The Mascot (25 page)

“In the early years after the war, Europe was in chaos, and I clung to the Dzenis family, who'd promised to take me with them wherever they ended up. They were my anchor. How could I inform on their compatriots?

My father at Saules DP camp outside Hamburg, 1947.

“I should have been old enough to take care of myself. After all, I was nine.”

“No way!” I exclaimed. “Think of children today at the age of nine.”

“There was another reason I kept quiet about the past,” my father said. “The British who ran the camp seemed to really like the Latvians. I didn't understand that: one minute we were at war with them, the next they were looking after us!”

“Do you think that they knew who these Latvians were?” I asked.

“They might've chosen simply to turn a blind eye to things. It was strange that there were no questions asked about these people, that they were given some sort of special status and priority, when the Allies knew that they'd not been occupied by the Nazis but had cooperated with them.”

“It seems that the Latvians have done a good job of whitewashing their past, and many of them got away with it.”

“They investigated Commander Lobe, you know. For war crimes.”

“When was this?”

“The early 1960s.”

“Who was it?”

“The Swedes. I think on request from the Soviets, who claimed that Lobe had ordered massacres. They were interested in what I had to say then about my memories. I signed a statement…”

“Against Lobe?”

“No, the opposite! For Lobe…in his defense.”

“Is this what you meant that day in London when you said they made you do it? Uncle and Lobe?”

My father nodded.

“Did you lie?”

My father was taken aback by my directness.

“I don't know if I did or did not,” he answered. The expression on his face tightened. “I have memories of exterminations—the ones I mentioned to you—but I don't remember specifically if Commander Lobe himself was there. I do know that he was in charge of the Eighteenth, along with another soldier, Captain Rubenis. I didn't have much to do with him, though.”

“Do you want to tell me about this statement?” I asked my father, who gave a deep sigh and shifted in his seat. He nodded.

W
hile I did want to learn as much as I could about whatever my father volunteered about his past, at certain moments I found myself resisting his words. I had begun to sense that my father hoped for redemption or absolution in exchange for his confessions. I didn't know in what shape or form he hoped to find this, nor who he hoped would deliver it, but I prayed that it was not me—I felt that I had little wisdom regarding his situation and that I, too, was now struggling to keep from drowning in the horrors of his past.

“It must have been sometime late in 1963,” my father began. “By then I was living in Melbourne.” He shifted in his chair again, trying to make himself more comfortable.

“One day I heard from Uncle. He wanted to see me as soon as possible. I found my way to their home in Elsternwick. It was on an ordinary suburban street, in a row of small white cottages. Theirs was partly hidden behind a picket fence and a front garden dominated by a beautiful silver birch that always reminded me of the forests I'd patrolled with the soldiers in Latvia. Uncle and Auntie had created a little bit of their homeland.

“I went through the gate and started to make my way up to the front door, when suddenly I stopped and looked down at my crumpled suit and brown case. I was overcome with shame. I felt that I didn't have much to show for nearly fifteen years of life in Australia: I'd spent most of my life here as a vagabond, which suited me down to the ground at the time, but somehow I still couldn't shed that shabby aura.

“I tried to smooth out the creases in my suit and then went up to the front door. I had to knock only once before the door was opened by Auntie. It had been quite a while since I'd seen her, but the expression of kindness in her light blue eyes was always the same. Before I knew what was happening, she was hugging me and kissing both of my cheeks.

“‘Come in, Uldis, come in,' she exclaimed warmly, ushering me into the living room. Inside I was reminded even more of the past. The furnishings and decorations were as if they'd been transported from the apartment in Riga. The curtains had been closed to keep out the strong Australian light so that the room was in semidarkness apart from the soft light coming from a lamp on a side table. One wall was covered with shelves of books. Only the muted ticking of a grandfather clock in one corner could be heard.

“What I most remembered was the sweet scent—a mixture of flowers, ripened apples, and furniture polish—identical to that in the apartment on Valdemara Street.

“‘Please sit, my boy,' Auntie said. ‘I'll tell Uncle you're here.' She always referred to her husband as Uncle in my company.

“Auntie tapped lightly on a door on the opposite side of the room. It was then that I heard Uncle's voice, telling her to enter. She flashed me a nervous smile before disappearing inside and closing the door tightly behind her.

“After several moments the door opened again and when I looked up Uncle was standing in the doorway. From where I was seated, he towered above everything in the room. He'd not lost his aura of formality, even in Australia, the most easygoing of places. He stepped forward with his arm outstretched, and I rose to shake his hand. Then he told me to be seated again.

“Auntie hovered nervously behind him. She seemed concerned that Uncle and I should be pleased to see each other. I had no idea why, as there'd rarely been any tension between Uncle and me. He told Auntie to prepare coffee for us, and she disappeared into the kitchen.

“Uncle and I sat quietly for several minutes. He seemed to be coolly appraising me. I could sense his unease, but I hadn't the slightest idea what was bothering him.

“‘You look well!' he said finally. ‘Strong! And you've put on some weight, too.'

“‘It's the good Australian food,' I answered.

“Uncle gave a little smile, before lapsing into silence again. I began to feel on edge, when suddenly he spoke.

“‘Why have you come here?' he asked.

“I was taken aback. ‘Sir?' was all I could manage to say. I thought of this visit as my responding to his summons.

“‘What do you want?' he insisted.

“‘To see you and Auntie,' I blustered, feeling even more confused about why I was there.

“‘I have always believed that we would never see you again,' he said slowly. Then it must have registered with Uncle how startled I was. ‘After all that happened…' he added, without completing the sentence.

“‘But you were kind to me, Uncle. You cared for me. Auntie loved me like I was her own,' I answered. Immediately I felt that I'd said too much, been too emotional, as I saw Uncle stiffen. ‘Were we?' he said, somewhat distantly, while still sitting formally and staring straight ahead.

“Fortunately, Auntie returned just at that moment. ‘It is so good to see Uldis, isn't it, Jekabs?' she said, while pouring coffee for the three of us. ‘You do look well.'

“‘It's all the good tucker and hard yakka,' I replied.

“‘Yakka? Tucker?' Auntie laughed. ‘What are these yakka and tucker?'

“‘Yakka is Aussie for work and tucker's food,' I declared, proud of my mastery of the Australian lingo.

“‘It's a strange place, this Australia!' she said, clapping her hands together in amusement.

“‘Fair dinkum!' I exclaimed, spurred on by her delight. I'd picked up this term as well and was keen to show off in front of them. They were at a loss and both stared at me as if I were mad.

“‘That's Aussie for “certainly”!' I explained this time.

“Auntie chuckled at my authoritative tone and repeated the term out loud, and we both burst into hysterics at her mispronunciation.

“Opposite us, Uncle remained stony silent. In fact, he seemed to be so uncomfortable with my presence that I decided there and then that I should leave, even if I'd only just arrived. But as soon as Auntie saw me make a move to depart, she jumped to her feet, insisting that I stay for dinner. I didn't want to cause any fuss, but she was adamant.

“That evening she prepared a feast of all the Latvian dishes that I loved as a boy, especially the eels and lampreys. Over the meal Auntie was very talkative, telling me about their life in Australia and how perplexing the customs were. They found it hard to adjust to the new world at their age. But despite that, Auntie obviously liked it here.

“Every time I visited, I'd regale her with one of my stories about my life in Australia. Her eyes lit up with pleasure and amazement at some of my tales: she loved especially the story of my escape from the job on the railways in the outback, when I'd climbed on board a passing trolley and headed off into the night, destination unknown.

“Later Uncle invited me to join him in the living room while Auntie cleared away the remains of the meal. He lit a thin cigar without offering me one and smoked it quietly. I felt like a naughty pupil before a headmaster, waiting for him to speak. I still had no idea what I had done wrong.

“After several minutes Auntie rejoined us. I thought that it was time to go and again reached for my jacket. Immediately she stopped me.

“‘You've had a lot to drink,' she said. ‘Why don't you stay here tonight?'

“It was true. Uncle had been offering me vodka all evening. I muttered something about work the next day, but Auntie dismissed this, turning to Uncle. ‘He must stay with us, mustn't he, Uncle?'

“Uncle merely grunted his assent. Auntie made up a bed on the sofa in the living room while Uncle and I sat in silence.

“Finally, it was Uncle and I, alone and without any risk of interruption. He poured us each a brandy, his favorite, and raised his glass. ‘To the men of the Kurzeme Battalion!' he said. Then he looked me directly in the face and said, ‘You must have many memories of your time with them.'

“I was surprised by his comment because after the war he'd given me the impression that he wanted never to speak of the past again.

“‘Yes,' I mumbled. ‘A few.'

“‘They were better times for us, weren't they?' he said. ‘How did we end up here, in this wasteland on the other side of the world?'

“I laughed out of politeness, but I didn't share his opinion at all. I loved the life here. Europe with its landscape of destruction was the wasteland as far as I was concerned. I never wanted to go back there.

“‘Good memories, are they?' Uncle probed. But before I could answer, he continued. ‘Do you remember when you first came to Riga? What trouble you were. I took you to our apartment on Valdemara Street. Everyone was there to welcome you. But you didn't want to stay! “I am a soldier,” you insisted. “I must stay with my troop.” And the difficulty we had in getting you to sleep in a bed. The only place you really loved was in Carnikava.'

“I nodded and began to tell Uncle about my happy memories there, mostly with Auntie. However, he didn't want to dwell on my recollections and instead shifted the conversation, asking me if I remembered Commander Lobe.

“I thought it was a strange question because, apart from Uncle and Kulis, the commander was the man with whom I'd had the most contact. How on earth could I ever forget him?

“‘He was a good soldier,' Uncle said, ‘and a good man!'

“‘He was kind to me,' I commented, wondering what else I could add.

“‘Not only to you,' he said. ‘He was generous to all of us.'

“Then he fell silent for several moments before he spoke again. ‘I am sure you haven't heard of his recent problem?'

“‘No,' I said. ‘I haven't seen Commander Lobe since the war.'

Uncle knew this, so I wondered why he had raised the topic of the commander in this manner.

“‘All I know is that he went to Sweden.'

“‘Stockholm, in fact,' Uncle said. ‘With his wife.'

“‘Are they well?' I asked.

“He ignored my question, saying instead, ‘Like us, he was fortunate to have escaped the tyranny of the Soviet Union. We exchange letters now and then, and always on Latvian National Day. Your birthday, remember?'

“I nodded.

“‘However, some time ago the letters stopped coming. Only a matter of weeks ago I learned the reason. There has been a claim that the Eighteenth Kurzeme Battalion, when it was still in the form of a police brigade, was involved in a massacre of Jews in Belarus in the winter of 1941.

“‘The Slonim massacre, they call it. Some former members of the Eighteenth—the ones who didn't get out of Latvia—have already been arrested and tried by the Soviets. They were found guilty and have been executed. Have you heard of this catastrophe?'

“I was shocked. It was the first I'd heard of this and I told Uncle so.”

“Did Uncle mention the names of any of the men executed, Dad?” I asked.

My father nodded grimly. “Tillers, Upe. I knew Upe better. He was with the band of soldiers that captured me.” Even now my father seemed to be in a state of disbelief.

“Uncle said that the Soviets were liars. The whole thing had been a show trial and historical records could not place the Eighteenth anywhere near Slonim at that time. In fact, the Eighteenth did not arrive in Belarus until March 1942, so it was absurd to hold them accountable for an incident that had occurred months earlier.

“According to Uncle, the Soviets wanted to punish the Latvians, especially the high-ranking ones, for their collaboration with the Nazis. What they didn't understand, Uncle claimed, was that the Latvians were driven purely by patriotism. They didn't share the ideology of the Nazis. They hoped only for independence.

“‘Now the Swedish have become interested in Lobe's background,' Uncle said, ‘because he'd been the commander of the Eighteenth. If there were even the slightest possibility that he could be extradited to Latvia, there is no doubt he would be executed.

“‘It doesn't seem to matter to the Soviets at all that Lobe was never permanently and totally in command of the Eighteenth. Throughout the battalion's tour of duty in Belarus, Lobe occasionally shared command with Captain Rubenis whenever he was recalled to Riga on other duties. You might not remember him.'

“I was surprised when I heard this,” my father said, “but it also cleared something up in my mind. I've always been a bit confused about who was in command of the Eighteenth. I've nearly always recalled Commander Lobe in that position, but I also remember another officer, Rubenis, who occasionally appeared as top dog. I'd heard him addressed as Captain but that was all I knew about him. He showed no interest in me at all, so I rarely saw him.

“‘Perhaps they should be investigating Rubenis rather than Commander Lobe,' I heard Uncle say. I couldn't believe my ears. There seemed to be no loyalty among the desperate. Uncle was clutching at straws to defend the commander, and it struck me as odd that on the one hand Uncle denied that the Eighteenth was in Belarus, while at the same time claiming that another member of the same battalion could be responsible for the crime. Either the battalion was there, or it was not. I thought to myself then that Uncle knew more about the movements of the Eighteenth than he was prepared to let on. But I said nothing, allowing him to press on.