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Date Posted: 21:36:16 12/26/03 Fri
Author: schwabra
Author Host/IP: dialup-67.29.196.246.Dial1.Cincinnati1.Level3.net / 67.29.196.246
Subject: Her own flesh

Her Own Child
By Yitta Halberstam and Judith Leventhal


Editor's note: Some of the names of the characters in
this true life story have been changed to protect
their privacy

Even before war clouds thickened over eastern Europe
in the pre-Nazi years, it became common for Jews in
the besieged countries -- tired of pogroms, poverty,
and despair --to send children to the United States,
where opportunities for a better life beckoned.

From the early 1900s on, parents scrimped their rubles
to pay for the long and arduous voyage of their sons
and daughters, who traveled alone aboard unseaworthy
vessels that offered inhuman conditions and an
uncertain fate. Since tickets for each treacherous
journey cost a small fortune and exacted a heavy toll
on the destitute families, parents often chose to ship
their children to America one by one rather than
sending them all at once. But it was always their hope
and dream that all the children would eventually reach
the American haven, where they would be joined later
by their parents. In the interim, they would stay with
relatives who would care for them and help them wait,
sometimes for months or years. And sometimes the
longed-for reunions never took place at all.

Anya Gold was the chosen one in her family. She was
the eldest of eight, and in 1930 her Polish parents
told her it was time to go. They had saved just enough
money for one ticket, and had decided that Anya would
be the first child to leave. They would all soon join
her, they said.

Growing up in Baltimore under the sheltering wing of
an affectionate aunt, Anya waited for her family to
arrive. But they never did.

It took years for the family to accumulate enough
money for another fare, and by then they had been
caught in Hitler's web. In Baltimore, over the years,
Anya had received the occasional letter from Poland
recounting family news and milestones -- her siblings'
bar mitzvahs, their marriages, the births of
grandchildren. She awaited these letters eagerly and
savored each one. And then the letters came no more.

Anya feared the worst, but it was only after the war
that she was able to conclusively determine her
family's fate. A few stray survivors from her hometown
in Poland who trickled into Baltimore in the late
1940s brought the news she had both known and dreaded
to hear: Her entire family had been wiped out. They
had all perished in the camps.

It was hard to go on afterwards, but even the
survivors began to rebuild their lives. Her family's
memory burned in her mind, heart, and soul, but Anya
knew that the best way for her to commemorate their
legacy was by creating one herself. She would marry
and have many children, she vowed. And each would
carry one of her siblings' names.

Anya did indeed marry a wonderful man named Sol, and
their life together was almost idyllic. They were
truly soul mates, and their love ran deep. They longed
for children -- flesh of their flesh, blood of their
blood -- but in this one area, they were thwarted. It
was the only thorn in their otherwise perfect union.
They were childless.

After many years of trying, of seeking help from
specialists the world over, Anya and Sol confronted
the reality of their situation. "Would you want to
adopt?" Anya asked Sol one day in a tentative voice.

Anya had considered this option for a long time, but
inwardly she had rebelled. She didn't want to raise
someone else's children. She wanted to cradle her own
newborn in her arms. She couldn't imagine that she
would feel the same way about an adopted child. Still,
there seemed no other recourse. They were never going
to have children of their own, the doctors had
pronounced -- a death knell to their hopes and dreams.

Her husband was more certain. "Yes, let's adopt," he
urged.

They contacted a Jewish agency in New York and were
told that an infant had just been given up for
adoption by its teenage mother. They traveled to New
York with growing excitement, but when they arrived
their hopes were dashed. The flustered agency official
stammered an apology. "I'm so sorry," she said, "but
the grandmother has decided to raise the baby, after
all."

Had their trip to New York been a total waste? "You
know," the agency official remarked, "I do have a
wonderful little girl named Miriam who is in desperate
need of a home."

Miriam was adorable and endearing, but she was already
eight years old. Although Anya and Sol reluctantly
agreed to meet the child, and were captivated by her
sweet appeal, they couldn't quite come to terms with
her age. "I really wanted a child young enough to know
me as its only mother," Anya explained. "I want a
newborn to cradle in my arms."

"I understand," the agency official said. "But Miriam
has really been through a lot in her short lifetime,
and could really use a loving home."

"Sorry, but no," Anya said, with regret.

A year passed with no prospects. Anya had contacted
many agencies across the United States, but an infant
was increasingly difficult to find. All the while,
Anya's intense longing for a child consumed her being
-- a hungry and hollow ache.

"You know," she mused to her husband one day, "maybe
we were too quick to dismiss adopting Miriam. She was
really an exceptionally appealing child. Something
about her actually tugged at my heartstrings in a
special way."

Sol looked at her thoughtfully. "It's been a full
year," he said. "Do you think she's still available?"

She was, the agency official told them over the phone.
"Not too many people want a nine-year-old," she
explained mournfully, "So, yes, she's still
available...

"But there's a complication," she added. "Her little
brother has been found in Europe and has joined her in
our Home for War Orphans. The siblings are
inseparable, and we've promised them that they'll be
adopted together. Would you consider two?"

Back in New York, Anya and Sol met the siblings and
once again, Anya felt drawn to Miriam's sweet
demeanor. Her six-year-old brother Moishe was
adorable, too.

Anya and Sol looked at each other silently,
telegraphing their mental agreement. Let's do it!
Their eyes said.

Back in Baltimore, Anya shepherded the two children
across the threshold into their new home, and they
glanced at the furnishings with eyes of wonder. Little
Moishe was shy and restrained, but Miriam was
adventurous and curious, and she moved around the
living room excitedly, touching the knickknacks and
curios that adorned the mantels and tables. Suddenly,
she stopped short in front of the piano and her face
went white. She pointed to a photograph. In a tight
and strained voice, Miriam asked, "Why do you have a
picture of my bubbe (grandmother) on your piano?"

"What?" Anya asked, confused.

"My babbe. Why is my bubbe's picture on your piano?"

Anya stared at the portrait of her deceased mother.
What in heaven's name was the little girl talking
about?

Miriam ran to the lone piece of luggage she had
brought with her from the orphanage. From a battered
pouch, she retrieved a faded photo and brought it to
Anya's side. "See," she said, pointing. "I have the
same picture, too. My bubbe."

"My mother," Anya whispered almost inaudibly.

"Do you want to see a picture of my mommy? " Miriam
asked. She raced to the luggage to retrieve another
photograph. "Do you want to see what she looked like?"
She handed Anya a picture of someone she knew very
well.

"Sarah!" Anya screamed, as her knees buckled beneath
her.

"How do you know my mother's name?" the child asked in
confusion.

Unknowingly, Anya had adopted the two orphaned
children of her dead sister, Sarah.

They were flesh of her flesh, blood of her blood. They
were... her own.






From Small Miracles for the Jewish Heart by Yitta
Halberstam and Judith Levental

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