A Trip to Our Past Part 2

Chapter Five

Slavuta

Sunday, August 6^th: Bobby’s birthday. When we planned this trip, Bobby thought we should visit the shtetls in the order in which our families inhabited them, the oldest first. From records found at the Kamenetz Podolsk Archives, we knew the Maschtaliers lived in Slavuta in the mid 1800’s. We would go there first.

The drive north to Slavuta took us through Starokonstantinov, a bustling village on market day. We were startled to see an airplane abandoned in a lot, right in the middle of the village.

The ride to Slavuta is 125 kilometers, most of it through beautiful farmland and tiny villages. We saw many horse drawn carts with a colt trotting alongside its mother. Adorable! Just about everywhere there were cows grazing. Many had a rope tied around both horns and a long tether trailing behind. Sometimes people get these cows to move by swatting them on the rump with a thin branch but often they just walk along holding the rope and the cow peacefully follows. Of course, we also saw the ubiquitous goats, chickens, ducks, geese and turkeys.

Just outside the village of Slavuta, on the side of the road, we were surprised to find a huge menorah and plaque placed on a stone platform. Olek read the inscription and told us this was a memorial to Jews killed and buried in the forest in a mass grave. The memorial is near that site. Apparently Jewish groups from Israel and the United States are beginning to visit these sites and raise funds to erect these kinds of memorials. Later, we came to realize that just about every village has one or two mass graves for Jews. When we asked about a Jewish cemetery, we were often told about the mass burial sites. We said a silent prayer and then we drove on.

Slavuta is a pretty, little town. Beside the main square, most of the roads aren’t paved. There are big ruts everywhere. The houses are colorful, with either mosaic tiles or painted cement. We went to the police station first because Olek thought this would be the best place to ask if there were any Maschtaliers in Slavuta. We were surprised he would do this because our impression of the former Soviet states is that the people would be afraid of the police and avoid them at any cost. We had observed this in Slovakia but Olek did not seem the least bit hesitant about going into the police station and, by this time, we had learned to trust his judgment. Again, we came to realize that our preconceptions had little to do with reality.

We saw a khaki colored Jeep style car parked in front of the police station. The people in Ukraine seem to like this color. It is not used for military vehicles. We couldn’t get used to seeing so many khaki cars and trucks on the road and always startled at first to think the military was out and about. Then we’d remember that these were just people’s private vehicles. Once again, our preconceptions of the Soviet military and the police would make us nervous.

When Olek came back from the police station, he told us there were three Maschtaliers in Slavuta. The police had given him their address and phone number. They had called the one most likely to be home. He was told to come to the police station. We were excited at the possibility of meeting a relative, something we hadn’t thought it likely, but we were also upset that this man was summoned to the police station without explanation.

When Victor Maschtalier arrived, we tried very hard to find some kind of physical resemblance. There wasn’t any. We asked about his history and he told us his 92 year old mother was still living. She lived with him. His father Peter was Jewish and he didn’t know about his mother. His passport says he is Jewish because it is thought that his mother is Jewish but he doesn’t think so. His father died in 1942, during the war. Victor’s 25 year old son was recently shot. We were told by someone else that it was drug related. His daughter lives elsewhere. He didn’t want to be thought of as Jewish and we didn’t want to press the issue, especially since we couldn’t find any common history or names.

Another digression: Since we found out about our family name, Maschtalier, we have been looking, without much success, for other people named Maschtalier. We found three families in the US or in Canada named Maschtalier, or some close variation of that name. None of them admit to being Jewish or having Jewish roots. One Maschtalier family came from Zhitomer about seven or eight years ago. They admit to being Jewish but refuse to speak with us about their family or their history. It’s understandable, and frustrating. We’ve found many Maschtaliers in Ukraine but none of them admit to having any Jewish history. We’re not sure if this is because the families converted so long ago due to persecution that the current people don’t know they have Jewish roots, if they really don’t have any Jewish roots, or if they just don’t want to admit they have Jewish roots. In any case, we have been unsuccessful in learning anything more about the name or about any relatives with this name. There is one more possibility we are currently exploring. There is a rather large burial society, the Wolochisk (Volochisk) Society, in Montefiore Cemetery in Queens NY that has many people named Mash or Mesh buried in it. We wonder if they were once Maschtalier and changed their name in America. As you already know, the Kalicks emigrated from Volochisk, and it is not unreasonable to think that some of our other relatives may have lived there.

And yet another digression: We were often reminded of our preconceptions regarding Ukraine and the former Soviet countries. We thought of the military and the police as the “bad” guys; as something to be feared. When we saw khaki colored vehicles, or saw the police at speed traps, we got nervous. We were surprised that Olek did not seem to share our view. We never saw any evidence of a military presence. And he seemed to have no fear of the police. When we stopped in Slavuta, he went into the police station without hesitation and could not understand our concerns. He had done nothing wrong and really didn’t understand why we thought Victor Maschtalier would be fearful about being summoned to the police station. Perhaps American propaganda has played a role in giving us the wrong impression. Or, perhaps we have underestimated the role of bribery in the scheme of Ukrainian life. In any case, Olek showed us that the public’s reaction to the military and the police is not necessarily what we thought.

Back to Slavuta: Victor Maschtalier suggested that we visit the woman who is the head of the Jewish community center in Slavuta. We were surprised there was such a thing. We were under the impression there were no Jews left. It turns out there are almost no Jews left. The Jews from Slavuta combine with the Jews from other nearby towns and just barely have enough people to support a small congregation and rabbi.

After many wrong turns, and many interesting sights along the way, we finally found the woman living in a large group of apartment houses. While Olek went to speak with her, we watched the people. Several children were playing with younger siblings and many families were sitting on benches, enjoying a quiet day in their common yard. Once again, we were struck by their peaceful and relaxed demeanor. The children were all well behaved. We never heard screaming, crying, yelling or witnessed any kind of meanness or aggression. The older children seemed to take pleasure in caring for their younger siblings. Another startling thing is that we never saw any toys other than bicycles, and these are really modes of transportation, not toys. But the children seemed content. Couples strolled hand in hand on the apartment complex grounds. No one was in a hurry and no one appeared bored. We thought about our lives in America and realized that, with all our supposed “progress,” these people appear far more happy, peaceful and content than most Americans.

One of the strangest sights we saw was a building in Slavuta. We were lost, looking for the woman who ran the Jewish community center, and came across this building, of indeterminate purpose, with the three tall columns in front and old military vehicles on top of them. We could not figure it out.

We walked down some of the streets in Slavuta, talking to people along the way. One man told us there were no Jews left in Slavuta but his brother had married a Jewish woman and had emigrated to Israel. We were shocked. Later, we heard this many more times. So much for our preconceptions about anti-Semitism. We stopped at one house to buy sunflower seeds. They were in a pail on a stool outside an old woman’s fence. When we asked to buy some, she wrapped a piece of newspaper into a cone, twisted it on the bottom to make a seal, and poured a shot glass full of seeds into the cone. We bought three, one kopek (a coin worth a penny or two) each. We walked along eating the seeds and enjoying the scenery, feeling very comfortable and very happy.

We drove around to see the town. The Jewish woman told Olek there was a very old synagogue still here and we were determined to find it. The streets are narrow. Thank goodness there is no traffic. The streets are unpaved, full of ruts filled with water, very dusty in the places they are dry, and seem to go around in circles. We drove and drove, sometimes finding ourselves back where we started without finding the synagogue. Olek would stop people and ask. Everyone seemed to know where it was. We’d seen hand gestures and listen to lengthy descriptions of how to go and then get lost within one or two blocks. Finally, four young boys told us to follow a particular street and we would find it. We tried but couldn’t. We saw them through an alleyway and they indicated we should park our car and follow them. We did. They led us to an old house that was no longer used as a synagogue. But we could see the Jewish star on its side. They took us around to the back and indicated where the mikvah used to be. They told us, about twice a year, groups of people with peyas, sidelocks, (They gestured this. I guess there is no word in Ukrainian) black hats and long black coats, come to see this house. We thanked them. They asked us for American cigarettes but we gave them hryvnas instead.

We headed back to Krasilov early because Olek wanted to see his godson. He had preordered dinner for us because no English is spoken at the restaurant or hotel and the menu is written in Cyrillic. The waitress was wonderful. She watched us to see when we were ready for the next course, served us beautifully, and everything went smoothly. After dinner, we decided to walk in the town in a different direction than we had walked the night before. We saw lovely houses, beautiful, really amazing, gardens completely filled with flowers and flowering bushes, more monuments and people out strolling hand in hand with their families.

One woman approached us and asked us something in Ukrainian. When we said, “Ne ponimayou.” (Ukrainian for “I don’t understand,” pronounced KNEE PON-EE-MY-OO with the accent on the MY) “We are Americans.” She said, “Wow!”

We continued on our walk and saw her approaching us as we started back to the hotel. In very halting English, she told us her husband was working in England and she wanted to learn to speak English so she could go there too. There was no one she could speak with here. We suggested she watch TV and read children’s books. After the fact, we were sorry we didn’t invite her to meet us at the hotel in the evenings so we could speak with her. The Ukrainians were far more generous to us than we were being to them. We were sorry for the missed opportunity.

Chapter Six

The Wrong Kuzmin, Yarmolintsy, Gorodok and Sharovka

Monday, August 7^th: Kuzmin: The next town we wanted to visit was Kuzmin (with the accent on the “MIN”). Many of the Brautmans and Maschtaliers lived here in the mid 1800’s. It was a little closer to Krasilov, where we were staying, than Slavuta, and we decided it should be our next stop. On our timeline, this was the next town in which the family lived.

Kuzmin is a small town and we were almost through it before realizing we were there.

As we walked through the villages, we were objects of curiosity, just as the people and things we were seeing fascinated us. One woman was openly interested in what we were doing. We complimented her on the interesting gate with roses painted on it. She told us her daughter had painted it from a picture on a post card. She was very proud of her unique fence.

We wanted to find the oldest house in town. We thought it would be the one just across the street from the house with the rose painted fence. Although some of the houses appeared ancient, most were built after the war. Olek went in and began talking to the babushka. When he didn’t come out, we went to find him. What we found was out of another era.

Olek was talking with a toothless woman who used a walking stick, had the perquisite layers of clothing and the ever-present babushka. Her house was made of cement and she had other shacks and wooden places for animals all over her yard. There were two dogs on long chains, each with his own shack. One seemed quiet but the other seemed vicious. We steered clear of him. There were goats and chickens and ducks and geese everywhere. She told Olek that there had been many Jews in this town. They all lived in one area near the center of town, near the mill. We were getting excited because we knew that some of our ancestors had rented a mill. She told us the more prosperous ones had red tile roofs (terra cotta) on their houses while those of the townspeople were made of straw. Today, most of the roofs look like they are made of corrugated tin but they are actually corrugated tiles, mostly grey. Many of them are in need of repair and most are overgrown with weeds or mildew. An example of this roof style is in a photo of Kuzmin (North). There are no Jewish people or Jewish houses left in Kuzmin.

The woman’s father had been a butcher before the war and she said his partner was a Jewish man, Shlomo Michaelbaum. She said the Jewish man was very good to her family and, when the war broke out, her parents hid the butcher and his family in their house. They lived in the attic. The wife was Malka and their children were Sonia, Elka and a son. One of the girls was born in 1919. They also hid a woman named Ruchel. But Ruchel became afraid and left. They later heard that Ruchel was captured and killed.

She showed us her former house, the house where Shlomo Michaelbaum and his family spent the war in the attic. The woman now lives in another house on the property and uses this one for storage. We asked her if we could look inside and she agreed.

We saw where Shlomo Michaelbaum and his family spent the war. They crawled through an opening above the place with a pipe and stayed in the attic. The floor is packed earth. We can’t describe the odor. A room to the left of this one is now a place where cows live. We are not certain that this use has changed since the time the woman’s family lived here.

We then asked if we could see her new house. She agreed. Like all the others in Ukraine, there is no running water. She has a refrigerator but it broke many years ago and has never been repaired. It is used for storage. She does have electricity. One bare bulb hangs down from a wire stapled to the ceiling. She has windows but no screens and the flies have taken up residence. She dries fruits and vegetables, and does canning and pickling, all for her own consumption during the long winter. Again, the odor was enough to drive us outdoors.

The outside of her house had a propane tank leaning against the wall. A wooden shack next to her house has a goat or two in it. There is a nest with a family of ducks next to that. Chickens run around the yard freely. A pipe brings the electric wire into the house.

The first room one comes to when entering the house seems to be a kind of kitchen. Although there seems to be a stove, every surface was covered with strange combinations of items and we weren’t sure she cooked in here. We saw many like this in homes around Ukraine. There were pickled vegetables in jars on the table in the first room. An iron seemed out of place somehow.

We were sorry not to have a good photo of the woman. She has a large mole on her face and was toothless. She resembled the wicked witch of the fairy tales of our youth except that she had kind eyes and was so very nice to us, we couldn’t be afraid.

We noticed the woman’s garden and asked if we could see it. She took us through a gate into a field completely filled with a profusion of plants. There seemed to be no organization at all. Every inch was growing something. We saw pumpkins, cucumbers, tomatoes, beans, zinnias, dahlias, marigolds, sunflowers and lots of other things we couldn’t identify. She also had many fruit trees. When we complimented her on her garden, she offered to give us some vegetables or flowers. We declined, saying we had no place to put them and they would die. We asked what she would do with all this produce and she said it was mostly for her own consumption. If there was excess, she would sell it at the market in town. Since everyone had the same kind of garden, and grows the same produce and flowers, we wondered who would buy them but we didn’t ask.

Olek seemed ready to move on so we thanked the woman for her time, gave her a few hryvnas, and started driving around Kuzmin. We asked if anyone recognized the names Maschtalier, Broitman or Bekelman. Many people suggested we speak with the teacher. He wasn’t home but his wife came out to speak with us. Once she understood what we were asking, she brought out one of her husband’s books and showed us that we were in the wrong Kuzmin. Our family came from a different Kuzmin; one that is south of here. We were disappointed, but happy to have spent so much time here anyway. We learned so much from the woman who led us through her house and garden. It was an education.

The Kuzmin we wanted to see was on the other side of Khmel’nitskij, west and south of where we were. Since it was so close to Krasilov, we decided to drive in that direction and at least see the town, even if we didn’t have much time. We passed through many villages along the way and also through Yarmolintsy (pronounced YAR-MO-LIN-TSI with the accent on the “LIN-TSI”) and Gorodok (pronounced HOR-O-DOK with the accent on the “DOK”). Both of these are towns on our list of places we needed to visit but we would put them off for now.

As we drove along we noticed several very ornate houses with mosaic tile work quite different than that we’d seem so far.

Olek pointed out dacha in the countryside. These are fields with plots of land on them that people from the cities are given so that they can grow vegetable for themselves. The plots are very small and they are not fenced in any way. Olek told us the measurement but we’ve forgotten it. It’s less than one square hectare, whatever that is. The only way we could tell one dacha from the next is that the difference in the crop being grown makes the green a slightly different shade. Some of the dacha have small shacks on them where people leave the tools they will need for gardening. A few have small houses on them.

All throughout the trip, Olek would point out areas with dacha. Some are beginning to have many houses in a row and some of the houses are beginning to get larger. None have running water. Joan wanted to know how he could tell these were dacha and he said he “just could. They have different shapes than regular houses.” By the end of the trip, we could also tell which houses are dacha. Generally, the dacha are more narrow, with more steeply sloping roof lines. Some are two stories, and some are one story, but they are almost all made of brick and the fields near them almost always look like a patchwork quilt of various shades of green.

One of the towns we passed through is Sharovka (with the accent on the “OVKA”). This is where our five great grandfather’s brothers lived in 1818. It is really quite small. We kept asking people where the center of town was and they kept looking at us blankly. We finally learned why. There is no discernable center, or shops of any kind.

In Sharovka, we passed an amazing house. The windows were all different colored glass. The owner was outside and seemed to like that we had stopped to look at his house. We asked why he had built a house so different from his neighbors and he said that he thought a house should be beautiful on the outside as well as on the inside. He was obviously very proud of this house and its interesting fence. The metal fence reminded us of the silver masks one can buy in Mexico. The windows of the house appeared to be made of colored glass. We wondered what the house might look like from the inside but the man was in a hurry and didn’t have time to give us a tour.

We drove through the village, asking as we went, for people who were old or who might remember our family names. We found a babushka and figured she was about as old as they come. Although she was happy to speak with us, she wasn’t able to help. We asked her how old she was and she said she was in her early 70’s. We were amazed.

We had to stop several times to allow the geese, chickens or cows to cross in front of our car. The geese always honked in protest, but the cows and chickens just peacefully ambled by.

There are no Jewish houses or Jewish people left in Sharovka. We were directed to the old Jewish cemetery, which is alongside a river, on a hill, as it seems all Jewish cemeteries are. We parked the car on a dirt bridge between a part of the river that is high and wide and contains an unusual dam and the part of the river that was far below us and runs fast. The dam is actually a tube that comes up from below water level and ends just below the surface. Water flows into this tube and exits about twenty feet below on the other side of the road. It comes out very fast. We saw two men fishing on the high, calm side and lots of children seining with nets on the low, fast side. We could hear their laughter and excited squeals. It was fun to watch them.

We walked to the cemetery on the road that parallels the river. We were saddened by what we found. Most of the tombstones were toppled and only a few still had enough surface to hold writing. We photographed two. The vast majority of the stones were completely broken up or only had a small piece jutting out of the ground to show that a stone had been there at all. There may have been 100 or more stones at one time. It was a moving experience since we were certain our ancestors had lived here and may be buried beneath our feet. We wished we knew how to say the mourner’s Kaddish. We each said our own kind of prayer.

The view across the river from the cemetery is spectacular. Not a bad place to spend eternity. Joan wanted to buy the land and put up a house and stay here forever. It was so peaceful and quiet. Only the lowing of cows and the sounds of the geese punctuated the silence.

We found the cemetery. We had not expected to find any Jewish cemeteries and we were happy there is, at least, this one, even if the stones are in such bad shape. We photographed two of the stones that still have writing on them. Now we’ll see if we can have them translated.

After spending time at the cemetery, we quietly made our way back to the car. One of the fishermen came over to speak with us. He was curious about who these strangers were, and wanted to chat. He told us that the place where the Jews lived was just across the river and pointed out the spot. We were, once again, as we had been in Slovakia, reminded of how desperate our ancestors lives must have been to leave this beautiful place. To us, it seemed like heaven. Of course, we didn’t have to involve ourselves in the political problems of the area. And we didn’t have to live with religious persecution, poverty or work so hard just to survive. But it sure was a gorgeous place.

The Jewish houses used to be just down the hill from the church, along the road on the far side of the river. It was a gorgeous setting!

By now we were not so surprised by the kindness of the people. But we were very appreciative. Virtually everyone we stopped took the time to speak with us. Although they didn’t know our family names, they were uniformly interested in helping and almost everyone knew the location of a Jewish cemetery in their town.

Chapter Seven

Gorodok, Our Kuzmin and Khmel’nitskij

We still had some time and Gorodok was close by so we decided to stop there. This is a very large town. We didn’t stay too long because we knew there would be nothing left of the character from when our ancestors had lived here. We could see a few broken stones in the Jewish cemetery but it was very high, across a river, and looked impossible to get to. We wondered how people could have been buried in such an inaccessible place.

The land was beginning to get hilly. We could see the sandstone face of the gorge. Olek told us that Susan King, founder of Jewishgen.org (Jewish Genealogy on the Internet), had family from this town. We promised to send her our photographs.

Then we drove to Yarmolintsy, passing more dachas, on our way to Kuzmin.

Yarmolintsy is a very large town and we felt we would not find anything of interest there either and continued on. The Kuzmin we wanted to see was just down the road and we were getting very anxious to be there. (By now you know that the accent is on the MIN in KUZMIN).

Mechel, our great great great great grandfather, born in 1785 and died in 1828, lived here as did Wolf Leib Broitman and his wife, Ida Maschtalier, our great great great grandparents. Here we found the mill where our Broitman/Maschtalier ancestors worked. It was very exciting.

The men working at the mill told us it has been in continuous operation since the 1630’s and that a Jewish man has run it for all that time up until the war and then again after the war in the 1950’s. Our gggg grandfather must have been one of these people. Amazing!

Several buildings were part of the mill complex. We don’t know their use. Possibly some are for storage. We could see where the water used to flow under the mill to turn the grinding wheels. There was no water here now and we suspect the mill is run by electricity. The river is just a short distance across the road. It is easy to imagine the water flowing here. We saw a woman inside this part of the mill who appeared to be cooking. We wondered if she lived there or cooked meals for the workers.

We asked if there were any Jews here or if anyone might know our family names and were directed to Dr. Weisskopf, the veterinarian, who is the only Jew in town. One of the men hanging around the mill volunteered to take us to Dr. Weisskopf’s house. He hopped into the car and away we went. We were glad the windows of the car were open. Dr. Weisskopf’s house is up the hill and around the corner. He has a wonderful view from up there. The cows and goats grazing on the grass outside his fence now seemed quite normal. He came out to meet us and spoke with Olek for a long time. He was very nice but could offer us no information. Olek asked him about three very small villages, Kalytintsy, Sharovechka and Veseltsa that he hadn’t been able to find on any map and Dr. Weisskopf told him they were not very far from Kuzmin, but they were through the forest, very remote, and inaccessible by car. One would need to ride a horse drawn wagon, walk or drive a four wheel drive vehicle to get to them. It was getting late and we didn’t have time to go that day. We told Dr. Weisskopf we would be back and he agreed to take us to the three villages.

Joan asked Olek why we had not seen any people riding horses. He didn’t understand what she meant. She explained that the horses in Ukraine seemed to be beautiful animals and in very good condition. It would be another mode of transportation to ride horseback for people who didn’t have cars. It seemed as though it had never occurred to Olek that people ride horses. These horses were for pulling wagons. Why would anyone want to ride them? Ironically, the oldest evidence of a domesticated horse used for riding was a pre-historic jaw bone with the wear of a bit marked on its teeth found in Ukraine.

Back to Kuzmin: We drove back to the mill and asked if we could look around. The four or five men were happy to show us how the mill worked. They were grinding grain for flour. No one seemed to be working very hard and they all seemed happy for the diversion.

We stopped to photograph an old wooden barn. One of the few wood structures we saw. We also stopped at the old Jewish synagogue. This building sits high on a hill overlooking the river. We were told the Nazis desecrated the synagogue during the war, using it for their headquarters and that there would be nothing inside worth seeing. All the religious artifacts had been removed.

We were very tired and hungry and had accomplished so much for one day. It was overwhelming. We needed time to absorb all that we had seen and learned. We asked Olek to take us to a different place for dinner, not realizing that there aren’t restaurants everywhere as there are in the USA. He is so wonderful and tried so hard to accommodate our every wish. He took us to a restaurant in Khmel’nitskij that he had heard was good. He didn’t know exactly where it was, so we got a very good tour of Khmel’nitskij while we were looking for it. Fortunately, it is also one of the few restaurants that has a bathroom. We were very grateful for that.

The meal was good; very much like the one we had at the hotel. There was salad, fish, chicken legs, pork with fat and meat. Everything we ordered was fine. Olek’s choice in food is different than ours. He tended to order salads that are made with mayonnaise and with some kind of meat, either chicken or ham, and vegetables. He ordered foods with heavier sauces and more meat dishes. Although we are adventurous eaters, we both like lighter fare. So we were glad Olek ordered foods very different than the ones we ordered. We tasted everything he ordered and were glad he was good at sharing. After dinner, we were happy to get back to Krasilov. It was beginning to feel like home.

As we were driving around Khmel’nitskij looking for the restaurant, it started to rain. By the time we got back to Krasilov it was raining in earnest. Our time in Ukraine was limited and we did not like to think of the prospect of touring our shtetls in the rain. We hoped for the best.

Chapter 8

Khmel’nitskij and Regional Archives

Tuesday, August 8^th: All during the night, there were thunderstorms and we woke to a damp and rainy day. We decided to spend some time in the local archives rather than traipse around the countryside. The closest archive is in Khmel’nitskij, so that’s where we headed first. We had read Miriam Weiner’s book, Jewish Roots in Ukraine and Moldova, which lists where the Ukrainian documents are stored. Bobby brought copies of the pages listing the archives that would be of interest to us. ZAG, the municipal archive as opposed to the regional archive, sounded like they might have some interesting records. They are supposed to hold the post 1900 records according to Miriam Weiner.

Khmel’nitskij is a very large city with many apartment houses and tall buildings. After being in the country for several days, it was a kind of culture shock to return to the congestion, noise, dirt and dreariness of the city.

We found the ZAG office in a three or four story building that seemed more like an apartment house than an office building. There was a small brass plaque outside the door but we never would have found the archive if Olek hadn’t known it was there. We entered the building through a small doorway. The entryway was very dark. No lights were on. The walls and floor are cement; very damp and very cold. In front of us there were two or three uneven stairs up to a small landing. On this landing, there was one door but it had no sign on it and we didn’t know if there was an office or apartment inside. We ascended to the second floor. There was a double door before us and, again, there was no sign announcing that the archive was located here. We entered and found ourselves in a dark, narrow room that smelled of mildew. It was unlit. The only furniture in this room was an upholstered couch, a wooden desk and chair and two more upholstered chairs. At the end of this room, there was a doorway to a room that was well lighted. Here, there were four desks and three women working. They all looked unhappy and tired. Only one of the women had a computer but she was sitting at a back desk, not interested in us, and obviously not going to be of any help. The woman closest to the door at the first desk asked what we wanted. She had several stacks of 5” X 8” ancient record books on her desk that she had been going through, and she was clearly unhappy we had interrupted her. We were almost salivating, wanting to handle and look through her books.

After a lengthy conversation, which Olek reported to us, she denied she had any records from Slavuta even though our pages from Miriam’s books told us she did. She finally agreed to look at some vital records from Slavuta and found one record from that town but it wasn’t for our family. While all of this was going on, we sat in the anteroom in the dark. A man and woman came in and that woman spoke with a different woman than the one who had been “helping” us. The man waited with us in the dark room. The woman was finally given a form to fill out and was told to do it at the desk in the anteroom. At this point, the light was turned on.

We were frustrated by the archivist’s lack of interest or cooperation. She has absolute power, no motivation, no index, will not let anyone else look through their materials, and won’t work for anyone unless she feels like it. We were frustrated but had nowhere to go with it. Olek asked that we leave her a tip, really a bribe, as this would make it more likely she would cooperate the next time he came by asking for information. We hoped it would also make it likely she would remember our family names and pull some records for Olek the next time he came to Khmel’nitskij on another research trip. The woman suggested we go to Gorodok. They might have our records. We immediately drove there and went to the Town Hall.

Although the front of this building is quite nice in a municipal sort of way, we were directed to a side entrance that is not as nice. We found a line of people standing in the rain, waiting to be admitted. Most of them appeared anxious or unhappy. The hallway inside had no lights on and the familiar mildew odor seemed to have followed us from Khmel’nitskij.

Olek just walked into the building and, ignoring the long line of people waiting for admittance, walked directly into the bureaucrat’s office. We couldn’t believe he would do this. All the people waiting in line did nothing. No one objected. No one tried to push ahead of us. He indicated that we should follow him into the room. A nicely dressed woman was sitting at a table in the middle of a well lighted room of about 16 feet square. Beside her table and chair, the only other furniture in this room there were three chairs for visitors. We were invited to sit in them. The woman had an ancient phone on her desk and a few papers, but nothing else; no computer, no typewriter, no electronic equipment of any kind, no ledgers or books. We noticed that she was using an abacus to prop open the large window behind her. Later, we learned that many people in Ukraine use the abacus, instead of an adding machine or cash register, to figure out sums.

The woman listened patiently while Olek explained what we wanted. She even smiled once or twice. We were encouraged to have found someone who cared a little and who looked like she might be cooperative. Unfortunately, she had no records for us. She suggested we go back to Khmel’nitskij to the Regional Historical Archive. We were getting pretty familiar with Khmel’nitskij by now and Olek thought he would have no difficulty finding the address.

The Regional Historical Archive is in a building that looks like a tall apartment building with a small parking lot in front. We walked up the six or eight steps to the entrance of the building and found ourselves inside a dark, damp lobby. To the right, there was a glass enclosed, 4’ X 6’ room where a security guard sat at a desk reading the newspaper in the dark. There was a rather lengthy discussion between Olek and this man that really did sound like an argument. We could tell he was not happy by the expression on his face and didn’t understand why there would be a problem. We only wanted to go to the archive.

Olek later explained that this man is a former KGB officer. These were the kinds of low level jobs many of them had been given after the break up of the Soviet Union. We asked how he could tell this man was KGB and he said they all have the same dead look in their eyes.

Olek was made to fill out a form and then the man agreed to let us go to the archive. When he saw that Joan had a backpack and Bobby was carrying a purse, he demanded we leave them in his office. We didn’t want to do this because we were carrying our passports, airplane tickets, credit cards and money for the trip. Olek told him we would not leave our things there and the man reluctantly allowed us passage to the archive. We walked up a flight of stairs to the second floor and found the first attractively decorated area in a government office. The hallway had a woven rug on its wooden floor that reminded us of an American Indian design. The area was bright. There were bulletin boards in the hallway with informational fliers tacked to them that seemed to be about interesting programs.

We entered the archive, which had no sign on the door or any other way we could have told that this was the right place. We were constantly reminded that we were lucky to be traveling with Olek. It seemed as though there was no person he couldn’t bully, or charm, as was necessary, and no place he couldn’t find.

The room we entered was large. It held two desks where two women sat shuffling papers. By now we were not surprised they had no computers or any other equipment, not even a manual typewriter. There was a wall of small drawers that looked like they belonged in a pharmacy (like the old fashioned pharmacies that had boxes of loose herbs to be measured out) and one piece of furniture that held about ten rows of boxes of large file cards.

Olek went into one of his lengthy discussions with one woman. He kept translating for us as he went along. After much discussion, we learned there were vast gaps in the records. This archive had nothing prior to 1917. After that, what they had was sparse, some records from one village and nothing for another. They had incomplete lists of cooperative farm workers for a village or recently unclassified KGB detention records, also incomplete.

We asked to see anything between 1917 and 1930 and they asked us to be more specific. We asked to see the cooperative lists from 1917 to 1930. After much discussion, we were told they only had the cooperative lists after 1944. Then we asked to see the detention lists and we were told they were kept in a specially locked place and the only person with the key was on vacation. Olek asked if there as anyone else, like the director, who had a key. One of the women got the director.

He gave us the third degree. Olek went through the entire process again; explaining who we were, what we wanted, what we would do with any information we found, and why we wanted it. We felt the director was very suspicious of us in general and not very willing to give us access to anything. He wanted to know who Olek was, his background, why he was traveling with two Americans, and why he wanted to see the records. By this time, we were so frustrated that we asked to see the detention lists, just so we could feel we had done some research – of any kind. He finally agreed to give us access to the lists of those killed during the war. But only if we would fill out some forms. We agreed. He left.

One woman started looking in the card files to see if they had detention records for our particular towns. She said they did but we would have to give her specific names of individuals. She would have to call one office to get an index number and then another office and give them the index number to learn if they had the record - a long and complicated process. We asked if we could see the casualty records for our towns. She looked at her records again and said she didn’t have any for our towns.

It was getting late, about 3:30, and we felt we would be given the run around until it became so late that we would have to come back the next day. If the weather was better, we wanted to get back to visiting our shtetls so we opted to leave without seeing anything here. These people don’t work very hard and won’t go out of their way for anyone unless they feel like it. If any extra work comes up, they certainly won’t do it anywhere near closing time. Olek told us they hadn’t learned that, if they put in the extra effort, they might learn something and would certainly earn some extra money from people like us who would tip (read bribe) them for their effort. Olek said that, had he known we wanted to go to the archives, he would have gone there before we arrived and brought champagne and chocolates. That would probably encourage them to be more cooperative. We didn’t expect to be doing any research here. It was only because of the rainy day that we decided to visit the archives.

Another aside: Records in Ukraine are only just becoming available since the break up of the Soviet Union. However, they are kept in many different places with very little organization. They have no indexing system, no master list of where any records are kept, no computers and no incentive to help people like us. We have hired a man who lives in Odessa and who has provided us with some wonderful older records from Kamenetz Podolsk. More on the Kamenetz Podolsk Archives later. It would be incredibly expensive and time consuming to try to get the records from some of these other archives.

One other comment: It is absolutely necessary to hire someone who can read the records, knows how to get the archivists to do the research since the researchers are not allowed to see or handle the books in most cases, and who can do this at a reasonable rate.

The records are written in handwritten Cyrillic. Even if we were able to read Cyrillic, the Cyrillic we would learn is the typewritten alphabet and handwriting in no way resembles this. Going to the archives in Ukraine reinforced for us how difficult it will be to learn more about our ancestors. But we will keep trying.

We decided to eat a late lunch or early dinner depending on how you want to look at it, in Khmel’nitskij. Olek learned of another restaurant while asking directions to the various archives. He hoped it would be good. We had another tour of downtown Khmel’nitskij while we searched for the restaurant. It is called Tet-Tet. It is a bar with a small restaurant of about 10 –12 tables and no bathroom. We had soylanka soup and pork shashlik, sort of like shish kebob. The meat is marinated, skewered with some onions and then all of it is grilled. It arrived on the skewer with a heap of ketchup on top of the meat. Olek explained that the people in Ukraine have only recently discovered ketchup and that it has become a favorite and is served in great abundance on many foods. We scraped most of it off. The shashlik was good. We had seen shashlik stands on the side of the road and wanted to try this too.

When we arrived at the restaurant, Olek parked his car in a spot that he wasn’t certain was legal. We asked what would happen if the police came by. He said they would take his front license plate and he would have to go to the police station to retrieve it. He would bribe one of the policemen to give it back quickly. Bribery is a way of life here and is an accepted way of doing business, especially with any government agency.

We finished lunch/dinner and returned to Krasilov at about seven, a lot wiser in the way business is conducted here, but unhappy about not being able to do any research of any kind. We made a date to meet Olek in the hotel’s restaurant for dessert at about nine. That’s when we had our first chocolate sundae.

Chapter 9

Minkivtsi

Wednesday, August 9^th: What an amazing day! This day alone made the entire trip worthwhile. We left the hotel early since we were going to Minkivtsi and Kamenetz Podolsk, at least a two hour drive. We’ve been calling it Minkovitz, or Minkowitz, but now we know this is incorrect. (The accent is on the”IVTSI”) These are the first two places we learned about when we started working on our genealogy almost four years ago. We couldn’t believe we were finally going to see them.

Minkivtsi is where the Bekelman family lived. Our great grandmother, Fannie Bekelman, had a brother Yankel (Yakov) who married Frima Dyen Stein. They had six children: Sam, Morris, Abraham, Joseph, Frieda and a baby who died. Frima died and Yankel married Esther and had two more children, Luba and a son who died during the war. Apparently Esther didn’t like Yankel’s first family and Frima’s children went to live with her sister Miriam Siegal before emigrating to the United States. Yankel and his second family stayed in Minkivtsi. Minkivtsi was the last place our grandfather Louis Maschtalier (Brautman) lived before emigrating to America in 1902.

Gradually, as we drove, the terrain changed. There were more hills, steeper hills, fewer farms and more forest. The towns we passed through had houses with more decoration. Some of them were quite ornate.

We entered Minkivtsi from the top of a hill. The view was breathtaking. We saw farms, forest, a river and a few houses. It was very peaceful. It is difficult to describe the change and why we thought this area was so particularly beautiful. We don’t know if it had anything to do with our feelings of closeness to this place. No matter what the reason, we thought this was the prettiest place we’d seen yet.

Minkivtsi is a very small with only a tiny center. We continued to drive, thinking we would find more town. We crossed the Smotrych River (pronounced phonetically) and immediately began to climb a steep hill. Before we knew it, we were at the sign telling us we were leaving Minkivtsi. Across the road from this sign, there is a pipe leading out of the hillside, with water flowing out of the pipe and a large mosaic wall behind it. As we stopped to admire the scenery, which was even more spectacular than from the side where we had entered Minkivtsi, people stopped their vehicles to drink from this pipe or to fill receptacles with the water. We believe the water comes from a natural spring.

We were so interested in the mosaic wall that it took several minutes before we realized there was a statue of an elk in the hillside behind the wall. We were the amazed at the scenery from the top of the hill across from the mosaic wall.

We decided to turn around and go back to the village. As we descended, Bobby asked Olek to stop on the side of the road next to an unpaved street. She wanted to walk down the street to see what was there. She must have been led by divine intervention. Before we knew it, we were at the water mill our Bekelman ancestors used to rent. Three men who had been working in the mill came out to speak with us. Olek asked if they had ever heard the names Maschtalier, Broitman, Bekelman, but they hadn’t.

We asked if there was a Jewish cemetery here and they told us about a mass grave in the area. There had been what they called a massacre. The site of the mass grave was inaccessible and about three kilometers from where we were. They told us there is no marker, so we decided it would be too difficult to find. We asked if there were other Jewish cemeteries and one man told us about a cemetery on the side of a hill nearby. He offered to take us there. We followed him for about half a mile.

Some of the time we walked on the road and some of the time we were on a pathway and then we started climbing through the woods. We finally came to a small cemetery of about 20 or 30 graves. The weeds were very overgrown but had not yet completely encroached on the tombstones.

These graves were fairly modern. Each was sitting on top of a cement or stone foundation of about three feet in height and each foundation was surrounded by an ornamental, painted, iron fence. The stones were mostly written on in Cyrillic and most of the deaths had occurred in the 1960’s or 1970’s. Several stones had ceramic or porcelain discs on them with a photograph of the person on it. In some cases, the person’s likeness was engraved on the stone. The whole place was a big surprise.

The next surprise came when we found there was a woman up there with us. She told us she had heard kids had been up here vandalizing the place and she wanted to check it out. Although she now lives in another town, she once lived in Minkivtsi and her father had been the caretaker of the cemetery. She felt it was her responsibility to make sure everything was in order. She told us there were many more stones in the woods next to where we were standing but the woods had so completely regrown that we couldn’t see any of them. They were completely inaccessible. She showed us a different path through some people’s yards and before we knew it we were back on the unpaved street to the mill.

People didn’t care that we walked through their yards on the way to and from the Jewish cemetery. In fact, we never saw any evidence that people in Ukraine have a sense of personal property or a need for privacy.

The Smotrych River flows behind the mill and must have been used for water power. Now ducks and geese swim lazily in it. Once back at the mill, the workers told us the mill used to be a water mill but it was now run by electricity. There are plans to convert it back into a water mill again. They gave us a tour of the mill and told us they are currently grinding corn for cattle feed but would be grinding grain for the people next. One of the workers was standing in a bin, with his shoes on, moving the flour around as it fell out of a chute. In another area, the flour was falling directly onto the floor. We were glad bread is baked in a very hot oven and that we didn’t have to eat the product of this mill. We tried not to think that whatever else we ate might have been treated in a similar manner.

The workers suggested we go to the town center and ask some of the older people there about our ancestors. There wasn’t much of a center, but we found it, parked the car and started to walk around. There was the fuel oil tank in the center of town that someone was using as a house. There were even lace curtains on the windows cut out of the shell of the tank.

In the center of Minkivtsi there were clusters of people who seemed to have nothing in particular to do. Several of them were at the little store and one older man approached us, asking Olek who we were and what we wanted. He volunteered to take us to the “Jewish street” which turned out to be less than a block away. He showed us several large houses owned by Jews before the war. Many of these houses were painted an interesting shade of blue. The facade is cement, or some similar material, and the blue is a light blue but with a very slight purplish tint to it. We hadn’t seen this color anywhere else and wondered if it was peculiar to this village. Later, we saw this color all over this area of Ukraine.

The man told us about people named Bronfman, Feldstein and Cooperman and other Jewish names we can’t remember. We asked if he remembered anybody named Broitman, Bekelman or Maschtalier.

One belonged to the Bronfman family. Our escort didn’t remember any of our family names but he volunteered to take us to a former school teacher, Helen Mashtykash, who he thought might be able to help us. She lives in a house only two or three houses from where we were standing but he insisted on walking there with us.

The woman was in her yard when we approached. Olek spoke with her awhile, translating as he went. She said she remembered many Jewish people but no one with the names we mentioned. She directed us to a building that used to be a Jewish school. On the way we passed a field that used to be the site of four more Jewish homes. Apparently, a Nazi officer took up residence in the house on the corner during the war and ordered these four houses destroyed as they were in his backyard.

The school was a block from the teacher’s house. The man walked us there. While we were looking at the school, Helen came running up to us to tell us she remembered a woman named Bekelman who had red hair. This was Yankel’s daughter from his second marriage. We were thrilled, to say the least. She took us to meet an old woman who lived in the house next to hers. She told us this woman was the Bekelman woman’s friend. They went to school together. On the way there, she remembered the Bekelman woman’s name was Luba.

Helen went into her neighbor’s house and returned with a babushka, Adela Vishnovska who told us she remembered Luba Bekelman very well. They had been friends. We think Luba must have been born about 1915 which would make Adela about 85 years old. She told us Yankel had been a jeweler. Then she started reciting, “Aleph, Beth, Gimel, Daleth.” She said Luba taught her the Hebrew alphabet and she still remembered it. Then she dropped a bombshell. She told us Luba had emigrated to Israel and that there is a woman in town who still writes to her. You know where we went next.

Adela gave us directions and the old man led the way. We couldn’t thank Helen and Adela enough. We truly never expected to find anyone who knew anything about our ancestors. And now we were about to meet someone who still writes to one of them. We could barely control our excitement.

We walked up the road, uphill, for about a block and cut through a pathway between two houses until we came to a fence. Olek opened the gate and went inside. We still hadn’t gotten over our sensitivity toward invading anyone’s private property but Olek was in the lead and we had come to trust his judgment. And, as usual, there was no problem about barging right in. We asked to see Nina Orchevetna, the woman who writes to Luba Bekelman. Nina seemed excited to meet us and immediately invited us into her house to see photographs she had of Luba.

Nina’s house is painted what we came to think of as Minkivtsi blue. She has four rooms. Two of them seem to be bedrooms. Each room opens into another. The first room has two beds made up to look like daybeds or couches. The beds are set perpendicular to each other against the walls. The two other walls in this room each have only a doorway leading to another room. The beds are covered with oriental style rugs and each has a round bolster in the center with a piece of lace cloth covering it.

There are wall coverings, sort of like oriental rugs, hung on all the walls. The walls, themselves, seem to be painted plaster. All the rooms are painted the same light blue color.

The next room is also a bedroom. It has two beds, parallel to each other, also covered with oriental style rugs, jutting into the center of the room. This room also has a cabinet, a stand for an old TV, a telephone table and an ancient telephone, a small wooden table covered with an oilcloth and four chairs. The light bulb hung from the center of the ceiling without any adornment. The wall behind the beds had an oriental style rug on it.

The nicest room is the third room. It is the most fancy room in the house, but appeared to have no function. We did not see places to sit or to invite guests. There were tables with photographs and places with a few decorator pieces like vases, a mirror and something that resembled a dressing table.

The fourth room is the kitchen, but you would not recognize it as anything like the kitchens in America. There is no sink, of course, and no stove or refrigerator. There are small cabinets and shelves where canned foods and dishes are kept. Unfortunately, we don’t have a photograph of this room.

There is a small entryway where Nina and her husband Petrov take off their shoes before entering the main part of the house. Olek asked Nina if we should take off our shoes and she assured us it wasn’t necessary. Joan commented that this was good because she had a hole in her sock.Olek couldn’t believe that an American would have a hole in her sock.

Nina told us Luba and she were good friends. Luba was a telephone operator before the war. She worked at the post office where she delivered messages, telegrams. Nina was her supervisor. Luba was very poor and Nina tried to help her. She let Luba babysit her children while Nina worked. During the war, Nina’s family hid Luba. They dressed her in peasant clothing and, together, they delivered food to the people in the village. Luba’s brother was killed during the war.

Luba married Simon in about 1932. He also worked at the post office. Their son Yura, was born in 1934. He was a teacher and went to live in Chernovitz. . He had two daughters, Anitchka and another daughter whose name Nina couldn’t remember. Simon was drafted into the Soviet Army, went to war, never to return. They never heard from him again and it is assumed he perished. Yura is also dead. But as close as we can tell, his death is not war related.

After the war, Luba remarried, to Abraham Markovitch. They had a son Boris in 1947. Boris is a teacher of music. Nina proudly told us he completed his studies at the musical high school. Boris married Rose in Kamenetz Podolski where they had three sons. They divorced and she went to live in Germany with the boys. Luba and Abraham moved to Mogilov Podolski. Later, Boris and his second wife Luda, and Luba emigrated to Israel. Nina still writes to Luba there. She gave us Luba’s address and phone number. We will, of course, try to contact them. She is known as Luba Mak.

Nina went through her photographs and found several. We asked if she would allow us to take them home, to photocopy them and then return them. She agreed without hesitation. We were amazed at her generosity.

The car was parked down the hill, quite far from Nina and Petrov’s house. Olek decided it would be too far for us to walk to go back to the car so he left to get it. He told us he would park in the pathway leading up to Nina’s house. This left us alone with Nina. She was being so nice but we had no way to communicate with her. She spoke only Ukrainian and we spoke only English. Joan noticed a religious calendar on her table and began to read the Cyrillic names of the months. Nina corrected her pronunciation. She kept trying to tell us about the photographs and about Luba but we were unable to understand a word until Olek came back to rescue us.

Nina and Petrov invited us for lunch. We were reluctant to accept because they had so little but Olek assured us their feelings would be hurt if we did not accept. So we did. They went outside to their “summer kitchen” while we sat on a bench in the yard and enjoyed the fresh air. Olek picked apples from their tree and he and Joan ate them while we waited. They are small, green and sour, like Granny Smith apples, only more so, and very delicious.

We asked to see the “summer kitchen.” Olek explained that most people have a shack near their house where they cook on a propane stove for as long as the weather will allow. Petrov has a stack of sugar beets lying on the ground behind their house. The beets are used to make samahone, homemade vodka with honey added. Everyone makes their own. We asked to taste the vegetable. It looks like a large parsnip and tastes like slightly sweet parsnips.

When lunch was ready we were led back to the bedroom with the table and TV. The table had been moved out from the wall and set with five places. Petrov and Nina brought in sliced light brown bread, fried cubed potatoes, homemade, sour, Jewish style pickles, cubes of cold pork with the congealed fat left on, homemade raspberry juice and samahone. We noticed that they weren’t eating. We think they were concerned that there wouldn’t be enough food so we ate sparingly, insisting through Olek that they also eat. We tasted everything including the samahone. They were amused when Joan reported that she was getting tipsy after consuming only about half an inch of their vodka. Of course, we complimented their food. We were very moved by their generosity and kindness. They even invited us to stay in their house overnight but we were relieved to be able to tell them we had a hotel room waiting for us in Krasilov.

Petrov insisted that Joan take some samahone home with her because she had enjoyed it so much. He gave her a small bottle with a label for “CALIFIG ‘California Syrup of Figs’ With Senna.” Everything store bought is saved for re-use, especially bottles and tins.

Bobby asked if she could use their bathroom. Nina said sure and escorted her to their wooden outhouse. There is a board on the floor with a hole in it leading down to a three foot pit. Bobby says the boards were wet as though someone had “missed.” After using the “facilities,” Nina motioned for Bobby to follow her. She has a small pot in her hand. She led Bobby to a large cauldron of rainwater and proceeded to dip the small pot into the cauldron and pour water over Bobby’s hands from the small pot. There were many large pots in the yard to catch rainwater. Bobby later told us they had a “Turkish Standing” with a small shelf containing torn bits of paper that could be used in place of toilet paper. We had been carrying tissue packets for just such an emergency and she was glad to have hers.

As we were preparing to leave, Nina asked if we knew Bella Finkel. She said Bella used to send them packages of food and clothes but the Soviets learned of this and made them send the packages back with a note that these items were not needed. Bella’s mother Chaia (Ida) Milstein was the daughter of our great grandmother Fannie Bekelman Milstein Maschtalier/Brautman.

We could not thank Nina and Petrov enough. They are proud people and we felt we would insult them by offering to give them any money. We left some hryvnas under one plate and decided to send them a gift when we returned their photographs.

We were overwhelmed by the kindness of the people we had met and were astounded to meet people who knew any of our relatives. This was completely unexpected. We’ve read stories on the Internet where visitors to ancestral towns met relatives or people who know their relatives, but we never expected it would happen to us. We both felt that, this day alone, made the entire trip worthwhile.

BACK TO MAIN PAGE