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,