Letters written between my great uncles and cousins have opened up lines of communication that were quiet before this trip came into being. They are talking to one another about my institutionalized great uncle, about the artists in the family, about the long histories of love and reserve and rancour that stretch through the generations, and that are being, I hope, healed somewhat by my questions. My questions: What should I look for? Who do you know there? What traces remain? Who was our family? Why did they leave? Who remained? What happened to them?
In Kiev, there are archives. In Berdychiv, there was my grandmother's family. And there are the statistics: 90% killed in the second world war; 40,000 in the Pograms at the turn of the century. The immigrants to Buenos Aires and Ellis Island. Those who immigrated never talked about the old country.
But what is the old country? Tonight I wandered around Podil, the former Jewish ghetto of Kiev. I stopped for a beer at a corner by a metro station. The man wouldn't take Euros. Everyone seemed so white. I was looking for signs that they were violent, or mean. I admit that. I found none. It is a beautiful city made of some of the most beautiful young women I've ever seen, and young men who seem intent on making them happy. Soviet style block-ish houses sidle up against 18th century apartments. There is graffiti everywhere. Abandoned buildings abut new constructions. The cobbles are shaped blocks. When a rain storm passed over, people huddled under the awnings, smoking, and didn't seem at all perturbed.
I had received a ride into the city from a doctor who practices holistic integrative medicine, and travels the world consulting. He is from Siberia and has lived in Kiev for 37 years. He got his assistant to drive me right to my hotel door, after bringing us to his clinic. He gave me his card and told me to call if I have trouble, and to not miss seeing the New Botanical Gardens, where all the lilacs in the world are currently in bloom.
After the rain, I walked back toward the hotel, and then kept going. I circled the rural hill where giant St. Andrew's Church sits on a promontory. I turned a corner. Buena Vista Bar. "Hablamos Español" said the sign. I hadn't spoken to anyone in a meaningful way in two days. I scored a seat with a view of the band and the entry, and for two hours drank tequila and ate tacos and watched group after group literally dance their way down the stairs into the underground bar. Cuban waiters, who when I looked quizzical, said, "We all end up somewhere." The band was fantastic. The lead singer came up to talk to me on the break. I told him why I was here. He pulled out a star of David from a chain under his shirt. "Are there any other bars in Kiev that speak Spanish?" I asked. "I doubt it," he smiled. Beautiful woman after beautiful woman sashayed on the dance floor. The men who knew how lead them in salsa and cumbia, and knew enough to step back during the cha-cha. They were young, and thin, and laughing, and the place was like a living room where everyone knew one another.
The past perhaps lives on stronger in those who have left. In this city, there's a set of cheekbone and jawline that I admit makes me feel skittish. But I've found little but laughter and instantaneous generosity. Men carrying boiled eggs and meat around in plastic bags for the after-drink snack. Dried fish in stacks on the bar. American music on the stereo. The waitress with tattoos up her neck singing, "beep beep!" as she passes, to the dancers.
The stones of the buildings may not have moved on. The earth in the greening fields around the city as we flew in. The cobbles upturned and kicked by a man off the side of the street. The occasional fracas, like the burning bottle thrown through Podil's synagogue two years ago. But there's this pull in two directions. I'm in the river of it, flowing both ways.
