Why not? I asked.
Because some things are too dangerous even to look at, the voice said.
How did you catch it then? I asked.
It put itself inside the cage, the voice said.
At this, the wolf slowly turned its head and looked directly at me.
It had my eyes.
This morning we’ve already had quite the excitement, Ausma says. Her voice is clipped, cantering. Our horse is loose! Harijs went to the barn to feed him and he was gone. Now Harijs is off in his car, trying to find him, and Ligita and Aivars are looking, too.
I picture Harijs swerving down the road we just traveled with the wagon, the car stuck in second gear, his window down, neck craned for some sign of the gelding.
I tell Ausma I can run the length of what was once the old war road to check whether the horse has found its way into any of the fields that border its route. She agrees, and before I can even suggest it, she offers to tie up the dog.
The road is sun-buckled, beaten bare by the heat, and it’s a long time before I can feel myself falling into an easy rhythm.
I try to focus on the drone of the barley fields, still not quite ready for harvest, but everything pointing toward fall, the cattail heads cottoning, the scouting trill of the little dog that will rush to the edge of his farm to prance and shake his beard at me, but never chase me. And now the unfalling walls of the old stone barn left to decide for itself when it is ready to give up.
I know the horse likes oak trees, prefers the scratch of their bark on his flank, and I let myself imagine briefly that I might see him in the grove coming up on my right, currycombing himself against the biggest trunks. But once I am close enough to get a better look, I can see no sign of him.
The land here dips and flattens so that I can peer far into the distance. There’s nothing moving, just a faint pluming of dust. Most likely from a cow, spooked by the wind, hooves tearing at the dry hide of the fields.
I realize that I am now close to the small cottage where my grandmother’s brother finally settled after his release from Siberia, and where he would have reconciled himself to the news that he could not return to Lembi to live out the last of his days when it was finally sold for good. And where I imagine, in just a few weeks, as summer gives way fully to fall, and it’s time for the dead to return home again, he might just come walking, the hem of his good leg burred with the meadow’s seeds, one hand on his crutch, the other at his face, swiping at the last of the mosquitoes that rise from the water that collects in a depression that rings the property like a moat, and from which the house takes its name, Gravisi, the Latvian word for ditch.
The only difference between the word ditch and a word for grave in Latvian, as in a carving out, an excavation, a deep impression, is the pronunciation of a single small, but critical, accent, on a single vowel.
It was here, at the cottage upon the ditch, that my grandmother’s brother took his last breaths.
I had been inside my great-uncle’s house only once. My cousin the mail carrier, she of the exaltation of cows, thought that there might still be letters or other family papers somewhere inside the house, which has been left largely as it was the day they wrapped his body in a blanket and pulled the door to his old home softly closed.
She offered to find me the keys.
Inside, the house smelled of night soil, the steady tunneling of earthworms, years of trapped sunlight, the sharp spiking perfume of kerosene. It was decorated with only a few items of furniture: a table, and in one corner a bed, and next to that, a small nightstand with a single drawer.
As I slid it open, I was startled to find inside a soft drift of newsprint, like a nest a mouse might make. But as I began to pull the strands apart, I realized it was a series of clippings, poems, in fact, dozens of fragile lines snipped from what looked like the obituary section of the local newspaper.
The time of hardship has ended—There are no tomorrows, only the voice of the wind. And a heart that will never again know pain, or cold.
Opposite the bed, an old wardrobe that covered most of the wall. The doors rattled at my touch, and the empty hangers inside swung and chattered. There was no poetry here, only dark corners, emptied, a single plaid button-down shirt that held the form of him. I could see that the bureau’s backing seemed to be coming loose, an edge of wood protruding, perhaps popped free from its nail. But when I reached inside to knock it back, I found instead something like a frame. Artwork, I realized, that had been placed backwards, picture side facing the wall.
I drew it out, so that I might get a better look. But the glass encasing the portrait was coated with such a thick layer of grime that the image was hard to read. I considered for a moment using the shirt to wipe it clean, but somehow that felt wrong, and so I rubbed the glass with my palm, until I had removed enough of the film from the glass to suggest that what was buried here might be a woman, a portrait composed of quick pencil strokes.
Gradually, the portrait’s features began to come into focus. A face pushing through the dust.
My grandmother.
She was young again, maybe sixteen, her hair in thick plaits, the same age she would have been when my grandfather carved her name, Livija, in the birch tree.
I stood there with her for what felt like a very long time.
Then, before I changed my mind, I placed the portrait back inside the bureau, and closed the door as softly as I could on the little house at the edge of the ditch, which could so easily be mistaken for a grave, and stepped outside into the sound of all the fields singing, the things alive in it waking up to the night.
I NEVER SEE the horse. But by the time I finally make my way back to Ausma’s, Harijs has at least returned with a promising lead. A man who lives a few kilometers away spotted a gelding trying to lip green apples from his trees. When he approached, it cantered off. He thought he could still see the horse off in the tree line, waiting for a chance to resume its harvest. The man has offered to throw a rope over the horse if it returns, and promises to hold him until Harijs can come back to fetch him.
But first, lunch, says Ausma. Come, sit.
She puts a plate in front of me.
Do you know how many times I should have died? Harijs asks.
I tell Ausma about my route, about passing the house at the edge of the ditch.
All these empty houses of ours, Ausma says. Such a shame.
Livija’s there, I say.
What do you mean, she’s there, Ausma says. And I tell her about the portrait that I deliberately left in the wardrobe. That I like to think it’s still there, safe, in the dark.
Is that where you found it? Ausma asks. In the wardrobe?
I nod.
You know, that was the wardrobe from Lembi, she says. The one the woman found. The one that had the deed inside. That got us back the farm. Funny you found her there, of all places.
Harijs must sense the tears I am struggling to hold back.
Do you have the same cows in America? he asks.
Oh, now, says Ausma, setting down her knife and shuffling over to press me to her chest. Dear one. Don’t cry. We can get that portrait for you, if it means that much.
And I want to tell her that I’m not crying because I need something of my grandmother back. I’m crying because suddenly I don’t. But I can’t find the words. And so I decide, for once, to leave it this way, exactly as it should be—a missing space, where she will always be.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A book begins with the gift of belief. Thanks to Jamie Hatten and Barry Johnson for knowing, years before I did, that this was possible, and then doing everything to make me see it, too.
My agent, Alex Jacobs, understood instinctively all that I wished for this book, and then brought such wisdom, empathy, and kindness to every stage of its becoming. My editor, Alane Mason, regarded each word with a rare and genuine concern. All writers should be so lucky to know such generosity and understanding.
Ashley Patrick was an incredible presence he
lping to shepherd this book through its final stages—take heart, she said. And I’ve not stopped saying it to myself since. Copy editors save us in hundreds of invisible and unacknowledged ways, which is why I want to write this name, and then underline it twice: Trent Duffy. I don’t have enough thanks.
As a student in the University of Iowa’s Nonfiction Writing Program, I was fortunate to work with brilliant teachers: Will Jennings, David Hamilton, Patricia Foster and Bonnie Sunstein all offered crucial advice and inspiration. Special thanks to Susan Lohafer, who first helped me realize the potential of this project, and to Robin Hemley, who offered such wise direction and support in its earliest and most critical stages. But most of all, thanks to John D’Agata for giving me all that I needed to see it through.
Among Iowa’s incredible and inspiring community of writers, I want to acknowledge Kendra Greene, Laurel Fantauzzo, Lina Maria Ferreira Cabeza-Vanegas, Angela Pelster-Wiebe, Lucas Mann, Kristen Radtke, Chelsea Cox and Mary Helen Kennerly.
Larry Ypil, Ariel Lewiton and Kisha Schlegel—sensitive readers, extraordinary thinkers and good, good hearts—spent years listening patiently, asking all the right questions, offering the best advice, and guiding me toward breakthrough after breakthrough.
I owe so much to my father, Juris Verzemnieks, and my aunt Inese Verzemnieks for supporting me so unconditionally and for becoming such enthusiastic research assistants, tracking down personal correspondence, documents and other ephemera I had feared lost, and which proved essential to my research. When I unearthed hidden sorrows that seemed too great to bear, they offered me their solace and their care, as did Janet Ash, to whom I will always be grateful.
Thanks to the Rona Jaffe Foundation and the Stanley-UI Foundation for their generous support, which allowed me to travel to Latvia.
In Riga, Guntis Svitins of the National Archives and historian Lelde Neimane of the Occupation Museum offered invaluable assistance navigating archives and special collections related to Latvia’s Siberian exiles.
Most of all, I must thank my Latvian relatives, who opened their homes and lives to me. In Riga, Janis and Lija Verzemnieks, Janis and Felicija Verzemnieks, Evita Mazure, and Iveta and Rolands Mucenieks gave me shelter and revealed the city to me. In Rezekne, Aigars and Zanna Kronitis invested hours translating the secret Siberian files on our family from Russian. I will always look back on my time in Gulbene, in particular, with such intense gratitude. And that is because of Inese Donuka, who spent hours with me in the fields, helping me to see them through new eyes, and who placed in my hands a bundle of letters written by my grandmother during the fifty years she spent in exile. Also, Aivars Kronitis, faithful chauffeur and trusted guide through the region’s forests and secret ruins, and his wife, Ligita Kronite, securer of survey maps and library books, keeper of family stories and knowledge of the old folkways, all of which came to influence me profoundly.
My deepest thanks go to Harijs and Ausma Sebris, for showing me how it is possible to live so beautifully and openheartedly, despite enduring so much.
And finally, to Nick Jones—without you, I would never have found the words:
Dwi’n dy garu di.
SOURCES
Over the course of this project, I have been informed, guided, challenged, enraged and inspired by a number of sources. Below is a list of works consulted, beyond what I unearthed in archives and through interviews. While by no means exhaustive, it represents those sources that I am most indebted to for informing my decisions in how I chose to tell this story.
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Barkahan, Menachem. Extermination of the Jews in Latvia: 1941–1945. Riga: Shamir, 2008.
Blécourt, Willem De. “A Journey to Hell: Reconsidering the Livonian ‘Werewolf.’ ” Magic, Ritual, and Witchcraft 2, no. 1 (2008): 49–67.
Blumbergs, Andrew James. The Nationalization of Latvians and the Issue of Serfdom: The Baltic German Literary Contribution in the 1780s and 1790s. Amherst, N.Y.: Cambria, 2008.
Boder, David P. Topical Autobiographies of Displaced People: Recorded Verbatim in Displaced Persons Camps with a Psychological and Anthropological Analysis. Chicago, 1950.
Bunkše, Edmunds. “God, Thine Earth Is Burning: Nature Attitudes and the Latvian Drive for Independence.” GeoJournal 26, no. 2 (1992): 203–9.
____. “Latvian Folkloristics.” The Journal of American Folklore 92, no. 364 (1979): 196–214.
Displaced Persons. Hearings Before the Subcommittee on Amendments to the Displaced Persons Act of the Committee on the Judiciary, United States Senate, Eighty-first Congress, First and Second Sessions, on Bills to Amend the Displaced Persons Act of 1948. Washington, D.C: GPO, 1950.
Dribins, Leo. Ebreji Latvija. Riga: Elpa, 2002.
Duerr, Hans Peter. Dreamtime: Concerning the Boundary Between Wilderness and Civilization. Oxford: B. Blackwell, 1985.
Eksteins, Modris. Walking Since Daybreak: A Story of Eastern Europe, World War II, and the Heart of Our Century. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1999.
Ezergailis, Andrew. The Holocaust in Latvia: 1941–1944: The Missing Center. Riga: Historical Institute of Latvia, 1996.
Gatrell, Peter, and Nick Baron. Warlands: Population Resettlement and State Reconstruction in the Soviet–East European Borderlands, 1945–50. Basingstoke, Eng.: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009.
Haywood, A. J. Siberia: A Cultural History. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010.
Henricus. The Chronicle of Henry of Livonia, trans. James A. Brundage. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1961.
Hudson, Hugh D. Peasants, Political Police, and the Early Soviet State: Surveillance and Accommodation Under the New Economic Policy. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012.
Hulme, Kathryn. The Wild Place. Boston: Little, Brown, 1953.
Karasa, Diana, ed. Latviesu Sadzives Tradicijas Un Godi. Riga: Jumava, 2011.
Katzenelenbogen, Uriah. The Daina; An Anthology of Lithuanian and Latvian Folk-songs. Chicago: Lithuanian News Publishing, 1935.
Khlevniuk, O. V. The History of the Gulag: From Collectivization to the Great Terror. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2004.
Kovtunenko, Rolands. Battle at More. Riga: Timermanis and Vejins, 2009.
Lazda, Mara. “Women, Nation, and Survival: Latvian Women in Siberia 1941–1957.” Journal of Baltic Studies 36, no. 1 (2005): 1–12.
Liva, Arvi, and Ilze Loze. “Mesolithic and Neolithic Habitation of the Eastern Baltics.” Radiocarbon 35, no. 3 (1993): 503–6.
Lumans, Valdis O. Latvia in World War II. New York: Fordham University Press, 2006.
Memo to America: The DP Story: The Final Report of the U.S. Displaced Persons Commission. Washington, D.C.: GPO, 1952.
Merkel, Garlieb. Latvieši: Sevišķi Vidzemē, Filozofiskā Gadsimteņa Beigās. Riga: Zvaigzne ABC, 1999.
Misiunas, Rommuald. The Baltic States: Years of Dependence, 1940–1990. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993.
Murray, Alan V. The Clash of Cultures on the Medieval Baltic Frontier. Farnham, Eng.: Ashgate, 2009.
Narkeliūnaité, Saloméja. DP Baltic Camp at Seedorf. Hamburg: UNRRA Team 295, 1947.
Nollendorfs, Valters, and Erwin Oberländer. The Hidden and Forbidden History of Latvia Under Soviet and Nazi Occupations 1940–1991: Selected Research of the Commission of the Historians of Latvia. Riga: Institute of the History of Latvia, 2005.
Petersen, Roger Dale. Resistance and Rebellion: Lessons from Eastern Europe. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001.
Plakans, Andrejs. The Latvians: A Short History. Stanford, Calif.: Hoover Institution Press/Stanford University, 1995.
Press, Bernhard. The Murder of the Jews in Latvia: 1941–1945. Evanston, Ill.: Northwestern University Press, 2000.
Rislakki, Jukka. The Case for Latvia: Disinformation Campaigns Against a Small Nation: Fourteen Hard Questions and Straight Answers About a Baltic Country. Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2008.
Rozkalne, Anita, ed. Latvju Dainas. Riga: Latvijas
Universitates Literatures, Folkloras and Makslas Institutes, 2012.
Shephard, Ben. The Long Road Home: The Aftermath of the Second World War. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2011.
Silgailis, Arturs. Latvian Legion. San Jose, Calif.: R.J. Bender, 1986.
Skultans, Vieda. The Testimony of Lives: Narrative and Memory in Post-Soviet Latvia. London: Routledge, 1998.
____. “Theorizing Latvian Lives: The Quest for Identity.” Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 3 (2001): 761–80.
Snyder, Timothy. Bloodlands: Europe Between Hitler and Stalin. New York: Basic, 2010.
Šteimanis, Josifs, and Edward Anders. History of Latvian Jews. Boulder, Col.: East European Monographs, 2002.
Vikis-Freibergs, Vaira. “Linear and Cyclic Time in Traditional and Modern Latvian Poetry.” Board of Regents of the University of Oklahoma 51, no. 4 (1977): 538–43.
____. “Sink or Swim: On Associative Structure in Longer Latvian Folk Songs.” Oral Tradition (1997): 279–307.
Vilka, Inta. Caur Sirdi Plustosa Dzive. Riga: Vesta-LK, 2013.
Viola, Lynne. “The Aesthetic of Stalinist Planning and the World of the Special Villages.” Kritika: Explorations in Russian and Eurasian History 4, no. 1 (2003): 101–28.
____. The Unknown Gulag: The Lost World of Stalin’s Special Settlements. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007.
Wyman, Mark. DP: Europe’s Displaced Persons, 1945–1951. Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1989.
Zelčs, Vitalys, and Māris Nartišs, eds. “Late Quaternary Terrestrial Processes, Sediments, and History: From Glacial to Postglacial Environments.” University of Latvia, 2014; available at www.geovip.lu.lv/fileadmin/user_upload/lu_portal/projekti/geovip/konferences/Peribaltic_2014_Latvia_Excursion_Guide_and_Abstract_book.pdf.
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Among the Living and the Dead Page 22