Hope Valley

by Haviva Ner-David

  “I have an idea,” she said. Ruby was seeing Tikvah as if for the first time; yet, she was also seeing an old friend.

  “Shoot.”

  “It’s about that dharma you talked about. I’m feeling called for the first time in a long time to do something. I had a vision, only this time it was not a painting that appeared in my head. It was an idea. A vision of something maybe we can create together. I was thinking about a local cooperative, for Arab and Jewish artists. What do you think? Is it a crazy idea?”

  It was not a crazy idea. Romantic, and probably would come to nothing. But it was no crazier of an idea than the talk of revolution, a second intifada, her brothers were throwing around. There was little hope either could make a difference in the long run. But Tikvah’s idea would at least do no harm.

  “I don’t know . . .” Ruby said.

  Tikvah looked at her watch. “Well, I really do have to go now. But let’s discuss it more. Alon is going to the car mechanic tomorrow morning, so I have to be home for a technician who’s coming to fix our oven. You know how they are. They say they’ll come between eight and noon and refuse to get any more specific than that.”

  “Arab time,” Ruby said with a snicker. “One of the more annoying things about my culture.”

  “So why don’t you come over? To my house?”

  Ruby was about to correct Tikvah and tell her it was not her house, but then her words registered. She had just invited Ruby to her father’s house. Ruby could look for the diary.

  “Then we can sit and have a proper meeting. Do some brainstorming together, with pencil and paper. Gather some names of other artists to invite. Think of a place where we can meet . . . Can you come?”

  “I suppose so,” Ruby said, trying to contain her excitement. “I’ll be there around nine.”

  Once Tikvah and Cane were both through the hole and walking off into the distance, Ruby let out a cheer. “Ya Salaaammm!” She even felt her feet lift a few centimeters off the ground.

  TIKVAH

  RUBY HAD SHOWN up as planned. The oven technician had come at eight-thirty and was out by nine-fifteen, to Tikvah’s surprise, which left her and Ruby a good two hours of uninterrupted time to discuss her idea before Alon would return from the car mechanic in Afula. She was making coffee for them both in her and Alon’s double espresso machine. She watched the steaming deep-brown liquid dripping simultaneously into the two china espresso cups and realized she was smiling at the sight.

  “How do you drink it?” Tikvah asked Ruby, who was standing by the bay windows, looking out at the view of her house in Bir al-Demue across the valley.

  Her head scarf today was a cheerful print of bright yellow and purple flowers, which matched her mood. She seemed in especially good spirits this morning. When she had first arrived, Ruby had looked around, examining the inside of the house, asking about what Tikvah and Alon had renovated and what they had preserved from the old structure. Tikvah understood why she was curious, but her possessive attitude made her uncomfortable. Now, though, they would sit and discuss her plan. For the first time in a long time, she felt inspired.

  Ruby turned from the window and looked at Tikvah. “Strong and black. Although we call it heavy, not strong, in Arabic. The longer it simmers, the thicker and stronger it gets. It’s a sign of a good host. It means you invested in preparing and were hoping for guests.”

  “And I thought Alon was methodical about his morning coffee ritual.” Again, Tikvah thought what a shame it was Ruby’s father and Alon would never meet. She was sure they could have been friends. “Before I met him, I drank instant. You make this espresso machine seem like a convenience.” She glanced over at Ruby. “I take mine with hot goat milk. You don’t want any?”

  Ruby shook her head. “I assume you didn’t put any ground cardamom in . . .”

  “Nope. Sorry. Next time. You don’t even want sugar? Just espresso? It’s not too bitter for you?”

  “Not at all. This is nothing compared to how my father taught me to make sadah.” Ruby’s thin lips curled into a grin. “No matter how much I travelled the world, my coffee habits remained the same as my father’s. When British soldiers came to the bookshop where he worked before the Nakba, he could not believe how much sugar they put in their coffee, he told me.” Her gaze turned back towards the window. “Some things you have to accept as bitter and not try to make them sweet, he used to say. That’s part of life. Yom asal, yom basal. He loved that saying.”

  Tikvah brought Ruby’s espresso to the table and then went back to pour hers into a larger ceramic mug and add frothed milk. She would not risk carrying two mugs of coffee with her shakes. “What does it mean?”

  “Day of honey, day of onion. It’s just the way life is. At least for my people.”

  Tikvah sat down at the kitchen table—one of her favorites of Alon’s creations—with her cappuccino. Ruby joined her. “For the Jewish people too. That’s one reason I like this idea of a joint art collective.” She took a sip of coffee.

  “Go on . . .” Ruby said.

  Tikvah put her mug back down. “I admit I always saw the Arabs as the enemy. That’s how it was presented in my Zionist youth movement. We returned to our historic homeland, a persecuted people in exile, and the Arabs would not let us have our fair share of the land. All of the surrounding Arab countries attacked us, and by a sheer miracle, we, the weak few, beat the strong many.” She looked at Ruby to check her reaction. She was listening attentively, not jumping to contradict, which was unusual for her new friend. “And what they told us is true. But it’s not the whole truth, it seems. You told me this when we first met, but I didn’t understand fully what you meant. My people’s miracle was your people’s catastrophe.”

  Ruby gesticulated with one hand and held her espresso cup with the other. She had still not taken a sip. “Exactly.”

  Tikvah looked at Ruby across the table. “I’m starting to see that now, Ruby. But most Jews here are like I was, until I met you. They don’t know the extent of the story. Some don’t want to hear it, I know, but others probably do. And whether they want to hear it or not, now that I know what I do, I have an obligation to share it with others.” Above Ruby’s head was the view of her house, which was framed by the window panes. “I didn’t tell you, but I went to the library. I found a book with photos of your father’s village. With a photograph of this very house before Alon and I bought it. I’ve been walking around with those images in my head, trying to understand what that means about my living here.”

  Ruby crinkled her crooked nose, perhaps about to say something.

  “I am not leaving. Alon and I have a life here. Your father suffered, but so did my people. And so did Alon. He has never been the same since he came back from Lebanon. He was a psychological and emotional wreck when he first returned.” Tikvah looked out the window behind Ruby again, but this time at the panoramic view. The whole valley, on both sides, was dead from months of summer heat, waiting to be brought back to life by the expected winter rains. She returned her gaze to Ruby’s face. She could not tell from Ruby’s expression what she was feeling. “Living out here has done him good. The peace and quiet. The opportunity to work with his hands. What’s done is done. We can’t undo 1948. And I wouldn’t want to. At least not entirely. But we also don’t need to pretend it didn’t happen like it did.”

  To Tikvah’s delight, Ruby’s face brightened somewhat. “Okay. I’m all ears. So what did you have in mind?”

  Tikvah took another sip of her cappuccino. Despite the heat outside, she always appreciated her morning coffee. “I was thinking that we could get together a group of Arab and Jewish artists in the area. We can start by talking, comparing narratives. Maybe if we can talk about that, we can start to recover. Together. We could create a joint exhibition inspired by our dialogues.”

  Ruby turned and looked out the window again. “It’s a nice idea.” Then she turned back to Tikvah. “But it’s more complicated than you think. First of all, where would we m
eet? I couldn’t host it at my family’s place. My brothers would never agree. They are angry, antagonistic. Like most Arabs in the country now.” She caught Tikvah’s eyes. “How about here? Where’s your studio? Where you used to paint. Surely we could use that space.”

  Tikvah did not want to tell Ruby that people on the moshav were just as antagonistic towards Arabs as her brothers were towards Jews. “I did have a studio. There was this room right off the house’s back entrance. We sealed the door that led into the main house so that the only entrance was from out back, and we turned it into my private art studio.”

  A pained look spread across Ruby’s face. “My father talked a lot about that room. He had memories of the men of the family meeting there every evening to discuss politics. He said he did not agree with a lot of their talk, but it reminded him of his father to think about the diwan—that’s what that room is called. That’s where he learned to make his sadah, like my father taught me.” She looked down into her neglected espresso cup. “Every respectable Arab house has a diwan. My family’s house in Bir al-Demue has one too. What happened to the one that was here? To your studio?”

  “I told you, I haven’t painted in a while. And the business has been booming. So it became a studio apartment for long-term rentals. We had already added a bathroom and kitchenette when we turned it into my art studio, so it was an easy transition. I moved all of my art supplies into our supply shed.” Tikvah took another sip of her cappuccino. The familiar and dependable comforts of life made it easier to talk about the volatile and challenging ones. “But when Cane came along, I threw them all out to turn the shed into her dog house. I’m hoping this art collective will inspire me to start painting again. That’s my more selfish motive, I guess.”

  “Well, do you have another space we could use? A basement perhaps?” Ruby furrowed the line of makeup she had painted where her eyebrows would have been if not for the chemo. “My father used to talk about the rainwater cistern in the cellar. He liked to swim in it as a child . . .”

  A memory flashed through Tikvah’s head of the house when they had first bought it. It had looked just like the photo in that book. “We drained it when we moved in. We were told it would attract mosquitos, and we had no use for it.” She had actually argued for keeping the cistern full. With the knowledge that the lake below the moshav was actually a reservoir forbidden for swimming, the idea that she could at least take a dip in her own cellar was appealing. But Alon had been against the idea. It was not practical. Perhaps not even legal according to the Israeli health codes. Especially not if they were going to open a bed-and-breakfast. Alon thought they would not pass the inspection for the business permit if they didn’t drain the cistern. So she had relented once again.

  “Yes, of course not.” Ruby sighed. “You had no sentimental attachment to the place.” Her tone was critical. “So what did you do with the cellar once you drained the cistern?” She seemed impatient now, and hanging on Tikvah’s every word.

  Tikvah hesitated to answer. “We cleaned the whole place out. Alon keeps all of his stuff down there. Paperwork in files, carpentry and building supplies in their properly marked boxes. He’s an organized type.”

  Ruby’s eyes were more like half-moons than almonds now. She was leaning over the table, staring at Tikvah. “Cleaned it out?”

  Tikvah shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “Yes . . .”

  “But the walls are still intact?”

  “Yes . . .” What was Ruby getting at?

  “You didn’t find anything unusual when you were cleaning it out?”

  “No . . .”

  “I’d like to see it, if you don’t mind.” Ruby stood, pushing her chair back as she did.

  “I can’t host the group down there. In fact, I don’t think I could host the group here, in the house, at all. Alon would never approve. And I may get flack, from my neighbors. It’s not a good time.”

  Ruby sat down again. “How so?”

  Tikvah took another sip of coffee. “The child of old moshav founders who passed away sold their house to an Arab family from Nazareth. People here feel really threatened by it. There’s even a petition, to keep them out.”

  Ruby’s expression turned cross. “I’ll bet they’re a family with roots here. Like mine. That’s likely if they’re living in an-Nasira now. They probably live in Yakut, the neighborhood in an-Nasira named after Yakut al-Jalil.” She tightened the knot on her head scarf. “They shouldn’t have had to pay a shekel for the place. The government should be giving them a house here as reparation. The nerve, trying to keep them out!” She put her hands on the table. They were shaking.

  Tikvah reached her own shaking hand across the table and placed it on Ruby’s. They were both trembling now. “I agree, Ruby. I didn’t sign . . .”

  “And your husband did?”

  Tikvah oscillated as to what to reply. She remembered her talk with Alon over lunch after she discovered that book in the library. Their property was all they had, and he had lost so much already. His need to take care of himself from such a young age had hardened him. Even before Lebanon, he had believed strongly in looking out for number one, but whatever had happened to him in that war, had reinforced that belief. She had not wanted to trigger a panic attack or nightmare, so she had not argued the point. She was relieved that at least he had not tried to convince her to sign. That was their way now: each making a move at self-preservation and then retreating so as not to upset the other.

  “Yes. He did.”

  Ruby finally took a sip of her coffee. She made a face. “If he knew about your daughter and Mahmoud, I’ll bet he would have thought twice about it.”

  “Perhaps.” Tikvah looked at Ruby, who stood again and pushed her coffee away from her on the table.

  “Now can we go downstairs?” she said.

  “What’s going on, Ruby? Why is it so important for you to go down to the cellar?”

  Ruby closed her eyes and let out a breath. “I’m looking for my father’s diary. He said he left it there when the village was emptied. He thought he’d be back. They all did.”

  Tikvah’s heart was beating rapidly. Ruby had never mentioned a diary before. Probably because she hadn’t trusted her enough yet. “And you think it’s still here?”

  “I’m hoping it is.”

  Tikvah put the coffee cups in the sink and took Ruby down the hallway to the cellar door. Tikvah started down the steps first, holding onto the metal railing. She rarely went to the cellar. The steep staircase was difficult for her to maneuver. Alon did the schlepping, and Alon took care of the papers and bookkeeping. Most of her work could be done upstairs in the kitchen, at the stove or on the computer. Or in the cabins themselves. As they descended, the air became more damp and cool, despite the drained cistern. Tikvah looked around. Alon’s hand-crafted shelves lined the old stone walls, and his color-coded files stood like soldiers at attention, waiting to be called upon for use. She noticed Ruby running her hands along the stone walls.

  Tikvah stood frozen in place, watching Ruby in her search. If the diary was truly here, she wanted to see it. She did not want to live a life of secrets and lies. She wanted to know the truth. “Can I help you?”

  “Sure. He said it was behind a loose stone. You never noticed such a stone in one of the walls?”

  “Honestly, I rarely come down here. It’s Alon’s space.”

  “Do you think he would have told you if he had found the diary?”

  “I’d like to believe he would have.” Tikvah considered this question more deeply.

  Despite their silences, their sporadic days of rarely exchanging a word, they were still connected by a bond that would take more than mere strain to sever. They even had sweet times together that reminded her of how it used to be—like that night last month, after the wine. They had made love and fallen asleep in each other’s arms. Alon had slept through the night peacefully, in fact. Tikvah did want to believe that no matter how troubled Alon was, he would not keep somethin
g like that from her. Although then again, he had not told her what he knew about the history of the moshav’s land. Perhaps he was even aware that their house had once belonged to Ruby’s father. She could not say with confidence that he would have told her if he had found the diary.

  “Well, let’s start looking, then.”

  Tikvah ran her hands along the walls. The stones were cold, despite the heat outside. The house had been built with careful consideration of the climate and terrain. The other houses on the moshav were more suited to a European climate, with their cement walls and slanted red-tiled roofs. Some people even put wooden panels over the cement to give their homes a more European country village look. Tikvah and Alon had done the same with their cabins. But the main house remained as it was—or at least the façade did. Inside, Alon had used his design and carpentry skills to give the house that same chalet feel as their neighbors’. Tikvah loved their house. She did not feel a need to apologize to anyone for that. It was her consolation prize for having to leave the ocean behind. She felt at home when she sat down at her kitchen table or made a fire in the wood burning stove. Despite what she had given up to be here in this place.

  Her house, growing up on Long Island, had been a one-story villa with beautiful wooden carvings and a plethora of nooks and crannies where she could nestle. Her parents were not ones to hug and cuddle—not her and not each other—so she compensated by finding corners, benches, and pillows to give her the comfort she craved. Her mother sewed. She did needle point and embroidery. She crocheted and knitted. She made utilitarian yet decorative pillows and blankets which she scattered around the house in every spot she could find. Her sewing was methodical, not artistic, more like something to keep her hands busy so her brain wouldn’t wander. She also mended. Nothing was thrown away if it could be salvaged.

  Her father, though, did not like holding on to mended clothing. So whatever could be restored with her mother’s needle and thread, her father brought to the Salvation Army. “Better it should go to orphans and refugees,” he said. And her mother agreed. “Like us,” she said. And that was as much as either uttered on the topic.