Out of the Shoebox (16 page)

Decorative relief detail on the
roof of the Finkelman home

The
house stood at the corner of two streets and was designed with the intersection
in mind. At its top was a small lookout tower, decorated with a pretty metal
roof, pointing to the sky. The tower was located at the corner facing the
intersection and could be seen from a distance. The building style was Austrian
with some neoclassical influences and a dash of Viennese art nouveau. I could
easily see how my father's interest in architecture began with this house. The
inside was simple and pretty with large neat living spaces and a simple,
functional design. I told Viktor I'd be glad to take this house back with me to
Israel; it was love at first sight. In truth, I was a bit doubtful that this
amazing house had been my father's. "Perhaps there was some mistake in the
address when the street name was changed, or a mix-up with the house
numbers?" I don't know where the feeling came from, but I felt I had to
find some proof that this was indeed the right house. I remembered that in my
backpack I had, in addition to various documents and old postcards, a photo in
which my Aunt Sima, the doctor, was standing outside the family home, and, in
the background, you could see a window with decorative trim, the details of
which were similar to the decorative elements of this house. I took the photo
out and was disappointed; it was similar but not identical. My disappointment
was short-lived. "There are windows and decorative trim in the back yard
as well," Viktor reported after he walked around the house. The special
trim on the back windows was identical to that in the photo. I had no doubt:
this house was my father's house.

Dr.
Sima Finkelman in Chortkow

The window trim in the back yard

The
beauty of the house made me forget for a moment the image of the cemetery, the
gravestones strewn in the field, and even the road paved from headstones. The
aesthetic experience momentarily erased those memories, making way for new
experiences later in the day.

We
stopped at Viktor's for lunch. This is where I first met Luda, Tania's mother.
Luda is a handsome woman, about my age, who lives in Chortkow in a house Viktor
is renovating. For many years she lived and worked in Italy. After some time,
she obtained Italian citizenship and now splits her time between Italy and
Chortkow. Luda made us some delicious borscht. It wasn't like the soup I knew from
my childhood. My mother's borscht was cold, sweet and did not contain meat
because we ate it with sour cream. Luda's borscht was a hearty meat soup loaded
with root vegetables and leafy greens, beets, and potatoes. The soup resembled
goulash, but the beets gave it a different flavor and a deep red color. Luda
and Viktor thickened their soup with sour cream. I liked the Ukrainian version
of borscht and asked Luda for the recipe.

After
lunch we went to meet Dr. Jaromir Chorpita, the historian who runs Chortkow's
museum. He volunteered to take me on a tour along the Jewish Trail of Chortkow.
We walked through many grand houses that used to belong to Jewish families and
then down to the ghetto. "The Germans shoved Jews from the richer parts of
town into the poor houses along the river. They crammed them into an inhumanly
small and crowded space from which it would be hard to escape. It was easy to
block off a narrow strip of buildings along the river, because you could not
escape in the direction of the river…" When you see the small narrow area
of the ghetto with your own eyes, you understand and feel the cramped living
conditions and the distress the Jews experienced. It was a veritable death
trap. I thought to myself that, unlike the ghettos in the large cities which
allowed relatively more movement, the small town ghetto had thousands of people
crammed into such a small area that the feelings of desperation and finality
were undoubtedly increased. I found it difficult to accept that most of my
family had met its end in this place.

From
there we continued on foot towards the river. We stood in front of a
mostly-empty lot with a small chapel surrounded by a carefully-tended garden. Jaromir
said: "Here, in this very place, stood an interesting building which was
constructed in the early ‘30s of the previous century, some ten years before
the war. The building's no longer here because it sustained a direct hit in a
bombing towards the end of the war and was completely demolished. I wanted to
tell you about it because it was different. It was the Jewish Cultural Center.
There were also progressive Jews living in Chortkow, and they built a gymnasium
for exercise and sports. It was built by a Jewish architect who studied in
Vienna…" “Yes, I know,” I quickly interposed with a broad grin, “I'm
familiar with the story.” To their surprise, I asked Viktor to stop translating
and give me a moment to show them something I brought with me. Viktor seemed a
bit embarrassed as he translated for me. From my backpack, I took out a binder
with a page on which I’d photocopied an old photo I’d found in the Chortkow
memorial book. The photo showed my father holding a mason's trowel with mortar
in the cornerstone ceremony for the new Jewish Cultural Center, the very
building that used to stand in the lot in front of us, where we stood in
amazement.

Laying the cornerstone for the new
Jewish Cultural Center. The stone is being laid by Rabbi Arye Meyer Schechter;
Zvi Finkelman (Junio) handing him the trowel

Jaromir
and Viktor just stood there and I started to laugh. It was unbelievable. Of all
the gorgeous buildings in town, they take me to see an empty lot where a
building used to stand that symbolized a different kind of Jewish culture, a
progressive culture, the only building that my father designed and built in
Chortkow, a building that was destroyed in the war. All this without having a
clue that I was the son of that architect. When Jaromir collected himself he
started talking quickly and Viktor had a hard time keeping up: "Our
families knew each other well… my grandfather was the train station master and
your grandfather had sawmills... my grandfather would let your grandfather know
when log shipments were about to arrive so he could plan to unload them from
the train cars… All the Finkelmans had sawmills in Jagielnica and Chortkow. The
logs arrived from distant places, massive tree trunks. The mills would cut the
logs into planks according to the needs of local clients… Your family was the
only lumber supplier in the whole town…" I tried to correct him and set
things straight to the best of my knowledge, to say that my family were lumber
merchants, and that I knew nothing of sawmills. But Jaromir firmly corrected
me: "The ground where the Finkelman mills used to stand are still covered
in wood chips and sawdust. The layers upon layers of sawdust leave no room for
doubt… according to my family's stories, our grandfathers were close friends
until your grandfather died in the early ‘30s… I didn't know your father
survived and that you were the grandson… I brought you to the empty lot just so
I could tell you that Chortkow was home to many kinds of Jews: Hasidim,
Mitnagdim , Maskilim , who unfortunately all shared the same fate… Here you are
standing with a photo of the architect and I simply can't believe this is
happening…"

Despite
having  experienced many similar situations regarding my family over the last
two years, which I saw as coincidence though incredibly unlikely, I was
surprised anew every time. I could never get used to the fact that things take
place of their own accord, as if guided by a higher power. This feeling
increased when I saw the expressions on the faces of people who were involved,
as though they suddenly found themselves in the middle of occurrences for which
they did not have any rational explanation, they looked like they’d seen a
ghost. So it was with Jaromir as well.

We
continued touring the streets of Chortkow for about an hour. We went up to the
remains of the castle above the city, we saw the ancient wood churches, but my
mind was elsewhere. My thoughts returned to that empty lot where the gymnasium
used to be, and the train station where huge logs had been unloaded for my
family many years ago. I laughed at my own words said earlier – "today we
need to take it slow" – and wondered what else this day might bring.

***

The
past burst into the present. We were sitting at a local bar in the basement of
my grandfather's house, under a sporting goods and fishing store: Me, Viktor,
and Bogdan Mikhailovich, the bar's owner. No, this is not a mistake; there we
were at a local bar, in what used to be the basement of my mother's family
home. We were sharing a cold one. It felt a bit like a Kaddish prayer. A prayer
over beer.

Tears
streamed down my face. It's not easy having a drink in my grandfather's
basement. This is where the treasure was found. A treasure that grandpa
Menachem Mendel Kramer hid before he was kicked out by the Soviets. When Viktor
wrote and told me about it, it felt far away, just a story. But here I was. It
was electrifyingly real.

Bogdan
began telling the story: "They were four downtrodden workers, drunks. They
would work till they were spent and once they got their pay they'd buy vodka
and go home to Wygnanka to drink. Every day they'd drink their pay away.
Gregory Lugofet hired them to dig up the floors and walls. A few weeks earlier he’d
come to me with an unusual proposition: 'Since you're not renovating the place,
I'll build a restaurant in the cellar under your sporting goods and fishing
store. I'll pay for everything, and after two years you'll own it all. In
return you won't charge me rent.'"

Bogdan
couldn't refuse such an offer. For years the cellar had been used for storage
and did not contribute any income. He had started renovating it himself, but
didn't have the money to continue the work. Here, suddenly, was an opportunity
to complete the renovations and make some money and, on top of that, in the
end, he would own a bar. Within days the renovations began.

They
dug up the space oddly, as though jumping from one spot to the other. Drilling
into the walls then back to jackhammering the floor, and at the end of the day
pouring their small wages into a bottle. Bogdan didn't understand their method,
but was not worried. The walls were thick and the floor sturdy, so the building's
structural integrity was in no danger, and holes could be patched up easily.
They knocked down walls and closed up old passageways. The daily banging and
clanking reminded Bogdan of a flock of birds pecking at the ground for food.
Now and then Lugofet would stop by, tyrannize the workers and move them around,
seemingly at random, according to some incomprehensible imaginary plan.

One
afternoon, on a day like any other, there was an accident. They’d swung the
hammer and broke some rotting wood beams and the floor collapsed, and with it
one of the workers. He was quickly pulled out of the wreckage and fortunately
wasn't even hurt. But at the end of that workday, in the early evening, they
broke their pattern, went into Chortkow and drank away their money right then
and there. Drunk and unsteady, they called a cab to take them up the mountain
back to Wygnanka. They had always walked. A cab was a luxury. For the price of
a cab-ride you could buy a bottle of vodka, the good stuff. They asked the cab
driver to load a large trunk into the car and when he refused they tried to
convince him in the slurred speech of drunks and tried to bribe him with
generous compensation. "We found a treasure, so we can pay you," they
went on, and the driver was eventually persuaded for an outrageous price, and
drove them home.

As
soon as he dropped off the loud, smelly passengers and their strange luggage,
the cab driver hurried over to Lugofet's because he felt that he might be
rewarded for this kind of information. And so it was. That very evening, after
yelling, lengthy arguments and chest thumping and, possibly, even blows,
Lugofet offered to buy the trunk from the four workers. Following some loud
haggling, the trunk was sold for two thousand dollars per worker. The next day when
they threatened to tell the authorities he offered them each another five
hundred dollars to keep his secret. It was a large sum of money. Ten thousand
dollars was enough to buy a decent house on a nice property, but Lugofet must
have known the value of the trunk.

Almost
forty years had passed since the last time a treasure was found in Chortkow. At
first, in the early years after the war, they would find treasures in the
gardens of old Jewish homes, in attics and hidden in the walls. But over the
years fewer treasures were discovered. "Even the Jews' money is all
gone..."

The
rumor spread. It is well known that no one can keep a secret in Chortkow.
Within days, the whole town was talking about the treasure. A treasure found
sixty four years after the family was exiled from its home.

We
were sitting over cold beers in the bar in my grandfather's house. My throat
was dry and tight, and my salty tears mixed with the bitter beer. Bogdan
continued to tell his story and I listened in silence. "Everyone knew the
treasure contained large icons and pieces of pure silver. Rumor had it that a
safe was found in the wall and it contained gold and silver coins... it was a
real treasure.

When
I asked for my share, as the owner of the place where the treasure was found,
Lugofet insisted that it was not part of our deal." When the rumors
reached the police, Bogdan, as the owner, was brought in for questioning but
quickly released. Later, Lugofet's son was arrested. He disappeared for a week
then was released and was gone, probably after having given the investigators
what they wanted. Eventually, it turned out he’d immigrated to the US.

After
a few weeks Lugofet bought a large piece of land and built a grand house. A few
months later he bought a café, and sent his son to live in the US. 
"as everyone in Ukraine knows, that too requires a lot of money." In
time, Lugofet left the renovated basement as promised. The four workers drank away
their money. They improved their accommodations, but quickly went back to work
as casual laborers and did not significantly improve their lives. In fact,
anyone who had a hand in the treasure suffered some misfortune. Lugofet
divorced three times, knew no peace of mind, and, according to the locals
became very eccentric. One worker disappeared, supposedly due to illness.
Another died shortly after the treasure was discovered. A third worker has
terminal cancer, and the fourth is probably abroad, his whereabouts unknown, he
might have died, even his family lost track of him.

That
night I couldn't sleep. I was restless. Something in the story didn't fit.
Something was wrong, or not quite accurate. In those restless hours I kept
going over the story. I read my notes over and over again. Finally I fell
asleep, likely shortly before dawn, and woke up excited with a new insight:
Jewish families don't keep icons of saints... it must have been Jewish ritual
objects, ornaments of the Torah and holy vessels from the Stratyn Kloyz.
Grandfather must have hidden items from the synagogue in a trunk he buried in
the cellar, and his own money and property in a safe in the wall. I understood
then that my grandfather had prepared for the Soviet invasion. He knew his property
would be taken and he would be ostracized for being wealthy, as the Soviets did
in all the lands under their rule. He knew that the synagogue would be shut
down and that prayer and worship would be banned. I had not the slightest doubt
that these were the facts; it explained why the treasure was so great – worth
about five hundred thousand dollars, according to Chortkow rumor.

Grandfather
was the beadle of the Hasidic Stratyn Kloyz, together with Pinchas Shifris,
Miri Gershoni's grandfather. They weren't neighbors, but like many others in
Chortkow, were connected through their adherence to the Stratyn Hasidic
movement. It was a rich community, and as beadles they were responsible for the
kloyz property, as well as the property of the Hasidic movement and the
community. They must have been able to hide the treasure after the Soviets had
already arrived. They did such a good job that the treasure wasn't found. I
assume my family used up some of the coins and silver in order to survive,
build hiding places, "bunkers", and dig escape tunnels. They prepared
all that in advance. They would have needed people to share their secret, I
thought, maybe locals, Poles or Ukrainians. Perhaps Lugofet is the descendent
of one of those people, or the grandson of a cook or other employee who worked
in the house. He might have bought the information. But one thing was certain:
he had made the deal with the express purpose of digging and finding the
treasure.

My
grandfather's family may have used up part of the treasure, but they would not
have touched the sacred ceremonial objects. Those would be safeguarded for
better days, and when the situation never got better and the beadles were
murdered, the treasure was forgotten, like many other treasures in Chortkow.

By
the next day everyone in Chortkow knew I was there: The grandson of the man who
hid the treasure under Bogdan's sporting goods shop. After all, rumors spread
fast in Chortkow...

That
evening I was invited for perogies at my grandfather's house, at the bar where
the treasure was found. It was an encounter with a taste of childhood from my
mother's kitchen. There are certain childhood flavors that you never forget...
the dumplings were moon-shaped, filled with mashed potatoes and fried onion and
served with fresh sour cream like they used to be served in the days when no
one counted calories or cared about fat content. We sat there, Viktor and
Bogdan and I, and shared hot perogies and cold beer.

"Don't
go near Lugofet," Bogdan warned me "he's unpredictable, a bit crazy and
aggressive. But one of the workers who found the treasure still lives in
Wygnanka. He's very sick, he has cancer, but you could try, he might be willing
to talk. His name is Tolik." Viktor was surprised "That's the second
husband of my brother-in-law's first wife. She's Jewish. Her name is Raya,
let's set up a meeting."

The
next day we met with Raya Yakir, wife of Tolik, the worker with cancer. When I
introduced myself as an Israeli visiting his parents' old homes and started
telling of my father's house on Szpitalna Street she stopped me and said:
"Let's talk about the basement under the sporting goods shop, that too
used to belong to your family…" They were right, I thought, word travels
quickly in Chortkow. Raya, who was expecting my visit, verified the story of
the treasure.

***

No
more surprises, I thought. After hearing Bogdan's story of the treasure. I
remembered thinking that morning, "you need to take things slowly today…
in small doses." But clearly events in Chortkow have their own dynamics. Viktor,
who saw I was exhausted, took me back to the hotel, gave me two hours to
shower, rest, and buy some cold beer, and invited me to a barbeque in his back
yard. "Luda and Tania, who's now in Chortkow, will take care of most of
it, you just relax and enjoy and I'll cook the meat." "Sounds like an
excellent plan," I replied with a smile, "I could do with meat and
beer on a chilly Chortkow evening such as this."

A
cool twilight descended. Viktor was in charge of grilling the meat. Large
skewers of superb meat with fresh vegetables from the garden. A wonderful meal.
I felt relaxed, the day's events slowly sinking into the background, making way
for light conversation about life in Ireland, Italy and Israel. How similar
people's basic pleasures are; a different country, different culture, different
history, but the food and beer, the stars above and the rituals of barbequing
make us all feel good. We sat and talked, ate and drank, and drank, and drank
until the moment when Tania handed me an envelope. "These are the
documents I brought from the archive. Sorry I didn't give them to you
sooner."

I've
seen all kinds of shipping documents in my life: documents for shipping
merchandise, confirmation for registered mail, invoices for shipping by air,
sea and land, but I never thought I'd see "shipping documents"
sending people to their death. I froze in my seat when Viktor translated:
"The date is November 19, 1942, this is a list of those sent from the
Ternopil Central train station to be relocated in Belzec. Your aunt, Dr. Sima
Finkelman, is on line 12 and her number is Rp 7-159."

Obviously
this dose of information was too much for me, totally out of proportion,
unacceptably huge. I lay in bed in the hotel, my eyes wide open staring at the
ceiling, making a mental list and enumerating: looking for family graves in the
cemetery and saying Kaddish over the grave of Mordechai and Linette's
grandfather, Zelda's father; finding the broken headstones from Szkolna Street
and moving one to Viktor's garden; visiting the Finkelman home; touring the
city with Dr. Jaromir Chorpita and unwittingly being led to the spot where the
Jewish Cultural Center designed by my father once stood; the story of the
Kramer treasure; and finally the shipping documents sending my Aunt Sima to her
death. Six events that had shaken me such that my eyes simply would not shut.