I told him whose daughter I was, and he called out the names of my grandmother and grandfather, their five children, and my mother and her brothers.
He knew them all.
There are people who are known for generations, like local plants that aren't uprooted.
In Tel Aviv, I went into the bank without my ID, and the teller called over my head to her colleague at another window. In a mole on her chin, three white hairs trembled when she turned her double chin away from me to her.
"This one, it's not the first time, I know her by now. She's not who she says she is. Don't take any check from her."
What didn't I do to find someone who knew me. I walked barefoot in the sand in summer. And I ate prickly pears, the favorite fruit of donkeys, purgative, full of thorns, not like cherries and mulberries.