On photo: holding a wreath is Indrek Uukkivi (TEM choir elder), to his left is Iri Luts (ÜEKN secretary), then Ülle Ederma (ERKÜ), and Arved Plaks (TEM).
I was 11 years old when I was sitting anxiously between two suitcases on the hard floor of a hay wagon. As the wagon rolled on an uneven gravel road, it was impossible to get comfortable due to the shaking of the wagon.
Only the rustling of trees was somewhat calming. The creaking sounds of the wagon were pierced by the rhythmic clinks of the horse’s hooves. In front of the wagon was a bench on which sat the driver and my mother. The driver was a farmer who did odd jobs for the villagers. Unhurriedly he let the horse set his own pace.
Overlying the somewhat predictable lulling sounds, I could hear periodic thunder-claps seeming to come from somewhere behind us. But the night sky was cloudless. I understood the origin of most of the sounds. The creaking of the wagon, the hooves, the occasional rustling of trees, but the drumbeat-like thunder-claps were ominous. Why did they not stop?Was it a sign that the war was getting closer?
In the early fall it never gets totally dark in Estonia. When we started out, the sun had just gone down. Now it had gotten darker, and some stars appeared in the sky. Our path went alternately between woods and open fields. I could make out nearby trees and the silhouettes of occasional farmhouses. Sometimes men in soldiers’ uniforms passed us, coming from the opposite direction. My mother asked one of them why he was not on the front. The answer was something like: “it is all over, I am going home.” I dozed off again.
We had been living on the second floor of a Dutch colonial house belonging to Mr. Sagelmann, a bulky man who had a village store on the first floor. I was told to keep away from him because of his violent temper, especially if he had been drinking ‘white vine’. I was told he had a metal plate in his skull from a past violent encounter. In the back of the house was a hayloft and granary where my task was to find hens’ nests and collect eggs from them before the eggs hatched. It was an ongoing game of hide and seek between me and the chickens. On the side of the house was a long building. On one end was a cow stall, and the other end, a sauna.
The reason for staying on the farm was my parents’ fear that our home in the city might be bombed. Earlier, in the late winter when we were still in the city, we had lived through several bombing raids. When the raids became more frequent, I was taken to Haapsalu and left in the care of a retired couple. But after Tallinn experienced a very bad bombardment, my mother took me to the farm and stayed with me. My father commuted between the farm and Tallinn since the authorities did not allow their flower store to be closed even though hardly anyone was buying flowers.
For me, most days on the farm were similar and required repetitive tasks: chicken, pigs and cows had to be fed, and I was asked to help. Feeding calves was fun because when I stuck my hand in their mouths they instinctively sucked on it with their rough tongues. Only Fridays were different. That was when the sauna was heated for everybody: Mr. Sagelmann, the two farm workers and the ‘guests’. I do not recall if we took turns to use the sauna, but I recall the thrill of throwing water with a cup onto the hot rocks on the oven. Each cupful caused a cloud of steam, and the room got hotter. In the room were benches arranged at varying heights, like a stepstool. The higher one chose to sit to sweat, the hotter it became. By hitting ourselves with bundles of fresh birch branches, it was possible to make the skin feel even hotter. After sweating perhaps 10 minutes, this was followed by dousing oneself with a bucketful of cold water. The next phase was washing. I thought of this as a spiritual purification ritual.
There were tasks I was not allowed to participate in. To cut hay with a scythe was allowed only under supervision. Butter was made in a churn, a piston like device that could move up and down in a slim barrel filled with fresh cream. I was judged not to move it fast enough. My best memories are related to the farm dog Ralph. He was chained to his dog house from which he could free himself when he so chose. For example, when he decided to followe me secretly.
The farmers in the village cooperated with certain tasks. They took turns working on each other’s farm. Of these I recall the thatching of a roof of a huge hay stall. Each man had a task: some bundled reeds, some took them onto the roof by ladder, and others worked them into the existing reeds. Mostly I watched from the ground. Then I heard a plane’s motor overhead. It was cloudy, and we could not see anything. That meant that neither could the pilot see us and the work continued. But then the rumbling of the motor was replaced by a spluttering sound followed by a whining sound culminating in an explosion out of sight. That evening I bicycled 2 km to where the plane crashed – right into a farm house, setting it on fire and killing its owner. Was this the last futile act of our enemy?
The attitudes of the people changed as the distant rumbling of artillery became louder. One day a German army truck appeared and the soldiers demanded that Mr. Sagelmann return a horse they said had been only loaned to the farmer to nurse it back to health. It was a tense moment for all bystanders, as our host protested vehemently with his courage aided by ‘white wine’. He argued with armed men! But the horse was produced and the Germans left with it. The two farm workers, Kulp and Natalia, had been brought forcibly to work there by the Germans. They were brought from an ethnic Estonian village on the Russian side of the border. They smiled a lot and said that soon they would be going home. Soon after that the other guests who had been there all summer left without a good-bye.
Then one day my mother was packing very agitatedly. We would be leaving the same evening to meet my father at a railroad station. I recall that for that lunch we ate cucumbersalad, with sour cream, dill and sugar, a delicacy. I asked that she also pack my model airplane that I had constructed from preprinted pieces of paper so cleverly, that it became a three-dimensional replica of a JU-88 airplane, about 18 inches long. She said, “No, there would not be room for it.”
At dusk a neighboring farmer came with his wagon and our two suitcases and a backpack were loaded onto the wagon. I sensed great nervousness on the part of my mother. No goodbyes were said to anyone as the wagon started to roll onto a side road.
I dozed off from time to time as it became darker. When my mother woke me up, it was as dark as it gets in the fall. We were moving slowly judging from the horse hooves’ clatter. There were other sounds: people talking, other wagons moving. For fear of attracting bombing attacks, no outside lighting was allowed; only slivers of light were visible from the edges of ill-fitting window shutters. The farmer told my mother that we were almost there. Soon there were lots of people milling around. We stopped, and the farmer loaded our suitcases off next to a railroad station. Someone said that the train from Tallinn was not yet here, and it was late because it had to travel with lights out.
My mother handed the farmer a pair of leather boots she had set aside for such a purpose. The farmer then carried our things to the station platform and left.
It was a long time until the train arrived. Then there was a lot of motion: people getting off the train – people trying to find space on the unlighted train. We stayed put for a while as my mother nervously hoped that my father would appear from the darkness. But there was not much time to decide what to do, since the train was expected to leave any time for its return trip to the city. Not having spotted my father, she decided to get on the train and head for Tallinn, thinking that he might have missed the train. By this time the passenger cars were full. So she found an empty freight car at the end of the train, and we climbed in with our suitcases and settled into one corner. My mother was extremely agitated.
No way to recall how long we sat there until we heard a voice calling from the dark platform: “Marie, Marie…” My father had come after all and had been looking for us! He took us to a crowded passenger car.
Very soon after that, I heard a whistle and then the familiar noises of our locomotive, “rrrruhh, rrruh, rruh, ruhh …” and then the clatter of the car bumpers clanging as the pull of the locomotive in succession initiated motion of each car. Then I fell asleep to the rhythmic sounds of our locomotive.
When I woke it was dawn. The train passed city dwellings bathed in sunlight as we entered Tallinn’s railroad station. We walked off the station platform with our suitcases. I recall experiencing the typical fresh, humid but invigorating morning air of the city that changed as the sun rose higher. My father found a porter who loaded our suitcases onto his two-wheeled cart, and we moved on while I trailed fairly uselessly. The pay for him was to be a half-full bottle of vodka my father had brought with him for that purpose.
We did not go straight to the harbor but instead headed to my parent’s flower store at 42 Narva Street. When I had left Tallinn late winter, our home had been in a building in back of the five-story building which housed the store. While I was in Martna, our furniture had been moved to our cooperatively owned apartment building on Vase Street. It had become vacant after its renters had fled the country. But now there was no time to go there. Anticipating this, my father had two suitcases in the flower store readied for the next phase of our escape. These were loaded also on the cart and we now backtracked along Narva Street towards the harbor. The trip took forever because of the slowness of the cart and also because we had to stop several times when air raid sirens blared. I recall that my parents feared that our suitcases on the cart might be stolen while we were in air raid shelters.
Then we entered the harbor. Along the pier were docked several large ships. The first ship we passed had a large red cross painted on its side. My father spoke briefly with a guard at its gangplank, and we were waved on. We lacked some kind of papers. We passed a second ship. We may have been told that it was full. The third ship had sailors standing by the gangplank, and they helped passengers to board by carrying their suitcases. Then it was our turn to board. I recall distinctly that I weighed whether I should run away and head into some forest to join guerillas to fight the nearing Soviet war machine. But where would I find the guerillas? And what could I do, as an 11 year old? This was the moment for a decision. No, I would be useless! And I followed meekly my parents onto the ship.
We were led into a cavernous hall below the deck. We claimed a space on the steel-plated floor with our suitcases, and my mother made it comfortable for me to lie down. Then we waited. Eventually I could hear the low roar of the ship’s engine, and then we were moving. We were leaving the familiar.
But then the ship came to a stop. Many people went onto the deck. I was also allowed to ascend. We were now some distance from the harbor but with a clear view of the city bathed in the last rays of the descending sun. The deck was crowded, yet eerily silent as people peered towards the city. Far off we could hear airplanes circling the city. From time to time I could hear a distant “buff” followed by a plume of smoke. I was told to return below deck because of fear of airplane attack.
Back downstairs, I cuddled among our bundles and suitcases. A sailor gave us a horse hair blanket. Some people were offered a coffee substitute to drink. This is where my personal time sensation ceased in a feeling of helplessness. The feeling could only be described as a need to endure. Maybe this all will go away by the time I awaken.
When I woke up the next day, I could feel the ship being buffeted by waves. I was allowed to ascend to the deck. The sky was now heavily overcast and no land was in sight. I saw a small gray naval escort ship close bye. It was bobbing up and down horribly in the rough sea. I escaped the chilly wind by returning back to our little nest below deck.
On the third day, the sea was calm. Land was visible again with hills higher than I had seen before. Then we sailed into Gotenhafen’s harbor. We were flanked on one side by block houses. In the harbor, people’s suitcases were offloaded by cranes. We went to a barracks-like facility surrounded by barbed-wire fencing where we were fed a very thin soup. My father did not register us into that camp but checked some of our suitcases in a railroad station, from which we took a train to a suburb of Danzig. We stayed there in the apartment of my father’s friend, a fellow stampcollector who had immigrated to Germany before the war broke out. After a few days, we left by train to Bavaria. But that is another story.
The preceding journey was like a dream, a dream in which time and places did not seem to matter. I just had to do what my parents told me to do, and maybe all would work out by the time the dream ended.
In retrospect, I filled out many blanks in my recollections. This I started earnestly, when a year later in a refugee camp, my school teacher procured a book with blank pages for me from US Army surplus, which became my diary.
This occurred, when after the war’s end, we found our way into a refugee camp set up in a former German Army barracks near Berchtesgaden. In the camp, called Insula, the Estonians were a small minority among Latvians and Poles. Fortunately there were three enterprising people: Mrs. Helene Koppemann, Rev. Valter Koppermann and Miss Hilda Laas, who started a school for the three Estonian youths present. Teaching materials were obtained from other Estonian refugee camps in which any available books were copied and distributed. The ones I received from Mrs. Koppermann are now in libraries in Estonia.
I stared the diary with the days of escape. I found out that they occurred on the 20th and 21st of September. I recorded that the Soviet Army entered Tallinn the following day. We learned Estonian geography from a map that was the cover of a calendar. I observed on the map that the village of Martna is but 12 miles from the Haapsalu railroad station. The interminable train ride from there to Tallinn covered only 65 miles to Balti Station. From an Estonian newspaper I read that of the ships that sailed out of Tallinn’s harbor on 21 September, one ship was torpedoed by a Soviet submarine and sank with thousands of injured solders on board. Miss Laas told me that her ship was torpedoed, but was saved when the cabin with the hole was isolated. The ship limped on to safety with the loss of the people in the affected cabin. The ship that I was on was called RO-22.
I had another opportunity to recall these days from the place of our last view of Tallinn in 1944. But this time with the safety of time. In 2004, the Toronto Estonian Men’s Choir (TEM) joined invited guests on the Estonian naval ship, Admiral Pitka to commemorate the great escape. We sailed into the Bay of Tallinn where a ceremony was held to remember the estimated 2000 people who perished on the Baltic Sea trying to escape to Sweden. President Lennart Meri gave a speech while two wreaths were lowered into the bay as TEM sang. It was a very pithy moment.
In 1944, I decided to board the ship rather than to look for guerillas to join. What could an 11 year old do to stop the advancing enemy? But unbeknownst to me there was an effort to stop a tank column at the village of Jüri, south east of Tallinn. My cousin, Valdeko Raig, who had returned from the Finnish Army, was one in the small band of Estonians deployed in Jüri equipped with only four antitank grenades. They took a position at a bridge behind a stone fence. When the Soviet tank column approached, they fired their “Panzerfausts” at dvancing
tanks but without effect. Then one of the tanks moved off the road from where its machine guns had a clear field of view of the defenders behind the stone fence. There remained nothing for the men to do but to duck below the embankment of the brook and escape into the brush.
My cousin was honored this year on the 31 of August in Tallinn with the Vabaduse Tammepärja (Freedom Oak-Wreath) medal.
My other cousin, Ülo Kadaja, had also returned to Estonia from the Finnish Army. As the units disintegrated, he found a fisherman, who was willing to take him and his friends to escape in a fishing boat to Sweden. At the time, when RO-22 had left Tallinn on Friday, the fisherman was still on dry land west of Tallinn, because of a superstition, that to start a sea voyage would bring bad luck. So he waited until Saturday dawn to push off.
Over the years I have learned much about the events that surrounded our escape. How different would my life had been if my father had not found us on the train in Haapsalu and if he had gone instead to look for us in Martna! After all, it was the last train bound for Tallinn before the Red Army entered Tallinn. In all likelihood, I would have spent my productive years behind the Iron Curtain. The ticket of our memorable train trip to Tallinn is now in the archive of the Museum of Occupations in Tallinn.
My personal memory of the escape is confined to the sound of horse-hooves clattering endlessly, followed some time later by the rhythmic clanking of the train.
Arved Plaks,
Texas,
September 2018