The Russian warplane comes in fast, its belly almost brushing the treetops to avoid detection. Passing over an open field, the pilot spots a young soldier and swerves toward him. As bullets whiz past, the soldier runs behind a barn. The pilot banks and tries again, and again, and again, but the soldier finds shelter first on one side of the barn and then the other with each pass. Finally, the pilot tires of the game and flies off, leaving the soldier thankful to be alive.
This isn’t Ukraine 2022. The chase took place in June 1944 in Karelia, an area of thick forests, clear lakes, and gentle hills that belonged to Finland until Soviet troops overran it in 1940, sparking a half-decade of fighting before the territory ultimately ended up under control of the USSR. And the soldier was Antero Pohjanpalo, my grandfather.
The tale, recounted in his diary from the war, is typical of the stories that Finns have told for generations at Sunday dinners, holiday gatherings, and wreath-laying ceremonies on Independence Day. They shed tears for the fathers, brothers, and uncles who never came home from battle, and they remember the 450,000 refugees forced from lands ceded to the Soviets and settled across Finland. It’s a small country. Everyone knows someone who was affected.
