A Post-war Re-unification in Haunstetten

The war was over. My dad was on his own, not knowing where to go. Only that he did not want to go back to Russia. The train took him to Augsburg, Bavaria. He had somehow gotten word that some of the Rohrbach families were there in a refugee camp. After a few inquiries, he found out that Amalie was working in a bakery. He arrived on foot near quitting time and asked if she worked there. "No, we haven't seen her for some time," was the reply. My dad had no place to go that night and was dead tired, so he asked if he knew where she lived. “No, but you may find her over at the flour mill. Her husband works there.” Not knowing she had even been married or to whom, to the flour mill he went. a man came out of the back, leaving for the day. He addressed my father in Ukrainian. Surprised, my dad asked where he was from. Somehow, the conversation continued, and it came out that dad was looking for a lady named Amalie who was from Rohrbach. “Come with me, I know where she lives,” was the Ukrainian man's reply. Before dark, dad found his cousin, aunt and uncle, and then found out she had married the Ukrainian man. Family was re-united. Everyone was ecstatic.

The bakery today (on the right):

A Return Trip to Germany

A follow-up trip was needed to Germany, which I managed to fit in on my way back from my work assignment in Russia. First on the agenda was to fill in the holes on my mother's side of the family tree, with related photos. First I met with tante Hildegard and gleaned information and pictures from her, as well as a visit to two local cemeteries – named simply the “old” cemetery and the “new” cemetery. The cemeteries in Germany formed a much different impression from what I was used to in American cemeteries. Hildegard appears to be the appointed caretaker of the graves of both her paternal and maternal side, as well as yet another friend with whom she worked with, who “has no one else to take care of it”. Both cemeteries are walking distance from her house, centrally located in the city. She goes there about every other day in the summer and waters the flowers on the graves. The cemeteries are somewhat of a meeting place for the local community, structured like parks, with nice walkways, bike paths and access to watering cans and cisterns for watering the flowers on the graves. They are very beautiful and peaceful places for taking a quiet stroll.

Next on the list was my uncle George, mom's and Hildegard's brother. He is getting on in years and seems to have lost interest in the trail of ancestry. He had a good treasure of old photos, although I was a bit disappointed in the way they were catalogued, or rather randomly stored in shoe boxes. I am now careful to point out to folks the need to label their photos with the where, when and who. I found a lot of old photos where George could not even tell me who was in the picture. I scanned them anyway to see if perhaps my mother will recognize them.

On Tuesday I boarded a train from Augsburg to Giforn to visit the paternal side again. My major objective turned out to be a dud. The wife of my deceased uncle, whom I thought could help with some of the early photos of Rohrbach, was no help whatsoever. She did not grow up in Rohrbach, and apparently her husband never shared any photos of his family with her. “Can't help you, I don't know any of these people” signalled pretty much the end of our brief conversation. Nevertheless I was able to meet with both cousins there and fill in the missing data on their children and grandchildren.

My disappointment with my uncle's wife was more that compensated on Friday, when, on an unscheduled trip to Osnabruck (about 100 km from Wesendorf), we visited a relative who was the son of my dad's aunt Lidia (hence dad's first cousin through marriage), and had known dad in Rohrbach. He had kept in touch with dad over the years, and had once made a visit to the U.S. to see my father when I was still young. This man, age 75, shares my passion for history, remembers dates and times like they were yesterday, and talked endlessly about our family and the times in Rohrbach. My cousin Eduard and I were invited (or somewhat invited ourselves) there for lunch, and by 5:00 we were still talking. He recommended several books (in German) which I am going to seek out in English versions. I definitely want to do some follow-up with him. At his age, his mind is still a treasure of information.

The two days in Wesendorf and Osnabruck has turned up another leaf on the tree. My dad's aunt Sophia married a man named Petrokevich, who had a son and a daughter. The son ended up in England with my father and is no longer alive, but could very well have had children. I believe I may have met the daughter of Petrokevich in Wesendorf. She wasn't clear on the lineage, and seemed to confuse paternal and maternal sides, but I believe I have enough information to track this one down. This could turn up some relatives in England and in other parts of Germany, as well as eventually someone who may still be in Russia.

After Osnabruck, we drove to Bad Oeynhausen to see the son of my dad's other brother. He has two sons, both married, one with children. We had a great dinner and a few toasts of the famous Russian tradition (vodka of course). After lunch in Osnabruck and dinner in Bad Oeynhausen, I don't need to eat for a week. Of course, Lilly called from Karlsruhe and wanted to know my arrival time the next day. I am boarding a train in the morning for my final leg of the paternal visits.

Lilly and Eduard are the last two of the Eduard line of my father's brothers. I was able to clairify a few things while I was in Karlsruhe. First of all, the mystery of how Eduard managed to have a family while in prison. The truth is, he was a free man until 1957, when he was arrested as a former German soldier and sentenced to 25 years in prison. He was apparently identified by an informer, and things went quickly after that. His family then moved to Siberia with a relative of his wife. Times were bad for them, and when my dad's other brother visited them in Siberia, he saw how bad things were and took them with him to Kazakhstan.

The other mystery of destinations after World War II seems to be clearing up a bit as well. Fridolin to the Ural mountains, Eduard to Ufa, then family to Siberia, Sophia marries Petrokevich and goes to Orenburg, Heinrich (I think) still ends up in the Caucasus mountain region. My dad, by this time, is on the run in England, Belgium and finally back to Germany to try and re-unite with his relatives.

Worms (Vinogradne), Ukraine

The Rohrbach trip was finally fulfilled. First we went to Worms, now Vinogradne, a very usual Ukrainian village, a right hand turn off the main road.

Main Road

We were met by an elderly lady at the local orthodox church, the church having been converted from a Lutheran church after the Germans left. What was interesting was that she still spoke German, and told us "I wish you folks would come more often so I can practice my German." She remembered a lot of the old German houses and folks there, but I'm sure she had to be very young when the Germans bolted back to Germany.

The old lady, our local contact, is front and center. Rest of the folks all have ancestors in Worms or Rohrbach.

Babi Yar (and a bit of drama)

I rose up this morning and charted out my Metro route. Red Line to Teatralnaya, transfer to the green line, then three stops to Dorogozychi. I've read about Babi Yar and have seen it on documentaries. Soon after the nazis occupied Kiev, they found a nice deep ravine on the outskirts of the city and set up operations. Jews were ordered to report there for transfer to a refugee camp. Some transfer. They were lined up, machine-gunned down or shot with pistols, and their bodies were thrown into the ravine. There were a few that weren't quite dead when they were tossed in, or jumped in when they heard the gun shot, and may have been only grazed by the bullet aimed at them. They then pulled themselves out from under the piles of bodies during the night and managed to make their escape. I don't recall the numbers of those killed, but I believe it was in the tens of thousands over the course of about three days. This is a mass grave site, now filled in and turned into a park.

There is no massive memorial here like the kind you find in the city commemorating war heroes. I found two small granite memorials and two very crude ones, almost like they were made in someone's garage, which were made of steel pipe in the shape of crosses, the Russian Orthodox version, with two horizontal members. Rather interesting considering that the victims were primarily Jewish. I would imagine there were probably a few Christians that got in there as well. No matter, I'm sure Jesus would have pity on them despite their specific beliefs, and doesn't mind the shape of the symbol.

When I arrived at the site, as is often the case, the reality did not quite fit the vision I had. Instead of the flat plateau with neatly-trimmed grass which I had imagined, the place appeared very virgin, a huge area, maybe 100 acres, criss-crossed with trails, picnic areas and many small hideaways, perfect for shelters of those unfortunate who are forced (or choose) to live on the streets. Up from the metro station, the park - lets call it a wilderness area instead – was only a few steps away. I began walking down a widely-paved area lined with weathered wooden benches. Grandmothers were taking their grandchildren for walks in their strollers, there was one group of three women having an impromptu picnic, and there were some young folks laughing it up and imbibing in some spirits. Ten o'clock in the morning, very common here, any time is drinking time. There were a few homeless people who probably didn't know the date, let alone the time.

After finding my way past the first stone memorial, the path started getting narrower and more overgrown with trees. I could see where fires had been doused and the areas were littered with cans and other debris. I changed direction a few times when I saw some rough-looking youths having a party behind the trees. I topped another hill, and found the second memorial, a granite monument in the shape of the Jewish candle. Nearby I found the first cross made of steel pipe. By that time I was near the other end of the “wilderness area”. There were about four different paths leading away from there. I headed down what seemed to be the widest, and it took me behind some houses into an alley way. Looking like a possible dead end, I reversed after about a hundred yards and decided to turn right. I could hear traffic noise in the distance so I decided to head towards it. I walked into a small wooded cul-de-sac, so I veered off onto another small path which started to descend down at a slight angle. I could still hear the traffic noise, but could not see through the trees. I hadn't seen any humans now for about ten minutes. The vegetation got thicker, the path drew narrower. Soon it was only a small trail. It seemed to end in a small cove, where again I saw remnants of someone's

I was a long distance now from the metro station, probably at least a mile. One way led downhill, away from the metro. The pictures I had seen of Babi-Yar showed a street sort of like on the down-stream side of the dam, and the story was the dam was creeping out into the street, and at one time was in danger of collapse. If that happened, the street would fill with skeletons from the dead. That was about twenty years ago, I'm sure some repairs have been made since then. Part of me wanted to see the bottom of that street, but the better part told me to hoof it back to the metro station. I chose that option. Enough drama and walking for one morning.

                                

The trail ended after this

        

The Holodomor Memorial

Here I am in Kiev, after a stop-over in St. Petersburg to visit the palace of Catherine the Great and a few other sights. That's where this German migration started. Catherine the Great, the German princess, then Tsarina of all the Russia's, the manifesto inviting the Germans to settle into Russia, then her grandson Alexander II expanding that to "New Russia" (i.e. Ukraine).

My first full day in Kiev, after checking "Places to See" in the local tour guide, I find they have a "Holodomor" Memorial. Holodomor is the Ukrainian word for famine. The memorial is specifically for the estimated 8 million people who starved to death during the winter of 1932-1933. At Stalin's order, food was confiscated from the farmers and, at threat of shooting, they were not allowed to leave their villages (see the links to the left). This was to punish them for refusing to give up their land to the Soviet government. The villagers were opposing the government policies.

The memorial was an emotional event. I was compelled to light a candle in memory, and I signed the guest book as follows: "In memory of my grandfather and father. May they live on through their children". My father is not dead, so maybe the words weren't quite correct, but when he goes, his spirit will also live on. "Those were terrible times," was all I could ever get out of him. His cousin was a bit more revealing, and it sounded much like the other accounts I have read; how the people boiled rats and tree bark just to stay alive. The rats were poison, and so many died of disease. Those that survived were primarily in their teens. My dad was 13.

On my walk back from the Memorial, I was still contemplating. As I rode the long escalator back down to the subway, balilaika music was being piped in. It was like all those people were talking to me through their music.....

Wesendorf, Germany

About 50 km east of Hannover is a small village called Wesendorf. It is home to a large population of Germans who emigrated from the former Soviet Union after its collapse in the late '80's. My family is one of them. My cousins Eduard and Lyddia, aunt Amalia, and numerous off-spring from them - children and grandchildren. They are descendants from my dad's brother Fridolin, who was re-located after the war near the city of Sverdlovsk (now Ekaterinburg) in the Ural mountains. When we go into town, its not unusual for Eduard to point at some stranger in the street and exclaim "see that lady over there? She's a distant cousin of your father's." How I would like to meet them all and get their stories. I feel like I almost need to live there to understand.

When these people came to Germany, the German government offered some assistance, particularly job training and language skills. The village is now a typically clean German town, the largest industry being the Volkswagen factory in nearby Wolfsburg. The people have done well for themselves. Eduard and Lyddia live in a small community of new homes which they built themselves, the architecture not totally German, a little bit Russian.

On my last visit, the occasion of Eduard's 60th birthday, I wanted to meet with Fridolin's wife Amalia. Unfortunately, she was laid up in the hospital. I will need to make a return trip very soon, while she is still with us.

Further to the south, near Karlsruhe, lives the other part of the Russian side, from my dad's other brother Eduard, who spent his time in a prison near Moscow, and was eventually executed just prior to his release. He apparently knew too much to be allowed to be freed. His wife died a few years ago, but his daughter Lilly is still alive. I met her at Eduard's celebration, for the second time. She is the keeper of family records, and I vowed to come see her in the near future. She has two sons and a daughter, and a few grandchildren.

Wichita Falls, Texas

I remembered very little about the city in which I spent two years of my life as a young boy after my family came from Germany. Actually we lived in the country, and I doubt we spent much time in the city itself.  The first Ridinger showed up there in the 1920's. He had left Ukraine and headed for Nebraska, where his brother had settled earlier. He decided to move to the WF area and start a dairy farm. His first son was born in Rohrbach, and 13 more sons and daughters were born in the U.S. Many started their own dairy farms. In 1949 he sponsored my dad's cousin, her husband and daughter, who in turn sponsored my family to immigrate in 1960. Most of the dairy farms are gone now and some of the Ridingers have moved away, but with that many children and immigrants, the likelihood of running into a relative is very good.

My dad's cousin is 89 years young, a bit frail but still getting around, but with the mind of a 30 year old. She talked almost non-stop for the parts of two days that I was there. She talked about the orchards. Oh, did she talk about those orchards. Some unimaginable things happened in those orchards....

"I may not be here when the book is finished, but you must finish it," she told me a number of times. Like my father, her spirit after such a hard life was a true inspiration. 

Home for two families (9 people) upon our arrival in 1960

Dad's cousin March 2010

Lincoln, Nebraska

I have finally gotten the motivation to reach out to others who share my fascination with this subject and headed down a parallel path of discovery. The obvious starting point is Lincoln, Nebraska, headquarters of AHSGR and home to their museum and library. It is December in America's Midwest and the weather can deteriorate quickly. A storm is coming in, which prompts me to make the 500 mile journey from Denver to Lincoln on a Monday in order to get to Lincoln before the storm hits. I call the museum first to find out their protocol in case of severe storms. The lady on the phone tells me that they do sometimes close the museum, often in parallel with school closures. I take my chances nonetheless.

I detour off of Interstate 80 south to Hastings, then east along State Highway 6, to the town of Sutton, Nebraska (population 1,700). It is late afternoon when I arrive and already beginning to get dark. I find the cemetery on the northern outskirts and check the board which is conveniently placed behind glass panes under a small canopy. The inhabitants of the cemetery list multiple names of Ochsners, a few Kleins and a few Ulmers, all of which bear some relationship. The name I am looking for, that Jacob Ridinger, is not listed.

I proceed back into town and stop off at the local library. By chance I see a book chronicling the 125 year history of the town. The librarian, despite a frenzy of small children participating in a holiday coloring contest of some sort, finds a few minutes to spend with me and shows me a few collections of books which pertain to my subject of interest. I ask her about other cemeteries in the area, especially in Grafton, Fillmore county. She says there are other old cemeteries around.

I proceed to purchase the 125 year history of Sutton, which has plenty of old photographs of my relatives, and head back on highway 6 towards Lincoln. I soon pass through the town of Grafton, population around 400, in Filmore county. The images I have now are of the landscape, not much different from the rolling fields of Tatarstan in Russia and, from the aerial pictures of Rohrbach and Worms, not such a distant place anymore. I picture what this area may have looked like when Jacob first came here, an untamed and uncultivated region very much like his previous home in Ukraine. Such a shame, though, that he would have to leave his established home in Ukraine to begin again in this new land.

The next days in Lincoln are not productive, but I take this in stride as one of the frustrating times that us researchers must often endure. The storm arrives as predicted and I am snowbound in my room at the Days Inn, with the museum, and practically everything else in Lincoln, shut down. I do manage to call Jim Griess, the AHSGR coordinator for the village of Rohrbach. We have a lengthy conversation of how we are related, how I pronounce my last name, have I been to Rohrbach, and about the regions in France and southwest Germany where our ancestors originated. He says Jacob is buried in a smaller cemetery a few miles north of the one I was in, and he has a photo of the headstone. He has a 4-wheel drive truck and lives about 10 miles outside of Lincoln. We will try to meet at the museum tomorrow.

I am well rested and up at 6:00 am. The snow has stopped and skies are clear, but the wind is now busy re-arranging the previous day's snowfall into even deeper drifts, and the wind chill is well below zero. I take my shower and go downstairs for a breakfast of cereal and bagels. I come back to my room and write to this blog. At 9:00 am I venture out. After a bit of digging, I extricate myself out of the Days Inn parking lot and onto the main street. I see that D street has been plowed so I turn left past the AHSGR museum and see it's still covered with a foot of snow. I turn back onto 9th street and head for the University of Nebraska. Its closed. So is the book store, and the next bookstore, and the next. I'm freezing and looking for a Starbucks to warm up. The fellow ahead of me is carrying a cup of coffee, so I ask him where that coffee shop is, and Starbucks. I hit the first one and spend some time there, then over to Starbucks. Jim calls at 12:00 and says lets meet at Mill Coffee at 1:00. I have an hour to kill so I swing back by one of the bookstores to see if they are open now. To my luck, it is, and the proprietor has a good selection. Three used books and $20 later I'm on my way to Mills.

Jim shows up shortly after 1:00. We talk about family history. He knows all about the Lodi connection. Like me, he's more interested in the history than the genealogy. I get some ideas about where to go next. South Dakota has a good archive. Sutton, due to the railroad, was the starting point in the U.S. Fanned out from there to Texas, California, South Dakota - Sutton was running out of free land. There are city histories in Odessa and Kherson (Ukraine). My next stop is Ukraine! Follow it with Germany, France. I'm ready!