Through the lens of Lviv’s Jewish community’s fate

“The war victims are trying to round numbers. It is hardly possible to find the truth and catch the perpetrators today, thus it turns into something like a competition of victims, whereas every nation wants to show off its martyrdom as greater one,” a female student tells me on the road to the site of the former Yaniv death camp. “200,000 dead,” an inscription on stone monument reads, flanked by a banner that reveals the mood of the area: “May the memory of innocent victims live forever, and let their executioners be damned forever.” So, time for forgiveness has not come here yet. Citizens of Lviv hold an ecumenical prayer here on November 19 every year. This place, unmarked on the city’s maps, is near the Yaniv Cemetery and the prison where the Nazis killed not only Jews, but Ukrainian and Polish prisoners, too.

Doctor Heleen Zorgdrager who had her book De Joden van Lemberg (The Jews of Lemberg/Lviv) published in the Netherlands in 2012, said: “The first Jewish prisoners were tasked with building the prison and all the buildings of the concentration camp, and the barracks they have built are still standing. It was a slave labor camp that served a factory producing military equipment for the Waffen-SS. Early on, they died of starvation, exhaustion, disease or the tortures they were subjected to. Later, the Nazis started bringing Jews hither only to be stripped down and shot on arrival. Possible survivors did not matter, as all shot people were dumped into one massive pit. In fact, this beautiful green area was turned into a common grave.”

Just as now the pit is filled with water and debris, it was once filled to the brim with human bodies. Alexander Schwartz is actually a rare lucky survivor who managed to get out of the pit and escape into the surrounding woods after the Germans had shot at him, then a young boy still, and his father.

After a short silence, a girl suddenly says: “Let us pray,” and begins to recite the Lord’s Prayer quietly. We maintain silence for some seconds afterwards.

We started our journey along the Jewish death route with the last stop, so we are going to the city center now. Along the way, the students ponder aloud: “Both murderers and victims were humans, what can make a man so brutally kill his own kind!” and “Hey, did they saw themselves as heroes at all for killing small children or was it just executing orders for them?”

Our next stop is Rapoporta Street, near Krakiv Market. The typically Oriental building of the old Jewish hospital still stands here, with its dome still bearing the Stars of David. We hear child cries behind the hospital’s walls, as it houses the city maternity ward now. New lives start here. The Germans did not destroy the hospital because they needed it for military purposes.

The July 1, 1941 pogrom strongly resembled a carnival. By the way, some photos survived showing professors, doctors, and lawyers demonstratively forced to wash asphalt pavements on the square in front of the opera house, changing their social roles to one of the slaves.

When walking the streets of the ancient city, an observant person can sometimes see a group of Jews weeping at the walls of the Krakiv Market, the city’s largest. Doctor Zorgdrager explains: “Before the war, there was a huge Jewish cemetery there. The Germans razed it to the ground and covered with asphalt.”

We go on. Anybody willing to experience authentic Jewish atmosphere should visit the Shtuka Cafe at Sholom Aleikhema Street. Yiddish inscriptions on the cafe’s walls are original, while many newer ones can be found elsewhere in Lviv.

On crossing a road, we near the ghetto site. It was created a little further down Chornovola Street immediately beyond a bridge. The ghetto had two entrances, one from Zamarstynivska Street, where was a prison, too, and another under the bridge, through which we enter. This latter was called the gate of death, for whoever passed through them, was convinced they would never get back.

A monument stands at a corner, depicting a man raising his hands in despair towards the sky. He is praying. Below, we read an inscription with the excerpt from Ezekiel book about a valley full of bones, which God promises to breathe life in again.

One of the city’s two surviving synagogues stands a little closer to the center, in Teodora Square. By the way, there were almost 50 of them before the war. While the Dutch researcher tells us the history of the place, an old guard opens the door. We are lucky, then. “May we come in?” we ask. It looks like Mark is happy with having someone to share the pain of his shrine. “The Germans did not destroy the synagogue, because it is rather inconspicuous in appearance, so they just turned it into stables. Then the Soviets briefly allowed us to pray here, but then they built Lviv Hotel opposite it, and the synagogue became a gym,” the old man says in Russian.

The synagogue is not functioning currently, because the community has no funds for restoration, but it houses a youth center, theater groups, a library and Yiddish courses which attract many history majors from Lviv’s universities. “You may go upstairs to the second floor and enter the women’s prayer gallery, because in our tradition, men and women pray separately,” the guard invites us. With ancient Lviv stairs creaking underfoot, we see a sofa through the open door, where a bunch of black hats lie, the wall is decorated with photographs of Jerusalem, the holiest city for every Jew, while the Star of David is placed in the middle.

It was a stereotype-breaking day, indeed.