This story is part of the July 7 edition of Sunday Life. See all 14 stories . In my late 20s, I set out to write a book about the remarkable lives of my Latvian grandmothers and discovered my Nanna Aline was a master storyteller.
Over a decade later, as we reached the end of a long journey sitting side-by-side talking about her life, she summed up the importance of what we’d done together. “My granddaughter took the time to really see me. To see our family.
” I grew up close to both my Nanna Aline and Grandma Milda but not really understanding all they went through during the Second World War and the Soviet and Nazi occupations of Latvia. The author’s grandparents, Eddy and Aline, at Newcastle’s Redhead beach circa 1952. Credit: Courtesy of Andra Putnis When I was little, my family would drive down from Toowoomba to Newcastle to visit them.
I knew there were secrets held within their houses. As my two younger sisters and I entered Nanna Aline’s small weatherboard house out, we’d find a little island of Latvia. It was filled with Latvian wooden dolls in vividly painted folk-dancing skirts, cross-stitched pillows and leather photo albums, but also solemn pictures of Jesus and Mary.
Nanna would greet us on her back steps in a terry-towelling housedress smelling of dill, talcum powder and cigarettes, and hold us as if she never wanted to let go. The adults often drank too much and got into hushed discussions. During our trips, we’d also spend time at Grandma Milda�.
