We arrived in L'viv around midnight. Crossing the border between Poland and the Ukraine took quite awhile. We wondered what they were checking for and wondered if illegal immigration was a problem. We later found out that folks are smuggling tobacco, alchohol and other goods from Ukraine to Poland.
When we got off the bus, we were on a dark street and feeling a bit uncomfortable. All signs are written in Ukrainian, which uses the Russian alphabet so we were completely unable to read any of them. We got a taxi and gave him the address of the hostel we needed to head to. I got a bad feeling from the cab driver and lo and behold, when we got out of the cab he asked for twenty dollars US, which is way too much. After a bit of finagling, we gave him close to fifteen US--still over twice as much as it should have. So much for a warm welcome. We've since learned our lesson to ask for a price ahead of time. We were hungry and asked our hostel receptionist for a place to eat that was local and not too expensive. She sent us to a place with no sign and you needed a passcode to enter--"Slav Ukraini." This is loosely translated as "honor to the Ukraine."
When we arrived at the restaurant, we knocked on a large wooden door and a small peephole opened. A man asked for the password. We replied "Slav Ukraini." He opened the door to reveal an AK-47 around his neck and poured three shots of honey vodka. We took the shots together and then he pointed us down the stairs into the basement of the stone building. It was surreal. Despite the intense "localness" of this restaurant, they had a menu in English and our friendly waitress also spoke English. We dined on a delicious meal of beef with goat cheese and potatoes, meat pierogi, and a chicken potpie type thing, all of which were truly delicious.
We went to bed and awoke to see the city of L'vov illuminated for our first time. As an Englishman whom we met in a grocery store once said, "L'vov is the most beautiful city you've never heard of." It also has a rich cultural history and significant relevance to my family.
My Dziadzu grew up in Mielic but, before his senior year of high school, his parents and older brother Edek moved to L'vov- his brother to start medical school and his father to find new employment after he lost his government post because he was Jewish, and to be closer to family. My Dziadzu lived with a friend and finished his senior year of high school. After finishing the year in 1937, my Dziadzu
was ready for University studies...the situation for Jews in Poland was quite miserable...to be accepted for medical studies in Poland in 1937...was near to impossible for Jews. There were five medical facilities in all of Poland, of these only four were accepting Jewish students...In an almost miraculous way...(they)obtained admission for Edek and then (my Dziadzu) to the medical school in L'vov...This, however, was a mixed blessing. On the one hand, (they) were the subjects of envy...because (they) had the "brilliant" perspective of finishing Polish medical school and practicing medicine in Poland. On the other hand, however, medical studies in Poland for Jewish students were a nightmare...(other students) requested that Jewish students sit seperately in a "bench ghetto" ...(they) refused to sit on seperate benchs and either did not attend lectures or stood during the lectures in the back of the auditorium. This provoked...acts of violence...As the result of such treatment, Edek got his head bruised and forearm broken. The most dangerous were exercises in anatomy because (aggressors) had dissecting scalpels that could be conveniently used against their Jewish classmates...(That year) a Jewish student of pharmacy was stabbed to death on (their) campus. Another student was killed...at the school of engineering...(My Dziadzu) remembers one classmate of (his), a handsome blonde boy who enjoyed frightening (them). (He) would stand with his scalpel in his right hand making gestures as if he were sharpening it on his left arm and would declare, "today we will slaughter some Yides." Being exposed to sharp weapons, (the Jewish students) decided to protect (themselves)...by wearing iron armor that covered all the chest and most of the abdomen...(They) had to conceal it under sweaters or jackets. (They) felt safer...but sitting in the warm auditorium was torture in itself. Another special chapter dealt with the supply of cadeavors. Even though there was not a shortage of cadeavors at (their) school, rules established that Jewish students could not dissect (non-Jewish) cadavors. This was pretty clever persecution, since the Jewish religion strongly forbids mutilating corpses...In order to obtain cadavors...(the Jewish medical students themselves) delivered the cadeavors (of deceased homeless Jews) to the department of anatomy.
Times were tough for Jews in L'vov; however, even with WWII ominously and silently looming, many of my relatives and many other Jews residing in L'vov didn't grasp the gravity of what was about to transpire. From my Dziadzu's memoirs:
The international situation was very tense...(but) we were looking to this war with great expectations. Now Poland was in alliance with Western democracies and the Polish government stopped its disgusting flirtation with the fascist regimes of Germany and Italy. We looked forward to the disappearance of the manifestations of anti-semitism. As for the outcome of the war, we had very little doubt that powerful England and France would prevail, and, having such allies, Poland could not lose. This was not only the opinion of my generation, the same opinions were voiced by the generation of our parents. Strange as it may be, in August they were still investing money in real estate. My aunt Adela...(bought) a house. My Uncle Nathan...bought a house....This was our happy moment at the beginning of the war.
As history has shown, things did not go well for Poland. The Russians marched in from the East and the Germans marched in from the West. It was the first occupied country in all of WWII. First the Germans pushed the Russians out, taking the whole of Poland with the intention of turning the entire country into a slave population. At the end of the war, the Russians pushed the Germans back and occupied Poland until the fall of the Soviet Union nearly 20 years later.
Even in the pre-war days and the beginning of the occupation, L'vov was a place of much hardship for my family. But, it still afforded my Dziadzu an opportunity that would prove invaluable for the rest of his life as well as mine.
In August 1940, (my Dziadzu) met Halina, (his) future wife on the principle promenade in L'viv. She came to L'viv to enroll in the school of medicine (where he was already in his third year of studies)...(They) started dating in September and in early January (they) became engaged. At that time, the sum of (their) ages was less than 40...When the Soviet-German war broke out, (they) wanted to get married as soon as possible...Because the conservative rabbi was killed, (they) were married by an orthodox rabbi. On October 15, (they) took the street car "permitted for Jews" to the rabbi's house and were married...certainly, this was not the wedding either of (them) dreamed of.
In addition to the haste wedding, the outbreak of the war and terrible failure of allied resistance to the Germans in Poland impacted all facets of my Dziadzu and Babcia's lives. Once budding young med students, they were now forced to cease their studies and move in with my Babcia's family in Drogobych, which we will visit later. After hiding for a bit in Drogobych, they fled for the big city of Warsaw, which we visited first, where they hoped to remain anonymous.
While in Drogobych and Warsaw, most of my Dziadzu's family remained in L'vov, including my great grandfather and father's namesake, Henryk Milgrom. L'vov grew to be an even more awful place for Jews. This is well documented and had particular peril for my relatives. While in Warsaw, my Dziadzu
obtained very sad news from L'viv. My (Dziadzu's) father died on November 27. He was rounded up with (his) mother in the L'vov ghetto and they were to be included in transport to an extermination camp. My (Dziadzu's) father had protecting documents, being employed as a doctor in the city health services, and the Ukrainian militia men told him repeatedly "you go home but your wife will remain." My (Dziadzu's) father refused. Apparently the militia men were impressed with his determination and his impeccable Ukrainian and they let them both go. A few days later, however, the Gestapo shot and wounded my (Dzidzu's) father on a street of the ghetto. He came home and died of a heart attack a few hours later with (my Dziadzu's) mother at his side...He was buried in a Jewish cemetery in L'vov.
Knowing of my relatives's significant history in L'vov, Amanda and I set out like sleuths of the past. We aimed to unearth the locations of the principle promenade where my Dziadzu and Babcia met, the medical school where they endured and studied for a few years before the war, the house of the rabbi where they were hastily married, and the gravesite where my great grandfather Henryk Milgrom is buried.
A contact at the hostel first pointed us to a Jewish restaurant where he thought we might be able to get some direction. We discussed our mission with our waitress. She pointed us to the State Archive. We decided we would head there the next day and ordered our food. Two hours later, our food still hadn't arrived...We ended up leaving and getting sushi, of all things. Just as in the States, sushi in the Ukraine is quite hip and quite expensive.
After our delicious dinner, Amanda and I decided we needed to be more frugal the following day. I purchased way too much saur kraut the previous time I made bigos. I offered to prepare more at the hostel that night to eat in the following days. One prepares bigos by simmering meats, various root vegetables and cabbage in saur kraut. I love it because it is meaty, the saur kraut is salty, and it causes one to have perfectly pungent toots. I'm pretty sure Amanda hates it for these same three reasons.
We had all the necessary ingredients except more meat, so we decided to purchase some. We ducked into a corner store which had a very small and limited selection. This region being the land of delicious sausages and meats, I was not at all satisfied. I tried to ask the ladies at the counter where we could find a store with a larger meat selection, but they spoke no English. I pointed towards the deli meats in the glass case and expanded my hands as if to say "bigger," and pointed out the door. One of the woman produced a massive slab of bologna, to which I hastily replied "nyet." She put the meat away. I attempted again to establish my intentions. I pointed to the meat, then around at the store, and expanded my hands. This time, the other woman produced a block of cheese that to transport would require a small truck, or at least a wheelbarrow. After a couple more similar interactions with various other oversized deli products, a kind citizen entered the store who also spoke English. He relayed my intentions to the ladies at which point we all had a deep belly laugh for at least 30 seconds. It was a bit awkward because it was funny, but not that funny. They pointed us in the direction of the next store and we were well on our way to creating bigos for the next day.
The day after our sushi and meat endeavors, Amanda and I set out to find the State Archive recommended to us by our otherwise useless waitress from the Jewsish restraunt and the medical school where my Dziadzu endured his first four years of education and my Babcia endured her first year of education. On the way to the archive, we passed through the main square, or principle promenade as my Dziadzu dubbed it. My Dziadzu and Babcia met there for the first time on a blind date nearly 75 years ago. I must admit this would be an ideal place to fall in love. The square is surrounded by historic buildings and on the northern side is a pictureque old opera house and fountain. There is a large statue of a man in the middle of the square. Amanda and I stopped to dine on some bigos underneath this statue (I fear Amanda is nearing her bigos limit). After a brief stop in the state archive where no one spoke English, we eventually learned a new word in Ukraine. Zaftra--tomorrow. The archive was closed today and we needed to return tomorrow. We continued on towards the medical school.
When we arrived, we found it to be much as my Dziadzu described. The buildings were very old and broken up by department, which were written in Latin on the top--histologia, anatomia, physiologia, etc. Being Sunday, the campus was nearly deserted save for two elderly women collecting nuts falling from the trees. All the doors were locked so we sat in the courtyard and imagined how the laboratories appeared when my Dziadzu and Babcia endured those first few years of school before the War, during the Russian occupation.
We returned to the square where my Dziadzu and Babcia met 75 years prior and had a cup of coffee and wrote in our journals. I looked around the picture perfect square and noticed people on top of the clock tower overlooking the city. At this point, my natural desire to view the surroundings from high vantage points kicked in. We needed to be there. We headed to the clocktower, entered, and began ascending. A little old lady caught up with us on the stairs and started screaming in Ukrainian. Apparently we "accidentally" neglected to pay. It cost about forty cents each. Oops. The view from the top was incredible. Once Polish, now Ukrainian, L'vov is perhaps the most gorgeous city I've laid eyes upon. It's unfortunate that so much beauty could be overtaken by so much ugly. With the sun setting, we decided to return to our hostel home.
Back at the hostel, we prepared for the next day's visit to the archive. We asked our receptionist, Bogdan, to translate this into Ukrainian:
1) My great-grandfather, Henryk Milgrom, died in L'vov on November 27, 1942 and was buried in the Jewish Cemetery. We are looking for his grave.
2) My Dziadzu and Babcia were married here in the house of the Orthodox rabbi on October 15, 1941. We are looking for the house of the Orthodox rabbi where they were married. Any information that you could provide for either of these would be very much appreciated.
We awoke and after a bread and jam breakfast, headed toward the state archive. Feeling smart, I handed the receptionist our translated paper. She read it and responded in Ukrainian. Now feeling dumb, we realized that they would understand what we were looking for, but we couldn't understand their response. There was a young man waiting for the receptionist behind us. I inquired if he spoke English. He said "a little," which actually turned out to be a lot.
The receptionist relayed through our voluntary translator, Ivan, that we were at the state archive, and needed to go to the national archive down the street. Altruistically, Ivan abandoned his plans for the day and walked us to the national archive. I presented the translated paper to the representative at the national archive. As he spoke to Ivan, I stared intently at him, watching each word form on his lips and come out of his mouth. Although I could understand none of what he said, hanging on his every incoherent word, I realized how profoundly I weighed the importance of finding my Dziadzu and Babcia's wedding site and my great grandfather's grave. When the representative was done speaking, Ivan informed us that the grave of my great grandfather would be impossible to find. Following Hitler's Final Solution, when, in 1942, he realized he might not win the war and decided to obliterate all Jews and their culture, the Nazis destroyed the Jewish cemetery in L'viv. Additionally, he said that without the surname of the rabbi who married my Dziadzu and Babcia, he would be unable to produce any information. He pointed us across town to the Jewish Cultural Center three miles away to try to obtain more information.
Ivan walked us the entire way. Studying for his TOEFL to pursue graduate studies in microbiology at Clemson, Ivan practiced his English and we had a very interesting conversation. Interestingly, along with many other folks we ran into, Ivan was fascinated with Native Americans. I guess there is nothing like this in Europe.
We arrived at the JCC and Ivan passed us off to our next altruistic translator, Lena. Lena led us to an office in the JCC, which was labeled "museum" but was only one room. The office/museum was full of old photos including a history of rabbis in L'viv. I thought this surely would yield the name we needed. We certainly found the rabbi whom my Dziadzu mentioned in his memoirs as the one they desired to wed them but who was martyred in a local prison. We also believed we found the rabbi who married my Dziadzu and Babcia. Lena agreed to meet us the next morning and accompany us to the archives with this information. She also showed us where to find the Jewish Cemetary destroyed by the Nazis where my great grandfather Henryk Milgrom was buried. Before heading to that cemetary, I shot a quick email to my family to confirm the name of the rabbi with my Babcia. We felt like we were well on our way to answers.
After a brief tram ride and walk, we arrived at the cemetary to find a ghastly scene. The cemetary was still functioning and in use but was poorly maintained. This description is generous. Rows of new graves were either above ground in cement or incredibly shallow. I suspected that the new graves were built directly on top of the old destroyed graves, a suspicion later confirmed nonverbally by a cemetary worker. Additionally, there were piles of raked leaves and garbage smoldering in choked out flames at the corner of each plot of gravestones. This gave the cemetary a spectre-like haze and a putrid smell. It was uncomfortable and saddening and in some way fitting. We walked through the graveyard for the better part of two hours and found no trace of remnants of the previous Jewish cemetary- only new gravestones, Christian, jewish and otherwise, with ornately etched, lifelike pictures of their inhabitants beneath. In such a poorly maintained graveyard, it was bizarre to see such lavish gravestones.
As we were leaving and just about ready to give up, I stopped and asked one of the men cleaning up and burning the trash and leaves if he knew of any memorials or monuments to the old Jewish cemetery. At first, he understood only the words monument and memorial, which he repeated with a curious look on his face. I added, "Hebreski," the new Ukrainian word for Jew, after Yide, or Zhid, was deemed anti-semetic. The gentleman somberly looked me in the face, with a serious and saddened look, and said, "old wall, holocauste?" I nodded yes. He signaled for us to follow him and led us around the exact part of the cemetery we had just explored; only, he was able to point out small things we didn't notice. He showed us the two crumbled and cracked headstones at the base of a tree that were only partially destroyed by the Nazi bulldozers. He showed us the old wall of the cemetery, which was fragmented and barely intact. He showed us two headstoneless tombs in the miles of graveyard that had somehow survived the pillaging. The entire hour and a half he led around, no more than three words were uttered--"old wall" and "grave." But somehow, we knew this man understood the importance of this to us. His air of sadness and introspection appropriately complimented the silence. I could tell he was in many ways ashamed of the state of the cemetery. As we departed, he pointed us to a small monument comemorating the destruction of the cemetery in 1942 and silently waved goodbye, disappearing into the spectre-like haze amidst the rows of graves. Amanda and I each placed a stone at the base of the monument in rememberance of my great-grandfather as well as all of those who lost the path of their heritage. It is ghastly and tragic how successful the Nazis were in eliminating Jews' ability to trace their heritage. This truth would be further enforced the next day.
The following morning, we awoke and reconvened with Lena, the nice lady from the JCC, at the national archive. I received an email from my family confirming the name of the martyred rabbi, but providing a different name for the rabbi who married my Dziadzu and Babcia. It was irrelevant. We presented the new information to the man at the archive whom we had met the previous day. In Ukrainian, he told Lena, "I looked for any information on rabbis from this area during that time after they left yesterday. All of those records were destroyed by the Nazis in 1942. Perhaps they were married at the Ydinrat." Lena explained that the Ydinrat was the center of the Jewish ghetto that served as their government and that many Jews were hurriedly married there during the occupation.
She led us a few blocks away to the heart of the old ghetto in the direction of the Ydinrat. Seventy years ago, my great grandfather was shot in the streets of this ghetto and my Dziadzu and Babcia were clandestinely married in an unknown building. Today, the ghetto is apartment buildings and the Ydinrat is a multi-lingual library. The apartment tenants and library-goers enjoy the balconies of these buildings--balconies where only seventy years prior the Nazis hung Jews who tried to escape the ghetto, displaying them like trophies.
After viewing the Ydinrat, Lena led us on a tour of the surrounding area and downtown L'vov. We talked casually and she told us that as a Jew, she feels no discomfort living in the Ukraine and recently married a Christian man. She showed us the Armenian section of town and patiently answered all of our questions. Amanda and I felt lucky to be so well-taken care of under the wing of an English and Ukranian speaker, even if the answers she gave us were not always the answers we had hoped for. At the end of our impromptu tour, we asked Lena for a photograph with us, as we said our goodbyes. She stopped a gentleman in the street and asked in Ukranian if he would take our picture. Ironically, the man looked puzzled and in perfect English replied, "I'm sorry I don't understand." Apparently, she had randomly stopped one of the only Westerners in the city. We all laughed. The man took our picture, and we went our separate ways.
Amanda and I headed back to the hostel and grabbed our giant backpacks. We boarded the most crowded, archaic tram I've ever been on and rode towards the central bus station to catch a bus to Drogobych, my Babcia's birth city and the next chapter of our journey.
DROGOBYCHAfter we got off the oh so crowded tram-- imagine an NYC subway, at rush hour, only that subway is full of people not wearing deoderant who say nothing when they bump into each other, there is no A/C, and instead of a subway, it's a 1950s era soviet bus with no open windows. So, I guess it is nothing like an NYC subway. But it was crowded and uncomfortable. After that, we got out to try to find our bus to Drogobych. Remember now, that in the Ukraine, they use the Cyrillic alphabet. At our request, our buddy Bogdan wrote down Drogobych in Ukrainian so we could find our bus at the station. In Ukrainian, it looked like a rudimentary drawing of a space ship, "Д", pronounced "D", followed by a "p" pronounced "r", followed by an "o," then a "г" pronounced "h", another "o", then a thing that looks like a basic drawing of a cherry bomb, "б", that's a "b", a backwards "n" pronounced "y", and then a backwards "y" pronounced "ch". Дрогóбич = Drogobych (pronounced Dro-ho-bich (or bitch)). We matched the characters and found our bus.
The bus was super old, and the windows were so dirty that it looked like we were perpetually driving through a dust storm although the day was completely clear and we weren't yet moving. Amanda and I found seats easily, as the bus was not crowded when we boarded. Just a few seconds after we left, hordes of stragglers began flagging down the bus and joined on for the ride. Seats filled completely and Amanda and I placed our bags in the aisle. After a few more minutes, more stragglers chased down the bus and the aisle was totally full with our bags and standing riders. Were these people really going to stand the entire three hour trip to Дрогóбич? Yes, they were.
One of the standing stragglers was pushed right up in my face. She was clearly the diva of her small Ukrainian farming town. She wore glasses covered with rhinestones, a tightly fitting red designer shirt, and a pair of knock-off designer jeans that were about two sizes too small for her. It was not attractive. L'viv is probably about thirty years behind the States. As we left the L'viv city center, we progressed into the country and further into the past, fifty years, then seventy years, and finally one hundred years into the past. Apartments gave way to houses, houses gave way to fields, and cars gave way to horses. We saw farmers ploughing a field with a horse drawn carriage. I tried to take a picture, but the dust bowl windows afforded no view through the lens. The conditions of the road deteriorated. It was dirt and full of potholes. The bus bounced this way and that. The diva's buttocks, protruding towards my face, also did so. It looked like two dome shaped jello molds, wrapped in denim, and placed in a paint shaker. I pushed myself back into my seat to avoid the jiggling masses.
As we grew closer to Дрогóбич, we began to return to only sixty, then fifty, then thirty years in the past. We were dropped on the edge of town a bit before dusk. Having already prepared for language barriers, at our request Bogdan had translated a sheet of paper into Ukrainian that said, 1) can we camp here? 2) if not, do you know where we can camp? 3) if not, can you show us towards a cheap hotel?
I showed this paper to the first person we saw. He looked at the first two questions and shook his head no, then nodded yes to the third question. He then said something in Ukrainian that I assumed meant "do you speak" because the next word was "Ukrainski?" I shook no. He said, "Czechski?" I shook no. "Polski?" I shook no. "Ruski?" I shook no. Half expecting him to ask Greek, and then Swahili-- this man was clearly a language master--I took matters into my own hands and said, "Anglaski?" he shook no. I said "Espanol?" he shook no. We were at an impasse, and we decided to just walk to the hotel. He waved, come with me, and led us to the center of town.
On the way into the center we passed from the slummy-looking outskirts to the slightly passed its prime downtown. We passed a large old synagogue that was all smashed up. My Babcia attended this synagogue in her youth. You can see how once upon a time, not too long ago, this was a bustling little city. Today it is something of an unrestored afterthought. Paint from the walls is all but chipped off entirely, and graffiti litters otherwise picturesque old buildings.
Our multi-lingual leader led us to a cheap hotel. He didn't take the term lightly. Our room cost about $14 US per night. It had a small twin bed and a bathroom where I'm pretty sure they filmed the opening scene from the movie Trainspotting. It was a terrible bathroom that only received water for about three hours a day. When the water was on, the toilet ran, which was mildly pleasant because it sounded like having a fountain in our room, but mildly unpleasant because it rendered it useless at its primary function--namely, disposing of human waste. We decided that while in Дрогóбич we'd spend only our sleeping hours in that room. We went out in search of food and beer.
We ended up in a small pizza place called Drive. At Drive, a local witnessed our struggles with the menu, came over, and nicely offered to help. His name was Yuziy (pronounced Yuri). After he helped us order our delicious pizza, (cost $5 US) he sat down with us to shoot the breeze. I felt compelled to ask Yuziy the locations of the three places we intended to visit. 1) Ulice Miskiewicza, now Ulice Schevchanki, 2) the petroleum refinery, and 3) the Spitzel Hibrski, or Jewish hospital. But something held me back from asking him at first. I knew asking would give away the purpose of our journey and our heritage. My intuition told me he might not be welcoming. We shot the breeze for nearly an hour, discussing the time he'd spent in little Odessa, in New York City, and local and international politics. He told us about his profession as a woods salesman, and at our request, told us of various places to visit in the area--only one of which was remotely in Дрогóбич. He told us about the tragedy of the Holocaust, and he said "There are places around Дрогóбич that you canot walk because the ground is still, 70 years latr, soft with bodies." It reminded me of a passage from my Dziadzu's memiors.
The first major execution of the Jews in Drogobych occurred in the spring of 1942. The Germans took a few hundred old, non working and handicapped people. They shot them at the outskirts of Drogobych and buried them there. Among those killed st that time were my great aunt...and her husband...we still did not believe in total destruction...at that time...(but) the "Final Solution" was already made. Hitler started to feel he might lose the war and apparently did not want any Jews to outlive him. He put it in one of his speeches in the words "our enemies will stop laughing." The Final Solution began in Drogobych in the summer of 1942. The first wave involved about fifty percent of the Jewish population (in Drogobych)...we realized that we would not be able to survive the war in a "legal" way, and we started to plan for "illegal" survival."
This was when they fled for Warsaw.
Yuziy's description of the "still soft grounds" gave an erie life to the words of my Dziadzu. Yuziy described his disgust at the actions. His compassion made me feel a bit more comfortable. After speaking for an hour, I threw my inhibitions aside and decided to ask about our three goal destinations. I started with the two least telling locations, and he told us where we could find ul. Misciewicza and the petroleum refinery. I then asked "and do you know where we can find the old Jewish hosptal?"
I should never have doubted my intuition. He immediately blurted, "fucking Jews," then looked a bit embarrassed and said "sorry if either of you guys are, uh..." his voice trailed off. We made no response whatsoever. Neither Amanda nor I even flinched a muscle in our faces. He contemplated what to say, and then explained, "you see, the richest man in the Ukraine is a Jew, and he owns the rights to the bashed up synogogue in town but he never does shit with it." It was interesting to see. On one hand, he was clearly disgusted by the atrocities of the Holocaust, but on the other hand, he was clearly disgusted by his perceived wealth of Jews and their "stinginess."
After a few minutes more, we digressed into light, pleasant banter, and our conversation naturally came to a close. We thanked Yuyiy for his advice and cordially went our separate ways. Amanda and I went out on the main square for one more beer before bed. We were approached by a Russian who asked in nearly perfect English, or American as he insisted it was, "What are you doing here so far from home?" I told him "my Babcia was born and raised in this city and we came to see some places important to my family." He replied, "My name is Radamanov but Americans call me Rad because they can't pronounce my name." I responded, "well Radamanov," with perfect pronunciation, "I'm Jon and it's nice to meet you." He said, "Wow. You pronounced my name correctly. You must have family from here." We talked for a bit about the usual, but he said one thing that Amanda and I found particularly provocative. "America does whatever it wants, and because of that, other countries hate you but secretly want to be you...you know what they call the American soldiers in Iraq in Russia? Oil makers." It made me feel a bit ashamed like a spoiled child with jealous peers. Radamanov and his friends left in search of another bar and Amanda and I headed back to the terrible room to share the twin bed and rest our brains.
The next morning we awoke and headed out for breakfast. I realized, as we tried to translate signs and find a cafe, that my brain was exhausted. It made me think of children and how quickly they tire and need rest. When learning a new alphabet, reading any word is like decoding an encrypted message. It really takes its toll.
After dining, we set out in search of a map to track down our three locations. Дрогóбич is by no means a tourist town and tracking down a map proved harder than we would have thought. We knew the words for map of Дрогóбич--karta Drobobycha--but when we asked, no one seemed to know where to find one. After asking probably a dozen people, a policeman pointed us in the direction of a bookshop on the other side of the square.
Today was no ordinary day in Дрогóбич. Today was the Day of Дрогóбич, a multi-century tradition celebrating the birthday of the city. As we walked to the bookstore, we passed booths of people in traditional garb roasting pigs and cooking large vats of soup. We passed cotton candy makers and other more main stream festival booths--a beer garden, a guess your weight booth, etc.
We arrived at the bookstore and triumphantly requested "karta Drogobycha." Our accents clearly gave away our foreign origin and everyone in the store turned to see who we were. The nice attendant presented us with the map and we asked her to help us find the three places. This is when, through a show of overwhelming generosity and altruism, all hell broke loose. Immediately, there were three other customers and another colleague of the bookstore worker all trying to give us advice in Ukrainian, or calling people who spoke English and handing us cell phones. It was incredibly endearing, but for at least fifty minutes, totally useless. It reminded me of the old cliche, too many cooks in the kitchen. After spending sixty minutes on what should have taken five, we were on our way with our destinations mapped.
Our first stop was the Jewish hospital my Dziadzu and great grandfather worked at. It was a beautiful but archaic building. Inside, two doctors who spoke little English stopped to talk with us (imagine getting that kind of attention in the States. Sorry to all you U.S. docs and med students reading this but seriously...) We communicated with them by writing words and numbers on a pad of paper. We discovered that the hospital was built in the late 1800s and was certainly where my great grandfather, and briefly my Dziadzu, worked.
Feeling successful, we headed back to the downtown area where we found my Babcia's birth place and childhood home on Ulice Mizkiewicza. I felt a child-like sense of joy being there and imagined little Halina Miszel wandering the sidewalks and playing in the parks. I grinned from ear to ear and took pictures until Amanda correctly pointed out I had taken pictures from every angle at least twice.
It was now dusk and we wanted to find the petroleum factory. During the German occupation, many Jews sought refuge working in factories and, in fact, instead of receiving wages, often paid employers for safe haven during the daytime hours while working. Such was the case in Schindler's factory, made famous by Spielberg's movie Schindler's List, where no Jews received wages. My Dziadzu decided that working in the Jewish hospital was too dangerous and sought refuge working at a petroleum factory. Unfortunately, the refinery was in a shady part of town and visiting wasn't in the cards.
We ducked into a local pub on my Babcia's street to celebrate the day's successes. The pub was packed with 14 and 15-year-olds celebrating the Day of Дрогóбич. Apparently the drinking age is 14 in the Ukraine. It was a truly bizarre scene. A 14 year old girl, who spoke broken English, took an interest in me. I introduced her to Amanda and she coyly receded into the crowd of youth. She later returned with a balloon she gifted to Amanda and, like that, they made friends.
After finishing our beers, we decided to go to Restauracja Zalissya, the one place our mildly anti-semetic friend Yuziy recommended. Unfortunately, it turned out to be only remotely in Дрогóбич. We asked for directions and were told to walk one way down a street. Seemed simple enough. We started down the street watching a beautiful sunset over the small country town. We walked and walked and walked, passing many pedestrians on the way. Each time we'd ask, "Restauracja Zalissya?" They would respond with what sounded to us like "priamo" and pointed the direction we were walking. We inferred correctly that "priamo" means straight. What we were unable to grasp, and what in hindsight I think many of them were trying to communicate, was that it was four miles "priamo."
After walking for nearly two hours, surrounded by fields, we feared we were in the middle of nowhere, because we were. Then we noticed red Christmas lights on a building all by itself on the side of the road in the distance. Fortunately, we'd found Restaurajca Zalissya. Unfortunately, when we arrived, there were no free tables and none of the staff spoke English. A nice looking couple appeared to be finishing their dessert and we attempted to ask the host if we could have their table when they were done. The host said something we inferred meant probably. Maybe it did, but moments later it was clear he hadn't understood what we asked. He grabbed two menus and led us to sit with the nice looking couple enjoying their date.
Jura and Masha turned out to be some of the greatest people we've ever met. We're now Facebook friends. They took us in at their table and in English they were embarrassed of but was truly quite good, told us a bit about themselves. Then, when they realized we couldn't read the menu, they offered to order for us. We were happy to oblige and this delighted them quite thoroughly. They told us that after dessert they were headed down to the Day of Дрогóбич festivities in the town square and asked if we'd like a ride. Once again, we were happy to oblige. After dinner, back in Дрогóбич, we took a picture together and Jura and Masha drove off. They had to work the next day and lived in Sambir, a small town a little ways up the road.
Amanda and I enjoyed the night time Day of Дрогóбич festivities, complete with a Ukrainian rock band. Everyone in the crowd seemed to know all the words to this band's songs. We couldn't understand the songs, so we filled them in with the words from U.S. rock bands. We danced and sang Greenday and Fastball while the rest of the crowd sang in Ukrainian. It was the quintessential end to a perfectly bizarre Ukrainian evening. Happy Day of Дрогóбич everyone!!
