"Finding Family: A Genealogical Journey to Belgium"
BY CHRISTINE A. VERSTRAETE
Until I began researching my family history, what I knew about my paternal
ancestors didn't amount to much. I had a few photos and some old bills from the
house where I'd grown up in Chicago, Ill. That's it.
My father, Seraphien Steve, talked little about his family. All he seemed to
know was that his father, Louis, had come to this country from Ghent, Belgium.
How he came to the U.S., when he came here, and why were just a few of the
questions that remained unanswered.
Back to the Past
Nearly 90 years later, I made the reverse trek and became the first person in
my immediate family to set foot on European soil. With the guidance and
gracious hosting of local genealogist Luc Verstraete of Bruges (no relation),
some of the mysteries were solved and places in my family's past became more
than just names on pieces of paper.
I wandered around the winding cobbled streets in the medieval town of Bruges
with the strangest sense that the past lurked as an unseen layer just beneath
the present. It was easy to envision my ancestors or their neighbors standing
in the same spots centuries before me listening to the bells ringing in the
Belfort or glancing up, as I did, to look at the Bear of Bruges decorating the
corner of a Middle Ages-era building.
Clumping my way along the cobbles worn as smooth as silk by the passage of
thousands of feet, I often expected to experience a mystical moment when I'd
look down to find myself wearing rough peasant's garb instead of jeans.
I walked undisturbed for blocks, the silence broken only by the distant
clip-clop of the horse-drawn wagons - er - carriages. Along one road the only
other soul was a young woman who stepped out of her house to diligently sweep
the front step as housewives had done for generations.
I followed the curve of the road past rowhouses sandwiched one next to the
other, their street level windows covered discreetly with lace. Short, medium
and tall porcelain vases sat on the front windowsills screening the room
interiors from view.
Behind the Scenes
Even with a map, I got lost and wandered away from the main streets and the
throngs of tourist traffic. I walked roads that snaked into each other or
turned without warning into dead-ends. I learned that meandering has its
advantages, though, leading me to discoveries I might otherwise missed had I
stuck to the main thoroughfares.
Off the beaten path, I saw that some of the buildings had glass boxes or niches
mounted up high on the corner wall. From its perch, a Madonna and Child gazed
placidly over the fork in the cobbled road. When I came to the corner of
SintGeorge Straat
and
Poetevinstraat
I again was reminded of the intertwining of time past and present. The ceramic
tile plaque on the wall featured a religious picture installed in commemoration
of where the plague ended in 1666. Here and there, I'd find another small niche
or a corridor in a dead-end road that looked like it hadn't changed in hundreds
of years.
That sense of timelessness was even more evident in Ghent, where my
grandfather, Louis, was born in 1883. I passed one building, its exterior worn
and boarded, but still boasting the same delightful emblems my ancestors had
likely also seen on their way to market.
As my host and I walked along the
Elyseese Velden
, one of the older streets near the canal, I caught the curious stares of a
couple of the neighbors standing in their doorways. For me, it was amazing to
be standing where my family had once lived. For the onlookers, it was probably
just as intriguing to see someone so interested in a place their families had
called home for generations. Unfortunately, the closest link I had with my past
was learning that the present owners had bought the house from my grandfather's
youngest brother's widow.
My lack of Flemish (Dutch) and the lack of English spoken by most Belgians on
the street made no difference in the few times I asked for directions. The
people were extremely friendly and helpful. Not once did they look apprehensive
or unsure about being approached by a stranger. Instead, they were usually
curious and willing to help even if they couldn't. I don't think you've really
been lost until you've gotten directions from a trio of babushka-wearing
housewives, all arguing animatedly with each other in Flemish. I enjoyed the
interchange, even if I left still unsure of where I was going.
Where It All Began
My search took an unexpected turn when my host and I drove to the small town of
Eeklo, which means "The Place of the Oak." Until then, I hadn't known
the town existed. Stepping inside a small stationer's store for information, it
was interesting to watch my host, Luc, conversing animatedly with the
shopkeeper.
The exchange brought an eerie jolt of recognition. With his white hair swept
back off his high forehead, his plaid shirt, the bright sapphire blue eyes and
the cigarette dangling in his hand, the shopkeeper was the image of my father,
who had died in 1977. It was an odd feeling to travel hundreds of miles and
find a complete stranger who made my ancestors seem more like real people.
Watching him, I saw not only my father, but also his father and each generation
of fathers before him who had been, lived and died in this small Flemish town.
At the town archives in Eeklo, I was surprised to find that history was
approachable and not locked away behind closed doors as in some of the bigger
cities. The plain room had worn worktables and rows of cabinets filled with
large, bound books, the pages covered with entries written in slightly faded
ink.
It was all here. The curator had researched the VERSTRAETE name back to the
1600s. Oddly enough, through his research I got a complete family tree that
followed the lines of my great-great grandfather's brothers, but my
great-great-grandfather, Englebert, wasn't listed. Even more amazing to me was
when the curator took out another book, opened it, and pointed to the page.
There, written in Latin in scrawling script, was a birth certificate for the
first traceable ancestor in my family - 11 generations back from myself.
Grabbing for the Gold Ring
While I'll never know exactly why my grandfather, Louis, came to settle in
Chicago, I've made my own guesses. Like the thousands of other immigrants who
came to America's shores in 1907, he was probably drawn by the chance of a
better life here. What was at home? His mother was dead. He'd probably heard
the glowing stories painted by an uncle who had already made the trip between
America and Belgium several times.
The future looked dim by comparison. The reality was Louis' father, Seraphin -
my great-grandfather - came from a long line of laborers. Many were
scharenslijpers
- scissors and knife sharpeners. My great-grandfather was illiterate and had a
low-level job that had no place or meaning in the 1900s.
This was a new age. Electricity was a marvel. Everyday, new discoveries were
being made. The contrast of my grandfather's life at home and the life that
beckoned from across the ocean was startling. I can imagine my grandfather's
desire at age 23 to leave the past behind and create a new life in a new
country. He and a cousin came to Chicago together, their heads probably filled
with young men's dreams. As far as I know, that cousin helped him get a good
job working as a streetcar repairman.
Somehow there was a break in the family. My grandfather might have felt some
sorrow when he received a photo of his father's grave in Belgium, but he never
looked back. His brother did join him here in 1914, lucky to escape the horrors
of World War I, but to my knowledge, that was my grandfather's last link with
his homeland. I don't think my father ever knew that he still had living
relatives in Belgium or that he had cousins in Michigan. The link to the
Chicago cousins was lost over time as well.
Dogs and other discoveries
That's what made my journey to Belgium so odd. Everything around me was a part
of my heritage, but none of it meant anything to me personally. I was a
stranger here.
Being a dog lover, one of the things I took special note of was the close
relationship that seemed to exist between the dogs and their owners in Bruges.
These dogs went everywhere. One dog sat calmly under the bench in the Burg next
to his elderly owner, the two of them watching the crowds of people walking by.
Another owner walked nonchalantly into the bank, a small dog in tow behind him.
The streets are clean and the dogs are extremely well trained. I watched one
dog perched on the steps in front of his door. He sat there, his tail wagging,
every muscle yearning as he looked down the street. His anxiousness worried me.
I feared any minute he'd dart out into the street, but he never moved until his
owner crossed the road and came up the steps. Even more impressive and amusing
was watching a large German Shepherd dog lying quietly on the bricked path near
the Beguinage, a cloistered religious community. Only his ears twitched
slightly as several pigeons walked around him.
Oddly enough, after visiting Belgium I learned that my family did pass on at
least one semi-cultural tradition. One of the first meals I ate in Belgium was
steak and "frites" or fries.
The crispy, Belgian-style
frites
are a popular staple of the street vendors in towns like Bruges where you can
buy them plain, or with any number of condiments like mayonnaise. In recent
years, there has even been an influx of shops opening in New York and elsewhere
specializing in Belgian fries.
Growing up, I remember my mother cooking steak and fries, one of my father's
favorite meals. As my mother and father grew up in the same neighborhood, she
remembered my dad's mother making the same meal for her family, no doubt a
result of her husband's Belgian tastes.
Strange, isn't it? I went all the way to Belgium to learn that the meal I had always considered so American was actually an even older family favorite than I
had realized.
VERSTRAETE Genealogy
(c) 2000/01/02 C. VERSTRAETE Text & Photos. Content CANNOT be copied/used etc. w/o author's permission.