Daughters of Iraq

by Revital Shiri-Horowitz

Chapter Thirty-One: Noa

  Noa read and re-read the passage about the moment of healing that the three of them had shared. Aba, Ima, and Guy. And where was she? And why hadn’t she heard about this earth-shattering experience? A sense of disappointment, tinged with envy, pulsed in her heart, and she wept. She couldn’t remember if she had given her mother a gift on the last birthday of her life. All she remembered was calling her, hastily wishing her a happy birthday before running off to guard duty.

  She read the words again, trying to parse the lesson her mother was trying to teach her. Was it that knowing about the past gives you the skills you need to navigate the future? Was her past the answer to the future? Did she agree with her mother’s words? What skills did she now have that she hadn’t had before? The image of her mother sitting in her study, leaning over her notebooks was so real, Noa felt that if she could just reach out and touch that fragile body, then Violet would turn toward her, and smile her reassuring smile.

  As she delved deeper into the diary, Noa felt closer to her mother than she ever had. She believed she knew her better, understood her. There were moments when she imagined being drawn back into her mother’s womb, and at those moments she felt a deep desire to be a fetus once again, nurtured and protected, whose only job was to grow. At other times, it seemed like she wasn’t reading the diary but writing it that she and her mother had fused into one entity and would never be separated again.

  Chapter Thirty-Two: Violet

  Sunday, April 5, 1987

  The excitement of my birthday has died down. Noa won’t be coming home this weekend; tomorrow we will visit her. I’m glad she took my advice and stayed at the base, despite my illness. It lightens my burden to know she’s happy, that she doesn’t have to watch me suffer. The bond between me and Noa is unbreakable, and I know that my illness is causing her great pain. That’s why it’s so important to me that she lives her own life, rather than living in the shadow of my sickness. Guy is different: it seems to me that even though he is so much younger than her, he knows how to accept what cannot be changed. Noa is more sensitive, rebellious, and stubborn she tilts at windmills.

  My dear children. May your journey through life take you through beautiful and beloved landscapes.

  Today I will return to Iraq, to the summer of 1951. I will tell you the story of Ima and Eddie’s grueling Aliyah to Israel. Aba was learning Hebrew in the ulpan, and the rest of my family was scattered among different kibbutzim. Our connection to our family in Iraq was fragile. You have to remember that we didn’t have telephones back then, not in Iraq and not here. Our letters traveled circuitous paths, and sometimes it took weeks for them to arrive.

  I told you how Ima received the Aliyah permits when she gave up her and Eddie’s Iraqi citizenship and how she’d done it behind his back. She was waiting for the right time to broach the subject. Eddie was fearless, and, until his dying day, stubborn as an ox. I told you how he had taken it upon himself to play an active role in the underground, how he never even considered abandoning his comrades and moving to Israel. But one warm summer evening, he heard the terrible news that two of his friends from the Resistance had been captured and were being held by the authorities.

  This painful news left the members of the underground in shock. There was no doubt that their captured comrades wouldn’t be able to withstand the harsh interrogations and torture. They also knew that their fate was sealed: they would be hanged in the city square, a warning to everyone else. The sight of a rowdy crowd watching the execution of an alleged traitor was the hottest show in town. There was only one option: the remaining members of the Resistance had to leave immediately. Every extra minute on Iraqi soil increased their chances of death. Most members of the Resistance did not have Aliyah permits.

  As I already told you, the primary goal of the Iraqi Resistance was to protect the Jews of Baghdad after the 1941 pogrom. When the state of Israel was declared, the Jewish plight only worsened. As their families moved to Israel, brave and talented young people volunteered to stay behind and protect the remaining Iraqi Jews. Lately, though, the Resistance fighters had come to recognize that the Iraqi Jewish community was very small: before long, they themselves would move to Israel. Now, in light of the arrest of their two comrades, they realized that the Resistance was over, and its members had to leave as soon as possible. They knew there was nothing they could do to help the two captured men.

  Eddie was under a lot of pressure. Not only were the authorities about to hang two of his friends, but it wouldn’t be long before they came knocking on his own door. He was besieged by guilt: why had he allowed his grandmother to stay with him? Surely she, too, would be hanged. What would happen to his mother? What about his brothers and sisters, his uncles and aunts? And what about his beloved Farida? Would he ever see her again? He wasn’t so concerned with his own life, but the fate of his grandmother and the rest of the family weighed upon his heart like a stone.

  Eddie hurried home to deliver the dismal news. My mother, his grandmother took his hands and quietly led him to her bedroom. She opened the closet, pulled out their Aliyah permits, placed them in his hands, and gazed at his face, waiting for his reaction. Eddie blanched; he couldn’t believe his eyes. He knew that securing these permits was a long process. How had she done it so stealthily, behind his back, without asking him what he thought, what he wanted? She must have given up his citizenship as well! Eddie knew this had required her to forge his signature. When had she done this? And how had she hidden it from him?

  After several minutes that felt like an eternity Ima began to speak very softly. “Now we’re going to pack. We have to get out of here as quickly as we can, do you understand?” Eddie, stunned, didn’t know whether to be angry or grateful. On the one hand, she had saved both their lives, but, on the other, she had forged his signature and acted against his wishes. Eddie looked in his grandmother’s eyes and said nothing.

  “Ya’allah, Eddie,” she urged him. “Ya’allah. This is too much for us and for our family. No more games, Eddie, not unless we want our lives to end today. Any minute they’ll come knocking at our door, and they’ll take us straight to the town square and hang us. There’s not a moment to waste, Eddie, so don’t even think of arguing with me.” Eddie didn’t argue, he did as she said. He knew she was right, and that if he jeopardized his own life, he was jeopardizing hers as well.

  They packed a small suitcase, Ima took what little money they had, and they left the rest behind. They stole from their house in the middle of the night and made their way to the person in charge of smuggling Jews out of Iraq. The next plane to Israel was leaving the following morning. If they made it, their lives would be saved if not . . . their fate was sealed.

  Chapter Thirty-Three: Noa

  As usual, Farida welcomed Noa with hugs, kisses, and a table full of treats.

  “Tfu, a hamsa on you, you look so beautiful, a blessing on your head, your mother is so happy when she sees you from up there,” she said, pointing to the ceiling.

  “Come,” she continued, “a blessing on your head, come have a seat. What do you want to eat? I have squash patties and bulgur patties in the freezer. You want some soup?”

  “Anything is fine, Aunt Farida. You don’t want me to get fat, do you?” Noa smiled. She was enjoying the attention her aunt lavished upon her.

  “You mean you don’t want to be fat like me?” Farida laughed, waved her hand dismissively, then continued, “Fine, fine. See, I’m watching your diet. Just have some squash patties and rice. I’m looking out for your figure, even though it wouldn’t hurt you to put on a few pounds look how skinny your hands are, what, don’t you eat anything?”

  “Yes, of course I eat, Aunt Farida. Don’t worry, my roommate makes sure I eat.” Aunt Farida’s transition from caretaking to ranting was beginning to grate on her nerves.

  “What, a man who cooks?” Farida shrieked. “My Moshe, Allah yirchamu, he couldn’t even make a sandwich.” Farida wrinkled her nose. “So what does h
e make for you, this roommate?”

  “All kinds of things,” Noa said, defending Ofir. “He loves to cook, and he makes all kinds of food: Italian food, schnitzel, everything.”

  “Nu, so now you have to teach him to cook Iraqi food, too. Some kind of patty, maybe, or for Shabbat tbit, chicken with rice. What do you think?” She nudged Noa with her elbow. “He sounds very nice, this roommate. Is there something going on between you?” She shot Noa a curious look.

  “Something,” Noa answered, embarrassed.

  “Good, good,” Farida said. “I won’t stick my nose in your business. If you want to tell me, you’ll tell me, and if don’t want to tell me, you won’t. You didn’t come here for an interrogation, did you?” She laughed again, coughed, and cursed the cigarettes that were shortening her life, swearing that if she weren’t an old woman she would kick this disgusting habit. “But it’s too late to change. It is what it is, and that’s it. What do you say, Noa’le? Am I right?” She smiled at her niece.

  “What do I say? I say it’s never too late, Auntie, and anyway, why do you call yourself old? Look how much energy you have. I wish I had a fraction of your energy.”

  “Nu, enough already. I’m sixty years old this year, but don’t you dare tell anyone. You swear?”

  “Scout’s honor, I won’t tell anyone,” Noa promised, and all of a sudden she felt terrific. It was nice being in Farida’s house, looking into Farida’s face. She let her aunt ramble on. Then a thought popped into her head: this little house had always been, and would always be, the one constant in her life.

  She looked around and remembered scenes from her childhood. Aside from the color of the walls, the apartment was basically the same as it had always been. The kitchen cabinets had been there when she was a child. Aunt Farida and Uncle Moshe’s bedroom was exactly the same. Even Sigali and Oren’s bedrooms had remained untouched. The giant bookcase sat where it always had, its shelves sagging under the weight of many books. The only change was that the children’s beds had been replaced by a pull-out sofa so children and grandchildren would have a place to sleep. Usually, this meant Oren, his wife, and his kids, who would come down from the northern part of the country to visit.

  Noa felt a tightening in her chest. She remembered how she and Sigali used to “rest” on the giant porch every afternoon. A nap was part of the daily routine at Aunt Farida’s house. Farida would say, “Between two and four, everyone in this house rests. If you want your mother or your aunt to be pleasant and cheerful, then you have to be absolutely quiet. If you choose not to be quiet, then boy, are you going to get it.” In truth, Noa knew, this was an empty threat. Aunt Farida never punished anyone. She never tried to mute the joyful chaos that took over the house when the cousins got together.

  The summer heat peaked during the afternoon hours. In the small apartment, the air was stale, hot, and suffocating. On the porch, though, where Farida would spread light blankets over the cool floor for the girls to rest on, you couldn’t even tell that it was summertime. It seemed like a cool wind always blew above them.

  It was on this porch that she first read Devorah Omer’s marvelous works. Up and High, Sara Aharonson: Heroine, My Father’s Son these were the books that had shaped her personality, had instilled within her a fierce love for her country. Here she read White Fang; here she devoured The Secret Seven series, which had inspired her and Sigali to search for adventures and spy on suspicious-looking people in their little town.

  She would never forget how the two of them used to follow one of the neighbors. They chose him because he would look to both sides whenever he walked down the street. Convinced he was a Russian spy giving information to the enemy, they tailed him constantly until they discovered he was having an affair with a married woman in the next town over. Here, on this porch, the two girls embroidered their dreams, which were largely based on the fairy tales they had read. One day, they imagined, a prince would come handsome and rich as a sultan who would whisk them off to a faraway palace made of gold. They would be lady-ot their Hebrew version of “ladies.” Noa remembered how the word “lady-ot” sounded when Farida said it, with her thick Iraqi accent. The two girls would have servants they would address in English. The cousins would rule the palace. “Yes, my lady. Certainly, my lady. No problem, my lady.” The servants would curtsy before they left. Most of what they imagined was based on the British television series Upstairs, Downstairs.

  “Hello? Where are you? I’m talking and talking, and you’re not even here!” Farida’s voice shook Noa out of her reverie.

  “I’m sorry,” Noa stammered. “I was just thinking about how this house is the most stable thing in my life . . . how nothing here has really changed.” As soon as she spoke, Noa felt guilty, as if she had betrayed her mother’s memory.

  An awkward silence followed. Farida settled onto one of the small kitchen chairs that by some miracle didn’t collapse under her weight. Perhaps the chairs had gotten used to it.

  “Noa, Noa, Noa,” Farida sighed, wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead. “Walls are just walls. Home is here,” she said, and she placed her soft warm hand on Noa’s heart. “I know that’s not what you think right now, but one day you’ll wake in the morning and understand you’ve been home the whole time.”

  “It’s hard for you,” Farida continued, “with Aba gone, right?”

  “It’s hard,” Noa admitted.

  “I know, my dear, I know. By God, it’s hard, but it will be alright, Noa.” She gave her niece a wan smile, as if to say that the two of them shared the same destiny.

  “And what about Ima’s diary?” Farida asked. “Have you read it yet?”

  “I’m reading it,” Noa said, turning to stare out the kitchen window. “Every page is a new adventure; every page I learn something new about Ima.”

  “Good,” Farida said. “I’m glad. It’s good you’re reading it. When I gave you the diary, I was afraid you wouldn’t have the courage to open it.” Farida placed her hands on her knees. “The diary will help you ‘get your head around it,’ as they say.” She looked at the floor for a moment, and Noa almost spoke, but instinct told her to wait. “You know, if you keep reading, maybe you’ll find the home I was talking about.” She was quiet again. A rare event, this quiet, thought Noa. Farida continued quietly: “A home is what you get from your parents, and it will always be there.” She gestured toward Noa’s chest. “I know it’s hard for you now, with your father gone, but you have to understand that you already have everything you need to live the life you want to lead. And one day, when you have children of your own, you’ll want them to feel that no matter where they go, their home will always be there, in their heart. That’s what we call roots. And thank God, we have strong roots.” Farida stared out the kitchen window. Then she turned to Noa and said, “You know what? Why don’t you bring the diary here one day, so we can read it together. What do you think?”

  “I promised Guy I would finish it quickly so he could read it. I’m eager to see his reaction.”

  “When did you say you’d give it to him?” Farida said, and Noa was surprised to hear an edge to her voice. “That wasn’t my intention when I gave you the diary.”

  “I’ll give it to him when I’m finished, and I’m hoping he’ll read it quickly so the two of us can talk about it.”

  “Guy read quickly?” Farida said. “You’re better off waiting for the Mashiach. You know Guy. He’ll read it three times, then he’ll put it out of his mind. And there’s no way he’ll be willing to discuss it with you.”

  Noa smiled sadly. “You’re probably right.”

  “How far have you gotten?” Farida asked.

  “I’ve read more than half. Mostly about life in Iraq . . . a little about their journey to Israel.”

  “Excellent,” said Farida. “And how did it feel?”

  “It wasn’t easy at first. The truth is,” said Noa, “it still isn’t easy. Ima’s presence is so real—sometimes when I read I feel like she’s standing r
ight next to me.”

  “Ah, that’s exactly what I expected from you, my Noa.” The smile returned to Farida’s face. “You’re the kind of person who takes chances. You took one chance after another, and you were never afraid. What is it they say? A coward dies a thousand deaths, a hero dies but once.” She laughed but there was no mirth in it. “You’ll see,” Farida continued. It’ll be okay. I’ve already told you, and I’ll tell you again: you’re very strong on the inside. The Twaina-Yishayahu women can deal with anything.”

  Farida stood and began wiping down counters. Then she asked if Noa was interested in hearing some family stories.

  Noa never objected to hearing stories. She loved hearing her aunt’s tales: about her mother, kibbutz, and the transit camp; about how Violet used to study for her exams on the very thick branches of a wild strawberry tree (it was a huge one), in her parents’ garden, the only place that afforded her some measure of peace and quiet. Noa lay on the sofa, stretched her limbs, and waited for her aunt to speak.

  Chapter Thirty-Four: Violet, Winter of 1951

  The next morning, after a tense and terrified night, Eddie and Ima boarded an airplane that took them to Cyprus, then on to Israel. We found out later that the Iraqis had a bounty on Eddie’s head. His survival was truly miraculous, and so was Ima’s. When they arrived in Israel, they were surprised to learn they would have to traverse the entire country to see the entire family. First they visited Aba, who had been living in the transit camp in Ramle, which is located in the canter of Israel; then they went on to a kibbutz in the north to see my sister Chabiba. Their reunion with her was extremely emotional; Chabiba hadn’t seen her son in over a year. Only later did Ima, Aba, Chabiba, and Eddie come to the kibbutz where Farida and I lived, which is located very close Jerusalem. And even though thirty-something years have passed since that day, I still shudder with joy when I think of that meeting.