it

LISSA HURVVITZ

issa Hurwitz is
hardly a choice
andidate to expe-
rience an unusual
happening.
She's a skeptic, not one
to look for signs.
But she is at a loss to
explain how twice she
knew that relatives were
about to die.
A native of Southfield,
Ms. Hurwitz was 11
Il when it first happened.
Her Great-Aunt Sophie
was ill, though young
Lissa had no idea how
ill. "I was told she was
sick," she says. "Later, I
learned she had cancer,
though the word was
never mentioned."
One night at dinner,
Lissa burst into tears.
"Aunt Sophie is going to
die," she said.
--_, Her parents assured
Ii her she was worrying
needlessly. "She's not
that sick," they told her.
And she certainly wasn't
near death.

Hours later, the news
came: Aunt Sophie had
just died.
The second time was
soon before Lissa's 30th
birthday. She was deter-
mined not to spend the
day at home watching
soaps. "I decided, 'If I'm
going to turn 30, I'm
going to do so on Waikiki
Beach."
She and a friend set off
to Hawaii.
The eerie sensation
came just as she was sit-
ting down to a meal.
"What's wrong?" the
friend asked.
"Let's just say I
wouldn't be surprised if I
got home and found out
my grandfather had
died."
She would later discov-
er that her premonition
had come true, but not
exactly as she expected.
It was her Uncle David
Muskovitz who had died,
not her grandfather. The
moment of his passing:

less than 20 minutes
before Lissa had had the
haunting sense of
impending death.
She describes the feel-
ing as "a sort of vague
emotional discomfort,"
which she admits she
didn't believe at first. "I
thought it was just my
imagination."
"I still don't buy it,"
she says. "But I can't
deny that it happened. It
couldn't possibly have
been mere coincidence.
Perhaps there are ways
in which we communi-
cate most of us aren't
even aware of."

Lissa Hurwitz

VALERIE WEINBERG

harlotte Flash-
nberg Goldstein
knew someone was
following her. He
never varied from her
pace. When she walked
quickly, he did, too. He
slowed when she did.
Finally, the man
approached her.
"Pardon me," he said.
"But I had to talk to you.
You look just like my
late wife: you have her
walk, her gestures, her
voice."
And that was just the
start of it.
Mrs. Goldstein lives in
Washington, D.C. Her
daughter, Valerie Wein-
berg, lives in West

Bloomfield and is a mem-
ber of Congregation
B'nai Moshe. Her moth-
er's story is one of the
strangest and most
haunting she has ever
heard.
It all started in
Detroit, where Charlotte
was born and raised.
When she was 23, she
wed 30-year-old William.
William was a Wayne
State University profes-
sor and later a salesman.
He was a voracious read-
er who loved sports.
Charlotte was "a femi-
nist before it was cool to
be a feminist," her
daughter says. She
worked even when her

three children were
young, and brought in a
substantial income. She
also became an accom-
plished seamstress, mak-
ing dazzling talleisim of
aqua, pink and deep blue
for her grandchildren,
and a wedding gown of
antique lace for her sis-
ter.
The couple had been
married for 22 years
when William vanished.
He was on his way
with two friends to a
bridge tournament in
Buffalo, N.Y., where he
hoped to acquire the last
points for his life mas-
ter's ranking.
Somewhere over Lake

Erie, the plane crashed.
A search crew went out
when the men were
reported missing. They
discovered the craft had
sunk into quicksand, but
only one body was found.
William's remains are
still missing.
In 1966, Charlotte was
in Israel on a Hadassah
tour when she chanced to
meet the man who insist-
ed she was in every way
like his late wife. She
was standing on a board-
walk near Tel Aviv when
it happened.
The man, a Romanian
engineer visiting Israel,
asked Charlotte to din-
ner that night. Soon
after, he asked her to
marry him. She turned
the offer down.
When she returned to
Detroit, Mrs. Goldstein
told her daughter the
strange tale of the engi-

neer.
There was more to the
story than just her
resemblance to the man's
late wife.
"When she first saw
him, my mother couldn't
help but do a double-
take," Mrs. Weinberg
says.
The man, it seems,
was in every way just
like William. "He could
have been your father's
twin," Mrs. Goldstein
said.

