(Author: Bernard Levinson, Vol. 64, No. 2, Rosh Hashanah 2009)
- Feature image: Members of a Latvian self-defence unit assemble a group of Jewish women for execution on a beach near Liepāja, 15 December 1941.
It is August in Latvia. The sun, echoing still the summer’s heat, rises in a cloudless sky. There is still the soft woody scent of forests waking. The air is warm and soft. Families eat their meals on the patios in the warm afternoons.
The Daugava River is alive with early autumn’s gold-flecked foliage. Trees, bridges and rows of wooden houses shimmer on the surface.
Lisa brushes my hair. Her hair is long and dark. She lets me braid her hair. I would love to brush my Papa’s hair but he has so little hair. When I sit on his lap he nibbles my short, almost blond, hair on the back of my neck.
My Papa owns two shops on the main street. He teaches me French at night. Only a few words. We have visitors every night. My Mama and Papa speak so many languages. I can hear them talking French and German. Papa’s always away in Paris. Mama loves all the health places in Germany. They leave me with Lisa.
The town of Daugavpils is almost asleep in the autumn heat. In the forest, the faintest blush of rust dances on the tips of the trees. The birds are singing. It is August and the birds are still singing. The crying – the silent underground crying – the endless dark shrieks of the dead have not begun. The birds will be the first to hear it. They will hear it all. It will silence their singing for ever.
My nanny’s name is Petronella. I can’t pronounce her name. I call her Lisa. Lisa sleeps with me. She’s an old lady. I think she is 50 years old. I love Lisa. She knows everything about me. She calls me her baby. She knows I am afraid of storms. When there is thunder she holds me. She loves my little black dog Mushka. Mushka is mosquito in Russian. We only speak Russian. We go for long walks. Lisa, Mushka and I. Lisa always holds my hand. I think we live in a forest. There are trees everywhere. Behind our house there is a green space. I love lying on the grass, watching the birds float in the warm air.
The German invasion is lightning quick and brutal. The year is 1941. Overnight the Russians who annexed Latvia and became so strongly a part of their lives have vanished. One moment all of Latvia belongs to them, then there is nothing. The Germans are everywhere. All night the rumbling of heavy vehicles. The marching of men. The very core and fabric of Latvia is suddenly seeped in this German tide.
In Daugavpils there is a public hanging of a single young woman. An ominous warning. A clear message for the entire town.
Frauline Elsbeth is my German governess. She teaches me German. She talks to me while we walk in the forest. I don’t like her. She stands so tall. She walks fast and l can’t keep up. I see her twice a week. And twice a week Mr Charmatz comes to our house. He teaches me English. He’s a funny man. He only knows two things. One nursery rhyme and one book. Every time he comes I repeat ‘There was a little girl who had a little curl right in the middle of her forehead….’ The book he knows is about a Prince. He reads it to me. We do this again and again. I learn it by heart. We sit at the dining room table. He’s a grubby little man. He dresses so badly. And he smells…
Within a day of the German occupation a notice appears: “All men from 16 to 60 must report to the town square immediately. They must bring shovels and pickaxes”.
The rumor is that there is a need for work parties. There is much to clean up in Daugavpils…
My Mama teaches me to play the piano. She plays really well. I love sitting on the piano stool with her. Once a week I go with my cousin to Ballet school. It is run by Madam Mirceva. I’m afraid of her. Her hair is smoothed back into a tight ball. It pulls her eyes sideways. Sometimes she looks almost Chinese. She is very strict. My cousin and I are the dolls in the Ballet Coppelia. I love the costumes. Mama had them made especially for us. I am very small for my age. And thin. I think I look like a doll…
We have the only double story brick house in our street. Mama, Papa and me, and of course Lisa, live upstairs. Papa’s brother and his family live downstairs. I go to school with my cousin. She is exactly my age. I knock on the floor with the broom handle to tell her that I am ready to leave and she meets me downstairs. We walk to school.
They say goodbye to Papa and his brother. They have one shovel and one pickaxe between them. They gather with all the men in the town square. They are broken up into small groups and taken to the railway park. They dig their own graves. They all get undressed before being shot.
The horse-drawn carts heavy with men’s clothing are seen blocking the streets. Everyone now knows the truth.
It is Lisa who first sees our neighbour’s house on fire. It is made of wood. All the houses are made of wood except our house. She shouts that we must leave immediately. Mama grabs what clothes she can find for us.
The buildings are blown up. They burn furiously.
The Dougava River is burning. The entire town is in flames. Maja is standing in front of their stricken home. She is eleven years old. She is wearing a chocolate brown fur coat and new shoes. Mushka is terrified and hides deep in the fur under her arms. Lisa envelops her with her own body. The groaning of burning walls drowns out their screams.
My wrist watch is on the window sill of my bedroom. It was given to me by Papa on my last birthday. How can I go without it?
The streets are deserted. The slow procession of women wind their way between the charred streets. They slowly walk to the Citadel Fortress to start the brief Ghetto stage before their final journey.
Three months later, in November, the real killings will begin. For the first time Jews will be brought into Latvia to fill the mass graves. It is bitterly cold on that first morning when the men and women are made to undress and stand before the open graves. The forest groans with the weight of the dead.
Now it is August. Late summer August. An August of dreams and innocence. All of Latvia holds its breath.[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row]
Bernard Levinson is a distinguished South African poet whose work has appeared in numerous scholarly publications and anthologies, including Jewish Affairs. Professionally, he is a psychiatrist based in Johannesburg.
