Fourth installment from the diary of my great-grandfather’s sister Alise, written during the First World War, just a few miles from the front lines of the Eastern Front. For the background, see here.
July 8, 1915
Today hundreds of refugees passed by our house. Across the Daugava it is like a market square, or a terrible Jurgi day [NB: spring/summer festival in late April/early May to celebrate the beginning of the farm season]. People have animals, bundles, some wagons are packed with old ladies and little children. When we ask them where they are going, they answer – we don’t know, we’re just going. Yes, …(indecipherable)… ours… On the Kurzeme side we hear cannons. A lot of them. It is time for us to pack.