January 29, 1992.

A little boy is chasing me but I am an adult. The little boy is
from a different time, an earlier time. I've never known him.
He is about 10, has long straight hair but with a lot of body,
bangs, long bangs that partly hide his eyes, old clothes, sad
clothes. Brown, beige, the colors of clothes I always hated as a
child. I thought they looked sad and poor.

The little boy stands about a foot away from me and shoots me,
aiming at my heart with a bow and arrow. I have a square little
piece of plywood I use as a shield. The little boy looks at me
with wo much hatred. He shoots again and again but always misses
and finally runs off.

I run after him and eventually lose him. I am now on the edge of
a lake. There is a house, a road, a line of trees and then you
walk down and come to the lake. The little house is mine.. It's
sort of like a cottage. I want to go in but a bunch of big men
won't let me. They rough me up without causing me much harm.
Then someone comes out of the house and says: "There's a message
for you. Call this number." It's a long number, a long distance
number. I dail and a woman who seems to know me well talks and
talks. I think she has said she is Kay (mu natural mother) , but
I am sure I have heard wrong.

"Who's speaking?" I ask. "It's Kay", she answers. "It's Kay", I
answer. "It's really you? I"m so happy you called." I am crying
and she is sympathetic but just goes on talking and talking nealy
as if it was an ordinary phone call. I no longer hear what she
is saying.




I am in our house in Elie (My adopted parents' house). Dov, my
half brother is there. He is very happy to see me. It feels
like a real home, like we are actually a family, something I
never felt in this house. I am sitting at the kitchen table.
Dov leaves. Kayla, Dov's mother, (Fischel's wife), comes into
the kitchen. My back is to her. She looks different than what I
had imagined. She is a very old woman. I am very uncomfortable
because I don't quite know where I fit in. It's my house and yet
it's not. I can feel her stern eyes on me and am sure she hates
my guts. Yet I finally stand up and go toward her, take her hand
and offer her my condolences. She looks at me very sternly, but
with a slight smile, a very slight smile says: "I think I'm going
to like you. Yes, I think I'm going to like you in the end. I
think we're going to be good friends." "Yes, but you probably
won't be able to stand me either" I say.


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