Discovering ones ancestors and opening links with distant relatives can be a rewarding experience as the many who have trod this timeworn path more thoroughly than I have no doubt discovered. The path I took was not so much to see how far back in time I could go, though that aspect was thrilling on its own, but I sought to discover some of the history and experiences of my living relatives. My interest lay in gaining an insight into the experiences of those still living rather than pouring over the dusty tomes of archives offices. I wanted to catch a flavour of peoples’ lives before their stories were lost.
The results of my enquiries were varied to say the least, ranging from promises of assistance, which never eventuated, to complete cooperation with some exceptionally detailed information forthcoming, but I never expected the threats of violence that my initial letter evoked. Many of my early letters were returned “not known at this address,” some replied with a polite “thanks but no thanks, don’t bother me again,” but most people provided superb information with some including photographs and a few provided copies of their own research. By and large all the information has been included. But I was amazed and shocked when my brother’s reply came by telephone threatening actual bodily violence.
I had been becoming progressively interested in finding out a few things about my relatives during the 1980s. The occasional conversation of their experiences as children and young adults revealed some interesting aspects of their lives. It sparked my interest to find out more, and without particularly planning it I began taking notes. At the very least I realised how little I knew about the basic relationships between my relatives. The more I discovered the more I wanted to know. I began by asking my father to list all his relatives, asking him to detail as much as he could remember, and noted everything. I asked similar questions of my mother and her family, and before I knew it I was hooked. Family history normally follows the male line, but I have attempted to discover as much as I could from both lines. I soon realised I would have to get more organised if I wanted reliable and complete information. So, I designed a questionnaire and wrote to all the relatives I knew, asking them to complete it and return it to me.
The letter I sent my brother was a facsimile of that which was sent to everyone else, but his reaction was unique. He said the letter was provocative. I should point out when I use the word ‘said’ it may imply he spoke in a normal tone of voice. In fact, his tone was sinister; he hissed maliciously rather than simply spoke. He demanded I stop immediately or leave him out of it. No one can demand this of anyone. If I didn’t do as he wanted, he said he would break my bones, or worse. This is thuggery pure and simple, and what is this “or worse” threat? It doesn’t take much imagination to run through the possibilities. I never entertained his demand for a moment. In fact, it added impetus, but his threat was taken very seriously. It created a rift that was never to be bridged. Threats of this nature are more than petty squabbles, and on hindsight I should have reported the incident to the police. If he had offered some suggestion toward a compromise that accommodated his phobia and addressed my research interest I would have been prepared to listen, but he was belligerent. He never apologised for his behaviour, and his aggression made me determined.
The object of his anger, outwardly at least, was a family skeleton. Even though almost everyone in the family was for the most part, comfortable about it, John retained a childhood fear. I too helped keep this skeleton hidden as a child, but had grown to see it as little more than a twist of fate, little different from the experiences of many other people. I had long since put this immature fear behind me, and by the time I was becoming interested in my family history I had thought he too would have changed his outlook on life and put this old issue to rest. The problem for him was that my research was going to expose the family skeleton. I won’t be intimidated by threats and can see no reason to maintain the farce. Consider the skeleton exposed!
Our grandfather was born in Lithuania, and proud of it. Our grandmother was also Lithuanian, though she was born in Scotland. They were my mother’s parents. Much less is known of my father’s parents but there are strong indications of a Lithuanian heritage. I never met my grandparents from his side. My parents, my brother and I were born in Scotland, but the Lithuanian lineage is clear. The preceding sentences may not have revealed the skeleton clearly. To remove any remaining doubt I’ll clarify it. The dark secret in this family, the thing that was only spoken of in whispers, the horrible skeleton in the wardrobe, the dread of all dreads, the secret that has done much to ruin relations in this family, is that we are Lithuanian. That’s it, all over, done. In case you missed it, I’ll repeat it. Lithuania.
I wrote to all my relatives asking for their assistance in constructing a family tree. It was a simple letter introducing myself and included the questionnaire. Almost everyone responded, and I gathered a great deal of information. I was overwhelmed by some responses with people sending photographs and documents, and I was greatly encouraged from the beginning. I also received replies from people I hadn’t written to as my letter had been passed on from one person to another. In fact, I received a letter from one person on my father’s side of the family who said they had no idea of my father’s existence. Information was received from the UK, Canada, USA, Germany and Australia. Curiously, I received nothing from Lithuania.
My brother has spent his entire life disapproving of his heritage, and as a consequence seems to despise anything or anyone associated with Lithuania. This, of course, presents a problem for him, because he is as pure bread Lithuanian as it is possible to be. If he hates his ancestry then surely he hates himself. There is an inseparable link between an individual and their ancestry; it’s one of the things that make us who we are. Our grandfather was labelled a tyrant because of his bullying of his family, and although my brother hated him because of his heritage it is ironic that they both turned out to be so remarkably similar. I made this very comment to my mother once, and all she said was, “I know, I know.”
I also kept the secret secure throughout my younger years. Our parents continually reinforced the secret, and we spent our childhood hating Lithuania and anything associated with it. This is very strange parenting! The more senior members of the family, for example, my aunts and uncles seemed to tolerate their heritage but did not boast of it. They accepted it as a fact of life. They kept quiet about it in public, but were comfortably open in private. I believe the continuation of the secrecy to be my mother’s doing. I suspect she had asked them to keep quite about it. For the sake of the children. My grandparents and some great aunts could speak the Lithuanian language and would use it on special occasions; my grandfather knew the language very well. He was proud of his heritage and would talk about it to anyone who was prepared to listen. My resentment of our heritage faded in time, but apparently not so with my brother. There may have been reason for secrecy once, in Scotland, or in a community where racism may lead to violence, but not in Australia, and not now. There is nothing to be gained by retaining the secret in a country such as Australia. But my brother chose to retain his hatred. I believe it remains the excuse for him to have power over his family. This can be seen in his behaviour as a parent and in his behaviour as a husband.