Ruthie sat, mesmerized. She tried to imagine such a display of wealth and grandeur; in her little mind, the scene was lifted straight out of Cinderella’s ball. She looked into her grandmother’s eyes, sighed, and said, “If only I lived in Iraq.”
These words cut at Farida’s heart. “God forbid!” she shouted, warding off the evil eye. “There’s more to life than money, Ruthie,” she said. “When you grow up, you’ll understand. Sure, money’s nice, but we didn’t want to stay in Baghdad, Ruthie. We wanted to come to the Holy Land. What don’t we have here? Gold? Believe me, things are good here. The people in Baghdad are miserable. There’s a tyrant over there by the name of Saddam; he kills people right and left, for no reason at all. If he thinks a person said bad things about him, he’ll kill him. Do you see, Ruthie? Democracy is more important. It’s hard for you to understand, so let me explain it. Democracy is being able to walk through the streets and say whatever you want, without being afraid. Now do you understand? Money isn’t everything. This is where we belong. Here, nobody calls you stinking Jew when they pass you on the street. Do you understand what this means?”
Ruthie sat, mute, gazing at Farida’s impassioned face, listening.
“Ruthie, nothing’s like our country, because it’s our country. Remember what I’m telling you,” she concluded in a decisive voice, “even when you’re a big girl.”
After a long silence, Farida resumed. “Now, let me tell you about the ball. But just remember: I have never missed Iraq, not once. Deal?”
Although Ruthie didn’t really understand what her grandmother meant, she said, “Deal.”
“Good. Now I can go on. So, for this party . . .” Once again, Farida’s face was calm, with no trace of her recent outburst. “We needed even more help. Everyone sent their servants to our house for several days. You’re going to laugh when I tell you which was the hardest job of all.”
“Which?” Ruthie was relieved to hear her grandmother’s voice return to normal.
“Cleaning the gigantic fish. Shevit they were called. Turbot.”
“What kind of fish are those?” asked Ruthie. “I’ve heard of carp. Once, at Grandmother Rosa’s house, I saw some carp in the bathtub. We ate them on Rosh Hashanah.”
“They’re not exactly the same,” laughed Farida. She stroked her granddaughter’s hair. “Shevit are giant fish that live in the rivers of Baghdad. They don’t have them here. Should I go on?” She arched her eyebrows.
“Yes, Grandmother,” Ruthie said. “Tell me more.”
“First, we had to clean the fish; then we had to fry them. And you know why we needed so many?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Because eating fish is a mitzvah—a good deed. And do you know why it’s a mitzvah?”
“No.” Ruthie’s stared at her grandmother.
“Because fish are a good sign. They bring good luck—the more fish, the better. Also, whenever there was a Bar Mitzvah or a wedding, all the Jews were invited. The poor people would get a hot meal, which is also a mitzvah. There were a lot of people to feed.”
“But Grandmother, wait a minute.” Creases furrowed Ruthie’s brow. “Why didn’t your mother take care of you?”
“Ah, that’s a good question,” Farida said. “We were very rich and well-respected in our community. You’re right, even though our mother was in charge of the household, it was a servant who bathed and fed us. That’s how things were over there. My mother supervised everyone: the kids, the servants, my father.” She gave a bitter smile. “My father was in charge of discipline. He was like your school principal. Can you imagine that?”
“My father and mother aren’t like that, are they?” Ruthie asked.
“No,” Farida smiled. “Definitely not. But things were different in those days. My father was one of the most important men in the community; people trembled in his presence. As for my mother, well, my mother was always busy, going to tea parties, visiting her neighbors, someone was born, someone died… she was hardly ever at home. She also liked to entertain. Anyone lucky enough to receive an invitation to our house was considered important, because he had been hosted by Um Anwar. That’s what they used to call my mother. It means ‘Mother of Anwar’—Anwar was her first-born son. My sister Farcha, who was already married with children of her own, also rarely took care of her kids. She was busy going with my grandmother, Samira, to many different parties.”
“And your mother never missed you?” Ruthie had a puzzled look on her face. “When my mother comes home from work, she always tells me how much she missed me. But my mother has to work, she says. So why did your mother leave you all the time?”
“A blessing on your head—what a smart girl you are,” said Farida in amazement. “You’re right; your mother does miss you all the time. But that’s how it was when I was a girl. In Iraq it was all about social status. The more servants you had, the more respected you were. My mother almost never hugged and kissed us; she was too preoccupied with her own affairs. But you know what? Even though she wasn’t with us, it felt like her eyes followed us everywhere. She always knew exactly what we were up to, and if, God forbid, someone was sick, she always took care of that child herself. But raising children? I just don’t think it interested her. Okay, enough of that, Ruthie. That’s the way things were. Do you still want to live in Iraq?”
“No,” Ruthie said. “Absolutely not. But go on about the party. What was it like?”
“Wait a minute—what’s the rush? Before I talk about the party itself, I want to tell you some other important things. You know that the winters in Iraq are so cold that water freezes in the faucets?”
“No, you never told me that before.”
“The winters were brutal. Iraq is a desert, but it was so cold come wintertime that water froze in the pipes, and everything came to a halt.”
“Why?” Ruthie asked. “Didn’t you like to chew on ice when you were a kid?”
“Of course I did. I still like it to this day. But you’re a smart girl—tell me, how can you get water from a faucet if it’s frozen inside the pipes? You can’t, right? And if you can’t get it from the tap, you have to get it from outside, which is very hard work. So the week before the party we prayed the water wouldn’t freeze, because if it did, we wouldn’t be able to cook anything. And really, we were very lucky it didn’t freeze. And another thing. The night before the party, we were so excited. We were waiting for our grandmother, my father’s mother, and for Aunt Madeline, my father’s sister. They were coming on the train from Basra, another city a long way from Baghdad. The ride took hours, and then, to get to our house, they had to travel by carriage.”
“Carriages with horses, like the ones we went on in Netanya?” said Ruthie.
“Yes, a lot like the ones in Netanya. That’s how people traveled from one place to another; they used them all the time, like we use cars today. Every evening, at exactly the same time, the train arrived at the station, which was near our house. We heard the whistle when it pulled into the station, And then the sound of whips as the horses pulled the carriages.”
“Wow!”
“You know, our house was always open to guests. All the carriage drivers knew that if a Jew came from far away and didn’t have a place to sleep, he’d be able to stay with us. My mother, while a terrible snob toward people in our community, welcomed strangers graciously. You know what a snob is, right?”
“I think so, Grandmother,” Ruthie said. “A snob is someone with her nose in the air—that’s what my friend Noga says. Like this.” Ruthie lifted her nose and laughed.
“That looks like a pig’s nose!” Farida laughed, too. She gave her granddaughter a wet kiss on the cheek. “Should we go on?”
“Of course, Grandmother. This is a great story.”
“Okay. So,” Farida said, “there were nights when we heard the horsewhips coming closer. That’s when we knew someone was coming to stay with us. But that evening, we knew who was coming: not just any old guests, but Grandmother and Aunt Madeline. S
o we sat there and waited, and every time we thought we heard the horsewhips, we jumped from our seats. I remember I missed my grandmother fiercely. I hadn’t seen her for half a year—a long, long time.”
Farida looked at the sweet, small face staring at her, enraptured. For a moment, she felt like she herself was a child talking to her sister Violet. She vividly remembered that night, the night before Eddie’s Bar Mitzvah. She was almost eleven, and she missed her grandmother terribly. She hadn’t thought about her grandmother in years. To Farida’s dismay, the feeling disappeared as quickly as it had come. She went back to her story.
“You have to understand, Ruthie,” she explained solemnly. “Our lives in Iraq were nothing like our lives today. Here, we get into a car and drive for five minutes. There, if you didn’t live very close to people, you hardly ever saw them. You’d see them at weddings, maybe, and brits, sometimes on holidays. Once a year, more or less. That’s how it was. My father’s family lived in a different city: Basra. Like I said, it was far away. That’s why I was so excited about my grandmother’s visit.”
“We are lucky to live in Israel. Very lucky,” said Ruthie with a solemn look. Farida broke out into a broad smile. Ruthie, waiting in suspense, asked, “Then what happened? Did they get there?”
“Of course they did,” Farida said. “And when they got there, we all went downstairs to greet them. The kids got out of bed and ran, and the reunion with Grandmother, it was so emotional, you wouldn’t believe how much hugging and kissing . . . My grandmother gave me a bear hug, just like I give you when you come over. Like this.” She pressed Ruthie to her chest in a hug so tight it almost suffocated the child.
“I get the idea!” Ruthie said, laughing. “Stop, you’re practically choking me.”
Farida laughed, too. She loved telling Ruthie these stories about her family. She was so happy; it was hard to tell which of them enjoyed the stories more. When their laughter died down, Farida continued.
“Eddie got so many Bar Mitzvah presents. Grandmother made him three suits: one for being called to the Torah, one for the special ceremony of tying the Tefillin to the head and to the arm, and one for the party, which I’ll tell you about in a minute. My grandmother didn’t forget anyone; she brought all kinds of goodies. You know what we got?”
“What? Did she bring you candy? I love candy,” Ruthie said dreamily. “Did you get a lot of candy?”
“No,” said Farida. “We didn’t get any candy at all. When I was a kid, ‘candy’ meant dried fruit: figs, dates, raisins, and tamarind, which is kind of sour. Even those were a rare treat. Oh, I remember now. My grandmother also brought mlabas. Do you know what those are?” Farida couldn’t wait for an answer; once again, she was a small child, savoring many tastes. “It’s a sweet, sticky kind of delicacy, filled with almonds. Sometimes I buy Iraqi treats at Ezra’s shop downtown. But they’re not the same.”
“Oh,” she went on, “how we waited for something sweet . . . On very rare occasions, we got foreign chocolate, if we had a guest from England or something. But for my grandmother, Allah yirchama (may God bless her memory), nothing was too good for us. That day, we even got chocolate, which to this day I can still taste.”
“Yum,” Ruthie said, licking her lips. “Me, too.”
“The next morning, after everyone got ready, we gathered in the parlor. Eddie had put together a whole performance for all the important guests. What can I tell you?” Farida tapped her thigh, and her face was radiant. “Eddie was a master. The plays he would put on! Sometimes he even made movies with us. He organized the whole thing himself. He’d write the story—the screenplay, it’s called; he’d cut pictures out of newspapers and glue them to paper, one after the other. You know, we didn’t have television back then, and Eddie was the only one allowed to go to the movies.”
“Why?” Ruthie asked.
“That’s how it was when I was a kid,” she said, waving her hand. “Eddie was a boy, but Violet and I were girls, so we weren’t allowed to attend movies. The other boys in the family were too young. But hold on a minute—where was I?”
“At the play, Grandmother,” Ruthie said. “Did you forget already?”
“Oh, yes, that’s right.” Farida returned to her memories. “So Eddie put on a special play in honor of his Bar Mitzvah. He played the lead role, and he was in love with the lead actress—you know what the lead is, right?”
“Not exactly,” Ruthie said.
“Well, if you don’t know, you have to ask, okay?” Farida pursed her lips.
“Fine. So what’s the lead?”
“The lead is the most important actor in the play. He’s kind of in charge of all the other actors, understand? And who do you think the lead actress was?”
“The lead actress is like the lead actor, right, only she’s a girl?” asked Ruthie.
“That’s right. God bless you—how smart you are.”
“So who was the lead actress?” Ruthie asked.
“Me.” Farida pointed to herself with pride. “Eddie played the role of someone in love with me. And me? I was thrilled, I was just thrilled. I was in heaven. You know why?” Again, she didn’t wait for an answer. She leaned in close to her granddaughter. “Because I was in love with him,” she whispered. “But like I told you, that’s our little secret, right?”
“Yes, Grandmother. I already promised you.” Ruthie pretended to zip her lips. “But if you were in love with him why didn’t you marry him?”
“Wait a minute, my little one,” Farida sighed. “That’s a long, long story, which I’ll tell you another time.”
“First tell me about the play.”
Farida happily continued: “So this is what happened. The two of us, Eddie and I, we were the stars of the show, like I said. There were other actors, too. For example, the parents of the happy couple were played by two of my girlfriends. They borrowed clothes from their parents. We all worked so hard; people couldn’t wait to see our shows,” Farida bragged. “What didn’t we have in that play? We had an evil old uncle played by Farcha’s oldest son Danny—you’ve met him. He was younger than us. I think I’ve named all the actors . . . what a plot, ya walli, such a sad story about love, heartbreaking, really. I even sang some songs by Leila Mourad—she was a famous vocalist. And Eddie sang songs by another famous singer: Abd al-Wahhab.”
“Oh, Grandmother, that sounds so nice. Do you think we can put on a play for Mommy and Shai when they wake up?”
“That’s not a bad idea,” Farida smiled, “but not today, okay? I mean, if we’re going to do a play, we might as well do it right. With costumes and everything.” She winked at her granddaughter and continued: “Well, nobody missed this play. Everyone was looking forward to it: my father and mother, and Anwar, and my sisters, and of course all of their kids, and Aunt Madeline, and Grandmother, even the neighbors. We rehearsed and rehearsed, ya binati, until we were absolutely certain we were ready. Then we made invitations for neighbors and friends, for family, and for all the important guests. We wrote, ‘You are invited to the most important, earth-shattering show in the world.’” Farida said like a town crier; she waved her hands in invitation. “Everyone was invited. ‘Bring handkerchiefs,’ we told them, ‘there will be much crying.’” Farida chuckled, then succumbed to a fit of laughter that brought tears to her eyes.
The bedroom door opened, and Sigal joined them. “Oh,” Farida said apologetically, “I see Ima has woken up.”
“But you still haven’t told me anything about this Bar Mitzvah,” said Ruthie.
“That`s not so bad, Ruthie, a blessing on your head,” Farida said. “Next time we’ll pick up right where we left off. Now come with me and we’ll make your Ima some coffee, okay?” And with that, she plodded off to the kitchen.
Chapter Eight: The Bar Mitzvah
Thursday, October 18, 1986
Back to my nephew Eddie’s Bar Mitzvah—the Bar Mitzvah that was one of the highlights of my life.
“Grandmother’s here!” we all cried
from the rooftop. “Grandmother’s here!” We ran downstairs to greet her, and I threw my arms around her neck. My beloved grandmother held me to her chest and whispered she loved me, that she’d brought a gorgeous dress made just for me, a dress I could wear to the fancy party that followed the regular celebration. “Oh, Grandmother,” I whispered in her ear, “thank you! I missed you so much . . .” My parents also came down to welcome their guests; then we all went inside. The house was ready for the Bar Mitzvah.
When I look back at the party, after all these years, I realize Eddie didn’t really want to be the center of attention. Every chance he got, he evaded the commotion, slipping out to ride his new bicycle, a gift from Richie’s parents. Richie, Eddie’s best friend, was the son of Mr. Hardy, my father’s boss. The Hardys lived in England and were only in Iraq temporarily. Iraq was administered via British Mandate back then, and Mr. Hardy was the manager of the Department of Water and Agriculture. The primary function of this department was to protect the Chidekel River from flooding. My father’s division was responsible for stockpiling sandbags, wood, bags of cement—materials that would allow citizens to protect homes and property when the river flooded, which occurred almost yearly. Aba was the department’s chief accountant, and it was his job that was responsible for our family moving to the big city.
Daughters of Iraq Page 5