Three of Five

Haunstetten, Germany, 1951. Three younger siblings of my "New" Cousin contemplate the future.

Thanks to my "New" Cousin for making this photo available to us.

Happy Birthday, "New" Cousin

Kaunas, Lithuania, 1929. Here's an edited version of a photo I posted earlier. Zigmas was the father of my "New" Cousin.

Many to Move

Haunstetten, Germany, 1951. A neighbor boy (standing, on the left) joins the five children of my Mom's paternal Uncle, Zigmas. The family emigrated to the United States one year later. (The youngest child wears the harness once common in Europe.)

Tucked in a Letter

Haunstetten, Germany, 1951. This is Zigmas—the younger brother of my maternal Grandfather, Jake—with his wife, Heddy, and their five children. Zigmas sent this photo to Jake after Jake had emigrated to Brooklyn. Zigmas and his family still were Displaced Persons at the time they posed for this snapshot. The family arrived in the States a short time later.

Keepsake

When my Mom and her Father, Jake, decided to leave Kaunas, they traveled to the city of Tauragė. They hoped the Soviet army would retreat. The pair had only brought a few items with them to Tauragė because no one believed the Soviets would prevail. When it became clear that the Soviets weren't going to retreat, Jake briefly went back to the family home in Kaunas. He thought he might collect a few more personal belongings that he and Mom could take when they fled to the west.

When Jake got to the house, little remained. Most valuables had been buried in the countryside. Soldiers had looted most everything that hadn't been hidden. Jake, however, found one thing he thought Mom would like to keep. The item was a small landscape that Heddy—the wife of Jake's younger brother, Zigmas—had needlepointed in the 1930s for Mom. Mom carried the piece with her to Germany, and she's had it ever since. 

For many years, the needlepoint hung in the Door County cottage, and now, it's back with us again:

Another "Sister City"

I mentioned earlier that Madison is a Sister City to Vilnius, Lithuania. I learned today that Šiauliai, Lithuania is a Sister City to Omaha, Nebraska. There's a large population of Lithuanians in Omaha; my maternal Grandfather Jake's brother, Zigmas, emigrated to the city.

Omaha also is home to the Lithuanian Bakery, a business that sells and ships "Napoleonai."

The blog celebrates its first birthday today.

I started this blog one year ago. I began blogging as a way to preserve old photos. A handful of factors motivated me. First, a recently "found" relative—my "New" Cousin—had published an engaging family history. His account prompted me to reflect on the family narratives that lurked behind our photo collection. Second, I have been ill during the last four years. Before I became ill, I thought about cataloging the thousands of photos my Dad had left behind into a chronological index. After the illness recurred—for a second and then a third time—I wanted a vehicle for quickly saving the photos and making them widely accessible. Third, we have some "lost" relatives. Some are "lost" by their own design; others are "lost" because we lost track of them. I sought a way of preserving the shared history with those relatives. (My Dad would smile were he to think that sometimes it takes a photo, not an olive branch.) Fourth, I started a blog instead of a book because I wanted a device—namely the "link"—that allowed me to interconnect the photos and stories succinctly and with little repetition.

The blog has been satisfying. It's a great diversion—nearly as distracting as knitting. It has prompted reunions, introduced me to Lithuanians preserving scouting histories, and resulted in commenters identifying until-now-anonymous-to-me photo subjects. In one case, research deriving from the blog led us to discover that one person who had been presumed to have perished during World War II instead had survived.

When I started the blog, I hurried to post the "core" family photos. I have added about five photos to the blog daily. I may not post as aggressively in the future, but I won't let this project fade.

Morton Arboretum, October 1964. Collect ideas as if they were colorful leaves.

One More Snapshot

I have found another photo of my maternal Grandfather, Jake, and his two brothers taken on the last day the three men were together.

Kaunas, Lithuania, Summer 1940. Jake sits on the right, wearing the uniform of the Soviet occupiers. His wedding band is visible on his right hand; that's the ring Mr. Irene has worn for the last twenty-three years. The elegant Cody Jr.—the brother who drove his car from Poland—sits in the middle. On the left is Zigmas, father of my "New" Cousin.

Heddy

Kaunas, Lithuania, about 1937. This is Heddy, the wife of my Grandfather Jake's brother, Zigmas.

Thanks to my "New" Cousin for making this photo available to us.

Identifications

Many old photos that we have are passport pictures and identification snapshots. This image of Zigmas, the younger brother of my maternal Grandfather, Jake, likely was taken for his work at the "Spaudos Fondas," or Press Foundation.

Pre-war Lithuanians, like most Europeans, carried "national identity," or internal, passports. Zigmas alternatively may have had the photo taken for such an internal passport.

Kaunas, Lithuania, about 1930. Zigmas always looks happy.

Thanks to my "New" Cousin for making this photo available to me.

It's hard to keep up with a baby.

Kaunas, Lithuania, about 1939. Zigmas, a brother of my maternal Grandfather, Jake, keeps one of his children in line.

Reconnected

One of my recent joys has been our ability to get in touch with the family of Zigmas, the younger brother of my maternal Grandfather, Jake. We had lost contact with Zigmas's family some time around 1954, not long before Jake died.

Haunstetten, Germany, 1951. Zigmas sits in the garden with his wife, Heddy.

Thanks to my "New" Cousin for making this photo available to us.

A Melting Moment

Kaunas, Lithuania, about 1939. Zigmas, a brother of my maternal Grandfather, Jake, gives a ride to one of his children.

Thanks to my "New" Cousin for graciously making this photo available to me.

Death and Funerals

I am not a cultural historian. I have, however, spent most of my life straddling two—and sometimes three—cultures. I've naturally made all sorts of observations. One of the ways in which Lithuanian culture differs from American culture is in its approach to death.

Although funerals are somber occasions in Lithuania, Lithuanians don't find funerals "creepy." They are occasions—passages—deserving documentation. For example, I grew up surrounded by people who took photographs at funerals. There are open-casket, wake snapshots of most of my Grandparents. When my Mom's maternal Aunt, Dora, died in 1992, Mom received a stack of color photos of Dora resting in her coffin, dressed in baby-blue satin and graced with an opulent jabot.

Lithuanians still visit graves and take snapshots of themselves standing next to family headstones.

I've mentioned this pattern of photographing the dead (and buried) to several friends. Some compare the custom to the early creation of death masks. Others speculate that people photographed the dead because of economics: photographs were expensive, and a burial photo might be the only snapshot that would commemorate a person's life. Still others assumed that a death photo was reasonable in an era when photographic technology was primitive: it was difficult for subjects to sit still through a photograph, and a corpse wouldn't even twinge during that prolonged process.

I was sifting these thoughts when I debated whether to publish the photograph of the funeral of my Mom's paternal Grandfather, Cody Sr. I decided to write this post after discussing the subject with my Toronto Cousin. She thought the photo underscores the different ways we approach death.

Consider that a reliable resource for Lithuanian Customs and Traditions lists funerals in the category of "Family Celebrations." It's customary in Lithuania, for instance, to bring children to a funeral. Whereas we "celebrate" Halloween in the States, the Festival of All Saints—November 1—is the real holiday in Europe. My Mom recalls how families gathered in the cemeteries on that day, covering the graves of loved ones with chrysanthemums. People lit candles, and by the end of the day, the cemetery would look like a rock concert awaiting an encore. When I lived in Venice, families traveled to the cemetery island of San Michele to remember the dead. In Venice, the holiday of All Saints consumed nearly a week.

The cemetery in Lithuania is a comfortable place. My paternal Grandmother, Tatjana, once fell asleep behind the locked gates of one. Upon her exit the next morning, she reported that she felt very comfortable, as though "in her own skin," while there. My Mom and my maternal Grandfather, Jake, spent a number of nights in a mausoleum when they were refugees.

There are two versions of how Cody Sr. died. My Mom's account explains that Cody left his Tauragė home and hid from the advancing Soviet forces in a country location. Because he was a prominent, middle-class government worker , Cody rightly feared that if stayed in Tauragė, he would be deported to Siberia. When the appendicitis struck, Cody's remote, primitive hideaway made it difficult for him to get medical help.

The other account maintains that Cody Sr. did not leave Tauragė. Instead, a competent doctor came to treat Cody. The doctor, a family friend, saw Cody's condition and decided he'd be better off dead than see his country unravel under Communist rule.

The twists between the two narratives make little difference to me. In both versions, Cody Sr. died because of untreated appendicitis, and in both accounts, he failed to receive life-saving surgery because the Soviets had just occupied Lithuania.

And so here is Cody Sr., surrounded by his family, his friends and colleagues, his servants, and the people of Tauragė. His wife, Wanda, clutches her hands in disbelief. She would be dead sixteen weeks later.

Tauragė, Lithuania, October 1940. Churchgoers ready to follow Cody Sr.'s casket to its burial place. My maternal Grandfather, Jake, stands to the left of the grieving Wanda.  Cody's daughter, Mary, is to the right of Wanda, and next to her is her brother, Zigmas. My Mom stands directly behind Mary, partially concealed by Mary's hat.

*     *     *     *     *

Thanks to my Toronto Cousin, and, of course, to my "New" Cousin, for providing the reflections and narratives that made this post possible.

The Things Around You

When we look at old photos, the first things we usually notice are the fashions. We check out the clothing people wore, we recognize hairstyles, and we pay attention to furniture.

Consider the fashion of photography itself. Today it's trendy to do a photoshoot on train tracks. It's cool to "trash the dress." It's adorable to dress dogs as though they were babies.

We know that at the turn of the century, photographers had velvet chairs and tassled props in their studios. Photos taken in those environments have appeared here.

But looking back through our old photos, I see a trend in the family snapshots. People took photographs on front steps, back steps, porches, landings, entry areas, and in doorways.

Was this scene creation a contrived memorialization designed to show that the subjects were homeowners who had arrived at their place in the world? Or was it less conscious, instead illustrating the subjects' attachments to their homes and surroundings?

Tauragė, Lithuania, about 1938. My maternal Grandfather, Jake (in uniform), stands next to his sister, Mary (in the white-fringed shawl), and his Parents, Cody Sr. and Wanda. Mary's Husband and son lean against the railing.

Thanks to my "New" Cousin for making this photo available to me in digital format.

Wanda



Tauragė, Lithuania, 1905. This is my Mom's paternal Grandmother, Wanda. Wanda had four children: Cody Jr., my maternal Grandfather Jake, Zigmas, and Mary.

Thanks to my "New" Cousin for making this photo available to me in digital format.

UPDATE: I omitted one son from Wanda's offspring. She had a fifth child who, as a young boy, died in a shooting accident.

Customs

When I was growing up, I learned about holiday customs. Lithuanians, for example, celebrate Christmas on the night of Christmas Eve ("Kūčios"). The Kūčios meal consists of twelve meatless dishes, one to represent each of the Apostles. All of the foods are cold dishes so that the hostess does not have to cook on such a solemn day. On Christmas Eve, we primarily eat vegetable salads, gefilte fish, and marinated herrings. Lots of herring: herring is served at least four ways.

Enforcement of these traditions is inflexible. During one memorable Christmas Eve, we had a guest who did not eat fish. Cold fish therefore was out of the question. My Mom roasted and served a duck. My Dad spit bullets about the breach of Kūčios protocol. Even now, over thirty years later, my Mom usually says on Kūčios, "Do you remember when I roasted a duck on Kūčios?!!" as if that were a really screwball, Lucille Ball-like, thing to do.

Today, rigid food-pairing rules still affect daily meals. For example, if one is serving meatloaf ("Zuikis"), it's not appropriate to offer peas or carrots alongside it. The traditional side dish for meatloaf is a bowl of hot, shredded beets spiked with vinegar and macerated in sour cream. Roast duck is stuffed with apples and served with hot, braised sauerkraut. Roast turkey is stuffed not with stuffing but with prunes—or as they say today, "dried plums." A sauté of cabbage, bacon, and onions must be served with potatoes; never rice. Cold Beet Soup arrives with a side of a hot, peeled, boiled potato sprinkled with fresh dill.

There are also unbending seasonal rules. A "winter salad" consisting of navy beans and beets would never include a spring or summer ingredient, like peas, carrots, or dill. A "spring salad"—similar to the Italian Insalata Russa or the Russian Salat Olivier—would not feature a winter ingredient, like a dill pickle, an apple, or beans.

Strict food rules make the timing of this photo easy to identify. The food on the table tells me that this is an image of Easter dinner. Cooked young birds, veal, and a "Tree Cake" ("Šakotis" or, in parts of Lithuania, "Baumkuchenas") all say "Spring."

The clock in the photo reads 9:00. It looks like it is dark outside. Can the family be eating late? Or is it morning? Mr. Irene thinks it's a mid-day meal for a family that might have attended a Resurrection Mass. Or is the clock broken?

Whose portrait hangs on the wall?

It must have been a rather warm spring day because a window is open.

Some things in this image are familiar. The curtains mimic the sleeves of Lithuanian folkdress blouses: linen with woven, decorative sashes running in horizontal lines. Even though the photo is black and white, the potted primroses on the table might as well be fuchsia with yellow eyes. I look at the edge of the tablecloth and think that it, too, is certainly linen because it looks like someone had trouble ironing it.

Thanks to my "New" Cousin for making this photo available to me in digital format.

Tauragė, Lithuania, probably about 1935 or so. This is the family of my paternal Grandfather, Jake. Jake sits, in uniform, on the far right. To his right is his mother (my Great-Grandmother, Wanda), and behind him are his brother and sister. Jake's niece and brother-in-law stand next to his sister. Seated on the left are Jake's nephew and his father (my Great-Grandfather, Cody Sr.).