Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction

by Fedora Horowitz

  Her heart was thrilled that she would also be seeing Musa. In one of his first letters from Jerusalem he wrote that cousin Abdullah kept him so busy, he didn’t think he would come home before Ramadan, and there were two more months until the holiday. Fatima had sighed when she read it. But here was a new letter from Musa, which Fatima tore open with impatience. Her darling son, the light of her eyes! She knew that she would read it later for everybody, but first she wanted to enjoy it alone, in the intimacy of her room, where she could cry unseen.

  July 14, 1943

  Most honored Eumi,

  I hope that my letter finds you and everybody in your household in the best of health. I am writing in a rush because many things have happened lately and I want to share them with you. First, I got a letter from Amina addressed to me at Barclays Bank. She said that she’s accompanying a group of convalescent British soldiers to Cairo. She asked for my blessing as the head of the family.

  When I told Cousin Abdullah about it, he immediately called the Red Cross. He was relieved to hear that there is no danger. The convoy will be guarded by military men. Moreover, he called the Barclays Bank in Cairo, and opened an account in Amina’s name. He also called your Cairo cousins to expect Amina’s visit.

  So, dear Mother, please do not worry. She’ll return home safe and sound.

  Now, about myself! I go regularly to pray at El Aksa Mosque for the late afternoon prayers, when the colors of the limestone and rocks change from the most ardent red to all the shades of blue and violet. What a sight! But you surely know that, as you are a Jerusalemite yourself!

  Cousin Abdullah wants me to take classes in International Banking. He says that as Palestinians it’s important for our future. An-Najah University in Nablus seems to be his choice, but Al-Quds in the old Jerusalem has a good reputation also.

  Meanwhile, I got a letter from our mukhtar, urging me to register for the law and order classes offered by the British Police. In his letter, the mukhtar emphasized Palestine’s need for young people to join the leadership when the British Mandate ends. I feel honored by his trust.

  In the evenings I take long walks in Bakka, cousin Abdullah’s neighborhood. Sometimes I walk as far as Katamon or Musrara. The evening’s breeze and the flowers’ perfume remind me of our beloved poets.There is no one here to whom I’d like to read a poem. For that I’ll have to return home.

  Your devoted son, Musa

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  Samira was left in charge of the household. It was not the first time. When they were young, Fatima and Faud took trips to visit their families on holidays, for weddings or anniversaries. Samira always proved she could be trusted.

  “Now that the children are older,” Fatima said, “Na’ima can help you, making your job much easier. Just don’t let strangers in.”

  Samira nodded. She had heard that every time Fatima left on a trip. Maybe Fatima was thinking of the mukhtar’s wife who came unexpectedly the evening before Fatima’s departure for Jerusalem. She was panting, and instead of the customary greeting she cackled, “Your daughter, your daughter Amina, whose character everybody admired, has run away with an Englishman. She’s gone to Cairo, my daughter wrote me. What shame she brought upon your good name!”

  As soon as she uttered the last words, the mukhtar’s wife left quickly, without waiting for an answer.

  “I cannot delay my departure any longer,” a pale Fatima told Samira after the mukhtar’s wife disappeared. “I am going to Jerusalem to see my cousin. With Allah’s help, I’ll call on Mahmood’s mother. We need to hurry, before the mukhtar’s wife spreads her miserable gossip.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Samira, putting her arms around Fatima, “I’ll give you a little massage to make you feel better. I think the mukhtar’s daughter was always jealous of Amina. She knew that a letter to her mother would light a fire.”

  “You are probably right,” answered Fatima, “But it doesn’t make me less anxious. For all of us, and now especially for Na’ima’s sake, no stain should blot our good name. I am leaving tomorrow morning for Jerusalem.”

  The next day when the children awoke, Samira told them that their mother had left at dawn to go to Jerusalem to see Musa.

  Rama said, “For how long? How come she didn’t kiss us goodbye?”

  “When is she going to be back?” Nur asked.

  “Soon,” Samira said. “Meanwhile everybody goes by his daily routine as usual.”

  Only Na’ima didn’t seem curious. Has she guessed the reason for Fatima’s quick departure? In the end I’ll have to tell her. She should be prepared, Samira thought.

  A few days passed without news from Fatima. Then a letter addressed to Samira arrived. It wasn’t from Fatima, as Samira found out when she opened the envelope. From it fell a thin booklet, then a letter written in Musa’s delicate handwriting.

  It was the first time Samira had received a letter.

  July 21, 1943

  Allah be with you, my dear Samira,

  Many times I started to write to you, but I realized that it might appear disrespectful to my mother. Now that she is here in Jerusalem, I can finally send you this letter.

  You know what’s in my heart. My feelings are unchanged, or even more ardent because of the distance.

  Dear Samira, do you remember the promise you made to me before I left? Are you talking to Suha about me? My heart aches from so much longing. I wish I could be a bird sitting on her window sill and sing to her songs of love, like this verse from a poem by the beloved Egyptian poet, Ibrahim Nagy. Read it to her:

  Has anyone been drunk with love like me?

  Has anyone seen love as I have seen it?

  Oh, Samira, I am burning with love,

  Musa

  Indeed, it’s time to keep my promise. Samira folded the letter carefully and hid it in the drawer holding her other treasures: the photographs of Mr. Grunwald’s grandchildren.

  For a few days, she concentrated all her labors on Na’ima’s appearance. She knew what she wanted to do. First she mashed together bananas and cucumbers to make a paste, which she applied to Na’ima’s face. “This concoction does wonders,” she said authoritatively. “I’ve seen how the skin glows after only a few applications and becomes smooth like silk.”

  After she washed her face, Na’ima ran to look into the mirror hanging in the kitchen above the sink. Seeing that her blackheads had disappeared and her face was without blemishes, she hugged Samira and danced with her around the kitchen.

  “Stop it!” laughed Samira. “Now I’m going to shape your eyebrows to look as thin as the arch of the moon when it first appears in the sky at the beginning of each month.”

  Nur and Rama witnessed Na’ima’s transformation with exclamations of admiration.

  “Samira,” begged Rama, “when are you going to shape my eyebrows, too?” Her sisters laughed. “When you are as tall as Na’ima,” Samira joked. For a long time she brushed Na’ima’s long hair with perfumed oil, after which she rolled it up to form a crown. Samira admired the result, sighing with satisfaction.

  She hadn’t forgotten the promise she made to Musa. She would follow the plan she thought of from the day she received Musa’s letter. But first she needed Na’ima’s absolute trust.

  On Friday, the Muslim Sabbath, when the shops were closed, she told Na’ima, “Yesterday I cooked the meal for today, lamb filled with rice. While I made the tabbouleh and baked the bourekas, I was thinking, wouldn’t be nice if I take some food to Uhm Zaide too? She’s so old and doesn’t cook anymore for herself.” Na’ima nodded.

  “So I want to ask you a favor,” continued Samira. “If you’d agree to look after Rama, Nur and Ahmed, I’ll take Suha to help me carry the food to her.”

  Na’ima nodded again.

  As always before leaving, Samira covered Suha’s head. Uhm Zaide lived in Manshiya, a no man’s land between Jaffa and Tel-Aviv, the Jewish city. It was almost noon when they reached Uhm Zaide’s hut. Crouched on the mud floor, Uhm Zaide was scratchi
ng a wooden plate of its dried humus remnants.

  “Here you are,” she cried joyously when she saw Samira. Uhm Zaide sniffed the air with delight. “What goodies do you bring me?” At the sight of her, Shifra hid behind Samira’s back.

  “You brought food and a girl for me to eat, too?” She laughed, showing the darkness of her toothless mouth.

  “Eat, eat to your heart’s desire,” Samira urged her, taking the dishes from Suha’s hands and placing them on the floor. Then she sat next to the witch.

  “Nice of you to bring me food,” said a satiated Uhm Zaide after a while. Her eyes scanned Shifra from top to bottom. “What is this Yahud girl doing here? Why did you bring her?”

  Samira moved even closer and whispered in her ear. Uhm Zaide nodded a few times, while Shifra looked at both of them with apprehension.

  “Bo’i ena, come here,” Uhm Zaide said in Hebrew, while her crooked index finger signaled Shifra to get closer. “Kneel,” she barked.

  Seeing Suha tremble, Samira encouraged her. “Do what she says. Don’t be scared. She’s a good woman. She’s not going to hurt you.”

  Uhm Zaide lit a candle and held it close to Shifra’s face.

  “Hmm,” she said appreciatively, after she looked into Shifra’s eyes for a long time, “gorgeous eyes, as clear as the sea in the morning.” Then she ordered, “Stand up.” Taking a small wooden hammer, she gently hit Shifra’s knees and elbows. She watched the girl’s reaction with satisfaction.

  “There is nothing wrong with her,” Uhm Zaide declared.

  She got up and spit on Shifra’s forehead, then over her left and right shoulders.

  “To drive away the bad spirits,” explained Samira, seeing how bewildered Shifra looked.

  Uhm Zaide opened Shifra’s palm and studied it attentively. She turned toward Samira, “As I said, her body is healthy, but her heart is in turmoil. She doesn’t know it yet, but her love line,” and Uhm Zaide traced it with her finger, “predicts great things. She’ll not only be loved, she’ll be worshiped like a goddess. And that will heal her sadness.”

  All of a sudden, Uhm Zaide frowned. “I can’t see much more,” she said. “Either the future is clouded, or my eyes are too weak.”

  The witch let go of Shifra’s hand, “Go now,” she pointed towards the opening of the hut, “go outside.” After Shifra left, Uhm Zaide went to a drawer where she searched for some time until she produced a small envelope filled with powder.

  “No one can live without love,” she said, giving Samira the envelope, “but it does no harm to push it a bit. Take this powder. Each day, during the three days of the Ramadan feast, pour a little in her tea. There is already love in her heart, even though she doesn’t acknowledge it. This powder will make it stronger.”

  The two women’s eyes locked with understanding. Samira wanted to thank her, but Uhm Zaide stopped her short, “You are my friend. I did what you asked me to do. Yet I don’t know why you encourage Musa’s pursuit of this girl. I can only hope that you’ll not be sorry one day.”

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  After leaving Uhm Zaide’s hut Shifra and Samira continued on their way in silence. It was the first time Shifra had walked through the Manshiya neighborhood. She breathed the salty air with delight, hopping from rock to rock, happy to be far from the darkness of Uhm Zaide’s hut. She still didn’t understand why Samira had to take her, though she was pleased, for once, to be far from Na’ima’s scrutinizing eyes.

  It was hot, the sun at its zenith, and few people ventured onto the streets. Shifra saw a path leading to a narrow street with whitewashed walls and old trees shadowing the sidewalks. Gamely, she turned into it, ready for adventure.

  “Where are you going?” Samira, suddenly alarmed, cried out. Shifra only hurried her steps without answering.

  “Stop it!” Samira ordered, breathing hard, trying to keep in step with Shifra. “This is not the way home.”

  Shifra shuddered when she heard the word “home.” For the two of them, home didn’t have the same meaning. Shifra continued to march ahead, letting the old woman run after her.

  The sounds of a violin made Shifra stop in her tracks. It was the most endearing, tender, yet sorrowful music, so beautiful and pure, it made her heart cry. It sounded so familiar.

  “Listen,” she whispered to Samira, afraid that by speaking louder the magic of the music would stop. ”Have you heard anything more beautiful?”

  Samira looked at the house where violin strains had broken the silence of the placid afternoon. A copper plate was dangling dangerously on the gate. On it in bold letters was written, DR. OTTO SCHRODER, PROFESSOR OF VIOLIN. Whispering, Shifra translated the plate.

  “Let’s go, let’s go,” Samira nudged her, taking her arm, but Shifra would not move.

  She couldn’t break away from the dream state created by the music. What was the music she heard? The music had entered her heart. Shifra closed her eyes and, feeling weak, leaned on the wall beneath the magic window.

  A vision appeared in front of her eyes. She saw herself in the little room that served as a shul for her parents and their neighbors. It was very hot. Through the partition that separated men and women, she saw the men, swaying back and forth, singing the melody that she heard being played by the magic violin.

  Then another image superimposed itself upon the first. It was the violin in her friend Chana’s apartment, brought by Chana’s father when he ran away from Germany. It was kept in a glass compartment and nobody was allowed to touch it.

  “My father was a child prodigy,” Chana told Shifra. “But he stopped playing the violin after he found out that his entire family was taken by the Nazis and no one heard from them again. His first impulse was to break the violin, but my mother saved it. My father never played it again except for the Kol Nidrei prayer in remembrance of his parents.”

  That was the music she listened to now, walking on that dusty little street in Jaffa. She was sure she had heard Chana’s father playing it one evening long ago. Shifra opened her eyes. How long had she been dreaming? She saw a worried Samira watching her. The music stopped. Somebody opened the window and a middle-aged lady peered into the street. Samira dragged Shifra away and both hid behind a tree.

  “Ruhig, die Strasse ist ruhig- the street is quiet, Otto. There is nobody here.” The lady turned her back to the window and called to someone inside the house, “Please, my darling, continue.” She had spoken in German, which for Shifra, who spoke Yiddish, was easy to understand. Shifra had noticed the lady’s sad eyes and pale face.

  “Come on, we have to hurry,” Samira urged her. “Na’ima won’t understand what took us so long.”

  Shifra looked at the house once more. Number 34 was written in black charcoal between its two large front windows. All the way back to Fatima’s house, the sounds of the violin followed her. Silently, she took an oath never to forget the house, the street and the violinist’s name, Otto Schroder. She didn’t know yet when and how she would return, but she knew she would be back.

  As the two of them approached Fatima’s house, they heard a lot of noise in the courtyard.

  “What could that be?” Samira hurried, anxiously. Opening the gate, they saw an idyllic tableau. Fatima was seated on a three-legged stool; at her feet, Na’ima, Rama, Nur and Ahmed listened entranced to their mother’s tale. Around them were half-opened packages, all gifts Fatima had brought from Jerusalem.

  “Oh, here you are!” Fatima exclaimed when she saw Samira and Shifra enter the courtyard. So excited she was, she didn’t even ask why they weren’t home.

  “A friend of cousin Abdullah had business in Jaffa, and he gave me a lift in his beautiful Studebaker. I returned earlier,” Fatima explained to Samira, “because we are going to have guests next week, important guests,” she stressed the last words, “and it’s never too soon to start preparing for them. Look here.”

  She opened a big package from which a diaphanous muslin material fell to the ground, “We are going to have new curtains to make
the house look cheerful.”

  Shifra slipped away unobserved. In her heart the music never stopped. Impulsively, she took a piece of paper and a pencil and started drawing the cross streets leading to the alley, the violinist’s house, the high windows and even the pale woman’s features. She wrote the name Otto Schroder and 34, the number of the house on top of the paper. She hid the paper under her pillow. Just in time, as she heard Samira turning the knob to her door.

  “Come, don’t sit alone,” Samira said.

  Silently Shifra followed Samira. Even before stepping into the courtyard Shifra heard Fatima assigning tasks to each of her children. Shifra knew that she would be included in those tasks, and that she would have to work hard. But right now, for a few more seconds, she wanted to keep hold of the memory of the music and how peaceful she felt upon hearing it.

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  August 23, 1943

  To my dearest and cherished sister Amina, Salaam Aleikum!

  It’s been more than three months since you left home and so many things have happened that I don’t even know where to begin. But I think I’ll start by telling you my big news. I’m engaged to get married,with Allah’s will, very soon, on Idul Fitri holiday.

  Can you imagine, me, to be the first to get married? I never dreamed of it. It all happened so fast. Mother went to Jerusalem to visit Musa, who is working in cousin Abdullah’s Bank.

  Cousin Abdullah, a wonderful man, introduced her to Mahmood’s mother. Mahmood is my fiancé. Isn’t that a beautiful name? I feel as though my mouth melts when my lips form his name.

  Cousin Abdullah knew Mahmood’s father. His people were customers of the bank, and cousin Abdullah knew the family personally.

  Have I told you how good-looking my Mahmood is? He’s twenty-five years old, you might say, a bit too old for an eighteen-year-old girl, but I think it’s good for me to have a husband to look up to, one who’d make the right decisions.