Vilnius Archives, part I – or – Reasons for Learning Russian

Before going on the trip out to the shtetls, one of the guides I talked to mentioned going to the archives to see what family records I could track down. I had planned on going at some general point, but given the impending trip dates, today, I went.

I found the archives on a map, determined that it was far away from the city center and from my usual bus routes and settled on a taxi, rather than figuring it all out. Especially since taxis are cheap (it ended up costing seven bucks) and I don’t need to worry about navigation when I’m busy worrying about dealing with the archives.

The building is quite plain and I only recognize it by the small sign above the door with a name that I had read online the day before, “Lietuvos Valstybinis Istoijos Archyvas.” Lithuanian State Historical Archives. I am not sure they are going to let me in. I have heard stories about letters and appointments and I have none of these things. I have the name of a woman, Galina Baranova, who is the go-to person for all those American Jews looking for old family records.

There is a paper on the front door which has different hours listed for various items, all written in Lithuanian. The top hours seem to indicate something closing from 12:00 until 12:45. It is now 12:07. Since I can’t read the sign anyway, I just try the door handle. It is unlocked and I go in.

I give the woman at the desk, who does not speak English, Galina’s name. She leaves, comes back and then points me down a long hall with a dozen doors. I ask/mime, which one? She points me down the hall again, pointing to the left side. So that narrows it down. I wander and find “G. Baranova” outside one door.

G. Baranova is polite (and English-speaking), but I’m sure I’ve disturbed her because I’ve made no appointment (though I tried; phone issues). I tell her my business. She quickly explains how there will be nothing for Gorzd and Shalel here because those records have disappeared, except for one volume of something for Shalel for 1922. (I will contact the Kaunas Archive because I was told that what Vilnius has, the other doesn’t and vice versa.)

She asks if I speak Russian. I do not. She says all the records are in Russian and sometimes in “Jewish,” too, occasionally only in Russian. Again, “no Russian?” “No Russian.” She says for Linkuva there are some records.

All the records are organized in books by year, for each location. For Gorzd and especially for Shalel, I know many years, written in my own records. For Linkuva, I have no known years.

I don’t share this (lack of) information with Galina and she takes me to the reading room. On the way, we stop at lockers because I cannot have bags or anything big. Only paper and pen. And just hold your valuables. “Don’t leave your money.” I am given the key to the locker. I must look a little shocked by all this “get rid of all your belongings” shpiel and as soon as she stops talking, she says, “You must hurry, I am very busy.” Okay, okay, I was waiting for you to finish. I grab my documents, my wallet, camera, and phone, and a notebook. I lock the locker and drop the small key (only slightly more complicated than a diary key) into my pocket.

I follow her into another office connected to the reading room and start filling out a form that will grant me access to the archives. Galina seems annoyed that she has to help me with the form (in Lithuanian), and with my questions (my phone here or at home? Address here or at home?). They ask for the number on my ID. It is my IL driver’s license and I’m not sure how that number will help them track me down for whatever reason, but I put it down because I don’t want to keep annoying her, and everyone seems satisfied with the information I provide. When she asks if I am I student, I say yes, because that seems to be the easiest answer.

She hands the form to a woman at the desk and they talk back and forth in Lithuanian. All I catch is zydu, and other forms of the word, meaning Jew or Jewish. She opens some index books, asks me for the shtetl names again. “So you speak no Russian?” Yup, still no Russian. Haven’t learned any since we walked down the hall.

The entire index is in Russian with numbers. She explains quickly that the four columns across the top of each page read: Birth, Marriage, Divorce, Death. I write this down. Down each column is (hopefully) a list of years, with a corresponding book number, which I would request on a form they gave me, should I want that year of births (or marriages/divorces/deaths) from that town.

Galina finds the pages for Linkuva in two volumes. I mark them with yellow legal pad paper, torn from my pad quickly as she flips through the indexes. There is one page for Shalel, with one year, listed under births. 1936. I am told I can’t see it, though. “Why?” “The Lithuanian War.” That is all I’m told. End of story. When I sit down, I will request it on my sheet anyway, just in case someone forgets and hands it over…

I ask again, just to make sure that there is nothing for Gorzd and nothing else for Shalel. Nope. That’s it. Just those two different pages for Linkuva. Because I don’t speak Russian, I have to trust that the names on the top of the page say what I hope they do.

Galina leaves and I am grateful that she has been so willing to guide me through all these steps.

I am given a little Archives ID card, stamped with their seal in blue. I take my two indexes, marked with torn yellow paper, and go into the reading room. The room is mostly full – silent, with people at desk stations pouring over volumes – and I find a table at the front and sit down. I hear someone’s digital camera snapping photos somewhere behind me. I wonder for the eighteenth time in five minutes, what the hell am I going to do; I don’t speak Russian. How will I find anything?

The glass is reflective that separates the reading room and the little office I was just in. I look up and I’m staring at myself and the open indexes piled in front of me, questioning this endeavor. I don’t know Russian. The books are in Russian. And now I’m supposed to go through these indexes and find which records I want? Why would I know Russian? How come I don’t know Russian?

I enjoy my pity party for a moment, then laugh and think, I can have this pity party or I can just start figuring it out. (What should I do, leave?) So I start reading the lists, one column at a time.

Still, I have no dates for Linkuva. So I work out approximates on a piece of paper. I have Baubie’s (Sally’s) birth date. That’s all. I know she was born in the US. I know her mother Alice, whose family was from Linkuva, met her father after they were both already in the US. So going backwards, I start approximating birth dates and marriage dates all the way back to Alice’s parents. These were my great-great grandparents.

In the midst of going through the Russian lists and making my approximations for siblings birthdays, I stop and stare at myself and the ridiculousness of this situation. Then, back into it.

One of the Linkuva lists is quite short and I request three out of the four volumes listed. The other page for Linkuva is quite full, with dozens of years, but only a half dozen that might possibly be somewhere in my range of years. The page seems quite noisy, and I feel like I have many voices talking excitedly in my head. I wish one of them would tell me which year to pick. In one of the volumes there must be something relevant, but all that I can do is only slightly better than the equivalent of throwing darts at the page to choose.

I bring my finished request form back into the little office and the woman inside is an English speaker and blessedly friendly. (I’m not sure how much more I could’ve taken of the not-smiling and rushing…) She says many of the volumes are on microfilm. I wonder to myself if I remember how to use the microfilm machines; a little. She takes me to the microfilm room (Mikrofilmu skaitykla) and gives my list to another woman, tells me to come back in two hours when they will have what I’ve asked for. She is patient and explains their hours when I ask and suggests I come back early the next morning, they open at 8:30, because there will be more microfilm machines free then. I make my way to the front door, indicate to the front desk lady that I’m taking my locker key because I will be back. We smile, happy to be understood and relieved to not have to speak further.

I worry that my best bet for finding anything here is my ability to sound out the Yiddish that may or may not be on the records. Because at least, I can read that alphabet. Again, knowing Cyrillic would’ve been helpful.

I have an acquaintance here in Vilnius who I met through my Jewish Lithuania program. She was also talking about coming to the Archives, and she speaks all these languages, but we keep missing each other. Perhaps it is wise to come back together… (You think, Halley? Just maybe?) I have only a few days before I leave for the towns, so hopefully we can meet before then. And if not, after.

I left the building, looking for something that said Kavine (coffee shop; kava is coffee) somewhere in this unknown other part of the city where tourists almost never venture (unless coming to the Archives, I would guess). I found a spot, ordered arbata (tea) and cold borscht (pronounced Shal-TEE bar-shay) because I know how to say it in Lithuanian and know it will fill me and likely be good. I couldn’t read the menu anyway, even if I wanted to. The radio station is playing “Sweet Child of Mine,” and the song is the longest stretch of English I’ve heard since I left the guest house this morning.

I have my laptop out and I type and eat, waiting for 3:00 when I can go back to the Archives around the corner to see what the archivists have turned up.