Out of the Shoebox (6 page)

Without
waiting for Sunday I immediately wrote to Hanni Amor: “… after painstaking work
I discovered several facts: Since I knew from my mother’s stories that my
parents had lived for two years in a building that belonged to a Mayer
Fellmann, I thought it might be the house on Hillel Street. I searched the
original building permits of houses on Hillel St in Haifa, to see whether there
were any owned by Mayer Fellmann, and sure enough, there is one, at number 15,
built in 1934. My parents apparently bought this apartment (while it was under
construction) after staying for a short time (in 1934, when my mother
immigrated to Palestine) in a building owned by Haim Finkelman at 6 Nordau,
Haifa (a building designed by my father and built for his relatives in
1933/34). My parents must have lived at 15 Hillel until 1937, when they moved
to 4 Achad Ha’am, Haifa. I also found in the State Archives my father’s file;
his citizenship application, containing 11 documents, from 1937, by which time
he lived on 4 Achad Ha’am. On Sunday I’ll look into the books of the Hebrew
Community Committee at the Tel Aviv Archives, hoping to find corroborating data
there.  The librarian has informed me that the material will be at my disposal
as of Sunday. Next week, once I have all the information, I’ll send you the
official application for ownership of the property, complete with copies of the
relevant documents duly certified by a lawyer.”

Today
I realize that it was a bit strange, to send such a letter a few days before
actually visiting the Archives, but I was so proud that I did it – found the
elusive address. Of course, no sooner had I clicked “Send” than I began
worrying: what if I don’t find my parents’ address in the Tel Aviv Archives? Or
if the address I find there is not 15 Hillel? Clearly, I had to find proof that
does not rely on memory.

It
was a tense weekend for me, trying hard not to think about my father, the lot,
and addresses.

I
arrived at Tel Aviv City Hall about an hour early, and treated myself to a
decent cup of coffee and cake at one of the cafés in Gan Ha’Ir, the
adjacent shopping center. I was the first in line for the City Archives. I went
up to the woman in charge and asked to see the material I’d ordered beforehand.
“I have them ready for you,” she said, “old Haifa phone books from 1935, plus
two volumes of the Haifa Hebrew Community Committee; it’s the only census done
in 1935-36.” The phone books looked like an old version of the Yellow Pages.
Looking through them was fascinating, but yielded no results; I did not find my
father’s name among the names of architects who had phones in their office. So
I switched to the Electoral Register, which was luckily arranged
alphabetically. I leafed through old, yellowing pages quickly but carefully. In
Appendix I, page 534, I found it: Shlomo Zvi Finkelman, 15 Hillel St. And in
the next line: Malia Finkelman, 15, Hillel St. And next to those, Dr. Sima
Finkelman, also at 15 Hillel St. I stared at this line, aghast. What a cruel
twist of fate! Sima, or Simka as she was called in the family, my father’s
sister, the physician, was living with them that year. Had she only been able
to adapt to life in Palestine and stayed here, she would have been saved rather
than murdered in the Holocaust. She didn’t feel safe in Palestine, especially
after the Arab attacks of August 1936 near Haifa, where people were murdered.
She left, going back to the place where she felt safe – Chortkow – where a few
years later she met her tragic death along with the rest of the family. This
realization stunned me more than the fact that I’d found legal proof of my
father’s residence in 1935. There was no longer any doubt: my parents had lived
at 15 Hillel St., in a house they’d bought from Mayer Fellmann. My memory had
served me well once again.

I
asked permission to photocopy the page. The librarian looked at me curiously
and said, “That’s interesting… the office of the Custodian General asked for
this same material a few months ago…” I smiled to myself with great
satisfaction; I’d succeeded in doing the unbelievable: I found legal proof of
the connection between my father and Mordechai Liebman, and my father’s address
in Haifa, based on original documents from seventy seven years ago.

My parents’ and aunt’s address in the
Electoral Register, 1935

The
following day I filled out the forms sent to me by Hanni Amor and attached a
statement summarizing all I knew about the past, and the information I’d accumulated
in the months that had passed since attorney Elinor Kroitoru first called our
home. I’d succeeded in solving the puzzle. Amazingly, once the pieces were in
place, they provided a clear, unequivocal picture. Each discovery was
accompanied by a document that would stand up in court, and I was certain that
the picture emerging from my statement would enable me to receive the lot
purchased by my father:

“I,
Yaron Reshef, am the son of Shlomo Zvi Finkelman (a.k.a. Salmon Hirsh
Finkelman), ID 002266294 born in Chortkow, Poland on 24 March 1908 to Yitzhak
and Rivka Finkelman; and of Malia (a.k.a. Malca) Finkelman, born in Chortkow, Poland
on 31 August 1911. My father died in 1958, and my mother is still alive. When
he was living in Poland my father was known chiefly as Zvi or Hirsh, and once
he immigrated to Palestine his name on legal documents was Shlomo Zvi
Finkelman. On building plans and permits my father used to sign as Zvi
Finkelman. My father graduated with a degree in architecture and building
engineering in Vienna, Austria in 1929, and immigrated to Palestine on 26
December 1932 with a student visa for studying at the Technion.

During
the years 1929-1932 my father worked as an architect in Poland, and was active
in the Zionist movement, serving as leader in the Betar youth movement in his
home town, Chortkow. My father’s two closest friends in Chortkow were Mordechai
Liebman and Shmuel Meiselman. Their signatures appear as witnesses on a
declaration my father sent to the Technion in 1932 (see attached Appendix I –
my father’s declaration, signed by the witness Mordechai Liebman). Both these
friends perished in the Holocaust.

After
his immigration to Palestine, my father lived at several temporary addresses,
while he started practicing as an architect. In July 1934 he made a trip to
Poland to marry my mother, and the two returned to Palestine on October 3,
1934. Their first temporary residence was in a building owned by Haim and Heidi
Finkelman at 6 Nordau St., Haifa. This building was designed and built by my
father for these relatives who had immigrated from Austria. A while later,
probably the end of 1934 or early 1935, my parents moved to a new apartment in
Mayer Fellmann’s building at 15 Hillel St., which they had bought while it was
still being built. In 1937 my parents moved to 4 Achad Ha’am St., where they
lived until the establishment of the State of Israel. In 1951 they moved to
20/6 Aliya St., Bat Galim, Haifa.

The
apartment at 15 Hillel St. was also the home of my father’s sister, Dr. Sima
Finkelman, during 1935-1936.  She was a GP in Poland and came to Palestine with
the intention of living here, but couldn’t find employment and, upset by the
Arab attacks around Haifa at the time, she left the country to return to Poland
in 1936. Dr. Sima Finkelman died in the Holocaust in Belzec (see attached
Appendix II – my father’s page of testimony at Yad Vashem about his sister’s
death;  and Appendix III, Dr. Israel Shor’s testimony at Yad Vashem about my
aunt’s death). I also have proof confirming my parents’ and aunt’s residence at
15 Hillel St., Haifa: a copy of the National Electoral Register in Haifa. The
book of Haifa’s Jewish residents was published by the Haifa Hebrew Community
Committee in 1936. In Appendix Volume I, p. 534, the names Malca Finkelman, Dr.
Sima Finkelman and Zvi Finkelman all appear as residing at 15 Hillel St. The
two copies of this volume are in the National Archives and in the Tel Aviv
Archives (attached as Appendix IV – photocopy of page from the book of
residents with the names of my parents and my aunt.)

My
father died in 1958 when I was seven. Therefore, most of my memories are from
my mother’s stories over the years, plus documents kept at home for many years;
plus information and original documents I managed to collect recently. When I
was a child, my mother used to tell us how my father bought a lot near Haifa in
the early 1930s. It would seem that the lot was around current-day Tivon. She
further said that it was a dream of my father and a few friends from their
Zionist movement days in Chortkow, to take part in founding a Zionist
settlement based on industry, which is why my father bought that lot. She used
to refer to the place as Kfar Haroshet. She said that my father, who was an
architect as mentioned above, designed a building which was to serve as a
factory there. Years later, after my father’s death, whenever we asked her
where is that lot and what became of it, she’d just say that it wasn’t serious
and that everything changed because of the Arab attacks and because of the war.
She also said that the purchase of the lot was probably related to a crooked
rabbi who fled the country. It was impossible to get any more information out
of her, and my sister and I treated the story as an anecdotal tale. To this day,
I do not have precise information about the location of the lot. Most recently,
the subject came up (for the first time in many years), when attorney Elinor
Kroitoru, head of Location & Information at Hashava, The Company for
Location and Restitution of Holocaust Victims’ Assets, called us in July 2011.
She told us that her office had located a lot which apparently belonged to one
Shlomo Zvi Finkelman of Haifa, and advised me and my sister to apply to the
office of the Custodian General in the Ministry of Justice in order to continue
investigating our right to that lot.”

I
attached all relevant documents, properly validated and certified. A week later
I called the office of the Custodian General to ensure that my declaration with
all accompanying documents had arrived safely. “Processing takes around six
months until a final decision is made,” I was told in response to my query. I didn’t
have any doubt as to the nature of the final decision.

***

There
would now be about a five-month wait until the Office of the Custodian General made
a decision about the lot. I thought that after solving the puzzle I’d be able
to clear my head and no longer be so consumed by the distant past. But I
remained restless. I was amazed to discover how little I knew about my family.
I did not blame myself for having taken no interest in it. I was annoyed at
myself for not having made an effort to get more information while it was still
available. It was only natural that I accepted my mother's short, evasive
replies to my questions about her family in Poland. It was a painful and loaded
topic for her all those years, entwined in immeasurable guilt – the guilt of a
lucky survivor where others fell victim.

A
few years ago, when my mother was ninety nine years old, she confessed that she
never forgave herself for living while her whole family perished in the
Holocaust. Again she told me the incredible events she shared with my father.
How in 1939 they left Palestine for Poland with my sister Ilana, who was then a
year old, to show off their eldest daughter to their parents. They arrived at
Chortkow in Galicia on the eve of World War II as German forces advanced east
using blitzkrieg tactics.  Their parents, especially my mother's, did all they
could to convince them to stay in Poland: "War is breaking out in Europe and
it'll spread. Don't leave, it is much safer here, much safer than in
Palestine..." quotes my mother. After long, intense arguments, my mother
almost gave in, but my stubborn father insisted. They left Chortkow on the very
day of the German invasion, their train under aerial attack. When they said
goodbye to their families they never imagined it would be their last goodbye.
"We could have at least saved Moshe, my little brother, I will never
forgive myself for not saving him," my mother said seventy-one years
later, with tears in eyes.

I
felt a certain obligation to myself to try and peer through the veil of time
and find out what happened to my family. I knew without a doubt that most had
perished in the Holocaust, but for the first time I felt that the details also
mattered. Perhaps my success in solving the mystery of my father's lot
convinced me that it was still possible to delve into our history and create a
picture more complete than the generic "perished in the Holocaust".
What happened to my family in Chortkow after my parents left in 1939? 
"They were forced to dig holes and were shot... that's what we found out
years later from witness accounts of those who survived that hell" – my
mother told me time and again.  When I persisted, my mother responded somewhat
automatically "There were Aktions ...what does it matter? They were
rounded up and murdered..." and the topic was closed. According to my
simple calculations, at least three years had passed from the time my parents
left for Palestine until their families’ deaths. What happened to them during
that period? What were their thoughts? Their feelings? Did they know they’d
been sentenced to death?

For
the first time it bothered me that in a few years even the scant details I did
know would fade and become part of the collective memory where nothing is
personal. Holocaust memories will be unpleasant, an aesthetic blemish, but will
no longer be painful. In order to feel pain one needs a personal connection to
the victims. A connection that makes the historical chronicles part of your own
personal narrative. I hoped that through my research I would find that
connection.

In
many ways the story of my family is the story of Chortkow, the town where my
parents were born, where they were raised and their personalities molded.

The
town of Chortkow lies in a beautiful valley along the banks of the Seret River
in the Ukraine. The town was surrounded by forests, the biggest and most
beautiful of which was the Black Forest. The first records to mention Chortkow date
back to 1427. In that year Chortkowici, the lord of the village signed his name
to a letter of surrender presented to King Władysław (Vladislav)
Jaeiello of Poland, in which the Polish nobility accepted the King's rule. In
1522 the lord of the manor, Jerzy Czortkowski, was given permission by King
Sigismund I the Old to found the town of Chortkow. In 1578 the town was sold to
Sieniawski Yiglski who built the magnificent Chortkow Castle in order to
fortify and defend the town. In 1616 the town was sold to a Polish nobleman,
under whom it flourished. In 1630 Count Potocki built the large wooden Church
of the Ascension. In the mid-17th century (1647-1648) there were many pogroms,
known as the Khmelnytsky pogroms, following which the local Jews were exiled until
1704. In 1672 the Turks conquered this part of Poland and Chortkow became the
seat of the local Ottoman Pasha. The 17th century was filled with wars and
battles against the Turks and Tartars. Chortkow was ruined and burned, its
castle had turned to rubble and its churches to ashes. After the Treaty of
Karlowitz which ended the long war between Austria and the Ottoman Empire,
Chortkow was given back to the Potockis. Count Potocki allowed Jews to return
to the town and in 1721 granted them rights. The Jewish community flourished
and a stone synagogue was built around the remains of the old wooden one. As a
result of the partition of Poland, Chortkow became part of the Austro-Hungarian
Empire. In 1865 the Austro Hungarian Princess Hieronima Borkowska sold her
palace in Chortkow to Rabbi David Moshe Friedman, known by the Jewish honorific
as Admor, who made it his residence and the Hasidic center of Galicia. After
the death of Rabbi Friedman in 1904 his son Yisroel Friedman took his place as
the Hasidic leader, but moved to Vienna during World War I.  Rabbi Friedman,
also known as the Rabbi of Chortkow, always visited Chortkow for holidays and
the city would fill with his followers who came from all over Galicia. This is
the short history of Chortkow, where my parents were born.

I
am the son of two families, Finkelman and Kramer, which represent the two
cultural poles of the Jewish community in Chortkow, and likely Galicia.

My
father's family – the Finkelmans – was a well-to-do family of lumber merchants.
Photos of my grandparents illustrate their typical central-European clothes and
looks – an Austrian German sort of style. My grandfather Isak (Itzig) had a
short beard and his payot (Jewish curly sideburns) were trimmed. The family
sent their children to study in Vienna. Ethel, my father's eldest sister,
mysteriously immigrated to the US and I do not have any further information
about her. My Aunt Simka graduated from medical school. My Uncle Chaskel wanted
to be an opera singer, but studied law instead due to parental pressure. As a
student he was enamored with Zionist ideals and moved to Palestine in 1920,
settled in Rosh Pina but later came down with malaria and left the country for
good. My Aunt Zelda completed her PhD in philosophy and my father, Shlomo Zvi,
graduated from architecture and construction studies. You can say the Finkelman
family represented the Jewish Haskalah (“Enlightenment”) Movement.

Rivka and Isak “Itzig” Finkelman

In
comparison, my mother's family, the Kramers, were a Hasidic family. My
grandfather's face, Rabbi Menachem Mendel, was covered in a heavy black beard.
His face, as well as my grandmother Fradel's, wore a soft expression compared
with the harsh looks of my father's parents. My mother's parents were about
twenty years younger than my father's. My mother was the eldest in her family,
and my father the youngest son which is why he was called Junio, meaning
junior.

Menachem Mendel and Fradel Kramer

The
Kramer family came from a small village named Yazlovets near Buchach, about 40
kilometers (25 miles) west of Chortkow. I suppose my mother's grandparents
moved to Chortkow after they got married and had children. They likely moved to
town in order to find work and improve their quality of life. As a young couple
they started their own business, were successful and became wealthy. My mother
described her family and life at home in her memoirs:

"I
was born in 1911 in Chortkow. It is a small town in Galicia in the Ternopil
province. My parents were Menachem and Fradel née Steinweiss. Their
parents were also born in Chortkow. They had four children. I was the eldest.
My two brothers, Anshel and Moshe, were four and five years younger than me
respectively. My sister Sarah, whom we called Selka, was the youngest and 8
years my junior. [My mother did not get their ages quite right: she was the
eldest, then Anshel, Selka, and Moshe was the youngest].

Aside
from us, there were three young orphans who lived with us – my father's
youngest siblings. Their parents died in an epidemic so my parents took them in
and raised them as they raised us. It bothered me quite a bit, I was jealous of
them, which happens often among children. My parents were very careful in the
way they treated my father's younger siblings and whenever we quarrelled they
always took their side, and I took it to heart as though my parents were
against me. The orphans were Malca, Nachman and Moshe. They were a bit older
than me. My parents were very well off. They were wholesalers. We had a large
three-story house. Downstairs was the store which had many rooms, probably
five, and the staff. There was an accountant and another five workers. They
were all Jewish. My parents chose employees from families that needed the
income. They gave them a job at a young age and the employees stayed at their
job for many years. Even my father's brother, Baruch, who was older than the
orphans who lived with us, worked and lived in that house with us. Later he got
married and left. It was a wholesale store, and the customers were haberdashers
(selling thread, socks, underwear etc) with their own stores in our town and
other towns in the area. My parents would buy the merchandise in factories in
the big cities like Lodz. They acted as agents for the factories and would sell
their wares in our region.

On
the second floor, right above the shop, lived our family, and the third floor
was rented out to two other families. We slept two to a room, one room for my
parents, one for me and my sister, and one for my two brothers. Malca had her
own room. Later, when I was about ten, she was married off, with a dowry as was
customary back then.  Her two brothers, the adopted orphans, shared a room as
well.

Two
young Christian maids also stayed in the house, as well as a Jewish cook.
Father and mother both worked long hours at the store, so mother took on the Jewish
cook so we could keep a kosher home. We also had a Jewish governess whose job
it was to make sure that each morning we would pray and offer thanks (Modeh Ani
prayer). She made sure we did our homework and didn't fight.

It
was a brick house, with wood floors. The maids would polish the floor with a
paste and special brushes they would wear like sandals on their feet. There
were two bathtubs and several toilets. On the ground floor were a large dining
room and a large kitchen. We always ate in the dining room and the servants ate
in the kitchen. The kitchen had a large porcelain-tiled, wood-fired stove. We
bought our bread at a kosher bakery, but always baked our challah for the
Sabbath at home. On Friday they would send me to give out challah to the poor,
and even when I was seeing Junio he would come along. We ate typical Jewish
food at home: lokshen mit yoykh (noodle soup), with homemade noodles. We were
never made to eat vegetables, and to this day I don't eat vegetables. Aspic
(meat in gelatin), noodles with butter, perogies, stuffed fish, cholent
(traditional Jewish stew) in the oven for the Sabbath etc. Food was prepared
fresh every day. There was no fridge and food was stored in the basement. The
house was located on Sobieskiego St and on the other side of the street, not
too far away, was a bus station where you could get buses to nearby towns. We
had electricity in town, and the house had electric lighting.