Ishmael's Oranges

by Claire Hajaj

  ‘They make my tummy ache,’ Judith said, stubbornly. Dora raised her eyebrows and Jack pointed his spoon at her.

  ‘After all the work your grandma did for us today, pet,’ he said. ‘Don’t you know there are hungry children in the world?’

  ‘I don’t know what’s come over her recently,’ said Dora, lips pressed together and the candlelight glinting off her earrings. ‘I never heard of a girl not eating what her parents gave her. Gertie was just as old as you, madam, when she came to us – and she’d been starving,’ she pointed a thin finger at Gertie’s round frame, ‘starving in the ghetto and millions of Jews along with her. Hunger took almost as many as the Camps in the Shoah. It’s an insult to their memory not to eat when there’s plenty, isn’t that right, Gertie?’

  ‘God commands us to eat at Shabbas,’ said Gertie earnestly to Judith, poking her in the elbow. ‘It’s a holy commandment, Judit.’ Judith jerked her arm away.

  ‘Stop telling me about God all the time,’ she said, miserably. ‘It’s not normal.’ Gertie wrinkled up her face in wounded astonishment, and Dora threw her hands in the air.

  ‘Normal?’ she said, her voice swelling with scorn. ‘Normal? What’s normal about a girl talking back to her parents? What’s normal disrespecting your traditions? Well?’ Judith stared at the table, trying to pretend she was under the water, and Dora’s voice was dim and faint like a song through the waves.

  ‘You’d best go to your room then, if you’re not hungry.’ Dora started scooping knedlach into her mouth and nodding in exaggerated thanks to Rebecca. ‘Go on then! You’re starting to give me indigestion.’

  Judith stood up from the table, her legs wobbling as if lead weights were strung to the end of them. She walked slowly out of the kitchen, feeling as she went the soft, consoling brush of Rebecca’s finger on her arm.

  As she lay on her bed upstairs, hunger was an exciting emptiness inside her. A low hum of conversation drifted upstairs from the kitchen. They’re talking about me. The idea gave her pangs of guilt and queasy delight.

  She swung her legs off the bed and opened her schoolbag, pulling out a red notebook and a chewed pencil. Tearing out a page she drew a small heart at the top of the page and wrote:

  Dear Kath, ive been sent to my room without dinner. Im really a rebel now! Hope you have fun at Roker this weekend. See you at school, love Judy.

  She folded up the paper and wrote Kath on the front. She wondered if she could persuade Gertie to pass by Kath’s house on Sunday during the weekly trek to Hebrew class.

  A week after the Knedlach Incident, as Tony called it, Max came home from his kibbutz in Israel for Yom Kippur. ‘It’s a day of atonement for all our wickedness,’ the Rebbe told Judith in Torah class. He stressed there was to be no eating or drinking from sunset to sunset, no wearing of leather shoes, no washing, no anointments with oils or perfumes and no marital relations. These last two confused Judith; she had never known Dora to miss a day of perfume. As for relations – it was several years before she understood what was supposed to happen in Jack and Dora’s separate single beds, and then felt furious for having been fooled for so long.

  It was hot for September, and Jack had spent all month lamenting poor sales of autumn stock. Judith crept into Gertie’s bed one night while the sound of Dora wailing at her husband pierced the floorboards. ‘What was the point of more coats in August?’ she thundered, while Jack’s reply was lost in a shamefaced mumble. ‘Do they hate each other?’ Judith whispered to Gertie, wrapped in her pale, soft arms. ‘No,’ Gertie whispered back. ‘But they’ve come a long way up, they’re frightened to fall back down again.’ And Judith found herself wondering if Gertie ever wanted to go back where she came from – ever wished that Judith was an Esther or a Daniel from Wien rather than a pretend sister who pushed her away.

  It was the tradition to keep Judith home from school on Yom Kippur, even though she was too young to observe the fast. ‘Your little belly is too small to be empty so long,’ Rebecca said to her gently when she asked why she had to mope around the house all day. ‘Our Law puts the safety of human life above all other holy obligations. That means your health comes first, mommellah, but you can still sit and think and pray like the rest of us.’

  During Yom Kippur, Dora, Jack and Gertie went to synagogue. Rebecca, nursing a weak heart, stayed quietly at home with Judith to make the festival supper – baking chollah bread, chopping boiled eggs and preparing sweet kugel cakes. She didn’t try to go to Wearside, so Kath went without her again.

  At sunset, Uncle Max lit candles he’d brought all the way from the kibbutz, kissed and blessed his mother and hugged Jack and Dora. He shook hands with Uncle Alex, up from Regent’s Park. Cousin Tony had come down from university, and as the sun slipped behind the horizon, he blew a loud blast through his cupped hands in a parody of the shofar, winking at Judith as he did it.

  Judith enjoyed the family coming together; the two uncles felt like adventure and drama. Alex was a snappier version of her father, with tailored suits and pinkie rings and an accent filed into London smoothness. When he spoke, Judith thought of a chocolate milkshake flowing into a cold glass. Uncle Max, on the other hand, was like someone you’d see at the pictures, tanned and lean. Rebecca glowed with pride and happiness to see all her sons gathered around the table; she sat holding Max’s hand and wiping away silent tears.

  ‘So Max,’ said Alex, helping himself to a cake, ‘how are the melons of Zion coming along?’

  ‘Come and see for yourself,’ Max said with half a smile. ‘Donate your labour instead of your money.’

  Alex grinned and chucked Judith in the ribs. ‘Your Uncle Max thinks I’m one of the moneylenders in the Temple,’ he said. ‘He doesn’t realize that without scoundrels like me funding pure-hearted idealists like him, Israel would have sunk into the marshes decades ago.’ Rebecca tsk-ed and waved her hand at Alex, and Jack said, ‘Come on, now.’

  ‘No, no, no,’ Max said, leaning forward and widening his fierce blue eyes. ‘Speak your mind, Alex.’ But then he turned to Judith and Tony saying, ‘Uncle Alex here knows that when the war finished we had nothing at the kibbutz – not even water. I don’t remember any calls offering me tools and irrigation systems. We had to build them all with our bare hands.’

  ‘Good for you,’ Jack said, nodding, as Alex laughed. Max went on.

  ‘I was younger than our Tony here, and I thought I knew about hard work. What did I know?’ He smiled ruefully at Judith and shook his head. ‘After the first week my hands were so full of blisters I couldn’t hold my spoon to eat. They had to feed me like a baby. And then there were the Arabs, sending in grenades, shooting at us in the dark. So don’t listen to your uncle, Judit. Your papa here, he knows. Money can’t buy everything. And it didn’t buy the Jews a homeland.’

  Alex cut in. ‘For God’s sake,’ he said. ‘Why does every Jewish dinner party have to end up mired in Israel or the Shoah? Don’t we have anything else to talk about?’

  Max pointed his fork at Judith. ‘Look at these kids here. They should know that Israel didn’t just appear like one of the miracles. Jews were slaughtered there too, to make a safe place for all of us.’

  Rebecca stroked Max’s face and said, ‘I know, my love.’

  Alex sipped his wine. ‘You take it so seriously, Max.’

  ‘Because it’s a serious thing. Every day I have to look after three hundred people, dozens of acres, more than a hundred cows and sheep and several tons of farm machinery, plus a well that needs reinforcement and drainage every year.’

  ‘No wonder you’re looking so old.’

  ‘Alex, ten years I’ve been asking you for money, Papa’s money, by the way, which he meant for all of us. What, aren’t I important enough for you to give your pennies to? You can’t believe a man might not be wealthy and still be a mensch.’ Alex rolled his eyes.

  ‘Jack, you remember? Gold’s Fashions was supposed to be our investment together after Papa died, some security for the family.
But our little brother had a different idea – no sacrifices for him, right? No, it all went on that big-shot university, those nice suits we couldn’t afford and a Golders Green accent. Should I have to beg my own family for a little money? Should Israel ever have to beg a Jew, I ask you?’

  Alex’s face darkened, and Judith saw his hand clench beside her, under the table.

  ‘You want me to thank you for your sacrifice? Max Gold’s personal sacrifice, leaving his mother and family to indulge in socialist collective agriculture and shoot at Arabs? Jews like me have already paid enough for Israel. Who do you think bought your machinery and your precious cows? It wasn’t the Soviets, that I can promise you.’

  ‘It wasn’t the bankers either.’

  ‘Oh really? Who was it – Moses? Papa lost everything running from one war, Max – he never wanted his money to be spent on another. Safe!’ he snorted, as Jack tried to interrupt. ‘High walls and barbed wire don’t mean safe, they mean siege.’

  ‘And whose fault is that?’ Max threw back, paler now under his tan. ‘We tried it your way. We tried living together with the Arabs, but they’re savages. No education, no civilization – and they all hate us. For fifty years they shot and bombed us and tried to drive us off our land. They called us monsters! And the partition – it would have meant peace – well, they refused to even discuss it. They’d rather wipe us out!’ He pushed himself away from the table, the screech of the chair making Judith jump.

  ‘The Arabs weren’t the only ones with the guns and the bombs,’ said Alex calmly. ‘What about the Irgun? What about that UN man they blew up – Bernadotte? And – more to the point – what about the rest of us who don’t live behind your barbed wire fence? Sorry to tell you, Max, but Israel hasn’t made a single Jew safer. Too many people hate us for it, right or wrong. They’ve been putting anti-Semitic mail through Tony’s door at university!’ Max shot a glance at Tony, who returned his gaze evenly. ‘What’s the solution? We all pack up and move “next year to Jerusalem”?’ He raised his glass like the sacred Passover prayer. ‘No. Thank you for the favour you’re doing us, but I think I’ll stay here in London and keep paying my taxes, while you dig your wells in the desert to make life safer for me.’

  Something made Judith turn her head to look at Rebecca, sitting quietly on the other side of Max – Rebecca, the gentle stream that carried them all along.

  Her grandmother’s face was turned slightly to one side, towards the mantelpiece where pictures of their lives lay in dusty frames. Judith knew them by heart, although she could never remember, if pressed, what it was each one showed. Rebecca’s eyes were unfocused, ‘a thousand miles away’, as she might say. In the half-light of the candles, she looked like she was swimming in some private sorrow. The shadows seemed to be clambering up her body to grasp her. Something leapt in Judith’s throat, and she put her hand out saying, ‘Bubby.’ Alex looked sharply up and said, ‘Mama, are you okay?’ Jack leaned over to take her shoulder, and she suddenly came back from wherever her mind had been walking, putting her hand to her eyes in confusion.

  ‘Mama, sorry for the racket,’ Jack said. ‘You want to lie down?’ Max breathed out slowly, Alex sat back in his chair, and Dora reached past Jack to take hold of Rebecca’s hand.

  ‘It’s all right, darling,’ Rebecca said, although it wasn’t clear whom she was talking to. ‘Don’t worry about me, your mama’s just getting old.’ She looked around the table, her eyes still wet and somehow hazy. ‘Eat, eat, children,’ she said, a little breathless. ‘It’s a blessing to be together. Our home is with each other, wherever we are. So many families have been lost.’

  She shook her head and began to eat again. Alex and Max picked up their knives and forks and began to talk about something called the Suez Canal, which Judith vaguely understood was a waterway like the Wear that had recently been stolen by an Arab man called Nasser, which all three brothers agreed was a very bad piece of work and would lead to trouble.

  In the darkness of her room after dinner, Judith fell asleep thinking of melons in the desert that grew and burst. Hundreds of little people came streaming out of them, scattering this way and that as heavy boots stamped down on them, while Judith screamed ‘Over here! Over here!’ and wept bitter tears.

  At the end of September Mr Hicks gave Judith permission to try for the Junior Team. ‘You’re less than completely hopeless,’ he told her. Later in the changing rooms, she wondered why she didn’t feel more excited.

  ‘Kath?’ she asked, as they dried themselves, goggles dripping on the bench.

  ‘Yes, Judy-Rudy?’

  ‘What do you think about us?’

  ‘You and me?’

  ‘No.’ Judith felt her cheeks flush. ‘You know. Us. Jews.’

  Kath stood up and gave this question the consideration it deserved.

  ‘Don’t know. Why, what do you think about them?’

  ‘I don’t know either.’ There was no similarity between Max, Dora, Alex and Rebecca. They were more likely to be invaders from Mars than members of the same family.

  Kath rubbed her hair until it stuck out from her head like wire.

  ‘My mum says that people don’t like Jews much,’ she offered, pulling on her damp leggings. ‘They’re too rich and they control everything.’

  ‘We’re not rich,’ said Judith. ‘I don’t really know anyone rich, except my Uncle Alex.’

  Kath shrugged and grinned. ‘Well, you’re okay then.’ Judith nodded uncertainly. How could Kathleen tell? She herself did not know.

  Over the next few weeks, Judith made a point of coming home and watching the six o’clock news on their brand new television. She lost interest in Crackerjack and was half-hearted about spinning records in Kathleen’s mother’s living room.

  On the twenty-ninth of October, bombs started falling in the Sinai. Judith listened to the BBC presenter explaining that Britain and France were helping little Israel to punish Egypt for closing the Suez Canal. The Israeli soldiers waved cheerfully to the camera before climbing into fighter jets. And then they cut to the blast of the bombs, and howling hordes in London with anti-Israeli banners chanting anti-Jewish slogans.

  The year rushed towards its end; everyone else was preparing for Christmas and Kathleen headed to Ireland. In the Gold household, Judith and Gertie lit the Hanukkah candles for the Jewish Festival of Lights.

  Looking into the menorah’s flames in the early darkness of winter, Judith heard them again – the explosions and screams. The match light wavered at the tip of the candlewick as the last candle burst into glorious bloom. She thought of Uncle Max’s star, lying lightless in Dora’s cupboard. And she wondered what life would be like if everyone was doing the same thing at this exact moment – and if no person had to feel different from another.

  The day of his betrayal came out of the cheerful blue sky, at the height of Nazareth’s midsummer.

  It was a school day; the bells rang at noon, ending the first shift. Dozens of books snapped shut, bags were hoisted onto shoulders and shoes pounded the dusty concrete floor. An excited hum of teenage chatter headed out into the stifling air of downtown Nazareth – away from lessons in mathematics, English and Hebrew, ready for the gruelling trudge uphill.

  He was one of the few boys walking alone. A recent growth spurt had added sharp cheekbones, pale skin and bony arms to the other indignities of being nearly fifteen.

  In the fierce heat, Nazareth turned from sandy yellow to blazing white. Salim’s eyes ached as he walked up the winding main road. He passed rows of street stalls, children selling soap, car parts and badly made clothes.

  The truth was, the Al-Ishmaelis were lucky. They’d come to Nazareth like everyone else, running ahead of the Nakba – the great Catastrophe. Thousands had arrived with them, the fellahin and the ay’an flocking together in a shared disaster.

  Eight years later, Salim had a bed in his half-sister’s flat, a school and an Israeli passport. They lived on Tareq’s wages and his mother’s jewels. Most of
all, they still had the deeds to Jaffa’s orange groves. But these children had nothing. Their fathers had worked the land, and now the land was gone. Today, work meant scraping a hollow living in the car repair shops or handing out tomatoes at the market.

  In the block of flats where his family now measured out the days, Salim climbed slowly, counting the floors. The stairwell was wide, but dirty and rancid with the smells of daily life – washing, cooking, sweat and the sewers somewhere beneath.

  His half-sister Nadia was in the kitchen leaning out of the window to hang their washing on the narrow balcony. ‘Hi,’ she called out. ‘Did you have a good day at school?’

  Seconds later, she appeared around the kitchen door, wiping her hands. Her brown face was round like Abu Hassan’s, but without the thickness. It was lined beyond its twenty-five years – like so many Arab women deserving a greater serving of happiness than life had seen fit to allot them.

  ‘Lovely,’ he said, smiling up at her. ‘Did they all go out and leave you in peace again?’

  ‘Oh yes, there’s a lot happening today,’ she said breathlessly. ‘My goodness, you must be hot, let me get you some water.’ And she was off again, scurrying into the kitchen like a mouse through sacks of grain.

  The apartment of Tareq and Nadia Al-Ghanem was a perfect reflection of its owners – neat, ordered and conservative. A kind home, stretched beyond its tiny limits to accommodate five more people than it was ever meant to hold. The shameful fact of Nadia’s childlessness – one dead infant and three miscarriages – had become cause for celebration. Had her own children been here, where could the family have gone?

  Nadia returned with a glass of water, and sat down next to Salim. He saw that her hands were nervous, fidgeting in her lap.

  ‘What’s up?’ he said. ‘Do you have a boyfriend hiding in here somewhere?’ She didn’t slap the back of his neck as he expected. The absence of her touch sent a warning chill through him.