Out of the Shoebox Page 11
My father’s home at 279 Szpitalna, Chortkow
And suddenly he was back. The story of the lot brought my father’s memory back from oblivion. During the year of my quest I kept thinking that I was looking not only for the lot in this puzzle but for my father’s story, and with it, the story of the family I never got to know.
I got to know my father’s assertiveness, and to marvel at his command of the Hebrew language and his beautiful penmanship in the new language he learned in his youth, before coming to Palestine. The search for information related to the forgotten lot managed to create a new memory. The missing details were completed by fragmented facts and the process of discovery itself, which, combined, created a new experience, a kind of collective memory of the family and the era. This patchwork memory enabled me to learn not only about my father and my family but also about the town of Chortkow and its fate.
During my entire youth there were but two cases where the wall of silence cracked just enough for me to peek into my parents’ “Chortkowian” past. In both cases it had to do with books. First, there was The Chortkow Book – a book commemorating the Chortkow community, edited by Dr. Yeshayahu Austri-Dunn published in 1967. The second was “Af Echad, Af Echad Lo Ohev” – “No one, no one loves” by Ora Shem-Or, published in 1969. The two books are quite different. The first is the impressive work of the so-called Book Committee of the Chortkow Association, and funded by them; the second is a collection of short stories by Israeli writer Ora Shem-Or, née Sonnenschein, originally of Chortkow.
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.
***
Viktor
“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". "T
he 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."