Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction

by Fedora Horowitz

  After a few minutes of silence Fatima said, “I have an idea. I will take the grandfather clock to Adon Nathan. For some time it hasn’t worked properly. Maybe it needs oiling.”

  Musa looked interested. She continued, “Maybe I’ll be able to find out if there is any news in the Jewish newspaper regarding a missing girl.”

  “Thank you, Eumi,” Musa said gratefully, “Allah will bless you for your good soul.”

  It wasn’t long before Fatima returned home, empty-handed. She echoed what Mister Nathan said: “Except for the terrible war ravaging Europe, there was no other urgent news.”

  5

  “So it seems that nobody has claimed the girl,” Fatima said looking straight into Musa’s eyes. A long silence fell between mother and son.

  “What do we do now?” Fatima asked.” I don’t want her to die under my roof. You know I’ve tried everything I know.”

  While she talked, Samira, her faithful servant, who had been Fatima’s nanny, and followed her from Jerusalem to Jaffa after Fatima married, sneaked silently into the room. Samira had been the midwife for each one of Fatima’s six children and Fatima considered her a second mother, her confidante and best advisor.

  Samira was the one who, during the night, had helped Fatima change the sheets imbued with the girl’s perspiration, had washed them quickly and hung them in the courtyard, where the fresh breeze and the smell from the eucalyptus flowers perfumed them. She had also put ice on Shifra’s parched lips, while Musa tried patiently to squeeze a few teaspoons of chamomile tea through her lips.

  Samira hadn’t asked any questions and Fatima knew that she wouldn’t, unless Fatima was going to tell her what happened.

  Samira had heard Fatima’s last words, “Musa, I pity the girl, but it’s time to take her to the hospital, or to the French Convent. I have heard that some of the Catholic nuns are trained nurses. Musa, my son, it’s time to restore back the calm of this house.”

  Samira noticed Musa’s face becoming darker, “Mother, please don’t do anything hastily.”

  “Can you imagine the consequences of your deed? Have you thought about your sisters? Any young man would have been honored to be married into the Masri family. I’ve already had matchmakers come from as far as Alexandria making inquiries. Now you want to bring shame to our good name. People will want to know what a Yahud girl is doing in our home.”

  With each word Fatima had raised her voice. At the end she was breathless. And upset. She turned toward Samira, “Can you bring my son to his senses?” Fatima knew that Samira loved Musa as much as she did.

  “We can try Uhm Zaide,” Samira said in a quiet voice.

  “The witch!” Fatima and Musa exclaimed simultaneously.

  “She has cured people. Everybody knows that her mixtures of herbs have saved lives,” Samira said. She sounded sure of her words. “Musa could go and bring her, though she lives far from here and moves slowly, poor woman. She’s getting up in years.”

  Musa and Fatima looked at each other. Neither one seemed convinced of the wisdom of Samira’s words.

  Fatima was on the point of answering, but Samira was faster. She could always guess her mistress’ thoughts. “Before calling Uhm Zaide, with your permission, I’d like to try another cure first.” Musa’s face lightened.

  “I need you two to help me,” Samira said. “Musa, you bring me a pan with a few burning coals from the hot stove. Fatima, bring a bucket of cold water,” she commanded.

  After they brought what she asked for, Samira ordered, “Now leave me alone with her.” Musa stood undecided “Go, go,” Samira said with impatience, when she saw him still lingering.

  Alone with Shifra, Samira cooled the burning coals in the water; then placed them on Shifra’s chest. Shifra shivered. Samira dipped a clean rag in the water in which the burning coals had been extinguished, and with it brushed Shifra’s forehead, cheeks, and arms while whispering, “Mein kind, mein kind, my child.” The girl’s eyelids fluttered. From Samira’s lips came a song, one she didn’t know she remembered. Where had she heard it? Did the old man sing it?

  Again Shifra’s eyelids moved. Samira could almost see the blue underneath her eyelids. Shifra’s lips opened, “Mama,” she whispered.

  Samira tried to hold back her tears. From around her neck, she took her talisman, the precious amulet that had never left her neck for the last twenty-five years. She kissed it before she placed the string holding it around Shifra’s neck.

  “It’s a mezuzah,” Samira whispered, “Now I’m placing you in your God’s hands. He is going to heal you.”

  When she was twelve years old, the orphaned Samira was sent by her grandmother to clean the rooms of an old Jewish man who had left his family in the faraway country where he was born and had come to die and be buried in the Holy Land, an old custom of very religious Jews. “He is one of many,” her grandmother, who was cleaning for other old Jews, told her.

  Mr. Grunwald lived in Jerusalem’s Jewish Quarter surrounded by the walls of the Old City. He prayed the entire day, ate very little, and despite the language barrier between them, he smiled at Samira often. His smile warmed her heart. Many times Samira imagined that her grandfather, whom she had never met, must have resembled Mr. Grunwald. His room was full of books and yellowed photographs which Samira dusted with care. For that, Mr. Grunwald added a few piastres to her fee.

  Once when he got a cold, he asked her for a gleizole, a small glass of tea, and from his signs she understood what he wanted. She served him the tea along with bread and cheese, the only two items she saw him eating at other meals. He smiled gratefully. After he fell asleep, Samira took his hand and held it for a long time. She felt closer to him than to her own grandmother, who never had time for her.

  Samira was born in Al Fashha, one of the Arab villages west of Jerusalem. Her father was taken by the Turkish Army to fight in what she learned later was The Great War. He never returned home. From too much work and exhaustion Samira’s mother died in childbirth, not long after her father left with the army. The baby didn’t survive either. It was then that her grandmother took Samira under her roof. But money was scarce and she had to send Samira to work, too. That’s how Samira came to work for Mr. Grunwald.

  The seasons passed one after another and with time, a strange kinship developed between the old Jew and Samira. She learned a few of the Yiddish words, enough to be able to serve him, to buy his newspaper and the few groceries he needed. In turn he showed her the photographs of each one of his children and einikleh, grandchildren. They were beautiful blond girls and handsome boys, all well-dressed, each one smiling, maybe at their grandfather.

  Samira hoped to serve Mr. Grunwald forever. In her heart he had already replaced the grandfather she never knew. But one day he received a letter. He had received many letters before, which he told her were from his children. But that time it was another kind, a terrible letter. The letters on the envelope looked different from the ones she had become familiar with. When she came to work the next day, she saw Mr. Grunwald prostrated on the floor, a burning candle at his side. He seemed unable to move and refused to eat. Not even to drink his tea.

  His body was moving forward and backward and he often broke into tears, mumbling constantly, “Oi, meine kinder,” Other old bearded Jews came to keep him company, prayed with him and she heard them whispering with dread in their voices one single word, again and again, “Pogrom, pogrom.”

  One said, “Wie in the Petliura tzeiten, die gazlan, like in the times of the monster, Petliura.”

  At the time she didn’t know what it meant but understood that it must have been something terrible. Not long after that the old man took to his bed and despite all her efforts—Samira wanted so desperately to save him—he died shortly afterward. All through his illness he never spoke to her again.

  Samira was still holding his hand, now completely cold, unable to move from his side, when the people from Hevre Kadishe, the Jewish Burial Society, came to take his body and bury h
im according to the Jewish tradition. One man approached her, a piece of paper in his hand.

  Samira stood up respectfully. The man spoke in a language she couldn’t understand. He pointed to something written on the paper after which he gave her money, “From Mr. Grunwald,” he said. The money, an amount equal to a full year of service, was not all he had left her. Samira was in shock when the man who had given her the money took the old pictures from the wall and pressed them into her hand, “They are yours, too,” he said, “Mr. Grunwald’s wish.”

  Samira waited for the people from the Burial Society to leave. Then with eyes swimming in tears, she went to the door post and kissed her palm after she touched the mezuzah, the way she saw the old man do it every time he left home and after he returned. He had told her the mezuzah was holy. A moment later she took a ladder and, with the help of a hammer, removed the mezuzah. She put a piece of string around it and fastened it around her neck. In that way, she told herself, the old man would always be with her.

  Now, gently knotting the mezuzah around Shifra’s neck, Samira felt she was returning Mr. Grunwald’s kindness toward her. The girl’s looks reminded her of one of his grandchildren, whose pictures she kept hidden in her closet, in her room behind the kitchen.

  Watching Shifra, whose fingers lingered on the mezuzah, a forlorn smile on her lips, Samira was cheered to see that the girl’s chest moved at an even pace and she slept peacefully.

  Samira’s life wasn’t easy after Mr. Grunwald passed away. Her grandmother was hit by a car when she tried to cross a narrow street in the Old City. The car was driven by English youngsters, laughing and shouting and probably drunk. Jerusalem was full of English tourists. Her grandmother was almost deaf, and the kerchief she wore on her head didn’t help her hearing; neither did the long jelebia help her move quickly. Her heart didn’t recover from the shock. She died immediately after.

  When Samira was hired by Fatima’s wealthy parents, she wasn’t much older than Fatima. Fatima took a liking to her and taught her to read Arabic. The family was good to her, but they kept her at a distance. For them she was a servant. They never broke bread with her the way old Mr. Grunwald had.

  When she missed him the most she’d go to the Jewish cemetery on the Mount of Olives, wash the headstone, light a little candle in the glass box and put little stones on the grave, the way she saw other people do.

  After Fatima got married and moved to Jaffa, and especially after the children were born, Samira found a new meaning in life. She adored the children, Musa especially, and they returned her love. She never missed being married. As she told Fatima many times, “I don’t need a husband who’d get drunk and beat me.” She was only eleven years old when her father was taken into the Army, but she still remembered how her father used to slap her mother after drinking a few glasses of arak.

  Fatima entered the room, her eyes full of questions. “I think she’s out of danger,” Samira whispered, “But I’d like to keep an eye on her, so I want her to sleep in my room.” This she added quickly, as she had already seen the frown of displeasure on Fatima’s face. Yet Samira knew that Fatima wasn’t going to object, because their long history together had created a strong bond of trust between them.

  “Whatever you say,” answered Fatima, “but the sooner she leaves the better. I warn you. And hopefully next time there will be no return!”

  Samira nodded, a little smile forming at the corner of her mouth. Behind his mother, she had seen Musa. He had sneaked along, his brilliant eyes speaking to Samira more eloquently than words.

  6

  I must have had a moment of weakness when I accepted Samira’s idea of having the Jewish girl share her room. As close as Fatima felt toward Samira, she was bothered by the great interest Samira took in the young girl. Fatima had observed how Samira had washed the girl’s body, how she fed her, teaspoon by teaspoon, with so much patience, as if this were her own child. Samira helped her get out of bed, when she finally started her first hesitant steps, and sustained her all the way. Fatima noticed that the girl’s eyes gleamed when she looked at Samira.

  What happened when they were alone? Fatima thought that she had heard murmurs, but she was too proud to ask Samira if she had found a way to make the girl talk. Every noon, Fatima saw Samira boil two soft eggs and place them on a piece of fresh challah she had bought earlier in the morning at Abulafia’s bakery exactly at the time the warm bread was taken out of the oven.

  By now, Shifra wore one of Samira’s jelebia dresses. If not for her blond hair, she could have passed easily for an Arab girl. All that disturbed Fatima. She would have a talk with Samira as soon as possible. Lately when Samira brought the pale girl to the courtyard, “to get some sun,” as she explained it, Fatima saw her youngest daughters approach the girl and caress her hands. They had begged Samira to let them help her. And the young Rama offered to entertain her. Yes, she definitely had to put an end to all this.

  To see the light on Musa’s face every time he glanced at the girl pained Fatima. Moreover, Fatima thought, suddenly feeling a knot in her stomach, in a few days, the Arab Women’s League was scheduled to hold its monthly meeting in her house. What a mess! What was she going to do? How would she explain to those fanatics the presence of the Jewish girl under her roof?

  When she had joined the League after her husband’s death, she wasn’t sure that Faud would have approved of an organization that demanded equal rights for women in the Muslim society. Fatima thought that it would be good for her business. The League did charitable work, following the examples of the British women’s organizations that mushroomed during the British Mandate to promote progress in Arab women’s lives. Yes, Arab women, especially the well-educated ones, were ready to learn from the British, even if this was in conflict with their feelings. Lately the Arab Women’s League had taken stronger attitudes against the British Mandate, because it permitted Jews to settle in Palestine. The Arab newspaper Filastin newspaper warned daily, “Don’t sell your land to Jews. It’s a terrible danger. Be alert.”

  Fatima didn’t sell her land. She had made profitable deals with the Jews, but all the same, she agreed with the organization’s platform: Palestine belongs to the Arabs and only to them.

  Now this girl was like a thorn in Fatima’s side. She had to be clear and tell Samira that there was no place for the girl in her house. Fatima clapped her hands. Her daughter Amina appeared, followed by her three sisters. “Amina, tell Samira to see me immediately. I need to talk to her.”

  “Yes, Eumi,” her daughter answered, lingering near the door, unready to leave.

  “Then, go! Go!” an impatient Fatima urged her.

  “Samira is in the courtyard. She washed the Yahud girl’s hair and she let me brush it,” Rama said. ”Oh, Eumi, I would give anything to have hair like that.”

  “Enough!” Fatima’s voice sounded harsh, “Go, all of you. I am busy.”

  “Mother,” Amina started timidly, “did you give more thought to what we talked about the other evening?” Amina’s voice turned suppliant. “Have you made a decision yet? You know the time is running out.”

  Fatima pressed her palms to her temples. It was too much, Musa, Amina, Samira, the Arab Women’s League. It felt like rocks on her head.

  “I said, go! We’ll talk about this later,” with a tired gesture, Fatima dismissed her daughters.

  First Musa, now Amina, thought Fatima. What’s happening to my children? Amina wanted to register as a volunteer for the British Army. The British had made an appeal to the Arab Women’s League to help the war against the Germans. The appeal invited English-speaking Arab women to contribute to the war effort, working as nurses, or nurses’ aides, cooks, or doing laundry. Already many Arab women had decided to respond to the appeal.

  “Now the war is hitting close to home,” Fatima thought bitterly. This appeal would be the major issue at the meeting in her house. Fatima knew that her words would weigh heavily in the discussion. She again pressed her palms to her temple
s. She felt the oppressive heat of the day. And it wasn’t noon yet. It must be the hamsin, the hot wind blowing from the desert, kind of early in the season, she thought, but always unpredictable.

  Fatima saw the door open quietly. Samira entered, her long black garb flowing. At home Samira kept her head uncovered, but out on the street she wore a hijab.

  Her eyes questioned Fatima. “The girls said you wanted to talk to me.”

  “Right,” Fatima said. “Sit down, Samira. There are no formalities between the two of us. I want to talk to you about the Yahud girl.”

  Fatima saw Samira’s body stiffen. “I’m listening,” Samira said.

  “This misfortune has taken too long and has disrupted us in many ways. I don’t have to tell you that I’m worried about Musa. He is at such tender age, a child still.” Fatima’s pitch raised, “Don’t interrupt me,” when she saw Samira lifting her hand.

  “What’s more, the girls seemed to have taken a liking to her. I don’t want and I don’t need troubles. I don’t know and I am not asking you what made you take such an interest in this girl, but I warn you that she should leave in the next twenty-four hours. You know as well as I do that the Arab Women’s League meeting will be in my house in two days.”

  Fatima stopped. Her heart beat in her ears like the bells of the Orthodox Church across the street. All through her speech Samira had kept her mouth shut.

  “The pastries, coffee and tea will be ready for the guests as usual, and as usual the Sitat, the ladies from the Arab league will admire how beautifully you master both your business and your home.”

  “Stop your flattering,” Fatima frowned. She knew that Samira didn’t trust that “elite group,” as she called the Arab Women’s League, whose well-to-do members didn’t associate with the fellaheen, the peasant women. “Your League worries about the education of their daughters, though they have the means to send them to private schools, not for the education of the poor,” Fatima had heard Samira scoff many times.