The Republic of Latvia declared its independence on November 18, 1918. The first years of the new independent state were times of unrest. Similar to Poland, in 1920, there was a war with the Bolsheviks, including the Battle of Daugavpils, which ended in victory for the Polish-Latvian coalition. The fallen Polish soldiers were laid to rest in the military cemetery in Daugavpils Slobodka. Unfortunately, the later Soviet authorities decided to liquidate the cemetery, and it eventually became a landfill. Fortunately, in 1992, thanks to the efforts of local Poles, a tall concrete cross and plaques with the names of the fallen were unveiled, and the area was cleaned up. The cross now serves as a memorial to those events, a meeting place for Poles during various celebrations, and, most importantly, a significant symbol of Polish identity in the city.
On the other hand, it's interesting that anyone entering Daugavpils from the south passes by a large "Monument to the Defenders of the City" (Памятник защитникам города), depicting a Red Army soldier facing southwest (directly towards Poland) with his right hand raised as if to stop the approaching enemy from that direction. The monument, erected in 1975, remains in place to this day, serving as an example of how visiting the area requires leaving behind a black-and-white view of the world.
The year 1923 marked a period of relative peace and was when the protagonist of this story, Mrs. Walentyna, was born. Although it might be considered impolite to mention a woman's age, she celebrated her 95th birthday in 2018. Despite the passage of time affecting her health, she still impresses with her sharp mind, fascinating stories from the past, and, most importantly, her testimony that life, despite its hardships, can be good and valuable.
Cross on Slobodka, Daugavpils
Three stages: the first - as in Poland
When asked about the phenomenon of maintaining Polish identity among local Poles, despite many obstacles, particularly during the Soviet period in Latvia, Mrs. Walentyna responded, "A miracle from God." The Daugavpils of her childhood was a primarily Latvian city, but it was located just a few dozen kilometers from the areas of the Second Polish Republic. She fondly remembers her parents: her father, a railway worker, and her mother, a woman from the Vilnius region. Her mother's stories about visits to the Ostra Brama, religious devotion, love for traditions, and the ability to maintain order and harmony in the home despite having a large family. Until the outbreak of World War II, Daugavpils could genuinely be described as a "Little Poland." "Polish neighbors, at the pharmacy, store, school, church, among friends, and fellow students, in the scouting movement – Polish was spoken everywhere," this was how the world looked through the young Walentyna's eyes.
She emphasizes the significant role of scouting in her life, the regular meetings, the good atmosphere, the positive involvement of the scout leaders, excursions, learning history and patriotic traditions, such as caring for graves at the aforementioned Slobodka cemetery – all of this formed a solid foundation of Polish identity in her, which was put to the test over many difficult years. In the summer of 1939, she attended a scout camp in Poland, in Augustów, and shortly after her return, World War II broke out.
The second stage: war and Soviet times
The war period was a time of both difficulty and growing up for Mrs. Walentyna. In the spring of 1942, she married her late husband, Paweł, a Polish patriot whom she remembers as deeply devoted to Poland and everything Polish. She describes a recurring situation in which they would walk through the market, and Paweł would stop by a vendor, exclaiming to his wife, "Walu, wait, this is from Poland." He didn't always buy the item, but he always pointed it out, seeing in it a small piece of their beloved homeland.
During and shortly after World War II, Latvia, along with Daugavpils, changed hands several times, from the Soviets to the Nazi Germans and back to the Soviets for several decades. Mrs. Walentyna worked as a Latvian language teacher in a Russian school for most of her professional career. She loved her students, but the atmosphere of fear and suspicion at the school forced her to put on a certain "mask" and adopt a formal attitude towards her students, which was contrary to her nature. Furthermore, as a teacher, a kind of public figure, she couldn't openly practice the Catholic religion, let alone cultivate and develop her Polish identity since this would have gone against the principles of the ruling regime. Thus, she lived for many difficult years with an inner conflict: on one hand, she pursued her calling and passion for teaching, and on the other hand, she did it within a system that repressed her most important values and traditions.
The post-war Daugavpils was also different. Death, deportations, and resettlements changed the city's ethnic and national structure. Its industrial development brought many new people, including Poles from areas such as modern-day Belarus and Lithuania, but primarily Russian-speaking people from deep within the USSR. Despite remaining in the same geographical location, Soviet Daugavpils was no longer the same city in which our protagonist grew up.
Polishness as freedom, value, and choice
Mrs. Walentyna began our conversation with the story of one of her sons. At one point in his life, while living in Riga, he became involved with a Russian woman. This situation deeply worried Mrs. Walentyna because she assumed, correctly at the time, that her future daughter-in-law was not a believer and was of a different nationality. She believed this could be a threat to the preservation of Polish identity and Catholic faith, both for her son and their future children. She saw how mixed marriages around her often resulted in family pressures or the influence of the prevailing system causing people to abandon the use of the Polish language, leading to involuntary russification.
Her concerns, however, proved unfounded as the actual situation was entirely different. Her future daughter-in-law, although not a believer at the time, requested Polish language books on their first meeting and asked about the possibility of being baptized in the Roman Catholic rite, which eventually took place. It turned out that she fell in love not only with Mrs. Walentyna's son but also with the tradition, faith, and the country of his ancestors. As a married couple, they had two sons (Mrs. Walentyna's grandsons) and lived with their daughter-in-law's parents, and the language of communication in their shared home was Russian. However, Mrs. Walentyna's son consistently communicated with his children in Polish. This initially didn't sit well with his mother, who believed that raising children in this manner would lead to them not mastering either of the languages well. However, her son stood his ground and remained true to his principles. Ultimately, when the opportunity arose after 1989, both of his sons continued to develop their Polish language skills through various courses and eventually completed their studies in Poland. The older son stayed in Poland, settling in the Podkarpacie region, while the younger son returned to Riga.
Mrs. Walentyna emphasized that she is very grateful to Poland for educating her grandsons. I added that, regardless of the circumstances, Poland should be a hundred times more grateful to her for the testimony of her life. She speaks highly of her current contact with her grandsons, who often call her, and she considers herself not just a grandmother but also a friend to them. Her son and daughter-in-law also regularly visit Poland and speak highly of everything they experience during their trips.
The third stage: New Latvia.
Let's return to Daugavpils, this time about 30 years ago. In the late 1980s, as communism was nearing its end, local Poles slowly began to regroup. Mrs. Walentyna, now a retiree, was offered a position to work as a teacher at a Polish Sunday school. The situation regarding the reactivation of the Polish educational institution was still unclear at that time. The Sunday school was a transitional solution for children who attended Russian schools during the week and provided a smooth transition to the "proper" Polish school in case it reopened. Mrs. Walentyna was responsible for organizing and teaching the youngest group of children. She remembers the moment when, at the end of December, she could write "Wesołych Świąt Bożego Narodzenia" (Merry Christmas) in Polish on the chalkboard after many years of waiting. Afterward, she couldn't turn back to face the class because tears welled up in her eyes to the point where she sobbed loudly and frightened the children. The days that used to be associated with a warm and festive atmosphere in her childhood but turned into ordinary workdays in her adult life finally began to regain their cherished traditional character. Students attending the Sunday school eagerly awaited the weekend classes, despite already spending most of the week at Russian schools. Such was their enthusiasm that fellow teachers from the Russian school would ask Mrs. Walentyna, "What are you doing that makes all the children eagerly anticipate the end of the week and rush to your class?" The answer came from a Russian school director who had been invited by parents and grandparents involved in the Sunday school to participate in a reenactment of one of the traditional holidays. After spending time in a Polish company, she understood everything and summed it up in one sentence: "It's like paradise here." The warm atmosphere, full of understanding, patience, and empathy, essential for growing children, was almost the opposite of what they experienced in the Russian school every day.
Over time, the Polish school was officially opened and began teaching students. The beginnings were not easy. There was a lack of equipment and many other things. Fortunately, the people reactivating the institution crossed paths with Mr. Jan Plater-Gajewski, who, after taking out a notebook, simply asked what was needed and in what quantity. He promptly financed everything from his own pocket. During the first years of its operation, thanks to the dedication of teachers, led by the late headmistress Gertruda Grave, and the community surrounding the school, it became one of the best educational institutions in Daugavpils, a status it maintains to this day.
Es esmu means "I am."
Mrs. Walentyna's deep faith and spirituality are deeply impressive. Much is said about the general crisis of faith in Poland and around the world. In my opinion, this crisis stems from the exhaustion of a formula that previous generations followed, practicing faith as a tradition, a habit, with only a few seeking a personal relationship with the living God. Mrs. Walentyna does not belong to this latter group. Towards the end of our conversation, she began to tell me about watching a Protestant service on television that was part of the Latvian Song and Dance Festival (Dziesmu svētki). The service began with the words "Es esmu," which in Polish means "Jestem" ("I am"). These words reminded her of the altar of the Upper Basilica in Lichen, where the inscription "Jestem, który jestem" refers to a scene from the Old Testament. The words were a message from the mountain, she said, for her, for the Latvian people, and for the whole world, declaring that God is always present and alive. The bursting basilica, filled with people, was a beautiful sign for Mrs. Walentyna that Latvians were returning to God after years of secularization.
Testimony
The story of Mrs. Walentyna's life is a remarkable testimony to patriotism, faith, humility, and unwavering Polish character, which endured through many years of hardship. Her present circumstances are not without their challenges. Her health no longer allows her to actively participate in events such as the recent unveiling of the monument to King Stefan Batory or the associated festivities, which deeply saddens her. Nevertheless, she maintains a positive spirit because she trusts in God's providence and believes that whatever happens, she has fulfilled her duties to the best of her ability on many fronts. Several times a year, the lively and exuberant "Kukułeczka" ensemble, affiliated with the Daugavpils Polish Cultural Center, visits her. On a daily basis, she stays up-to-date with news from Poland through television. As she says, "We live on crumbs – whatever we hear, whatever we read, we grasp it like air, and it already makes us happy."
In conclusion of our conversation, she told me that she would be happy and fulfilled if her stories moved "at least one Polish heart." Her wish was granted automatically because my heart was touched. I hope that yours, at least in part, was as well.
Note 2023: Mrs. Walentyna Łapkowska died on July 16, 2020 at the age of 97. Her grave is in the Catholic cemetery in Daugavpils. Requiescat in pace.
"Daugavpils station" is a multi-part reportage about the Polish community in eastern Latvia. It was published in 2018 in Polish on my old account @basementdisco. Five years after the premiere, I present versions in English and Latvian.
Translations assisted by ChatGPT.
