Out of the Shoebox (10 page)

On
the other hand, the new-found knowledge of the lot’s precise location shed new
light on old evidence that had been right in front of my nose. In my mother’s
collection of photos, there was one taken in 1945, where my parents and sister
are sitting on a rock in mountainous terrain very similar to that of Kiryat
Haroshet. On the back of the photo it says, “
The lot that never was
.”

Following
the instructions of the Custodian General, I contacted the offices of the
Israel Land Administration (ILA) in Haifa. The manager I reached politely put
me through to her deputy who would guide me through the bureaucratic tangle.
Friends had warned me of the difficulty in dealing with the ILA, but I found
their attitude to be extremely fair, courteous and helpful. Yafit Elad, deputy
manager in charge of acquisition, exchange and expropriation for Haifa & its
environs, kindly explained to me all the steps needed to be taken and the
documents I needed to submit, for them to hand over the property to me, or,
alternatively, buy it from me. The process which began in early May 2012, ended
nine months later. During that time, not once did I have to actually go to
their offices: all communication was conducted by phone and email, with the
utmost efficiency and empathy. I am sure that my endeavors to return to my
family a lot lost seventy seven years earlier aroused empathy. I was given all
the guidance and assistance necessary, not once being asked to hire the
services of an appraiser or a lawyer.

On
the afternoon of February 17th, 2013 a sum equal to the appraised value of the
lot was deposited in my bank account, as per the agreement between the ILA and
the beneficiaries of Shlomo Zvi Finkelman, whom I represented.

Even
though the story of the lost lot had seemingly ended, and I received its full
value to my satisfaction, I was curious to know how come it had disappeared for
so many years and why it got the nickname “the lot that never was”. So one
morning, equipped with all the documents plus Attorney Shira Gordon’s letter
confirming my ownership of the lot, I went over to the Land Registry offices at
Haifa’s Ministry of Justice. I’d spoken to them earlier on the phone in an
attempt to locate the lot’s original bill of sale. Following that conversation,
I managed to print out the lot’s historical land registry records via the
internet. The land registration record showed that my father’s and Mordechai’s
ownership of the land was registered only in 1954, nineteen years after they
bought it. I was surprised to learn that this ownership was revoked by the
court and reverted to the Custodian General in March 1997.

I
completed the application form to receive a copy of the property file according
to the lot number I had and the helpful clerk checked my application on the
computer. Within minutes she said to me in wonder: “This is a strange entry.
There is no ID number next to the person whom you claim is your father, and no
ID number next to the other owner… I can’t give you any information regarding
this entry because I can’t verify your connection to the historical owner of
this property… Moreover, the land reverted from them back to the Custodian
General in 1997.” I replied that I was aware of all that, but as things stand,
the Custodian General returned the ownership of the land to my family, and any
day now we were supposed to get a sum equal to the value of the lot from the
Israel Land Administration, according to a written agreement. I showed the
clerk the relevant documents, but to no avail. I asked to see the Registrar
herself to explain and show her the documents. It took some assertiveness on my
part to get in, but she was firm: “I cannot identify the owners nor your
connection to them without ID numbers next to their names… Ask whoever handled
your case at the Custodian General to write to me with all the details, and
we’ll see what can be done…”

I
left with an uncomfortable feeling. For a whole year I investigated, sought and
produced evidence that my father owned this lot, but the wheels of bureaucracy
seem to have turned back, sending me to square one, where I’m requested to
prove who my father is, and that he’s the same Shlomo Zvi Finkelman who is
registered as the land owner. The registrar apologized and said she must be extra
careful because there are many cases of identity theft and fraud in matters to
do with land ownership registration. Some two hours later the fax at home rang,
and the machine produced a confirmation that the ILA had transferred the funds
to my bank account.

I
was curious, and wanted to see the original bill of sale or sales contract
which should have been attached to the property abstract – the full information
about the land owner/s, as it appears in the Land Registry – in order to study
the history of the lot: Was it really bought directly from rabbi Yehezkel Taub
or Nachlat Yaacov, the company he owned? On what date? And why was the lot
“lost” over so many years?  Clearly there had been some bureaucratic mix-up,
since my parents never paid any taxes on the lot, which to me meant one thing
only:  the lot was no longer theirs.

The
next day I wrote a short letter reporting on my visit to the Haifa Land
Registry Office and sent it to Attorney Shira Gordon at the Custodian
General’s. I took that opportunity to thank her for all her efforts to return
the lot to my family and having us reimbursed for it. Impatient as I was, I
called Shira, who said that it is contrary to current procedures to give copies
of the bill of sale or sales contract to interested parties; but in her opinion
this was an unusual case. Since the lot was legally transferred to my
ownership, and I agreed to give it back to the ILA in return for proper
remuneration which was already carried out, there was no risk of my misusing
the documents in question. She’d have the file brought up from Archives, request
approval, and do her best. I was certain my request would be granted. So far
the Custodian General’s office was fair and empathic in handling my case, so I
couldn’t see any reason for them not to. I had to wait two long days before
receiving the unforeseen reply.  

Dear
Mr. Yaron Reshef,

I
received the file this morning and went through it. It appears that we have no
bill of sale or any Land Registry document bearing your father’s signature.
Your father bought the land through Nachlat Yaacov Co. Once the company went
into dissolution and receivership, all its creditors were investigated, as well
as anyone who had bought real estate through it but had not yet been registered
as its owner; and in this context your father’s name came up. In other words,
the information about your father’s ownership came from the receivers of
Nachlat Yaacov Co., and that company’s records. Once we were officially in
charge, we took steps to register ownership in his name. I’ve scanned the
receivership document containing information about your father and his partner,
for your perusal.

Regards,

Shira
Gordon, Attorney at Law.

The
first thought that came to mind was: Eventually justice was done; after 78
years Father got full ownership of the land he’d bought. Suddenly everything
fell into place; Shira’s document shed new light on the issue. It completely
supported my mother’s story of the “crooked rabbi”, or – as I now see him – a
Zionist real estate entrepreneur, who got into financial trouble because of the
Jewish-Arab conflict in Palestine. The dissolution of Nachlat Yaacov Ltd. was
done by The Central Canada-Israel Bank, whose representative wrote to the
Custodian General on May 14th, 1953:

“…
Mordechai Liebman and Shlomo Zvi Finkelman, file 294.95 in our records,
resided, according to our records at the time of sale (March 28th, 1935) at 15
Hillel St., Haifa. It was handled by attorney Shmuel P. Pronman of Haifa
(P.O.Box 902). It is not clear from the file whether the buyers paid for the
purchase in full, but at our discretion we believe that we should accept the
claim made by the buyers and their representative, Attorney Pronman, that the
sum was paid in full.”

According
to the land registration record, ownership of the lot was registered to Mordechai
Liebman and Shlomo Zvi Finkelman on March 23rd, 1954. A week later, on April
2nd, 1954 the head of the department at the Land Registry ordered the following
comment be added to the file: “Do not carry out any action without approval of
the Department Head”, and it seems that the Liebman-Finkelman ownership was
canceled, following an order by the district court (civil file nos. 668/53 and
17/54). Ownership reverted to the Custodian General, and later in 1997 by
another order ownership was transferred to the State, to the ILA. The ILA
published a tender for it, which got canceled due to lack of purchase offers.

Didn’t
my father know that the registration process had been completed and the lot was
finally registered to him?

Why
was the Liebman-Finkelman ownership of the lot erased and the lot returned to
the Custodian General?

Was
registration of my father as owner of the lot revoked just because his ID
number was not recorded when registering the ownership, combined with the fact
that Liebman perished in the Holocaust?

Though
I never found unequivocal answers to these questions, Israeli bureaucracy had
evidently found a way, as surprising as it may sound and some 58 years late, to
return the lot to its legal owners, as declared by the Custodian General
already in 1954.

***

On
March 3rd 2013 my mother passed away, twenty-four days after receiving
compensation for the lot. My mother died at the age of 102. On that day, both
my sister and I were in the US; I was there for work and my sister was visiting
her daughter Shlomit in New Jersey. We returned to Israel immediately and my
mother was buried in Haifa on Friday, March 15th.

Nearly
four weeks earlier, the day we received payment for the lot, I was sitting with
Raya talking about how wonderful I felt that the "journey" to uncover
the lot had ended. I said that my father could now rest in peace, or in other
words, his spirit could move on.

I
am sure that the strange course of events, the goodwill and help I received
from everyone, were far beyond the norm. After the dream I had about my father,
I found it easier to attribute some of the events to his interference from
wherever he might be. I'm fully aware that there is no logical basis for that,
but it does reflect how I felt at the time, especially considering the reality
of the past year and a half. When Raya replied that my father only needed my
mother to join him in order to move on, I smiled but forgot about it. Only
during the shiva did Raya remind me of our conversation.

Today,
as I write these lines, I think she was right; I do remember, and I smile.

During
the shiva – the Jewish traditional week of mourning – I had occasion to tell
and retell my mother's life story – I spoke of her childhood, immigrating to
Palestine with my father, their life together until he died, and her old age.

The
story of the lot was also told many times during those seven days. Some of my
friends had heard bits and pieces over the preceding year-and-a-half and wanted
to know how it all ended. Other times the story was my way of responding when I
was asked how I knew so much about my parents' early days in Israel and about
their families who died in the Holocaust. By the end of the shiva I felt
fortunate that the business of the lot had prepared me in a way for my mother's
passing. I was so pre-occupied with the distant past, looking over documents
and photos, that they tempered the harsh reality and reinforced her image in my
mind as she had been all those years ago, at the same time softening to some
extent the image of her in old age.

The
story of the lot helped me create a memory of my father. My concentrated
efforts to look into his actions and investigate his life in the '30s filled a void
in my heart. I think and feel that my mother's death also let me say good bye
to my father. The story of the lot created an image in my mind with which I
could identify and could then form a strong foundation for this final
farewell. 

***

My
Aunt Zelda Finkelman-Liebling's bunker diary

My
Aunt Zelda's diary was written after she and her husband Joel escaped from the
labor camp where they were prisoners. They left their families behind, all of
whom were led to their deaths in Belzec. Half of her diary was lost during
their liberation, but the other half Zelda brought with her to the US.

Zelda
herself translated the diary from Polish to English, and in the interest of
authenticity I am refraining from amending it beyond the bare minimum. Later,
she would read from it and tell her story to school and university students.

The
diary is not only a firsthand account of Zelda's personal tragedy, but also a
window into daily life in the bunker, with its emotions, anger and hopes.

January
17, 1944

Finally
I got a note-book. After 200 days in the bunker (place of hiding). Who can
understand what it means, “BUNKER”; only the one who sits in it knows what it
is.

Ever
so often, I wonder how should one feel about the person who created a “bunker”.
Should we bless him or curse him – the future will show. Meanwhile we are
sitting and waiting impatiently. Day by day – counting hours – at this moment
4936 hours from the moment we entered here. It was 9:30 pm June 25, 1943 when
Lolo and I left the Labor Camp (Lager). It happened suddenly, almost without
our doing anything about it. Upon receiving a letter from Hudla – “save your
life and I am going to take care of the baby (Lijuchnia)” we ran away from the
Lager. The situation was very uncertain for Lolo, because they started taking
away dentists, and so we ran like two children without any possessions, like to
a ball. It was time to go away (run) but maybe we should have stayed a little
longer to find out about my family. At the beginning of being in here I didn’t feel
or rather didn’t understand the mistake we made. Today I feel more and more how
foolishly we acted. We went to hide in a bunker – burning bridges behind us. We
are still children, or rather completely stupid. Lolo is trying to appease me, who
could presume that there’ll be a bunker by Rozka and Palanya. I am to blame,
because every time Lolo tried to talk to me about hiding I changed the subject.
Probably, I thought that the Labor camps would protect us from all evil. What
an idiot I was  – now it’s too late for reproaches, now that Zanka isn’t here
anymore – there, I wrote the words again – after 7 months I still can’t believe
it. I live through that moment the hundredth time and see it vividly – the
morning of the “liquidation”– “aktion”. God, if we ever live to see the
“Jeshiya” (freedom) will it be possible to stop thinking about this? I don’t
think so! That macabre scene is still in front of my eyes. Zanka, my sister –
smiling, sits on a stone ready to die and I am going to live. No, still a few
minutes prior to that. June 23, Wednesday morning. Reveille at 5 a.m. We all
get dressed and something made me turn around to all the girls in the room and
say, “I have a feeling that this time it is serious.” I embraced my sister
Zanka – for the last time in my life – we kissed and she tried to calm me down
– saying, “well, child, there is nothing we can do – don’t cry” and tears came
to her eyes. It was a bonding moment for both of us. It was unusual of later
days because somehow we weren’t together a lot. This gives me quite a pain now.
I remember, after work (lately we worked separately) we were not together. I
was mostly with Lolo. I know that Zanka was hurt by it – she never said
anything about it, but didn’t hide her feelings. This is why that scene in the
morning means so much to me.

Now
we go to the yard where the morning inspection is taking place. We are
immediately surrounded by a lot of German Gestapo. Lolo tried to warn us – “go
hide anywhere” – but we disregarded his warning thinking it’s just a reveille.
When we realized what is taking place Zanka turned around to me and whispered,
“You may escape somehow, remember the baby.” Oh God, am I going to remember –
please God let the child live and I swear to live for her. One more thought is
torturing me – when I got up from the ground I just walked away, actually
leaving behind me living corpses – I just walked toward life – why didn’t I run
to Zanka, embrace her, kiss her, maybe it would now be easier to take the pain.
Then when they took us to the building, I looked through the window and I saw
Zanka sitting down among the others. I even remember watching her urinate in a
corner. Somebody came back and told me that Zanka was happy that I was saved,
so her little girl is going to have good care. I am sure that Hudla is taking
good care of her, better than I ever could.

Sometimes
I think that maybe I should have pleaded more with those murderers for Zanka’s
life – but I know how I much I tried – crying on my knees, without getting
their attention at all. And still I think that Hudla would have done more.

Tuesday,
January 18, 1944

Again,
another day passed. There is nothing else to do here but count the days, hours,
every day I count anew! We walked in here June 25, and now is January 18. In the
other place, the old Czortkow [Chortkow] section, we were hiding for 31 days.
That was the time when we were looking around here and we had to run away,
while all the others stayed – all the other 8 people. On October 27, the
situation became shaky because they found someplace hidden Jews (and killed
them), so naturally our hostess became panicky and asked us to leave. Our
budget was getting very low, the cold weather on the roof started to bother us,
so we left and returned here to the same place. I remember it well as if it was
yesterday, though three months passed by since. It was on a Wednesday 2:00 p.m.
when we decided to go. We waited for our own guide, Viktor, until 6 p.m.

Wednesday,
January 19, 1944

She
arrived and we left immediately. A beautiful starlit night, and we (Lolo and I)
like lepers – no, worse, two Jews in a “Judenfrei” town (free of Jews) –
whoever knows what that means – are walking with pounding hearts, not sure if
in a moment somebody would flash a light in our faces. We didn’t know how to
behave in the streets, how to talk – whisper or speak loud. God, to look down
from the hill of the brewery to see the whole city with the light in the
windows of the houses; to think that in these houses people live – behind these
windows life is going on – one can eat – one can “live” and we are not allowed.
We don’t exist – just like the “Invisible Couple.” And involuntarily the
question comes to mind – Why? “Cy bin eich fegn a stein gebojren cy hot mich
kein mamy gehat?”– A Jewish saying (“am I born out of a stove or am I not a
mother’s child?”). And at the same moment, the thoughts are turning the other
way – and I have to say myself, but I am alive whereas others are gone.

Further
on with reminiscences…. And so we walked with pounding hearts, I even tripped a
few times until we arrived finally into this dark, dingy, and hostile place!
The bed certainly didn’t invite to rest. To make matters worse, the two friends
Sara and Hanna right from the start gave us the account of the unpleasant
situation in the bunker. Shame, (feh!) such filth among companions in misery.
Hearing all that I felt like returning to the other place. For two days I
yearned for the pleasant attic – for our quiet solitude. I knew that eventually
this situation shall affect us, too. We were drawn into a fight – I am trying
to keep calm – saying to myself it’s not the worst thing that can happen; and
still I get nervous with each quarrel which lasts forever – from petty matters
to serious ones. We have here characters! Sometimes I think that living 25
years I didn’t encounter as much malice, envy and bad character as much as
these people have. They come from all walks of life. The worst one is the
refugee from Romania – the scum of the earth – sometimes she likes to play the
part of a defender of the working class – the proletariat – but knows about it
as much as I know about Islam. Another time she was a hot Zionist. In fact she
is a big zero – quarrelsome, maybe somewhere there is a warm heart beating. She
fought with everyone already and us too. Well, enough about her, because I
think I start sounding like her. Lolo and I call her Yatatayatata – she is
close to the nasty character who was the komendant of the Jewish police in the
Lager – a former salesman, a real cajoler  to our two keepers. Behind the
little door he plays his fiddle (behind the little door our two keepers Roska
and Palama live, and only men go in there from time to time.) He came to us the
latest, paid the most, hates everyone here – and naturally is extremely jealous
of his woman, as all old men are. He tries to get her and she plays hard to
get. They sleep in the upper bed. In the bottom one, another couple – she is a
poor ignorant girl in love with this boy who is using her, he a young fellow
who filled his pockets here and is quite pleased with it. The other two beds
are occupied by a family – on top the younger brother with his bride, on the
bottom the older one, that big fat nothing – characters which could serve as
prototypes for Molière’s plays. The older brother is like Harpagon – if
he could eat again what came out he would be quite satisfied; his beauty is
worse. The other day she called me “this lady”. I really hate her with a
passion. Very often I am ashamed of the company I find myself in. I am trying to
persuade myself I am better than others – I am intellectually above them – but
it still gets me.

Sometimes
I get masochistic about it and think, good for me I deserve this for running
away to hide, leaving them all behind. I should have thought about my family,
about tomorrow. I should have – Oh God, how often Lolo and I cry about the fact
that strangers are here and our families God knows where and what is happening
to them. Mama with Lijuchnia, Chaskel and Hudel somewhere looking for shelter
while such filth is sitting here in a place that Lolo built for the family.
Let’s hope it is not too far to liberation day.

Today
I cried remembering Lijuchnia standing in the window waiting for us. Oh how it
hurts just to think of that beautiful sweet face. This is too painful to write
about. Maybe God will help that soon I’ll see her and be able to kiss her and hug
her. But today’s news isn’t good, the broadcaster didn’t mention Berdyczov or
San. So we have to wait for the next broadcast. Our radio news comes from our
keeper or her son which I call the Crown Prince. Today our keeper told us the
magistrate (town hall) was moved to where the Judenrat was – if that has any
political significance. I have to stop writing because I must pay my dues –
play cards with the Crown Prince.

January
21

Yesterday
I didn’t write. I slept most of the day. It was like the first days of our stay
here, where to be with Lolo was such a joy. After all the troubles, all the
horrible events it was soothing and reassuring to fall asleep next to my
husband.

Saturday
Jan. 22, 1944

Again
a day passed. Today I feel very sad. Every time that guy receives a visitor,
his lady-love, I get terribly upset. I dislike him for many reasons. For one,
he obstructed our steps to try to get in contact with my family – and here he
is receiving an outside visitor who brings him dozens of goodies and also gives
some to our keepers. We had an unpleasant situation with them. One of the
keepers understood that whatever we have here in the bunker automatically
belongs to her. Lolo had here a good quilt and now because our budget was low
we wanted to sell it and pay her. Naturally, we were quite surprised to find
out about it, and so we must sell the ring Lolo gave me to pay her and be in
good standing with her. Now we know why she was angry with us for a while.

It
hurts me to find myself in situations like this, but it is all done in order TO
LIVE – everything is done just to live, and God will help and we’ll have more
than we had or just as much. I get very upset about these situations and I
think, “How would anybody in my family react to this.” Lolo suffers very badly,
he looks tired, he lost weight, but he is trying to calm me down and leave
these matters to him. Oh, how much longer can I endure this frightful
situation; wouldn’t it be divine to step outside to breathe fresh air, not that
hostile air in the bunker where “homi-homini lupus est.” (Man is a wolf to (his
fellow) man.)

With
all these nasty events I am also depressed because of this morning’s dream. As
usual, I dreamed of Lijuchnia and Mama. I woke up with a pounding heart and I
was sure I called out “Mama.” God, will I ever hug and kiss this child and Mama
as I do in my dreams. Will I live to see this sunshine of a child – the ray of
light which is worth living for after all these tragedies. I still hope to see
all of them, but mostly I think of the child. Somehow I feel guilty leaving her
and running away from the Lager before I found out what’s happening to them. I
pray to God not to have a feeling of guilt later on. I love her much more than
my own life, and Lolo often says that we feel more love for her than for each
other. When I don’t sleep I think of them all – how could I not? I know that I
have a mother, brother, sister and niece – and don’t know where they are, and
here I am surrounded by hostile people. It seems that life in a bunker puts its
mark on people. One’s misfortune doesn’t touch the others. Everyone has his
cross to bear – everyone went through hell – and one doesn’t feel for his
fellow man. I myself am carrying my tragedy around with me, and nobody’s tears
move me. Lolo came back from behind the little door. Coffee time.