As the children, grandchildren of those who went through that trauma, we have a collective responsibility. To ensure that our own offspring are aware of what two totalitarian regimes wrought. First upon Europe, then spreading into a genuine global conflagration of death. Of how the crazed dreams of expansion of fascist and communist leaders led to division of a continent, resulting in decades of occupation and the enforcement of a twisted ideology, communism. Imposed through deportations to Siberia, summary arrests, executions and deprivations unimaginable to those raised in the free Western world.
Many of our parents refused to talk about their experiences in our childhood. Mine were no exception. Mother was but a child, wrested from while not comfort but certainly from a secure identity. Fleeing with her mother and brother at the age of ten, her father conscripted into the German army. For decades she did not know what happened to him. For the rest of her life she proudly insisted on being an Estonian first, a resident of the land where she was forced to live second. Canada was the first, and sadly last country that she moved to, not by fleeing, but conscious choice. This because of the growing and influential Estonian refugee community. Toronto was the place to raise her children as Estonians. Sadly, though she was able to visit occupied Estonia numerous times, she never saw the restoration of independence. Nor any of her grandchildren, also raised knowing the importance of being Estonian, to paraphrase the title of Oscar Wilde’s satirical comedy of morals.
One of the worst war crimes of the Soviets was the bombing of Tallinn on March 9th, 1944. Eighty years have passed since the city was on fire, hundreds of civilians killed.
My father was conscripted into the Luftwaffenhelfer auxiliary unit of the German air force. Contrary to unspoken international law that did not allow conscription in occupied countries. The Geneva convention banning that was only enacted after WW II. When as a child I asked him his age, he always replied seventeen. For that was how old he was when he became a lennuväepoiss, forced into uniform and commanded to leave his homeland. But he never spoke about those experiences. Not then, and even in his later years, after he was able to return to live in Estonia, once again free and independent.
The last Toronto lennuväepoiss standing among us is Eerik Purje, who I gratefully count as a close friend. He is a veritable walking encyclopedia. Of people and events, cultural and military that have taken place. He was born a mere ten days after my father, owns up to his age but often reminds me of a much, much younger man. Hence our phone calls often begin with tere noorhärra.
Eerik has over the years collected the refugee life-stories of many Estonians and published books about their experiences. Those of us who, thanks to our parents and community organizations, can read in our mother language, are strongly urged to seek these books out, available at the Tartu College lending library.
Then there was Arvi Tinits, author and compiler of the magisterial tome Välgumärgi kasvandikud, a history of the lennuväepoisid. I was proud to have known him and be on a first name basis. For those seeking a more exciting summation of the refugee experience Arvi, long a member of the Toronto Police force, wrote a number of excellent autobiographical novels, including police procedurals under the pen name of Arvi Kork. Also not to be missed.
The importance of sharing memories cannot be overemphasized. It may be difficult but it is necessary. It cements our bonds, keeps us in direct contact with a shared past.
It was through yet another of these once-young men that I first heard about some of my father’s wartime experiences. Eerik had organized a quartet+1 to sing at the joint 85th birthday of the Toronto Lennuväepoiste Klubi members. And asked me, as the son of one to be part of that wonderful bonding experience. Before a rehearsal at Peetri kirik, I happened to meet Ilmar Wärk, also one of these men, there to bring historical material to Eerik. (Eerik has written about Ilmar’s life in Eesti Elu. The story can be found online). And found out that he had been in the same eight-man squad as my father! I’d known Ilmar for some time, but it had never occurred to me to ask. A lesson there for today. What these men told me added up to much more than what my fervid, far too often passionately fecund imagination had conjured up as a boy. (This while playing at being a Forest Brother, metsavend, with the name of Jüri Teras, sniping down the dirty rotten communist bastards from the trees of our backyard. Imagine my surprise decades later to discover that a metsavend named Jüri Teras actually existed!)
One of the worst war crimes of the Soviets was the bombing of Tallinn on March 9th, 1944. Eighty years have passed since the city was on fire, hundreds of civilians killed. The only reference my parents ever made to that day was a cryptic one. My father subscribed to the cultural weekly “Sirp” (sickle) published in occupied Estonia. Visiting him sometime in the early eighties, he showed me a copy, pointing out an architectural competition in Tallinn. Some designs were anonymous. I did not understand why this should interest me, what was the significance. Until he pointed out the entry was submitted under the numbers 09031944. Took me a while even then. And even glavlit, the Soviet censors did, not catch that. It was, of course, the date of the March bombing. This is but one example of how Estonians never forgot. Imagine the risks taken over the decades to affirm being Estonian, the importance of our national identity.
While sitting in the editor’s chair of Estonian Life I received submissions from A. Christina Tari for publication. They were printed, among them her mother’s recollections of that fateful night. Alas, they were published before this paper had its internet presence. But I am pleased to have recalled that one of Tari’s wonderful stories was the second place winner of the 2020 Estonian Foundation in Canada Short Story Contest and is online. “Estonian Pompeii” – what an appropriate title! – can be found here.
The importance of sharing memories cannot be overemphasized. It may be difficult but it is necessary. It cements our bonds, keeps us in direct contact with a shared past. Not everything, such as the architectural competition, is online or can be easily found. But genealogical websites that have cropped up are a valuable tool to find out more. Many have signed up on Geni and have thus found out that the six degrees of separation are often in our case but three or four. Our past has more grim anniversaries than happy ones, but we should never forget a single one.
