Daughters of Iraq

by Revital Shiri-Horowitz

  Noa put down the diary. Something else occurred to her: when this story took place, her mother was younger than she herself was now, but she had shown such wisdom, such independence! It couldn’t have been easy for her, being all alone, far from her family, with only a limited knowledge of the language. And the dramatic change in lifestyle, from her coddled life in Iraq to her life on the kibbutz, couldn’t have been easy, either. Noa knew what kibbutz life was like; she had done her army service on a kibbutz, and the transition from her childhood home to the long hours and harsh conditions of the kibbutz had been hard for her, too. Now more than ever, Noa recognized her mother’s vitality and optimism. She had learned so much about Violet in the last few weeks, and she wanted to learn more.

  The following morning, Noa awoke to the dry desert winds blowing wildly. The air was thick with dust. She opened her bedroom window, then slammed it shut. Everything outside looked murky and tinted orange. Noa lay back down. In weather like this, she thought to herself, people didn’t even want to stick their noses outside. Anyway, she didn’t have much planned for the day. She had to make some progress with her seminar paper on Yona Wallach, that was all. Before she got started, though, she would see if Ofir was back.

  She jumped up and went to the bathroom, sat on the toilet, and yawned. She brushed her teeth languidly, looking at herself in the mirror. She liked what she saw. She strolled through the apartment, naked, and went into Ofir’s room. He lay on his side, one leg entangled in the blanket, the other exposed, lying hairy and muscular, dark against the white sheet. His hands were tucked beneath his head like a pillow, and he slept soundly. The sight of his innocent face aroused Noa. She wanted to caress it, this face that was at once strange and familiar, but for the next few minutes she stayed where she was.

  He looks so sweet, she thought. He looks delicious. She walked to his bed and climbed under the covers, pressing her breasts against his back. When she nibbled on his ear and put her hand between his legs, he pushed back against her.

  “Noa,” Ofir whispered. “What are you doing? Don’t you want me to sleep?” His voice was torpid, indulgent.

  “Do you always talk in your sleep?” she said.

  “Always. It’s been a hobby of mine for a long time. Now come here,” he whispered, turning to face her. He pulled her close and kissed her full lips, then gently licked her ear. Noa settled into his embrace, felt his racing heart, measuring her body against his, matching the movements of his body. She was overcome with desire. She didn’t think about tomorrow or the next day but submitted completely to her passion. She knew he was hers, he wouldn’t turn her down, she wanted his body, and she gave in to her own pleasure. She’d leave the thinking for later. Now it was time for love.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: Farida

  Night descended upon the village. Inside her cramped apartment, Farida felt as if she could get lost inside her own walls. The emptiness was its own sound, rattling in her ears, filling her head with desperation. She heard everything: one couple argued, someone showered, another person flushed a toilet. In the apartment below, she heard clotheslines squeaking. These were the difficult hours. Sigal had come to take Ruthi home and left her alone. It was too late to call anyone, too late for a walk. She writhed in her bed, laying first on one side, then the other.

  Giving up on the idea of sleep, Farida turned on the television and watched the late-night news. The same horrifying headlines repeated over and over: more deaths, more casualties. Fatah claimed responsibility. “Murder in the family!” announced the anchorman, and Farida had heard enough. It’s not as if the news helped her sleep, she thought, and besides, there was nothing she could do. If only she could sleep like a rock at the bottom of a river, and wake refreshed the next morning after a dreamless slumber.

  “Ach,” she sighed, “Ach.” There was nothing else she could do. She couldn’t even read Violet’s diary; Noa had it now. I really must talk to that girl. I’ll call her first thing in the morning, she promised herself.

  She plodded to the kitchen, reached for the pack of cigarettes on the counter. She stuck a cigarette in her mouth and burrowed through her small matchbox. She pulled out one dead match after another. “Everything is burnt out,” she muttered. She removed the cover of the box and searched again for a match just one with a red tip. When she still came up empty, she threw the box into the sink and opened a drawer in the cabinet, looking for a new box. Once again, she was disappointed.

  She opened every door of every cabinet and rummaged through every drawer. Nothing. She went to the bedroom and ransacked every drawer in the bureau, scattering clothes around the room. She looked on every surface, on every shelf. She even crouched painfully to search beneath the bed. Eventually she stomped to the armchair on the porch and fell into it, defeated. A black night awaited her, she thought, blacker than black. In her despair, terrible thoughts rushed into her mind: I’m abandoned here, alone; nobody needs me anymore; and I don’t even have a single goddamn match!

  This loneliness . . . Two years had passed since Moshe had left her a widow. She kept active during the day, but her nights were long and barren. In the last years of his life, especially when he was sick, Moshe had filled her life. Taking care of him, accompanying him to the hospital, cooking, doing laundry, constantly trying to lift his spirits all of this had kept her busy. She still hadn’t adjusted to life without him. Her life seemed a deep and terrible chasm, impossible to fill. She cooked, cleaned, lent a hand to Sigal, entertained friends, but the nights . . . they were endless.

  Every evening, Farida girded herself for another war against sleeplessness. When the day came to an end, and silence blanketed the neighborhood, she faced a battle she knew was lost before it even began. She prayed for the elixir of sleep and was rewarded with despair. Memories sneaked in, poked through every crack, paralyzing thoughts that tormented her. Finally, early in the morning, her harrowed, exhausted body would surrender. She usually fell asleep in the armchair. Then her daughter’s daily “good morning” phone call would wake her. After several ragged nights, she would be rewarded with a one night of deep, blessed sleep. Then she’d face the cycle all over again.

  The sudden ringing of the telephone shattered the silence of the night, and her heart began to race. What had happened now? Who died? She rushed to the phone.

  “Hello, hello, who is this? What happened? Sigali?” The words tumbled out of her mouth.

  “Hello, Chana?”

  It was a man’s voice, with the same thick Iraqi accent she had, but she didn’t recognize it. “No, this isn’t Chana. Chana who?”

  “Hello, Chana?” It was as if he hadn’t heard her.

  “No,” she repeated, “this isn’t Chana. There’s no Chana. I’m afraid you have the wrong number.”

  “Oh, pardon me . . . I’m so sorry . . . I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “I wish you had woke me up! It would have meant I was asleep.”

  “Oh. I was looking for Chana,” the man said. “But it’s okay.” After a moment, he spoke in Arabic: “Anti man Iraq?” Are you from Iraq?

  “Yes,” she said in Hebrew, then switched to Arabic: “Mi inat?” Who are you?”

  “Ana kaman man Iraq,” said the unfamiliar voice. He was also from Iraq.

  Farida smiled. She wasn’t the only one in the world still awake at this late hour. And he, too, was Iraqi. She decided to learn more about this man who was also awake after the midnight broadcast of “The Daily Verse,” when the only sound emanating from the television was the monotonous, miserable hiss of static. Somehow, it was understood that they would converse in Arabic, and so they did.

  “What city are you from?” Farida asked.

  “I’m from Basra. And you?”

  “Baghdad,” Farida said. “But my grandmother lived in Basra for many years, and my family lived there for awhile, too.”

  “Who was your grandmother? Maybe I knew her. You know how it is in Iraq,” continued the anonymous voice. “Everyone knew everyone e
lse.” He sounded apologetic, hoping his candid question hadn’t put her off.

  “Yes.” Farida smiled. “Her name was Daisy Twaina, allah yirchama. She was a very special woman. She went from door to door selling cloth, and she made dresses, too, and suits for the boys. She made everything,” Farida said with pride in her voice. “My grandmother was widowed at a young age, and she had to make a living. I don’t know if you knew her. She died when my father was just a child.”

  At the other end of the wire, the man patiently waited for his turn. When she was done, he said, “Give me a minute to get my brain going. I think I know who she is . . . Twaina—Um Daoud?” The mother of David?

  “Yes, that was my grandmother! Ya’allah, what a memory you have! What a small world. How did you know who I was talking about? How do you know her? You must know my father, too.”

  “I know your grandmother because my mother used to buy her wares, and I even remember your father,” he said. “Your grandmother and your father used to come to our house to sell cloth. I was only six or seven years old, but I remember them. Your father was already a young man he might have even been married. He must have been about twenty-five. He helped her he was a good son to his mother. And she . . . well, she was something else!” he gushed. “She was what we now call a feminist. She wasn’t afraid of robbers she would walk around at night, during the day, in the heat, in the cold. Nothing stopped her.”

  Farida did some quick calculations in her head. The man she was talking to was about eight years older than her. A feeling of warmth the warmth of home filled her heart. She suddenly felt as if the walls of her house were breathing, that the suffocation she’d experienced just a few minutes earlier was abating.

  “What is your name, sir?” she asked.

  “I am Victor Cohen. A pleasure to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you, too. My goodness, what a small world,” she said. “You know, my father studied accounting during the day, then in the evening he would lug his mother’s wares all over town. Even after he had a family of his own, he continued to help her, right up until my parents moved to Baghdad because of his work. You know what it meant to be an accountant in Iraq? Working for the government, no less? I can’t remember him ever wearing anything besides a white suit not until he came to Israel. He helped his mother all his life, as much as he could, Allah yirchama.”

  “Yes, good for him,” Victor said. After an uncomfortable silence, he spoke again. “Okay. Well, I didn’t mean to bother you. You have to sleep, don’t you?”

  “Sleep?” she scoffed. “What sleep? Walla, you’re not bothering me I can’t sleep. But maybe you have to sleep?” She paused, “or something. You must be a busy man: maybe you have to get up early? Or find Chana.”

  “No, I’m not rushing off anywhere. I’ve been retired for quite awhile. I’m not going to sleep, and I don’t have to wake up early. In fact,” he admitted, “I’m having a good time talking to you. The truth is,” he said, chuckling, “I sleep very little, hardly at all. Chana is my daughter-in-law. I wanted to remind her that she’s taking me somewhere tomorrow. She and my son go to sleep very late, and I just wanted to make sure she didn’t forget. She’s a good daughter-in-law: she comes from Haifa to Ramat Gan twice a week to bring me food and takes me to the doctor. Sometimes we even go on trips.”

  “So perhaps you should hang up and call her now?” Farida tried to be polite.

  “No, no, it’s okay,” he reassured her. “I’ll call her in the morning. So what happened to your family? Where do you live now?”

  “I live in the southern section of Zichron Ya’akov, in an apartment complex. You know where that is?”

  “No, not for the life of Allah,” he laughed. “When I think of Zichron, I think of private houses.”

  “Oh, no! It’s not only houses there are apartments dating from the fifties. I’ve lived here since I married my husband, Moshe, allah yirchama. And you’re from Ramat Gan, you said?”

  “From Ramat Baghdad,” he joked. “That’s what they call Ramat Gan, right?”

  “Yes. Why did all the Iraqis decide to settle in Ramat Gan?” She liked his sense of humor.

  “And you tell me, how did that bastard Saddam Hussein manage to attack our neighborhood, sending missiles straight into the houses of the same Iraqis who ran away from his country?”

  Farida laughed and coughed, coughed and laughed. “You know, you’re right. How come I never thought of that? Maybe that’s his revenge. Bastard, may his memory be wiped out,” she spit, “may his name be cursed.”

  On the other side of the line, Farida heard the same combination of laughter and coughing.

  “Listen,” he said. “I’ve really enjoyed talking to you. You’re a lovely lady. Maybe one day I’ll dial the wrong number again?”

  “Maybe. Only God knows. Have a good night.”

  “Wait!” Victor said. “You never told me your name.”

  “I’m Farida. Farida Sasson.”

  “Nice to meet you, Farida.”

  After saying goodbye and hanging up, she continued to stare at the phone. He really was a nice man, she thought. I hope he dials the wrong number many more times. Their conversation had eased her loneliness. She went to her bedroom, forgetting about her customary bedtime cigarette, collapsed into her bed, and immediately fell asleep.

  Chapter Thirty: Violet

  Friday, April 3, 1987

  Today is my birthday. At my age, I have to think hard to make sure I get my age right: I was born in 1932, which means that I have now lived through fifty-five springs. Indeed, today is a warm and pleasant spring day; even nature seems to be sharing in my celebration. From my bedroom window I can see our flower garden: primroses, anemones, narcissus, an almond tree, all dressed for the holidays, everything in bloom. I stretch my arms, and for a moment my heart fills with joy.

  Yesterday, Noa called to wish me a happy birthday. And Guyush, my baby, stopped in my bedroom before leaving for school. His long, muscular body crouched down next to mine, and he pressed his warm cheek against mine. He’s begun to grow some stubble, and I think he’ll have to start shaving soon.

  He perched at the edge of my bed and kissed my hollow cheek. My face has grown so thin, sometimes I feel like my two cheeks are collapsing into each other and becoming one. Guy wrapped his long arm around my neck and presented me with a gift wrapped in colorful paper. I thanked him and asked his permission to open it. Guy smiled. “Of course, of course, open it!” he said. Then he said, hesitantly, that he hoped I liked it.

  I opened the package and found a small wooden jewelry box, painted and decorated by my sweet and talented son. The pictures he painted reflect the things I love the most. On the cover, he painted a beach, and on the bottom, two primroses, an anemone, and two tulips, all tied together. The sides of the box are painted with the colors of the sky. Tears filled my eyes, and my hands began to tremble.

  “Thank you,” I whispered. “Thank you so much. It’s amazing. I couldn’t have asked for a nicer gift.”

  “Ima, you still haven’t seen what’s inside,” Guy said with a smile, gesturing for me to open the box.

  Very carefully, I lifted the lid. Inside I found a silver pendant with the letters “Chet” and “Yud” engraved upon it: “Chai” life. I was speechless. The tears welling in my eyes streamed down my cheeks. I was both grateful and afraid. Who could tell what the next day would bring? Would I be here to celebrate my fifty-sixth birthday with my beloved family? Maybe not . . . and if I wasn’t going to be here, who would accompany my son to the draft office? Who would wash his uniform? Cook his favorite foods? Listen to his stories? Who would support Noa when she returned to civilian life? Who would stand by her when she fell in love? Who would walk her down the aisle? Stand at her side when her first child was born? Who would share her own experiences, her own life lessons, with Noa? How could it be anyone other than me? What a cruel world, I wanted to scream, what a terrible world. I want to live!

  My son hugged my
bony body and stroked my back. “Ima, what happened? What happened to you?” he asked over and over. I saw the guilt in his eyes. I had no control over my crying; I certainly hadn’t intended to cause my beloved son any pain. Just then, Dan-Dan walked in, carrying a tray laden with a lavish breakfast and two roses—one red, one white—in a vase.

  My tears turned to sobs, and my sobs to hysteria. Dan-Dan understood what was going on. He looked at the jewelry box, then at the pendant clutched in my hand. Wordlessly, he joined our embrace. My two men, the loves of my life, hugged me fiercely, holding each other as well. We cried together for a long time, sitting on the bed, holding each other with such ferocity, as if our family would fall apart if we let go. If we stayed in this embrace, we would give each other the strength to go on. To live! I so want to live!

  I felt like they could read my mind, like they knew exactly what was going through my head and my heart. They, too, had no idea what each day would bring. It was a very powerful experience, one I know we will all carry in our hearts for the rest of our lives. Guy was late to school, Dan-Dan was late to work, and after I sent them both on their way, I went to my study and sat down to write.

  There is a lot of work ahead of me, and I have an important job to do. Whoever has no past has no future future, that’s what I believe. My children, my beloved, be proud of who you are. You are the offspring of a marvelous family, you are the future. Understanding your past will give you everything you need to face your future. That is my job: to fill in the gaps in our family history, to tell you as much as I can about our family. When something is written down, it lives on forever, and even if I am not here, what I write will always be with you.