A somber day in Sombor. We met with Anton Beck, the director of Gerhard, the Donauswabian community association in Sombor. They have many purposes; to represent the Danube Swabian community, to provide aid to the elderly and poor Danube Swabians, to provide activities and interaction between the community members, to teach German to those interested, to stay connected to the Danube Swabians who left the region, and probably a list of other functions. We saw the community centre, and talked with Anton and a young woman who worked with Gerhard. She spoke Serbian, as did Anton, as well as German, and it turned out that she was Bosnian in origin and her grandparents had come to the Banat when the Danube Swabians had been removed. Anton had not known that he was Danube Swabian until he was in his thirties, in fact, his father had never mentioned anything about his background. Anton's mother was Hungarian and that is why the family survived. Interestingly, Anton had known nothing about the concentration camp fifteen minutes from Sombor, where all young and older Danube Swabians from the Batschka had been interred, and where they had been starved to death. We had met a woman at the museum in Branau, who had grown up in Indija, a town we drove through in the Batschka, and survived Gakowo. She described how horrific the conditions were. For the first few months, the prisoners had received no food, and when they did finally receive nourishment, it was clear soup with little else. It was the coldest winter ever in the region, and there was no heat. When people died during the night, their bodies were placed outside the houses, and were picked up in the morning, frozen in the cold, and dumped in mass graves nearby.
The thought that people could live nearby and not know anything about what was happening is not an unfamiliar story.
We visited Gakowo in the afternoon after it had rained and the sky was dull and threatening, and the ground muddy and wet. I expected the town to be empty, after having hosted such horrors, but it was an ordinary town, in the usual Hapsburg design, with people on bikes and farm vehicles parked in front of the homes. The original Danube Swabians had been removed before the town was circled by a fence, and ready to receive the prisoners. The usual population of the town was 400, but 60,000 prisoners were packed in the houses, piled on top of each other, and left to die.
The Richters had left before the partisans came. My father arrived a day later, after getting leave from his regiment precisely to help his family with the move. He tried to convince his mother's family to leave as well, but they chose to stay. Most went to Gakowo and perished.
I learned that my father's aunt and uncle, who lived in Johannesfeld in the Banat, which is now in Romania, were sent to work camps; his uncle and cousin to the coal mines in the Ukraine, and his aunt (my grandfather's sister) to a work camp in Baragan in Eastern Romania on the Black Sea. I remember meeting my great aunt and my father's cousin when we lived in Germany in 1975-76. I distinctly remember noticing that his aunt's hands were crippled from the forced labour. His uncle died in the coal mines just before the German government arranged for his release. His cousin survived.
As we walked through the Serbian cemetery to the memorial erected to honour the Danube Swabians who died at Gakowo, a snake blocked our path. We had no idea if the snake was poisonous or not, so we stepped back and turned around. We waited for several minutes, until the snake decided to cross over to the other side and disappear into the grass. Only then could we walk over to the huge cross and read the writing on the base. What an odd and possibly significant moment.
Our morning was devoted to a long talk with Anton Beck, and a ride around Sombor to see the music school that my father attended during his eight years at the gymnasium, as well as the high school. He loved playing the violin and was devoted to his violin studies. He also experienced his first crush at 14, when he played with a pianist at his coed Serbian high school. He had attended the German grade school near the church in Backi Brestovac his first four years. His father decided he should learn Serbian, so he was sent to Sombor to attend the Serbian high school. He may have lived initially in a dorm at the school but most of his time there, he lived with a Hungarian family nearby. It was tough for him because he did not speak Serbian at all before high school. He moved from a town where he knew everyone, which was German speaking and intimate, to a bigger city, which was far less homogeneous. There were sizable populations of Serbs, Hungarians, Croatians and Germans in Sombor at the time.
The city was Hapsburg from 1687, and the architecture is representative of the eighteenth and nineteenth century. Much of it is rundown and poorly maintained; that is what we have seen in most of the towns in the Vojvodina. We met with an American woman who had been coming to Sombor several times a year since 2006, in an effort to reclaim what her family had lost. Serbia has to fulfill all sorts of EU prerequisites, one of which is to offer restitution to those whose lands and homes were confiscated during and after the war. However, we have been told that there are so many obstacles to success in restitution, that it is not worth the effort. This woman describes herself as a 'bulldog'. She has signed papers of 'confiscation' written by the Russians who claimed her father's and aunt's properties both in Sombor and in Backi Brestovac. She has the original claims as well. She had employed several lawyers over the years and has overcome all sorts of roadblocks in her efforts and truly believes that she will succeed in her efforts. However, she is so tired of her endless struggle, she may decide to sell her claim, and walk away. I admire her idealism and her perseverance. She is unusual in that she has all the original papers necessary to make a claim. None of the people in Backi Brestovac received papers of confiscation, nor were they able to bring their deeds with them to the work camps or to the concentration camps, or as refugees. The Serbian government is going through the motions to appease the EU, and has no intention of satisfying those who lost their lands or homes after the war.
What was disconcerting about our discussion with this American bulldog, was her entirely negative perception of the Serbs, of Sombor, of everything about this place. She talked about the mafia, the corrupt political system, the local people trying to take advantage of her; she had nothing positive to say about anyone or anything here. She appeared to have little appreciation of the beauty of the buildings or the history of the people. And although I admired her for her energy and her boldness, I felt deflated after our long talk, after lunch and our walk through the town, which was once beautiful, with trees and greenery everywhere and the faded beauty of the homes that were once grand and impressive, but left to deteriorate, much like the homes we have seen all over the area.
We drove north to Subotica, where my father had attended the University of Belgrade at Subotica his first year after finishing high school. He was supposed to fulfill his military duty in Zemun starting in June of 1938, but his school year ended the 28th of July so he was too late. The best choice for him was to devote a year to university studies, which he tells me he enjoyed thoroughly. Subotica is full of charming art nouveau buildings, which were not evident when we first arrived at out hotel. Such unfortunate concrete apartment blocks surround the charming city centre. In fact, we were questioning our choice to come to the town at all, until we walked through the rain to the very beautiful and imposing secessionist synagogue. At one time, there were 4000 Jewish inhabitants in Subotica, but they are all gone now, and the building is no longer used and is starting to look worn down. The pedestrian area of the town is full of both art nouveau and baroque buildings. The particular style of art nouveau is charming and almost fairytale like.
Our hotel had recommended a restaurant in town, where the food was not great, but the atmosphere quite perfect. We sat out on the street and watched the world go by. We have not been lucky with Serbian food. The fruit we bought on our way to Belgrade our second day was not good. Yesterday, we ate at 'Slon', supposedly the best restaurant in Sombor, but struggled in our efforts to please Tara's vegetarian taste. I had fried cheese, which was almost inedible, the ayvar was not quite right, the bread was white and tasteless, the cheese odd, the vegetables not tasty. Our lunch in town today was tasteless too. The fish goulasch in Apatin just had too many brains and other fish parts that were difficult to stomach. The cevapcici in Belgrade was just too much meat and not enough to balance it. We did like our Turkish desserts in Belgrade and the fish we ate in Zemun as well as at Smederevo. But generally the vegetables have not been a success. Interestingly, we have never seen a vegetable garden on our travels. Soy and sunflowers and corn are the usual crop. There are watermelons everywhere for sale, but we have not seen any offered in the restaurants. After our lackluster salads today we splurged and had palacinke with nuts and whipped cream, and it was delicious, so we ordered a second one to share. Perhaps we need a food guide to lead us through Serbia so we can be more successful with ordering.
We all want to go back to Backi Brestovac tomorrow to visit the cemetery. The Richters had a huge marble gravestone, made from stone from Sweden. I do not think it will be there, but for closure perhaps, we need to check it. My father also mentioned that he was called up to the Yugoslav army in 1944 in Backa Palanka (or Backa Topola), so we may take a moment to explore the town. We may then take the refugee route up to Baja, where the Richters had hoped to cross the Danube, but found the bridge destroyed and had to head further to Dunafoltwar.
It took us two weeks to reach our destination, but we are treading water now, and it is difficult to leave the beginning to reach the end.
The thought that people could live nearby and not know anything about what was happening is not an unfamiliar story.
We visited Gakowo in the afternoon after it had rained and the sky was dull and threatening, and the ground muddy and wet. I expected the town to be empty, after having hosted such horrors, but it was an ordinary town, in the usual Hapsburg design, with people on bikes and farm vehicles parked in front of the homes. The original Danube Swabians had been removed before the town was circled by a fence, and ready to receive the prisoners. The usual population of the town was 400, but 60,000 prisoners were packed in the houses, piled on top of each other, and left to die.
The Richters had left before the partisans came. My father arrived a day later, after getting leave from his regiment precisely to help his family with the move. He tried to convince his mother's family to leave as well, but they chose to stay. Most went to Gakowo and perished.
I learned that my father's aunt and uncle, who lived in Johannesfeld in the Banat, which is now in Romania, were sent to work camps; his uncle and cousin to the coal mines in the Ukraine, and his aunt (my grandfather's sister) to a work camp in Baragan in Eastern Romania on the Black Sea. I remember meeting my great aunt and my father's cousin when we lived in Germany in 1975-76. I distinctly remember noticing that his aunt's hands were crippled from the forced labour. His uncle died in the coal mines just before the German government arranged for his release. His cousin survived.
As we walked through the Serbian cemetery to the memorial erected to honour the Danube Swabians who died at Gakowo, a snake blocked our path. We had no idea if the snake was poisonous or not, so we stepped back and turned around. We waited for several minutes, until the snake decided to cross over to the other side and disappear into the grass. Only then could we walk over to the huge cross and read the writing on the base. What an odd and possibly significant moment.
Our morning was devoted to a long talk with Anton Beck, and a ride around Sombor to see the music school that my father attended during his eight years at the gymnasium, as well as the high school. He loved playing the violin and was devoted to his violin studies. He also experienced his first crush at 14, when he played with a pianist at his coed Serbian high school. He had attended the German grade school near the church in Backi Brestovac his first four years. His father decided he should learn Serbian, so he was sent to Sombor to attend the Serbian high school. He may have lived initially in a dorm at the school but most of his time there, he lived with a Hungarian family nearby. It was tough for him because he did not speak Serbian at all before high school. He moved from a town where he knew everyone, which was German speaking and intimate, to a bigger city, which was far less homogeneous. There were sizable populations of Serbs, Hungarians, Croatians and Germans in Sombor at the time.
The city was Hapsburg from 1687, and the architecture is representative of the eighteenth and nineteenth century. Much of it is rundown and poorly maintained; that is what we have seen in most of the towns in the Vojvodina. We met with an American woman who had been coming to Sombor several times a year since 2006, in an effort to reclaim what her family had lost. Serbia has to fulfill all sorts of EU prerequisites, one of which is to offer restitution to those whose lands and homes were confiscated during and after the war. However, we have been told that there are so many obstacles to success in restitution, that it is not worth the effort. This woman describes herself as a 'bulldog'. She has signed papers of 'confiscation' written by the Russians who claimed her father's and aunt's properties both in Sombor and in Backi Brestovac. She has the original claims as well. She had employed several lawyers over the years and has overcome all sorts of roadblocks in her efforts and truly believes that she will succeed in her efforts. However, she is so tired of her endless struggle, she may decide to sell her claim, and walk away. I admire her idealism and her perseverance. She is unusual in that she has all the original papers necessary to make a claim. None of the people in Backi Brestovac received papers of confiscation, nor were they able to bring their deeds with them to the work camps or to the concentration camps, or as refugees. The Serbian government is going through the motions to appease the EU, and has no intention of satisfying those who lost their lands or homes after the war.
What was disconcerting about our discussion with this American bulldog, was her entirely negative perception of the Serbs, of Sombor, of everything about this place. She talked about the mafia, the corrupt political system, the local people trying to take advantage of her; she had nothing positive to say about anyone or anything here. She appeared to have little appreciation of the beauty of the buildings or the history of the people. And although I admired her for her energy and her boldness, I felt deflated after our long talk, after lunch and our walk through the town, which was once beautiful, with trees and greenery everywhere and the faded beauty of the homes that were once grand and impressive, but left to deteriorate, much like the homes we have seen all over the area.
We drove north to Subotica, where my father had attended the University of Belgrade at Subotica his first year after finishing high school. He was supposed to fulfill his military duty in Zemun starting in June of 1938, but his school year ended the 28th of July so he was too late. The best choice for him was to devote a year to university studies, which he tells me he enjoyed thoroughly. Subotica is full of charming art nouveau buildings, which were not evident when we first arrived at out hotel. Such unfortunate concrete apartment blocks surround the charming city centre. In fact, we were questioning our choice to come to the town at all, until we walked through the rain to the very beautiful and imposing secessionist synagogue. At one time, there were 4000 Jewish inhabitants in Subotica, but they are all gone now, and the building is no longer used and is starting to look worn down. The pedestrian area of the town is full of both art nouveau and baroque buildings. The particular style of art nouveau is charming and almost fairytale like.
Our hotel had recommended a restaurant in town, where the food was not great, but the atmosphere quite perfect. We sat out on the street and watched the world go by. We have not been lucky with Serbian food. The fruit we bought on our way to Belgrade our second day was not good. Yesterday, we ate at 'Slon', supposedly the best restaurant in Sombor, but struggled in our efforts to please Tara's vegetarian taste. I had fried cheese, which was almost inedible, the ayvar was not quite right, the bread was white and tasteless, the cheese odd, the vegetables not tasty. Our lunch in town today was tasteless too. The fish goulasch in Apatin just had too many brains and other fish parts that were difficult to stomach. The cevapcici in Belgrade was just too much meat and not enough to balance it. We did like our Turkish desserts in Belgrade and the fish we ate in Zemun as well as at Smederevo. But generally the vegetables have not been a success. Interestingly, we have never seen a vegetable garden on our travels. Soy and sunflowers and corn are the usual crop. There are watermelons everywhere for sale, but we have not seen any offered in the restaurants. After our lackluster salads today we splurged and had palacinke with nuts and whipped cream, and it was delicious, so we ordered a second one to share. Perhaps we need a food guide to lead us through Serbia so we can be more successful with ordering.
We all want to go back to Backi Brestovac tomorrow to visit the cemetery. The Richters had a huge marble gravestone, made from stone from Sweden. I do not think it will be there, but for closure perhaps, we need to check it. My father also mentioned that he was called up to the Yugoslav army in 1944 in Backa Palanka (or Backa Topola), so we may take a moment to explore the town. We may then take the refugee route up to Baja, where the Richters had hoped to cross the Danube, but found the bridge destroyed and had to head further to Dunafoltwar.
It took us two weeks to reach our destination, but we are treading water now, and it is difficult to leave the beginning to reach the end.
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