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to send her a copy of a will
or any other document proving that I’m my father’s beneficiary, to ensure I had
the right to any information, should it be found.
    I
immediately wrote to Ada:
    “Dear
Ada, thank you for your time and your willingness to help. I am seeking
information related to my father’s studies at the Technion’s Department of
Architecture, his student registration file or any other relevant information.
My father studied at the Technion in the early 1930s, between 1932-1935 I
believe. His name was Salmon Hirsh Finkelman, though he Hebraicized his given
names to Shlomo Zvi, and appears in some documents as Shlomo Hirsh Finkelman.
My father died in 1958 when I was seven, so I don’t have much to go on. I’m
particularly interested in finding out facts about the period of his life
before he married and started a family. At your request, I’m attaching a copy
of the probate which states the date of his death and the fact that I am his
son and one of his beneficiaries. In that document, my name appears as Yaron
Menachem Finkelman. I later Hebraicized my surname to Reshef. I am also
attaching photos of my father’s first British ID, but I think it was issued a
few years after his Technion days. My father arrived in Palestine on a student
visa, without an ID. I can be reached by email or phone, see contact details
below. Thank you in advance and have a good day, Yaron.”
    Nine
days later, while I was in the States on business, I received Ada’s reply:
    “Hi,
I’ve retrieved from the archives a few files that seemed to me similar to the
information you supplied, and have them handy. You’re welcome to come over and
peruse the material. All the best, Ada.”
    I
replied at record speed. I told her I was in the US for two weeks, and asked if
I could call her for more details. Ada replied within minutes with a phone
number, which I called immediately, very excited. It was enough for me to hear
a few details about the retrieved files to realize that one of them was my
father’s enrollment record. “There’s only one problem,” said Ada, “contrary to
what you said, your father didn’t actually study at the Technion at all. He did
apply and was accepted, but the file contains no record of actual studies.” Ada
continued to explain that the enrollment file contains several letters in my
father’s handwriting, and invited me to come and see the material. “Maybe we’ll
be able to give you the entire file, and keep copies for us… Your father’s
penmanship is beautiful and his Hebrew is excellent. His entire file is
preserved in perfect condition.”
    I
can’t begin to describe my excitement. I’d finally found a lead connected to my
father. I began imagining what might be in the file, shook up by the revelation
that my father apparently did not study in the Technion at all. My time in the
US stretched out infuriatingly slowly, as I counted the days till my return.
Gradually it began to sink in that the Technion’s information would probably
not shed any light on my father’s place of residence. If he never actually
studied there, what were the chances that his student record contained his
address in Palestine? On the other hand, I hoped the file would contain the
address of my father and his family in Chortkow – something I lacked and would
be thrilled to acquire.
    As
soon as I got back I called Ada and made an appointment for the following day.
I didn’t know what to expect, couldn’t imagine what I’d soon see.
    The
trip to Haifa flew by… Ada pulled out a gray folder containing an assortment of
letters and documents. I immediately recognized my father’s handwriting, with
which I was familiar from old documents found at my mother’s many years
earlier. His handwriting was legible and the style clear and fluent, as if
written in the writer’s mother tongue. The folder contained correspondence
between a young man applying to study architecture and construction and an
academic