by Ali Bader
Yousef in those days was haunted by a single obsession, an obsession that said: ‘Do not put me in a tight corner, do not place me in a little box. When you treat me like a Jew, you suffocate me.’
His gaunt face, his cold sweat and his great anxiety acquired a different meaning in the game of politics that forced people to wear masks. As a Jew, Yousef was required to play the role of a Jew and wear the Jewish mask, in the same way that Muslims and Christians had to play their respective roles and wear their respective masks. Masks made it easy for individuals to live in society. Rejecting the mask made the artist an alien forever, even though music, art and beauty refused to narrow the individual into a role.
Yousef was a stranger to everything around him. Everybody urged him to conform to his role. But he wished only to conform to music, for music had no religion. Beauty called for submission to an abstraction, a concept or a god, but not to a military uniform. Yousef refused to wear a specific uniform or to have a specific label stuck to him. He wanted to be neither one type nor another. He wanted to become whatever circumstances required him to be. He wanted to be one individual or another, to be ‘here’ or ‘there’, at the same time.
‘How can I possibly take part in this human farce?’ he asked himself. He had the overwhelming feeling that he didn’t belong to this world at all. But he had to wear a mask, because the mask made it possible for him to regain his self-confidence. It calmed his fears, expelled his demons and quelled the violent cries in the depths of his heart, the depths that told of hell. That was Alberto Caeiro’s feeling in Pessoa’s Tobacco Shop, or what Pessoa himself had actually felt. Yousef found infinite joy in playing music. Every evening he ran as fast as he could to the music hall. He wanted to be on stage and to stay there, not only because he loved music, but also because his identity would vanish with the first step that he took on stage. His sense of elation, however, would dissolve and disappear in the morning, under the pressures of everyday life and the stamp of identities. On stage, he didn’t occupy a particular slot, nor did he conform to a particular classification. But in the morning he found himself squeezed against his will into some pigeonhole.
Everything inside him wanted to attain the sublime, the transcendent. He longed to dissolve and vanish into the ethereal. The weight of his identity was too heavy for him to bear. It pushed him towards the past, to vanish into forgetfulness. He wanted to get rid of his identity by fading away, by escaping or hiding. If it wasn’t possible to do that, he had to hide behind another character, a new name and a whole new life.
Had Yousef been thinking of changing his identity at that time? Of acquiring a new name and personality? Or of becoming a member of the Tobacco Shop club? This was what the events of his life would reveal.
Yousef’s life was steeped in the identity conflicts of the Middle East. The present, he felt, was dominated by the spectre of war and civil strife. He thought that identities spelled the end of the world. He felt suffocated and almost dead, for the country was like a ship sinking slowly while his fears spiralled. The world around him was receding and collapsing. The country was plagued by successive defeats and being torn to pieces. It was being preyed upon by all-consuming ideologies and dominated by chaos and the total absence of rationality and ethics. His own existence was under constant threat.
Instead of feeling that he was at the centre of things, Yousef was overwhelmed by a deep apprehension. A massive force was pushing him towards a dark abyss. There was degeneration, regression and a sense of defeat and collapse. Eids became depressing and the festive spirit was almost gone. Society was no longer a beautiful presence but an intricate and frightening labyrinth. Everything had become much narrower in scope. As soon as he’d passed through one barrier, his head would bump into another. It was a new but terrifying world that smelled of blood. It rushed steadily forward, but only towards the precipice.
He was still alive, but without a present or a future. He seemed to be going through a succession of vertical falls into a black, bottomless pit or into nothingness. Since 1941, Yousef had felt that the abyss would swallow up the whole of society. Death would be everywhere, and all his acquaintances would have to emigrate or die. But emigrate where? Emigration was a vague longing, a leap into the unknown. Would emigration tear down the walls? Would it banish the persistent scenes that gave him nightmares? Would it eliminate the Jewish fear of society that had persisted throughout history? Would it end the feeling of alienation and the impulse to go back to the womb? Would it demolish the wall separating the self from others or the ‘here’ from ‘there’? What would lie beyond these borders? Chaos, nothingness or paradise?
Travelling to Israel was never his objective. Although travelling in itself was fairly easy, leaving Iraq seemed to him to be entering a completely alien universe. He knew that visas were being granted to Jews, but would then be retracted and cancelled. Applications would be repeated time and time again, perhaps twenty times. Yet finally, Yousef had to get rid of his music sheets, his violin and his memories. The Jews had to leave for Israel because they’d been stripped of their Iraqi nationality. They would be deported with nothing more than the clothes they were wearing. So they put on their most expensive clothes and left for Israel. Inspection procedures at the time were terrifying and took forever.
Eventually he came to a conclusion of sorts. He opened his mouth and in a weak, inaudible voice said, ‘I’ll go to Israel.’
His wife Farida asked him to repeat this statement several times. She stopped reading her book and said in a apprehensive voice, ‘Are you sure? How strange!’ Then she fell silent.
At that moment, Yousef had little to say. The decision was simple and straightforward: All Jews had to leave their homes, furniture, and possessions and travel with nothing but their clothes. So the Jews bought the most expensive outfits, trousers, shirts, suits and shoes. Yousef, whose passion for music didn’t allow him to leave his violin behind, smashed it into pieces.
He told Farida what he’d done. He’d left for the theatre and come back without the violin. When she opened the door for him, with Meir on her arm, she looked at him briefly and felt that in front of her stood a different person. She stared at him with new eyes, while he responded with a tearful, sorrowful look. She controlled her feelings but he could not. His trembling lips expressed the inexpressible. It was a silent dialogue, a kind of brief ritual in which each of them rediscovered the other.
The inspector of emigrants stood by the metal fence. Behind him were two policemen dressed in khaki uniforms with broad leather belts and heavy boots. Huge pistols hung heavily on their right sides.
Yousef stood in the long line with Farida carrying Meir, each with a ‘final exit’ permit and a photograph. The line was made up of Jews wearing their finest clothes. Unable to carry any valuables, they had sold their gold, their furniture, their elegant houses and cars, and had bought hats, tuxedos and starched shirts. The women were wearing elegant skirts and expensive suits. Yousef looked at the line and burst out laughing; it looked more like a queue for a party than for emigration. What a ridiculous sight! They moved slowly forward in front of the inspection officers. The officers took the clothes out of the suitcases and ordered the Jews to take off their shoes, shirts and jackets. When the man standing in line in front of Yousef took off his clothes, the policemen burst out laughing, for the man was wearing four shirts and three pairs of trousers, one on top of the other.
‘He has to remove his shoes! We need to check he’s not wearing another pair underneath,’ the customs officer shouted.
Neither Yousef nor Farida were wearing anything new or expensive. They went in their ordinary clothes and bought nothing new for Meir. They gave away all their furniture and books to friends. Like two philosophers, they stood with a small suitcase containing essential clothes and items. Neither of them felt any sense of weariness. They felt numbed as they stood in line, watching the other people. As though in a dream, they couldn’t believe what was happening. They gazed wi
th cold detachment as their steel suitcases were inspected, their few clothes spread out, their documents and certificates torn to pieces, their soap bars crushed over the clothes and their shoes inspected to make sure that no gold was being smuggled in.
In two important letters that I received in Baghdad, Farida detailed the history of Yousef’s immigration to Israel and the years he’d spent there. It’s also important to say a few things about Farida.
(Farida Reuben was a woman of average beauty. She was very slim and had large dark eyes. After graduating from Laura Khedouri School in Baghdad, she joined the Women’s College to study Arabic literature. Because she felt that her college education was rather removed from practical life, she embarked on the task of educating herself, especially as she was proficient in English and French, in addition to Hebrew and Arabic. Hoping to become a full-time writer one day, she enrolled at university as soon as she arrived in Israel. She majored in Arabic literature and continued her studies until she obtained her doctorate. She then started teaching at Jerusalem University.)
Farida related that as soon as the plane landed in Israel, all the passengers shouted, ‘Shalom Haber!’. But the Ashkenazim didn’t respond, they just sprayed them with DDT to prevent them from carrying their Iraqi germs into the Promised Land. They were then transported in cattle trucks to the quarantine camp in Shaar Ha-Aliya, the ‘Immigrant Gateway’. They stood in line for vaccination and in food queues for half a boiled egg and five olives each. Two days later, Yousef, Farida and Meir were taken to another camp, with two other families, in a large vehicle designed for transporting cattle. At the camp, Yousef had to learn to stand in line for water, for the toilet and for bread. He had to learn to buy meat, eggs and butter using coupons and to work as a builder.
Yousef sat, moving his fingers in the air as though playing music.
In Israel, time had come to a complete standstill. Life was monotonous and unchanging. Yousef watched the passing of the seasons, one after the other. He recalled the old days in Baghdad and relived them in the present. He felt that he was living outside time. His little diary was full of the tedious rhythm of immigrant life: the pale faces, the dismal routine of soldiers and the total absence of joy, wonder and beauty. He searched for an answer but found none, although what he was looking for was to be found in a mysterious and simple enough explanation. It was to be found in a simple metaphysical image that was like an invisible bridge between him and the unknown. He realized that truth was granted to no one and that the Promised Land had been promised long ago. Although he felt hesitant and giddy, and was full of sorrow and conflict, the whole world seemed to urge him to leave.
His decision to return to Iraq was final and categorical. He had no doubts. [Farida wrote in detail about his idea in an explanatory note appended to one of the letters sent to her from Tehran, dated January 1952. He also offered the same explanation in his diary.]
At the beginning, Yousef joined Rakah, the Israeli Communist Party. That same year, he met Emile Habibi, who was rather plump with black hair combed back and a moustache that gently outlined his upper lip. Yousef spent lovely evenings with the communist intellectual Emile, who later became a writer. They had heated discussions about the changes that were happening to Arabic literature. All the evidence proves that it was Emile who arranged Yousef’s escape to Moscow once Yousef had told him of his desire to return to Iraq. One day Emile came running, his face sweating, and wearing a striped navy blue jacket and a white shirt. He stood in front of Yousef smiling, an elegant silk scarf tied around his neck. (Yousef Saleh used to call him the elegant communist.) Emile gave him a piece of paper written in Russian, an invitation to give a concert in Moscow. Yousef felt extremely happy. Not only would he travel to Moscow, but he would also be returning to music and giving a recital in front of an audience.
The following day, Yousef stood with his arms dangling at his sides in front of comrade Klausner. The curtains were drawn in the modest office located in an area far from the city centre. Without looking at him directly, Klausner said, ‘You’re travelling to Moscow for this big concert and coming back, right?’
Yousef answered him coldly, ‘Yes.’
In her letter, Farida said, ‘He didn’t sleep a wink from the moment he got the plane ticket. He stayed up late, distressed at the prospect of leaving me and his son Meir. But he was also happy that he’d got a ticket to Moscow, and on to Tehran. According to his plan, Baghdad would be the next leg of his trip. He said that we could join him later.’
Yousef believed that the Iraqi Jews would return to Baghdad, or at least most of them. He believed that the government would retract its decision to strip them of their nationality and would return their property. It would be natural for them then to return because Israel was nothing but a wasteland compared to the sophistication of Baghdad. Why should all those traders, craftsmen, employees, army officers and doctors work as casual labourers in a tiny, underdeveloped country?
All the documents in our possession confirm that Yousef arrived in Moscow in the evening. But it’s not clear how he spent his first week there, for he didn’t write anything about his feelings during the concert or afterwards. The only person he met in Moscow at that time was Kakeh Hameh, who told me about it when I met him later. But Hameh didn’t attend the concert and knew nothing about it. The only thing he told me was that a comrade had asked him to contact another communist who wanted to go to Tehran. That was how he’d arranged for him to get a fake passport in the name of Haidar Ali, which would allow him later to enter Iraq. That was the only task assigned to Kakeh Hameh. But Yousef later wrote about this task in more detail. In a separate letter that he sent to Farida from Moscow, dated one week after his arrival, he told her that he’d succeeded in contacting some Iraqi communists and had told them of his wish to return to Baghdad. He also told her about his meeting with Kakeh Hameh and many other things, including attending concerts given by Mark Goezler, the thin, silver-haired German musician. Yousef created a venerable image of him in his imagination, which lived on in his memory for some time. In the same letter, he described to her how he had walked in the freezing cold of Moscow, filled with ecstasy as he took a route that crossed fields and passed buildings wrapped in mist. He’d walked with his hands in his coat pockets, condensation rising from his nose and mouth and vanishing in the air. Nothing disturbed the stillness except the screams of seagulls diving in the air and the sounds of sledges as they slid hastily away. When he’d entered the large concert hall, all the seats and stalls had been completely empty. He’d remained there until the hall began to fill up. When the conductor began and the music started, his eyes welled up with tears. By the end of the concert, he was totally oblivious of everything around him. He later walked along the wet roads, passing pedestrians, cars, cows, dogs and sledges, and overwhelmed by a profound feeling of ecstasy.
When Yousef returned to his apartment in a small suburb of Moscow, there were piles of snow on the pavement. He felt the cold breeze hit him in the face as he turned the key in the lock. He was utterly exhausted. Taking off his heavy coat, he threw it on the sofa and sat on the black leather chair, stretched his legs onto the table opposite. In no time at all he fell into a long nap from which he was woken by the ringing of the telephone. He looked at his watch and discovered it was very late. Kakeh Hameh’s voice came over the line, inviting him to meet up again at the Novoslobodskaya train station, which was near the house.
Yousef got dressed in a hurry and went to the great station. He heard the harsh, grating sounds of the brakes as the trains ground to a halt. The passengers got off. Kakeh Hameh was waiting for him at the telephone booth, with a Russian musician called Sergey Oistrakh, who was wearing a black hat and was standing with his wife, a tall, blonde woman. Oistrakh spoke only Russian, so Kakeh Hameh translated. To the ringing of the station bell, the four of them walked through the crowds and arrived at a wooden house nearby. It had an iron gate and was surrounded by linden trees. Kakeh Hameh talked to Yousef for
a long time and gave him a lot of information about getting to Tehran. He then gave him a fake passport in the name of Haidar Salman, musician. He told him to stay for a while in Tehran and then move to Baghdad.
Two hours later, they headed for the Sheremetyevo airport on the outskirts of Moscow. In the evening Yousef boarded a plane bound for Prague. A Czech musician called Karl Baruch collected him from the airport and took him to a place outside Prague. In an isolated wooden house in a vast forest near the city of Mladá Boleslav, they sat together and chatted about music for a long time. Yousef thoroughly enjoyed talking to him, for Karl Baruch was a young man in his twenties, like him. He had blond hair and blue eyes. He wore a white coat and carried a leather briefcase. He gave Yousef a beautiful violin as a present, which he hugged in an expression of his gratitude. Yousef didn’t sleep all night long. Every time he opened his eyes and caught sight of the violin, he smiled and tried once more to sleep.
In the morning, Yousef went straight to the Iranian embassy in Prague. As soon as he had obtained an entry visa to the country, he booked a flight on a Norwegian plane bound for the Iranian capital, Tehran. Did the composer feel that he had left the personality of Yousef Sami Saleh on the seat behind him and acquired a new one? In one of his letters he mentioned that it was on that day that he heard from Karl Baruch about Tobacco Shop. Did he realize that his new persona would be that of the protected man?