figure out that the Papierosy advertised at many stores are ‘cigarettes’. What gave it away for me were signs advertising e-papierosy.

Lifts are labeled Winda (sg.) or Windy (pl.). Ground floors (parter) are numbered 0, and basements are numbered -1. Each upper floor is a piętro and the newly upgraded elevator in our building announces piętro zero at the ground floor and piętro minus jeden in the basement where the recycling bins are.

Our rather nice building also has signs that warn residents not to park their rowery ‘bicycles’, hulajnogi ‘scooters’, or deskorolki ‘skateboards’ in the hallways. Hulajnogi elektryczne are as much a danger to pedestrians on Polish sidewalks as they are everywhere else.

Poles have a reputation for being heavy drinkers, and all manner of liquor is readily available even on Sundays in the ubiquitous Żabka convenience shops, but we have been surprised to see so many varieties of very tasty beers and wines (and even hard liquor) on storeshelves and in restaurants that are labeled bezalkoholowe (0,0%).

Leave a comment

Filed under food, language, Poland, travel

by Joel | 24 October 2025 · 8:57 am

Polish Signage: Days of the Week

So far, I’m encountering far more Polish in writing than in I am in speech, so I’m learning to read more words than to understand spoken words. I thought I should start a series of blogposts about some of the ubiquitous practical signage that is not much addressed either in my Duolingo lessons or in my grammar books. I’ll start with the way days of the week appear on many commercial doorways.

The long word for Monday is one more reason to hate Mondays: poniedziałek. The rest of the workday names are much shorter: wtorek, środa, czwartek, piątek. All except ‘Wednesday’ end in the diminutive -ek, which helps distinguish two of them from the ordinals czwarty ‘fourth’ and piąty ‘fifth’. Wtorek is related to the older Slavic ordinal for ‘second’, but Polish now uses drugi for ‘second’.

The word for ‘Wednesday’ basically means ‘middle’ (as in German Mittwoch, literally ‘midweek’), and it occurs in compounds such as śródmieście ‘midtown, downtown’.

Sobota ‘Saturday’ comes ultimately from Hebrew via Greek and Latin for Sabbath. But niedziela ‘Sunday’ comes from a Proto-Slavic compound that meant ‘no work’. (English weekend has now also been borrowed into Polish.)

So poniedziałek ‘Monday’ can be parsed into a compound typical of many Slavic languages, with po ‘after’ and a diminutive form niedziałek from niedziela ‘Sunday’, thus ‘the day after no work’. Alternations between l and ł in different forms of the same word are not at all rare in Polish.

Stores that list their hours open for business will often abbreviate Mon–Fri as Pon–Pt, or Mon–Thu as Pon–Czw, if they open longer hours on Fri–Sat. A university calendar abbreviates the weekdays thus: Pn. Wt. Śr. Cz. Pt.

In other contexts, niedziela ‘Sunday’ is often abbreviated Nd. or Ndz., tacitly recognizing its two-morpheme source. Most businesses offer no service hours on Sunday: nieczynne.

Leave a comment

Filed under language, Poland

by Joel | 18 October 2025 · 8:30 am

Mariners Manager Don Wakamatsu

From Kenichi Zenimura, Japanese American Baseball Pioneer, by Bill Staples, Jr. (McFarland, 2011), Kindle Locations 37-53:

When Hall of Famer Frank Robinson was named the Cleveland Indians manager in 1975, he said that he wished Jackie Robinson was there with him to appreciate the significance of the moment. Jackie had died just three years before Frank became the first African American manager in MLB history.

In January 2009, I earned the distinction of becoming the first Asian American manager in MLB history when I was asked to lead the Seattle Mariners. [Ichiro joined the Mariners in 2001.] Unlike Frank Robinson, there was not one person who I wished could be with me to appreciate the moment – there were thousands.

I often talk about “those who came before me.” These people include my family, the thousands who were sent into internment camps during World War II, the men who served bravely in the 442nd, and the pioneers of the early Japanese American baseball leagues.

With the exception of my family, none of the others were with me physically when I joined the Mariners. They were with me in spirit though.

I am a fourth generation Japanese American, also known as a Yonsei. I was born in Hood River, Oregon, in 1963, and as a child I had no idea of what my family had endured during World War II. In actuality, they kept a lot of that from me. It wasn’t until college that I started to learn more about the past and that dark chapter of American history.

The implications of my heritage first struck me when a government check arrived in the mail in the late 1980s. It was my father’s share of reparations for the internment of Japanese Americans in the 1940s. My dad was born in the Tule Lake camp in California, just south of the Oregon border. I didn’t quite understand what the check was for. All I remember was my dad’s reaction: “it was all too little, too late.”‘

Over the years, my curiosity about my heritage has grown. From a friendship with baseball historian Kerry Yo Nakagawa I learned in great detail about Japanese Americans and baseball in the internment camps. I imagined the game I loved played behind coils of barbed wire and realized just how little I knew about my past.

Since then, I have discovered that the internment camp chapter is just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to Japanese American baseball history. There is so much more underneath. For example, few people know that
• in 1897 the first person of Japanese ancestry attempted to play in the majors;
• the first Japanese American baseball team was organized in 1903;
• a major league “color-line” drawn against Japanese players was publicly acknowledged in 1905;
• the first Japanese American baseball league was founded in 1910; and
• between 1922 and 1931, Nisei and Negro League teams did more to export the American game to Japan than their major league counterparts.

All proof that there is still so much of the fascinating Japanese American baseball history that has yet to be told.

Leave a comment

Filed under baseball, Japan, language, migration, nationalism, U.S.

by Joel | 16 October 2025 · 9:17 pm

Some Polish Clickbait Ads

Seniorzy. Czuję się jakbym miał nowe kolana.
Seniors. I feel like I have new knees.

Aparat słuchowy na 2025 rok – rewolucja w technologii słuchu.
Hearing aid of 2025 – revolution in hearing technology.
Dowiedz się więcej. Learn more.

Otwarcie nowego sklepu, nieinwazyjne glukometr – 50% zniżki.
Opening of a new store, noninvasive glucometer – 50% discounts.

Superszybki internet w TOYA. Tanie pakiety aż do 1 Gb/s.
Superfast internet with TOYA. Cheap packages up to 1 Gb/s.
Sprawdź. Check/verify.

Najwygodniejsze buty na zimę 2025 dla 70-letnich seniorów.
The most comfortable shoes for winter 2025 for 70-year-old seniors.

Buszuj szybko i zwinnie w Internecie. Otwórz.
Browse quickly and nimbly in the Internet. Open.

Neuropatia nie wynika z niedoboru witaminy B.
Neuropathy does not result from vitamin B deficiency.
Poznaj prawdziwego winowajcę.
Meet the real culprit.

Czy Twe oczy mogą kłamać. Could your eyes be lying?
Przekonaj w Vision Express. Convince with Vision Express.

Test IQ
1-2 poprawne [correct] = IQ 85
…
10 poprawne [correct] = IQ 150+
Rozpocznij Quiz [Start Quiz]

Leave a comment

Filed under language, Poland

by Joel | 13 October 2025 · 8:17 am

Poland’s Eastern Border, c. 1920

From Kosciuszko, We Are Here!: American Pilots of the Kosciuszko Squadron in Defense of Poland, 1919-1921, by Janusz Cisek (McFarland, 2025), Kindle Loc. 1390ff.

To understand better the genesis of the war and Piłsudski’s aims, it is essential to present a general background of this conflict. Between ethnic Poland and ethnic Russia stretches a belt of land several hundred kilometers wide, inhabited by a population that is neither Russian nor Polish. After a few centuries of political union with Poland, Ukrainians, Lithuanians, Baltic nations, and even to some extent Belorussians succeeded in creating their own national movements at the turn of the twentieth century. Poland was the dominant political power until the end of the eighteenth century, but by the time of the second and third partitions of Poland (1793, 1795) Russia had taken over control of those areas. In spite of this, the Poles were a dominant element of both the economy and culture of those territories. For many of local leaders the tradition of a multinational Polish Kingdom, or Rzeczpospolita, with its privileges and freedom, was still an attractive example. All these matters were incomprehensible in the West, where all Polish claims to territories east of the Bug River were treated as imperialistic, even after two important declarations of the Bolshevik regime. In the Peace Decree of November 8, 1917, they announced:

The Government regards as an honest or democratic peace … an immediate peace without annexations (i.e., without the seizure of foreign land, without the forcible taking over of foreign nationalities) and without contribution.

The decree was issued at the Second All-Russian Congress of Workers’ and Soldiers’ Deputies in Piotrogrod (St. Petersburg). Subsequent documents included the Declaration of the Rights of the Nations of Russia from November 15, 1917, guaranteeing the rights of self-determination to break away and to create independent states. Even more important was the decree of the Council of the Peoples Commissars from the August 29, 1918, about the annulment of the partition treaties in relation to Poland. According to many lawyers, these proclamations restored the status quo ante and legitimated Poland’s claims to lands within her 1772 borders. Of course, politicians in Warsaw realized the impossibility of openly claiming the return of those territories, mainly because of the awakening national consciences of the nations inhabiting these lands. Anyway, this option remained more or less in the propaganda arsenal.

Fundamentally, there were two approaches to the territorial shape of the state. The National Democrats headed by Roman Dmowski pursued the incorporation of the borderland areas into the Polish state and the gradual polonization of those people. Piłsudski countered Dmowski with his federation program, or the construction of national states friendly to Poland, which would fulfill the national aspirations of the Ukrainians and the Lithuanians and would separate Poland from Russian threat. In February 1919, following the German armies’ retreat from the “Ober-Ost,” the Bolshevik armies moved west. When they met Polish military outposts in the vicinity of Bereza Kartuska, armed conflict ensued. At the same time there were battles and skirmishes between Poles and Ukrainians in East Galicia. The conflict on this part of the frontline was complicated because there were at least three political entities that claimed principal state authority in Ukraine. It is common knowledge that until 1914 the Ukrainians, who did not have their own state, were divided by the Austro-Hungarian and Russian border. The eastern part of their national territory belonged to Russia and created a group of politicians opposing Russian domination. From this base came the later ally of Piłsudski and Ataman of the Ukrainian People’s Republic, Semen Petlura. Part of western Galicia under Austro-Hungarian control, and the capital Lwów, was turned into the Western Ukrainian People’s Republic with Evhen Petrushewich at its head. Its policy was decidedly anti–Polish. In addition there was the Ukrainian communist movement controlled from Moscow and led by the Bulgarian born Christian Rakovski. This triangle remained unchanged, with the exception of attempts at cooperation by both of the national wings of the Ukrainian movement against Poland. There was also a small but relatively influential group around the “Hetmanate” government of Pavlo Skoropadski appointed at the end of World War I, when the Germans occupied Ukrainian territory.

The situation underwent some changes from the conclusion of the May–June offensive of 1919, in which the Polish Army forced the Ukrainians back beyond the Zbruch River. Shortly after, namely in August 1919, under the pressure of anti–Bolshevik armies, the so-called White Russians, Kiev fell. The Tsarist generals did not even want to hear of independence for Ukraine. They fought all factions of Ukrainian political life opting for the breakaway of Ukraine from Russia. The occupation of Kiev signified the extinguishing of all hope of an independent state. Quite simply the Ukrainians did not have the resources to fight both Poland and Russia. Petlura was first to grasp the political situation. Since it was impossible to fight all the real and alleged enemies of Ukraine, it was necessary to ally, even at the cost of territorial concessions, with a partner who guaranteed political independence. It was Piłsudski’s idea of a federation that seemed to offer the most promise of an independent Ukrainian state. After a few weeks of hesitation, Petlura, in November 1919, sent Andrij Livickij to Warsaw with the aim of preparing for talks about a military-political alliance. This was the origin of the Polish-Ukrainian alliance, which was finalized in April 1920 by a political pact on April 21 and a military convention on April 24. With this ally Pilsudski moved on Kiev. However, as time showed, the mirage of an independent Ukraine disintegrated. This happened as a result of the relative apathy of the population, which had suffered six years of war. It was also due to the impossibility of ensuring a longer period for the organization of a state apparatus and administration after the Polish armed forces had taken Kiev on May 7, 1920.

Leave a comment

Filed under Austria, Germany, Hungary, language, migration, military, nationalism, Poland, Russia, Ukraine, war

by Joel | 10 October 2025 · 5:14 pm

Liberating Bukovina, August 1917

From The Other Trench: The WW1 Diary and Photos of a German Officer, by Alexander Pfeifer and Philipp Cross (True Perspective Press, 2024), Kindle pp. 243-245:

1.8.1917 At 6 o’clock in the morning, my company again takes the lead towards Moldauisch Banilla — terrible heat. The Hutsuls erect triumphal arches for us and distribute bouquets of flowers. Almost all of them have beautiful faces. As always, the Russians have looted and burned everything during their retreat. We again capture five dispersed Russians in front of Moldauisch Banilla.

…

We continue further towards Moldauisch Banilla in the afternoon, which is very heavily occupied by the Russians. Because my company deployed three assault squads, I just have 40 men left and go in reserve. The entire jäger brigade attacks. I receive heavy artillery fire and have two wounded. Moldauisch Banilla is mostly taken towards the evening. This is a large place with a large German colonist quarter and a Jewish quarter. The residents had a bad day in the town, which was bombarded from two sides, with many being dead and wounded. Multiple houses burn. Late in the evening, I move into a Hutsul house in Moldauisch Banilla, where we are given a very friendly welcome by the residents.

…

2.8.1917 Forward march at 6 o’clock in the morning. An old Jew bangs like mad for joy on a Russian drum as we march past. The Russians have cleared the heights to the east of Moldauisch Banilla by morning — the thankful inhabitants kiss my hands while marching through. My company is taking the lead in our division today.

We march over a wooded ridge towards Czudyn. The last Russians disappeared into the forest an hour ago after being shot at by our patrols. It is tropical heat again today. My assault squad, under Lieutenant Fischer, surprises an enemy battalion bivouacking in the village of Neuhütte, which flees under fire and later retreats hastily; so that when we advance, we find the village no longer occupied. During the evening, the residents, who hid in the forests with their cattle for a week, return and kiss our hands with joy. I am staying with a Romanian farmer, and the whole family is touchingly looking after us. A neighbour even brought us a slice of honeycomb.

…

Just as we had made ourselves comfortable, we were alarmed at 3 o’clock in the morning and marched to Czudyn, an endless nest where the other companies took up outposts, whilst my company quartered itself as a reserve in Romanian houses.

3.8.1917 My hostess brings milk and eggs again in the morning. There are eggs, geese, chickens, milk, and an abundance of livestock here, and it is very cheap. I have drunk incredible amounts of milk in Bukovina so far. It was previously called “Mologa” by the Hutsuls, and now “Lapte” by the Romanians.

There is an incredible tropical heat again. At 8 o’clock in the morning, we continue to the church in Czudyn, and my company secures the place via field guards. Bouquets of flowers are presented to us everywhere, and all the horses and carriages are wreathed. We have been pulled out of the front line today and are now division reserves. The Russians are in a hurry to flee. They didn’t burn anything apart from the bridges in Neuhütte and Czudyn.

I am living with Poles. My company is stationed as field guards.

…

4.8.1917 I slept wonderfully in a proper bed. In the morning, I march behind the battalion that marched ahead over Idzestie and to Petroutz, where there is a longer lunch break. I then catch up with the battalion in Kupka. We encounter thunderstorms twice, the likes of which I have never experienced before. We attack Fantana Alba (Rom. ‘White Fountain’) towards the evening, where the Russians want to prevent us from leaving the forested mountains. We stay in the forest as brigade reserves, where we can fortunately light large fires and dry ourselves. I was wet to the skin despite the rubber coat. I am spending the night on the stove bench inside a lonely Ruthenian forest keeper’s house, inhabited by 1000 flies.