Gary M. Pomerantz

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A Story of Family: In search of Grandpa's world

A visit to the old neighborhood ...

... mirrors the
journey of a lifetime

The Atlanta Journal and Constitution
February 1, 1998

By Gary M. Pomerantz
Staff writer

Before attending the Friday night service, we go to what was, and what remains today, the heart of the city's Jewish community. At La Chaim, a community center next to the burned-out old synagogue, we speak with two leaders of the Jewish community, Anatoly Petrovsky and Boris Shipotosky. They tell us where to find Yevreyskaya Ulitsa.

"It was right here ---this street," Petrovsky says. Shipotosky confirms it.

The adrenal rush for me is instant. Dad and I walk outside. This street, a few blocks long and certainly small and thin enough to constitute an alley, suddenly has new meaning. There is an apartment building, a school, a grass field. Dad pulls out the camcorder and starts filming. Nearly in awe, he says, "I'm walking the same steps my father walked." We look for street No. 22 but find an empty field.

"My father said they lived near the Dnieper. How close is it to here?" Dad asks.

"Maybe 600 or 700 meters," Petrovsky replies.

So we walk through a wooded area and are rewarded with a breathtaking view of the Dnieper River. We see a sandy beach, a row of umbrellas, a few fishermen. "I expected grimy barges," Dad says. "But this is beautiful."

Later that evening, we are compelled to visit 1905 Vulitsya ---the other Yevreyskaya Ulitsa. We wanted to be sure we visited the right one. It is a much longer street than the first, maybe 1 1/2 miles in length. It's lined with one-story homes and a cigarette factory, and it dead-ends along the Dnieper.

Again, Dad takes out the camcorder. I ask Vlad to come back in about 20 minutes. My Dad and I need a few minutes alone, I say.

From my backpack, I pull out two cigars. I hand one to my Dad. "What's that?" he says.

"You remember Grandpa by his ring," I say. "I remember him by his cigar."

These are Cuesta Reys, Dominican made, certainly superior to Grandpa's Denoblis.

"I haven't smoked a cigar in 30 years," Dad says.

Then, he says, "You know, I really believed that first street was Yevreyskaya Ulitsa. But now I really don't know. How can you know? I guess it really doesn't matter, does it? What matters is that we made it here."

I agree. We are touching Grandpa, if not truly seeing him. I feel the power and majesty of history, especially of Jewish history, which is my history. It is affirming.

We sit on a few boulders, smoking our cigars. I thank Dad for giving me Grandpa's ring.

It means a lot to me, I say. I'll take good care of it. Dad says, I know you will.

The sun is setting over the Dnieper, an orange brilliance reflected in the waters, so bright it hurts the eyes. I feel closer to my father than at any other moment in my lifetime.

I ask about the history of the ring.

It's probably 50 or 60 years old, Dad says.

Dad says his mother told him she gave it to Grandpa as a gift.

"But," Dad says, "Grandpa told me he found it in the back of his cab and then he had the initials on it changed."

I laugh and ask, "Who do you believe?"

"Who knows?" Dad says, sitting at the end of Yevreyskaya Ulitsa. "How can you know with some things?"

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