The Beauty Queen of Jerusalem

by Sarit Yishai-Levi

  A short time after they hanged Rachamim, one after the other her parents died of the cursed disease and also, so she was convinced, of heartbreak. Not a week had passed after their burial that the mukhtar came and ordered her and Ephraim to leave the house. She was ten, Ephraim five, and they had nowhere to go. She put a few clothes into a bundle, took Ephraim’s hand, and walked in the direction of the New City, not knowing where they would spend the night. The streets were filthy and neglected, as were the many refugees who wandered around looking for shelter. How could she, a ten-year-old girl, manage when people her parents’ age, may they rest in peace, couldn’t?

  Night fell as they reached Nahalat Shiva, where her uncle, her mother’s brother, lived with his family. She knocked on the door, and her uncle’s wife opened it and rubbed her eyes at the sight of the two children standing there. “Dio santo, hijos, what are you doing here at this hour?”

  “The mukhtar threw us out of the house and we have nowhere to go,” Rosa replied.

  “And you came here? We barely have enough room for our own children. Where can we put you, on top of the cupboard?”

  “Who is it?” came their uncle’s voice.

  “It’s me, Tio,” Rosa said, “me and Ephraim. The mukhtar threw us out and we need somewhere to sleep.”

  Their uncle came to the door. “Why are you leaving them standing in the street? Bring them inside,” he ordered his wife, who didn’t even attempt to hide her displeasure.

  Their five children slept crowded together on a straw mattress on the cold concrete floor, and they didn’t utter a word on seeing their two cousins who had come to visit in the middle of the night. “You’ll sleep with your cousins,” their uncle said, and for the first time that day Rosa breathed easily.

  But two days later she again found herself with Ephraim out on the street. Her uncle’s wife wouldn’t let them stay under any circumstances. “We’ve barely enough for our own children, so how can we feed two more mouths?” she’d shouted. After endless arguing her husband had given in, but although he was poverty-stricken, he snuck Rosa a little money before sending them on their way.

  She managed, of course she managed. She’d always known how to stand on her own two feet. Since the day her parents had died, she’d known that the most important thing was to trust only yourself and not rely on anyone else. Until the cursed Turcos left the country, she and Ephraim lived from hand to mouth. She’d go to the market and pick up the discarded vegetables and fruit that remained on the filthy ground after the peddlers finished their day’s work. She’d beg, praying that good people would take pity on her and her little brother who always sat silently at her side, never crying, never complaining, a five-year-old child who understood that even if he did cry, there’d be nobody to help him.

  Then a miracle happened, and after more than four hundred years of occupation, the Turks left Palestine. The image would stay in her mind forever: oxcarts passing through the streets of Jerusalem, carrying dead and injured Turkish soldiers, the screams of the wounded pleading for help. But she hadn’t pitied them. The road that led from Jaffa Road to the railway station on Bethlehem Road was crowded with carts and cars and Turkish soldiers running around like mice in a trap, doing everything they could to get onto the train and flee for their lives, throwing away their weapons, selling them to Arabs. Rosa had stood observing the chaos, keeping Ephraim close to her side. Shells fell on the city and people fled to avoid them. The shops on Jaffa Road were ransacked, the fear of death roamed the streets, but she hadn’t been afraid. She’d just calmly watched the last of the Turkish soldiers get on the train and leave for good.

  And then came the English—oh, what joy! Crowds filled the streets and gave them a hero’s welcome. She was so happy. She cheered the English as they entered Jerusalem, kissing the tunics of the heroic soldiers who had come to liberate them from the Turks. Such celebration! She moved toward Jaffa Gate, holding Ephraim’s hand tight so they wouldn’t become separated and he be trampled by the crowd. She saw General Allenby dismount from his horse and stride into the Old City as Mayor al-Husseini came to welcome him.

  “God be praised,” they’d said in Jerusalem. “A Hanukkah miracle.” But what kind of a miracle had it been? It didn’t take the English long to show their true colors. They were unable to manage the disorder that followed the Turks’ departure. Apart from her and Ephraim, there were another three thousand abandoned and starving orphans in Jerusalem, and so young girls became the whores of English soldiers to put food in their mouths.

  May God not hear her thoughts, but on a few occasions she too considered selling her body so that she and Ephraim could eat. Gracias el Dio for the good upbringing she was given by her father and mother, who taught her to guard her honor under any circumstances, and instead of going with Ingelish soldiers, tfu on them, she offered to clean the houses of the Ingelish women who had followed their husbands to Palestine.

  And now, mashallah, she was Senora Ermosa. She had a spacious house in a lovely, well-tended yard in Ohel Moshe; she had three daughters, may they be healthy, and a husband, an influential husband, a big merchant, the most highly respected in the Spaniol community, Wai de mi sola. If anyone had seen her back then when she was cleaning the toilets of the Ingelish or going to the market at night to pick up vegetables and fruit left out for the poor, they wouldn’t believe that the same young girl, the little beggar girl, had become Senora Ermosa.

  * * *

  Gabriel was packing a suitcase for his trip to Beirut. He always packed himself and didn’t like Rosa packing for him. “I’ve got my own special way,” he told her. And she’d give in just as she gave in to everything. The moment her neighbors’ husbands got home, their wives would fill a tin bath and wash their feet. But Gabriel had never agreed to her washing his feet. She would fill the bath and he would wash himself. He never sat in his chair like an effendi and waited for her to serve him. When he wanted coffee, he’d get up and make it himself; when he wanted mint tea he’d make it himself, and would reluctantly agree to her going into the yard to pick mint and sage from the plant pots. Shame, shame, she’d say to herself. It’s enough that he runs after the girls in the yard. All I need now is for him to be seen picking mint. It sometimes seemed to Rosa that he must have felt he didn’t deserve for her to serve him, because he didn’t fulfill his marital duties and come to her bed at night.

  Now he was putting clothes into the suitcase, and as the suitcase filled up she was emptying, her strength draining away. In his quiet way he was slowly killing her: each fold of his trousers, each fold of a shirt folded her heart. Why, ya rabi, O God, why? Why is he doing this to me? Why won’t he let me be a wife to him? Why is he smashing me to pieces? And so courteously, quietly. She was standing tensely, waiting for him to say something. Just let him ask her and she’d jump to comply. But he didn’t ask for anything and continued packing as if she wasn’t there. He suddenly raised his eyes and said, “Rosa, why are you standing there? Go outside and keep an eye on the girls.”

  The suitcase was packed, and now, she knew, the performance would begin: As soon as Luna saw Gabriel standing in the doorway with his suitcase, she started crying. A ten-year-old girl crying like a baby. She threw herself to the ground. “Papo, Papo, don’t go!” And her sisters joined her in chorus. That one screamed, the other screamed, and for a long time they didn’t leave their father alone, hanging on to him, holding his legs. With one hand Luna held on to his free hand and on to the door with the other, not letting him pass. How much strength the flaca’s got, Rosa thought, amazed, standing like a wall between her father and the door. Rachelika was crying and little Becky was crying but didn’t know why. Her sisters were crying, so she cried too.

  And Gabriel, his heart was torn. If they went on crying like this, he’d miss the train, so when Rosa finally pulled Luna away from him, he hurried out of the yard without even a good-bye to Rosa. Soon he was already on Agrippas Street, where a taxi waited to take him to the railway station on
Hebron Road. From there he’d go by train to Jaffa Port, and after a short stop in Tel Aviv, he’d board the ship for Beirut.

  Rosa remained standing in the yard with her sobbing daughters. Luna threw herself down onto the stone tiles, yelling like she was being murdered. Rachelika was holding on to Rosa’s apron and crying, and little Becky was hanging on her legs. Rosa stood helpless in the face of the girls’ behavior. The neighbors didn’t interfere. They knew that in half an hour everything would calm down, and until Gabriel returned, Rosa would run the house. But they didn’t know about her daily battles with Luna, the words that insolent child spat at her. Now she was lying on the tiles, kicking her feet and screaming, “Papo, Papo,” as if he could hear her. He was on the train, Senor Ermosa, reading a newspaper, looking out the window at the landscape, and he’d already forgotten his daughters’ weeping and screaming, and her too. What wouldn’t Rosa do to change places with him? Two weeks without Luna would add years to her life. She left the screaming Luna in the yard, took the other two girls by the hands, and led them inside. Rachelika had already calmed down, but after half an hour had passed, Luna still hadn’t stopped wreaking havoc in the yard.

  “Uskut! Shut up!” Rosa heard her neighbor Attias shout at Luna. But that one, nada, what an embarrassment that girl was. After a while it was finally quiet again. Rachelika and little Becky sat at the table and she gave them dinner: a hard-boiled egg and sliced fresh vegetables, a glass of milk, and a piece of white bread with olive oil and zaatar. Rachelika ate with gusto and fed little Becky, who didn’t stop chattering.

  Rosa looked at her two daughters and thought, God forgive my sins, how much better my life could have been without Luna, and immediately added a tfu-tfu-tfu, a pishcado y limon, and a God forbid, I should wash my mouth out with soap like I do to Luna every time she’s bad. God save me from these thoughts. What kind of a mother am I? she tortured herself. Luna still hadn’t come inside, but Rosa wasn’t worried. Let her stew in her own juice and then she’ll come in with her tail between her legs.

  The girls had finished their dinner, and Rosa filled the tin bath. She bathed Becky, and then Rachelika bathed in the same water. Gabriel hated when she did this, but he wasn’t here and it was a pity to waste water, and even more so soap. Money didn’t grow on trees.

  When the girls were in their nightgowns and ready for bed, Rachelika asked, “Mother, where’s Luna?” and only then she realized that it’d been hours since Luna’s yelling had stopped and the child still hadn’t come inside. She went into the yard. Empty. “Luna!” she called, but her cry was greeted by silence. “Luna! I’m coming after you with the sapatos,” Rosa threatened. “Onde ’stas, where are you?” It was only after all the neighbors came outside that Rosa grasped that Luna had indeed disappeared.

  “Dio santo, what am I going to do with that child? That’s all I need now, that something should happen to her. Gabriel will kill me!” She became hysterical, and her neighbor Tamar told her, “Calmata, Rosa, calm yourself. She’s probably someplace in the neighborhood. Where could she possibly have gone? I’ll stay here with the little ones and you go and look for Luna with the men. Heideh, no fiedras el tiempo, don’t waste time.”

  Rosa hurried off to search for Luna in the winding alleys of Ohel Moshe and in the garden at the center of the neighborhood. God save us, don’t let her have fallen into a cistern, the fear insinuated itself into Rosa’s mind. It was pitch-dark in the garden, and Senor Attias fetched a lantern and illuminated the inside of the cistern. He checked every inch of the garden and even sent his son Avramino to climb the tree. Maybe Luna was hiding in the branches. But nada, the child had vanished.

  Rosa was on the verge of collapse. Adio Senor del mundo, let the child be found, don’t let anything happen to her. God help us. If anything happens to her, it will be the end of my life, the end of my family. And the neighbors who saw her so worried tried to encourage her. “Don’t worry, Senora Rosa, Ohel Moshe is a small place. How far could she have possibly gone? We’ll find her soon.”

  They didn’t tell her they feared that something terrible had happened to the child. These were hard times. Jews were fighting Jews and the Arabs weren’t like they used to be. They kidnapped Jews and slaughtered them. And there were also sick people, pishcado y limon, and a girl with auburn curls and green eyes, you never know, leshos, leshos, pishcado y limon. They prayed that nothing had happened to the daughter of Senor Gabriel and Senora Rosa.

  They searched and searched, and it was already the middle of the night and they hadn’t found the girl. Rosa sat on the steps of the Ohel Moshe gate, her head in her hands as she wept. Then, from out of nowhere a British police jeep pulled up, and Matilda Franco got out, her face painted like, el Dio que me salva, the girls who sold their bodies. She was wearing a dress so tight-fitting it was like elastic, nylon stockings, and shoes with heels so high that if, God forbid, she fell off them, she’d crack her skull. Let her crack it, the putana, who cares. Rosa looked at her as if she’d seen an evil spirit, and all the neighbors stood outside the Ohel Moshe gate with their mouths agape. They’d heard about Matilda and her English officer, but they’d never seen them together. Her father Meir Franco wanted the ground to open under his feet, and her mother Victoria Franco was holding his hand so he couldn’t raise it to his daughter. The surprised Matilda was standing in front of Rosa and asking what happened, and Rosa got up and fell into Matilda’s arms and wept. “Luna, Luna’s lost.”

  “How did she get lost?” Matilda asked her.

  “She disappeared from the yard. The whole neighborhood has been looking for her for hours,” Rosa wailed.

  “You haven’t found her?” asked Matilda, surpised. And Avramino, Senor Attias’s son, came over and yelled, “What do you care if we find her or not, you whore of the English!” Then a fracas ensued with all of them attacking Matilda Franco, and it was only out of respect for her parents that they didn’t lynch her.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Rosa saw the Francos standing to the side, not coming to their daughter’s defense. She saw her brothers’ black eyes gleaming in the darkness, but they were standing like soldiers behind their father and mother and not moving a muscle to help their big sister. The whole neighborhood had forgotten her Luna, and all that interested them now was hitting Matilda Franco and cursing her. When a shot was fired into the air, they all fell silent. Matilda’s English officer was standing by the jeep with his pistol drawn and shouting in English, “Quiet!”

  “Quiet up your culo,” Avramino Attias whispered, but then went as silent as the rest.

  “What’s going on here?” the Englishman asked Matilda, and in English she told him that a child had vanished.

  On my life, Rosa thought. That one speaks Ingelish like in Ingeland.

  The officer started asking questions and Matilda directed him to Rosa. He asked her name and Matilda translated, but Rosa didn’t need translation, not for nothing did she work for years cleaning the bastards’ houses. At least one good thing had come out of it, Ingelish, and so she told him in fluent English that the child disappeared from their yard three hours ago after her father left for Beirut on business.

  The officer waved to the neighbors to disperse and go back home, and told Rosa to get in the jeep. She hesitated.

  “Don’t be afraid, Senora Rosa,” Matilda whispered. “He’s English, but he’s a good man. He’ll help you find Luna.”

  Rosa didn’t care if he was English, Turkish, Arab, Spaniol, or Ashkenazi. All she wanted was to find her daughter.

  The Englishman drove for several minutes until they reached the police station on Jaffa Road. He courteously opened the door for Rosa and helped her out. Ingelish, may his name be erased, but a gentleman, she observed. Then he helped Matilda, who despite her high heels jumped out easily. They entered the police station, and to her shock, praise God, there was Luna, sitting beside an officer. Gracias el Dio! On the one hand, her heart was overflowing with joy on seeing the girl, while on the other, she wan
ted to kill her. She’d almost died because of her!

  “Luna,” she called, and the child looked at her and started running toward her. Rosa opened her arms to pick her up, but she ignored her and leaped into Matilda’s arms without even glancing at her mother. Such shame, Rosa thought. What will the Ingelish think of me? What kind of a child is she who shames her own mother? What have I done wrong in my life, adio Senor del mundo, to deserve a daughter like Luna?

  Matilda’s English officer sat down behind his desk and asked Rosa to sit opposite him. Matilda took a seat beside her and Luna perched on Matilda’s knee, like a baby, not a ten-year-old girl. Rosa could hardly conceal her hurt.

  “The child,” said Matilda’s English officer, “turned up at the station by herself and said that her mother had thrown her out of the house.”

  “She what?” shouted the stunned Rosa. “Is that what she said?”

  “She said,” the officer went on, “that as soon as her father left, you took her two sisters inside and left her outside.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Officer,” Rosa said in her fluent English, “where are you getting all this from?”

  “It’s all in the duty constable’s report,” he replied. “I’m reading word for word the statement given by the girl, who came to the station at seven this evening, three hours ago.”

  Dio mio, she’s not a child, she’s Satan, Rosa thought. How does she come up with stories like this?

  “Is that true?” the officer asked.

  And before she could reply, Matilda answered in her place. “Of course it isn’t. The child made up a story. I know Madam Ermosa. She’s a wonderful mother and a good wife.”