A Few Yesterdays Ago

By Arlene Hecksel

Grandmother, we have come looking for you. Since you no longer walk upon this earth we are making a journey to the Motherland to find your spirit. In this land that nurtured and challenged you, we seek its solace and comfort also. We come to you as orphans, lost without our mother and our father, our brothers, our husband. We, your granddaughters should be grandmothers ourselves according to our years but we are without children. We are without progeny. The closer we get to our homeland, the closer we feel to you. We remember your subtle smile, your light touch and know that you greet us with open arms. It is to you that we turn so that we will not be alone, without family or without love. Mother and grandmother we greet you, we are your daughters who have come so far. We have wanted to make this journey to you for so long. Take us into your bosom and ease the pain within our hearts. We want only to be close to you and walk upon this Ukrainian earth that is so much a part of us all.

What is it that compels some of us to search for the lands of our ancestors? Why do I seek information about my grandparents and the “old country” from which they came? Why is it important for people like me to delve into these foggy and often perplexing accounts of who came from where and when? Why is it crucial for some of us to attempt to understand these relatives and to visit their homeland?

Lineage has always been of interest to me and to my sister and to some of our relatives. As a writing instructor, I frequently assign my students to write about their heritage, culture and traditions. I am always surprised and disappointed to learn that about three fourths of my students have no knowledge of their ancestors, nationality of origin or culture and, most shockingly, many do not care to explore these issues. Contrarily, my Ukrainian and German roots were stressed throughout my life by my Ukrainian mother plus we lived with our German grandmother. A trip to Ukraine to see the “old country” and visit the village of our ancestors was always discussed by my sister Louise and me. From conversations with our mother, Martha, who was proud to exclaim,” I’m a full blooded Ukrainian,” we learned that both sets of grandparents, the Ukrainians and the Germans lived in the same area in western Ukraine, the Galicia region, near the foothills of the Carpathian Mountains. Louise and I gained our interest in family and historical events from our mother who was the family archivist. She compiled numerous scrapbooks of World War II memorabilia, both national and local and saved newspapers and magazines pertaining to these events. She had a profound sense of family and global history. Her Lane cedar chest is brimming with these items.

My father’s German grandparents and father left Dolina (the German spelling) in 1893 when it was under the rule of the Austro-Hungarian Empire and our Ukrainian grandparents left Dolyna (Ukrainian spelling), Ukraine in 1913 when it was a Soviet territory. Both sides of our family tree came from the same village—only the borders changed during those times and the Ukrainians found their way to Fruitport, Michigan and the Germans to Nunica, Michigan, small rural villages about eight miles apart. To my knowledge, neither family knew of the other in the “old country.” Before we arrived in Dolyna, we thought the villages were about 40 or 50 miles apart, but when we set foot on Ukrainian soil, we learned that only about 100 yards separated both sets of ancestors. The village’s archives were studied by Larry Zaremba, a Ukrainian friend, on one of his trips to Dolyna, also the home of his family. He found the names of other families who came from Dolyna and settled in Nunica: Schmidt, Hellman, Frederick, Metzler, Werly, Bar and Goerz. I was always honored by the fact that I come from a long line of peasants, both Germans and Ukrainians who lived close to the earth through their agricultural heritage.

As the Air France jet landed smoothly on the Ukrainian runway in Kyiv, Louise turned to me and said, “We’re home.” A somewhat odd statement because obviously, America is our home but Ukraine is our ancestral home—land where both sides of our family tree existed. Because Louise and I had experienced the deaths of our mother, father, brothers and her husband, we were ripe for visiting the origin of our family’s home and connecting with our past. We needed this trip to Ukraine at this time in our lives to re-connect with our mother and the Motherland. We needed to come home. And because events leading up to this journey seemed to fall into place, our time had come for traveling to Ukraine. Exhausted from our 12 hour flight to Ukraine, we thought of our ancestors’ two week excursion across the Atlantic Ocean. I recall Grandma Domanchuk saying that she stayed down below the entire time because she was so seasick. Both of my grandmothers, the Ukrainian and the German, made their journeys to the New World with a sister. Grandma Domanchuk’s sister eventually settled in Canada and Grandma Hecksel’s sister chose to stay in Fortuna, N.D. Arranged marriages brought both of my grandmothers to their new homes in Michigan. Grandma Domanchuk had a brother who was exiled to Siberia for political reasons and that’s all we know about him. We never had a grandfather in our lives because both our Ukrainian and German grandfathers died long before we were born leaving their widows and children struggling to survive.

During the university’s first semester, I took my students to a “Study Abroad Fair” on campus as part of a writing assignment and because I wanted them to be exposed to other countries and cultures. That was a propitious occasion for me because I met Prof. Alexey Nikitin, both Ukrainian and Russian who hails from Kyiv. A good looking, thirty-something man with light brown hair and friendly blue eyes, Alex was presenting an informal power point presentation on Ukraine. “I’m Ukrainian too,” I said as I introduced myself. I remembered seeing him and his wife at a recent Native American Pow Wow on campus. His laptop offered photos of Ukraine’s vivid green valleys, colorful folk costumes and landscapes of rivers, meadows and lush vegetation. Familiar onion-domed cathedrals and churches accented its villages and cities. “My sister and I would like to go to Ukraine,” I said wistfully. Alex explained that he intended to take 12 students to Ukraine in the spring to study for six weeks. “Maybe we could come along for part of the trip? I asked hesitantly. “That would be possible,” he said with his Slavic accent. So, seven months later, Louise and I were in Kyiv, Ukraine’s Russian-speaking capital. Alex would meet up with us tomorrow. He was without his students, only ten had registered for the trip, so the university cancelled the program. However, Alex was there to do his research anyway which happened to involve us and our Ukrainian roots. It was a symbiotic relationship. We needed Alex as our guide in Ukraine and he needed our contacts in western Ukraine for his DNA testing. Alex, coincidentally, was researching three ethnic tribes from western Ukraine, one of which we are a part of, the Boikos. From Alex we learned that three ethnic tribes, the Lemkos, Boikos and Hutzuls are indigenous to western Ukraine and closely related to Ukrainians. Lemkos and Boikos were known as a farming people who congregated in villages at the foothills of the Carpathian Mountains, a continuation of the Alps. The Hutzuls are the mountain people who were typically engaged in cattle breeding and sheep herding. Since I’ve always been profoundly drawn to ancient cultures, I was ecstatic to discover that I am part of one, the Trypillian culture, a community that emerged in what is now called Ukraine about 5,400 to 2,700 B.C. Through his DNA testing, I’ve also learned that my ancestors left the Fertile Crescent area of Iraq and Iran about 7,000 years ago and migrated to the western Ukraine area and assimilated into this Trypillian culture. Louise’s reaction to this news was, “thank God our relatives left. Otherwise, we’d be wearing burqas today.” All of mankind, according to scientists, originated from Africa and ventured off to the Fertile Crescent area. Then they dispersed in waves throughout Europe and to other continents. We sought to further understand Alex’s research and how it relates to our lineage. Because of our desire for the motherland, this trip Ukraine was meant to be. Without Alex’s guidance and interpretive skills, our journey would not have been as rich and meaningful. We were fortunate to find our Ukrainian friend and we couldn’t have made this excursion any other way.

Louise, a world traveler for many years, planned this trip to the minutest details via emails from Alex and conversations with a Ukrainian friend from Muskegon, Larry Zaremba. Both were inexhaustible resources regarding Ukraine. Larry, a retired educator and principal and also Boiko, spoke fluent Ukrainian along with several other languages and would arrange for us to experience a home stay in western Ukraine with his cousins. Louise arranged for a driver to meet us at the airport in Kyiv.

Lenid, a Russian and experienced driver with dark complexion and hair, sparkling eyes, and a husky compact build, picked us up at the airport. He held a sign that said, “Forsythe,” Louise’s last name as we approached the airport exit and with his black leather jacket, he reminded me of a big teddy bear. In the car, both Louise and I experienced a bit of culture shock—Lenid spoke no English and we spoke no Russian or Ukrainian. As Louise began to explain to Lenid about where we needed to go, she began talking louder and louder. I think this is something people do when they realize they aren’t communicating. But Lenid was astute and dialed Oksana, our travel agent, on his cell phone. Speaking perfect English, Oksana told Louise that Lenid would take us to our apartment and that Alex would be there to greet us. And this is exactly what happened. Alex later told us that Lenid spoke Russian to him, which is the predominant language spoken in Kyiv. We came to realize later that Ukraine and Russia have a special relationship.

Alex called it a brother-sister relationship. Our first few days in Ukraine would be spent in Kyiv, a beautiful, modern city with centuries of ancient history. We stayed in an apartment versus a hotel, the preferred mode of housing for Ukrainian tourists. For $80 per night for two, we had a one bedroom apartment, kitchen and bathroom with tub and shower and washing machine, located a half block from Independence Square, the center of this bustling city which included many parks filled with trees that aided in subduing the city’s traffic pollution. Because Louise and I had just traveled 12 hours by plane and it was about 9 p.m., Alex gave us a quick run down of our fantastic location by directing us upward, to the top of our street. To our right were the five gold domes of St. Sophia’s Cathedral and to our left was St. Michael’s, another looming Ukrainian church with multi layers of history. Louise and I were struck by the beauty of these two edifices, subtly lit amidst chestnut trees on a warm Ukrainian spring evening. We had arrived in Kyiv on May 5, just days before the May 9 celebration, Liberation Day that ushered in a week long national holiday, the day that Ukraine was liberated during World War II from the Nazis. Alex said goodbye after walking us to our apartment and checking on our accommodations. He was staying with his parents about a ten minute walk away. Louise had arranged for an English speaking tour of the city tomorrow and Alex said he’d see us sometime later that afternoon.

From our walks in the streets among the Ukrainians, I overheard several familiar Ukrainian words that I heard spoken as a child. “Malenkyy,” which means “small” was something I recalled from my mother speaking Ukrainian with my grandmother and aunts. “Velykyy,” meaning “large” was another along with “dobry” which means “good.” Explaining my newfound vocabulary to Louise, I said, “you are malenkyy and I am velykyy.” And we used “dobry” for just about every response. A little bit of my Ukrainian heritage was returning.

After a somewhat restless attempt at sleep, and struggling to adjust to our new bio-rhythms, Louise and I readied ourselves for our tour with Tamara, our guide. She pronounced her name Ta-ma’-ra, with the accent on the second syllable. A tall woman, (about our age), with reddish brown hair and wearing a green pantsuit, she explained that ours would be a walking tour for about two hours. She took us up the same street that Alex had done previously and directed us to the two dominant cathedrals on our right and left. It was overcast, very humid and about 70 degrees with frequent “short rains,” as Tamara referred to the sporadic light showers. A history and English major and university graduate, Tamara who began spewing facts and dates about Kyiv first took us to St. Sophia’s, a lavender façade housing many ancient icons. I was eager to find out about Tamara, our first real Ukrainian, one we could communicate with, so I asked her questions totally unrelated to the history lesson that she offered us in a lecture format. As she pointed to the former apartment of President Viktor Yuschenko, I couldn’t wait to ask: “What was it like after independence?” And she added quickly, “It was like another country. We had access to American films and radio stations which before were blocked. Everything was open to us,” she added. Louise and I closely followed Ukraine’s “Orange Revolution,” led by Yuschenko in 2004. We were thrilled for the Ukrainians who successfully challenged their presidential election that was rigged to favor the Russian-backed candidate. We lamented our own American presidential election that showed evidence of rigging also and the demise of our precious democracy. The Ukrainians were able to demand a new election because of exit poll discrepancies which, alone, constituted a fraudulent Ukrainian election. Our own exit polls favored Kerry and after our national election, many discrepancies and questions remain over the legitimacy of our polling practices. We rejoiced with the Ukrainians and their quest for free elections and a true democracy. We respected their innocence and courage. Our apartment overlooked the scene of this Revolution and Independence Square where two million Ukrainians braved winter’s cold to march in the streets in support of Yuschenko. We wore our orange scarves in their honor.

As Tamara pointed to Independence Square, she said that about 2.5 million people live in Kyiv, her lifelong home. She also said that Yuschenko isn’t as popular now and has lost some of his charisma with his people because he failed to deliver on his campaign promises. Our guide seemed to want to adhere to her scripted tour talk instead of taking my questions so I decided to honor that. Louise and I gave each other quick knowing looks. She said that she studied English at the university and worked as a tour guide frequently with Mormon groups from Salt Lake City and Ukrainians from Winnipeg, Canada. We explained that we were Ukrainians also and would soon be making a pilgrimage to the foothills of the Carpathian Mountains to visit the land of our ancestors.

To the right of St. Sophia’s, a memorial to victims of an incident known as the “Ukrainian Holocaust” of l932-33 was erected. This historical event was new to me. Louise, the ever diligent photo journalist, took pictures of this monument to one of the most barbaric attempts at ethnic cleansing by Communist Party officials and Stalin. According to Karel C. Berkhoff, author of Harvest of Despair: Life and Death in Ukraine under Nazi Rule, all the grain and harvest was confiscated so there would be nothing to eat or plant. This was done to force the Ukrainians to bend to the will of Russia and its collective farms so the Russians orchestrated the “Great Famine” that cost the lives of 5 or 7 million peasants, approximately 10 per cent of the Ukrainian population. Berkhoff writes that scholars cannot agree on the number of people who starved because the incident was kept quiet. All peasants had to succumb to the collective farms and whoever resisted was expelled, deported or murdered (11).

Prof. Alexey Nikitin, PhD. Ukrainian Holocaust memorial

The Ukrainian Holocaust memorial consists of granite square which frames the silhouette of a figure with arms outstretched, as if pleading for mercy. The only English words near this monument proclaim, “Not to be forgotten.” A map of Ukraine shows the geographical extent of the famine that is termed “A Chronicle of the Communist Inquisition.” Indeed, history is written by the victors. Because Russia dominated the Ukrainian people, this historical event was hidden for many years. I don’t ever recall being aware of this incident despite the fact that former President Bill Clinton traveled to Ukraine in June 2000 to lay a wreath at this site bringing some of the world’s attention to this tragedy. History records that the Ukrainians actually greeted the Nazis as liberators at first because of the harsh and inhuman treatment they endured by Russia. But as history has taught us, Hitler was extremely cruel. According to Berkhoff, while the Jews were being exterminated, the Ukrainians were being deported to Germany as slave laborers (116). It was Hitler’s goal to empty the Ukraine of its people so that the Germans could expand into the area. Hitler, like many other oppressors, wanted to control the wheat fields of Ukraine and the oil fields of the Black Sea. He initiated a complete ethnic cleansing of the Ukrainians who he viewed as subhuman (95). He believed that Ukrainians should only be given the crudest kind of education so that they could communicate effectively with their German masters. In Ukraine today, many citizens are receiving reparations from Germany as payment for their forced labor (96).

Flying high above the memorial was the Ukrainian flag, blue and yellow. Tamara told us that blue symbolized the sky and the yellow stood for the golden wheat fields which the Ukraine was so famous for. Known as the breadbasket of Europe because of its fertile, black soil known as chernozem that is rich in humus, Ukraine was distinguished for its abundant harvests and hard working peasants and farmers who toiled this rich earth. Most of Ukraine consists of flat, fertile grasslands called steppes, according to Katharine Brown and Parvel Zemliansky in their book, Welcome to Ukraine. Its citizens are close to the earth, something we would witness more so in western Ukraine, where our grandparents came from. Another famine was forced onto this area in 1946-47 to coerce the people onto collective farms. One million Ukrainians perished during this horrific incident.

Tamara, glancing at St. Sophia’s and St. Michael’s, also informed us that Kyiv was once the spiritual center of Ukraine and that it is a mystical city and named for its founder, Kyy, prince of a Slavic tribe. Kyy and his two brothers and sister actually founded Kyiv about 482 CE. Christianity wasn’t introduced until 980 by Volodymyr who was succeeded by his son, Yaroslav the Wise (Hodges, Chumak 108). With Tamara, we viewed his sarcophagus in St. Michael’s where his remains are interred.

As we walked towards the open air market that was one of the most popular destinations in Kyiv, Louise stopped to take a photo. As I stood with Tamara, she looked at me, then at Louise and said to me: “one is like the father and one like the mother, no?” Realizing that she was commenting on the differences in our physical appearances, I smiled and said, “Yes.” Members of our family always thought that petite Louise resembled the Ukrainians and that I, a big boned hefty woman, took after the Germans.

Tamara also walked us past a large stone statue of Lenin, tucked away near a side street near the modern downtown. “That is for the old people,” she said explaining that the young people wanted to raze the black likeness. “But on Liberation Day some old people lay wreaths at its feet.” She said that some Russian generals still live in Kyiv, “there are about eight of them,” Tamara related. “And they’re awful,” she said as we approached the “Arch,” an effort by Russia to extend its hand in friendship to Ukrainians. This gigantic arch was intended to resemble a steel rainbow and commemorate “the union of Russia and Ukraine, but Ukrainians often referred to it as “The Yoke”’ (Hodges, Chumak 110). Tamara said that most Ukrainians balk at the memorial that overlooks the Dnipro River which flows through the country from north to south. Louise and I took a rather languishing river boat ride on this magnificent river during our first three days. Tamara related that Ukraine, the largest European country and slightly larger than France, is bordered on the west and south by Poland, Slovakia, Hungary, Romania and Moldavia. Belarus is to the north and to the east and northeast is Russia. The Black Sea comprises its southern coast and the Sea of Azov makes up its southeastern coast.

The Arch The Dnipro River

Just before we left for Ukraine, Chornobyl (Ukrainian spelling of Chernobyl), the site of the worst nuclear reactor disaster in history, observed that 20^th anniversary. Chornobyl is about 60 kilometers north of Kyiv and because of this tragedy, we were advised not to drink any water in Ukraine except bottled water. Kyivites were cautioned not to swim in the Dnipro River because radioactive sediment had settled on its bottom. Radioactive fallout from Chornobyl registered as far away as Arizona. Let those who espouse nuclear energy come to Chornobyl where incidences of cancer are high and deaths abound.

As we strolled with Tamara through the “old town” of Kyiv, we marveled at the slow pace with which the people ensued. Pedestrians walked much more slowly than on the streets of the United States. I, for one, liked this lackadaisical pace. I noticed that many of the men and women wore extremely pointed toe shoes. And everyone carried cell phones—even pre-teenaged children. These must be two of the latest trends in Kyiv. As we passed the stalls within the market, we looked at the many shops and storefronts that proclaimed their names and wares in the Cyrillic alphabet. A script based on Greek symbols, we could not decipher any of its characters. In 1861, two monks, Cyril and Methodius, devised this alphabet that is used in only four countries: Ukraine, Russia, Belarus and Bulgaria (Brown/Zemliansky 28). Fortunately, Alex showed us a cafeteria-style restaurant in which to dine called “Two Geese” and we could go through the line and point to what dishes we wanted. This food chain was located in the largest underground shopping mall in Europe, beneath Kyiv’s busy streets. Hardly anyone in Kyiv spoke English, at least the Ukrainians we met in the stores and restaurants. One young man in the open air market spoke excellent English. He explained that he studied at the university in Kyiv and worked part time selling in the market. We were so relieved to find someone to communicate with that I bought almost $20 in souvenirs just from him.

The food in Ukraine is heavenly. We had fantastically savory meals every time and paid about $4.00 for a dinner that consisted of salmon, mushroom and sweet pepper salad, radish/cucumber salad, bread, and a beer. All of the food had such a fresh taste, like the food our Grandmother cooked for us. Her stuffed cabbages were perfectly formed along with the lattice topped cherry pies. Grandma’s food and baked goods were made with extreme care and skill. We learned that food in Ukraine isn’t heavily processed like in the United States. Chicken, pork and fish were the main meats. Very little beef was eaten or appeared on the menus. “It’s not healthy,” explained Alex. “Ukrainians don’t eat beef. It causes colon cancer.” There are no prepackaged food outlets where merchandise contains chemicals and preservatives. Health food stores don’t exist in Ukraine. Grocery stores and markets carry a variety of juices and foods that are preservative free and fresh. Most of the food sold in Ukrainian markets is healthy. Louise and I bought a dark sausage with pockets of fat within its casings. It was greasy and delicious. This delicacy especially helped our initial bout with constipation upon arriving in Kyiv.

Ancient Obelisk Cyrillian Alphabet

While in Kyiv for the first few days of our trip, we made the short trip by cab to Babiy Yar, a place that I had read about and seen in documentaries and histories of the Jewish Holocaust. I had no idea that Babiy Yar was part of Kyiv. On Sept. 29 and 30 in 1941 over 100,000 Jews were executed in retaliation for a bombing of Nazi headquarters in downtown Kyiv. The Nazis had just invaded and overtaken Kyiv when the resistance attempted the bombing. The Jews were chosen as scapegoats for this offense and for two days all Jews in Kyiv were rounded up from the city and told to go to Babiy Yar where they were stripped naked, beaten, slaughtered and dumped into the gorge known as “the women’s valley” (Brown 33). Women, children, babies, men and elderly people were all treated horrifically and without mercy. Today, silence pervades the gorge of Babiy Yar where a memorial to the victims looms over the green valley. As Louise and I approached the monument, three women stood on the steps above. An elderly woman with white hair was weeping and flanked by two younger women. Bouquets of flowers were strewn across the stairway. As I gazed around at the massive unmarked grave, I thought: How could this have happened? For two days the Jews were marched through the streets of Kyiv and most everyone knew their fate. During a previous trip to Germany, Louise and I visited the concentration camp of Dachau where I wondered the same thing. Inside high stone walls was the horror of the camp and only a six inch wall separated these doomed captives from the German village. Outside those walls, Germans went on about their daily routines and lives. How could they have not known what was happening inside and how could they have allowed it? Alex told us that when Dachau was liberated by the Russian soldiers, the army gathered up the villagers and forced them to come inside to view the camp and its survivors. This went on for two days and some Germans died from witnessing the reality of the concentration camp. I was glad those Russian soldiers forced the Germans to look inside of those six inch walls.

Babiy Yar

Other European countries and the United States also share in the shame of the Jewish Holocaust. Many Jews boarded ships bound for America and other ports in the late 1930s to escape Hitler’s wrath but were turned away as they attempted to dock. Alex related that ten thousand Jews were to be deported from Eastern Europe in the early 1940s and every country except Poland refused them. “Poland took in every one of them,” Alex said seriously.

Louise and I quietly walked around the perimeter of Babiy Yar as three young boys on bicycles playfully attempted to transcend its slopes. I wonder if they had any knowledge of history and this God awful place.

Since Kyiv sits on three hills there are an abundance of gorges and step, treacherous valleys with a funicular railroad that ascends and descends the steep ravines in a cable car manner. A huge gorge surrounds the Ukrainian National Museum where we viewed a Trypillian exhibit. As Louise and I observed ancient fertility figures outside the building, we were drawn to this gorge and its ghosts. How many others were gunned down and thrown into its abyss? Gulleys throughout Europe were used for this purpose and only those who pretended to be dead while lying underneath murdered corpses survived as nightfall hid their escape. It is because of them that we know today the extent of the sadism of the Nazi forces. Approximately three fourths of Kyiv was destroyed during World War II and its population in Jan. 1940 was 846,724. By Dec. 1943, the population had dropped dramatically to 220,000 (Berkhoff 317). It is a testament to the Ukrainian people that it has been rebuilt with such architectural splendor and cultural beauty. Like many European cities, Kyiv was rebuilt from its ashes, something we Americans did not experience because the War did not reach our boundaries.

According to historian Andy Dougan, Kyiv was raided by “Pechenegs, Mongols, Swedes, Teutonic Knights, Lithuanians, Tartars, Polland, Russia, and Turkey” (14). And our guide told us that the Vikings also overcame Kyiv at one time. Prior to its takeover by the USSR, Kyiv endured 18 changes of governments within 18 months in 1917 (Dougan 15). Because of these frequent coups, the Ukrainians have a very complex, confusing and convoluted history. “No wonder they experience confusion as a people,” said Alex. “They don’t know who they are.”

Throughout the days proceeding the Liberation Day holiday on May 9, Ukrainians congregated to Independence Square for music, rallies, speakers and rock concerts. This square, the heart of Kyiv, is where Ukrainians strolled in droves during this carnival-like atmosphere. Some citizens, like our travel guide, Oksana, believed that the week long celebration was too much. “A long weekend would be sufficient,” she said. “It is too long now and people don’t feel like going back to work when it’s over.” We were heartened by the cleanliness of the city, orderliness of the crowds and lack of beggars, drunkards or street people. Because beer and wine are not considered alcoholic beverages in most of Europe and Ukraine is no exception, Ukrainians of all ages walked streets with beer in hand. When they finished their beverage, several “babas” or elderly grandmothers waited patiently to retrieve the empty bottles for their deposits. They would not accept money but thanked others for their bottles. Throughout the celebration, there were many musicians with their music cases open for donations. But the absence of beggars or annoying citizens was noticeable. We noted that the construction crews never stopped. That was one group of Ukrainian workers who were not enjoying a work free holiday.

Because we had learned about various phenotypes from Alex and his DNA research, I would observe carefully the faces of the Ukrainians on the streets. Most looked very European and I didn’t see anyone who looked like us. Both Louise and I had prominent noses, something the Hecksels had in common. However, I did see several men who looked strikingly similar to a Ukrainian professor on our campus back home. There were many different kinds of people—tall, average builds (no obesity), dark hair, light hair, dark eyes, and light eyes. Kyiv seemed to be an international city with many different groups represented on holiday. During our time there, I saw only one black person, probably from Africa, and one brown person. Those were the only people of color that I witnessed on the streets.

After spending three days in Kyiv becoming acclimated to our new surroundings, sleep patterns and bowel movements, we left the train station for a 12 hour ride to western Ukraine, and Dolyna, the home of our ancestors. I had heard the stories of Americans being kidnapped for ransom so it was with anticipation and some anxiety that we boarded the night train, relieved because Alex was traveling with us. Alex had warned us that the train ride would be taxing and probably not to our liking. He explained that although the train station was modern and appealing, the train we would be taking south and west was the oldest of its line. Louise had booked us a tiny sleeping compartment for two, bunk beds, with one jumper seat that folded up. Alex sat in that seat for several hours and because the train was empty, he was able to purchase a private compartment nearby for $20 American. He estimated that this train was probably from the 1950s. At about eight o’clock a woman brought us each a cup of hot tea, served in a silver antique holder with lemon wedges; it was delicious. As we drank our tea and viewed the countryside that slowly passed outside, Alex asked us if we saw any houses, villages or settlements that looked impoverished. “No, not at all,” I replied. Some people have the misconception that Ukraine is a Third World country but from what we observed, this was not true. Many homes were huge, new and lavish. Some areas may have been simple, but we saw no glaring poverty or unhealthy looking people. These people were surviving. Alex insisted that we visit the dining car to experience a glimpse of real Ukrainian train travel, which we did. Several tables were anchored to the floor of the car without stools or chairs in sight. Three railroad employees, two women and a man were in the car and pleasantly greeted us. Alex translated their comment, “we’d better spruce things up for the foreigners.”

Here, Louise and Alex were determined to sample Ukrainian horilka or vodka. They each had a shot followed by apple and pear juice. A young man, speaking English, introduced himself as a Ukrainian television sportscaster, and joined us in toasts to Ukraine. He was intrigued that Louise and I had traveled all this way to make this pilgrimage. I joined him for a shot of cognac with fruit and his smile was contagious. He was traveling to Lvov, the unofficial capital of western Ukraine to take his daughter back to Kyiv with him for all of the holiday festivities. Also named Alex, he treated us to a round and then another. I stopped at one shot and the silky smooth cognac had a fruity taste and smell of its own. Saying good night to the television journalist, Alex walked back to our bunks with us and returned to his compartment. A popular Ukrainian toast is Bud’ma, a solemn word that means, “Let us be,” a plea to their numerous oppressors.

The Valley of Dolyna

I didn’t sleep the entire night. I was bounced back and forth by the constant motion of the night train. Both Louise and I got up once to walk down the corridor to the toilet which was surprisingly clean and pleasant smelling. It included a toilet seat—not like some “squatters” we encountered in Kyiv. I was worrying about upcoming accommodations, outings, expenses, living arrangements, arthritic flare-ups and regularity. We arrived in Ivano-Frankivsk at 8 a.m., me without absolutely any sleep from the train ride. Larry’s cousin, Orest and his wife, Roslana, met us at the station. Tall, slim with light hair and a kind face, Orest ushered us to his van that seated nine. He looked like his Boiko cousin, Larry back in Musekgon. In the back seat were his son, Max, and cousin, Eva. None of them spoke English and Louise and I were totally incommunicado. Dolyna was about an hour’s drive from here. Alex was busy interpreting. He told us, “We will be staying with Roslana’s parents because their house is bigger. They live about seven miles from Dolyna.” Alex also relayed that Orest’s job was as a driver to university students and others traveling from Dolyna to Ivano-Frankivsk. He usually chauffeured two days a week and traveled to Germany on another day to bring back clothes from a second hand store. His mother-in-law, Natalia, washed and folded the clothes which her husband, a local doctor, sold in a market in Ivano-Frankivsk. Roslana was a second grade teacher in Dolyna’s elementary school. She was lovely with dark hair, blue eyes and a friendly smile. She greeted us warmly and with exuberance.

In the van, Louise, me and Alex expressed some anxiety over our housing arrangements in English and in front of our Ukrainian hosts. This made me uncomfortable that we were talking without them understanding our communication. I thought to myself: Would we be seen as an inconvenience? Will they be satisfied with the money that we offer them? Would Louise and I have to sleep together? What would the bathroom arrangements be like? Our apartment in Kyiv was very nice but the toilet wouldn’t take much toilet paper. All three of us would be staying with Natalia and the Doctor, complete strangers. And Louise and I have always followed the unwritten rule of hospitality—when staying in someone’s home, two nights are enough. Here we would be staying three nights and four days.

As we neared the Dolyna area, Alex told us to look carefully around the next turn to see the expansive valley of Dolyna, which means “valley.” Yes, the hills were rolling, the grass green and the earth black. Strips of tilled ground were groomed neatly for the planting of the spring bounty. Most of the land was tilled via horse and hand held plow, the method my father used until about 1945. Several larger areas of farmland were being tilled by a tractor and plow. “This looks a lot like Michigan,” I said, as we perused the panoramic landscape, “except for all of the valleys.” There were no fences, barbed wire or gates. Cattle, sheep, goats and horses roamed freely and there was no sign of poverty here in western Ukraine either but jobs were scarce in this area. The people were sturdy and hearty with rosy cheeks. Obviously, they had to work hard but no one appeared deprived. I especially loved observing the women in their babushkas or bandanas on their heads. Many older women wore them and I thought what freedom to conceal a bad hair day with a babushka.

Alex talked in Ukrainian to Orest, telling that we’d like to hire him as a driver for several days. Since Alex had research and DNA testing and interviews to complete in the area and in the Mountains, the day’s itinerary was being arranged. It was early in the morning and a holiday, so we would first go to our place of lodging for breakfast. The road to Dolyna, like most Ukrainian roads, was bumpy and full of potholes. There was no speed limit and drivers passed by at high speeds. Since there were no yellow lines down the middle, sometimes there were three lanes and sometimes there were two. I decided not to concentrate on the driving and to enjoy the scenery.

As we approached the expansive valley, Alex said, “I remember the first time I saw this place last December. I was amazed.” It was, indeed, beautiful to behold. Orest turned the Mercedes van down a small, bumpy road to our left and drove about a quarter mile in. Houses surrounded us on both sides—most were large with metal roofs, many had satellite dishes and flowers bloomed in the front yard gardens. To our left was where we would stay—a new stone house, three floors, about 5,000 sq. ft. in all. A wrought iron gate surrounded their lot. It was very modern, with every convenience (except an upstairs bathroom) and beyond our expectations. Wood floors and trim enhanced the home. We were introduced to Natalia, Roslana’s mother and our hostess for the next four days. A vibrant woman with blue eyes and dark hair, Natalia greeted us warmly with “Vitayu” as Orest and Alex ushered us to our rooms upstairs. Alex had a room to himself overlooking the back with a TV and couch that pulled out into a very comfortable bed. Louise and I would sleep together in a queen sized bed (obviously our hosts) and our room overlooked the front entrance and garden. Orest showed us the rest of the rooms that included a spacious dining room, another soon to be bedroom and wash closet. We would all be using the downstairs bathroom. Good thing Louise brought a tiny flashlight because I knew that we both would be making a trip downstairs in the middle of the night. Another level that led upstairs was simply blocked off with a large vase. The furniture was classic in style and looked very expensive. Woven area rugs covered the floors. Natalia was formerly an engineer and the Doctor practiced at the hospital. He was working there today and we would not meet him until tomorrow. They would be sleeping on a pullout bed in the kitchen and dining area on the first floor.

Natalia’s Garden and Well Natalia

Immediately, we were exposed to western Ukrainian hospitality. In the foyer, Natalia insisted that we put on slippers—since my size 10 feet were too large for what she had, I attempted a pair of pink slippers with feathers. Louise laughed as I tried them on. We had wanted to be in our stocking feet but Natalia would not allow it. A table with lovely china and long stemmed flowered demitasse glasses decorated the table. All eight of us sat around the table to feast on a platter of tomatoes, cucumbers and boiled eggs; Ukrainian meatballs; a platter of sausages and Ukrainian cheeses; bread; vareniki (dumplings stuffed with cottage cheese); salo (whipped fat); juice and vodka. Each time a platter was passed, a toast was made and vodka was poured. Alex had told us earlier of this Ukrainian custom and advised us to sip our glasses if we could not handle the half dozen or so shots that would ensue. Natalia asked if we liked the food and we said it was superb—she rattled off several Ukrainian dishes like holubtsi (stuffed cabbages) and we replied with pyrohy (larger stuffed dumplings) and kiska, blood sausage. “Our mother used to make kiska,” we told Alex as he translated. Natalia offered, “Would you like some? I can order it from a man nearby who makes it.” I declined and did not want her to bother. Coffee, cake and chocolates followed as dessert. Everything was delicious and we were absolutely stuffed.

Alex also related his purpose for traveling to western Ukraine and his interest in the Boikos, Lemkos and Hutzuls. All of these folks were Boikos and Alex, eager to learn of their origins, asked Natalia: What is your heritage? Where did your people come from?” She replied simply, “we came from the mountains.” One aspect of Alex’s research includes the possibility that these people came through the only passable route to this valley that was through a gorge in the mountains. We would travel to that gorge in a couple of days.

Natalia showed Louise and me to the wash room that contained a tub and washer and dryer, hair dryer and ironing board. We took turns taking quick showers and had difficulty maintaining a hot water level that wouldn’t scorch us. I got the idea that there might not be enough hot water for all of us. But Alex was able to wash also. A silver metal covered peak covered the well in the backyard, near their garden and animal pens that housed rabbits and chickens. Natalia was proud of her 20 pound rabbit which would be saved for a special holiday meal. “All the animals are big in Ukraine,” said Alex. “I don’t know why but everything grows larger here.” Louise and I were told by Natalia and Roslana that our shoes were not good for the day trip. We gave up our efforts of rebuttal and returned upstairs to change. We said goodbye to Natalia and got into the van where we would be going to Orest’s brother’s house. Ihor and his wife, Svetlana, would be greeting us with another abundantly beautiful table of fine china, cognac and more Ukrainian food. Larry had also sent money for his three cousins so we would soon meet their sister, Oksana, and this would be dispersed at Ihor’s.

Making the short trip to Dolyna, we noticed yellow flowers in wet areas, similar to our marsh marigolds or “cowslips” back home. Boys and men were fishing the creeks and everywhere was the black earth or chernozem that Ukraine was known for. During the war, the Nazis loaded chernozem by truckloads and transported it to Germany for their gardens. Alex, a biologist, told us that it is not known how Ukraine’s soil became so rich. One of my goals was to take a plastic baggie full of this Ukrainian earth home with me. Since every home included a garden, it was obvious why the food was so good. It was homegrown and fresh! Ukrainians naturally had “green thumbs.” I know my Grandmother did and so does Louise. I love to garden also but Louise’s flowers and vegetables surpass mine in size every year!

A Street in Dolyna Larry Zaremba’s Cousins in Dolyna

Now we were in Dolyna which looked like a peaceful village with friendly people. I wanted desperately to get out and walk around, to feel the road beneath my feet, the road that my grandparents may have walked. But first we needed to get to Ihor’s house which was on a corner. It was a two story brick house being remodeled to a three story house. A bright red metal roof covered their home and garage that housed three vans which could hold about 12 to 15 people each. Ihor owned all three and had a chauffer business with two hired drivers in addition to owning two village stores. From what Alex could decipher all three siblings once were partners in the store but now Ihor owned them alone with Oksana as a hired employee. Orest, the taller of the two brothers, was also the youngest. They were similar in appearance. Both had kind eyes and gentle faces and both resembled their American cousin, Larry. Although all were Boikos, Louise and I still looked very different from these Ukrainians, maybe because of our Fertile Crescent roots. Larry’s DNA indicated that his ancestors had been in the area known as Ukraine for the entire time. There was no Fertile Crescent scenario in his family’s history. Our tribe came from the Middle East 7,000 years ago and mixed with Larry’s people who had always been in this area of what is known as Ukraine today.

I was embarrassed and blushed as Ihor kissed my hand when we were introduced. They had one son, Vitaly, who was seven years old. Louise brought small toys for the little ones and he played with his ‘transformer” with interest. Orest and Roslana had one son also, Max, and Alex was also an only son. We soon discovered that Ukrainians have small families—only one or two children. “It’s much easier to manage that way,” explained Alex. There aren’t any government programs that promote small families but the Ukrainians have taken it upon themselves to be responsible for their families. It is common for several generations to live with each other in the same house. Thus was the need for larger houses with three stories.

Ihor’s house was spacious and as Louise was shown to an upstairs bathroom when she noticed a study with a flat screened computer in the study. The kids were on the internet. Svetlana treated us to many courses. We were flabberghasted because we had eaten about three hours ago. However, we sat down to a first course of delicious borscht (beet soup), pickled mushrooms, vegetable platter, assorted pickles, deviled eggs with tiny sardines and sausages. They loved pickles and mushrooms just as much as we did. As I told Svetlana that her food not only was delicious but a work of art, she told us (via Alex) that it was all grown and preserved by her hands. Vodka toasts followed. Soon Svetlana brought out mashed potatoes with mushroom gravy and kurka (chicken) and fish. Roslana left to go to her home nearby. Orest went outside to smoke so Alex took the opportunity to explain his research to Ihor and Svetlana. He was hoping that they would allow a swab of their DNA to be tested for their origins. Alex was busy downing the vodka and Louise and I sat silent as they talked. Several times we would stop and imagine what our visit would’ve been like without Alex. It would’ve been extremely flat and boring. Alex stated that the couple did not understand his proposal about a DNA swab very well and seemed uninterested.

After lunch, the money from Larry was dispersed. We also brought an envelope of money from the Berezas, our Ukrainian friends back home. They had relatives also in Dolyna and Ihor said he would deliver the letter to them. Maria Bereza had written their names and addresses on the envelope and neither Ihor nor Orest had heard of these people although both families had lived in Dolyna their entire lives. Oksana’s daughter took her share to their house. One of her daughters had a little child, about two years old. He kept everyone entertained with his curiosity and vitality. Ihor’s wife did not sit down for more than five minutes. “That’s why I’m so skinny,” she said to Alex who translated. For dessert she brought in a large, rectangular walnut cake and cut it into large slices. It wasn’t sweet at all with a very homey and earthy taste. None of the desserts we saw thus far were overly sugary or laden with icing. We got up to leave the table and to digest our second meal for the day and it was only about noon.

After photos, we said goodbye to Ihor and his family and hopped into the van to go to a mountainous area but first we stopped at the store in Dolyna where Oksana was working. We could get out here. This street in Dolyna was clean but with numerous potholes in need of immediate repair. Their store was small but busy with customers. Oksana was brimming with a friendly smile with hugs and kisses on the cheeks for us. She was very pretty and because we could not communicate with her, she seemed to exude loveliness through her outgoing personality. We learned that she was without a husband. He was conscripted into the Army where he disappeared and never returned. She had to obtain a divorce and to this day no one knows what happened to him. Her family hopes some day that she and her children will go to America and live with Larry, possibly for a summer or longer. Since Larry lived alone after his mother’s death two years ago and was retired, this seemed like a good proposition to all. Oksana was a great cook too and this would be nice for Larry who was their second cousin. Their mothers were first cousins. The shelves of the store were filled with fresh bread, personal hygiene products, candy, juices, cheeses and soft drinks among other items.

We spent some time in the village of Dolyna and visited the Ukrainian Church that housed an icon of the Black Madonna, an icon which Larry Zaremba helped purchase. Louise took photos of it for him. Ornate and gilded in gold, the icon was of Mary and baby Jesus. Both were adorned in ritual splendor. Fresh pots of pink flowers were placed on a stand in front of the icon. The church was undergoing some renovations and happened to be open, to our luck.

Hecksel Homestead?

As we passed by houses in Dolyna, Louise and I wondered aloud if, perhaps, our grandparents had lived in any of them. “There’s a very old one,” said Alex, pointing to an abandoned house that was in need of repairs. “Maybe your grandparents lived there,” he said. I asked Alex to translate to Orest about where the German settlement of Broczkuw may be, where our German ancestors lived. Orest raised his arm and pointed up the road. As we viewed a small lake on our left and a town circle ahead, Alex told us excitedly, “this is it. This is where your German grandparents came from.” The Ukrainian part of Dolyna was to one side of this circle and the German settlement, Broczkuw, was to the other. Only about 100 yards separated each area. “You mean it’s the same place?” I asked Alex. “Yes, this is the place where they all came from,” he explained. Louise and I looked at each other incredulously. We had no idea of the proximity of the areas.

“We should visit the cemeteries,” said Louise excitedly. “We’ll ask Orest later,” said Alex. “They may think it’s kind of creepy for us to do that,” he responded. Alex told us that the people in western Ukraine had some peculiar beliefs and superstitions that differed significantly from Ukrainians in Kyiv and eastern Ukraine. The country of Transylvania and all of its vampire myths was not too far away. So our plan in a day or two was to visit the German cemetery and the Ukrainian cemetery. Alex reiterated that the people in this region were very different from the rest of the country.

As we drove through Dolyna, the home of both sides of our family tree, we passed stork nests that were six feet across and made of twigs and sticks which were added to the same nest each year by these large, white birds with black beaks. Any home that has a stork’s nest is thought to have been blessed with good luck. It is a very positive omen for a stork to nest on your property. Some of the nests were in tree tops and some were atop utility poles. We also saw several storks in the tilled fields and grasses throughout the valley.

Baba and Baby at the Caves

Nine of us spent the afternoon atop a stone mountain overlooking a green valley and were intrigued with the stone outcroppings. Alex thought that these caves were probably once inhabited by ancient people and there were several, possibly man-made rivulets that appeared to be a sluice system for catching water and bringing it down to the ground. Alex took many pictures of the terrain to share later with his scientific compadres in Kyiv. Orest, Alex and Max hiked the area with ease while the rest of us (females and one child) waited below. The little boy seemed enthralled with an elderly woman who was selling snacks near the entrance to the stone caves. Dressed in a skirt, tennis shoes with leggings, a red vest and red and white babushka, she appeared to relish in the little boy’s desire to be with her. He kept running to her and enjoyed the attention she gave him. Louise took their picture and I asked, via Roslana, if she was Boiko, which she replied affirmative. The woman began talking to me, although I could not understand her, so Roslana translated, “trees, 300 years old,” said Roslana in broken English.

As we left the area, Max rode a horse around the open field several times and once with the little boy. It was getting to be about 5 or 6 p.m., so Orest suggested we stop to eat something. Neither Louise nor I were hungry yet but Roslana said they knew a place with pizza and mushroom soup. Since everyone noticed our penchant for mushrooms, Louise and I said that the soup would be good. The children ate two pizzas that were topped with cheese, tomatoes and chicken. Alex tried a piece and said it was delicious—gourmet, in fact. Alex, Louise and I had the mushroom soup that consisted of a clear dark broth and was served in ceramic pots. Perfect! A few days later, when Orest learned our grandmother’s last name, Bilansky, he said that some Bilanskys were in that restaurant. He said it was too bad that he didn’t know then, otherwise, we could’ve met them. The décor of the pizza restaurant was of an old Ukrainian farmhouse. Louise took a picture of the photo that hung near our table. It was of two young sisters wearing identical babushkas. The picture was framed with a cross stitched cloth of Ukrainian design, a common sight in every Ukrainian home. The draped cross stitch reminded me of my Grandma’s handiwork. An expert seamstress, she made her own shirtwaist dresses with button up collars and three quarter length sleeves. Grandma also made a first communion dress for my Aunt Mary from her own wedding dress. That must’ve pained her to convert her treasured dress into another. As in Ukrainian tradition, Grandma attempted to teach both Louise and I the fine art of cross stitch. I was too impatient to be successful but Louise persisted and went on to sew outfits for 4-H projects.

We returned to Natalia’s where we met the Doctor, home from his three days of work at the hospital. He would go back to the hospital again tomorrow. He was very handsome with a thick dark mustache, dark hair worn under a hat and warm blue eyes. He greeted us fondly. Since it was about 8 p.m., Louise and I went up to our room and Alex stayed downstairs to converse with the Doctor, Natalia and to drink vodka. Alex hoped to interest our host in his research.

It was about 2 a.m. when I awakened with a gurgling stomach that ached deeply. I knew this wouldn’t go away so I got up to trek down the stairs and to the bathroom. Nausea and diarrhea engulfed me for another three trips downstairs. I was miserable. Louise awoke about 7 or 8 a.m.and I told her I was sick. She went downstairs to wash and to eat and Natalia emerged with a hot cup of tea for me. I did not want to drink anything. My face was hot and I was unable to get out of bed. It was decided that Natalia would stay home with me for the day and Louise and Alex would go to a Hutzul village with Orest and Roslana who came upstairs to see how I was doing. “She says that this is the result of witchcraft or voodoo,” Alex translated for Natalia. I was interested in her diagnosis. “What does she mean?” I asked. “She says that someone looked at you funny and put a spell on you,” he continued. “Do you realize how difficult this is for me to translate, being a scientist?” Alex asked. “Ask her how I protect myself from this?” I questioned. “She says to wear your underwear inside out and to wear a red band around your wrist or a safety pin on your blouse.” Orest added, “This can happen to anyone.” Roslana added, “Maybe the old woman who you were talking to did it.” I answered, “But you were talking to her too.”

Natalia directed Alex to ask if I would like her to do a ceremony, a healing for me. “Yes, of course,” I replied. Everyone headed downstairs but Louise returned, shoulders drooping and walking slowly. “I got sent back to change my pants,” she said as we both started laughing. “They said I have to wear something else because it will be cold,” she explained. She had on capris and then changed to jeans. She didn’t return so I figured she made it out the door. So they were off to Hutzul land and Natalia returned with a cup of water and matches. She stood at the foot of the bed and placed the cup of water on the dresser top. She lit one match, said something and then put the lit match into the cup of water where it fizzed out. She repeated this about eight times and the matches were left floating in the cup. She came to me and held the cup to my lips for me to drink. After I took a small sip, she turned the cup to the left and I sipped again. She repeated this three more times. Then she directed me to lie down and she pulled the covers to my toes. Natalia reverently dipped three fingers into the water and flicked the water with her fingertips over my head, shoulders, stomach, legs and calves. Then she told me to lie back down. “”Dyakuyu,” I said to her earnestly. “Proshu,” she replied. She also gave me some white pills and pointed to her wrist as if she had a watch on it and made a signal for two. She would check on me in a couple of hours.

I slept hard until she came back with more tea. I drank as much as I could. Then she returned again with the handsome Doctor who asked if he could examine me. I pulled the covers to my knees. He felt my head, glands and then pushed gently on my stomach in several places. No, nothing hurt, I indicated to him. “Appendix?” he asked. “No appendix,” I replied and made a gesture with my right hand and thumb, stating, “pfffft.” He understood. I slept some more and after several hours I got up, washed and dressed and joined Natalia in the kitchen for some broth. Surprisingly, we had an interesting conversation to the best of our abilities. I learned that she had a son who was a baker in a town not too far away. She went to Italy for four months awhile back to pick fruit to earn extra money to build this house. There she injured her finger and showed me its crooked state. She talked about the family falling out between the Larry’s cousins and I could tell there were hard feelings, especially among the women. She also had the idea that most Americans were rich, at least, compared to the Ukrainians. She thought it was unacceptable that both Louise and I lived alone. Natalia was hopeful that Oksana would go to the U.S. with her children and stay at time with Larry. I showed her a photo of my Ukrainian grandparents saying, “Dolyna. America.” Baba and “Did” were the words I learned for Grandmother and Grandfather. I excused myself to return upstairs for more rest.

After another hour or so, I was on my way to the bathroom again with intestinal problems. I threw up all I could. Natalia and the Doctor waited outside the door of the bathroom. As I readied to leave, she stopped me and said to wait. She returned with a quart jar of purple liquid. With her gestures, she instructed me to drink the liquid, non-stop and then to stick two fingers down my throat until I vomited again. Oh no, I thought to myself. I can’t drink all of that. But she insisted and I glugged my way through the quart of liquid—I had no idea what it was. Then I shut the bathroom door, stuck two fingers down my throat and up came everything. I understood then that now my stomach was completely empty. She patted me on the back with encouragement and the Doctor gave me a smile. I went upstairs as she followed me. She opened the windows, gave me another comforter that was lighter and left me to sleep.

Fenna, my niece, in Hutzul costume.

Louise, Alex, Orest and Roslana returned that evening about 8 p.m. Natalia had told them the events of the day and all four came upstairs to show me their purchases. Alex had bought a sheepskin from the Hutzuls for about twenty American dollars. It was soft and white. All four of them had met Larry’s request for an authentic Ukrainian folk costume which he sent along $100 with us to purchase. He would donate it to the museum in Muskegon. “We got it,” Louise said, elated. “Roslana and Alex had to barter a bit to get it for $100 but they did it,” she continued. Louise had bought wooden pysanky (decorated Ukrainian Easter eggs) as souvenirs along with some wooden flutes and leather slippers. Louise had always been a good shopper. Roslana had purchased a barrette for her hair. Louise related that this Hutzul family, who Alex had been put in touch with, fixed them a delicious meal of mushrooms, sausages, plus a multitude of other Ukrainian goodies. Louise said that the Hutzul women also had pysanky, the decorated Easter eggs which our grandmother taught us to make. Our mother, ever mindful of her Ukrainian roots, took us to Grandma’s when we were about eight and ten to learn this art which is passed on through the generations from mother to daughter. My mother never got the knack of making pysanky but Aunt Mary did so she and Grandma taught Louise and me. An intricate art which consists of drawing flower and geometrical designs on eggs with hot wax that flows through a “kistka,” Grandma patiently directed us in this technique similar to batik. Grandma’s favorite patterns were floral with six pointed stars. Today, when we make the pysanky with our brother’s children, Louise draws the stars and I draw flowers and wheat. We have a couple eggs of my Grandmother’s and one of Aunt Mary’s. Some of Grandma’s eggs were displayed in a Ukrainian Museum in Chicago.

Pysanky and Bacon at Hutzul Home

Alex and Louise and I talked awhile as I lay in the bed. Alex said that the Doctor wasn’t too interested in DNA testing and wanted him to know that he only made $150 per month at the hospital. The Doctor even showed Alex his pay stub from the hospital. But what the Doctor didn’t relate is that most professionals are paid a certain amount of money on the side for their treatments and deliveries. In this way their monthly salary far exceeds what is represented on their paychecks. Alex said that we should pay them about $20 each per night for staying with them. Money seemed to be a huge issue with the family—they communicated to Alex that they were all struggling and that Americans had so much. We got the picture. It seemed that the Ukrainians made their relatives in America feel guilty about their unequal circumstances so the American relatives felt compelled to send cash to their Ukrainian cousins. However, from what we observed, these people in western Ukraine had a good quality of life and did not seem to be wanting in any way.

The next morning my stomach felt better and now I was feeling hungry. The thought of mashed potatoes sounded good to me and I dreaded going downstairs to face a table full of rich sausages, vodka and bread. Every meal contained a plate of sausages and Louise particularly liked one kind that was smoked and resembled raw bacon. Strips of pork and fat abounded in this sausage. Louise, the marathon runner and fitness expert, loved this sausage and I shook my head to laugh as she relished this meat. Oksana’s little grandson also reached for this sausage before any others. Right on cue, Natalia came upstairs carrying a tray with tea and a plate of mashed potatoes swimming in butter. Perfect! I ate half and was satisfied. Because I was feeling better, all of us, Natalie and her friend, Anna, would join us for a trip to the mountains so Alex could gather Hutzul DNA. Louise and I both tried to dress appropriately with long pants, walking shoes and safety pins on our shirts (to ward off the evil spirits) so that we wouldn’t be sent back upstairs to change. This time we passed the test!

The six of us had a wonderful outing in the snow capped mountains that we viewed previously from the valley. Here, the air was so pure and fresh. Motorists stopped a spring to fill their bottles with runoff from the mountains. Cupping our hands, we sipped the cold water and splashed it on our faces. We stopped at several streams to view the clear water and wished we had fishing gear. Orest said that he had fished these rivers and had caught an abundance of trout. Well versed in herbs and healing, Natalia took the seeds from one small evergreen tree and placed several in her mouth. She urged me to do the same and so did Anna and Louise. They were good for digestion and had a sweet taste. Birch, cedar, spruce and pine adorned the running streams and sitting near along the side of the river was peaceful and invigorating. Back in the van, Alex began related the frequent invasions that the Ukrainians have endured the persecution, the overthrows, and the endless moves to dominate the freedom loving people. “But I guess other people have had the same fate,” he continued, “like the Irish.” I interrupted, “the Irish only had one main oppressor, but everyone wanted Ukraine.” Alex translated for the rest and Natalia remarked, “No one survives like the Ukrainians” to which we all wholeheartedly agreed. Alex said that his hope is that Ukraine someday becomes a country like Poland, “but we have a long way to go until we have a stable government and economy. The next ten years will be crucial for Ukraine.”

Alex, with Orest’s assistance, was able to talk with several villagers who said they were Boiko and Hutzul. The mountain settlements that we visited were neat, tidy and simple. Electric poles were abundant on the hillsides and tilled gardens graced the valley. We saw horses pulling wooden carts, sheep and goats. White picket fences surrounded the houses and satellite dishes were attached to corners. Metal roofs on houses were most common.

Oksana’s Store & Family Trypillian Gorge in Carpathians

Alex explained that we were now in the Vyshkivsy gorge that was the passageway over the Carpathian Mountains for the ancient Trypillians and connects the cities of Khust and Dolyna. “This is the only way they could’ve come through,” he related. “I’ll bet that beneath this earth lie many remnants of those settlements.” Alex explained that Ukraine was ripe for archaeological excavations because very little expeditions had occurred. Since the Ukrainian government was in its infancy and Russia previously had little interest in studying Ukrainian antiquities, exploring ancient cultures was not a priority and money had not been earmarked for these excavations, much to Alex’ dismay and that of the scientific community in Ukraine. Alex expected that policy to change and, hopefully, soon. After our return from the mountains, it was Oksana’s turn to extend hospitality to the Americans so we all gathered at her home.

Another bountiful Ukrainian meal was served. First, soup, then various salads, sausages, breads, fish, pyrohy, mashed potatoes with mushroom gravy, vodka, coffee, and cake. Her hospitality felt the most comfortable to us. Because I had been sick yesterday, I had a good excuse for not eating everything and at no time was food forced upon us or did we feel it would be offensive if we did not clean our plates. Everything here was laid back, easy and acceptable. The two girls ably served the table where ten people gathered and Ihor joined us for awhile. Oksana’s home reminded me of my Grandmother’s home in Fruitport—modest sized rooms, clean, tidy and simple. Oksana’s was the only home we visited without indoor plumbing but Louise said that the outdoor bathroom was clean and pleasant also. After dinner, he accompanied Alex outside and amiably consented to DNA testing. He said he had delivered the envelope to the Bereza family and they also wanted us to stop by their place. Hoping to avoid another ten course meal, we decided that we would make a brief stop after we visited a Hutzul restaurant with live music and singing. Oksana accompanied us to the authentic hut that contained an open fire pit in the center of the room. Here, a server placed skewers of meat in the fire and then served them to us. Alex was the only one with an appetite for the meat and he relished in the open pit cooking. “It reminds me of my childhood when we would go camping,” he said enthusiastically. Several musicians sang and played their instruments and two gentlemen invited us three ladies to dance with them around the fire pit. Wood burned carvings, Hutzul artwork, graced the log built restaurant.

Before returning to Natalia’s Orest drove us to the Berezas so that we could meet them and relay their well being to their American cousins. They lived in a large stone house that looked relatively new and spacious. Four generations lived under one roof—grandmother, mother, daughter and her son. Their men were away working and the mother explained that her husband was working in Siberia and had been working there for 27 years, thus their comfortable style of living. The mother of the little boy said both she and her husband were police officers and he was away working also. So four generations of mostly women looked after each other and seemed to enjoy a good quality of life, except for the absence of their husbands. We declined food and drink, much to their dismay but we explained politely that I had been ill and that we had a long day of sightseeing.

The next day we left Natalia’s house about 11 a.m. after a breakfast of salad, sausages, soup, hollubtsi, bread and vareniki. Since I wanted to continue eating light, she placed a plate of mashed potatoes and two links of kishka or blood sausage in front of me. She had served the specialty sausage the day before to Alex and Louise when I was in bed all day and had saved some for me. Eating one link and the potatoes, I thanked her for the delicious treat and her generosity and food—“the best in all of Ukraine,” I told her.

Ukrainian Cemetery, Dolyna

We left Natalia with an envelope of American money that she, at first, did not want to accept. Alex, responsible for communication, insisted about six times that she keep the money and share it with Roslana and Orest if she didn’t want it. That seemed to end the conversation. She kissed both Louise and me and gave Alex a hug. Louise asked if she could take her photograph in front of her impressive home. No one has ever treated me that nicely.

After we departed, Orest took the three of us first to the Ukrainian cemetery in Dolyna where his mother was buried last year. The cemetery ran up the side of the hill and crosses and headstones graced the landscape. Iron fences, some painted blue or white, encased the graves. Daffodils, narcissus, and greenery abounded everywhere. Orest showed us his mother’s grave and an 8x10 in. photo of her was placed upon it. He explained that a headstone would be erected next year. He resembled his mother with her petite Boiko nose, a nose that was common to his brother and cousin Larry. Although we did not find the graves of our ancestors, many headstones were illegible and they were too numerous to search for, we knew that this would be the place where they would have been buried.

About a mile away, Orest next drove us to the German cemetery, also on a rolling hillside. This cemetery was not so heavily populated and appeared to be much older although the Ukrainian part of Dolyna was called “the old town” and the German settlement was considered “the new.” The grass was long and several goats were tethered to trees with their owner nearby. As I gazed across the quiet landscape, this plot reminded me of Bartel Merkins’ grove where the Hecksel reunions are held on July 4. How the Germans loved the outdoors and this cemetery also included the wildflowers and garden plants that were found in Michigan. I could imagine the reunion here in this grove with narcissus swaying in the breeze and a farmer grazing his goats among the graves. The Hecksels would like this gathering place. This peaceful plot of verdant land caused me to think that cemeteries were mostly a waste of good land. Planting trees and flowers in loved ones’ memory would be more suitable with playground equipment for children. I guess it would be okay to plant the bodies beneath the earth but forget the headstones and markers. Merriment, laughter and play would be better memorials to our loved ones than cemeteries with headstones and urns.

German Cemetery, Dolyna Austrian Soldiers’ Graves, Dolyna

Many of the graves were extremely old—again, the names were difficult to read. Alex was able to make out one name, “Miller,” and Orest showed us where the Austrian soldiers were buried. Graves of the aristocracy were above ground and encased in slabs of stone. Peasant graves contained smaller stones above ground and many were probably unmarked. Wooden crosses were plentiful and I sat on one flat stone on the ground to view the area. It was peaceful here. Again, we were not able to find any graves of our ancestors but if any had died in Dolyna, their remains would be here. That was good enough for us.

Both Alex and Louise knew that I brought some of the cremains of our mother and father to leave in Dolyna, in a place of natural beauty. I carried a baggie marked “Mom” and one marked “Dad” with me all the way from Nunica. It seemed fitting that since their parents came from Dolyna, that we would leave something of them here too. Alex asked me what I had in mind and I replied, “Flowing water, maybe a creek or river.” I regretted that I had not given Louise the baggies when I lay sick in bed but she said to me, “no, we’ll do it together.” So I trusted that the right place would be found and it was. Alex didn’t tell Orest why but he said we wanted to go by a river so unknowingly Orest took us to the perfect spot, the place where two rivers meet and flow together, just outside of Dolyna. The Svicha and Tisa Rivers, rivers that descend from the glaciers atop the Carpathian Mountains, meet in Dolyna and form one fast moving, large, clear stream with many rocks and a stone bottom. Remaining back at the van, Alex orchestrated giving Louise and I some privacy by asking Orest to look over a map as we reverently approached the moving waters that made a rushing sound. Lush green trees hung gracefully halfway over the river and a lone fisherman, wearing a bold red vest, was fly fishing the stream. “This is perfect,” I said to Louise, as we each took a handful of ashes from each bag and released them into the stream. Silently, we completed our task, stood with arms on each other’s waists and watched the white ash flow away while some settled on the rocks below. We each took a small stone from the water as a remembrance of this pristine location and to bring home with us.

Where the Two Rivers Meet--Ashes

As we left Dolyna, I reminded Alex that I had another desire and that was to bring back a baggie of the Ukrainian soil. Alex relayed my request to Orest who pulled over to a home where a couple was working their backyard garden. Orest climbed the fence easily and explained his mission to the couple who, with smiles, graciously placed the black earth into the bag. Pointing to me, I heard Orest say “American” so I smiled and waved to the couple in thanks. “What will you do with it?” asked Louise. I wasn’t sure at the time but when I got back home, I mixed it with potting soil and planted flowers to be placed in Nunica Cemetery on Mom and Dad’s markers in time for Memorial Day.

Orest and Roslana drove us to the train station and were going to pick up their son, Max, who was taking ballroom dancing classes in Ivano-Frankivsk. Max also wrestled and took English lessons from a university student who returned home to Dolyna on weekends. English would be necessary in case these families visited their American cousin, Larry. “When Max learns English, you come to America also,” I told Roslana at the station. “Sank you,” she replied. Orest kept a watchful eye on his van when we got some refreshments at a local restaurant. Awhile back, one of Ihor’s vans was stolen on these very streets and he had to pay the perpetrators $10,000 to return his vehicle.

I could feel the emotion emerge within me as I realized it was time to say goodbye to these people, our modern link to Dolyna. I also knew that I would probably never return, that this would be a once in a lifetime trip. One glance at Louise made me realize she felt the same way because her eyes were tearing up. Alex, somewhat embarrassed by our emotions, excused himself and with Orest, took our luggage and said we’d see them on the train so we could say our goodbyes now. Both Louise and I wept as we hugged Roslana. She had such a lovely countenance and had been so wonderful to us. We boarded the train and found our compartment where Orest was stowing the luggage. “Malenkyy,” I said to Orest referring to the size of the compartment as he laughed. We hugged him also and Alex gave our envelope of money to Orest for all of his driving and gas. Louise and I dabbed our eyes with tissue and Roslana stood outside our window waving and blowing kisses. As we blew them back to her, this familiar gesture reminded me of Grandma Domanchuk who also blew us many kisses each time we visited her and said farewell. As our car would leave the driveway, Grandma would stand like a beacon wearing a homemade shirtdress and apron, on the breezeway, blowing kisses until we were out of sight. We loved sending our kisses back to her through the air from the back seat of the Plymouth. To this day I am touched deeply whenever anyone gestures by throwing a kiss. It is so endearing to me.

As we left Dolyna, again on the night train, we learned from Alex who was adept in history that when our German ancestors left Ukraine in 1893, it was probably because of a major famine that engulfed the Carpathian region. A drought or something natural was the cause and these people began searching for another area in which to migrate. Recruiters from Canada and the United States came to the Dolyna area to encourage people to purchase land in America. Originally, when the Austro-Hungarian Empire had jurisdiction over Galacia, Catherine the Great, who was a German princess, married Peter of Russia and became a czarina. She invited her countrymen to follow her and to develop the rich resources of the farmland and their artisan crafts. So her fellow Germans did follow her and my family did also. The famine that Alex mentioned and other disappointments such as forced military conscription probably drove them to America. Likewise, when my Ukrainian ancestors came to America in 1913, World War I was at its height and Austrian lands were taxed heavily, causing extreme poverty, another probable reason why our ancestors left Dolyna and the Galacia region. Louise and I benefited from Alex’s knowledge and felt that we could’ve been granted twelve university credits for all that he imparted to us.

Yes, our trip fulfilled all of our intentions and we were grateful for this moment in our lives. The trip to Dolyna was emotional and invigorating. We would have two more days in Kyiv to be tourists, buying vodka, cognac and other souvenirs for our nieces and nephew back home. We visited a Trypillian restaurant also with Alex on our final afternoon—a place that abounded in replicas of Trypillian pottery and archaeology. We had made it to Ukraine. We had succeeded in our quest.

Grandmother, we have found you. It was only a few yesterdays ago that you and our ancestors left Dolyna and journeyed to America. You were a brave sixteen-year-old to have made the ocean voyage to a strange country leaving behind your home and your parents. You were courageous to leave all that was familiar to you—the rolling foothills, the snow capped Carpathians, the black chernozem and a way of life that involved a close relationship to the earth, hard work and self reliance. Yes, you were a survivor and you brought your independence, knowledge of living things, artistry and hope with you to America. We are grateful that you made the trip because we have a good life here. Grandmother, not only did we find you in this green land but we found you in ourselves. When I look at Louise, I see your grace and gift for growing vibrant plants and gardens. In myself I see your compassion for others and passion for the earth. Our brother, also in spirit, leaves children who thirst for knowledge of their past through the ancient art of pysanky that connects them to you. Grandmother, we hear your voice in the flowing brook, the wind in the treetops and the song of the lark. Grandmother, you and all that is Ukraine will always be close in our hearts.

Works Cited

Berkhoff, Karel C. Harvest of Despair: Life and Death in Ukraine under Nazi Rule.

Cambridge, Mass.: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2004.

Brown, Katharine/Parvel Aemliansky. Welcome to Ukraine. Milwaukee: Gareth

Stevens Publishing, 2003.

Dougan, Andy. Triumph and Tragedy in Nazi-Occupied Kiev. Connecticut: Lyons

Press, 2001.

Hodges, Linda & George Chumak. Language and Travel Guide to Ukraine, 4^th edition.

New York: Hippocrene Books, 2004.

Udovik, Sergei. Kyiv: The Cities of Ukraine. Kyiv, Ukraine: Vakler Publishing Co.,

2005.