Mostly Behind The 8-Ball

By Andrew Kepitis-Andrews

Autobiography and a social document of a post WW2 life. The author, first a refugee, then a migrant had many unique careers in Australia and overseas and experienced both humorous and tragic situations. Born the son of a Latvian professor and composer of classical music, the author last saw his father at age 4. Throughout his life he tries to rediscover him but is blocked by the Iron Curtain and an uncooperative mother. The closest he ever gets to him is at his graveside in Riga, some 64 years later. The saga of a WW2 Baltic Refugee.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andrew Kepitis-Andrews
• Release date: Oct 11, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370899869

Andrew Kepitis-Andrews

Following a lifetime of adventure, travel and intrigue, Andrew Kepitis-Andrews finally settled on the north coast of New South Wales, Australia, and opened a gourmet smokehouse. Always possessing the urge to write but lacking the time that serious writing demands, he retired from commercial food smoking at the age of seventy-four, and had his first book published the same year, 2014. The writing bug is now fully incubated, and Andrew says his writing has two simple, sincere and earnest goals: your pleasure in the reading of it and his pleasure in the writing of it.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1 - Preface

It most certainly was not The Best Of Times. In 1939 the Ribbentrop-Molotov (Hitler-Stalin) agreement sealed the fate of the country in which I was born—Latvia. It did no favours for Lithuania or Estonia either. In what was virtually an overnight operation, Stalin’s hordes, brutally and without any just cause, overran these countries. They were shortly followed by Beria’s NKVD, (comparable to Himmler’s SS) who systematically began eroding the Latvian population. Targeting the cultural and intellectual citizens, thousands and thousands of people were rounded up in the dead of night, crammed into livestock railway carriages and transported to the Siberian Gulags. All they were allowed to take with them was what they could hurriedly cram into a small suitcase or in some cases, in a pillowcase. It's cold comfort for these unfortunates heading for Siberia where even summer temperatures can plummet to below 0 degrees C. Mostly targeted were members of political parties, school principals and teachers, legal professionals, intellectuals, writers, artists, police officers and anyone bearing the ill will of local insurgents.

In the early hours of the 14th June, 1940, over 20,000 Latvians were systematically rounded up and dispatched to Siberia. They weren’t arrested but rather kidnapped. No charges were laid, no trials were held. This treatment of terror was meted out to anyone the NKVD took a dislike to and in a lot of cases when their quotas were not up to the desired number, anyone at all who was unfortunate enough to be in the vicinity. People lived in a world of abject terror and insecurity, not daring to speak to their neighbours and certainly not strangers, in case what they may say could be considered a criticism of the Russian overlords. The most dreaded time was from midnight to the early hours of the morning. A bang on the door from a rifle butt, either opened the door or it was broken down and the terrified inhabitants were told they had ten minutes to gather a few belongings and board the trucks waiting outside to transport them to a railhead and then to Siberia. Some years later my mother told me that during this period she always kept a tomahawk under her bed in case to the dreaded knock on the door. I thought her then very brave at the time. What could one woman armed with a tomahawk do to soldiers armed with rifles and bayonets? On further conversations on this subject I discovered that the tomahawk was there for her to dispatch the children and if time permitted.

Businesses were looted and shut down on whim. Food, clothing and medical supplies soon dwindled, promoting black marketing and speculating and thus creating yet more reasons for deportations once the hapless miscreants were caught. One could be forgiven for thinking that during this horrific occupational climate, people would cease to bring children into the world, thus easing some of the traumas facing them. This however was not the case. Regardless of the atrocities to be faced, here was another young life knocking at the exit gates of my mother’s womb. This then was the world into which I was propelled.

CHAPTER 2 - Riga to Danzig

On the 4th September, 1940, I, Andris Janis Kepitis, opened my eyes for the first time and greeted the world. Not that it was a joyous greeting. Riga was still under Russian occupation, although at the time this concerned me very little. My father was Janis Kepitis , an up and coming concert pianist and composer. My mother Sallija or Sally was busy carving out her career as an operatic soprano and thus I saw very little of them. My life was supervised by my sister Inara who was much older than I was, and a nanny called Vimma, who made sure I was bathed, clothed, fed and exercised. My sister considered me a burden as she, being the older, was often under instructions to be my minder, a job she resented as it interfered with her other planned amusements for the day. All in all, I must have been a happy enough little boy as no terrifying memories haunt me from that period. From time to time it was explained to me that we were in the midst of a war but that meant very little to me as I really had no idea what war was. All I could make out was that it was not a particularly good thing. Yet on the other hand, peace made very little sense to me either as I had no idea what that was. Happiness was a full belly and some toy with which to amuse myself and pass the time of day.

Towards the end of June 1941, the Germans launched their Operation Barbarossa as German troops flung themselves at the Russians. In an incredibly short time, they marched into Riga and proclaimed themselves to be our Liberators In fact, they were just another invader. Most Latvians welcomed the liberators and there was much cheering and celebrating. However, the liberating was yet to be experienced. To make sure we were properly liberated the German troops were followed by Himmler’s SS Einsatzgruppen, to set up and carry on their macabre mission, exactly like the Russian NKVD. Without pausing for breath, the SS began rounding up Jews, known communists and their sympathisers. Political activists opposed to the NAZIS, all too soon joined the ranks of the Jews.

A concentration camp was set up in Riga and the local population told that this was a rehabilitation centre where undesirables had their shortcomings corrected by undertaking healthy work practices. This was the version most people preferred to believe as to think otherwise, especially in public, could speedily lead them to discover the real truth.

At first, the camp was a sorting place where inmates were classified as to their working skills and then transported to other concentration camps as slave labour. Later on it became a death camp. The next stage of our liberation announced itself when the SS began rounding up young Latvian men of military age. After a quick physical and medical examination, those who passed were given two choices. Join the Waffen SS (armed SS forces) or stand up against the wall, in front of the German machine gun. In fairness, there were a number of young men who actually volunteered, convinced they would be fighting the hated communists. In fact, most of them ended up as guards at some concentration camp.

As a child of now nearly four years old, memories of the land of my birth are fleeting. I recall seeing my father on only two occasions. One was an evening at our apartment in Riga. It was most probably during a cocktail party as I recall seeing lots of knees. Then my father picked me up and showed me off to his guests. I was much patted on the head, had my cheeks pinched and told that because of my very blonde hair and grey eyes, I was a true example of an Aryan. I had no idea at that time what it meant but took it to be a good thing anyway. The other time we were on a riverbank in the countryside where men dressed in suits were taking turns in getting in a rowing boat. My father lifted me in the boat and sat down beside me, then with some other people in the boat we rowed across the river and back again. To date this was the biggest adventure I had experienced. My mother I recall seeing more often, mostly in our apartment in Riga. That I saw my father so seldom was probably due to his being always away playing in concerts and recitals, thus by the time he returned home, I was already tucked in my cot sleeping. On a number of occasions I was woken from sleep by my parents locked in some loud discussion but I had no idea what that was about.

That something was wrong, soon became apparent. In early autumn (1944) my mother told me that we were leaving Riga and going on a long, long journey and not returning for quite some time. I remember being told that the Russians were coming back and if they found us, we would be in a great deal of trouble. I could not make much sense of this as I did not know any Russians let alone do them any harm. Nevertheless, Mother said we were going and that was that. Some suitcases were hastily packed and we left our apartment, clambering into a lorry waiting outside. Other people were also on this lorry also with suitcases and tied down bundles. The driver then cranked the engine, using a bent metal bar which to me resembled one half of the German swastika. He swore at the engine when it refused to co-operate but it finally came to life and we were off . I was never to see Riga again until the year 2008, some sixty-four years later.

Once out of Riga, a picture unfolded, one I had never seen before but was to witness many times over again. We were heading for Liepaja, a harbour town, southwest of Riga. The road was virtually grid locked. Cars and lorries crammed with people were all heading in the same direction. The mechanical traffic was intermixed with horse drawn carts, people pushing homemade carts, even bicycles laden with bundles tied to their frames, their owners pushing them as there was no way they could ride them. There were groups of pedestrians, their backs saddled with bundles and arms stretched to the limit carrying suitcases. The pace was slow and painstaking. Our lorry tried whenever it could to get round the carts and walkers, only to be slowed down by the next convoy of evacuees ahead. The chatter on our lorry was mostly about the Russians.

Will they overtake us? Will we get there? What if the Bolsheviks are already ahead of us?

Then as we were trying to get round the pushers and the walkers,

Look at those poor beggars, they don’t stand a chance, the Bolsheviks will mow them down like vermin.

This sort of talk was all news to me. I started to form an opinion that the Russians must be terrible people indeed, maybe the devil itself. On mulling this over I too started to panic and fear. My mother calmed me down and told me that we were going to Sweden, Stockholm actually. I had no idea where this was but mother saying that all would be well calmed me down as I mentally tried to picture what Sweden would be like and became more reassured when told that in Sweden, there was no war and no Russians. On board our lorry, travelling with my mother and sister was a man. I sort of knew him having seen him on some occasions in Riga, but was not sure in what context. I often asked why my father was not here and was told that he could not make it out of Riga. In any case the man travelling with us was in charge of us and I was to obey him just as I would my father. The man’s name was Ansis Kesteris, a shortish dark haired man, very lean and athletic. What the relationship he had with my mother, I had no idea. It wasn’t till a year later, I was told he was my stepfather and I was to call him Dad.

Our convoy stopped briefly at a roadside inn to see if we could obtain some food. Sorry, they had run out of food a long time ago but they still had a good supply of vodka. Our party then dismounted the lorry and unpacked some food, mostly dried sausages, which they had brought with them. Some of the men purchased a few bottles of vodka and sipped it whilst munching their sausages. One of them caught me watching him eat and drink and jokingly offered me a small glass of his drink, which to me looked much like water. I think he was sure that once I had smelled it, I would screw up my face in disgust. I thanked him and emulating others I had been observing, gulped it down in one hit. This was the start of my drinking career. At first I thought I had swallowed fire. It burnt quite a bit but soon after my whole being was overcome by a warm feeling. I asked for more but was pushing my luck as my mother had spotted what was happening, rushed over and gave my benefactor a severe tongue lashing. I too received a rebuke although I couldn’t quite work out the wrong I had committed.

From there on it was straight to Liepaja . Although the distance from Riga to Liepaja was not very long, the pace was slow. We must have slept somewhere overnight but I don’t remember where. The next thing I recall, we were on the wharf in Liepaja, and were lining up to board a ship, the SS Lapland. I had never seen a ship this close before. To me it looked gigantic. From the port deck of its black hull, a set of steps, which looked like a fancy ladder, was extended straight from the deck to the wharf, making it a 30 degree steep climb for boarding passengers. On the signal to board, passengers clambered up this device. I was too small to make use of the rope handrail either side of the ladder, so I made my way up as best I could. Sadly this was not good enough. I tripped on one of the rungs and after a bit of swaying around, was about to fall down onto the concrete wharf below. I felt myself falling and then something clamped onto one of my legs. It was a sailor from the ship who was behind me, saw my dilemma and managed to grab my leg. To this day I don’t know who that sailor was or if I or my mother ever thanked him. This however is not surprising, considering the tensions, fears and anxiety of people fleeing their country.

The SS Lapland was not a passenger ship as such, but rather a freighter which carried some passengers. In those days it was quite a common practice. Once on board, we did not have a separate cabin but shared upper and lower bunks arranged in rows on one of the decks above the cargo holds. I had an upper bunk on the starboard side but no porthole, only a series of dim electric lights. Our belongings were also on my bunk as being the shortest, I did not occupy the whole space. My surrounds were a hum of human chatter, I don’t recall the contents but the words, Sweden and Stockholm were to be heard over and over from every direction. We had been at sea for some time when suddenly a loud blast was heard and the whole ship shuddered. The electric lights went out leaving us in total inky darkness. At first there was a total shocked silence. Then a few people with torches shone rays of light, probing the bunks. The words, we’ve been torpedoed, the ship’s been holed, echoed through the rays of torchlight. Panic gripped the passengers. As I had no idea as to just what was happening , I did not panic but I was not too happy to be sitting in the dark. Mother was with us but said nothing. After a while the lights came back on and a flurry of activity took over. The ship’s crew members were scurrying to and fro through a doorway right next to my bunk.

Shortly a number of stretchers bearing people passed through the doorway. The ship’s sickbay had been transformed into a makeshift hospital for injured crew and passengers. I was watching all this activity from my bunk, when I felt myself rolling towards the ships hull, whilst people on bunks opposite mine seemed to have difficulty staying in theirs and almost rolling out on the floor. It was only then that my mother explained to me what was happening. The ship had been torpedoed, a large hole blown out on the starboard side and below the waterline. We were taking in water and thus badly listing to one side. This explained my not falling out of my bunk. Even though the crew were furiously pumping the water out, there was no hope of making it to Stockholm. We were heading back to shore where, at best we could make it to Danzig (now Gdansk,) or at worst, abandon the ship as close to the coast as possible. Thus the SS Lapland altered its course totally opposite to its original plan and laboriously made its way south in the hope of reaching Danzig. To add to its problems an illness broke out aboard ship and many people thought it was typhus but I’m not very sure of that. In any case I didn’t know what typhus was.

Somehow the ship made it to the port of Danzig. There was a great surge of relief and excitement as passengers prepared to disembark but this was not easily accomplished. German officialdom was waiting for us at the dock. Armed guards escorted us to line up for interrogation by German border guards.

Papieres, papieres (Papers, papers) was the resounding cry. To this day I don’t know exactly how it happened. Whilst being interrogated by the German officials, my mother and Kesteris were issued with travel documents, amazingly listing us as Ansis Kesteris and wife Sally with their two children, Inara and Andris. It appears that mother and Kesteris were conveniently married by a German official who did not worry about circumstances, just as long the paperwork was done and it looked to be in order. From this point on, I now had a new surname. I was now, Andris Janis Kesteris, That night we sought a train to get out of Danzig. How either mother or Kesteris obtained tickets under the chaotic circumstances, is still beyond me but they did. We were about to board the train when sirens broke out. An air raid was on the way. Now instead of boarding the train, we and other would-be passengers crawled under the railway wagons, making ourselves as comfortable as we could between the railway lines. This we repeated many times later as we were told that if the train was bombed we could still survive. The sirens stopped and the city lights went out and shortly after we could hear the drone of the aeroplanes followed by exploding bombs all over the place.

There we were, once considered privileged, if not wealthy people, now stateless, impoverished refugees, with all our worldly possessions crammed in a couple of suitcases. Our fate unknown, our aim: to survive, somehow. Instead of Sweden we were now in the most dangerous part of war-torn Europe. The Russians were bearing down from the north, the allies were advancing to meet them from the south-west and the Germans, desperate and dangerous, were in the middle.

CHAPTER 3 - Danzig to Dresden

When the air-raid bombings ceased we discovered our train or the rail lines were not hit. We were allowed to board the train and did so, only to find the train so packed that we had to take turns sitting on our suitcases in the aisle. The main body of passengers were refugees but there were some uniformed soldiers occupying seats as they were allowed to board the train first.

We seemed to be on the train forever and experienced many stops and starts. Then the thing stopped altogether and officials were running alongside the stopped carriages, ordering all passengers off the train. We were told that the railway tracks ahead were destroyed by bombs and no one had any idea of when the lines would be restored. Fortunately a road was running parallel to the railway. It was daylight but miserably cold with light snow falling. Rows and rows of people were straggling along the road, all heading in the same direction, south east, overtaken only by a handful of cars and some lorries as well as horse-drawn vehicles.

Mother explained we were heading for Vienna. She regarded Vienna as a great cultural centre and thought that neither the Americans nor the Russians would bomb such a magnificent city. Fortunately she spoke German quite fluently and thus hoped she could get work as a singer. Feeble as the plan was, it was the only one available. When facing desperation there is only hope left. Kesteris must have agreed as he said nothing, neither did I as I had no idea of where Vienna was.

As we trudged amid the seemingly endless column of refugees, two planes appeared in the sky. They flew over the long line of refugees then circled and again flew over the refugee lines, this time , sporadically firing their machine guns at the straggling masses below. On seeing this, mother immediately grabbed me and my sister and flung us into a ditch running parallel with the road. The two planes circled again and again passed over us delivering bursts of machinegun fire. From my undignified place in the ditch I turned to look skywards, just in time to see one of the planes whiz by. I remember seeing a star emblem on the side of the plane but to this day can't recall its colour. All I can remember is that it was a star. After two murderous passes, the planes streaked off and disappeared on the horizon. People remained rooted to the ground for some time. When it became clear the planes were not coming back, the survivors staggered to their feet to assess the situation. The air swelled with sounds of wailing and moaning mixed with angry shouts and despairing gestures of disbelief. Many were killed and many more wounded; the exact number nobody counted. Luck was with us, our only wounds were to our dignity and we could continue on our way unharmed. Walking on we passed many groups of people wailing for their dead or injured. Sadly, there was nothing we or anyone else, could do for them.

We later learned that strafing refugee columns was a fairly common practice. The allies believed that many German soldiers intermingled with refugee columns. This they could pick out by spotting from the air, German army greatcoats amongst the fleeing masses. Some of this was true but there were also many civilians who acquired these greatcoats from dead German soldiers as it was winter and bitterly cold. Not only greatcoats were taken as looting was rife. Anything and everything of value which was portable was pounced on. Wristwatches, cameras, jewellery, tinned or portable food etc. were the primary targets. I heard of one man who had liberated a brand new 80 bass piano accordion and lovingly lugged it with him for many days and many kilometres, until it finally became too heavy and cumbersome, and thus he abandoned it by the roadside.

Our next respite stop was in Czechoslovakia in a town called Jicin. Exactly how we got there, I’m not sure; by train, by truck, by walking, most likely a combination of all three. Mother secured lodgings in an hotel, built on the crest of a hill with commanding views of the countryside and the town below. She also struck a deal with the proprietor to literally, sing for her supper. Apparently my mother’s renown as an operatic soprano had spread to Czechoslovakia and the hotel owners were delighted at the thought and a concert was arranged swiftly with the aid of some local musicians from the town. Meantime we were given the celebrity treatment. Unfortunately, I was never to hear any of the concerts as by the time they took place I was already in bed. I did however sit through many rehearsals and might add that I was not overly impressed with them. During our stopover in Jicin, mother was busy making travel arrangements for our further journey to Vienna. I saw very little of her or Kesteris during the day, except during rehearsals, and was cared for by the hotel staff who seemed to have taken to me, especially our table waiter, a smallish dapper gentleman we called Herr Suk. When I say table waiter, I do so advisedly as there was not too much waiting to be done. Food was scarce even in Czechoslovakia, so there was no menu. You ate what was put in front of you or you did not eat at all. One particular dish we seemed to receive with monotonous regularity was Kohlrabi, a boiled mixture of turnips and cabbage. I was not overly fond of it and the more I ate it the less fonder I became.

During one of our last meals in Jicin, I was again served Kohlrabi. Pushing it aside I received a severe tongue lashing from my mother, reminding me that I was to consider myself privileged to be served any food at all. Reluctantly I force fed myself. Then something went wrong, a nauseous feeling was building up in my stomach and very soon I was throwing up, all over the place but mostly over Herr Suk, who unfortunately for him, was standing right next to me. His carefully pressed trousers changed colour as did the tablecloth. I thought I was in big trouble and cringed awaiting the backlash, but none came. Instead I received tons of sympathy, amid curses for the war and Germans in general, cleaned up and put to bed.

The following morning, in the hotel dining room, the family and others gathered round one of the hotel’s large tables, drinking ersatz coffee and little else. An air of hopelessness hung over the gathering because the unthinkable was about to happen. Russian forces were only days away from occupying Vienna! To my mother this was a bitter blow. This was exactly what we were running away from. After much despairing deliberation, Mother and Kesteris announced that we were heading for Dresden, a beautiful baroque city in Germany. They thought the allies would not dare bomb Dresden and with a bit of luck, it would be occupied by American forces. It was also a great cultural centre and Mother stood a good chance to get some work as a singer. Dresden it was then, by rail road and foot.

From Jicin we were virtually backtracking, now heading north west, instead of south east. The first leg of our journey brought us to Reichenberg, (now Liberec) a small town still in Czechoslovakia which seemed to have so far escaped the devastation of war. The shops in the town were still intact and open and I recall walking past a bakery where the smell of coffee cake was so aromatic that I recall it to this day. There seemed to be some problem in getting from Reichenberg to Dresden, exactly what that was, I don’t know but the delay was long enough for Mother to seek some sort of accommodation. This she set out to do and managed to obtain a fairly large upstairs room in an old house in Reichenberg. It was here that another disaster struck. Kesteris, who was noted to be limping, suddenly started screaming in pain. He grasped with both hands his right thigh, trying to massage it, hobbled over to his bed and collapsed in it, writhing in great pain. Mother immediately went into town in the hope of finding a doctor. Here she was not successful but did manage to speak to a pharmacist who let her have some medicines, syringes and large sheets of sticking plaster. She injected him with one of the medicines, which later I was told was morphine, then smeared his thigh with an ointment and wrapped the affected thigh in what looked like translucent sticking plaster. Gradually his pain abated, much to mother’s relief, and then she informed my sister and me that Kesteris had developed sciatica. Naturally I had no idea what that was but having observed Kesteris’ pain, I knew this was not a good thing.

From here on Kesteri’s sciatica became a chronic problem. There being no treatment or cure readily available, the only way to ease the pain was by morphine. For the rest of our journey, Mother was constantly foraging for supplies of morphine. For most of the time she was successful, how and where she obtained it, I don’t know but the times when she could not, he was in excruciating pain and all of us suffered the pain with him. We remained in Reichenberg for some time, weeks maybe, I don’t know. The cost of this sojourn did not concern me as I was just four years old and had little knowledge of money matters or housekeeping. I did however know that fleeing Riga, mother had taken with her all of her valuable jewellery which were not imitation baubles but fine crafted pieces set in precious metals. These she sold or bartered to finance our present existence. Word filtered down the refugee grapevine that the way to Dresden was now open. Once again we packed what little we had and set of among the stream of refugees, to what we hoped would be our final destination for the duration of the war, Dresden. It was common knowledge that Germany had all but lost the war and all one had to do was to somehow survive before returning home.

We arrived in the outskirts of Dresden in February, 1945, snowbound and bitterly cold. Once again the search for some form of accommodation was paramount but we had no luck. Dresden was packed with refugees, all seeking the same thing. We were facing a long, cold, bleak night out in the streets when some German authorities directed us to one of the bomb shelters nearby as a temporary overnight shelter. This was a lucky stroke indeed and the same night we discovered just how lucky it was. This was the first night of the allied plans for the destruction of Dresden, by massive aerial bombings. In the packed air raid shelter we somehow managed to find a spot. The noise of so many people crammed in one place, was almost like bees swarming. This settled to a hush as another sound manifested itself. The droning sound of aircraft engines rose to a crescendo. Even though there was nothing there to see, all the people gazed upwards to the ceiling of the shelter, hoping the aircraft were destined for some other location. For many it was unthinkable that Dresden would be bombed. Then as the first sounds of explosions filtered through the shelter, the unthinkable became the believable. The bombing and destruction of Dresden was under way.

Inside the air raid shelter the air was getting warmer and dustier. One could actually feel shock waves as the falling bombs rained down on the city and outskirts. I was aware of what was happening yet I felt no fear or panic. I simply cuddled up to my small toy, my constant companion, a small stuffed cloth elephant and went to sleep. When leaving the shelter at daybreak, the panorama greeting us was earth-shattering. There was no more snow on the ground, actually not much ground, just bricks and stones that once were buildings. Though winter, the air was quite hot and pungent. People were scurrying round, moaning, sorting through the rubble. Dead bodies and body parts were abundant. These were people who most likely were turned away from the overcrowded shelter and thus were exposed to the death and destruction raining from the skies. What only a few hours ago had been a part of a city was now a kaleidoscope of rubble accompanied by a sinister symphony of people in anguish and despair. These people were mostly refugees as locals would have utilized their home cellars, most of which now were entombed in debris and rubble. At the time I was still too young to understand the full implication of what had occurred but the actual physical picture remains vividly embedded in my mind and I guess will remain there for all eternity.

This was just one of several bombings whose only achievements were, the total destruction of a beautiful baroque city and the death of thousands of refugees, whose only crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. To make things worse for the survivors, news filtered through that the Russian army was advancing and would soon occupy what was left of Dresden. All previous plans had to be scrapped and new ones hastily made before the Russians arrived and despair took over. Mother conferred with Kesteris and other refugees. It seemed now our only hope was to flee to the west and pray to God we could reach the American lines before the Russians caught up with us. Thus the refugee columns, or what was left of them, turned about face and headed west. Luck was with us! Exactly where and when I don’t know but suddenly we were surrounded by American trucks, jeeps and personnel. They must have known of our whereabouts as they were highly organised and very efficient. Firstly they segregated us into national groups. Poles in this spot, Latvians over there, Lithuanians here and so on. This done, army field kitchen trucks arrived and we were issued with tin dixies and told to line up behind the field kitchens. As we filed past, each person received quite a generous serving of hot pea soup. This to many would have been the first hot meal in weeks. Of course the soup soon ran out but the Americans were prepared. They issued people with what they called K Rations, tinned cheese, biscuits and some sort of meatloaf. We were lucky, we got the soup.

After our meal, American personnel in trucks arrived. These trucks which we later, affectionately called Jimmies (General Motors) had a big white star on the bonnet and smaller ones on the sides. We boarded these vehicles and off we went. To where? I didn’t care. Information was scanty and hard to come by. No one in our group spoke English let alone American but a few spoke German from either side and thus we gleaned we were being taken to a Displaced Persons Camp (DP), situated in Wurzburg, Bavaria. Again, to me this meant very little as I had no idea where this was or what was going on. The main thing was mother and Kesteris seemed very relieved and happy and this was OK by me.

CHAPTER 4 - Wurzburg

Wurzburg is a smallish city with a population of 130,000 (1944), not very well known worldwide but deserving of greater recognition. It can trace its history back to 1000 years BC evidenced by unearthing Celtic fortifications on the castle Marienberg. As the settlement grew, so did its structures and fortifications. In 788 AD its first cathedral was consecrated by Emperor Charlemagne. By 1156 Emperor Barbarossa established his Reichstag (H.Q.) there and married for the second time. In 1201 AD the extensions to the castle Marienberg began, turning it into a mighty fortress which was then thought to be impregnable. The renowned sculptor and woodcarver, Riemenschneider, arrived in Wurzburg in 1483 and soon became the city’s Lord Mayor. The impregnable castle finally fell to the Swedes, after the bloodiest and fiercest battles in 1631. Following the Swedish occupation, the area became a principality ruled over by prince bishops. These bishops instigated the building of fine churches and citizen’s housing including the magnificent Residence palace for which the Venetian master painter, Tiepolo was commissioned to adorn the ceilings and walls of this resplendent structure.

Napoleon also had a role to play in Wurzburg’s history. During 1801 the French occupied the city and for the second time the Marienberg fortress was breached. Most importantly though, most of us are unaware that we have at one time or another had a small but very real connection with Wurzburg. In 1895 its citizen Wilhelm Roentgen discovered and developed the X-Rays which still play a vital role in diagnosing the state of our bodies today. In all Wurzburg had become a beautiful city as well as a cultural and scientific centre. Then on the 16th March 1945, the unbelievable (as in Dresden) happened. The RAF completely destroyed the city from the air. So fierce and vicious was the attack that not a single building was left intact, reducing the city to just rubble and ashes. In April, the same year, American ground forces fought a savage battle amongst the ruins for possession of the leftovers and I sometimes ponder of just how many of their soldiers were X-Rayed there for broken bones, bullet or shrapnel injuries.

We arrived in Wurzburg in American army trucks, driven through the ash and rubble of what was once a city. The trucks stopped in a compound of buildings which, we soon learned, had been a German army camp. Large four-storey blockhouses, all of them bomb-damaged. Oddly enough, in most cases, the middles of these blockhouses were completely caved in and uninhabitable but either ends were mostly intact and thus, with some clearing work, habitable. We were separated into groups, adults with children and single males and females then escorted to our allocated shelters. We scored what was described as block 1, which was a four storey building, habitable only at either end once the rubble was cleared. The middle part had received several bomb hits leaving one outer wall still standing with caved in floor divisions drooping ground-wards. What were once windows were now glassless holes silhouetted against the background. In parts the outer wall had collapsed with the exposed brickwork resembling an eerie staircase not knowing which way to go.

We were ushered into what had obviously been an army mess hall. The inner walls were decorated with heroic murals depicting German tanks, supported by paintings of German infantrymen in gleaming helmets and bayoneted rifles, thrusting forwards in victorious attack. Unfortunately the bombings had left their mark even here. Most of the murals had cracks in them, leaving paint peeling at the edges. Inside was a hive of activity. The American army issued all refugees with army blankets and rough wooden poles. These were issued not for warmth but to be used as room dividers held up by the poles, partitioning one group or family from the other, thus giving them some semblance of privacy. An access corridor was left in the middle. Once erected, the whole picture was one of a blanket-tent camp enclosed by four walls and a very high ceiling. Army stretchers and more blankets were also issued as well as some army tin dixies and some cutlery. The only water and sewage facilities still working were located on the second floor of the building but no hot water or facilities to wash or shower were available. A quick splash of cold water from a tap was the only means to wash and one had to hurry as there was a long line of other users behind, waiting for their turn. Food was the biggest problem. Every now and then an army field kitchen would turn up dishing out some pea soup and K-rations. There was never enough to satisfy hunger but just enough to stave of complete starvation.

Not that anyone was blaming the Americans! The refugee problem in Europe was of a magnitude such as the world had never experienced before. Refugee camps such as ours were scattered across Western Europe, though the bulk of them were in Germany. Our camp alone catered for close to 2000 Latvian refugees. Others nearby housed Lithuanians, Estonians, Poles, Czechs and so on. To shelter and cater for all these people must have been the greatest headache ever for the occupying forces. Initially all able-bodied persons dwelling in the camp, both male and female, had to earn their meagre rations by forming into work gangs to be deposited throughout the streets of Wurzburg to clear away the rubble and restore the city to some semblance of order. In fairness a lot of Germans were forced to do the same thing. Thus day by day the city streets became more accessible. After several weeks of living in the blanket wall dormitory of the mess hall, we were assigned a proper room in the same building, Room No 80 on the fourth floor. The room was approximately 4x5 meters, unfurnished except for a fuel stove in one corner just inside the door.

Kesteris guessed that it would have been the dormitory for 4 to 6 German soldiers during its army camp period. We carried our blankets and other scrounged possessions upstairs and set to work making the room as habitable as possible. In the corner opposite the stove mother and Kesteris fixed blankets, suspended somehow from the ceiling so that marked out their bedroom and I suppose gave them some privacy. My sister and I had camp beds opposite each other, each side of the only window. Initially there was no other furniture but in time. Kesteris, who was quite good at scrounging, procured some chairs and a small table. This was one of the benefits of being forced to clear rubble. Anything unearthed that could be repaired or be of some use such as furniture items, crockery, cutlery even clothing, the workers stockpiled and at the end of the day, bickered amongst themselves over who was to get what. Items which were of no immediate use to the possessor were still taken as they later could be traded for something more desirable. This was my first lesson in marketing and economics.

Whilst the adults were out working, there was no provision or supervision of the children. We somehow gathered in small groups of ten to twenty, ages ranging five to fifteen years and began rummaging round the camp ruins, fossicking to see what we could find. Almost instinctively the children separated into groups of boys and groups of girls. These groups never became gangs and there was never any animosity amongst us. Quite often we would encounter other groups and chatted with them, then went our separate ways. Although Mother instructed my sister, who was four years older than me, to look after me, she dumped me at the first possible moment and joined her own group. What the girls were doing in their time we never knew, or for that matter cared. We just got stuck into roaming round the camp, unearthing blocked doorways and windows to see what we could find inside. And find things we did! Rotting corpses, mainly male soldiers! By this time they were pretty smelly but their accessories were fully intact.

We amassed a small arsenal of rifles, bayonets, pistols, sub-machine guns and ammunition. To this we added belts, medals, some wrist watches, rank indicators, pocket knives and other items. One time we managed to break into a building which was an annexe to one of the blockhouses. To our amazement we entered a very large room with smaller rooms leading off it. Against the walls was shelving full of glassware, with very little broken glass on the floors. All sorts and sizes of clear glass beakers, test tubes, pipettes were there, all still intact! In the middle of the main room were benches with drawers underneath, filled with cartons and tins of various sizes containing coloured powders and solid materials. Oddly enough there were no bodies in the room. Obviously this had been a laboratory of some sort but we never discovered its purpose. The loot we discovered, we moved to another secret place and covered it up as best we could, with the older boys making us swear to secrecy, not to reveal our findings to anyone. The laboratory we left as we found it as none of its contents seemed useful.

This activity lasted for some months but sooner or later, someone blabbed and the next thing we knew, we were hauled before a group of parents and American Military Police. They made us take them to the many locations we had unearthed and then to our secret stockpiles where we had hidden the loot. The MPs confiscated all the guns and ammunition but ignored the bayonets, pocket knives and other bits and pieces and took no disciplinary action against us. We later heard that the MPs had jokingly remarked that they should be using the kids to clear the rubble in the city. That way they’d get the job done faster and more efficiently. Initially the camp compound had US guards at every gate. Often adults were searched for weapons of any sort, especially when returning to the camp. Children however, moved about freely. At one such gate, two US guards were on duty and one of them, to my utter amazement was black. I had never, consciously, ever seen a black man before, especially so close up. I thought first he must have some sort of illness but when I pointed this out to my companions, the older ones assured me that this was quite normal, especially amongst Americans. Later that evening I reported my discovery to Mother, who, like the older boys, assured me that lots of Americans had black skins as did most Africans. It took me quite some time to comprehend that anyone could have a skin colour other than white.

As for Africans? I had no idea where Africa was. In time I got used to that, not that it ever seriously bothered me, it just so completely amazed me. Nearly all the American soldiers, black or white, had a soft spot for children. This was much to our advantage as we soon discovered chewing gum. The GI‘s would regularly dish out sticks of chewing gum to children and the first words I learnt in English were, Please…Chewing Gum…and .. Thank You. For us kids, chewing gum was a prized possession, even when the flavour of the gum was completely exhausted. The gum would be saved and chewed at a later time. Some kids who had missed out, borrowed a friend’s already chewed gum, chewed it for an agreed time and then returned it to its owner. Not to do so was considered very bad form and the other kids would gang up on the miscreant, forcing him to return the gum to its rightful owner.

One day an army truck slowly passed a group of us and from the back of the truck two soldiers started throwing large orange coloured balls at us. They weren’t aiming to hit any of us but just let them fall gently from the back of the truck. I didn’t know what these things were or why the soldiers were tossing them out. I soon found out when I watched the older boys tearing off the outer skin and munching the inner part. Thus I discovered for the first time what an orange was and how it tasted. Though frowned upon by adults, we still continued to forage through the rubble. There wasn’t much else to do with our time. We found lots of rifle bullets, mostly spent cartridges but quite a few still live. A couple of inventive kids found that by looping some wire round the cartridge and bending the other end back to form a handle, then hitting the detonator end against a sharp bit of rubble, the cartridge would fire and release the bullet.

A new toy was invented and quickly became a great source of fun. But not for long. The bullet was supposed to go up in the air but this did not always happen. One boy looking on, had his side grazed by a bullet, luckily not badly but badly enough to draw blood. It became clear to us that it could have been a lot worse. We had to rethink the situation. Soon someone came up with a solution. By removing the actual bullet from the cartridge with the aid of a pair of pliers, the detonator was still intact and would produce the desired bang when struck by a sharp object. This was further refined by bending the wire to look like a large tuning fork, with the cartridge wired in firmly in one end and the opposite end securing a nail, sharp end upwards aligned with the detonator of the cartridge. Now by hitting the contraption against anything solid, the desired bang was produced and if there was any powder left in the cartridge, a flash of flame and smoke was a much sought after bonus. We were all pleased as punch with our invention of the Mark II bullet banger. Unfortunately for us, when the camp authorities got wind of our activities, they were far from amused and promptly outlawed the use and construction of these contraptions.

Life in the refugee camp went on and with time, some improvements manifested. Community showers with hot water were installed for each block. This meant that once a week, we could wash ourselves properly. In our shower block there were about six shower heads protruding from a wall and a roster for its use was drawn up. There were alternate days for males and females at allotted and appointed times. Kesteris and I were allotted Wednesdays. In at 5.00p pm and out by 5.30 pm for the next shift to take over. If for any reason you missed your allotted time, bad luck, wait till next week or if you knew beforehand you couldn’t keep your appointment, you could swap with another person, if you could find one. In our room in Block 1 we still had to go down two flights of stairs to use the toilet or bring up some cold water. The timing to take a shower was quite an ordeal for many people as very few people possessed wristwatches and the only way to tell the time was from a clock tower erected in the camp square. We knew that when this clock showed 4.55pm, we had enough time to get to our shower slot time. The few people who had watches, constantly bickered about the accuracy of the square clock but whether that clock was slow or fast, it remained the governor of our routines.

Apart from food shortages, our next largest problem was medical services and medication. Initially they were all but non-existent. There were, among the refugees a handful of women who had worked as nurses and one or two doctors but without medical supplies there was little they could do. Children especially were at risk as outbreaks of measles, whooping cough, chicken pox and polio were rife throughout the camp. I managed to contract the three former diseases but luckily not the latter. Home-style remedies were the only thing available and surprisingly for many maladies they seemed to work. To treat my measles or chickenpox or maybe both, mother would burn a newspaper or pages from any printed book, in a saucepan and with the burnt residue, smear my affected body parts. The theory was that the burnt ink in the paper formed a salve and this had a healing effect. For whooping cough, she would collect my urine and then make me drink it. Abhorrent as this was, it appeared to be working as within days I was up and about, minus the cough. Unfortunately for children contracting polio, there was nothing anyone could do, except hope. The river Main flowed almost next to the camp but no one dared to make any use of it or even stick their toe in it as at every access path to the river there was a large lollypop sign attached to a stake and driven into the ground. The sign, approximately 50 cm in diameter, was white with a black skull and crossbones stencilled on it and underneath was printed in German Typhus or Typhoid.

The wild time for us kids was drawing to a close. A school was established in one of the blockhouses, now cleared of rubble, and converted to classrooms. The prospect of going to school excited me and I made sure that everyone I met was informed that I was going to school. In some ways I had a head start. During many evenings in our room, Mother taught me to read. To her surprise, I picked up reading very quickly. Writing however, was a little more difficult as plain paper and pencils were in short supply. Amongst the refugees in the camp were some six or seven Latvian ex-teachers. This then was a good start. Although the amenities were somewhat primitive, they were provided with a blackboard and chalk. Our classroom furniture was even more primitive. We sat on makeshift furniture with an upended box or crate, serving as a desk. Instead of exercise books we were issued with a slate board and chalk. Thus our schoolbags contained our only educational tools, a wooden framed slate board, a piece of chalk and a rag to clean the slate. The three RRR were the basics of our lessons. One would have thought that English or even German would top the subject list but in our camp, teachers with language skills were non-existent, so we were taught only in Latvian.

One day there was great excitement in our school. A consignment of Red Cross parcels was delivered especially designed for the schoolchildren. We were told that these parcels were made up for us by American schoolchildren, in America and distributed by the Red Cross, throughout the many refugee camps in Germany. There were many boxes of various sizes and as we started opening them, we discovered that they had been opened by someone before and most of the contents removed, leaving only a class photograph of the American children who had made the donation, a list of what should have been its contents and a tin of what we later found out, was powdered toothpaste. As most of us did not have toothbrushes, we ate the powder and pronounced the spearmint flavour, delicious. Soon after the opening of the school, a daily lunch was provided for the pupils by the US authorities. The food was always cold, consisting mostly of milk and egg by-products such as junket and custard. At odd times we even scored an apple or a pear. Little though it was, it was at least something to fill our bellies and every pupil looked forward to when it was their turn to join the lunch queue. At about this same time, rumours began circulating throughout the camp that Bavaria, which included Wurzburg, was about to be rezoned and occupied by the Russians. This rumour swept throughout the camp like a deadly virus. For the adults the news was like a death sentence. To think that after all we had gone through to escape the Russians, we were to be handed over to them just like that. Most people knew that were this to happen, they had only two fates. Immediate execution for some and a slow, cruel working death in a Siberian slave camp.

The atmosphere in the camp changed dramatically. Silence. The symphony of human activity was extinguished. Rather than be handed over to the Russians, many people committed suicide. Exactly how many, I don’t know. I only know that almost every day, reports circulated of people taking their own lives and in some cases, the lives of their families. Surprisingly, there were no mass protest meetings or demonstrations, just deaths, silence and depression. This cloud of gloom hovered over us for many weeks. The Americans told us nothing until one day the camp commandant summonsed all camp block elders to a meeting. Fearing the worst, the elders faced the camp commandant who was accompanied by some high ranking US army officers and were told that there was absolutely no truth in the rumours that Bavaria was to become a Russian occupied zone.

By way of explanation, the elders were informed that the Russians did seek to negotiate a handover but the Americans at no time even entertained the proposal. The news swept through the camp like a whirlwind and the symphony of human activity was to be heard again. Sadly, not by those who had prematurely but permanently ended their lives. All the inmates in the camp spent many hours contemplating their future. The greatest hope to live by was the expectation that the Russians would in time, pull out of Latvia and we could return to our homeland. With every passing day, this hope was fading as the Russians showed no intention of wanting to leave and the Western Allies, whilst welcoming the thought, applied little or no pressure to achieve this end. One thing became clear. The camp refugees faced a very long time in exile as inmates of the camp and therefore had to make the best of it.

A camp police force was established to be responsible for order within the camp. Kesteris was chosen to be the leader of the small force, answerable only to the US authorities. I am not sure if this was a salaried post but I am sure some benefits accompanied the position. Mother too was far from idle. She canvassed the inmates of the camp, looking for people with musical abilities or backgrounds. One or two of them she already knew from Riga. Originally she sourced seven or eight people which included singers, instrumentalists and even one juggler. She organised the newly formed group into categories according to their musical abilities and together they scrounged musical material to put together a concert. Following intensive rehearsals, they put together a revue consisting of solos, duets, instrumentalists and even the juggler. With the help of Kesteris, who had by now, contacts amongst the Americans, they presented their first show at an American PX base in Wurzburg.

Their first show was an outstanding success, assisted largely by the lack of entertainment in the immediate post-war years. This led to invitations to perform at other PX bases and spread to concerts in the refugee camps, even to local German venues. Payment to the artists was a rather strange arrangement. The German Reichsmark was completely worthless and the US Dollar was difficult to negotiate as no sort of exchange rate was set and the dollar could only be used in American PX stores to which the refugee community had no official access except for the black market. To solve this problem, the artists were paid in kind. Cigarettes became the unofficial currency, closely followed by nylon stockings and chocolates. Of these, cigarettes were by far the easiest to substitute for cash. Mother by now, was amassing quite a large holding of these commodities. Spending them however was a little more difficult. There were no shops around where one could purchase a loaf of bread or butter and pay for them with a carton of cigarettes. To solve this problem, she and another colleague obtained some suitcases, filled them with cigarette, nylons and chocolates and set out to visit farms in the locality. There she traded her wares for bread, smoked meats, butter, eggs and fruit.

The practice worked extremely well. The German farmers had plenty of farm products but lacked access to cigarettes, nylons or chocolate. In a very short time she established a clientele amongst the farmers, visiting them on a regular basis. One time I recall, she came back with half the suitcase filled with cherries, which were immediately and ravenously consumed by all of us. We later regretted our gluttony as our bellies were not used