bright hips, late roses: a meditation on history

bright hips

Yesterday I cut some sprays of rosehips from the Rosa canina that grows around my bedroom window. It is the earliest rose to bloom, early May, and its hips always remind me of those pale pink single blossoms with their golden crowns of anthers. When I go into the kitchen and see the pot of hips on the table, I wonder how the summer passed so quickly. I remember the first warm days of April and how we’d have a glass of wine and a little snack on the deck, surrounded by pots of tulips. John’s been lugging those big pots down the stairs to overwinter in protected areas under the house. How did it pass so quickly?

Two weeks ago I was in Lviv. It was a city I’d long wanted to visit. A few years ago I read East West Street by Philippe Sands and knew something of the city’s 20th century history, not exactly a happy one. Sands uses 3 families rooted in Lviv, and their particular experiences of that city and that century to weave together an extraordinary story of hope, of violence, of terrible loss, and of resilience. That the city was known by 4 different names—Lemberg, Lviv, Lvov, and Lwów— contains its own message of war, aggression, and conquest. I’d hoped we could see a performance at the Solomiya Krushelnytska Lviv State Academic Theatre of Opera and Ballet or Lviv Opera but there wasn’t anything on during our visit.

lviv opera

We did go inside for a tour and it was interesting to see the preparations for an upcoming opera (I think it was Don Quixote). The building itself is glorious but I kept (somehow) remembering the first photograph I saw of it, in East West Street, draped in flags and bunting to welcome Hans Frank, Governor-General of the occupied Polish Territories. He attended a concert in August, 1942, a performance of Beethoven’s Lenore Overture no. 3, opus 72, followed by the Ninth Symphony. He addressed the audience from the orchestra pit:

We, the Germans, do not to go foreign lands with opium and similar measures like the English. We bring art and culture to other nations.

As we explored Lviv, I kept thinking about what happened during those terrible years. The city’s Jews concentrated first in the Lwów Ghetto and the Janowska camp on the outskirts of the city, then Belzek concentration camp: of the 100,000 Jews in the city at the beginning of the war, only about 300 remained at the end. The narrow cobbled streets and beautiful faded houses, the churches, the grand halls: they’d all absorbed the sound of gunshot and shouts, the hammering at doors, the jackboots. I know this is true for so many places in Europe (and elsewhere of course) but I was perhaps more attentive to the layers in Lviv.

Two weeks I was in Lviv. Now I’m at home, thinking and writing about how time accumulates in a city, in memory, in the bright hips of roses on my kitchen table, and in this last spray I cut from the garden just now.

late roses

Lviv won’t leave me alone. When I came home, I re-read East West Street. I tracked down poetry, history, and have peered through my reading glasses at old photographs, wanting to understand where I was in relation to everything else. The poet Adam Zagajewski was born in Lviv in 1945, though his family was expelled shortly after.

…go breathless, go to Lvov, after all
it exists, quiet and pure as
a peach. It is everywhere.

“What haunts are not the dead, but the gaps left within us by the secrets of others.”

two women, postcard Czernowitz Hauptstrasse 16, Atelier Riveria

A couple of months ago, on a Sunday, I was making dinner and listening to Writers and Company on the CBC. The host Eleanor Wachtel was interviewing Philippe Sands, a British/French lawyer with a specialty in international law. The conversation was interesting and I was glad to be listening as I prepared vegetables, checked the roasting chicken. It was when Sands said the word Lviv that my ears really pricked up.

He went on to talk about the background for his book East West Street, an account of his attempts to trace his family story within the historical context of WW11 and the larger story of the Nuremberg trial. Maybe I forgot something important for the meal because I couldn’t move from where I stood as I listened.

As soon as the interview ended, I ordered East West Street and it’s been waiting for me to open it. Which I did, yesterday. During a cloudy period, after transplanting arugula seedlings and weeding the garlic bed, I sat in our living room and entered a world I know I will remember forever. Because in a way it’s my world. My family background, unlike Sands’, is not Jewish; my Ukrainian grandfather was Eastern Orthodox (I guess). But like Sands, I grew up not knowing the family secrets. And how prescient the epigraph for East West Street: “What haunts are not the dead, but the gaps left within us by the secrets of others.” This is taken from an essay, “Notes on the Phantom”, by the French psychoanalyst Nicolas Abraham. (And of course I’ve ordered his book.) At the beginning of East West Street, after receiving an invitation to give a lecture on the origins of international law to students at the university in Lviv, Sands spends time with his mother looking through two old briefcases filled with his maternal grandfather’s papers.

the moirs box

I thought of the Moirs Happiness Package. I found this in my parents’ apartment after they’d died and I brought it home with me, along with an assortment of materials I’d never known about. There’s not much—some photographs of unknown women, my grandfather’s travel papers and his army book, two rosaries— but in a way what I have has filled me with a fierce desire to piece together my grandfather’s story. In the Moirs Happiness Package is a small photocopied map of Bukovina, the province my grandfather came from, and so I know my father must have wondered about his father, wondered if a map would help him to figure out things about the place and its history. But that was as far as he went. I know a little more than he knew and in the way that these things work, I’ve already booked a trip to Ukraine in September and the final city of my travels there will be Lviv. So this book, right now, is the book I need to read. Philippe Sands explores Lviv with three maps: “…modern Ukrainian (2010), old Polish (1930), ancient Austrian (1911).” I will take the little map my father used and try to locate a cadastral map as well. I’ve given a researcher in Chernivtsi other details—names and dates from the parish records kindly decoded for me by my son Forrest—in the hope that there might be people remaining who are related to me (my grandfather left in 1907).

One thing that Sands finds in his grandfather’s briefcases is a Fremdenpass, or a travel pass. In the Moirs Happiness Package, I also found one of these:

his travel paper

A small object, stained and brittle, but I hope it will help me to travel backwards, across water, across the Carpathians, to a village where a midwife named Rosalia Inravschi delivered my grandfather in 1879. Going back, we find ourselves waiting, waiting, for the moment when the maps show us everything, the gaps between then and now, every season unfolding and the years opening for us, including us in the old family story.