Chapter 7 Searching

T he day after receiving the copy of my birth certificate, we picked up the children in the afternoon as usual and went to my parents' house. Since the birth of our first daughter, I felt more comfortable addressing my parents as "Grandma and Grandpa" rather than "Mom and Dad." The letter from Austria felt like it was burning a hole in my pocket. During the daily ritual of refreshments and coffee, I sat and told them that I'd received a letter with details of my birth. I took it out of my pocket and handed it to my father. He looked down, his hands trembling as he scrutinized the printed document. "It seems genuine," he finally said, and asked me, "How did you get this?"

I put my hand on his knee and turned to my husband. "Dubi can tell you."

My parents listened attentively to Dubi's explanation of how we obtained it. When he finished, my father turned to me and asked, "And…what do you plan to do now?"

"I don't know. If only I knew where she lived, it would be easier. She could be anywhere, even here in Israel. What's clear to me, however, is that I'll keep looking until I find her." I finished talking and studied their body language, afraid that the news had shocked them.

My father saw my discomfort. "I promised you that we'll support every decision and every step you choose to take in your search." My mother was silent. I thanked them and asked if there was anything else they wanted to tell me, and if they knew anything else that I didn't know. My mother shook her head and remained silent. My father said that from now on I would be the one who updated them, and that I should feel at ease in doing so. I was relieved, and promised that I'd keep them informed. It seemed that the passage of time since the adoption had blunted the anxiety and feeling of threat that had accompanied them for so many years.

The day after the revelatory meeting with my parents, I wrote to Dr. Friedrich, asking him to contact the Ministry of the Interior in Germany for details about the Lewinsky family. Friedrich answered that he was investigating every avenue he knew of and he promised to keep me up to date on his findings.

I resisted for a week and then again started checking the post office every day, always with hope in my heart. Finally, at the beginning of August, in the cool dark of the mail room, the long-awaited envelope appeared in my mailbox. Dr. Friedrich attached a reply from a Mr. Reinhard from the registry office in Bergen. His search in Germany for the names Lewinsky or Lewinska had turned up nothing, so he recommended contacting the Arolsen Archives (the International Center on Nazi Persecution), which was responsible for tracing relatives located in Germany. Formerly called the "International Tracing Service" (ITS), it is the center for the documentation of crimes perpetrated by the Nazis and information as to the fate of the survivors after the liberation of Europe. It holds more than 30,000,000 preserved documents and is a source of valuable information for the victims of persecution and their relatives.

Waiting for a reply from Germany was nerve-wracking, to put it mildly. After obtaining my birth certificate relatively easily, I expected that continuing the search would be as easy and that I would get results quickly, but I realized that there was still a very long way to go. Two months had passed since I sent my request to the Arolsen Archives, and I hadn't heard back from them. The frequency of my visits to the mail room depended on my mood. In optimistic times there were daily visits, but when I felt low, they were less frequent ? almost as though I were forcing myself to ignore my urgent need for the long-awaited reply.

A new, exhilarating challenge was added to our routine on the kibbutz. Along with raising the children, work, commitment to duty and the community, hobbies and social life, there began a chain of correspondence with various parties, investigations, requests, and queries that went on for years. Very few people on the kibbutz were involved in my search, which was spearheaded by Nina, the English teacher, who went over the letters I wrote in English, corrected them if necessary, and always gave me support and positive feedback. I wrote to Dr. Friedrich in English, but his answers were in German ? translated for me by Nehemiah or my father. Day and night I thought about what else I could do, what other questions to ask, and I shared my musings with Dubi, attempting to set forth on a course of action…What else could be done? Where else could I search for answers?

My parents, after all, repeatedly maintained that they had no information other than what they'd already told me. Was there another avenue to explore? While I waited for an answer, I realized that I could take the one basic step that every adopted child tracing their origin can take – I would open my adoption file. If I were legally adopted, the Israeli welfare authorities would have a detailed file on the adoption. Could I possibly glean more pertinent information there? In October 1977, I went to the District Court in Tel Aviv and requested that my adoption file be opened; however, I had no idea what kind of trouble I was getting myself into. To this day, it's not clear to me whether the procrastination and negligence were standard bureaucracy, or were deliberate.

While I was waiting for an official answer from the court ? which should have been a simple procedure ? in December 1977 I received a letter from the Child Welfare Department in Haifa. The letter came from a social worker named Rebecca Sorek, who wrote: "After consultation, I was told that we require your file number and from which court it was issued so that we can move forward in your case." I read these words over and over and couldn't understand. Why were they asking me ? I was the one applying to the authorities for details of the adoption file. How could I possibly provide them with the information?

What was clear from her letter was that the court would not take any action without the approval of the Child Welfare Department. So where did that leave me? Two more months passed and I finally received the court's answer: "We confirm receipt of your letter for the opening of the adoption file. Your request has been forwarded to Ms. Aviva Leon at the Ministry of Labor and Welfare in Jerusalem. Through her, you will receive the requested details." I hurriedly wrote to Mrs. Leon, who was the director of Child Services at the Ministry, hoping that by then my request would have reached senior management level and I would benefit from reliable, direct, rapid service to open the file. I attached the ludicrous answer of the social worker from Haifa in my letter, and sent it off. Then…nothing! No adoption file, and not even permission to open it.

The thought that my biological mother might be in Israel didn't leave me. I decided to do what many kibbutz pioneers did when World War II ended: I contacted the Search Bureau for Missing Relatives at The Jewish Agency for Israel and asked for help in locating Francesca Lewinska. (The section was established after World War II to help Holocaust survivors locate family members and friends; it ceased operating in 2002.) In less than two weeks I received a reply that they were sorry, but their efforts bore no results. If there were any changes, they would update me. They also promised to publicize my search on the radio in the Yiddish language.

While things on the Israeli side continued to disappoint, on May 9, 1978, I received a resoundingly moving reply from the Arolsen Archives in Germany. They had located a birth certificate in the name of Danka (her other names were Danuta and Salla), born in Helmstadt, Germany, on July 1, 1945. The names of my parents and Danka's were the same…I had a sister! Additional details were no less amazing: Danka Lewinska immigrated to Israel in 1949. At Arolsen they believed that my mother had come to Israel with her. The name of my biological father on the birth certificate did not appear in any other document. They had no credible evidence that he was ever in Germany. In addition, they wrote that they sent a summation of their investigation to the Jewish Agency, and that they recommended that I contact them to help in my search for relatives in Israel... At the end of the letter was a poignant line stating that they wished me success in contacting any surviving members of my family…

If they had immigrated to Israel, then why hadn't the relatives' search agency been able to find them? I turned to them again, attaching the document I received from the Arolsen people. I requested information on what actions had been taken to locate my mother. Their answer was not long in coming: They had checked the lists of residents of the country at the Ministry of the Interior, searched the immigrant records of the Jewish Agency, and even broadcast the name on the radio many times. No Francesca Lewinska…nor her daughter Danka. Greatly disappointed, I decided to contact the child adoption service again. Maybe this time I would be able to elicit some information from them, or at least receive approval to open my adoption file. Ten days later I received an answer. It had not come from the main office in Jerusalem that I had written to, but again from Rebecca Sorek, the social worker in Haifa. "Aviva Leon is my supervisor, so she is not actually a new contact. Contacting me or her is the same thing. I would be happy to meet with you and hear what your adoptive parents know about your past. Perhaps that can lead us to another source. Unfortunately, I do not know of any other institution that can be contacted at this point with the data you provided. If you can, please come to my office on Monday, May 29, 1978, at 12:00 noon. Rebecca Sorek."

Once again, more was hidden than was known… She had no idea about another organization to turn to? After all, the law allows any person over 18 to consult the adoption registry and they are even entitled to assistance in locating their biological parents. Why is she tossing the ball back to my court? I was beginning to understand that it was more likely that I would find my biological mother by myself before they would allow me to open the adoption file! This was excruciatingly unfair stalling on their part, and I didn't understand why. My last contact with the welfare system amounted to a letter that ended my hopes of ever receiving concrete information, wherein they urged me to formally contact the Registry of Adoptions at the District Court in Tel Aviv. I was overwhelmed with frustration – the court was my initial point of contact and they were the ones who sent me to the Welfare Department! With great effort, I gave up on the idea of going to Jerusalem to battle the bureaucracy. I realized that I would get nothing from the welfare system except more frustration. I wrote to the district court again, asking them to locate my adoption file and invite me in to open it. I didn't idly wait for an answer, but instead I was strengthened by my determination to continue to act, trusting my instincts to find those who would want to help me.

Summer vacation in Jerusalem in 1978 opened the door to new horizons. We stayed with our three children at the home of Danny and Margola, my maternal cousin. Her mother, Rivka, was one of the nine children of the Graf family with whom Hulda had grown up in Yaroslavl. Rivka was older than my mother and came to Israel a short time before her. After a few years in the country, Rivka Graf married Moshe Kelner. Margola, their only daughter, studied at the Beit Hakerem elementary school and the local high school. At one point during the War of Independence, children from downtown Jerusalem ? which was being bombed ? were sent to study in Beit Hakerem. Among them was Danny Rubinstein, later to become Margola's husband. After the 1967 Six-Day War, Danny began working as a journalist for Arab affairs at Davar, the daily newspaper of Histadrut, Israel's General Federation of Labor. His press credentials gave him easy access to government offices as well as to the various institutions of the Jewish Agency and the Aliyah (Immigration) offices.

While on vacation, we decided to ask for Danny's help in searching for my birth mother. At first I was opposed to the idea because I thought I didn't want to involve any more people in my personal quest. But I changed my mind; after all, Dubi and I were kibbutznikim who didn't even have our own telephone, so maybe we could make some progress with Danny's help. That evening, Dubi put the idea to Danny, who immediately gave his consent. I filled him in with all I knew, and together we sketched out a possible scenario: Franka had left Germany and immigrated to Israel in 1949 with her eldest daughter. If she couldn't be located in the relatives' search section at the Ministry of the Interior, it was very likely that she entered the country under a different name. It was also possible that she had gotten married just before entering the country, despite being the mother of a four-year-old girl. But whose daughter was she? Francesca listed the child's name as Danka Lewinska, which would be different than her newly married name.

Armed with this information, Danny started out by searching the records of the Population and Immigration Authority. They would have the names of everyone who entered and left Israel. He found no evidence of a Franziska Lewinska who had left Germany for Israel. A tip from an official at the Ministry of the Interior led Danny to the German Embassy. If Franziska had lived through the war years in Europe and had arrived in Israel at some point, she would most likely be eligible for post-war German reparations.

The embassy staff was willing to help, but they explained to Danny that there wasn't just one unified list. There were different categories of recipients, and funds were distributed by the various federal states within Germany. Danny persisted, however, and met with the official responsible for the lists of those entitled to compensation. The name "Lewinsky" can be spelled in various ways, and they considered every possibility. After coming up empty-handed, they began to focus on first names (Danka and Franziska), but even those names can be spelled in several ways. The search at the embassy ended in another dead end. When he returned home, Danny shared his frustration with Margola, and they again scrutinized the photocopy of the birth certificate that I had left with them.

Staring at the document, Margola remarked, "It doesn't matter under what name Franziska entered the country, as she would have looked for relatives here with the surname ‘Syten,' her maiden name on the birth certificate." At that exact moment, despair became a spark of hope.

The next morning, Danny went back to the Ministry of the Interior. This time he searched for the name Syten. He located five people with that name, who lived in Haifa, Herzliya, and Tel Aviv-Jaffa. Margola and Danny searched the various phone books. The first number they found was that of Ada and Simcha Syten in Jaffa. Danny dialed. At the other end of the line, a woman in her 30s answered – the daughter of the Syten couple. She was hesitant and confused by the call, wary of answering Danny's questions about relatives on her father's side. The only details she agreed to give were that her father, a taxi driver, had recently succumbed to a fatal illness and her mother wasn't home. They agreed that Danny would call later, when the mother would be back. He called again, and the daughter, Margalit, answered. The mother hadn't yet come home.

In the hours between the calls, Margalit had managed to remember that years ago, when she was a young girl, they went to visit a cousin of her father's in Herzliya. She also remembered another relative named Gujski in Ashdod, but she wasn't sure that the connection was on her father's side of the family. They weren't in close contact and rarely got together. Margalit also said that her father, who had arrived in Israel in 1939, was always interested in being in touch with relatives who came to Israel after him. In answer to Danny's question about whether she knew of any relatives who didn't live in Israel, Margalit told him she had a cousin in Paris and one in America, but she didn't really remember them well, and added, somewhat perplexed, "Anyway, why do you need to know?"

"Building a family tree," Danny replied. "Looking for relatives. Do you remember the names of the ones in America?"

After a short pause, Margalit answered, "I remember a cousin in Canada named Franka Bursztajn."

"Does she have any children?" Danny pressed her.

"She had a son named Moishele…and a daughter named Danka."

"And…how old is Danka?"

"My age, born in 1946."

"Is it possible that it was 1945?" he urged.

Margalit didn't understand his insistence on knowing Danka's exact year of birth or what caused the intense excitement in Danny's voice over the phone. The fact was that Danny was actually trembling from the realization that there was a real chance that "Franka Bursztajn" was none other than Franziska Lewinska… my birth mother!

"Margalit, where are you now? Can I come and meet you today?" Danny asked.

Baffled, Margalit told him, "Are you crazy? What good will that do? Why is it so important?"

Danny explained that it was an imperative personal matter, and if today wasn't suitable, he could come tomorrow. "Does it have something to do with an inheritance?" Margalit asked, trying to understand. Danny replied that the issue had nothing to do with inheritance, and that he would fill her in tomorrow when they met. Margalit evaded the topic of the meeting and cut short the conversation. Danny hung up, trying to absorb what had just happened.

For a moment he debated whether to look for me immediately at the kibbutz or to wait for more details, but realizing that he couldn't let Margalit slip away, he called her a third time. She agreed to a meeting the next day and asked him to pick her up from where she worked as a law clerk at an attorney's office. She suggested that they go together to her Aunt Doba in Herzliya, who would surely know more than she did.

On the way there, Margalit told Danny that her father was among the first Jews to enter Jaffa after the War of Independence, and that he took possession of a beautiful, spacious Arab house for himself. She also said that after their conversations she began rummaging through her father's things and found the address and phone number of her Aunt Franka; she also remembered that she'd once played with Danka in the yard of their house. Just before they went into Aunt Tova's house in Herzliya, Margalit explained to Danny that the aunt spoke mainly Yiddish, that the relationship between the families was not a close one, and that Doba didn't even attend her father's funeral.

Margalit was welcomed with a shout of appreciation. The two hadn't seen each other for 10 years, and her aunt was quick to apologize for not coming to her cousin's funeral. Meanwhile, Danny was completely ignored. Margalit introduced him as a friend who was interested in Aunt Franka Lewinska. Doba didn't know the name Lewinska, only Bursztajn. "Why is he asking?" Danny answered her directly that there were relatives on Franka's husband's side who were looking to make contact. At that point, they were invited inside.

Doba went into the living room, sat down on the couch and began talking. She said that during the war she had been in several concentration camps and somehow managed to escape. At the end of the war, she was in a DP camp in Austria, and in 1947 immigrated to Eretz Israel. She met Franka for the first time in 1949 through Margalit's father, Simcha Syten. It turned out that immediately after arriving in Israel, Franka looked for relatives and located her cousin in Jaffa. Simcha invited Franka and her family to stay with him in Jaffa for several weeks. From there, Franka, her husband Yosef Bursztajn, and her daughter Danka moved to the beginnings of the settlement of Kibbutz Hahotrim. Communal life wasn't at all to their liking; they felt ill at ease with the concept based on sharing and the power of the many over the individual. Franka soon made contact with another cousin of hers, Yitzhak Syten, who was already a "veteran" in Haifa. Yitzhak arranged accommodation for them and got Yosef a job as a stonemason for the Haifa Municipality.

Doba also said that Franka had come to Israel from the Bergen-Belsen DP camp, and that her son Moishele was born in Israel. Danny listened intently; so far, the details fit Elana's story.

"Is Yosef Danka's father?" he asked apprehensively.

"No," replied Doba firmly, and added that she and Franka became friends and had several intimate conversations about their past. Doba settled herself more comfortably on the couch and continued, telling him everything she knew about Franka.

During the war, young Franka was hidden by a Polish gentile who was probably Danka's father. When the war ended, she wanted to move west with the liberation army, cross the border into Germany, and look for her relatives in Bergen-Belsen. The man didn't want to leave Poland, his homeland. Rescue organizations in the area offered to help Franka on her way west, and she decided to leave the Polish man. One night, she pretended that she was going to a party; a few hours later she returned and quietly picked up baby Danka and took with her the bag that she had packed ahead of time. A car was waiting for them and they made their way to Germany.

The details fit. Danny asked more questions, but Doba, by then, stopped cooperating. She wanted to know exactly what he was after, why he was insisting. Danny dodged the question and asked again about the name "Lewinsky," wanting to know if Franka had ever mentioned that name. Doba gave in and answered that Levinsky sounds like a Jewish name, and she knew that Danka's father was a gentile who saved Franka's life during the war, and that she had never heard that name from Franka. In the meantime, Doba's son, Yehoshua, came home and joined them in the living room. After Margalit said that she had Franka's phone number in Canada, the son suggested that Danny immediately call and ask her directly for all the details he so desperately sought. Danny tried to avoid it, but the son insisted that the call take place before Shabbat. "Leave us 100 lira and call her," he repeated. Danny realized that he had no choice and he divulged the reason.

"Franka had another daughter…and she wants to know details," said Danny.

There was suddenly complete silence in the room. Doba looked at Danny pensively for a moment and said, "Listen, in war there are all kinds of things. People were in the kinds of places that we don't ask about, and everyone only tells what they want to. I didn't ask her too much about where she was and who Danka was, so why should we go into that again today?"

Danny persisted. "Look, the mother has the right to choose not to open a locked box, because she may not be interested in doing that, but the daughter also has a right ? the right to know about her origins. And in this case, the daughter wants to know and is determined not to give up."

Even before the words were out of his mouth, Doba burst into tears: "Yes, a daughter has a right and she's allowed to know who her mother is – a mother is a mother! But don't call her! Franka is a sick woman and this could kill her!" Doba managed to catch her breath and continued, agitated and confused. "And…we still don't know if it is her. Maybe it's a mistake and it's not possible to know what really happened, and if it's true, then no, you shouldn't call. But yet, this is a daughter and a daughter needs to know who her mother is …"

Doba's partner and her son quickly intervened. The partner said that they should leave for synagogue, and her son suggested that they stop now. He didn't understand what Danny wanted from his mother. Doba, on the other hand, calmed down and the wrinkles in her face softened. She stood up, went to a closet at the end of the room and took out an envelope with photos. On her way back to the sofa, she told them that Yosef and Franka didn't do very well in Israel.

"As I already told you, Yosef worked paving sidewalks and paths in Haifa, very hard physical work that wasn't enough to support the family, so he also worked as a cleaner. In 1952 they decided to emigrate to Canada. Franka didn't even come to say goodbye to me," Doba recalled. "She just sent regards." After they settled in Montreal, Doba and Franka kept in touch with occasional letters.

Removing the first photo from the envelope, Doba held it up. "Here you see Franka leaving Rambam Hospital after Moishele was born. Danka is next to her."

Doba took out more photos, some in color. "This is from Danka's wedding. Franka wrote to me and sent pictures." She gave the photos to Danny, who was sitting next to her.

The second Danny saw them, he knew! There was no more doubt. The resemblance between Elana and Franka was striking: the same cheekbones, high forehead, fair skin, and bright, shimmering eyes. The names that he had been searching out for the past months had suddenly taken on life…

Seeing Danny's exhilarating reaction, everyone began to display wonder and excitement. Doba suggested Danny call her cousin in Ashdod. Her daughter Ella had married a Canadian Jewish man; she lives in Montreal and was in close contact with Franka. At his mother's request, Doba's son brought her a phone book from the table at the entrance. Danny copied the number and asked all those present not to spread the story and to allow Elana to decide what would be the best way for her to contact Franka.

Danny drove Margalit back to Jaffa and hurried to Jerusalem in order to make contact with us. He called the public phone at the kibbutz. One of the kibbutz members answered and promised to pass on the message to me: to call Danny at 9:30 in the evening. A few minutes before the agreed-upon time, Danny was already by the telephone, waiting. I was sure that this was an update about another failed investigation. We had Friday night dinner in the kibbutz dining room, leisurely put the children to bed, and only then did I go out, armed with telephone tokens to call Jerusalem. The phone barely rang once when Danny was already on the line.

"I found her!" He gave me a more details about Margalit, Duba, and the photos, but I was indifferent. When he went silent, I had only one question: "Do you know why she gave me up?"

Danny was surprised that I didn't ask how she was living and where. He didn't understand why I didn't bombard him with questions. Later he told me that only after he continued to reflect, he realized that at the heart of my search was the question of abandonment that burned within me even more strongly than my desire to locate my "lost" mother. At that stage, Franka's life story was not the main point of the story for me ? it was the question of why she had given me up for adoption. Danny and I agreed to speak again soon and we hung up.

I went back to our room on the hill, opened the door, and immediately saw Dubi's inquisitive look. I told him. He jumped up and came over to hug me.

"We'll go to Jerusalem tomorrow and hear the whole story," he said and left the room to arrange for a car from the kibbutz.

I got back on the phone to tell Danny that we'd be there the next morning. When Dubi came back, he told me that he'd stopped by at his parents' and asked them to come to our room early in the morning, before the children came to the parents' room, and to spend Shabbat with the grandchildren. My head was continually processing the extraordinary news I had been waiting for my entire life. I tossed and turned in bed that night. I knew that this was only the simplest part of the search. Until then, we had lived a normal family life with two sets of parents/grandparents, and suddenly there was another mother/grandmother that I didn't know, who lived in Canada with a family that were strangers to me and my family in Israel. Whom would I meet? Would she even want to meet me and acknowledge me as her daughter – or refuse to do so? What would she tell me about the hidden facts between us? Why didn't she keep me? Why did she give me up? Would the moment come when I'd get answers to all my questions from this woman – my birth mother? Just before I finally closed my eyes to go to sleep, it was clear: I would give my parents the earth-shattering news only after we met with Danny and had gotten a detailed description of his meeting with Margalit and Tova.

We set out for Jerusalem early in the morning. Contrary to my usual behavior, I didn't sing along with the radio, just stared out at the passing landscape. As usual, Danny and Margola welcomed us warmly. We sat in the living room, and Danny began to describe the turn of events from the past month. Then he handed me two photos: one was in color, of a smiling crowd at a wedding. Everyone was dressed in fancy clothing, glamorous and all made up, yet the image conveyed something sterile, polished, and distant. The other photo was black and white; it showed Franka in a 1950s-style dress, her hair pulled back to reveal a wide forehead that made her small, narrow eyes stand out. She had a restrained smile on her face. The baby on her lap was wrapped in a blanket, and next to her stood a little girl who was also smiling. When I was five years old, I looked exactly like the girl in the picture – the same hairstyle, with a large bow in her hair that accentuated the part on the side. I always parted my hair on the same side.

My body quivered with an excitement too powerful for words. In an unforgettable moment of encounter, at the point of connection with the imagination that had plagued me for years, the same imagination that had clothed and unclothed my mother's figure in countless shapes and colors, was now met with reality. These were real people – with faces and bodies, living, breathing creatures. And they were my flesh and blood. I examined my own feelings at the moment; warmth and affection were not the sentiments that I felt. The people in the photos were strangers to me. Was that normal? Wasn't I supposed to be bursting with exhilaration and love? This was not how I'd imagined the moment of discovery. My thoughts went to Hulda and Eliezer, to my childhood – full and rich with activity in the company of other children, and in the background there was always my parents' room – a warm, loving refuge. The photos in my hands reflected the distance and the stark differences between the two worlds and between the two families. A strange "split" feeling ran through me, but the confusion didn't cloud my curiosity and determination to continue my search to the end.

When I regained my composure from the thoughts that haunted me, I asked Danny, "What do we do now? How do we get to her?" We sat for hours discussing this in the small living room of their Beit Hakerem apartment. What would be better ? to call her directly or wait? Maybe it was even more correct to search for a contact in Montreal, someone who could tell her about me, taking the state of her health into consideration. It might be worth getting in touch with the rabbi of the synagogue she belongs to. Does she even take part in the life of the Jewish community there? Each scenario had its advantages and disadvantages. We finally agreed to think about it more and to meet again.

A few days passed. I felt that I was running on automatic; thinking and digesting things. When I met with my parents the next day, I told them that I had news. I sat on the edge of the sofa next to my mother; my father was in the armchair next to me ? an intimate setting that allowed for an intimate conversation and enabled me to make eye contact with them alternately. I looked from one to the other and then told them that Danny met relatives who had been in contact with Franka during her time in Israel with her new husband, Yosef Bursztajn, her daughter Danka, and their baby son Moshe (Michael) until they left for Canada after three years in Israel.

"Where did they live when they were here?" asked my mother.

"In Haifa."

My parents exchanged quick glances. "There was some talk about that at the time," said my mother in a cracking, trembling voice. My father looked serious and calm, while my mother's tension was apparent. I took out the photos and showed them to my parents, who, after looking at them, stared at each other for a long time.

"Where was the picture with the young children taken?" my father asked. We looked at the photos together and recognized background inscriptions, indicating different shops on a street built on a slope, most probably in Haifa. I shared with them the first thoughts that came to mind when I saw the photos ? among them, my reflections on childhood, on the love I received in my parents' room, and growing up with the other children. I wanted to reassure them (and myself) again and again that nothing and no one can take away or diminish the bond between us. My father repeated his position, that from now on the reins were in my hands, and they would stand behind my every decision, fully understanding my curiosity and my right to meet my biological mother. I felt at peace. I knew I had support and that my parents were ready for any and all information on the subject.

One day I returned late in the evening from a professional training course and found Danny having coffee with Dubi. As soon as I came in, Dubi jumped out of his chair and offered to make me a cup as well. I immediately understood that something out of the ordinary was going on. It turned out that a few days after the visit to Doba in Herzliya, Margalit Syten called Danny and invited him to visit the family home in Jaffa. Her mother had heard about everything that happened and said that she had additional information about Franka to share. This time the meeting was cordial, and Danny spoke with Margalit and her mother, Ada. An educated, intelligent woman, she was a language arts teacher at the Christian mission school in Jaffa, where classes were conducted in both English and French. Firstly, Ada sought to correct a mistaken impression; it was she who had initiated the search for her husband's relatives, not he. "When I met Franka," she said, "she was an energetic, lively, sociable, cheerful, active woman." Danny smiled at Dubi. "Sounds just like Elana, doesn't it?"

Franka and Yosef lived in Haifa's Lower City, in a dilapidated hovel with a rudimentary kitchen and the toilets outside the apartment. Many Holocaust survivors lived in the area. Simcha Syten, Ada's husband, and his cousin Yitzhak helped them as much as they could to move to a more suitable apartment at 3 Rehov Tzion Street and to renovate it. Everyday life was difficult. The young state of Israel instituted a strict austerity policy to help absorb the large influx of immigrants. Franka was forced to shop on the black market to survive, even bartering goods for goods. Her husband barely made a living and they had two children, Danka-Sarah and Moishele. After three years in Israel, Yosef didn't want to stay any longer; he hated the poverty, and he hated Israel and Ben-Gurion. Franka was optimistic and wanted to stay and build their lives here, but Yosef insisted, so in 1952 the Bursztajn family left Israel for Canada.

Danny was silent for a moment, took a sip of his lukewarm coffee, and continued. In the heat of the conversation, Margalit had decided to call Franka on the pretext that she wanted to move to North America, to New York ? and maybe even go to Montreal. Ada dialed the number. On the other end of the phone came a deep voice, raspy from cigarettes. Ada identified herself as Simcha's widow; she asked about her health and how her family was doing. Franka was happy to hear from her. She apologized for not having been in touch regarding Simcha's death, explaining that she found out about it too late. Franka continued talking and said that Yosef was fine, still working as an independent supplier of dairy products and eggs directly to the rich of Montreal. She also said that Michael – Moishele – had graduated from a teachers' seminary and had a position in Toronto, and that Diane-Danka – was divorced and living with her two sons in the New York City Borough of Queens. Franka was silent for a moment and said that last year she considered visiting Israel on their way back from a Holocaust trial in Majdanek, where Yosef was invited to testify. Yosef flatly refused to visit, so she dropped the idea. Towards the end of the call, Ada handed the phone to Margalit and Franka gave her Danka's address in Queens and asked her to come see her in Montreal as well.

The conversation with Franca shed light on her life in Montreal and her general condition. I was going to ask what she would tell that distant relative about me, but Danny cut me off. "She still doesn't know about your existence," he said gently. We had Danny stay the night with us and avoid driving back to Jerusalem so late. We talked until very late, trying to assess the situation. First option: Franka knows she gave birth to a daughter named Helena, but she doesn't necessarily know that I'm still alive. And even if she did, it's unlikely that her family members know of my existence. Would it be right to reveal her secret in front of her family and friends? To cause her terrible embarrassment about a daughter who appeared out of nowhere? It would be possible that in such a situation, Franka would prefer to deny everything, to say that I never existed, and shield herself from dealing with the disgrace and the shame. A second option, which might increase the possibility of her cooperation, was to find someone who had known Franka for many years, perhaps someone who was in the DP camp and knew about life there. Maybe if such a person reveals my existence to her, she would feel safe and be candid with them. We all agreed that Danny would look for such a person among the survivors and displaced persons from Bergen-Belsen.

Danny devoted himself to the task and within a few days arranged a meeting with the chairman of the Bergen-Belsen Survivors Organization, Rafael Olewski. Olewski told him about life in the camp, and how it had taken in thousands of survivors who had lived through hell on earth. He spoke about the casual encounters there between men and women, pregnancies without marriage, without forethought and sometimes without it being clear who the father was. Rafael emphasized to Danny that the thirst for life and survival had motivated the behavior of all of the survivors. The number of births kept increasing, although there was often no intention of starting a family and raising the children. The human urge to "Be fruitful and multiply" was compensation for the millions of families that had been wiped out. The instinct for life was stronger than sober judgment, beyond logic and self-control, and in most cases without a thought to the future.

Danny told Rafael that he had managed to locate Elana's mother in Montreal and it was important for him to find someone close to her who would tell her about Elana's existence. During their conversation, Rafael realized that Franka had left the country during the early days of austerity, and he went on to explain, "It took great effort to get to Israel! At first the British were determined to return us to the rule of the Poles, Hungarians, and Czechs. We had a strong central committee in the camp headed by a leader, a man of great stature named Yossele Rosensaft, who used everything in his power to obtain immigration permits for sought-after destinations." Rafael pulled out a photo album and began to point out the people who were with him in the block, and who was with him on the camp committee that was organized immediately after the liberation. In another photo, a crowd of people were seen sitting around a festively arranged table. "Every year on April 15 we celebrated the liberation of Bergen-Belsen with a stirring ceremony in one of the halls in Tel Aviv. Many hundreds of survivors participated, but there were also families who had left. You have to understand that life in Israel was very, very difficult. We came from camps, initially from detention camps, extermination camps, and concentration camps and then we were in a DP camp. At the end of our journey, we arrived here and were sent to the ma'abarot (refugee absorption camps). You have to understand: We were people who wanted to get back to being human beings. We didn't want food stamps again, or standing in long lines. My wife told me she wanted to live like all free people, and she wasn't the only one. No one wanted to go back to Germany, to remember the shame, the killings, the pain and degradation. Thousands of survivors from the DP camp in Bergen-Belsen emigrated to North America, mainly to Canada and New York and its surroundings."

"Are you in touch with any of them?" Danny asked.

"Yes, I'm in contact with many," replied Rafael and they started to go through a list of people who lived near Franka and who might be suitable for the task of contacting her.

The question of how she would react occupied our minds. Days of deliberation ended with a direct phone call that Danny received from Montreal. On the line was Franka ? who began the conversation with a stormy "Danny, hello. Where is the girl?"

Startled, Danny responded: "What girl?"

"Don't pretend with me! I know from Helen and from Ada. They told me about her. Her name is Elana. Tell her to write me a long, detailed letter."