I have decided to look for my great-uncle Michael. The time to do it is now, I realized—there will not be another chance. This is the opening chapter of that search.

What I know about him amounts to very little. We never met. Michael Rubin, the younger brother of my grandfather Moshe Rubin, was born in Poland (then part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire) in 1904. He studied mechanical engineering somewhere in Europe—the city and school are unknown. In 1934 he left for Palestine, where his brother Carl Rubin, already a well-known architect, had been living since 1926. During World War II, Michael held the rank of captain in the British Army’s Royal Engineers.

There is one episode I do know about, and it stands out. In 1945, after Poland was freed from the Nazis, Michael arranged for his brother Moshe and Moshe’ s three surviving children to leave the country. One of those children was my late father, Arnon.

Then, at some point after that, Michael vanished from our family’s story—quietly, without any fuss. No one called emergency meetings. No shiva was observed, and his name came up rarely at family gatherings. I say “was” rather than “is” because a man born in 1904 is statistically unlikely to still be alive, especially given that both his brothers died young.

And when I say “disappeared,” I mean nothing sinister. No one needs to call the police or Interpol. Michael was a mechanical engineer—hardly the usual background for an international man of crime. Besides, this was the late 1940s we’re talking about. Genealogy must have its own statute of limitations by now.

Put simply: Uncle Michael was gone, and so was everything we once knew about him.

Family rumor held that he eventually made his way to the United States. If so, what drew him there? Where did he settle, what kind of life did he build and why did he lose touch with the family? Why did no one seem concerned?

People ask why I care (that is the polite way of putting it). The less polite version is why I don’t find something better to do. It is a fair question.

The Michael Rubin mystery (well, it is for me and for the people I have known) intrigues me because Uncle Michael is not the first missing piece I have encountered in the rather complicated puzzle that is my family. Growing up in Israel, everyone around had relatives who disappeared. My maternal grandparents disappeared. Our neighbor, Mr. Uhrman, discovered a long-lost brother living in England. That brother showed up one day, bringing with him a nice white Jaguar as a present. There was a daily radio program called Looking for Relatives that read out messages like “ Ms. So- and- so, born in Sosnowiec, is seeking her sister Rosa, last seen on…”........

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