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Autobiography |
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George's own story: I am now going to give a short version of my life's story. Born in Riga, Latvia, in 1935. Mother divorced father in 1939 and re-married. In June 1941, warned by an acquaintance (turned commie, but apparently with some human decency left in him) not to be home on a certain night, she escaped with me and my little half-sister of two months on a crowded train crammed full with Red troops (the safest place to be when the bloodthirsty Cheka is after you) to a very remote corner of the country. I still have memories of the crowded railway car, and the jubilation some weeks later when a German motorcycle recon squad pulled into the farmyard one misty summer morning. We could stop living in constant fear. You see, we were slated to be deported to almost certain death by starvation and unbearably brutal slave labor in the concentration camps of the Soviet Gulag. Why? My mother ran a small women's dressmaking shop with a couple of employees. Therefore she belonged to the capitalist exploiters class and had to be eliminated. The Latvians had been the serfs and servants of German lords since about 1200, when the Teutonic order persuaded the Latvian clans by generous use of sword and chains to become good Christians. Therefore, even according to Rosenberg's (Hitler's expert on race) classification, Latvians were #2; that meant: behave and follow orders and you have nothing to fear. We had another narrow escape in 1944, this time by ship, from the port of Liepaja to Danzig. The Kurland peninsula had been cut off by the Soviets, so there was no longer an escape route by land. Liepaja was being bombed when we got on what turned out to be the last large evacuation vessel to leave Latvia. It was crammed full with refugees. I have the memory of looking down from the deck of the ship on the docks where my most beloved gentle horse stood abandoned, still harnessed to the wagon which I had driven for weeks, but which in reality he had pulled using his own great wisdom. In transit we had to change trains in Berlin, where we were given a taste of allied bombing at night. We were located in an "eastern workers" camp, which was actually an auditorium with bunk beds. Able-bodied men who had not been called to military service had to work, but as far as food, we got the same rations as the locals. This camp was in what was then Sudetenland, now the Czech republic. We were not so lucky the third time. We could not escape to the west before the arrival of Soviet troops. First couple of nights were wild. My sister's father was with us, as well as the man who would eventually become my mother's third (and last!) husband here in Canada. Again the men used their heads. My sister's father spoke perfect Russian. We looked for safety in a brand new POW camp which was only half full. Other civilians had also found this island of temporary safety. The Germans had fled, the Russian POWs stayed put because there were still sporadic exchanges of fire all over the area. At night Soviet officers came into the barracks, pistol in one hand, flashlight in the other. They were looking for young women to rape. Pretty ones were led away to serve the officers of the glorious army of the socialist motherland! My mother escaped being taken because she was clutching my little sister to her chest. My sister's father lost his boots, which he had foolishly removed before lying down for the night! Soon we started walking west, trying to avoid major highways on which there were control points. The days were sunny and hot (this was in May). My sister rode in a small wagon pulled by the men. I had to walk. Food was scarce and hard to get. There was pandemonium and looting all over the place. We walked for about a week and covered some 300 km. Finally, one foggy morning, we were trudging along a trail in the forest. This was done by design; we had a good map of the region, and by asking the locals, knew the demarcation line, and that there were control points on all roads. The only chance to sneak across into the American zone was through the forest. I still remember in my mind's eye crossing a small creek, scrambling up the steep sandy bank on the other side to encounter the huge dark green shape of a Sherman. Sitting in the turret was a round-faced young man with the friendliest grin on his face, chewing gum. Nobody had to explain to us that we were now safe! Safety seemed to radiate from that man. From that day, I have had nothing but the highest regard for Americans. Life in the Displaced Persons camps was an adventure for young boys. In fact I deem myself privileged to have had an interesting childhood that only the war can bring, providing one is not injured and does not lose ones parents. John, who was to become my second step-father came to Canada in 1948. Canada only took single and healthy men at the time. He worked for two years on the rails in B.C., then came east to Toronto. Mother with the two of us got sponsored by a church in Midland, Mich. We were there about a year, then came to Canada and she married John. I got a degree in Eng. Geol., U of T, 5T9. Starting already in the summer of 1956, I worked in the north country for Ontario Hydro and mining exploration companies. My most memorable summer was working in the Yukon, in the mountains. I have done the typical geologist's exploration work in New Brunswick, much of northern Quebec and all of northern Ontario. If any young man wants to develop a real appreciation for this pricelessly beautiful land have him work, winter and summer, in its wild parts. That is what made me feel a Canadian. But that was not my career. I must shorten this, or I'll not finish this year! I ended up working as a physical scientist/climatologist for the Hydrometeorological Division, Atmospheric Environment Service, Department of Environment, Canada. I spent 26 very interesting, though financially unrewarding, years doing work I fell in love with. It revolved around the Great Lakes. We were responsible for keeping tabs on the quantity of water entering the basin, and evaporative losses from the lakes. Indirectly, we were also supporting research in water quality. My one distinctive accomplishment is the creation of the Great Lakes water temperature climatology. I was in charge of gathering the temperature data by infrared remote sensing, first from aircraft, later from NOAA environmental satellites. It takes years of sustained effort to come up with a climatology. This one ran for some 20 years. In the course of the job, I had to spend hundreds of hours in low level survey flights over the Great Lakes, and smaller lakes all the way up to James Bay. Again, I was in touch with so much of the natural grandeur of our beautiful province. Family-wise not much to tell. Married late, in 1972. We decided not to have children. I particularly doubted my abilities to be a good father. My sister, who just retired after a lifetime as a primary school teacher, has a son who now has a son. My wife's sister has two sons. One of them already has two sons. We don't regret our decision, seeing how much effort it takes to make a child 'fly straight' nowadays. I always was an avid student of the history of WWII. I have read every famous general's memoirs and most other histories of that conflict. I have hard cover copies of Rommel's and Guderian's, which are hard to find today. After I was retired (one of those early retirement incentives, in order to cut the numbers of employees) I could pursue my love in earnest. I finally had the time to read works by the great thinkers of our species, ancient to modern. To cap this long ramble down memory lane: for many years, in debating politics I was usually one against the many at our regular coffee-breaks and lunches in the cafeteria at work. Guys who are still there want me to visit just so we can have another set-to! I remember getting really in the angry phase a couple of times. We made peace because we were working together. I am proud to say that I had my first and quite lengthy article published in the Toronto Telegram. I have been a regular letter writer to the Sun. Lately, both Lorrie Goldstein and I are pissed off at each other. Basically, he sees a difference between fascist street fighters and communist street fighters. I don't. Questions/Comments? Post them in The Radical Academy Forum Mr. Irbe's Website: Classical Liberal George E-mail Address: George J. Irbe |
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