Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction

by Fedora Horowitz

  Fatima and Samira watched the witch’s doings in complete silence. From previous experiences they knew that Uhm Zaide wouldn’t talk until she was finished. The witch took a few packets of herbs out of her pocket, “Samira,” she said, “mix the herbs and boil them daily in well water. Make her drink this three times a day. In a few days her appetite and color will return.” After she spit three times again on Na’ima’s forehead she signaled Fatima to follow her out of the room.

  “There’s nothing wrong with your daughter,” the witch said. “From all the signs I saw the girl is ripe for marriage.” Uhm Zaide’s toothless mouth was laughing and coughing. “Did you see her nipples?” Uhm Zaide continued, “Dark and hard! And how she shook when I touched her soles! It’s a sign that she needs the touch of a man. That’s the best medicine!” She laughed again. “Get ready to call the matchmakers.”

  The bewildered Fatima took out a few coins to pay, but Uhm Zaide refused, saying, “Don’t forget to invite me to your daughter’s wedding,” and, still chuckling, she walked toward the gate, where Samira, who had heard the witch’s last words, stood ready to take her back.

  Neither Fatima nor Samira could fall asleep the night after Uhm Zaide’s visit. In the morning, Samira, seeing that Fatima hadn’t left her room, brought her a cup of strong Turkish coffee. The smell of coffee awakened Fatima. She smiled at Samira, “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” she said, smoothing the bedcover, “Come here. Did you hear the old witch’s words?”

  Samira nodded, “I think she’s right.”

  Fatima sighed, “I don’t want to talk to matchmakers, at least not now. I am thinking of trying another way first. Look here,” Fatima opened the letter she had written during the night. “I wrote to my cousin Abdullah for help and counsel. You know that when we were children he was my best friend. If Faud hadn’t swept me off my feet, I would have been married to Abdullah.”

  Samira nodded again. She knew Fatima’s secrets. “And he’s been so good to Musa,” continued Fatima, a tear glistening in the corner of her eye.

  “So, now you want to ask him to find a bridegroom for Na’ima?” asked Samira.

  “Through his position at the bank, Abdullah meets many young men. I wrote Abdullah that Na’ima will receive a nice dowry.”

  Fatima picked up a second letter, “I asked Musa to keep his eyes open, too.”

  Samira looked admiringly at her mistress, “That’s what I like about you, Sit Fatima. You don’t lose time. When you make up your mind you move straight ahead.”

  The two women smiled understandingly at each other. “As for me,” Samira said, getting up and starting to tidy up her mistress’ room, “I also had thoughts that could be helpful. Na’ima can look beautiful too. I will make her bushy eyebrows look pencil-thin. I’ll use the Persian way to get rid of hair growing on her arms and legs, which bothers her so much. When she wears short-sleeved dresses, people will admire the firmness and the roundness of her arms.”

  Fatima hugged Samira; she knew she could trust her. But Samira had more to say, “I’ll ask Suha to sew a light-colored dress embroidered in beads of gold and silver. The dress, opened in front, will show off, no more than a little, don’t worry, the valley between Na’ima’s full breasts. She’ll wear it for the bridegroom when he first comes to meet her. I promise you, this view will fill his heart with happiness!”

  “You are dreaming, my dear Samira, but it is a beautiful dream,” Fatima said.

  “Any dream can become real,” answered Samira, “Now, get out of bed, and let’s start working toward it.“

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  Shifra also spent a sleepless night, after the witch, brought to see Na’ima, left. She sat in the small bedroom behind the kitchen, the room she had previously shared with Samira, bent over a narrow table, pearls of perspiration on her forehead. Her fingers ached from working on the embroidery samples Fatima would see the next morning.

  She had watched Amira and Na’ima working on the precut fabrics, three or more yards of cotton, linen, crepe-de-chine or silk. Amina would mark with chalk or pencil the ten-inch-wide ribbon running alongside the material, for Na’ima to embroider later. Sometimes there were just curved arabesque lines embracing one another, similar to the ones encrusted on the Turkish coffee tables in their father’s smoking room. Depending on the fabric, its color or the demand of the customer, flowers or little birds danced on the ribbon. As a finishing touch, a seamstress would then delicately apply the ornament on the sleeves, around the neck, or hem.

  The light from the only bulb was not enough for the delicate work, and Shifra pricked her fingers many times. But she was not going to give up. Samira, whom she now thought of as a second mother, had faith in her, and Shifra did not intend to disappoint her. She wiped away the sweat dripping into her eyes. It was the middle of June, one of the hottest months, and she could feel the hamsin penetrating through the stone walls.

  A vision of her parents’ gloomy faces passed in front of her tired eyes. It pierced her heart. She tried to chase away her pain, to no avail. Slowly she had remembered most of her previous life. But as hard as she tried, she could not remember how she came to be on the beach that fateful day, the day that changed her life forever. Did she run away from home? Why? Was it only a whim?

  Often she thought that she was living a long dream, and that one day she would awaken in her parents’ cold Jerusalem flat.

  Shifra looked with satisfaction at the result of her efforts. She saw that she could embroider as well as the twins. For a moment she wished that her real mother could see her now. Her mother thought she was too much of a dreamer, too lazy, not diligent enough.

  Shifra suddenly froze as another image appeared before her eyes. It was the image of the neft man, spitting tobacco, laughing and telling her, “You’ll be mine, you’ll be mine; you can’t run away from me. I’ll find you wherever you go!”

  Shifra stood up, her legs shaking. Now she remembered everything. Her father had promised her to the widower, whose daughters were almost as old as she was. Burning tears fell and soaked the embroidered samples, which a minute ago had made her so proud.

  She fingered the mezuzah hanging around her neck. Every morning she had prayed, hoping for help, “Shma Israel: Adonai Eloheinu, Adonai Ehad – Hear, O Israel: Adonai is Our God, Adonai alone.” But there was no way back and she knew it.

  Samira opened her door, “Still up,” she scolded. “I saw the light under your door and I thought; what is my girl doing?” She hugged Shifra, “I see tears. You’ll harm your eyes from so much work. You’re too tired. Go to sleep. Sleep makes girls beautiful.”

  Samira pulled the bedspread away. “Come,” she said slyly, “go to bed; you know who wants you to be beautiful at all times.”

  After Samira left, Shifra still couldn’t fall asleep. She knew what Samira alluded to. She touched the second amulet Samira had tied around her neck. It was the hamsa, the charm Musa asked Samira to give her, before he left for Jerusalem.

  Shifra felt her cheeks burning. Was it a sin to think of him? She had tried to avoid Musa, knowing her heart beat faster in his presence. Now that he was far away, she missed him, the thrill she felt when she heard his voice. Though she did not dare look at him, she knew his eyes followed her every movement.

  He was strong. Her body still held the memory of his arms when he carried her. That thought made her blush again. She should not think of him. They were worlds apart. She did not belong in his world. Then why was she still in his mother’s house? Shifra had to admitt to herself that she was afraid of the outside world, that she felt protected by the house’s walls.

  What could she expect now after Na’ima’s outburst, and with Musa gone? How long before Na’ima, in her hatred, would denounce Shifra to the police? Shifra fell into an uneasy sleep, her troubled mind unable to find an answer.

  “Get up! Get up!” Samira’s cheerful voice rang in Shifra’s ears. “I have good news. This morning while you were asleep, I took the samples and s
howed them to Sit Fatima. She liked them.” Samira drew the curtain and the sun filled the little room, “It’s late already,” she said, “but I didn’t want to wake you up. I knew that you worked late into the night.”

  Shifra rubbed her tired eyes while Samira continued to chatter. “You have a lot of responsibility now. You have to design and embroider, too. The time is short, but I have faith in you. You can do it.”

  Shifra shuddered. She remembered Na’ima’s wrath. Now she would hate her more. She couldn’t remain in Fatima’s house. It wasn’t safe anymore. She had to leave. She had to find a way to do it and the only person who could help her was Samira. But would Samira help?

  While Shifra got dressed, Samira brought in a tray with tea, leben and pita. “This is for my working girl,” she said tenderly.

  Now or never, Shifra decided. She cleared her throat, “Samira, I can’t remain here any longer.” She saw Samira’s body turn rigid. “Samira, I know that you care for me. This gives me the courage to talk to you. Please help me,” Shifra started to cry as the emotions of the previous night had taken their toll on her.

  “I don’t understand,” Samira said. “Yesterday you offered to double your work and today you want to run away? I think that you are just tired. Maybe you need to sleep more. I know that young girls need more sleep.” Samira pulled the curtain back.

  “Samira, Na’ima hates me. You’ve heard her. Now she’ll hate me even more if I can do the work she was so proud of. No, it’s not safe for me to live here. Not anymore. She’ll go to the police, or—” Shifra burst into tears again. “You have to help me, please.”

  Samira hugged Shifra. “I’m going to tell you a secret,” she said holding the girl close to her, “Na’ima’s going to get married. Sit Fatima decided that would be best for her. Na’ima misses Amira, as you know, but a good man,” Samira paused, while a sly smile passed over her lips, “can make a woman forget not only her sister, but her parents as well!”

  “Dry your tears,” Samira said, “a lot of work is waiting for you. Finish the customer’s order. And pretty soon, you’ll start embroidering the dresses for Na’ima’s dowry.”

  1 1

  As usual Fatima got up early. It was dawn. She went to her desk and opened the account book. Once a week since Musa left, she checked the books. The column of numbers was growing steadily. Faud would have been proud of her. She wondered if he’d approve her trust in her cousin Abdullah to invest their money. She didn’t want to linger on this thought. She was lucky. Abdullah had made her money grow. At his counsel; she opened accounts in branches of Barclays Bank in other Arab countries, which, he said, were more secure than Palestine. Yes, she did well for herself. This morning she planned to go to the port to watch the loading of another big order of her citrus fruits. Her oranges were in great demand.

  She fiddled with the buttons of the radio resting on her nightstand. After Faud’s death, she had moved his radio from the men’s quarters to her room. As a young bride, she was jealous of Faud spending so much time listening to it. When she told him that she would like to listen too, he kissed her and gently made her leave, saying, “You shouldn’t bother your pretty head with the problems and the sorrows of the world.”

  What she loved most of all was listening to Uhm Kultum, the famous Egyptian songstress called by the entire Arab world, “Mother of the Nation.” Fatima fell into the habit of turning on the radio early in the morning after reading her daily Koran portion, when everybody else was still asleep.

  It was only lately, after Amina left with the British Red Cross, that Fatima started paying attention to the news about the war raging in Europe. Europe was pretty far away, wasn’t it? Once Faud had shown her the globe and had laughed heartily when she had asked him how such a small ball could contain so many countries.

  After the British media announced that Palestine was in no danger of war, world news didn’t interest her anymore. But now! She was fingering Amina’s latest letter, which came only a week after her previous one. This time Fatima decided to read it alone. She didn’t want to provoke another outburst from Na’ima, especially after the girl seemed healed and enjoying the attention everybody bestowed on her.

  June 25, 1943

  Eumi,

  Together with two other nurses I have been asked to escort the convoy of convalescent British soldiers headed for Cairo. George was so happy when he heard that.

  Eumi, this is urgent. I beg you to allow me to go. Remember that next month, in July, Na’ima and I will celebrate our eighteenth birthday. Weren’t you already married at our age? You know that I can take good care of myself; otherwise you wouldn’t have let me join the Red Cross.

  Besides, your cousin in Cairo could be my chaperone in that beautiful city.

  George says that after he’s totally recuperated, he wants to join the army fighting now in Europe until the Germans finally surrender. I fear for his life.

  Your loving daughter, Amina

  Fatima read and reread the short letter. No, she wasn’t going to read it in front of Na’ima. She started to dress. There was a slight knock on the door and when she opened it, Samira entered with a tray of steaming Turkish coffee and sweets.

  “I know you have to leave early for the docks,” Samira said, ogling the open letter on Fatima’s desk. “Oh, I see you’ve got a new letter.”

  “Nothing escapes you,” Fatima said. She told Samira the content of Amina’s letter.

  “What are you going to do?” asked Samira

  Fatima raised her shoulders, “I did not decide yet. Things are so different now. It’s like living in another world.”

  “Your feet are grounded in our tradition,” Samira said, “But you have to keep your head clear and look into the future. There are going to be many changes. I even heard Uhm Zaide say it.”

  “You and your Uhm Zaide,” Fatima smiled. Anytime Samira wanted to make a point, she hid behind ’Uhm Zaide said so, too.’ “Better help me get dressed. I have a long day ahead of me.”

  - - -

  Less than two weeks after she mailed the letter to her cousin in Jerusalem, Fatima received Abdullah’s prompt answer. The postman joked while handing the letter to her, “Lately you’ve become my best customer.” Fatima gave him his tip and hurried to her room.

  July 10, 1943

  To my most esteemed and cherished cousin, Fatima, Salaam Aleikum!

  I pray that my letter finds you in good health and that Allah is smiling upon you. Your letter concerning your daughter Na’ima’s future, Allah keep her in His Grace, arrived as I was just preparing to leave on one of my regular visits to our customers living in the villages around Jerusalem, Ein Karem, Deir Yassin, Abu Gosh. I took your dear son Musa, a serious and industrious young man, along with me to acquaint him with our clients.

  Only a few days before my planned visits, Mahmood Abu-Hassan, a young man from Deir Yassin, came to see me regarding a loan. I knew his late father well.Like him, Mahmood is hard-working and a good person. Unfortunately, he lost his wife in childbirth some months ago. While taking care of the baby, he neglected his olive orchard and because of this year’s drought, his harvest is lost. He asked for a loan in order to buy and plant new trees. I promised I’d come to visit him as I usually do, to make sure that our debtors have the means to pay back the loans.

  I don’t know if you’ve ever been to Deir Yassin. The brown-pink houses are raised in tiers on a mountainside terrace, three kilometers south of Jerusalem. Mahmood’s house is surrounded by a thriving vegetable and fruit garden alongside the olive orchard. And he owns sheep as well.

  I had a talk with Mahmood’s mother, who now lives with him and helps to take care of the baby. She’s a sensible woman. She said that she’d like to see him remarried. “Mahmood is only twenty-five years old”, she said. “He needs a young woman. I am too old to look after a baby.”

  I hope I’m not too bold in saying that Na’ima’s dowry, which you mentioned in your letter, could nicely help him rebuild his or
chard and increase his income.

  Now, my dear Fatima, please think about what your humble cousin has written. If you decide that it’s worth your time, I’d be most happy to be your host, while you visit with Mahmood’s mother and gather information about his family. Of course this will be done with utmost discretion.

  Allah be with you always, Abdullah

  Fatima read the letter again. A peasant, the proposed bridegroom is a peasant. It didn’t thrill her. She trusted Abdullah’s judgment; in his youth Abdullah was called the Fox because he was so quick and bright. He wouldn’t have written her about Mahmood unless he was sure of the young man’s character.

  “Samira,” she called from the hallway, “come here quickly.”

  Samira appeared, wiping her hands on her apron. “What’s the hurry,” she asked, “are we expecting guests?”

  “We might be,” answered Fatima with a smile, “but not for a while. Now, listen to this,” and she began to read Abdullah’s letter.

  “Abdullah is right,” Samira said. “Go meet his family. And don’t look so sad. I don’t think you expected Na’ima to marry a sheik.”

  Fatima didn’t answer.

  “If he’s a hard-working man, as your honored cousin has written, that’s worth more than ten lazy sheiks. Na’ima is a strong girl. She is not afraid to work. Together they could blossom. But I know what bothers you. That it’s against the tradition for the girl’s mother to inquire first. Mahmood is a widower. In such a case the tradition can be bypassed.”

  Like a poker player using her winning card, Samira, added, “When I hinted to Na’ima that you might consider her getting married, I saw stars appear in her eyes.”

  The postman was right. Few days passed without new letters. Even though Fatima decided to make the trip to Deir Yassin, as her cousin Abdullah proposed, she couldn’t leave immediately. Besides putting her house and business in order, she had to buy gifts for the mother of a future bridegroom, as was the custom.