Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction

by Fedora Horowitz

  “You still haven’t answered me. Get rid of the girl,” Fatima said with impatience, “It’s an order.”

  “I heard it,” Samira said. “You seem upset. Let me unbraid and brush your hair, as I used to do when you were a young girl, while I’m going to tell you a true story.”

  “He was the nearest thing I ever knew to a grandfather.”

  When Samira finished telling about Mr. Grunwald, she saw that Fatima had been touched by her story. “After his death, I took an oath, though I was so young, still a child, that I’d help a needy orphan as wholeheartedly as Mr. Grunwald cared for me.” She looked at Fatima, “Here is my chance to keep that oath. This poor girl needs my help. She’s not well yet, and I’m not going to chase her away.”

  Samira knew that her words sounded unusual for a servant and she expected to be rebuffed by Fatima. But Fatima kept silent.

  Samira continued, “Your parents were good to me, and I am devoted to you and your children, but,” she took a yellowish picture out of her pocket, “I look every day at the photo of Grunwald Effendi’s granddaughter. She and her entire family were killed by bad people. Maybe it’s only a coincidence, but I can’t stop thinking of the resemblance with the Yahud girl. I want to help her get her health back. Only then will I feel that I’ve repaid my debt.”

  “I have to consider the future of my children,” Fatima answered. “Keeping her longer will only make Musa think that I approve of her staying here. Who is she? Where did she come from? How long can I extend hospitality to a guest forced upon me? And now you want me to keep her longer!”

  “Only until she gains more strength, I promise. She tries to help me with my chores, poor girl, but she’s still very weak.” Looking at Fatima with a furtive, sly glance, Samira continued smoothly, “Now, about Musa. Would you allow me to give you advice?”

  Blankly Fatima stared at her.

  “I think that you should send him away, maybe to Ramallah to study, or to work for and learn from your cousin the banker in Jerusalem,” Samira said. “I heard in the souk that the Brits are encouraging young Arabs to take positions in the government. Our Musa is so bright.”

  Fatima sighed, “You are speaking my mind. I wanted to keep him close to me as long as I could, but I realize it’s time for him to fly his own wings. It just hurts to think that my two older children will leave at the same time. I’m sure you know that Amina wants to volunteer for the British Army.”

  Samira nodded. She had always been the children’s confidante. But she felt sympathy for Fatima. She knew how much her children meant to her.

  “As for the meeting of the Arab Women’s League,” Samira concluded, “you shouldn’t worry. The Jewish girl will stay in my room. Your daughters will help me serve the guests. They know to keep a secret when told to do so.”

  The meeting of the Arab Women’s League took place in the fumoir, in the men’s quarters. It was the room to which Faud, Fatima’s husband, used to invite his friends for a smoke, a glass of tea or a little glass of arak. It was the first time Fatima had opened it for her own guests.

  The large room was furnished in the Turkish style. Leather ottomans surrounded low glistening copper tables encrusted with beautiful arabesque designs. It was the room Fatima was the proudest of. Heavy Persian rugs in intricate designs of red, blue and black completed the room, giving it a festive look. Samira had aired the room from the smoke that still lingered in the air and washed the carpets with a vinegar solution that brought out the colors to look as fresh as the day they were bought.

  Everything, even the smallest details, like flowers in every vase, were ready when the ladies arrived. With low bows, the greeting “Salaam Aleikum” and the hostess’ response, Aleikum Salaam,” filled the courtyard. The twenty ladies presented a curious mixture. There was the wife of the mukhtar, the Mayor of Jaffa, two Arab Christian women, the wife of a Muslim cleric whom everybody guessed was sent by her husband to spy on the meeting, and two spinster sisters, both teachers in a distinguished private school for girls. Besides Fatima there were three other Palestinian Muslim women. The others were Lebanese or Syrian, married to notable Palestinian men.

  Except for the wife of the cleric, nobody else wore the veil. And even she took it off when she entered the house. The Lebanese women were the most elegantly dressed. They wore knee-length muslin sleeveless dresses in pastel colors. Their French perfume deliciously filled the nostrils of all present. They were also the most educated and everybody in the group looked up to them.

  “We have a busy agenda,” the mukhtar’s wife said, as she opened the meeting.” I want to start with the two major propositions we received from the headquarters of the British Army stationed in Palestine as well as from His Excellency, the British High Commissioner.”

  The ladies nodded. They were familiar with the subjects.

  ”We’ll have to vote this evening if we agree to have our daughters, or even some of us, help the British Army. They’ve been successful in pushing back Rommel’s German Army at Tobruk in North Africa. We can now breathe easier. The Germans will never fight us here in Palestine.”

  “Hear, hear,” the ladies told one another. They applauded. They sat on the ottomans, in groups of three or four around the low Turkish coffee tables.

  “Let’s vote for the first item. Those in favor of our working for the Red Cross and for the war effort, raise your hands.”

  The two Christian ladies raised their arms, then the Lebanese ones; Fatima was the last. Amina, her daughter, who had just entered the room with a tray filled with ice water glasses in which rose petals floated, looked triumphantly at her mother.

  The only person who abstained from the vote was the cleric’s wife. “You are sending your daughters on the way to perdition,” she said, a crooked smile appearing at the corner of her mouth.

  “Thank you, ladies. We’ll move to the next item,” continued the mukhtar’s wife.

  “The British High Commissioner is asking us to recommend educated young Arabs for positions in the government. Even though we don’t like to have the British here, my husband thinks that cooperating with them at this stage would only benefit us. For example,” she turned toward Fatima, “Musa, our hostess’ son, would only bring honor to his family and to us all if he received a respectable position within the government.”

  Samira, who had entered bringing trays of baklava dripping with honey, and sugar-coated almond pastries, caught Fatima’s glance. They looked at one another. Samira saw Fatima nodding imperceptibly.

  Following Samira were Amina and Rama carrying trays of small cups filled with Turkish coffee, and glasses with nana tea. Fatima clapped her hands.

  “Ladies,” she said, “let us take a short break. Samira has worked hard for you. It is my pleasure to invite you to taste her pastries.” A murmur of approval ensued.

  “So, are you going to send Musa to Jerusalem?” the mukhtar’s wife pressed Fatima.

  “He’ll have to make that decision,” answered a noncommittal Fatima.

  She got up and as a gracious hostess moved between the different groups and heard snippets of conversation. The two teacher sisters said they had been asked to join the British women’s sports club. They wanted to table the proposal and spread the idea among the other members of the League. At another table the cleric’s wife was adamant about a woman’s need to return to wearing the veil in public.

  The Lebanese ladies were eager for the League to encourage women to attend Jaffa’s new cinema unaccompanied.

  “As they do in Cairo, or Beirut,” added the youngest.

  “That will never happen!” Fatima heard the shriek of the cleric’s wife, who had just heard the last comment. Two other Muslim women nodded.

  “It’s a shame,” one of them murmured.

  The League started from the premise that all Arab women were sisters driven by the same ideal, Fatima recalled. But was this still holding true? Her thoughts were interrupted by the mukhtar’s wife calling out, “First, I hope all o
f us agree to say a big Shukran, thank you, to Mrs. Fatima for her hospitality.”

  Fatima heard murmurs of approval.

  “And now, my dear ladies,” the mukhtar’s wife continued, “As we resume our meeting, it’s time to take a strong position about what the Jewish call their aliya, their immigration. Our newspapers warned us that they have infiltrated our land; many arrived illegally and spread like ants. We have to do our part in helping our men fight to preserve Palestine for Palestinians. This is our fatherland, this is our homeland.” Everyone applauded.

  Samira, who entered to clear up the tables, heard the last sentence. She glanced furtively at Fatima, and watched the tension narrow her eyes and tighten her lips.

  7

  Shifra couldn’t fall asleep. She had heard unusual noises in the house, many women speaking loudly, all at once. Where was Samira? She didn’t know what time it was, but it seemed long after the queen of the night had covered the sky with her mantle. Shifra had grown accustomed to the Arab woman’s singing in her croaking voice, mixing Arabic and Yiddish words.

  How much time had passed since she was brought to this strange house? Shifra remembered the beach. But what beach, and what was she doing there? She had opened her eyes to find herself in unfamiliar surroundings, strange people, two women and children who looked at her with worried eyes.

  Oh, she felt so tired, so tired. Whenever she tried to think, her head hurt. There was a young man, who had carried her in his arms, she remembered! The blood rushed to her face. He seemed again, how did she get where she was now? The longer she thought, the more confused she became. And the headache started again. She drank the glass of water filled with nana leaves that Samira had left at her side.

  After a slight tap at the door, Rama, the youngest of the daughters entered. By now she knew the little girl’s name.

  “I brought you pastries,” Rama said in Arabic, putting a plate by her side. Shifra didn’t understand the words, but understood their meaning and smiled at the little girl.

  “You know,” Rama said in a mysterious tone, “soon Amina and Musa will go away. I’ll miss Amina so much.”

  Rama started to cry. She wiped her tears and looked hopefully at Shifra. “I want you to live with us and be my new sister.”

  Neither of them had heard Samira, who had slipped inside the room. “It’s time you go to bed, sweet angel,” Samira said, taking Rama in her arms and kissing her.

  “Samira,” Rama pointed toward Shifra, “Do you think I could try to teach her Arabic? Then she could really become my sister.”

  “Maybe,” Samira smiled, “now run, before your mother finds out that you’re still up.”

  At the beginning of the lessons Rama pointed to the objects in the room and named them in Arabic. She waited for Shifra to repeat the words after her, again and again. This child is a born teacher; Samira, proudly, witnessed her efforts. She would love to tell Fatima, but the latter was too busy preparing Amina before joining the British Red Cross.

  In time, Rama became bolder. One day when Samira brought Shifra in the courtyard to enjoy the sun, Rama asked Nur, her older sister for help. “Please teach her our letters,” begged Rama, who wasn’t yet going to school.

  “I am too busy, leave me alone,” Nur answered. But Rama insisted, “You don’t know how fast this girl can learn. She can name everything in the house. Please, Nur, please.”

  Samira wanted to intervene, but after she heard Rama insisting so much, Nur said, “I’ll do it only because you asked me to. I don’t see why she should learn Arabic. You heard Mother say that as soon as her health gets better, she’ll have to leave.”

  As much as Shifra wanted to remember her past, now as dark as the sea that almost swallowed her, she made little progress. Vaguely, Rama reminded her of a little girl she had known before, but who? Shifra grew fond of Rama and for her sake, and wanting to make her proud, she took Rama’s and Nur’s lessons seriously.

  “Look how pretty she writes,” marveled Rama after a few days. “And she embellishes each word with designs. I have to show it to Amina. This girl’s drawings are as beautiful as my sister’s.”

  Excited, Rama took the notebook out of Shifra’s hands and went to look for Amina. On the margins of her notebook, Shifra had drawn birds, flowers of paradise, and small animals, each one matching the characters of the Arabic letters.

  Amina took the notebook looking attentively at each picture. “Eumi,” she called her mother, still contemplating the drawings in her hand, “You were worried that after my departure, you wouldn’t find anybody to produce the design which my dear sister Na’ima embroiders on the fabrics. You called us your winning team.”

  Fatima and Musa joined her. “Now,” a triumphant Amina said showing the notebook, “I think that I found the person who could replace me, and this person already lives under our roof.”

  Amina’s words created a commotion. Shifra didn’t understand everything, but she felt that something special was going on. Lifting her eyes, she saw Musa nodding, visibly excited.

  Amina spoke again, “Yesterday, in the bazaar, I was proud to see how many tourists bought our fabrics. They were snatching them out of each other’s hands. I felt really sad thinking that my leaving would stop our work.”

  Rama clapped her hands. “And it was me! I discovered her.” All eyes were on Fatima. They could have heard the buzzing of a fly in the silence that followed, everybody waiting for Fatima to speak. Fatima, who had never addressed Shifra directly, finally asked her, Sho ismek, what’s your name?

  Shifra had heard this question before. Rama had asked her almost daily, encouraging her by pointing to herself and saying, “My name is Rama,” but Shifra had never answered.

  Now everybody’s eyes were riveted on her. Samira looked worried. So did Musa. Shifra tried, “Sh—” she started, then, “Shif—” she continued. Finally, she said on one long, trembling breath, “Shifffrrra.”

  Rama applauded. “See,” she said, “you have a name.”

  Shifra felt so happy, she repeated it a few times, each time a little louder. Fatima looked puzzled. She opened the torn piece of newspaper that Musa had found in Shifra’s fist. “Isn’t your name Rifka?” Fatima asked.

  “La, no,” Shifra answered.

  “Are you sure?” Fatima asked again. Shifra nodded. Fatima looked at Musa, waiting for an explanation. But Musa was just as baffled as she was.

  “What does it matter if she’s that girl or not,” said Samira, who had followed the entire exchange with growing anxiety. Fatima had told her about the missing girl whom she had read about in the old newspaper and the fact that the Jews were after her. “She’s here now,” Samira continued, “and she can be helpful.”

  It took sometime for Fatima to answer. She said decisively “From now on your name is Suha. This is your name. Remember, your only name.”

  “Suha, Suha,” Rama repeated, “what a beautiful name, as beautiful as you are, Suha,” and she took Shifra’s hand, “I told you, you’ll be my sister, now.”

  But Shifra didn’t hear Rama’s words. In her heart she heard a continuous chant, Shifra, Shifra, this is me, Shifra.

  “Come,” Samira said, destroying the spell, “You’ve been in the sun too long. You’ll get a headache again.” She took Shifra’s arm, “You’ve heard what Sit Fatima said, from now on, you are Suha. That’s who you are.” Samira pressed Shifra’s arm again, “Come, Suha.”

  Still dreaming, Shifra-Suha felt herself dragged away by Samira. As they were leaving, she saw Amina and Rama hugging their mother, while Musa watched her with moist eyes.

  8

  So many things had happened in the few weeks since he found the blond girl—his angel, as Musa called her in his heart. Now in the silence of his room Musa loved to repeat her name, “Suha, Suha.” Those syllables sounded like a melody, Su-ha, Su-ha, a name so suited to his love.

  He felt such an attraction, a desire to touch her, and became dizzy just looking into the pool of her blue eyes.
Until that moment, women and girls held no interest for him. He always knew that his mother would find him a match, a girl from a family as honorable as theirs, which was of utmost importance for families of their rank.

  And now, was he ready to tell his mother, if she hadn’t guessed already, that he had fallen in love with Shifra-Suha, the girl who came from nowhere, and who was, of all things, Jewish! He knew that this was inconceivable. Arabs and Jews didn’t mix, as water does not mix with oil.

  Like every Arab youngster, Musa had learned the slogans and participated in meetings where the speakers urged those present to fight against Jewish immigration. Yes, he had no doubt that Palestine belonged to the Arabs. He had known it since he was a little child, and heard the Imam speak with so much fire in his voice, or at the meetings when he accompanied his father. It was there that the men swore to fight the kafir, the infidel, to the last one, like the mujahedin, the holy warriors.

  But he couldn’t drive away his feelings, the tremor that filled his heart each time he saw Suha. He followed with trepidation Samira’s efforts to heal the girl.

  Now, after his sister Amina left with the British Red Cross and thanks to Suha’s newly discovered talent for drawing, Musa was relieved to see that his mother seemed inclined to accept her as part of their household. But would his mother accept Suha as a daughter-in-law?

  Maybe it was too early to think about marriage. If he wanted to obtain his mother’s consent, Musa decided, it would be better to wait for her signals and listen to what she encouraged him to do. If she wanted him to go to Ramallah or Jerusalem and learn to become an official within the government, Musa wouldn’t oppose her will. He knew that the British would not rule forever. Their empire would crumble.

  When the British leave Palestine, Arab leaders will be needed to take over the government. He must be ready for that time.

  Yes, everything was working in his favor. If only Suha would smile at him! But she didn’t look his way anymore, as if she were avoiding him. Maybe she was too busy with the drawings. But he longed to meet her eyes and see her blush, as had happened that first time, the morning after he brought her to his house.