Out of the Shoebox (15 page)

Viktor
was on board, all excited, and suggested that tomorrow, before we drive to
Chortkow, we go into Ternopil and try our luck at the local archives:
"There's a good chance you could find documents related to your
family." I try to cool his enthusiasm: "I don't believe we'll find
anything… many went there before me and couldn't find any documents related to
Jews… there’s no documentation of anyone being sent to Belzec… people I know
were told that the old Chortkow Archives burned down… and the Belzec Museum
also said they had no documents. It's a waste of time." Viktor wouldn't
let it go, and I gave in thinking there might still be a chance. Perhaps that
guiding force will play a part once again and we will find something of value.

***

I
woke up after a good night's sleep. Viktor and Tania's apartment in Ternopil is
pretty, modern and spacious. The warmth and coziness of their place made me
feel like I was staying with friends. I was amazed that Viktor felt more like a
friend than a guide. The conversations of the day before brought us closer,
sparked a shared interest and created a joint challenge, and, surprisingly, we
became full partners in this adventure. While drinking my first cup of
excellent espresso, I suggested Tania join us for the trips outside of Chortkow
and got a smile of agreement.

It
was a holiday in Ternopil, but not really a day off. Throngs of people in
festive white clothes, holding flowers and apples, were gathered around
churches. It was the Feast of the Transfiguration, celebrated by Orthodox
denominations on August 19th of the Gregorian calendar. According to the
gospels, on this day, Jesus received equal status with Moses and Elijah with
whom he was seen talking on top of Mount Tabor and heard the voice of God call
him "son". The priests' chanting echoed through the speakers. It was
their customary Blessing of First Fruits of the year.

The
archives were open. It was a vast building that had seen better days. We passed
a bored guard at the entrance. The halls were dark and the walls were in dire
need of a paint job. A lighter shade would not be amiss at all, I thought, but
the most prominent sensation was the stillness. There was no movement in the
building and for a moment I thought the employees might be off for the day, or
taking part in the praying outside.  Viktor led and I followed into the first
room. Behind piles of paper and folders sat an elderly clerk who did not raise
his head when Viktor asked where we should look. He sent us down the hall to
try our luck in one of the other rooms. This time we came across a younger
clerk. She lifted her gaze, listened to Viktor's questions and told us to go to
room 18 on the top floor. I liked the room number. It stands for good luck in
Judaism. Here we met a severe-looking clerk. She had an air of authority. This
room was also full of folders and piles of documents on the tables and shelves.
It seemed as though nothing had been moved in ages. An old computer, turned
off, sat on the corner of a desk, and the smell of old paper filled the air.
She listened to Viktor's questions and they talked quietly in Ukrainian. I, of
course, didn't understand a word. Suddenly Viktor asked that I write down the
names I was interested in, and as though on autopilot I wrote down: Mordechai
Liebman, Dr. Sima Finkelman, and Menachem Mendel Kramer. I could write down
more names, but that's what I wrote. Next to each name Viktor added a note in
Cyrillic letters and then gestured to a door. I left first and Viktor stayed
behind for a few minutes, probably still talking to the clerk. "I believe
we will find documents. Tomorrow morning we'll have to come back. I'll ask
Tania to come and pick up whatever they find; I believe they'll find documents
that did not go up in flames." When Viktor saw the astonishment on my face
he added with a smile: "In Ukraine you need to know how to search... the
stamps to prove the documents are authentic will cost you a pretty penny...and
I explained that you had no problem paying." Again I felt like an actor in
someone else's script. This time I was about to find documents. I could feel it
clearly. Will I find out who Mordechai Liebman was? Or what happened to my Aunt
Sima the doctor? Or any other details about my grandfather Menachem Mendel Kramer
and his family? I did not know the answers. One thing I did know: I would have
them soon enough.

***

In
the suburbs of Ternopil I saw my first Jewish cemetery in Ukraine. I had no
expectations, which is why, perhaps, I found it so full of surprises. The
cemetery was situated on a hill overlooking the city, as though the best views
and exposures were chosen for its "residents". The gravestones were
all cut from local stone and impressive in their design and the craftsmanship
they displayed. Some of the symbols on them were unfamiliar to me, being unlike
current-day Israeli headstones. The inscriptions were succinct, honoring the
deceased and only hinting at the circumstances of death – was it old age or was
it unexpected, was it a young man or a maiden. I was quickly able to connect
the symbols with the description and sex of the deceased: candles or a
candelabra meant a woman, because women bless the candles for the Sabbath; a
branch or broken flower indicated an unwed virgin; a tree or an oil jug
described a scholar; a star of David for a man; hands held for the priestly
blessing of a Cohen. Beautiful headstones, each telling a story, with the
inscription matching the symbols.

Viktor
and I walked around and took photos. I translated the Hebrew, Viktor identified
the symbols and associated them with the inscriptions. After a few minutes he
noticed that the Cohens were buried in the edge plots and asked if there was a
reason for it. Once I explained the customs of Cohanim, Viktor made sense of
the design and layout of the cemetery and identified its main paths, wide
enough and far enough from the other graves so Cohen families could visit the
graves of loved ones. The cemetery was pervaded by the same feeling of magic,
sanctity and mystery that I’d experienced in a visit to the old Jewish cemetery
in Prague. While I pondered these sights, Viktor explained that such cemeteries
were found all over Ukraine. "There's barely a city, town, or village
without a Jewish cemetery or its remains, whole headstones or their ruins – if
you don't see them immediately you can usually look and find some." I had
mixed feelings about this: on the one hand it testified to the large
communities that once lived here, on the other it was horrific evidence of the
lack of any living people, in other words, it was evidence of the scale of
extermination. In Ukraine only the dead Jews remain, I couldn't help thinking –
at least they escaped the genocide and have a known burial site. I was touched
by a simple headstone from 1910. It was less ornate than the others, and the
inscription hinted at the tragic end of an old couple: "Here lie husband
and wife, who passed away suddenly on the 15th of Shvat in the year 5671 – an
old honest man... and an old honest woman..."

Headstone of the old couple in the
Jewish cemetery in Ternopil

After
about a five-minute drive we reached the forest at the outskirts of Ternopil.
Viktor stopped the car by a long narrow monument that glistened in the
sunlight. The monument had inscriptions in Hebrew, English and Russian. The
notable difference between the Hebrew and the Russian and English was
unexpected. The Hebrew said:  "This place is a mass grave for the
righteous who were killed by the Nazis for their devotion to the Lord, may they
be damned, the Hashem shall avenge them." The English and Russian versions
did not call for vengeance: "In the memory of the holy martyrs Jews that
were ruthlessly killed and buried on this side by the Nazis."

When
I told Viktor about the difference in phrasing we both hypothesized that the  
writers did not want to hurt the locals' feelings. It is well known that a
large portion of the extermination of the Jews was carried out by Ukrainians,
the local residents. "Everyone here knows Russian, some know English, but
no one knows Hebrew," Viktor reasoned, attempting to explain the
discrepancy.

I
peered into the forest. Apart from dense trees you couldn’t tell this forest
was different from any other forest I’d ever seen. The trees were the same
trees, the path was a regular path, and the ground was covered in dense
vegetation. Nature had covered up the atrocities of man. I could not reconcile
what I saw with the knowledge that I was standing on the site of a cold-blooded
massacre.

We
went on driving. Viktor suggested we stop at Husiatyn. "The majority of
the town's residents were Jewish up until World War I. They say there's a
pretty synagogue; likely in a state of decay, would you like to go see
it?" So we drove to Husiatyn. We got directions from some locals, and
after a few wrong turns found the synagogue. I stood amazed in front of the
deserted building. It was built in a style I did not recognize, a combination
of late Renaissance and Moorish influences, probably due to the Turkish
occupation. The synagogue was built in the 16th century on the remains of a
castle, and was one of the first grand synagogues in Galicia. Its construction
began under Turkish rule, but halted when the Turks left by order of the
church, to be later renewed under the rule of the Polish nobleman Count
Potocki. The Jewish community of Husiatyn flourished until the beginning of
World War I, numbering five thousand Jews on the eve of the war, over half the
town's population. During the war the Jewish population fled and returned
slowly when the war ended. On the eve of World War II  the Jewish population
numbered some eight thousand people. The Jews of Husiatyn were exterminated as
were all the Jews in Galicia, and the grand synagogue stood deserted. Viktor
told me the synagogue was barely damaged during World War II, and when the
Allies won and Ukraine came under Soviet rule it was turned into a museum. The
Soviets continued to maintain the building. They didn't make any architectural
changes, so it was easy to identify where the Holy Ark had stood, and above it
a relief of the tablets bearing the Ten Commandments. "The museum was shut
down when Ukraine became independent, and the building stands deserted, never
maintained, crumbling and filthy, as do most of the synagogues in Galicia, and in
Chortkow as well," Viktor explained. "It's not a particular slight
against the Jews, this is how the government treats most of our heritage – the
crumbling castles, and decaying palaces and grand mansions, deserted one after
the other. Only the churches are kept in good repair by donations of residents
and Ukrainian expats, which is why they look new and thriving."

Husiatyn Synagogue

Only
when I saw the grand synagogue, decrepit and in disrepair, through the lens of
my camera did I feel emptiness and loss, the feeling that something was
missing. What I couldn't feel at the mass grave in Ternopil suddenly hit me in
Husiatyn. The disparity between the building's magnificent façade, and
the neglect, abandonment and emptiness inside made the absence of Jewish
presence palpable. I was ill-at-ease with the realization that only when faced
with the physical discrepancy between what is and is not, do I feel the loss.

***

"We're
almost in Chortkow, but this isn't the scenic way into town... you won't see
the view of the town beneath us because we'll start at the mass grave in the
Black Forest." I stood by the monument that was erected by
second-generation holocaust survivors living in Israel. I stood and saw how new
real-estate developments were closing in on the killing pits. Once again nature
was able to cover up the atrocities of man. Once again I could not reconcile
what my eyes saw with the knowledge that I was standing in a valley of
slaughter – even the monument couldn't evoke that sensation. Only when I
noticed two broken old headstones from 1930, which locals had brought to the
monument after finding them near their homes, did tears come to my eyes all of
a sudden. The ground around the monument was unkempt, weeds grew everywhere and
covered up the paving and the open space leading to the road. But the monument
stood defiant against the industrial area breathing down its neck, as though
saying: we were here first.

Within
minutes we were in the city suburbs, by the central bus station; an open space
with platforms and stops where men, women with shopping bags, crates, and
suitcases stood waiting. A sight that could have been taken directly from
Israeli development towns of the 1950s. Viktor turned right and announced that
we were arriving at the cemetery. The cemetery was situated on a hill above the
town. It took a few moments before I noticed the headstones. At first I saw
only a patch of woods and a rusted metal fence encircling the trees. But after
Viktor pointed to the woods, I noticed gravestones peeking out among the trees.
The 70-year-old-forest had been growing wild in the cemetery since the Jews
were exiled and exterminated. It hid the headstones as though concealing them
and isolating them from the outside world. Bullets were embedded in some of the
headstones, proof of the battles that took place in the graveyard. It was the
first time I noticed that the words for grave – kever – and battle – krav – in
Hebrew are made up of the same letters. We walked up and down the cemetery,
having trouble making our way among the trees, branches, bushes and nettles,
taking pictures of headstones so we could later make out names and dates. I
searched for relatives, and my grandfather's grave, Isak Finkelman who died in
1933, but in vain. It was clear to me that the forest kept more of the cemetery
hidden than visible. Covered in thorns and scratches we left and went on to the
center of Chortkow.

Viktor
stopped at the old Kramer house, my mother's old home. It was afternoon, the
city had emptied. I was overwhelmed by the beauty of the old, Austrian-style
buildings. Every way I looked I saw evidence of a rich and very different past.
Viktor led me to the entrance and rang the doorbell. A woman now living in my
family's old home answered the door and Viktor simply explained who I was and
asked if she would show me the apartment. Other neighbors joined and quickly
volunteered to show me their apartments. "After the war your family's
house was divided into smaller apartments. Instead of one apartment per floor,
there are two units per floor, some of which are rented out." On the
ground floor was commercial space – a large store, and a restaurant.
"We'll leave that till tomorrow, when my friend Bogdan will be around and
will tell you about the treasure," Viktor quickly explained. The Kramer's
apartment was enormous. It matched the detailed description in my mother's
memoirs perfectly. It still had the same wood floor, and the current resident
laughed when I told how my mother described the way they would polish it. "That's
still how it's done today – if you have the strength – strong back and
legs," she said. The height of the ceiling was surprising. You could
easily build a loft in each apartment. We continued to the third floor. Again
the space was huge, and above it, to my surprise, in the attic, one of the
tenants built a large pigeon coop with hundreds of carrier pigeons. His home
was filled with trophies from many competitions. I smiled when I remembered my
mother battling the pigeons that would invade the balcony of our apartment in
Haifa. Those pigeon wars were part of my adolescence.

Out
in the street again, I noticed for the first time the fishing store at the
front of the house. Though my early love of fishing had waned over the years, I
never stopped looking at fishing rods and especially fly fishing hooks with
their feathers and colorful thread used for catching trout – an aesthetic
pleasure I’d never given up. My childhood memory – fishing with my father and
his friends – brought tears to my eyes.

I
was full to the brim with the day's experiences, and asked Viktor to take a
break from the dead and the memories; "Some good pizza and a cold beer
after a shower will do the trick. I just can't take any more."

The
hotel surprised me – a spacious, modern room; news in Ukrainian coming out of a
flat-screen TV, and high speed internet. In just a few minutes, I'll be
connected to the world again. I turned on my iPad and tried to slip into
another world, but failed – it didn’t seem right. Suddenly, I'm alone; sad and
shaking like the last leaf on a tree during a storm. Overcome with memories of
my family, I fell asleep for a short while. There was excellent pizza in
Chortkow. There was delicious cold beer in Chortkow. Viktor and I shared some
spicy pizza and cold beer and that was the end of our first evening in
Chortkow.

***

Sleeping
in Chortkow wasn't easy; waking up was much easier. Despite the comfortable
room I had a restless sleep, tossing and turning. I woke up dozens of times,
but fell right back to sleep, and when I woke up in the morning I was
surprisingly alert and full of energy. We had good coffee at the Italian
restaurant in the hotel, and planned our first full day in Chortkow. We both
felt that the day before we’d arrived tired and heavy with emotion, and from
now on we'd be better off taking it slow and in small doses. We made a list of
goals so as not to miss anything… and Viktor read out: "We'll start at the
cemetery in the center of town, the one by the Catholic graveyard, we’re better
off doing that in the morning while it's cool. Afterwards we can go to your
father's house at 279 Szpitalna St., which today is called Pihuty St., then
we'll continue to the old synagogue next to the medical school and, from there,
to the basement of your mother's house to hear the story of the treasure. We'll
take a short break at my place for a light lunch – Tania's mother made us
borscht – and then go on to meet an historian who runs the local Chortkow
museum. He would like to take you on a walking tour. I think this is a good
plan. You have plenty of time and there's no need to hurry." I thought it
sounded like a plan for a whole week, but decided to go along with Viktor's
pace because I had no idea how things might develop.

Within
minutes we arrived at our first stop, the Jewish cemetery located by the
Catholic cemetery. Viktor explained that it was still in use until the 1930s,
when they ran out of space. "The old cemetery was by the hospital, near
your father's house, but it was full so they moved here. The old cemetery has
only one headstone, that of Rabbi Friedman, Chortkow's rabbi. The other
headstones were stolen by the Nazis who used them to pave roads. There are
people buried beneath the woods by the hospital, but the graves are no longer
marked. We'll go past it later today." We walked around the Catholic
cemetery but we couldn't find the Jewish one. When we asked workers digging a
new grave where the Jewish graves were they pointed to an area covered in brush
at the edge of the cemetery and said, "The Jewish cemetery is covered in
trees, you'll have to hop the fence because the gate is locked." After we
cleared the stone wall, we saw another tangled thicket and, among the trees,
many headstones, some still standing and some in various states of decay. I could
not believe my eyes. I knew that the trees had been cut down only five years
ago, but the lack of maintenance meant it only encouraged growth. Wherever a
trunk had been cut down, four new trunks had grown. In fact, the new trees and
the brush protected the graves by preventing people from coming. We walked
around methodically as I tried to locate my grandfather's grave, which I hadn't
found the day before. On the back of each headstone was the name of the
deceased in Polish, which allowed both Viktor and me to search. It felt very
strange, like a scene from Indiana Jones: a small dense wood in the center of
town… with us chopping branches and making our way from headstone to headstone,
trying to find ones that had fallen and were hidden in the brush, or concealed
among the trees and bushes. Suddenly I heard Viktor call out, "There's a
Finkelman here." Chills ran down my spine as I read the headstone. It was
the grave of Eliyahu Finkelman son of Mechel.  Eliyahu was my father's cousin.
Mechel's father was my grandfather's brother. Eliyahu was my Aunt Zelda's
father; he died in 1921 when she was only three, after which she lived in my
father's home. Eliyahu is the grandfather of Mordechai and Linette Liebling. It
was the only family headstone we found. I was certain that there were others in
the cemetery but they were likely hidden. I stood at the grave of Eliyahu son
of Mechel Finkelman and said the Kaddish prayer. It moved me to tears. For over
seventy years, and perhaps longer, no one said Kaddish at this grave. It was a
prayer for all of my family members whose resting place remained unknown.

Headstone of Eliyahu Finkelman’s
grave

We
left the cemetery full of emotion. Viktor asked about the prayer I’d recited,
what language it was in and how long it had existed. I explained its meaning,
that it is said in Aramaic and that it predated Christianity.

We
were on our way to my father's home when suddenly Viktor stopped the car and
pointed to a house on the other side of the road. "That's my house, we'll
eat lunch there later, but I just want to show you some headstones right here…
let's get out of the car for a few minutes." We stood by a small pile of
rubble. I didn't notice the details at first, but after a few seconds I could
see it was made up of broken headstones. "These were used for the curb on
Pihuty Street. The Nazis used headstones from the old cemetery to pave roads in
rural areas, and for curbs in the city." When he saw how appalled I was he
explained that in recent years Chortkow has been replacing the curbs and
repaving the roads, a slow task that is not yet completed. It was difficult to
make out the inscriptions on most of the headstones, but a large piece,
weighing close to sixty kilos, was covered in beautiful carvings of a lion
holding a crown over the Ark of Torah. The stone was broken on the other side
of the crown, where the second lion should have been. I couldn't move. Seeing
the fragments of headstones threw me back to my Kaddish prayer earlier. I asked
Viktor if we could move the headstone fragment to his place. "I can't bear
the thought that it'll just lie here at the side of the road. Let's move it
into your garden, where at least its beauty can be appreciated." I don't
think he could have refused. He came back with a wheelbarrow and together we managed
to place the headstone fragment in his garden.

Headstone fragment that we moved
from the street to Viktor's garden

We
drove along Pihuty Street toward the Finkelman house. Of course now I could
identify the curb built from headstones and the gaps where they had been
removed. I was horrified that this was the road leading to Chortkow's hospital.
I immediately recognized the Finkelman home. It was identical to the picture I
got from Miri. It was the house that Kobe Kon had described only a few weeks
earlier. The house that stood before me was a kind of architectural gem, built
by a craftsman in the early twentieth century.