At the little public library in Hartshorne, Oklahoma, I see a man wearing a camouflage-patterned Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. baseball cap and a beat-up t-shirt. This is James Kurilko, and he is about to become our guide. Hearing Stuart, the ISJL historian, asking for scrolls of microfilm, Jim headed our way.
Jim’s the local genealogist, it turns out, born and raised in Hartshorne, a descendent of coal miners who settled in the area about a century ago. His people were Lemkos, not quite Polish and not quite Russian, who fled Galicia because they didn’t fit. His grandparents “came here because they were running from the law;” coal mining is not the kind of work a person chooses.
“They were a minority within a minority,” he said.
Maybe that’s why he was so interested in our work. When we told him we were looking to learn about the Jews of Hartshorne, he started pulling books from the shelves, rattling off names, and dialing the local historian, seemingly all at once.
But there was one thing we couldn’t get at the library: a Jewish star, carved in stone. Abby, the other history intern, and I hopped—okay, scrambled—into the rental car and followed Jim’s pick-up truck to the cemetery. Just past the graves of his grandparents, Asafatha and Rosie Kurilko, and amid Orthodox crosses marked by an extra slash, was the grave of a World War II veteran with the unlikely name Domingo C Lazoya—but the Jewish star was unmistakable.
On the way back to the library Jim took us by the storefront that used to house The New York Store, a name often used by Jewish merchants to evoke urban high fashion, and the house where Rosenbergs, a prominent Jewish family, used to live. Even riddled with rotting boards and peeling paint, the gingerbread fallen, the porch was somehow grand. “There’s a hallway running north-south through the center of the house,” Jim said, “Called a dog-walk. Lots of southern homes have them, to let the wind through in the summertime and keep the house cool.”