My Relatives in Kosov

Kosow (in Polish hands), Kosov (in Russian hands), Kosiv (under current Ukrainian rule) was difficult from the start. My mother's point of reference was always the Muskowlufka Bridge which spans the Ribnetze River, which divides Kosiv in two, since she crossed it daily to go from the Zarynek or central market area where her father's house was to her brother's and sister's houses on the other side. She actually spent much more time at her brother Chaim's house than her father's since he was a widower and close to 70. The immediate problem was that there now exist 4 different bridges which traverse the Ribnetze. Of course, our first guess was our best guess but we desisted in that push and decided on a bridge closer to the downtown area that depressed me immediately since I could tell that there was almost no recognition in Mom's face. Even after we crossed it and went left towards where her sister Esther's house would be, she insisted nothing looked familiar. I tried to push her, but how can you really push in matters such as these where memory is faulty and the truth so distant. The next 2 bridges we tried were equally unrecognizable to her. And it was only after Alex -- who by now I learned was well renowned in Jewish circles not only because of the wonderful work he does for survivors but also because he was Daniel Mendelsohn's guide, and crucial to his success in authoring The Lost, which my wife fortuitously handed me as I was leaving for my trip and which became my bible along the trip that I would read at 5:00 a.m. every morning, unable to believe I was somewhat retracing his footsteps with this righteous Goi -- pointed out that the landscape in the picture that Mom had given him from Sefer Kosov matched the landscape of the hills that surrounded us that we were sure that we were now on the correct bridge, the one we started with.

From there, Mom got her bearings and knew immediately to take a right to Chaim's house and that it was "a far ways" up the road. But I should go back and note that even as we told her we were sure it was the right bridge, she continued to deny it as being too narrow and small because, as we later figured out, she was only 5 or 6 when last she saw it so her sense of dimension was completely off. We drove up the dirt road but no house was recognizable to Mom until, after we covered the same section of road for a 5th time, I realized that Chaim's house was probably a lot closer to the bridge than she was telling us since a child's sense of distance is not really what it ought to be. I ordered Alex to go back to the first 3 houses that were on the right-hand side. But Mom insisted that none of them were Chaim's since he had a taller fence, again with the dimensions, and a bigger backyard than any she saw, at which point Alex stopped the car and walked across the street to speak to some neighbors out doing yardwork, which is BTW Alex's special talent, drawing info out from tight-lipped Ukrainians who aren't sure what you're doing there and never too proud of having been involved in saving Jews.

The man he spoke to remembered nothing but he went inside to get his 80 year old mother who also didn't recall any Baders living anywhere in the neighborhood. We retreated in disappointment until Mom did an about-face and ran back to the old woman screaming out "Pani (Mrs.) Grechova!!!", to which she answered the words I learned to wait for and cheer: "Tak! Tak!" Yes, Yes. Turns out Chaim owned a 2-family and had a non-Jewish tenant by that name, which made the old woman point to the very first house on the right that you come to after the bridge, again my mother's distorted sense of distance playing a role. We would come to learn that it is often the one question or comment that you don't make that can cost you from finding out crucial info from Ukrainians as they are not forthcoming and it is like pulling teeth, rare to find in Ukrainian mouths. So, we bolted across the road and up to the fence.