by Nora Sarel
When she completed her explanations, she suddenly stood up on her tall stilettoes and basically signaled us the meeting was over. Although it seemed slightly offensive it was understandable that she was in a hurry to meet the next couple. Compared to her, the Brazilians now seemed sympathetic and understanding.
Saturday, February 20th 1982
We have been in Curitiba for ten days now and our patience was running thin. We came here for a specific reason and the Brazilians were stalling to no end. We still haven’t seen a single child or pregnant woman. Dafne started complaining and even I thought they were pushing it since we already worked out the details before we came. When I said this to Sebastian, he promised he would speed up the process and suggested we visit the Feira de Artesanato – a colorful market that opened only on Saturdays and Sundays and offered dozens of stalls with handmade products, ornaments and clothes, lined up in two long rows. We walked around the market the whole day, Dafne bought a few things and said she would keep them for the child so that when it grows up, it has souvenirs from its birth town. Dafne also bought wool socks for the baby and a wooden clown. Although I thought this unnecessary, I kept silent not to ruin her mood and disturb her joyous shopping spree.
Monday, February 22nd, 1982
Pressuring Sebastião helped. We drove with him this morning to a shelter where we could meet twenty women (more like twelve, thirteen- and fourteen-year-old girls) in late pregnancy stages. Obviously none were married and most didn’t know who the father was. They were supposed to give birth and hand the children over for adoption.
I thought it was absolutely absurd. We, who wanted a child so badly and were sure it would make us feel like a family, stood in this bizarre place surrounded by women and young girls who carried our dreams in their wombs.
The house they lived in was old but well kept. The walls were painted in bubble-gum pink, the bunk beds were covered in handmade covers, and except for some broken blinds, the place seemed clean and organized. The woman in charge greeted us loudly “Oi! Tudo bem?,” meaning: Hi, is everything ok? She explained to us about the girls whose every need was taken care of by the authorities. Of course, she was charming and spoke Portuguese fluently while Sebastian translated. Most of the girls sat in a circle while embroidering, sewing, knitting or making other crafts. They smiled at us and almost each and every one of them said in her turn ‘tudobem’? or ‘oi.’ Their crafts reminded me of those we saw the other day at the art market. The woman in charge confirmed they sold their products there; the income is used to support the institution. Dafne, again, couldn’t hold herself and bought two powder blue sweaters for the baby and a weird garment that looked like a white lace dress. When she asked Sebastian what was it for, he told her it was used for Christenings. Dafne whispered to me that if she could, she would have returned it, but didn’t feel comfortable telling them we have no use for it. The girls looked at us and it seemed they didn’t know why we were there. The woman in charge didn’t mention the adoption either. Two girls worked in the kitchen, cooked and baked. When we sat down in one of the rooms, a kitchen girl approached us. She had a light complexion and beautiful features; her blonde hair was pulled back into a long ponytail. She served us cafezinho - small coffee, and pãode queijo - a small bun made of dough and cheese. Despite being thin, she looked heavy, and I think these were the final days of her pregnancy. A smell of freshness filled the room.
I heard Dafne tell Sebastian she liked this girl and maybe we could ask to adopt her baby.
He promised he would ask.
Tuesday, February 23rd, 1982
Sebastião woke us up in the morning and asked us to go back to the same shelter and choose the girl we think would be suitable. When Dafne reminded him that we already decided yesterday, he didn’t say a word. Dafne smiled at him and whispered to me she found the situation weird because we were choosing the mother and not the child. I tried consoling myself, that at least they were selling us some hope. As far as I was concerned, they could make the choice for us and not impose on us such an impossible choice, just as you can’t choose a biological baby but lovingly accept whatever comes. Furthermore, I didn’t want them to make us choose the mother because we weren’t interested in any future contact with her. It seemed an almost cruel situation; on the one hand smiling at her and on the other taking away her child. If it were up to me, I would want to take the newborn baby, sign the papers and if someday the child would want to meet his birthmother, he can do it on his own. I don’t want any contact or responsibility. I didn’t speak to Dafne about it. I’m trying to tread lightly and please her, if she doesn’t object why should I interfere with the process, which was difficult enough to begin with? We both wanted things to move as quickly as possible so that we can come back home with a baby. Besides the emotional aspect and our anticipation, there were also some practical concerns; Dafne’s office needed her back and so did mine.
Today, the girls received us happily, as you would an old friend. We sat by them and watched them work. They spoke Portuguese with each other, and Sebastian translated when they spoke to us. We could already say “que lindo” or “que bonito,” meaning: “so beautiful.” We occasionally used these words whenever one of the girls proudly showed us her work. Not a word was spoken about the pregnancy or the unborn baby. When we asked Sebastian if he could find out who were the fathers, he firmly said we should first tell him who were our top three favorites so he could do a full investigation – medical and family – with Dona Arlete’s office.
We chose three: our first choice was the kitchen girl, Tania; the second was Sonia, a pretty, slender and dark-skinned girl who worked with proud vigor and looked at us suspiciously; last was Silvana, she too was mulatto and looked like a child. It seemed to me she was looking to get close to us, even if covertly.
After we decided, Dafne suddenly changed her mind. She thought this way of choosing was unfair, and to my surprise, she began asking a lot of questions, complaining about the way things were done. “What are we choosing, really? What criteria do we even have, what is this? And if we end up being unhappy with the baby, can we ask for a refund?” she asked sarcastically. Since she didn’t say a thing this morning about the decision we made, her sudden complaints surprised me. This business was getting more complicated, and the adoption seemed further than ever.
That night Gadi hungrily read every word in the diary, and when dawn broke, he was extremely tired. In the morning he and his father were busy packing, and didn’t exchange a single word, not even a look. A great discomfort stood between them.
There were mostly scuba divers on the bus, who couldn’t fly after diving. There weren’t just those who took the course with them, but also other divers with all their equipment – which they would take with them every time they went diving.
Gadi was suddenly exhausted but wouldn’t give in. He sailed to distant Brazil in his thought. He has never been there but felt he knew his homeland and even loved it. Who knows what kind of life he might have had there? Perhaps he would have been a priest, like in the movie he saw last week about south American church boys? And perhaps he would have been the poor man who won the lottery and was dubbed by newspapers ‘the Brazilian Cinderella’, and perhaps, I would have become a pickpocket, such as the one who stole my father’s wallet; who could I have been? He asked himself during their ride back home.
Before they arrived at Tel Aviv, Dani opened his eyes and asked, “Did you read it?”
“Yes,” Gadi replied, “thank you for all my beautiful birthday presents.”
Dani put his hands on Gadi’s shoulders, hugged him tightly, pulled his head closer and as he kissed his hair, said, “this is how I imagined this day when I wrote the diary.”
CHAPTER 3
That very same evening Gadi went to Grandma Zipora to tell her about his upcoming trip to Brazil. He preferred telling her himself, not wanting her to hear about it from his parents. Gra
ndma Zipora and him were very close. Ever since he was a little child loved visiting her and Grandpa Max, where they would spoil him, giving him candy his parents wouldn’t “so he doesn’t ruin his teeth.” But the thing he loved the most was staying there without his parents, just him, Grandma and Grandpa. He’d stay there for the night when his parents went out, or when he didn’t go to daycare the next day. On those days Grandpa would take him to the zoo, boat with him on the Yarkon river, and take him to the museum. At night Grandma would tell him a bedtime story “so you have sweet dreams,” she would say.
Once, when he was eight years old and stayed for the night, his grandpa suddenly grabbed a pile of books from the big bookcase in his study. All the books had similar covers. He explained to Gadi that these were encyclopedias in which he could find information about Brazil. Gadi already knew he was born in Brazil but so far no one had spoken to him about it, let alone using an encyclopedia. He always knew he wasn’t born from mom’s tummy but from both his parents’ hearts, who chose him out of many other children, let him into their hearts and loved him deeply. As Dad would always say, he was exactly the kid they dreamed about and wanted.
Until Grandpa showed him the encyclopedia, Gadi never asked any questions, everything seemed normal, he didn’t have any doubts or misunderstandings. But that day a certain curiosity awoke, and it was Grandpa Max who awakened it.
He flipped through the encyclopedia’s pages, and, after reading to Gadi aloud, he explained in simple language, “Brazil is a huge country, almost a sub-continent, it’s as big as this…” he said while spreading his hands out. “It has evergreen forests that are called rainforests, and also very big swamps. It has cities way bigger than Tel Aviv and many tiny poor villages. There are millions of kids in Brazil, who don’t have a home and live in the streets, no one to feed them, so they pick fruits off the trees. It has people who are very poor and some who are very rich.”
“Do you see, our dear Gadi,” he concluded, “Brazil is a country of opposites, no middle ground. On the one hand it is an advanced country and on the other, very underdeveloped. Do you understand?”
Gadi listened carefully to his grandpa, however, even the simple language his grandpa tried using, wasn’t clear enough for him. Of course, most of the information in the encyclopedia wasn’t age appropriate, that is why, whenever Grandpa saw it necessary, he explained again, showed him pictures from the encyclopedia, used his hands to show how much bigger was Brazil than Israel, used an atlas, until he was convinced Gadi understood better. Yet, Gadi found it difficult to relate to the Brazil from the encyclopedia.
The next morning, even before he got out of his bed, he heard Grandma telling Grandpa off.
“What have you done? Why? He isn’t old enough, what can he understand? For him Brazil is the same as Israel, God help us if Dafne finds out. I don’t know what she is capable of doing.”
“See,” Grandpa Max defended himself, “I just wanted him to know, it’s important for a person to know where he is from.”
“Enough! What is done cannot be undone, speak quietly, we’re waking him up,” Grandma Zipora said and the house was silent again, as if a word had not been spoken before.
When Gadi told his mother about the encyclopedia and Brazil, he noticed the muscles of her face tightening, a clear sign she was unhappy. A week later he witnessed a fight between his grandpa and his parents. It went without saying the fight was because of him and the encyclopedia. Since then they wouldn’t let him stay alone with his grandparents, and they visited them less and less. No matter how much he cried and begged, his mom insisted “no more sleepovers.”
Only when he turned thirteen, for the first time after that incident, his parents allowed him to fly alone with his grandparents abroad. This was a good opportunity for reconciliation since Grandpa Max died the year after.
While driving the new Volkswagen Golf he got as a present for his army discharge, Gadi called Grandma Zipora to tell her he was on his way. The radio played soft music. Gadi tried changing the channel, but for some reason it also played a quiet tune. A terrifying thought crossed his mind. I hope nothing happened, he thought, when something bad occurred, a terror attack or a fatal incident, all radio channels played Memorial Day music. He tried not to let anything dampen his excitement from feeling liberated, however, the melancholic tunes kept playing and annoyed him.
In a single leap, Gadi skipped over the five steps leading to his grandma’s apartment. He heard her rusty door-locks creak open one after the other and knew she wouldn’t have opened them unless he had called her beforehand.
“How are you, Granny?”
“First bend over, you, I want a big kiss like those you gave me when you were little,” she said and kissed him loudly.
“What’s new?” Gadi kept asking casually.
“This is what happens when your grandma is afraid of the dark like a little girl,” she tried explaining the multiple locks, still holding some the keys in her hand. “I don’t know how to rationally explain it, maybe because I have been alone since Grandpa… and being alone means being weak, and maybe because I’m old and not as strong as I used to be. Do you know old people are easy prey for burglars? I have to be careful.”
“Still, it’s strange that someone like you is afraid of the dark, do you know that…” Gadi tried changing the subject and couldn’t wait to give her his news, which was also the reason he came to visit. He knew Grandma, too, would have a hard time accepting his decision to go to Brazil. However, she was too concentrated on telling her story and Gadi couldn’t talk about what he planned on telling her.
“I used to be a hero, once, in that war,” she said, “you know, I never told your father anything about the Holocaust, he didn’t ask, didn’t want to hear and I didn’t want to tell. Back then no one talked about the Holocaust, people were ashamed of it. When I came to Israel after that hell, I stayed at the Alonim youth village. There were children there who had also been through that nightmare, but no one spoke or shared. To this day I don’t know what my best friend, Rachel, went through. Every night, at that youth village, she would wake up crying and screaming. We heard but never asked. We all had our own baggage.”
“Grandma,” Gadi interrupted her, “I want to talk to you about my baggage.”
But she kept on, as if she couldn’t hear him at all.
“Two years ago, on the Holocaust Memorial Day, I saw on TV the Hungarian boy who stayed in the village with us, Tzachi. He’s old now and spoke about what happened to him in Auschwitz. Back then he never said a word, I didn’t even know he was there and that his real name was Ignatz.”
Grandma went on and on, and a shade of sadness painted her words, just like the melodies on the radio, Gadi thought to himself and kept silent, no way I can get a word in.
“Do you remember you came asking me questions for a heritage school project, and I told you, finally, someone shows interest in Grandma’s past, I told you everything and you wrote down every word. You were thirteen, bar mitzvah age, and then Grandpa said, ‘maybe we can take the kid to Corfu so you can show him where you were born and used to play.’We decided to take you as a bar mitzvah present, remember?”
“Of course I do, Grandma, how could I forget? It was the first time I went abroad, except that time I was a baby and brought from Brazil, but that doesn’t count because, obviously, I can’t remember it,” Gadi tried taking advantage of the situation and getting the conversation back on track.
But Grandma continued, “Do you remember how beautiful Corfu was, Gadi? Its white houses? The blue sea? Do you remember the Jewish cemetery?”
Their conversation went on longer than he had planned. Gadi wanted to call Tamara and tell her he was running late, but Grandma kept speaking enthusiastically, laughed and cried, about the Holocaust and her roots, it seemed she couldn’t be stopped.
“Actually, these aren’t really my roots,” he suddenly
interrupted Grandma.
There was a deafening silence.
Grandma stopped talking. She looked at Gadi and her eyes filled with tears.
“Grandma, come on, stop that.”
“These are your roots, Gadi. You are my grandson, aren’t you?” she whispered.
“Yes, but I’m actually Brazilian. I was raised here but my roots are there. A woman gave birth to me in Brazil, and my genes aren’t exactly the same as yours.”
“I know, my beloved boy, do you think I forgot? Something like that can never be forgotten. When they brought you from Brazil you were a small tender sapling. We watered, hoed, fertilized, and weeded out anything that kept you from growing, until you became a beautiful tree and struck roots. So where are your roots? There? They’re here, not in Brazil,” Grandma said decisively. “Even you can’t call the woman who gave birth to your ‘mother’, because you know who is your real mother.”
“You’re right, but I still want to know where I was conceived; and why didn’t they raise me there? Does that make sense?”