The Mascot

by Mark Kurzem

  My father at the kitchen table at Saules, 1943: “His expression is so raw that it pained me to look.”

  Was he oblivious to his own suffering? Whatever effect he’d imagined these photographs would have upon me, I could only feel anger against all the Latvians in the camp, including Auntie and Uncle.

  My father spoke again.

  “The living conditions in the hut were cramped,” he said. “All the families created their own space by hanging blankets to create rooms of sorts. In our place, we’d crammed in the bunk beds and a small table that we sat around for hours on end.

  “Uncle worked in the camp’s office, and sometimes Auntie would get me to take something over to him. He was never busy when I dropped by. He usually sat behind a large desk, chatting with other Latvian men who were also in the office.”

  My father paused and looked at me excitedly. “Do you know who one of them was?” he asked, and without waiting for an answer, went on. “Apparently it was Konrad Kalejs. The war criminal who’s been in the news recently.”

  I had heard of Kalejs, who’d been a member of Latvia’s notorious Arajs Kommando, an extermination squad that even unreconstructed Latvians had difficulty explaining away. Kalejs had lived freely in the United States and later in Australia before his true identity had been uncovered. Shamefully, the Australian government had vacillated over his prosecution for war crimes, and Kalejs had died before being brought to justice.

  “Whenever I played hooky from school, I’d go out to deal on the black market. When I’d return home with the day’s booty, I’d make a grand show of it. Uncle and Auntie would look up, smiling, as I flung down my forage bag—the same one Kulis had given me to collect wood—and laid out what I had bartered for that day: chocolates, tobacco, and the occasional note or coin.

  “I’d sit on the edge of my bunk while Uncle counted the coins. He kept a small box hidden under the floorboards. He would get it out, untie it, and add the day’s takings to the coins and notes that were already in it.

  “Auntie would be responsible for the food. She had her own secret box and would store the chocolates and sugar in it. But before retying the box and hiding it, she always passed me a chocolate as a reward. Sometimes I’d forget that I was supposed to be civilized, as Uncle demanded, and I’d revert to my habits in the forest. I’d snatch the chocolate from Auntie’s hand and retreat to my bunk, like an animal returning to the lair with its catch. Auntie would shake her head despondently. Those days in the forest have left their imprint on me.

  “But they were always pleased with my work. Uncle would compliment me, saying such things as, ‘You are truly—what do these English say?—a wheeler and dealer!’

  “Once, when Mirdza was still living with us, and she heard Uncle praise me, she harrumphed indignantly, ‘He must have a touch of the Jew in him!’ At the mention of that word, I headed for my bunk—I half-expected to hear the sound of Mirdza receiving a slap like the one Ausma had once gotten for making a similar accusation. But nothing happened. It was no longer a crime to be Jewish, though it was obviously still an insult.”

  “Did you ever think of telling the Dzenis family that you were Jewish?” I asked. “After all, as you said, it wasn’t a crime to be Jewish by then.”

  “What would’ve been the point?” he answered.

  “Would they have accepted you?” I pressed him.

  My father didn’t answer. His body language made it clear that he didn’t wish to dwell on the issue of his Jewishness, which even now seemed to make him nervous. I wondered what made him want to skirt around the issue.

  When he spoke again, it was to change the topic. “I spent four years in Geesthacht.”

  “You said that,” I replied. “What other things did you get up to?”

  “This and that,” my father answered, shrugging and rubbing the back of his neck. His reluctance slightly annoyed me, though I assumed that it was due to the almost instinctive caution that he had lived with for so long.

  “Weren’t you ever tempted to tell anyone about the kind of people who were in the camp?” I asked.

  “To be honest, it never crossed my mind.” My father paused. “I was still in another world. Looking back, I know I had no idea what had happened to me and who these people really were. I was shell-shocked and vulnerable and disturbed by what I had gone through. I can tell you that I wasn’t the only one like that. There were individuals in that camp who died under mysterious circumstances. In other words, they committed suicide.

  “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.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THE AFFIDAVIT

  While 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 thr
ough 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 h
im?

  “‘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.