My hopes rose — we were so close! But the sun was getting hotter and as Doda Aliza tried to stand we both realized it was too much for her.

S

avta Tova had been an enticing intriguing enigma for years. In her white robes and headscarf with a heavy medallion around her neck she gazes down at us from the sepia photograph on our dining room wall a gentle smile on her dark-skinned face.

My husband’s grandmother Tova was born inIsfahanIran in the early 20th century. As she grew older she and her husband moved into the home of her only son — my husband’s father — inTehran. Just before the Revolution the family moved toIsrael.

For some unknown reason Savta Tova was buried on Har Hamenuchos. She is our family’s only direct ancestor to be buried inIsrael and I felt a strange urge to visit her grave. Not only to give my children a sense of tradition and family a link with their history but also because my first daughter was named after her.

But Har Hamenuchos is a vast undulating sea of gray stone graves and no one knew the location of her grave. And yet I felt as though I had to find it — perhaps a need as a convert to find my own link with Jewish history my own connection to the chain.

Who could I ask? My husband’s parents are both deceased buried in farawayLos Angeles. I realized the only person left who might know was Doda Aliza my husband’s one remaining aunt and Savta Tova’s youngest daughter. But Doda Aliza was old and could barely walk or see. I made the call asking Doda Aliza if she had any details about the grave — the section plot — something anything.

She had no clear information. But she did know the names of Savta Tova’s parents (my husband’s great-grandparents) and the date Savta Tova was nifteres. When I heard the date my heart missed a beat. Savta Tova had passed away many years earlier exactly three days after my daughter’s birthday — on the precise date that she received her great-grandmother’s name Tova in shul!

Doda Aliza’s general directions were vague but we began the search anyway. First my two yeshivah bochurim hunted for hours in the baking sun checking names on graves calling Doda Aliza for help. In the end exhausted they admitted defeat.

But I would not admit defeat. The next time I visitedJerusalem I paid Doda Aliza a visit. She was so happy that someone was interested in her mother and was as determined as me to find her. Despite her advanced age and failing eyesight she decided that she would come with me to Har Hamenuchos and visit her mother’s grave.

The trouble began as soon as we got out of the taxi. Doda Aliza was immediately confused. “I know we have to go in past a stonemason’s workshop” she told me.