Rescuers of Jews

     I, Liudvika Rimavičiūtė Gedaikienė, was born on 16 October 1920 in Pėdžiai village, Kėdainiai district. In 1940 I married Petras Gedaika, born on 6 October 1908 in Pelėdnagiai village, Kėdainiai district, and we settled in Pėdžiai village on a 45-hectare farm that had been bequeathed to me by my godmother and that bordered my parents’ 85-hectare farm. In Pelėdnagiai village, my husband owned a small brick factory – a brickyard. In 1940, after the Soviets arrived, landowners in our area began to be arrested and deported to Siberia (the Sologubas family, who owned 200 hectares of land, the Šimkevičius, who owned 100 hectares of land and a starch factory).
     In 1941, when the Germans arrived, life did not become easier. In the evenings, Soviet soldiers who had failed to retreat would often stop by asking for food, and German soldiers also visited the village. Sometimes three or four German soldiers would arrive unannounced with a translator, ask how things were going, and the interpreter would indicate that they were expected to be treated with hospitality.
     The situation became even more dangerous for our family when my mother, Juzefa Rimavičienė, agreed to take in three Jewish people into her home: Joselis Lisonas, Chaimas Lisonas, and Chaja Ušaraitė-Lison. Our family farm bordered my parents’ farm. Living with my mother were my sister Leonarda and my brothers Antanas and Kaliksas. We all had to figure out how to hide the people we had taken in. All three men took part in preparing the hiding place. In the barn where the animals were kept, a second wall was built out of logs up to the roof, accessible by a ladder. During the day, they lived behind that wall in the barn, and food was brought to them by placing a pot inside a bucket used for animals, so that if any uninvited guest came and saw hot soup or meat being carried into the barn, it would not arouse suspicion. In the evenings, after dark, the shutters were closed and the hidden people were invited to dine in the house, while one of the family members stayed outside on watch, so that no one would unexpectedly enter. Only our family knew about the Jews in hiding; even my eldest sister Janina, who was married and lived in Kaunas, did not know, because her husband was very talkative and we were afraid he might accidentally let it slip.
     Throughout the entire German occupation, we lived in constant fear, fully aware that if the Germans found out, we would all be shot. Many evenings we would gather food and go to my mother’s house for dinner, knowing that they had to do all the farm work (my mother kept no hired labour; all agricultural work was done by the brothers, sister, and mother) while also feeding the three people in hiding, so we tried to help them as much as we could.
nbsp;    Once we found ourselves in a very difficult situation: we had prepared food to bring to the people in hiding when we suddenly heard knocking on the window. We looked out and saw Soviet soldiers. We let them into the granary, gave them something to eat, and waited for them to leave. At that moment, a vehicle with Germans drove into the yard. The interpreter explained that they had heard something (this was the most frightening moment, until he said what they had supposedly heard), and then translated: “Your wife makes very tasty smoked meat sausages, so we came to taste them.” My husband started talking with the Germans and invited them into the house, while I ran to the granary begging the Soviet soldiers to stay quiet and not come out until the Germans had left. That time everything ended well.
     As the Germans retreated, they took everything they could. From us they took eight cows, thirty pigs, and fodder. They wanted to take the horses as well, but my husband said that we too would be evacuating, so they left the horses. They could not catch the chickens. Then the Soviets returned, and our Jews left. However, soon deportations began – first one family, then another. In 1948, my mother Juzefa, my sister Leonarda, and my brothers Antanas and Kaliksas were deported to Siberia. There was unrest again, and sleepless nights returned.
     On 19 March 1949, my husband went to Kaunas because the horse was ill, and around 10 a.m. I went to visit my neighbour Sukavičienė. Suddenly I saw through the window two covered trucks arriving at our house, and armed soldiers began jumping out and quickly surrounding it. We both understood they might search neighbouring houses, so my neighbour locked me in a cupboard and went to look toward our house.
     The newcomers were already taking control of the house and barns. The entire village was mobilised to provide horses and carts, and the soldiers were loading livestock, fodder, various belongings, and furniture (about 30 carts were loaded). When my neighbour returned, I was already suffocating in the cupboard. She dressed me in old fur coats, gave me a stick, put an old hat belonging to my husband on my head, and led me out of the village as if I were a beggar, all the way to the Barupė River, beyond which was Kaunas district (normally deportation lists were drawn up by district, and we lived in Kėdainiai district, so they should not have been searching for me there).
     I went to my friend Elena Gecevičiūtė-Paškevičienė and her mother, who lived in another village, and safely reached their homestead. My husband, returning from Kaunas, was cautious: he got out of a passing vehicle about 5 km from the village and from afar saw a long line of carts. Avoiding them, he went to a familiar person. When the carts approached the homestead, the owner went outside as if to inspect apple trees and casually asked what such a large number of carts was carrying. Returning inside, he told my husband that they were taking them away. My husband asked whether the neighbour had seen his wife; the answer was that she had not been seen.
     Seeing my husband’s anxiety, the owner Vyšniauskas offered him homemade rye spirit and asked him to wait until dark so no one would recognise him while leaving. My husband drank it as if it were water, without feeling anything, so tense were his nerves. Intuition suggested that if I was not among those carts, perhaps I had managed to reach Gecevičiai in another village.
     Late at night, my husband arrived at my friend Elena’s house, where we reunited. We spent a sleepless night and early in the morning set off for Kaunas. We left with only the clothes we were wearing, without a home or possessions. Fortunately, my husband had taken some money with him when travelling to Kaunas. In Kaunas we hid for about a year, but when the money ran out and no one was willing to take us in (people were afraid to shelter a fleeing farmer), my husband took the risk, registered officially, and found work. We started life anew.
     We met the Jews we had sheltered again in Kaunas. We remained in contact with the Lison family – Chaja and Joselis – until 1971, when they emigrated to Israel. Around 1992, their daughter Ada came to Kaunas, found us, visited our home, and left us photographs.

The memories of Liudvika Rimavičiūtė Gedaikienė were recorded by her daughter, Liukrecija Navickienė.

     P.S. On 18 November 2018, in Vandžiogala, Kaunas district, at the old Jewish cemetery, a monument was unveiled in memory of murdered Jews. I was pleasantly surprised when Ada Lisonaitė sent me an invitation to attend the unveiling ceremony. I took part in it and met Alex Lisson (Lyon), the son of Chaim Lison, whom my parents had saved. He was the sponsor of the monument. His father Chaim Lison emigrated to the United States shortly after the war, became a well-known and prosperous man, but my parents had no contact with him. I now maintain contact with Ada Lisonaitė myself; when she visits Kaunas, we meet. She has a large and beautiful family, and I am glad that my parents, my grandmother, and my mother’s brothers and sister contributed to their lives.

Liukrecija Gedaikaitė Navickienė