She wouldn’t get close to these people. She found a place under the shadow of a rock, where she could follow the dancing waves without being seen, she hoped, and far from those people who have no fear of God.
It was so hot! She took off her mother’s jacket and the kerchief covering her head. She placed them on the sand. She did the same with her rubber-soled shoes, which burned her feet and were now full of sand. Shifra felt the pangs of hunger and thirst. She remembered the two apples in the pocket of her jacket. She munched on her apples, her eyes riveted on the sea. With each wave it seemed to Shifra that the sea was stretching out to her, challenging her to come and play.
Would it be a sin if she took off her stockings and soaked her feet in the water? She debated with herself. after all, why did she come? Shifra wanted to feel the water’s cool caress, its freshness, to take the foam into her hands, to taste it.
She took her black stockings off. She’d wait. People were starting to leave the beach. After everyone left, she’d walk along the beach. She closed her tired eyes.
When she woke up, the sun, a big ball of fire was descending slowly on the horizon. Shifra didn’t know how much time had passed. The beach was deserted. She got up and approached the water. The sand wasn’t hot anymore and it was easy to walk on it. When her feet touched the water, a shiver went through her body. What a marvelous sensation. Could greater pleasures exist?
Her arms raised, she started twirling, round and round, her hair, freed by the wind, blowing in her face. At last she was alone, Shifra thought, and the sea belonged entirely to her.
How long she danced, how much time had passed, she didn’t know, but gradually the feeling came to her that she was being followed. She didn’t dare look back. All of a sudden she became scared. She looked toward the rock, where she thought she had left her jacket and shoes, but now all the rocks looked the same. Where were her things?
She began to run, searching the rocks. When she ran out of breath, she fell on the sand, her eyes full of tears. She couldn’t find her things. The return ticket for Jerusalem was in her jacket. What was she going to do now?
She would just remain there until the night jackals came to eat her. That‘s what she deserved for listening to yetzer hara, the evil instinct. She bent her head. The bitter tears falling from her eyes prevented her from noticing the barefoot young man who stopped a few paces from her.
2
In the spring, returning from the early afternoon prayer at the Great Mosque, Musa liked to take a detour from his regular way home and walk along the water. Today he found a girl asleep on the beach. She looked so small and defenseless, rolled up in an old jacket, a long skirt covering her feet. Her golden braids formed a crown above her head, and her face was the color of alabaster.
An angel, Musa thought. He crouched not far from her and gazed at her steadily, hoping she’d wake up. His curiosity was aroused, but he couldn’t stay long; he didn’t want to attract the attention of other beachcombers. But her image followed him the entire afternoon.
After the mid-afternoon prayer, Musa decided to walk along the beach again. Maybe she’ll still be there. Or maybe he’ll discover she really was an angel, that Allah, praised be Him, placed on his way in order to test him.
Great was his surprise when he saw her from afar, alone on the deserted beach, dancing and twirling, while the late sunrays played with her hair. Musa didn’t dare get closer, but he had to make sure that she was real and not an apparition. He stopped when she stopped. He saw her turn abruptly and run toward the rocks. She went from rock to rock, looking for something. Her hair was loose and she was barefoot. She stood for a moment, before falling on the sand crying, her head in her hands.
With his prayer rug under his arm and his slippers in his hand Musa, undecided, stood not far from her. He felt the urge to get closer, to maybe touch that marvelous cascade of hair, but it wasn’t in his nature to talk to strangers, much less strange girls. Yet, he couldn’t take his eyes off her, and he felt as if his feet were buried in the sand. It began to get dark. Soon the night would slowly cover the beach. He had to go, but how could he leave her? She was shivering from the cool breeze. And she still hadn’t seen him. Almost against his will, he approached her.
“Salaam Aleikum,” he started the traditional greeting. No answer.
“Min enta wa-shoo ta’amal hnana, who are you and what are you doing here?” he said in Arabic, but seeing her frightened look, he immediately repeated it in English.
The girl didn’t answer. She looked away. Musa saw that she was quite young, fourteen or fifteen at most. Now sure she wasn’t a dream, he thought that maybe she had run away from home or maybe she didn’t know the way back. “Where do you live?” he asked. “Don’t be afraid. I will not do you any harm. I want only to help.” Then he repeated it in Hebrew “Ani l’Ezra.”
Still trembling, she looked at him. Even though it was almost dark, he thought she had the bluest eyes, the color of the precious lapis-lazuli earrings his mother wore with such pride.
“Come,” he said, “I’ll take you to my mother. She’s a smart woman. She’ll help you. It’s dangerous to remain here overnight.”
She still didn’t answer, but Musa’s mind was made up. He thought, “I’ll take her in my arms, even against her will.” Still not looking at him, the girl stood up.
“Where are your shoes? “Musa asked. Hearing that, she started crying again.
“Shush, shush, don’t cry, here, take my slippers,” he said. She looked undecided. “Don’t worry about me. I’m used to walking barefoot on the sharpest stones.”
He didn’t expect her to answer. To make her feel at ease he started to walk away, and after a while he felt her following him. In the deserted street, Musa blessed the darkness of the night, which made it possible for them to walk without attracting attention.
Though he knew he was taking her to a safe place, Musa was worried what his mother’s reaction would be when she saw him bringing an unknown girl to their home. He was his mother’s eldest son, and Musa knew he was her favorite. She never had a harsh word for him. She always saved for him the special delicacies she had reserved only for his father.
Lately he had seen his mother’s eyes lingering on him. Once she whispered “Musa, looking at you I see your father, may he joyfully rest at Allah’s breast, when he first came to take me as his bride. He was as tall as you, his hair and moustache as black as the sky at midnight, and his teeth as white as the Lebanon’s first snow.”
But now, Musa feared his mother’s anger. She was a force to be reckoned with. A widow, the mother of six children, two boys and four girls, she had taken the reins of his father’s business in her hands, proving herself as shrewd as his father had been. Her flourishing marketing skills had taken their famous citrus fruits to Alexandria, Beirut and even farther cities.
Musa took a furtive look at the girl who followed him at a short distance. They were walking the rocky steps of Jaffa’s narrow streets, older than the Sultans’ time. The souks and bazaars were closed, but the smell of strong spices lingered in the air. They were still at a distance from his house on Basra Street in the select Ajami neighborhood, where the houses built with tall iron gates and grated windows, were always locked during the night. Only the hanging flowers on the iron latticed balconies were proof that there was life behind the closed shutters.
Musa turned into a narrow street and the girl followed him. They hadn’t exchanged one word since they started walking. Now they were on his street, close to his home. The girl slowed her pace, observing the big, somber-looking houses. Only a lost dog was heard howling from time to time. What can be on her mind? But he dismissed the thought as they were already in front of the massive gate of his family home, the house his grandfather Masri had built with stones brought from as far as Ashkelon and Caesarea.
Musa worked the intricate lock, and the gate opened with a tired squeak. They were in the large courtyard common to Arab houses. The house, built in the
form of a horseshoe, surrounded the paved courtyard. It was dark and quiet. Musa sighed with relief. He’d give the girl something to eat, after which he’d spread a camel blanket on the kitchen floor for her to sleep on.
This would give him time to think of a way to introduce her to his mother in the morning, hoping to avoid raising her anger. But his relief was short-lived. He heard noise from the women’s quarters, saw a flickering candle moving behind the dark windows and heard quick steps. In less than a minute, his mother, the formidable Fatima Masri, faced her oldest son.
“Kan bal, I was worried,” she whispered. “When enta, where were you, the muezzin’s call was ages ago! You never come home so late. I even wanted to—” but she stopped her hurried words, stupefied, staring at the blond girl half hidden by Musa’s body.
Suddenly his mother couldn’t contain her fury. “Musa Ibn Faud, what in the name of Allah is this?” She tried to keep her voice quiet, not to awaken the household or the neighbors. “It wasn’t enough that you bring home stray dogs and cats, now you bring stray girls!” And after she took another look at the girl, she said with contempt “Bint el-Yahood, a Jewish girl?”
While she was talking, the girl started backing away. Musa, who was silent during his mother’s outburst, caught a glimpse of the girl’s maneuver and quickly placed himself between her and the gate.
“You are going nowhere tonight,” he said to her, softly but firmly. “My mother is a good person. I shouldn’t have surprised her like that.” Then addressing his mother in Arabic he said, “Honored mother, please let’s go inside. I’ll explain everything. Let your fury fall on my head, and not on this poor girl, probably an orphan, whom I found on the beach, all alone.” Musa’s lips were dry. “Have pity, Mother,” he added. “That’s what the Koran teaches us. And what if she’s a daughter of the Yahud? You do business with them, don’t you?”
While Musa talked, his mother’s eyes studied the girl, who kept her head down. She sighed. “How much I miss your father. He would have known what decision to make. What will your sisters and brother say when they see this strange girl in our house?” After a long silence she added, “She’ll have to leave at dawn.”
Fatima Masri walked toward the house as Musa and the girl followed her. “It’s late, Musa. There is food in the icebox. Eat and give her some, too. Afterward, bring her to my room. I’ll put a blanket on the floor for her to sleep on.”
In the large kitchen with walls covered with blue tiles, each one with an intricate design, Musa silently made Shifra a sign to sit at a small table. Shifra looked at her hands. They were full of sand. Musa followed her gaze. “Come,” he said, showing her the ceramic basin and pitcher standing in a corner, “You can wash your hands there.”
While she washed, he took from the icebox the remnants of the supper, a leg of lamb, goat cheese, and leben. From a shelf he took a basket filled with pita bread and placed it on the table.” Eat, eat,” Musa urged, seeing her indecision, “You must be famished.”
His eyes feasted on her. Here, in his house, she seemed a thousand times prettier than the girl he saw on the beach. Her cheeks were rosy from the walk, and her hair, damp at the temples, shone like a myriad of lights. He saw her pour a tablespoon of lebenia on her plate and break a pita, after she murmured something he couldn’t understand. Both ate in silence. Though he insisted, he saw that she wouldn’t eat any more, but looked grateful for the glass of cold water filled with nana leaves he offered her. When he got up, Shifra got up too.
“I’ll show you to my mother’s room,” he whispered.
They walked through a dark corridor, where the moon’s light was filtered through the latticed windows. Fatima’s large bedroom was the first one in the women’s quarters. Musa pointed his finger toward the camel blanket by the foot of the large bed. He wanted to bid her a good night’s sleep, or sweet dreams, but he didn’t want to wake up his mother, who, according to the neighbors, slept with one eye open to better watch over her family’s fortune.
3
As usual, Fatima woke up at the first call of the rooster. She was born into an old Jerusalemite family of means, and her dowry at marriage brought her husband more golden bracelets than the wives of his brothers did. Yet she loved to work. She despised idle women. She frequently urged her daughters to be industrious, work on their embroidery, especially after she discovered they had a real gift for it. Their peacock designs were so successful that the girls could barely satisfy the orders from the bazaar shops.
She felt a shock when she saw the blond girl asleep at the foot of her bed. Slowly, she remembered the events of the previous evening. Anger and pity filled her heart, anger toward Musa, who dared bring this girl into her home, pity, as she looked at the girl’s innocent face. Who was she? What was she doing alone on the deserted beach? Had she run away from home? Was she lost? Should she, Fatima alert the British police? She disliked having anything to do with the police. Yet she knew she couldn’t keep this girl in her house.
Her thoughts turned toward Musa. He’d had such a sensitive soul, ever since he was a child. She remembered the wounded pigeon that fell into their courtyard and how carefully he bandaged its wing and didn’t let anyone else feed it. Musa wasn’t like other young men, ready for a brawl or to spend a full day smoking nargilea at the coffee house.
He was a good son, always respectful, and though she knew that it wasn’t his inclination to be a merchant, he helped her by keeping the accounts up to date. Musa had a good head for numbers. If he had continued school, who knows? No, she chased the thought, Musa was the oldest, and should follow in his father’s footsteps.
And he was so handsome! A few matchmakers had already approached her, but she drove them away. He was too young, she told them. But wasn’t his father the same age, just short of nineteen, when he married her?
She looked again at the sleeping girl. Her face in the pale light of dawn had the glow of a red apple. What in the name of Allah made him bring her home? Musa was too shy to address a girl. Enough thinking! She had a long day in front of her. A ship intended for Alexandria was waiting in Jaffa’s port to be loaded with her cases of oranges, grapefruit and bananas. It was time to get out of bed.
At the sound of Fatima’s steps, Shifra opened her eyes. First, she looked around her, confused. Then she jumped up, frightened. Fatima put a finger on her lips to keep her silent. Shifra quickly bent and folded the blanket she had slept on and then smoothed her wrinkled skirt. She passed her hands over her hair, trying to smooth it, too. Her movements were watched by Fatima’s scrutinizing eyes. When Fatima left the room, she motioned to Shifra to follow her.
The outhouse stood in a corner of the courtyard. Fatima pointed out to Shifra. She waited for her outside and then pantomimed that she’d take her to wash her hands and face.
When they entered the kitchen, Musa was already there. On the iron stove, the steam from boiling water was billowing. Musa never got up so early, Fatima thought. He looked at his mother with anxious eyes, red from lack of sleep. He avoided looking at Shifra, who kept her eyes downcast.
“She has to leave this house immediately,” Fatima told her son, interrupting his formal greetings, “I want her out before your sisters are up. Her place is not here.”
When she saw how pale her son’s face became, Fatima added, “I’m not going to turn her over to the police, if this is what you are afraid of. I will talk to one of my Jewish customers, Mr. Berkowitz maybe. He is a good man. He’ll talk to her and find out who she is and help her go back where she belongs.”
Musa bowed his head. All of a sudden Fatima saw him jump. He was running toward the gate where a frantic Shifra was there before him, trying to unlock it. Fatima heard him say in a gentle voice, “You can’t leave before having a glass of tea and something to eat. My mother is not throwing you out.” He spoke to her in English.
Reluctantly the girl returned. She went to the basin and turned toward Fatima with questioning eyes. “You can wash,” Fatima nodded. The
girl undid her hair. A cascade of gold suddenly lit the kitchen. On the wall above the basin was pinned a small mirror in a mother-of-pearl frame. Fatima saw her looking furtively into the mirror, while she redid her braids.
The mirror reflected something else too. It was Musa, watching the girl with the eyes of a drunkard. A drunkard or a man in love, Fatima’s heart had recognized the look.
“Come, eat,” Fatima said, while quickly placing on the table jars of tahini, humus and leben. Musa added pita and brought the tea glasses already filled with mint leaves. The girl seemed hesitant. Fatima saw Musa look at her expectantly. She knew that in her presence Musa would not address the girl directly.
“Bo’u, Ochel,” repeated Fatima, remembering how the Jewish neighbors from the old quarter in Jerusalem used to call their children when it was time to come home for supper.
We should get rid of her quickly. Fatima cleared her throat, “I have an idea,” she said, “I’m going to take her to Nathan, the Moroccan watchmaker. He always opens his store early in the morning. I will tell him what happened. Maybe he has already gotten word of a missing girl.”
As Fatima got up from the table, she was surprised to see the girl, who had eaten only pita with her tea, already standing at the sink washing and drying the dishes. “Poor lamb,” she thought for a second.
To Musa, she said “It’s time you go. They are starting the loading early. A good boss is always the one who arrives first.”
After a long glance at the girl, Musa left. He was already at the gate when he returned and shyly said, “She has no shoes, mother. Please let her have a pair of your old slippers.” He sounded supplicant. Fatima nodded. I have to get rid of the girl, nagged her again.
Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction Page 2