Out of the Shoebox

by Yaron Reshef

  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.

  Document "relocating" Dr. Sima Finkelman (marked with the arrow) to the Belzec extermination camp

  ***

  Kaddish

  For two days we travelled in south-western Ukraine, in Galicia towns that had a rich history of Jewish communities. We visited amazing castles, ancient fortresses and keeps; among them the wonderful castle in the city of Kamianets-Podilskyi and the Khotyn Fortress on the banks of the Dniester River. We visited Chernivtsi (Chernovich) in the Bukovina region and Buchach, hometown of the author S.Y. Agnon, Jagielnica, neighboring town of Chortkow from which the Finkelmans came, and Yazlovets from which the Kramer family came. Pepe Kramer, who lived in the family home and was a friend of my uncle Moshe and Tonia Sternberg, was probably also from Yazlovets.

  I felt I had to leave Chortkow and visit other places to give myself a break. I wanted to clear my head of all the emotional upheavals I had been through in such a short time. Despite my wish to distance myself from the "Jewish experience" even for a few hours, I was unable to. Every place, every village, carries with it Jewish history from both the ancient and recent past: an old synagogue, a cemetery, headstones strewn in a field – all testimony of the magnificent Jewish community that once lived there. So we found ourselves, Tania, Viktor, and me, looking for synagogues in villages and towns, and old cemeteries and broken headstones at the side of the road and in pastures among hefty Ukrainian cows. There was something pretty, out of context, in the contrast between the broken gravestones and the wide open fields, that created a different kind of aesthetic experience which was enjoyable in and of itself.

  Only once I was home, and shared my experiences, did Raya, my wife, provide the feedback and insight that made the connection between the castles, the fields of headstones and the cemeteries: "The old castles and fortresses are also a kind of monument to a life and culture that have passed from this world." That sentence was enough to summarize my visit to the towns and villages of south western Ukraine. Evidence of the grandeur of the past compared with the dilapidation of the present stood out everywhere, proof of a culture that had disappeared and will never return.

  We drove to Chernivtsi. Viktor wanted me to see a beautiful city that has been preserved and has survived the slings and arrows of history.

  For some reason, I thought Chernivtsi was in the Bukovina region in Romania. Viktor corrected me – this seemed to be a common misconception. Bukovina was a duchy and region in the Austro-Hungarian Empire and, after WWI was part of Romania. After WWII the southern half of Bukovina remained within Romanian borders, but its northern half, including the city of Chernivtsi, became part of Ukraine.

  We left early in the morning; the drive took about an hour and a half. The light traffic made maneuvering between the many potholes easier. When we arrived in Chernivtsi, Viktor stopped the car in front of a large neoclassical building typical of the early twentieth century. "This is the Chernivtsi train station. The road we came by would have been the escape route your parents and sister took when the war broke out… they would have arrived here by train and continued in horse-drawn carriages because the tracks were bombed. It was indeed, like you told me, the last train on which the Polish government fled to Romania…"

  A number of times during our drive, when I saw the train tracks winding alongside the road I considered it might have been my parents' escape route, because the general direction was south, towards Romania. But despite those earlier thoughts, I was taken by surprise. Again I felt the familiar feeling of the last few days, that my route in Ukraine was predetermined, and that somehow I had been led along the tracks of my family's fate.

  Chernivtsi train station

  Chernivtsi's beauty took my breath away. Not for nothing is it known as "Little Vienna". Many houses in the center of town are fine examples of the architecture that was typical of the period of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. The theater, built in 1905, and the university campus, built in 1882, are perfect examples of the beauty of that culture. The Jewish Cultural Center, in the theater plaza, surprised me in its size and beauty, evidence of the size of the Jewish community on the eve of WWII. It is a shame that the central synagogue built in 1873, and one of the grandest in Europe, was burned by the Germans in 1941. Later, during the Soviet period, the building's interior was destroyed, but its façade was preserved and it was converted in 1959 to a cinema. The building, designed in the Neo-Moorish style, exhibits North African and Spanish influences, which were seen as exotic and were a part of the culture in that period, the same influences that I had seen in many other, smaller-scale buildings in Chortkow. The visit to Chernivtsi was like a breath of fresh air, an aesthetic experience of manicured streets and wonderful architecture. So I was not surprised to discover a few buildings in the Art Nouveau and Art Deco styles, because, without a doubt, the Chernivtsi of the past was a rich city with a grand culture.

  We walked about town and eventually reached the Jewish Quarter, which is still referred to as the Shtetl today, and, to my surprise, found an active synagogue. I seized the opportunity and went in with Tania and Viktor. After getting permission from the beadle, I opened the Ark of the Torah and showed Viktor and Tania the handwritten Torah scroll and the ornaments that were in the ark with it, explaining that these were likely the kind of objects found in the treasure trunk in my grandfather's house. It was Viktor and Tania's first visit to an active synagogue, rather than one that is ruined, neglected, or used as a library or warehouse.

  Even the Jewish cemetery in Chernivtsi was unusually large and beautiful. The Christian and the Jewish cemeteries are across the street from each other. The Jewish cemetery is larger, with more than fifty thousand people buried there. Its grounds and size, as well as the beauty of the large cleansing room, were evidence of the grand and rich history of the Jewish community in Chernivtsi before the Holocaust. I could see that it was still active to some extent, and, like the synagogue, was further evidence that a small Jewish community still existed in the city.

  The drive back to Chortkow was relaxed and uneventful. I dozed off for much of it, my thoughts drifting from pretty houses to gravestones, past to present. As we entered Chortkow, Viktor offered to take me back to the hotel for a short rest.
I thought it sounded strange because I’d invited them to join me that evening for a dinner of pizza, beer, and wine at the Italian restaurant in the hotel, so the schedule didn't seem to make much sense. I sensed something wasn't right, and when I asked directly why we needed a break I received a surprising response: "It's been 60 days, today, since our baby died. Customarily we visit the grave after 30 days, 60 days, and a year, so we need a break." Without hesitating I said I'd be happy to join the memorial… after days of such intense shared emotions the separation seemed unnatural.

  We drove to Wygnanka. In an open field covered in flowers, in a well-tended cemetery under a clear blue sky and a setting sun, we stood, Tania, Viktor, and I, by a small earth mound covered in dozens of white flowers and baby toys, and said not a word. Silence hung heavy, Tania cried softly, Viktor didn't move. I could hear him breathing over the weeping and the birds chirping.

  "Would you like me to say Kaddish?" I asked when I realized there wasn’t any ceremony or prayer. "Of course," they responded immediately. And so I found myself standing by a baby's grave, under the Chortkow sky, the setting sun washing the sky red, and saying Kaddish for a baby I never knew.

  The words stuck in my throat. Overcome with tears, I suddenly felt the magnitude of the contrast, the absurdity or, perhaps more, the significance of the moment: that I, Yaron – a Jew whose parents were from Chortkow and whose families were murdered in the Holocaust; son of a people that mourned hundreds of thousands of babies murdered in infinite cruelty and whose burial place remained unknown, among whom was Lijuchnia who appears in my Aunt Zelda’s diary – am standing here saying Kaddish for a baby of Christian parents on Chortkow ground. I stood with them and cried.

  In Hebrew, I prayed this prayer

  ***

  The Myth

  How strange it is to be introduced to a story that every child in Chortkow knows; be it myth or legend, it is the story of the origin of the name Chortkow. The story, rooted in Slavic mythology, revolves around the eternal battle between good and evil, God and the Devil. God builds and creates, and the Devil (Chort in Polish) ruins and destroys, constantly interfering with God's plans. Local legend tells that when God created the Seret River, which runs through Chortkow, the Devil tried with all his might to stop its flow. God and the river fought the Devil. The Devil failed, and, as he was struggling with God, fell into the river, got tangled in the reeds (ocheret) and drowned. There he remains, according to the legend, trapped among the reeds at the bottom of the river. That is why the valley around the river is named Chortkova Dolyna – The Devil's Valley. The Chortkowskyi family is named after the valley where they lived, and the town in the middle of the valley – Chortkow – is named after the family. The Chortkowskyi family built the first wooden church in Chortkow in the 16th century. Viktor and Bogdan told me that some of the locals, Bogdan among them, organized and tried to change the town's unusual name more than once. They circulated petitions, but couldn't get the name changed. Time after time they ran into obstacles.

  When I heard the story the first thoughts to cross my mind were: How come I've never heard this story before? How come the legend wasn't told or mentioned in the literature written about Chortkow? Why was the eternal battle between good and evil missing from Chortkow's Jewish folklore? And, given the terrible tragedy that was the extermination of all the Jews in this town and region, a town where every third resident was wiped off the earth, how did the Jews never mention the diabolical fate that was hinted at in the town's name or the battle of good and evil. I had many questions, but not even a sliver of an answer. My mother used to say, "Chortkow was a kind of paradise until, one day, it changed completely and turned into hell."

  From the moment I heard the legend, the story of Chort, son of the Slavic god Chernobog and the goddess Mara, became part of the metaphysical explanation for the fate of Chortkow's Jews, and the fate of my family. The Jewish residents of Chortkow, like many Jews in Galicia, studied Kabbalah and understood the meaning of words and names and their power over people's destiny. Some even changed their first or last name as a way to solve problems of health or income. How could they not understand the hidden message in the name of the place where they lived? How could they ignore the warning signs and go on with their lives in the Devil’s Valley as though tomorrow could bring nothing but good fortune.

  The extermination of Chortkow's Jews was unprecedented. To my knowledge, it was more thorough than the extermination of Jews in any other region. Only 80 people from Chortkow survived, less than one percent (0.8%) of the Jewish population on the eve of the war. For comparison, in Poland, Europe's chief valley of slaughter, twelve percent of the Jewish population survived, of which seven percent fled to the USSR. In Chortkow's neighboring provinces about ten percent of the Jewish population survived, the great majority having fled east and south when the war began. I thought that, if there was no rational explanation for such a thorough extermination, then perhaps the metaphysical interpretation I found could have, at least, foretold that my family was doomed. Was it coincidence that Tonia's brother was murdered on the river? Was it sheer chance that my mother's family’s bunker was flooded with water from the river and her whole family drowned? Or, was it chance that brought me, after an eighteen-month-long unexpected journey, tracing my family's past, to Chortkow to sit with Viktor and Bogdan, on a pleasant evening after a hot day, to hear a legend about the origin of the evil that resides within the river. The evil that one day rose and turned heaven to hell, as my mother had said. It raged, killed, murdered, abused and wiped out so many innocent people, including my family.

  Over a cold beer in a local bar I learned what many did not know, refused to hear, hid or erased from their memory of the place: the devil, who so efficiently erased the memory of Mordechai Liebman and many like him, had always been there. For an instant, I thought the valley expanded, the river flooded and evil continued its everlasting battle with God...

  Chortkow is a beautiful place situated in a verdant valley through which a river flows.

  Chortkow Valley – Chortova Dolyna

  ***

  Epilogue

  This book was published in Hebrew on May 3rd, 2014.

  On May 23rd, at 1 a.m., I received the following email:

  Dear Yaron,

  My name is Nelly Segal. I found your email address in some correspondence with the wonderful Miri Gershoni.

  I live in New Jersey and just arrived in Israel for a visit the other day, and, today, Nurit Yosefi brought me your book about your family and its Chortkow roots.

  I started reading it this evening, still struggling with jetlag, when suddenly there popped up the name of Mordechai Liebman, who was my mother’s close friend during her youth in Chortkow, a very special, beloved person in my childhood who used to write to me from Egypt, where he was stationed by the British Army. Not merely tales of this-and-that, but actual stories, accompanied by sketches, of colorful characters, members of the Allied Forces, with whom he served during World War II.

  After the war he married Sima (yes, same name as your aunt), who was also enlisted and whom he’d met during their military service.

  They used to visit us quite often in our home in Beit Oved and we used to visit them, they lived in a house with a garden at the edge of Hadar neighborhood, at the bottom of Mt. Carmel, just above Hillel Street as best as I recall. But if I’m not mistaken they – or maybe just Mordechai (whom we called Mucho) – used to live on Hillel street.

  If you’d like any additional bits and pieces of memories, don’t hesitate to call me. Looking at the time, I see it’s already tomorrow, and in order to function properly, I’d better get some sleep…

  In the meantime, all the best,

  Nelly

  And so, to my utter amazement, the characters in the book continued to emend the facts.

  That same night, I called Nelly and learned that Mordechai had Hebraicized his last name. Obviously, after such a dramatic development, I couldn’t sleep, so I used
the rest of the night to track down Mordechai’s past.

  Within a few hours, I found in the British Mandate’s records that Mordechai’s name had originally been Marcus Liebman, and in 1939 he’d changed it to Mordechai Lev-Man. The full picture immediately became clear: Mordechai Liebman, my father’s co-owner of the lot, was never officially known by that name; he went by the name Marcus Liebman or Mordechai Lev-Man, which is why I hadn’t been able to locate him. The fact that his photo appears on the Meiselman family’s memorial page on the Chortkow website also made sense now; Mordechai, who was indeed Shmuel Meiselman’s friend from Chortkow and my father’s friend in Betar, had served in the British army alongside Asher Meiselman. So, his photo was erroneously added to the memorial page, next to the photos of the Meiselman family.

  The next day I managed to discover that Mordechai had a brother, Haim, and a sister, Yona, who immigrated to Israel with their mother, Tzilla. Mordechai’s father, Ben Zion, died in Chortkow. Mordechai and Sima had no children. Mordechai was killed in a car accident in 1961, at the age of 50.

  Within a few days, I tracked down Mordechai’s family and met his two nieces: Ilana, Haim’s daughter, and Esther, Yona’s daughter. They told me that Mordechai had studied architecture at the Technion and was employed by the City of Haifa, as an architect.

  Every year on the 10th of Tevet, my father’s yahrzeit, I’d linger at my father’s grave, wondering at the simple elegance of his headstone. When I asked, “How come Dad has such a beautiful headstone?”, my mother used to reply: “It was made by your father’s good friend, who was an architect for the City of Haifa …”

  Strangely enough, she never mentioned his name.

  ***