Rescuers of Jews
Gembickienė Ana
Tamara GEMBICKAITĖ
Tatjana GEMBICKAITĖ
Ana GEMBICKIENĖ
VALENTINAS LARIONOVAS
“Oh, I know you!” cried joy
fully an old lady with a well-groomed face. An emerald green headband emphasised the beauty of her dark eyes.
Did she really see me leaning out over the balcony railings or somewhere in the last rows of the stalls at the Philharmonic Hall? Or, occasionally, in the street, wearing light flowing shawls and gently passing by, followed by admiring glances as if endeavouring to achieve a purpose inaccessible to others?
Recollecting myself, I understood her subtle and considerate joke: it was they who knew her.
Several generations of professional musicians and music lovers had matured during the decades of Tatjana Gembickaitė’s work as a concert compère. Receiving a rapturous welcome, in a black or blue evening dress, she would walk with light steps across the stage, stop for a moment, displaying her special “non-local” beauty, in a clear and mellow voice announce an item on the programme, and then seem to melt into the background, making way for the performers. Her very appearance on the stage was a part of the gala. And an audible sigh of disappointment passed through the audience when she was replaced by some other compere.
I plucked up the courage to say that the community could support her only by delivering free dinner to her home.
“That’s fine,” Tatjana said cheerfully. “I’ll stop worrying about my cooking. That’s wonderful.”
I understood that she could always see a silver lining behind every cloud.
“All my life I have been surrounded by wonderful people,” Tatjana remembers. “When I was ill, the administration of the Philharmonic Hall sent me to a sanatorium. On my birthday I received greetings from David Oistrakh, Zara Dolukhanova and other guest musicians. If I could relive my life, I would marry Valentinas Larionovas and would not regret it.”
On the windowsill I noticed a slim booklet entitled Jewish Dishes.
“Yes, I was looking for a recipe for cakes. They used to be baked in a small bakery on Laisvės alėja in Kaunas. They simply melted in the mouth...
At that time they were mad on sailing. A noisy crowd of young and jolly people would go down the hill towards the quay of the Yachting Club. Later, tired but healthy, they climbed up the hill, sprawled in armchairs in the Pas Konradą or Monika cafes, and talked and talked and talked.
“Some hooligans started breaking the windows of Jewish shops,” Tatjana continued. “I don’t have any idea where they came from. I hadn’t met anybody like it, either in the countryside or in the capital. In our circle there were people of various nationalities and faiths, and that did not prevent us from getting on together.”
In the summer of 1941, Tatjana’s friend, the beautiful Fira Kupric, did not go with the others to the yachts. She was expecting. And then tragedy, the war broke out, and the Germans came. Fira’s husband was killed in the street in the first days of the war, and little Anita was born on 30 June. The establishment of the ghetto in Vilijampolė was announced. No, Fira would not go there: her good friends suggested she go to the countryside and go into a hideout. However, it was not possible to take a newborn baby into a hideout, it would not survive. And it was not safe, some babies do not speak quietly.
Fira took Anita to the Gembickas, and Tatjana raised her as her own child.
Tatjana’s sister Tamara decided to marry. The war was a double tragedy for her fiancé. Wolfgang Janchig, an Austrian, worked in the Kaunas commandant’s office. After the union with Austria, he had been drafted into the Wehrmacht. He hated the Nazis, he never shook hands with an SS officer. Many behaved like that, Tatjana pointed out. Nevertheless, it was clear that a Wehrmacht officer would not be allowed hide a Jewish girl in his flat...
Their son Alioša was born in 1942, and Tatjana, her husband and the two children moved to Vilnius. It turned out that their flat on the Neris embankment was opposite the flat of an SS officer. Never greeting her, the German often glimpsed at the black-haired and dark-eyed woman. Prying male eyes were not new to her; she had participated in beauty contests. Nonetheless, in case of doubts concerning her unusual appearance, Tatjana had an Ausweiss asserting that she was a Tartar by nationality.
When the door bell rang once and Tatjana opened the door, she was surprised to see the surly neighbour.
“Nice weather, isn’t it, Frau. It’s time for your little ones to go out for a walk.” Tatjana was stunned: it was raining heavily!
She quickly put the two children into one pram, took an armful of nappies, and set out for shelter to her sister Lidija’s place on the outskirts of the city.
The search was carried out half an hour later.
“You also took a risk,” I reminded her.
“You can never tell,” Tatjana nodded. “Times were hard... My father, Mykolas Gembickas, was ill for a long time, and he died. Mother was distressed...”
“Before taking in little Anita, did you consult the other members of the family? Did all of them agree?” I asked her.
“We did not discuss it,” Tatjana said.
And I no longer saw a small sickly woman, worn out by the deaths of her loved ones, her husband Valentinas and her son Alioša. Instead, I saw a woman from a photograph that was hanging in the hallway, the Tatjana of the days when her nearest and dearest called her by her Tartar name, Tabunna. She has just crossed the stage, slim and beautiful in her evening dress. Behind her, the choir and the orchestra are waiting for her announcement, and the conductor is ready to raise his baton. In front of her, the hall is filled to capacity. For a moment she lets the audience admire her, and in her clear, mellow voice pronounces:
“Ludwig van Beethoven. The Symphony No 9 in D Major.”
Seid umschlungen, Millionen! [Embrace one another, ye millions!]
From Hands Bringing Life and Bread, Volume 3,
The Vilna Gaon State Jewish Museum. Vilnius, 2005
Tatjana GEMBICKAITĖ
Ana GEMBICKIENĖ
VALENTINAS LARIONOVAS
“Oh, I know you!” cried joy
fully an old lady with a well-groomed face. An emerald green headband emphasised the beauty of her dark eyes.
Did she really see me leaning out over the balcony railings or somewhere in the last rows of the stalls at the Philharmonic Hall? Or, occasionally, in the street, wearing light flowing shawls and gently passing by, followed by admiring glances as if endeavouring to achieve a purpose inaccessible to others?
Recollecting myself, I understood her subtle and considerate joke: it was they who knew her.
Several generations of professional musicians and music lovers had matured during the decades of Tatjana Gembickaitė’s work as a concert compère. Receiving a rapturous welcome, in a black or blue evening dress, she would walk with light steps across the stage, stop for a moment, displaying her special “non-local” beauty, in a clear and mellow voice announce an item on the programme, and then seem to melt into the background, making way for the performers. Her very appearance on the stage was a part of the gala. And an audible sigh of disappointment passed through the audience when she was replaced by some other compere.
I plucked up the courage to say that the community could support her only by delivering free dinner to her home.
“That’s fine,” Tatjana said cheerfully. “I’ll stop worrying about my cooking. That’s wonderful.”
I understood that she could always see a silver lining behind every cloud.
“All my life I have been surrounded by wonderful people,” Tatjana remembers. “When I was ill, the administration of the Philharmonic Hall sent me to a sanatorium. On my birthday I received greetings from David Oistrakh, Zara Dolukhanova and other guest musicians. If I could relive my life, I would marry Valentinas Larionovas and would not regret it.”
On the windowsill I noticed a slim booklet entitled Jewish Dishes.
“Yes, I was looking for a recipe for cakes. They used to be baked in a small bakery on Laisvės alėja in Kaunas. They simply melted in the mouth...
At that time they were mad on sailing. A noisy crowd of young and jolly people would go down the hill towards the quay of the Yachting Club. Later, tired but healthy, they climbed up the hill, sprawled in armchairs in the Pas Konradą or Monika cafes, and talked and talked and talked.
“Some hooligans started breaking the windows of Jewish shops,” Tatjana continued. “I don’t have any idea where they came from. I hadn’t met anybody like it, either in the countryside or in the capital. In our circle there were people of various nationalities and faiths, and that did not prevent us from getting on together.”
In the summer of 1941, Tatjana’s friend, the beautiful Fira Kupric, did not go with the others to the yachts. She was expecting. And then tragedy, the war broke out, and the Germans came. Fira’s husband was killed in the street in the first days of the war, and little Anita was born on 30 June. The establishment of the ghetto in Vilijampolė was announced. No, Fira would not go there: her good friends suggested she go to the countryside and go into a hideout. However, it was not possible to take a newborn baby into a hideout, it would not survive. And it was not safe, some babies do not speak quietly.
Fira took Anita to the Gembickas, and Tatjana raised her as her own child.
Tatjana’s sister Tamara decided to marry. The war was a double tragedy for her fiancé. Wolfgang Janchig, an Austrian, worked in the Kaunas commandant’s office. After the union with Austria, he had been drafted into the Wehrmacht. He hated the Nazis, he never shook hands with an SS officer. Many behaved like that, Tatjana pointed out. Nevertheless, it was clear that a Wehrmacht officer would not be allowed hide a Jewish girl in his flat...
Their son Alioša was born in 1942, and Tatjana, her husband and the two children moved to Vilnius. It turned out that their flat on the Neris embankment was opposite the flat of an SS officer. Never greeting her, the German often glimpsed at the black-haired and dark-eyed woman. Prying male eyes were not new to her; she had participated in beauty contests. Nonetheless, in case of doubts concerning her unusual appearance, Tatjana had an Ausweiss asserting that she was a Tartar by nationality.
When the door bell rang once and Tatjana opened the door, she was surprised to see the surly neighbour.
“Nice weather, isn’t it, Frau. It’s time for your little ones to go out for a walk.” Tatjana was stunned: it was raining heavily!
She quickly put the two children into one pram, took an armful of nappies, and set out for shelter to her sister Lidija’s place on the outskirts of the city.
The search was carried out half an hour later.
“You also took a risk,” I reminded her.
“You can never tell,” Tatjana nodded. “Times were hard... My father, Mykolas Gembickas, was ill for a long time, and he died. Mother was distressed...”
“Before taking in little Anita, did you consult the other members of the family? Did all of them agree?” I asked her.
“We did not discuss it,” Tatjana said.
And I no longer saw a small sickly woman, worn out by the deaths of her loved ones, her husband Valentinas and her son Alioša. Instead, I saw a woman from a photograph that was hanging in the hallway, the Tatjana of the days when her nearest and dearest called her by her Tartar name, Tabunna. She has just crossed the stage, slim and beautiful in her evening dress. Behind her, the choir and the orchestra are waiting for her announcement, and the conductor is ready to raise his baton. In front of her, the hall is filled to capacity. For a moment she lets the audience admire her, and in her clear, mellow voice pronounces:
“Ludwig van Beethoven. The Symphony No 9 in D Major.”
Seid umschlungen, Millionen! [Embrace one another, ye millions!]
From Hands Bringing Life and Bread, Volume 3,
The Vilna Gaon State Jewish Museum. Vilnius, 2005