Page 6 - GC-Mar-Apr-2026

A German poem that crossed generations
By Ulrike Laubner-Kelleher
rom a German ballad to Buf-
falo’s waterfront, one fami-
Fly’s letters reveal how love,
loss, and language quietly shape
where we belong.
At my very first local Steuben
monthly meeting, the Samuel Helm
Unit, I was asked: “What brought
you to Buffalo? It is so cold here.”
“Well,” I said, “coming from
Switzerland it does not feel too cold
– but I strongly believe it was desti-
ny.” And I started to share my story
that includes a memorial plaque of
the most terrible shipping disaster
on Lake Erie in 1841.
I grew up in a small town in
Germany, just a short distance from
Dortmund – Buffalo’s sister city. I
had no idea that this connection
between our cities would someday Witness of Wilhem Laubner’s Captivity in Russia and his
weave itself into the fabric of my notebook.
own life. I trained as a tailor, then
went on to become a clothing engi- Jim and I met on one of my many er plans for us, and we parted ways a.m. his morning. I picked up the the recipes passed down in both of
neer and my career took me eventu- business trips to the U.S. He was, although we were out of sight of phone and called Jim and told him our families – Klöße, Kohlroulad-
ally to Switzerland, where I found and still is the most talented sewing each other, we were not out of mind about my discovery with goose- en, potato pancakes, cheesecake. It
myself designing high-end sewing machine technician that I have of each other. Ten years later, some- bumps and trembling in the voice. still amazes me how familiar they
machines. Little did I know, this job known. We shared a few laughs, thing shifted – life was ready. Jim This connection between the poem, are, nearly identical across borders
would open the door to the United had some great conversations, but came to Switzerland, and it felt as my grandfather’s letters, and the and generations. In Europe, I had
States and lead me to a man named the timing wasn’t right for us to though
Jim. commit to each other. Life had oth- place. Veni, vidi, vici – he came, he my path, just as I was about to dishes at all. Only here did I realize
6 • THE GERMAN CITIZEN • March - April 2026
guage. He wrote them by hand, survive. As the oldest son, my father
word for word, capturing every de- carried responsibility far beyond his
tail in ink, preserving both his cul- years – supporting his family, en-
ture and language. suring his younger brothers could
I sat there on the wooden floor in have an education, while never hav-
my apartment, reading through the ing the opportunity to study himself.
letters between my grandparents Some experiences are simply too
with tears in my eyes, understand- heavy to put into words.
ing the struggles my grandparents My name is Ulrike, which means
endured and yet so many questions "the beholder of heritage." And
in my mind. But then, as I opened that’s exactly what I’ve become. I
another yellowed fragile paper, hold onto the letters of my grandfa-
something stopped me. A poem I ther’s struggles, the legacy of my
had never heard before: "John family’s history, and the language
Maynard," a dramatic ballad writ- that connects us to our past. I have
ten by one of the most famous Ger- visited my grandparents’ home, my
man authors: Theodor Fontane. In father’s birthplace – now located in
my hand lies his poem, handwritten Poland, itself another historic indus-
by my grandfather, preserving his trial region like Buffalo.
German language during his Rus- Another quiet coincidence re-
sian captivity, where speaking Ger- vealed itself through food and fami-
man was forbidden. ly. My husband’s grandparents were
This ballad made me phone my descendants of Poland, and over the
now fiancé at 3 a.m. my time, 9 years we found ourselves cooking
everything fell into fact that this very poem had crossed never thought of these as Polish
saw, he conquered. And just like begin a new chapter of my life in how deeply our shared culinary tra-
that, I was packing up my life and the area of Buffalo, could be fulfill- ditions connect us – another thread
heading to Buffalo, NY, not just for ing my destiny. of heritage quietly weaving itself
a new job, but for love. It was the Coincidence or Destiny? into my life.
beginning of a new chapter for me. I have often wondered whether What’s the connection be-
While packing, I opened a box – there is a deeper connection be- tween the hero John Maynard,
a box of scripts and letters my Ger- tween my grandfather Wilhelm and my grandfather, and me?
man grandfather Wilhelm Laubner me. As I began to look more close- I believe the story of John
had written to his wife Hedwig and ly into his life, I learned that he had Maynard acts as a kind of a bridge –
his children Wilhelm Karl-Heinz been a police officer — which a bridge to a life that is lived
(my father), Eveline and Elmar dur- might explain my own strong inter- in another country with a foreign
ing his 15 yearlong Russian captivi- est in legal matters. Sadly, we had language. Like my grandfather, who
ty in the prisoner of war camp very little time together. Like many wrote stories in a foreign land to
Commando No. 7062. During my children of the World War II gener- keep his language alive, I now share
research via the service for prison- ation, my father rarely spoke about my own stories in another language
ers of war and missing persons, I the hardships of those years. in another country – stories of lan-
discovered that this camp was a The suffering was immense: guage, culture, and history. My
Labor Camp in Kiev (now Ukraine). growing up without knowing grandfather's writing was his way of
The letters weren’t just a record whether your father was still alive, preserving his identity in the face of
of my grandfather’s life, though – being forced from your home, ar- hardship.
they were a survival tool. German riving in a new country where you Whenever Jim and I walk along
was forbidden, so he wrote fairy were not welcome, going hungry, Buffalo’s waterfront and see the
tales and poems to maintain his lan- stealing potatoes from fields just to memorial plaque of John Maynard,
my thoughts return to my grandfa-
ther Wilhelm. I think of his determi-
nation to survive, and of his quiet
resistance – preserving language
and identity through writing during
years of brutal captivity.
These lines from John Maynard
feel like they could echo my grand-
parents’ deepest hopes:
The captain peers to the helm,
He cannot see his helmsman any-
more,
But through the megaphone he asks:
"Still there, John Maynard?"
"Yes, Master, I am."
"Onto the shore! Into the surf!"
"I hold onto it."
It is a powerful wish — that my
grandfather might hold on to life
long enough to be reunited with his
family. And beneath it, the unrelent-
ing question that must have lived in
my grandmother Hedwig’s mind:
Are you still there?
How unbearable it must be to
live day after day, minute after min-
ute, without knowing whether the
person you love is alive, suffering,
or gone forever. And I often ask
myself: would I have had the same
strength – whether on the side of
waiting or on the side of enduring?
I crossed an ocean to live be-
tween two worlds, just as my grand-
father once did – though in a
different time, and by choice rather
than force. Today, I live in Ham-
burg, New York, and as Fontane
writes in his poem, it is “only 20
minutes” from Buffalo after all.
Continued on next page
Picture of the handwritten poem “John Maynard”, by
Wilhem Laubner