Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction

by Fedora Horowitz

  Mahmood sports a mustache, which is very becoming, especially when he smiles, like a little crown above his bright teeth. I hope I’ll be able to make him smile every time he looks at me. But I’m getting ahead too fast. Must be the excitement of everything I want to tell you, all at once.

  Your letters addressed to our mother were signs of your filial respect, but they never had a little separate section for me. I had hoped that you would write to me, and say that you missed me as much as I missed you.

  If I continue rambling like this, this letter will never get finished. I can already hear Samira clapping her hands, asking for everybody to get going. There is so much to do preparing for a wedding.

  Do you remember how you said that we would both get married on the same day, two sisters marrying two brothers, and we would live together forever?

  Well, Amina, those were beautiful dreams. You are so far away, my heart aches. I’d love so much to have you closer, especially right now. This letter is written with the hope that you’ll come home, five weeks from now, when my wedding will take place.

  You might ask why so soon? I didn’t tell you that Mahmood is a widower, he has a little boy, five months old. His wife died in childbirth. It’s for the sake of the little boy that our mother decided to rush our wedding.

  Musa has met Mahmood and they like each other. Have I told you that I’m going to live in Deir Yassin? It’s a beautiful village perched on the hills outside Jerusalem. I’ll live close to Musa and cousin Abdullah’s family. I know that I’m going to miss my mother and sisters terribly and you, Amina, most of all.

  When our mother returned from Jerusalem she told me to expect a visit from Mahmood’s mother, who arrived a few days later, her arms full of gifts for everybody. I received five golden bracelets, which had belonged to her. I wear them even when I go to bed and their ting-a-lings put me to sleep. Mahmood came a week later. I was trembling. What would happen if he didn’t like me? I’d become the laughingstock of the neighborhood.

  I wore the white dress Suha, the Yahud girl, had embroidered for me, and Samira had done my hair in a new style she saw in a French magazine. My heart beat so fast, I thought I was going to faint. He was respectful to my mother and played shesh-besh with Ahmed, which gave me time to take a better look at him and quiet my rapid heartbeats.

  Mahmood said that he couldn’t remain long in Jaffa, since he had to return home to plant new olive trees. Last year’s drought made him lose a lot of trees. During his visit we decided on the date for our wedding.

  Oh, Samira is calling me. She screams “Na’ima, we don’t want to deliver a lazy bride to her bridegroom. Time to work, my girl.”

  Doesn’t this sound like her? Amina, I know that you are busy learning a profession. But for the sake of the times when we were so close, please come home and be in my wedding. The wedding will be in Jaffa and not in Deir Yassin, as is usually the custom, in the bridegroom’s village. Mahmood said that the villagers might be sensitive to the fact that he is getting married only a few months after his wife died.

  As I write to you, I see Suha sweeping the courtyard. She’s the only thorn in my life. What made Musa bring her home?

  Suha had the common sense, or maybe my mother ordered her, to stay in her room during Mahmood and his mother’s visit, but I wonder what will happen during the wedding, when so many of Mahmood’s friends and relatives, as well as our extended family, will be here? We can’t hide her forever, can we?

  Samira has already opened the door to my room and is now threatening to hit me with the broom. It’s time to hug you and send lots of kisses. I want to see your smiling face at my wedding,

  Your twin sister, Na’ima

  1 5

  Musa loved Jerusalem, where the gorgeous sunset descended slowly on the city, and every rock and stone changed its colors from gold to pink, to blue and finally to violet, before being blanketed by darkness. To relax after a hard day of work, Musa took long walks, discovering new neighborhoods, some dating back from centuries before the Sultans’ ruling. It was refreshing to walk from the walls surrounding the Old City that had witnessed so many wars and bloodshed to its more modern counterpart, Jerusalem’s west side, in the cool breeze of the evening. Jerusalem’s evenings were so different from Jaffa’s, whose evenings were as fiery hot as during the day.

  On Fridays, when in respect for the Muslim holiday his Barclays Bank branch was closed, he had the habit of strolling Jaffa Street, the main thoroughfare in Jerusalem, from Musrara to the souk, the market, the Jews called Mahane Yehudah.

  It wasn’t only the good smells of fresh baked bread or the perfume of the flowers, cut early the same morning, drops of dew sparkling on their petals, which attracted him to the souk. Once, as he happened to wander in the maze of streets across from the market, he saw something that astounded him. It was a group of young girls, dressed exactly as his angel, Suha, when he first saw her asleep on Jaffa’s beach. They wore long dark skirts, long-sleeved white blouses and black stockings. Their hair was braided, just like hers. But of course no one was as pretty as his love.

  He wanted to approach them, maybe to ask … but what could he ask? He tried to remember her Jewish name, on the day his mother had asked for it. Yes, it was Shifra, wasn’t it? Maybe those girls knew her; maybe they could help him solve the puzzle, the mystery of the girl who occupied his mind constantly, awake or asleep.

  Musa hurried to catch up with them, but the girls, after taking one look back, disappeared like a flock of birds. Musa didn’t understand what could have scared them. He was dressed like an Englishman, in a dark suit and tie. He even didn’t wear the kafia, which he usually wore at the bank. Was it because his head wasn’t covered like the Jewish men he saw in the souk?

  He sighed. Lately, there were so many events happening at once. Na’ima’s engagement and approaching wedding, his mother urging him to write to his sister Amina, now in Cairo, ordering her to come home. As his mother wrote, “If your father were alive he would have asked her to come home immediately. Now, it’s your responsibility as head of the family.”

  Of course, he was going to write to Amina. He was sure Amina knew what her duty was. Besides, Na’ima and Amina had always been so close. What made his mother think otherwise?

  Musa was a bit surprised at how fast Na’ima’s marriage was decided. He had seen Mahmood, Na’ima’s fiancé, a few times already. The first time he saw him at the bank, when Mahmood came to ask for a loan and his cousin, Abdullah, the director of the bank, introduced them. Mahmood’s olive trees had been destroyed by the drought and his wife had died in childbirth, a real tragedy. He explained that the loan would help rebuild his livelihood.

  Cousin Abdullah had taken Musa aside and whispered, “Remember what I taught you. The bank is the customer’s friend and we have to make him feel that he can trust us. We are not loan sharks,” Then he turned toward Mahmood and said, “I knew your father. He was an honest man. I hope you are like him. Leave your application here, and come back next week.”

  A week later his mother, Fatima, appeared in Jerusalem. Soon after, Musa heard that Mahmood was going to become his brother-in-law. Musa looked up to Mahmood, who was five years older than he was and had so much experience. He was a serious man who knew exactly what he wanted to do with his life, while he, Musa, except for wanting Suha more than anything, was still undecided about his future.

  He had received a letter from Jaffa’s mukhtar urging him to register for courses on British laws and customs, “to be prepared for the approaching times when Palestine would belong to the Palestinians,” and he, Musa, as the son of an old and well-to-do family would be called to serve his country in a key position. The mukhtar had ended his letter with, “Remember, you represent our future.”

  On the other hand, cousin Abdullah had only praise for his work. Musa had started as a clerk, but soon after, he was moved to be trained in the department of Foreign Exchange. The department of Letters of Credit followed, and now, two months later,
Abdullah started training Musa in the Stocks and Bonds Department.

  Many evenings after dinner, Abdullah would look with pride at Fatima’s son and say with satisfaction, “Musa is bright and has a bright future.” At that Musa’s face reddened and he would lower his eyelids, but not fast enough. He still observed the adoring eyes of Abdullah’s wife and her three daughters riveted on him.

  Government or Banking, Musa hoped that Mahmood would help him resolve his dillema.

  Sitting at a corner table in a little restaurant not far from the bank, Musa was waiting for Mahmood to sign the papers that would allow him to receive Na’ima’s dowry. Musa himself thought it was premature for his mother to put the dowry’s amount in an account in Mahmood’s name. It was still more than a month until the wedding. But Fatima had agreed to Mahmood’s urgent plea for money.

  A perspiring but happy-looking Mahmood appeared in the door frame. “Over here,” Musa called, standing up. They ordered a plate of tabbouleh, baba ganoush, hummus and tahini, followed by shashlik and shish-kebab. As Musa was about to start the conversation, he was startled to hear Mahmood say, “I love your family, your sisters and your brother, though of course I haven’t met Amina yet. Your brother Ahmed a bright little fellow, beat me at backgammon! My mother told me how polite and well-bred your sisters, Rama and Nur are. Of course,” Mahmood laughed, “I’m only a peasant and you are city people. Even your maid, Samira, is so—sophi—”

  “Sophisticated?” Musa supplied the word.

  “That’s it,” Mahmood took a large handkerchief and wiped his forehead.

  Musa had noticed two things: first, that he didn’t mention Na’ima. Maybe, the future husband was too modest to talk about his bride-to-be. But what bothered Musa most was that he didn’t say a word about Suha. What happened? Did they hide her? His heart ached to know, but he couldn’t ask.

  Their order arrived and the smell of the roasted garlic and zaatar spice invaded their nostrils. A famished Mahmood attacked his plate, while Musa felt his stomach in knots.

  “Well, Musa,” Mahmood said later, while his tongue moved a toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other, “you said you wanted to consult me on some urgent matter.”

  For a moment, Musa remained silent. He had to be cautious. He could not open his heart and say, “I am in love with a Yahud girl whom I saved from drowning five months ago, and whom I want to marry.” He would better wait.

  Mahmood had opened and started to browse through Filastin. Musa cleared his throat. “I wanted to ask your opinion,” he said, and told Mahmood about his dilemma, the choice between pursuing a career in banking, to which he seemed suited, or to study the British law and order as the Jaffa mukhtar urged him.

  “This shouldn’t be a problem,” answered Mahmood, throwing the newspaper on the table. “You should have made your decision already. The future is clear. Inshallah, we’ll get rid of the Brits, and after that we’ll chase the Yahudim out of our country. My father had said it to me in ’36, ‘Wait and see, all those Yahudim are buying our lands and multiplying like rabbits. They are more dangerous than the Brits. The Brits will sooner or later go away, but those Jews are the real danger.’ Here, if you want to know more, read this!”

  Fishing another newspaper from his pocket, Mahmood pushed it in his direction. It was Al Wafa, Loyalty, the newspaper of the radical political party Istikla, which Musa never read. He was taken by surprise by Mahmood’s outburst. Musa remembered his mother’s friendship with Mr. Nathan, the watchmaker, of whom she had repeatedly said, He never cheats me, and their chats, his mother seated at Mr. Nathan’s working table, drinking the Turkish coffee Mr. Nathan prepared especially for her on hot summer afternoons. Musa’s father had not belonged to any political party. He used to say, “I leave the politics to our politicians,” while taking a puff from his nargilea.

  “The Grand Mufti Al-Husseini, warned us about the Yahudim,” Mahmood continued, startling Musa. “He admired Hitler for what he did to them in Europe. And what happened next? Our Mufti, our leader, was forced to run away, and now he is hiding in Germany.” There was bitterness in Mahmood’s voice.

  Only last week, during the coffee break of the meeting with representatives of other Barclays Bank’s branches, a young man introduced himself to Musa.

  “I am Joshua Goldring. I am with the Rehavia branch.”

  He was impeccably dressed and had a slight accent, his R’s heavy. Surprised, Musa shook Joshua’s outstretched hand.

  “You have a foreign accent,” was the first thing that came into Musa’s mind, and he said it.

  Joshua smiled, “I was born in Germany. Lucky for me, in 1938, after Kristalnacht, my parents decided to leave Germany. We came to Palestine to start rebuilding our life. My father was a University professor in Munich, but after we arrived here, he worked at building roads. It didn’t matter to him, he said, as long as he knew that we were in a safe place.”

  Musa liked Joshua’s honesty. As they were called back to the meeting Musa hoped that he’ll like to meet Joshua again. He wanted to learn more about the European Jews. Maybe it would help him understand Suha.

  Caught in his thoughts, Musa barely heard Mahmood. “Yes, the mukhtar was right; you can become a great asset for us, Palestinians. You should learn about our activities. I’m going to take you to one of our meetings.”

  Mahmood got up. He shook Musa’s hand and offered him the Al Wafa newspaper, “To get better acquainted with us.”

  When Musa looked at his watch, he realized that he had passed two hours in Mahmood’s company. One particular question nagged him: What would happen when his future brother-in-law learned about Suha, and Musa’s desire to marry her?

  1 6

  A week had passed since the fast of Ramadan started. Born into a family of orthodox Jews, Shifra did not know anything about Muslim traditions. She remembered once asking her mother why the Arab kiosks, selling pita-falafel in Jerusalem’s Mahane Yehuda market, were closed. Every time Shifra had walked by the kiosk, she had been struck by the strange aromas. Her mother had answered, “It’s the month of Ramadan.” She did not elaborate and Shifra stopped asking, because she was afraid to trigger her mother’s suspicions that, God forbid, she, Shifra had an appetite for non kosher food.

  Seated under the courtyard’s only shade, Shifra was sweating profusely from the heat. She was alone and in a hurry to finish an embroidery order for one of the prominent merchants in the bazaar. Though all the Arab stores that sold food were closed, the other stores thrived.

  She did not want to offend Fatima’s feelings by eating or drinking when the rest of the household kept the fast, but it was not easy.

  Every day Rama and Nur taught her the importance of fasting during the month of Ramadan. Nur said, ”Our Holy Koran was sent down from Heaven.” Rama added, “Eumi says that the biggest sin during Ramadan is to lie. One should never lie, but it’s worse during Ramadan. If I lie during the fast, my prayer for you to become my sister will never be granted.” Her voice sounded serious.

  “Girls,” Samira said, “Let Suha work. You’ll tell her more during Iftar.”

  After the children left, Shifra’s mind wandered. In her ears, she heard Otto Schroder’s violin. Since the first time she listened to its sounds, she had wanted to hear it again. She had succeeded in persuading Samira to detour to Otto’s dwelling when they were walking nearby. Outside, she saw an elegant lady holding the arm of a boy no older than Ahmed, while in her other hand she carried a violin box.

  Excited, Shifra said, “Let’s walk slower.” But her joy was short-lived. As they approached the house, she heard only the boy’s violin exercises, mostly screeches. She was so disappointed she was ready to cry.

  When she asked Samira to walk past the house again, Samira looked suspicious.

  “Why do you want to go there? I inquired about them. They are refugees, a middle-aged couple with no children, strange people. He teaches or plays the violin all day long, while his wife cries.”

&n
bsp; Shifra did not answer.

  “You don’t believe me?” asked Samira. “Their maid is a friend of mine. She told me that the lady’s hands are almost paralyzed, she can barely move them. Forget about that violin. It’s a devilish instrument.”

  Shifra would not let Samira destroy her dream. She did not need Samira to guide her to the house. She knew how to get there by herself. She waited for an opportunity.

  The opportunity arrived during a Ramadan day, when she had to finish an order quickly. For the first time she was allowed to deliver her work without Samira accompanying her. It was just before sundown and the entire household prayed during salat, the third prayer of the day.

  Shifra ran all the way from the bazaar, her mouth as dry as parchment, the soles of her feet burning from the overheated pavement. When she approached the house, she heard music that seemed to descend from heaven. It was more than one violin. The other instruments played lower and higher pitches, yet she was able to distinguish each one. The instruments wove melodies that sounded like love songs. Sometimes only one instrument played, embraced later by the other ones. That music made her shiver with emotion.

  Shifra touched her amulet, the hamsa, Musa’s gift. The music awoke in her the same feeling as when Musa looked at her. She missed Musa. The torrid hamsin nights were especially difficult for her.

  Last night she could not fall asleep; she was sweating and had to take off her nightgown. While she wiped the sweat off her body with a damp rag she imagined how in a month Na’ima’s husband would caress his wife’s breasts. Shifra knew her thought was sinful, but she could not stop herself. She touched her own budding breasts. They felt like velvet. She imagined Musa entering her room, bending over and kissing the valley between her breasts while his delicate fingers touched her hardened nipples. Shifra jumped, her heart pounding with the shame of her fantasy.

  Still under the music spell, Shifra didn’t hear it end. She was enveloped by darkness. From her hiding place she saw three people, two women and a man, carrying instrument cases bigger than the violin case she had seen the boy’s mother carrying. Auf wiedersehn, they said to each other, good-bye, see you noch ein maal in zwei Wochen.