Our parents'
generation was forced to flee into exile to escape the Soviet invasion of
Latvia. Nothing matched the dread of, or hatred for, the Soviets, who had
instituted a campaign of
mass
deporations» and outright murder during their first occupation, which
came to be known as the Baigais Gads, the "Year of Terror."
The Nazi invasion interrupted that brutal
occupation—one horror replaced by another. When the Germans retreated, a
choice of one evil over the other was the only option to escape the coming
Soviet onslaught. Many made it to the Baltic coast and escaped by boat from
Liepaja—Peters' mom still remembers the bombshells dropping in the water
all around them. Thousands made it across to Sweden. After the end of the war,
about 200,000 made it to Displaced Persons (DP) camps in West
Germany. Peter's parents had to flee twice. They had settled in eastern
Germany, and then fled across Germany to the British Zone by bicycle as the
Soviets advanced, sticking to back roads to keep from being shot.
And so began life as refugees for the better part of a
decade. Latvians published their own periodicals in the DP camps, carried on
their cultural life through art, crafts, literature, and music. Their hope for
home had not yet dimmed—fleeing into exile, many, like Peters' godfather,
had buried family valuables for their eventual return, never thinking that most
of their generation would not live to see their homeland again.
As much as we identify with our Latvian
roots—feeling at home in Latvia with our relatives, seeing the sights we
learned about as children growing up Latvian in a country strange
to our parents—the joy of being able to visit the land of our heritage
can't erase the bittersweet knowledge that we should have been born and raised
in a free Latvia. For our parents passed their pain of separation on to
us—an unfathomable loss, real and palpable. But, more, they passed on the
love of their country and their heritage.
These words of Janis Jaunsudrabins speak to the
heart of the matter (our translation):
"Latvians, whatever lands you may come
to,—proclaim the name of Latvia!
Never and nowhere in your life will you ever hear a
more beautiful word than this word; whoever of you carries this word forth,
shirk not, therefore, from spreading it far and wide; cease not to praise our
country—Fathers, inculcate it into your children; mothers, sing of it by
your children's and grandchildren's cribs; but, if you are a child born in
exile,—relent not in ceaslessly interrogating your parents about this
land. Let Latvia be in your thoughts and imaginings as a distant, beautiful
island in the sea of the world; as you sail your course through life, always
keep your bow pointing towards it. Day or night, dusk or dawn,—keep it in
your thoughts, utter its name, fall in love it ever more
passionately!"
While we can relate our own experiences "growing up Latvian"
in a new country, we cannot truly tell of that journey into exile that preceded
us—only bits that we've heard. And so we will try and portray our
parents' and relatives' experiences through the books and papers and identity
cards—the artifacts—they gathered and preserved.
To underscore the scope of the total (not
just Latvian) refugee situation after the war, there were 90 camps in the
British Zone, 93 camps in the American Zone, 24 camps in the French Zone, and 6
camps in Austria. The Latvian Central Committee was headquartered in Detmold,
in the British Zone (northern West Germany). |