Some of my earliest memories are of my parents telling my brother and me stories of their journey from Vienna to America, which occurred several years before I was born. At some point I no longer needed to hear those stories, because I could recite them verbatim. Now, 60 years later, I am retired; my parents died almost 10 years ago; and I now have a need to know more about those stories, the very ones I didn’t want to hear again and again.

In 1984, coincident with the purchase of my first computer, I began a genealogy project. This was a time when Alex Haley’s mini-series Roots was very popular on American television. It was also a time when many relatives were still alive and could relate their stories and personal information. It was, however, long before the creation of the Internet and the digitizing of many databases that now are easily accessed.

My genealogy project lay dormant or even lost until one day when I was cleaning out my storage area. After my parents died, I became the custodian of their “stuff.” Once I rediscovered the pedigree charts I had created, the rudimentary database (using defunct software, pre-GEDCOM) and thousands of photographs, the spark reignited and hasn’t stopped burning.

Several tasks needed to be done first. I was fortunate to find John Steed, a kind soul who still had a 5¼” floppy disk reader and could convert my data into a GEDCOM format. Once that was done, I had to select software that suited my needs. Steed, who converted the data to GEDCOM, also was the author (and supporter) of Brother’s Keeper, the genealogy software I ultimately chose. The second task was to sort and identify the photographs and create a system to catalogue them. It quickly became apparent that a number of these pictures were of my parents in their youth with friends whose names I would never know.

Now armed with data, software, photographs, a computer, and a scanner, I began to create my up-to-date genealogy database, complete with documents, identified photographs and personal memories recorded and associated with specific people and events. As I roamed through the pictorial family history, I remembered that my parents had documented the names and personal information of past generations on the back of many photographs. This was a request I had made many years before their deaths. Thanks, Mom and Dad.

It has been almost a year since my discovery in the storage area. My database and documentation have grown much. I have discovered and made contact with distant relatives in Austria, Israel, the United States, and elsewhere. I have mastered (almost) the art of identifying and searching the growing number of Holocaust databases throughout the world. My subscriptions to JewishGen.org and Ancestry.com have paid off many times over. I have learned interviewing techniques that yield the most information in a short amount of time. More importantly, I have become accustomed to telephoning complete strangers and establishing myself as their relative. All of this education occurred in less than a year.

One of the most important aspects of this educational experience is the people I have met on my journey. By posing questions to different Special Interest Groups (SIGs) on http://www.Jewishgen.org, I have encountered literally hundreds of people willing to help point me in the right direction or just doing the research themselves and offering it to me. This has been absolutely an incredible experience, and it is far from completed.

Still, letters need to be answered and dozens of documents translated. There are ancestors, whose names I know, but I don’t know them. The flow of information waxes and wanes depending on the amount of time spent searching. Each day I look forward to opening my e-mail and visiting my mailbox. There is always something interesting waiting for me. My desk is covered with genealogical information, pedigree charts, names, addresses and tasks to complete.

Something Missing

As fulfilling as all of this has been, something was missing. I had become more familiar with family names, geography, religion, politics, and, of course, the discipline of genealogy. I know the names but not the places. Then I realized that I must experience the land of my ancestors.

In my lifetime, I have traveled more than the average person. With each journey, I derive as much pleasure out of the preparation as I do from the journey itself. This journey would be no different, with one exception. Part of this journey would take me to Ukraine, and I knew I would need help there. And so I embarked on another quest, to find an interpreter/guide/genealogist/historian, who could help me maximize time spent during this visit. The first order of business would be to set up the best time of year for a visit and the itinerary.

I live in Hawaii. Since my grandchildren live in France, it would be unthinkable to travel so far and not spend time with the current generation, and since their Spring vacation was at the end of April, that would be the beginning of the journey. Not wanting to backtrack too much, the next stop would be Vienna, the home of my parents and birthplace of my mother. This would be followed by a visit to Prague, and the trip would culminate in Ukraine. The particulars of traveling were easily accomplished using the Internet.

Next, who will be my guide? Once again, http://www.jewishgen.org came to the rescue. I posed the question and quickly received many names and suggestions. One by one, again utilizing the Internet, I interviewed three last candidates. Finally, I settled on Alex Dunai; we established rates and an itinerary, and that was done. In order to maximize time with my guide, I sent him every possible detail of what I had learned about every member of my family. I wanted him to know more about my past than I did, and I wanted him to have the benefit of the time I had spent gathering this information. My plan paid off in many ways.

Return to Vienna

My wife and I arrived in France on April 20, 2010, visited with grandchildren and a week later flew to Vienna, for the first part of my “return to Galicia.” I had visited Vienna in 1969 on the way to Israel and a three-month medical fellowship, but, except for the usual tourist attractions, I didn’t remember much of Vienna. At that time, several of my parents’ relatives were still alive. Now, only the widow of a cousin of my mother’s remains. The city continues to be elegant and clean, but now, somewhat expensive.

The first day we went to Purkersdorf, a 30-minute train ride from Vienna. Purkersdorf is the site of the sanitorium where my father worked after finishing medical school in Vienna in 1937. It was his first job after being unemployed for about a year. He only worked at the sanatorium for three months, January until March 12, 1938, when Nazi soldiers marched through Purkersdorf on their way to Vienna. At this time, all the Jews employed at this sanatorium were told to leave—and my father went to the American Embassy to begin the process of leaving Austria. Purkersdorf today is a sleepy little village with no significant industry. I had communicated with two local residents, one of whom met us at the train and served as our host and guide for the day. We met the mayor and the curator of the local museum and toured Purkersdorf Sanatorium, which today is a nice assisted-living facility. The grounds are spectacular, and the old section has been nicely renovated.

Before visiting Purkersdorf, I befriended (via the Internet) of a local historian, who gave me the name of one of the few remaining relatives of the sanatorium’s owners. I called him at his home in Canada. He remembered Hitler and his troops speeding along Weiner Strasse, but as a 10-year-old boy, had no idea what he was observing. The return trip to Vienna was quick, but I had time to reflect on what I had seen. I walked the very halls where, as a young physician, my father had walked. This was the very place where my father came face to face with Nazi Germany and what was to be his fate unless he acted quickly. The train to Vienna was the same route he took to work and back. I was there.

After spending a few days in Vienna as tourists, we visited the Zentral Friedhof, the cemetery where many relatives are buried. The day was gray, a little drizzle falling all of which set the mood for the visit. With the help of a cemetery employee, we were able to find all the graves I sought, many overgrown with vines and with headstones in need of polishing and even replacing. The older section of the cemetery is less well tended than the newer sections, perhaps because no local relatives visit and ultimately pay for the upkeep. I was going to buy some flowers to place on the individual graves and was told by my cousin that the custom is not to place flowers, but rather place a small stone on the headstone as a token to show that someone visited the gravesite.

Next we visited my parents’ childhood residences. We found the addresses easily, and we even managed to gain entry into the lobby of both buildings. On the left, on the third floor was the residence of my father. A short walk from here was the residence of my mother. These are the places where they grew up. After marriage, and just prior to leaving Vienna, they lived in a few other places. My father left for England in August 1939, and my mother joined him in December 1939.

A scheduled tour of the only surviving synagogue in Vienna, the very synagogue where my parents were married, was canceled for lack of tour guides, but we had gone to Sabbath services there the previous Saturday. The interior of the synagogue is quite nice, ornate, restored, and the only synagogue to survive Krstallnacht. It survived only because the Nazis did not want to risk destroying the adjacent buildings. Before we were allowed entry, however, we had to pass through security; answer questions; and, of course, allow a search of our bags. Police always are on duty at either end of the street, and on Friday and Saturday, two security people are at the front door. My parents were among the last Jews to be married here, because under Nazi rule, the only recognized marriages were civil ceremonies.

Walking the streets of the various districts of Vienna, I tried to imagine what it would have been like in 1938. It is in fact unimaginable. Throughout the city are monuments and memorials to the Opern, (victims of the Holocaust). This beautiful city was simply Hell on earth. Yvonne, my cousin by marriage, was our constant companion while in Vienna. She was put on the Kindertransport and spent the war years in England, only to return married at age 18. Now in her mid-80s, I ask, “What do you think and feel as you walk these streets?” Her only reply was, “Sometimes it’s difficult.”

Prague

I had heard so much about Prague, it had to be part of the itinerary. Purchasing a first-class train ticket was simple. The five-hour train ride was uneventful and rather pleasant. We ate lunch in the dining car, probably one of the better meals we had to date. Yesterday, I was strolling the streets of Vienna in a tee shirt. Today, it turned cooler. Upon our arrival in Prague, the arranged taxi picked us up, and in 10 minutes we were in our hotel on Wenceslas Square, a beehive of activity and the hub of all city activity. A steady drizzle prevented our intended evening stroll about town. Instead, we stayed in and digested our Prague information. Several events for the next several days were quickly arranged, including La Traviata at the State Opera House.

The next day, promptly at 9:15 a.m., we were on our tour bus for a general overview of the city and Prague Castle. As we drove through the city with our English-speaking guide, we were welcomed to Prague by the steady rain. Even in the rain (which forced us to buy umbrellas), Prague is a beautiful city with incredible architecture and astounding vistas in almost any direction.

As in all European cities, there is the al fresco scene. With so many squares throughout Prague, as soon as the sun comes out, there is no shortage of tables, good food, and the beautiful people are everywhere. As an afterthought, while viewing some of the information brochures, we decided to visit Terezin.

Terezin

The ride to Terezin took about an hour. This “model Jewish community” established by the Nazis (for display to the Swiss and the International Red Cross) was created to show the world how well the Jews were being treated in a village set up just for them. A small fortress town built hundreds of years ago, it is surrounded by a moat and has a prison and railway connection. The Nazis used Terezin as a holding station prior to shipping deportees to other places such as Auschwitz for extermination. Terezin had no gas chambers for extermination, although the living conditions were such that the death rate of those in the prison was almost 100 percent. From the exterior, the town appeared as any other small town, but it housed those expelled from Prague and the surrounding communities. More than 150,000 Jews, gypsies, homo­sexuals, and other designated undesirables were de­ported to Terezin.

As we viewed the prison, the holding cells, the living quarters, and the town, I was struck by the presence of hundreds of schoolchildren on organized tours. Terezin has more than 300,000 visitors a year from all over the world. This is a grim reminder of a horrible time in the world, only 60 years ago. The day was so draining, we collapsed at 9:30 p.m. and slept for almost 12 hours.

The next day, we walked several blocks to attend services at the Moorish-style Jerusalem Synagogue. As expected, guards stopped us, telling us the facility was closed to tourists. After answering questions and showing identification, we gained admittance. Expecting to enter the ornate interior, we were led to a small 20′ x 20′ room, a makeshift synagogue populated by nine bearded old men praying and the services already in progress. The main interior is under renovation and this room served as the synagogue. Several of the elders approached me asking where I was from and, of course, the all-important question, “Are you Jewish?” We stayed a while, enjoying the surroundings. Once again, a rewarding, emotionally filled experience.

Part of the rest of the day was leisure time spent on a river boat viewing the skyline of Prague and listening intently to the elderly guide, who was addressing our small group in three languages (she spoke six languages). She is about 77, formerly a professor at the university, and has spent her entire life in Prague. The skyline was nice, but we found the guide more interesting and spent the majority of our time asking questions about her life in Prague, Nazi

Rynek (Market) Square in Ivano-Frankivsk

occupation, Communist occupation, and now a free capitalist society. Her face represents the hard life of others her age who remained in the now Czech Republic. She, like other guides, interjects political and social commentary regard­­ing the economic woes of this country and the world, in general. Prague is a wonderful city, easily negotiated on foot. Bring good walking shoes for the cobble-stoned streets.

Now, it’s back to the train and our five-hour ride to Vienna. Tomorrow, we fly to L’viv, but now we can spend one more evening with my cousin. Oh yes, to quote my favorite food personality, Anthony Bourdain, “The Czech Republic is the land vegetables forgot!” We crave fresh fruit and salads.

L’viv

After a short flight from Vienna, we arrived in L’viv (Luh-VEEV), Ukraine. Going through passport control was a bit unnerving, only because I didn’t know what to expect. Most of the officers were just kids, wearing their official uniforms which included an oversized hat. Our guide/interpreter/genealogist/historian, Alex Dunai, met us, as previously arranged. We had been corresponding for several months, negotiating the details of what he would be researching for me and creating an itinerary. Alex has advanced degrees in history, speaks five languages, and has been leading Jewish genealogy tours in this region for 15 years. This trip and the information from our visit would not have been possible without Alex.

He took us to our hotel, Opera Hotel (across the street from the Opera House) and, after a short clean-up, we were off for a brief walking tour of L’viv. I’m not certain what I expected, but L’viv was a pleasant surprise. It wasn’t the drab, colorless city with sad people that I had envisioned. Rather, the downtown area around the opera house was alive and colorful with great parks and an area designated as a UNESCO historical site. One must overlook the ever-present film of dirt and grime that seems to be everywhere, however, as well as the necessary deferred infrastructure maintenance.

L’viv is interesting but represents a number of ironies, i.e., lacking adequate infrastructure but with a world-class opera house; incredibly bad streets and sidewalks in need of repair with well-dressed women wearing 4–5 inch spiked heels; great restaurants, including McDonald’s every­where; about 30 percent unemployment, but shops full of merchandise and shoppers; the Soviet Union is disliked more than the Nazis; the best meal (which included caviar, dessert, and tip) to date and the bill was only 37 Euros; lots of grand old buildings, but all in need of a good wash and probably interior renovation.

Since a recent renovation, the Opera Hotel is the place to stay, both for location and modern conveniences. It is a real bargain at 50 Euros per night. For dinner, we were directed to a great restaurant, Amadeus (where we ate on two consecutive nights). The second night we attended a production of “The Barber of Seville” (for $20) and thoroughly enjoyed walking the streets. With Alex driving and providing expert commentary, both current and historical, we covered most of the city and saw enough Armenian and Greek Orthodox churches to last anyone a lifetime.

Ivano-Frankivsk (formerly, Stanislawow)

The next day, we traveled to Stanislawow, now called Ivano-Frankivsk, my father’s birthplace and the town in which many other family relatives lived prior to leaving for Vienna, circa 1913. This town of about 150,000 has some interesting and pleasant areas. Dating back to the 1400s, it was established by Count Andrzei Potocki, son of Stanislaw Potocki after whom the town is named. Rynek Square, the main plaza in the old Jewish section, remains and is as vibrant as it probably was at the turn of the century.

Alex had prepared a list of the addresses where family had lived, and we attempted to find them. Unfortunately, some of the house numbers are either not there, new buildings have been erected, or the numbers have been changed. Nevertheless, I was able to walk the streets where my father’s parents and other relatives lived and where some of the horrors of the Holocaust took place.

The sadness and horror of 1939–45 could not be avoided. Historical records show that the entire Jewish population of 40,000 was murdered by the Germans, sometimes as innocent people walked down the street and soldiers took aim from their balconies and fired. It was this same street where I walked and where my ancestors lived and worked. One of the borders of the Jewish ghetto was Belverderska Street, the same street on which my relatives lived. Just down the road was the Jewish cemetery, with some marked graves and a large open field that was a mass burial site.

Although no one knows why, the synagogue was not destroyed by the Germans. Most likely, its survival is related to the fact that it was constructed of concrete, while others were made of wood. The current structure was recently renovated and has a nice interior, certainly large enough to accommodate the shrinking Jewish population of the town. Ivano-Frankivsk has just one rabbi with whom we visited. Rabbi Moshe-Leib Kolesnik is a native of Ivano-Frankivsk, only one of two rabbis in Ukraine who were not imported from America or Israel. Prior to becoming a rabbi, he was a teacher of Russian. Because his father was a Communist Party official, he was privileged to be sent to Moscow for further studies in Russian in 1984. There he met Rabbi Israel Kogan and, for five years, secretly added Judaic studies to his curriculum. After Ukraine became independent, he returned to Ivano-Frankivsk to serve as rabbi for the city and about 25 surrounding communities. Currently, only 200 Jews live in Ivano-Frankivsk. During the German occupation, the population of the town was about 80,000, 50 percent of whom were Jewish.

Kolomyya

Next we head for Kolomyya, where my paternal grandfather was born. From Ivano-Frankivsk it is only a two-hour drive through the very green Ukrainian countryside, passing through small villages, observing rural life with old ladies wearing babushkas (kerchiefs), crowds of simple folk waiting for the bus to take them someplace, and farmers using horse-drawn wagons and hand-held scythes.

In Kolomyya, we experienced another surprise. This is a cute little town, population 80,000. Prior to the arrival of the Nazis, the Jews represented 50 percent of the population. Here again, the entire Jewish population was murdered—taken to a nearby forest and never seen again. A roadside memorial references the mass graves in the forest, the only sign of the horror of 60 years ago. Kolomyya has a synagogue, and the rabbi from Ivano-Frankivsk visits to conduct services.

To complete our day, we visited a lodge, just outside Yaremcha in the Carpathian Mountains. It was idyllic and a refreshing change of pace, with musicians, river rapids, vendors, horses, and lots of rocks to climb. Throughout our visit to Ukraine, Alex was our constant source of historical information, Jewish lore, linguistics, information about living through the Soviet era in the Ukraine, and any other topic we wanted.

Upon return to Ivano-Frankivsk, we did some last-minute shopping, ate dinner, and prepared for our return to L’viv and the plane to Paris, followed by a long journey home.

Bukaczowce

Before returning to L’viv, however, we visited Bukaczowce, the birthplace of my paternal great-great-uncle, Meir Weissberg, a Judaic scholar who taught Polish and German in the local schools, in addition to being a notable contributor to the Haskalah (Enlightenment) move­­ment. Eventually he attained the position of headmaster of a private school in Stanislawow.

Bukaczowce’s roots date to the 1600s, and Jews once accounted for 50 percent of this town’s small but thriving population. As in so many other small Ukrainian towns, the Germans brutally snuffed out each and every Jewish life. Prior to the Nazis, Bukaczowce was the site of some fighting in World War I. Today there is a main street, a small town hall (which was formerly the home of a Jewish family), an empty lot where the synagogue once stood, and a dozen homes. On the surface, this is a very bucolic scene. Just outside the town is the Jewish cemetery, completely overgrown with trees, shrubs, and grass. Many years ago, money was raised to build a concrete wall around the cemetery, but there is no money to keep up the cemetery. And with that, we headed back to L’viv to catch our flight to Paris.

Reflections

The return trip of three days and 20 hours of flying provided adequate time to reflect. While walking the streets of my parents and other ancestors, I could not help but try to imagine what life would have been like in the years 1939–45. What did my parents feel when they left Vienna in 1939, knowing that they would never see their parents again, and knowing that if they didn’t leave, it would mean almost certain death? How does one gather up enough strength to survive, to think, to act, to go on with one’s life? It is impossible to know, but my brother and I are very fortunate to have had parents with the kind of foresight, determination, and luck needed to survive those horrible years.