By Vilma Giga
My mother, Katrina
was barely 10 when she was orphaned, her mother predeceasing her father by a
few months. Born in the village of Dunika in western Latvia, she had been a
symbol of God’s special favour to her mother who had lost two sons in infancy.
Katrina was pampered and protected by her adoring mother till one morning
changed her fate. Theirs was a small but self-sustaining farming family that
kept animals for food and for cultivation. One morning her mother out on her daily
farm chores was thrown off the horse carriage and very badly wounded. The local
doctor treated her but could not diagnose the severe damage that the fall had
caused to her lungs. She took to bed very soon and passed away without being
properly treated. Katrina’s father distraught with guilt and grief died not
long after. Young Katrina was left alone in her farm home. Her aunt who lived
in the neighbouring village of Rucava brought her home and took care of her. Katrina
hated school and stopped after attending for barely three years. But she learnt
all the trades of the farm and grew up to be very sharp with numbers. I recall
her adroitness in calculation for I could never compete with her even after
finishing University.
When Katrina
turned 18, she returned home to Dunika to live in the house and run the farm which
had been rented out while she had been away. Her skills were put to good use.
She soon met a young man named Toms and they married. They had two lovely
daughters and together raised a happy family and a comfortable household. One
day, her husband was commissioned by the local court to be a witness in a criminal case under trial. The court was some miles away and Toms decided to take his family along.
They had to stop for a night at an inn. While Katrina and the girls rested in
the rooms upstairs, Toms went down to the pub to share a drink. He never came
back. Someone had spiked their round of drinks and while one of the others
tasted it and finding something wrong spitted it out, Toms swallowed his drink and
died of poisoning. Katrina was left widowed with two daughters aged 4 and 2.
My mother
met my father, Aleksands not long after her tragedy and remarried. The Second
World War had already begun as their new life unfolded. Dunika was bombed for
the first time when Katrina was heavily pregnant with me. She ran for cover
holding the hands of her two girls into a temporary shed. The family was asked by
the local authorities to vacate their home because there was to be a trench dug
next to the cowshed. They moved to grand aunt’s house in Rucava where I was born
in November of 1944. Within three months, my father was drafted into the Soviet
army and sent to war. Katrina never heard from her husband again, didn’t get to
know where he was killed and how and if he had had a decent burial. Deep in her
heart she came to terms as did I, with the inevitable that, in all likelihood,
he was denied one.
Katrina was
back on her own with three little children to bring up. Dunika had been the
scene of some grim battle between the retreating German soldiers and the
marching Soviet army. Katrina returned to find her home destroyed by the
invading Soviet forces and all her animals gone. Half the house had been burnt
down. She began building her home and her farm bit by bit from scratch. But it
was years before there was any semblance of normalcy in our lives. The village
was besieged by Soviet forces. Latvia which had been an independent nation
since 1918 was now conquered by Soviet Union and brought under its political
regime. Soldiers of the Red Army marched the streets and raided homes with
impunity. Each family was permitted to keep just enough to feed all the
members; the rest had to be given up. Katrina was allowed one cow, one pig and
a few poultry birds.
In the balcony of her apartment |
My mother
took care of us, three sisters, sent us to school and University, never seeking
respite from hard work. She ran the farm for as long as her health permitted.
Then we had to sell the property and she moved to a neighbouring town. Money
was never enough and she often had to supplement her savings by working as a
cleaner in offices. She had a long hard life and lived to be 90. She died in 2010.
I can never
look back to think of my mother Katrina without tears in my eyes.
Vilma Giga divides her time between Cambourne, U.K and Riga, Latvia
1 comment:
What a lovely story of a strong lady who brought up three daughters single handedly during wartime! Thank you for the read
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