Mom, there are only….two • A story that doesn’t suck at all 

One day I lost my identity and didn't know where, where, or to whom I belonged. I don't know what drew me to rummage through documents and look at what I didn't understand at all.

Many years ago I was about seven years old, born and living in Haifa. Those were the days of the beginning of a new state. A small apartment in Emek Hazeitim in Haifa, which housed the family modestly like most families in Israel. To store clothes, my father built a sideboard-closet on a free wall. All the space in the closet that provided the entire family's needs for storing clothes, is now barely enough to store my socks, which are light blue with a diagonal stripe only. 

In the center are two 'paper' doors that open like a table. One holds the few sweets and a box of biscuits that were used to treat guests when they arrived. The other compartment contained all sorts of documents and writing instruments.

It's hard to explain today what drew me as a child to rummage through the paperwork area because my sister and I didn't touch candy without permission. One document in particular caught my attention. At the top of the page was a picture of my father on the right, and on the left was a picture of a plump lady who was completely unfamiliar to me. My heart pounded as I cracked open the title: "Marriage Certificate."

Now that there are two mothers and my father in the picture, one can imagine how many possibilities there are, when the truth is not even known. Maybe my father is not my father, or my mother is not my mother, or worst of all, I will be gathered from nowhere and my situation will worsen by the minute. My fertile imagination has already built and woven stories to glory, just not the situation that existed until that moment of secret discovery.

I quickly folded everything, put it in the appropriate compartment, put on a normal expression on my face, and tried to get back to my routine. The disturbing thoughts wouldn't let up. I looked at the face of the person who had been my mother until two hours ago and thought about how it happened that a strange woman had taken care of me, with remarkable devotion, as if I were her son.

My mother noticed that I wasn't like the day before yesterday, having trouble falling asleep at night and my face, despite my efforts, showed distress.

After some investigation and questions, I broke down and told him about the secret information I had revealed. My parents burst out laughing and explained to me that the authorities in Poland did not allow single people to leave for the Land of Israel, so they arranged a fictitious marriage and paired my father with someone he did not know, and that is how they arrived in Israel and immediately parted ways with peace and best wishes. He recognized my mother and married her legally, and thus I removed the worry from my heart when my identity was returned to me. I finally got rid of one foreign mother……..but a second one entered the story.

A brief break in my story takes me from the age of seven to seventy. In all the years that have passed, I have no longer doubted the identity of my birth mother.

My friend Joe, who lives in the US, came to Israel to attend the funeral of his deceased brother. I came to comfort him on the Sabbath.

I knew Joe (Yossi) when he was a cute kid. A talented drummer who accompanied our orchestra with precise rhythm and his brother-in-law Motka Segal (not my relative), the legendary saxophonist of the legendary 'Makarana' orchestra, which dominated events in Haifa. When I came home and told my parents that I had met a new member of the Zaguri family, who lived in a stone house on Ma'ale Ha-Shu'rukh Street, my father choked up and when I gave him the exact address his face turned yellow. All I was told was that my father knew and was supposed to marry Joe's older sister, this of course long before he met my mother.

Many years flew by. Joe lived overseas and everyone lived their lives happily, more or less, until we arrived here.

I went up the stairs to the deceased's house to comfort the mourners. I hugged Joe after not seeing him for quite a few years. After words of comfort and blessing, he suddenly shouted at me:
“There's your mother!” He smiled at me and pointed towards the couch, “She was supposed to be.” He corrected.

I looked toward the sofa and saw a beautiful, mature, noble woman, with blue-gray eyes and a penetrating gaze, her skin almost smooth and not betraying her age, her long hair carefully gathered into a braid and laid across her chest like a girl on the threshing floor waiting for one of the boys to invite her to a stormy dance.

"Are you Segal?" she asked, "Come sit next to me, I'm Margalit."

I sat down close to her. She stroked my hand and looked into my eyes. She was long past ninety and my parents were no longer alive.

"You were supposed to be my son," she said, tears filling her eyes.

In a weak but steady voice, she began to tell me the story of her great love for her late father. They met by chance on the street and a mutual friend arranged for my father to meet her father and family, and so the great romance was born. Days passed and love blossomed. The generous father decided to give the unmarried couple a store together with Margalit's older brother. My father, who was a carpenter by trade, was very successful in the store, which sold furniture. Business began to flourish and marriage was on the horizon.

"Someone" began to be jealous of the success and began to argue between the couple. When that failed, he turned to the father with imaginary lewd stories, and after much deliberation, the father ruled: "The marriage is annulled."
This is how Margalit tells me her story in a steady, confident voice and in great detail.

The couple met several times, let's say by chance, even after I was born. Their conversation was about the pain of the past, not the future. They are both married with children. Margalit made sure to tell me that my father mentioned to her that he had a family that he loved very much, but sometimes missed a little, and complimented her on her ever-increasing beauty, she told me, without revealing any further connection between them.

I find it hard to believe that I will find more mothers in this incarnation of my life. I calmed down about my parents when I realized that the tree doesn't grow far from the apple.           

A few years ago, my dear friend Yossi Joe Zagori passed away from a serious illness., The most beautiful stone building on the Liberation Hill in Haifa.