Out of the Shoebox Page 8

  On the other hand, the new-found knowledge of the lot’s precise location shed new light on old evidence that had been right in front of my nose. In my mother’s collection of photos, there was one taken in 1945, where my parents and sister are sitting on a rock in mountainous terrain very similar to that of Kiryat Haroshet. On the back of the photo it says, “The lot that never was.”

  Following the instructions of the Custodian General, I contacted the offices of the Israel Land Administration (ILA) in Haifa. The manager I reached politely put me through to her deputy who would guide me through the bureaucratic tangle. Friends had warned me of the difficulty in dealing with the ILA, but I found their attitude to be extremely fair, courteous and helpful. Yafit Elad, deputy manager in charge of acquisition, exchange and expropriation for Haifa & its environs, kindly explained to me all the steps needed to be taken and the documents I needed to submit, for them to hand over the property to me, or, alternatively, buy it from me. The process which began in early May 2012, ended nine months later. During that time, not once did I have to actually go to their offices: all communication was conducted by phone and email, with the utmost efficiency and empathy. I am sure that my endeavors to return to my family a lot lost seventy seven years earlier aroused empathy. I was given all the guidance and assistance necessary, not once being asked to hire the services of an appraiser or a lawyer.

  On the afternoon of February 17th, 2013 a sum equal to the appraised value of the lot was deposited in my bank account, as per the agreement between the ILA and the beneficiaries of Shlomo Zvi Finkelman, whom I represented.

  Even though the story of the lost lot had seemingly ended, and I received its full value to my satisfaction, I was curious to know how come it had disappeared for so many years and why it got the nickname “the lot that never was”. So one morning, equipped with all the documents plus Attorney Shira Gordon’s letter confirming my ownership of the lot, I went over to the Land Registry offices at Haifa’s Ministry of Justice. I’d spoken to them earlier on the phone in an attempt to locate the lot’s original bill of sale. Following that conversation, I managed to print out the lot’s historical land registry records via the internet. The land registration record showed that my father’s and Mordechai’s ownership of the land was registered only in 1954, nineteen years after they bought it. I was surprised to learn that this ownership was revoked by the court and reverted to the Custodian General in March 1997.

  I completed the application form to receive a copy of the property file according to the lot number I had and the helpful clerk checked my application on the computer. Within minutes she said to me in wonder: “This is a strange entry. There is no ID number next to the person whom you claim is your father, and no ID number next to the other owner… I can’t give you any information regarding this entry because I can’t verify your connection to the historical owner of this property… Moreover, the land reverted from them back to the Custodian General in 1997.” I replied that I was aware of all that, but as things stand, the Custodian General returned the ownership of the land to my family, and any day now we were supposed to get a sum equal to the value of the lot from the Israel Land Administration, according to a written agreement. I showed the clerk the relevant documents, but to no avail. I asked to see the Registrar herself to explain and show her the documents. It took some assertiveness on my part to get in, but she was firm: “I cannot identify the owners nor your connection to them without ID numbers next to their names… Ask whoever handled your case at the Custodian General to write to me with all the details, and we’ll see what can be done…”

  I left with an uncomfortable feeling. For a whole year I investigated, sought and produced evidence that my father owned this lot, but the wheels of bureaucracy seem to have turned back, sending me to square one, where I’m requested to prove who my father is, and that he’s the same Shlomo Zvi Finkelman who is registered as the land owner. The registrar apologized and said she must be extra careful because there are many cases of identity theft and fraud in matters to do with land ownership registration. Some two hours later the fax at home rang, and the machine produced a confirmation that the ILA had transferred the funds to my bank account.

  I was curious, and wanted to see the original bill of sale or sales contract which should have been attached to the property abstract – the full information about the land owner/s, as it appears in the Land Registry – in order to study the history of the lot: Was it really bought directly from rabbi Yehezkel Taub or Nachlat Yaacov, the company he owned? On what date? And why was the lot “lost” over so many years? Clearly there had been some bureaucratic mix-up, since my parents never paid any taxes on the lot, which to me meant one thing only: the lot was no longer theirs.

  The next day I wrote a short letter reporting on my visit to the Haifa Land Registry Office and sent it to Attorney Shira Gordon at the Custodian General’s. I took that opportunity to thank her for all her efforts to return the lot to my family and having us reimbursed for it. Impatient as I was, I called Shira, who said that it is contrary to current procedures to give copies of the bill of sale or sales contract to interested parties; but in her opinion this was an unusual case. Since the lot was legally transferred to my ownership, and I agreed to give it back to the ILA in return for proper remuneration which was already carried out, there was no risk of my misusing the documents in question. She’d have the file brought up from Archives, request approval, and do her best. I was certain my request would be granted. So far the Custodian General’s office was fair and empathic in handling my case, so I couldn’t see any reason for them not to. I had to wait two long days before receiving the unforeseen reply.

  Dear Mr. Yaron Reshef,

  I received the file this morning and went through it. It appears that we have no bill of sale or any Land Registry document bearing your father’s signature. Your father bought the land through Nachlat Yaacov Co. Once the company went into dissolution and receivership, all its creditors were investigated, as well as anyone who had bought real estate through it but had not yet been registered as its owner; and in this context your father’s name came up. In other words, the information about your father’s ownership came from the receivers of Nachlat Yaacov Co., and that company’s records. Once we were officially in charge, we took steps to register ownership in his name. I’ve scanned the receivership document containing information about your father and his partner, for your perusal.

  Regards,

  Shira Gordon, Attorney at Law.

  The first thought that came to mind was: Eventually justice was done; after 78 years Father got full ownership of the land he’d bought. Suddenly everything fell into place; Shira’s document shed new light on the issue. It completely supported my mother’s story of the “crooked rabbi”, or – as I now see him – a Zionist real estate entrepreneur, who got into financial trouble because of the Jewish-Arab conflict in Palestine. The dissolution of Nachlat Yaacov Ltd. was done by The Central Canada-Israel Bank, whose representative wrote to the Custodian General on May 14th, 1953:

  “… Mordechai Liebman and Shlomo Zvi Finkelman, file 294.95 in our records, resided, according to our records at the time of sale (March 28th, 1935) at 15 Hillel St., Haifa. It was handled by attorney Shmuel P. Pronman of Haifa (P.O.Box 902). It is not clear from the file whether the buyers paid for the purchase in full, but at our discretion we believe that we should accept the claim made by the buyers and their representative, Attorney Pronman, that the sum was paid in full.”

  According to the land registration record, ownership of the lot was registered to Mordechai Liebman and Shlomo Zvi Finkelman on March 23rd, 1954. A week later, on April 2nd, 1954 the head of the department at the Land Registry ordered the following comment be added to the file: “Do not carry out any action without approval of the Department Head”, and it seems that the Liebman-Finkelman ownership was canceled, following an order by the district court (civil file nos. 668/53 and 17/54). Ownership reverted to the Custodian Genera
l, and later in 1997 by another order ownership was transferred to the State, to the ILA. The ILA published a tender for it, which got canceled due to lack of purchase offers.

  Didn’t my father know that the registration process had been completed and the lot was finally registered to him?

  Why was the Liebman-Finkelman ownership of the lot erased and the lot returned to the Custodian General?

  Was registration of my father as owner of the lot revoked just because his ID number was not recorded when registering the ownership, combined with the fact that Liebman perished in the Holocaust?

  Though I never found unequivocal answers to these questions, Israeli bureaucracy had evidently found a way, as surprising as it may sound and some 58 years late, to return the lot to its legal owners, as declared by the Custodian General already in 1954.

  ***

  The Family, Part II

  On March 3rd 2013 my mother passed away, twenty-four days after receiving compensation for the lot. My mother died at the age of 102. On that day, both my sister and I were in the US; I was there for work and my sister was visiting her daughter Shlomit in New Jersey. We returned to Israel immediately and my mother was buried in Haifa on Friday, March 15th.

  Nearly four weeks earlier, the day we received payment for the lot, I was sitting with Raya talking about how wonderful I felt that the "journey" to uncover the lot had ended. I said that my father could now rest in peace, or in other words, his spirit could move on.

  I am sure that the strange course of events, the goodwill and help I received from everyone, were far beyond the norm. After the dream I had about my father, I found it easier to attribute some of the events to his interference from wherever he might be. I'm fully aware that there is no logical basis for that, but it does reflect how I felt at the time, especially considering the reality of the past year and a half. When Raya replied that my father only needed my mother to join him in order to move on, I smiled but forgot about it. Only during the shiva did Raya remind me of our conversation.

  Today, as I write these lines, I think she was right; I do remember, and I smile.

  During the shiva – the Jewish traditional week of mourning – I had occasion to tell and retell my mother's life story – I spoke of her childhood, immigrating to Palestine with my father, their life together until he died, and her old age.

  The story of the lot was also told many times during those seven days. Some of my friends had heard bits and pieces over the preceding year-and-a-half and wanted to know how it all ended. Other times the story was my way of responding when I was asked how I knew so much about my parents' early days in Israel and about their families who died in the Holocaust. By the end of the shiva I felt fortunate that the business of the lot had prepared me in a way for my mother's passing. I was so pre-occupied with the distant past, looking over documents and photos, that they tempered the harsh reality and reinforced her image in my mind as she had been all those years ago, at the same time softening to some extent the image of her in old age.

  The story of the lot helped me create a memory of my father. My concentrated efforts to look into his actions and investigate his life in the '30s filled a void in my heart. I think and feel that my mother's death also let me say good bye to my father. The story of the lot created an image in my mind with which I could identify and could then form a strong foundation for this final farewell.

  ***

  The Family, Part III

  My Aunt Zelda Finkelman-Liebling's bunker diary

  My Aunt Zelda's diary was written after she and her husband Joel escaped from the labor camp where they were prisoners. They left their families behind, all of whom were led to their deaths in Belzec. Half of her diary was lost during their liberation, but the other half Zelda brought with her to the US.

  Zelda herself translated the diary from Polish to English, and in the interest of authenticity I am refraining from amending it beyond the bare minimum. Later, she would read from it and tell her story to school and university students.

  The diary is not only a firsthand account of Zelda's personal tragedy, but also a window into daily life in the bunker, with its emotions, anger and hopes.

  January 17, 1944

  Finally I got a note-book. After 200 days in the bunker (place of hiding). Who can understand what it means, “BUNKER”; only the one who sits in it knows what it is.

  Ever so often, I wonder how should one feel about the person who created a “bunker”. Should we bless him or curse him – the future will show. Meanwhile we are sitting and waiting impatiently. Day by day – counting hours – at this moment 4936 hours from the moment we entered here. It was 9:30 pm June 25, 1943 when Lolo and I left the Labor Camp (Lager). It happened suddenly, almost without our doing anything about it. Upon receiving a letter from Hudla – “save your life and I am going to take care of the baby (Lijuchnia)” we ran away from the Lager. The situation was very uncertain for Lolo, because they started taking away dentists, and so we ran like two children without any possessions, like to a ball. It was time to go away (run) but maybe we should have stayed a little longer to find out about my family. At the beginning of being in here I didn’t feel or rather didn’t understand the mistake we made. Today I feel more and more how foolishly we acted. We went to hide in a bunker – burning bridges behind us. We are still children, or rather completely stupid. Lolo is trying to appease me, who could presume that there’ll be a bunker by Rozka and Palanya. I am to blame, because every time Lolo tried to talk to me about hiding I changed the subject. Probably, I thought that the Labor camps would protect us from all evil. What an idiot I was – now it’s too late for reproaches, now that Zanka isn’t here anymore – there, I wrote the words again – after 7 months I still can’t believe it. I live through that moment the hundredth time and see it vividly – the morning of the “liquidation”– “aktion”. God, if we ever live to see the “Jeshiya” (freedom) will it be possible to stop thinking about this? I don’t think so! That macabre scene is still in front of my eyes. Zanka, my sister – smiling, sits on a stone ready to die and I am going to live. No, still a few minutes prior to that. June 23, Wednesday morning. Reveille at 5 a.m. We all get dressed and something made me turn around to all the girls in the room and say, “I have a feeling that this time it is serious.” I embraced my sister Zanka – for the last time in my life – we kissed and she tried to calm me down – saying, “well, child, there is nothing we can do – don’t cry” and tears came to her eyes. It was a bonding moment for both of us. It was unusual of later days because somehow we weren’t together a lot. This gives me quite a pain now. I remember, after work (lately we worked separately) we were not together. I was mostly with Lolo. I know that Zanka was hurt by it – she never said anything about it, but didn’t hide her feelings. This is why that scene in the morning means so much to me.

  Now we go to the yard where the morning inspection is taking place. We are immediately surrounded by a lot of German Gestapo. Lolo tried to warn us – “go hide anywhere” – but we disregarded his warning thinking it’s just a reveille. When we realized what is taking place Zanka turned around to me and whispered, “You may escape somehow, remember the baby.” Oh God, am I going to remember – please God let the child live and I swear to live for her. One more thought is torturing me – when I got up from the ground I just walked away, actually leaving behind me living corpses – I just walked toward life – why didn’t I run to Zanka, embrace her, kiss her, maybe it would now be easier to take the pain. Then when they took us to the building, I looked through the window and I saw Zanka sitting down among the others. I even remember watching her urinate in a corner. Somebody came back and told me that Zanka was happy that I was saved, so her little girl is going to have good care. I am sure that Hudla is taking good care of her, better than I ever could.

  Sometimes I think that maybe I should have pleaded more with those murderers for Zanka’s life – but I know how I much I tried – crying on my knees, without getting t
heir attention at all. And still I think that Hudla would have done more.

  Tuesday, January 18, 1944

  Again, another day passed. There is nothing else to do here but count the days, hours, every day I count anew! We walked in here June 25, and now is January 18. In the other place, the old Czortkow [Chortkow] section, we were hiding for 31 days. That was the time when we were looking around here and we had to run away, while all the others stayed – all the other 8 people. On October 27, the situation became shaky because they found someplace hidden Jews (and killed them), so naturally our hostess became panicky and asked us to leave. Our budget was getting very low, the cold weather on the roof started to bother us, so we left and returned here to the same place. I remember it well as if it was yesterday, though three months passed by since. It was on a Wednesday 2:00 p.m. when we decided to go. We waited for our own guide, Viktor, until 6 p.m.