By Blood A Novel

THREE





68.


Your mother, said the therapist. You found your mother.

No, said the patient. I can’t call her that. Mrs. Gershon. I found Michal Gershon.

(Please tell me she is your mother!)

Ah? How? What? piped the therapist.

Completely on impulse, said the patient. I bought a ticket from a travel agent, flew standby to Tel Aviv the next day.

And?

A mistake. A disaster. The worst experience of my life.

(No! This cannot be the whole of the story!)

The patient was silent for several seconds. Dr. Schussler’s venetian blinds banged against the sills in the faint hot breeze. The street was strangely quiet, deserted because of the heat.

There’s only one good thing about it, the patient went on. I don’t have to worry about mothers anymore. I’m free of all mothers. Adoptive, birth, natural, first, second, blood, not. She laughed. I’m Mutterfrei. You’ve heard of Judenfrei, free of Jews? Of course you have, being German. Europe cleared of all the Jews. Well, I did better than Hitler. I’m Mutterfrei.

(What a horrid way to express it. And a nice barb at the therapist, too. But yes, I thought from behind the protection of my wall. This is where you want to be, my dear patient: rid of them all.)

Suppose you tell me what happened, said Dr. Schussler.

What’s there to say? When someone says to you “Get out of here! Never try to contact me again!” what else is there to say? Want to hear it in her own voice? Here. I brought a cassette recorder. It’s all cued up.

There was a click, then a voice in a scratchy recording shouting:

Do not look for me again! I beg you: Never again try to contact me!

The patient immediately clicked off the recorder.

Okay, so I got it a little wrong. She didn’t exactly say, Never try to contact me again! She said: Never again try to contact me!

The patient said nothing more for several seconds. The venetian blinds rattled and bumped. All the while one could hear the slish of Dr. Schussler’s stockings as she crossed and recrossed her legs—one could almost feel the stickiness of her thighs as they suffered in their nylon casings. She was extemporizing: What should she possibly say in reply to that shouting voice?

Let us put aside the recording for the moment, the therapist said finally. First let us talk about your decision to go to Tel Aviv. Tell me how the trip came about, how you made your decision.

It was an impulse, said the patient. As I said. The city was fogged in. Andie and Clarissa went to Las Vegas, a place I hate. It would cost a fortune to fly to Tel Aviv at the last minute. But I’d just received a bonus. Why not go? I walked into a travel agency. Plane, hotel, done.

I had to change planes in New York, and all the while there was a little whisper in the back of my head saying, You can turn around; you don’t have to do this. Just the same, I kept going, in an out-of-body state.

The patient stopped, coughed, adjusted her position in her chair.

And so you went on, said the doctor.

Yes, I went on.

Then what happened?

Tel Aviv was not what I expected. I don’t know what I thought it would be like. But I wasn’t prepared for everything being new, white, concrete, a city built all at once, it seemed. And then there were the soldiers, young men and women everywhere in uniform, carrying Uzis. People my age and younger, walking around with machine guns slung over their shoulders the way kids here carry a book bag. There was a beachfront, also unexpected. Hotels lining a crowded shore on the Mediterranean. Sparkling sun.

The receptionist at the hotel told me how to get to Michal Gershon’s address. She didn’t live in Tel Aviv proper, but in a suburb. I had to take a long ride in a stifling, crowded bus. My stop was on a dusty road. There were no shops, only a drive-in restaurant advertising “shashleek.” The counterman spoke some English, and he directed me to a narrow street of three-story apartments. They seemed shabbily built, not old but already showing cracks. It was midday, the sun directly overhead. Cool breeze. Hot sun. I was the only one out on the streets. I found the house number, walked in, went up two flights, and was facing the apartment door: Mrs. Gershon’s last known address.

Again it was an out-of-body experience. I felt nothing at all, no fear, no anticipation, nothing, as if the concrete that built Tel Aviv was in my veins. I was just this body performing an action. Knock, knock, knock.

There was no reply. I knocked again and waited. Still no one.

Then a voice called out something in Hebrew, then in English, Who’s there? And the head of an old woman—about seventy, seventy-five—poked out of a neighboring door.

I’m looking for Michal Gershon, I said.

Who’s asking? she said.

I’m a friend from America, I told her.

She eyed me a moment, then said that Michal Gershon had moved to what she called “a nicer place in Jaffa.” I had no idea what she meant, where or what “Jaffa” was, and simply asked her if she would write down the new address for me. Which she did, finally saying, Tell Michal she could remember once in a while where she came from.

I thought it was a strange thing for her to say. I left with a noncommittal nod.

I went back to the hotel to rest, and fell asleep. When I woke up, it was dark outside; the clock said eight. With my jet lag, it took me a few seconds to remember that I was in Tel Aviv, and on the dresser was the real address of my birth mother.

Then the words of the woman at the door of the old apartment came back to me. Tell Michal she could remember once in a while where she came from.

It seemed to be a warning.

The patient paused.

A warning not to go. It told me Michal Gershon is a person who likes to leave her past behind.

Then the patient said nothing for several seconds. She sighed and shuffled about in her chair, scraped her feet on the carpet, withdrew a tissue from the nearby box, coughed, sighed, and coughed again. Moments floated by on the heat.

But you did go to Jaffa the next day, said Dr. Schussler.

Yes.

And there you found her.

Yes.





69.


I took a bus to Jaffa, the patient continued. There were little cobbled alleys going off in all directions. I got turned around, lost. I sat down at an outdoor cafe, ordered iced tea, and handed the waiter the scrap of paper with Michal’s address. Did he know the way? He was a tall man of about fifty, an Arab, clean-shaven, wearing jeans and a shirt open at the collar. He laughed and pointed across the narrow street.

There is a courtyard, he said, just to the right. Michal’s little house is at the far end. Under the curving stone wall. And tell her Schmuel says hello.

You’re Schmuel? I asked him.

He laughed again.

No. But that is what she calls me.

He waved away my attempts to pay for the tea. I thanked him with the little bit of Arabic I knew.

Shokran, I said.

Afwan, he said, with a small bow.

This Schmuel suddenly seemed … well, propitious. I had no plan. I didn’t know what I’d say when Michal Gershon opened her door. I couldn’t say, I’m your daughter. Or Hi, Mom. Now I felt he’d given me a sort of passport. I could say, Schmuel says hello.

I followed Schmuel’s directions. I crossed the road. Went into the courtyard, turned right. And it was just as he said. A curving stone wall. Under it a house. Made of the same stone, so it seemed part of the wall. But with a door. And windows. A fairy-tale house.

The door was a hard, solid piece of wood. With an iron latch, an iron handle.

There was no choice now: Knock, knock, knock.

I don’t know how long I stood there until I heard steps, a voice, a young voice, with a thick accent saying something, maybe in German.

I said: Do you speak English? I’m here to see Michal Gershon.

The door opened a crack. A young woman looked at me. She had blond-gold hair, green eyes, white skin, cheeks like apples.

Schmuel sends his greetings, I said.

Ah, Schmuel, she said, laughing, opening the door and waving me in.

Schmuel: my magic word, my open-sesame.

Then I saw things in flashes. A dark room. Heavy wood furniture. Embroidered tablecloths. Doilies on chair arms. Bare walls. No pictures, not even family photos. I followed the young woman who’d let me in. A big strong girl. She called out in German to “Frau Gershon,” maybe saying someone is here, I don’t know, I’m guessing.

She led me around a corner, then into a small, dim room. The window shades were drawn, but there was a gap. A slice of light broke through it—brilliant, dusty, opaque—like a scrim. Behind it was a figure. All I could see was a shape, bent over, but otherwise only a shadow. For some seconds, nothing happened. The figure did not move.

Behind me, the girl sang out something in German.

Then suddenly a face burst through the light. Her mouth was frozen open. Her eyes were startled wide. They rolled back and forth over me.

Otherwise her face was still, a rictus. Then tiny muscle movements began rippling over her features—the muscles twitching but paralyzed, the way a dreaming dog trembles in its sleep—as if waves of emotions were running through her, but in fast-forward, so it was bizarre, almost comical.

What? I wanted to shout. What! What are you seeing! Because I knew whatever was going on was set off by the sight of me. I was a part of those racing expressions, a player, but with what role? The ripples of memory kept running across her face. Meanwhile, her body was fixed, hidden behind the beam of light, so that the whole drama was being played out with this head suspended in a cloud.

Gerda! she abruptly screamed, going on to yell curses in German at the girl who had led me in—even I understood they were curses.

Then she stepped forward through the light.

Now I could see her, head to toe, in the low, even shade of the room. She was sturdily built, broad-shouldered, of medium height. She had blond hair, high cheekbones, a broad, clear brow. She looked young except for her bent posture—I noticed now she held a cane. She would be beautiful, I thought, weirdly, if her face were not tied into a knot of rage. Suddenly a kind of fist grabbed my insides: disappointment. Dreadful disappointment. Until that moment, I hadn’t realized how much I’d hoped to look like her.

All the while, she kept screaming in German, walking toward me, waving her cane, until I understood she was trying to force me out, the way you’d use a broom to shoo a dog. I was instantly angry, thinking, How dare you treat me like this!

But you know me! I screamed at her, walking toward her, putting up my arm to ward off the cane. I saw it on your face. You recognized me immediately. You know who I am!

No! No! she answered me. Go away! How did you get in here?

You know me! I kept shouting. You know me!

The girl Gerda came up beside me.

Please to leave, she said, taking my arm.

I jerked it away and said, No! You know who I am!

Michal raised her cane as if to wave me away again. And then, all at once, she deflated. That’s the only way I can describe it. A long breath came out of her; her head and shoulders shrank down; her back slumped. She said, “Ay! What is the use?” then stumbled toward an upholstered chair and sank into it, head down, eyes focused between her knees, her left arm hanging limp over the cane, like a rope.

Gerda, bring me something to drink, she said in a mixture of German and English, still looking at the floor. Tea, she said. And whiskey. Then she looked up at me and said, And something for … something for this girl.

I don’t have a recording of this—I didn’t buy the cassette recorder until the next day. So what I’m telling you is from memory. What happened next was that I sat down—there was another upholstered chair, catty-corner to hers. She looked straight ahead, not at me, and we said nothing. This gave me time to look at her more closely, and I saw that her eyes were very brilliant, maybe blue or green—I couldn’t tell exactly in that light—and that her skin was exquisite, pale, translucent, without lines except for a few delicate sketches at the sides of her eyes. At first, because of the cane, she seemed older than Mother, big-M Mother. Then I realized that without it, without the cane and bent posture, Michal would look younger, probably five years younger.

Suddenly it came to me: Big-M Mother wanted me to be pale like Michal, pale and blond and light-eyed.

I don’t know how long I sat in that chair wishing I were dead. Two blond mothers and there I was: an alien, not appearing to be the spawn of anyone.

The tea appeared on a tray. The whiskey. Teacups and saucers and little pitchers of cream. Gerda served me a cup, put in sugar and cream without asking. She did the same for Michal, but with a shot.

Michal took her first sip. Then she said, very slowly, each word like a stone hitting concrete:

I hoped you would never know about me.

She had a beautiful voice: low, resonant, accented with a smooth blend of several languages I couldn’t identify—a voice so beautiful that the meaning of her words did not penetrate for several seconds.

So you just wanted to be rid of me, I said.

She winced. That is not it at all, she said.

She sat back and sighed. How did you find me?

A librarian at a Catholic adoption agency in Chicago.

You are an American?

Yes. I live in San Francisco.

Too bad, she said. Americans. Ignoramuses all. Ill-educated, overconfident people. I had planned for you to be a European. How did you get to America?

All I know, from my mother—my adoptive mother—is that the Church was looking for Catholic homes for babies, some of them Jewish, who had been sheltered with the Church during the war. Europe was in tatters, and there were more takers in the U.S. than in Europe.

I see, she said, staring away from me.

Well, she went on, at least you are a Catholic.

No, I said. I was brought up Presbyterian.

Ah! Even better!

What do you mean? I asked.

Now she turned to look at me, calmly, surveying me for the first time. Emotions played across her face again, but slowly now. Tiny frowns, surprised eyebrows, fleeting smiles—they might have meant anything. Then she simply gazed at me. She looked at my hair, my mouth, my chin. And then into my eyes. On her face was an expression of love so powerful, so open, that I realized I had never been loved in the whole of my life. Then the emotion moved on.

I wanted to make sure you would not be a Jew, she said.





70.


I was shocked, the patient told Dr. Schussler.

(I, too, was shocked, and nearly gave myself away by starting in my chair.)

I mean, there she was in Israel, the Jewish State, the patient went on. Why wouldn’t she want me to be Jewish? But when I asked, she only laughed and said, That would take more than a teatime to explain, my dear!

Then Michal turned to me with that tender look again and said, So tell me. What is your name?

And I told her. After which she sat thoughtfully for a moment, then said, Very nice. Very good. I am very happy for you—she gave a nod with each “very.”

(Why did you not say your name aloud to the therapist! I wanted to cry out from behind my wall.)

I realized right at that moment that I might have had another name, said the patient. So I asked her.

Her face went through those changes again, memories running over her features—more like lightning strikes this time. Finally her eyes went cold, and she said, No. Never. After which she sat back in her chair, stone-faced, and looked away from me.

Somewhere in the house a clock was ticking. Children were playing in the courtyard; I could hear their squeals of delight. I knew she was lying, that I did have another name, one she gave me, or intended to, a name she carried around in her mind all these years—or one she wanted to forget. In any case, I was angry. I felt my names belonged to me, and that I should have them, know them. I couldn’t stand being a person dealt out in little pieces, different people owning parts of me, different ideas of me. Michal’s abandoned infant. My grandfather’s rejected Jew-baby. My parents’ unsuitable daughter. I wanted to gather up all the pieces and own myself. Does that make sense to you? That I wanted to own myself?

Yes, of course, said the therapist. That is why you were doing all that. Why you went there in the first place.

(Yes! I thought with joy as I listened in my room. Own yourself!)

So I confronted her, said the patient.

I am sure it was difficult, said Dr. Schussler.

Oh, God, yes, said the patient.

But I am sorry, said the therapist, I am afraid you will have to tell me about it next time.

Oh, God, said the patient. We’re done, aren’t we? I wasted time. All that crap about the city and the beach. I wasted the hour.

You did what you needed to, said the doctor gently. But let me propose something. I have an opening on Monday nights. Nine o’clock. It will be temporary, a few months. But I would like to offer it to you, so for a while you may come twice a week.

The patient hummed. I don’t know, she said. Monday night. Let me think about it.

Yes. Think about it. Call me, and let me know. I will keep the hour open for you.





71.


Monday night could not come quickly enough. How I hoped the patient had indeed accepted the hour. Joy: I would be with her twice a week.

I sat in the office on Monday listening to the hiss of the sound machine and the screech of brakes in the street, and I thought the earth had somehow stopped revolving. Would the sun never set! Would dark never come!

At last Dr. Schussler’s eight o’clock patient left. The doctor moved about her office, then turned off the sound machine, as she normally did when her workday was at an end—and as she did before the patient’s arrival. The silence, therefore, could indicate either condition. Yet I had to calm myself, remain exquisitely still, for at that late hour the building was quiet, the only sound being the low hum that seemed to emanate from the core of the place, from the basement, or the elevators, or the roof, or perhaps was the life-thrum of the building itself.

When suddenly something shrilled through the silence.

The doctor’s phone.

She jumped up before it could ring again.

Yes, she said into the phone. Good evening, Dr. Gurevitch. Thank you so much for returning my call.

(So she was still in “consultation” with this Gurevitch.)

Dr. Schussler occasionally murmured “yes” and “I see” as she listened, finally saying: I am relieved that you agree with my assessment. It does seem the most efficacious method of proceeding.

(What were they talking about! What method? By the glow of my watch, I could see that we were fast approaching the top of the hour. Was the patient coming or not?)

I concur, she said at last. Yes. Her cynicism is key. Cynicism and self-punishment.

(This had to be about the patient.)

And I must, if possible, guide her toward reconciliation with her adoptive family.

(No! Help her leave them!)

Otherwise she will have no base, no home. However, it may be that such reconciliation impossible, given the mother’s schizoid personality and the father’s emotional distance.

(Footsteps were coming down the hall.)

And therefore—

(There were knocks on the door. Yes! She was here!)

Ah, but there she is now. I must ring off.

(The knocking continued.)

Just a minute! the doctor called out. Then said softly into the phone, Thank you, Dr. Gurevitch.

She hung up the phone and walked to the door.

Come in, she said to the patient.





72.


This building is really strange at night, the patient said. The hallways are so long and dark.

The therapist laughed. Yes, it sometimes does feel that way.

Twenty seconds of silence followed, after which Dr. Schussler said:

Let us return to where we broke off last session. You were about to confront your birth mother.

No. Not my mother. Michal.

Let us please agree to call her your birth mother.

The patient exhaled her annoyance.

Since it is a fact, the therapist continued. If only to facilitate your ability to discuss the issue.

The patient stalled. One could hear her defiance through the wall: her body shifting in her chair, her feet dragging over the carpet.

No, she said at last. I’m not ready to. I’ll call her my birth mother when I’m good and ready to.

Do you really want to keep going back and forth to clarify which mother you are talking about?

The patient replied with no small amount of sarcasm: So. You mean something like big-M Mother versus birth mother.

Yes, said Dr. Schussler. I mean something like that.

But I need to call her Michal when I’m talking about her. I can’t keep saying birth mother. Takes too long.

Agreed, said the doctor. So you felt Michal was lying to you and would not reveal your name.

Right.

You felt divided, that your identity was divided among your birth mother, your grandfather, your parents. By the way, have you told your adoptive parents about finding Michal?

No.

No?

No. You know we’re hardly in contact. A call on Christmas. When someone’s died. So I don’t feel any need to go through all this with them.

But you will tell them eventually.

Yes. Eventually. Once I know how I feel about it.

Of course, said the therapist. This must go first. So let us return. You were angry at your birth mother. You confronted her. And then?

And then she was just like … big-M Mother, trying to warn me away.