A WALLED CITY ON A PEARL IN THE BALTIC SEA

by Jan Rivero

Carrying one sepia-toned postcard, two dog-eared black and white photographs of a generous flower garden, and a one page outline of five generations of family history, my husband and I traveled in 2008 to the Swedish city of Visby in search of my family roots. I hoped to find a tombstone. What I received exceeded my wildest dreams.

Visby is a walled medieval city, a UNESCO heritage site, on the island of Gotland, 126 miles south of Stockholm - a pearl in the Baltic Sea. A thriving city in the Middle Ages, it suffered from hostile takeovers by the Danes and Germans, before returning to Swedish rule in 1645. Now it is a vacation destination for many Swedes, particularly the affluent who live and work in Stockholm. Remnants of the walls and its ramparts remain, a treasured reminder of the city’s past, while beyond the walls Visby takes on the characteristics and provides all the conveniences of a modern, mid-sized European city.

We arrived on a bright and relatively warm June afternoon, checked into our hotel in the old city and set out in search of the city archives. On our first attempt we learned that the offices had been moved outside the historic area. Not to be deterred, we hailed a cab that took us north beyond the city walls to the relocated offices. Only after the driver left did we realize that the particular department we sought was closed. A sign indicated it would open the next day, so we planned our schedule accordingly and arrived soon after the doors were unlocked.

The office manager spoke little English so we were fortunate that a gentleman who had entered behind us was eavesdropping on our less than successful attempts to communicate with the employee. Mats, the eavesdropper, asked what we were after and because his English was quite good he quickly replied, “I think I can help you!” Several minutes passed as he took my page of genealogical information and plugged it into a computer. Soon the screen showed old church records that revealed additional details of this branch of my family tree, including the location of the family farm, and the address of the home that my maternal great grandparents had bought and lived in after they sold the farm. Mats clicked “print” and handing us the documents he offered, “Would you like me to take you there?”

“Nice chap,” I thought. “YES!” I replied, never hearing the words my mother drilled into my head as a child “Don’t get in a car with a stranger.” Jeffrey and I climbed into Mats’ car and off we went in search of the family farm! It seemed simple and safe enough. We were more than a bit unnerved however, when, about three kilometers beyond the city walls, Mats announced, “I want to show you something!” and he quickly veered the car off the hard surfaced road. We found ourselves on a deserted gravel path hemmed on either side by tall grass. About a third of a mile down the path the car came to an open field where two very large poles appeared to grow out of the ground. Mats invited us out of the car. “You know what they used do here?” he asked as we stood there completely bemused. It was hard to imagine. An open field overlooking the walled city and the Baltic Sea. Beautiful, pastoral, serene, but hard to imagine they “did” anything here. “This is where they used to hang the criminals. Here on the hill for all the town to see.” Uh, OK. Now we were worried. “You can still find bones here. Want to look?” “Um, no thanks, Mats. I think we’re ready to go.” I have no clue what possessed us to get back in the car with him but we did, and continued our journey northward into the farmlands of the island.

After half an hour we came upon a church in the village of Martebo, the church where my ancestors worshipped and were baptized. After driving a little farther Mats stopped to ask information from a woman working in her garden. As it happened, she had a book documenting land transactions of the farms in Gotland. She also happened to own what once had been my family’s farm! Her husband took us to the field where the farm house, barns and well once stood. I stood on sacred ground!

Having found the farmland we headed back to the city to locate the house where my great great grandparents had retired. A street address obtained from the computerized church records made this task relatively easy. We discovered behind the house the area where the flower garden of the black and white photos had once grown. The garden had been replaced by a drive, but the carriage house, also shown in the photos, was still there, serving now as a residence. We also found on that street, the scene depicted on the sepia-toned postcard. There was no question that we had found more sacred soil of my roots.

All that we had seen and experienced was far more than the tombstone I had hoped for, but the adventure wasn’t over yet. We said our goodbyes to Mats and went on to the hotel and then to dinner. Coming out of the restaurant we came across Mats again. “Oh I’m so glad to have found you. I have something for you.” “Is this man a stalker?” I wondered. He handed me an envelope. Inside I discovered nine pages documenting my family tree back to the 17th century. The single page of genealogy had become thirteen generations in just one afternoon. And there it was: the revelation that I was not the only one in search of a heritage - apparently my ancestors had been waiting for me as well.

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ABOUT JAN RIVERO







 

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