Abram Gerhard Flaming and Liesa Dick Flaming’s Refugee Experience

By son Jacob Flaming

My parents, like many other Mennonite families, were caught up in the difficult and often tragic times surrounding the Bolshevik Revolution and the ensuing civil war. Anarchy was the rule of the day. Sensing that our chances of a better life were slim, my parents decided to emigrate to the USA. Of course, this would have to happen as secretively and quietly as possible. It was a difficult decision, and my mother’s parents pleaded with them not to go, believing that things would improve in Russia.

My parents took advantage of the greater freedom of movement that the local government allowed because people needed to go to the borders of Russia in search of food. And so my parents managed to take their family to the train station undetected. Illness was a recurring spectre during our refugee flight. My father became so ill and weak that he had to be carried onto the ship from Theodosia to the Black Sea harbour town of Batum, situated near the Turkish border.

Many families perished in Batum. Malaria and Typhoid were a terrible problem. My parents, with their children, had quarters in a big shed that had been used as a horse stable by the military during the war. They slept on concrete floors. It was constantly damp from the heavy rain that spring, and the family was weak from hunger and plagued with lice. The damp clothes made them easy prey for typhoid and malaria. My mother, and my older sister and little brother, all became sick with malaria. How my father must have wondered if God really was with them, as they prayed that He would open the doors for them if it was really God’s will for them to go. And they were all ill. My father also needed to decide how many of their precious provisions to sell for gold coins needed for the journey. But how could he know how many provisions would be needed to stave off starvation? It must have been agony for him to watch, even as he suffered from typhoid, when their little baby died because his wife was too weak and ill to nurse their child. Indeed, he was afraid that he would also lose his wife to illness. It seemed to go on forever.

And now, the visas that Father had to travel a long distance to procure, ran out because they had been unable to travel when ill. My parents watched and grieved as one family after another lost loved ones all about them. Out of a group of 235 people who had arrived in Batum, 75 died. Only one child born during that time survived. Death was an everyday occurrence. But dealing with the practical aspects of death posed its own problems. My father writes in his memoirs,

It was dangerous to dig graves at the edge of the mountain because of landslides, so we had no choice but to dig shafts into the mountain and push the corpses into the shafts. We had no coffins and it was a gruesome task to throw dirt directly onto the corpses. We ourselves were weak from vermin and hunger. At first we had rented a wagon drawn by an oxen onto which we piled the corpses. Towards the end of our stay, we could no longer afford this and pulled the wagon ourselves.

In the beginning our provisions had been adequate, but since they had been stored for quite some time in damp ship’s holds and various storerooms, they had become mouldy and inedible.

My father needed to procure visas again if their journey was to continue. But until my mother could recover from typhoid, continuing on was out of the question. Through all their suffering, God provided wonderfully for them through total strangers.

A Latvian meat market owner offered my father the use of his Dacha, a summer retreat house up in the mountains so that my mother could recover in the clear air. They only needed to care for his tropical gardens and trees; imagine that! After two months at this mountain retreat, with its air that was so fresh and clean and light, my mother recovered totally! Now Father could get the precious visas. But after all the arranging, he discovered that he was 12 Turkish Lira short. As my father walked along the street pleading to God to show him the way, he passed the German Consul, and something told him to go in. He recounted his story and dilemma. At this point, the many to whom Dad was speaking, counted out the required amount and said, “Now go to America in God’s name and when you arrive send the money to this address.” And so God provided again.

Now they could get on the ship to Constantinople! But my family must have been very weak-looking because after the first day enroute, a sailor approached Dad and asked him if he was hungry. My father writes in his memoirs:

I must have been a pathetic sight. Yes, I WAS hungry! And then he came back with a huge dish of macaroni. Well, I could not possibly consume this festive meal by myself. I went to find my wife and child. After giving thanks we began eating. Our joy was so great that we could hardly give a proper blessing for the food. And so this good sailor pulled us through by bringing us all the scraps from the kitchen. For us, these leftovers were a feast!

And so God lovingly and mercifully provided for my family. After more travels, they finally arrived in Kansas on March 11, 1923, fourteen months after leaving Central Crimea in 1922.

Thanks be to God.