Verstraete: Genealogical Journey to Belgium

"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

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