The man who preserved the Kupiškėnai dialect

Kazimieras (Kazys) Šaulys was born in the village of Juodžiūnas Šimonys, Panevėžys district, Lithuania, on 26 January 1908.   Šaulys' life is a rare example when a person, without receiving an academic education, devotes himself to science, acquires skills and leaves behind valuable works.

Kazys was a teacher by profession.  After graduating, he returned to his homeland in Šimonys, where until 1943 he was the head of the Gaigaliai-Šimonys schools and belonged to the Young Lithuanians organisation.  

In July 1944, when the Russian army arrived in Lithuania, many people were forced to leave their homeland. The fact that Kazimieras Šaulys was a member of the Lithuanian Nationalist Union, a member of the Lithuanian Riflemen's Union, alone posed a threat to him when the Russians came, and therefore he was forced to emigrate. 

The five foot six dark haired man bearing glasses stepped onto Australian soil in Melbourne, having arrived on the ship, General W M Black 27 April 1948.  He was single and forty years old. He was transported with the other passengers to the Bonegilla Migrant camp where he would await his two-year work placement. Kazimeras was assigned to work at Woomera, a town being built in the South Australian outback for the Anglo-Australian long-range weapons testing program. The town became a large military and space research testing range, but in 1948 when Kazimieras arrived it was under construction. Woomera is approximately 446 kilometres north-west of Adelaide, with a hot desert climate, with hot summers, mild winters and low rainfall year-round. 

Another Lithuanian Česlovas Dubinskas who lived in Womera wrote of his time there in his book, I was with you always. Written in Lithuania, these are some extracts from his time in Woomera, which mention Kazimieras. 

Life in Woomera was going normally. I had to meet people of different nationalities on a regular basis; many English and Australians worked there also, in addition to migrants.  The whole social life took place in our club, mostly sipping beer.  Fellow workers still lived in the Philips Pond camp. There was also Captain Bennett's camp, where several Lithuanians worked laying cables. 

In Woomera, when I arrived, the first impression was dreadful because the heat in January was awful and hard to bare, especially when during the physical work on railroad, sewer, plumbing, etc. There often were sandstorms, penetrating the mouth, eyes, nose. Cars had to stop because drivers could not see the road. When a storm struck us working outdoors, we had to hide under the floors of future buildings. Wooden houses were built on raised poles, so there was a space to hide under the floor.  Sand was blown into our rooms and administration premises.  After the storm finished, it was necessary to clean, dust the sheets, clothes, and everything else.

Among those at Captain Bennett’s camp was Kazimieras, whom I knew. He could swear very gently: ‘jęczmien’ iežis.  Australians did not understand that this, translated from Polish, meant 'barley', and they complained about it.  Later, Kazimieras was translocated to Woomera West and I used to meet with him frequently.  He read various books and studied a lot of very interesting things.  Previously we did not have a cinema, so we drove to Captain Bennett's camp where the cinema was shown for free.  Later, a territory in Woomera West was surrounded by a high tin fence and an open-air cinema was opened.  Various films were shown four times a week.  I have seen about 4,000 movies for 10 years, because I rarely missed it. When the contractor Matulevičius built a modern cinema in the town of Woomera, I visited it too, but Woomera West was much more comfortable because it was near me.

Despite the hard conditions, the pay would have been quite good and with nothing to spend it on in the Australian outback, Kazimieras became a wealthy man.  He moved to Adelaide and built a house at 38 Third Avenue, Woodville Gardens in 1955.  There were quite a few Lithuanians who also purchased land in this area at that time. He built a solid brick house with generous bedrooms, large lounge, kitchen/meals and several units at the back of the property.  Kazimieras then worked until his retirement for the Australian Postal service. 

Kazimieras was one of the first honorary members of the Lithuanian Society of Adelaide.  He donated money to the Lithuanian press, the Lithuanian community house and the Adelaide Lithuanian parish. He supported the Vasarios 16 gymnasium in Germany and left all his estate to the Lithuanian community of Adelaide. 

Kazimieras was a reticent and withdrawn person. He had almost no friends, and did not seek them out. Rarely did anyone visit him, except for Jonas Bočiulis, who was the late Kazimieras' neighbour in Lithuania and his student.  

Kazimieras died of cancer at the Philip Kennedy Center hospice on 16 December 1993, aged 86.

In his speech at the funeral, Jonas Stačiūnas said: "Today we say goodbye to a Lithuanian whom we knew so little personally. Having chosen a solitary life, he tried to manage his own affairs until the last day. Suffering from a serious illness, he neither complained nor asked for any help and passed away quietly, as he had lived quietly... Rest in peace, having left significant remnants for Lithuania; you will not be forgotten."

 

The late Kazimieras was buried in the Enfield cemetery.  He never married or had children.

Kazys while living in Adelaide wrote a book on the "Juodžiūnai Dialect", from the region he grew up in. The research began as a pensioner in 1968. It is a large work, containing over 500 pages.  It presents phonetic data and a study of the dialect of the village of Juodžiūnai, located 17 km south of Kupiškis.  This is not a detailed description of the dialect, but a certain accumulation of its phonetic data with conclusions and generalisations.  It accurately conveys the sounds of the speech.  Kazimieras did not forget his native speech, but he retained it so perfectly that in his old age he could use it as an object of research.   The linguistic observation of the self-taught researcher is surprising.  The book contains a lot of factual data on the Kupiškis dialect, and beautiful examples of speech. The manuscript was published by the Adelaide Pensioners' Club in 1988.  

Kazimieras was not only interested in dialects, but also encouraged teachers to collect - place names, describe native villages, their customs, and jobs. In Šimonis, the curious teacher has a lot of free time - he devotes it to learning languages, teaching himself Russian, English, German and French.

A memorial will be unveiled today at 13:00 in Šimoniai Church, to honour the native educator and folklorist, who preserved the Kupiškėnai dialect, and who did this far from his homeland. 

 

From camp barracks to living free in Australia - Final

 The final part of the Binkevicius journey to Australia.

What’s Next?

The journey continued, but the atmosphere on board was growing increasingly strained. People were becoming fatigued, sick, and frustrated. With the heat, the illness, and the growing tensions, it was clear that we were all eager for the end of this exhausting journey. The Red Sea was no longer a picturesque body of water but a barrier to the relief we desperately needed.

Would the tensions on board subside? Would the ship continue to make progress, or would it encounter further setbacks? The answers were still unknown, but we all knew we had to press on, no matter the difficulties.

September 9 – First Sight of Australia

We had entered the Indian Ocean, and while the oppressive heat of the Red Sea seemed to be behind us, we were still dealing with the aftermath of the long, sweltering journey. Many passengers, including myself, developed skin rashes from the heat, a reminder of just how taxing the voyage had been. The sun was still intense, but at least it wasn’t quite as suffocating as before.

The Welfare Officer had been organising activities for the children, trying to keep them entertained with dances and games. The men, meanwhile, had begun to take on odd jobs in the kitchen to pass the time, sometimes working long hours, which, while tiring, gave everyone something to do.  With no land in sight for so long, people’s minds began to turn to the future and what awaited us in Australia. Conversations were often about how to settle in quickly and how to start a new, independent life once we arrived.

It was on the evening of September 8 that people began to speculate about our arrival. Word spread that tomorrow we would be off the coast of Australia, and there was a palpable sense of excitement. We had long since stopped seeing any ships along the way. The isolation had been profound, and the long stretch of ocean had felt like an eternity. Our little community on board had grown familiar, and as we all began to think about our new life, we started making small plans, often talking about the land we were approaching.

September 9 – The Long-Awaited Arrival

The morning of September 9 began with a burst of energy. My son, full of excitement, rushed into our cabin and cheerfully shouted that he could see the Australian coast. We hurried up to the deck, joining the other passengers who had gathered, eager to witness the first glimpse of our new home.

What we saw was a breathtaking sight: the Australian mainland, bathed in morning light, stood before us. To the right, we saw a large island with towering lighthouses that gave the impression of a fortress. Another rocky island stood in the distance, and all around us were the birds, signalling that land was near. The air was filled with excitement, and people began to cheer and shout.

Then, we spotted something else on the horizon—a yellow ship. It turned out to be the Dundalk Bay, which had left Naples 36 hours after us, and it was moving at a slower pace. It, like our ship, had raised yellow flags, signalling that there were patients on board, which was a reminder of the struggles we’d all been through. We dropped anchor and paused, waiting for the last leg of our journey.

The Dundalk Bay pulled up next to us, and we were all eager to see the port that awaited us. A small motorboat carrying officers came to our ship. It felt surreal—after such a long time at sea, we had finally arrived at the shores of Australia.

Reflections and New Beginnings

As we waited to be escorted into the harbor of Fremantle, there was a mix of emotions. The long voyage had come to an end, but the challenges were far from over. There was the uncertainty of what Australia would be like, how we would settle in, and what life would look like once we got there. Yet, the hope for a fresh start, the promise of new opportunities, and the thought of freedom kept everyone’s spirits high.

The passengers on board, most of whom had endured hardship in Europe, were now transitioning to a new phase in their journey—one of hope, but also of uncertainty. We all gathered in small groups, talking about the future, about what work we might find, and how to make the best of this new life. It felt like a moment of both exhaustion and anticipation, a bittersweet farewell to one chapter and the beginning of another.

Would you like to continue the journey or delve deeper into what happens next as the passenger’s land in Fremantle?

First Impressions of Australia – Fremantle, September 9, 1947

The long journey that began in Europe was nearing its end. After weeks at sea, we had finally entered the Indian Ocean, and the oppressive heat of the previous months seemed to be dissipating. The blistering sun, which had tormented us for so long, was now less intense, but the effects of the heat had already taken their toll. Many passengers had developed skin rashes, a lingering reminder of the unrelenting conditions we had endured. But the arrival of the cooler ocean air was a welcome relief, even if it came with its own set of challenges.

The Welfare Officer, ever concerned with keeping the passengers occupied, organized dance sessions for the children to lift their spirits. There were attempts to bring some normalcy back, especially after so much time spent in the confines of the ship. Some of the men, eager to break the monotony, were often asked to help in the kitchen, which gave them something productive to focus on.

But more than anything, the talk on board was of the future—Australia, the land that had been promised to us. People speculated on what awaited us: how soon we would be able to settle, where we would live, how we could start a new, independent life. These were the kinds of conversations that filled the evenings. I remember discussing these very thoughts with Mr. Ivčius, a fellow passenger, as we wondered how to best establish ourselves once we reached our new home.

September 9: First Glimpse of the Australian Coast

It was early in the morning when my son rushed to our cabin, calling out with excitement. He had spotted the Australian coast. The rest of us quickly climbed onto the deck, eager to confirm what he had seen. There, on the horizon, we could make out the faint outline of land.

Around us, the sea had grown livelier, with birds flying in all directions, signalling that land was near. We could see the shapes of islands off to the right, their towering lighthouses giving them the appearance of fortresses guarding the coast. Directly in front of us, the rugged Australian mainland beckoned.

Not far ahead, we saw a ship: the Dundalk Bay, which had left Naples 36 hours after us. It wasn’t moving fast, but like our ship, it had raised yellow flags, indicating that there were patients on board. Despite the distance between the two ships, there was a sense of solidarity. We both had endured the same journey, the same hardships, and now, both ships were preparing to enter the same harbor.

We dropped anchor, and the ship came to a halt, waiting for the final preparations before entering Fremantle’s harbor. The excitement among the passengers was palpable, but there was also a sense of relief. After so many weeks at sea, Australia was finally within our reach.

Entering Fremantle Harbor

Soon after, a small motorboat approached our ship. Officers from the port arrived, and they began their checks. We all passed one by one, being examined by a doctor who touched each of our left hands and recorded our transport numbers. The process was tedious, but it was part of the routine upon arrival. The tension from the long voyage started to ease as we realized we were finally within Australian waters.

Later, the Lady Mitchell, a tugboat, arrived, bringing more officials—doctors and customs officers. We were still a few hours away from disembarking, but the atmosphere on board had already shifted. There was a calm, almost peaceful energy that filled the air.

After some time, we were joined by the Wyola Fremantle, another large tugboat, which guided us through the final stretch toward the pier. From the Dundalk Bay, we could hear people shouting and waving at us, but it was too far to make out their faces.

As we reached Fremantle Harbor, we could see how much busier it was compared to what we had experienced along the journey. Ships were docked, and we saw a group of Australian workers, or dippers, arriving at the pier. Some of them were former immigrants who had already settled in Australia, and they greeted us warmly, sharing their experiences. It was clear that many had built good lives for themselves here, and that gave us hope for the future.

At the dock, the ship was unloaded with supplies of milk, meat, and vegetables, typical of the provisions that were regularly brought to Australia from other countries. By 5 o’clock in the evening, the ship set off again, continuing its journey to another destination.

Fremantle: A First Glimpse of Australian Life

The first impressions of Fremantle were striking. Compared to the chaotic energy of our voyage, Fremantle felt calm and relaxed, like a place where life moved at a slower pace. It wasn’t what we had expected—it was quieter, less hectic. The people seemed content, going about their daily routines with ease.

Many passengers expressed similar feelings. After weeks of uncertainty, the gentle pace of life in Fremantle was a stark contrast to the frantic journey we had just completed. Australia had seemed like an unknown, a faraway land filled with mystery and possibility. But now that we were here, we could begin to see the first signs of what our new lives might be like.

There was still much to be done, of course. We still had to disembark, go through the necessary paperwork, and begin the official process of settling. But for the first time in what felt like forever, we could begin to imagine a life beyond the ship. The hardship of the past seemed a little more distant, and the future—though uncertain—felt much more promising.

We had arrived. And though there was still much ahead of us, this was the beginning of something new.

September 10: A Strong Wind and Rough Seas

The journey had been long, and by September 10, the sense of excitement was mixed with fatigue. We could no longer see the shores of Australia, but the weather had taken a dramatic turn. The winds picked up, and the sea grew rough. For the first time on this trip, the dining room saw cups and plates topple from the tables. The ship, once a stable sanctuary, was now tossed by the waves, and passengers were reminded that even the greatest of journeys could be filled with unforeseen challenges.

Despite the discomfort, there was still a sense of camaraderie aboard Nelly. In the evening, a children’s performance took place on deck. The ship’s captain, officers, and a large audience gathered to watch. The children danced beautifully, performing folk dances like “Kepurynė” and “Lenciügelj.” The performances were well-received and provided a small, joyous escape from the intensity of the voyage.

September 14: Melbourne – The Long-Awaited Arrival

By September 14, Nelly was nearing its final destination. The Australian continent was once again in view. For many of us, it was a moment of reflection—a long journey from a war-torn homeland, to camps, to this new beginning. As we approached the coast of Melbourne, people were filled with a mixture of awe and exhaustion.

One particularly enthusiastic passenger—a Pole—shouted that he had seen a kangaroo. The excitement, while understandable, seemed somewhat overblown. From the distance we were at, it was hard to imagine spotting such an animal, but the symbolism of the kangaroo was undeniable—it represented the new life ahead. Even after all we had been through, the sight of land was enough to make us feel like we had reached the “Promised Land.”

That afternoon, the ship dropped anchor in the Port of Melbourne. We were told that this would be our last night on board, and the mood on the ship shifted dramatically. The decks and rooms filled with visitors—friends, family, and fellow countrymen. The young Polish women, who had flirted and danced their way through the journey, were reunited with their fiancés, exchanging kisses and promises. The joy of arrival brought a temporary lightness to the air, and no one wanted to sleep. We stayed on deck, looking out over Melbourne’s twinkling lights and the dark streets of the port.

Melbourne was waking up for a night of activity, but for us, it felt like the end of one chapter and the beginning of another. In the early hours of the morning, the “great migration of nations” began. We boarded trains bound for Bonegilla, a migrant camp that would serve as our first stop in Australia.

Three Weeks Later: A New Beginning in Adelaide

The next few weeks flew by in a blur of new experiences. The Bonegilla camp was filled with many different nationalities, all trying to make their way in this new land. My friend Mr. Jasiūnas and I, along with a few other Lithuanians, made our way to Adelaide, looking for work and a new, independent life.

It was in Adelaide that we began to see the life we had dreamed of in Australia. The sun shone brightly, and we found ourselves sitting in one of the green squares of the city, enjoying the warmth and the quiet of the day. People were passing by, going about their business in the peaceful Australian way. It felt like a far cry from the hardships of the war and the long, difficult voyage.

We weren’t wealthy by any means. In fact, our pockets were still light, but we had a few pounds and some silver coins—our travel money. We were hopeful. There were still a million uncertainties, but for the first time, it felt like anything was possible. I had bought a lottery ticket for one and a half shillings, hoping that I might win a house or a car. My friend, ever the realist, called it a bad investment. But I had hope.

As we walked down Rundle Street in Adelaide that evening, I felt a sense of wonder. Here was life as we had once known it—before the war, before the displacement. People walked by in white dresses, hurrying to the theatres and entertainment. We felt like we had entered a world that was familiar and yet completely new. It was the life we had dreamed of, but with so many miles between us and the world we had once known.

We wrote to our families, telling them of our first impressions: “People live well here. Women in white dresses hurry to the theatres and entertainments. Maybe we too will be happy someday. Maybe we too will save a hundred pounds someday.”

Our dreams were simple, but they were full of hope.

Looking Back – A Dream Fulfilled

It’s strange how time works. Those dreams from our early days in Australia? They came true. Many times, over. Our new life in this land was far better than we could have ever imagined back then, as we sat on benches, holding only the hope of a better tomorrow.

But there’s something we never lost, even after all the changes: our loyalty to this new country, Australia. It became home, but we never forgot our roots. We remained proud Lithuanians, embracing the best of both worlds.

In the years that followed, I reflected on those early days. From the crowded ships to the unknown shores of a new continent, Australia gave us the chance to rebuild our lives. Our families came to join us, and we settled into this new chapter, one step at a time. Through hard work, dedication, and the desire to make a new life for us, we became part of the great tapestry of Australia.

From camp barracks to living free in Australia part VI

 Part VI of the Binkevicius journey to Australia on the ship, Nelly.

August 14th – The Long Wait

I woke up early again, just before 5 a.m., and went on deck to check on our progress. The ship was still anchored in Naples, and the view of the city’s grandeur made it clear—we were still very much in Europe. It turned out that the departure had been delayed because the captain had persuaded a mother to stay behind in Naples with her sick, bleeding child, a heartbreaking situation that pushed our departure back further.

Despite the delay, we finally reunited with my wife and daughter after an hour. They had been pleased with their accommodations, and we were all glad to be together again. The excitement of setting off on the journey ahead started to take over, so we headed to breakfast. The pilot boats and smaller vessels were busy around the ship, making it clear that our departure was imminent.

Breakfast was surprisingly hearty—eggs, cheese, butter, marmalade, coffee, and milk. We ate our fill before climbing up onto the deck. By the time we stepped outside, Nelly had finally set sail. We were well beyond the Italian coast by then, heading into the vast Mediterranean. The day was bright, and the sea was calm. There were so many new things to take in—the ship, the endless horizon, the excitement of moving toward a new life. I couldn’t help but feel a little lighter as we sailed on.

It was nice to see some familiar faces on board, like Mr. Pov. Luknas and his “lady of the heart.” They were traveling with us and, as we soon learned, would be married in Australia. We passed between the island of Capri and the mainland, and as the ship turned left to sail along the coast, the reality of what we were doing—what we were leaving behind—started to sink in.

As we sailed further, I couldn't help but notice how many of the other passengers were already showing signs of seasickness. Even in the calm conditions, some were struggling. I heard the snap of cameras as people tried to capture the moment, but one careless passenger lost his camera overboard, and another dropped his green glasses into the Tyrrhenian Sea. We all laughed, but I think we were all secretly relieved it wasn’t us.

As evening fell, we passed the famous volcano of Stromboli, which erupted twice in a dramatic display of power, sending a mushroom cloud into the air as if to bid us farewell. The sight of it was both thrilling and terrifying. By nightfall, we entered the Strait of Messina. From the deck, we could see a cluster of lights shining from a distance, perhaps 10 kilometers away, the only sign of life in the dark stretch of water.

August 15th – The Restless Sea

That night, the ship rocked more than I had expected. Around 3:30 a.m., I woke up to a big sway, and several neighbors of mine did too. At first, we thought it might be a storm, but there was no storm, only a larger set of waves as we sailed deeper into the Mediterranean. The sea was much more restless, and as the day wore on, the waves only grew more turbulent.

The Mediterranean can be unpredictable, especially closer to Crete. The sea was treacherous, and many passengers, including my son and I, started feeling unwell. We felt a little queasy at first, but thankfully, it passed. We heard that the ship, Nelly, was limping along due to only two of its four engines working. Some sailors claimed that three engines were working, but no one was quite sure. Regardless, we noticed that other ships were overtaking us, and we couldn’t keep up with them. We were slowing down, and it was frustrating.

The food situation continued to be... well, excessive. The ship's kitchen was serving us lavish meals—too lavish, in fact. There was so much food that much of it was left uneaten and tossed overboard. Watching so much waste happen right in front of me was hard to stomach. It seemed criminal to see so much food thrown away when so many people around the world were starving. It was especially painful to think of those we had left behind in the camps in Germany, Lithuania, or even Siberia, who were struggling to survive. How I wished I could share this excess with them.

In the midst of all this, tragedy struck. A child died on board, and we had a corpse with us now. The mother’s decision to come on the ship with her sick child seemed like an ill-fated one, and it cost the child’s life. A "script" card was issued to each passenger for purchases at the ship's store—my daughter received $1.50, and the rest of us $4.50. I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was all some kind of punishment, a reminder that after so many years of starvation, we were now being “rewarded” with too much.

August 16th – The Child’s Funeral

That evening, the sea grew even rougher, and we were rocked by high waves. We were all doing well, but many others were bedridden, unable to keep any food down. I thought it was a strange, harsh reminder of the journey we were on—the constant turmoil, both outside and inside us.

In the afternoon, we had to witness a child’s funeral. The child’s body, wrapped in a Panamanian flag, was lowered into the sea after a short Orthodox service. The ship's engines were stopped during the ceremony, and the ship rocked violently in the waves, making the entire event feel even more surreal. The captain and officers participated in the service, dressed in sombre clothes. The rough sea made the funeral seem like a part of some larger, cosmic event, as though nature itself was marking the occasion.

Some of the sailors laughed and joked about the “fresh wind,” while the passengers, sombre and quiet, watched as a pod of dolphins appeared beside the ship. It was a strange contrast—the beauty of the dolphins, the death of the child, and the tumultuous sea.

August 17th – Slowing Down

The next day, the sea had calmed slightly. Nelly was sailing much slower now, her speed reduced from 18 miles per hour to only 10-12. We had made 280 miles on the first day, but only 230 on the second day. Despite the slower pace, the passengers seemed to be in good spirits, many of them gathering on deck.

In the evening, a group of Lithuanians—about a hundred of us—gathered together and sang Lithuanian songs under the dark sky. As our voices filled the air, it felt like a moment of connection to the past, to the people and the homeland we had left behind. We were scattered across the Mediterranean, but for that brief moment, we were all united.

The weather was getting warmer and more humid as we sailed on, a reminder that we were leaving Europe behind and heading toward a new world. The uncertainty of the journey still loomed, but there was a sense of anticipation building. What would Australia be like? Would we find a new home there, or would we face more hardship?

August 18 – Approaching Port Said

By the morning of August 18, we still couldn’t see land, but there were signs that it was near. A single seagull soared past us, and we could spot the sails of small boats on the horizon. This meant land was close. Onboard, more air conditioners were put into operation to cool the ship, a sign that we were nearing warmer climates.

We had already watched two films on the ship: “Australia Today” and “The Show.” Both films were filled with vibrant images of fruit and food displays—something we had become used to seeing after the plentiful meals on board. These visual representations of a peaceful, abundant life in Australia were not surprising anymore. After a year of starvation and scarcity, seeing so much food felt almost overwhelming, but we had quickly adapted. The films weren’t boring, but they did leave us wondering about the reality of what we were about to encounter. Would Australia be as glorious as the films showed? What awaited us beyond the horizon?

After breakfast, we saw the first signs of land—Port Said appeared on the horizon. The city seemed to float on water, its brick buildings lined up along the low-lying shore. A pilot boat arrived alongside us, and soon the Arabs took over the steering of the ship as we entered the shallow waters. The silt from the sea bed stirred up beneath us, making the water appear murky and dark. A motorboat carrying police officers came to check the ship’s documents, but everything seemed to be in order.

As we sailed past the beach and a prominent monument, we entered the harbor. The scene was busy and colorful, filled with ships from all over the world, and the port was lively with activity. British soldiers waved at us from a military ship as we passed by, and the area felt charged with energy. Small boats filled with Arabs surrounded us, offering all sorts of goods—leather products, carpets, and various trinkets. The prices, especially for foreign currency like dollars, were incredibly cheap compared to Germany. It felt like a bazaar on water.

Most of the Arabs were friendly and polite, but there were exceptions. One fellow traveller, Mr. White, was conned when he tried to buy shoes for his wife. He paid the Arab $10 through a basket on a string, but the Arab returned only $4, pocketing the extra $2. Another traveller, a Pole, was swindled when an Arab sold him a handbag for $3 and then disappeared with both the money and the bag. These incidents were a reminder that, despite the warmth of the people, there was a shadow of opportunism lurking in the harbor.

As the day turned to evening, the view of Port Said from the ship was magnificent, especially with the city lights sparkling across the water. The jazz band on board, which had been improving with every passing day, played music that lifted the spirits of the passengers. Suddenly, a large luxury ship with a glowing dance hall sailed past us, its lights dazzling in the night. Passengers on our ship started shouting, “Umtauschen!” or “Change ships!” in jest, but we all knew it was a fantasy—this was our ship, and we had to make do with what we had.

The Morning of August 19 – Sailing Through the Suez Canal

The next morning, when we woke up, we found ourselves at the 62nd kilometer of the Suez Canal, surrounded by other ships. The ships were moving slowly to avoid causing any accidents or washing up on the banks. We sailed through a narrow channel, passing British military camps and bases along the coastline. British military planes flew overhead, a constant reminder that this was a highly sensitive international zone.

As we moved further through the canal, we passed a camp where a group of camels was grazing. One of our Russian fellow travelers shouted to his wife to see them—apparently, she was a fan of smoking "Camel" cigarettes. The sight of those animals, used as symbols of the desert and the Middle East, was both surreal and fascinating. The entire journey seemed to be a collection of odd, unique experiences that would stay with us for years.

At some point, we entered the largest lake in the canal, which resembled a vast sea. Here, the ships stopped for a while to allow the passage of ships sailing in the opposite direction. It was a strange sight—18 ships gathered in one spot, all of them waiting for clearance to continue. The sun blazed down on us, and we had to shield ourselves from its intensity with hats and sunglasses. The heat was oppressive, but it was also the first real taste of what awaited us in Australia—a land of sun, deserts, and open space.

Despite the physical discomfort, we tried to keep ourselves occupied. On deck, a group of passengers attended English lessons conducted by Mr. Petrauskas, a young man who would later be ordained as a priest in Australia. Rimas, one of the other passengers, contributed to the lessons as well. We were all distracted by the surroundings, the waiting, the heat. Fatigue began to settle in, and the excitement from earlier began to wear off.

We had been on this ship for a while now, and the journey was beginning to feel like an endless passage. But at the same time, we were getting closer—closer to that unknown land of Australia that loomed in all our minds.

August 20 – Struggling in the Red Sea

We entered the Gulf of Suez, and at first, our ship, the Nelly, was making good speed. But it wasn’t long before things took a turn. After a few hours, the ship stopped. The engines cut off, and we found ourselves stranded in complete darkness. The lights went out, and the air conditioning, which had already been a luxury in the heat, stopped working too. The cabins quickly became as hot as an oven, and the air felt thick with the weight of the stifling heat.

Large waves pushed us toward the distant shore. It was a chaotic situation—panicked passengers, a ship stuck in the dark, and a crew trying to fix whatever had gone wrong. This tense and uncomfortable period lasted from 9 to 11 PM. During that time, all we could do was sit and sweat, trying to stay calm while the ship seemed helpless in the vast expanse of water.

Then, suddenly, the engines started back up, and the ship began to move again, slowly at first, but then at a normal speed. The sighs of relief from the passengers were almost audible as the Nelly regained its motion.

August 21 – Surrounded by Water

On the 20th, we left the last landmass behind, and by the next day, we found ourselves completely surrounded by water. There was no sign of land in any direction. The real journey was now underway, the full isolation of the sea setting in.

That day, we had a test alarm. A "manoeuvre" was carried out to show everyone how to react in case of an emergency. The ship was now only moving at 11 miles per hour, and people were starting to joke about it, calling the Nelly an "old woman"—no longer the sprightly vessel it once was.

The heat was unbearable. We passed the Two Brothers—two small islands in the middle of the Red Sea. It felt like we were passing through a furnace. The sea was growing hotter, the air thick with humidity, and everyone was drenched in sweat.

Flying fish darted past us, looking like flashes of silver in the sun, and we joked about them being flying herrings. To combat the oppressive heat, we were given more salted food, which we had learned was a way to replenish what we were losing in sweat. But this only made many of us feel more frustrated and impatient with the situation.

August 22 – No Escape from the Heat

The next night, the heat became unbearable. My sheets and pillows were soaked through by morning, and it was clear that many others were suffering too. People avoided going to the dining hall, where the heat was suffocating. Instead, many of us spent time on deck, hoping to catch a breath of cooler air. But there was little to be found. The ocean around us was calm, but the heat remained unrelenting.

Dolphins appeared in the distance, performing acrobatics in the water. We watched, fascinated by their grace, but even the sight of dolphins couldn’t relieve the exhaustion. Everyone seemed to be growing tired of the Red Sea, longing for it to be over. We were stuck between two hot deserts—trapped in a literal and figurative oven.

Some passengers, desperate for any relief, took to sleeping on the deck. The evening air wasn’t much cooler, but it was a break from the oppressive heat below. It became a strange sort of community ritual—people bringing their mattresses and blankets up to the deck, searching for whatever coolness they could find. A few even climbed into the lifeboats to try and get some sleep, while others scrambled onto the roof above the deck, trying to escape the heat below.

August 23 – Strained Atmosphere

The captain wasn’t pleased with the situation. He ordered all the ship’s property to be taken back inside. The passengers were being too unruly, and the sight of people crowding the deck and climbing into strange places must have seemed like disorder. But when the police (some of whom were spies from the International Refugee Organization) came to move people back inside, a confrontation nearly broke out. The police gave up after a brief standoff, realizing that the passengers were too restless to be controlled.

As the night wore on, the situation continued to worsen. More people fell ill, some from fever, others from the heat. The ship’s hospital became a haven for the sick, with even Lithuanian Mr. Točka helping out. The dining room, once a place for socializing and eating, had become a literal hot oven. Many passengers avoided it altogether.

Twice, the Nelly had to stop for about half an hour—once for an 83-year-old woman who had fallen seriously ill and passed away. The ship stopped again for her funeral, a sombre event that added to the tension on board.

August 24 – A Dangerous Turn

By August 24, the ship finally seemed to regain some of its former strength. The engines appeared to be working again, and the Nelly was able to move faster. But the relief was short-lived. As the ship’s speed increased, we began to notice sparks flying from the chimneys, signs of burning oil. A fire risk loomed over us, and the ship’s firefighters had to act quickly, using water jets to extinguish the flames before they could spread. Fortunately, the danger passed, but it was a reminder that our journey was far from smooth sailing.

That evening, the ship's officers gathered the passengers to give a warning. There had been rising tensions between different national groups on board. The Poles and Ukrainians, in particular, had been clashing, and the officers cautioned against further animosity. It was a reminder that the stress of the journey was starting to unravel the civility of the passengers.

Image is AI generated.

From camp barracks to living free in Australia part V

 Part V of the Binkevicius journey to Australia.

August 12, 1949 was the day that everyone in the camp had been anticipating for days. There had been whispers the morning before that we would be going to the port to board the ship, and the excitement was palpable. The ship assigned to us was the Nelly, the second voyage of its kind.  It was known to carry 1,500 passengers, and to us, its size was especially impressive.  We heard it would be called Nelly II for this journey. However, when the day arrived, there was no immediate sign of departure preparations.  It wasn’t until the evening that it became clear we were not leaving that day.

The next morning, we were told we needed to visit the doctor, a standard procedure for all passengers. It was an ordinary medical check-up—an impersonal “naked” examination, performed separately for men and women. Later, we received our travel numbers on a long piece of paper, a document we had to carry with us on the trip. Our family’s numbers were 1023–1026, marking us officially on the list for departure.

Despite the excitement, there was still a sense of uncertainty. The heat in the camp had become unbearable, and we were eager to leave. It was sweltering even at night, with temperatures that left us sticky and uncomfortable. As we looked forward to the journey, it felt like we were leaving behind not only Italy but an uncertain future, the vast unknown ahead of us.

On August 11, however, we had a moment of calm and peace. That morning, we went to confession as a family, seeking God’s blessing for the long journey ahead.  It felt important, like a final reconciliation before we left everything behind.  The priest spoke several languages, including German, so I was able to help my daughter with her confession in her native tongue. We prayed for strength, for the safe passage of our journey, and for the protection of our loved ones.

The night before departure, we packed our things carefully, trying to bring only the essentials. We bought a kilogram of lemons; a remedy we were told would help with seasickness.  Even though we were excited about the adventure, there was also a sense of trepidation. The ship, the sea, the long journey across the world—everything seemed vast and unknown, and we were both eager and frightened at the same time.

We awoke early on August 12, at around 5 a.m. The morning was hectic. We had to return the mattresses, blankets, and dishes provided by the camp.  After a quick coffee, we lined up by 8:30 a.m. in the camp’s courtyard, ready for transport. Our hand luggage was loaded onto trucks and promised to be delivered to the ship, and we were herded into freight cars, about 25 people to a wagon. There was enough room to move, but it still felt like the start of a long and uncomfortable journey. A few families with small children were allowed to board the passenger trains, but we were not among them.

By noon, we had arrived at the port of Naples, but the wait was far from over. We stood on the platform for a while longer, and then it started to rain. My wife remarked that the rain seemed to be accompanying our departure, adding to the sense of foreboding that hung in the air. We didn’t have any relatives to see us off, no one to cry or wish us well. It felt as if even the weather was mourning our departure.

As the train made its way into the port area, we could see the ship, Nelly, waiting. Between the brick walls of the port and the towering buildings, we could glimpse the chimneys and the ship’s masts. We all hoped that Nelly would be the grandest, the most beautiful ship in the harbour. Our expectations were high, and we imagined the ship as a majestic symbol of hope and a new life.

Finally, after waiting for nearly an hour, we were directed to the passenger terminal. The weather had turned colder, with a strong wind whipping through the air. The heavy rain, the grey skies, and the mood of uncertainty clouded our spirits. We knew we were about to leave Europe, leaving behind our homeland, our fathers’ graves, and our families. We wondered if we would ever see them again, or if we would find our final resting place in Australia, far from the lands of our ancestors.

The train finally moved towards the open port, and we saw Nelly in all its glory, beautifully lit, ready to carry us across the seas. It was a sight to behold. But as we disembarked onto the platform, we were left shivering in the cold. We had come from hot weather and were lightly dressed, having given our coats and belongings to the transport. The cold was biting, and we stood there, waiting, wondering when we would finally board the ship that would take us on the longest journey of our lives.

After all the waiting and the hustle of boarding, we were finally taken to a large, thankfully warm hall at the port station. The crowd of 1,500 people was massive, and it moved slowly as we shuffled from one table to the next. At each table sat a row of officials who smiled at us, giving us the impression of wishing us a good journey. We were handed our passports, food cards for the ship, and place cards that would tell us where to go on board.

As I looked at the room numbers, it became clear that families wouldn’t stay together in the same section of the ship. Women and men would be placed in separate rooms. It was a sobering thought, but at that point, we were so focused on the journey ahead that we didn’t dwell on it for long.

Once we boarded the ship, the line of passengers stretched out onto the passenger platform. As each person stepped aboard, they had to hand over their freshly received passport to the ship’s officer, another step in the seemingly endless process.

My wife and daughter were assigned beds in room D5, while my son and I found our places in "Compartment" D2. The cabin was basic, but we were too tired to care. We had barely settled when the family split up. The female members of the family were directed to the back of the ship, while my son and I were told to wait in the dining room because the men’s room wasn’t yet cleaned. So, we sat down in the Mess Room, which was busy and chaotic, filled with fellow passengers.

The day had been long, and we were all hungry.  From Aversa to the port, the only food we had received was a half of a white cake and 1 pound of canned liver for twelve people. It had been a meagre meal, and our stomachs were growling in anticipation of what would come next. Some passengers had warned us that the food on Italian ships could be terrible, but we were still hopeful. As we lined up for our first meal, I was cautiously optimistic. What we got, however, surprised us.

The buffet offered a mixture of porridge, half-soup with bacon, boiled ham, pasta, and peas. But the best part? Real bean coffee. It was more than I had expected, and I quickly filled my bowl with pasta, thinking it would be just like a normal meal. I was wrong. The food was greasy, the kind of heavy, fatty fare that I could only take in small amounts. By the time I reached the halfway point, I had to stop. I couldn’t handle any more. My Russian neighbour next to me seemed to enjoy it, though, cleaning up every last piece of bacon.

My son also couldn’t eat it all, and my daughter seemed more interested in the ham than the pasta.  As for my wife, she ate with gusto but couldn’t hide her disgust, shaking her head after each bite.  I felt a bit relieved to know I wasn’t alone in not finishing the meal.

We made our way to room D2 soon after. The room, however, was a disappointment. It was filthy—no one had bothered to clean it. The beds were unmade, and there were no sheets.  But we didn’t give up.  We managed to get sheets, blankets, towels, soap, and toilet paper, just a bit of comfort in the chaos.

We heard from other passengers that the ship was scheduled to leave at 11 p.m., so I went up to the deck and waited. The night air was cool, and I stood there hoping to catch a glimpse of the ship leaving port. But, as the hour approached, the police escorts appeared, telling everyone to go to bed and leave the deck. It was a letdown. I had hoped to watch Europe slip away behind us, but it wasn’t meant to be.

That night, I didn’t sleep well. I kept asking myself, Is the ship sailing? The hum of the engines and the operation of the fans made it hard to tell. I thought I could hear movement, but it was impossible to be sure. Was it the ship leaving, or was I just imagining it?

In the end, I drifted off to sleep, with only uncertainty and the faint sound of the ship’s machinery keeping me company. The next chapter of our journey was about to begin, but it felt like we were still in limbo, caught between the known and the unknown, waiting for the inevitable shift into a new life.

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From camp barracks to living free in Australia part IV

 Part IV of the Binkevicius journey to Australia.

On Wednesday, July 28, 1949, our train arrived at Aversa station. The electric train split off, and we were pushed onto the spare tracks by an old steam locomotive. The area in front of the wagons was a mess, with pools of stinking water, which assaulted our senses and hinted that the pristine cleanliness of Germany was nowhere to be found. An Italian man passed by, selling small melons—watermelons for 30 lira each.  My family bought one. Soon, a truck arrived at each wagon, and the people climbed into it with their belongings.  Everything was new to us, and we found it all quite interesting.

We drove through dusty streets, entering the Aversa camp, which was made up of white brick houses that reminded us of Africa. We were lined up for about half an hour under the scorching sun in an open square before we were assigned our apartments. We were given beds in a common clean barrack, number 37. There were no tables or benches, just beds. The washrooms had sufficient water, but the heat in the camp was unbearable. A few days later, we were given a separate room in barrack 17 because, in our original barrack, two children were coughing suspiciously—likely suffering from whooping cough. The other families and I were deeply concerned for our son and daughter. The camp was extremely hot, with temperatures reaching 45–53°C during August, making it nearly impossible to work or sleep. The heat was overwhelming, and we hoped it wouldn't be so unbearable in Australia.

In this camp, people had no trouble venturing into the city. They could go in and out, even after dark, up until 11 PM.  The darkness here arrived much earlier than in Germany or Lithuania—by 8 PM, it was already night. However, this had its advantages, as only in the dark, when the temperature dropped slightly, did the streets come alive.  Italians would gather on the sidewalks in front of their apartments, chatting, playing cards, drinking beer or wine. Shops stayed open late into the night, and trade flourished after dark.  During the day, commerce was only half as busy.  Many people in Italy lived in poverty, which wasn’t surprising, considering that work was hard to come by, and the unemployment rate stood at 4 million.  Little children, some no older than 3 or 4, could often be seen helping their parents with work. You’d see a group of children pushing a two-wheeled cart, their skin sunburned, ragged clothes, always dirty, and almost all of them barefoot. There were very few people dressed well.

The wealthy had beautiful apartments with lovely gardens, but most shops were very basic. Goods were often displayed on the doors of homes or in boxes on the street, turning the sidewalk into an informal market. You could see food products—hams, sausages, and bacon—hanging out in the open, collecting dust and attracting flies. These images were unfamiliar to us, especially when the streets were filled with all kinds of smells. As the heat subsided, the streets became a frenzy of movement—trucks, cars, cyclists, and carts all driving at high speed. Car horns blared loudly, and drivers competed to make the most noise, in line with the Italian temperament.

One particularly memorable street scene:  A boy was leading a goat down the street. He stopped in front of a house where a milk jug was lowered to him by a rope from the second floor. He immediately began milking the goat, then poured the fresh milk into the jug.  After that, he moved on to the next house. It was an interesting sight—selling milk straight from the source. Perhaps it was also a way to avoid milk fraud, as there seemed to be many tricksters among the poor.

Every day, a fruit vendor would drive past our camp with his cart, often pulled by a donkey or a horse. The fruit sellers used simple, unstamped scales—bezmenus—which, in their hands, became their trusted tools. These scales often showed the weight that the seller wanted, and it was hard to argue with them. They’d roll their eyes, and if you bargained, they’d give you a “discount” by adjusting the weight.  It became clear that the entire family was involved in the business, and the children quickly learned the tricks of the trade from an early age.  Our fellow displaced people picked up a bit of the Italian language, learning phrases like "Prima" or "Prima gruški"—which sounded more like a local lexicon than standard Italian. These scenes often reminded us not of Europe, but of some far-eastern country.

At the camp's market, future Australian citizens would often sell various items, like shoes, old watches, and clothes.  Much of what was sold came from charitable organizations—Balfour, UNRRA, Ireland, and others—at incredibly low prices. The fruit was cheap as well: lemons were 100–180 lira per kg, tomatoes, peaches, apples, and pears cost 20–30 lira per kg, and grapes went for about 80 lira per kg.  Over the 2-3 weeks we spent in the camp, the displaced people sold much of their belongings, clearing out their suitcases of "stolen goods." These sales were sometimes quite comical, as many of the vendors were just trying to make a living. The market often took place along the barbed wire fence surrounding the camp.

From the street to the fence, Italians and migrants alike were engaged in a unique form of trade. The migrants, after escaping years of hardship in German camps, had a renewed sense of cheer and optimism. Their mood was lighter, sometimes even carefree. In the early days, however, there was a certain wariness and distrust between the two groups. The displaced people would hold onto the end of a garment or, for example, offer only one shoe over the fence, with the money being exchanged at the same time. This setup required some coordination—the left hand would hold the end of the item, while the right hand would make sure the money made it across. But over time, trust was built, and solidarity began to emerge between both sides.

Italians, understandably, tried to buy at the cheapest possible price, minimizing their risk. Even if the item turned out to be of poor quality when they got home, they wouldn't suffer any significant loss. Many of the negotiations were done from a distance. An Italian would sit on a stone about 10 meters away, while the migrant vendors, standing behind the barbed wire fence, would display the item and indicate the price with their fingers, usually in hundreds of lire. The Italian would respond with a lower offer, signalling a reduced price with fewer fingers. This became a common way of striking deals.

A lot of the trading took place in the evening, in the dark, and on the open street. When the vendors wanted to sell alarm clocks, they would ring the bell, drawing the attention of potential buyers. Italians would rush toward the sound of the bell. Interestingly, the Italian police tolerated these "bargains" and even took part in the exchanges themselves. After leaving your food card with the guard, you were allowed to venture outside the camp for about half an hour to engage in the trade.  One young man
even came to the realization that shoes looked better on the foot than when displayed in hand. So, he went to the market wearing shoes and came back barefoot. It was certainly a moment that brought laughter to all involved.

I won’t bore the reader with lengthy descriptions of our excursions to Pompeii, Capri, or Naples. Those trips were memorable and full of joy, and we will cherish them for a long time.  We explored and marvelled at the sights, feeling like "the richest of the rich," and all of it was achieved with just a few packs of cigarettes.

It’s difficult to convey everything in the few lines of a newspaper, but it seems these notes serve as historical documents. They tell the story of the thousands of Lithuanians who, having lost their homeland, sought hospitality and humanity in far-off Australia. Perhaps these descriptions deserve to be published separately, so that future generations can understand the journey their fathers took—the struggles, the hardships, and the resilience of the people who endured those times.

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.