After
the Six Day War (1967), when I was about sixteen, as I came home after being to
the movies with friends – I recall it was You Only Live Twice with Sean Connery
– my mother handed me a heavy tome, saying: “This is the Chortkow book. Read it
and look after it. It tells about your father.” I remember not sleeping a wink
that night. The book told it all, not just about my father. About the Chortkow
of long ago, history, stories, tales, memoirs – and, inter alia, about Father
and his family. First I leafed through, looking for pictures of familiar faces.
Then I read. Then I browsed through, then read it again, avidly drinking in
every word. This was my first real glimpse into my family’s past, a world unto
itself that, until that moment, had been locked away and inaccessible to me.
The
following day, my eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep, my mother’s probably from
crying, I was finally introduced to the box of photos. In our case it wasn’t a
cardboard shoebox but a beautiful wooden box made by Father in 1934. It held a
jumble of assorted old photos, postcards and letters. Pictures of my parents,
of my family that is no more, a family exterminated in the Holocaust. Everyday
pictures of bathing in a stream, a family outing; pictures taken at Zionist
youth movements, pictures of parents and their newly-married offspring; and
pictures of my parents and sister on their last visit with the family in
Chortkow, on the eve of the war. That’s when I first heard the story of that
visit and the statement “We could have saved them… or at least taken Moshe, my
kid brother, with us… we didn’t know that Heaven could turn into Hell in one
day.” A few short sentences embodying all my mother’s guilt feelings – the only
survivor of the Kramer family.
I
know now that, as a kid, I had no idea how to handle this newly-acquired
knowledge. Though I took in every written word, and scanned to memory and mind
every single picture, I let this discovery get pushed back and forgotten. As I
closed the lid of that box, I put the lid on those memories for many years.
Maybe because I found it hard to see my mother suffering, when I realized how
difficult it was for her to speak of the past. Or maybe because it was all so
inextricably entwined with the memories of my father, a memory I was busy
repressing.
On
one of my weekends off from Hadassim, my boarding school, when I was a senior,
aged eighteen, I came home in the afternoon, and was witness to a heated phone
conversation between my mother and her best friend Lola (Leah Pevzner.) That
was the first time I heard my mother swear in Polish, on the phone, “psha kref
cholera” (Polish spelling: psia krew cholera; meaning loosely “may you be
struck with cholera!”). This curse was reserved for situations of extreme
distress, such as when someone snatched victory from her at the Friday night
card game. This was strange because Lola was not among her card-playing circle.
To me she seemed like my mom’s intellectual younger friend, with whom she
discussed Life, Literature and Theater. My mother held her in high esteem. I
quickly found out that this colorful curse was my mother’s spontaneous reaction
to Lola’s quote from Ora Shem-Or’s book jacket blurb: “Weren’t there any normal
people in Chortkow? Were they all twisted, corrupt, troubled, disturbed? If
there were – the author didn’t know them. These brief encounters with the
protagonists will shock the readers and shake them up, from deep sorrow to
hysterical laughter. The book will affect the Israeli reader the way Peyton
Place affected the American reader.” Even though the author wrote a cynical
disclaimer on the first page, to the effect that “any resemblance between the
characters in the book and the people living in Chortkow during my childhood
are the product of my weak memory and deceptive imagination,” the blurb had hit
hard, offending Chortkow pride. To my mother and her friends, this was a type
of malicious slander of the memory of people and a community that had been
exterminated. “You do not make fun of the dead… she is a bad woman… her family
never loved her…” From that moment on, Mother forgot how much she enjoyed
Shem-Or’s newspaper articles and her column in La’Isha, the popular Israeli
women’s magazine.
And,
from that day on, I was treated to unprecedented openness on my mother’s part
on the subject of her family life in Chortkow. “They were nothing like she
describes… I’m not saying there weren’t any bad or crazy people there; Chortkow
was a normal place, with people of all sorts. But to say they were all abnormal
and disturbed? That’s just being nasty … My parents were really good people,
righteous even. My parents brought up three orphans before they had children of
their own. They always preferred the orphans to us. They knew it was hard on
me, but explained that the orphans had no parents, so they had to compensate…
On Fridays I’d go with my father to hand out challahs and food to the needy; is
that nasty?! Father was a gabbai (beadle) at the synagogue, he always helped
the needy, is that nastiness?!” For hours, she told me about her home, her
daily life as a young girl, her girlfriends, school life, the friend in New
York with whom she corresponded for years, whose name was also Lola. As far as
I recall, Lola sat next to my mom in high-school. I actually met Lola in 1980,
on my first trip to a professional conference in Mexico, when I stayed
overnight in Manhattan. On impulse, without prior planning, I opened a
Manhattan phone book, found her name, called, and invited myself over for tea
and rugelach (chocolate-filled yeast pastries) that she baked for me. Her home
was just a couple of blocks away from my hotel. I remember nothing of that
encounter except the phrase “Ronny, you look so much like Junio.”
To
my great chagrin, at eighteen I wasn’t wise enough, nor sensitive, strong,
brave nor mature enough to take the opportunity to ask more questions,
questions that I didn’t know could be asked, questions I want to ask today, but
there’s no one left to ask.
Within
the shoebox, in the dark, the memories are safely locked. Outside of the box,
the memories live on, breathe, keep changing. Yesterday’s memory is unlike
today’s, and definitely unlike tomorrow’s. Within the shoebox, time has stood
still, frozen. As if waiting for someone to remove the lid, let the light and
fresh air in, breathe life into them and create new memories.
The
tale of the lot removed the lid from the box. This time, I was ready to face
the memories.
***
“Why
don't you go there?” my colleague Uri asked me one morning at work. Hanan
joined in with the suggestion "It can add another dimension to your
story." Almost immediately I replied that my story is virtual, I don't
need to go anywhere to write it. "The story came to me, I did not go to
it" I answered with a sort of wisecrack.
My
mother always referred to Chortkow as "that goddamned place".
"The ground is soaked with blood... it is one giant cemetery," she
would reply when I tried to convince her we should visit her hometown. The last
time I brought it up was in the early nineties after the USSR dissolved, while
she was living in an assisted living home in Tel Aviv. We believed, Ilana and
I, that this was the last chance before she was no longer able to make the trip
to her hometown. The three of us sat on a bench in the garden and I entreated
and Ilana lent her support. My mother's response was decisively final:
"There is nothing for me there, no acquaintances, no friends, no memories,
no family, only blood and bones and graves."
Uri's
question kept reverberating in my head and wouldn't let me be. Doubtless my
mother's words were etched into my consciousness and could not be erased. But
on the other hand, I was always drawn to visit Chortkow. Many times I would
ponder the words “grieve by a grave”, and did not understand why it was okay to
visit the graves of parents, family, and friends but it was impossible to visit
Chortkow. After all, it was also a place of happy childhood memories,
friendships, and love. Perhaps it was the killing and hatred, or perhaps guilt
was the real barrier. I never got a proper answer from my mother. I believed it
was her inability to face the memories, to let the past into the present.
These
thoughts would not let go. I kept thinking of Uri's question on the drive home,
and while on the elliptical at the gym, I felt that my response to his question
was not quite accurate. I wanted to travel towards the past but didn't know in
what way. I knew what I didn’t want, but had only an inkling of what I did want.
I didn't want to travel with other people. I didn't want to share collective
memory or sorrow. I wanted to see Chortkow through my own eyes, or, more
precisely, my camera's lens. I knew that many second-generation Chortkow
survivors had visited the town in recent years and might visit again in the
near future, but I felt that wasn't the trip for me. As I kept exercising, the
kind of experience I was looking for came into focus. I knew I wanted to be alone.
I knew I wanted to take photos. To see the houses where my family lived, where
my parents grew up. To walk the streets and paths they walked. To feel the
place where my family lived many years ago. To get to know the landscape, the
Seret River, the ruins of the castle above the town, the surrounding villages.
I knew many things would move me, but I did not think it would be a trying
experience.
I
needed to find a local guide who spoke English. From conversations with those
who had visited Chortkow I knew none of the locals spoke English. Most visitors
used a guide who was not a local resident, but spoke English and could act as a
go-between, translate and make them feel comfortable. That wasn't enough from
me. I wanted a local. Someone who was born in Chortkow, who spent his childhood
in the town where my parents were born, a man who was emotionally attached to
it and knew every hidden spot. If he was interested in photography, so much the
better, we could indulge in our hobby together. Honestly, though, I did not
believe I could find someone who would fulfill such detailed demands.
Despite
my doubts I embarked on my search with gusto. I knew the only way to look would
be online. A search for "tourist guide in Chortkow" didn't yield any
results. I spent hours at the computer, and the best I could find were tour
guides from Lviv – 200 km from Chortkow. I felt that wasn't good enough. I
needed a local, or there was no point in going.
On
Friday night, as sleep eluded me, I felt the cogwheels of my mind spinning. If
I was looking for a local, I reasoned, it would be best to search for
"West Ukraine tour guide born in Chortkow", and with that in mind I
finally fell asleep. Naturally, when I awoke the next day I didn't remember
anything, but after a few more hours of random web searching it hit me.
"This is sure to work" I thought, though I had no rational reason to
believe so. I typed into Google "tour guide born in the city of Chortkow
in Western Ukraine". And that's how I found Viktor.
I
browsed Viktor's website, which had eluded me until then, reading all the
detailed information, I started laughing out loud. It was as though someone had
listened to my wishes and created the perfect match: a tour guide in Western
Ukraine, with a car and driving license, born in Chortkow, currently living in
Ternopil – the Provincial capital located only 70 km from Chortkow, about an
hour's drive. Viktor grew up in Chortkow, studied business administration,
grew bored with
office work, volunteered for UNIFIL and served for a year in the peace keeping
force in Lebanon. During this time he also visited Syria and Israel. After
about a year, he moved to Ireland, where he lived for ten years. Viktor says on
his website that he is an amateur photographer and offers to lend photography equipment
to tourists who hire him as a guide. In that moment I knew two things: I'm
going to Chortkow, and Viktor will be my guide. Two photos taken by Viktor,
which I found on a photography website – a landscape with a blue church on a
cloudy day, and a photo of a damaged headstone in an abandoned Jewish cemetery
– sealed the deal.
I
immediately sent Viktor a detailed email. I introduced myself and told him my
parents were born in Chortkow but left before World War II. I told him that
practically their whole family in Chortkow perished in the Holocaust and that I
wanted to visit. That I wanted to get to know the town, and, if possible,
identify their old homes and the gravesites of previous generations, as well as
see the places where my parents and their friends spent their time when they
were young, and hopefully connect with the place. I wanted to visit the nearby
villages and towns: Jagielnica, Yazlovets and Buchach, travel along the Seret
River and see the nearby castles.
Viktor
promptly replied: "I'm thrilled to have the opportunity to show you the
town where I grew up... I've never done that before... I'd have to
prepare." Could it be that showing a tourist around his hometown would be
emotionally charged for Viktor, too? How do the locals feel about the fact that
a third of the town's population was killed in the Holocaust? It never occurred
to me that his family, or his friends' families, might be living in houses that
used to belong to Jews. Perhaps even my own family's house. Would that be a
problem? Raya helped me snap out of it with her direct response: "Does it
bother anyone in Israel that we live on Arab lands or even in abandoned Arab
homes? Do we care about the dozens of Arab villages that were wiped out and are
no longer remembered? If it doesn't bother us, why would it bother them?"
Raya's comparison helped me set my head straight: I am going for the
experience, not pass judgement. The visit might evoke all kinds of emotions,
but they will be part of the experience. I liked the idea of sharing that
experience with a local, a third generation of the Holocaust.
I
told Viktor I'd like to plan the visit for mid-August 2013. I wanted to go for
a week and stay in Chortkow for most of the trip. Viktor replied that he was
available and suggested we meet at the Lviv airport on the 18th. I confirmed
and ordered my plane ticket right away. Viktor suggested that on the day I
arrive we travel from Lviv
(Lvov) to Ternopil (Ternopol),
see a few medieval castles, stay over at his place and plan the rest of the
trip the following day. I agreed. Not making any plans in advance suited me
just fine. I wanted to play it by ear and only plan from one day to the next. I
didn't want the trip to be too rigid. I didn't want to feel like I had to do
anything or stick to a schedule. I believed that the trip would set its own
pace.
A
few days later Viktor emailed me again and asked that I send my family's
addresses in Chortkow so he could look up any other relevant information,
should any such information still exist after so many years. He also informed
me that he was working to gain entry and the key to the two local synagogues.
He told me that they are no longer active synagogues – one is used for various
activities and the other is an abandoned warehouse. Viktor commented that it
was good that our meeting was a month away because it gave him time to trace
any information available about my family. Truth be told, I did not believe he
would be able to find anything of significance, as most of the locals from that
period had passed away. Many of the old archives were damaged or destroyed, and
large portions of the archives are probably kept under wraps by the government
for any number of reasons, from protection of property (Ukraine doesn't have an
agreement with Israel regarding the return of Holocaust victims' property) to
protecting old-timers, including leaders.
Deep
inside I knew this was only the beginning. After the events of the past
year-and-a-half, I was sure that the mere decision to visit Chortkow and
choosing Viktor as my guide would bring with it new discoveries – or so I
hoped.
I
did not expect the first discovery to come so fast. Saturday morning, while
still in bed checking email on my iPhone, I saw a message from Viktor:
"A
few years ago a hidden treasure was found in your parents’ basement. I know the
man who found it but haven't spoken to him yet. It's possible that the
government confiscated most of it. It contained paintings and silver... I'm
attaching pictures of rooms at the hotel in Chortkow and a picture I took of
your parents' house."
The
picture was of the Kramer family home, the house where they lived on
Sobieskiego St. from which they were forced out by the Soviets in 1939. Later
that day I got another email:
"I
will talk to the man who found the treasure, he has more information. I don't
know where the treasure is, but maybe we'll find out together."
How
could anyone simply go on with their day after such a revelation? I thought
that, by now, nothing could surprise me anymore in this saga, but I was wrong.
Events have their own dynamic, and one thing begets another. Once a door has
been opened, or a connection made, events unfold of their own accord. A few
days ago there was no Viktor, no trip to Chortkow, and now there was a trip,
and Viktor, and even a treasure hidden 74 years ago. I wrote to Viktor and
thanked him for his hard work and stunning discovery. I let him know I had no
wish to claim the treasure, but I would love to photograph the items and hear
how they were found. I was worried that the man who had found it might get
spooked, break contact and wouldn't meet with me. With the existence of the
treasure still echoing in my mind, refusing to leave my consciousness and move
into the back, I began preparing for the trip. I put together all the addresses
and some pictures of people and houses from those days in a small folder to
take with me. I also wrote to Miri Gershoni, asking her to put me in touch with
Kobe Kon, that is Jacob Cohen, who was my family's neighbor in Chortkow. Kobe,
about fifteen years younger than my parents, was the boy who lived across the street.
A boy who witnessed my family's everyday life. Kobe survived the Holocaust in
Chortkow and immortalized my family members in his memoirs.
"Your
parents came from different worlds," he told me, "your mother from a
Hasidic home, her father from the Stretin Hasidic dynasty and your grandmother
wore a wig. I used to go past their large store-and-warehouse every day. Your
father, Junio Finkelman, came from an educated family. They belonged to Rabbi
Shapira’s Synagogue. Rabbi Yeshayahu-Meir Shapira was the first Zionist rabbi
in Chortkow. He encouraged his congregation to get an education and convinced
parents to encourage their children to pursue post-secondary studies. Your
mother's parents opposed their marriage, your father wasn't observant enough...
there was no love lost between the rabbis' communities [...] I remember that in
the far window was Dr. Karl Halstuch's office, your Aunt Zelda's lawyer
husband. In the next window Dr. Simka worked. They lived together. The
grandfather died when I was about ten [...] there was another house on their
land that they rented out. It was further down and the entrance was in an alley
off Szpitalna St. [...] I remember your parents came from Palestine, before the
war, to show off their new baby, I remember it like it was yesterday. They
managed to get out when the war broke. I met Zelda, your father's sister, and
Zigush (Sigmund) her son, after the war when we all came back to Chortkow.
Adam, her second son, did not survive. Later they went to stay with your uncle
in Colombia. I also met Loushu, your cousin Zelda and her husband Lolo,
everyone came to see who and what survived, but found nothing because everyone
was dead and everything had been stolen. It was very difficult; it's hard to
describe just how difficult [...] I remember we played soccer when I was a
little boy. The ball flew into the Finkelmans' yard and I was very scared... I
went home to ask my mom to get the ball back... I can still remember how the
ball flew into their yard... I don't think it broke anything, but I was
scared."
Later
in our two-and-a-half-hour meeting with Kobe, he went over a map of Chortkow
with Miri and me and pointed out the houses of my near and far relations. I
tried my luck and asked if he knew Mordechai Liebman, or anyone else from the
Liebman family, but unfortunately he did not. Towards the end of our meeting
Kobe turned to me, as though to answer an unasked question: