Bolechiv, Ukraine 9/8/15

David Neubauer 1887-1973

Our journey to this former Austro-Hungarian (and at one time Polish) town was not because it was brought to light by Daniel Mendelsohn's best-selling book The Lost; The Search for Six of Six Million.Traveling with my husband, Rich, brother Bruce Gendelman, and daughter Sarah Taus, we knew this town was decidedly not a tourist destination, but only coincidentally the birth town our grandfather. It was the place of occasional family lore, the one spoken of with a wave of a hand, motioning disappointment and dismay. 

David Neubauer, when he commented on his post college grandchildren embarking for their rite-of-passage-European-vagabond travels, dismissed us with "What's to see in Europe? I lived there, and I can tell you it's NOTHING." Leaving Bolechiv In 1912 he found his way to America and did not return. He never saw his parents, siblings, or nieces and nephews again. Even the Red Cross could not tell him how they vanished.

The nearest large town in Ukraine with an airport is Lviv, formerly Lemberg.  In a van with a driver, and our guide/genealogist Tomasz J we set out to drive the hour or so south from Lviv on the most dismal of days. Of course. How could our image of this place of so much destruction and engineered evil be anything but the dreariest of wet, dark greys? The road approaching Bolechiv is not in good repair, so the cautious driving around the potholes and bumps allowed us to have more time to observe the dwellings and fields, generally not prosperous, in various states of modernity. Could this have been grandpa's neighborhood? Did he swim in that pond? Did he play near those trees?

artifacts in the Bolechiv museum

                                       
BOLECHIV MUSEUM
I had asked our guide to make one of our stops the local library, hopeful that we could uncover some family information. In The Lost, several survivors reminisced about a Jewish restaurant named Bruckenstein's and I wanted to find it, or at least the former location.  My grandfather's mother was Rachel Bruckenstein, and we know Rachel toiled endlessly in a restaurant of sorts attached to a provisions/grocery store popular with hunters ( including Franz Josef!) on their way to the nearby Carpathian Mountains. Could this have been THE restaurant?  Was she part of an extended restaurant family? Her husband, Baruch Neubauer, grandpa's father, was not thought of well by his children as he left all the work to his wife while he studied Talmud all day. The small town library was not yet open, but the museum attached to it at the rear, was. We were welcomed in and given the option of looking around ourselves or taking the tour for $2.00 for all of us.  With the translation help of Tomasz, we listened to a narrative in the five rooms full of wooden artifacts, embroidered costumes, newspaper articles and plaques, most from the century past.  The docent had never heard of Bruckenstein's restaurant, so she called an older resident for us. But no luck.

Bolechiv Library
Rich, Nina, Bruce

She helped us find requested information about violin making in Bolechiv, as some of our ancestors were violin makers. We learned that the museum and library had been the home and clinic of Dr. Blumenthal, a gynecologist. before it was taken from him. How many happy women passed through those doors, how many bright promises of new life were confirmed under the same roof where now the history of the town had only minor mention of the vibrant Jewish lives there?  The museum caretaker proudly announced that the townspeople took care of their Jews as best as they could. The Jewish population of Bolechiv before the war was approximately 3,000, which was 78% of the total. After the war, only one returned of the approximately forty eight who survived by hiding or escaping to the woods.

THE FIRST "ACTION"

The Dom Katolicki, Catholic Community Center in the center of town was the location of the first large scale"action" of the Nazis against the Jews. I assume it was in this place because it was a the large building, other than a church. Rounded up on the streets and in their homes, the professionals, academics and community leaders, including women and children, were herded into this building and tormented for several days.The unspeakable acts are chronicled in The Lost and I will not repeat them here. After cruel and inhumane treatment, the Jews were taken to a place in the woods, Taniava to be buried in a pit (more below). After the war the community center became a movie theater. The theater burned down. The roof collapsed, as if the pent up guilt finally exploded and burst the rafters from the shameful weight of the crimes perpetrated there. Amidst the rubble, a solitary brick wall remains; a tall flattened witness, with a spectral stare, frozen in muteness.

A KILLING FIELD: TANIAVA

We had difficulty locating Taniava in the heavily wooded road leading away from town. There are no signs.  Local people we stopped on the road suggested driving either further or the other way.  Eventually we spotted a break in the trees with a small grassy entrance to the forest.  Bruce and Tomasz walked one forest path and the rest of us walked the other.  Apparently, used as a clandestine party spot, as evidenced by rubble, there was no indication we were near a memorial.


Within a few minutes we heard a distant call from Bruce, and hacked our way through tall weeds to find a large clearing with a short concrete rectangular fence. Jutting into the middle of the fenced area was a jetty like structure with a memorial plaque.  Indeed, this was the infamous pit where 950 Jews from the Bolechiv area ended their lives. The plaque had been placed there in 2009 by a group of descendants who traveled there to honor their families.  www.bolechow.org 

 On our way out we spied a small stone marker on the road to indicate that the memorial was directly through the woods, although there was no path there.
This sad place, surrounded by peaceful forest could well be the burial ground of our great grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins.  We will never know. We said  a tearful Kaddish for them and all the other innocents.

BOLECHIV CEMETERY
The Jewish cemetery is only accessed through a farmer's private property. After a tip from a passerby on how to enter his yard, we rang his house doorbell, only to have him emerge like an angry hornet. Tomasz translated the problem. Jews who visit have been asked to please arrange for a sign with his phone number so his fence isn't broken into, and so he can escort people to the gate of the cemetery in the back of his property.  He was quite agitated that everyone promises to do this, but with no result.  We also promised, and later went with him to the local fast sign shop to place an order for the sign.

The cemetery is quite large, perhaps a quarter to half mile square (not sure of this estimate). It has existed from the 17th century. Again, there was a plaque set by the same group in 2009, who also was responsible for the fence.  Of course many of the tombstones are weathered, most are fallen and others broken. Compared to other cemeteries we observed in Poland and Ukraine with impossible vines and high weeds, it was better kept. From afar, squinting, it could have been a grassy pasture with big black cows resting in a field. It was unsettling knowing that the sparseness was probably a result of vandalism, antisemitism, and neglect because there were no Jews left to care for the graves.

Tomasz, who had previously searched the cemetery database for us said it would be impossible to find any relatives as the custom on the front of the gravestone was to put X son of Y without a last name. I had worked with Tomasz, over the previous six months delving into my family's genealogy. He extracted the records from various Polish and Jewish databases and had organized our family trees into an Israeli site MyHeritage.com. I think he knew the members of my family better than I did! I carried a print out of the family tree with us. Little did I know how this association would lead to a remarkable event.

Bruce, an adventurous and skilled photographer, ventured far into the cemetery enclosure to take some shots.  The rest of us walked around marveling at some of the ornate stonework, but eventually stopped to rest and wait for Bruce. Where we had stopped, quite by serendipity, Tomasz, who reads Hebrew and Yiddish, asked me to look at the back of the grave I stood next to.

                           

Some graves had family names on the back. This one read 

BRUCKENSTEIN

On the front, we found the first name, Josef Ber, the earliest name we knew of in our family tree. We were stunned and so excited together. I do not think I will forget that moment for the rest of my life. Of all the graves, most in disrepair, fallen, or buried under grass, to stop in front of this one and find the name of my great-great grandfather has left me in a state of shock and wonder. What a privilege to share the moment with my daughter Sarah, this man's great-great-great granddaughter. And Bruce, and Rich.  To whatever hand has played a part in this I am grateful.

Josef Ber Bruckenstein, son of Israel Iser

BOLECHIV SYNAGOGUE

Did the members of the Union of Lever Makers hear the echoes of rejoicing with bride and groom, of hearty mazel tovs to proud Bar-Mitzvah boys, or of anguished mourner's sobs for lives cut short? When the Jews no longer existed in Bolechiv, when a synagogue was no longer necessary, the stately German architectural gem with tall rectangular windows and large circular windows watched gatherings of a different purpose. The sign for the lever makers is placed high on the front facade.  But this ediface has "yichas." There is no mistaking what it was, and the respect that it is owed.

Tomasz spoke to a neighbor who told him he could get a key from the city hall across the street.  He came back empty handed.  The person who holds the key was not at available.

photos by Bruce Gendelman, Sarah Taus and Nina

LINKS
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Holocaust_in_Bolekhiv
www.bolechow.org
http://www.danielmendelsohn.com/
www.youtube.com/watch?v=3XX0c9jbyFk  

Halong and Hue

What is a trip to Vietnam without a junk cruise on beautiful Halong Bay? The 1,600 odd shaped island mountains poking out of the water appear like inflated floating player's pieces in a giant's game of concentration. A delightful lunch was served by the crew, and as luck would have it, a guitar hiding in a corner was given to Ariento, the guide from Indonesia who was shadowing our (mentor) guide Sinh. Ariento studied classical guitar and held court with any request. We, all being about the same age enjoyed singing our "boomer" songs together. Only missing was a camp bonfire with roasted marshmallows. As a part of this world heritage site we dropped anchor to explore a huge grotto cave with many extraordinary cavernous rooms. Ariento was again a font of information as he is a geologist also. The group retired to cabins while the crew slept in the dining area. In the morning we were treated to a demo by the chef on the magic art of fashioning edible flowers from vegetables.

Hue is a former imperial Capitol of Vietnam. The fortress, built with help from the French is a moated citadel with an extensive former forbidden city. It is being slowly reconstructed with meticulous gold leaf applications and red paint.

A dragon boat ride on the Perfume River brought us to the Thien Mu Pagoda, the unofficial symbol of Hue. The religious order where the famous self immolated monk came from.

Buddhist nuns

An extradinory group of young women live and work at at the small Dieu Thanh Pagoda. To help their coffers they make lunch for OAT travelers. We arrived as they started cooking for us, all the while chatting and joking with our guide Sinh. The lunch was the best so far, and included a vegetable tempura. A 24 year old nun was available for a question and answer session. She explained how the order operates and frankly answered all questions.

Orphanage

When possible Sinh takes his travelers to an orphanage run by another order of nuns. These women are saints. The clean, orderly buildings are run with efficiency and huge amounts of love. These young, very capable nuns, like beloved camp counsellors, judging from the positive contacts with all, oozed their fun loving attitude. The level of respect shown to them and by them wrapped around the oldest teens to the infants. The newest charge was ten days old, the oldest, a slightly mentally challenged nineteen year old who was a steady, friendly fixture in the compound. The children leave to go to local schools, take after school lessons and sports, then return to their "dorm" to eat and sleep. Older children are involved in helping the younger ones, and graduates return to volunteer.

This place is one of many that OAT supports through its charities in the countries it gives tours. Some of the students learn skills to help them in future employment. A well equipped sewing studio was my favorite. We were informed ahead of time and brought school supplies. A group of children around age ten met us and tried out their English, and were most polite and appreciative when receiving the gifts.

Hoi An

On the way to our destination of Hoi An , we drove through Danang, a stylish beachfront city once populated by US military. The former Air Force base has been converted into a civilian airport, and the city,  a vacation destination. Nearby is China Beach, the setting of a TV series which took place during the Vietnam war. Both have wide, clean, beautiful beaches, resorts and gleaming high rises.

Our charming hotel in Hoi An with meandering ponds and bridges welcomed us with a swimming pool, a comfort as the days are getting progressively hotter. Built into the OAT trips is a round table discussion of any topics the group wants to bring up, even controversial ones. Our guide Sinh deftly fielded questions about Vietnam war biracial children,  communist repression, lingering sentiments about the war, corruption, etc.

The evening was a treasure. We arrived at The Silk Village and immediately donned chef hats and aprons. Seated at two long parallel tables facing each other, at which the instructor,  part comic and all chef, gave us jobs to do at our seats like mixing and rolling rice paper rolls. I volunteered to be one of the cooks.

Hoi an is a delightful place, a Vietnamese Nantucket and Sturbridge Village. A tourist destination for westerners and Vietnamese, it has an old town of ancient homes, narrow merchant's streets and a covered Japanese bridge. Could this be a Disney re-creation? Wisely, those ubiquitous motor scooters are banned during most hours from the town so strolling and shopping are worry free.

This is a town of tailors, and some of us took the recommendation and had clothes drawn, measured and made.

A short ferry ride across the river brought us to a small village and its weekday market, a contrast to the throngs of  its neighbor Hoi An. Here, like at street markets throughout Vietnam, beef, chicken and pork sit outside on wooden slabs waiting for customers. Without refrigeration. A stop at an apothecary for Tiger Balm, and quick peek into an artisan 's shop to watch him make inlaid mother of pearl boxes completed our short stroll there. The ferry to and from not only carried passengers, but a whole front deck of motorcycles. 

Fresh off the boat, before dawn

Who wouldn't want to smell thousands of fish in the dark and cold given the chance? Many of us did,to great delight. Sinh hired a few taxis and we arrived to see the fisherman delivering their catches, to a highly organized chaos of runners, sellers, agents, negotiators, and bookkeepers, almost all women, conducting business before legions of waiting motor scooters fanned out in the area to insure the restaurants were ready with fresh offerings for the day.

Cyclo tour and boat cruise

A most pleasant cyclo tour of the neighborhoods near our hotel on the outskirts of Hoi An took us past new upscale family compounds as well as traditional wooden one room dwellings along the river. There is obvious upward mobility enjoyed by some, but far more live in basic circumstances. We visited with one fishing family perched on the shore. 

They had most of the food they needed from their ample garden and the river and a simple but functional kitchen in which to prepare it. The wife, to earn extra money, was sewing-assembling Palm leaves to be sold in the market for building roofs.

 Our guide Sinh told us he had a special lady to drop in on. Curious about his so-called girlfriend, when it came time to meet her, we were not disappointed. She was a young woman of 92, living in the wood and palm constructed home she inhabited most of her life. Her bed, kitchen, washing and dining area were in one room.

Her children and grandchildren live next door in a modern, multilevel structure, which she found no use for.  Generously sharing her betel nuts with those willing to try them spawned I-dare-yous, laughs and red tongues. The cyclo ride ended at the Thu Bon River where we boarded a boat for a sunset ride. On the way back to the city, Sinh spotted some fishermen he knew throwing their nets out.

 They came up to our boat and entreated any of us to try this casting. Some of the group tried, but not very successfully. By the time we got back, it was dark and we bought good wish floating paper lanterns to set free. Mixed with ours were those set out by wedding couples decked out in traditional attire, parading up and down the shore in small illuminated boats.

Nha Trang

This felt more like Las Vegas or Miami than what we envisioned a Vietnam beach town to be. A magnificent beach front flanked by a wide driving boulevard, a parallel strolling sidewalk and sculpture park, discos, elegant restaurants, and of course the beautiful people to inhabit the above.

A Day In The Life

Near Nha Trang is Xom Gio village. Over the years Sinh has developed a relationship with not only the chief and his family, but the other villagers who are farmers, fishermen and artisans. First we stopped at the local kindergarten where the children upon our arrival eagerly waved and welcomed us. After a discussion with the principal each of us was grabbed by little hands and excitedly led into the five year old classroom to join the singing circle. They sang to us, and we sang to them ( I'm a Little Teapot, Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes) before we broke into playgroups to build towers or fanciful cities. A good time was had by all. On a walk through the rest of the school, Sinh spied one of his little friends, age three or four. We were amazed that he knew individual children, but later learned he was the grandchild of the village chief who Sinh has seen grow up on visits.

Splitting bamboo and weaving baskets are skills performed by both men and women here. Some of our group tried the weaving but couldn't reach the speed and ease of these experts.trying to weave  

                                                                                                  making chopsticks

This is one of the many places OAT has invested time and resources to assist the villagers. A few of the homes have benefited with building improvements. We observed brick walls going up and nearby a common bathroom already constructed. An empty nester couple in their 60s , closest to the bathroom, proudly showed us a new roof. The wife was so pleased to have indoor plumbing, but the husband said he couldn't get used to it, and still used the river. 

Our lunch was a cooperative effort . Earlier in the day we were given assignments in the market. Armed with some change and the mystery item we were to buy only named in Vietnamese we were left on our own to negotiate. Most had trouble being understood because of the inflections are so subtle. Our "tung ga" was eggs, but sellers thought we said garlic.

Teacher sent us back to do our homework over. The collected ingredients were given to the wife of the village chief. We helped her stir fry then sat in their yard under the trees for a bountiful meal and discussion. In the yard were large overturned baskets keeping roosters from wandering off. Most yards have both poultry and dogs, but these critters were being saved for cock fights.

Hanoi, Vietnam

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In the first step outside in daylight you are in a vortex of swirling traffic. Like Dorothy in the Kansas tornado, the ceaseless motor scooter onslaught swallows you whole until you become one with it. Thousands upon thousands of remarkably polite, but never ending cadres; streams of fish swimming, maneuvering forward on a hunt for more pavement and a small place to wiggle into.

Families of four, business suit professionals, teen pals, cleaning crews with provisions, electricians loaded with wire, farmers with pigs for slaughter, kumquat trees balanced on seats, sleeping children passengers, bales of fresh greens, towers of egg racks, and huge rice sacks all flew by on scooters. Most people wear face masks. Sharing the road but in much smaller numbers are cycling rickshaws, bikes, buses, and cars. So where do the scooters end up? They are parked sardine style on narrow city sidewalks perpendicular to the stores. This makes for a myriad of obstacle courses for strolling. More often than not one has to walk on the street, yes, the same street where stepping off a curb, means being swarmed by moving motorbikes. One unique profession is in the category of sidewalk scooter security. Many stores and restaurants employ men clad in a range of "official" garb, including US boy scout shirts to stand guard over their temporary cycle charges.

Crossing the streets takes skill. There are crosswalks, but very few traffic lights. Before we took our first walk we observed hotel guests led across by the doorman. Would we ever be able to do this alone? The impulse is to run, but learned that does not work. Like encountering a wild animal in the woods, walking slowly avoids danger. All vehicles will slow down to avoid you.

Scooters sleep in family living quarters accessed through labyrinths of narrow passageways. Emerging out of a sender storefront, a  mechanical chrysalis sputters into the new day's flow. Others come to life dangerously racing out of back alleys competing with humans and dogs for enough exit space.

The morning on the sidewalk is a complicated and colorful chessboard. The soup vendors are open for business, with tiny efficient portable stoves, others with permanent minuscule storefronts. The breakfast customers, whole families and people on the way to work, sit on low plastic blue or red stools eating the noodle soup. Competing for this sidewalk space are ladies chopping garlic, peeling chestnuts, paring fruit, and small vegetable and fish vendors with baskets of their wares on tarps. Add to the mix country women with balanced bamboo poles hawking pineapple, and others on bicycles balancing basket trays of bananas and apples.

A curious sight in all of Vietnam and seemingly out of place is the millions of twisted, coiled, hanging, entwined, and crisscrossed electrical wires on every street. Frightening!

Rickshaw and Ho Chi Minh

The statue of King Ly Thai To, the founder of Hanoi, stands next to the central  Hoan Kiem Lake. This is a popular plaza day and night, but the early mornings are especially colorful with aerobic exercise, tai chi, and all varieties of dancing each with their own boomboxes.  It was a treat to be invited to join the regulars for Laughing Yoga. Yes, it is what it reads; a half hour of hearty laughing, stretching and swaying with welcoming new friends. From this plaza we boarded bicycle rickshaws which carried our group on a circuitous path through the city. A wonderful way to ride! Seeing the street life slowly without having to constantly look down to avoid tripping over someone or something is a pleasure. We snaked our way through the old quarter and its streets named hundreds of years ago for the wares sold in them. Our hotel was on Hang Gai, the silk street for instance. Although today the names do not necessarily correspond to what the merchants sell, there are definite clusters of similar stores on some streets. We noticed a zipper and thread street, a shoe street, a hardware street, a restaurant and plumbing products street, a knitting street, a silver street. One street had rows of hanging objects which we thought were animal carcasses. They turned out to be replacement seat covers for motorbikes.

The rickshaw ride culminated at the Ho Chi Minh Masoleum, an imposing, solemn, grey monolithic soviet style monument attended by severe uniformed guards. It dominates for blocks. Even though he wished to be cremated, his body at rest, a la Madame Tussaud, is somewhat bizarre in its laid out formality.  Nearby is the beautiful compound of the  "Uncle Ho" home and gardens. Rejecting residence in the stately French built presidential palace, he preferred a spartan existence in two modest houses constructed on the grounds, one for summer on stilts and another very small cottage. His air raid shelter is nearby, as is the One Pillar Pagoda, built to resemble a lotus flower, originally constructed in the 11th century.
                   

Temple of Literature

This complex of ornamental gardens and courtyards surrounds a former school and Temple of Confucius where for seven centuries the country's most promising students studied.  Leading to the altar are rows of stone tortoises, symbols of learning, each carrying a stone tablet of scholar's names.

John McCain marker

A somber small sculpture sits on the shore between Hanoi's West Lake and Truc Bach Lake. It is the site of the 1967 jet crash site of Senator John McCain, who narrowly survived, and was taken to the infamous "Hanoi Hilton" prison. Because the structure is out of concrete, it is crumbling. It is rather unremarkable as a piece of art, and certainly strange as a public monument. We did not visit the infamous Hanoi Hilton because the only remaining structure is a gate, the land now used for high rises.  We understand the small museum focuses on the  injustices of the French against the Vietnamese.

Museum of Ethnology

A modern open air museum of dwellings has been reconstructed from many of the fifty-four ethnic groups living in Vietnam.  A modern museum building exhibits tools, costumes, weaving, musical instruments, and boats. The lovely shop on the grounds sells artistic creations from many of the groups displayed inside.

Water Puppets

A family we visited is the 8th generation of puppet makers. Going back a thousand years, water puppetry survives as a popular and unique kind of Vietnamese theater. Through a labyrinth of dark alleys after dozens of turns, the puppet maker led us to his home, workshop and small performance arena. He and his wife demonstrated the process of carving and painting the figures from Fig tree wood, which is not affected by water. His stage is a waist deep pool of water on the third level of his home.The puppeteers stand in the back of a curtain manipulating the puppets from poles. The performances are short, simple stories, some traditional with dragons and unicorns, others more modern love stories, even with puppet motor scooters. From his workshop we purchased our favorite, a water buffalo puppet with a little boy playing a flute sitting on top of him.

Tho Ha countryside

A drive through modern industrial zones of mammoth electronics factories and endless rice paddies brought us to this town that time may have forgotten. Even though rice paper roll wrappers have been mechanized, there are those hold outs who carry on the family tradition here and make them by hand, even as many as 1,000 a day.

drying rice paper wrappers

This village is an island, accessible by rickety, noisy barge ferry. Sharing the ride with motorcycles and dogs, it becomes difficult to romanticize about idyllic country life when greeted by piles of refuse in and out of plastic bags spilling over the banks and into the river. Waste clean up had not been a priority in this and many other villages until recently.  Bringing travelers has helped encourage more consideration of environment aesthetics, and even though the road through the village is not paved, it is passable. The interiors of the houses we visited were traditional and well kept . Spending time with the husband of the rice paper roll maker was a delight. A former North Vietnamese soldier, he now  gives traditional music lessons to children in the village, and even played a few instruments for us.

The traditional herbalist lives next door. He had patients there and was assembling his piles of dried herbs, and plant and animal matter for each condition. We were surprised to hear that the government now requires traditional herbal healers to complete medical school.

Bat Trang ceramic village

Entering a workshop where thousands of pieces queue for their turn in different states of production is like following a piece of chocolate in Willy Wonka's factory. The owner and his son, from a long line in this family business took us through some of the stages of production. The big surprise, we each had to sit at a wheel and try to form a bowl by hand. After failing miserably, our appreciation became more generous. Much of the village is in the ceramic trade,not unlike like villages in Italy. And of course the ceramic shopping street and mall was a treat for any tsotske junkie.

Molds for vases.Note the hole on top where the ceramic liquid is poured

Not far from Hanoi in one of the many military cemeteries sit rows of gravestones each with small altar objects and fresh flowers.  Most are regularly tended to by family members. In this culture of ancestor worship and reverence for the dead, it is a priority. We saw many who died in "The American War," including the brother of a woman who was kind enough to share her family's story. She had five relatives who died in that fighting. She embraced some of the women in our group to say goodbye. There wasn't a dry eye.

Whether or not we want to admit it, we travel with preconceived notions. What we found in Vietnam in no way fit into our thinking: Hanoi, Da Nang, Viet Cong, Saigon had only been loaded words blared by TV newscasts, leftovers

festering from decades ago. The discovery and serendipity in travel helped us learn about the warmth many Vietnamese feel towards Americans. It was difficult to understand the often expressed forgiveness for the human and ecological destruction wrought by the U.S. but the people we spoke to do not want to look back. They are putting their energy into a future for their country. Is it the unconscious presence of Budda threaded through the culture, even in a society that does appear to be religious?  It was refreshing to observe this resilience, and reminded us about the positive power of forgiveness.