Signs

By Ted J. Becker

For 21 years an urge to connect with my Heimat filled my life. Although I was born in North Dakota, the Heimat of my dreams was where my grandparents’ cradles rocked. Ukraine/Russia, where they were born, was a constant draw.

In 2005, that dream was to become a reality! Uncertain about taking a trip half way around the world, I embarked on what, to me, was to be a pilgrimage rather than a trip overseas. The spirits of my maternal and paternal great-grandparents and ancestors must be waiting for me, or so a small voice so often said to my heart and soul.

When I arrived in Krasnoe, Ukraine (formerly known as Krasna, Bessarabia, Russia), the cemetery, with its small church-like chapel, was like a magnet, drawing me. Late one night, I chose to spend time walking around the purple-flower-filled cemetery, a sad looking space with no grave markers at all. The sky was clear! The same stars, which I so often see in the skies in North Dakota, also sparkled and twinkled as brightly in the Ukrainian skies. Although there are no streetlights near the cemetery, it was not difficult to walk the cemetery at night. For an hour or so, I meandered around these sacred grounds. So often during this spiritual time, a sense of “others” pervaded my soul. Hairs on the back of my neck on occasion would stand up. Goosebumps were on my arms. The fragrance of the flowers was especially strong. Among the spirits, which were out that night, most certainly were those of my maternal great-grandparents and ancestors.

My maternal grandfather and I had a special bond. We spent much time together. A love for him, who he was, from where he came, gave special meaning to this time in the cemetery at Krasna, the village in which he was born. There was a peace, even if a bit unsettling, in my soul, while I walked the cemetery there. Yet, I treasured my time with my ancestral spirits, for I found their presence a peaceful presence.

Then it was on to Sulz, Beresan, Ukraine, where my paternal great-grandparents and ancestors had lived and died. The bus driver eventually found the way, across steppes and fields, to the town site. A local elderly fisherman guided the way. As we approached the gentle valley, I was in no way expecting what I did not see. There were no buildings, or even remains of buildings at the site. There were only clumps of weeds over an area about the size of fifteen or so city blocks. What a disappointment to me! The fisherman eventually found the mound of soil, which was all that remained of the church. As we stood on the site of the church, he pointed down the gently sloping hillside, across the wide valley, to the gradual hillside on the north side of the lovely valley. A very slight summer breeze blew the smell of freshly mowed hay. Hawks slowly followed the warm updrafts of summer air. “There,” he said, pointing with three of his fingers “is where the tile factory used to be. In 1950, the government came in here and bulldozed the church and the houses, all in only three days. They wanted the town and everything gone; this land is located on a military reserve.” A sense of sadness started to creep into my mind.  How could all traces of life be removed by the bulldozer?

We kept walking. The fisherman eventually found the corner stones, which marked the boundaries of the cemetery. As I stood on a large stone in the center of the cemetery space, I could see only depressions in the ground. The stone on which I stood, he said, was where the large, 20-foot-tall cross, stood. No grave markers could be found, only pieces of stone lying carelessly around. Occasionally a fragment of stone could be found near one of the depressions. He stooped over and picked up what appeared to be one of them about the size of a brick. Carving could still be seen on it. It was recognizable as a piece of a gravestone, which had been chipped off one corner. No lettering was found on it. This piece of stone had marked the final resting place of someone who so often saw this beautiful valley! The fisherman walked into a grave-depression to kick at a piece of wood he saw lying there. It wouldn’t move. He struggled to pick it up and it suddenly gave way. He fell backwards. As he stood up, we noticed that the wood was a cover of a small wooden box. We looked inside. Lying inside was a metal cross. Unseen powers seemed to be directing our movements.

We wandered the cemetery site for over an hour. Only the sound of the grass rustling as we walked through it could be heard. There was little wind, only warmth from the bright sun. The fisherman decided to walk back to the bus, parked about a quarter mile away. I felt not ready. I didn’t want to leave just yet. I stood on the northeast boundary stone and surveyed the sad sight. Tears slowly came to my eyes. A feeling of sadness began to grow within my heart, for the gentle souls, whose bodily remains lay in this holy soil. Tears flowed freely as I looked around. Gradually, my mind began to fill with peace. It was a cathartic moment in time. I turned and stepped off the corner stone. After I took a step or two, from the cemetery space, as if on cue, came the sounds of hundreds of birds chirping and singing in unison with, what sounded to me like joy. The sounds were sounds of happiness. It was as if the air was filled with hundreds of voices happily saying “Thanks for coming to visit us in our Heimat! The stone fragment and the metal cross are our gifts to you for stopping by! Take them with our blessing. Have a safe trip back to your Heimat!”

Peace.