Out of the Shoebox (3 page)

I
decided to try and find out whether Uri Zirlin’s seminar paper was on record at
the Technion, so that I could see what information about my father it
contained. I knew that seminar papers were submitted during the fourth year of
studies, so assuming the student had completed his studies, he might be working
as an architect today. The next step was searching the Internet for “Uri
Zirlin”. There were several people by that name in Haifa, but none seemed to
have any connection to architecture. Still, I thought it worthwhile to call
four persons by that name living in the Haifa area. The first three proved to
be irrelevant – “wrong number”, “don’t know any Uri Zirlin”, but the fourth did
indeed answer to that name. When asked if he by any chance knew an architect
who’d studied at the Technion, he wanted to know why I was asking. I explained
that I was looking for a person who’d written a paper about my father, and he
replied that, though he’d studied architecture and worked at it for a while, he
dropped this occupation. Moreover, he claimed he’d never heard of my father and
never wrote a seminar paper about architectural conservation in Haifa. I
detected a kind of evasiveness in his voice, so I apologized for the intrusion
and hung up.

About
architect Silvina Sosnovsky, on the other hand, I found plenty of material.
Apparently she was very active as an architecture researcher in Haifa, who
focused on the location and conservation of buildings built in the 1920s-1940s.
When trying to find her via the Technion, I learned that she’d retired; and
after explaining my reason for seeking her out, they agreed to give me her
number so I could contact her directly. Ms Sosnovsky graciously listened, took
down my father’s details and suggested I call her back a few days later. I
waited in suspense for a week before calling again. “I remember your father’s
name,” she said, “and I’m familiar with the buildings on Nordau and Bar Giora
streets that you mentioned… they are indeed in a study of conservation-worthy
buildings that I conducted for the City of Haifa in 2001… but I can’t find any
other material related to him… Nor can I find any mention of your father in my
other published work… I’d advise you to apply to the Technion’s Architectural
Heritage Research Center… Maybe there’s documentation of your father’s work
there, as well as copies of papers written by students whom I supervised.”

What
a let-down. I expected to garner some sort of new information, or a clue at the
very least. But my high hopes were dashed. The very next day I tried to contact
the Research Center, but though I found information on its activities on the
Internet, it took a whole week of persistent attempts until I finally got
through to them on the phone. The woman at the other end of the line, Hedva,
listened patiently to my story, took down some notes, asked me to email her a
few more details about my father, and said she’d search the archives, warning
me that it would take time. “However,” she added, “if there is information
about your father, it will turn up.” Two weeks later, after intensive
searching, nothing turned up. Apparently there was nothing about him in the
archives.

As
I was dialing Hedva’s number to thank her for her efforts, it occurred to me
that I hadn’t mentioned that my father had been a Technion student for about
two years before embarking on an architect’s career in Haifa. “Then why don’t
you try to find out whether your father’s student file still exists in the
archives,” Hedva suggested  when I told her. Does the fact that my father was a
student there change anything in the way her search was conducted? I wondered;
it had never occurred to me. I did not for one minute expect his student file
to still be there, after seventy eight years. But, figuring I had nothing to
lose, I proceeded that very day to call the office of the Technion’s graduate
program in architecture to ask if there’s any chance of finding any record or
information relating to my father. I spoke to Ms Ada Sales,  graduate studies
coordinator. “Look,” she said, “there’s not much chance that we’ll find
anything relevant, so don’t expect too much. Many files were damaged over time.
But if it’s there, it will be found.” She asked me to send her a copy of a will
or any other document proving that I’m my father’s beneficiary, to ensure I had
the right to any information, should it be found.

I
immediately wrote to Ada:

“Dear
Ada, thank you for your time and your willingness to help. I am seeking
information related to my father’s studies at the Technion’s Department of
Architecture, his student registration file or any other relevant information.
My father studied at the Technion in the early 1930s, between 1932-1935 I
believe. His name was Salmon Hirsh Finkelman, though he Hebraicized his given
names to Shlomo Zvi, and appears in some documents as Shlomo Hirsh Finkelman.
My father died in 1958 when I was seven, so I don’t have much to go on. I’m
particularly interested in finding out facts about the period of his life
before he married and started a family. At your request, I’m attaching a copy
of the probate which states the date of his death and the fact that I am his
son and one of his beneficiaries. In that document, my name appears as Yaron
Menachem Finkelman. I later Hebraicized my surname to Reshef. I am also
attaching photos of my father’s first British ID, but I think it was issued a
few years after his Technion days. My father arrived in Palestine on a student
visa, without an ID. I can be reached by email or phone, see contact details
below. Thank you in advance and have a good day, Yaron.”

Nine
days later, while I was in the States on business, I received Ada’s reply:

“Hi,
I’ve retrieved from the archives a few files that seemed to me similar to the
information you supplied, and have them handy. You’re welcome to come over and
peruse the material. All the best, Ada.”

I
replied at record speed. I told her I was in the US for two weeks, and asked if
I could call her for more details. Ada replied within minutes with a phone
number, which I called immediately, very excited. It was enough for me to hear
a few details about the retrieved files to realize that one of them was my
father’s enrollment record. “There’s only one problem,” said Ada, “contrary to
what you said, your father didn’t actually study at the Technion at all. He did
apply and was accepted, but the file contains no record of actual studies.” Ada
continued to explain that the enrollment file contains several letters in my
father’s handwriting, and invited me to come and see the material. “Maybe we’ll
be able to give you the entire file, and keep copies for us… Your father’s
penmanship is beautiful and his Hebrew is excellent. His entire file is
preserved in perfect condition.”

I
can’t begin to describe my excitement. I’d finally found a lead connected to my
father. I began imagining what might be in the file, shook up by the revelation
that my father apparently did not study in the Technion at all. My time in the
US stretched out infuriatingly slowly, as I counted the days till my return.
Gradually it began to sink in that the Technion’s information would probably
not shed any light on my father’s place of residence. If he never actually
studied there, what were the chances that his student record contained his
address in Palestine? On the other hand, I hoped the file would contain the
address of my father and his family in Chortkow – something I lacked and would
be thrilled to acquire.

As
soon as I got back I called Ada and made an appointment for the following day.
I didn’t know what to expect, couldn’t imagine what I’d soon see.

The
trip to Haifa flew by… Ada pulled out a gray folder containing an assortment of
letters and documents. I immediately recognized my father’s handwriting, with
which I was familiar from old documents found at my mother’s many years
earlier. His handwriting was legible and the style clear and fluent, as if
written in the writer’s mother tongue. The folder contained correspondence
between a young man applying to study architecture and construction and an
academic institution detailing the admission requirements.

This
is my father’s first letter to the Technion:

Chortkow, 8 Aug 1932

To: The Office of the Registrar, the Technion, Haifa

a) I am writing to you with a request that you send me all
information relating to admission to the Technion. I myself graduated from the
construction school Baugenwerbe Schule Wien in Vienna. I studied for three
years (six semesters) and have practiced for three years. Therefore I would
like to know which year I can be accepted into.

b) I would also like to ask you to give me information on how I
can immigrate to the country. If you can send me a demand, if you have one. And
what guarantee is required.

I kindly request that you reply as soon as possible, so that I
can forthwith follow my desire to study in a Hebrew Technion.

With best wishes and shalom,

S. Zvi Finkelman

My address:

Salmon Hersz Finkelman

Czortkow

279 Szpitalna .nl

Polania

I
could tell immediately that my father went through the motions of applying to
the Technion not because he truly wanted to study there, but with the intent of
emigrating to Palestine, using studies at the Technion as a means to that end.
The fact that my father refers to his studies of architecture in Vienna as
though it was merely secondary school seemed a way to make double-sure that
he’d be accepted. Anyone who looked carefully at the diplomas my father
attached could easily see that he’d attended an ordinary high school in
Chortkow – referred to at the time as a gymnasium – then continued to study
architecture in Vienna. Though my father sent the original diplomas from the
Vienna institution of higher education, it seems that no one looked into them too
closely, accepting my father’s statements at face value. According to my
father’s letter to the Technion, he studied six years in high-school plus
another three years at a high-school for architecture in Vienna – a total of
nine years, which is highly unlikely.

My
father was accepted into the first year. He did not dispute this decision, only
urged the Technion to send him a letter of admission. The Technion sent a copy
of the admission letter to the British Mandate authorities, which in turn
granted my father the sought-after entrance permit to Palestine. The letters
were arranged chronologically in the folder: a letter from my father followed
by the Technion’s reply, and so on, as if time stood still. It was easy to see
that a letter between Haifa and Chortkow took about two weeks. I must say that
the Technion had been amazingly efficient in its replies, generally answering
on the following day. My father, who wished to make aliya (immigrate to Israel)
as soon as possible, continued urging the Technion, saying he
was very eager to begin his studies in
early 1933.

As
strange as it may sound, I was somewhat disappointed. Though I knew by now I
would not find Father’s first Haifa address in this folder, I continued to pore
over the folder with Ada, reading one letter after another and joking about my
father’s assertive way of pressing the Technion to speed up his acceptance.
Later, when I continued to explore where Father got the idea of trying for a
student visa, it turned out that Zionist activist Ze’ev Jabotinsky visited
Chortkow in 1930 – the same year Father returned from Vienna and was appointed
leader of Betar in his hometown, where the movement had some 150 members. In
his talks, Jabotinsky used to enumerate the different ways of immigrating to
Palestine, including student visas. Only in late February 1932 did Jabotinsky
publish his article On Adventure, in which he called for illegal aliya to Eretz
Israel. I have no doubt that my father was influenced by these ideas. Ada and I
continued perusing page after page, admiring the correspondence. Once my father
sent his transcripts, the Technion’s reply arrived on 28 Sept 1932, saying that
my father was accepted into the program, but had to immediately send the
deposit of 15 Israeli lira plus 500 mil for the visa expenses. Their letter
stresses: “After the visa process which takes a few weeks, we must point out
that if your trip is delayed so that you arrive here after Jan 1st, 1933 you
will not be able to begin studying this school year.” It took the letter a week
to reach my father, but he could not buy Israeli lira in Chortkow. He bought
American dollars instead, sending the cash with the following letter:

Chortkow, 11 Oct 1932

To: The Hebrew Technion, Haifa

Enclosed is the sum of IL 15 + 500 Israeli mil, guarantee and
expenses as requested. It is impossible to get liras here so I am forced to
send dollars at today’s [exchange] rate of $3.46 . I shall gladly reimburse you
for any unforeseen expenses upon my arrival.

Kindly expedite the issuance of my visa, so that I don’t miss
the 1.1.1933 deadline and don’t miss a year’s study.

Kindly confirm receipt of the money.

My name: Salmon Hersz Finkelman

Born: 24 March 1908

Parents’ names: Izak Finkelman, Ryfka Finkelman, Drucker

Enclosed are a personal certificate and $54

With greetings to Zion S.Z. Finkelman