by Nora Sarel
You can’t even say that we took you from Nessia by force because we didn’t steal you or made her do something against her own will. We took what she gave us because she had your best interest in mind. We received a child who lost his parents, and no matter the reason, we accepted him with great love and devotion. We didn’t do him any harm, on the contrary, we gave him the opportunity to grow and thrive in a different place, since he might not have had the right conditions at home. You could always claim that the conditions in Israel aren’t ideal either, we have mandatory army service, where we fight a daily war, in which the best of our men are killed. I hope when you turn 18 and it’s time for your mandatory service, we’ll have peace, and even if not, I can safely say that the conditions here are much better than there. No, I’m not trying to be condescending, but I feel everything is for the best because we built ourselves a family, and that’s saying a lot.
My son, if you still choose someday to look for your Brazilian roots, we will allow and assist you, although I think your roots are here and ours, there is always a legitimate curiosity knowing where they sprouted. Eventually, you will make whichever decision is right for you, this diary may be your guide.
Thank you, my son, for giving us the privilege of being your parents.
Adi feel asleep with the diary cradled in her arms.
Gadi, Omri, Ido and Liam kept talking all night.
“We didn’t get the chance you fill you in, but someone called us about Dana’s newspaper ad,” Omri reported.
“Well, what did he say?”
“He said he was willing to help us find her mother for a symbolic fee.”
“How symbolic?”
“Overly symbolic. He didn’t sound serious either. Liam said he sounded like someone who was trying to rip us off, but he took his phone number and when he gets back to Curitiba he’ll see if he can help searching.”
“You’re going back to Curitiba?” Gadi asked Liam.
“I think I am.”
“Why? What happened?”
“I need money to keep traveling, and I make great money at Ami’s pousada.”
“We actually got used to you,” Omri laughed.
“I’m happy to hear, but we’ve achieved our goal, right, Gadi? Besides, you don’t need me anymore. You speak fluent Portuguese and do well without me. So, what did you decide? Where are going on from here?” he asked.
“Maybe Bolivia or Peru, then we’ll cross Brazil to make up for what he had missed.”
“Adi’s going with you?” Liam surprised Gadi with a direct question.
“I think she is, but I haven’t spoken to her about it,” Gadi replied.
“She’ll go wherever you go,” Liam stated, his tone somewhat disappointed.
“Hey, redhead” he continued, but Gadi didn’t turn his face to him’ “Ginger, I had the honor of helping you find your soulmate,” he said” and waited for a sign of gratitude but Gadi struggled to thank him.
Chapter 25
“Listen, bro, we’re going back to Israel tomorrow!” Gadi yelled. Bernardo pulled the receiver away from his ear and didn’t say a word.
“Why aren’t you saying anything?” Gadi tried to get Bernardo on board.
“I’m happy for you,” he replied, however, could not hide a sense of sadness in his voice.
“When do you think you can visit us, brother?” Gadi asked.
“I don’t know.”
“A month? Two? I miss you already.”
“It’s hard to tell. You know things are more complicated for me. I just started a new job. But don’t worry, I’ll come.”
“If you don’t, I’ll fly all the way back to drag you here.”
“Mom, we’re coming back this Tuesday.”
“We’ll wait for you at the airport, son.”
“I’m not coming back alone, you know.”
“With Adi? With Bernardo? With Omri and Ido? With everyone?” she said happily.
“Just with Adi. Bernardo said he would come in a month or two, don’t worry, he’ll come. Omri and Ido want to keep traveling in other countries across the continent. We were the only ones who decided to come back.”
“Great. The house won’t be so empty, I always wanted more children.”
“You wanted a daughter, too, right? You got it!”
“We can’t wait to see you, have a safe trip, kisses.”
It was a rainy winter day and she decided to come back home earlier, not only because she was worried there would be heavy traffic on the Ayalon Highway but also because Gadi was supposed to land in a couple of hours and she wanted to clean up the house for him.
When she opened the door, she realized Dani had already left to the airport. The apartment was dark and cold. The small kitchen table suddenly seemed sad. She placed on it the cake she bought at the expensive bakery that recently opened under her office. Then, quickly turned on the lights and heat and put his favorite tomato soup, which she went into trouble making yesterday, on the stove. She placed the anemone flowers she had bought the other day in a vase with water and thought to herself how much she loved Israeli winter blossoms. The pastries Grandma Zipora had sent were already warm in the oven. She had set the table for four and used the fine plates she would keep in the cupboard for special occasions. Under each plate was a paper napkin with flowers matching those in the vase on the table. She wanted it to be festive, she thought.
In his room she had hung a flag of his favorite football team and played a new album of his favorite artist.
Then, she crashed on the sofa in front of the TV, took off her shoes and covered her legs with the plaid blanket. She grabbed the newspaper but the letters flickered in front of her eyes. She was overflowed with joy, excitement rushed through her veins.
Maybe she should have joined Dani and waited with him at the airport, she thought. Then quickly dismissed the thought, realizing she couldn’t have handled it.
When she heard the car wheels screeching, she knew they had arrived. Are her sunglasses here? Just to be on the safe side, in case the tears pour on their own, she wondered to herself. She was ready. She combed her hair with her fingers, wanted to straighten her shirt but couldn’t. She could barely take the plaid blanket off her legs.
Then she heard Gadi’s confident voice.
“Adi, can you smell it? that’s what my home smells like.”
She couldn’t stand up, approach him and hug him as she would have wanted to. She quickly wore her sunglasses and the tears poured uncontrollably.
Gadi walked to her and when he was close enough, he caressed her shoulders. Like a little girl, he collected her into his arms and hugged her, she snuggled there. She felt how at once all the load of her fear and hesitations was unburdened.
“Gadi,” was the only word she could pronounce.
“Yes, Mommy, it’s good to be home,” he whispered to her while she shook and shivered in his arms, “I would like you to meet Adi.”
She mustered all her strength, stood in front of them and hugged them both.
Gadi rolled his head back and laughed, “Do I smell tomato soup? I looked all over Brazil and couldn’t find a soup like yours.”
I WOULD LIKE TO THANK
The Writer Adiva Geffen, who accompanied me throughout the writing of this book.
My friend Michael Frenkel, who spent many days proofreading sections of the book
My brother Moshe Yovel, who did everything in his power to help me publish this book in English
Most particularly my husband Dubi Israeli, who remained steadfast in his encouragement and support.
Many thanks to all those who read the material and made suggestions.
About The Author
Nora Sarel (pen name) has B.A.in Literature and Education, M.A. in Curriculum Development. She is an author and educator. She authored and co-a
uthored textbooks across subjects such as language, geography, the Holocaust and life-skills and wrote numerous books.
Other experience includes an 8-year tenure producing educational films for the National Center for Special Education between 1989 and 1997.
Nora is married, lives in Tel Aviv and is a grandmother of seven.
Message From The Author
When I wrote this book, I decided to use a journal as a guideline for the hero and the readers. The content of the journal is incorporated in the narrative - whenever one of the characters reads it, allowing the readers of the book to seemingly, also read the journal. Each chapter in the book explores a different location in Brazil, so this is not only a spiritual journey, but a geographical one, as well.
The stories in the book are fictional, however, they are based on dozens of interviews with adoptive families and adults who were adopted as babies in Brazil, as well as the my extensive knowledge with this country.
Also By Nora Sarel
Three Voices
Here are a few FREE chapters from my next book.
Hope you will enjoy it!
Three Voice
Nora Sarel
1.
Oddly enough, I can clearly remember moments that occurred when I was just a young child of perhaps two or three years old, even though most people are incapable of doing so. I remember them without the help of photographs, because I don’t have any. I don’t have even a single photo. The war took them all. The war took everything from me.
Everything is everything.
My childhood, my life, even my name. I tell you, I have no name, no roots. They were taken by the war.
Sometimes I ask myself, who am I? Lena from Poland? Ilana from Israel ? Or Helen from America? I’m a woman who has wandered the world her whole life, without roots. And you don’t know how challenging it is to live without roots. It’s like a person without feet, unable to get a firm grip on the ground. Yes, that’s the reason I came here. I made a decision and came to Poland to look for them, for my feet, which I left here so many years ago, and I hope to find them.
Do you know what the war didn’t take from me?
My memory. It didn’t take my memory. That it left to torment me forever. My parents passed away a few years ago. Only after they died did I realize that I hadn’t asked them the significance of some of the things I’d witnessed. And I remember them well, but to this day I can’t explain, even to myself, what I saw. Throughout their lives, I refrained from discussing Poland with them, or the horrors that we experienced and survived. I think that I was afraid to dig deeper so that I wouldn’t return to the war days, and perhaps they too were afraid to scratch at the source of pain.
You know, we call this “the silence of the first generation.” In fact, the second generation too remained silent. It is a generation that is afraid of asking. Only now one could say that there is an awakening and the third generation is showing interest, talking and asking, but there are few left to provide the answers.
Me? I can share only what I remember.
Yes, I remember our apartment in Krakow, where my parents and I lived. I can describe the rooms of our apartment to you precisely, especially my room, which I can even sketch for you. It had a square rug decorating the center of the floor. When I was little, I would always trip on the edge of that carpet and fall on the pink flowers, embroidered with coarse wool thread. I can show you where the dresser stood in my room, where my bed was, and I can even remember the order in which my dolls sat on the shelf. I can also tell you what the narrow hallway leading to the kitchen looked like, what color green the tiles were that adorned the tops of the walls, all around, like tulle peeking from beneath a skirt.
The finest details of that kitchen are impressed upon my mind, because I spent so many wonderful hours there, climbing onto the chair, then onto the table, and from the table to the marble counter by the sink, until I reached the rectangular window that was stuck somewhere between the ceiling and the counter. From there I could peep out at the courtyard of the apartment building we lived in.
There was always a bustle of children in that courtyard, from dawn to dusk every day of the year. Even in the winter, one could hear the voices of the children, who turned the snowy square into an ice skating rink. Only when the winter wind whistled wildly and it snowed furiously, only then did the courtyard empty out. But on normal days, it was usually filled with dozens of children playing hopscotch, hide-and-go-seek, and tag, and there were always girls in blue pleated skirts and white buttoned shirts, their hair tied with fancy white ribbons, sitting on the thick, coarse wooden bench under the shade of the old oak tree.
Actually, the girls there were always dressed so tidily as if at any moment they would have to appear somewhere important. Not like the girls today, who never take care of their appearance, their hair always loose, without pins or ribbons or braids, even when they really do have to appear somewhere important. They’re like children of nature. You’re right, sometimes I do see more fancily dressed girls, but they are not as tidy as the girls back then, in Poland.
I remember often staring at the small square that was enclosed by four buildings, dozens of windows overlooking it. My mother usually stood by me, holding and supporting me so that I wouldn’t fall, heaven forbid. A lot of noise drifted up from the courtyard. Laughter and tears, shrieks, screeches and screams, blended together with whispers, and above it all, the voices of mothers calling their children to come up home—this very minute!
The old tree, the roots of which had lifted some of the floor tiles, changed its appearance all the time. Once it donned green and another time brownish yellow; once it was bare, and later it was heavy with leaves and nuts. But it always stood there, very tall, thick-trunked, watching and listening to everything that happened in the courtyard, just like me.
Until one day the world turned upside down and the monster of war sank its sharp teeth into our pastoral world.
I remember that day clearly. The permanent residents of the courtyard disappeared in an instant, and I never saw children playing there again.
It was in the early afternoon. I remember. I was sitting on the windowsill watching the tree begin to shed its leaves. It still stood tall in all its glory, but a few leaves were already laying beneath it, and I thought how they would soon be blowing all around when the winds arrived. Only klara’s son, Arthur, whom everyone called Artek, climbed as quickly and nimbly as a cat up to the wide treetop. I think he wanted to pick a few acorns to play with. I watched him. The truth is, I was waiting for my mother to prepare lunch. I was hungry and I knew that my father would soon be home to eat with us.
Artek hid in the foliage and occasionally waved hello to me. He had noticed me sitting and watching him. No one except him imagined I was there, and no one never even looked in my direction. Only Artek knew.
All of a sudden, we heard frightening and deafening explosions which drove me right into my mother’s arms. Together, we ran to hide under the big bed in the bedroom.
“What about Artek?” I whispered to my mother, as if we mustn’t be overheard.
“What about Artek?” she repeated my question.
“He was in the tree and he may not have had time to run away.” I feared for his fate.
I remember everything. I was such a young child to be learning what concern was. But that was only the beginning. Back then, I didn’t realize that my childhood had ended that terrible day, and that each coming moment would only get harder. I didn’t expect the many more days of fear and concern that followed. I now know that it was actually the first day of the war in Krakow and the sixth day since war had broken out, and I still had five years of fear ahead of me. My parents, like all the Jews in Krakow, probably didn’t believe that the war would reach their doorsteps so quickly, and they didn’t prepare for it.
You mentioned that you’re majoring in history and internat
ional relations at the University of Warsaw? Correct? Then you should hear what happened here on Polish soil, soil soaked in blood. I’ll tell you everything. Even though you aren’t Jewish, I believe you’ll be able to understand what that war did to the Jews.
I think that only your professor believes that the Poles repented for the sins they committed when they abandoned “their” Jews, as they called us. I can actually see the hatred in you, plenty of hatred, even now. Just yesterday, while I was wandering through the city streets, I encountered it - hatred. I saw dolls for sale in the stores and souvenir stands, wooden dolls of Jews, there can be no mistake, dolls with prayer shawls and side locks and long, crooked noses, and pockets stuffed with money.
You don’t believe me? Believe me. The Jews are still perceived as Shylock by many Poles. Jews don’t live here any longer, but anti-Semitism does. Krakow, this beautiful city, is trying to hide the ugliness between its red rooftops and church steeples.
So, you miss your Jews? Oh, what a hypocritical statement. I too fell into that trap. I too believed that all people, everywhere, are good and merciful. But sadly, I have also encountered cruel Poles, sometimes even crueler than the Nazis. Saying that, I can’t deny the fact that those who saved me were “Righteous Among the Nations,” - non-Jews that saved Jews, and I will never ever forget them.
I’ll tell you, don’t rush me. I won’t leave any of the details out.
Where was I? Oh, on the day they occupied Krakow.
I think that Mom and I lay under the double bed for over two hours before my father came home. Only then did we leave our hiding place. We went over to him. He was pale and not at all surprised to find us under the bed, and he responded as if we lay there every day to rest. His voice wasn’t its usual self. He also whispered. His face suddenly looked different, worried. That day, he didn’t even remove the hat from his head, didn’t remove his coat and didn’t eat his dinner that, in the meantime, had grown cold in the kitchen. Instead, he rushed out and promised to be back soon. My mother told him to be careful, and he kissed her and me. I don’t know when he returned because I fell asleep in their bed, without washing, without putting on my pajamas, and when I woke up between them, I noticed that they also hadn’t changed into their pajamas or slept at all, and had only whispered all night. From that day on, our lives were very different. My mother and I rarely went out. My father still went to work each day, but came home before dark, much earlier than usual. He seemed constantly preoccupied, and his happy smile slowly faded until it was completely erased from his face.