Tuesday April 2, turned out to be one of the nicest weatherwise. The sun peeked out after an early morning rain, temperatures hit the low forties during the height of the day and snow began to melt like crazy. The drip drip dripping could be heard and felt from rooftops, and sidewalks and streets were transformed from snow-covered to slush.
Good day to search for the archives of the University where my father had studied theology in the early 1920’s – Jan Kazimierz University, named after a Polish king in 1661, and the oldest continually operating university in the Ukraine. The partition and repatriation of Eastern Poland following WWII, led to a name change for the University, named after Ivan Franko, a 17th century Ukrainian author and scholar.
Finding the University Archives proved difficult, even though we knew it was located on the now infamous-in-our-minds Doroshenko Street. The street itself was easy to find. After a day of traipsing around the neighborhood, we were now pretty familiar with the city center. We learned that Doroshenko was an extension of the one-block-long street of a different name which housed our hostel. Doroshenko 41, purportedly home to the archives, was clearly marked, the entrance wasn’t. The obvious door was locked and clearly out of order – an arrow directed us to the side of the building and the Geography Department. There was no mention of “Archives,” just “Geography”. A battered chain-link gate, for car and people traffic, was padlocked and inaccessible. A small gate to its left was partially open, guaranteeing access to midgets and thin people, but only after they performed a contorted ballet over the crumbling concrete steps on either side. We managed to squeeze through and found ourselves in a football-sized courtyard with multiple doorways, each harboring a red “Entry Forbidden” sign to its left. We entered the forbidden zone which had the most human traffic.
We soon learned why the front door had been locked. Several workmen, perched on ladders and scaffolding, were painting the very high arched ceiling. We stood there mesmerized and paralyzed. Our only option was up a steep flight of very wide stone stairs. The only signs mentioned “geography” not “archives.” A young lady sensed our confusion and asked in Ukrainian if we needed help finding the exit. I asked and she acknowledged that she spoke some Polish. I explained our plight – she directed us upstairs toward what sounded like the “deacon’s” office. Once there, we encountered more confusion. No door had a sign on it that resembled the word “deacon.” I must have misunderstood or misheard. We wandering up and down the long corridor with numerous windowless doors. Would we disturb a class or a meeting if we knocked or, worse yet, just entered? After struggling with several signs in cyrillic, we chose the one that designated the “biblioteka” or library, hopefully a safe bet.
The library was tiny, but had wall-to-wall shelves filled to the ceiling with dusty tomes. An elderly woman was sitting at a squeezed-in table poring over a pile of books. A friendly and welcoming librarian greeted us with a smile. I asked, “Polish or English?” She laughed and replied, “No! Ukrainskie!” – then quickly added in Ukrainian (which I got) “But, I will understand.”We all giggled nervously, including the woman at the table. But, understand she did. She beckoned for us to follow her out the door and down the stairs to the exit door. She gestured and pointed and after the third take, we got it that we had to walk to the end of the courtyard, enter the opposing building through the double doors, turn left and up the stairs. By now, we were convinced that the “Entry Forbidden” signs were there for the fun of it, because there it was, another one facing us as we approached the designated door. And this time we had permission – from the librarian, no less!
After stumbling a bit, for there were two sets of stairs on the left, we found what we were looking for. As we entered another windowless door – we never knew if we should knock or go right through – we were greeted by a nervous young man sitting behind a high counter. Not only was he nervous, he actually looked kind of scared. He nodded “no” to Polish and English. I painfully struggled to explain what we were searching and was met with a blank expression. I murmured to Janice in English, trying to decide what Polish words might be understood in Ukrainian. His face lit up, “You speak English.” And the rest was almost a piece of cake. His English was bad, but between that and the few Ukrainian words I was certain of, and some which I mangled by using my Polish, we got the message that we needed to go somewhere else. All University records before 1939 were kept in the State Historical Archives. Back to the city center. He suggested we take the #2 tram. I’m thinking, no more trams, no more trams! We would walk. We knew it was no more than a fifteen minute walk back to the center. He told us to find the outdoor book market and right behind the statue of Ivan Fedorov, right behind his butt (he tapped his flank), was the entryway to the archives we needed.
Since we were close by, we decided to visit our new friends at the Tourist Information Center, just to be sure we were on the right path. Sure enough, after trudging through a maze of hard packed snow, past a bronze statue of someone who we weren’t able to get close enough to to read the inscription about because it was guarded by a woman, a self-appointed tour guide, who for a fee would explain all in Ukrainian . ( I noticed several such tour guide at other historical sites.) And when she saw I had glanced toward the statue, she launched a torrent of Ukrainian words and gestures inviting me over. Little did she know that I did not speak Ukrainian. But a good way for an unemployed person to make a few extra Hryvnias. We rushed away because we had spotted the outdoor book market. And I, for one, feared she might chase us down. She seemed that determined!
Hundreds and hundreds of books covered a concrete courtyard- on the ground atop sheets of plastic, on bedraggled beach recliners or other makeshift holders and on the edges of the concrete barriers defining the courtyard. This is a daily year round market!! In the middle stood the Fedorov statue, gargantuan and awe-inspiring. It took my breath away – at least twenty feet tall, stern expression on his huge chiseled face, flowing robes extending behind him, giving the appearance of a body against a gust of wind, and high bulky boots not unlike those worn by Cossacks …. or cowboys. I thought he might have been a war hero, a god or a king, but alas he was a 16th century printing pioneer. Certainly important, but why instill such shock and awe in the onlooker with the likes of someone who created printing presses. Gargantuan should be reserved for war heroes (in my book)!!
And sure enough, right behind his butt, was the entryway to the Archives which was adorned by a cute gray guard cat and a sweet elderly gentleman who all but greeted us with a hug. He pointed us in the right direction. Another long path to the entrance and we found ourselves in a dark hallway behind a half dozen people near yet another door with no windows and the only indication that there was something on the other side were several typewritten sheets tacked onto the door which seemed to list hours of operation for each day of the week. I was nervous because it looked like they took a break at noon which meant we had about ten minutes. We were almost at the door. A tall middle-aged woman dressed in a full length leopard skin coat and matching hat exited the room. I took this as permission to go in because we were next in line. But as I approached the counter, the clerk sternly told me she was still busy, so back to wait in the dark hallway. About five minutes later, an elderly gent came out, we went in, filled out the paperwork. The clerk must have had a personality change during that brief time because now she was very sweet, helpful and accommodating. She explained slowly in Ukrainian that she would process our request and send the records to Janice’s Polish address in two to three months.
We skipped outside, headed for a pizza place and devoured a yummy cheese and mushroom pizza which had way too few mushrooms. But the waitress was wonderful and very solicitious and adorable. Couldn’t do enough for us.
We spent the afternoon basking in the warmth and traipsing through the slush. A cobblestone road near the Opera House was being uprooted by heavy-duty machinery. Workmen dressed in rain gear moved and cleaned the cobblestones, then piled them off to the side. The dirt underneath would be graded and the cobblestones would be replaced, creating a smooth passageway. This has to be done every few years because the winter freeze buckles the cobblestones, they become all wobbly and dislodged and impossible to drive on..
We strolled past old men playing backgammon and even older men playing cards. When we needed a rest we climbed over snow mounds and sat on one of the park benches. The benches were clean and dry, but the snow around them had not been cleared, so reaching them was a tad problematic. The snow did not seem to hinder anyone else’s mobility. We refused to be in the minority.
Since the sun did not set until after 8PM, we had a long afternoon to explore. We walked past a 19th century palace. Count Alfred Potocki was a Polish nobleman, landowner and liberal-conservative politician ( not sure what exactly that means). He also ran a distillery in Krakow, which, I’m sure, added to his wealth. He built this beautiful and stately palace which is now a museum and art gallery.
More park benches to sit upon and watch the life of the city. I mentioned to Janice that there did not appear to be any dogs in Lviv. Consequently, no problem having to meander around dog droppings as in Poland. I concluded that because of the poverty in the Ukraine few people could afford pets.
But Lviv does have many cars and rush hour is tough to watch. It’s virtually a battle between the cars and the trams at the larger intersections. And the trams usually win. They are bigger! Crossing these streets during morning and evening commute is like playing a game of “risk your life”. Many streets have lights for pedestrians, but many do not.
We had dinner at a restaurant that advertised “Ukrainian Fare.” Janice, the vegetarian, had fried cheese with hidden bits of ham. Surprise! She ate it, good sport that she is. I had a pork cutlet dipped in egg batter and covered with mushrooms, melted cheese and scallions. Delicious, but the portions were small. So we ordered dessert: apple cake and cheesecake with poppy seeds and an indescribable brown frosting that had an unfamiliar taste. Dessert was also tiny but tasty.
We walked to our hostel, watched the sun set and went to bed early. Tomorrow we would try to find Hordynia, the village where my aunt and cousin once lived.