by Claire Hajaj
Salim was elated when Tareq broke the news to him. He agreed to work hard, get good grades, stay out of trouble and not to upset his father. He longed to leave the dusty powerlessness of Arab life and remake himself. Every speck of desire to stay in this new land of Israel had been extinguished.
On his last night in Israel, he gathered together his clothes, books and flimsy photographs. The clothes went into a small black bag. He laid the pictures carefully in the bin on the floor. Reaching into the back of his cupboard, he lifted out a shoebox and opened the lid.
The photograph of the Orange House had yellowed after so many years. It was the first time he’d looked since coming back from Tel Aviv. What was the point of it now? He tipped it into the bin, hearing the sad little thud as it hit the bottom. Then he sat down on the bed, breathing hard.
After a moment, he bent down slowly and retrieved it. The baby boy’s eyes stared at him from the frame, accusing. Salim answered: I have new dreams now. But he pushed it quickly into his suitcase.
In the autumn after his seventeenth birthday, as the orange harvest season approached, Salim stood at Lod Airport in Tel Aviv to catch the El-Al flight to London. In his pocket he carried a one-way airline ticket, his Israeli passport, his national identity document and his Palestinian birth certificate. His father had given him the equivalent of one hundred British pounds to start him in a new life. This was his total legacy from the past, the last gift of the Orange House.
Tareq and Abu Hassan walked him to passport control. Nadia had been unable to contemplate coming too, overcome with grief. Salim had felt tears welling up when he hugged her goodbye, aware that in some ways she too was losing a son.
Tareq leaned over to give Salim a rough embrace, pulling the young man tight to his chest. ‘God bless you, God bless you,’ he repeated, tears wetting his cheeks. ‘Take care of yourself. You know that you always have a home with us – always.’
‘I know,’ said Salim, deeply moved. He wanted to tell Tareq how much he loved him, that he had been brother and father to Salim all at once. But with his own father standing nearby, he could not bring himself to say it. All he said was, ‘Tell Nadia goodbye. Tell her I’ll eat, and study – and I’ll miss her yelling at me.’ Tareq nodded and turned away, to allow Abu Hassan the last farewell.
The two stared at each other slowly. In the harsh light of the departure hall, Salim saw more clearly than ever how old his father had become. He remembered they were Abu Hassan’s second family, the last gasp of a long life. He saw the weakness in his body and legs, and the greyness of the old lips, and a tenderness came over him that he could not explain.
He reached over and put his arm around Abu Hassan’s shoulder.
‘Goodbye, Baba,’ he said softly, searching for words that were both true and kind. ‘I’ll… I’ll write to you often. Take care of yourself.’
Abu Hassan brought up a shaking arm and let it lie for a moment around his son’s back. He pulled Salim to his chest quickly, and Salim felt the old heart hammering against his ribs like a woodpecker’s beak. Then Abu Hassan let go and said, ‘Ma salameh’ – go in peace. Salim stood for a moment, then hoisted his rucksack on his shoulder and turned towards the gates.
It was all too quick, the jump from one life to another. Within the hour, Salim sat strapped to his seat while the El-Al plane rose out of the clouds of yellow dust sent skywards by the summer heat.
They crossed Israel’s narrow waist before the jet had risen. Looking out of the window, Salim saw the strip of land so many had fought over, as it slipped out of view. It was so small that it took his breath away.
As they reached into the radiant blue sky, he felt as if he was entering a void inside himself as profound as the one outside his window – a terrifying, exhilarating emptiness ready to be filled.
Four hours later, they touched down at London Airport. The grey and gloomy skies and great green expanses were oddly refreshing. Salim was ready to welcome the differences between the world he’d left and the one he would soon belong to.
As he stood in line to show his passport and visa, he watched the other faces standing next to him – some dark, some fair, all with the same contained expression. He wondered how many were like him – starting over again. He looked across at the fast moving line of British passport holders. He promised himself that next time he would be standing in that line.
Waiting in the arrivals hall was one familiar face. Hassan – still broad, fleshy and jolly – was standing waving frantically, a smile smothering his face. ‘My God, Salim!’ he said, rushing over to give his brother a hug. He was bundled up in a bulky jumper and a black leather coat. ‘You look just the same. What a mug you have! Like a movie star! I’m going to take you out, and maybe I’ll have better luck with the girls!’
‘Not if you wear that sweater, you idiot,’ Salim laughed. He was genuinely happy to see him, relieved to find something familiar here to cling to. Hassan slapped him on the back and said, ‘Come on. Let’s go home.’
Outside, the air was wetter and heavier than Salim had ever experienced. How do people live here? It was all so disorienting – the oppressive sky, the vastness of the airport, the rows and rows of cars shining in the gloom and the howl of traffic from the dozens of roads spinning off in every direction. It was nearly half an hour before they found the car and could be on their way.
Driving through the rainy, busy streets, Salim listened with half an ear to Hassan’s stories about his car repair shop, the exciting new projects they could start together and the girls they’d meet. When Hassan asked him what his plan was, he fingered the money in his pocket and said, without thinking, ‘Take a course in English, and try to get into university.’
‘University? What do you want to do that for? Believe me, Salim, you don’t need all this studying rubbish. There’s plenty of money to be made with me in the garage.’
Salim didn’t answer. He watched the grey, endless concrete roll by outside the window and wondered how he was going to make his mark on it, make this alien country work for him.
Eventually, they pulled up in a dirty little side-road under a railway bridge. By the crumbling buildings lining the road and the darkness of the faces walking down the street, Salim assumed they were in a poorer district, reserved for foreigners like him. Hassan heaved Salim’s bag out of the trunk and dragged it over to a little brown door. It stood next to a shop selling Indian food, with a green and yellow illuminated sign blinking cheerlessly in the drizzle.
‘This is it!’ Hassan said, as they reached the top of a dim, brown stairwell. ‘Not a palace, but cheap and very convenient. You’ll see.’
He pushed open the facing door and they entered a place smaller even than Tareq and Nadia’s, with one bedroom and a small kitchen off the main living area with its spiral orange carpet. ‘You’ll have to sleep on the sofa at first,’ Hassan said. ‘But with the money you bring in, soon we’ll be able to move to a bigger place! Right? You want a beer?’
Salim nodded, cold and tired to his bones. As Hassan went into the kitchen, he sat down on the brown sofa. It creaked and wobbled with his weight. Looking through tiny windows across the street, he saw a small, green park. A children’s playground was at its centre, a striking patch of colours against the grey.
Hassan brought him a can of beer and he cracked it open. It tasted strangely sweet and sharp against his throat. Children were playing in the park outside. He could see them, a misty blur of waving arms and bright clothes. They seemed a world away from him, there in that dirty little room. As he sipped his beer he had the strangest feeling of disconnection – as if he were not really there but just a character in an old film, sad and soundless, painted in the vivid colours of loss.
Later Hassan sent Salim down to buy groceries – ‘to get the hang of things’. He took Hassan’s wallet, heavy with coins, and headed out under the drizzle. The streets were nearly empty, and the few people out walking passed quickly by him, heads down. There was nothing there, no f
licker of recognition – they were all strangers caught in their own troubles, looking straight through each other. Homesickness swelled in his throat, trickling into him with the watery cold.
The sign on the cornershop Hassan had directed him to said Freddy’s. The shopkeeper looked up as Salim walked in to the jangle of warning bells, white bearded under a dull orange turban. Salim walked up and down the aisles, looking at the brands. He picked up the ones he recognized from the days of the British in Palestine, when Private Jonno would sneak him cigarettes. When his basket was filled it struck him as ludicrous that his English kitchen might be the closest he’d been in years to their pantry in Jaffa, to his mother and the English tea she used to drink, the imported biscuits she’d prized.
At the counter, he fumbled with the strange silver and bronze money, turning over coins in desperation as the queue behind him grew restless. A man behind him called out, but Salim couldn’t understand the words. Perhaps it wasn’t even English. Irritated, the shopkeeper pushed Salim’s hand away and gathered coins and notes together himself, beckoning the next customer. Salim picked up his bags and went outside.
The rain was lifting, and the rolling clouds had changed from iron to shining steel and marble, brilliant at their edges. The bags weighed him down – but it was a start, just a start, he told himself. Everything else would come in time.
As he walked down the brightening street, he heard the children again, high voices drifting above the sound of the traffic. They reached into Salim, pushing past his sorrow with their small song of delight.
As he saw them, just a touch away, he thought – there may be harvests to be reaped here too. He stood there for a time, watching them while London moved past and around him in a blur of faces and car horns. And all the while the children chased each other with oblivious laughter, defying gravity as they swung round and round deliriously in the light rain.
On the morning of Judith’s Batmitzvah, she stood beside the Rebbe with her parents, dazed and resigned. Her portion of the Torah was committed to memory. Pieces of it had been flitting through her dreams for weeks, like bats under a dark sky.
She was dressed for the part: a new skirt, heeled shoes, a smart blue shirt and a woollen waistcoat. Her nails and hair had been done the day before. She looked like a mini-Dora, or a doll that Dora might have picked out as a child. It’s all a game, dressing up and pretending, she thought. I’m not really a grown-up today and I won’t be tomorrow either.
Without warning, the door opened in the Rebbe’s office; urgent voices were raised in the corridor and Judith saw Jack grip Dora’s arm. The gesture was chilling, a stone falling from the dam around her heart, letting in a flood of sudden fear.
A man in a yarmulke was saying, ‘Come quickly, she’s just outside.’ As if in a dream she trailed behind her parents as they raced to the front door. A wailing noise poured in from outside, a distorted, inexplicable sound. When the door opened and the light came in, she saw Gertie standing there, red with hysterics.
They ran the five hundred yards back to their little home, Jack and Dora ahead, Judith behind them, holding tight to Gertie’s hand.
From halfway there she could see the ambulance, its siren flashing without a sound. The silence was a terrible omen as she pounded the pavement in new heels, pain shooting up her legs.
The front door was wide open and she stumbled in. A man stood in Rebecca’s doorway, talking to Jack. Dora’s mascara had run, and Judith heard the words pneumonia and congestive heart failure. Jack shook his head like a dog with water in its ears and Dora put her hand to her mouth.
Judith walked slowly up the stairs to stand beside her father. Jack’s face was grey, tears pooling in the hollows of his cheekbones.
‘What’s happening to Bubby?’ she whispered.
It was Dora who spoke, her voice steady and kind.
‘Your Bubby is leaving us, Judit. There’s nothing we can do. She had a wonderful life. They want to take her to the hospital but your father thinks,’ she reached out and took Jack’s hand, ‘that she should stay here. It’s what she would want.’
Judith nodded. Be brave. Be a mensch. ‘How long will she stay?’ she asked.
‘Maybe a day or two, pet,’ Jack said, hoarse. He was holding the top of his balding scalp, his hand clapped to the thin black yarmulke as if it pained him. Judith’s starched hairdo itched at the sight. ‘Not more. She’ll go to sleep soon and have her rest.’
‘Can I see her?’
Jack looked at Dora. Her mother nodded. ‘It’s right you should see her, Judit. She loves you most of all, you know.’
Judith walked into the little room as she had done hundreds of times, seeking comfort. Now she would have to give it.
Rebecca was lying on her pillows with an oxygen mask over her mouth. Her eyes were half-open and her mouth slack. The only colour on her body came from her Star of David necklace, still bright against the grey skin.
In Judith’s Torah lessons the Rebbe has said all kinds of things about the dignity of death. But there was no dignity here. Her grandmother looked defeated, life beaten out of her. The anger inside Judith frightened her; she felt fooled by them all. They told her she would grow up today, and everything would be better afterwards. You know the day you can stop being afraid, her grandmother had said. The day you put down the Torah scrolls and the Rebbe blesses you as an adult. But what was the point of it all, if Rebecca would not see it?
Leaning forward, she took Rebecca’s motionless hand in her own. It felt strange, empty somehow, as if a fire was burning Rebecca away from the inside, leaving nothing but heated bones and skin that crinkled like paper. ‘I’m here, Bubby,’ she said. ‘Don’t be afraid. We’re all here.’ Rebecca’s eyes opened. Her pale red head turned towards Judith and she made a small noise, from deep inside her throat. The bony hand clenched and gently squeezed Judith’s, the faint pressure of a feather landing on the ground. Then a doctor came between them, pushing Judith back and leaning over Rebecca until she vanished behind a wall of white coats.
Jack met her at the doorway. ‘Pet, we have to decide about the service and reception. We think we should cancel it. Your mother agrees. Everyone will understand.’ Judith stood for an uncertain moment. Part of her wanted to cry with relief, to take off her coat and new shoes and be a child again. She closed her hand in a fist, her fingers curling around the memory of Rebecca’s touch.
‘Can we wait?’ she asked, finally. ‘I need to pray for Bubby.’ It was a lie. If a God created such a world, one that stole so much from people, then Judith wanted no part of Him. But it was good enough for Jack. He passed his hand over his brow and said, ‘Of course. We have a little time.’
In the silence of her bedroom, Judith reached under the bed and pulled out the crumpled papers hidden there, beside the ripped pieces of the Junior Team Tryout schedule. Rebecca’s writing leaned across the page like falling branches. Judith’s eyes could not focus and she wiped them in frustration. Be brave. Be a mensch. She’d made a promise. Taking a deep breath, she felt the rest of the house fade away. Judith started to read.
Later she came out onto the landing where Dora and Jack were talking in low, heavy voices. Gertie stood beside them, her arms wrapped around her waist.
‘Don’t cancel the Batmitzvah,’ she said. ‘I can do it. I want to do it.’
‘Are you sure?’ Jack said, astonished. Dora clapped her hand to her chest as if to calm her heart.
‘I’m sure,’ said Judith, steady and without a trace of doubt. Her back was to Rebecca’s room, and the light that came streaming in through its open door traced the determined lines of her face.
Afterwards Judith remembered that coming-of-age day as a whirlwind of frantic phone calls, a blur of sympathetic handshakes at the reception and a dull sense of grief growing inside her like a young tree.
She could not recall anyone familiar in the sea of people in front of her, even though Jack must have smiled at her from the front row and Dora and Gertie would
have been wiping away tears beside him. The only clear memory, the single lasting picture in her mind, was woven of sound not sight. It was the sound of her own voice as she picked up the scrolls – the sound of singing as if other voices had sprung up inside her, singing her way out of fear and into the adult world.
Judit, my darling girl,
Today is your Batmitzvah – such a special day for you, to become a grown woman. I know that you will do everything so beautifully, and that you will make us proud. All this past year I have watched you work so hard to prepare – sometimes it felt like I was preparing too. I was not blessed with daughters until you came. So forgive me if I think of you as myself, my daughter and my granddaughter too. When you are old, you can’t remember the when’s and who’s of life. But the real nature of things becomes much clearer. The truth is that you are all of this to me, and more.
When I was a child, it was traditional to give a boy a gift on his Barmitzvah, a piece of his inheritance. This way his family acknowledged he was no longer a child, but a pillar of his community, of our whole faith. I thought about what to give you, my Judit. There is only one piece of your inheritance that I hold for you. It’s just this – the tale of my life, which is a part of your life too. I’m sorry if it’s a poor gift. I hope one day you will feel that it was worthy of you.
You know my real name is not Rebecca at all. It is Rivka, in Hebrew. My papa chose it from the Torah. Rivka was the girl that Isaac married, who gave Abraham’s servant water from the well. The Torah says that Abraham wanted to find the right wife for Isaac, but could not find any girl good enough. So he sent his servant further and further away until he and his camels were hot and tired. When he stopped to rest by a well, a girl came to him, even younger than you, to give him water for his thirst. She said if his camels were thirsty she would draw water for them too. She was so kind that she even had time to think about a thirsty camel.