This archive makes claims about real people: that a particular document belonged to a particular person, that a name typed in Kaunas in 1940 is the same name a family carries today. Those claims can be wrong, and a wrong one attaches a stranger's papers to somebody's grandfather. This page sets out the rules the archive works by, so that anyone can judge a record here — or argue with it.
Everything starts from Sugihara's own ledger: 2,140 lines, one for every visa issued, each line with a name, a nationality, a visa type, a date and a fee. That is all. There are no birth years and no birthplaces. Today 86 of those lines have a birth year attached, and only because a surviving document supplied it.
Why 2,140, when the ledger's numbers only run to 2,139? Because the numbering and the visas are not the same thing. George Bluman and Akira Kitade established the true count in their study of the list, and this archive has now verified the mechanics line by line against the Foreign Ministry scan: the clerk skipped number 1395 (the jump falls in the middle of the Frliczka family), and squeezed in two supplementary entries — 1160a, Berkowicz Chaim, and 1915a, Wojlang Sara — marked with an “a” in the ledger itself. 2,138 numbered lines plus two supplementary ones: 2,140 issued visas. The searchable register below holds all 2,140, including the two “a” lines, credited to that research. (The Bluman–Kitade file records the same 2,140 people; an earlier edition carried Kuszynski Bazyli, our No. 1669, as a second No. 99 — a clerical slip, as Prof. Bluman confirmed in August 2026; the scan shows him at 1669.) And beyond the ledger altogether, perhaps a thousand more visas — the hotel-issued, the final-days, the never-entered — were written and never recorded at all.
The clerk was also inconsistent about name order: most lines run surname first (“Trunk Chil”), but many run given-name first (“Ludwig Berliner”), and some — “Licht Abram” — could be read either way. The register preserves each line exactly as typed; the Bluman–Kitade reading, which resolves surname and given name for every entry, rides alongside as a searchable alias, so a search in either order finds the person.
The typescript itself is damaged in a specific way: on 934 lines the leading letter of a name is missing, so Swislocki reads as wislocki and Rozenbaum as ozenbaum. 1,149 lines carry a repaired reading. A repair is a judgement, and it is recorded as one — the original text is never overwritten, and every repair is listed in the corrections log.
In roughly this order of weight:
A name in 1940 Kaunas could be written in Polish, Lithuanian, German, Yiddish or Russian, by a clerk hearing it for the first time, and then changed again after the war. So the archive compares names allowing for the ordinary drift between them: sz / s / sch, cz / c, rz / z, w / v, dropped leading letters, given names in either order, and post-war anglicisation — Herszberg becoming Hershberg, Klejn becoming Klein.
A name that agrees is where a match starts, not where it ends. The question that decides it is whether anything else agrees: the visa number, the date of issue, the nationality, the family travelling on the same sheet, a birthplace, a photograph.
The large archives hold millions of records. Searching one of them for a common name returns a crowd: a single line of our register, searched against a European archive, returned ten men of that exact name born between 1866 and 1931. Any of them might be the right one. Nothing on our side can say which — and a coin-flip published as a fact is worse than an open question.
Where a name is genuinely rare, a match carries real weight. Where it is common, the archive records the record as a lead and says so on the page, rather than quietly turning a possibility into an identification.
Almost everyone on this list crossed the Pacific. They left Lithuania by rail through Siberia, sailed from Japan, and landed at Seattle, San Francisco or Vancouver — and the officials who met them wrote down what the consular clerk in Kaunas had not: a year of birth, a birthplace, a ship, a date.
That gives the archive something it badly needed. The register records an age and no birth date, so a name alone can never settle an identification. An arrival record made years later and an age written in Kaunas in 1940 are two independent hands; when they agree, they agree about a person. 109 lines of the register have been matched this way, across sailings of the Heian Maru, Hikawa Maru, Hie Maru, Asama Maru and the President Cleveland.
One family shows what the agreement is worth. The register gives entry No. 1410 a wife and three children with their ages and nothing else. All six of them appear on a single sailing into San Francisco in 1946, and every age the clerk wrote in August 1940 matches a birth year an American official recorded six years later. Travelling with them is a sixth child, born in 1946 — absent from the ledger not because it missed him but because he did not yet exist when it was written.
The same records show the reverse, too. Documents survive for people who took this route, on these ships, in these months, and who appear nowhere in the consular list under any spelling. The ledger is not the whole of who escaped this way.
The consular clerk recorded whoever held the visa. A wife or a child travelling on it was often written as an aside — “wife Bertha (29)” — with a name, an age, and no line of their own. They cannot be counted, cannot be searched for, and cannot be found by a descendant looking up a family name.
The archive now records them: 369 people so far, of whom 196 are children. Their median age is 10; 44 were under five.
They are recorded exactly as the ledger has them and no further. “Bertha, wife, aged 29” — no surname, because the note gives none, and guessing one from the entry produces errors: the register writes name order both ways round, and families share a surname across neighbouring lines. Where the note gives an age and no name at all, nobody is recorded. She travelled, and we cannot name her; saying so is honest, and inventing a name for her is not.
Almost everyone written into Sugihara’s register was born between about 1895 and 1925. If they were living they would be over a hundred, so the bare fact that someone has died is not a revelation and this archive does not treat it as one. What carries weight — and what a family will feel — is the manner and place: murdered at Ponary, deported from the Kovno ghetto, died in a camp on Flores.
So a death is stated here when a named source establishes it for this person: the family, a document, or a researcher who says how they know. The source and the date are published beside it, so that anyone who thinks it wrong can say so and can see what would have to be argued with. Manner and place meet the same standard as any other claim on this site, and are never inferred from a name matched in a database.
If a fate here is wrong, tell us. It will be corrected or removed, and no family is asked to justify the request.
Identifications here have been withdrawn after they were published, and will be again. When that happens the record says so rather than quietly reverting: a proposed match set aside is left visible as a question, unlinked from the register line it was claiming. Every change the archive has made — 3,425 recorded so far — is kept and published in the corrections log, with the reasoning.
The standard the archive tries to hold is simple: it is better to leave a document unattached than to attach it to the wrong person. An empty line can be filled later. A wrong name, once a family has read it, travels.
Think a record here is wrong — or know it is? Tell us. Corrections from families and researchers are the main way this archive improves, and they are credited in the log.
This archive is unfinished by design. Some documents we hold but cannot yet name; some names we have found but not their visa. If you recognise a face, a hand, a family — tell us.
Not everything unresolved here is a missing name. Some of it is history the published accounts tell differently, and the archive would rather show the disagreement than pick a winner quietly.
The endorsement worked because it said Curaçao required no entry visa and said nothing about the colonial governor, whose permission was the real barrier and was almost never given. Ambassador de Decker is the man who cut that half of the standard text — but whose idea it was that he should is not settled. It has been credited to Pessla Lewin, in whose correspondence with de Decker the Curaçao notion appears to have arisen, and to Nathan Gutwirth, whose own account is that he asked de Decker in July 1940 to leave the governor out. Published accounts say plainly that it is not clear which of the two suggested the omission, and the archive holds no document that settles it.
What turned a handful of Dutch endorsements into thousands is better attested, though still not documentary: Gutwirth himself putting the question to Zwartendijk — would he issue to non-Dutch refugees? — and Zwartendijk answering that he would write it for anyone who came; the one person Gutwirth had told of the way out was Warhaftig, who spread the word. If you hold a letter, a memoir passage or an interview that bears on the first question, we would like to see it. The full account is on the Curaçao page.
Sources: Libi Astaire, “The Angel of Curacao”, Mishpacha 901, 2 March 2022, for the meeting between Gutwirth and Warhaftig and for the state of the attribution; and, for Gutwirth’s question to Zwartendijk, an account given to this archive in August 2026. The archive holds no document for that exchange and would welcome one.
Sugihara’s Kaunas visa is the channel that is remembered, but it was not the only one. In his 1999 oral history, Zorach Warhaftig describes a parallel arrangement after the Kaunas consulate closed: the Japanese consulate in Moscow would accept a cable from a shipping line — the NYK, Nippon Yūsen Kaisha — confirming a booked passage, and honour it in place of a transit visa, for a fee he recalls as about ten dollars a ticket. By his account this carried well over a thousand more refugees east. How many travelled on such a cable rather than on a Kaunas visa, and how the two channels overlap in this register, is not something the archive can yet count. But the mechanism itself is now documented here: the dossier of Rabbi Menachem Mendel Krawiec holds two Wagons-Lits/Cook agency letters from Kaunas — 9 October 1940, relaying the New York cable “advise when able sail”, and 29 January 1941, “landing money waiting… shipticket at Cook Kobe, ten dollars transferred Amerconsul Moscow” — the booked passage, the funds and the Moscow consulate in one paper trail. His record →
Source: oral history interview with Zorach Warhaftig, USHMM “Flight and Rescue” collection (RG-50.494.0019), 1999 — the figures and the fee are as he recalls them in testimony, not from a document.
Some travellers demonstrably crossed on Sugihara-style visas and appear on no register. The archive now knows several distinct reasons, each documented to a different standard. Visas written at the Metropol Hotel after the consulate closed are on a separate list of fewer than twenty names, not the main register (per George Bluman; the Vancouver Zalkow and Kaplan families are on it). Saburo Nei, Japan's acting consul at Vladivostok, issued transit visas of his own. And some visas were bought: Chaim Goldberg, who crossed in March 1941, names in his memoir the man who forged and sold visas to him and his companion; published research (cf. Hillel Levine) identifies at least one refugee who both held a Sugihara visa and forged others; and the Polish intelligence officers who worked alongside Sugihara are reported to have had duplicate stamps cut. A single document now shows the scale: of the seventy-four refugees refused at Tsuruga in March 1941 and readmitted on the Netherlands Legation's certificate, thirty-five held no Sugihara visa at all (Mark Halpern's count against the register). The archive records all of this as context for reconciliation — and passes no verdict on any particular family's document. The certificate and the seventy-four names →
Sources: the Netherlands Legation certificate, Tokyo, 18 March 1941 (Minister J. C. Pabst), provided with analysis by Mark Halpern, August 2026; George Bluman on the Metropol Hotel list; Chaim Goldberg's memoir as relayed by Halpern.
The certificate's names, cross-referenced line by line against Sugihara's register — the comparison is the work of Mark Halpern, researcher. As the list below now stands, forty lines match a register row and thirty-four do not. A link means the name corresponds to a register line, spelling drift and all; “not on the register” means exactly that and nothing more — many of the thirty-four crossed on visas from Saburo Nei at Vladivostok, on purchased papers, or on documents this archive has not seen.
There is an account of how the rescue of these seventy-four was arranged, given to the archive by the family of Nathan Gutwirth. By that telling, Gutwirth — himself already in Japan — heard that a shipload had been refused at Tsuruga for want of Curaçao declarations or any other proof of an onward destination, and was being sent back toward Vladivostok and the risk of Siberia. He and his friend Lev Sternheim took his own Curaçao declaration to the Dutch consul Niek de Voogd, who gave them a hundred blank sheets of consulate letterhead; declarations were typed onto them at the Jewish community's offices. The ship's captain had promised not to unload at Vladivostok if a radio message reached him before Soviet waters. It did; the ship turned back, and the refugees landed at Tsuruga. The archive records this as the family's account and not as a reading of its document: what it holds is the Legation's certification of the seventy-four by name, and whether that is the paper described here or a further step after it is not settled.
Four of the forty rest on reading through damage: the register's own text loses the first letter of a surname often enough that its rows are marked for it, so the line the link lands on may look like a different name. Each of the four says what the register page actually reads.
One of the absences the archive can already account for. The three Korentajer lines — Szymon, Emma and Felicja — are not on Sugihara's register because Szymon's visa was not Sugihara's. It was No. 21 issued at Vladivostok by Saburo Nei, Japan's acting consul there, a correction established for this archive by Akira Kitade and recorded on the corrections page. It is a worked example of what the thirty-four generally are: people who crossed on a Japanese transit visa that was not written in Kaunas.
Netherlands Legation certificate, Tokyo, 18 March 1941 — document and register comparison provided by Mark Halpern, researcher, August 2026; the Korentajer identification per Akira Kitade (email; Emerging Heroes, p. 85); the Gutwirth account from the Nathan Gutwirth family archive and his own memoir, relayed with his grandson's assistance by Arlette Liwer-Stuip, August 2026. The certificate itself →
Visas, passports, and permits from Sugihara's mission whose bearer we have not identified. Click to enlarge — if you know who this is, please reach out.







































People documented with a Sugihara visa who carry no number on the register. That may be because the ledger never recorded them — family members have estimated that about a thousand more visas were written than were entered — or because a spelling has defeated us so far. Open a record to see what we know, and tell us if you can place one.