I decidÂed it was time to invesÂtiÂgate my Nana’s guardÂed past in 2017, when my son was explorÂing uniÂverÂsiÂties. She’d died when I was thirÂteen, takÂing her childÂhood secrets about growÂing up in RusÂsia with her to the grave. Nana nevÂer spoke about why she’d conÂcealed her Judaism when she came to CanaÂda. When my great-grandÂmothÂer, Sophie, died (she had immiÂgratÂed after WWII), Nana didn’t even let my mothÂer attend the funerÂal; she didn’t want her knowÂing Sophie was buried in a JewÂish cemetery. I could underÂstand why Nana hid her Judaism when she arrived in MonÂtreÂal, CanaÂda, in 1938. Signs proÂclaimÂing, ​‘No Blacks, No Jews, No Dogs’ were postÂed all over the city. The fasÂcist NationÂal UniÂty ParÂty, based in MonÂtreÂal, was gainÂing steam under AdriÂan Arcand, who called himÂself the ​‘CanaÂdiÂan Fuhrer.’ In 1939, CanaÂda – like the US – turned away the St. Louis, a ship carÂryÂing 900 Jews seekÂing refuge from the Nazi regime. These events marred Canada’s hisÂtoÂry and Nana’s relaÂtionÂship with herÂself and her faith. After my first child was born in 1993, armed with a noteÂbook, two pens, and a long list of quesÂtions, I visÂitÂed Nana’s oldÂer sisÂter, Nucia, in search of answers to my quesÂtions. Nucia was an irriÂtaÂble chain-smokÂer with glauÂcoÂma who’d someÂhow outÂlived Nana by twenÂty years; she did not share my desire to comb the past (but she did inspire the charÂacÂter of MiriÂam in DaughÂters of the OccuÂpaÂtion). In fact, she was highÂly susÂpiÂcious of my motives. EvenÂtuÂalÂly, she opened up and I left with twenÂty pages of notes. I also manÂaged to get sevÂerÂal phoÂtos of Nana as a child, many with an unidenÂtiÂfied young man posÂing with the famÂiÂly. These images would prove to be cruÂcial latÂer on, pointÂing me in the direcÂtion of Latvia. The first thing I noticed, when I re-examÂined these phoÂtos in 2017, were the names, ​‘DvinÂsk’ and ​‘Dunaburg’ writÂten in the corÂners. An online search revealed these were preÂviÂous names of DauÂgavpils, a southÂeastÂern city in Latvia. In a subÂseÂquent cenÂsus search, I learned four comÂpelling facts. First, two of my great-grandÂparÂents, Sophie PressÂman and Max Talan, lived in DauÂgavpils in the late 1890’s with their parÂents and sibÂlings. Next, they were marÂried in Riga in 1905, the same year they moved – bizarrely – to Siberia. Third, Max had a younger brothÂer, YosÂsel, who was murÂdered in Riga durÂing the HoloÂcaust, along with his wife and two chilÂdren. FinalÂly, a numÂber of othÂer relÂaÂtives perÂished or vanÂished durÂing the war.
Nana nevÂer spoke about livÂing in Riga or any famÂiÂly in Latvia. Yet there she was, smilÂing in phoÂtos with peoÂple whose names she seemÂingÂly erased from her past. Nana’s silence made me pine for what had been lost and drove me to dig deepÂer, to underÂstand the peoÂple who’d shaped her idenÂtiÂty— her parÂents, Max and Sophie Talan. To do this, I had to go to the counÂtry where my JewÂish roots were sown. Latvia. ______ In OctoÂber of 2018, I arrived in Riga, Latvia, eager to walk in my ancesÂtors’ footÂsteps. It was the first time I’d set foot in a forÂmer SoviÂet-occuÂpied counÂtry. ImmeÂdiÂateÂly, I saw how Riga was a city full of conÂtraÂdicÂtions; bleak, SoviÂet-era apartÂment blocks rose on one side of the DauÂgaÂva RivÂer, and elabÂoÂrate ByzanÂtine and medieval buildÂings flanked the oppoÂsite side.
After checkÂing into my hotel, I met with Ilya Lensky, direcÂtor of the Jews in Latvia MuseÂum. He was able to fill in sevÂerÂal areas of famÂiÂly hisÂtoÂry for me. Max and JosÂsel Talan were sucÂcessÂful merÂchants in Riga, based in the prosÂperÂous secÂtion of the city where they had lived.
Because of Max’s involveÂment in the BolÂsheÂvik RevÂoÂluÂtion — a march through Riga on JanÂuÂary 13, 1905, that turned into a masÂsacre with sevÂenÂty peoÂple killed — he was exiled to Siberia. He likeÂly marÂried Sophie the same year so she could travÂel with him. That’s why Nana was born in Siberia. A devÂasÂtatÂing exile ironÂiÂcalÂly saved the famÂiÂly from being among the 93,000 Jews murÂdered in the LatÂvian HoloÂcaust. I was born because my great-grandÂparÂents were exiled. This revÂeÂlaÂtion was hard to digest. These twists of fate made me feel part of someÂthing largÂer than myself. For the first time, I truÂly saw how I was creÂatÂed by deciÂsions made by the peoÂple who came before me. ______ The folÂlowÂing afterÂnoon, I was at the NationÂal Archives siftÂing through a stack of old phoÂto albums and docÂuÂments, assemÂbled using ancesÂtry details I’d sent months earÂliÂer. But everyÂthing was writÂten in either RussÂian or LatÂvian. The stern-faced archivist made it clear she didn’t have time to help, though she did say the twenÂty-six peoÂple she’d includÂed were my relaÂtions, all of whom perÂished in the HoloÂcaust. This gutÂted me. I was beginÂning to underÂstand why Nana didn’t talk about Riga or the famÂiÂly she’d left behind (as politÂiÂcal exiles, they were allowed to visÂit Latvia). I took phoÂtos of the docÂuÂments. HeadÂshots, passÂport stamps, and CyrilÂlic text. I was able to pick out a few handÂwritÂten names: SchloÂmo and Ruven. JosÂsel. My skin prickÂled when I realÂized JosÂsel Talan, my great-grandfather’s brothÂer, was the mysÂtery man standÂing beside Nana in old famÂiÂly photos. ______ That afterÂnoon, I made my way to the JewÂish ghetÂto, which , durÂing WWII, housed 30,000 Jews withÂin sixÂteen blocks. I asked the museÂum attenÂdant if he could look up Jossel’s ghetÂto address while I toured the museum. The museÂum is a forÂmer ghetÂto house, its walls still covÂered in newsÂpaÂpers for insuÂlaÂtion against the arcÂtic wind — one room on the ground floor and a loft above. ThirÂteen peoÂple were crammed into this shack, withÂout runÂning water or indoor toiÂlets. I was struck by a wave of nauÂsea at the thought of JosÂsel and his famÂiÂly livÂing in such inhuÂmane conditions. Back at the entrance, the museÂum attenÂdant explained that Jossel’s twenÂty-one-year-old son, Ewsey, didn’t die in the RumÂbuÂla forÂest or in the ghetÂto. He was seized by the Nazis, along with othÂer young, JewÂish men, and forced to dig up graves of LatÂvians killed by the SoviÂets. The Nazis phoÂtographed these men with the bodÂies, and proÂclaimed they were responÂsiÂble; this blaÂtant proÂpaÂganÂda was used to ignite a pogrom against the Jews. Ewsey was shot on July 21, 1941, in the CenÂtral Prison courtÂyard. Nobody knows where he’s buried. The attenÂdant also said he didn’t know whether JosÂsel, his wife, and daughÂter perÂished on NovemÂber 30 or DecemÂber 8 in the RumÂbuÂla forest. DurÂing the RumÂbuÂla masÂsacre, 26,000 Jews were murÂdered over two days in a manÂner and scale equal to Ukraine’s Babi Yar, yet Latvia’s HoloÂcaust is not part of the traÂdiÂtionÂal narÂraÂtive. Both masÂsacres employed mobile death squads — EinÂsatzÂgrupÂpen — to shoot Jews in pits. Both took place in the SoviÂet Union in 1941, before gas chamÂbers were used. And – because StalÂin famousÂly refused to sort the dead based on ethÂnic oriÂgin – vicÂtims of both masÂsacres weren’t acknowlÂedged as Jews until 1991, after the fall of the SoviÂet Union. StalÂin refused to admit Jews were being tarÂgetÂed. By his logÂic, if he’d fought antiÂsemitism, then the SoviÂet govÂernÂment would be supÂportÂing the basic premise of Nazi ideÂolÂoÂgy — that SoviÂet rule was the rule of Jews. LatÂvian JewÂish surÂvivors, howÂevÂer, have not forÂgotÂten the trauÂma they endured. Every year, they travÂel to Riga to honÂor those murÂdered and to speak out against antiÂsemitism. MeanÂwhile, anothÂer group of peoÂple have held an annuÂal parade since 1990 to honÂor Latvia’s SS Legion, creÂatÂed in 1943 and conÂtrolled by the Nazis. JewÂish groups worldÂwide have conÂdemned the event, sayÂing it celÂeÂbrates Hitler and colÂlabÂoÂraÂtors involved in the destrucÂtion of the JewÂish comÂmuÂniÂty durÂing the HoloÂcaust. In 2022, hunÂdreds took part — includÂing vetÂerÂans revered as heroes who fought the Red Army for Latvia’s freedom. Still, the LatÂvian HoloÂcaust remains unknown globÂalÂly. This riled me, espeÂcialÂly when I stood before the mass graves at RumÂbuÂla to honÂor and rememÂber those murÂdered. That was the moment the seeds for DaughÂters of the OccuÂpaÂtion were plantÂed.
Photo (l to r): Jossel Talan, Rachel Talan (author's grandmother), Max Talan (author's g-grandfather & brother of Jossel), Monya Talan (Rachel's brother)
When I returned home, I took my mothÂer, son, and niece to see Sophie’s grave in a JewÂish cemeÂtery in MonÂtreÂal. Two menoÂrahs, carved into the top corÂners of the stone, proudÂly declare my great-grandmother’s faith. I thought of Riga and the mass graves; JosÂsel and his famÂiÂly; Nana, alone with her secrets. I saw my son and niece lookÂing at the tombÂstone with my mothÂer and thought, here we are, three genÂerÂaÂtions togethÂer in a JewÂish cemeÂtery. We’ve broÂken the silence.
--Shelly Sanders
(published by Jewish Book Council, PB Daily, May 2, 2022)