Contradictions

It’s been a while.

This entry was supposed to be about exhaustion----about the jam-packed pace of my daily life that has made an perception of hard work I had experienced up to this point seem like a distant memory. But then a day like yesterday happens, a transformative day wedged in the middle of end on end of transformative days. There are some days when I think I begin to understand my surroundings, these people, this experience. And then a day like Sunday occurs, and I begin to come to the realization that I don’t know anything at all.

When I arrived in my current humble abode in Boyarka, Ukraine, I sent out some feelers, via the well-connected network that is the Jewish community, to discover whether I could find any information about any Jews who might live in my vicinity. My endeavours were met with questioning success until one day I received a call from a man named Piotr, looking for “Jemy.” He said he had gotten my name from an American Rabbi named Martin Horowitz (whom I heard of via Rabbi Michael Strassfeld) and identified himself as the head of liberal Jewish communities in the Cherkasska Oblast, where I was placed. He only lived about an hour or so away! I could barely hide my excitement. Here were a group of Jews, attempting to pray right under my nose.

We attempted (in vain) to meet up on a few occasions, but it kept falling through for one reason or another. Finally, we set up a date. In all of Cherkasska oblast, there is only one pre-war synagogue that is currently in the hands of the Jewish community. This is in a small city Zvenaharodka, less than an hour from where I live. The Sunday after Simchat Torah, the day where the Jews complete their yearly reading of the Torah, the whole community was going to meet at this synagogue, to talk, to eat, to pray.

As I entered the synagogue in Zvenaharodka, I was overwhelmed by a familiar feeling, the same emotions that took over the first time I went to synagogue in Warsaw and first prayed with a group of Jews in Kiev. It was this hard to define notion of being home miles from home, a temporary cure for the chronic displacement that makes it so hard for me to stay in one place.

The moment I found Piotr, he embraced me, as if we had known each other for years. He incepted this bond immediately, this feeling that we were two peas in a pod, he and I, that we were brothers, that he was my father, that he was my friend.

Piotr was feeling a bit rushed. Today was a big day, he explained. We are going to read Torah, and we are going to sing, and we are going to conduct a Bar and Bat Mitzvah for three of our teenage Jewish members. But no one could really read Torah and only a few people knew the songs and how in Hashem’s name were we going to conduct a Bar Mitzvah anyway. The serendipity of the moment was borderline hilarious. Finally, I thought, $150,000 and 14 years of Jewish education was going to pay off, not to mention that handy ol’ rabbinical lineage.

And so when the time came to read the Torah, I read the last portion of Dueteronomy, talking of Moses death and the fate that waited the people Israel. I repeated the words, Chazak, Chazak, Venitchazek, Strong, Strong, and may we go from strength to strength. I taught them how to properly roll a Torah scroll from the end to the beginning, I taught them about the circular notion of it all, I read the first few lines of Breishit and I incepted the cycle anew. I chanted for them a tune that many had never heard, I did my best to give them a glimpse of a Judaism they hardly knew.

For this group of Jews were largely uneducated. Many had only discovered their roots in the last twenty years, and those who had known longer often hid the truth. When the three teenagers approached to participate in a ritual that had defined our community for almost two millenium, this coming of age, they were about as clueless as everyone else, about as clueless as I was myself. But I had seen my father go through the motions a million times or two, I knew the basic gist.

Place the Tallit, the prayer shawl, on your head. Repeat the blessing. Say Amen. Collect the fringes of the shawl, and wrap it around your finger. Bring the fringes towards the words on the Torah scroll, touch the words (with the shawl, not your fingers!) and bring it to your lips. Kiss the word of God. Repeat the blessing, after me. When I finish, repeat the process once more. And let us say, Amen.

Then, in the best Neal Borovitz imitation I may have ever pulled off, I recited the Birkat Cohanim, the preistly blessing, my Tallit on my head and my hands stretched out in a manner that would have made Leanord Nimoy proud. May God Bless you and protect you. May God be kind to you and be gracious to you. May god smile upon you always, and bless you with peace. And let us say, Amen.

There were a plethora of amazing things about this experience, not the least of which was not only was this my first pseudo-rabbinical experience, but it was entirely in Ukrainian. As I returned home from synagogue that day, I was imbued with a feeling of warmth. I felt really, truly happy. I looked forward to being with my new family sometime soon.

Life is hard in the village. Obviously I already feel like an outsider, the sole American. Yet the compounding of being a Jew, the ultimate outsider, can sometimes make this issue even more difficult.

I have often spoke fondly on these pages of my School Director, a man whose ideas and energy in many ways keeps this town moving. He is a good man, an honest man. He is also a Ukrainian man, and thus, on occassion, enjoys a drink or fourteen.

On one of these oh so special nights, he paid me a visit at my house. He proceeded to give a brief lecture on Ukrainian history, focusing heavily on World War II, the great famine, tragedies, death, destruction, and other happy topics. Somehow he segued into a discussion of communism, and Marx, Engels, and Lenin began to play into the discussion. Then he threw it at me, with the force a cannonball: “Jeremy. chomu bci yiverei abo anheli abo demoni.” Jeremy. Why are all Jews either angels or demons.

Suffice it to say I didn’t really have an answer for that question, or even an answer of how to respond to that question, or really any idea of anything to say at all. I guess in a way he was complimenting me, as I’m assuming he does not place me in the demon category. But there are honestly so many levels to that statements, so many language barriers and culutural barriers that prevent a serious discourse. I didn’t know what to say. So I said nothing.

There is one family in the village over, the Verhulatsky family, who are exceptional exceptions. The family is guided by two brothers, one of whom has four children, the other who has seven. Six of these eleven students are at the top or near the top of their class. The others have either completed school or are under the age of 6. Nearly every member of the Verhulatsky clan comes to me on a weekly basis to have an English lesson. On Wednesday nights at six, one of the families comes to me in full tow: The first grader Luba, the fifth grade Lesya, the eighth grader Kolya and the eleventh grader Yuri, not to mention the father, Vitaly.

During our last lesson, the father asked me if my mother missed me. I responded with a bit of a joke, saying that my mother was a classic Jewish mother, and that she had been missing me since I left the womb (I swear it was only a joke, Mom!) This joke was followed by an awkward pause, and suddenly I realized: They had no idea I was Jewish. I hadn’t been keeping it a secret, but I hadn’t exactly been advertising it, either.

We began to have a discussion about religion, and God, and Jesus. They were a bit incredulous about the fact that I didn’t believe Jesus was the son of God. He was the messiah, Vitaly told me. You must acknowledge this.

I said that for me, when the messiah comes there will be peace on earth.

He told me that Jesus told us he would be back.

I responded that if Jesus comes back, I will be the first to admit I was wrong.

He retorted that then, it will be too late.

I stopped the conversation there in its tracks, knowing it can’t be leading anywhere good. I said that all people have the right to their own beliefs, to their own set of doctrines, to their own personal relationship with God. One thing works for me and something else works for somebody else. They were temporarily satisfied, but I could shake this notion that somehow I was now different in their eyes.

I had known for some time now that this area used to be heavily populated with Jews. In my village alone, 623 Jews were killed by the Nazis during the Holocaust. No one seems to know, however, where they were killed, where they were brought and shot or burned or drowned or who knows what or why or when or how. I had often asked my Director for more information about it, but his hesitance was often quite clear. There were places to see, things I could witness. Later, he said. Not now.

Last week, Piotr called me. On Sunday, he told me, there would be a conference in Korsun, his home city, about the Holocaust. He had arranged a ride for me, he had set it all up. He looked forward to seeing me there.

He gave me the number for Oleksander, a name that was to serve as my transportation for the even. We arranged to meet in my village center at 830 in the morning. I didn’t think it would be hard to find him, because, well, its pretty rare that there are cars and/or people in my village center.

My suspicions prevailed, and as soon as I saw the blue Sovietsky style sedan pulling into the village, I flagged him down. As soon as he saw the funny looking American with the messenger bag, he stopped. I got in, we exchanged pleasantries, and went on our way.

It took a few minutes into the car ride for us to get to the juicy stuff.

“Ti Ivreyi?” You are a Jew?

“Tak. Ya Yivreyi. a vi?” Yes, I am a Jew. And you?

“Moye Tato bulo. Ale ya chrestiyan.” My father was. But I am a christian.

The adamance with which he emphasized the last part of that statement left quite an impression on me, one that lingered for the rest of the time together. He did not seemed ashamed, like some Ukrainians I have met, of his Jewish lineage. But at the same time, he wanted to be clear that he was a Christian, that he believed in Jesus, that he wasn’t quite one of me, not anymore.

He began to tell me what he knew of the Jewish communities that used to exist here, what he remembered and what his father had told him. When he grew up, there had been four Jewish families in Lisyanka, my regional center, and one in my village itself. This was post war, post genocide, post destruction. Almost all had since fled to Israel. I asked him about the war itself, about the Jews who had been killed. He slowed down the car and looked away from the road, into my eyes.

“Meni Treba tobi pokazati schos.” I need to show you something.

He took us down a side road of the main one, and then from there pulled onto a dirt path that could hardly be called a road at all. He drove us into the woods, and I briefly considered the notion that I was about to be dragged into some abandoned cabin and forced to perform some acts straight out of the movie “Hostel.” Instead, he stopped in the middle of these woods, right near a small gated off area.

As we approached it, he tried to paint a picture. Here there was a well. Here is where they lined them up. They threw the old people in the well first, saving the children for last. They thought if they didn’t throw the children in first, the parents would cooperate. One by one they drowned them, shooting the few with the courage to run. One by one until they reached 300, they killed all the Jews of Lisyanka they managed to round up.

There was a small monument there, a tablet sized stone commemerating the event. On this spot, it read, the fascists drowned 300 members of our community.

I was shocked it didn’t say Jews. Oleksander was more upset by something else.

“Tse ne bulo fashisti. Ukrayintzi robili.” It was not the fascists. Ukrainians did this. Ukrainians killed these Jews.

I wasn’t shocked. I had hear this story before. But to a certain extent I had convinced myself it wasn’t true. Not these people, not in this village, not in my place. Here we had a good relationship. Here we were friends. Here...it just wasn’t like that here.

Turns out it was.

Oleksander and I continued on our way towards Korsun, Our range of conversational topics varied, from what he does in Lisyanka (he is in charge of the electrical grid) to his family (wife, two kids) to whether or not his siblings identify at all with Judaism (they don’t.) He asked me why I didn’t believe in Jesus, and whether or not there were alot of Jews in America who did believe in Jesus. He asked, I answered and on our conversation went.

When we arrived in Korsun, I was immediately embraced by my now old friends. We were glad to see each other, and we did what Jews always do when they meet up: We ate.

While I originally thought the conference was about the Holocaust in general, it turned out it had a much more specific theme: Jewish Heroes of the Soviet Union. This refers to Jewish soldiers who received the coveted “Heroes of the Soviet Union” medal for their service in World War II. Think Congressional Medal of Honor, but perhaps a bit more prevalent.

The whole day, weirdly enough, seemed to a mix between a celebration of their Soviet Heritage and a celebration of their Soviet Heritage. Different community members stood up and rattled off the accomplishments of various Jewish soldiers, how they proudly served their country in the war. And more often than not, that person’s history was included with a sidenote, that their family was all killed while they were out at war. These people were celebrating a country that at best failed to protect its Jews and at worst willingly participated in their annhilation. They sang the Soviet anthem and danced Soviet dances and reminisced about the good ol’ days bread was cheap and dissent was forbidden. What was I missing?

Towards the end of the conference, a man stood up dressed in full army garb. He is currently a Colonel in the Ukrainian army, and was an officer in the Soviet Army before that. He also had some sort of Jewish genealogy, although precisely how much he was a bit reluctant to say. He spoke of his own army experiences, his own knowledge of Jewish war heroes. But he kept beating around the bush about his own Jewish identity. He didn’t seem to want to talk about it, not too much.

Later on, after the conference, Piotr offered him a Jewish calendar. He refused. What if someone saw?

It was important to this colonel, this army man, that the contributions of Jewish soldiers be recognized. But he did not want to be thrown in with their sinking boat. He was deathly afraid that others would paint him for another stinking Jew.

At the end of the conference, Oleksander stood up to say a few words. He talked a lot about Germany, and how the German government admitted its atrocities during World War II and has tried to rectify some of them. This includes a policy in the 60s and 70s of allowing free immigration to anyone of Jewish descent. Most of the takers were people who were then living in the Soviet Union. Oleksander spoke of the German President visiting the state of Israel in the early 50s and openly weeping. He spoke of repentance, and forgiveness.

Look at the German country, he decried. Look at their economic success, at their business success. Look at how much they have been able to accomplish. They, a country who has admitted their mistakes and tried not to repeat them, has flourished. Ukraine, on the other hand, a country that has made it policy to turn a blind eye to any event where they are not themselves the victim, Ukraine, he told us, is stuck in the mud.

There was something very Christian in what he was saying, some Baptist tied belief in confession and forgiveness. And while I don’t prescribe to the ideology, and I don’t think that Ukrainian’s owning up to their past will change economic fortunes, he was making a point. This is a country with a very subjective view of the past. People on the left have one subjective view and people on the right another but overall few seem to be able to remove their emotions from their viewpoints, something I can strangely empathize with. Ukrainians have a selective memory. And for most, their Jewish past is something they’d like to forget.

While Oleksander was talking, he also identified himself using his patronimical name, as the son of Volf. The patronimical name is widely used in Ukraine---in fact, in school I am known as Jeremy Natanovich (Natan being my father’s Hebrew name). He wanted people to know that his father was Volf, his father was a Jew. Later on, when I was relating the story to my director, he mentioned that he knew the man, but that he often went by the name Oleksander Vassilovich, not Volfovich. With jews he was a Jew. With the gentiles he was one of them as well.

There are a lot of contradictions here, a lot of double sided coins and a lot of trickery and a lot of not being everything that it seems. Much of it I don’t quite understand. Are they anti-semitic or are they remorseful? Do they love my people or hate them? Is it fear or shame? Is it loathing or respect? Did we kill Jesus, or was Jesus a Jew? Am I an angel, or am I a demon?

I had to move recently to another house in my village. I was having a plethora of problems with my landlord. He wanted more money, he wanted me to take care of his yard, he saw this American, and possibly this Jew, and dollar signs flashed in his head. My landlord’s wife kept telling me to use less gas (when it is freezing outside), to use less light (when it gets dark at 4). There were problems.

The whole situation was stressing me out, so my director decided to find me a new place to live. My new house is much nicer than my old one (albeit still no running water, and the outdoor toilet needs some work.) I do, however, have a “sink,” where you pour water in the top, it comes out a faucet, and then drips into a bucket at the bottom. I’ll send video when I can, but it pretty much ahs changed my life.

This week, my director and I went over to my old house with my landlord, so we could walk through the house while they complained about how much they had to pay for electricity and heat and how much of the house they needed to repair. They were hurling accusations at me, telling me I was wasteful and despondent and irresponsible. I paid them their money and walked out of the house, too upset to deal with them any longer.

My director drove me back home, and he could tell I was upset. “Tze ne bulo ty.” It was not you. It was them.

He gave me a wide variety of consoling words, telling me how much good I was doing, how hard I was working, how much everyone appreciated me in the village. Then he brought up the landlords. Jeremy, he said, “Ty Yivreyi, ale voni Zhid”. You are a Jew, but they are Zhids, a derogatory term about Jews inferring they are cheap. Think of it as the Ukrainian version of the German “Kike.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. He was this man, who cares about me, who likes me, who was trying to console me. And how does he do it? By comparing those who work against me to my own ancestors. He tries to make me feel better by using a racial slur against my own people.

Some days the insanity and the contradictions and just everything I can explain and fail to comprehend becomes too much. But I think what I’ve learned is that I need to let some stuff slide. Intentions matter more than words. Maybe the past is dark and maybe the present is biased, but if I can laugh in the face of generations old anti-semitism, the future can’t be so bad.