Krasnostav, where my mother was born, is formerly a Jewish small town, sort of a village, in the vicinity of Slavuta, Ukraine. When I was growing up, I only knew that from my mom that she was born there, and that’s the place where her parents and five out of eight siblings were killed. In fact, her older sisters already had their own families with three to four children; in other words, almost everyone in my mom’s family was killed.
Tashkent - Kiev - Slavuta
We were living in Tashkent; after the war, my mom married my dad, a Bukharian Jew. Obviously, I had never visited any village or small town before and really wanted to go there, since a person who grows up in a city has no idea what village life is like. As a city dweller, I had this interest. Besides, that’s where my mom lived. So, when my mother asked me to come along with her to her hometown, I agreed, but I was already 21 at that time, was married, and lived separately from my parents. In 1976, people from all over the Soviet Union gathered in Krasnostav to mark the 35th anniversary of their relatives’ death. My mom was going there for the first time after the war. Before she just couldn’t find strength to visit the common grave – maybe she didn’t have a chance to or just couldn’t bring herself to visit the town of Krasnostav because it was too painful to see and remember. She might’ve been afraid to go there alone, so she wanted me to accompany her.
We came to Kiev, where we took a train to Slavuta, which is about five hours away. We were joined by Uncle Lyonya and Aunt Emma, the only other survivors in the family. In Slavuta, we stayed in Uncle Yasha and Aunt Liya’s house (Uncle Yasha was their second cousin).
We came to Kiev, where we took a train to Slavuta, which is about five hours away. We were joined by Uncle Lyonya and Aunt Emma, the only other survivors in the family. In Slavuta, we stayed in Uncle Yasha and Aunt Liya’s house (Uncle Yasha was their second cousin).
The first thing that struck me in that town when I went for a walk is that complete strangers said hello to me. This never happened in Tashkent. Then I heard mooing cows and crowing roosters, which resembled being in a village. I also heard and read about milk from freshly-milked cows but never tasted it. I really wanted to taste it and told Aunt Liya about it. She ran somewhere early in the morning to get me this milk, but unfortunately the cows had been milked already, and the owners had given the milk away. But the fact that Aunt Liya reacted to my simple statement in such as way reveals what a great spirit she had.
Next morning, everyone who came to town or lived there got into a chartered bus and went to Krasnostav. I don’t remember how long the trip took, but it wasn’t that long – an hour or maybe more. When we got there, the bus brought us to the edge of a forest, a 10-minute walk from the town of Krasnostav. It was in August, and the weather was great. The fresh, clean air was intoxicating and couldn’t compare to the hot and dusty Tashkent air. Facing away from the forest, I was mesmerized by the beauty of the vast expanses of the place where my mom was born and grew up. It was a captivating sight – a real village with straw-roof huts and one dirt road dotted with deep holes.
This first impression is forever etched in my memory. |
How is it possible that people were killed given all this beauty around? ....
I thought then, how is it possible that people were killed given all this beauty around? In fact, only Jews were killed: for the most part, these were the elderly, women, children, infants, absolutely innocent people – no one was spared. The question is what for? Just for being Jewish. God has chosen this people for life and creativity, while Hitler – for murder.
However, it was not the Germans but the Ukrainian politsai (auxiliary policemen) who did the killing in that town. They surrounded the town at night so that no one could escape and then dragged people out of their houses. They drove people in a club like cattle, beating them with sticks along the way. After that, they told one child from each family to bring the valuables and money that they had in the house; in this case, their parents and relative can leave. Parents told their kids to run away, hide, and not return, but what kind of children would leave their parents to be killed? So, all the children returned and brought everything they could find at home. Everyone was killed, but few were shot – they were probably saving bullets – people were just pushed into the pit with sticks and rifle butts, virtually alive, and then covered with earth. The locals were saying after the war that the earth was moving for about three to four days following the killings.
Only three people managed to get out of there.
However, it was not the Germans but the Ukrainian politsai (auxiliary policemen) who did the killing in that town. They surrounded the town at night so that no one could escape and then dragged people out of their houses. They drove people in a club like cattle, beating them with sticks along the way. After that, they told one child from each family to bring the valuables and money that they had in the house; in this case, their parents and relative can leave. Parents told their kids to run away, hide, and not return, but what kind of children would leave their parents to be killed? So, all the children returned and brought everything they could find at home. Everyone was killed, but few were shot – they were probably saving bullets – people were just pushed into the pit with sticks and rifle butts, virtually alive, and then covered with earth. The locals were saying after the war that the earth was moving for about three to four days following the killings.
Only three people managed to get out of there.
Of course, I learned about all of that later, but then I just took out my simple Smena camera and realized that I had to take pictures of this. I didn’t know how they’d come out, but these memories would be important to my mother. After all, when will she came here again? As it turned out, this was her only trip to Krasnostav, and probably my only trip as well.
When everyone got off the bus, we slowly walked to the forest. I think we walked for around fifteen minutes, but maybe more. The ground was wet under our feet. We were walking along the path made by horse-drawn carts. I was surprised to see that there was a path carved out in the forest wide enough for a horse-drawn cart to pass.
When everyone got off the bus, we slowly walked to the forest. I think we walked for around fifteen minutes, but maybe more. The ground was wet under our feet. We were walking along the path made by horse-drawn carts. I was surprised to see that there was a path carved out in the forest wide enough for a horse-drawn cart to pass.
We were walking and quietly talking to each other; I remember talking to someone about some unrelated topic, so I even lost focus of where we were going. Suddenly, a fence surrounding a small monument on a hill popped up in our way. Women, who came up to the fence first, started crying right away. I glanced at my mom and saw that her almost fainting, grasping on to Aunt Emma not to fall down. Propping each other up, both of them were making their way to the gate in the fence. I started photographing mom, Aunt Emma, and other women crying hunched over this enormous hill grave. Sometimes, they laid down on it, sobbing and saying Jewish names and something in Yiddish. I was shocked at how they reacted to the tragedy that happened 35 years ago. Looking at them, one could think it all happened yesterday, so deeply it was lodged in the surviving children, although they were not children anymore.
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The monument was made out of concrete and had an inscription in Russian that 785 Soviet people killed by the Nazis were buried here. Not a word about Jews, since it was prohibited to write about this in the Soviet times. Ethnicity could and had to be written on one’s birth certificate and passport, but not on the monument. Some letters on the monument and the monument itself had bullet holes on it, and that’s in peacetime. Apparently, not all politsai were killed off, or new ones were born.
Some time later, everyone gathered in a circle, and whoever could and wanted to share his or her memories did that.
Some time later, everyone gathered in a circle, and whoever could and wanted to share his or her memories did that.
I remember one woman with completely gray hair. She was one of the three who managed to make it out of the put. Her name was Chana or something else – I don’t quite recall. She told us that a man and a boy got out with her, but the boy went ahead of them and ran into a few politsai. He ran back right away to warn Chana and the men that there were politsai ahead. Then they heard the shots, and she and the man ran in different directions. She hasn’t seen them since. After a long time, she happened to meet a partisan unit and stayed there.
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Then people passed a can around – I think it’s called “tsedookah” – and everyone put whatever money they could there for maintaining the monument. One man who came from Riga showed everyone a 100-ruble bill and stuffed into the can. It was a lot of money back then; the rest gave one, three, five rubles – but every single person gave.
Mom's memories ...
After the people calmed down a bit, we walked from the forest to the village. I then noticed that mom looked totally different; it’s like she turned into a little girl. She was walking along this muddy clay road, but it felt like she was ready to run or dash down the road as she did as a child a thousand times. We first passed the club, and mom explained that that’s where all the meetings, parties, dances, and cultural events took place. And that’s also where all the Jews of the town were kept before their death. She kept walking down this one street, pointing to the right or left and telling about people who used to live there. “Here I ran to see my friend,” she said, “and here I caught a pike with a bucket.” In short, everything to the smallest detail came back to her.
“Here,” she pointed to the empty space on the right, “is where our house stood. On this spot, I battered clay for bricks with my bare feet. All my brothers and sisters battered the clay. There was good clay in this place, and our family on its own ran a small brick production enterprise here.” Mom’s voice sounded emotional and reflected the way she felt.
“Here,” she pointed to the empty space on the right, “is where our house stood. On this spot, I battered clay for bricks with my bare feet. All my brothers and sisters battered the clay. There was good clay in this place, and our family on its own ran a small brick production enterprise here.” Mom’s voice sounded emotional and reflected the way she felt.
"Across the street is where our Ukrainian neighbors lived,” she continued, “they spoke Yiddish.” I came up to the house on the other side of the street and saw an elderly man and woman, toiling in their garden behind the green fence. Seeing me, they came to the fence. I asked them if they remembered the neighbors by the name Reznik who lived across the street from them before the war. “Of course,” they answered. We remember them well, but they were all killed,” they answered in Russian. But mom, who had come closer by then, responded in Ukrainian right away, saying that she is the Rezniks’ daughter Genya, and she survived along with two of her siblings. They were surprised, since they thought that everyone died. The conversation continued in Ukrainian – mom was fluent in it – but I only understood that when my grandmother was dragged out of the house, he arms were covered in flour up to her elbows (she must’ve been kneading dough).
Then the language of the conversation gradually switched to Yiddish. The elderly couple, who looked almost ninety, spoke Yiddish fluently. Of course, at that point, I understood nothing, but was in shock. Their entire life these people lived in the village whose pre-war Jewish population was 90 percent. They remembered and spoke Yiddish just as their native Ukrainian. I was amazed by it. I am a Jew and don’t speak the language, but they do as if they spoke it their whole life. I also remembered that episode for the rest of my life.
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While we were walking along that only street, the locals – probably the new ones – were coming out of their houses and looking at us with an expression of surprise; some said hello. Then we reached the end of the village-town and sat down on the grass in small groups to have a snack and drink to the memory of the dead.
“I didn’t give Jews up. I loved Jews.”
When we came up, Uncle Lyonya and Aunt Emma were already taking the food out. Uncle Lyonya removed a vodka bottle from his briefcase and volunteered to offer it to others who might not have taken it with them. No one was screaming or saying any toasts; people just drank to the memory of the dead in silence, everyone in his or her own group.
While we were eating, I noticed a gray-haired old man, about 80 years of age, standing not far from us. He was leaning on a fence, holding a makeshift cane. It looked like he was expecting something from us although he wasn’t looking in our direction. I asked Uncle Lyonya who that was. He told me that the man’s name was Ivan, and he was once a thug who became a head of a collective farm for a brief period of time after the revolution. Now he was waiting until someone pours him a glass of vodka. I asked Uncle Lyonya if I could pour him some. “Don’t rush. Eat first. Someone will pour him vodka, and then we will too. Don’t worry,” he said. But I couldn’t eat anymore when I realized why he was waiting. I took a piece of some snack, poured a glass of vodka, and brought them to him. He drank without eating, and when I was about to go back, he said something that felt like a knife driven to my heart. “I didn’t give Jews up. I loved Jews.” I was startled and didn’t know how to react. I felt like hugging him but didn’t do it for some reason. I thought everyone was looking at me, so I didn’t give in to this first impulse, which I regret to this day. Maybe he said it because of the vodka glass, or he just got emotional – it doesn’t matter; he said it. I guess a person should go with his first instinct not to have any regrets later.
While we were eating, I noticed a gray-haired old man, about 80 years of age, standing not far from us. He was leaning on a fence, holding a makeshift cane. It looked like he was expecting something from us although he wasn’t looking in our direction. I asked Uncle Lyonya who that was. He told me that the man’s name was Ivan, and he was once a thug who became a head of a collective farm for a brief period of time after the revolution. Now he was waiting until someone pours him a glass of vodka. I asked Uncle Lyonya if I could pour him some. “Don’t rush. Eat first. Someone will pour him vodka, and then we will too. Don’t worry,” he said. But I couldn’t eat anymore when I realized why he was waiting. I took a piece of some snack, poured a glass of vodka, and brought them to him. He drank without eating, and when I was about to go back, he said something that felt like a knife driven to my heart. “I didn’t give Jews up. I loved Jews.” I was startled and didn’t know how to react. I felt like hugging him but didn’t do it for some reason. I thought everyone was looking at me, so I didn’t give in to this first impulse, which I regret to this day. Maybe he said it because of the vodka glass, or he just got emotional – it doesn’t matter; he said it. I guess a person should go with his first instinct not to have any regrets later.
On the way back to the bus, I stopped by a small local store which sold everything like a supermarket. Only that it was very poor and carried almost nothing. I wanted to bring some souvenir from this place. I chose a plush, reddish, very old-fashioned rug with a picture of deer on it. Later, I hung it over my older son’s bed. When he grew up, it kept hanging over my younger son’s bed reminding me of Krasnostav.