[translated by Dzidra Mitchell]
It was the summer 1944 when we left our house. It had all gone on for almost 2 years – the noise of artillery – when the Germans moved over towards Russia, and then moved back. One got used to it and thought – nothing really would happen. Some time they would stop. Would make peace. Anyway the battlefield, up till then, was never near our house or even near our district. Somewhere off to the east, behind the horizon, would come the faraway bubbling of the artillery, like a very distant thunder. It would disappear completely for months and then you would hear it again.
The weather turned a little dry. Not a real drought, but rather depressingly hot. Still, it was a very nice Sunday afternoon, when we took our friends, neighbours from over the river, in our boat, after they had visited us, after quiet discussions that all the rumours actually did not mean a thing. The frontline would stay where it was over the border, in Russia.
After a couple of hours that same evening the neighbours phoned saying our talks had been a little too optimistic. “The frontline is coming nearer. We have to be prepared.”
There came another phone call from my brother-in-law. Better check your horses (go to the blacksmith about horses and carts). Go today, rather than leave it till tomorrow. Germans are retreating. The roads are full of refugees and army trucks. Be ready. Pack your things.
Pack your things!
It was a quiet summer. The life around the country house was going on, grain ripening in the fields, the vegetable gardens becoming laden with cucumbers, tomatoes, beans, peas, onions. Enormously big radishes that year. The black ones, round ones, oval, as big as cannonballs. Quite comical.
One of the pigs had 12 piglets. Just starting to look for more food than just their mother’s milk.
But – we have to get ready!
Elza, our maid, left to be with her family. The other maid, Irene, wanted to stay and leave together with us. We had already packed some of her things with ours, but then she visited her mother and phoned to say that she had decided to stay with her mother. The phone, the exchange, still worked as usual.
Our Russian prisoner of war, who had been with us for 2 years, who had been assigned to us as a farmhand, was taken off now. He, the big fat, funny Nicholai, “Da-da”, as Inese called him, because he was always saying “da, da.” Inese was just 2 years and some months, and had not yet started speaking much. “Da-da” was taken away to a camp. When the Russians would come in – he would likely lose his head – for letting himself be taken prisoner by Germans. He was supposed to fight to the death. Now – he would have to die. He came home once for a couple of hours from the camp, for some food, or some advice, maybe a suggestion of whether to flee, to hide? Nobody knew what to suggest. If somebody was found hiding him – they would have to die too. And Nicholai was so big and fat that nothing from our clothes would fit him. He spoke only Russian. What was to be done with him? He took some freshly baked bread, some smoked pork and left – for his camp.
Our twelve little piglets were now running all over the vegetable garden. They were left free, while we forgot about them, being busy with packing and trying to sort everything out. The cows also returned to their stables on their own. Each knew their place. A German soldier brought a bottle of rum in exchange for one piglet. After that, nobody was counting any more, nor asking anything for them. The Germans took them, killed and cleaned them. I let them into the kitchen to make a big pot of soup. I watched the pot when they had to go away for a while. They had their duties. They were not the fighting front row soldiers, but still had their orders as to when they had to be there, and when to move further on. When they moved – it was high time for us to move too.
But we still had a couple of days.
Our summer help, a good natured student, also left for the city, for Riga, to go to his home. (All the students, and clerks from the city in the last years had to work on farms for at least 2 weeks in the summer, because of the shortage of farm workers.) Our one student, who had worked with us that summer, left. The lady teacher, who had also worked for a few months, left too. We were alone now on the farm. Me, my mother, little Inese, and my husband. We put things in barns, buried them in the ground, and packed those which we were to take with us, gave furniture to people, neighbours who were staying put. And still the house was full of things. My husband was away for a couple of hours and I spent the time cleaning – a bit pointlessly, but somehow it seemed to me very important. The house was terribly dirty after the packing. Packing papers, wood pieces, sand, rags – all mixed up, all open, turned out, disheveled. It took me less time than I thought, to clean it all up, wash the cupboards, shelves, drawers. To make it look – like an inhabited house again. Many things had gone – the books, the new bookshelves, my piano, Mother’s furniture from her maiden days – a chest of drawers and wardrobe, lamps and mirrors. But many things were still there – other wardrobes, beds, chairs, tables, the sideboard in the dining room, the clock on the wall, and Father’s deer horns. I made the beds, put up some wall hangings, which had not been used for ages, as well as drawings from my first years in the Academy. When I finished I was surprised at what had happened to the house – it had re-acquired its face from some 10 years ago, when we were starting our studies, our schooling, when we did not yet have so many things, when we had kind of lighter, cheaper, more innocent things, were happier maybe… The house looked very friendly. I was glad. I felt that the people who would come – our people, or Germans or Russians, whoever would come in – would be greeted civilly, decently.
Then we left. First to a farmhouse about 20 miles away – a friend’s house. My mother and Inese, and 2 of our 3 horses. We would be able to come back for maybe some more things forgotten in the house. If possible. That’s how we did it. We left with 3 horses, with three carts full with things – food for us, for horses, flour in bags, smoked bacon in bags, 2 milk cans with honey. There, in the friend’s farm, Inese and my mother stayed in a big cosy hay shed. They could have stayed in the house, in the living rooms, but they preferred the shed. In peace. With the horses. And cows.
My husband went on a bicycle, I in a farm cart with our older horse, back to our house the next day. It was a very warm, very quiet afternoon. It took more than 2 hours, maybe 3 hours to drive the 20 kilometres. The land around was empty and quiet.
No people working in the fields, no machines making their noise, even no cattle to be seen. Those who were leaving, had left. Who were staying – had hidden somehow, away, not to be seen. It was a little scary. To go in that direction, towards the front. Sometimes it was really frightening. Would I be able to return? What will happen? What can happen? But – my husband was already there with his bicycle – I had to follow. In our house everything was as it had been the day before. We still packed some unimportant things, looked for some photos. I mixed dough, plenty of rye dough for fresh bread to take with us.
The sun was still high and my husband said – let’s go around our fields for the last time. So I took a jug for berries – the bushes were full of wild strawberries and raspberries, and we went. Our cows were grazing lazily on their own. They were not all there. Some had been taken by the neighbours who were staying on. The little pigs had all disappeared. Also our dog was not there. She had followed us the day before, and then lost us somewhere on the road. We went all over our land. Filled the jar with little, very sweet raspberries (so sweet because of the hot and dry weather). We looked and listened to the empty, calm, quiet country all around. Almost no human sound at all. Only from over the river, from the neighbour’s farm behind the trees, sometimes came sounds, a door slamming, very subdued voices. Those people would be staying. Many would stay. Only some were leaving. The hunted families. The richer farmers, the people who had their stronger opinions, had said or would say something again about rights, rules, life, etc.
(We made love, kind of a ritual, in the sunny bush, and came home.)
The warm smell of the fresh bread filled all the house. I opened the windows of our living room to the garden, and to the river, which flowed calmly behind the apple trees. The peace of the house and the garden, and the evening, the rare light, was so powerful that we were standing a long time without moving and then said to each other – let’s stay at home. Here. At least till tomorrow. Actually – we did not know what we felt – did we mean “till tomorrow”, or – just stay, stay forever, if it could last like this…in our house. It was dark already. And then suddenly 2 sharp, terrible sounds flew like enormous arrows across the calm world, over our house, above us and – fell somewhere further away with a crash. “Rockets” my husband said. We had to leave. Maybe they had destroyed the Arona bridge which we needed to cross. But – we had to go, to try. He hurried to the horse, and put 2 cows behind the cart.
It was already dark by the time we were ready to leave – one horse with the cart, 2 cows tied to it at the back, to take with us. Maybe for food, or to use them to pay for something. We went slowly. Into the dark summer night.
It was all quiet again. Only in the east, far away the sky was red and was getting brighter with every minute. You could almost see the flames rising up into the sky. Something was burning violently, maybe our district centre – the church, school, the other buildings, the little township. The village had recently been awarded the status of a town, had swelled to suit.
The front line was getting nearer. Maybe parts of it were already near the river, in the other district centre, only seven kilometres away from us. I walked behind the cows, making sure that they moved, quietly followed the horse, and did not disturb it. They went quietly. As we did. Obediently.
At the barn, where the hedge of young firs left an open view towards the house, I stopped and let the cart with my husband go on. I looked back at the house. There were trees in front, still visible in the dark, the corner of the house, the triangle of the roof against the sky, and the window of my mother’s room. The view was exactly like it was those many nights and evenings when I came late from the station, coming from the city for summer holidays. In the early spring or summer nights, when I had not written to let them know exactly when I would arrive, when the horse had not been sent to meet me, when I had happily trotted the 4 kilometres along the familiar road through the bush, over the bridge at Arona, smelling the young birch leaves, hearing the late sounds of birds, and getting impatient to get to the house, to the summer, the summer… Sometimes Mother’s window was lit up, sometimes it was dark, like now, and then, when I would slowly shut the front door, go through the kitchen and stop in the dining room, I would hear my mother’s voice from her bedroom through the open door – “the matches are on the corner of the table”… I would extend my hand, and would have them, and hear the clock ticking on the wall, feel all the sweet smells, and strike the match and light the lamp with the creamy porcelain shade. I would see and feel all the things around greeting me, being there for me – the clock glinting with its shiny pendulum, Father’s deer horns with a little green branch which the maid Vilma had put there, the oven with its ornamented tiles high up… Then I would go to my mother. Then to the living room – in part shade from the lamp on the dining room table, cooler with different smells – beeswax, old books, with some light on my piano, from the three windows to the garden and river, the meadow, the summer, all summer.
The house looked now exactly like it did on those nights. And I talked to it in my mind – I put a question to the house very firmly, so that it had to answer:
“Will I see you again? Will you – see me again?”
And waited for the answer. Seriously. Listened.
It did not answer. Or it – said – no, and I did not want to hear it. Or I heard – yes, and knew that I was giving the answer myself.
The house was mute. We had to part. We parted. I had to run, to run a good lot to catch up with the horse and cows and my husband. I did not think more. I did not cry. I walked behind the animals. Sometimes sat on the bags in the cart. Walked again when it seemed to me the horse might get exhausted.
I did not think anymore of the house. Or of the familiar road through the forest. Or anything from the past. Of anything that already was – the past. I wondered – whether the bridge at Arona would still be there? What would happen if it wasn’t? We could go back, around through the country, to find a back road. It would take us an extra 20-30 kilometres, and in the direction of the front. And who could tell in what state the bridges there would be. We had to cross here. Even if we had to leave the cart. Maybe just take the horse and wade over the river, somewhere where we could find a shallower place. It was not shallow at the bridge. I wondered if tonight we could manage those 20 kilometres that now still lay between us and our child and mother. How were they? Was it all quiet there? What had been that powerful, terrible sound and crash? Would it come again? And so on.
The bridge was there. We crossed over it and went on further, a little relieved. We did not meet anybody or anything. We got back to the big shed safely. We brought in the jug of the wild raspberries for Mother and Inese. But it was late at night and they were asleep.
We lived in that shed for several days. Maybe almost a week. There were other refugees in the house. Cattle and children were all around the place. The other men and my husband buried some things in the ground again. Our carts were too heavy. We could not continue like that. Mostly clothes, bed clothes, furs, linen and bags of grain and flour. Someone suggested we sink the bags of flour deep down in an old well. There was water in the bottom of it, but it was clear. It was a clean well, and the flour inside, deeper in it, would stay fresh. And probably, maybe surely – we would all return in a couple of weeks, maybe in a couple of months time. Germans would not let Russians keep the Baltic states. A German – would keep them for himself. He knew what he was getting. He had had us for centuries…
We were invited to spend our free time in the big farmhouse. There were plenty of rooms. Even if we slept in the shed – the rest of the time we could be in the house, spend any free time in the house. We did not have much free time. We had to look after the animals. Wash clothes, wash dishes. Work out what to cook. We cooked outside, on open fire. If we needed something, in order to find it, we usually had to dig around, through one or other of the carts, deep among the packed things. It needed to be done with care, and took time, otherwise all the careful packing would disintegrate. And – we needed rest. We sat in the sun in the shed’s big open door and relaxed, and pondered. My new walnut wood piano was standing in one corner in the big shed, half covered with hay. What would be its fate? It did not matter. Here, so we thought, it would survive maybe longer. Here there was no river, no bigger roads, so near here, battles would be less likely, or bombings, or burning down. Here the piano could wait. Maybe for us. Maybe for some new owner. Or just the strike of some axe, or a fire.
We were invited for afternoon tea in the nice big house. There for the first time I felt how far from a nicely set table I had already come. How useless those nice cups and silver spoons seemed to me. They had gone out of my life. A long time ago already, so it felt. Maybe forever. They had lost their meaning. And – probably would never get it back fully. I often feel restless at a lavishly set table. I feel that something is ebbing away – something more important. Life. All those fragile cups… There in the shed, we drank our tea and milk and coffee out of strong, old, kitchen cups, and later in many other sheds, at roadsides, in forests, in barns, further and further, all the summer across our country, till we reached the sea. The Baltic sea. I picked up a cup once, on the dusty road as we went along in the long queue of refugee carts. I thought – maybe I would be able to give it back to whomever had lost it. There was no owner to be found. It was a nice strong, aluminium cup. Maybe from a soldier’s bag. I loved it. It travelled with us all the way to Germany. It was dear to me – from that dusty, sunny road, our country’s road, with all the misery that was happening there now. A firm, light, strong, aluminium cup. I wish I had it now. But it disappeared a long time ago. Everything from that time, from those things, is gone. They drop off you like leaves in autumn. They are replaced. What would I do now with that cup? Look at it, remember something. The wild roses on the roadside. Picking them, I was late jumping back onto my cart. I slipped and went down between the horse and the cart. I saw the horse’s hooves moving near my face, but they did not touch me. I let the reins go and flattened myself to the ground and the wheels went past along on both sides of me and did not hurt me. I caught my horse and got up on my seat. I had only some bruises and a little dizziness. But that night I bled. I lost my second baby. Nothing much. It was only the beginning of it. Maybe it was better like that. I was strong. Next day I brought water for the horses and for the cow and baked bread in a farmhouse. My husband was not one from whom I could ask for kindness, understanding or help. The more you have to bear, the stronger you get, up to a point. Until – it is too much. It takes quite a time to get to that point. In the meantime, if one is lucky, one gets stronger, and stronger, the way I did.
The weather was warm and nice and the first refugee days for us in the big farmhouse were not too bad. Inese and Mother were keeping themselves well. We made our carts lighter, bound and tightened them more securely, and went further on our way. Some unpleasant, disturbing feelings were created by a few things, ordinary things, but what upset us, also showed us, that in our future, such things would be part of our lives, and we would have to accept them. My husband killed a lamb for our food. I cannot remember if it was ours, or some other refugee gave it to us. People used to share things. Some people had packed too much of one thing, and left out other things. From the lamb, we had one or two meals – and then the still good, fresh meat was suddenly covered with worms, millions of worms. The meat had been exposed to the heat. We had nowhere to hide it, nowhere to keep our food safe from the heat, from flies, from deteriorating. To see that fresh lamb’s meat covered with those worms was somehow worse than just to see a piece of food lost. It pointed to our own situation, our deteriorating lives, principles, customs, the meaning of it all… But we had to throw the lamb away, to not think like that, to not think, to not feel at all. Just – to go on.
We had some quiet days in another shed, in the middle of grassy meadows full of flowers, near a shady young birch forest. I stayed there in the shed, letting the horses and cows (we kept the two cows with us) graze in the meadows. The farmer, a rich young, educated man, allowed us to do that. For as long as we needed to, as long as we wanted. There was no more private property now, to his way of thinking . Everything belonged to everyone who needed it. Mother and Inese got a room in the house. My husband, always around somewhere, left with the young farmer for a few days to find out what the situation was at the approaching front. I milked my 2 cows and would have to pour the milk out. I gave it to the horses. And it seemed wrong to do that. When people elsewhere were starving, fighting, giving their lives. I went to the farmhouse which was about a mile away and offered them the milk, with more milk to be had every day, if they needed it, down in the paddock, in the meadow… They were Germans, German soldiers who were retreating slowly, or maybe would have to fight again, to not let the Russians take over. Germans? Russians? They were all just human beings to me. Two of them came to the meadow and the shed, brought us some sugar, drank the milk, sat on the grass near the shed and talked. One of them came back the next day and had a look at the horses. Helped me to take them further away, to fresh grass. He said – he had horses at home, and that he loved horses. He was an intelligent looking, or maybe just a quite good looking young fellow. I liked him, I felt a little shy and confused in front of him. I wished the situation could be more normal, not a wartime situation, there in that sunny meadow, with the horses, talking, about horses, about life.
But when he followed me into the shed, (I do not remember what for) I suddenly got frightened. We both were a little breathless too, from some kind of yearning, from some feeling of sympathy, from some longing for life or something. But I was stiff with fright, trying to keep my dignity, to rule the situation. I even extended my hand in self protection and a plea, and he took it and said – No. No, do not be frightened. It’s just that you remind me of something. Something of home. And we relaxed. There was nothing for us live, young people, other than this life that we now had, which we still cherished, and for which we continued to carry on. A life, still with some joy, daring, even flirtation. He left. And I felt I had escaped some terrible danger. Felt relieved. And felt a little miserable. What are the needs of people in war situations, with all former attachments destroyed – home, life, meaning? What was that life force, that still burned, burned with full flame, flashed bright for a moment – wanting to be alive, to live, to share, to love? There is no such thing as a bad man because of his nationality. I have met Germans, many of them, and Russians, and Jews… A man is bad if he, in his individual nature, is bad, or when he has to be bad because of the rules of the group he belongs to. If he is ordered to destroy – he has to do it, whether German, or Russian, or Jew, or Latvian. Or…when he has obeyed the rules so long that he is broken, has lost his senses and is running riot, attacking and destroying everything. Luckily I have not met such a man during the war days. Rather, perhaps – in normal life, everyday life, where of course it is not always so clearly visible. In everyday life, all is neatly masked.
We left. On the little track, hardly visible through the field, with bullets flying, we struggled to reach the forest. Twice I have struggled like that under bullet fire to get across an open space, to reach tree cover. I know that feeling – you seem to move terribly slowly, you seem to be terribly weighed down, you almost fall to the ground from the heaviness but actually you are moving, running, climbing as fast as you can. Then we were hidden by the forest. But not fully. Some Flugzeuge (planes) appeared, the bullets came from above. They always come in intervals. If you survive one onslaught – you can go further. Some little aeroplanes that were circling the advancing tanks, were showering machine gun bullets in all directions, left and right. We struggled from one sheltered part of the road to another, sometimes had to stop suddenly in an open place, to fall to the ground, and then continue going again…
Once in a quieter moment, we stopped our horses. Mother was coming last. She was somewhere behind us. Suddenly there was a terrible bang and crash, somewhere near, behind us, or beside us, or around us. Not right on us. The horses had stopped, but we were not hurt. But the third horse, with the cart with Mother, was not visible, she was somewhere further behind. She would have been where the crash was. I thought – she has been hit, crushed. We stood there. I was standing there with the terrible feeling – she is dead back there, gone… I could not run back, I was tied to my unremitting “carry on further” drivenness. Still, I stood there. Our horses, and my husband had stopped. Not for a moment did I think my mother might be wounded – I just thought – she is dead…! What was to be done. Nothing. Then the horse, the cart, my mother appeared, kind of slowly, on the road behind us. She was not hurt, nor the horse. And she had been thinking – that we must be dead, that maybe we were dead, but she had kept coming further, continuing when the horse moved again after having stopped for a moment with the crash, as did our horses. We continued on again.
One burst of fire came and I was flat on the ground, in among the trees. I could not get up. I had to have that moment to hide, I knew, even though my child was not with me. She was back in the cart, under the tent but open to the bullets, which could reach her there. I had to save myself till the next quiet moment. What if I stayed too long? Till the next hail of bullets? I did not know. I got up with my husband shouting at me, in a terrible rage. I thought it was all just a brief moment, then I would leave the trees, but then I heard his shouting. I cannot be a hundred percent sure – maybe I would have stayed a little too long, maybe the next onslaught would come. Actually – it did not come till we again reached a bush, a copse, a hiding place. Then again we were in the open, and the track disappeared in the soft meadow, the bullets were flying, and my husband’s cart with Inese and all the heavy milk cans full of honey overturned. The young, gentle, mild-tempered horse stopped, with the gear all over its back. My husband grabbed the child out of the wagon load, which was now all on the ground. A German soldier came out of the bush, wanted to help, maybe cut some of the leather straps, to ease the gear that was twisted up on the horse. It was not much help. He knew it, and left. Disappeared. They knew how to hide, how to disappear. We fell on the ground, only the horses were standing. but – the bullets were hitting here and there, somewhere around us, and then were gone again. We threw the things back into the cart, and continued through the meadow. There were a few cart tracks visible. Someone had taken this way before us. After a quarter of a mile of more struggle, we were on the big road. All perspiring, exhausted, tense. There was a ditch with still water. I fell on my knees beside it, drank with my mouth, like horses and cows do, drank greedily with open eyes, looking at the green grass and the water bugs swimming all around my face.
A young landowner and my husband had been riding on bicycles (a good, quiet, easy way to get around without being too noticeable) for a couple of days through the countryside, also back closer to the front, and had discovered – that we must get on with our journey. The Russians had come forward, the Germans had retreated. The Russians were advancing. We had stayed in this place maybe too long already. We went on. Did some 15 kilometres more. We stopped to rest again in a big farmhouse. These were Vidzeme’s nicer, richer areas that we were crossing. I do not remember if we had already stayed the night there, or had been there just half a day, doing our usual things – cooking, washing, letting the horses graze somewhere, and also the cows. There were many more refugee families now, in the house, in the garden, in the yard. Somebody said – those are Russian tanks! We could see them passing on the big road behind the apple trees. Could they be… were they Russian tanks? The garden and the field just a few minutes ago were full with German soldiers digging trenches, hiding in the trenches with green branches and leaf-covered helmets. Now – they were not to be seen anymore. They – had retreated. Some soldiers were still there though. Some came into the yard. And the bullets from the tanks started to whistle. Not all the time. Just sometimes. Mother and Inese stayed in the yard, somewhere, sitting on the ground, packing up, cleaning dishes. My husband and I hurried to the field to the horses, harnessed them back onto the carts. The bullets flew again. I started to run, to be with Mother and Inese, to protect them somehow, to do something… “Stay!” I was commanded. “Do the work!” Yes. We had to. We had to get the carts ready, or try to. We hid behind the horses, arranging the gear. Would that help? It could. The horses might get hurt. If so, we would not be able to leave. But – we might stay alive. A bullet hit the front wheel of my cart, a whistle, a sharp crack – but the wheel was ok. The bullet had hit some metal part of it. We made the carts ready. Ran to the yard – the people, women, children, men – were all around the farmyard like before. A German soldier appeared, ordered us all into the cellar. He was angry at our stupidity, our standing there out in the open. We were impatient, unhappy in the cellar – we had to leave. Our horses were ready. Then we were out in the open again. Somebody told us about another road, a small bush road where we could go further, join the big road later, maybe we could be lucky, reach the road before the tanks. Or the tanks might take the big road to the right into the centre of Ergli, and we could escape on the other big road, on the left, and could continue our way without entering the town centre, and so maybe escape the Russians.
There were houses with open doors and windows, open gates, dead horses, other dead animals here and there on the roadside, pieces of furniture that looked so unbelievably out of place, much more so than the dead animals. Some things were burning, there was no-one, no human being, not an animal to be seen alive. All gone or hiding. After a couple of kilometres we came to a bridge. The Germans waved to us to follow, to hurry. They had to hurry too, to blow up the bridge. Maybe wait a few seconds, some minutes more, maybe behind us there would still be a German soldier coming through. Had we see some? Yes, we saw one. Two. We crossed the bridge. We continued along the empty road and understood, that the centre of Ergli, where the Russians would have entered by now, lay somewhere to the left, somewhere now dangerously close to this road that we were on. If we were lucky, we could reach the big road behind the centre occupied by the Russians. And that’s what we did.
But we came to a very crowded road. All filled with refugees and full of German army vehicles, big ones with horses, and motor vehicles. It was hard for the refugees to be mixed in with the army, with the retreating army. We were pushed aside, the road getting destroyed by the unceasing heavy traffic. There were sections, all stones and sand, and the horses could not pull anymore. Many carts and wheels and possessions went to pieces. The horses had to be helped, the carts to be pushed. Everyone was out of their carts, doing it. Step by step we got through it. In the beginning, aeroplanes came at us, then later we were left alone. We met some people from the same farmhouse where we had stopped before, when we first noticed the Russian tanks passing. Somebody had been wounded, shot in the leg. In that same farmyard, where Inese and Mother had been moving around before while we readied the horses and loads, someone had been hurt. We had escaped. Some people on that road after Ergli buried their child, who had been shot dead in an air raid. In some carts were wounded people, some were walking having lost their horses. We survived it. Many came through. More than were shot and hurt. The bullets fly blindly, you happen or not to be in their way. Our two cows were still with us. They were useful to hide behind, they were shelter when the bullets whistled. But they were not hurt either, some scratches in one of the horse’s manes.
We did one of the longest stretches of road that day. We went on and on till night, while the animals could still move.
Further we continued more quietly. After that, we were never again under bullets or bombs. We slept in sheds. Relaxed in forests, paddocks. Together with somebody else, shared a bullock they had killed. I even do not know, and did not know then, where it came from. Maybe bought, maybe taken from some field somewhere. Another family was with us. We had meals of fresh meat and then – afterwards – the smelly meat, halfway bad meat for days… The terrible, awful meat that I had to cook. It was not totally spoiled yet. We still had some of it, and then left the rest for some people at the harbour, where we took the ship to Germany.
But before that – we never again came under fire. We were travelling now a good distance ahead of the front line. The Russians were advancing more slowly. We travelled through our Riga, our capital city. Over the main bridges, through the main streets that led from Vidzeme to Kurzeme, and further to our land’s coastlines, to where there was the possibility to cross the Baltic Sea to Sweden, or go to Germany through Lithuania, Poland. Or by sea to Germany.
Going through Riga was so slow that we had to stand still for hours. Cart after cart, for kilometres and kilometres. Through the whole city, there were refugees. The longest stop we had was just opposite the old cathedral, opposite Esplanade Square, on Brivibas (Freedom) Boulevard. We could not leave the horses or turn off somewhere. We had to stay in the queue to get through, to get through Riga as soon as possible. To be on the other side of the Daugava River. Maybe there, in Kurzeme, we would be able to slow down. To wait. There were always rumours that we would be able to go back. That the Russians would be pushed back. That the English are coming. That we will not be allowed to be taken over by the Russians.
We were standing there with our tired horses and cows on the boulevard. Where I once first met my husband. Maybe a mistake. But maybe not. Life really does not make mistakes. The same boulevard where once I walked in my tailored suit, silk stockings, kid gloves, little felt hat. Also in summer time, almost all the summer, you would wear a felt hat. A real “Hute” [German for “hat”… “elegance” implied]. Gloves. Shit! Once, I’d been walking with the Minister of Internal Affairs and his wife and his brother. I was once engaged to his brother. It had been a nice evening when we walked there. But that did not work out. And – maybe life does not make mistakes. He was one of the first to disappear when the Russians came in, just a few years ago. I had (was destined) to live.
City people stopped and looked at us. Patted, touched the tired horses with their hands. Cried. A tall, not very young man in dustcoat and hat, stopped and burst into tears: “My country, my people. Where are you going?” We all, in the immense queue, sat on our bags with watchful faces.
“How long have you been on the road?”
“Three weeks.”
“What can we do for you? Do you need something? Tell us if we can help?”
“Thanks. Nothing. There is nothing, we have everything with us. We have milk. Do you want milk? Here is some flour. Take it. We really are too heavily loaded…”
Slowly we moved ahead. Over the Daugava River. And felt safer. And started on the long road through Kurzeme. Kurland. Old Kurland. Our land. For Heaven’s sake, all you Germans, Russians, all you maggots…
We continued to camp in sheds, in meadows, in forests. Sometimes we were asked into houses, got a warm bath for the child. Got some fresh vegetables, some fruit. Killed a calf or bullock, together with some other refugees. It was bought, stolen, or not stolen – taken from a paddock maybe. We had our fresh meat and then for weeks smelly meat, the nauseating half-bad meat.
But that was my husband. All thing, events, people and animals had to obey him. Even years later, in the new country, he dropped a killed rat before our dog, near the barn: “He will eat. He will eat.” And said, about our little skinny, newly bought cow – “She will eat those tomatoes. They are not too rotten for her.” “You will chop that wood…” There could be only one ruling mind. Maybe it is easier like that.
It gives you desolate loneliness and a great toughness, enormous endurance. For you, who has to eat those rotten tomatoes, cook that half spoiled, smelly meat. The rule is – you do or you die. And – you go on. You do not feel the headache, dizziness, thirst, hunger, pain in your legs, you do not take any notice of those little signals your body is sending you. And later it stops sending them, stops bothering you. Sometimes you think of it like an obedient animal, which follows you. And when it is possible, you say to it – well, take a rest, bloody well go to sleep. And it does. You are free to observe, to investigate your future a little further. You reach for something ahead of you. You know how to continue. You keep going.
I have felt that for years and years. I have walked always a couple of steps, more than a couple of steps, ahead of my body. And, very occasionally, have stopped, looked back at it with a sudden pity, but not love. The best servants really are those, who are not loved. Let them be in eternal struggle for that.
We all got tough. Me. My children. Our dogs. Only mother died early. We others all stayed on our feet forever – inexhaustible. All those prizes and scholarships. But that was years and years later.
Now, we were struggling across Kurzeme. The weather kept dry and warm. We met some friends on the roads and lost them again in the crowd. I met the family of our big poet. He was on a horse cart too. And his wife and daughter and son. I do not remember if his son was there. His niece – was his niece there? With whom I studied together in the Academy? Maybe she was. Or she stayed behind in the country. The poet also asked: “Why are you going? Where are you going?”
They went to Sweden. To the same northern side of the globe, where years ago he had been in exile. For being a supporter of all those good ideas, the human ideas, which had been on the placards of that same power? force? – from which he was fleeing now.
Similarly, my father, at the same time (1905) scarcely escaped being hanged for socialist ideas and was shot 15 years later by the same bearers of such socialist ideas. There was nothing to ponder. Just to keep going. We had not much hope of going to Sweden. Only a few boats took a few lucky people there.
I met my cousin A. on the road too. He was angry with me -“Why do you go through those dangers? You could earn your living in Germany any time. Could you leave him and flee?” It was not as easy as he said. I should have run into him a lot earlier. And then he would have had to help me. Somebody would have had to help me. But that was not meant to be my life. My life went the hard way through, across country roads. And had something good for me in store too. I bled away 2 pregnancies on the roads to Germany, to Austria, to so-called peace, the end of the second world war, and at last got a sister for my first child, for Inese. I got another girl, another daughter, which is the other wonder out of it all.
Yes, what cousin A. suggested, when I met him on the road, did not touch my mind. I knew it was impossible. If I had heard his suggestion earlier, had prepared for it when we were still at home… But nobody thought of those things back then. Anyway – not us.
All the Baltic Germans were repatriated. Several years earlier. I used to hear the thousand rumours – disaster will come, destruction, changes for the worse. I used to smile. Never! Life, security, freedom, seemed settled and ours for ever and ever.
Who would have been so mad as to flee with the Germans at that time?
What cousin A said now, reminded me of those German repatriations. He said – “You could get a job easily in Germany. Live there!”
I did not even listen properly. Even in better times, it is different when you are not alone, when you are in two parts, in three parts – my child, my mother, my self…Things are different for someone independent, like he was.
I also never for a single moment thought of staying there, in our land, if the Russians would take over again. And not only because of personal danger, being a member of a hunted family. Maybe I would not have been persecuted. I could not stay because I could not imagine life for ever under the kind of ‘liberation’ that they would bring. I knew enough of all that. However – I’d never really thought about, or remembered all those things. How at college, a woman history teacher, from the same high school where I was teaching arts, later, when visiting me once, during the time when we were “under the Russians”, said to me – “Do not speak to me so openly now about everything. Now – we cannot talk so much… “
I did not understand what she meant. She had to repeat and repeat it in variations. I still could not get it. She said at last – “I am in the party now. I am applying. Hope to be accepted.” Even then I could not fully grasp the real meaning of it.
“But we have known each other for years,” I said. “We know each other. You know me. We can talk. As we have always talked…”
“No,” she said. And added that she better not visit me any more. And she never did.
And just the same words “do not talk to me now any more like before” – were said to my brother-in-law by one of his friends. Already the spy mesh was being woven. And now, when they took over again, we would be in it. Everyone in.
I was a free spirit. Was – once. Actually not so much any more, already there on the road. Some time before it all, when I was a free person, in a free land, when I first heard that war was coming, would be coming, that we may again lose our freedom, I remember how, standing at the window of the pleasantly lofty building of our school, looking over the roofs of the nice little town, over the trees and forests and brilliant skies, I had the thought – “Never. Then rather die. Kill yourself…”
“Suicide,” I vowed. But soon you learn to postpone the dying. In these times – it is better that way. Only in very exceptional cases would it be better if you died. I was worth more now, walking those roads. The almost endless road that was just beginning for me. The road that still continues. The walking still goes on.
I postponed one opportunity to make my life different, not even realising it. A couple of days before we left our home, my brother-in-law came on his motorcycle. He already had a car then too. My husband was not at home. Maybe my brother-in-law had chosen just that hour. Maybe he had asked my mother about it when he phoned.
They were talking together as usual at the table in the dining room, under the clock ticking on the wall, when I came in.
“How,” my brother-in-law asked me. “How will you manage to get away?” They both waited for my answer. Something important had been asked, but I did not see it. Did not understand.
“Oh – we will go, with 3 horses.” I said. So, he left.
Only maybe later that evening or next morning my mother said doubtfully – “Did you do the right thing?” And she asked me if I had not understood that J. had offered to take us with him, me, her, Inese to Germany straight away by car, then train or ship…
No – I had not understood that.
And – I reconsidered it quickly. I would accept, I would go! But the phone did not work anymore. I could not reach J. Only – by walking 13 kilometres. Impossible. He would be already on his way. It had been a last minute opportunity – he had taken the trip to us just then, before he left. His house was 12 kilometres nearer the front line.
The missed opportunity to have a better way for Mother, Inese, me… I would have chosen that. It did not turn out that way. Something had prevented me from seeing, from hearing what was being offered. Mother too had not asked again. Nor had J. said another word. They too were prevented from seeing that I did not see.
I was not sorry for long. I did not even really know, if I was supposed to be sorry. I had no time to think. There remained no other realities, other possibilities then, except those which were now left. Through those little spaces between events, through those half steps right or left, half seconds earlier or later, all those living moments, went the lives of human beings there. Lives went on. Some went further, kept going on, others fell away, disappeared, just the same way, in half steps, half seconds.