Daughters of Iraq

by Revital Shiri-Horowitz

  They arrived midday. Nobody had told us that Ima and Eddie were in Israel, so when I saw them from a distance, I figured my mind, so full of longing, was deceiving me. The cafeteria sat on a hill overlooking the main entrance to the kibbutz. While clearing tables, I saw the four of them approaching. My heart nearly stopped beating as I stood there, still as a pillar. When I recovered, I threw down my dishrag and ran to meet them. I ran like I was possessed; it was one of the longest runs of my life. It felt like it took an hour. When I finally reached them, I collapsed against Ima’s chest, then Eddie’s, and we all cried shamelessly. I immediately took them to Farida, who was working in the nursery, with those sweet little babies, and once again there were kisses, hugs, laughter, and tears.

  When we calmed down, we took our honored guests to the dining room, where I introduced them to all the workers. Ima thanked them for taking such good care of her youngest daughter. Ima, who knew very little Hebrew and loved attention, enjoyed practicing the new language, and she even garnered a few compliments. After our guests had eaten and drunk their fill, swapped stories, and shared experiences, Aba and Ima informed us of their desire to reunite the family. They said they knew it was what everyone wanted, and that we two sisters would share their tent in the transit camp. The smile that had been illuminating my face disappeared instantly. I wasn’t prepared for this. I really did miss my family, and I had been dreaming about the moment we would all be together, but living in the kibbutz was good for me. Living in a tent, on the other hand, didn’t appeal to me at all. And how would I stay in touch with my boyfriend, Chanan?

  Ima’s face lit up as she described our reunion, how we would finally be reunited, with Aba and my older brothers (who had never taken to kibbutz life). It would be just like it used to be, she said. Ima had her own dreams, and she had no idea how many hardships awaited us. She promised that within a month, two at the most, we would get an apartment, which at that time seemed like a palace. In the meantime, she explained, we would live in the ma’abara the transit camp. “Everyone lives in the ma’abara. It’s actually very nice,” she said in her most persuasive tone. They still needed to iron out a few details, she said, but in a few weeks they would return and take us with them.

  When our guests left for the ma’abara, Farida and I sat deep in thought. I was confused. I missed my family fiercely, but the thought of leaving Chanan was excruciating. Farida was much more pleased by Ima’s announcement. She was always a mama’s girl, and besides, she was in love with Eddie, and wherever he went was where she wanted to be. That’s how it is when you’re in love you can’t see or hear anything else, especially when you’re seventeen years old. I, on the other hand, was full of curiosity, and I was hardy. Kibbutz life suited me. But despite my mixed feelings, the thought of arguing with Ima never crossed my mind. How could I object to her plan? I was raised under the principle that there is nothing in the world more important than family. Family trumped everything. We were expected to obey our parents, not defy them. And I who had always been so rebellious decided I was not mature enough to resist. I had to put myself in Ima’s hands and follow her wishes.

  Chapter Thirty-Five: Farida

  Later that night after Noa had returned to Tel Aviv, after cleaning the house and washing the dishes, after brewing herself a strong cup of sweet herbal tea Farida sat on the porch and looked into the gathering darkness.

  The nights were hot, almost unbearable, and mosquitoes buzzed in her ears. They would disappear later, but at dusk, when the air seemed to stand perfectly still, mosquitoes descended on her, like vultures on carrion. The evening was warm and humid, and Farida was desperate to escape both the mosquitoes and the terrible heat.

  She went to get the fan from the kitchen. If she adjusted it so that it blew directly into her face, not only would the mosquitoes keep their distance, but she’d also stop sweating so much. She returned with the fan, set it up, sank into her armchair, took a deep breath, and smiled triumphantly. This time she had the upper hand. She had outsmarted the mosquitoes. Let them fly somewhere else, bother someone else; it was no longer her problem. She savored the cool breeze and the beautiful silence.

  The phone rang. She heaved herself out of her chair. Because of the late hour, she thought it was likely a wrong number. She didn’t dare hope it might be Victor calling back.

  “Hello, Farida?” It was a masculine voice, but she couldn’t tell if it sounded familiar or not.

  “Yes, this is Farida. Who’s this?” Farida kept her tone business-like.

  “Hello, it’s me, Victor Cohen, the one who dialed the wrong number. Do you remember me?”

  “Hello, Victor. Of course I remember you! How are you?” Farida found herself grinning.

  “Walla, what can I say? Ana Araf? Do I know? This hurts, that hurts that’s what it is to get old.”

  He seemed earnest, but Farida couldn’t help being suspicious. “What happened?” she said. “Did you dial the wrong number again?”

  “No, this time it wasn’t a mistake. I had to call half the world to reach you. Do you know how many ‘Sassons’ there are in the 06 area code? Twenty, maybe, and not a single Farida Sasson.”

  Farida didn’t know what to think. What should she say to Mr. Victor, who had searched half the world to find her? “Walla, good for you, Victor. Of course you couldn’t find my name my number is listed under my husband Moshe’s name, Allah yirchamu.”

  “I figured it was under your husband’s name, which I didn’t know. But today I reached your sister-in-law, Malka, and she gave me your number.”

  “You reached Malka?” Farida laughed nervously. She was embarrassed, but at the same time flattered. He had tried so hard to reach her, and she hoped she knew why, but she was afraid of giving in to that hope. After weighing whether or not she could ask him such a direct question, she decided to let him get there on his own.

  “That was my seventh phone call,” Victor confessed. “She told me she was your sister-in-law, and she gave me your number . . . I hope I didn’t wake you this time?”

  “Not at all! Wake me?” she waved her hand dismissively. “I spent the day with my Noa, the daughter of my sister of blessed memory. A lovely girl, what else can I tell you. A blend of Iraqi and Ashkenazi.”

  “It does sound like an excellent mix,” Victor said. He coughed. “You’re probably wondering why I’m calling you out of the blue,” he said, then coughed again and apologized. Farida tried to put him at ease.

  “Victor, it’s really okay. I’m glad you called.” She sat in the chair next to the telephone; she felt like a girl again, like someone was courting her. It felt nice. She particularly enjoyed knowing that Victor had gone out of his way to contact her, and that, like a young man, he was having trouble explaining why he had called.

  “Actually, it’s important,” Victor said earnestly. “After I hung up, I remembered something, and it kept me up all night. I decided I had to find you and ask you a question.”

  “Tfadal,” Farida said. Please. She felt a rush of disappointment. Maybe he wasn’t courting her after all.

  “I wanted to tell you that I think I know you. Tell me, did your family once live in a neighborhood in Lod?”

  “Yes, my parents got an apartment there after spending two-and-a-half years in a transit camp in Ramle.” She tried hard to remember who this Victor might have been, this man who said he knew her, but she came up with nothing.

  “I knew it was your family!” Victor whooped. “What a small world. I knew your father when I was a boy, but by the time we got to Israel I was already a young man, and I didn’t remember him anymore. Then I met this Iraqi guy who worked with me at the post office Eddie, his name was and he had just moved to Lod from Ramle. And one day he invited me for Friday night dinner. While I was there, I remember, your father told me he was the chief accountant of the Iraqi government. Do you see what I’m saying? When I hung up the phone after our conversation, I got to thinking. I did the math, and I came to the conclusion that he w
as the son of Um Daoud. Do you see? I knew Eddie’s parents from Iraq!” Victor was breathless. “How many Jewish accountants worked for the Iraqi government? Suddenly I realized walla, Victor, this man whose house you were in, he was the son of Daisy Twaina! And you were just talking to his daughter!”

  Farida could hardly believe what Victor was saying. But the details he recounted were accurate. Victor Cohen not only knew her father, but he knew her Eddie. He’d even dined with her family in Lod, it pleased her that this was so.

  Victor paused to catch his breath, and then continued: “Eddie brought me to your house one day, and I was very impressed. What a warm home, what beautiful Shabbat songs . . . we even danced on the grass. I think you had long black hairand you sang. Am I right?”

  “No, not me. You must be talking about my sister Violet. I don’t like to sing, but she did, and what a lovely voice she had; it was really something. No, you’re talking about my sister. I was the other girl. I did have black hair, but it was only down to my shoulders. A bob, it was called. To this day I can’t sing like she did. Walla, good for you, what a memory you have!”

  “Well, do you remember me?” Victor sounded hopeful. “A tall man with green eyes?”

  “Yes. No.” Farida was confused. “No,” she finally admitted, “I have no idea who you are.”

  “That’s okay,” Victor said. “It doesn’t matter. I worked with Eddie for a month or two, then he left. I heard he was killed later on.”

  For a moment, neither of them spoke. “I was very sorry to hear it,” Victor said.

  “Yes, it was very hard for us, losing Eddie. It’s still hard,” she confessed. “Eddie was something else, as they say. He was special. And to die young, like he did, that really hurt.” Farida wiped away a tear. It’s a good thing Victor couldn’t see her, she thought to herself. She was starting to like this man. He was willing to make an effort. He was curious and generous. She knew how expensive these calls were. He wasn’t rushing her, wasn’t counting his pennies. He was patient. What else could she ask for on a hot summer night?”

  “So you see? That’s why I had to find you . . .” He sounded embarrassed.

  She waited a moment before speaking. “And do you remember me?”

  “I’ll tell you the truth,” Victor began, then cleared his throat, and Farida understood this was a sign of discomfort, and she decided his shyness was kind of charming. “I don’t remember you, either,” Victor said. Then he laughed, and it came out in a short staccato burst. Farida joined him, and the two laughed together, about life, and about coincidence.

  “Listen,” Victor suggested. “Now that we know each other a little bit, maybe we can meet in person. What do you think?”

  “Maybe,” said Farida. It was still a little too soon for her to meet him, she thought.

  Victor, as if reading her mind, said, “You know what? Can I call you again tomorrow?”

  “Of course—why not?” Farida was relieved that he wasn’t pushing her to meet, that he would call instead.

  “Well. So now I will bid you good night, and I’ll call you tomorrow. Okay?”

  “Sure, no problem,” Farida replied, satisfied.

  “What’s a good time for me to call?” he asked politely.

  “Evenings are good. After eight,” she said. She didn’t know why she had picked eight and not seven or nine, or why had she told him to call in the evening and not the morning, but that’s what had come out. She wished him pleasant dreams, then hung up. She felt she was going to faint from the heat. She hurried to the kitchen to find a cigarette and matches, took them out to the porch with her, and collapsed into her chair. The heat was oppressive, and sweat dripped down from her face and onto her dress. She turned on the fan, and it cooled the room quickly. But she knew a sleepless night awaited her.

  Chapter Thirty-Six: Noa

  Noa got off the bus near her house. It was late, and the streets, usually bustling, were empty. She liked to walk. Walking, especially when she was by herself, helped her organize her thoughts. Her visit to Farida’s had been delightful and delicious as always, and the things she had learned were significant. Aunt Farida had been trying to tell her something important, something valuable. She’d wanted Noa to understand that home is something inside of you. At the moment, however, that was not what Noa believed. She felt that her home no longer existed, and she was struggling to come to terms with it.

  The whole trip, from Zichron Yaakov to Tel Aviv, Noa had tried to memorize what her aunt had told her. Perhaps, she thought, if she repeated it to herself like a mantra, she would begin to believe it. Then maybe she’d feel better about herself. Happier. Maybe instead of feeling fractured, she would start to feel whole. Noa looked around her, searching for reassurance, and she found it. The fact that her surroundings looked utterly normal was a comfort in itself. The evening was hot and dry, the porch doors stood wide open, voices from televisions echoed in her ears, an occasional car whizzed past. When she walked by the playground, she heard the chirping of birds. On one porch someone strummed a guitar, a baby cried. An older man with a little dog strolled by, Noa smiled and wished the man a pleasant evening. He responded in kind, and Noa felt a sense of comfort and belonging. Everything was familiar; everything was as it should be. The world still spun; there hadn’t been any catastrophes. Many changes had taken place in a short time in Noa’s life, and sometimes she felt she felt overwhelmed by the pace. When she reached her apartment building, she unlocked her mailbox and took out the letter she found there. She recognized her father’s handwriting and tore open the envelope, climbed the three flights of stairs, reading as she walked.

  June 30, 1993

  Dear Noa,

  I arrived in Seattle ten days ago. So far, all I’ve managed to do is go for a few short hikes and take a one-day trip to Mount Rainier. Mostly I’ve slept. The time difference has wreaked havoc on my system: I’m sleepy during the day, and at night as the city goes to sleep I’m raring to go. The day I got here, the weather was ideal. I fell in love with this lush, lake-filled place before I even got off the plane. I was able to get a close-up look at Mount Rainier, which is covered in snow the entire year, and I was awed by its size. Less than two days later, though, the rain came and hijacked the summer, and it hasn’t let up since. The locals joke that if you ask a seven-year-old boy when the sun will shine, he responds, “How should I know? I’m only seven!” In other words, it rains here most of the time, which is why everything is so green. Truthfully, the incredible view, and the chance of having even one beautiful day, compensates for all the rain. Seattle is dotted with lakes and surrounded by mountains. As I said, I fell in love with the city, and with its people. Everything is calm, nobody is in a hurry, civility and patience are the norm. Unbelievable, truly a different world.

  It is strange, Noa, being here without you, without Guy, and especially without Ima. You know that Ima was my best friend, and that the two of us loved to travel the world together. It’s hard for me to see all this beauty without having her at my side to share it with me. Whenever I see something interesting, I immediately think about what she would have said, how thrilled she would have been with these views, how impressed she would have been with the city’s generosity and patience, how she would have enjoyed the wonderful farmer’s market. She would have loved simply walking through the streets.

  As I describe all this to you, I feel like I am talking to my closest friend, who also happens to be my daughter. What good luck! I hope that this finds you healthy and happy, and that you will come visit soon so we can travel together.

  Warmest regards to Guy. I’ll write to him soon.

  Love,

  Aba

  Chapter Thirty-Seven: Violet

  Tuesday, April 7, 1987

  This morning I stood before the mirror in my bedroom and looked at myself. Usually I try to ignore the mirror, try to walk right by without so much as a glance. But this morning I dragged in a chair from the next room and sat and looked at myself nake
d. I didn’t cover my body at all. Didn’t wrap it in a robe (not even to avoid the morning chill). I didn’t cover my hair with a wig, and I didn’t put on makeup. I sat down and looked at myself as I was. I had given this a lot of thought and waited for the right moment: when the house was empty, when nobody could walk in unexpectedly. Dan was at work, Noa was in the army, and Guy was at school. I could no longer run away from myself. This is what I am, I decided, in my nakedness, my baldness, my atrophied body.

  I directed my gaze to my bare feet. It was best to start there, I thought; then maybe I would get the courage to scan the entire length of my body until my eyes met their reflection, until I could be a witness to the naked truth, so to speak. My feet looked as tiny and delicate as they were twenty, thirty years ago. They looked nice not too big, not too clumsy, familiar. I paused for a minute, trying to decide if I was brave enough to lift my gaze. I decided I would do it slowly and carefully, and I gave myself a loophole: I didn’t have to look at my entire body if I didn’t want to. But, I thought, I did want to.

  Slowly, slowly, I raised my eyes and cast a tentative glance at my knees, my thighs, my genitals. It was like a personal CT scan no hospital, just me, in my own bedroom, scrutinizing my body. I stared at the familiar spots. There was not a single hair on my legs or my sexual organs. My genitals looked virginal, as if they had never experienced a man, never experienced childbirth. My legs looked old and withered, and for a moment I debated whether or not to continue. I turned around and examined my back and buttocks. A dark birthmark stretched across my lower back, a covenant between me and my mother. My buttocks sagged; they had lost their former fullness and succulence. Still, I joked to myself, they did their job. I looked at the mirror with increasing contempt.