Eddie and Richie were best friends. They’d meet after school and hang out in the Hardy mansion’s courtyard. They went to movies and plays, and they fantasized about girls. Eddie dreamed of Farida; even then, he was in love with her. Farida was a real beauty: raven hair; alabaster skin; big, dark, curious eyes. Her good nature was apparent to everyone. In her heart, Farida was Ima’s good girl, but because she tried to emulate me, she got into trouble.
For the tefillin ceremony—the first time Eddie wore phylacteries—people thronged the house. We all wore our finest clothes. Grandmother made two dresses for Farida and me, one for each party. For the hanachat tefillin, we both wore white muslin gowns with long pink sashes. Our evening frocks were made of velvet. Farida’s was blue with white trim, and mine was purple, to highlight the paleness of my skin. Eddie wore a suit to both events, but he changed ties; he seemed very confused. My sister Habiba looked resplendent, and she was very emotional. This was her eldest son’s Bar Mitzvah, the first of the grandsons. Habiba was a young mother; she was only thirty-one when Eddie celebrated his Bar Mitzvah. Today, women her age are just starting to become mothers.
When Farida looked at Eddie, her eyes sparkled with pride and happiness. He was sneaking glances at her, too. When he first donned his tefillin, the women trilled with joy. Eddie didn’t make a single mistake. Afterward, the rabbi of our community, Chacham Sasson, spoke of the importance of tefillin and Eddie’s responsibilities henceforth. Even after all these years, I still remember the details. That day is etched in my memory forever.
Chacham Sasson blessed the entire family and wished Eddie health, wisdom, and a long life. And he blessed himself as well, asking for the privilege of attending Eddie’s future wedding. When the rabbi talked of Eddie’s wedding, Farida blushed. I remember monitoring her reactions. Her love for Eddie was a secret, and she hadn’t exactly told me about her feelings, but she always was—and still is—unable to hide things from me. Years later, Farida told me that on that day, when she was not even eleven years old, she imagined herself and Eddie standing under the wedding canopy, Chacham Sasson officiating. She dreamt of that day; she hoped and prayed for it. My father’s grandmother was betrothed at the age of nine, married at twelve, and had her first son at fourteen, so it felt natural to be in love at such a young age, even planning a wedding.
After the tefillin ceremony, it was time for the festive meal we’d planned so long for. The tables stood stacked with delicacies: all variety of meat and fish, vegetables, fresh fruit, dried fruit, different kinds of pickles—like mkhalela, turnips steeped in saltwater—and tum ajam—garlic marinated in salt and curry. Everyone enjoyed the lavish hospitality and gorged themselves. We kids focused on the desserts served after the meal, which included all the sweets we loved so much. We stuffed ourselves with ginger, marzipan, baklava, and mlabas. These days, I still go to Petach Tikvah every now and then to buy these treats, usually right before Purim.
After the big meal, we capped the glorious day with a European-style dance party—a Bar Mitzvah gift from my parents (Eddie’s grandparents) to Habiba and her husband.
My mother, whose expertise and authority made her the natural choice, was in charge of putting together the impressive invitation list. Needless to say, it included all of the Baghdad bigwigs, many of whom were not Jewish. We waltzed, tangoed, and danced all of the couples dances just becoming popular at Iraqi-Jewish parties. The men wore elegant suits, and the women were garbed in fantastic dresses modeled on Paris and London catalogues and made by the best seamstresses in Iraq. Farida and I, in the dresses made by our grandmother, looked much older than we were, which made us giddy. We waited nervously for men to ask us to dance.
I will never forget the excitement that seized us that day. Farida, I remember, was even more emotional than I was. Around her neck she wore our mother’s pearl necklace, and her blue dress brought out her lovely dark eyes. She pinched her cheeks to make them red, outshining the other girls at the party. Eddie wore his Bar Mitzvah suit, with a flower in his lapel. He wasn’t accustomed to these kinds of festivities and acted very flustered, although it may have been Farida’s beauty that stunned and unnerved him. Her looks certainly had the same effect on the other boys. Eddie couldn’t stop watching her. He was good-looking, with an attractive personality, and, because he came from a well-known and respected family, he was considered an excellent match. Many girls vied for his attention, but it didn’t matter. Farida was the only one who interested him.
Farida stood next to our mother, waiting for an invitation to dance. I’m sure she secretly hoped Eddie would approach her. I danced with neighborhood boys. I felt radiant; my dress accentuated my body, and my long hair, usually tied back, was loose. I felt womanly, no longer a little girl playing in the mud, running around, getting into trouble, but practically a real woman. And Eddie . . . Well, Eddie asked Farida. He danced the first dance with her, and the second, then the third and the fourth. Eddie danced with her the entire night. Their feelings were so intense they were on the verge of tears. This was the first time Eddie’s face was so close to Farida’s, the first time they’d touched like this—not as part of a game, not as a way to annoy each other. This was different: a mature touch, a loving touch. I heard Ima whisper to Aba that they’d have to pay closer attention to the kids, to their eldest grandson and their youngest daughter. Many romantic relationships between family members weren’t seen as peculiar back then—forty-five years ago in Iraq there were marriages between cousins, between uncles and nieces. But with Eddie and Farida, something wasn’t right. Marriages between nephews and aunts, those were unusual.
In any case, it was Farida and Eddie’s night. I remember it in great detail. Maybe because the two of them were so close to me, or maybe because I envied them. I, who had always formed a vital part of our happy trio, was left out.
Chapter Nine: Noa
Ofir
Noa returned to her small dorm room exhausted; it had been a long day. Her roommate, Ofir, wasn’t home, and she was glad. She wasn’t in the mood for small talk. The diary was buried deep inside her bag. Noa wasn’t planning to look at it just yet, at least not that night. She was too distraught. The existence of the secret diary had turned her world upside-down, and she didn’t think she had the emotional fortitude to read it. She lay on her shabby sofa, facing the wall, sinking in memories.
Images floated before her eyes: a hug from her mother at her kindergarten birthday party; her parents arguing like children about something trivial when she was ten or eleven; her parents reconciling, kissing, drawing her into their embrace. She recalled one time when she was almost twelve, almost a Bat-Mitzvah, and her brother Guy was chasing her around, trying to tickle her, and she couldn’t get away because she was laughing so hard, and Guy caught her right away. Her mother complained they were being too rambunctious, preventing her from working, but she couldn’t help being swept up in their silliness, and in the end both Noa and Guy pounced on Violet and tickled her. She remembered her father telling her about her mother’s illness; she didn’t really understand. She was fourteen years old. Her mother looked ashen, but tried to act like nothing was wrong, like nothing would ever be wrong. Everything was normal, no cause for worry, her parents told her. Her mother was strong. She’d prevail over any illness.
Noa’s mother rose with the children every morning and prepared hot drinks for the whole family. Strong brewed coffee for Aba, tea with fresh mint for Guy, and instant coffee with milk for Noa. Noa was already seventeen, and her mother had ceased teaching at the university. She told Noa she’d decided to take a year to research the seclusion of Tel Aviv’s ultra-Orthodox community. It sounded strange to Noa, her mother taking an entire year to study something that sounded like a disease. It wasn’t until much later that Noa understood the concept of isolation, of seclusion—but even so, she would never have guessed her mother’s true condition. Soon after, Noa was drafted, and on the day of her induction, the whole family accompanied her to Tel Hashomer.
Noa’s mother didn’t stop crying, nor did Noa. They embraced for a long time, until Noa had to get on the bus. They had a hard time saying goodbye. And then . . .
Noa didn’t hear Ofir enter. She didn’t hear him set down his briefcase and call for her. She was so absorbed in her thoughts she didn’t realize he was standing next to her, looking at her.
“Noa?”
She jumped up. “Are you crazy, scaring me like that? How long have you been standing there anyway?”
“I’m sorry. I really wasn’t trying to scare you.” Ofir sounded contrite. “I just walked in. Are you Okay?”
“Why? Do I look like I’m not?” She didn’t like others seeing her at her weakest.
“You look fine,” Ofir answered, confused. “But you also look a little strange. How could you not have heard me come in?”
“I don’t know; I just didn’t.” Noa tugged down on her shirt, straightening it, and sat back down. “Tell me, how do you know there’s something wrong?” She stared up into his face, curious.
“Oh . . . that’s easy. Believe it or not, Noa, you’re very transparent.” Ofir knelt and looked into her eyes. “When you’re in a good mood, you can tell from miles away.” He gave a thumbs-up then turned his thumb toward the floor, “ And when you’re in a bad mood, you can also tell from miles away. So what’s going on, Noa?” He got off his knees and sat next to her.
Noa debated whether or not to tell Ofir about her evening. She decided she had nothing to hide. She looked down and then spoke. “You won’t believe what happened to me today; you just won’t believe it.”
Ofir sat on an armchair across from her, waiting.
“After my exam, I went to visit my aunt.” Noa paused.
“Which aunt? The Iraqi one with the good food, or the native Israeli one who rolls her Rs?” He mimicked their voices as he spoke.
Noa didn’t smile. “I was at my Aunt Farida’s, the one with the food. And at first it was really nice. You know how aunts are. They pamper you, feed you, ask about you: what’s going on, when you’re getting married. Then out of nowhere they give you a diary you didn’t know existed and send you home with enough food for a week.”
“So far it doesn’t sound so bad. What are you complaining about? At least we have Iraqi food, and we don’t have to cook. So she asked you when you’re getting married? For a week’s worth of food, that doesn’t seem like such a high price to pay.” There was a mischievous sparkle in his eyes, and he was smiling. “Wait a second.” He cut himself off. “Did you say a diary? Whose? Yours?”
“No, Ofir, not mine. It was my mother’s,” Noa whispered.
“Wow,” Ofir muttered, this time without a trace of humor. “That’s really something.” He hung his head. “So?” he said. “What did it say?” When she didn’t respond, he asked softly, “Did you have a chance to read any of it?”
“No, I couldn’t bring myself to read it. I don’t think I’m strong enough right now.”
“I understand,” he said. After a moment, he corrected himself. “Actually, no, I don’t understand why you wouldn’t want to read it . . . I mean, you don’t look particularly weak. I’m tripping over myself here, but I guess what I’m saying is that you are really a very strong human being.”
“Thank you, Ofir. You’re a good friend.” She smiled. “It’s just that right now, I feel like my whole life is turning upside-down.”
“You don’t seem to be standing on your head,” he said.
“Enough.” Noa was losing patience. “I’m really not in the mood for your humor.”
Ofir took hold of Noa’s hands, pressed them to his chest, and said, “I understand how hard things are, and to complicate them even further, I will ask you a difficult and enigmatic question: would Mademoiselle Rosen be so kind as to accompany me to a geek party at the moshav next Friday?”
“Ofir, you are such a character,” Noa said, laughing. “A geek party at an agricultural settlement? I have no idea how you do it,”
“Look, I made you smile,” Ofir said, beaming.
“Which moshav?”
“Up in the Sharon Valley—what, you think it matters which one? All those farming villages look the same to me.”
“What can I say, Ofir? As tempting and exciting as it sounds, accompanying you to a geek party somewhere up north . . . no, I’m afraid not.”
“And if I beg you to come with me, then will you agree? The truth is I asked about half the women in the city,” he said, “and nobody wanted to come with me, so as you can see, I’m truly desperate . . .” His smile was hard to resist.
“Okay, if you beg, I’ll come.” Noa laughed.
“Well, I’m begging. Should I get down on my knees?”
“No,” Noa said, “but if you make me a cup of coffee, the way I like it, I’ll call it even.” She couldn’t understand how Ofir always managed to lift her spirits.
He didn’t mention the diary again, and neither did Noa. She lay awake half the night trying to decide what to do. She put the diary under her pillow, and it felt like her mother was with her, keeping company, watching over her. Noa feared what she might find inside the journal. She was afraid of guilt that might consume her, of discovering a different mother than the one she had known. She wondered if perhaps she should just enjoy her mother’s presence and be content with that. There, under the pillow, lay something that contained her mother’s entire world.
Ehud
The next morning, Noa woke up with a peculiar feeling. It seemed like the diary under her pillow had lulled her into a deep, dreamless sleep. She stretched her limbs luxuriously and looked out the window at the street below. Warm sun rays caressed her face.
Noa smiled. She leaned on the windowsill, thinking that the world was beautiful. She had finished her exams and could finally engage in more enjoyable activities. She didn’t have to work that day, so she had a few hours to herself. She went to the shower, made sure the water was very hot, climbed in, and let it flow down on her head, her shoulders, her back. She stroked her hair, enjoying the feel of the long strands. She hugged her chest. She directed the stream between her legs until she felt the pleasure of release. Then she washed her hair, soaped her body, rinsed, dried off, and went back to her room, trailing the towel behind her.
Ofir wasn’t home, and she felt free to walk around naked. She stood opposite the mirror. Water dripped from her hair, and there were still beads of it on her chest. Noa leaned toward the mirror, smiled, and examined her dimples. She turned and looked at her small, tight behind. She rotated and looked at her stomach, pulling it in tight. No, she wasn’t thin at all. Maybe she’d be more shapely if she lost a couple of pounds, but she couldn’t resist Aunt Farida’s delicious food. And maybe she didn’t have to. She loved to eat, and she didn’t think a woman had to be thin in order to be beautiful. She took pleasure in the full curves of her body. What is going on with me, she wondered. Am I falling in love with myself?
She dressed and walked down the stairs and out into the warm Tel Aviv morning. She strolled confidently through the small, familiar streets, gazing into the colorful shop windows, looking at the faces of the passers-by. She thought about the seminar paper she had to write. She was trying to decide between two subjects, the writings of Yona Wallach and Amos Oz’s book My Michael. She loved Wallach’s poems and admired the poet’s intensity; as a result, she knew every detail of Wallach’s life. She was leaning toward Wallach and decided to visit Bet Hasofer—the literary center that housed every article ever written on Israeli authors. She would look through all the old newspaper clippings and see what she could find. On her way, she passed the used book store. Maybe I’ll pop in and take a look, she thought, just for a minute. She was addicted to these stores; she often found herself buying books, usually poetry translated into Hebrew. She also loved Simone de Beauvoir’s books and used to buy them in the English translation. Sometimes she would come across a real find in that unpredictable bookstore, like the collection of an unknown female’s poetry f
rom the previous century that had captured her heart.
Noa entered the store, looked up, and gasped. Without realizing it, she took her long hair and draped it over her chest. Across from her stood Ehud, her friend from childhood, the object of fantasies through high school and the army—her first love, painful and unfulfilled. He wore his uniform. It had been a long time since she’d last seen him. When he noticed her, he gave her a look so serious it was almost scary, as though he had just seen a ghost.
“Ehud, what are you doing here?” she said.
“Hi, Noa,” he said in a dry tone, “what are you doing here?”
“I always come here,” she said.
“Um . . . I buy books here, too, from time to time.”
“We haven’t . . . we haven’t seen each other for years,” she stammered.
“You’re right, it’s been years At least five, I think. So how are you, Noa’le?”
I can’t believe it, he called me Noa’le. “Fine. You?”
“I’m fine, too.” What a brilliant conversation, so deep and philosophical.
“What are you up to?” he asked. She was quite sure he had looked at her chest at least twice.
“In general, or now?” she asked.
“Both the former and the latter.” There he goes, still speaking like a soldier.
“I’m studying and working and living. And you?”
“I’m a career soldier. I left the army to study, then I went back. I serve in the territories, and,” he said proudly, smiling for the first time, “I’m already a major.”
“Is that what that branch means?” she said, pointing to his insignia and smiling. She wondered what the two of them could possibly have in common.
“Are you married?” she asked, hoping he would say no.
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