Berdichev July 12, 2006

I
A name, a place, a postcard sent: Grinblat, Berdichev, 1921.

His photo, cut into the family picture;
he is in America, they are in Berdichev
four brother, three sisters, parents, once a family

In my tiny room in Berdichev I study the faces,
tell me, are you buried at Babi Yar? Are you
buried in Berdichev? Are you buried?
Are your bones gathered with 30,000 others
here in Berdichev, by the river where young boys
now play?

From our computers in Austin, Texas and Sebastopol, California we
have made searches to find remnants of Grinblats. We have
found no one.

II
1911. 25 years old released from the Czar’s army,
you went home, to Berdichev, to your mother Devorah
to you father Gersh, to your sisters and brothers.
I am making this up. His dark eyes, beautiful face, looked at
his family, saw his future, saw no future.
He traveled back to Kiev. November 2, 1911. With his
money he bought a passport and a ticket.
His name, Abraham Lieb Grinblat. He took the train back to
Berdichev. His mother cried as did his young brothers
and sisters. He said good bye.
He carried a small suitcase, his passport, his ticket and the name
of a man in Fort Dodge, Iowa, his money. What was in
his suitcase? A shirt? Perhaps a pair of trousers, a jacket and
underwear? A razor, some soap. Did he carry a book? His mother
packed some food. He spoke Yiddish and Russian.
He turned around and waved, the train door closed behind him. It locked. He never
returned. No one ever returned until this day.
He took a ship from Germany to Galveston, Texas. This is true;
his name appears on the ship’s manifest.

III
2006. I am here in Berdichev. We took the train from Kiev. It was a 3 hour
ride through the Ukrainian countryside. Much has happened here
in the last 100 years. Unspeakable suffering. Revolution, civil war, forced starvation,
famine, a second famine, Nazi massacres, nuclear contamination. Tens of thousands have died; their blood mixing with the slippery red soil.
I am holding the photos of Berdichev again. They are 100 years old.
I study the faces trying to make them live. Nice faces, open, pretty girls and handsome young men. I never knew Abraham but I knew his daughter and I am his daughter’s
daughter. My sister is in the next room. What are we looking for here? What do
we expect to find? No expectations: we are students of history.

IV
Berditchev, 1940, a city of 75,000, half of them Jews. 1942, no Jews in a city of 18,000. 2006 there are 804 Jews and many monuments to dead Jews, the archives were burned. There is a preference in this land for dead Jews. Alive they have been a problem and an excuse. The Jewish cemetery is overgrown and vast, a Hasidic saint is buried there.
The trail through the tumbled stones takes us past a fenced monument. The name is Grinblat and he died in 1951. He has had a recent visitor. I, too, mark my visit.
We make our way towards the road and pass a tour group of elderly Israelis. They are speaking Hebrew. I speak to them, they say, “we can speak English but we prefer Hebrew.” I acknowledge this truth in Hebrew.
We have returned, we pick the lock and open the door. Stepping inside there is nothing for us.


 

© 2006 Alice Perlman
All Rights Reserved by Author.