Yaron Reshef - Out of the Shoebox: An Autobiographic Mystery

Ihad no intention of writing a book. I had no need to write a story in general nora story about my family and the Holocaust in particular. But life being what itis, sometimes things happen in mysterious, even surprising ways. Stuff thatused to take center stage moves to the background, and background stuff movesdownstage and center. Thats what happened in my case.

Ibegan putting things down in writing because people close to me family,friends, colleagues told me repeatedly that I simply must write the story offinding the lot a plot of land purchased by my father in 1935 anddiscovered seventy-seven years later.

Thestory begins in early July 2011, while I was in the US for work. My wife, Raya,received an unexpected phone call. The caller wished to speak to Yaron, son ofShlomo Zvi Finkelman. The speaker was attorney-at-law Elinor Kroitoru, head ofLocation & Information at Hashava, The Company for Location and Restitutionof Holocaust Victims Assets. After introducing herself, Elinor asked Rayawhether she had any information about a lot owned by my father in the countrysnorth. Raya said that she knows my parents came from Poland, but knew nothingof a lot or any other property they may have owned there. Raya naturallyassumed that Elinors question had to do with property during the Holocaust,ergo in Poland, never suspecting that the lot in question was in Israel. AtRayas suggestion, Elinor contacted my sister Ilana, who said she knew nothingof a lot owned by my father in Israel. Elinor told her that her office hadlocated a lot near Haifa, purchased in 1935 by one Shlomo Zvi Finkelman wholived in Haifa, and that she was trying to trace that person or hisbeneficiaries. Apparently, her office was quite surprised to find, among thelands purchased by Jews who perished in the Holocaust, one bought by a residentof Haifa. Elinor was asking for my fathers address in 1935, hoping to connectbetween the buyer, whose address appears on the bill of sale, and our father.My sister replied that our father had lived at several addresses in Haifa afterreaching Mandatory Palestine in 1932, among them Massada, Nordau, Hillel andAchad Haam streets. Elinor wanted to know the house numbers, of which mysister knew only two 6 Nordau and 4 Achad Haam. Ilana suggested that as soonas I got back from the States Id contact Elinor, because I may have furtherdetails.

Aweek later, when I got home, Raya told me about this unexpected phone call andhow she had thought it was about a lot in Poland. Talk to your sister, sheurged, shell probably have much to tell you. Ilana mainly repeated thestory, adding that, meanwhile, she received a letter from Elinor recommendingthat we contact the office of the Custodian General at the Ministry of Justiceto find out whether we had a legal right to the property in question. You needto find proof that the Shlomo Zvi Finkelman appearing in the bill of sale isindeed your father, said Elinor when I called her the next day. I cant helpyou any further, it's out of my hands. But it would help considerably if youknew exactly where your father lived in 1935, who this Mordechai Liebman guywas, and what was his connection to your father. I was quite surprised atthat, since I didnt understand how a Mordechai Liebman fit into the story.

Myfather died in 1958, when I was seven. Any memories I have of him are vague -- mostly a few images of going fishing together, when I joined him and hisfriends on the navy pier at Haifa Port. These pictures are engraved in mymemory, thanks to the joint experience and because of a small but impressivenumber of fishing successes, attributed by my dad and his friends to beginnersluck. I also have some mental images of his work as a philatelist: hosting anAmerican stamp merchant named Fogel in our living room, or sitting for hourssorting his stamps and trying to clean or fix damaged stamp perforations. Idont remember spending quality time with my dad, or any father-son talks.For all I know, I may have erased memories through years of suppression. Hissudden death from a heart attack one winter night weighed heavily on me foryears.

Onthe other hand, I knew quite a lot about him, because my aunts (all relativesother than the immediate family were typically called aunt and uncle, asPolish Jews do), after the first affectionate cheek-pinching, would exclaim:Gosh, the little one looks just like Junio! My father, being the youngestchild, was nicknamed Junio, probably the Polish version of Junior. Then theydcontinue with tidbits of information about my dads personality, or some otherfamily-related lore. I assume I collected these crumbs and stored them in mymemory.

Isuppose storing information in ones memory is easier than retrieving it whenneeded. But sometimes, when I have to recall things relating to my familyhistory, Im awed at the stuff that suddenly pops up, not quite sure whetherthese are true memories or the product of my imagination. Only after receivingproof or external corroboration am I convinced that it was true memory, actualknowledge. Therefore, I was not wholly surprised when I heard myself answeringautomatically: Mordechai Liebman was a good friend of my fathers in his hometown, Chortkow; I think he perished in the Holocaust