Out of the Shoebox (5 page)

After
my breathing returned to normal, the pounding of my heart and the buzzing in my
ears calmed down, I quickly showered, while Raya slept soundly on, unaware of
my distressing experience. I barely dried myself. Half-wet, I just grabbed a
pair of shorts and the first available T-shirt from the wardrobe and put them
on, quietly left the bedroom and went downstairs to the kitchen. I filled a
tall glass with water and ice and gulped it down in an unsuccessful attempt to
fight the dryness of my mouth and quench my thirst. I downed one glass after
the other until my thirst and agitation abated. I acted automatically, without
thinking or planning. Took out my laptop from its case, plugged it in, and
while it was booting I smiled, thinking to myself: “I’m a good boy; I’m going
to do exactly what Salomon Hirsh Finkelman asked me to do: find the money.” For
the first time in my life I typed into Google the words “Salomon Hirsh
Finkelman” (I actually made the mistake of writing Salomon instead of Salmon.) 
Many times in the past I’d conducted web searches of my father, but never using
his European name. This was the first time, just as Father commanded in my
dream. The search results loaded promptly. I was flabbergasted. At the top of
the page, the very first result was a link to a Bank Leumi web page with the
names of unclaimed funds: “Unclaimed Accounts and Safes”. I gasped. Still in a
daze, for one moment I doubted that I’d really seen my father’s name in the
search results, but within a split-second I was sure. I clicked the link and a
web page opened to an alphabetical list of surnames beginning with the Hebrew
letter peh (as in Finkelman). And there it was, in the center of the page:
Hirsh Salmon Finkelman and Mali 35.92 lira. Father’s name, and the first
letters of Mother’s name, Malia. Details serving as proof  that  I found

the
money, all within less than half an hour of waking up from the dream. I thought
it strange that my father was the only one on that list of people with lost
assets whose first names appeared before the last name, as if he wanted to make
a point: I was here. Or maybe it was a message from an alternate reality. I
have no problem accepting complex or weird dreams; but dreams that become
reality within minutes are a bit difficult to digest.

Google Results page, in Hebrew. My
father’s name is marked

It’s
hard to make sense of how, after fifty-four quiet years, a stream of events
related to Father suddenly occurs, with each carrying a kind of gift: an
unknown lot, a small sum of money in a forsaken bank account; and – possibly
most significant to me – the rare chance to peek into faraway lives about which
I knew so little.

By
now it was seven a.m. I went back to the bedroom, changed into gym clothes and
drove to my usual gym in nearby Pardessiya.  I simply had to be physically
active to get myself back to the present, and to my present-day self. Raya
slept on serenely, as if nothing had taken place right next to her.

Time
at the gym flew by. An hour’s hard training passed, but I couldn’t let go of
recent events. Why now? Why does the story of Father’s lot suddenly pop up,
after seventy years? Why do I suddenly dream of Father, after fifty years, then
within minutes find a forgotten bank account? Is Father pulling the strings,
from another dimension? Have I been summoning these events with my thoughts,
inviting them into existence? I had no answers. Not for a moment did I believe
that something in my actions could bring about the weird, fascinating events
that I have been experiencing. My general emotion was happiness; I was taking
part in an amazing string of events; though I was somewhat bothered by the
feeling of not being in control of the plot. I felt like an actor in someone
else's play.

Raya
listened to the story. When I pulled out the printed web page proving the
existence of Father’s bank account, I saw the doubtful expression leave her
face. “He’s continuing to send you gifts,” she said with a smile. “Strange,
after so many years… or maybe it just takes the mail a long time to get here…”
“Or maybe he’s just far away,” I replied cynically. No doubt about it – once
the initial shock wore off, I was left with a good feeling. I felt Father by my
side.

I
waited impatiently for the new week to begin. I wanted to call Hanni Amor and
tell her that I had a document signed by my father and Mordechai Liebman that
attested like a thousand witnesses to their connection. On that day for the
first time I felt a new need: to try and investigate, to look back and know
more about my family. The story about the lot was important, but I felt that
the message delivered was: “There’s a story of a family, an era, that’s been waiting
for years to be told.”

A
new week began. “That’s an amazing story!” was Hanan’s reaction when I told him
the weekend’s events. “I hope you’re writing it all down… this is a story that
must be told.” This time, his words seemed to echo those reverberating in my
own head.

I
called Hanni Amor at the Custodian General’s office, and told her excitedly
about my visit to the Technion that resulted in my having an original document
attesting to the connection between my father and Mordechai Liebman, “both
signed on the same document… I found a document that had been waiting for me
seventy-eight years.” The voice at the other end of the line showed no emotion.
“Did you find his address?” No, I did not. That was the goal of the search at
the Technion, but – as sometimes happens – I looked for one thing and found
another. I’d found at least 50% of what I was looking for, and I thought that
was the hardest part… Truth is, I was sure I wouldn’t find proof of a
connection between the two men, but to my surprise that was precisely what I found.
Still, it wasn’t enough. I had no idea how to continue searching. It seemed
that the only thing left to do was review all the building permits for all
houses on Hillel St. and find the name of the owner of the lot on which the
house where my parents lived in 1935 was built. I had a vague memory that the
lot owner’s name was Mayer Fellmann. This type of search was a desperate, time
consuming act, but if I had no other choice, I’d do it. It meant 75 residential
buildings, but it was doable. Hanni listened patiently, then advised: “Try the
Haifa City Archives, maybe your father’s name and address are on file there… I
need for you to find his address and bring me proof.” I felt this wasn’t fair.
In my opinion, the document I found showed unequivocally that my father was the
same Shlomo Zvi Finkelman who’d bought the lot together with Mordechai Liebman.
What are the chances that another man by the same name lived in Haifa in 1935
and was Mordechai’s partner in buying that lot? I was determined to continue looking
and find my parents’ address. “Okay,” I conceded, “I’ll start searching the
archives.” “Good luck,” said Hanni.

By
the end of November, after I’d despaired of finding new info, I called Haifa
City Archives and told them I needed to find my parents’ address in Haifa in
1935. “It’s a waste of time,” a librarian named Luba replied. “The records from
that period won’t do you any good. The only archived item that has the names of
Haifa residents’ addresses is the Electoral Register, but the records for those
years are arranged neither by address nor by surname, it would take you ages to
search through them for your parents’ names, and most likely you won’t find
anything. I’ll try to order from the archives whatever we have, and we’ll
contact you when the material gets here.”

I
was surprised to get a call from the Archives manager only three days later. To
my chagrin, she said they didn’t have anything from 1935; they only had a
registry of voters from 1939.  “Sorry,” I said, “that wouldn’t do me any good
because I know for a fact that at that time my parents lived at a different
address – 4 Achad Ha’am.”

Still,
I did not give up. I was sure that somewhere there must be documents or other
evidence that showed where my parents lived. I began obsessively searching the
web, trying to find ways of locating people’s addresses seventy years back.
Though I knew rationally that it may be impossible, I couldn’t accept that
thought, couldn’t give in and give up. I looked for clues to the existence of
resident records, phone books, addresses from that period, but came up
empty-handed. After a week of endless searching I came across an article about
archives with historical information from before the establishment of the State
of Israel (i.e., pre-1948), and thus Iearned about the Zionist Archives in
Jerusalem. After a brief phone call, I decided to write to the email address on
the Archives home page: “… I am searching for my father’s address: Shlomo Zvi
Finkelman (Salmon Hirsh Finkelman) in the years 1933-1935. I know he lived on
Hillel St in Haifa, but need to find the house number. For a while, at that
address my mother Malca (Malia) Finkelman and my aunt Dr. Sima Finkelman also resided
… Please help me find whether there is any relevant info in Haifa’s Electoral
Register for 1933-1936; do you have these records in your Archives and do they
contain exact addresses… Also, are there any other sources of information where
I might find addresses where he lived during those years.”

The
first, encouraging, reply arrived within days: “A preliminary inspection shows
we have two folders containing the Electoral Register in Haifa for the years
1935-1936. The folder numbers are J1/6670/1-J1/6670/2. To look at them you’d
have to come to the Archives and request for them to be made available in the
Reading Room. Kindly phone to schedule your visit.”

So,
first, I learned about the Electoral Register in Haifa. It was a book of all
Jewish residents of Haifa, published by the Haifa Hebrew Community Committee in
1936. I learned that the census, conducted by calling on residents’ at their
homes, was aimed at proving that there were more Jewish than Arab residents in
Haifa.

I
called to schedule an appointment. The woman I spoke with said that, as far as
she knew, there was an identical set of books in the Tel Aviv City Archives.
“Surely you mean Haifa?” I asked. “No, I mean Tel Aviv… they have a large, well
organized archive, and if they have it, they’ll be happy to help you, and you
won’t have to schlep to Jerusalem.”

I
called the Tel Aviv City Archives and briefly explained to a polite woman named
Nelly what I was looking for. “We do have what you need: we have several phone
books from that period, plus a copy of the book of Jewish residents of Haifa,
published by the Haifa Hebrew Community Committee in 1936, the same book as in
the Zionist Archives in Jerusalem. As for the information, you’ll have to come
here and look. The material is neatly organized, you won’t have any trouble.” I
felt I was nearing my goal, though not at all sure I’d find relevant data about
my parents; I didn’t think my father had a phone in his office. He certainly
didn’t have one at home, because I clearly remember getting our first phone in
1963. As for the census, I fervently hoped that my parents were at home when the
census-takers came knocking. I made the appointment at the Archives for the
nearest possible date, January 22, 2012.

I
had about a week and a half before my visit at the Tel Aviv Archives. Since I
couldn’t stand the tension of just waiting for the time to go by, I decided to
take a chance on a few houses on Hillel St. and check on the Haifa City
website, with its computerized database, whether one of them had a building
permit in the name of Mayer Fellmann. Let’s see, I thought, what would be
faster: my random attempt to find info or the Tel Aviv Archives. Amused by the
idea, I began my search: Number 7, Hillel – permit issued to Hanan Contractors
in 1947. Ergo, irrelevant. No. 4, Hillel – permit issued to Ahuzat Yesha Co. in
1948. Clearly these buildings were built later. Maybe I should try further up
the road. No. 10, Hillel – permit issued in 1947 to one Jaeger Engelrod. Though
I’d known in advance that this would be a long, possibly futile process, I
continued as if possessed: “I’ll pop over to 20 Hillel, maybe the buildings
there are older.” No. 20, Hillel – I was getting closer, date-wise at least;
built in 1934, permit recipient Beinish Weisler. I decided to go to lower
numbers. No. 18 Hillel; built for Dr. Alec in 1934.  No. 17 Hillel; permit
holders Meir and Chaya Peppermeister, but the building was too new, from 1938. 
No. 16 Hillel; permit issued to Sugorinsky in 1941. Clearly, lower numbered
houses were newer, so I went back to looking at the higher numbers. No. 24
Hillel; permit issued to Michael From in 1938. So I was playing roulette; the
houses were clearly not built in any order. The next day I tried No. 14 Hillel;
permit from 1950. I randomly chose No. 51 Hillel, which turned out to be the
location of the city’s theater. For fun I reversed the digits and looked at No.
15 Hillel – Eureka! The building permit was issued to Mayer Fellmann in
September 1934.  The name of the owner corresponded to what I remembered from
my mother’s stories, and the date was right. I was convinced that this was the
address moved to from 6 Nordau. My parents resided at 15 Hillel, I didn’t have
any doubt. It simply felt right.