Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction

by Fedora Horowitz

  Again, in two weeks, in two weeks; Shifra started running in rhythm with their words. In two weeks she would be back, too. Lifting her long dress, she ran even faster. Suddenly she felt the pinch of thirst and hunger. The music had made her forget she was famished.

  If Shifra had glanced back at the house, she would have glimpsed the shadow of a woman behind the window’s curtains. She would have been alarmed to see her turn to her husband and say, “I’ve spotted the young Arab girl again, Otto. I don’t know why she comes here but I’ve seen her eyes, blue, like our Ruth’s.” The woman covered her face with shaking hands while her husband wrapped his arms around her shoulders.

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  Musa stared at the unopened envelope on his desk He recognized Amina’s handwriting. Two weeks had passed since he last wrote and told her how proud he was of her decision to study nursing at Cairo’s Kasr El-Aini University Hospital. What could she be writing now? Impatient, Musa put his work aside and picked up the envelope.

  A fifteen-year-old boy, the messenger cousin Abdullah hired to bring tea trays from the nearby chaikhana, ran into his cubicle, breathing hard,

  “Sayyid Abdullah wants to see you in his office immediately!”

  Musa followed the boy, wondering what was so important that Abdullah had to send for him. Fully occupying his leather chair, behind a large mahogany desk covered with papers, Abdullah held a telephone to his ear. He grunted from time to time, but as soon as he saw Musa he said, “He’s here. Talk to him.”

  Abdullah handed the telephone to Musa and whispered, “It’s your sister Na’ima.”

  Na’ima! What happened? Was there something wrong with his mother, with Suha? Anxiously, he took the receiver from Abdullah’s hands.

  “Nai’ma, my dear sister, Salaam Aleikum, that’s a surprise, where are you calling from?” They had never installed a telephone at home. His father used to scoff, “What for? Good news travels fast, and for bad news there is always time.”

  “What has happened?” Musa saw Abdullah discreetly leaving the office. On the phone, a weeping Na’ima said, “I am at the post office. Samira is here with me.” Musa heard her sniffling.

  “Oh, Musa, you have to come home. Mother is not well. She cries all the time and she has taken to her bed. Even Samira can’t help her.” She paused. “Here, Samira wants to talk to you.”

  “Musa, Musa,” he heard Samira shouting in the telephone, “are you there? Can you hear me?”

  Musa thought that all the bank clerks could hear her screams.

  “Yes, yes, I’m here,” Musa hurriedly answered. “What happened? What’s wrong? Stop tormenting me, the two of you.”

  “You have to come home, my boy. Your mother needs you, your family needs you.” Na’ima grabbed the phone again, “Listen to Samira. Please come.”

  A click ended their conversation. Musa realized that neither Na’ima nor Samira knew they had to add more coins.

  Scared and anxious, Musa left Abdullah’s office. When he returned to his desk, he remembered Amina’s letter. Could this letter be connected to his mother’s illness? With one movement he tore open the envelope.

  Most honored and dear brother Musa, Salaam Aleikum!

  First I want you to know that I’ll be coming to celebrate my dear sister Na’ma’s wedding with all of you and wish Na’ima a life as clear of clouds as the skies of Jaffa in the spring.

  But I have news of my own I want to share with you. I hope you remember that when I first joined the British Red Cross I wrote that I took care of a wounded soldier. From the time we arrived in Cairo, we have seen each other often, and the more I saw him, the fonder I grew of him.

  He has opened the world for me, by encouraging me to acquire a profession and always treating me as his equal. Because of his love for me, he said, he had started studying the Koran, in English, of course. He wants to learn more about our culture.

  He proposed to me a few times, but I always answered, I would be too busy with my studies to think about marriage. I plan to move into one of the apartments the hospital rents to its student nurses, to be closer to the hospital.

  Cousin Aiisha, who housed me for the last two months, wasn’t happy with my decision, but she understood that it would be for my benefit.

  A few days ago George told me, very excited, that his parents are coming to Cairo.

  “They want to meet you. They wrote that they can barely wait to see the girl who has stolen their son’s heart.”

  Without giving me time to respond, George took a little box from his pocket and knelt in front of me. “Would you please be my wife?” he asked, opening the box.

  He placed the most beautiful sapphire ring on my finger and kissed my hands. Oh, Musa, it’s so marvelous to feel loved. At that moment I knew I was destined to marry him. George promised that after he finishes his law degree we’ll come to live in Palestine. I know that it was wrong not to ask my mother’s consent first.

  In the letter I wrote my mother, I didn’t dare write about George. I beg you to talk to her and explain that people can be happy even if they marry out of their faith. I know that our family values honor and pride, above everything and this will be a terrible offense. Dear, dear Musa, please intercede on my behalf.

  I pray to Allah to give comfort to my mother and for her to forgive me.

  I love all of you, and I hope that when you meet George, you’ll accept him as a member of our family.

  Musa was so troubled by his sister’s letter that he did not hear Abdullah walk in.

  “I’m worried about your mother,” Abdullah said, eyeing Amina’s opened letter. “Less than two weeks before Na’ima’s wedding and she’s not feeling well. Is there anything I can do?”

  “They want me to come home,” Musa answered.

  “Then the best thing for you is to leave right away.” Abdullah looked at the trust paper lying on Musa’s desk. ”In my many years of work I have learned that the work is second in importance. The family comes first.” He patted Musa’s back. “Take good care of your mother. Inshallah, in two weeks we’ll dance at Na’ima’s wedding.”

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  After putting away the clean dishes from the Iftar dinner, Samira said, “Children,” addressing the younger ones, “it’s time to go to bed.” She took Ahmed, almost asleep in his chair, in her arms.

  “Rama, Nur, wait for me, I’m going to undo and brush your hair after I tuck Ahmed into bed.”

  It was better to do something useful, rather than lie in bed and brood, like Fatima. Samira had guessed the reason for her sudden illness. She had seen the tear-stained envelope on Fatima’s desk and recognized the handwriting.

  But facing Fatima wasn’t easy. Samira sensed that it wasn’t only sadness that brought her so close to despair. She, who had raised Fatima since she was a young girl, knew how proud of her family’s good name Fatima was. “Shame,” Samira heard Fatima whisper a few times, “it will bring us shame.”

  It was Samira who decided that Musa should come home immediately. She convinced Na’ima to make the call. Musa will be here soon, she strengthened herself.

  The girls were asleep. Na’ima had gone to her room, too, and Suha had left for hers as soon as she finished drying the dishes. Lately she moves like a shadow, Samira reflected, while walking into the courtyard. It was a beautiful night, full of stars. The hamsin had broken and a cool wind was blowing from the sea. I should open all the windows, and ask Fatima to come outside to breathe the fresh air.

  From the courtyard Samira peered into Fatima’s bedroom. She saw her kneeling on her prayer rug. She heard a light sound, and wanted to turn around when she felt a hand on her shoulder. As her mouth opened to scream, she saw Musa.

  He put a finger on his lips to silence her. Only three months had passed since he left home, but he seems much older.

  “Have you eaten?” Samira asked, though she knew already the answer. She watched him eat, in her heart a mixture of happiness and sorrow. “You looked tired,” she said, “Go wash whil
e I put fresh sheets on your bed. You’d better see your mother tomorrow. Oh, my boy, I’m glad you are home.”

  Musa hugged her. “I think I should see my mother right now,” he insisted, but Samira stopped him, “Rest first,” she said.

  Fatima couldn’t fall asleep after Samira told her that Musa had arrived. “Oh, my son,” she whispered to herself, “Oh, ibni, oh, my dear son is home.”

  Amina, in her short letter, read and reread many times, wrote that she was going to move from cousin Aiisha’s house. Is it proper for a girl to live alone in one of the hospital apartments? And what is the important subject that she has to talk to me, about which she couldn’t write about? What’s the mystery? Oh, her migraine would not stop.

  Was not the mukhtar’s wife right, when, with a mocking smile, warned what could happen if she, Fatima, let her daughter do as she pleased? Fatima pressed her hands to her temples. Her forehead felt encircled by fire.

  Fatima opened the window and was refreshed by the sudden cool air. As she glimpsed outside, she was reminded of the unfinished work, her plan to open the wall between her courtyard and the unused land next door. Faud, her husband, had bought it after Ahmed was born. She could still hear his joyful voice. “Now, with the birth of our second son, we need to enlarge our house. This property is my gift to you for giving me another son.”

  And he kissed her. She could still feel his lips touching hers. Faud had died before Ahmed’s first birthday. She never made use of that property. For years she thought that buying it was a bad omen.

  For Na’ima’s wedding, she decided to break the wall between the two courtyards to have ample space for the dancers, one courtyard for men, the other for the ladies, as was the custom. But her head could not stand the workers’ hammering. She asked Samira to tell them to stop.

  Tonight, she sighed with relief, Musa will take over and finish the work. Her daughters would plant the flowers and seeds of cyclamen, roses and hyacinth that Samira bought at the flower market and Suha watered every day. Fatima closed the window and turned off the light.

  Allah be praised, Musa is home; and for the first time in a week, into a deep sleep.

  Musa woke up early. He heard the muezzin call for the Fajr, the first prayer of the day. Certain that his mother was still asleep, he decided to pray at the mosque. Allah knew how much strength he needed to face his mother and appease her.

  Last night, during the bus ride from Jerusalem to Jaffa, Musa’s heart beat loudly in his ears; he was going to see Suha again! He wondered how he would handle the painful talk with his mother. And most important, would he be able to make her listen to his own plea?

  Prostrated, his forehead touching the cold mosaic floor, Musa prayed for guidance. “Oh, Allah Ackbar, God of the Universe, in this holy month of Ramadan show me the way, give me direction and I’ll follow your will.” After the prayer, he felt the weight his heart carried had become lighter. Musa stepped out, and for a moment the sun blinded him. In the few months he’d lived within the walls of Jerusalem, he had forgotten how brilliant Jaffa’s morning sun was.

  He had not walked for more than a minute when he heard a voice calling him. “Musa Sayyid, Mister Musa, wait for me.”

  It was Yusuf, one of Musa’s classmates. Limping more than usual, a big smile on his face, Yusuf caught up with him. He was a sickly child, always dragging his paralyzed leg.

  “It’s been a long time since I saw you last,” Yusuf said, “Where have you been?”

  “Salaam Aleikum! Good to see you, Yusuf.” Musa kissed him on both cheeks, as was the custom. Then he started telling him about his work in his cousin’s bank in Jerusalem. Impressed, Yusuf said, “I always knew you were meant to do great things.”

  “And what are you doing?” Musa asked.

  “I spent some time at the Kasr El-Aini Hospital in Cairo, hoping the doctors could help me walk better. They tried all kinds of boots on me, but I couldn’t get used to them, so I returned home.”

  “This is the hospital where my sister Amina studies to become a nurse,” said Musa.

  “Good. Kasr El-Aini is the biggest hospital in the mid-east,” boasted Yusuf, “people come from all over to study or be treated there. But,” Yusuf’s eyes looked at him questioningly, “How come you are home? I hope nobody is sick in your family.”

  “Everything is fine. My sister Na’ima is getting married in a few weeks. I am so glad I met you; I will ask my mother to invite you to the wedding.”

  “Mavrook- congratulations! It will be a real honor to attend.”

  “My mother is waiting for me.” Musa was in a hurry to take his leave. “But we’ll see each other again soon, at Nai’ma’s wedding.”

  Samira had already planned the agenda for the day. Fatima and Musa must be alone, she thought. So she asked Na’ima to go together with her to check the grocers for the items they needed for the wedding’s celebration days, “I think we should place our orders now,” Samira said, “to make sure they’ll arrive in time, especially the dishes for your henna party. Your mother wants to send the traditional makhloota, the sweet pastry, along with the invitations for the wedding. If we order now, we could take this load off her shoulders.”

  It was almost noon when Musa returned. As he entered the courtyard, he noticed Suha’s silhouette between the fluttering curtains of her bedroom. For a second their eyes met. Musa saw her blushing and felt a delicious tremor course through his body.

  Fatima came to meet him as soon as she heard the gate open. Mother and son exchanged formal greetings. Then Fatima hugged him and sobbed.

  “My prayers have brought you home,” his mother said. Fatima handed him Amina’s letter, “Read it. Tell me what you know that I don’t.” While Musa read the short letter, he could hear his mother murmuring, “I have only myself to blame for allowing her to leave home.”

  Musa knew that there was no way to postpone the talk with his mother. Now or never! But he was saved by the noise of his sisters and brother returning from school. During the Ramadan fast, the school hours were shorter.

  “Musa, Musa,” they screamed in one voice. “You are home! What a nice surprise. Nobody told us you were coming!”

  “If I had known I wouldn’t have gone to school,” said Rama, pouting her lips. Ahmed took his older brother’s hand and wouldn’t let go. Nur brought him a chair, and the three children crowded at his feet.

  “You have to tell us everything about life in Jerusalem,” Nur said. “Our parents took me there once, when I was little, but I remember only that it was crowded, big and noisy.”

  From the corner of his eye, Musa saw Suha watering the flowers. She stopped and glanced in his direction, her hand playing with the hamsa amulet. Was that gesture meant for him?

  Fatima seemed upset by the children’s disruption, “Children, Musa and I have important matters to discuss.”

  “Eumi, please, we’ll talk tonight after Iftar,” Musa said, “After they are asleep. Now I want to know what they did in my absence, and how many verses of the Koran Ahmed has learned. I want to tell them about Jerusalem too.”

  Did Suha’s shoulders really quiver when she heard the word Jerusalem, or was it only his imagination?

  As Fatima left Musa at the mercy of the children, Samira, followed by Na’ima, burst through the gate.

  “Musa, Musa,” exclaimed Na’ima, bewildered. She had not been told about his arrival. “You came! I’m so happy!”

  Musa got up. ”Salaam Aleikum, my dear sister and future bride! Salaam Aleikum my dear Samira.”

  Na’ima’s new looks impressed Musa, “I bring warm salutations from your future husband. I saw him only a few days ago.”

  “You did!” Na’ima glowed. “You have to tell me all about him.”

  “Let’s get rid of these first,” said an impatient Samira. Her arms and Na’ima’s were full of fresh flowers.

  “Oh, I completely forgot,” blushed Na’ima. “I was surprised to see Musa. Here, take mine.”

  “I’ll take
them,” Musa offered hoping to be closer to Suha. But Samira was quicker.

  “You’ll love your future home, Na’ima,” Musa told his sister. “Your garden has cedars from Lebanon, and oaks, maybe a hundred years old, also fir, which Mahmood sells to Christians on their holy day. All the people in Deir Yassin sell their beautiful flowers in the souks of Jerusalem.”

  The shrill of the muezzin calling for the third prayer of the day interrupted Musa.

  Hurriedly, he said, “I have to go to the mosque, but after I get back you’ll hear more.” It wasn’t the prayer Musa was thinking of, but an urgent call to his sister Amina. He went straight to the Post Office.

  Amina cried when she heard Musa’s voice, “I’m so happy you called. George contacted the bank this morning, wanting to talk to you, but you weren’t there.”

  Musa couldn’t stop the avalanche of words tumbling from Amina’s mouth, George this and George that...

  “Through the British Embassy, George obtained permission for me to fly on one of the regular British military flights to Lydda airport.”

  “Why not by train?” asked Musa. He had never been in an airplane and felt uneasy about her flying.

  “He said it would be much quicker this way. In two hours I can be at Lydda, while by train I need at least two days each way. Musa, I’ll be arriving in time for Na’ima’s henna party and stay for the three days of the wedding.”

  A postal clerk approached Musa and whispered that the office would be soon closing.

  “I’ll be waiting for you at Lydda airport. I’m looking forward to seeing you, Amina.”

  “Musa, Musa, don’t hang up. Have you told mother about George and me?” Musa heard the anxiety in Amina’s voice, but he couldn’t lie to her.

  “Not yet,” he answered, “but I think it would be best for you to talk to her after Na’ima’s wedding. And I’ll be there to give you support.”