My story goes back to 1944. World War II was raging in Europe and my birth country, Latvia, was overrun by German and Russian armies. Those who had survived deportations by the Russians in June of 1941 decided to flee their homeland.
Our family had lost at least seven members, among them my maternal uncle Vilis and his wife, and also my godmother and her son and my father’s sister’s whole family.
It was time to flee, but Grandmother refused to leave with us. She wanted to end her days in Latvia and be buried next to our grandfather, who had died in January of that year. She was staying. She hoped to see her son upon his return from a slave labor camp in Siberia — thank God she did not learn of his death within a year of deportation. It would have broken her heart. What she felt when we left is unimaginable.
Years passed. We lived seven years in a displaced-person camp in Germany, then moved to Brazil, where my father was a Lutheran minister to a Latvian congregation. Brazil is where we learned that Grandmother had died in 1953. Friends made sure she had a Christian burial next to our grandfather. Her belongings were distributed among her friends. All of this I learned upon my return to Latvia in 1991.
Latvia had survived 47 years of occupation. The Iron curtain fell and I was asked to attend an exchange program for nurses in Latvia. By this time I was living in Connecticut, and my dream of going home was coming true. When our family left Latvia, I was almost 7 years old, and I had surprisingly good memories of our grandparents’ farm and our childhood summers there. I could not wait to go back, but first I had to participate in lectures about nursing and Latvian medicine in general — about death and dying, about care of the elderly, about prevention of injuries and helping to maintaining good health .
As soon as the official part of my visit to Latvia ended, relatives of my husband offered to drive me to Berze, a small village where I intended to find my grandparents’ grave site.
Ingrida parked her car near the cemetery gate, across from a small white church where I attended services as a child. We entered the cemetery gate, and proceeded to look for the marker of my grandparents’ grave. We found it a few steps from the entrance. Someone had broken the black stone marker, but kind hands had kept the two pieces together. Words can not express my feelings. Chills ran over my body. I said a prayer of thanks for being able to return.
On the grave I found a glass container with fresh daffodils. Grandmother had no relatives left in Latvia, so I wondered who could have done such a loving deed. I wrote a short note, telling who I am and asking to be contacted in the U.S. I left the note under the flowers.
Soon after my return home, I received a letter from Latvia. The flowers were put there by my grandmother’s neighbor, Ilga. She had left the village and was living in Riga, but whenever she visited her parents’ grave, she put flowers on our loved ones’ resting place as well.
Upon my next visit to Latvia, I met Ilga and her husband. They invited me to their apartment, and Ilga gave me my grandmother’s white, home-woven linen table cloth.
Since then, my sister has returned to Latvia to live, and together we ordered a proper monument with names of the whole family, including the names of our uncle who perished in Siberia and his brother Karlis, who died in the U.S. Later, after we interred my mother’s ashes there, we included her name, as well.
They are together again.
