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."

Josephine, a Mystery

My Mom's maternal Aunt Dora—whom you may remember as an intriguing figure—sent many family photos to my Mom. Dora stayed in Lithuania after the second Soviet occupation, and she lived in the house my maternal Grandparents had built. In that house, Dora found many snapshots my Mom and her Dad, Jake, had left behind when they fled Lithuania in 1944. Beginning in the late 1950s—after Stalin died—Dora started mailing those photos to my Mom. By now, I've posted most of the images on this blog.

Dora was very good about providing written descriptions on the back of photos, especially when she sent an image from a family plot. So this photo, of a headstone and its family bench, is a mystery because Dora wrote nothing on its back. The inscription tells me that the decedent was Josephine, and Josephine was related to the family of my maternal Grandfather, Jake.

Josephine was 32 years old when she died on November 19, 1927. Was she a sister of Jake and his other siblings, Mary, Cody Jr., Zigmas, and the younger brother who died in a shooting accident? My Mom doesn't recall a Josephine or whether a Josephine was a sibling of Jake's or a cousin. Mom does have a foggy memory—from her childhood—of a relative who delivered a still-born baby and then died after she contracted sepsis.

"Rest in peace, our beloved Josephinette, while you wait for us."

UPDATE: Last year, I wondered, "Whose portrait hangs on that wall?" I now see that it's a portrait of Josephine, and I think it's the same portrait that's on her headstone. The placement of Josephine's portrait in a public part of the house—the dining room—tells me that Josephine probably was the deceased daughter of my Mom's paternal Grandparents, Cody Sr. and Wanda. Josphine was a sister of my paternal Grandfather, Jake.

I was searching that "Customs" post just now for some information I had written last year about Kūčios, and there she was, staring at me from the wall, about an hour after this post published.

Camaraderie

Kaunas, Lithuania, mid- to late-1920s. Zigmas, a brother of my paternal Grandfather, Jake, shares a meal with his high-school classmates. Zigmas is the fellow standing in the back. The boys wear the matching caps that identify them as pupils of a particular school.

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

The New Job

Kaunas, Lithuania, March 30, 1929. This is Zigmas, the younger brother of my paternal Grandfather, Jake, outside of his workplace, the Spaudos Fondas, or Press Foundation.

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

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.

Last-Time-Together Reunion

Kaunas, Lithuania, Summer 1940. My uniformed, maternal Grandfather, Jake, and his brothers, Cody Jr. (left) and the Zigmas (center), stood for this snapshot on what turned out to be the last day the three would be together.

The family knew the visit was significant because folks took a series of photos on that same day.

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.

We have a serious side, and we have a comic side (part two).

I wrote here about the joy my Mom's family experienced when Cody Jr. visited from Poland.

That afternoon resulted in a lot of picture taking. Everyone was in top form:

Kaunas, Lithuania, Summer 1940. The family poses on a swingset. Seated are my maternal Grandmother, Jadzė, and my maternal Grandfather, Jake. Standing, left to right, are Zigmas—without his eye glasses, Mary, and Cody Jr.

*     *     *     *     *

This next photo shatters my belief that Jadzė did not like my Mom's dog, Džekis:

Kaunas, Lithuania, Summer 1940. The family shows its funny side. Seated are Jake's sister, Mary, and my maternal Grandmother, Jadzė, who craddles Džekis's head. Standing, left to right, are Zigmas—blessing Mary's head, my Mom—giving Jadzė some "rabbit ears," and Cody Jr.—looking as dapper as always.

We have a serious side, and we have a comic side.

One of my Mom's paternal uncles, Cody Jr., was a dapper, worldly man. He studied in Paris. After Cody Jr. finished his university education, he got a job as an engineer in Warsaw. He became an expert in railroad development.

During the early part of World War II, the Soviet Union had occupied part of Poland. The Soviets then swallowed up Lithuania. It was during the Soviet occupation of both Poland and Lithuania that the Soviets returned the old capital, Vilnius, to Lithuanian "control."

Lithuanians had an expression for this: "Vilnius mūsų, o mes Rūsų" ("Vilnius belongs to us, and we belong to the Russians").

With these political shifts, the borders between Lithuania and Poland became easier to cross. In the past, relations between Poland and Lithuania had been tangled and strained, and people could not travel between the two countries.

When the travel restrictions eased, Cody Jr. drove his car to visit the family in Lithuania. Everyone was impressed that Cody Jr. had a vehicle and drove it himself all the way from far, far away, Poland.

Kaunas, Lithuania, Summer 1940. The family rejoices on the weighty occasion of a visit from Cody Jr. From left, my Mom, her paternal aunt, Mary, and my maternal Grandmother, Jadzė—holding a branch—stand in the front row. In the back stand my Mom's paternal uncles, Zigmas—without his eye glasses!!—and Cody Jr.

Kaunas, Lithuania, Summer 1940. The family rejoices on the lighthearted occasion of a visit from Cody Jr.

*     *     *     *     *

This was the last time the family saw Cody Jr. Mom later heard from her maternal aunt, Dora, that Cody Jr. died in Poland in the early 1950s, and that there had been a prominent obituary in the Warsaw newspaper because he was a famous engineer.

Cody Jr. never married, and he never had children.

A Sunny Day

Kaunas, Lithuania, 1929. My Mom and her charming paternal uncle, Zigmas, pause during a walk.