MOLONG ONLINE

I REMEMBER the northern summer of 1939 very clearly. I was 17 years old. The weather was mostly very warm and even in September people were in summer clothes. We were still swimming in Lake Puze and in the nearby River Stende. After four years absence from schoolbooks, I was ready to enrol in the Trades School in the nearby harbour city of Ventspils. Right through the hot summer I had been revising my primary-school lessons to prepare for the entry exams. There were always many more applicants than free places and selection depended entirely on the entry-exam results.

I hadn’t been even an average student in primary school. My only interest had been to get through the compulsory school years, then go out and earn money like the majority of my peers. From early childhood I had been told that, as the only son, I would inherit the family farm. I was prepared for that outcome, but when I finished primary school and started to work on the farm full-time, it soon became evident that there was not enough income for both myself and my parents, Fricis and Lizetta.

Ours was only a small mixed farm. The past couple of years I had been working as a casual labourer, mainly with the Department of Main Roads and as a seasonal worker on other farms. I had a secret longing to further my education, but had said nothing to my father, concerned that he would feel affronted. Also, the financial situation of our household wasn’t all that good.

One evening, early in the spring of 1939, the whole family was having dinner at home when my father mentioned that his cousin’s youngest son was doing very well at the Trades School inVentspils. I sensed my opportunity and blurted out that I, too, would love to go back to school.

... eventually the possibility of qualifying for Riga University’s Mechanical Engineering Faculty. That was my long-term plan, but circumstances way beyond my control ensured it would never be realised.

I presumed that the only possibility would be the local agricultural school, which offered a two-year course and required no entry exams. To my great surprise, my father didn’t get upset. His only comment was that if I was serious about going back to school I should think twice where to go. The farm was too small for both of us and there would be little gain for me from the two-year agriculture course.

I couldn’t speak for a while. This was too good to be true. My answer to my father Fricis was that I wished to go to the Trades School in Ventspils, mainly because it was close to us. It didn’t provide exactly what I wanted, but it was a stepping stone in the right direction. It offered a three-year course in fitting and machining, with the emphasis on marine engineering, and eventually the possibility of qualifying for Riga University’s Mechanical Engineering Faculty. That was my long-term plan, but circumstances way beyond my control ensured it would never be realised.

On that 1939 spring evening a firm decision was made for me to prepare myself for the enrolment in Ventspils Trades School. But there were obstacles in my way. I had been out of school for four years and the little that I had learned there was completely gone. The entry exams, I was told, were very stiff. Only those with above-average results had any hope to be accepted.

My thoughts turned to my old headmaster at the primary school, Paul Planders. The following Sunday I jumped on my bicycle and rode back to my old school, where Mr Planders lived with his family. The principals of primary schools had, as part of their salary, the use of the farmland around the school. I made a proposition to him. I would help him during the weekends to gather his crops and hay, if he could help to prepare me for the entry exams.

Mr Planders agreed. He set out a program for me in literature, mathematics, history, geography, etc. That summer I had very little time for fun. I worked with the Department of Main Roads during the week, helped Mr Planders during the weekends, and learned my lessons in between. Finally, at the end of August 1939, Mr Planders said that he could do no more for me and I was ready for the exams. All his fieldwork was also completed and we had a small celebration with a good meal and a few beers. That signalled a temporary farewell to my adult life. I was to become a schoolboy again, where drinking and smoking were strictly forbidden.

As it turned out, he was not only the last President of the League of Nations but also the last Latvian Foreign Minister for many decades to come. Stalin took care of him in one of Siberia’s “luxury hotels”.

During the summer of 1939, the political clouds over Europe were darkening. Older people were concerned that war could break out. Hitler was rattling his sabre on the German fencelines. First he marched into the demilitarised Saar district on the border with France. He got away with it. Next came the Austrian Anschluss. He got away with that, too. His appetite grew. The next in line was the Sudetenland, a district of Czechoslovakia with a majority German population. He also got away with that, so why stop there? He took the rest of Czechoslovakia. That was okay too. Chamberlain flew over to Munich to discuss matters and returned with the written guarantee that Hitler’s appetite was sated. This bliss lasted only a few weeks. The next step for Herr Hitler was to do something about Poland.

I felt at the time that all this was mostly bluff and that things would soon be settled peacefully. There were no real worries. The Western democracies, especially France, were strong and they didn’t want war. In my naivety I believed that the League of Nations, with the full support of the Western democracies, would soon step in and restore order. Our Foreign Minister, Vilhelm Munters, was the current President of the League. As it turned out, he was not only the last President of the League of Nations but also the last Latvian Foreign Minister for many decades to come. Stalin took care of him in one of Siberia’s “luxury hotels”.

In early September 1939, the German Army crossed the Polish border. Poland asked for help from its English and French allies. The general feeling was that they would get none, as had been the case with Czechoslovakia, which itself had a very strong armaments-manufacturing industry and, for its size, the best equipped army in Europe.

On Monday 4 September 1939 I rode my bicycle to the local cooperative store to buy provisions for my trip to Ventspils for the Trades School entrance exams. It was a beautiful early autumn day. I made my purchases and went outside to pick up my bike to go home. The front tyre was completely flat and there was a hole too large to mend. I turned back to the store and asked about a new tyre. The storekeeper said he had a very good one, red in colour, made in England by Dunlop. The radio in the store was at full volume, blaring current hit songs. I purchased the tyre and went outside onto the lawn to fit it.

Suddenly the loud music was interrupted for an important news flash: England and France had declared war on Germany. My immediate reaction was that it didn’t concern us. Latvia was a small country which had declared its neutrality and was far from the scene of the conflict. The only possible worry was our short strip — just over 100 kilometres — of border with Poland.

The following week I had to go to Ventspils for my entrance exams. I had ridden those 35 kilometres many times but this time it was different. I was at one of my life’s crossroads, in effect riding away from everything that I was familiar with, even though I knew I’d be back at the farm that evening. I packed my books in a parcel and off I went. It was a warm day and I was wearing an open neck shirt and jacket.

To my pleasant surprise, the exams were not nearly as hard as I had imagined. Perhaps my old headmaster had gone overboard with his program of preparation. Perhaps my maturity — all the other boys were three or four years younger than me — also played a role. I quickly answered all the questions and was out long before the allowed time.

After the exams all the applicants had to wait several hours for the results. At last the results were announced and I was among the lucky ones accepted to the Trades School. We were told that all the successful applicants would have to march to Ventspils High School that afternoon for a thanksgiving ceremony conducted by the local Bishop.

I was hungry, but very happy. I had been accepted into the Trades School. The rest was up to me. I arrived home late that night, hungry and tired but very happy. It had been a hard day.

Almost all the other boys, who either lived in Ventspils or were staying with relatives or friends, went home for lunch. I had nowhere to go and spent my time supporting the staircase leading to the first floor. The Director saw me standing there with my open-neck shirt and pounced on me. He instructed me to go home straight away and put on a tie. I had no nearby home, so I went to the nearest shop and bought myself a new tie with my lunch money.

It was late in the afternoon by the time all the ceremonies were finished. I was hungry, but very happy. I had been accepted into the Trades School. The rest was up to me. I arrived home late that night, hungry and tired but very happy. It had been a hard day.

Here I must mention that all Latvian schools during our period of independence fostered a strong feeling of national pride and we all were fierce nationalists. War in Europe was quickly into full swing. Poland had been just about swallowed by Germany and the Soviet Union, which was also on the scene to get its share of the spoils. Hitler and Stalin had just signed the infamous Molotov–Ribbentrop pact, which divided Europe into spheres of influence under their control. At that time we had no idea that the two dictators had already sealed our fate. What we were about to see merely the execution of their plan.

Without any warning, the Soviet Union had occupied one half of Poland, leaving the other half to Germany. Latvia was Poland’s only friend in our region of Europe. Over the following few weeks, many Polish soldiers came to Latvia seeking refuge and were fed and sheltered. We were still living under the illusion that our position of neutrality would save us from direct involvement in the conflict. We had no idea that Latvia, Lithuania and Estonia had already been “given” to Stalin and that our “liberators” were soon to knock on our doors.

At the end of September 1939 the Soviet Union issued an ultimatum to the three Baltic states, demanding military bases on our soil. She also declared that she had no interest in our internal matters and that she wasn’t interested in our territory, that she had enough of her own. The bases were needed only for the duration of the war. But Stalin’s promises, written or oral, weren’t worth much, as the Western nations were to quickly learn after the war.

One such military base was established just outside Ventspils, right on the Baltic foreshore. Soon we had an opportunity to see first hand the people from the “Worker’s Paradise”. Ordinary Russian soldiers were not allowed on the streets, but the officers and their wives soon filled our streets and shops. We were amazed at their appetite for buying. It was as though they had never seen quality clothes, appliances and food.

When the first groups of the officers’ families disembarked from their rail carriages, we were astonished by the look of them. Their clothes were very poor by our standards. Often the women remained on the trains until their husbands returned with clothes bought from our shops. There were instances of Russian women walking around in pretty nightgowns. They didn’t know better because they had been hermetically isolated from the outside world by Stalin’s regime since the end of the First World War. One thing was clear: the so-called “Paradise” was in fact a poorhouse.

The whole world watched in awe as the small Finnish Army threw back wave after wave of advancing hordes of attackers. But the USSR was not short on manpower and individual lives in Stalin’s Soviet Union were not worth of a black penny.

I could understand the situation if these people had come from a country poor in resources, but Russia was as rich in resources as any place on Earth. As we know now, the fault lay in a system that fostered the production of military hardware, not mainly for the defence of their country from external enemies, but mostly for the oppression of their own people ... and for the good of the top echelons of the Communist hierarchy. But worse still, this huge Bolshevik conglomerate had robbed its own inhabitants of the most precious possessions one could have: personal freedom and personal incentive to produce.

In the winter of 1939-40, the Soviet Union demanded military bases and large tracts of land in Finland. When the demand was refused, the Soviets attacked. It should have been a pushover —200 million Soviets against four million Finns! But Stalin had committed his first big blunder. The Red Army had lost many of its military leaders during his purges of 1937, and performed very badly. They were mercilessly sent against the Finnish defence lines and slaughtered in the tens of thousands. The expected walkover turned into a nightmare for the attackers. Unlike the small Baltic States, Finland has a very rugged terrain and the winters are much colder. The whole world watched in awe as the small Finnish Army threw back wave after wave of advancing hordes of attackers. But the USSR was not short on manpower and individual lives in Stalin’s Soviet Union were not worth of a black penny.

In just three or four months, several hundred thousand Soviets lay dead but casualties were also heavy on Finnish side. The ratio of casualties was as 10-to-1 in favour of the Finns. Finland was exhausted but it showed the world that the USSR army was a giant on feet of clay. It is believed that the outcome of the Finnish–Russian war convinced Hitler to attack the Soviet Union in 1941. Full responsibility of the Finnish fiasco lay with Stalin alone because it was his bloody purges that had destroyed the officer cadres and their ablest leaders and replaced them with political commissars.

At the beginning of the conflict, England and the other Western nations gave the Finns their moral and even some material support. That support was withdrawn as soon as the USSR became a potential ally of the Western world. Such is politics!

NEXT WEEK: EPISODE 2 — The pleasures of Baltic life ... and some uninvited Russian guests