After managing to keep my feelings tamped down, suddenly I was crying. “Whether my father knew,” I answered. “The halachah—it seems so unlikely that he would have gone through with it. Whether my mother deceived him, or—” “You’ll never know,” the rabbi said. You don’t know who you’re dealing with, I thought but didn’t say. You’ll never know was unacceptable. You’ll never know simply could not be what I was left with in the end. Who was I without my history?
