Kovno/Kaunas: A Road Trip, Lithuanian Style

Kovno/Kaunas:  Road Trip, Lithuanian Style

After our visit to Vilnius’ Jewish cemetery, we set off on a mini-road trip, Lithuanian style.  Today, we’d be making multiple stops and using Kaunas, the country’s second largest city, as our base.  Within minutes of re-boarding the bus, everyone in our group was clambering for a lunch break.  As a result, our first stop was at a gas station along the highway.  It offered the local equivalent of fast food, but with a lot more choices than a typical 7/11 or McDonalds.  While cars and trucks filled their gas tanks outside, all 24 of us tumbled into the crowded interior of what resembled an overgrown convenience store. While some immediately headed off to the restrooms (stopping for bathroom breaks was a major activity on our trip), I elbowed my way through the crowd and zeroed in on the food offerings.  “Real” people, i.e. non-tourists, were eating here so I figured I finally had an opportunity to get some authentic Lithuanian food.  There were plenty of items available, and everything was labeled – but in Lithuanian, a language I have yet to master. Most of the offerings appeared to be carb-heavy and meat-centered. Given that this was clearly not going to be the healthiest meal of the day, I got into the spirit and ordered two big empanada-like turnovers.  One was filled with spinach and cheese, the other with a tasty chicken mixture.  The verdict?  Not bad – especially since the entire meal, including a bottle of water and a small pastry, came to 6 Euros.

Soon, we were back on the road.  Our route took us through gently rolling hills, and past small farms, orchards, and barren fields (still too cold to plant?).  In the distance, we could see tall forests of pines and birches.  Unfortunately, the clouds still stubbornly refused to allow the sun to peak through.  The bus driver turned on his windshield wipers from time to time to clear the intermittent drizzle. 

About halfway between Vilnius and Kaunas, we reached Ziezmariai (try pronouncing that!), an actual shtetl.  As I stepped off the bus, I felt as if I’d entered into another world. Jews began settling in these small rural villages outside the larger cities in the mid-16^th century.  Some became shopkeepers or peddlers, while others practiced trades and crafts, such as shoemaking.  The center of life in a shtetl was the market square.  It would be surrounded by small stores, often Jewish-owned.  The store would occupy the first floor of the building while the family lived on the floor above.

An unoccupied building on the old market square

In the shtetl of Ziezmariai

Claire identified many of the ramshackle buildings still standing along the unpaved streets as most likely former Jewish businesses/residences.   Ignoring the occasional satellite dish, I found it easy to imagine the lost world of a century ago, when Lithuanian peasants and Yiddish-speaking Jews would have thronged the market square.  In times past, the church would dominate the square, as we could see in Ziezmariai, where the red brick church with its tall steeple still stood. 

Jews were not allowed to construct masonry buildings, so they built their synagogues out of wood, which was readily available.  In fact, the shtetl of Ziezmariai was on our itinerary because it is the site of one of the few remaining wooden synagogues in the entire country.  At one time, these barnlike structures with their multi-tiered roofs dotted the Lithuanian countryside.  During the German occupation, in many shetls, the Jews were herded into the synagogues, which were then set on fire by the Nazi Einstatsgruppen (mobile killing squads). 

The synagogue in Ziezmariai dates from mid-18^th century.  At the end of World War II, it was in terrible condition.  The interior had been destroyed and it had only survived because the Red Army had used it as a storehouse for grain.  At the present time, it is undergoing reconstruction to restore it to its original state.  Workmen made way for our group to enter.  

Wooden synagogue being restored in Ziezmariai

Inside the synagogue, the smell of sawdust filled the air. Claire spontaneously burst into a Hebrew song that many of us knew.  The women joined hands and formed a circle, dancing to express our joy that, after the horrors of the Holocaust, Jews had returned to this place.  “We are here! We are here!” we shouted over and over in voices filled with emotion.  We cried out to the ghosts of our ancestors as well as to today’s inhabitants of the small village.  It was one of the most moving moments of the entire trip.

As we were preparing to leave Ziezmariai, I noticed a Lithuanian woman in an apron standing in the yard of a small house near the square.  She was eying us with curiosity.  When I asked her (using gestures) if I could take her picture, she shyly declined and scurried inside.  “She’s probably living in a house that belonged to a Jewish family and she’s afraid you’ve come to take it back,” one member of our group commented.  Sad, but possibly true. 

After a short drive, we arrived in the city of Kaunas (Kovno in Yiddish), the second largest city in Lithuania and the birthplace of my maternal grandmother. We stopped at the Sugihara House, which presents the story of a heartening episode in Holocaust history that occurred in the city, which was temporarily serving as Lithuania’s capital.  In 1940, Chiune Sugihara, the newly appointed Japanese consul in Kaunas, found a crowd of Polish Jews outside his residence.  These refugees from the Nazis were desperate to escape from Europe, and they were appealing to Sugihara for transit visas that would allow them to travel across the Soviet Union to Japan and then on to safe haven in places such as Cuba, South Africa, Australia, and the U.S. In defiance of his own government’s orders, Sugihara issued the visas, thereby saving the lives of approximately 6,000 Jews.  I’d previously learned about Sugihara from books and documentaries, and I was pleased to see that his courageous acts are being recognized in Lithuania today.

From a display at the Sugihara House in Kaunas 

As far as the city of Kaunas itself, it didn’t appear to be quite as cosmopolitan or grand as Vilnius.  Like many of the buildings we saw, our hotel had a Soviet-style façade.  During a brief period of semi-sunny weather (temperatures still in the 40s), Sharyn and I went for a stroll along the very pleasant pedestrian street, a two-kilometer long promenade lined with cafés, restaurants, and stores ranging from boutiques to Benetton.  

The pedestrian street in Kaunas

One interesting church we passed is known as the Kaunas Sobor (a Russian Orthodox Cathedral), built in 1895.  With its neo-Byzantine design and classical columns, it looked impressive from a distance, but when we got closer, we noticed how it was badly in need of restoration.  Given the lingering anti-Russian sentiment, that probably won’t be happening anytime soon. 

Kaunas Sobor (Russian Orthodox cathedral)

After our genuine Lithuanian dinner of fresh fish, carefully cooked vegetables, salad, and decadent dessert, we found ourselves just a block or so from the Choraline Synagogue.  A sign on the gate noted the service times, but the building wasn’t open otherwise.  I stood outside the fence thinking that perhaps my grandmother’s family had worshipped here.  When she left Kovno a hundred years ago, did she ever imagine that a granddaughter of hers would come to this place? 

The Choraline Synagogue

Sharyn and I walked back through the twilight to our hotel so we could get a good night’s sleep in preparation for another busy day.  Friday morning brought some new items to the breakfast buffet, notably bite-size chicken pierogis, handrolled cheese blintzes, and something similar to gefilte fish (but much tastier, and garnished with sun-dried tomatoes).  How will I ever go back to my relatively boring breakfast fare of protein shake and toast with almond butter once I get home? 

Since I woke up early, I was able to get out for a brisk walk to the open-air marketplace before our day’s activities got underway.  The sky was gray but, for the time being, it wasn’t raining.  It was rush hour, and I walked down a major thoroughfare, choking on exhaust fumes from buses and cars. The market was a bit disappointing.  Located on an unpaved lot behind the main bus terminal, it was a sprawling and disorganized collection of vendors selling everything from cheap clothing (for which the word shmatta was invented) to plastic toys to fresh fruit vegetables.  In other words, I wasn’t tempted to buy anything.  The cheeriest note was the abundance of flowering plants.  Judging from the number of stands where one could buy seeds, seedlings, and cut flowers, the residents of Kaunas have found a way to bring some color into their otherwise drab surroundings. 

By the time I got back from the market, our group was ready to start a bus tour of the city.  Since Kaunas was not bombed during the war, many older buildings are still standing.  Our local guide, Simon, is a Kaunas resident and he proudly pointed out the new shopping malls and the sports arena as we made our way out of the Old Town area. We passed through the Slobodka district, once considered a suburb of Kaunas, which was traditionally a Jewish neighborhood.  Jews made up 25% of the city’s population at the time of the Nazi invasion. Very few survived the war.  In 1941, the Nazis forced Kaunas’ 33,000 Jews into a ghetto that they established in Slobodka.  Most were taken to nearby Fort Nine, where they were killed.  We’d be visiting the infamous prison shortly.

To reach Fort Nine, on the outskirts of the city, the bus had to travel along a deeply rutted dirt road.  The fort complex was built by the Russian government before World War I to protect their western border from German invasion.  A massive stone monument erected during Soviet times stands on a hill adjacent to the killing field where Jews from Lithuania, Poland and France were shot to death.  The unheated fort houses a museum whose exhibits focus on life in the ghetto.  Lists of names and walls of photographs memorialize those who were murdered at the fort. 

Fort Nine memorial

One of the entrances to the fort

Back in the center of Kaunas, our group was able to enter the Choraline Synagogue although it wasn’t officially open for services.  In the beautiful pale blue and ivory sanctuary, I spoke with an older man, a Kaunas native who knew of my cousin.  “Oh, he was at the Slobodka Yeshiva,” the man said right away when I mentioned Rabbi Tuvia Geffen’s name.

Interior of Choraline Synagogue

In theory, we had a free afternoon to spend in Kaunas.  I was looking forward to exploring the Old Town on foot but the weather forced me to change my plans.  The morning drizzle had turned into a downpour by the time my friends and I stepped out of the bakery where we’d warmed ourselves with tea and pastries.  I was determined to take a few photos in the Old Town, however.  Juggling my cell phone and umbrella, I managed to get a few pictures of the town hall and the historic red brick Catholic cathedral basilica of St. Peter and St. Paul.  After battling the cold, the wind and the rain for about half an hour, I folded up my soggy map and hurried back to the hotel to dry out. Fortunately, I didn’t have to go outside again that day since our Shabbat dinner took place at the hotel. 

Rain-soaked Town Hall Square in Kaunas

The following morning, the skies were gray again but no rain was falling – yet – as we boarded the bus for a continuation of our road trip.  During the drive north through the countryside, Simon and Claire filled us in with more historical information.  I learned that one reason the Jews were invited to settle in Lithuania about 700-800 years ago was because the Lithuanian ruler, Vytautas the Great, realized that his somewhat backward country needed to develop its finances.  The Jews had the necessary knowledge and expertise.  Contracts stipulated exactly what the Jews would provide, such as tax revenue, and what they would receive, such as protection.  The Jews also were granted the right to maintain their religion and to establish separate communities. 

At this time, the majority of Lithuanians were serfs, i.e. peasants who didn’t own the land they farmed.  While Jews were not allowed to buy land, they were permitted to settle in small villages (shtetls) next to big estates owned by large landowners.  The Jews provided services for the local population and became part of the local economy.

Before long, we reached the town of Kedainiai, the next stop on our road trip.  According to Simon, Kedainiai is known as the cucumber capital of Lithuania.  It is a medium-sized town (30,000 people), which had a large number of Jewish residents before the war.  In fact, in the late 19^th century, one third of the population was Jewish.  During the Holocaust, there was a ghetto from which the Jews were taken to a killing site in the fields just outside the town.  Today, there is no Jewish community in Kedainiai.  However, we stopped to see the former synagogue, which has been turned into an art gallery and multicultural center.  On the upper level, there is a small exhibit containing objects from the synagogue and information about the pre-war Jewish community. 

Ritual objects on display in the former synagogue in Kedainiai

Continuing north, we reached Siauliai, Lithuania’s fourth largest city, and a major transport and industrial center in the pre-war years.  As in other towns and cities, there was a large Jewish population here.  With the Nazi occupation, about 10,000 Jews were forced into a ghetto.  Most were taken outside the city to be killed.  Those left in the ghetto in 1944 were sent to death camps.  A small monument to those murdered in the Holocaust stands in the city today.  The former synagogue was converted into a basketball hall. 

About 10 miles south of the border with Latvia, we came to the town of Joniskis.  Its current population is about 11,000 people.  The Jewish community of the town was murdered during the war but two synagogue buildings remain: the White Synagogue, built in the 1820s, and the Red Synagogue, built in the 1840s.  Neither is functioning and we weren’t able to go inside. 

Red Synagogue in Joniskis

White Synagogue in Joniskis

How is it possible? I wondered after viewing yet another town where a vibrant Jewish presence had been erased.  In one town after another, it was the same story.  Why didn’t anyone try to save the Jews?  Why didn’t the Lithuanian Christians try to save their Jewish neighbors? 

I got back onto the bus in Joniskis with a heavy heart.  Thick clouds bore down on the countryside.  Before I knew it, we’d crossed the invisible border separating Lithuania from Latvia.  But I’ll save that for my next post.