Epilogue

O ur parents' generation disappeared from our lives in pairs: Dubi's mother died first, and soon after her, Franka's husband Yosef passed away. Five months apart, my father Eliezer and my mother Franka, two dear, key people in my life, left this world. Apart from me, very little connected them – both were born in Poland and shared a common mother tongue. The circumstances of life bound their fates together. Two families … one gives up, and the other adopts. On July 5, 1997, my mother Hulda passed away on Kibbutz Merhavia, and less than three months later, on September 29, 1997, Dubi's father, Nehemiah, passed away. In 2009 my sister Diane died…

Those dear to us yet do not continue to live among us, are burned into our consciousness, as living mosaics, floating and ever present. To this day, I miss my father, who is embedded in the landscape of my childhood, my youth, and my adulthood. He is part of who I am ? in behavior, skills, sensitivity, and inclinations of the heart. My mother Huldah connects me to the tastes and smells of tall, airy cakes baked in the "wonder pot" over a burner on the stove top, and scrambled eggs cooked in a tin cup over a steaming kettle. Her box of wooden sewing tools, which opens to three levels, brings me back to the times when we sat close to each other on winter evenings when my mother taught me to knit and mend holes in socks. My mother Franka put a mirror before me, revealing our genetic closeness with outward resemblance and dominant character traits. In a short period of four reunions over seven years, a special and powerful bond was formed between us; it was a connection built thanks to a gripping journey of investigation, examination, and the discovery of an abandoned child's unknown identity.

Franka wove for me a life, some parts true, some of it wishful thinking. In the process, I learned that a layer of fiction is found in the hearts of many Jewish immigrants whose lives were turned upside down by that horrific war. They live in the here and now, although the past is in their minds, in the corner, within the folds of memory. Of the flashes of past memories constantly present between the "here" and "there," some of them build a wall to protect themselves from the past, while others promote the present and breathe new life into it. Such was the case with my mother Franka, and with my father Eliezer. I am blessed to have both of them within my heart.

It's hard for me to say that I loved Franka as a mother. The meaning of the word "mother" lost a bit of its meaning, as far as I was concerned, on that night at the kibbutz when I realized that my father and mother weren't my birth parents. "You only have one mother," the saying goes, but my reality was different. I had two mothers: one gave birth to me, and the other raised me. I didn't resemble the one who raised me, and instead I closely resembled the mother – in appearance and in character – who gave me up when I was a year old. The blood relationship connected us in a close, respectful relationship with sensitivity, compassion, and forgiveness.

In the years that have passed since Franka's death, I have continued to try to uncover the truth, or at least obtain a broader perspective on the early life of the mother who gave birth to me and the precise circumstances of my birth and abandonment.

Franka passed away, taking her secrets to the grave. She never admitted to giving me up and never told me who my father was. I visited the hospital where I was born, as well as the children's home from which I was sent for adoption. My understanding of the complex relationship between me and the houses of my two mothers has deepened. I realized that the craving to find out what and how things happened was replaced by an intense longing to belong ? which is the title of my Master's thesis: "A Longing to Belong."

In the possessions my mother left in her estate, I found photos and documents that helped Mike and me decrypt the course of her life until she arrived in Canada.

Towards the end of the writing of this book, I took a DNA test. The findings weren't surprising: my genome indicates about 50% Ashkenazi/Jewish origin. My closest match, besides that of Wayne (my sister's son), was found in a Christian woman named Ola Dolinski, who was born in Warsaw. Her family tree includes a person named Marian Dolinsky. Sound familiar? After all, Marian Lewinsky was one of the fathers' names Franka gave at one time or another. While this opens a window for further inquiry, I believe it is time to stop and say, "This far and no more." This is now where I leave things by choice, my own free choice. I have found my truth. Enough.

The writing of Franka's story (Part Three) was based on things she spoke about. Some of them appear in the book in their original wording, and others were written after a selection from among a plethora of versions and stories that she recounted. I chose the most plausible biographical narrative for the events, and I filled in the gaps, even if what I wrote wasn't backed up with conclusive evidence. There were times when I chose to write what my heart told me to: the abandoned child who wants to believe that her mother was tormented by the separation and abandonment, and the grown woman who discovered in the confession of Morris, who had listened at the door and heard his mother Helen discussing with Franka her secret about being raped, and that she wasn't certain who Elana's father really was. The writing process was accompanied by many difficult, painful moments of sorrow on the one hand, and on the other, an abundance of gratitude for the privilege of growing up as someone from two "mother homes" ? one on Kibbutz Merhavia in Israel, and the other in Canada. Both contributed to making me who I am.

In the eighth decade of my life, I no longer deal with the questions that tormented me for years. I know that my identity is the result of a nebulous life journey influenced by events and questions of time and place. My "belonging" is in my soul, in the connection between different aspects and influences. I belong to the family I founded, to my parents, and to the legacy instilled in me.

I knew that to continue to dream, to want to know the truth, and to believe it is possible and a privilege, when one is armed with courage, determination, and optimism, you know that there will be sorrow along with the joy.

"The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain. Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter's oven? And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives? When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy."

Khalil Gibran, "On Joy and Sorrow"