From Russia with Lunch (2 page)

To combat this trend, Jewish welfare groups in Hamburg and London not only posted warning placards in Yiddish around the docks but also established a system whereby migrants were escorted from their trains to the waiting vessels. If their connections were not immediate, migrants were housed in enormous government-built dormitories where accommodation and food was charged at one mark (around 25 cents) a day, the profits from which were directed into the relevant state authorities' coffers. A not-for-profit, these were not.

Moses most likely travelled on the Kirsten line, which plied the waters between Hamburg and London every Monday and Friday. In the British capital, he would have been assisted by an agent from an organisation such as the Jewish Board of Guardians or the Poor Jews' Temporary Shelter. While undoubtedly possessing some altruistic motivation, the primary goal of these organisations was to facilitate the efficient movement of such strangers to somewhere far, far away, lest they be thought of as encouraging the arrival of immigrants as opposed to funnelling them through to shipping lines. The Poor Jews' Temporary Shelter formed a particularly strong alliance with the Union-Castle shipping firm, which offered passage to South Africa. Newman tentatively – his word – concludes that many migrants bought as a single package a ticket from Lithuania to South Africa on the Union-Castle line. A crucial part of this arrangement was the Shelter meeting migrants in London, housing them for a few days and then seeing them onto boats which often departed from Southampton.

And so it was that in Southampton Moses Dibobis – go on, sing the rest – stepped on board HMS
Repulse
on 28 March 1925 for the month-long voyage to a land of promise. The monotony of steerage class travel at the time was so pronounced that many a romance developed on board. So entrenched was the phenomenon that in the cabins of one such ship travelling between Britain and America the following notice was posted: ‘All couples making love too warmly would be married compulsorily at New York if authorities deemed it fit or should be imprisoned.' Three questions: how do you make love too warmly, what crime could you be charged with and would it stand up in court?

The
Repulse
travelled via Gambia, Sierra Leone and Nigeria. On 30 April 1925 it pulled into Cape Town and berthed beneath the hulking magnificence of Table Mountain. Always partial to a bit of flamboyance, Moses stepped off the gangplank amid streamers, applause and the strains of a brass band in full cry. ‘Oy!' he recalled thinking, in years to come. ‘These people sure know how to make a boy feel welcome.' Alas, Moses wasn't the only man on board with important business ahead of him. Up on the first class deck, smiling his thin-lipped smile, was the Prince of Wales who would later exhibit a penchant for a certain American divorcee. He had come to muster support from an Afrikaaner population whose burgeoning nationalism would eventually result in the apartheid regime.

While Moses' arrival story was undoubtedly a cracker, it was unfortunately not true. Although the brass band, blinding sunshine and looming mountainous background had made their way into family lore, my grandfather's passport has him leaving Germany on July 24 1926 en route to South Africa. A full year after the Prince's visit. After the initial surprise that came with hearing that this chapter of our history had been somewhat embellished, the family concluded that Moses had appropriated the tale from an earlier traveller and dovetailed it into his library of autobiographical belters. At the time, stealing another comic's material was not the heinous sin it is today.

What is certain, however, is that shortly after he arrived in South Africa, Moses Dibobis became Maurice Dibowitz as that is how his name sounded to the immigration official at the end of his line. Another person to take on this patronymic was a young Capetonian named Anne Jaffee whose parents had also migrated from Lithuania and ran a boarding house where she met the young Maurice. They married in 1935 and two years later my mother arrived. Her name is Renecia, which my grandmother made up on the grounds that it sounded pleasant and looked unique. She could never have known that some seventy years later it would sound like all the other ghetto-fabulous names on
The Ricki Lake Show.

Renecia Dibobis became Renecia Smiedt in 1959, with both sets of my father's grandparents also hailing from Lithuania a generation before Maurice heard the band. Our ludicrously opulent lives under the apartheid regime have been chronicled in my previous book,
Are We There Yet?,
but the Lithuanian ancestry was rarely spoken of. We knew that was where we had come from and that seemed to suffice. The only visual reminders of this history were three copper pots that my mother's grandmother had smuggled out of tzarist Russia containing the family's food for the journey ahead. These were polished weekly by our black servants.

When we ourselves migrated to Australia in 1987, the parallels between us and our fleeing forebears were so slight as to be embarrassing. Example: to circumvent foreign exchange limits, EACH MEMBER of my family had a Mercedes Benz included among the household belongings to sell at a later date. The Lithuanian connection faded further into the background where it now resembled the faintest of frescos. Until the first time I met the woman who became my mother-in-law. Deeply Christian, she was a little wary when her youngest child Jennie brought home a Jewish boy with love in his heart and happily ever after on his mind. One of the first things she said to me was, ‘So. Tell me about your people.'

It was an innocuous statement bereft of malice, yet some ingrained Semitic psychological reflex twitched and I replied with, ‘Oh. You mean the Chosen People.' I still don't know why I took her polite enquiry as a challenge, but I suspect it's because I didn't actually have an answer. Certainly, I'm Jewish, but I haven't seriously practised since 1989 when my father died at fifty-four from cancer and the tenets I had so stringently adhered to until that time failed to provide succour for my grief. Some elements of the faith – such as the forbidding of tattoos in remembrance of Holocaust victims – I adhere to. Others, such as the idea that seafood is a sin and donating your organs is an insult to your maker, I have no time for. That said, I cherish the culture – most notably its humour tradition. Yet I don't identify myself with the Jewish community. I'm definitely not a Zionist as many of the atrocities carried out by the state of Israel have prompted similar shame as those carried out by the apartheid regime under which I experienced a privileged upbringing thanks to my complexion. As valued as it is, Jewish would be the adjective I'd choose when it came to self-categorisation. But what of the noun?

South African? Beloved country though it is and although I was born there – as were my parents – it is no longer home and will never be again. Jewish Australian then? Almost, but after twenty years, my rampant affection for the place has still not diluted a lingering sense of otherness. Perhaps my children will feel differently. Perhaps my feelings are the historical lot of first generation migrants. It all went back to Lithuania, where every branch of the family tree had its roots. These were, by process of deduction, my people. While certainly not naive enough to expect a spiritual homecoming of any sort, it was perhaps there that I could formulate a substantiated response to my mother-in-law's request. Perhaps not. But there was only one way to find out.

Lest you think of me as a noble-minded amateur genealogist, let's kick that notion to the kerb right now. Sure, I wanted to visit the villages – known as
shtetls
– that my ancestors had called home for centuries, but more importantly I had a desire to acquire a sense of Lithuania in the here and now. I wanted to watch its sunsets, eat its food, drink its beer and rejoice in all the idiosyncratic silliness that occurs when a former third-world Soviet bloc nation grasps first-world western culture in indiscriminate armfuls.

Lofty heritage-induced motivations aside, the spark that eventually led me to the travel agent was a newspaper clipping gleaned from deep within a Sydney daily. In 2006, the first ever Miss Long Haired Lithuania beauty pageant took place. First prize? A mountain bike! This of course meant that the very attribute which ensured victory could lead to a contestant's death courtesy of the trophy. Moreover, this was a mere shuffle towards propriety from the previously held Miss Disability and Miss Prison Inmate competitions held in Lithuania. Such endeavours were not only politically incorrect and in questionable taste, but they were also unashamedly intriguing and unapologetically silly. Perhaps these were my people after all.

1

If it ain't baroque …

In the 1920s a Jew travels from his small Lithuanian
shtetl
to Vilnius. When he returns, he tells his friend of the wonders he has seen: ‘I met a Jew who had grown up in a
yeshiva
and knew large sections of the Talmud by heart. I met a Jew who was an atheist. I met a Jew who owned a large clothing store with many employees, and I met a Jew who was an ardent communist.'

‘So what's so strange?' the friend asks. ‘Vilnius is a big city. There must be over a million Jews there.'

‘You don't understand,' he replies. ‘It was the same Jew.'

The standard interrogative pattern of a travel agent taking a new brief is ‘Where?' followed by ‘When?' In my case, it was ‘Where?' followed by ‘Why?' Since I had only recently figured out the answer to the second question myself, I gave him the ‘my people' spiel, complete with the Miss Long Haired Lithuania kicker. His response was one of deep and abiding ambivalence. Which was supplanted by, ‘You know you can't fly direct to your people.'

No matter, Maurice had travelled via the hub of London and I would do likewise to the Lithuanian capital of Vilnius. Albeit through a Dutch nexus. A fine and noble theory. Several weeks later, I would put it to the test. The flight from Sydney to Amsterdam via Kuala Lumpur takes twenty-four hours and by the time I arrived in Holland's capital, I was all hubbed out. Jet lag was the school bully and she had held me face down in the sandpit until my eyes were raw and gritty, any sense of orientation was lost and I desperately wanted to dob. Still, there were five hours to kill at Amsterdam's Schipol Airport, which turned out to be a distracting microcosm of all things Dutch.

Between the terminals stood an outpost of the marvellous Rijks Museum exhibiting some two dozen works of Dutch realism. It was a theme that was extended into the duty-free shop next door where, alongside the Playstations and perfumes, stood rack upon rack of hardcore pornography. Who buys X-rated material in such abundance that they feel compelled to save on the duty? Still, it made for interesting browsing with my favourite titles being
Pirates of Caribbean: Curse of the Black Pearl Necklace, Pulp Friction
and
Million Dollar Booty.

One's first impressions of Lithuanian Airlines are not promising. Originally, my itinerary stated that I would be taking a De Havilland aircraft from Amsterdam to Vilnius. The words alone were enough to have me conjuring noir scenarios still bearing icicles from the Cold War – where Dirk Bogarde, in a trench coat and dyspeptic disposition, would stop me on the tarmac (engines slowly whirring to a halt in the background) and request my ‘papers'. He would then address me in code to ensure I was not an impostor. Coolly scanning my eyes, Dirk would say, ‘A mute fawn cannot rumba in a gaberdine trench coat.' To which I would equally coolly reply, ‘Yes, but a blind doe in gingham can still hear the beat.' Hours later, of course, he would be warning me about the torch song diva we were pretending not to notice between shots of vodka and Cole Porter.

You can thus imagine my disappointment when I was greeted by a Lithuanian Airlines attendant wearing a threadbare pants-suit of Pantone magenta. The outfit was complemented by swathes of chartreuse eyeshadow in such profusion that it made drag queens look like dedicated make-up minimalists. That said, the flight was comfortable and although I knew the novelty would soon wear off, the captain sounded deliciously like a Bond villain. Although my seat was frayed to the point that its webbing was visible, the scenery as we dropped into Vilnius slackened my jaw and tickled my neck.

Twenty-eight per cent of the country is forested and there are over 3000 lakes in Lithuania's 65,000 square kilometres. From above, this topography results in not so much a patchwork but a finely beaded wall hanging resplendent with intricate stitching, deftly formed fringing and the chance to bust out terms that the vast dryness of Australia rarely occasions. There were glades, there were dells, there were meadows, there were spits which extended like sandy tendrils into passive seas. It was as if all my isthmuses had come at once.

With my gear stashed in a ‘business hotel' – read no baths but the doorman can get you a hooker – I headed into Vilnius with autumn sunshine on my face and the 360-degree stimulation that comes with being in a new city. It is, first and foremost, a safe city. ‘Truly heinous crimes are rare here,' noted one of the pamphlets I picked up at the reception desk, ‘but theft is becoming increasingly common. Don't leave mobile phones, wallets, purses or fashion-accessory pooches unattended or out of your direct reach.'

Situated in a valley at the confluence of the Neris and Vilnia rivers, archeological evidence suggests there was a settlement at present-day Vilnius at least as far back as the first century AD. But if Moses has taught me anything it's that a good story is far more entertaining than the truth. The legend goes that in 1323, Grand Duke Gediminas had enjoyed a corker of a day hunting in the area when he lay down for a snooze. He dreamed of seeing an iron wolf on the hill above him, which roared with the ferocity of a hundred hounds. ‘Bloody hell,' he wondered, ‘what's all that about?' Taking his nocturnal vision to the pagan high priest Lizdeika – Lithuania was the last European country to convert to Christianity – Gediminas was told this was a sign to build a town on the very spot of the howling lupine. ‘I'm all over it,' he replied, and thus the legend of Vilnius came to pass. The fact that a wooden castle had already been standing there from the eleventh century is not mentioned much.

In 1323, Gediminas established the equivalent of a MySpace page by writing an open letter to the priests, craftsmen and merchants of Western Europe, inviting them to live in the city he had (sort of) created. The pitch went something like this: ‘Tax exemptions? Why not? Religious tolerance? C'mon down. Freedom of expression? We're giving it away.' Aside from French and German Jews fleeing the crusades, Russians, Turks and Huns heeded the call.

First laid in 1836, the city's main modern thoroughfare is named after its founder. Bisecting the New Town and running for around two kilometres, this avenue is of such prominence that whoever was occupying the city at the time felt compelled to rename it in honour of the despot du jour. Stalin, Hitler and Lenin have all had their monikers nailed to walls here. Most of the buildings which line Gedimino Prospektas date from the nineteenth century and are in the historicist style. Which basically means builders rifled through an architectural grab-bag in a fit of Liberace-style adornment. Painted in salmons, Dijon mustard and pale blue, there's not a window unframed by detailed columns or lavish pediments. Motifs of floral plasterwork hang like carved pearls from the eaves and while purists may flinch at such aesthetic excess, I found Gedimino Prospektas thoroughly charming. An impression heightened by the fact that every second block or so, these structures would give way to shady parks or café-sprinkled squares with concrete flower beds the size of a hatchback which brimmed with lilac petunias.

So smitten was I that I failed to account for the fact that Lithuanians drive on the right-hand side of the road and blithely stepped into the path of a bright red trolley bus as it rounded a corner. The driver was a woman – as most trolley bus drivers in Vilnius are – who was wearing a t-shirt with a sequinned tiger motif, a shell-suit jacket and a bouffant beehive that could have stopped a bullet. Rolling her eyes, she muttered what I presumed to be a disparaging aside to a hunched man seated on a stool beside her. He wasn't wearing a uniform either and I later found out that the city's public transport employees frequently take along a partner or friend to break the monotony of a shift. Talk about your quality time.

Some of Gedimino Prospektas' handsome buildings are home to glittering stores, and European retail powerhouses such as Zara and Marks & Spencer are beginning to stake their claim for the locals' cash. There are a few addresses, however, which are occupied by structures of more contemporary design along with some rationalist – read duller than an actuarial thesis – piles. One of the most alluring is the National Drama Theatre, the façade of which is a fluid masterpiece of concrete and glass topped by a sculptured trio of black stone muses with gold faces. Exquisite and aquiline, each – tragedy, comedy, drama – leans towards the street as if they have secrets to share.

Of equal allure are the Lithuanian women. (At which point, I feel compelled to point out that this lone traveller is a happily married man who was due to be met by his wife Jennie for a few days of R&R in Vilnius after the journey's end.) Pardon my testosterone, but the place is a goddess factory. Somewhere in the Vilnian backblocks is a facility pumping out sapphire-eyed Kate Beckinsales and Heidi Klums on an alternating roster. There also seems to be a midriff statute in place for women and few seem inclined to break the law. If their cheekbones were singers, every one would be a soprano. Thankfully, the Botox epidemic has not yet tainted this nation and when these women laugh and smile they do so with their entire faces. Gedimino Prospektas is also home to Vilnius' one McDonald's store. No Starbucks, no Krispy Kreme, no KFC to be seen. Which probably accounts for the incredibly low hipster to muffin top ratio. The men, on the other hand, have hard eyes and soft mouths. Make eye contact with a Lithuanian and they will not break it until you do. It is not aggressive but assertive. A statement of presence which will hold your gaze.

The street empties into a square that is the city's focal point. At its heart stands the imposing Cathedral Basilica of St Stanislaus and St Vladislaus. A neoclassical statement of New Testament might, it is located on the site of the country's first church, which was built in 1251. Like many of Lithuania's houses of Christian worship, it was erected on the original location of a pagan temple – in this case that of Perkunas, God of Thunder. For a Jewish lad, I have a disproportionate fondness for the architectural majesty of churches and this one was a belter. Designed along a grid of regular geometric division, it features a triangular pediment atop six unadorned columns and relief work in the niches. The inside is a virtual gallery of fourteenth century frescos. The magnificent biblical scenes came courtesy of Italian painter Constanino Villani while the marble-framed altar in the St Casimir chapel features carved angels so realistic you find yourself searching the floor for stray feathers. However, it's what's on the roof of this cathedral that makes it so enthralling. A golden ten-metre-high cross held by a statue of Jesus has been positioned to catch the sunlight just so and for an hour every twilight, the square is bathed in its bullioned reflection.

Out the front of the cathedral is a 57-metre-high, tripletiered belfry that was once a guardtower in the fort that occupied the site. It is a favourite meeting point for both locals and tour groups, whose guides take bets to see how long it is before someone asks, ‘But why would they need a lighthouse so far from the ocean?' It was here that I rendezvoused with guide Ruta Arwiniouskiene, a lifelong Vilnian with a PhD in education and English plus a face like a young Chris Evert. Ruta is the kind of person you'd want on your pub trivia team. Her knowledge spans history, architecture, geography, botany and ethnographics – all of which can be delivered in one of four languages with a crinkle-eyed smile.

Across the square lay Vilnius' most famous tourist drag – and one of the oldest avenues in the city – Pilies Street, gateway to the Old Town. Among the most extensive in Europe at 255 hectares and steadfastly maintaining an organic medieval layout, this section of the city is so steeped, marinated and then glazed in history that UNESCO declared it a world heritage site. Take that, Latvia! For a country that was the last in Europe to adopt Christianity – this took place in 1387 (with some regions holding out till 1413) and then only because it was a condition for a union with Poland – Lithuanians made up for lost time by erecting church after magnificent church on what seems like every corner of the Old Town. By Ruta's reckoning, Vilnius' 542,809 population is served by forty-eight churches and twenty-eight monasteries.

Peeling off to the right from Pilies Street we entered a small but immaculate park of clipped grass beds, stands of impatiens and sunny benches. Standing guard over the scene was a cross between a place of worship and a liquorice allsort. The Church of St Catherine originally belonged to a Benedictine convent founded in 1618, but after a change of management and design philosophy it was rebuilt between 1741 and 1753. Were architect Jan Krzysztof Glaubitz working today, he would be crafting slinky hotel bars in Shanghai where the vibe is one of retro cool and the martinis cost $30. Restricted by the compact nature of the site, he settled on an audacious design for the era in which the nave was as high as it was long. The result is a façade featuring salmon and cream twin towers which narrow to garlic clove black metal spires upon which sit ornate crosses. White recessed windows occupied by black louvres and encased in sculpted plaster ovals complete the fetching picture.

It's nigh on impossible to walk Vilnius' Old Town without being shadowed by a constellation of baroque spires. They peer into laneways, loom beside commons and peek over the walls of courtyards like parents chaperoning a first date. At the top of Pilies Street alone, three churches sit so close to one another that you could throw a rosary over the trio. The first is located in the Gates of Dawn, one of the five entrances to the city which existed after it was walled off at the beginning of the sixteenth century. The Ausros Gate Chapel is undoubtedly Vilnius' most beloved sanctuary. It was here in 1993 that Pope John Paul II joined hordes of pilgrims to pray before a golden portrait of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Painted between 1620 and 1630 on oak planks in tempera, it sits in a raiment of gilded silver and dazzles beneath the reflections of thousands of SLR flashes a day.