My face beamed with excitement when I woke up in the morning. Even six time zones away from America, on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, I felt myself amongst the Americans celebrating the country’s 238th birthday and was overwhelmed with gratitude to the country that adopted me and transformed me into a happy, content, and fulfilled person. This was the second summer that I had come to this small town on the marvelous shores of the Baltic Sea or, more accurately, of its Gulf of Riga, to escape the heat and humidity of the Washington D.C. area and to work on my memoirs. I was delighted to notice the Latvian national flag at a single-story office building located exactly in front of the window where I was sitting and writing. Latvia also had something to celebrate on the Fourth of July. It was windy, and the flag, two red strips with a narrow white one between, was cheerfully fluttering in the breeze.
A half-hour later, perhaps, I
looked out the window again and saw a man standing on a chair removing the flag
from its holder. “What was going on?” I wondered. Only then did I notice that a
narrow black ribbon, a symbol of mourning, which had not been properly
tightened, was under the flag. The man carefully tied the ribbon to the proper
place above the flag and put it back on the wall. That black ribbon flying
above the flag somewhat dampened my excitement of the day; you feel uncomfortable
being happy when other people around you are grieving.
It was not the first time during
my visit that I saw the national flag with a black ribbon on every building and
every house. Being curious, as always, I tried to ask what tragic event in the
Latvian history was being remembered, but no one, not even the home owners who displayed
flags on their houses, could give me an answer. I assumed they did not want to
share their tragedy of being what was officially called “occupied” for almost
50 years by the Soviet Union. Several hours later, I went to the local library
to check my email. Of course, a flag with a black ribbon was on the library
building; as a last chance, I asked the librarian about the black ribbon. Proud
that she could finally answer my question – many of my previous inquiries had
not been so lucky – she replied, “Today we honor the memory of the victims of
genocide during the Holocaust.” The combination of the words genocide and
Holocaust pained my ears, and I immediately felt pangs in my heart – my oldest
sister had been killed during the Holocaust; I thus took the tragedy of the
Jews during WWII very personally.
Beyond being a mathematician by
education and profession, I have a special feeling for numbers and dates.
Hitler began the war against the Soviet Union with a massive bombardment of
Minsk, Belarus, the biggest city close to the border, on Sunday, June 22 of
1941. This year, 73 years later, June 22 also occurred on Sunday, and I felt
compelled to relive my parents’ fleeing from the unavoidable Nazi occupation.
They escaped separately: my mother from Minsk with her family – she had come to
visit them only two days before – and my father with two children and his
extended family from Bobruisk, a small town about 100 miles south of Minsk. All
of them except my oldest sister were out of immediate danger by the end of the
first week of the war. They were exceedingly lucky, for both places had been
occupied almost immediately. In my mind, I was following their odyssey.
Back in 1941, the Fourth of July was
also on a Friday, the second Friday and twelfth day after the war began. The
thought that it was too early for Nazis to be killing Latvian Jews instantly
crossed my mind. “What had happened on that day and what was the year?” I asked,
greatly puzzled. “Sorry, I do not know any details,” the Latvian librarian
answered, deeply apologetic.
I did not receive the email I had eagerly
expected, so my festive mood almost evaporated; yet I had to continue with my
plans for the day.
* * *
For me, keeping kashrus in Latvia was quite easy; there was
plenty of all kinds of vegetables, berries, and fish, for the country is famous
for its numerous rivers, lakes, and, of course, the sea. But periodically, I
had to take an hour-long bus ride to Riga and go to the Jewish school, where in
a small cafeteria they sold some made-on-the-premises food as well as rolls for
Shabbat. That Friday was a day for such a trip.
As soon I arrived, I asked the
women behind the counter about the black ribbon on the flag; nobody was able to
give me a meaningful answer. Every time I was in this cafeteria, I could do
nothing with myself but indulge in the baked goods made there. That time I had
a perfect excuse – everyone was celebrating the American birthday with food. I
bought pirozhki with mushrooms, the staple of Russian delicatessens, and a cup
of coffee. I slowly enjoyed my treat when a man with a beard came into the
cafeteria, perhaps one of the school’s teachers. I interrupted my festive meal
and ran to ask what had happened with Jews on that day that Latvia declared as
a day of national mourning.
Of course, he knew about the
tragedy of Latvian Jews. “On July 4, 1941, they forced many Jews into the main
synagogue and set it on fire, so everyone was burned alive.”
“Did Nazis already occupy Riga so
soon? The war only began less than two weeks before?” I asked, being unable to
fully take in his words.
“Who told you that it was the
Nazis? The local Latvians did it on their own, without waiting for the Nazis’
order,” he responded coldly. (As I found out later, Hitler’s army did arrive in
Riga three days before the tragedy, on July 1, yet it was the Latvians who
rushed to execute the Jews and to take their belongings, being absolutely
confident their assistance in killing Jews would be greatly appreciated.)
“How many Jews were killed on this
Friday?” I asked with tears welling up in my eyes.
“I did not count,” he replied
flatly, annoyed by my questions.
“Where did it happen?” I could not
stop asking for more details about this tragedy that shocked me so much.
“Only two blocks away, at the
intersection of Gogol and Dzirnavu streets. You certainly passed the place
while coming here.”
My pirozhki became tasteless, the
coffee cold and bitter, when I slowly returned to my table. I finished them
anyway; the do-not-leave-any-food-on-a-plate rule is engraved deeply, perhaps
even forever, into me. I took my belongings; they felt extremely heavy now, but
not because of the bag of goods I bought in the cafeteria; it was as though the
tragedy I learned about only recently somehow heavily rested on my shoulders,
bending me over and taking away my strength.
I dragged myself slowly along the
street, still shocked by what I had heard and feeling for those Jews who, 73
years ago, were preparing to greet the Sabbath and instead met their deaths in
such a barbarous and inhuman way. After a short walk, I saw the place the man
mentioned. I had passed it several times; it was on the opposite side of the
street, almost hidden by huge old trees, the witnesses of the tragedy. What I
saw there – the manner in which Latvia had converted the memory of the
never-even-counted number of perished Jews into a triumph of its own citizens –
distressed me so much that I had an urge to leave the country, the place I was
enjoying so much, immediately. .
Deep in thought, I crossed the
street. The place was quiet, tidy, and very peaceful. I was absolutely alone,
yet the freshly cut flowers all around indicated that a memorial ceremony had
taken place not long ago. The fire had almost completely destroyed the
magnificent Riga’s main synagogue: only parts of the original walls were left
after its destruction. The highest wall, which faced the street, was unusually
thick. Two sidewalls were much lower; both had symmetrical entrances and stairs
down to a huge space with a skillfully decorated floor: red and white ceramic
tiles artistically arranged in different size rectangles. The fourth wall, the
shortest, is about two feet above the ground. It and allows one to see the
tiled floor, which has been fully and painstakingly restored, and people use
the flat surface of this short wall to put candles and flowers.
* * *
It was the official Day of
Remembrance honoring the anniversary of the tragedy, so it was natural to see
on the walls, especially on the shortest one, flowers here and there, mainly
single stems, most likely brought by individuals. There were two dozen burning
memorial candles on the left side of the shortest wall; I never before saw
candles with lids to protect the flame from wind and rain. I began sobbing loudly.
Again, I remembered that it was a Friday. For some reason, the sameness of the
day, then and now, made my compassion, my feeling for the victims, much
stronger. I could even hear the laughter and yelling voices – the words heavily
peppered with Russian curses – of the butchers trying to expedite the burning
in a rush to loot the Jewish houses, starting from the kitchen – to grab all
the food and drinks on the beautifully set tables and to wolf down the tasty
food the Jews had prepared for their Sabbath.
When I calmed down, I noticed a
huge reddish-brown rock with an inscription on it. It was comprised of five
small, hardly recognizable Hebrew letters separated with little squares, looking
like an ornament or decoration on the top of the rock; beneath the letters was
a huge “4/VII 1941” deeply engraved into the rock.
Looking at these almost unrecognizable
Hebrew letters, I fully grasped why Minsk’s Jews are so proud that the modest monument
erected at the site of the ghetto – known as Yama, a pit, in Russian – which
commemorates the slaughter of more than 5,000 Jews on March 2, 1942, has a long
Hebrew engraving with the word Evrei,
Jews, mentioned in the Russian-language part of inscription. That Minsk
engraving is an extremely rare exception; nowhere else, even on the old, huge,
extravagant monument in Babi Yar, in Kiev, is the word Evrei mentioned; a faceless and neutral “Soviet citizens” was used
instead. As I had heard numerous times, the Minsk engraving had been possible
only because it was done as soon as Minsk was liberated by a famous army general
whose entire family had perished in the ghetto; then, there was nobody to ask for
permission or approval.
Near the rock, on the ground, were
several bouquets of flowers. As I remembered from my previous life in Belarus,
such bouquets were usually brought by an official organization. There was also
a small flower wreath with a ribbon, inscribed with glittering gold; it was
definitely of the same origin. The number of flowers I saw so far was
suspiciously small: Latvians love flowers; there were gazillions of them in all
other places. Perplexed, I looked around and only then noticed, several feet
away, a strange-looking monument with several separated boards or panels and
columns of names written on each of them. Under these panels was a hill of
bouquets and several wreaths. Certainly, the majority of flowers should be near
the list of the victims, I reasoned to myself, and with huge relief sensed that
the entire list was not very long: a hundred or even fewer names.
I approached the monument. The
panels were arranged in a rather strange way, so there were many more of them
than I had noticed when looking from the side; thus, the list was 200 or even
more names long. Something was wrong in this monument, but for a long while, I
was not able to sense what. There was an engraved picture of a man on the
widest, middle panel above the list of names; the man was kind of smiling.
Well, they could not find another picture of the rabbi, I tried to rationalize
to myself. There were no dates under the picture. Was it possible that nobody
knew his age, at least approximately? I began to slowly read the list. Several lines
down, I was thunderstruck to notice the first name – Valentina, no doubt a
Russian woman’s name. If she had been converted to Judaism, she would
definitely have gotten a Hebrew name afterwards. I stared at the list; there
were no traditional Jewish names, like Chaim or Moishe, not any Sarah or Rivka
either. Some last names were definitely Russian, Morozova, for example.
I felt I was losing my mind; I
would understand if it were a list of names of contemporary Jews who were
trying hard to conceal their Jewish origin. But the tragedy happened in 1941;
Latvia had become part of the Soviet Union only about a year before, and the
local Jews had no need, no way, to change their names so quickly. Feeling as
though I was going absolutely crazy seeing all the flowers under the list of non-Jewish
names, I helplessly looked around for some explanation.
Next to the monument I noticed a
small concrete column, usually found at historical places, with a plate on it.
The explanation was in three languages, Latvian, English, and Russian. It reads
“Monument to Zanis Lipke.” I think it was his smiling face engraved on the
column. (He was still alive.) It continued, “…and all Latvian saviors of Jews during
the Holocaust in 1941-1945, who risked their lives to save more than 400 Jews
from death.” A bit below was the explanation of the design, “The monument
consists of a crumbling wall that is threatening to destroy the Jewish people,
and the columns with names that hold it off, symbolizing the saviors.” And then
in smaller letters, “The monument was opened on July 4, 2007, the Day of
Remembrance of the victims of genocide against the Jews.”
“What an upside-down memory,” was
the only thought that occurred to me after seeing this absolutely absurd inscription
on the place where the victims of genocide were supposed to be honored.
* * *
Continuing my trip in Riga, I went
to the huge market located nearby and bought some berries and locally grown
tomatoes. While relaxing in the comfortable seat of the bus returning me home –
it was so nice to have the Sabbath beginning at 10 p.m., with havdalah on Sunday morning – I decided
to write down how I spent that Friday, July 4th in Riga.
While writing, I suddenly realized
that I did not recall having a single thought about the American celebration
since I had begun to eat the pirozhki in the cafeteria. Well, I was in Riga, in
Latvia, in another part of the world, and besides, I proudly concluded, I am
still more a Jew than an American.
