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.

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.

Useful sites

From time to time I come across some great resources relevant to Lithuanians in Australia.  Here is the latest.

The Lithuanian Studies Society at the University of Tasmania has produced an annual journal for 28 years. It features articles about Lithuania written in English on a variety of subjects. It is a great read and from this year the publication is only available online. You can view and download it here for free.

ORT and Displaced Persons Camps

The letters O-R-T form the Russian acronym for "Obschestvo Remeslenovo i zemledelcheskovo Trouda", meaning The Society for Handicrafts and Agricultural Work.  This reflects the conditions that prevailed when ORT was conceived, when the acquisition of agricultural and manual skills were the key to employment. ORT is one of the largest non-governmental education and training organizations in the world.

It is a private, not-for-profit organization that meets the educational, and manpower training needs of contemporary society with more than 3,000,000 graduates worldwide since its inception.  It maintains a non-sectarian, non-political position in its education and training provision. 

 

ORT was founded in St Petersburg in Tsarist Russia in 1880 to provide employable skills for Russia’s impoverished Jewish people.

 

ORT have made a website on the organisation and its involvement in Displaced Persons camps after WWII.  It contains general information on camps which may be of use.

Max Fatchen writes about Lithuanians

Max at his Angle Vale home using his beloved "Ivan the Imperial" typewriter. 

Today we mourn the death of one of South Australians most iconic writers.  

Max Fatchen, born 92 years ago at Angle Vale has entertained readers, both young and old with his stories in the Advertiser newspaper and his books.  He said of writing "Writing is living, dreaming, creating new worlds, inventing characters and bringing them to life for other people to enjoy and read.  My pen is always hand.  I watch and listen and my mind brings me rhymes and rhythms and my typewriter beats them out".

He wrote of everyday people and their extraordinary life.  In 1967, he met several Lithuanian's and wrote their story in the Advertiser.  Here is the article.

Lithuanians keep up artistic tradition

When the long icy winters hung over Lithuania, recalls Mrs Ieva Pocius, of Myrtle Bank, her mother put cotton wool and charcoal between the inner and outer windows of her home to absorb the moisture and keep the windows clear in the knife-edged cold.

This drought stricken summer Mrs Pocius, with many other Adelaide housewives, will be keeping out the dust.

She is more than a housewife.  I found her in her studio, if that’s the right name for the place where a sculptress works skilfully with metal, fashioning it into abstract shapes with a welding outfit.

She said: “Its easier than using a washing machine.  You have a feeling of power, melting metal down, controlling it”.

She paused to talk about the fulfilment of life in Australia and it was then she recalled the frost patterns on the window of that far off Lithuanian home, the tall dark trees of the forest where her father a forester and the way Lithuanians whittled with wood in the winter nights and made wood carvings one of the country’s notable arts.

Mrs Pocius has kept up the artistic tradition and it was here that she developed her talent at the South Australian School of Art.  She is now an accomplished sculptress, and a lecturer as well.

She is also an example of the way Lithuanians who came to Australia after World War II have adapted themselves yet retained something of their own culture to share with other Australians.

Lithuanians are looking back this month, for next Saturday a social at Lithuanian house, Norwood with its museum and hall and its reminders of this small Baltic country will recall the arrival 20 years ago of the first Lithuanian migrants after World War II.

Lithuanian are aware of the Communist domination of their country and their memories on this score are sad ones.  Yet they are determined and progressive people and they have fitted well into contemporary Australian life.

They’re shy about their success stories.  The fact that most of them have been successful is showing in the imposing list of engineers, architects, chemists, lawyers, doctors (including three in one family) and musicians among the 1,800 people of the Lithuanian community in South Australia.

It was 2am when Mr A Sliuzas first saw Australia in 1947.

Behind him were the refugee camps of Europe and ahead of him was a hope.  Later he wandered around Perth, amazed at the contrast with ruined Europe and surprised at the buildings and obvious signs of progress around him.

He came to Adelaide in 1948.  He worked on a waterworks project, later became a hospital orderly at night so that he could study engineering during the day.

Then he found it too much so he became a builder instead. He built service stations, bridges and even schools.  Now he has a property he is developing at Forest Range. As a naturalised Australian he also has a powerful feeling for his new country. 

When Mr Pranas Matiukas came to South Australia 19 years ago, he didn’t have many possessions but he brought his two violins. He had graduated from Kaunas Conservatory in Lithuania but intended making law his living.  The war ended all that. 

He found the sunlit vineyards of Renmark stimulating after the bitter European winter.  He picked grapes in the day time. At night he played the violin at social evenings while his employers wife played the piano, but it was several years before he could play professionally. 

His wife and daughter Emily (She’s 20 now and a kindergarten teacher) joined him from Europe.   He said “I worked as a hospital orderly, did some painting jobs. But I looked after my hands”.

He uses them now to good effect as a violinist with the South Australian Symphony Orchestra.   He said “Australian Symphony Orchestra compare very favourably with similar city orchestras in Europe. But I wish Adelaide had a permanent opera”.

He recalled that before World War II, the Lithuanian city of Kaunas with 150 000 people had a permanent opera company which performed for 10 months of the year. “And we had a ballet too”.

Mr Matiukas and his family still talk Lithuanian at their Everard Park home, because it is good for their daughter to have a second language and Lithuanian is meaningful to her. 

Life in Australia has meant readjustments.

Mr V Raginis, 57, President of the Lithuanian community smiles  when he contrasts his former job with his present one.  Now he’s a first class machinist. In Lithuania he was a senior inspector of taxation.  

He began by sweeping factory floors in Australia.  He was amused at the lecture by a well meaning major at Bonegilla migrant camp in Victoria soon after his arrival.  The major had said “ You must forget everything and start a new life.  Don’t look back”.  “Its hard” reflects Mr Raginis to chop the past. About 95% of Lithuanian's here are naturalised but the past is very real to us”.  But he keeps it in perspective. 

Sixteen year old Maria Neverauskas of St Mary’s and 14 year old Giedre Straukas of Highgate can tread the lively and graceful measures of Lithuanian national dancers but they are Australian born and contemporary in outlook. They enjoy the customs of Lithuania especially at Christmas.  “I think” said Maria “that these customs enrich your life.  After all Australia is forming its culture, and Lithuania has a very old culture.  One has something for the other”.

The Advertiser Nov 18th, 1967