Chapter 10 The Meeting

November 1979

N ovember 2, 1979. JFK Airport, New York

A tall young man bumped into my shoulder at a busy moment in the crowded passengers hall. He held the cup of coffee in his hand steady so it wouldn't spill and apologized. "Sorry. I'm in a hurry. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. It's nothing," I answered. It was my fault. I had slowed my steps and interfered with the rapid rhythm of the crowd.

The place was really packed with people rushing to catch their flights, their eyes fixed on the Arrivals and Departures board. A solid, sturdy-looking man with swarthy skin approaches me with a wide smile that reveals pearly white teeth. "You need any help?" he asks as he reaches out to take my suitcase from me.

"No, no, thank you. I'm fine," I hasten to answer, not wanting to find myself in the situation that I was warned about: porters trying to fill their daily quotas with a tourist who, without intending to, would wind up paying an exorbitant fee for his service when her foreign accent exposed her as easy prey. I rushed to the flight schedule board, looking for "Montreal" to see the departure gate number. At the check-in counter I put my suitcase on the conveyor belt and got my boarding pass. The flight from New York to Montreal was scheduled to leave at 10:30 a.m.

This was the second time in my life outside the borders of the State of Israel. I was headed to meet the woman who had given birth to me 32 years earlier in Germany, to piece things together and close a circle that was broken. Today, as an adult, I'll be meeting her for the first time ? in Canada. Twenty-six years of doubts and anxiety, of wondering and unanswered questions, years of secrets and things unspoken, had gone by since the day the "big secret" was revealed to me. I was six years old at the time. Now only three hours are left until I am before her. Excited and tense, I sit in front of Gate 11 for a long time before boarding, and in my mind I retrace the path that led me here.

I recalled the moment I saw the photos in Margola and Danny's home. I was amazed by the realization that they were of my sister Danka, her mother, and her brother. This was my "old-new" family, my flesh and blood. Danny, my husband Dubi and I engaged in an intense, exhaustive brainstorming session on how to let Franka know about my existence and how to make the initial connection without causing her a seizure that could be harmful to her health. I hoped that the family members involved in the story – Ada, Margalit, Tova and her family – would respect my request to hold their tongues to enable me to find the best way to establish contact. We narrowed down the possibilities to two: The first was contacting the rabbi of the Jewish community in Montreal, who would possibly be able to shed light on Franka's health and family situation, and maybe even agree to tell her about my existence. The second possibility was for Danny to call Franka directly and see if she was willing to be in contact with me. In retrospect, these discussions turned out to be unnecessary.

While we were debating, the rumor about the lost daughter took wings and had already reached Montreal. Apparently it was her cousin Tova Gujski from Ashdod who shared the information with Franka's son and daughter, who had been living in Canada for years. Ella, Tova's eldest daughter, invited Franka to her home and told her about the rumor. Soon after, on September 12, 1979, Franka called Ada and Margalit Syten in Jaffa and asked them what they knew: my name and date of birth. During the conversation with them, she confirmed that I was indeed her daughter and asked for Danny's phone number in Jerusalem and my number at Kibbutz Merhavia.

Franka spoke with Danny the same day and wanted details about me; she left her address and home phone number with him. Later, Franka called the kibbutz. The phone was answered by an employee of the technical secretariat, the "beating heart" of the kibbutz. Franka asked to speak with me, and at the secretariat they told her to call again in the early evening. That day I was studying in Tel Aviv and came back late at night. Dubi got the message about the expected phone call and showed up at the appointed time to talk to Franka ? who didn't conceal her disappointment when he answered the call. She told him briefly that she had learned about me from Kuba and Ella, Tova Gujski's children, and that she needed to talk to me and hear how I had found her and what I knew. She also asked that I write to her as soon as possible and tell her about myself and my family, and to attach photos. Dubi and Franka agreed that the next day Franka would call again at the same time.

The next day I couldn't stop thinking about what it would be like when I'd actually hear her voice. I also began to think about what I would write to her and wondered if I would break the rules of politeness and have the courage to ask her the piercing question that had been in my mind all my life: What was the reason that she decided to say goodbye to me when I was a baby, and how it happened that my sister remained with her and I didn't.

That day I felt that time was standing still. Finally it was evening, and time for the talk. I went down the hill to the dining room while Dubi stayed with the kids because I wanted to be by myself for the first conversation with her. Alert and tense, I stood near the only public phone in the kibbutz, waiting for the ring that would come from far away. The phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Hello, is that you Helena?" came a shrill-sounding voice on the other end of the line.

"Yes. It's me, Elana."

"There are no words to describe to you how many years I have waited for this moment. I always knew it would come."

"That makes both of us. It took a little more than three decades. I'm very glad you called and I really want us to meet so I can hear how it happened that we parted ways," I said, but before I got out the last syllable, Franka interrupted me.

"Yes, I asked your husband to write me a long letter about how you found me and what you know. Write and I will answer immediately. Of course we'll meet. We'll correspond and you'll send me pictures and..." The conversation was unexpectedly cut off.

I waited by the pay phone for a few more minutes but it didn't ring again. I went back to our room on the hill, replaying her voice over and over in my head. At home I continued writing the letter I had begun the previous evening, in which I described our life on the kibbutz and invited her to visit. I didn't forget to attach several photos.

I received a reply within a short time, in which she expressed the desire to meet immediately. She offered to come to Israel and begged me to tell her exactly what gifts to bring for my parents, the children, for Dubi, and for me. Hinting politely, she also invited me to visit her, if I wanted, before she came to see me.

I told my parents about locating Franka and resuming contact with her after the phone call. Until then, during all the months of deliberation and doubt, I preferred that Dubi and I keep the discoveries to ourselves. I continued to teach as usual, and in the after-school hours I was with the children. But every evening after putting the kids to bed in the children's homes, I spent the time almost exclusively talking with Dubi, Danny, and Margola about the projected meeting. These conversations added to the pressure and curiosity I felt in those days. As my tension grew, I made the decision not to wait for Franka's visit, but to go to see her first, so I told my parents everything. Carefully and gently, I tested their willingness to allow me to have a relationship with her, asking for their consent to a meeting and getting to know each other. My mother was restrained, while my father gave me a copy of the T'filat Haderech blessing (the Traveler's Prayer in Hebrew) with an encouraging "Nanchik, you know that what's good for you is good for us."

Less than two months later, at a general assembly of the kibbutz members, I asked for permission to fly to Canada to meet my biological mother there. In those days, travel outside of Israel, by sea or air, was rare, and was approved according to criteria set by the kibbutz. On November 1st I received the approval and I flew, as mentioned, to Montreal via New York. As I continued waiting near the boarding gate, I went over the events of the previous night, when Danny and I sat on the edge of the hotel bed impatiently waiting for Franka to pick up the phone. I held the receiver close to my ear and listened apprehensively to the unanswered ringing. I anxiously debated what to say to her, how to start the conversation... and then I heard her voice. I gave in to the pressure and handed the phone to Danny to speak first.

"Hello, Franka? It's me, Danny. Remember? I told Margalit and Ada about Elana. We're both here in New York, and tomorrow Elana will meet you at Mirabel Airport. Here she is." Danny handed me the phone. Now I had no choice.

"Hello! I'm so excited and can't wait, but how will I recognize you tomorrow?" she asked in her thick, tough voice.

"Don't worry. I'll know it's you," I answered confidently.

"How will you know me? Maybe I should wear red?" she offered.

"I've seen your picture. It'll be fine."

"But the picture was taken years ago and I've changed. So maybe you can wave a handkerchief?"

"I'll find you, I'm sure. Just be there at 12:00 noon. We'll meet, don't worry…See you soon."

I quickly hung up. Trembling, embarrassed, and distant, I abruptly ended the conversation. I wanted to keep the moment we met a special one, the first face-to-face meeting between us, and not cheapen it with forced, casual talk on the phone. The entire conversation had seemed merely about logistics and unnecessary to me. Of course I would recognize her! Franka's voice echoed in my ears, and it seemed that she wanted to add something but I cut her off and said to Danny, "She's so afraid. She doesn't think she'll recognize me and she wanted me to wave a handkerchief as a sign, like in the movies."

I wanted to stay alone with the echo of her voice in my memory and lie down to sleep after the long flight from Israel, but Danny suggested we go out for something to eat and walk around New York a bit. I went to take a shower and probably took too long because when I came out, Danny was sprawled on the bed, half asleep. I woke him and we headed out to the "City of Lights," which was getting ready for Christmas with glittering decorations. We got a chilly welcome from the cold air of an early November evening.

Soon we found ourselves at the ice skating rink at Rockefeller Center, with people of all ages skating to background music that already heralded the holiday season that would culminate in the New Year at the end of the next month. Giant spotlights illuminated the rink, and chains of decorations and lights sparkled with a glowing array of hues and shades. The building and streets were adorned with myriad colors flickering from all around. The skyscrapers amazed me with their looming power from above. I suddenly felt so small and foreign to these sights and sounds, the sights, from the cold weather, my breath diffusing into the air; a trail of steam on a foggy screen. I felt like an actress on the set of a Hollywood movie in a foreign land.

A little while later I found myself in a seafood restaurant, sitting with a menu that detailed – in English, of course – a variety of foods that I wasn't familiar with. I had no idea what to order because I couldn't imagine what the names of the dishes meant and what I would be putting into my mouth. Luckily for me, Danny began reading it out loud and explaining what they consisted of, almost none of which I'd ever heard. Danny had no difficulty ordering from the menu. This would be a feast commemorating the end of a period of being immersed in searching and investigating. For about a year, Danny had tirelessly tracked down Franka's relatives who might have kept in touch with her. He inquired, researched, and interviewed dozens of people until he finally unraveled the mystery. It was thanks to him that we were sitting together in a restaurant in New York the evening before the long-awaited encounter.

Danny was a journalist, author, and senior commentator on Arab affairs. He'd suggested that I arrive in New York to coincide with the dates of a conference he was invited to as a writer for The New Outlook, an Israeli English-language political magazine. That way, he could be with me right up until the moment before my flight to Montreal. He paid for my hotel room in New York and took me out to dinner. That evening, he was just as curious as I was about the meeting scheduled for the following day. I felt bad that I couldn't repay him with money, and I had a difficult time thinking of a way to thank him for everything he had done for me. He was very dear to me – kind-hearted, honest, and genuine, and with a sense of humor to boot. At the end of the meal, we parted at the entrance of the hotel where I was staying and Danny went to the one where he was staying for the duration of the conference. The next morning, he came to the airport with me, and there we parted with a hug and my promise to let him know how things went with Franka.

An announcement in a pleasant voice woke me from my reverie on the previous night, inviting passengers for Montreal to Gate 10. As soon as the engines warmed up and the plane taxied to take-off position, I interlaced my fingers, and placed my elbows on my thighs and uttered my own version of the Hebrew Prayer for Travelers – a custom I continue to this day. When the announcement was made to unfasten the seat belts, I stared out at the sky and pondered the coming meeting. "What do I say? What do I ask her? I want to know everything! Where can I start? I want to know about her past, how she survived, under what circumstances I was born, who my father was, what separated us, why she raised my sister but not me." I wondered what kind of woman I would find – would she be warm and affectionate, open and direct – or resentful, calculating, secretive? Will there be chemistry between us, and will there be a connection, an openness…or will it not be possible to bridge the gap of years and I'll feel distant and a stranger with her? One thing was clear: I intended to be careful with my questions and carefully examine her responses, her body language, and the limits of her ability to take it all in. I don't want our meeting to have a negative effect on her health. After all, I'm the one who came to investigate and pry into the hidden recesses of the past, to scratch at the scabs.

What do I know about the wounds she carries, her ancient scars, about a bleeding residue under an outer layer of deceptive pretense? She's the one who needs to expose and unfold a life story that opens a dark and painful period, which probably includes shady sides that must have remained secret and buried deep within her subconscious. What will she be willing to tell, and what will she hide? What will she distort, and what will she make clear? I thought about how the other members of her family didn't interest me at that moment: her husband Yosef (Mike's father), my sister Danka-Sarah, and my brother Moshe-Mike. My only concern was with her and me.

"What can I give you to drink?" asked the flight attendant in a polite, pleading tone, arousing me from my thoughts.

"Orange juice and a cup of coffee with milk, please," I politely replied.

I have always looked in amazement and admiration at well-groomed, smiling flight attendants with their pulled back hair revealing round, shiny foreheads and smooth faces made up with the best cosmetics, like models who have just come out of the beauty salon ready to saunter down the narrow aisle of a jetliner. They move gracefully among the passengers whose eyes turn to them, leaving a scented trail of perfume that becomes a dream purchase for every passenger unfamiliar with the perfume brands that beckon from the "Duty Free" cart – for me, for example, the kibbutznik from the valley, whose only feminine fragrance she put on in her youth was the "Anuga" hand cream, available at the minimarket on the kibbutz.

Fifteen minutes left until landing! I hurriedly fill in my details and the address of where in Canada I'll be staying for the month. As a tourist, I must describe the purpose of the visit. Is it a family visit? A moment of embarrassment: Franka Bursztajn – Mother? Helena's mother (was that really the name she chose for me when I was born?) Franka Bursztajn, born in Warsaw, meets her daughter for the first time since she gave her away as a baby. Today her daughter is the mother of three children whom Franka doesn't know… they're her grandchildren ? but are we family?

My legs carried me along the streaming path of arriving passengers towards border control. From there I was directed to the immigration counter for foreign residents. The clerk looked at the form I'd filled out and began the questioning: "First visit to Canada? What's the purpose of your visit? Your mother has lived in Canada for many years and you've never seen her before? Will you be staying with her? When are you leaving Canada?" A nosy welcome, a sort of promo foretelling the further interrogations and questioning that will accompany me all during my visit…

When I finally get permission to continue on my way, I wait quite a while for my baggage – my dawdling suitcase. It took over an hour after landing until I found myself moving towards the exit, expecting to see a multitude of people in the Arrivals Hall beyond the door. I quickly surveyed the heads of the packed crowd and I easily spotted a short woman whose fair hair tended to red with a puffed hairstyle pulled back, accentuating her high forehead, and her complexion extremely pale. She squinted, so that her eyes ran from side to side through a narrow slit, and her forehead wrinkled from the effort as she rose on her toes and fell back down. My eyes locked on her as I confidently advanced towards her and stood right in front of her.

"Hi. It's me," I said (this, after debating with myself for a long time what to say at the moment of meeting: Hi, Mother? Hi, Franka? I chose neither). She looked worried and surprised. Words tumbled from her mouth. She gave me a quick hug and kept her hands on my upper arms. A sudden shiver went through me. A few seconds of silence passed as we awkwardly scrutinized each other.

"What took you so long? I thought you might have missed your flight. Is everything all right?" She came to her senses and broke the silence.

"It took me a long time to get my suitcase and I was asked a lot of questions at the immigration counter..."

"What did they ask?" she interrupted my words with concern.

"They wanted to know if this was my first time visiting Canada, where I'll be staying, and when I'll be going back to Israel."

"I really thought something had happened. The main thing is they didn't cause you any trouble because they know how to cause trouble. Let's go. I've been waiting for two hours."

"Did you come to pick me up alone? Do you drive?" I asked.

"Yes, I got my license five years ago. I got tired of waiting for someone to drive me and bring me back... If everyone else can drive, so can I. I waited for Yosel. He said he's coming home early from work to pick me up in his car. I lost my patience, was waiting anxiously, so I took my own car and came alone." Her voice was firm. She spoke excellent English, but with an accent that betrayed her country of origin. In my heart, I was thankful that we'd avoided a potentially pathetic reunion melodrama. It seems we were both endowed with the same degree of practicality and restraint that helped us skip the sentimental phase of the story in public.

"Let's go to the car. It's not far. I have a blue Chevy Nova, second-hand. I take good care of it and it serves me faithfully." We walked towards the car in silence, attentive to each other. Franka opened the trunk and helped me put the suitcase in it. I laid my handbag on the back seat, sat next to her in the passenger seat, and we set out. For a moment I thought you could cut the frozen air with a knife, so I filled the space with a statement and a question that could be interpreted ambiguously. I was curious to hear what she would choose to answer.