FORTY FOUR: PREPARATIONS FOR WEDDING

The wedding date was set for June 24, 1956. This was to be the first celebration for my family in a very long time and our house was alive with excitement and activity. The simple invitations were sent out a month before the wedding and my father booked musicians, including a violinist. Uncle Shiko volunteered to be the photographer. We would have the wedding at home, opening up the apartment so that Shiko’s and our sections were joined. The furniture would be re-arranged to accommodate tables, covered with white tablecloths, along the walls. The head table was to be arranged in the middle of the room, where my grand piano stood and the band would be settled there as well. We hired two women from our synagogue to prepare the meal. For weeks before the wedding they were busy baking breads and cakes, and cooking traditional Jewish foods. The menu at the wedding would begin with challah and gefilte fish, go on to chicken soup with my Bubbie Yettaís thin egg noodles, roast beef, roast duck, cabbage rolls, boiled potatoes with fresh dill, and tzimmes, a sweet carrot pudding. For dessert there would be non-dairy ice cream, and my mother’s “best in the world” apple strudel.

Two weeks before the wedding, I was at home studying when a young lady knocked at the door. She told me that her name was Wioletta and that she was from Warsaw. I recalled that Adam had mentioned her on his first visit. When I saw her at the door, I immediately feared that something had happened to Adam. She assured me that he was fine and that she had come because she needed to speak to me personally.

“You know,” she blurted out, “that I live with Adam and I came to tell you that I am pregnant.” I nearly fainted. Trying to keep my composure, I slowly stood up and said, “All right, I will not stand in your way - my wedding is in two weeks, but I will cancel it and even wish you both good luck.” She seemed surprised and a bit thrown off by my answer. “I don’t want to marry Adam!” she shrieked, “I want you to give me money for an abortion.” I looked at her in amazement. “Don’t you think you should discuss this with Adam, not me?” “Adam does not want to marry me. He loves you,” she continued, matter-of-factly. “He doesn’t even know that I am here and asking for your help.”

Something was wrong with this wild story. I felt suddenly numb. After thinking for a moment, I told her to leave her phone number with me and that I would reach her by the end of the day.

When she finally left, the tears began to flow. I told my mother and Regina about Wioletta and her unbelievable story. They were speechless. Seeing their shock broke something inside me. I had been afraid that something would go wrong - and it had. When my father and Shiko returned from work, we all discussed the situation. My father was as strong as always and told me, “I still believe that Adam is a good man and that he will be a wonderful husband to you. You must talk to him and hear his side of the story. We’ll give her the money, if that’s what she wants, but you must give Adam a chance.”

I called Wioletta and asked her how much she wanted. When I heard the exorbitant amount she wanted, I told her I would have to get back to her in a few days. Immediately, I purchased an airplane ticket to Warsaw. Crying during the entire flight, I was not sure that I would be able to find the strength to face him. When I arrived, Adam was his usual warm and loving self, even though I had arrived unexpectedly. Sitting in his tiny kitchen, I told him about Wioletta’s visit. He swore to me that there had been no other woman in his life since he and I had met and he was furious with Wioletta for having the gall to lie to me about him and about her pregnancy.

“She must have become pregnant with someone who would not help her and she has no money of her own to resolve the situation herself.” I could see that he was thinking about something. “Finally, things are beginning to become clear....,” he said. “You know that she has a key to my apartment because she is officially registered under my address. Last week, I came home to find my apartment emptied, everything including my clothes. I thought I had been robbed. I obviously had been, by Wioletta, who stole my belongings to sell.” He was pacing up and down, screaming with rage. “She probably read all of your letters! She probably isn’t even pregnant! How dare she threaten our happiness? She is a thief and a liar!”

Adam sat down beside me and reached for my hand. He was beside himself. “Please, please Rachel, you have to believe me. I love you and it is only you that I want to share my life and future with.” He suddenly became very stern. “You cannot.....you must not give her a penny!” I looked into his warm, gentle eyes and knew that he was telling me the truth. I did trust him.

When I returned home, I told my father what Adam had told me and he insisted that we give Wioletta the money that she asked for. “You don’t want her to be a stain on your wedding day. We must have her out of our lives forever.” After Wioletta received the money from my father, we never heard from her again.

FORTY FIVE: WEDDING JUNE 24, 1956

As is customary in a Jewish Orthodox wedding, Adam and I fasted the day before our wedding and were not permitted to see each other for 24 hours. Adam stayed at my parents’ house and I went to stay with my mother’s cousin, Isaac and Ewa Zweig. The morning of the wedding, I came home to find the entire apartment transformed. Regina and Shiko’s small living room had been turned into a bride’s room and in the corner stood an armchair covered with a white sheet. It was surrounded by an ocean of flowers and behind it the walls were decorated with mirrors. This is where I would sit and greet all the women that came in. I felt like a princess. Breathlessly, I awaited the evening.

Adam was a very handsome groom in his navy blue suit and white bow tie. His black, wavy hair shone and his wonderful smile brightened his whole face. In his warm, dark eyes I could read his happiness and undying love for me. It only added to my joy that my parents also loved Adam, already considering him a son. Finally, Adam’s prayers would be answered. He would once again be part of a warm and loving family.

My princess-style wedding dress was a soft, off-white gown with a long lace veil. I carried a bouquet of fresh white roses that matched the wreath I wore in my hair. As I walked on the white sheet covering the floor, toward my future, the children walked in front of me, sprinkling white rose petals in my path. The house, festive and full of flowers, seemed a beautiful rose garden to me, and a fitting symbol of this glorious day full of laughter and tear of happiness.

Today, I can still see before me the 82 year-old Rabbi who performed the ceremony. When we were ready to break our fast, Adam and I were served sponge cake and freshly brewed coffee. I don’t remember eating anything else that night, but I can see as clearly as if it were yesterday, my Bubbie Yetta dancing toward the center of the head table where we sat with a 6-foot-long braided Challah. There were a hundred guests, including Jozef and Rozalia Beck, and our unwitting matchmaker, Bucio, who was our guest of honour and whom we shall bless all of our lives.

The only cloud on my happy day was Luci’s absence. The person with whom I had spent my entire childhood - the happy times and the terrible times - and the one who truly knew what this day meant for me and for my family, had not found it important enough to attend. She told me later that she had not been able to come because she had made other plans with her boyfriend, Abraham.

The celebration lasted into the early hours of the morning. When each guest left, they were given a beautifully wrapped white napkin full of wedding sweets to take home. And for the next few days family and friends continued to come by, wishing us well. My father was right. Adam turned out, not only to be the best husband for me - but also my best friend.

FORTY SIX: POLISH RESTRICTIONS FOR JEWS - PERMISSION

TO GO TO ISRAEL - FAREWELLS

During our month-long honeymoon in Miedzyzdroje, on the Baltic, Adam and I discovered that we both loved nature, especially the countryside, because it reminded both of us of our early childhood. Both of us were children of the Holocaust and we talked a great deal about the war and our losses. By the end of the first week together, there was nothing we hadn’t told each other.

After long debate, Adam and I decided that we would give up his apartment in Warsaw and that we would live with my parents. Even though Adam had a great job in Warsaw, we both felt that it was important for us to be together while I finished my fourth year of medical studies.

My father had discouraged Adam from looking for work in Wroclaw. Not only was Adam new to the city and did not belong to the Communist Party, he was also a Jew, and these factors would make it extremely difficult for him find work in his field, particularly in the government-owned companies.

At that time, Jews in high positions were being removed from their jobs and the Polish Government was opening the borders for Jews in the hope of getting rid of them. It was about this time that I came home from lectures one day to find my family huddled together with grave expressions on their faces. We had received a letter from the Government Administration Office stating that all Jewish first names must be changed immediately to Polish names. Furthermore, all family names were to be changed to Polish spellings and that foreign spellings would not be allowed.

For days, my father and Shiko discussed what to do. They knew very well that, if we resisted, we would be in danger. They finally agreed that we would change the spelling of our family name from Muhlbauer to Milbauer. We were also forced to change our Jewish first names to Polish names for the sake of safety and survival. The humiliation and disgust that changing our names caused - makes it impossible for me to even write those names here. Was it not over? Would it begin again? Our names were all we had left.

Adam began work buying and selling a new product, the “Moto-Rower,” a bicycle with a small engine attached. Adam would travel to Katowice, a city near Bytom in Upper Silesia. There, the coal miners received a coupon, once every two years, with which to purchase this motorized bicycle. After buying these coupons from the miners, Adam would present them at the appropriate store, receive the bicycles, no questions asked, which he would then ship to Wroclaw. In Wroclaw, he was able to sell these bicycles to Jewish people who could not get the coupons for higher prices. It was a very profitable job.

My father and Shiko were making efforts to try and secure permission for us all to emigrate to Israel. It was the only place that we believed we could live as Jews and be safe. This was not the first time that we had tried to secure permission. Three applications had already been submitted over the past few years but my father applied again, this time adding Adam’s name to the application.

Finally, we received the news that our application had been approved to leave Poland for Israel. My father, however, insisted that Adam and I stay in Poland so that I could complete my medical degree. I would not hear of it. There had not been a moment that we had been separated out of own free will - and I was not going to allow that now.

Before we left for Israel, my father went back to Turka. “One last time, I want to see my birthplace and visit the people who helped us.” He decided that he would take Frida, 11 and Eli, 7 with him to show them where we had lived. I was very upset that my father was not taking me with him on this journey. I also wanted to see my home for the last time, to be again in the surroundings I treasured. I never really knew why he did not take me; whether it was because he thought it would bring back painful memories of the past for me or because he did not want me to look back, only forward. Turka was now part of Russia, not Poland, and perhaps he felt more secure travelling with small children, so that he could say he was on vacation rather than spark the suspicion of the Russian authorities at the border that he was on some other mission. So, he purchased his tickets, arranged for a passport and they left for Kolomyja.

When they returned, he brought back with him memories of the past. He told us that the village of Turka had not been damaged by the war and was just as we had left it. The orchard was as beautiful as it had always been. He had knocked on the door of our old house and told the peasant woman that this had been his family’s house before the war and that he had planted the apple trees. He asked her if he could pick a few apples so he could taste, one last time, the fruits of his long ago labours. She agreed and, tearfully, he picked his apples.

He had also gone to visit Vasil and Maria Olehrecky, the hired help on my grandparents’ farm who had become our saviours during the war. My father found Vasil still living on his farm, but he and Maria had divorced and both had new spouses. My father gave him money and gifts and thanked him again for all he had done for us. Like brothers, they hugged and cried and said their good-byes. My father went to see Maria, also giving her gifts and money. He told them both that we were emigrating to Israel and that we would never see them again. Both asked my father not to write from Israel; given the present political situation in Russia, they were afraid that they would be accused of having “contacts” with Israel. These visits were very emotional and painful for all of them and brought back the memories of the life we had all lived and tragically lost. Finally, my father went to visit the parents of my childhood friend, Mecio. He told them that I was now a medical student. Mecio, they told him, was studying engineering.

My father told us of how the Jews in Russia were scrambling to get out of the Soviet Union. While he was staying with a Jewish family in Kolomyja, many of their friends had come to speak to him. They pleaded with him to help them get out of Russia. He showed us the long list of Jewish families he had promised to sponsor and help immigrate to Poland, as a step towards going to Israel. We looked at him in disbelief, but he was adamant. “I need to give back, to do for others in need what those, like Vasil and Jozef, did for us when we were in grave danger and desperate. I cannot turn my back. It is a mitzvah.”

There was nothing to say. The next day, we all set to work. We divided the list and Shiko, Regina, Adam, my mother and father, and I, began to arrange official papers to submit for “the relatives” whom we would be sponsoring so that we could all be “reunited in Poland.”

FORTY SEVEN: SPONSORED JEWS FROM RUSSIA TO POLAND

FROM WHERE IT IS POSSIBLE TO EMIGRATE

In the beginning, I had mixed feelings about leaving Poland. I had been raised in post-war Poland, my roots were there, and I loved the country whose culture, language, history, and tradition were in my blood.

The first few times my father spoke about applying for permission to go to Israel, I was angry. “My place is in Poland,” I told him. “I’m staying right here.” Living in a Communist country, I had never listened to the radio news beyond the “Iron Curtain” and could not compare my life with any life elsewhere. I had no idea what Israel was like. I knew only that it was very hot. I remembered how ecstatic my family had been when Israel became a Jewish State in 1948, but for me, this new homeland was very remote.

But as time passed and the situation for the Jews worsened in Poland, I began to look forward, with anticipation, to the world beyond. Adam and I would be able to start a new life in Israel, where we would be able to raise a Jewish family without fear. It felt like a dream to be free and equal to all other citizens. Again I could use my own Hebrew name. I longed for the time I would not have to be afraid to be Jewish.

Two weeks before we were to leave for Israel, our house began gradually to fill up with Russian immigrants who had nowhere else to go. Eventually, there were so many people living in our apartment that it began to remind me of the cargo train, full of cigarette smoke, mattresses, and loud, hopeful voices, that had brought us to Poland from Kolomyja after the war. My mother was cooking all the time, as if for an army but was happy to contribute. We were going to help these people be free. Finally, the doors to the world would open, not only for us, but for them as well.

On our last day in Poland nostalgia and sadness overcame me. We were leaving the soil where our ancestors had lived and where so many of us had tragically perished. We knew that we would never return. My father, as usually, tried to cheer us all up and told us, “This is our last evening in Wroclaw and we are going to the Opera. I have tickets for Tosca and even though we have seen this opera many times before, I want this night to be a night to remember.” And so it was.

FORTY EIGHT: FEBR. 28, 1957 ARRIVAL IN ISRAEL -

PREGNANCIES, UNIVERSITY, JOBS - MOTHER DIES

We arrived in Israel on February 28, 1957. We all soon discover that life here would be very different from life in Europe. The climate was difficult, hot and humid and Hebrew was a very difficult language to master. My father had originally wanted to settle on a farm, but now that he was older, he knew it would be too great an effort for him. He and Uncle Shiko bough a small grocery store in Jaffa, on the outskirts of Tel Aviv, and we found a place to live together close to the store.

Our house was the third in from the sea on a small street, Hakovshim, and it took us a while to get used to the smells and sounds of the sea at our doorstep. Adam and I took a five-month course to learn Hebrew and when we finished, Adam applied for a job in the aircraft industry’s Bedek. He was accepted as an airplane parts inspector and was very happy there.

Meanwhile, my father and I went to Jerusalem to speak to the Faculty of Medicine. The Dean informed us that there would be no problem choosing medical courses for me but that since the program in Poland was very different from the one in Israel, I would have to go back to second year, meaning that I would essentially lose two years of study. Also, instead of the 5 year course I was on in Poland, the Medical degree in Israel was a 7 year program and was only offered in Jerusalem. I’m not sure if it was the right decision or not, but I refused the acceptance. The Dean offered to accept me to either pharmacy or bacteriology, also only for second year, but at least that degree only took 4 years. Out of frustration, I agreed to take pharmacy. This meant, of course, that I had to stay in Jerusalem to study and Adam would live with my family in Jaffa so that he could continue at his job.

It was during that first year in Israel and back at school, that I became pregnant. It was a very difficult pregnancy in which I sometimes fainted, developed toxemia and was very swollen. On October 29, 1958 I delivered a beautiful baby girl whom we named Batia, named after Adam’s mother who perished in the Holocaust. In English, we call her Barbara. The baby looked like Adam with dark curly hair, a fair complexion and dark brown eyes. After Barbara was born I became very deeply depressed. I was sure that I was dying of an incurable disease that my family was keeping secret from me. I had no interest in the baby and was afraid to be alone.

I had returned to Jaffa to be with Adam, the baby and my family. When Adam was away at work, my mother would take care of the baby and of me. Often I would faint during the day. Many times my mother would have to call the doctor because I became hysterical, crying that I was dying and no one was paying any attention to me. On several occasions, when I was at home alone with my sleeping baby, I entertained the thought of jumping out the window. I wanted to end my miserable life and stop being a burden to everyone. But I couldn’t. Standing in front of the open window, the thought of leaving my baby all alone was too much for me and I quickly closed the window, backed as far away from it as I could and ran to my baby. I never told anyone about these incidents but continued to struggle with my health for the entire year that followed.

When Adam would come home from work, I would beg him, “Please, tell me what’s wrong with me. Am I going to die?” He would hold me close, kiss my forehead and quietly tell me, “I assure you that you are not dying. You will be just fine. The doctor says this is just a bad time for you and that it will pass.” In his arms I would fall asleep, finally at peace. He was the only person in the world that I trusted.

When I was ready to resume my studies, I applied to the University of Tel Aviv, so that I could be closer to home. They did not have a Faculty of Pharmacy or Medicine at this university and so I entered the third year of Microbiology. Soon Adam and I moved into our own little apartment in Lod, a city near the Airport so Adam could be close to his work. My mother was a great help to us with the baby who stayed with my parents while I studied. This was not easy for my mother for she had become a sick woman. Before we had left Poland, Dr. Neider had warned her never to stop taking the insulin injections. He told her that there would soon be pills on the market but for her it would be very dangerous and life threatening to stop the injections.

It was extremely difficult for me to be separated from my baby while I studied. On one of my visits from the university, I found my daughter playing with her friends. “Look,” she said, pointing, as she saw me coming towards her, “I do have a mommy.” Hearing her say this broke my heart and made me even more determined to work hard and finish quickly so that I could have my baby home with me.

Finally, in June 1964, when Barbara was 5v years old, I graduated from the Tel Aviv University with a Masters Degree in Microbiology. My proud parents, my loving husband, Adam, and my little daughter, Barbara, were all there at my graduation with huge bouquets of red roses. It was an emotional moment for all of us. My father placed a beautiful gold necklace around my neck and placed gold and pearl earrings in my hand. I knew what this moment meant to him and I will always treasure these gifts from him. Adam surprised me with the newest transistor radio from Japan, a Hitachi, that I had been dreaming about. I had a surprise of my own for them, too. I was pregnant with my second baby.

After graduation, I applied at the Kaplan Hospital in the city of Rechovot for a job and was accepted to the Bacteriology Department as a senior scientist working on identifying complicated bacterial organisms, studying their susceptibility to antibacterial drugs and issuing resulting reports to the doctors. Suddenly, life was good again. I was working. We could afford a babysitter for our daughter, who had come back to live with us. I was pregnant again, it was going smoothly and my parents, whenever they visited us, were proud of our growing little family and how well we were managing.

I was also receiving a very good salary, and our financial situation had improved a good deal. I decided that I would begin to think about my piano. When I had been a student, with only Adam’s salary to support us, we were having financial difficulty and had no choice but to sell my precious piano which had been incredibly painful for me. Adam had tried to comfort me. “One day, when you finish your studies and we can afford it, you will have a piano again. I promise.”

My second daughter was born on December 2, 1964 and we named her after my Bubbie Yetta who had passed away a few years earlier. We had suffered the loss of my grandmother so much and now the joy of a new life was coming into our lives. In English we call her Iris, and she was born at the Kaplan Hospital where I worked. While I was in the hospital, Adam had the apartment painted, prepared the baby’s room and hung pretty curtains. Our little home was beautiful. It was decided that my mother would stay with me for a while when I came home from the hospital and she did stay, for a week.

My mother happily busied herself cooking, baking and preparing everything for me so that it would be easier for me with the new baby. After the week was up, she decided to go home and see how my father and sister were managing on their own. Her plan was to prepare some food for them that would last a few days and come back to be with me. She had been neglecting her health.

Disregarding Dr. Neider’s advise, she had switched to diabetic pills instead of injections. She felt that her body needed a break from the injections, but soon found that she was facing serious complications. Her blood sugar levels were now out of control and her kidneys had been so damaged that she needed surgery. At the time, in Israel, when one needed surgery, family members were obligated to donate the blood that you would need.

Adam and my father wanted to give blood to the Blood Bank for her but their blood types did not match. My mother’s blood type, AB, was rare and my father had type B and Adam had type O. They had to find her blood type somewhere else and my father and Adam’s blood was given to suitable receivers.

Another serious complication was that she was going blind. Diabetes had settled in her eyes and Adam took her to many specialists, but at that time, no treatments were available. The damage she had caused herself by stopping her insulin injections would prove fatal.

That last day at my house, my mother touched the baby’s face and said, “I can hardly see today, everything is blurry, but I can feel her features and she will be very beautiful.” As we hugged and kissed good-bye, we cried together. I did not know that it would be the last time that I would see my mother. The next day she suffered a heart attack and died in the hospital. My Aunt Mina and her family were already living in Canada at that time but my father and Adam were with her at the end. She was 57 years old.

FORTY NINE: 1967 WAR - DECISION TO GO TO CANADA WHERE

LONG RESIDENT RELATIVES WILL SPONSOR THEM

My mother's loss was very difficult for me. I felt I could not go on without her. Every time I looked out the window I thought I saw her coming from the distance. I was afraid to be alone in the house. I would prepare food in bottles for the baby and take the stroller out in the morning and only came home when I knew Adam would be home from work. I cried constantly and was in a very bad emotional state. My baby never saw a smile on my face. I was surprised that Iris even knew how to smile and that she was a happy child.

My father was very lonely. He missed my mother but did not want to live with us. He wanted to be in the lovely home in Holon that he and my mother had moved to just a few months before her death. So we decided to move closer to my father even though this would mean that Adam and I would have to travel further to work, but we were happy that my father could see his grandchildren grow every day and that we could keep an eye on him.

After my mother died, life as we had known it, was never the same. My sister Frida got married and moved out, leaving my father all alone. Still, we often visited Uncle Shiko and Aunt Regina. During the summer, we would go to the beach together every weekend, with Adam driving back and forth many times on his motorcycle, bringing everyone to the beach. My cousins, Eli and Hanoch, were happy children and we had fun together building tents on the beach and having picnics. We had always been a close family but now, my mother’s death brought us even closer together.

In 1967, we were faced with another war when the Six Day War broke out in Israel. On the morning of June 5, Adam sent me and the children, Barbara aged 8 and Iris 2, to join our neighbours in the basement shelter of our building. All the men were mobilized and Adam and I, who had been through so much, were to be separated now as he went to fulfill his duties in the army. My sister, who was pregnant with her first baby, came to stay with me in the shelter while her husband was away.

The sirens took me back immediately to my childhood and the war. I was constantly shaking and petrified. Frida cried that her baby would never know its father and I cried that my children, especially Iris, would not even remember their own. My own father was in a total state of anguish and would not go to the shelter. He repeated the same phrase over and over. “I have already been in hiding once in my life and I will not go into hiding again. Whatever will happen, will happen.”

I was terribly worried about Adam. On my transistor radio I heard conflicting stories. The Israeli station said that we were winning the war and the Arabic station said that they were winning and would kill all the Israelis and throw them into the sea. All the women and children in the shelter were devastated and together, united by fear, we shared our terror and hope.

Luckily, the war lasted only six days. Frida’s husband, Moshe Palachi, came home soon after but for sixty days after the war I did not hear a word from Adam. Many of my neighbours had been notified that a family member had been killed or wounded. I comforted myself with the thought that no news was good news. In the meantime, I was working very hard in the overcrowded hospital. My children, still terrified and traumatized, would spend most of their time playing in the shelter. My father would visit me every day and we would sit together and worry.

About two months into Adam’s silent departure, the doorbell rang and I opened the door to a female officer. I could only think that my husband was dead and immediately fainted. When I finally came to, the woman assured me that Adam was fine. She had been in the same military unit as he was and he had asked her to tell me that he would be home soon and that he sends his love. My father was grateful that his two sons-in-law had survived the war and he was already working on a plan.

When Adam came home, my father began talking to him seriously about immigrating to Canada. Every evening the three of us would sit and discuss our future. My father would say, “Adam, you are a young man and have been through so much in your childhood. You are the only surviving member of your family and you have, thank God, survived the Six Day War. This is a sign that it is your duty to continue your family and your roots. If you stay here, you expose yourself to more wars and danger. Your life is very precious now that you are the head of a family.”

But I did not want to be separated from my father.“ We cannot leave you alone. How can I not be near you?” I cried. My father would listen to every word and then he would continue. “I feel that you should go. The best place for you is Canada. You have an aunt, an uncle and a cousin there. They will help sponsor you.”

It was a very difficult decision for us to make, one we knew would dictate our future and our children's. In a way, I wanted to leave this unsafe and unpredictable place. I did not want my children to go through wars as Adam and I had. On the other hand, I did not have the heart to leave my father. He was too precious to me. I was still suffering the loss of my mother and could not conceive of losing him too. He would not consider coming with us. “Don’t worry,” he told me, “you will always have a home here with me.”

Always the one to play safe, he did not want us to burn all our bridges at once. We were so confused, deciding one day to leave and changing our minds the next day. Still my father pushed us. “When you will be established in Canada, your sister will join you and maybe then, I will come. Then we will all be together again.” Finally, relentlessly, he convinced us and we applied for immigration to Canada.

FIFTY: FATHER RE-MARRIES

Finally, the day arrived when we had to say our good-byes, and go towards the unknown. The most frightening thing for Adam and me was that we would have to start our lives over again in a brand new country. We had finally mastered the Hebrew language and now we would need to learn a new language, English. My Aunt Mina had written us beautiful letters, promising to sponsor us and so we went about the business of getting ready to immigrate to Canada.

When we applied for our Israeli passports, my mind went back to when we had taken out our Polish passports where our citizenship had been listed as “not established.” Even though we had been born in Poland, as had our grandparents and many generations of our families before them, and had suffered through the Holocaust, because we were Jews we were not considered citizens of Poland. It was incomprehensible to me. I still have our Polish passports and once in a while I look at them with disbelief and great regret. This time it was different. We belonged. We were citizens of the State of Israel.

In the beginning of 1968, when my father was 61, Shiko and some other friends introduced him to a woman. We were still in Israel then and he took Adam and I for a walk. “I have met someone,” he told us. She is a widow, 10 years younger than I am, and has two married sons and grandchildren. She has made a very good impression on me and reminds me of your mother. I want you to meet her before I make any commitments. I could not blame him for not wanting to be alone, even though the thought of someone taking my mother’s place made my heart ache.

Sara (strangely, she had the same name as my mother) had light brown, curly hair, blue eyes and a friendly personality. I had a very hard time adjusting to another woman in my father’s life, but she was good to him and I had no choice but to accept the reality. “Dad,” I told him, “if she makes you happy, it will make me happy.”

The idea that he had someone made it easier for me to leave Israel. Also, it would have been difficult for me to live near my father and see him with a strange woman at his side. It would be easier to bear in a country far away. We continued with our plans to leave and my father began planning to be married in June.

Before our departure for Canada, I decided to sell my violin. We had a limitation of luggage and I was thinking mainly of the many difficulties we would encounter in a new country. With new jobs, learning to speak English and arranging for our children’s school and care, I wasn't interested in the violin. The thought of selling the violin frightened me but I felt we had no choice.

I did not want to tell my father because I knew he would be furious. It was the only thing he had left of his brother Velvel and he had given the violin to me, keeping for himself only the Kilim rug that Velvel had made with his own hands and had used to wrap the violin when he had buried it.

The man at the music shop offered very little for it. I knew it was worth a lot of money but the man would not budge from his price. Adam, angry and shocked, said to him, “I would rather burn this violin than sell it to you.” He grabbed the violin from the man’s hand and we left the shop at once. I was relieved, suddenly realizing how happy I was to still have the violin in my possession. What could I have been thinking to want to sell it?

“Let’s leave the violin with my father,” I told Adam, “and we will be able to get it from him later.” I felt that it was fate that had stopped us from selling this precious piece of my history and that I was meant to have it. I vowed that I would never again lose my inheritance from Velvel. Thank God my father never knew about our foolish plan. He would keep the violin for me as long as was necessary. Even after the violin was safely with my father, I still became nervous just thinking that in a split second I could have lost it. It had been hidden from the Nazis, buried in the ground, as I had been, during the Holocaust. In it's case we had found the baby pictures that Velvel had wanted me to have. I knew this violin had a story to tell.

FIFTY ONE: SEPT. 7, 1968 ARRIVAL IN TORONTO - GETTING SETTLED IN JOBS, SCHOOLS FOR THE CHILDREN, BUYING HOUSE - FATHER’S VISIT - REUNION WITH FRIENDS FROM WROCLAW - BELLY DANCING

We arrived at the Toronto International Airport on September 7, 1968 and my Aunt Mina, Uncle Moses, Luci and her husband, Abraham, were all there to greet us at the airport with flowers. It was good to see my family and their home would be our home for a little while. Shortly, though, we rented a place to live. Barbara, 9, was established in public school and Iris, 3, in nursery.

Within two weeks after our arrival in Toronto, I had a wonderful job as a scientist with the research team at the Public Health Laboratory in the Ministry of Health. All my diplomas and qualifications from Israel were recognized and I was working in the Bacteriology Department doing research in the field of Gonorrhea. Adam found work at the Douglas Aircraft facility.

We settled down in our new life. Our daughters were growing and doing well in school, Adam was happy in his work and I was flourishing in mine. Many of my scientific papers were published in various Medical and Scientific Journals and one of my findings was even published in the Medical Microbiology Book. I corresponded with scientists from all over the world who would often ask me for reprints of my work. I was lecturing and found that scientists were paying attention to my findings with great interest and were asking for my advice. Finally, I felt fulfilled.

After five years, we became Canadian citizens and were very proud and happy. Now we had a permanent home. Canada was our country and we would never immigrate again. It was truly the best place to be.

My father brought his new wife to visit. It was hard for me, but gradually we became friends. During their three-month visit, my children renewed their relationship with their grandfather, and he enjoyed being with them. He was happy to see how we had settled into our new home and that we were living a rich and productive life. I was happy to see that he was no longer alone and that he had companionship.

During the weekdays, as Adam and I worked, my father busied himself establishing a fruit and flower garden in the backyard of the small, semi-detached house we had just bought. I loved that he planted peonies because they reminded me of my Bubbie Frida’s garden in Turka, and sour cherry trees, because they had been my mother’s favourite. By the time he left, my garden was beautiful. It was planted with his taste and his choices. He was the specialist and we let him do whatever he wanted. Besides, it brought back, for both my father and me, memories of my earliest childhood.

On weekends, we would all go to the Trailer Park in the countryside near Stouffville, outside Toronto, where Adam and I had a small house trailer. We all enjoyed our time outdoors very much. My father, coming from a farm as he did, loved this kind of life. He would wake early to enjoy the fresh air, listen to the birds sing and look at the beautiful maple trees. We would go to the farmer’s market in Stouffville and buy fresh produce and the freshly baked country bread they sold there.

Before he left, he asked me to sponsor my sister and her family. In 1975 we welcomed Frida, Moshe and their children to Canada. My father would have gladly joined his family here in Canada but his new wife, Sara, did not want to be separated from her two sons and grandchildren in Israel. When he left I missed him terribly. I missed his serene smile and his cheerful disposition. I was sorry that there was such a great distance separating us.

While staying with us, my father had become friendly with our neighbour, Mr. Noble, who was his age and also originally from Poland. They often had long enjoyable conversations together. Sometime later, Mr. Noble told me he was going to Israel and asked for my father’s address. My father asked him to bring me back the violin I had left in his care. At first, Mr. Noble had refused but my father had insisted and when the Nobles returned from their trip, he came to see me with my violin in his hand. It seemed that fate, again, had brought the violin back to me.

All the pieces of my life were finally coming together and the past was far away. The years passed and, in 1977, Adam and I celebrated our 21st wedding anniversary. It was a beautiful summer evening and I was excited that one of my scientific papers had just been accepted for publication. As I entered the house, exhausted from the long drive home from work, I looked forward to a relaxing bath. Both of our daughters had made plans for the evening and Adam would soon be home. We could share a relaxing evening at home, just the two of us. I turned on the stereo and glanced towards the dining room. There, on the dining room table, was a beautiful arrangement of red roses. Their deep red colour and sweet smell filled the room. I read the card from Adam again and again. At this moment, I realized, that I was the luckiest and happiest woman in the world. I had a loving and wonderful husband, two wonderful daughters, a beautiful, warm home and an exciting career. This was a life most women dream about and for me it had seemed unreachable. I never imagined that I would live past my 10th birthday, let alone live to have such a fulfilling and secure life.

My thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the telephone. It was our friend, Jadzia whom we had met in Canada but was also from Poland. She knew many of the people we had known in Poland and was organizing a reunion of our Jewish school in Wroclaw. She was calling to make sure that we would be there. “Who else is coming?” I asked excitedly. She answered cautiously, “I won’t tell you - It'll be a surprise.”

Now I was really curious. I went to the full length mirror in the hall to look at myself. It was one of my favourite things to do. It might sound vain, but I needed mirrors everywhere. It started from my childhood and the way I loved to look at myself in the water of our well. I could not pass by a mirror without looking into it and, most of the time, was not even aware that I was staring into it. When I looked at myself in the mirror, I felt alive. It confirmed that I existed.

Now, I stood in front of the mirror and looked at my face. It was smooth and had no signs of wrinkles. My eyelashes were still thick and long. My hair was light brown with no signs of gray yet. I felt young. Adam had been a very caring husband and father and we loved each other as deeply as we had when we first met. We were secure in the knowledge that I was his world and he was mine. We never tired of or were bored with each other, always together, sharing every moment in happiness and joy. I walked slowly to the bedroom and rested my eyes on our wedding portrait hanging over our bed. Adam had not changed much over the years. He had been such a handsome groom. His wonderful smile still showed off his beautiful lips and his straight white teeth. Most of all I loved his eyes. Even now he had thick, black eyebrows accenting his large brown eyes. Loving and warm, they spoke of his honesty, steadfastness and endless love.

When the day of the reunion arrived, I was very excited. All day I had been thinking about it. I tried on several outfits and eventually chose my forest green, silk dress that flared at the bottom. The green would go very well, I decided, with my suntanned complexion and light brown hair, arranged in a bun with a fresh coral rose pinned beside it. I did not wear a lot of make-up, but I was very fond of fine gold jewelry. I decided on my gold necklace with the diamond pendant and matching earrings. Adam wore his favourite navy blue suit with a white shirt and tie to match.

When we arrived at Jadzia’s house, there were many cars already parked on both sides of the road and I hoped that we were not the last to arrive. Suddenly I felt shaky. “Maybe we should go home,” I whispered to Adam, not sure of why I was feeling this way. “Don’t be nervous,” he told me, pulling me closer to him, “you look gorgeous. Everyone will be jealous of my beautiful wife.” He rang the doorbell and soon Jadzia stood smiling in the open entrance. “Everybody’s waiting for you downstairs. Come on in.”

I was still trembling a little as the loud noise hit my ears. As we walked into the party room, conversation stopped and everyone looked at us. I held on tightly to Adam’s hand and looked around. He whispered that he was going to get us a drink from the bar and as I stood alone I looked around the room again, wondering who the surprise guest was.

Suddenly I noticed an older man, a drink in his hand, observing me. When our eyes met, he moved towards me, smiling. At once I recognized those eyes but was overcome with disbelief when I looked into them. They did not seem to go with the gray curly hair and the wrinkled skin of his face. I felt weak and the room suddenly lacked air.

“Rachel,” Peter said, as he put his arms around my neck and kissed me. I was motionless. Suddenly, I was back into the far past. Had it really been 24 years since our last goodbye? Adam saw me talking to Peter and kept his distance while Peter told me what had really happened all those years ago. His mother had insisted that, because I was small, I wouldn’t be able to have children. She gave him an ultimatum. It was to be either his mother or me. He had chosen his mother. He told me that he knew now how stupid he had been and how much he had suffered for his stupidity. Since our breakup he could not stand to be with his mother.

“When I gave you up,” he told me, “she lost me anyway.” He was married and had children, he told me, but he was unhappy. He still dreamed about me. I looked at him sadly and said quietly, “I am very happily married and have two beautiful daughters and a lovely home. I don’t believe we were meant to be together. You know I believe in fate. Sometimes we chase our own luck away. But I have no regrets. I love my husband and I know he loves me very much.” I was choking back tears as I spoke because it was so obvious that his dreams had not come true and he was left with a broken heart. I felt terribly sorry for him. At that moment, Adam approached us and asked me to dance with him. The music was lively, I was in Adam’s arms, exactly where I should be.

With this chapter of my life also closed, I felt free to carry on with my work and family life. I had become interested in belly dancing and was taking lessons. I loved the colourful costumes which reminded me of the gypsies dancing in my little village of Turka when I was a little girl. When I was belly dancing, I entered a whole new world. I learned how to make my own colourful costumes and was proud to perform for my husband. We began going to Middle Eastern restaurants to watch the professional belly dancers. When I became more advanced, I would surprise my friends at their birthday parties. I always had my little red radio with me and my Middle Eastern music tape. They couldn’t believe that I had chosen belly dancing as a hobby. It was so different from my profession and my life. But for me, it was a private life that I kept separate from my colleagues. Doing the beautiful veil dance for which I had designed my own dance brought back memories of my childhood. I remembered the first pair of shoes my father had bought me after the war. When he had asked me if they were comfortable, I answered, “I don’t know yet. First I have to dance in them and then I will be able to tell.” I remember how I danced all over the store, not at all embarrassed. Perhaps I did have some gypsy blood in me after all.

FIFTY TWO: FATHER DIED

Every year I visited my father in Israel. These visits were very precious to me. I loved the feeling of being, once again, daddy’s little girl. The distance between my childhood and my life as a grown woman would disappear as my father held my hand when we crossed the street, or at mealtimes when he constantly refilled my plate. As soon as my head was turned, he would pile more food on my plate. Humouring him, I would act surprised and say, “Dad, I don’t remember having so much food on my plate. What happened?” He would look at me calmly and say, “I don’t know. Just eat it all up.” It was at those moments that we could have been in Turka or Wroclaw, where my well-being and happiness was of the utmost importance to him. He was so sweet and adorable in my eyes, I could never get mad at his deep concern for me.

We had very good times together. We played chess and went for walks, though they had to be short ones. He had been a heavy smoker since a very young age and no matter how much I begged him, he did not stop smoking even though now he was suffering from Emphysema. At the end of my visits, we would cry as if it was our last time together.

His health began deteriorating very rapidly and when my daughter Barbara was married in June, 1981, my father could not attend his granddaughter’s wedding. In December, I received a call that my father was very sick and in hospital. I immediately flew to Israel, trembling and praying all the way that I would still find him alive when I arrived. I could not imagine living without him. He was so wise and I had always depended on him for advice and direction. When I arrived at the hospital, he was very much alive and his blue eyes lit up when he saw me. I knew that just seeing me made him feel better. For three weeks I spent my days, late into the nights, at the hospital by his side. How beautiful he was in my eyes. He had no wrinkles and not a gray hair. Always looking younger than his age, he would be turning 75 in January. It broke my heart to think that he had had such a hard life and now that he could enjoy the years left, his life was running out. How I wanted to help him but it was not in my hands. With great hope for his improvement, I returned home when my father was released from the hospital. On the eighth of January, 1982, I called to wish him Happy Birthday but he was not at home. He was back in the hospital where he passed away a few days later.

The pain and loss of my father was unbearable. Lonely and lost, I felt like a small child again. How unfair it was that both of my parents had died so young. After surviving the horrors of the Holocaust they deserved at least the compensation of a long and healthy life.

Shiko was also in very poor emotional shape. They had been such close brothers, always together through the bad and good times and one could not live without the other. Now, Shiko too was alone. He became very depressed and told me many times that he would not live long and would soon die. I would be furious when he said that and tried to cheer him up.

In one telephone conversation I told him, “Shiko, please take care of yourself. You know that now that I have lost my father, you must be both my uncle and my father.” He was silent. Frightened that something had happened to him, I screamed his name into the receiver but he did not answer. “What has happened to you?” I shouted. “Have I said something wrong? Are you alright?” Finally, after a long while, he began slowly to speak again. When I asked Adam if he thought I had been wrong to suggest that he would now be both an uncle and a father to me, he could not imagine that it would offend him. I never mentioned this incident to Shiko again.

FIFTY THREE: EARLY RETIREMENTS

Adam and I did have a great deal to celebrate in the years after my father’s death. Both of my daughters graduated from university. Barbara with a degree in Chemistry and Biochemistry and Iris in Nutrition and Food Sciences. Our daughter, Barbara, gave birth to beautiful twin girls, Shari, named after my mother, Sara, and Julie, named after her father’s great-grandmother. The babies became my whole life. My world revolved around them and my own Bubbie Frida’s voice rang in my ears as I told them what she had told me.

“You are my life and my world.” Even though I was sorry that my father had not lived to see his great granddaughters, I knew that if it weren’t for those two babies, I would not have been able to get over his death. Two years after my father’s death, Shiko died of lung cancer. He was only 71 years old.

Years passed and Barbara had another beautiful daughter, Ashley, named after Adam’s grandmother, Esther. Iris got married and had two gorgeous girls, one year apart. Sophie was named for her father’s grandmother and Elisse, for my father, Israel. Adam and I were now the proud grandparents of five granddaughters. Our children all grown up and their lives settled and moving forward, Adam suggested that we take early retirement. “Life is short,” he told me, “we should enjoy ourselves. Now we can travel, relax and enjoy our hobbies.” In 1988, I took early retirement at the age of 53. I decided to enjoy every moment. I spent time on my home. I devoted more time to belly dancing and exercise. We bought a van which Adam customized with a sofa bed, a small table, a bench where we could sit together or another person could sleep and a small sink. We were all set for the road. Eventually we outgrew our van and decided to pull our thirty-foot trailer behind us. Now we had space for everyone. Time started to move too quickly and the years went by unnoticed.

In 1993, when I was 58 years old, I came to a turning point in my life, a turning point that began by accident.

FIFTY FOUR: SEARCH FOR BIOLOGICAL PARENTS

Our daughter Iris had invited Barbara and her family and Frida’s family for a farewell dinner for us before our annual trip to Florida. It was a wonderful evening and when dessert and coffee were being served, Sarit, my sister Frida’s daughter, began an interesting discussion. She was talking about the colour of Iris’ eyes compared to her children’s eyes. “How come you have brown eyes,” she asked Iris, “and your husband has brown eyes but Elisse has blue eyes?”

Iris explained to her that brown-eyed parents can have children with eyes of any colour because brown is a dominant colour but that blue-eyed parents, who have a recessive gene, can not have brown-eyed children. Sarit looked at her mother’s eyes and into my eyes and said in surprise, “But our grandparents had blue and green eyes and my mother has green eyes but your mother has brown eyes. How can that be?” Iris looked at her and jokingly said, “Because my mother is not their real daughter.” Everyone at the table laughed. Her answer, meant in jest, had caught me by surprise.

I began to drift away from the conversation and my life unfolded before my eyes. In shock, I thought about my parents, Frida and myself. We were a family. How could it be otherwise? Distressed, I could not sleep that night, my head spinning out of control with the implications of what that the innocent conversation had unleashed.

The next morning, I began to look for evidence. I opened my Immunology and Serology book and looked up the different blood types. I knew that my mother’s had been AB, my father was B and I was type O. In black and white, the truth stared me in the face. “A type AB mother cannot have a type O child.” Even though I had studied medicine and knew all of this information as a matter of fact, I had never applied it to myself. Why would I question my origins?

It was as though in those few moments alone with a book of science, that I had lost myself. Who was I? I could not believe how this kind of secret could have been kept from me all of these years. At age 58, with both of my parents gone, I was faced with a lifetime of questions and no one to answer them.

I went immediately to the doctor to have my blood type rechecked. My suspicions were confirmed. These had not been my biological parents. How could I cope with this sudden reality? My world, literally, collapsed and I was rootless. Why had no one in my family been honest with me in all these years and told me of my true origins. I loved them all so much, how could this be happening to me. I had been so rich, blessed with wonderful parents and a warm and loving family. Now, I was as alone as a stone. A true equal to Adam who had lost his parents and family in the war and was so lonely until our marriage. But there was a difference between us. He remembered his parents. Their faces and names. He knew where he was born and to whom. I did not know anything of my true history. I was a lost child. Now I would be mourning two sets of parents, the ones I knew and loved and the ones who were faceless and a mystery to me.

I could no longer function and became very depressed. I went into therapy. I had no interest in life or my surroundings and became preoccupied with trying to find answers to my new identity. Adam tried very hard to drag me out of my seclusion. I could not sleep and dreaded each new day that seemed to lead only to more questions. This was a wound I could not bear - and believed that I would never get over it. I could rely only on Adam, who never left my side, and my children. How would I ever forgive my parents, not because they were not my biological parents, but because they had not told me the truth.

My entire life had been a lie. After weeks of torment, I decided to turn to the few remaining members of my family for answers. I asked them all. “Who were my biological parents?” They listened politely and shook their heads. I turned to Aunt Mina. “A mother that raises you is not a mother?” my mother’s sister asked accusingly.

When I tried to explain to her what I had discovered, she would still not admit anything. I was convinced that she had been sworn to secrecy and that by telling me the truth she would be breaking a pact with my mother. Neither my logic nor my pleading helped. She remained silent.

When I approached another family member, she became annoyed with me and replied angrily, “Why are you making such a fuss. What difference does it make who your biological mother was?”

I felt deeply hurt and betrayed but continued to probe. Another family member gave me the same answer. “I do not know anything, but even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.” I begged him, “Please tell me the truth. You know I loved my parents but I am entitled to know where I came from.” My heart ached and I was desolate. Every door had been slammed in my face. It felt, for the first time in entire life, as though I had no family or friends at all. As a last resort, I had one more person I could go to. I opened my heart to her and told her everything I was feeling. She treated me more harshly than the rest.

“Your mother suffered so much with you when you were ill and now she is not your mother? You should be ashamed of yourself. Go to both your parents’ graves and ask for forgiveness.” Then she added, “Do not ever speak of this again.” Though turned away by my entire family - I was convinced that what I suspected was indeed the truth.

Throughout their lives my parents had talked about the dearest person to them, about Velvel and his love, Nelly. They did not want me to forget him and his legacy. But they had not told me everything. I was sure that the violin was the key to this unspoken issue, that it alone held the truth. My precious violin would be my best friend and source of the answers that I so desperately needed to find.

FIFTY FIVE: SOLVING THE PUZZLE

I stopped discussing this topic with my family and began my own investigation. I realized that I had all the pieces of my life’s puzzle in my own hands. Still in turmoil and dismay, Adam and I began our annual drive to Florida. Distracted and in pain, I looked into the darkness for a sign. Anything to help me in my quest. At one point we stopped at a plaza on the turnpike for a rest. It was very late at night and as Adam went into the building for some coffee, I stayed outside to walk a little and stretch my legs. As I approached the building, I noticed something shiny on the ground. I bent down to have a better look and found it was a gold chain with a golden Chai pendant (the traditional Jewish symbol for Life) on it. At first I felt uneasy about picking it up but I decided that if I did not take it, someone else would. When Adam came back I showed him what I had found. Back in the trailer, I washed it with soap and told Adam, “This will be my good luck charm. I will always keep it with me because it will be a symbol for me of the name given to me at birth, Chai Rachel.”

My mind flew again to all the pieces. Maybe Velvel was my biological father. I looked like him. My parents so fervently kept his memory alive in me while I was growing up. His violin was given to me and only I was to play it. In the violin case he had placed my baby pictures, pictures of himself and a picture of his cousin Minka with a girlfriend. But who was this girlfriend? An enlargement of Velvel’s picture hung over the grand piano in our living room in Wroclaw where a picture of me was hung beside it. My parents had spoken often of Velvel and his love affair with Nelly.

I went over and over these clues in my head. Velvel must have been my biological father. Nelly must have been my biological mother.

I remembered the letter my mother had written to Nelly after the war telling her that they had survived the war and so had the child. I hadn’t paid much attention to that letter back then - but now it all seemed so important. My mother had written to Nelly, the girl from Warsaw with whom Velvel had been in love before the war. She wrote Nelly that she, Sara, Israel and the child were alive and had survived the war. Velvel, she added, had not survived. She asked Nelly to write back and to tell her about herself.

My mother told me that Nelly had been very beautiful and had a lovely nature. She said that she had loved Nelly and that they had been the best of friends. She told me that Nelly had been the love of Velvel’s life and that she remembered how devastated Velvel was when Zeyde Eli had refused to give his consent to their marriage. Zeyde Eli had already promised Velvel’s hand in marriage to his brother Mendel’s daughter, Sala, and in Orthodox Judaism, this type of promise could not be broken.

At the time, I wondered why my mother was telling me this story. After all, Velvel had died and I did not see the point in talking about him and his love affairs. A short time after my mother sent the letter, a telegram arrived from Warsaw from Nelly’s sister. “Nelly is alive,” it said, “but dead to the world.”

We never found out exactly what this meant. It was so clear to me now. Why would she have written to an old girlfriend of her late brother-in-law? Why would this girl care that we had survived? I remembered how Bubbie Yetta would always call me a fool. Then I could not understand it and it had caused me such pain. She had never called Luci a fool. Now I understood. Of course I was a fool. I did not have a clue as to who I was and who my biological parents were. Luci was her grandchild, I was not.

I thought back to all the times my father had brought up the subject of adopted children. Often he would ask me if I thought adopted children ever felt that something was not right. He must have wanted to see my reaction. I never had any idea what he was talking about. No wonder he had insisted so strongly that I not cut my long braids. Today when I look at the photograph of the pretty girl with long blond braids in the photograph Velvel had put into the violin case, it matches the description my mother gave me of Nelly. It makes perfect sense that Velvel had wanted me to know the truth and desperate, knowing that there wasn’t much time, put all the clues he could in the violin case.

My conversation with Uncle Shiko came vividly back to me. How shocked he had been when I referred to him as my uncle and my father. Now I could understand it perfectly. He must have been taken aback by what I said that it left him speechless. Who, he must have wondered, has told her? What a conspiracy it all seemed to me now? How could all these people, people I loved and trusted, have kept this truth from me? No one had thought enough of me to tell me. Now, I would be mourning two sets of parents.

FIFTY SIX: TALKING AND WRITING

ABOUT THE PAST

Once I had put the pieces of my life together and had come to terms with the truth, I was able to find peace. Now I am taking good care of my precious violin. It has helped me to find out who I am and be proud of my inheritance. If it could speak, it would tell me all of its secrets.

Sometimes my children and I play music together. Barbara plays the piano, Iris the flute and I play my violin. We always play the song Velvel taught me, Tum-Ba-La-Laika. I have taught my granddaughters to sing this song in Yiddish and so I hope my legacy will go on. The Kilim rug that protected the violin for me is now also in my possession and, made by his own hand, it is a symbol of what Velvet did for me. He wanted me to know the truth about my birth and had used his most precious possession, his violin, to do so.

At age 58, after such a traumatic discovery, I felt that I needed an outlet for all I felt. I had a deep urgency to share my discovery with others. At first, I talked to my grandchildren about my history. I was determined to teach them about the Holocaust and about my own childhood. They were very interested in my stories and asked me to write a book about my life. The idea of opening up the memories of the past again frightened me. Did I have the strength to relive the nightmares of my childhood, the horrible experiences of the Holocaust? I carried so much rage inside of me and could not forget the great destruction of my happy childhood, the murder of my loved ones and the uprooting of my family so many times.

In 1996, when Steven Spielberg began to put into effect his vision of videotaping the testimonies of Holocaust survivors, I decided that it was now or never. I would tell my story. I had great difficulty convincing Adam that he should tell his special story too, being the only survivor of his family. I wanted our children and grandchildren to remember and the world to know.

We were very fortunate to have a wonderful and exceptional interviewer, Myrna Riback. She approached us with great understanding and compassion. It was with her encouragement that I decided to go ahead and write my story. There were times when I felt like giving up my writing, but Myrna, with her steady support and smiling face, did not give up on me and once I began writing my story, there was no turning back. I was amazed at how much I remembered about the world that I had tried so hard to forget for so long. The details, the people, the conversations and the places were real and lived vividly in my mind.

Deep in my heart, I know that my father is proud of me. I believe that he is happy that I have solved the puzzle all by myself. I can see him smiling. He always liked a good detective story.

When I was a young girl in Poland after the war, my father would often go to the court house to listen to interesting cases, particularly paternity cases. It became a kind of hobby for him, trying to predict the outcome of a complicated case. He liked solving difficult problems. Many times he would take me with him for company. Perhaps, if my discovery had not come so late, he would have told me the truth.

EPILOGUE

I have had to adjust to so many changes in my life and to the effects that these changes have made on my life. It restores my sense of self that I was able to adapt to changes forced upon me and those I have chosen myself. The moves to Israel and Canada, learning to adjust to a new life all over again. One so different from the world we left behind. All of these were within my ability and only made me stronger. I have persevered the things that were dear to me from the past and I have achieved the goals I have set for myself. I intend to enjoy every moment of the rest of my life to the fullest. I will not take anything for granted.

I know better.

The remarkable discovery of who my biological parents were was achieved, not with the help of strangers, but with the love and wisdom of my husband. He helped me face the events of my life and solve the mystery. And through all this time, the violin has held the key. Finding out what my roots really were has given me an even greater sense of belonging to my much adored Milbauer family. I feel a deep and awesome connection to Velvel and the clues he left for me in his violin case. Velvel and Nelly placed me in very good hands. They knew my biological family would not let me down.

I am deeply grateful for the truly beautiful relationship I had with my father, who was really my uncle. He fulfilled all that Velvel had entrusted to him. He always showed me great love, concern and devotion and never for a moment veered from the promise he had made to his brother.

Today, when I play my violin, I truly feel that I am worthy of the tears of pain and loss, of the unrealized dreams for which it was the repository.