“Hey, Brother”
Yosef
“Hey, Brother, how-ya
doin’?” That’s how I first greeted him at the Central Bus Station. I’d never
seen him before, but there was an immediate attraction to the tall, dark-haired
youth, about my own age, who stood in front of me. I admired the thick curls of
the neat ponytail at the nape of his neck. Was it really that much shorter than
my own, or did it just look that way because of the curls? We were both taking
the bus from Jerusalem to Tel Aviv and we continued a lively conversation on
the bus.
“See you around
sometime,” he said as we parted ways at our destination.
That first meeting
was five years ago. I didn’t even ask his name then, but I felt I’d known him
all my life. He lived in a small town in the north of Israel; I lived at that
time in a small town south of Jerusalem.
Two years after that
initial meeting at the bus-station, I became observant and I came to study at a
small yeshiva in Jerusalem. I’d been studying for three months when Yonatan
came to study there too. Even though he had cut his long hair and grown a
beard, I recognized him from our first meeting. I remembered his deep,
searching black eyes and I could just about make out the shape of his lips
under his full, black beard. Yonatan was given the dorm room next to mine at
the end of the corridor, and we became fast friends. I’d take out my guitar
after a long day of classes, sit cross-legged on my bed, and we’d sing together
way into the night.
“If you two guys are
singing,” my room-mate would usually say, “I’m going next door to sleep. You
don’t mind, do you, Yoni?” And my roommate, more often than not, would change
beds with Yonatan. We’d share our dining table too, in the large dining hall,
where we ate all our meals.
Even though I’d often
talk to Yonatan about my parents, and told him I was an only child, I never
mentioned the fact that I was adopted when I was a few months old, or that I
actually went to visit my biological mother and her family one free afternoon.
It was too complicated for me to talk about it even with my best friend. I
needed to unravel my mixed emotions first. On the one hand, a fuzzy feeling of
abandonment lay somewhere within me, yet on the other, I felt a deep
appreciation for my mom and dad and a deep sense of their acceptance of me,
whoever I am. What? I have a mother and a father and also a biological mother?
I felt more secure with and accepted by my adoptive parents than by my
biological mother. Sometimes, a strange twinge of guilt would haunt me, but I’d
push it to the furthest recesses of my mind. I was too ill at ease with the
situation to discuss it. I preferred to keep life simple and discuss more
theoretical complexities, such as the Gemara we’d been learning that week, or
to pull out my guitar and sing.
Yonatan
Even though I knew
I’d been adopted when I was fourteen months old, it was one of those things
that I put in the back of my mind and carried on with my life. My mother was my
mom, packing chocolate-spread sandwiches for my ten o’clock break at school
when I was a kid, and telling me at least twice a day to clean up the mess from
my floor (as if my floor was ever so messy with just a couple of magazines on
it, and maybe a sock or two waiting to make its way to the laundry box), and telling
me to “look after myself now” every time I walked out of the front door. My
father was my dad, usually hiding behind the business news page of the paper,
with a cup of Turkish coffee-with-two-and-a half-teaspoons-of–sugar in his
hand, or yelling at me to turn down the volume of my CD player. I went to
school and spent most of my free time playing soccer, and when I got to high
school, basketball, or listening to music.
Soon after I finished
the army, after reading about Jewish history in the local library, I decided to
become observant. I looked for an intimate setting for study in Jerusalem. I
wanted a place that would give me the background I lacked and after I checked
into several possibilities, I found the perfect yeshiva.
“Hey Brother – don’t
you remember me?” Yosef said almost as soon as I walked through the door, and I
remembered our meeting two years previously on a bus trip to Tel Aviv. I was
astonished to find someone I already knew in my new setting. No one was
observant, or even close to it in my army unit, and neither was anyone in my
neighborhood. I didn’t even remember Yosef as looking religious on that bus
trip. We had talked about music – jazz or blues. When Yosef got married a few months ago,
he invited all his classmates to the wedding. This was the first real Jewish
wedding I’d ever been to. The ceremony took place at the end of the lawns of a
wedding hall on the outskirts of Jerusalem. When Yosef returned with his bride
to join all the guests, after the ceremony, a fanfare of music greeted their
entrance. I was so excited. I lifted him up on my shoulders and I danced and
danced with him. Even though he’s tall and muscular, he felt no heavier than a
package of sugar. All the boys danced in a circle around us. Their jackets and
sweaters were all left on chairs, and their shirts became moist with sweat. I
guess I didn’t even notice the sweat on my neck then. I felt as if clouds were
beneath my feet. When I eventually lowered him to the ground, his father came
over and hugged him. Oh – I could see the emotion in his face: his eyes were
moist with joy. I wished then, that my father could show such emotion. But my
father was the reserved type. I don’t think he ever hugged me.
I was sorry, on the
one hand, to loose such a great next-door neighbor, I was sorry to loose our
mid-night music sessions, but I was really happy to see my best friend so very
happy, and we would still continue to see each other in the study hall.
Yosef
About a month ago, Yonatan
mentioned to me that he’d looked in his adoption file for the first time. An
orange light blipped in my mind. I hadn’t told him I was adopted or that I’d
gone to meet my biological mother, but I guess he sensed my interest.
“Er, Yosef,” he said
to me, “I know this sounds kind of strange, but I’d like to bring a friend for
moral support when I go to meet my biological mother for the first time. Would
you do me the favor and come with me?”
Even though I hadn’t
wanted anyone to come with me when I went to meet my own biological mother, I
could relate to Yonatan’s anxiety, and I agreed to accompany him.
We traveled on the
bus from Jerusalem to Tel Aviv, just like we had done on our first meeting. Yonatan
had arranged to meet his mother in a restaurant in downtown Tel Aviv.
“I spoke to her on
the phone,” Yonatan told me, as we got off the bus near Dizangoff Center. “She
said she’d be wearing an orange cotton shirt.”
We walk down the busy street, filled with
sidewalk cafes and tables with umbrellas opened as shade from the hot Tel Aviv
sun. We continue walking and turn left to reach the Circle Restaurant. We enter
the restaurant. The only woman in an orange cotton shirt is my biological mother….
_________________
Based
on a true story
This piece was first published in Yated Ne'eman, 19 December 2003