From camp barracks to living free in Australia part III

 Part III of the Binkevicius family journey to Australia.

The views of Italy were very pleasing to us. As the train stopped at one station, we could see the largest bunches of grapes hanging from vines just a few meters away. We eagerly scanned the stations to find an Italian selling fruit or wine, but we were out of luck. There were no vendors in sight, and we couldn’t run to the station cafeteria because the train was being guarded by policemen. They would disembark whenever the train stopped, standing watch on the platform. Despite this, our people exchanged some friendly words with them, as if they were old acquaintances.

The station buildings in Bolzano were magnificent. The Italians seemed determined to build beautiful, representative stations, and they were still following through with this campaign, even during Italy’s difficult economic times. We saw many stations under construction as we travelled. It appeared that they wanted to leave tourists with a positive impression, and perhaps the ongoing construction was also a way to provide jobs for the unemployed. It was clear that the Italians had significantly improved their means of transportation in their tourist-friendly country. The coaches, buses, and railway carriages were all superb, spacious, and comfortable, and many of the trams were luxurious.

When the train stopped in Bolzano, some curious Italians wondered who we were. They exchanged brief words with us through the windows. One Italian even bought a donut and handed it to our daughter through the window, a small but kind gesture.

As the night settled in, we felt a sense of regret, because we still had a long journey ahead through the Italian Alps, and it would soon be too dark to see them. The views had been so captivating, and it felt as though there was too much to take in during such a short time. It would have been better to have had more time to savour the sights, to prolong the enjoyment. But as nightfall approached, we had no choice but to accept the darkness.  We reluctantly went to bed, knowing that by morning, we would be in Senigallia. Our train, like the "Flying Dutchman," sped through the night at a breakneck pace, not bothered by the encroaching darkness.

I woke up to the rays of dawn streaming through the window. We were stopped at an empty platform at the beautiful Bologna station. It was both a pity and a regret that we had passed so many places in the dark without seeing them. Now, there were no mountains or plains, but instead, more towns, houses, and buildings. The predominant colour was a yellow-grey, and the houses mirrored that hue. Only two-wheeled carts drawn by oxen, donkeys, colts, or horses were visible. In the fields, orchards and vineyards stretched out, with more corn than other crops. We watched everything with wide eyes—everything was new and interesting.

Many castles passed by, often perched on hills, surrounded by towns. We passed through Rimini, Castel St. Petri, Faenza, Cesena, Pesaro, and Mondolfo-Marotta. Near Rimini, the Adriatic Sea finally appeared, still partially hidden between houses and trees, but it was there. As we approached Senigallia, the Adriatic Sea revealed its full beauty. Along the shore, summer cottages and beaches unfolded before our eyes. Unlike other places, there were no wooden houses in Italy—only brick buildings. In some parts, the train ran incredibly close to the sea—just 50 meters away. We could see sporting yachts and sailboats gliding across the water.

As we neared Senigallia, our people, aware that the journey’s first destination was imminent, distributed the last of their bread and biscuits to the workers at the stations. Some Italians contributed a few loaves of bread, carrying them in their hands like firewood, pleased with the unexpected generosity.

Finally, our train pulled into Senigallia station. It was a small, newly-built station, surrounded by police guards. We slowly disembarked and loaded our belongings into trucks. The journey to the camp took about 8 minutes, passing through a beautiful seaside resort town with numerous kurhacs, palm trees, flower gardens, and beaches. People were swimming in the sea, dressed in colorful summer clothes and sun-kissed from the warm weather.

The Senigallia transit camp was located right on the seashore, with the beach just a stone’s throw away. The main building was a former Italian naval school, surrounded by several barracks. We were assigned two bunk beds on the second floor of a kurhaus. Our room could accommodate 50 people, and from the balcony, we had an incredible view of the Adriatic. The sea was something extraordinary, a spectacle of colours—blue skies met a greenish sea that lightened towards the horizon, with a bright sandy beach stretching out below.

We followed the order to visit the warm washroom "bačka" and then went to eat. We quickly sold a few packs of cigarettes for 100 lira, which allowed us to buy some delicious peaches, pears, and oranges. Their prices were 50, 80, and 100 lira per kilogram. We bathed in the sea several times; the water was very salty, and when we dried off, we could feel the salt crystals on our skin.

The food we received was typical of an Italian recipe: pasta, vegetable salads with potatoes, legumes, and onions. We also had coffee made from powder. Although the meals were light, we really appreciated them, especially in the heat. In the evening, with friends like Mr. Sedalis, we drank white wine, which turned out to be weak and poor-quality. We never quite got the “cheer of peace” we had hoped for after the hardships of our journey.

Afterward, we went for a walk along the seashore, admiring the beauty of the sea. In the distance, we could see 13 lighthouses twinkling on both sides of the coast.

We hoped to get a good night’s rest after the last three sleepless nights in the carriage. We managed to sleep briefly but soundly. At 5 o’clock in the morning, my wife and one of our fellow passengers went to the edge of the sea to collect shells as souvenirs. They came back with a lot of them, some quite beautiful. In Senigallia, we went through a procedure where our fingerprints were taken for the necessary documents. Fingers were smeared with some kind of black ink. Even the children had to undergo this, and little Gražina had her fingers marked too. They took fingerprints from both hands twice separately, and then four fingers from both hands together. The whole process seemed foreign, almost Asian to us, and it felt strange.

At 5 p.m., we began to be transported to the station, in order of numbers, and placed in freight wagons along with our belongings. There were 22 people in our wagon, and there was enough space for all of us. The police allowed us to move around more freely on the platform. We went to wash up and visited the nearby fruit sellers by the fence. We bought ice cream for the children. The Italian policemen were friendly and joked with us. One of them, named Arata, got into our wagon and accompanied us to Aversa. He bought five portions of ice cream for my daughter, and Grazina shared it with the other children. Our son struck up a friendship with another policeman who spoke English. He even went to the station to buy some souvenir pictures of Senigallia.

At 8:45 p.m., the train finally left. It was getting late, and we were exhausted from the wait. The train left in the dusky evening, and it was a pity that we couldn’t see the areas we were passing through. We had no more than 1,000 lira left, the remainder from the sale of 1,400 lira worth of shoes that Rimas had received in the camp. Despite the darkness, my wife and I often stuck our heads out between the crack of the wall and door, trying to glimpse something in the train’s passing scenery.

An hour into the journey, we entered the Apennine Mountains beyond Ancona. The train wound mostly between the mountains, occasionally passing through residential areas. We stopped in the mountains themselves, and there were many tunnels along the way. The train was incredibly fast in places, and the high speed combined with the loud noise of the wheels made it feel like we were racing through the darkness. It was as if the train might crash into the mountainside or fall into an abyss at any moment. The banging and shaking in the freight car tired us, so we barely slept. Gražina and Rimas managed to sleep much better on the floor, using blankets, but for us, it was cold and hard.

As dawn broke, we could see the Roman suburbs in the morning light. The buildings were large and majestic. The ancient city walls, built by Julius Caesar, stood in the distance. Our train stopped at a suburban station, and after so many hours of travel, the people were eager to step outside for a moment. Men were shouting to women, and women were shouting back. Food was distributed in the carriages—half a loaf of white bread per person, half a loaf of fish-shaped bread, a quarter of a box of meat, and a couple of peaches. Soon, the train set off on a long journey, bypassing Rome in a circle a few kilometres away. The sun rose above Rome in a red circle, and it was truly a shame that we couldn’t see the city itself.  My thoughts drifted to the Basilica of St. Peter and Paul, familiar from postcards, and I imagined the Holy Father.

Through the open door of the freight car, the surroundings of Rome looked poor and miserable. The landscape was dry and dusty, almost like a desert. No trees were visible, and only a few poor brick buildings dotted the landscape, surrounded by small patches of corn, tomatoes, and grapes. There were vast areas of barren land left to the mercy of the sun. My wife told me, after reading, that poor Italians had set up "poverty" apartments in the openings of those ancient walls from Caesar’s time. Honestly, the surroundings of Rome gave me a depressing feeling, and I couldn’t help but feel disheartened. Although Northern Italy was fertile, the area around Rome seemed to be poor too. However, as we travelled further, our opinion changed.

From Littoria towards Naples, fertile land reappeared—cultivated fields and gardens, though the corn and grain crops looked weak and withered. In Germany or Lithuania, the same crops would yield a plentiful harvest, with multiple well-developed ears, but here they were impoverished, often producing only one. Italians planted a lot of hemp, or canapa, which they exported in large quantities.

We passed through Littoria, Formia, and headed towards Naples. Near Formia, where a large railway station was under construction, we caught sight of a beautiful island near the coast with a castle. The policeman accompanying us, Mr. Arata, explained that a prison had been established on the island, where criminals were kept. Here, we encountered the Tyrrhenian Sea, but it didn't seem as beautiful as the Adriatic. The route took us through several long tunnels, two of which were particularly lengthy. We spent 15 minutes in one, traveling at high speed. It was likely around 15 km long, and the air in the tunnel had a peculiar scent, reminiscent of a fruit cellar’s sweet odour.

Several policemen were assigned to accompany our train through Italy, which struck us as unusual. We also saw many policemen at the next camp in Aversa. Whether they were there to protect us from communist attempts or to maintain order with the displaced people, we couldn't say for sure. It seemed like the whole situation had been blown out of proportion, though perhaps we just didn't fully understand the dynamics of Italy.  At the stations we passed, we noticed that one or more policemen were always present.  At dusk, the carabinieri, armed with carbines and automatic weapons slung over their shoulders, became a common sight. It seemed the country feared a communist uprising, hence the large police presence. The policeman, Mr. Arata, told us that the police were above politics and didn’t engage in partisan matters.

From camp barracks to living free in Australia part II

The Binkevičius  family journey to Australia on the ship, Nelly.

On August 5th, we were transported to Seedorf, near Zeven, where we stayed for 19 days. We were given a private room, but to our dismay, it was infested with disgusting parasites. Although food rations had been reduced, we were given some supplies and allowed to cook "at home." We gathered branches and chestnuts from the nearby forest, and on warm days, the room would get unbearably hot from the cooking. Mr. J. Jasiūnas occasionally helped us with food. We got along well with his family and with the family of Mr. Sedalis. Mr. Sedalis would sometimes visit his former private apartment in western Germany, and after these trips, we would have little “feasts”—real bean coffee and even smoked eels. At times, we had more of these luxuries than we did bread or meat from our rations.

By then, Seedorf had been transformed into a transit-only camp. Our close friends, the Protas family, who had lived there for many years, were no longer around. The monumental cross built by Lithuanians stood neglected. We would have liked to care for it, but we had no means to do so.

Despite the hardships, we were eager to leave Seedorf and move closer to our destination. Yet the thought of leaving Europe for good—of leaving our homeland, our relatives, and perhaps even our mother’s grave behind—was deeply painful. Still, the day finally came. We were given the opportunity to leave.

First, we received our transport numbers: I was number 130, my wife was 131, my son was 132, and my daughter was 133. Afterward, we went for a medical examination, handed in our blankets, and my wife and I each received 100 Diamond cigarettes, while the children got some sweets.

We didn’t take any food supplies for the journey—mainly because we didn’t have any—and we were so accustomed to going without food that it didn’t seem like a big deal to go hungry for another three weeks. At 1:00 PM, we were given food cards, but we only bought a pound of butter, as we didn’t have money for meat. We gave the remaining food cards to a German railwayman at the first Austrian station.

When we left Seedorf, I had 2.50 DM in my pocket and a “reserve” of two Australian pounds. We were taken to Zeven station after midnight, where our family of four, along with two elderly Ukrainians, was assigned one carriage (compartment). A German customs officer came aboard and briefly checked my wallet and my wife’s handbag. As a precaution, we hid a small camera (a Zeiss-Ikonta) under our daughter’s coat.

We departed from Zeven station on Sunday, July 19, 1949, at 7:00 AM, after spending the night in the carriage. The first night was uncomfortable; we had to sit up to sleep due to the lack of space. The second and third nights were much better as we spread out on the floor of the compartment.

On the first day, we travelled through Germany. It didn’t hold much interest for us because we had become so familiar with the sights of Germany over the years. Everywhere we looked, there were beautiful brick buildings, well-dressed people, orderly traffic, and a high number of cars and bicycles. Everything seemed to exude seriousness, order, and a sense of self-confidence. Still, many Germans envied us, the emigrants, because life there was hard. Jobs were scarce, unemployment was high, and although stores were filled with goods—especially industrial products—there was no money to buy anything.

The food provided on the train was quite bearable. For lunch, we had warm canned soups—peas, tomatoes, and meat—and in the mornings and evenings, we were served white coffee. In between, we ate black bread, butter, a little cheese, and some meat. While food wasn’t the main concern during this journey, it wasn’t a problem either.

Our train journey in Germany took us through Nienburg, a place we had once ridden through on horseback during our earlier travels from Westergellersen near Lüneburg to Delmold Hiddesen. By 2:00 PM, we arrived in Göttingen. Many displaced persons from the local camp were there to see off their relatives and acquaintances. I bought a "Wochenend" newspaper for 30 pfennigs. During the era of the new currency, newspapers were plentiful in Germany, but unfortunately, we could rarely afford them. Going to the cinema had also become an unattainable luxury, especially in the transit camps. A glass of beer, priced at 30 pfennigs, was another pleasure beyond our reach.

Our train, consisting of long, comfortable Pullman carriages, continued on its journey along the following route: Eschwege West, Bebra (the same route we had taken on our Alpine excursion to Augustdorf in 1947), then on to Bad Hersfeld, Hünfeld, and Elm. Elm, like many other places in this region, was set in an incredibly picturesque landscape. We all crowded together at the windows, marvelling at the views.

At Elm station, a German railwayman, watching the departing passengers with a hint of envy, shared that the local people were struggling with the new currency. According to him, many were living in poverty, unable to make ends meet. Some even resorted to selling their fat and meat ration cards. He mentioned that there were about 16 million such poor people in the country.

The train continued through Gemuenden and Schweinfurt, the latter being the first city to experience a massive air attack by Allied bombers, which ultimately decided the fate of the “Air Battle of London.” It was already dark when we passed through, so we couldn’t see much. After the rich impressions of the day, we retired to our compartments to sleep. By the time we arrived in Munich, we were already asleep, but we woke up around 5 AM.

To our surprise, our train, instead of being pulled by a steam locomotive, was now being hauled by an electric engine. After a couple of hours, we were traveling through the heart of Bavaria, passing distinctive Bavarian buildings and lush green pastures where cows grazed. Each cow had a bell tied around its neck, which seemed designed to make it easier to find a lost one in the mountains.

Soon, the majestic Alps began to appear, and we marvelled at their size and beauty. Standing before such massive mountains, it’s impossible not to feel the great power of God and the relative insignificance of man. The Alps’ overwhelming beauty made everything else seem small and fleeting.

As our train approached the Austrian border, we passed through Rosenheim, Fischbach/Inn, and Kieferfelden. We hardly noticed the crossing itself; the border posts with “Duane-Zoll” signs flashed by in an instant. The railway line runs between two mountain ranges, and as we entered Austria at Kufstein, the landscape became even more breathtaking. There, we saw a lake and a castle perched high on a hill—scenes that were nearly impossible to fully take in.

At Kufstein station, we were delayed for about three hours. One of the three freight cars carrying our luggage had broken down; the axle had caught fire. The damaged car had to be replaced with an Austrian one, and all the belongings were transferred. Fortunately, our family’s things were not in that car.

At this border station, people exchanged the last of their German money. The exchange rate was 30 Austrian schillings for 1 DM. Some bought postcards and stamps, while I splurged on a chocolate bar for 1 DM. Our family—my wife, 15-year-old son, 11-year-old daughter, and myself—was in good spirits, excited about the journey ahead and curious about what Australia would bring. There was talk of possible customs controls. Would they happen or not? As a precaution, I hid my daughter’s camera under her wide dress, our trusty companion on this journey, and the “fifth member” of the family. My wife took charge of the stamp collection, while my wife and daughter tucked a couple of Australian pounds into their socks and shoes. Fortunately, our nervousness was unfounded, as the Austrians decided against conducting any controls.

We moved on, passing through Brixlegg, Jenbach, Soal Bad, and Tyrol. Around lunchtime, we reached Innsbruck, Austria’s fourth-largest city after Vienna, Graz, and Linz. The city was roughly the size of Kaunas, back home. In Innsbruck, we had soup for lunch, and I had a conversation with one of the train conductors. He explained that their engines were German-made AEGs, each with 600 horsepower.

Soon after leaving Innsbruck, we entered a tunnel. Our lively, diverse journey continued through the Austrian Tyrol, with its stunning mountains and breathtaking views. Here, the traditional “Bavarian” buildings continued to stand proudly, a testament to the region’s rich history. Despite the beauty of the land, life here seemed harsh in many places, particularly for the elderly, as farms high in the mountains were hard to reach and even harder to work.

The train twisted through the foothills of the mountains, passing through tunnels and valleys. The air felt fresh, and the landscape was a joy to breathe in. Soon, we reached the Italian border. On the Austrian side, there was a small lake at Brenner, a modest stop before we crossed into Italy. We entered a narrow gorge between two mountains and arrived at the Italian Brenner station, still under construction.

This was a historical place—once, dictators Hitler and Mussolini had met here for the last time. It seemed the Italians were working to build a grand station, decorated with traditional columns. The station was lively, with uniformed officers, mostly policemen, called “carabinieri.” As our train came to a halt, several policemen approached and locked the carriage doors.

The cleanliness at this station was a stark contrast to what we had left behind in Germany. The station was dirty, with paper scattered all over the place, and the people appeared dishevelled—wearing untidy clothes and looking unkempt.  Even the uniforms of the officials were far from neat.

Another train from and to Austria passed by. Through the windows, we could see people carrying their suitcases to customs, opening them for inspection. A Catholic priest rushed by a couple of times—quick and lively, as is typical of the Italian temperament. He wore a cassock, which seemed a rarity in these times, and it reminded me of the priests I’d seen in Lithuania years ago.

Our group was preparing for a possible inspection, which we feared might be coming. The camera was entrusted to our daughter, Grazina, and my wife hid a family heirloom ring.

Soon, the policemen arrived at our carriages and began checking the identification numbers of our “dipukas” pinned to our chests. They called out our numbers in Italian, making the process sound almost comical. My own number, 130, was read aloud as “cento trienta,” which, at first, sounded more like “trantatuja” to me. We all burst into laughter. I jokingly told them that I had been a “dipukas” before I became an “emigrant,” and now I had apparently become a “trantatuja.”

Our compartment neighbor, Mr. Buštas, had brought an empty 2-liter bottle and, with the help of a railwayman, managed to fill it with red wine. In exchange, he gave the man two packs of Diamond IRO cigarettes, a gift from my former benefactor. However, the wine turned out to be a weak, sour variety—typical of the Italian reds, which were of poor quality.

An hour later, two more uniformed officers walked through the carriages, briefly glancing at our belongings. It was as if the customs formalities had never happened.

At the station, we spoke with a young Italian who had a friendly demeanour. He was traveling on the next train from Austria and, upon learning that we were on our way to Australia, spoke openly and critically about life in Italy. He complained about the country's difficulties, though he noted that the situation had stabilized somewhat economically in recent years. He also mentioned that there were several million illiterate people in Italy.

In his opinion, it was good that we were leaving Europe, a place still reeking of gunpowder. According to him, the communists were doing well because there were so many poor and dissatisfied people. I asked him if the Pope’s decree on excommunicating communist Catholics had had any real impact, and he confirmed that it had. He emphasized that Italians were very religious and that the kind of "Gottglaubige" (believers in God) we had seen during the Nazi era no longer existed here. He added that the Marshall Plan had done a great deal to help Italy recover economically.

The young Italian teacher spoke candidly about life in Italy, pointing out that ministers, diplomats, and speculators were the ones who truly thrived here, earning vast sums of money. Regarding the black market, he remarked that “Italy is a country where you can do anything.” We soon wished each other luck and said goodbye, as our train was scheduled to leave Italy late in the evening.

As the train picked up speed, it surged through Italy like a wild stallion. In some places, it rushed down hills at full speed, even with the brakes on, causing the smell of burning oil to fill the air. The friction from the heated axles and steel beneath the carriages created an intense heat. When the train stopped, we could see the smoke rising from under the carriages, the result of the scorching oil.

We passed through Vipiteno-Sterzing, Bressanone, and by dusk, we arrived at Bolzano-Bozen. This was a large city set in an incredibly beautiful location, nestled in a valley between the mountains. It reminded us of Innsbruck, but Bolzano was far more picturesque. The slopes surrounding the city were covered with grapevines and fruit trees. The entire area looked like a vast garden, almost like paradise on earth. I was struck by the fact that, until now, the train had always left at dusk.

At each station, the names were displayed in both Italian and German. I wondered if this was a legacy of Hitler and Mussolini’s “Axis” friendship, still honoured today. It turns out that many residents in these regions are of German-Austrian descent, making the use of both languages necessary. These areas were once part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, and their historical roots are evident in the dual language signs.

From camp barracks to living free in Australia

This account of the journey from Germany to Australia was published in several editions of Tėviškės Aidai in 1960, by Juozas Binkevičius. Juozas and his wife Stefanija and his children Rimantas and Grazina boarded the ship, Nelly, arriving in Melbourne on 5 September 1949. Over the next few posts, I will share his detailed journey.

We registered to emigrate to Australia on January20, 1949, at our camp in the British Zone. The next day, an IRO officer arrived at the camp and added us to the list of candidates.

We hadn’t had a chance to register for emigration to the USA yet—mainly because doing so required guarantees of housing and employment. We were also somewhat hesitant about going to America, as there were rumours that jobs were hard to find, the cost of living was high, and our 15-year-old son would likely have to start working, which would disrupt his education. At one time, Canada had seemed like a more appealing destination, but we didn’t have the opportunity to go there either. We were also disappointed that several families who had emigrated to those countries never sent back any news.

Meanwhile, Australia was becoming a more common destination for families. A friendly former "dipukas" (DP, displaced person), Stasys Mingaila, had already written us a couple of letters with more objective information, which encouraged us to take this step. May God help us pass all the health checks, political screenings, and inspection commissions successfully!

Life in the camp under the new German currency had become extremely difficult.  As more people arrived, my work as a teacher at the camp's Lithuanian gymnasium came to an end. Until February 1, 1949, I had been receiving 100 DM per month. After that, the salaries of four teachers, paid from the German treasury, had to be split among ten of us.  Eventually, after much difficulty, I managed to receive unemployment benefits of 28.80 DM per week, which somewhat improved our situation.

My sister had already left for France. We accompanied her to the train station in tears, not knowing w

hat the future would hold for any of us. An epidemic of emigration had overtaken the camp. More and more rooms in the barracks were emptying by the day, and there was a great demand for boxes and other packing materials.

Finally, after several postponed departures, we set off on May 27, 1949, in IRO trucks bound for the Münster transit camp.  Saying goodbye to friends and neighbours with whom we had shared the barracks—and so many hardships and moments of joy—was very painful. Parting from our brother-in-law, who was then head of the national groups in the camp, was especially difficult. We couldn’t forget the sight of him standing in the middle of the road, tearfully watching our truck as it pulled away.

We stayed in Münster until July 5th—five long and difficult weeks. The food was extremely poor, and we had no money to buy better. Thankfully, the kind Mrs. Chinienė, who remained in the Augustdorf camp, heard about the conditions at this “starvation camp” and sent us delicious baked goods, which we gratefully ate.  People in the camp were outraged by the situation. In addition to the hunger, there was a kind of moral coercion at play.  We weren’t even allowed to take a simple cup of coffee from the canteen.  Everyone had to endure in silence, fearing that any complaints might jeopardize their chance to emigrate to Australia.

During this time, I often visited the camp chapel, asking God for help—help we truly needed. There, we found comfort and encouragement from a young, kind Lithuanian priest.  Sadly, after so many years, I can no longer recall his name, but I remain grateful for his support.  God heard our prayers.  My family and I passed all the formalities successfully and without issue.

One moment that stands out was when my eleven-year-old daughter became tearful after an ophthalmologist told her that one of her eyes was slightly weak. She was terrified that it would ruin everything—that her condition might prevent the whole family from going overseas. It took considerable effort to reassure her that this small issue wouldn’t stand in the way of our emigration.

We were interviewed by the Consul, a brown-haired man people jokingly called “the grumpy one.” To our surprise, he was extremely kind, and the visit went quickly and smoothly.  He asked if I—having once been registered as a worker—would be able to perform manual labour. Apparently, the fact that my passport listed me as a "Worker" caused no concern.  After passing the commission, we were placed on the list of "New Australians," and many who hadn’t yet gone through the process looked on with envy.

Five Orphans arrive in Australia

Imagine five siblings, who survived war, death of their parents, migration to another country and then being informed that they couldn’t stay together. The youngest wouldn't
have remembered their mother and their earliest memories would have been of travelling to Germany with their father, grandmother, uncle and stepbrother.  

This is the story of the Kaitinis family.  When they arrived in Australia, Ansas was 17, Mikas 16, Jonas 15, Adomas, 13 and Hilda was 11. They were all born in the village of Voveraiciai, a farming family. The family left Lithuania in 1941, after the father had been persecuted by the Bolsheviks.  He arrived in Germany illegally and the rest of the family followed.  They resided in Schneidemuehl until after the war when they resided in several DP camps in Germany where their father died in a traffic accident in 1946. Their mother passed away in 1941.  

Their uncle, Martynas barely out of his 'teens himself, emigrated to Australia the previous year to work, on the hydro-electric projects in Tasmania.  As soon as he was able to support his aged mother, Barbora Svikytė-Kaitienė, he sent for her.  She came to live in Tasmania with him. Their stepbrother, then aged only 19, had already arrived in Australia, and was working on a farm at Pyramid, Victoria.  

For the children there seemed little hope for them leaving the D.P. camp, for neither their uncle, grandmother nor stepbrother in Australia could support them, and they could not be accepted as migrants to Australia unless they were sponsored.

Their plight attracted the attention of I.R.O. officials who, noticing the strong family affection between the orphans and their relatives in Australia, were reluctant to send them to different countries of the world.  An effort to secure Australian sponsors for the children was successful, the eldest boys have joined their stepbrother on the Pyramid property of Mr. John F. Wilson. The two youngest boys are at Dhurringile, the Presbyterian farm school near Tatura.  Hilda was sent to Kildonan, the Presbyterian Home at Burwood, a suburb of Melbourne.  Although they were not together, they were in one State and able to see each other periodically.  The Welfare Department were unable to find accommodation to cater to them all.  The Matron at Kildonan stated in the newspaper, that the children shouldn’t be separated and she was worried about Hilda who spoke no English at the time. 

Hilda’s predicament appeared in the newspaper and the Presbyterian Home was inundated with requests to adopt 11-year-old Hilda.  The Secretary of the Child Welfare Department stated that none of the children could be adopted. 

Most of the family later gathered in Hobart while their grandmother Barbora was still alive.  Jonas and Hilda moved to Sydney.

Photo  The children reunited with their step brother after arriving in Australia.

The Sun News-Pictorial (Melbourne)  Thu 6 Sept 1951  Page 3 

Sydney Lithuanian Women’s Social Welfare Society

After the Lithuanian community settled in Sydney, many organisations began to emerge, and Lithuanian-style social and cultural activities flourished. However, women were always needed behind the scenes—for assistance, organisation, and preparations. Much of this work was being done informally and separately in different districts, but it was clear that a coordinated effort was lacking. There was also an urgent need for structured social support work, which could only be addressed by a unified women’s organisation.

At the time, there were already small groups of women active in charitable efforts under the Sydney District Council, as well as in areas like Bankstown and Cabramatta. While these groups weren’t yet united under one body, their efforts laid the groundwork for the creation of a formal organisation.

Recognising this, the Australian Lithuanian Community (ALB) Regional Board—particularly its social affairs representative, Vytautas Simniškis—took the initiative. On 18 March 1956, he convened the founding meeting of what would become the Sydney Lithuanian Women’s Social Welfare Society. Attendees included: Mrs. Ona Osinienė, R. Klimaitytė, Cecilija Protienė, Jadvyga Venclovienė, Bronislava Jarembauskienė, Pajauta Daukienė, Wilhelmina Jonaitienė, Elzbieta Kapočienė, Elena Badauskienė, Sofija Dryžienė, A. Zigaitienė, Ona Grosienė, and Marta Cibulskienė.

At this meeting, Simniškis spoke about the vital role an organised women’s group could play in the life of the Lithuanian community—emphasising its independence and self-governance. The idea was unanimously supported, and the Society was formally founded. Its first board was elected with Ona Osinienė as chairwoman, and R. Klimaitytė, Marta Cibulskienė, Bronislava Jarembauskienė, and Elzbieta Kapočienė as members. K. Narbutienė and Cecilija Protienė were selected as board candidates.

The community quickly felt the impact of this new organisation. The Society rapidly expanded its membership and activities, focusing on social service and charity. Within a few months, the board was restructured, and the organisation became a central part of community life. However, the women of the Society felt that their work should not remain limited to behind-the-scenes tasks or private gatherings.

In 1962, they decided to register officially with local authorities as a charitable organisation. On 25 January 1963, the group became legally recognised as the Sydney Lithuanian Women’s Social Services Association, with its own constitution and formal regulations. It was one of the first officially registered Lithuanian organisations in Australia. This step enabled the Society to organise public fundraising events, such as raffles and lotteries, and manage financial resources for charitable projects—including the acquisition of property.

A major goal of the Society was the creation of a retirement home for Lithuanian seniors—a place where they could live out their later years in dignity and among their own community. Through persistent effort, and with support from government programs, the Society acquired a two-acre plot of land in the suburb of Engadine, a location both beautiful and convenient. With further effort and assistance, including help from the Lithuanian SSR, the dream of a “Lithuanian Homestead” began to take shape.

Tanija Simniškienė, one of the Society’s founding members and most active leaders, chaired the organisation from 1959 to 1961.

As the name suggests, the Society’s work began with practical assistance to other groups: helping the sick, supporting those in distress, preparing food and hosting events, and raising funds for charitable purposes. Despite the demands of such work, the Society took on the ambitious challenge of building a Lithuanian Home for the Elderly—a project many considered too large to be led by a women’s organisation. But the Society’s determination only grew stronger.

Following registration as a legal charity, the long and difficult journey to realise this vision began. Finally, the Engadine land was secured, and financial support was obtained to build and furnish the facility. After 15 years of effort, the results were clear: six brick houses, housing 12 apartments, were completed and fully occupied by members of the Lithuanian community, forming a close-knit and caring environment. If not for the economic downturn in Australia, which led to the suspension of government grants, the project might have been completed even sooner.

Despite the scale of the Lithuanian Homestead project, the Society never lost sight of its original mission. Assistance to the living remained a core part of its work—but care for the dead also became part of its service. The Society arranged funerals for many lonely Lithuanian compatriots, maintained their graves, placed modest headstones, and managed their affairs with dignity and compassion.

The Sydney Lithuanian Women’s Social Welfare Society remains a testament to what can be achieved through unity, determination, and community spirit.