Before heading off to Zhuravno to reunite with Michael and Irene. Slav, Yaraslav and I decided to take a quick trip to a new Costco-like shopper's club on the edge of Lviv near the airport. It's good to see that Ukrainians are getting more consumer options.
As we drove 2 hours southeast of Lviv for the next part of my odyssey, Slav and I had a chance to talk. He pointed out fields of tomatoes and other "exotic" vegetables that Ukrainians are just beginning to grow rather than import. Ahead of us, Yaraslav suddenly swerved into a roadside market to make some purchases for lunch. The stand is also a new entrepreneurial phenomena. Last time I saw people sitting by the side of the road holding up jars of honey, jam, berries, mushrooms and perhaps a few potatoes.
Last Five Zhuravno Photos: Goat standing on piling of original bridge; Dniester River at dusk;Jewish Old Folks Home; Site of synagogue now post office; One of two tombstones at Jewish Cemetery
Day One in Zhuravno
It was wonderful to hug Michael and Irene again! Slav caught us up during the ubiquitous, many course luncheon. He explained the nature of one of my quests: documenting anything left of Zhuravno's once vibrant Jewish culture, one that has virtually disappeared since the Holocaust.
For several months, I've been corresponding online with a man whose 98 year-old father left the town in 1928 to find a better life in America. It was a fortunate move since the rest of his family and Jewish community were obliterated by the Nazis. I was able to find some places from his youth, like the Jewish Old Age Home that served as his family's refuge after everything they owned disappeared in the flames that destroyed much of Zhuravno in WWI. Three of them, with two strangers, shared a room for several years. I found that the synagogue was replaced with an ugly, Soviet-style post office. We took a ride to see the cemetery which was a sad, forlorn place with only a few toppled, unidentifiable stones left. The rest had been re-purposed by the Soviets after the war to build the foundation of the town's only school whose wall were bricks from a vandalized Roman Catholic Church. ( A sad postscript: This elderly Jew has just died in December 2008. His son informed me that my photos stimulated good family conversations. Shortly before his death, he was observed asking some invisible visitor whether he, also, was from Zhuravno.)
Interestingly, Jews have lived in Zhuravno until recently. My relatives spoke fondly of the man who, in the 70's, helped raise money and coordinated the building of the town's hospital where Michael is a surgeon. They also mentioned the last Jew who left to live in Italy not too long ago.
Zhuravo is a shabby place- much different, I'm sure, from the old gentleman's memories. The town square has only one Austro-Hungarian building that escaped WWI's destruction. There is also a grand mansion nearby that is fronted by a park- just recently it experienced a vandal's fire. Much of the splendid interior was destroyed but the government is funding repair of this nationally historic site. There are, however, many beautiful homes here, some recently built. I don't know what attracts people to build and stay in Zhuravno, though.
I also don't know what so much destruction, Jewish and otherwise, has done to the collective psyche of the residents of this old town that dates back to the 1500's. I watched my truly lovely relative, Irene, pass daily by the resting place of her mother. Each time, she pauses, crosses herself and says a silent prayer. When we stood in the desolate, desecrated Jewish cemetery, I heard Irene quietly murmur to herself, "Just think, we're walking on people's graves."
Later in my trip, someone pointed out a large, abandoned home in the distance. My sweet teen-age translator, Natalya, expressed surprise and confusion at the dwelling's history. She exclaimed, "A Jew built this big place and then just left and never came back!" I really wonder if she knows why the Jew left and, more importantly, why he never came back.
My relatives went out of their way to find places of Jewish significance. I remember a memorial in the Jewish cemetery in Sambir, the only intact graveyard I saw. I asked Michael what he remembered of the German occupation when he was a boy. He told me about witnessing a Nazi, for no reason at all, put a gun behind a Jewish child's ear and pull the trigger. So it is not surprising that I have experienced many emotions each time I've visited, emotions that I am still processing.
Day Two in Zhuravno
Today was basically a continuation of last night's festive family reunion which, of course, involved a table groaning with food. Yaraslav did himself proud with his grilled pork. Meat is a real treat for Ukrainians, mostly they eat minced meat cutlets or diced meat used like a flavoring. Leysia, her new baby, mother, father and grandmother as well as Michael and Irene's son, wife and children toasted me and asked many questions about life in America.
More serious eating took place at lunch today at Bohdanna's nearby home. As well as being a terrific cook, she is the only child of Marco's oldest son, Vasil. His widow, Catherine, is still alive. She likes to say that during the day she lives in Zhuravno but every night she goes home to Hubici. I like her so much. She looks like a plump Buddha, complete with Asian eyes. And, surprisingly, she was born in Wilmington, Delaware! That evening, dinner was plotskies (potato pancakes) at Irene's kitchen table. Beautiful Natalya has been recruited to be my translator. At 17, she'd much rather be home in Lviv with her friends. Amazingly, Natalya is a second year banking student which explains her excellent English. Ukrainians seem better educated and more serious about learning than do American young people.
Day Three in Zhuravno
This morning Irene took me to church to celebrate a holiday called Spaz (I think). The church was packed and many people brought fruit to be blessed. Everywhere I went the next week, I was encouraged to eat a piece of holy fruit. I find Greek Catholic services to be very beautiful as they are completely sung by the priest and congregation. I was very touched to see the old women receiving communion with their arms crossed over their chests and mouths up and open. It suddenly brought back the image of my mother taking the last rites on her death bed.
Speaking of death, I had my own brush with it today! Yura, Michael's terrific 13 year old grandson, has been begging me to take a ride on his grandfather's brand new motor scooter-a purchase in keeping with this septuagenarian's embrace of life. (His next extravagance is rumored to be a computer with Internet connection!) We were going back to Bohdanna's for some more recreational eating so I thought, "What the heck!" and climbed on board. First mistake. Revving up the engine, the kid pulled away with a screech, turning back to me with a maniacal grin and an authoritative, "Now let's take this baby for a real ride!" Holding on for dear life, hair streaming behind me and my heart in my mouth, I silently prayed, "Oh, please don't let me die in Ukraine!" while Yura zigzagged at break-neck speed around deep potholes and mudslicks left over from the flooding. Whew! When we finally arrived a Bohdanna's house, I found that the rush of adrenalin had pumped up my appetite so I happily joined a new bunch of relatives for another feast, this time out in the yard.
Transition Day
Yaraslav's back in town to take me to Lacko for a little sojourn with his mother, Catherine, and a reunion with a place and people that I grew to love in 2006. I didn't realize that Michael and Irene are coming too, so with the addition of reluctant translator Natalya, we crammed into the Lada (a Soviet-manufactured, minimalist car) and started on a new journey.
I've come to understand that Ukrainians don't believe that the most direct path between two points is a straight line! First we stopped at a charming children's playground for some pictures, then we made a detour to pay a quick visit to Irene's sister; next my chauffeur remembered my desire to visit my step-grandfather Brochett's village, Kawsko, Stryj District. We arrived at a little village about 30 miles west of Zhuravno only to have the Lada die the first of several alarming deaths. No problem. Yaraslav just kept jumping out and pushing the auto until it sputtered back to life. Fortunately, it's pretty light, not being burdened with air conditioning, padded seats and other such frivolities. We eventually found Grandpop Brochett's old home, complete with the ancient widow of his youngest brother. It was interesting for me to discover that my uncles( Nick, Andrew and Peter) were named for all of the siblings he left behind in the early 1900's.
The rest of the trip went by uneventfully, if uncomfortably, since open windows are not a Ukrainian custom. Thankfully my kind and generous relatives insisted that I take the front seat. I furtively peeked back to see Natalya, tightly squeezed between Michael and Irene, looking profoundly unhappy.
Lacko at last! Catherine wept when we hugged, saying over and over again that she refused to die until we met. She's a tiny, tiny woman with bright and lively eyes. I loved her at first sight. Yaraslav, master of everything, has rebuilt his childhood home practically from the ground up and it's wonderful! It was once a rustic, one-room wooden affair with an outhouse and well. Now everything is gleaming new and soon there will be 2 more bedrooms upstairs, complete with balcony and second bath.
Speaking of a bath, Natalya is starting to look happier with the prospect of a shower-something we had to forsake in Zhuravno thanks to the water shortage. Our lavish lunch was cooked by Halya, the pretty, young wife of one of my cousins and companion to Catherine when Yaraslav is on the road. Stuffed to the gills, we all decided to take a little siesta. Again, my generous relatives showed great thoughtfulness to insist that I take the only bedroom. Catherine, like many old people, likes to sleep in the kitchen. The rest of our group stretched out dormitory-style in the small living room where the many chairs and couches morphed into beds.
Refreshed, I asked Yaraslav to find me the Internet. He took me to his office after showing off his several businesses in Dobromil. I'm proud of the change he's making in this ancient town that still has horse and wagons plodding down the main street. His buildings are new, fit in perfectly with the original shops and, hopefully, will encourage others to paint, repair and landscape their own enterprises. I expect in two years to find a substantial difference in the place where my grandparents obtained their passports and that hasn't changed much since.
We finished the evening, about 10 p.m., at Cousin Dimitro's flat in nearby Khyriv. He spent several years being the estate manager for a very wealthy man in Italy, coming home to his family only for brief vacations. This sacrifice, very common in Ukraine, resulted in the capital to finance Dimitro's iron fence building business. He's doing very well besides becoming quite buff in the process! His wife, both a doctor and politician, effortlessly put together a delicious late supper in her robe and slippers. These Ukrainian women are amazing.
On the way home I silently prayed, "Oh, please, no more food..." and was relieved when we came in and went right to bed.
No comments:
Post a Comment