“Follow me,” Fatima told Shifra, when they were out on the street. She didn’t want to be seen walking alongside the girl. Nathan’s store wasn’t far away. They had to cross a few streets. From time to time, Fatima turned her head to see if the girl was behind her.
At the main thoroughfare, on Jerusalem Boulevard, a stubborn mule, kicking and making a lot of noise, stopped traffic. People were trying to cross the street between the stopped cars and buses. The noise was deafening. Everyone screamed. Fatima looked back to see if Shifra was close by, but she couldn’t see her. She turned, peering everywhere, wondering if she would have to go back to find her, but people were streaming all around.
Maybe it was better this way, Fatima thought. What would she tell Musa, when he asked her what happened to the girl, crossed her mind. But she dismissed it quickly. She had more pressing matters. It was time to take care of her business.
4
Her eyes were still searching for a narrow passage or a shadowed porch where she could hide from Fatima’s vigilant eye when the tumult and crowd around the stubborn donkey provided her with the chance to disappear. Shifra walked through streets that seemed to be leading her in circles until she saw the clock tower at the end of one street. From there she knew the way to the beach. Nobody would look for her there.
Shifra descended the rocks, grateful to be wearing the velvet embroidered slippers the Arab woman gave her that morning. When she found a shadowy place, Shifra sat down and looked around. Few people were on the beach, and, to Shifra’s relief, no one paid attention to her.
How foolish it was to leave her parents’ home, she thought with bitterness. What did she think she was doing? Didn’t she realize that there would be no way back? Probably by now her parents were sitting Shiva, mourning for her. At the thought of her mother lighting a remembrance candle for her, the way she did for her parents, tears streamed from Shifra’s eyes.
Was this the way to repay her parents for almost sixteen years of care? Immediately she remembered the bulging eyes of the neft man looking at her in a certain way, a shameful way, a way a man shouldn’t look at a girl. But m maybe she could’ve persuaded her father to break his promise? What was the rush? Still, there were more than ten days before Passover, almost two months before Lag Baomer, maybe in that time Rebono Shel Olam, Master of the Universe, would have taken pity on her. She had only to pray harder.
But she knew she wouldn’t be allowed to pray now. She was a sinner. The one Commandment her father always emphasized was Respect thy Father and thy Mother and she had been disrespectful. If she prayed, her prayers would be in vain. The Master of the Universe would not bend His ear to hear her.
Shifra closed her eyes. She remembered how much she enjoyed helping with the preparations for Pessach. How proud she was when her father, who came with a candle in the middle of the night to search her closet for traces of chametz, bread crumbs, told her mother that Shifra’s closet was the cleanest one. Gone was the beautiful Seder, where she could sing without being told that her voice was too loud. Gone were the presents, sometimes a new blouse, or a new pair of shoes, bought with money her mother had saved for an entire year.
Shifra looked at her wrinkled blouse and the tired-looking slippers. A new wave of tears filled her eyes. What was she going to do now?
The events of the previous evening, about the young Arab man who had taken her to his house, invaded her mind. How kind he was. She remembered his eyes when their glances crossed in the mirror. The memory made her blush. His eyes were like burning coals, penetrating her very soul. Even if she wanted, she couldn’t forget the look on his face.
It was a hot day and her head seemed to be on fire. Shifra got up and walked until she found a narrow space between two rocks, where she could hide from the crowds. The sand was humid, a sign that the sun never intruded there. As she sat down, she saw a piece of paper hidden in the sand. She picked it up. It was torn from a newspaper, its date missing. Shifra’s first impulse was to bury it again in the sand, but the headline of one of the articles caught her eye, “Girl missing.” Her heart skipped a beat.
No, it wasn’t possible. Her parents wouldn’t advertise in a newspaper, much less in the Palestine Post. Besides, she had left home only yesterday and this was an old, faded paper. She felt relieved. But her curiosity was aroused. She mouthed the words as she read:
Alyat Hanoar, the agency for young immigrants, is asking people who know the whereabouts of Rivka Mendel to call the Tel-Aviv center immediately. It was not the first time the girl had disappeared from the youth camp. The fifteen-year-old Rivka had been one of the Teheran Train Children smuggled out of war-torn Europe. Their six months ordeal, walking or by train from Siberia to Samarkand, then by ship to Teheran ended when helped by representatives of the Jewish Agency, the surviving 1,200 reached Palestine. At the time of her disappearance Rivka was dressed in khaki pants, a short-sleeved white blouse and sandals.
Clutching the paper in her hand, Shifra closed her eyes. She had seen one of those orphan children, a girl who was taken in by her uncle. Shifra remembered her parents’ comments about the lucky girl who had been able to find her uncle living in Palestine. But Shifra had seen the girl’s eyes. They were not the eyes of a happy child. Shifra sighed. What was Rivka Mendel looking for? If she had been happy, would she have run away?
High in the sky a flock of birds flew in circles, some of them diving into the water to look for insects and flying up again. Shifra felt a tremor in her heart. What a great feeling it must be to be free like a bird. But she couldn’t watch the birds for long. The sun blinded her eyes and she felt the unbearable midday heat again.
An Arab man, wearing a kafia and a long white robe, appeared on the beach. “Tamarind! Tamarind!” the juice seller screamed, ringing a bell.
Shifra remembered the day she went with her friend Shula to the Old City. On the way to the Wailing Wall, they encountered a tamarind seller. His juice box was strapped to his back and had long tubes, which Shula told her resembled an Irish pipe, a picture of which she had seen in one of her father’s books. Shifra didn’t know what an Irish pipe was. “It’s a musical instrument,” Shula explained to her.
“Let’s see how he pours the juice from a musical instrument.” Shula added jokingly, while buying one drink for the two of them to share. The seller poured the juice through its tube into a small metal can and then into a paper cup. It tasted as sweet as honey. Seeing the tamarind seller now, Shifra felt how dry her throat was. And the heat! She longed to plunge in the sea and feel the splash of the water on her face. The dazzling sun on the surface of the sea made her eyelids heavy.
All of a sudden she saw the shadows of a man and a woman. The man wore a black hat with tzitzis hanging out of his coat. The woman wore a kerchief on her head. Though she could see only their backs, she recognized them. Her parents! “Mama,” she cried “look at me, I’m here.” Shifra felt paralyzed, she couldn’t move, her anxiety was mixed with joy.
Her parents were looking for her! Almighty, blessed be He, had shown them the way. “Mama,” she cried again.
The man and the woman stopped. “Don’t turn,” Shifra heard her father say. “Don’t look at her. She’s not clean. She brought dirt and shame upon our family.”
Shifra stretched her arms toward them, “Rachmunes, pity, have pity,” but the two shadows disappeared.
She woke up shaking. Sweat poured over her face. Had it been a dream? And if it had, what was its meaning? All of a sudden she remembered her father’s words, “She’s not clean. Don’t look at her.”
Shifra shuddered, “I’m not clean.” Her father was right. Feverishly she looked around. The beach was empty, though the sun was still high. She had only one thought: she had to clean herself. What better way to cleanse than the blue sea, as pure as the cloudless sky?
The waves seemed to call her, “Come, come.” Shifra got up. Fearfully she approached the water. After baking in the sun, her feet were delighted by the fresh encounter. �
��Come, don’t be afraid,” she thought she heard a song. Was that the song of a mermaid, like the one she read about in a story? She started to follow the voice.
The water came up to her knees. The long wet skirt, heavy with water, stuck to her body. A wave knocked her down. Shifra got up, only to be pulled down by another wave. The salt water made her eyes tear, but she didn’t stop. Her heart was singing a glorious song, “I’m going to be clean. I am going to be pure. Mama, Papa, I’m going to be clean, I promise.”
The water was up to her chest. A group of youngsters walked along the beach. They saw her, but Shifra never heard their urgent calls.
On the docks of Jaffa’s port, Musa watched the loading of boxes of oranges, lemons and grapefruit. His thoughts and feelings were mixed. On one hand, he was grateful to his mother for wanting to help the girl, but he felt despondent at the thought of not seeing her again. After a few hours, his head was on fire. He had to find out what had happened at home. The slow loading looked as if it might take the entire day, and his anxiety grew with every hour that passed. The girl’s image and the memory of the moment their eyes met in the mirror burned his heart.
“Yala, yala, faster,” he screamed at the workers, as he had heard his father say. When his screams didn’t help he ran to the closest grocery store and bought two bottles of arrack.
“Here,” Musa said to the shore man, “one bottle for you, the other for the men. Try to get them to work faster. As for me, I can’t stay any longer.”
He heard the muezzin call for the third prayer of the day but decided to forgo going to the mosque. Anyway, he would arrive too late for the prayer, he rationalized. He was in a hurry, he had to go home. His mother would be upset that he left work early, but he had no time to worry about his mother’s reaction.
When he arrived home, his family was seated around the table eating their midday meal. The aroma of the zaatar, spiced lamb, filled his nostrils.
“So early,” Fatima wondered, “have you already finished loading?” The doubts creased his mother’s forehead. Instead of answering, Musa asked, “Eumi what happened this morning? Where is she? What did you do with her?” His voice sounded strained, rising with each question until it became shrill.
“Follow me!” Fatima ordered. In the silence of her bedroom, she burst out, “Have you lost your mind? You questioned me in front of your brother and sisters who know nothing of what happened last night. You should be ashamed of yourself. Go wash and come to eat. I forbid you to ask any more questions.”
“You have to tell me what happened. On my father’s memory, I beg of you.”
Fatima still refused to answer. In his mind, Musa cursed the minute he agreed to let his mother take the girl to the old watchmaker.
“She got lost,” Fatima said after a long silence. “I know she followed me, because I looked back every few steps, but on Jerusalem Boulevard the traffic separated us all of a sudden, and she,” Fatima stopped. Then with a decisive tone she continued, “Allah chalasna minik, good riddance.”
Without waiting to hear another word, Musa ran out of the house. Where could she be, he thought, walking briskly on the pavement melting under his steps. It was siesta time. Most of the shops were closed, and only a few people ventured out into the street during the hottest hours of the day. Aimlessly he walked through the almost empty bazaar, then through the souk without success. Musa knew he couldn’t ask a passerby, “Have you seen a girl with golden tresses and the bluest eyes, wearing a white-sleeved blouse and a long black skirt?” People would think him drunk or crazy. He felt sick at the thought that he had lost her; that he wasn’t going to see her again.
Musa found himself in front of the Mahmoodia Great Mosque. He left his slippers at the entrance and entered its refreshing cool walls. The Mosque was almost empty. He prostrated himself and prayed, but instead of the verses of the Koran, he just whispered, “Oh, Allah Akbar, glorious Allah, our light and father, help me find her.” After a while he got up and left. His steps directed him toward the beach. It was there he had seen her the first time. He knew that it was ridiculous to think he’d find her on the beach again, but his feet carried him there against his will.
At that hour the beach was usually deserted. No one ventured onto its burning sands when the sun was at its zenith. As he got closer to the place where he had seen her only a day ago, his heart started beating faster. He ran. The sand burned his soles, but he didn’t feel it. From a distance he saw a group of boys, barefoot, their pants rolled-up, striding into the water. As he got closer, he heard them yelling, “A girl is drowning. She needs help.” His feet grew wings. It’s not possible, Musa thought, and as he hurled himself into the sea, he saw a blond head, bobbing in and out of water at the mercy of the waves. The sun didn’t play a joke on him. It was the girl, his girl. He broke the waves, with the boys swimming after him screaming directions. When he felt a piece of cloth, Musa screamed, “I got her,” and feverishly brought her head above the water.
“She is breathing,” one of the boys said, after they helped him carry and lay her on the sand. “She hasn’t opened her eyes. Should we call a policeman?” asked another boy.
“No, no,” Musa said, out of breath.
“Musa,” said the first boy, recognizing him. “Musa Ibn-Faud. Tell us what to do?”
The boys, twelve or thirteen year old, looked expectantly at him. Musa had to think fast. He couldn’t tell them that he knew the girl, yet, he couldn’t lose a minute.
The boys talked all at once, “You could see she didn’t know how to swim,” said one.
“We called her,” said another. “We didn’t do anything wrong,” said the third.
“You are good people, and Allah will recompense you for your good deed,” Musa said, as he covered Shifra’s head with his own kafia, to protect her from the sun. “Go home. Don’t worry. I’ll get the help she needs.”
The boys seemed uncertain. “Go,” Musa repeated impatiently,” I’ll be in charge.”
“Allah be praised, she’s alive,” Musa wanted to scream, after the boys left. What could have been going through her mind? Why would she want to drown herself?
He had to take her to a safe place as fast as he could. Her body was warm, but her eyes were closed. “First, get her out of the wet clothes. She needs dry clothes,” he thought feverishly. Her body seemed so tense. He tried to open her clenched fists. A small piece of folded paper fell out. He picked it up and put it in his pocket. He’d read it later. Where could he take her? There was no safe place he knew, other than his own home. He lifted the girl up in his arms. He ran all the way, his charge seeming to him no heavier than a feather. She hadn’t opened her eyes, but he heard her soft breathing. For the moment that was enough.
He pushed the gate wide open. A dozen dumbfounded eyes confronted him. Fatima, completely stricken by the sight, started screaming, “La, la, no, not again. Kafi-enough. I want none of it. You should be ashamed of yourself, Musa Ibn-Faud. Chalas, out, take her out, out of my house, right now!”
“If she leaves, I leave,” Musa answered in a firm voice. Carefully and gently he knelt and placed the girl on the courtyard tiles. “Eumi, this is a sign from the Prophet. I went to pray to Allah at the Mosque and He guided my steps, so that I could save her life a second time. Didn’t He say, he who saves one life, saves the entire universe?”
“Go change. You are all wet. You’ll catch cold,” Fatima said, after looking around and seeing how alarmed her daughters were. They adored their brother and she knew it.
“Don’t worry about me. Please, Mother, she’s the one who needs dry clothes right now. Look, she’s shivering.” He moved a lock of Shifra’s hair aside from her face. His sisters gasped, “She’s so pretty!” they said in one voice.
Fatima clapped her hands, “Girls, go to your rooms. I’ll talk to you later,” she approached Shifra and placed her hand on the girl’s forehead. “She’s burning,” Fatima said. “What am I supposed to do now? Oh, my son, I don’t know if you
saved a life, but surely you’ve brought a lot of trouble for the Masri family.”
Musa kept quiet. He already knew that his mother was going to help. “Bring her to my room,” she ordered. “There’s no need to call Dr. Farid. I’ll use my grandmother’s old remedies, wash her body in vinegar and wrap it in dry sheets. Then I’ll hang wet sheets to keep the room temperature down. She should drink lots of chamomile and elderberry tea. Hopefully by tomorrow there will be no more fever.” As they were carrying the girl together, Fatima added, “Tomorrow the two of us will have a serious talk. Until then, tell your sisters and brother to keep their mouths shut. You know how much our neighbors like to gossip.”
There’s going to be trouble. Fatima smelled it two nights ago when Musa first brought the girl into the house. Now after she had tried all the remedies she knew, the girl’s fever remained high. Fatima had put compresses with potato slices on her forehead, yet her eyes were still shut. From rosy, the girl’s face had turned sallow.
All during the night, Musa sat at the girl’s side and moved only when his mother asked him to change the compresses. What am I going to do? Fatima asked herself, upset that her knowledge did not help.
In the morning she saw that Musa looked agitated. He held a piece of paper in his hands. “Read this,” he said, “I found it clutched in her palm.”
Though the paper was torn in many places, and the water had erased some of the letters, Fatima could make out its content. It mentioned a missing girl, one of the thousand Teheran Children, saved by a miracle from the Nazis’ claws, who traveled from Europe through Siberia towards Teheran, from there to Alexandria before reaching Palestine.
Could Rifka Mendel be the half-dead girl now under her roof?
“How old is this paper?” Fatima asked after returning it to her son. Musa shrugged his shoulders, “I don’t know.” He looked again at the paper. “What I understand from reading it is that she was brought here, together with other orphans. If she’s that girl, she must be an orphan.”
Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction Page 3