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Another antique store find from Estonia - a photograph showing a young man in an Imperial Russian uniform. The name on the back identifies him as August Pung, although that was not always his surname. The label also tells us that he was the husband of a woman named Elviine, née Krell. August was born August Triebstock to Hans Triebstock, a farmer, and Liisa, née Kuhberg, in the village of Salla in Simuna parish, in the county of Virumaa. He was, so to speak, a Christmas present, born on December 23rd, 1890. His date of birth was later changed to January 4th, 1891, when Estonia switched from the Julian to the Gregorian calendar in February 1918. The Julian calendar - the “Old Style”, vana kalender - had been in use in the Russian Empire, of which Estonia had been a part until it declared independence in 1918. The two calendars had gradually drifted apart because they calculate leap years differently. By the 20th century, the difference had reached 13 days. That explains why August’s December 23rd birthday suddenly became January 4th. But what about the young man in the photograph? August might have been single when this picture was taken. A Facebook community helped me identify his uniform as that of a private in the Imperial Russian Army, from the period just before and at the beginning of WWI. Studio portraits like this were often given to relatives before a young man left for military service. The obligatory military service lasted 3 years back then. I don’t know whether August actually served in WWI or in which role he might have served, though. In November 1921, August married Elviine Magdalene Krell in Rakvere. And then, in the 1930s, August and Elviine changed their surname. As I’ve mentioned in a previous blog post about Estonian genealogy, in the mid-1930s, Estonian legislators enabled people to change German-sounding surnames into more Estonian-sounding ones. Triebstock - a German word meaning “pin rack”- certainly sounded German. August and Elviine chose the new surname Pung instead, meaning “a bud”. This was part of a broader trend in Estonia at the time. I’ve written before about Estonians’ love of nature and how many people chose new surnames inspired by trees, animals, flowers, landscapes, weather, and other elements of the natural world. Family members did not necessarily have to choose the same new surname, either. August’s older brother Karl Vilhelm Triebstock, for example, chose the surname “Selde”. I wonder if August and Elviine's choice for a new surname had been inspired by August's love for his job. Up until this found photo was taken, August was engaged in acompletely different world - the world of gardening. I found a fascinating file about him in the Estonian archives. In his application from April 1938 to be admitted to the Association of Skilled Workers which included gardeners, he described his extensive professional experience in the region, taking care of vegetable and fruit tree gardens and working on landscape planning. Source: Estronian Archives Saaga ERA.4248.1.1415:5 He was admitted to the said Association in 1939 and went on to pass his master craftsman’s exam in 1944. I believe August and Elviine couldn’t have children of their own. But in October 1940, they adopted a seven-year-old girl named Karin-Elisabeth. August passed away in October 1951 at the age of 60. He had been suffering from kidney stones. His wife, Elviine, outlived him by almost 13 years. Their daughter Karin remembered them year after year in the local newspaper with a loving memorial ad. Karin-Elisabeth Nõgu herself passed away in 2018, at the age of 85. I will share this photograph on Geni.com and hope that it might help me make contact with August’s relatives.

I found these two wedding photographs of the same couple in an antique store in Estonia last summer. The couple in the photographs are identified as Albert Lember and Leida Mikupõld, and their wedding took place on May 29, 1939. I was able to find the couple on Geni.com, which allowed me to begin piecing together at least some of their story. I may also have an idea about how these wedding photographs eventually ended up in a box of lost family photos in an antique store. So because the story of this couple unfolded during one of the most horrific periods in Estonian history, I wanted to share what I have been able to find. Albert Lember was born on February 26, 1908, in Kõljala, on the Estonian island of Saaremaa. Leida Elisabeth Mikfeldt, whose surname was later Estonianised as Mikupõld, was born on January 15, 1912, in Aaspere, Estonia. The two were indeed married in May 1939 in Kadrina, Estonia. Their daughter, Milvi Lember, was born in February 1941, in the middle of World War II. I do not know for certain what happened to the Lember family during the war. But I know that Albert and Leida's marriage sadly did not survive the war. According to the obituary of their daughter, Milvi Wilson, née Lember, her father Albert was killed during World War II, while her mother and she were captured and held in a concentration camp until they eventually escaped to Germany. Estonia has compiled detailed directories documenting the victims of Soviet crimes. I have not been able to find their names in any of these memorial books, so I have not yet been able to learn more about what happened to the family during this time or how and when Albert may have died. Albert had lost his own father, Jüri Lember, early in life. Jüri died during World War I in 1915, when Albert was just seven years old. And now, years later, Albert's own daughter would never have the chance to truly know her father. I find Leida and her daughter in the records of the Displaced Persons camp in Erlangen, Germany, in 1948. In her D.P. application, Leida was listed as a widow. She noted that between November 1944 and May 1945, she and Milvi had been in Saaz, in the Sudetenland, in what is now the Czech Republic, where Leida worked as a cook. Afterwards, Leida and Milvi arrived at the D.P. camp in Rebdorf and subsequently moved to Erlangen, where Leida continued working in the kitchen as a cook. The file on her with the Arolsen Archives includes several passport photos of her as well: In her application, she also made it very clear that she did not wish to return to her home country for political and religious reasons. Instead, she requested to be expatriated to Canada or another country in the Western world. In August 1949, while still at the camp, she married a fellow displaced person from Estonia, the musician Paul Kuimet. I do not know how long Leida and Paul's marriage lasted or where the couple lived after the D.P. camps were dissolved in the 1950s. Milvi's obituary, published in 2019, mentions her stepfather, Ivan Malyk, rather than Paul Kuimet. But I have not been able to find out who Ivan Malyk was, or when and where Leida met and married him. I also have no information about whether Leida remained in Germany, was eventually able to emigrate to another country, or perhaps even returned to Estonia. After around 1950, the trail simply disappears. Albert and Leida's daughter, Milvi Lember, eventually met her American husband in Germany in 1968. He was serving with the U.S. Navy in Europe at the time, and after his military service in Germany ended, the couple settled in Huber Heights, Ohio, in the United States. Milvi passed away in July 2019 and her obituary includes her photo: Milvi's obituary also mentions Leida's granddaughter, Christina S. Wilson-Turley. I hope that one day I might be able to make contact with her and perhaps return these photographs to the family. So there are still many loose ends. It is a complex story, but sadly, it is far from an exceptional one. My own great-grandparents also escaped Estonia during World War II and eventually ended up in a displaced persons camp in Germany, for many of the same reasons as Leida. Like her, they did not wish to return to their home country as long as it remained under Soviet rule. Perhaps that is also why this particular story stayed with me. Looking at these two wedding photographs, taken in May 1939, it is difficult not to think about everything that was still ahead of Albert and Leida. A young couple, newly married, with no way of knowing how dramatically their lives—and their country—were about to change. I wish I knew what happened to Leida after the early 1950s. Did she remain in Germany? Did she ever return to Estonia? Where was she buried, and who buried her? And what happened to the photographs of her wedding day that somehow, decades later, ended up in a box in an antique store? I also find myself wondering who the guests at their 1939 wedding were. Perhaps one of the older women in the front row was Albert's widowed mother, Marie Lember, and one of the young men could have been Albert's older brother, Viktor Johannes. I do not know whether Leida's parents, Hans and Leena Mikupõld, were still alive in 1939 and able to attend her wedding. Of her six sisters, three had already passed away by then. Perhaps her sisters Johanna Marie, Metha Helene, or Juuli Pauliine Mathiesen, née Mikfeldt, were among the wedding guests as well. For now, those questions remain unanswered. Thank you for taking the time to read this story.

I found this photo in an antique store in Estonia. I must admit that, besides the fact that the photo was labelled with valuable information about the family, I partly purchased it because of the darling old doggo. He looks bigger than the little boy in the photo, a gentle giant to watch over him, and it made me think of the big dogs I felt safe around and with as a toddler. This doggo belonged to the Allikveers from Estonia: father Anton, mother Salme, and their only son, Endel. The Allikveers were from Massu village in western Estonia, today a village of fewer than 40 inhabitants. Anton and Salme-Helene, née Treumann, had both been born in the same region - Anton in February 1892 and Salme in December 1891. Salme Helene Allikveer (mathiesen) née Treumann (photo on the left from Geni.com) They got married in May 1920, and their son, Jaan Endel, was born on January 10, 1922. As a matter of fact, the family’s original surname was Mathiesen, given to Anton’s parents, Jaan and Ann Mathiesen. But in the mid-1930s, there was a shift among Estonians to rid themselves of their German-sounding surnames, which had been imposed or adopted under the influence of their Baltic-German masters during a long history of servitude. So, in 1936, the government passed a law allowing anyone who wished to change their German-sounding surname to a more Estonian-sounding one to do so. In February 1938, Anton and Salme decided that the Mathiesen name belonged in the past, and they chose Allikveer instead, which means something like “at spring (water).” Perhaps they chose this surname after the name of their home farm, Allika-Polli, but I’m not sure. As a side remark: Estonians love surnames that have a connection to nature - tree names, landscapes, flowers, animals, etc. Interestingly, not everyone in the Mathiesen family decided to change their surname, or chose the same new one. Anton’s brother Otto chose the surname Männilaan, which literally means “pine tree forest” - another homage to Estonian nature. And Anton’s older brother, Madis Mathiesen, a WWI and Estonian War of Independence veteran and a Commissioner for Police in Keila, decided to keep his surname. I actually found a photo of Anton's brother Madis as well: Source of the photo of Madis Mathiesen: Eesti Muuseumide Veebivärav Our family photo was probably taken in the late 1920s, when Estonia, as a young republic, was booming and developing rapidly. Life was good; life was full of opportunities. The Allikveers lived on the Allika-Polli farm in Hanila County. They had a home, a young son, a farm, and - judging from this photograph - a rather magnificent dog. They were probably doing pretty well. Jaan Endel Allikveer (source of the photo on the right: Geni.com) And then history came crashing into their lives. In 1940, the Soviet Union forcefully annexed Estonia following the secret Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact of 1939. Nazi Germany invaded the Soviet Union in June 1941 and occupied mainland Estonia by August. Then, in the autumn of 1944, the Soviet Union returned - and this time, it stayed. Each regime change became bloodier for Estonians who had come to cherish their independence. Just one year after the initial Soviet occupation, the Soviets arrested and deported over 10,000 Estonians in a single night. This wave targeted government officials, military officers, intellectuals, and wealthy business owners. Anton’s brother, Madis Mathiesen, the veteran and former Commissioner for Police, was deported to Siberia in 1941, where he died. Executions, expropriations, and Russification took place during those horrendous years of war - and, sadly, long after. The largest mass deportation in Baltic history took place in March 1949, when over 20,000 Estonians were deported, alongside 70,000 people from Latvia and Lithuania. This operation aimed to force rural Estonians into collective farms (kolkhozes) and break the support network of the Forest Brothers (metsavennad), the anti-Soviet partisans. Entire families were classified as “kulaks” (wealthy peasants) or “nationalists.” Over 70% of those deported were women and children under the age of 16, as well as elderly people. Sadly, the Allikveers fell victim to Stalin’s madness. The Allika-Polli farm was expropriated, and the Allikveers were declared “kulaks.” By decision of the Soviet administration in March 1949, Salme, her son Endel with his wife, Miralda, as well as Salme’s first grandchild, Heli-Maie, were deported over 5,000 km east to Krasnoyarsk Krai, in Asian Siberia. Heli-Maie was just one year old. I wonder if the decision was also influenced by the fact that, instead of joining the Red Army, Endel had served in the German Army in 1942, fighting against the Soviet regime. I also don’t know if Salme and Endel’s family ended up in the same village in Siberia or if they even had contact while out there. Families were torn apart, men often separated from their families. Life for the deported in Krasnoyarsk Krai was defined by a brutal, daily struggle for survival under the strict Soviet “special settler” (spetsposelentsy) regime. The journey in a cattle wagon lasted for two weeks. In the memoirs of a woman who was 12 years old at the time - and who actually knew Salme in Siberia - she recalls that when the train arrived in Krasnoyarsk Krai in April, it was still snowing and temperatures were as low as -15 to -20°C. Estonians are tough. They know hard work. They know regimes. And they make the best of the situation. Although stripped of their citizenship, property, and rights, and treated as forced labourers and subhumans in one of the most hostile geographic and climatic zones on Earth, they built a community. They helped and supported one another, kept their language and hope alive. They celebrated birthdays and weddings together. They grieved together at funerals. Salme’s second granddaughter, Anne, was born in 1952 in Siberia. Even snapshots have survived of these communities. I’m in awe that I found Salme in a photograph with other deported Estonians in Siberia from the online newspaper archive, sitting on the very right: Some could establish contact with loved ones back home. Letters and care packages would take a long time to arrive, if they arrived at all. But at least there was some contact. And I can only hope that Salme was able to stay in contact with her husband, Anton, back in Estonia, who had not been deported. I don’t know why Anton had not been deported. Maybe the regime needed his labour at the kolkhoz. Salme, her son Endel, his wife, and their children could finally return to Estonia in the course of 1957. Salme was 66 years old. I don’t know much about Salme’s life after she returned. I also don’t know if she and Anton were reunited. I wonder if Salme found her sister Anna, who had managed to flee to Sweden together with her husband Märt Raud. In 1960, Salme placed an ad in the Expats newspaper, searching for her nephew Jaan Raud and niece Aina Raud, who had resettled in Canada. I know that Anton passed away in 1964, and Salme in 1971. Upon his return from Siberia, Endel worked in a collective grain processing plant. Endel and Miralda had two more children in Estonia. A son, Jaan Allikveer, was born in 1958 and shares a gravesite with his mother, Miralda, who passed away in 2009. Endel passed away in 2001, having witnessed Estonia regain its independence in 1991 which sadly his parents hadn’t. I found a photograph, and the photograph opened a door into a family's life - and into one of the darkest chapters of Estonia's history. Such Estonian stories are no exception. And that is heartbreaking. The deportations carried out by the Soviet regime are an integral part of Estonian history. Stories have been collected and published, memorials have been set up, and the names of those who suffered have been engraved in stone and recorded in history books. But nothing - nothing - can erase the heartbreak of that horrendous chapter in history and bring back what could have been.

This mellow-looking gentleman was Musical Director (“Capellmeister”) Steinbruch, who had his photograph taken in Elizabeth, New Jersey. We didn’t have a first name to go with the photo - but no problem! This man was so well known in the New York and New Jersey’s German singing circles that I was able to identify him even without knowing his given name! Meet Hilarius Hugo Steinbruch. Hugo was born on September 24, 1862, in Schwarzburg-Rudolstadt, Thuringia, Germany. On July 15, 1891, he married Malwine Caroline Therese Elisabeth “Elli” Carstanjen in Sudenburg, now part of the city of Magdeburg. When or how Hugo discovered his passion for music, I do not know. His father, Karl August Steinbruch, was a postmaster. His father-in-law, Ernst Carstanjen, was a German chemist and university professor from Leipzig. The Carstanjens were a family that had achieved prosperity in the 18th century through Rhine shipping between Rotterdam and Duisburg. In 1902, Hugo and Elli, together with their sons Walter, born February 4, 1893, and Hermann, born August 25, 1894, sailed across the ocean to begin a new life in Brooklyn, New York. Brooklyn had a very large German-speaking population in the late 1800s and became a major center of German-American choral culture. Numerous singing societies -Männerchöre, Liederkränze, and Sängerbünde - were founded by German immigrants to preserve their language, music, and cultural traditions through choir singing and large singing festivals known as Sängerfeste. The Saengerfest held in Brooklyn in 1900 attracted 174 singing societies and more than 6,000 singers, making it one of the largest German-American musical events ever held. I suspect Hugo did not simply embark on a new adventure. He seems to have arrived with a clear purpose and perhaps even a job offer that lured him to Brooklyn. I found a newspaper article reporting his successful election as the new Musical Director of the Brooklyn Sängerbund (German for “Brooklyn Singers’ Association”) just four weeks after his arrival in America. The article even includes a printed image of Hugo - and, as you can see, it is unmistakably the same Capellmeister Steinbruch from our photograph. The article also gives us fascinating insight into his musical career in Germany. Before emigrating, Hugo had served as Musical Director of the City of Barmen, Director of the City Orchestra, and Director of the Barmer Quartett-Verein, a mixed choir, and the Barmer Orpheus. The article mentions two of his compositions. One of them was written for Kaiser Wilhelm II’s visit to Barmen in 1900, a major civic occasion for which the city organized elaborate celebrations. According to the article, the city government commissioned Hugo to compose a musical work entitled Kaisergruß (“Salute to the Emperor”). The piece was performed by 800 singers in the presence of the Kaiser himself, who reportedly applauded enthusiastically. Another newspaper article states that Hugo studied at the Royal Conservatory of Music in Leipzig and graduated in 1886. After touring throughout Germany, Belgium, and Switzerland, he settled in Magdeburg, where he became Concert Master at the Opera House. Hugo’s election as Musical Director of the Brooklyn Sängerbund in 1902 therefore makes perfect sense. He arrived in America with substantial credentials and extensive experience leading orchestras and choral societies. However, by 1907 some members had grown dissatisfied, as the choir had failed to win awards or prizes at competitions. After five years in office, Hugo resigned. That did not slow him down in the slightest. He went on to direct the New York Eichenkranz Orchestra, the Manhattan German Liederkranz, the Bremervoerder Männerchor, and the Bremervoerder Women’s Choir, among others. And what was his connection to Elizabeth, New Jersey, where he had his photograph taken? Naturally, music. In 1912, he was also conductor of the Elizabeth Männerchor. In the 1910 Census, I find Hugo and his family living at 206 8th Avenue in Brooklyn. I can almost picture him climbing the stairs at the end of a long day, returning home after rehearsing choirs, conducting performances, and teaching singers. I find references to Hugo in countless newspaper articles, from even before his selection as Musical Director of the Brooklyn Sängerbund in 1902 - apparently internal intrigues played a role in bringing him all the way from Germany - to notices that appeared right up until his death in 1934. He continued leading and conducting choirs for the rest of his life. The activities of German singing societies declined sharply during and after the First World War. Anti-German sentiment reduced the public use of the German language and weakened many German-American institutions that had once flourished. By the time of the 1930 Census, Hugo and Elli were living in Mahwah, Bergen County, New Jersey, away from the bustle of Brooklyn. One thing managed to slow him down indeed - he passed away from an illness of 13 months in 1934: Although his boys found career paths of their own, Hugo's love for choir and classical music was also passed on to his sons. Both of them were active in choirs or played an instrument, at least in their younger years. Walter Steinbruch became a civil engineer, served during the Second World War, and married Marie née Fournier. The couple had a son, Robert. Hermann Steinbruch worked in radio and television advertising for Variety and served as general manager of several radio stations. He was a First World War veteran, a Freemason, a violinist, and concert master of the Ridgewood Gilbert and Sullivan Opera Company. With his wife Bertha, he had a son, Richard, and a daughter, Betsy. I cannot help but wonder about the journey of this photograph. Was it sent to relatives Hugo left behind when he emigrated in 1902? Or perhaps he brought it with him when he returned to Germany for a visit in 1908? One thing seems certain: Hugo lived for music. In many ways, he appears to have lived through music. He also seems to have been one of those remarkable people who somehow had more than 24 hours available to them each day. :-)Think of the hundreds -perhaps even thousands - of people whose lives he touched through his musical education, leadership, and inspiration. What a legacy to leave behind.

The gentlest photographs are often those of first-time mothers with their beautiful babies. In them, you can almost feel the awe of wonder, the vulnerability, and the immense love. One such photograph in my lost photo archive shows little Elisabeth Homann at five months old, sitting safely in the embrace of her mother. The image was dedicated to someone on June 19, 1892, in Hannover, Germany. There is not much I could find about this child or her mother. Many of Hannover’s church records are not accessible through the genealogy platforms I have access to. Still, I was able to uncover a birth record for this lovely baby: She was Elisabeth Auguste Emilie Alma Luise Fanny Homann, born on January 11, 1892, in Hannover. Her parents were Emil Hermann August Homann and Adolfine Dorothee Auguste, née Dohrendorff. Elisabeth’s brother, Heinz August Johannes Hermann Heiner Homann, was born on September 17, 1895, and her sister, Anna Wally Margarethe Helene Gertrud Homann, was born on April 3, 1897. At the time, the Homann family lived at Siegesstraße 5 in Hannover - a house that, remarkably, survived the bombings of World War II and still stands intact today. Googlemaps: Siegesstrasse 5, Hannover, Germany Elisabeth’s father Emil Hermann August Homann owned a printing and lithography business in Hannover, apparently significant enough to be included in collections of historical printing houses. At the time, Hannover had an entire scene of such enterprises. Photo found on ebay Emil was a self-made man. The son of a pastor, he did not inherit the business but built it up from scratch. It seems safe to assume that the Homann family was relatively well-off. Unfortunately, I know very little about Elisabeth’s mother, Adolfine Dorothee Auguste, née Dohrendorff. Elisabeth was named after her five godmothers, and one of them shared her mother’s maiden name. I assume that the first godmother, Auguste Dohrendorff, widow of a district court official in Dannenberg, was a relative of her mother - possibly even Elisabeth’s maternal grandmother. Unfortunately, the first name of that widow’s husband is not mentioned in the record. Dannenberg was a small provincial town of roughly 3,000 inhabitants, part of the Prussian administrative system. A Dohrendorff working at the district court there would likely have belonged to the educated middle class - respected, secure, though not part of the elite. Still, I cannot confirm whether these were indeed Elisabeth’s grandparents. I also do not know what became of Elisabeth’s mother. What I do find curious is that in 1906, Elisabeth’s father Emil married a woman named Marie Margarethe Anna Werdenberg. He was 53 at the time, she was 29. It makes me wonder whether something had happened to Elisabeth’s mother, and whether Emil - perhaps out of necessity, perhaps also out of affection - sought a stepmother for his children, who were then 14, 11, and 9 years old. However, as I do not have access to Hannover’s death records from that period, I cannot confirm this assumption. From this second marriage, Elisabeth’s stepbrother, Ernst Heino Alexander Homann, was born in 1907. And that is where the trail ends. I do not know what became of the lovely baby Elisabeth - where and how long she lived, whom she may have loved or married, or whether she had children who might one day recognize her in this photograph. Are you perhaps related to the Homanns or the Dohrendorffs?

I can’t resist old photos of my namesakes! It’s always a special treat for me to research their stories and discover how they lived. This photo of Gretchen Stapf found its way to me in Germany. Gretchen is a sweet nickname for Grete or Margret, and many adults in my childhood used to call me Gretchen—so piecing together little Gretchen’s story feels extra special. Gretchen was about four years old when this photo was taken in New York in 1898. Her full name was Margaret Matilde Stapf, and she was indeed born on August 11th, 1894, as noted in handwriting on the photo. She had a younger sister, Pauline Virginia (born 1901), and a younger brother, Alfred (born 1905). In 1900, the family lived at 116 East 11th Street in Manhattan. By 1910, the Stapfs had moved to East Orange, New Jersey, where Gretchen, her father, and her siblings were still living together in 1940: Source: GoogleMaps Gretchen graduated from Montclair Normal School and received her bachelor's degree at Teachers College of Columbia University in NYC. She worked as a public school kindergarten teacher at Columbia School (now George Washington Carver School), East Orange, NJ, for 40 years. This was Gretchen's work place: Image Source In the 1950 Census: I found her living with her 83-year-old father, Wilhelm, her 88-year-old widowed aunt Pauline, and their nurse in the same house on Sanford Street in East Orange, NJ. Gretchen married William C. H. Jaeger some time after 1960. William was a widower who had buried his first wife in 1960. William had been a lace buyer and later a self-employed real estate mutual fund-salesman before retiring in 1971. William had a son William Jr. and several grandchildren. William passed away just before Christmas 1975 at the age of 93. Gretchen herself died in October 1981. The Star Ledger 18 Oct 1981 Now for a glimpse into the rough beginnings of this immigrant family’s story—and how some people make the very best of their second chance. Gretchen’s father, Wilhelm T. Stapf, was born in Augsburg, Germany, in 1866. At 19, he left his employment at the Wolfsheimer Brothers’ shirt factory in December 1885 and traveled by steamboat to New York. However, this was no pleasure trip: he was apparently fleeing the authorities in Germany under the false name Christian Stenger. New York Tribune Jan 17 1886 The German consul notified the New York authorities, who arrested him immediately upon arrival in January 1886. He was charged with forging the signatures of his former employers in Bavaria for a draft of 500 marks. When arrested, a large sum of money and a fake passport were found on him. He promised to return the money and go back to Germany without the formal process of extradition. It seems he kept his word—three years later, I find him again on a passenger list, this time under his real name, arriving from Bremen to New York in August 1889. This time he did everything the proper way. He used his experience in the textile business to secure work in New York, and by 1900 he had married Gretchen’s mother, Margret née Reincke, welcomed little Gretchen, and become a naturalized U.S. citizen. By 1910, he and his family owned their home mortgage-free home at 102 Sanford Street in East Orange. Wilhelm truly lived his American dream. He died at age 93, and according to his obituary, he remained in the textile trade for 50 years. The News NJ Aug 15 1960 A few words about Gretchen’s siblings as well: Her sister Pauline Virginia worked as a public health nurse at Palisades Hospital, overseeing the Baby-Keep-Well-Stations, before marrying Arthur Baron in August 1942 at her family home in East Orange, NJ. The couple had no children. The Record Aug 1 1942 In the 1950 Census, I find them living in Bergen, New Jersey. Virginia continued working as a nurse, while Arthur operated elevators, both at Knickerbocker Hospital (possibly the one in Harlem, known for serving low-income patients and being one of the few hospitals willing to treat Black patients when many NYC hospitals were segregated. It was also known for its maternity and “well-baby” programs, especially post–World War II). I don’t know when Arthur passed away, but by the time Virginia died in 1980, she had been widowed for the second time, from her second husband, Frederick Devine. The Herald News Apr 27 1980 Gretchen’s brother Alfred Stapf was an athletic young man who played football on his high school team in Montclair and also worked as a lifeguard. I even found a photo of him and his lifeguard friends on newspapers.com (Alfred standing in the middle): Asbury Park Press Aug 29 1973 He remained connected to his high school throughout his life, supporting the school’s young football players. I don’t know about you, but I definitely see plausible family resemblances in their facial features! Like his father, Alfred spent many years working in the textile industry. He and his wife, Doris, had no children. Alfred passed away in 1981 and was buried at the Rosedale Cemetery in Montclair, Essex County, New Jersey, just like his parents Wilhelm and Margret. Daily Record Jan 12 1982 It seems that none of the Stapf siblings had descendants to whom I could return this photo. Still, how wonderful that I’ve been able to get to know little Gretchen’s family—at least on paper.

This is such a sad, heartbreaking story, but I believe we owe it to baby Kurt to share it with the world. The photo is labelled “Kurt Karsunke,” and the note in German simply says: “Died as a baby.” And indeed, little Karl Kurt Karsunke remained in this world for just eight months. He was born on July 25, 1903, in Berlin, to Karl August Karsunke, a coachman, and his wife Johanna Gertrud, née Reinke, a seamstress from Berlin. Baby Kurt died on March 20, 1904. His parents had married only a few months earlier, in January 1903 - both just 24 years old at the time. Perhaps we can end this family story on a more optimistic, gentler note. It’s comforting to imagine that baby Kurt would have been a big brother to his younger sister, Gertrud Hildegard Karsunke, who was born in March 1905. Gertrud married Felix Johann Berent, a bank clerk from Berlin, in May 1929. Maybe it was she who kept this photo safe all those years.

This old photograph came to me from an online shop in Germany. Although it doesn't include the location of the photo studio, there are some valuable clues on the back. The text is written in modern German handwriting, so it’s possible that the names were added much later. It reads: “Franz Maret Son of Karl Friedr. Maret, Berlin, and Dorothea née Lerchen” I found the Maret family in the early 19th-century Berlin, then part of Prussia. According to the records, Carl Friedrich Maret was a Seifensieder Meister by profession - I had never heard of that profession before. A Seifensieder (soap boiler or soap maker) was a traditional craft profession until the early 20th century. Soap was produced by boiling animal fats or vegetable oils with lye, a hot and often dangerous process. Soap makers produced different kinds of soap: hard soap, soft soap, laundry soap, and scented toilet soaps. The craft was usually organized in guilds, and becoming a master soap maker required apprenticeship, years of practice, and passing a master’s examination. In the 19th century, soap was not only important for body care but also essential for washing textiles and cleaning. With industrialization, large factories gradually replaced many small-scale soap makers. A Seifensiedermeister (master soap maker) in a city like Berlin was a respected craftsman. The records also noted that he was an Eigenthums-Bürger (property-owning citizen), which means he also held a recognized social status as a homeowner. I find the family in the 1830 Berlin city directory, living at 18 Klosterstr. He and his wife Dorothea Charlotte née Lerchen had 13 children between 1817 and 1835. Sadly, over half of them died in childhood: Friederike Dorothea Maret (born in 1817, died in 1819) Carl Georg Franz Maret (born and died in 1819) Wilhelmine Charlotte Maret (born in 1820; married Franz Friedrich August Grubitz in 1841 in Berlin) Friederike Charlotte Maret (born in 1821, died in 1829) Sophie Friederike Dorothea Maret (born in 1822; married Ferdinand Franz Karl Jansen, died in 1904 in Berlin) Caroline Dorothee Margarethe Maret (born and died in 1823) Charlotte Dorothea Margaretha Maret (born in 1825) Hans Jacob Friedrich Georg Franz Maret (born in 1826, died in 1831) Caroline Luise Maret (born in 1828; married royal architect Gustav Adolph Edouard Kraemer in 1860 in Berlin) Carl Julius Maret (born in 1829; married Bertha Caroline Dorothea Richter, Councillor of Commerce and Senator in Hamburg, died in 1904 in Hamburg) Franz August Friedrich Maret (born in 1830, died in 1831) Georg Friedrich Franz Maret (born and died in 1832) Georg Friedrich Franz Maret (born in 1835) So, of the six siblings who survived, only two were sons: Carl Julius Maret and Georg Friedrich Franz Maret (who I assume is the Franz Maret in my found photo). I find both the father and the older surviving son, Carl Julius, in the 1850 Berlin city directory. Both were listed as "Partikulier", meaning "private citizen of independent means". Berlin city directory 1850 Between 1860 and 1870, I only find the father living at the same address. The eldest son, Carl Julius, had moved to Hamburg, where he built a good life for himself and his family as a Councillor of Commerce and Senator. Berlin city directory 1860 Franz’s mother, Dorothea, had passed away in 1851, and his father, Carl Friedrich Maret, in 1873. Both were buried at the St. Marien- und St. Nikolai Cemetery in Prenzlauer Berg, Berlin. It seems that Franz’s unmarried sister, also named Dorothea, continued to reside in the Maret family house at 17 Klosterstr. during the 1880s and 1890s as the new head of the family. Berlin city directory 1880 While I’ve found plenty of information on the older brother, Carl Julius, and his children, I’ve come across nothing about the man in the photo, Georg Friedrich Franz Maret. If the image is from the early 1860s, as his outfit suggests, he would have been in his late twenties at the time. But I’ve found nothing. Did he stay in Berlin? Did he die young? Did he marry and have children? Let me know if you have any more clues! I've added Franz' photo to FamilySearch.

This lovely schoolgirl with the steady gaze and composed posture was Annie Bridget Britt of Boston. Annie was born on January 4, 1862, the first child of Patrick Britt, a trunk maker, and Elizabeth - also recorded as Bessy or Lizzy - née Sullivan. Both of her parents were immigrants from Ireland. A trunk maker designed and built large storage chests used for travel - I wonder if this was a trade Patrick had learnt back in Ireland, or his career choice was inspired by his own weeks-long journey crossing the ocean. Patrick and Elizabeth married in Boston in March 1861, just as the American Civil War was beginning to unfold. Annie’s middle name, Bridget, honored her paternal grandmother - a name she would later prefer and use in records. To be born in early 1862 was, in a way, to be born into the Civil War itself. Life for the young family was soon shaped by it. In July 1863, Annie’s father Patrick enlisted in the Union Army in Massachusetts under Captain W. Grune Howe. If I'm not mistaken, he may have been among the 300.000 men who answered the first call of the President for volunteers. When the war ended, Patrick and Elizabeth returned to the quieter, though no less demanding, work of family life. Over the years, Annie was joined by her siblings: Thomas, Elizabeth (Lizzy), John Joseph, Mary Ellen, and Nelly. By 1880, the Britt household had grown into a lively family of eight. Annie attended an all-girls high school in Boston and trained as a teacher - an achievement that speaks to both her abilities and her family’s commitment to education. In February 1886, Annie was officially appointed by the Boston School Committee to work as a junior teacher (fourth assistant) at the Gaston School in Boston which was an active grammar (elementary) school and part of the public school system in the 19th century Boston. Source: Boston Evening Transcript, Feb 10, 1886 Annie continued her education of the teacher's profession even after she married Robert Annis in November 1884, which strongly speaks for Annie's commitment and for her love for the profession. Annie's beau Robert was an iron moulder from Nova Scotia who had immigrated to the United States in 1882. Their marriage, however, was heartbreakingly brief... In March 1888, Annie died at just 25 years old. The recorded cause was pulmonary hemorrhage - bleeding of the lungs - most likely the final stage of an underlying illness such as Tuberculosis, which was tragically common at the time. Annie’s death was not the only loss the Britt family endured. In 1892, her brother Thomas died at the age of 24 from kidney disease - what may have been referred to then as “Bright’s disease,” a term often used for serious kidney conditions. As far as the records reveal, Annie’s brother John Joseph did not have children. But the family line continued through her sisters. Lizzy married Joseph F. Burns in 1893, and together they had at least five children. Mary married William N. Doonan in 1900, and their family included four sons. Perhaps, somewhere among those descendants, this photograph of Annie still holds meaning. If you recognize her story, or believe you may be connected to the Britt family, I would be very glad to hear from you.

What I love about this blog - besides all the beautiful old images - is the history I get to learn and explore while uncovering the stories of the people in these photographs. This particular photo led me down both familiar and unfamiliar historical paths, and I can consider myself a little richer in knowledge after writing this post. The photograph shows Helmi Helmrich, who sat for this portrait at the Arthur Marx photo studio in Frankfurt in the summer of 1893. I believe she was Katharine Marie Susanne Margarethe Sophie Wilhelmine “Helmi” Helmrich (I get dizzy from all these first names 😊), born on May 19, 1878, in Groß-Karben, Hessen, Germany. Groß-Karben is situated about 17 km from Frankfurt. Her father, Ernst Helmrich, was a medical doctor, and her mother, Margarethe (née Brückmann), was the daughter of a farmer from Dortweil, Hessen. Helmi married Huldrich Mario Felix von Schlippenbach on March 20, 1900, in Sondershausen, Thüringen, Germany. Huldrich had Baltic German roots and was considered part of the Baltic nobility at the time. His father, Ulrich von Schlippenbach, was born in Kuldīga (in present-day Latvia) in 1828 and married Huldrich’s mother, Gabriele Eleanore Baroness von der Ropp, in 1878 in Liepāja (also in present-day Latvia). I don’t know when or why Huldrich came to Germany - possibly to study, as was common among wealthier Baltic Germans - nor how he met Helmi. Do you want to see the young man Helmi fell in love with? I thought so! I was fortunate to find a photograph of Huldrich online: Helmi and Huldrich’s next chapter together took them to Antwerp, Belgium, where they had their five children: Felix Ulrich (b. 1901), Ernst Gustav (b. 1902), Anna Marie (b. 1904), Frieda Sophia (b. 1906), and Georg Alfred (b. 1908). The next time I encounter the couple in the records, they are in Málaga, Spain - under much more complicated circumstances. I found them on the passenger ship Hero, leaving Málaga on July 28, 1936, bound for Bremen. The passenger list describes the von Schlippenbachs as “Málaga refugees.” I had to look this up to understand. In 1936, the Spanish Civil War began between Republicans and Nationalists. In early 1937, Málaga was captured by Francoist troops (supported by Germany and Italy). This led to one of the first major mass flight and massacre events of the war - the so-called Desbandá. Tens of thousands of civilians fled Málaga along the coastal road toward Almería. Refugees were bombed from the air and attacked from the sea. People who escaped this situation were often referred to in German-speaking contexts as “Málaga refugees.” I wonder if the von Schlippenbachs managed to escape the worst, as their vessel had already left in July 1936. I believe Huldrich was an engineer and machine designer. Several patents were registered in his name, including mechanisms for oxidizing, reducing, or otherwise treating ores and other materials, as well as a rotary hearth furnace, which he assigned to large American companies in the 1910s. I don’t know what became of the couple after their names appeared on the passenger list. Some public family trees on genealogy platforms suggest Huldrich died in Málaga in 1937, while others indicate 1947. Helmi’s son Felix Ulrich married Marjorie Grice-Hutchinson, a historian of economic thought in southern Europe. She was born in England and lived in Málaga. The couple married in 1951. According to her 2003 obituary, Felix Ulrich was a farmer and owner of a large estate near Málaga known as San Julián. He died in the 1980s. I found their second son, Ernst Gustav, living in Freiburg in 1928 as a Bergstudent (mining student). It seems he may have followed in his father’s footsteps and become an engineer. In the 1965 city directory of Wetzlar, he is listed as Dipl.-Ing. (graduate engineer). Helmi’s eldest daughter, Frida Sofie Victorine Boy, appears to have arrived in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, in 1961, though I do not know for what purpose. Her second daughter, Frieda Sophia, married Dr. phil. Richard Boy in 1937. Helmi’s youngest son, Georg Alfred, seems to have been living in Munich in 1965. I do not know his occupation, as he is simply listed as “Freiherr” (Baron). I don’t know what became of Helmi after her mention on the 1936 passenger list. As her son Felix Ulrich was living near Málaga in the 1950s, I wonder whether she might have remained in Andalucía after her husband’s death. However, I have not found any further trace of her in the records. So I will leave you here with this colorful family story. Please let me know if you are a descendant of Helmi’s children!

A beautiful woman in white, elegantly holding a fan, gazes dreamily away from the camera - as if lost in thought. This was Eugenie Forster, captured in a moment of quiet introspection. She dedicated this photograph to a good friend in September 1896, in Sigmaringen, Baden-Württemberg, Germany. Strangely, I have not been able to find any substantial historical records about her. What little I do know comes from a brief overview on one Ancestry family tree, which serves as the sole source for this blog post. Eugenie (or Eugenia) Forster was born on December 6, 1870, in Sigmaringen, to her parents, Eugene Forster and Paulina Schon. She later married Franz Josef Ihle III on August 3, 1901, in Achern. The Ancestry family tree does not list any children from this marriage. Sadly, Eugenie passed away on September 20, 1909 - just 13 years after this photograph was taken. I wish I knew the cause of her passing at such young age. And that is all I know of her story, as preserved in the Ancestry family tree. And yet, perhaps that is not all. There is something enduring in this image - the elegance of her posture, the quiet intimacy of a photograph given to a friend. Even when the archives fall silent, for a fleeting moment, across more than a century, Eugenie steps out of anonymity and into presence. And maybe that is what these photographs are meant to do: not to tell us everything, but to remind us that every life, no matter how faintly recorded, once held depth, connection, and a story worth remembering.

Two children, carefully posed, looking straight into the camera that feels almost timeless. Their photograph had surfaced in Germany, which made me wonder - did Harry and Bessie Ronne have German roots? As I began tracing their story, a different path emerged. Their father, John Koffoed Ronne, was not German but Danish, born in 1849 on the island of Bornholm. At 19, he left Europe for Canada, joining the many young men seeking opportunity across the Atlantic. He eventually settled in Jamestown, New York, where he established himself as a clothing merchant. There, he met Jennie Estelle Broas, a young woman from a well-regarded Titusville family. Together they made their home in Warren, Pennsylvania, where John’s business prospered. Yet the discovery of oil in the region opened new possibilities, and John was drawn into this booming industry. Over time, he shifted his focus entirely to oil, moving his family repeatedly - from Pennsylvania to West Virginia, Kentucky, Illinois, Tulsa, and finally to Los Angeles - becoming well known in Southwestern oil circles. Their first child, Harry Koffoed Ronne, was born on August 23, 1883. Just over a year later, on December 9, 1884, his sister Elizabeth - called Bessie - joined him. The family continued to grow with the births of Jennie, Ella, Edith, and Walter. Still, it is Harry and Bessie who remain fixed in that early photograph, untouched by what lay ahead. As an adult, Harry is described on his World War I draft card as tall and stout, with dark brown hair and blue eyes. Like his father, he stepped into the world of business and industry. He worked as a salesman for the Oil Well Supply Company, an important enterprise in the expanding oil economy, providing the equipment and infrastructure that made large-scale drilling possible. It was a profession that connected him directly to the energy and uncertainty of a rapidly developing field. By 1920, Harry had established his own family life. He was living in Cisco, Texas, with his wife Jessie and their three young children: Helen, John, and Louis (also called Lewis). It seemed like a time of growth and stability. Then everything changed. On February 9, 1920, Harry died at the age of 36. The cause was influenza with pneumonia, part of the global pandemic that touched so many lives. He was laid to rest in Cisco, his father present at the funeral. His mother could not attend; she remained in Tulsa, caring for Bessie, who had also fallen ill with influenza at the same time. Obituary Feb 14, 1920, in Tulsa World And yet, life continued. Harry’s widow, Jennie, eventually remarried. By 1930, she and her second husband, John Nelson, had two children. Harry’s own children led fulfilling lives that Harry most certainly would have been proud of. His daughter Helen married Melvon DeGraw of Fresno and became the mother of two sons, Thomas and William. His son John married Marjorie, love of his life, and became involved in bringing television transmission to Fresno during the early years of the medium - an achievement that speaks to how quickly the world was transforming within a single generation. When he passed away in 2006, his obituary included his photograph. Louis (or also Lewis), the youngest, served in the Navy between 1937 and 1941. By 1950, he was working as a deputy sheriff in Fresno, California. A 1935 yearbook photograph shows him as a young man at the threshold of adulthood. In historical documents he seems to have gone by both his father's surname, Ronne, as well as his step-father's surname, Nelson. And Harry's sister, Bessie? She chose a different path. She never married, dedicating herself instead to teaching. In 1920, she was working in Tulsa; by 1930, in Los Angeles. That same year, she and her widowed father were living with her younger brother Walter, who earned his living as a newspaper salesman. By 1940, she had relocated to Modesto, and by 1950 she was teaching at the Page Military Academy in Los Angeles—an institution that combined traditional schooling with military structure, where discipline and education went hand in hand, and where teachers like Bessie shaped not only academic learning but also character. Her life may not have followed the conventional expectations of marriage and family, but it reflects a steady commitment to purpose and service. Both of Harry’s parents lived longer than their eldest son. Jennie died in 1929 after suffering a heart attack during a car journey. John lived until 1933, reaching the age of 83. They were buried together at Hollywood Forever Cemetery in Los Angeles. John's obituary in Warren Times Mirror gives us a glimpse into the Ronne family's history: And still, the photograph remains. Two siblings, captured in a quiet moment - before the moves across states, before the rise of the oil industry, before illness, loss, and reinvention. Before the many directions their lives would take.