In God We Trusted: An Unforgettable Escape from Lithuania to Western Europe during World War II

By Lili Hriskevicius Tremblay

ESCAPE FROM LITHUANIA

In 1933, Lili Hriskevicius Tremblay was born into a near dreamlike existence. She came from one of the wealthiest families in Lithuania and lived in a mansion on her family's thousand-acre estate. She lacked few luxuries; however, with the onset of World War II, Lili's home was taken over first by the Soviets and la

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lili Hriskevicius Tremblay
• Release date: Nov 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9798987107010

Lili Hriskevicius Tremblay

Author Lili Hriskevicius Tremblay completed her undergraduate education at UCLA, and received her masters degree from Victoria University in Wellington New Zealand. She went on to become an American citizen, was a high school teacher and later married a U.S. Foreign Service Officer, Donald Tremblay. Together they had four children and lived all over the world on assignments. The family retired to Santa Monica, California in 1985.

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In God We Trusted: An Unforgettable Escape from Lithuania to Western Europe during World War II

Copyright ©2022 Lili Hriskevicius Tremblay

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For information on this book please email: [e-mail]

Second Edition

ISBN: 979-8-9871070-0-3 (Trade Paperback)

ISBN: 979-8-9871070-1-0 (eBook)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022919306

First printing 2011, Vantage Press, New York, NY

Cover and interior design by Becky's Graphic Design, LLC

www.BeckysGraphicDesign.com

Photo credit on page 180 to bloodua, Statue of Liberty against Manhattan cityscape background in New York City, NY, USA, 8 September, 2021; iStockphoto-1338882384; Standard license purchased with iStockPhoto.com;

www.istockphoto.com/photo/statue-of-liberty-against-manhattan-gm1338882384-419346236

For my parents who valiantly

persevered to get us through

the ordeal.

Contents

Introduction

Varputenai

Winds of War

Move to Siaulai

The Nazis and a New Beginning

Our Trek Begins

Temporarily Settling In

The Uncharted Road

The Vengeance of Winter

Little Miracles

The Golden City

A Spring Renewal

War’s End

Forever Onward

The Endless Quest

Now What?

A New Beginning

Give Me Your Tired, Your Poor

Epilogue

IN GOD WE TRUSTED

Introduction

Everyone has a story to tell and I’m no exception. While some of you may not have had too many adventures so far in your lifetime, I must frankly say that my years have given me much to write about. Despite the abundance of stories I could recount over time, I have chosen to concentrate on the earlier part of my life—the time spent in Lithuania with my family, followed by the unforgettable flight from our home country, across wartime Europe, and to our temporary settlement in West Germany after the cessation of hostilities.

For anyone who has not experienced war with its accompanying atrocities, unfairness, unexpected twists and turns, and the disruptions of all kinds, the following narration will illustrate what we, as one family among thousands, underwent.

But to quote a familiar saying, history does seem to repeat itself. What my family and Lithuania experienced in the 1940’s with the Nazi and Soviet occupations, similar events have recently taken place in independent Ukraine.

The brutal, unprovoked Russian invasion of the Ukraine in February of 2022 with all of its consequences brings back so many similar memories of my early childhood in Lithuania. Can we ever overcome the horrors of war?

With all these recent events notwithstanding, however, I will try to provide further information covering some of our experiences since the book was originally published.

Chapter One

Varputenai

I was born a child of privilege on November 8, 1933, at a private hospital in the city of Kaunas in free and independent Lithuania. As the firstborn of illustrious parents, Vladislas Hriskevicius (likely heir to a vast estate) and Vanda Lucevicius (whose father was once president of a bank) they counted themselves among the ancient, landed aristocracy—a throwback to the feudal Russian era—and I therefore could have expected an equally pampered life.

For several years I was special and doted upon. This initially all came to pass when I returned from Kaunas to our home in the hamlet of Varputenai. Neither of my parents had siblings, and I at once became the center of attention, not only to my mother and father, but to my two widowed grandmothers (Maria Burba Hriskevicius and Helena Savicka Lucevicius), a great aunt, and the entire household as well. I had nothing but a spoiled childhood to which to look forward.

All the reasons for these expectations existed: my immediate ancestors were once among the wealthiest in the country; we lived in a great mansion consisting of dozens of rooms (with a four-story tower overlooking part of the thousand-acre estate below); the property (or dvaras as the great estates were then known) was a model agricultural and dairy farm where cheesemaking under the guidance of a Swiss expert was doing well. There were dozens of farmhands and a multitude of fine horses that worked the fields, and the place always attracted a great many visitors—all potential admirers of this little blond-haired girl.

Located about a kilometer down the road leading from the house, the estate even supported its own Catholic church. In 1792 the ancestor Mateo Jelinskis built the tiny structure and a bell tower nearby (both of which still exist to this day) as an exchange for the hand of the fair maiden who was not only a great beauty but also heiress to a considerable fortune. The estate of Varputenai descended through the family from this eighteenth-century beginning.

Until the age of six, when my brother Anthony was born, I literally had the run of the place to myself. And it was great while it lasted.

Needless to say, there were times when I thought I could do no wrong, and I shamelessly took advantage of my unique position. Grandmothers and nannies were always there to comfort me—and also to correct and admonish when necessary. With my mother overseeing the daily routine of a large house with its multitude of challenges—such as the preparation of meals, supervision of the help, and being wife and mother—with my father caring for the business aspects of a bustling enterprise, I fell through the cracks when I wished to.

Among the estate children, my two best friends were Krishia Linder and her older sister Irene, daughters of the Swiss cheesemaker. We had the run of the place, especially when my German governess was not looking. For instance, I can recall that high on the list of hijinks was the strawberry incident that continues even to this day to remind me of my wild days as a six-year-old.

One day in early fall, one of my grandmothers was supervising the making of a sweet strawberry wine—a yearly tradition in our house—when my co-conspirator Krishia and I came into the winter dining room for a look. The place was filled with a tantalizing aroma, and we begged for a taste. Caving in to our entreaties, Grandma offered each of us a sip from a tiny cup—just enough to satisfy our curiosity.

Well, how can you stop an addiction? That thimbleful certainly was not enough to quench our thirst. No sirree. As soon as everyone temporarily left the room, we looked for a glass or other container with which to scoop out more of this delicious nectar. And the only thing available was an empty flower vase standing on the linen-covered dining table. That will do, we thought.

We picked up the container and surreptitiously dipped it into the large cauldron where the strawberries were fermenting and scooped out a generous portion of the pink liquid. With the possibility of someone entering the room at any time, we quickly hid beneath the covered table. There, confidently seated with our ill-gotten goods, we giddily began to imbibe.

After a considerable period of tasting, however, we reached our limit of consumption. Although we hadn’t finished off the vase full of wine, we thought we had had enough. But we had no way of getting rid of the remaining evidence of our crime. To make it worse, I discovered that we were not tall enough to pour the remainder through an open window that lay above our reach, so what to do? We just had to finish drinking in order to get rid of the evidence.

I think we would have gotten away with our drunken crime spree if it hadn’t been for Helen, our cook, who later found us wallowing in the mud outside the kitchen door. There, in a puddle and dirt everywhere, we had fallen into a drunken stupor, rolling about in ecstasy that could only be interpreted as drunk. On that day, I think we both learned a lesson. At the age of six I fear I might have begun a life of debauchery if someone had not come to our rescue to explain what strawberry wine, although delicious, taken in correct quantities at appropriate times might lead to. From that day on, we were on the wagon and stayed away from strawberries.

But even at a tender age I learned to enjoy the hours I could sit and read among the huge linden trees located next to one of our ponds. In the summertime when daylight often extended to 10 o’clock at night, I took every opportunity to quietly absorb the stories of another world. In this day and age, children rarely lie about to do anything but watch television, but in the 30s we were accustomed to other pleasures. From an early age I was introduced to the mysteries of a book, a habit I continue to enjoy to this day.

Our estate was covered with trees, especially those leading to our house. Papi (as I used to call my father) had made it a hobby to add to those already more than a hundred years old a variety that would live way beyond our lifespan. They would testify as the sentinels of history. He believed that they would live on after we had all long gone from the scene. And he was right.

Papi planted more than a thousand fruit trees, planning ahead, believing that these crops would later add to the value of the estate. As for trees in general, there was a legend where many years before an officer in Napoleon’s army carved his initials and that of a young estate lady’s on one of the trunks—promising to marry her upon his return from the war. He, however, never came back. But the initials remained.

Another one of my childhood recollections were the bicycle rides I used to take with Papi. Unlike the rapid methods of getting about at a later age, and despite the fact that we did have then up-to-date model cars and tractors, my father periodically liked to go about the vast estate on his bike. With me comfortably seated as a princess on the handlebars, he would pedal along the dirt roads first to this field, then to another, until we had exhausted ourselves for the day. It was a way of not only introducing me to the estate and its workers and families, but it was a bonding experience between father and daughter.

There were times, perhaps because of weather conditions, when I was housebound. What to do? You could only run through so many rooms in the house. Everyone had his routine and I had to find my own things to do. With my accomplices in crime at the ready, Krishia, Irene, and I could always discover some mischief.

One day as we were roaming about, we found ourselves in Mami’s (my mother) bedroom. Naturally, we were curious to examine everything that was lying about. What youngster wouldn’t be? Examining our supposed youthful beauty in a large mirror was always fun; then bouncing up and down on the bed was another forbidden fruit which had to be tasted—until we discovered all the fascinating bottles of expensive French perfumes on Mami’s dressing table.

At that age, all we knew was that everything smelled heavenly as we sniffed each crystal container, one after the other. And there were so many of them! We asked ourselves what women did with these unusual scents. Oh, I think they use them for washing, offered one of my co-conspirators. Yes, that must be it. With the wash basin standing there (there was no sink in the room or even a bathroom nearby) we figured that it was used to freshen up, and the perfume the means to be used. As a result, we logically began to empty each of the many bottles of the imported fragrance into the wash basin, all with the intention of freshening up too. We took turns at splashing our faces with the mixture until we reeked to the point where one might have thought the place to be a bordello. Mami was so upset to see what we had done that she actually gave me a few well-deserved smacks on the bottom with a birch whisk. And from there the punishment continued with what seemed like an interminable and unfair stay in a corner. And for my little girlfriends, their only penalty was to be sent home. I certainly felt that there was no justice in my young world as I continued to stare at the wall.

From early childhood I had never been blessed with curly hair. And when we looked at fashion magazines and saw the Shirley Temple types with their bouncing curls, we felt that it would be nice to have the same. But how did these things happen? Oh, I think I know how, said Krishia. They visit a parlor where women have their hair cut, then they use water, and before long you get curls!

Oh, how easy. Let’s try it.

So once more under the dining room table we went. This time with a pair of scissors. It seemed that I was to be the first customer at beautification that day. So with a snip here and another there, I eventually ended up with several uneven hairless blotches where I had recently been a full-headed blond six-year-old. Now we pour water over your hair, and tomorrow you will have curls, Krishia confidently announced.

Not only did I not have waves on the following day, but I had hairless patches all over my head. And what had not been cut off remained as uneven swatches testifying to my attempt at producing curls. Eventually, however, my hair grew out,