Reconciling Lithuania’s Hidden Holocaust
Part 1: Beer with Dėdukas
I wish I had a beer with my grandpa, Dėdukas, when he was 26 years old. In a way, I did.
I visited a place he worked called Kailis, which was a factory in Vilnius, Lithuania that produced fur products during WWII. I took a lap around the large building and found nothing which indicated the history of the building.
I found a dive bar though, so I figured why not — I’ll have a beer with Dėdukas. There’s a man with his German Shephard sitting at one table. At the bar, three people curiously watch me walk in, wondering who goes to a dive bar for lunch on Monday.
The bartender invites me in, then works a few taps to see which kegs are still tapped from the weekend. She asks if I want lunch, and a lunch would really help the late-morning beer go down.
The chili sounded good, so one of the men at the bar slowly stood up from his stool and sauntered off to the kitchen.
“Amerikietis nori čilį!” (The American wants chili!)
The bartender looks at me, her eyes tell me to just ignore the man. She’s got my back and I’m welcome here.
At 26, my grandpa would have already left Kailis. At this point, maybe he would be in the fields of Czechoslovakia running for the woods with the American fighter plane shooting at him and his brother.
But let me use my imagination. For this moment, I’m in the bar with Dėdukas. I’m already older than him, but life already threw more at him than I probably will ever experience.
He’d look at my hair and note that we have the same wave in the front. I’d tell him he used to comb that wave in my hair, and maybe he’d find it shocking that he would live to see the day. The welcoming bartender would ask if I’m having a drink with my little brother, but Dėdukas would confuse her by saying I’m the grandchild.
Then would he tell me things I did not want to hear? Would he confess abhorrent sins revealing a man who I would not recognize?
Later years, the Dėdukas I knew would work the room, leading the bar in song. He’d tell me about the building we’re in, that he was a bookkeeper here. Most of the people that were here were Jews, being enslaved to work 12-hour days in tough conditions.
He’d tell me life was tough for them, but he’d tell me that at least conditions were better here than in the Ghetto. He played a part in that, at least helping smuggle food into Kailis.
Then he’d look at me, asking me if I knew what happened to all of them. He’d tell me about one of the Jews he worked with who was just gone one day.
Then I would sit there, waiting for the next part. He would look me in the eye, trying to convey to my entire mind, body, and soul the injustice facing the rest. That the rest were sent to Paneriai.
If he would, I’d look him in the eye, trying to convey that I understand some of the pain behind what that means.
Then he’d continue, maybe his voice would begin to quiver when talking about a subject with heavy gravity like mine does. Like me, maybe he’d begin to shake.
I imagine he’d tell me he wanted none of this to happen. That everything was just wrong.
He’d tell me the story of when he walked down into a basement and saw a friend, or at least a classmate he considered as a friend. The friend was guilty of nothing, but was being punished for being born a Jew.
The friend was shoveling coal into a furnace, chained to a radiator in the basement. He glared at Dėdukas with an anger so sharp it would pierce through generations.
We’d sit there in silence. We’d reflect on the horrible fate that met the city’s Jewish population, from lives lost, culture rapidly disappearing, memories being stripped, and succeeding generations being cut off from birth.
I’d think about the silent secret memory he would carry. There must have been so many times where he was surrounded by so many people who are now dead. What could he do to carry on their memory?
He’d change the subject, asking about his future. I’d tell him he’d find an amazing American-Lithuanian girl one day, and I would one day know him as a wonderful father and grandfather. I’d let him know that one of his grandchildren, one of the purest souls I’ve ever known, would be taken from the world of the living too early and I’d ask Dėdukas to care for him, as Dėdukas would anyway.
Then Dėdukas might ask if his wife would be able to live with a man who had seen as much as him.
I would break the news that in his future, his wife would always worry that he would live a life constantly worried about being deported from America. He’d ask why he would be deported away from America.
I’d tell him that I don’t know. But a senior American Army officer would tell him not to publicly share his experience during the War and Holocaust because the chance of deportation was real. I suspect it would because of his role as a bookkeeper at Kailis.
He’d ask if people would know what happened at Kailis and his beloved Lithuania. No, the Soviets would hide the Holocaust, call it an act against the Soviet people, then prohibit anyone from talking about it as an act against Jews.
I’d expect this to upset him, but he has seen so much evil in people and governments that this doesn’t surprise him.
We’d finish our beers, and step outside. He has a tumultuous journey ahead, looking to survive the final moments of war before living in refugee camps and be called a “displaced person”.
Then I’d hug him, wishing I could take away the pain from him and his fellow compatriots.
Part 2: A Song Sung by the Jewish Victims of the Vilna Ghetto
Shtiler, Shtiler (Quiet, Quiet)
Quiet, quiet, let’s be silent.
Dead are growing here.
They were planted by the tyrant,
See their bloom appear.
All the roads lead to Ponar now,
There are no roads back,
And our father too has vanished,
And with him our luck.
Still, my child, don’t cry, my jewel.
Tears no help commands,
Our pain callous people
Never understand.
Seas and oceans have their order,
Prison also has its border,
But to our plight
There is no light,
There is no light.
Spring has come, the earth receives her —
But to us brings fall.
And the day is filled with flowers, —
To us darkness calls.
Autumn leaves with gold are softened, —
In us grow deep scars,
And a mother somewhere orphaned —
Her child — in Ponar.
Now the river too is prisoner —
Is enmeshed in pain –
While the blocks of ice tear through her,
To the ocean strain.
Still, things frozen melt, remember,
And cold winds to warmth surrender —
Future bring a smile –
So calls your child, So calls your child.
Quiet, quiet, wells grow stronger
Deep within our hearts,
Till the gates are there no longer,
No sound must impart.
Child, rejoice not, it’s your smiling
That is not allowed.
Let the foe encounter springtime
As an autumn cloud.
Let the well flow gently onward,
Silent be and dream…
Coming freedom brings your father,
Slumber, child serene.
As the river liberated,
Springtime green is celebrated
Kindle freedom’s light,
It is your right, It is your right.
Lyrics provided by The Songs They Sang, which is a musical narrative of the songs sung in the Vilna Ghetto during the Holocaust.
Part 3: The Holocaust in Lithuania
Nazis and local Lithuanian collaborators murdered over 225,000 of Lithuania’s 250,000 Jews during the Holocaust.
With 90% of Lithuania’s Jews murdered, Lithuania had the highest rate of death among any European nation in the Holocaust. This is a higher rate than Aushwitz, where it is estimated ~85% were murdered.
The primary form of murder was through mass murder. The largest site was in the forest at Paneriai (Ponar), where around 70,000 people were murdered. 60,000 of those were Lithuania’s Jews.
A map of the mass murder sites throughout Lithuania can be found here. I used this map to visit a mass grave in my grandmother’s hometown a few years ago.
In 1956, the Great Synagogue of Vilna was completely destroyed, 11 years after the liberation of Auschwitz and 2 years after Stalin’s death. Good Will Foundation is funding the excavation of the Great Synagogue.
There are two Holocausts. One that killed the people. The other that kills culture. We must stop the Holocaust.
This post is the seventh in a series called “10 Thoughts from Vilnius” by Vytautas Aukštuolis. Posts released Tuesday mornings. Please subscribe to my channels on Medium, Twitter, Facebook, and Baltivist.com.
Thought #1: A Journey Hosted by the Dead
Thought #2: “Hi, I’m your distant cousin. Do you want to see where your ancestors lived?”
Thought #3: A Poem Offering Peace
Thought #4: Front Lines of Belarusian Protests
Thought #5: The Difficult Question Facing the Belarusian Freedom Movement
Thought #6: Discovering Jewish Life of Vilnius
Thought #7: Lithuania’s Hidden Holocaust
