The Baltic Night: A Journey into the Hidden Layer of our Family DNA

At 5:30 PM in December, Vilnius looks like a Christmas postcard. Fir trees, mulled wine, twinkling lights. But we didn’t come to see the lights. "Turn off your phones", I told my sisters and the kids as we reached the iron bridge over the black river. "Tonight, we are not tourists. Tonight, we are going beneath the surface".

In this second article of the Lithuanian journey series, I take you on a voyage into the dark, mystical, and ancient side of our family. We always knew that the women of the Shapiro-Kowarski family - Grandma Kalma, Great-Grandma Rose, and Mom Toni - had a "sixth sense". They knew who was calling before the phone rang. They felt danger from kilometers away. We called it intuition; sometimes we jokingly called them "witches".

But standing on the frozen soil of Lithuania - the last country in Europe to convert to Christianity - you suddenly understand. It’s not witchcraft. It is the DNA of a place that worshipped nature, fire, and water for thousands of years. And our women, who grew up there, absorbed this frequency. So, we set out on a five-act night journey through a cold that penetrates the bones, but with an inner fire that warms the heart.

The time was 17:30, but in late-December Vilnius, it was already the middle of the night. We stood there, seven people in the dark - myself, my sisters Chen and Lee, and the kids Tor, Rom, Or, and Tal - wrapped in five layers of thermal clothing, scarves, and wool hats leaving only eyes exposed. The cold was cruel, the kind that doesn't just prick the skin but penetrates straight to the soul. The temperature had plunged well below zero, and the air was dry and frozen, making every breath feel like inhaling ground glass. Around us, the Old Town prepared for Christmas. Glittering fir trees in Cathedral Square, the scent of cinnamon and mulled wine, church bells echoing in narrow alleys. On the surface, a perfect European postcard.

But we didn’t come to see the lights. Tonight, I announced to the family, we are going to see what lies in the shadows. "Turn off your phones", I asked them as we approached the small iron bridge. "Tonight we are not Jews, not Israelis, and not tourists. Tonight, we are Balts".

This wasn’t just a night walk to pass the time. It was a carefully planned journey designed to crack the last genetic code remaining in our family tree. In the previous article, when we dealt with our Jewish roots, we spoke of the "three pillars" of our dynasty: Torah and Scholarship (the legacy of the Grodzinski family and the Gaon), Prayer and Music (the Cantors of the Shapiro house), and Science and Intellect (the physicists and musicians of the Kowarski house). But anyone who grew up in this family knows there is a fourth pillar. A transparent, elusive pillar, one rarely spoken of aloud at the Shabbat table, perhaps because it is even more ancient than religion itself.

We call it "The Feminine Instinct".

The Eyes That Know. Three generations of women from the Grodzinski-Shapiro-Kowarski house: Pesia, Rochel (Rose), and little Kalma. This direct, piercing gaze is no accident; it carries within it ancient intuition - the ability to 'see' beyond walls and time - passed down from mother to daughter like a family secret.

The Witches of the Shapiro-Kowarski House

We always knew there was something different about the women of this family. Great-Grandma Rochel (Rose), Grandma Kalma, and our mother Toni - they all possessed an ability that science (the Kowarski side) would struggle to explain, and the Rabbis (the Grodzinski side) might prefer to deny or attribute to "Divine Inspiration" (Ruach HaKodesh), but the truth is likely far more earthly and rooted.

Grandma Kalma knew who was calling on the phone before the device even rang. It wasn't an "educated guess" based on statistics; it was clear, lucid knowledge. Mom Toni could feel when something bad happened to one of us on the other side of the world, precise to the minute - a sudden stomach pain or heaviness in the chest exactly when an accident or crisis occurred thousands of kilometers away. And Great-Grandma Rochel... well, Rose deserves an entire article of her own. They had "eyes in the back of their heads", not in the educational sense of teachers spotting a mischievous student, but in the mystical sense. Intuition that goes beyond the ordinary senses. Natural, quiet telepathy passed from mother to daughter like a secret recipe for Kugel, but with ingredients you can't buy at the grocery store.

When I researched the history of Lithuania ahead of the trip, I suddenly understood where this comes from. They weren't just "Yiddishe Mamas" with developed intuition. They were daughters of this land. To understand our women, you must understand Lithuania. This was the last country in Europe to become Christian (officially only in 1387, centuries after the rest of the continent). And even then, it only happened for political reasons.

For thousands of years, while Europe built stone cathedrals, Lithuanians worshipped trees. The dense forests of Lithuania weren't just a "natural resource"; they were the temple. The people here worshipped nature, fire, water, and wind. When Christianity finally arrived, when the Teutonic and Livonian Orders invaded with swords and crosses to "civilize" the barbarians, the new religion was merely a thin, fragile veneer. Beneath the church floors, Lithuanians continued to feed the "Žaltys" (sacred house snakes) with milk, believing the snake brought blessing and fertility to the home. They continued to light fires for the goddess "Gabija" beneath the cooking stove. The mysticism didn't disappear; it simply went underground. It became a domestic, hidden religion, one managed primarily by women.

And our women, those who grew up on this soil - even if they were kosher Jews keeping Shabbat - absorbed this frequency into their DNA. The air of Vilnius and the surrounding villages was saturated with the belief that the world is full of signs, that the veil between the physical and the spiritual is thin, and that if you listen closely enough, you can hear what is not being said. So, to "connect the dots" - the name of my website and the essence of my life - I realized we couldn't settle for synagogues and museums. We needed to touch the pagan earth. So, I took everyone on the "Baltic Night" journey.

Vilnius Below. While tourists snap photos of the fir tree in Cathedral Square, we descended into the shadows to listen to what this soil has been whispering for thousands of years. The journey into the Baltic Night began here.

Act One: Water (The Border and the Spell)

Location: Užupis Bridge

Soundtrack: Heilung - Norupo

We stood on the bridge separating the orderly Old Town from the bohemian "Republic of Užupis". Below, in the darkness, the Vilnelė River surged and flowed. Unlike the wide, calm Neris River that crosses the city, the Vilnelė is fast, shallow, and treacherous. I pressed play, and the speaker in my bag began to play. The first sounds of the band Heilung - heavy tribal drums made of animal skin and whispers in Old Norse echoing like a sorcery ritual - burst into the cold.

"Do you see this water?" I asked, pointing to the black current swallowed by the darkness. "In Baltic mysticism, flowing water is the ultimate border. It is the barrier between 'This World' and the "Anapus" - the world beyond, the world of spirits. The moment we cross this bridge, we leave logic, Grandpa Herman's science, and Christian Vilnius behind".

I explained to them about the "Undinė" emerging from the bridge wall above the river, the Baltic mermaid. "Forget the sweet Disney version. In local mythology, water spirits are powerful and dangerous creatures. The Undinė is a seductive river spirit who lures drunken or lost men at night into the frozen depths. Not out of pure evil, but to steal their souls and gain eternal life through them. It is a story that reminds us that nature here is not just beautiful - it is demanding".

I pointed to the many locks hanging on the bridge railing, those that tourists hang as a symbol of eternal romantic love. "They think it's romantic", I whispered as the music intensified and the bass vibrated the metal of the bridge, "but the origin is completely different, and far darker. In Baltic and Slavic tradition, 'locking' iron over flowing water is an ancient binding spell. It is meant to 'lock' the evil spirits on the other side of the river, preventing them from following you home".

We crossed the bridge in absolute silence, as tradition dictates so as not to attract the attention of the water spirits. In the middle of the bridge, we stopped. Everyone looked into the black water, let the cold pierce their thoughts, and left something there they didn't want to carry forward - an old worry, a fear, or an obsessive thought. We let the waters of the Vilnelė wash it away, toward the Baltic Sea.

Act Two: Fire (Internal Heat and Gabija)

Location: Bernardinų Park, the ascent to the hill

Soundtrack: Kūlgrinda - Ugnie, Gabija

We left the river behind and began climbing into the darkness of the park. Here, far from the electric streetlights, the cold felt different. It was ancient, primordial. We stopped in a small clearing, a place that could have served in the past as an "Alka" (a sacred place, an open forest shrine).

"Before the great Cathedral was built down in the square", I told them as we shivered, steam rising from our mouths with every word, "the eternal fire burned here. It was guarded by the goddess "Gabija", goddess of fire and the home". Gabija isn't just a mythological figure, she was part of every family. Fire in Lithuania was considered a living being that needed to be fed, respected, and put to sleep at night (by covering the embers with ash). If the fire went out - luck left the house.

I pulled a thermos and small cups out of the bag, cups that belonged to Grandma Kalma. I poured everyone a steaming drink I had concocted specifically - hot tea mixed with Midus. Midus isn't just alcohol, it is a traditional Lithuanian mead made of honey and herbs, considered the oldest drink in the world and the drink of the Baltic gods. Honey, in Lithuanian culture, is sacred because it connects the plant world to the animal world, and bees are considered messengers of the gods. The sweet-pungent smell filled the frozen air.

I lit a juniper incense stick. The sharp scent of the juniper, together with the steam coming from our mouths, created a small cloud of warmth. "The Christian monks, in the name of the Holy Roman Empire, extinguished the sacred fire when they arrived here and destroyed the altars", I said. "But the Lithuanians, stubborn and survivors like our family, took the last embers and hid them beneath the floorboards of their homes. For 200 years, Lithuania was Christian on the outside and pagan in the cellar."

We held a small ceremony of our own there. Everyone took a sip of the strong drink, felt the liquid fire spreading in their throats and warming their frozen bellies, and said one word about something they wanted to "burn" and transform into new energy - fear, anger, worry about the future. In a place where women were defined as witches simply because they knew how to listen to nature and keep the home fire burning, we, the great-grandchildren of Kalma, Rochel, and Pesia, stood and re-lit the spark. It was a moment of direct connection to those strong women who built our family - women who knew how to maintain internal warmth even when outside, storms of history threatened to extinguish everything.

Warming Body and Soul. In the heart of the frozen forest, with cups of tea and Midus (the drink of the gods), we rekindle the spark of the goddess Gabija. A moment of connection to the strong women of our lineage who knew how to guard the inner fire.

Act Three: Air (The Wind and Perkūnas)

Location: Hill of Three Crosses (The Bald Hill)

Soundtrack: Mikolai Stroinski - When No Man Has Gone Before (The Witcher)

The climb to the Hill of Three Crosses in minus two degrees is a physical and mental test. Lungs burn, legs are heavy. The wind up there, on the "Bald Hill" (Plikasis kalnas), shows no mercy. It howls between the trees, carrying ancient legends with it. In Baltic mythology, the high hills were the realm of "Perkūnas" - god of thunder and the sky, the equivalent of Zeus or Thor. The wrathful and just god who rides a chariot of fire.

But this hill also carries a story of a clash between religions. The legend tells of seven Franciscan monks who arrived here in the 14th century to Christianize the city and were murdered here by angry pagans who refused to give up their old gods and their freedom. They crucified the monks and threw them into the river, as a warning to the West. The large white crosses standing there today are a monument to that struggle, but the wind blowing there is still that same wild wind.

We reached the summit panting. The city of Vilnius lay spread out beneath us like a carpet of glittering diamonds, the lights of the Old Town against the modern skyscrapers. But we turned our backs to the lit city and looked to the other side - to the total darkness of the forests surrounding the city.

At this moment, I switched the music to something celestial, expansive, almost religious - the soundtrack of "The Witcher", a series and books based entirely on the mythology of this region (Slavic and Baltic). The violins wept along with the wind. "The wind here takes everything", I shouted to overcome the strong gusts. "This is the place to release questions that have no answers. This is the place where thoughts fly the furthest".

I asked everyone to close their eyes, spread their arms to the sides, and feel the resistance of the air. It was a moment of transcendence. The scientist in me knows that wind is just the movement of air molecules from high pressure to low pressure, simple physics. But the grandson of Grandma Kalma, that part of me connected to mysticism, felt something entirely different there. I felt the strength that kept our women sane in a crazy world. The ability to stand facing the storm, to let the wind pass through you, and not break. The ability to "hear" messages in the wind, exactly like that famous family telepathy.

High Above, Over River and Forest, where the wind never rests. Overlooking the illuminated city from the Hill of Three Crosses, releasing unanswered questions to the wind. The place where mythology and history collide with the force of a snowstorm.

Act Four: Earth (The Fear and the Basilisk)

Location: The Barbican

Soundtrack: Hildur Guðnadóttir - Chernobyl

We descended from the hill to the "Bastion" (The Barbican) - a formidable defensive fortification from the 16th century overlooking the Old Town. Here, the music became heavy, industrial, and frightening. Low bass cello sounds vibrated the diaphragm and created a sense of tension. This structure sits on a network of underground tunnels, and it represents the element of Earth - heavy, cold, and mysterious.

"Vilnius's greatest enemy wasn't an invading army", I told them as we approached the cold, damp stone walls. "The city's most famous legend tells of the "Basilisk" - a monster born from a rooster's egg incubated by a toad. It lives in the caves right beneath our feet, between the Gate of Dawn and the Barbican. Its gaze was lethal - it turned people to stone on the spot".

The Basilisk isn't an ancient Baltic god, but a monster that arrived here with Slavic legends - like new fears grafted onto old soil. It represents paralyzing fear. That same fear that can petrify you and prevent you from acting. I asked everyone to remove one glove and place a bare hand on the frozen, rough stone of the ancient wall. "Feel it. That is the cold of history. That is the weight of fear."

It was a moment of "grounding". After floating with the wind at the summit, we needed to return to the earth. To understand that our roots here are not just spiritual and hovering, they are physical and hard. They are buried in this soil, along with the fears and monsters of the past. Grandma Pesia didn't leave Lithuania in 1928 because of a mythological Basilisk, but because of real human monsters - rising antisemitism and poverty. But the ability to look fear in the eye and not freeze - like that legendary hero who killed the Basilisk using a mirror that made the monster see itself - is a family inheritance. The ability to stay in motion, not to turn to stone, is what saved our family.

Act Five: Spirit (Closing the Circle and the Dead)

Location: Subačiaus facing the Rasos Cemetery

Soundtrack: Dead Can Dance - The Host of Seraphim

Our journey ended at the least touristy and most significant point. We stood at a quiet observation point at the edge of the city, with the lit city to our left, and to our right - a dark abyss. This is the Rasos Cemetery, the oldest and most important cemetery in Vilnius.

"In Lithuania, the dead are not finished history", I said quietly, as Lisa Gerrard's operatic-mystical voice (from the movie Baraka) broke the heart and opened it simultaneously in the background. "They are part of the family. In the ancient Lithuanian holiday "Vėlinės" (Day of Souls), the whole country goes up to the graves and lights candles. But more than that - at holiday meals, they leave an empty chair and a full plate for the Vėlės (the souls). They believe they come home, that they watch over us, provided we remember them".

I handed everyone small amber stones - Baltic gold. Amber, washed up from the Baltic Sea, is no ordinary stone. It is the resin of ancient trees millions of years old that turned to stone. It is liquid memory frozen in time. It holds within it the sun of eras past. "This is your talisman", I said. "Just as the amber keeps insects and leaves from a million years ago inside it, so do we keep within us the memories of Grandma Kalma, Rochel, Pesia, and all previous generations".

We all turned toward the darkness, toward the city of the dead, and said one word together in ancient Lithuanian: "Sveika" (Hello/Welcome). We sent a greeting to generations we never knew, to the spirits of this place that shaped our grandmothers' intuition, to the soil that absorbed so much blood and tears but also grew life. And then we turned back to the lit city, to our lives, to the children standing there frozen but captivated, and said: "Ačiū" (Thank you).

City of the Living vs. City of the Dead. Standing at the viewpoint facing Rasos Cemetery. In Lithuania, the dead are not history - they are family. A quiet moment of 'Sveika' (Hello) to previous generations and 'Ačiū' (Thank you) for the path they paved for us.

The journey back to the warm hotel was quiet. The cold still stung our cheeks, but something inside had changed. It was no longer just the cold of winter; it was the sensation of connection. We had connected the dots. We had been in the water, the fire, the wind, and the earth. We understood that our family "magic" wasn't something foreign or merely mystical, but an ancient gift from this frozen earth. We returned to being Israelis, but we knew that deep inside, in the eternal winter of our DNA, burns a small campfire guarded by the goddess Gabija.

But this night was only the preparation.

Seven 'Balts' for One Night. Wrapped in five layers with amber stones in our pockets, we conclude the journey. The cold still stings, but the heart has reconnected the dots. Tomorrow morning - we leave the legends behind and head to Marijampolė, to the true house.

With the first light, we leave Vilnius behind - the legends, the spirits, and the myths - and head out to the rural roads of southwestern Lithuania. Our compass is set for the Marijampolė district. No pagan gods or ancient rituals await us there, but one simple, heavy question: Where is the house?

In the next and final article of the series, the journey turns from a mystical experience into a detective investigation. No more listening to the whispers of wind and earth, but a stubborn search for tangible traces - one place, one story, and a family memory begging to finally be tested against reality.

Vilnius gave us the language. Marijampolė will be required to provide the answers.

The journey continues.

The "Baltic Night" Route