All four of my grandparents came to Canada for the same reason: to flee from the Communist terror that had overtaken their homeland [...]]]> [This post was written for the 30th edition of the Carnival of Central and Eastern European Genealogy on the topic of "Arrival in New Lands", hosted by Al of Al's Polish-American Genealogy Research.]

All four of my grandparents came to Canada for the same reason: to flee from the Communist terror that had overtaken their homeland and the rest of Eastern Europe. I have already talked at some length about their experiences in leaving and life as Displaced Persons, so for this post I will look at their arrival and first years in their new home. This is a time period that I initially neglected in my research, but now I am starting to try and learn more about it.

After World War 2 ended, there were millions of Displaced Persons across Western Europe who either could not or would not return to their homes. As a result, refugee organizations had to work to resettle all of these people into new homes across the world. This is a process that took several years, and most DPs departed for new lands between 1948 and 1951.

In numerous cases, DPs were admitted to countries through a variety of worker placement schemes – agreements that they would take up a pre-arranged position of employment that they needed to remain in for at least a year to fulfill the obligations of their contract. These schemes were not perfect, and in some cases exploitation did occur. However, for most it provided a good opportunity in their new country, to already have a steady job waiting for them, which sometimes also came with a place to live for the duration of the contract.

My grandparents participated in such placements upon their arrival in Canada. My maternal grandmother took up a nursing position at the Weston Sanatorium in Weston, Ontario, now a part of the city of Toronto. My grandfather Aleksandrs Francis obtained a contract to work on a farm near Niagara-on-the-Lake while he learned English. They were married in Toronto in 1950, presumably after he completed his contract. They lived in Toronto for several years, and then in 1954 moved to Saint Catharines, Ontario, where they built a home. Aleksandrs died in 1983, and my grandmother moved from this home in 1993, when she and her sister moved north to my family’s town.

My paternal grandfather, Juris Celmiņš, had trained as a civil engineer back in Latvia. He and his wife Zenta (nee Lukins) moved around to numerous places before they settled in Toronto. Juris’ first job was working in a mine in Sudbury, Ontario, but after a few days his supervisors thought “Why do we have this engineer who speaks English working down in the mine?” and gave him a new position. Juris had learned English while working in his DP camp, which had been in the British zone of Germany. After this job, he also worked in Sarnia, and then by 1954 was living in Toronto, where he and Zenta and their three children lived until Zenta’s death in 1959. Juris remarried to Edīte Bulle, a fellow Latvian who had been recently widowed, and they lived in their home in Toronto until their deaths in 2002 and 2003.

The homes they lived in were simple post-war homes. I’m not sure when my paternal grandparents began to own their homes, but I know my maternal grandparents’ first home in Toronto, from roughly 1952 to 1954, was jointly owned by them and another Latvian couple. I have the bill of sale of them selling this property to a young Jewish family (searching the address on Google provided me with several “society pages” articles from the Canadian Jewish Review where the name matched that on the bill of sale). Then they built their home in Saint Catharines, and defied apparent social conventions of the time with the design – instead of putting the living room at the front of the house, they put the kitchen in the front and had the living room with large windows overlooking their beautiful garden. My mother tells me that several neighbours were displeased about this design – I guess this setup made it harder for them to be nosy! The garden had many different plants and shrubs, both for decoration and for food. I have fond memories of eating black currants and red currants straight off the bushes when I was a child.

The worker placement schemes could take DPs to far corners of the country – late 1940s editions of the newspaper “Brīvais Latvietis” (Free Latvian) mentions Latvian clubs in places such as the Yukon. But through newspapers like this, they kept in touch, found lost friends and kept the community spirit alive. Early editions of this paper are available through the website Connecting Canadians. At some point during this time, though I’m unsure as to how it happened, my maternal grandmother came back into contact with her high school sweetheart, who had settled in the USA. They still keep up correspondence to this day.

After the contracts ended and DPs could move to anywhere they wanted, Latvians tended to congregate in larger cities – Toronto has the largest Latvian community in Canada, but there were also communities in Montreal, Saint Catharines, Ottawa and Hamilton. They set up Latvian Saturday schools for their children, organized singing and dancing clubs, created scout and guide troops, organized summer camps and established churches. A prevailing notion that inspired this flurry of activity right from the beginning was that Latvians in the Soviet Union would be systematically eliminated, so it was up to the exiles (“trimdinieki”) to maintain their identity, heritage and language.

Many of these same instutitions continue to exist today. My father and I both graduated from the same Latvian school in Toronto, which this year celebrates its 60th anniversary. The Latvian summer camp that I attended as a camper from 1993 to 1998, and as a counselor for five of the eight following years, has been operating for fifty-three years.

Now, since independence was regained, there has been a shift – children and grandchildren of exiles, who were born and grew up in the West, are increasingly moving to Latvia to live. Many of my childhood friends have done so, and it is my intention as well. How much of a trend this will be, and how much culture and identity is retained in the West by those who do not return, is yet to be seen.

Since I’m hosting this edition of the Carnival, I got to choose the topic. I chose War Stories. When I thought of this topic, I initially [...]]]> [This post is for the 28th edition of the Carnival of Central and Eastern European Genealogy, which will be hosted right here. The Carnival post will be up on Friday!]

Since I’m hosting this edition of the Carnival, I got to choose the topic. I chose War Stories. When I thought of this topic, I initially had ideas to talk about the various experience of my family members in World War II, since this was a defining moment of my family’s history, since over the course of the war, all four of my grandparents left Latvia, spent several years in displaced persons camps, and then came to Canada.

However, the more I thought about it, the more I realized that I should tell a different story – the narrative of my family’s history focuses on World War II so often, it would be interesting to tell a different story for a change.

So instead I will talk about one branch of my family’s experience during World War I and the Russian Revolution. These stories have been told to me by my great-aunt, who is now 98 years old.

When World War I started, Latvia was still a part of the Russian Empire. My great-aunt was three years old, living in Krustpils, which was then part of the Vitebsk guberniya, with her parents Jūle (nee Štelmahers) and Brencis Līcītis. Because of the war front raging through Latvia, the family moved further east, and settled near Rzhev, a city approximately 200km west of Moscow.

The three lived with a Russian family by the surname Kislev in a manor house. The family had two daughters, Vera and Zoya. It is living here that my great-aunt learned to speak Russian, and took great pleasure in going to the local market as well as to the Orthodox church, even though the family was Lutheran. They were not the only Balts living in the area – other Latvians, Lithuanians and Estonians had also moved to the Rzhev area to avoid the war.

But World War I was not the only war going on at the time. This was a time of political upheaval in Russia, which eventually led to the 1917 Revolution and the beginning of the Communist era. The family was opposed to Bolshevism early – my great-aunt remembers going with her father to listen to a speech that was given by a political party leader that was opposed to Lenin and his party. After the Bolshevik victory, she also remembers her mother arguing with a Communist about “workers” and what the party would do with people who were unable to work due to age or infirmity, and his response being less than satisfactory. When the Communists came asking how much they were paying in rent to the Kislevs, they lied and said a lower price than they were actually paying. They knew that otherwise the Kislevs would have had even more of their property expropriated for being “kulaks” (affluent farmers), even though they really didn’t have very much.

But the defining moment that showed the family precisely where the Bolsheviks went wrong and why their family would always remain opposed to Communism was when the Communist soldiers came to the village, took the grain stores and burned them in the town square, calling them “rich peoples’ food”. Instead of this grain that they had stored up, the people were given animal feed to eat.

World War I officially ended in 1918, but the following years were still filled with conflict in Eastern Europe, with the civil war in Russia between the various factions, as well as the wars of independence in the Baltics. While Latvia in declared independence on November 18, 1918, this wasn’t officially recognized until the early 1920s.

I’m not certain when exactly the family returned to Krustpils, but it would have been before the autumn of 1919, when my grandmother was born. The wars ended, and Latvia gained an independence that had been lost eight hundred years earlier.

In recounting this story, I’ve realized just how many of the details of this time period are a mystery to me, historically speaking – in Latvian Saturday school, we didn’t really study it. We learned about early Latvian history and the beginnings of German rule. We learned about the following periods of Swedish and Russian rule, and then about some of the Latvian writers of the late 19th century who started to inspire political movements of independence and nationalism. But we didn’t study the independence wars. We celebrated the 18th of November every year, acknowledging independence as being gained in 1918, and that from that day on people lived happily ever after until World War II broke out. The first I recall hearing about the independence wars was looking at some maps in my Latvian historical atlas that I acquired in my first year of Latvian Friday night high school, but I don’t recall ever discussing them in class.

So my mission for the next couple of months is to educate myself more on this time period. It was an important period of Latvian history, and it might hold the key to answering some questions about different types of access to various Latvian genealogical records. I will be sure to share my findings here!

There are, however, numerous ways in which to establish someone’s ethnic identity. They are not [...]]]> So you have established that your ancestors lived on Latvian territory. But what were their ethnic origins? Latvia has been a multi-ethnic territory for centuries, so the distinctions between ethnic groups might not always be so clear in the old records.

There are, however, numerous ways in which to establish someone’s ethnic identity. They are not foolproof, but simply a guideline that can help to unravel some of these mysteries.

Why is ethnicity important? Each ethnic group has its own unique traditions and culture. Knowing about these traditions and cultures helps us paint a clearer picture of our ancestors’ lives, the stories they told, the songs they sang and the languages they spoke.

Surname – The peasantry – mostly consisting of ethnic Latvians – only acquired surnames in the nineteenth century. They were encouraged to choose names that reflected this ethnic origin, though many did not comply and chose German, Polish or Russian names instead. But if they did select a Latvian name, the chances are extremely good that they were ethnic Latvians. Remember, Latvian was considered a peasant dialect in this time period, so anyone who was not Latvian would be unlikely to choose a Latvian name. German, Russian or Polish names, however, since they carried with them the appearance of prestige and a higher social class, were adopted by many different groups that were not ethnic Germans, Russians or Poles, including, but not limited to, Latvians, Estonians and Roma. Jewish surnames can also be of Slavic or Germanic origins, depending on a family’s particular history – sometimes they could come from Germanic origins via Yiddish centuries before surnames were prevalent among the Latvian peasantry, in other cases, they could have been assigned around the same time that Latvian peasants acquired surnames.

Census – Census records – from 1897, 1935 and 1941 – all have a column for ethnicity. However, as census records are derivative sources, they could have their inaccuracies, particularly depending on such things as who answered the census for the household, any biases on the part of the recordkeepers (for example, on the 1897 All-Russia Census, it was common for Belarusians and Ukrainians to be written down as “White Russians” and “Little Russians”, thus subgroups of the main Russian group, rather than as separate ethnicities within a wider Slavic group), and the political climate (the 1941 Census was conducted while Latvia was under Nazi occupation).

Congregation – So your ancestor from Latvian territory has a German, Russian or Polish name, but you believe that they are an ethnic Latvian? Look at religious records. Not the language of the records themselves, but the congregation your ancestor is found in. Many Lutheran parishes had separate German and Latvian congregations, and the records were often kept separate as well. If your ancestor was baptized in the German congregation, it is likely that at least one of their parents was an ethnic German. But here there is the caution regarding upward mobility – if a Latvian was seeking to improve his social status further – maybe he was already favoured by a local baron or had had the opportunity to study – he may have switched to the German congregation in an effort to maintain his higher status. In the nineteenth century, there was a movement against this Germanization by the Young Latvians.

Religion – Generally speaking, ethnic Latvians and ethnic Germans were Lutherans. Sometimes they were Catholics, particularly in Latgale. Some Latvians joined the Russian Orthodox church, or smaller denominations such as Baptist or Reformed churches. It is also important to read baptism entries of children fully – they will typically tell the religion of both parents. This additional information in baptism entries can also lead to surprising discoveries – I found an Anglican British man who settled in Sece parish in the 1870s who baptized his children into his local wife’s Lutheran church.

Class – Class is a big marker, particularly prior to the twentieth century. Ethnic Latvians were predominantly peasant farmers, with some working in trades. The nobility was primarily German, with some Russian and Polish nobles as well. I have yet to hear of any ethnic Latvian baron or large landowner, but it is not outside the realm of possibility. Depending on the time period, administrators would have been German, Russian or Polish. As time passed, Latvians began to move into other positions as well, but, for the most part, this would have only come after emancipation from serfdom.

Location – Where in Latvia did your ancestors live? Vidzeme and Kurzeme, the northern and western provinces of Latvia, had (and still have) the highest percentages of ethnic Latvians. Zemgale (the southern province) also had high numbers of ethnic Latvians – particularly in the west – but as you head east and into Latgale (the eastern province), percentages of Russians, Belarusians and Poles increase. Rural areas were predominantly Latvian, with the exception of the southeast, where there were larger numbers of Belarusians, Russians and Poles. Urban areas were very mixed. Latvians had pluralities in most cities at the end of the nineteenth century (except for in the southeast), but majority populations only in the north in cities such as Cēsis, Limbaži and Valmiera. In the southeast, cities were predominantly Jewish and Polish. In this same time period, there were two rural pockets that were predominantly German, one south of Ērgļi in central Latvia, the other in Kurzeme north of Saldus. The rural areas southeast of Ludza and west of Rēzekne in the east were predominantly Belarusian. Majority Russian rural parishes were found west of Rēzekne and east of Daugavpils.[1]

I hope that these tips can help you narrow down your family’s background and learn more about their traditions. Anomalies do occur, so nothing can be certain, but as a general guideline, these should help your research.

Any other tips? Share in comments!

[1]Population distributions taken from Latvijas Vēstures Atlants, ed. Jānis Turlajs, 1998, p. 28 – “National population at the end of the 19th century”.

Today’s prompt: Share a story where a female ancestor showed courage or strength in a difficult situation.

When [...]]]> I know this was yesterday’s blogging prompt, but I don’t have much to say in terms of my female ancestors and newsmaking, since it was my male ancestors who were the newsmakers, but I do on moments of strength.

Today’s prompt: Share a story where a female ancestor showed courage or strength in a difficult situation.

When she was twenty-five years old – the same age that I am now – my grandmother, along with her elder sister, left Latvia in the midst of the Second World War. The war was nearing its end, and it was clear that the Soviets would be victorious. Having experienced the first Soviet occupation from 1940 to 1941, they had no desire to experience it again.

They were nurses with the Red Cross, having initially worked in the hospital in Rīga, and then traveling across Europe. Their journey took them across Europe by many methods, including trains and boats. They were on one of the last ships out of Gdansk, where bombardments were happening regularly and numerous boats were lost.

By war’s end, they found themselves in Copenhagen, Denmark. Displaced persons’ accommodations over the next four years were varied – the manor house “Gurrehus” west of Helsingor, army barracks near Kastrup airport, apartments on Prags Boulevard, even temporary accommodations in Christiansborg Palace.

Initially, displaced persons were not meant to work in the community, but eventually these rules were relaxed. The sisters took jobs as maids in the rich community of Vedbæk, north of Copenhagen. After time, they also secured long-term positions as seamstresses at the fashion house Modepalæet on Østerbrogade in central Copenhagen. During this time, they also met the men who were to become their husbands. My grandfather was the DP leader at Gurrehus. However, they only married in Canada.

In 1949, the opportunity came to emigrate to Canada, and they took it. The sisters boarded the SS Samaria on June 30th, 1949. Documents conflict as to whether this was in Cuxhaven or in Bremerhaven – emigration documents say one, immigration documents the other. They arrived in Quebec City on July 11th, 1949. When my grandmother first set foot on Canadian soil, she was twenty-nine years old. The uncertainty of the years since the war began now over, she and her husband-to-be (who arrived in Canada a month later) were able to pursue life as it should have been before the war interrupted – building a home (literally) and having a family.

My grandmother is now 90 years old, and her sister is 98. I have always admired the strength and courage of these formidable women, and the bravery it took to leave their family and the only home they’d ever known to journey across a continent in the midst of war, and then onwards to a country with a new language and culture to build new lives.

I retraced their steps this past fall, visiting Bremerhaven, Hamburg, Copenhagen and Gdansk, and seeing the places that they told me about. I also went back to the village they grew up in and the property where they lived (only the root cellar of their home still exists, there is a new home on the property now). I visited their parents’ graves. It was all an extremely moving experience.

I was able to view the passports I mentioned in my previous post, belonging to Pēteris Celmiņš and Anna Celmiņa (born Liepa), and confirmed that they are the correct individuals, and thus able to add their information to my family [...]]]> So today was my second day, and first full day, at the Latvian State Historical Archives.

I was able to view the passports I mentioned in my previous post, belonging to Pēteris Celmiņš and Anna Celmiņa (born Liepa), and confirmed that they are the correct individuals, and thus able to add their information to my family tree!

I learned that Pēteris was a clerk/civil servant (Latvian “ierednis”, the dictionary translates it as “clerk, official, employee, civil servant”, not completely sure which one applies in this situation, but I seem to recall a family member mentioning either clerk or civil servant), and Anna was a bookkeeper. In the war (it doesn’t specify which war, but since the passport was issued in 1919, I’d assume World War I and/or the Latvian War for Independence), Pēteris served as a “second line land guard”.

I also discovered that the family didn’t live exclusively in Rīga, as I had originally thought. Anna was born in Rīga, as were her children Juris (my grandfather) and Skaidrīte, but Pēteris was born in Vijciems parish, in the Valka region of northern Latvia. Additionally, the family moved quite a bit between 1919 and 1927 – their passports show them registered at at least ten different addresses during this period (and possibly more, there were some more stamps that looked like address changes, but they were covered in registration seals and therefore unreadable).

By a stroke of luck, most of these places of residence were in the seaside town of Jūrmala, which just happens to be where I’m staying at the moment. Therefore, tomorrow’s activities are clear – it being Saturday, and the archives being closed as a result, means that I’m going to go around town and find these old residences!

I must wonder though – why did a family with two young children, and seemingly stable employment, move so many times in such a short time period? Most of the moves occurred during summer (June-August), but not all – sometimes they would even move twice in one year. They lived on the same street three times, at what were probably neighbouring addresses (3-5-7), but the times of residence on this street were always interspersed with other residences as well. Only the first addresses and last addresses are outside of Jūrmala.

Hopefully, this is a mystery that can be solved!

I am currently in Copenhagen, Denmark, and one of my main reasons for coming here was to visit this memorial (click on the image to view a larger one):

It is the memorial to Latvians who died in exile in Denmark [...]]]> My “Tombstone Tuesday” submission isn’t the tombstone for one person, but rather, a memorial to many.

I am currently in Copenhagen, Denmark, and one of my main reasons for coming here was to visit this memorial (click on the image to view a larger one):

It is the memorial to Latvians who died in exile in Denmark after the Second World War. My maternal grandparents were among the Latvian DPs (Displaced Persons) who lived in Denmark during this time, before going to Canada in the late 1940s. I have a photograph taken of the memorial (found in Vestre Cemetery) by one of my grandparents shortly after it was erected, and yesterday I was able to visit it myself, and take the above photo, sixty years later.

Translated to English (in spirit, not word for word), the top inscription reads: “I rest my head on the dreams of my homeland.” The bottom inscription: “For our countrymen who died during the time of exile in Denmark – Latvian Displaced Persons, 1948″. The blocks in front of the memorial, as well as on either side it, list the names of these Latvians.

It has been difficult to find any information on Latvian DPs in Denmark, since most information about Latvian DPs talks exclusively about the DP camps in Germany. This is why it was so important for me to visit this memorial myself: It is a powerful reminder saying “We were here. Do not forget us.”