Across the Baltic They Fled Eighty Years of Memory and Legacy

A Desperate Exodus in the Baltic Autumn

On a cold night in September 1944, dozens of Estonian families huddled in silence in the back of a truck on the outskirts of Pärnu. Toddlers were clutched tightly in thick blankets, and the sky glowed with an orange hue – Pärnu city was burning as German troops retreated and Soviet forces closed in. The truck bounced along dark forest roads toward a secluded fishing village, where a secretly built 9-meter wooden boat awaited by the shore. Under the cover of darkness, they pushed off into the Baltic Sea, 22 people crammed onto a boat meant for far fewer. Overhead, enemy planes roared; beneath the waves, submarines prowled. “We didn’t want to leave, but we couldn’t stay,” one survivor would later recall of that fateful journey. The passengers’ hearts pounded with fear of what lay behind and uncertainty of what lay ahead – but anything was better than the fate they feared if they stayed under Soviet rule.

This scene was echoed all across Estonia and Latvia during the chaotic weeks of September 1944. In the span of a few late-summer weeks, some 75,000–80,000 people fled the Baltic states ahead of the advancing Red Army. Families, soldiers, officials, the elderly and infants – entire communities – rushed to ports, beaches, and river mouths, desperate to escape the return of Soviet terror. The horror of the first Soviet occupation (1940–41) was fresh in their minds: mass deportations, political arrests, and disappearances had afflicted tens of thousands of Estonians, Latvians, and Lithuanians. Many refugees openly said they would “rather die here than somewhere in Siberia” if it came to that. Staying behind as Stalin’s forces reoccupied their homelands was not an option – so they chose the unknown sea.

The Great Flight of 1944, as this exodus came to be known, saw a flotilla of rickety fishing boats, sailboats, and repurposed barges make the perilous voyage across the Baltic. Between mid-September and early October 1944, over 600 small boats departed the Estonian coast alone. Many set out from western Estonia’s bays and islands, while others slipped out from beaches in Latvia’s Courland (Kurzeme) region under cover of night. In Estonia’s capital Tallinn, as Soviet troops encircled the city, panicked crowds managed to board the last German evacuation ships. On September 22, 1944 – the same day the Red Army seized Tallinn – the German hospital ship Moero was torpedoed by Soviet bombers shortly after departing with thousands of refugees, killing an estimated 2,000 people in minutes. A second ship, Nordstern, met a similar fate a week later off the coast of Saaremaa. Smaller civilian boats faced strafing from aircraft and the sheer fury of autumn storms. It is estimated that 6–9% of the Baltic refugees perished at sea, in many cases entire families lost to the waves. “Of the 40,000 who fled to Sweden... more than 2,000 drowned in the Baltic Sea,” notes one account, underscoring the deadly stakes.

Yet amid the terror, there were tales of resilience and luck. Sweden, officially neutral during WWII, became the unlikely haven for tens of thousands of Balts who survived the voyage. The first safe landfall for many was Sweden’s largest island, Gotland, which lies roughly 90 km off the Latvian coast. In the span of a few weeks in autumn 1944, around 11,000 refugees – Estonians, Latvians, and Lithuanians – landed on Gotland’s beaches. The locals, initially astonished by the flotilla of overloaded boats appearing on the horizon, quickly organized rescue efforts. Years later, a Swedish islander recalled how rescue boats would sail out flying huge Swedish flags, even burning torches by the flag’s cross at night, so the desperate refugees would realize they had reached friendly shores and not turn back in panic. Many arrivals were in shock – “Many boat refugees didn’t know if this was Sweden or not,” one Gotlander remembered. Exhausted men, women, and children collapsed on the rocky beaches of Gotland, overcome with relief.

Flight and Survival: Personal Stories

From Gotland, most refugees were ferried to mainland Sweden, where they were given hot food, dry clothes, and medical care by volunteers and authorities. All told, approximately 27,000 Estonians and at least 4,500–6,000 Latvians escaped across the Baltic to Sweden in 1944, along with a smaller number of Lithuanians. (Tens of thousands more fled southward with the retreating German Army into occupied Poland and Germany.) For each refugee, there was a unique story of heartbreak and endurance. Some families became separated in the chaos – one Estonian mother, Ilse Meere, managed to get herself and her three small sons on a ship in Tallinn, even hauling their baby stroller aboard amid the crush, while her husband was initially left behind; they miraculously reunited months later in a displaced-persons camp in Germany. Others never saw their loved ones again. “Hardly any family was left untouched by this mass exodus,” wrote Kristi Vuht-Allpere, who was an infant among the refugees. “The fate of our people changed forever”.

One vivid recollection comes from Ülle Ederma, who was 10 years old when her family fled Tallinn as it fell. “We went to Germany via Tallinn. It was a German warship, and women and children were placed in the bottom,” she remembered. “When the ship started moving, we all went up to the deck. It was already dark, and I climbed through the people to the front to see what was happening. Tallinn’s silhouette was under a red glow, looking strange. As it grew smaller and smaller, the song ‘Mu isamaa, mu õnn ja rõõm’ (‘My Fatherland, My Happiness and Joy’, Estonia’s anthem) began to be sung on the ship, through tears. That night, Tallinn fell, and we sailed into the dark sea, toward an uncertain future.” Her words capture the mixture of sorrow and hope that defined the Great Flight – leaving one’s burning homeland behind, unsure if one would ever return.

Those who survived the escape gradually rebuilt their lives in exile. Sweden granted asylum to the Baltic refugees, who became known as the “boat people” or “boat refugees”. Most spent the remainder of the war in Swedish refugee camps or housing, grateful to be free but anguished by news from home. A large number of Estonian men who had first fled to Finland to fight alongside the Finns were also evacuated to Sweden in 1944, after Finland’s separate peace forced them to leave (Finland itself could not shelter them due to Soviet demands). When the war in Europe ended in May 1945, there were nearly 30,000 Baltic refugees in Sweden and many more in Allied displaced-persons camps in Germany. Most had assumed their exile was temporary. “People were convinced they were leaving for a few months, maybe a few years at most,” according to an Estonian Foreign Ministry history. They clung to hopes of returning to a free Baltics. But as the Iron Curtain fell, it became clear that the Soviet occupation of Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania would endure. Return was impossible without risking one’s life or liberty.

Over the late 1940s, the Baltic “boat refugees” began a second migration – this time resettling to countries like the United States, Canada, the United Kingdom, and Australia, which opened their doors to Europe’s displaced people. Sweden, too, became home for thousands who stayed. The diaspora formed tight-knit communities abroad, preserving their language and culture in foreign lands. Estonian poets like Marie Under and Latvian writers like Žanis Grīva continued their work in exile. Churches, newspapers, and schools were established from Toronto to Adelaide, all dedicated to keeping Baltic identity alive until freedom could be regained. It was a bittersweet existence: safety and opportunity in the West, but “their hearts were here [in the homeland], their youth was here,” as one refugee later said. Many went on to become model citizens of their adopted countries – yet they never ceased dreaming of the day their nations would be independent again.

80 Years Later: Remembrance and Reflection

On a crisp morning in September 2024, the small harbor of Slite on Gotland was unusually crowded. Exactly 80 years after refugee boats had swarmed this port, locals and visitors gathered to commemorate the Great Flight of 1944. Dressed in somber suits and traditional Baltic costumes, they listened as officials from Sweden, Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania paid tribute to the history that bound them. “Many Latvians, Estonians and Lithuanians were forced to leave their homes and seek refuge in Sweden – in Gotland in particular,” said Daiga Mieriņa, Speaker of Latvia’s Saeima, addressing the crowd at the Slite docks. “We are eternally grateful to our Swedish allies, the people of Gotland, for the care and support our compatriots received here. This support not only enabled them to start a new life away from home, but also to maintain their identity and keep alive the hope for the restoration of statehood.” Nearby, the descendants of Baltic refugees – some of them born in Sweden, some who traveled from Canada, the US, and Australia – nodded in agreement, remembering the stories their parents and grandparents had passed down.

The Gotland commemoration, titled “80 Years Ago – 80 Years After,” spanned two days of events. At Visby’s medieval cathedral, the President of Estonia, Alar Karis, joined Speaker Mieriņa and Žygimantas Pavilionis, Deputy Speaker of Lithuania’s Seimas, for an emotional memorial service. Candles were lit for those who never made it to shore in 1944. A choir of Estonian, Latvian, and Lithuanian singers filled the ancient stone vaults with hymns and folk songs once sung in exile. “Emotional stories about the tragic pages of our nations’ history,” Speaker Mieriņa reflected after hearing refugees’ families share their tales. “Individual stories of survival – which is ultimately the story of a nation’s survival.” The audience included elderly men and women who had been children on those boats; many had tears in their eyes. Yet there was also pride and defiance in the air – pride in how far the Baltic nations have come, and defiance against those who once tried to erase them. “The Great Escape of 1944 was not about seeking a better life elsewhere – it was about survival as a people,” one speaker observed.

Across the Baltic Sea in Estonia, similar commemorations took place. On the evening of September 19, 2024, exactly 80 years since one of the largest refugee flotillas set sail, a fleet of ships floated in solemn formation across Tallinn Bay, their lights twinkling at dusk. On shore, President Karis addressed a gathering of Estonians at the water’s edge. “It was fear that drove people to flee Estonia 80 years ago,” Karis said, standing against the very skyline that Ülle Ederma had watched in flames as a child. “Now, 80 years later, we are confident, capable, and able to defend ourselves. Standing at the border of the free world, alongside our NATO and European Union allies, Estonia can feel secure and protected.” His words underscored how much had changed in eight decades. An independent Estonia was again part of the community of free nations – an outcome the refugees of 1944 had only dreamed about in their darkest hours. As if to symbolize remembrance, Estonians each year light “bonfires of freedom” along the coastline in late summer; in 2024 these flames were dedicated to the boat escape anniversary, connecting today’s generation with the signal fires families might have lit to guide refugee boats long ago.

Even in places directly touched by the 1944 exodus, memorials continue to be inaugurated. In September 2024, on Estonia’s Hiiumaa island, locals unveiled a plaque at a marina from which dozens of boats departed during the Great Flight. They then watched a modern sailboat named Lisette depart Hiiumaa, re-creating the voyage to Sweden in tribute to those who fled – a journey of 24–36 hours across open water. On Estonia’s western coast at Puise Beach, villagers gathered around an older monument – a skeletal boat sculpture known as the “Boat of Tears” – and held a moment of silence for those who “have no graves except the sea.” And back in Pärnu, the “Touch” memorial sculpture was illuminated for the first time at dusk, its intertwined hands glowing as a beacon of memory.

Legacy and Lessons

Eighty years on, the Great Baltic Escape of 1944 is no longer just a memory of the elderly – it has become a national legacy, carefully preserved by their descendants. The anniversary events in 2024–25 were not only about mourning the past, but also celebrating the resilience of those who survived and the revival of the nations that arose from exile. In her remarks in Gotland, Speaker Mieriņa drew a sharp link from history to present-day: “We must learn from history to strengthen Europe’s security,” she urged, noting that “Russia’s brutal and ruthless imperialism has returned” in the modern era. Indeed, the ceremonies held in 2024 carried an extra weight as a war rages in Ukraine – a stark reminder that the horrors the Baltics endured in 1944 are not just history. The Baltic states today are outspoken in vowing “never again” – never again will they be caught undefended, and never again will the free world turn a blind eye to aggression. This resolve is itself a tribute to the refugees of 1944, whose suffering helped forge the Baltics’ modern identity.

As President Karis noted, the people who fled did so out of fear, but also out of an unyielding hope. Most never saw their homelands again, yet they kept their cultures alive abroad and taught their children to love a free Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania. When the Soviet Union finally dissolved in 1991, the dream of those exiles was fulfilled – “the hope for the restoration of statehood” kept alive in Gotland’s refugee camps was realized. Their experience also left an indelible mark on the countries that sheltered them. Sweden’s humanitarian response in 1944 is fondly remembered in the Baltics to this day; it is part of why Sweden and the Baltic nations enjoy such close ties in the 21st century.

Today, a new generation of Baltic people moves across the Baltic Sea in very different circumstances – seeking jobs, education, or adventure rather than fleeing for their lives. The tables below illustrate this profound change: the wartime refugee flows versus the patterns of migration and community in our own time.

Then vs. Now: Baltic Refugees and Modern Migration

As the data show, history has come full circle in some ways – Sweden, which took in around 30–40 thousand Baltic refugees during WWII, is today home to a comparable number of Baltic-born immigrants (and many more second-generation Baltic Swedes). Finland, which saw relatively few wartime refugees (due to geopolitical constraints), now hosts the largest expatriate Estonian population in the world, thanks to open borders and shared economic opportunities. And Norway, which received no Baltic refugees in 1944, has in recent decades attracted tens of thousands of Baltic workers, especially from Lithuania, in a time of peace and freedom.

These contrasts highlight an extraordinary turn of events. What was once a one-way flight to safety has evolved into a two-way exchange in a unified Europe. The people of Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania are no longer stateless refugees, but citizens of free countries who can travel, work and settle abroad by choice – even as they honor the memory of those who had to leave by necessity.

In a speech at the anniversary concert in Visby, President Karis gazed out at an audience of diaspora families and Swedish well-wishers and said simply: “Thank you for giving our people refuge when we had no other home. Because of that generosity, Estonia lived on – in your barns, your schools, your churches – until we could return.” The Great Flight of 1944 remains a searing chapter in Baltic history, a tale of unimaginable loss. But eight decades later, it is also remembered as a testament to hope, endurance, and the unbreakable will of a people to be free.