The phone went dead. Probably the clerk’s doing. He looked so impatient. I should’ve given him a tip. Musa rushed out of the post office, straight into Jaffa’s twilight, at the hour the sky and the sea became one.
Musa was home and Shifra could sense the excitement in the air. After Fatima’s return from Jerusalem, she heard her tell the children about her trip, and how proud she was when cousin Abdullah praised Musa’s work at the bank. Afterward, Shifra’s days became so busy helping to prepare Na’ima’s trousseau that only during the night, especially during the hamsin nights, when the heat and humidity kept her awake, could her mind return to Musa, her savior. She had almost forgotten how he looked. Was he as strong as Na’ima’s fiancé, whom she had watched from behind her window’s curtains? Was he sporting a moustache too? Only her body remembered his strong arms when he had carried her, half-alive, to his mother’s house.
Now she could hear Musa giving orders to the workers paving the courtyard or laughing with the children. She also caught his furtive glances toward her window. After Samira brought the sewing machine home, Shifra spent most of the days in her room.
The sewing machine had been Shifra’s idea. One day she took the courage to tell Samira, “If we had a sewing machine I could make a dress, from beginning to end, and save the buyer the extra money he spends for a seamstress.” She did not add that she enjoyed the work, and wanted to create the whole garment herself, from start to finish.
Samira had looked doubtful. “When did you learn to use a sewing machine?”
Shifra blushed. Her mother had sewn all the children’s clothes at home and many times had let Shifra finish a seam or a hem. “I’ve watched the seamstresses sewing in the store. It’s not so complicated. For a jelebia one has to seam only the sides of the dress, and add the sleeves. I’m sure I could do it.”
Samira didn’t seem convinced, so Shifra added, “Na’ima’s dowry dresses have to be ready on time, and we also have to keep up with the orders. The work would go faster and easier if we had a sewing machine.” Shifra knew that mentioning Na’ima’s dresses would lend her demand more appeal.
Samira smiled. “I’ll tell Sit Fatima. She’ll decide.”
Shifra was satisfied. It was the same answer Samira gave her when Shifra proposed embroidering with beads. The two of them were in the bazaar, and Shifra had stopped by a stall selling beads.
“Samira,” she asked, “what do you think about doing the embroidery with beads? Nobody has done it yet. Wouldn’t that look nice?”
Samira pinched her cheek, “You are some girl, but we’ll have to ask Fatima for approval.”
The beads were an instant success. More and more orders came their way. Shifra’s mornings were filled with work, but in the afternoons she played with Rama and Nur, after the children first checked her progress in Arabic. Her biggest joy was the few times she could steal away to hear the magic violin.
On sleepless nights, she asked herself why she pushed herself to be useful in a stranger’s house. Was she hoping for acceptance, knowing that she couldn’t return to her own family? Was it her need to belong, to feel that people cared for her? She had Samira’s trust. Wasn’t that enough?
After Musa arrived, she hated the sewing machine. It kept her indoors, while in the courtyard Musa was the center of everybody’s attention. She could not hear what he said that provoked everybody’s laughter.
Perhaps Musa guessed her thoughts. On many afternoons, after the workers left, he sat on the bench, underneath her window, and read aloud from the Palestine Post, the English newspaper. It seemed to Shifra that he especially chose the news which might interest her. Sometimes Fatima joined her son, listening to him.
“Italy’s disintegration,” Musa read. “After the Allied Forces conquered Sicily in July, in September they landed in Salerno from where they will start the invasion of Italy. This is good news, Eumi.”
“If you think so, surely it must be so.” Fatima patted her son’s hand.
“Everybody who loves freedom thinks so,” answered Musa. “On the Eastern Front the Russians are raising their heads and moving against the common enemy. Trust me, before long the Nazi machine will be destroyed.”
He folded the paper, “Just a shame that for many people freedom will come too late, like for the innocent children and their parents who lost their lives when the Warsaw Ghetto was burned to the ground.”
When Shifra heard the word Warsaw, she stopped sewing. She remembered her mother dreamily saying, “One day, children, we’ll visit my family and you’ll meet your cousins and uncles.”
“My new acquaintance, a German Jew who works at the Rehavia branch of Barclays Bank, said that Hitler decided to exterminate all European Jews. This fellow and his family were saved by coming to Palestine,” Musa said.
“Don’t listen to hearsay, my son. You are too sensitive. My friend, Mr. Nathan, is also filling my ears about it. How could one man kill millions? Some people have too much imagination.” Fatima said with disdain. “What I know is that Jews were and are still smuggled in, through the new port the Jews built in Tel-Aviv. They violate the British embargo: at the same time their port has caused Jaffa to lose a lot of business.”
Fatima’s discourse was interrupted by the repetition of a plaintive sound.
“Oh, I hear the muezzin calling for the fourth prayer. Go my son, go to the mosque and pray for the happiness of our family.”
Shifra’s tears fell on the dress she was making, staining it, but she didn’t care. Millions of Jews were killed? Oh, God! Then the victory Musa talked about would arrive too late, for her mother and people like her, who lived with the hope of reuniting with the families left behind.
1 9
Musa enjoyed being home. He knew that his presence made his brother, sisters and mostly his mother, relaxed and cheerful. What about Suha? The few times their eyes met, he felt that they spoke a language of their own, without need for words. Yet words would have to be spoken.
One more week was left before the end of Ramadan, which meant only one more week before Na’ima’s wedding. He had to hurry. He had to talk to his mother. The opportunity occurred one evening after the Iftar meal.
“My son,” she said, “I am very pleased with everything you have done in the short time since you’ve been home. I really don’t know how I could have managed all by myself.”
She took his hands, “You are a good son. I’ve been always proud of you. Come sit near me,” she patted the pillow next to her.
It was true that Musa had done everything she had asked him to do. He had hired the musicians for the wedding. Under his supervision the extension of the courtyard was completed. And conforming to the Muslim tradition, he personally invited the neighbors and his friend Yusuf, to Na’ima’s wedding.
“Eumi,” Musa said, “There is something I want to ask you.” He stopped, searching for the right words.
“Go, on,” Fatima encouraged him. “You know I’d do anything for you.”
“I want you to invite Suha to be at the wedding party.”
“You want what?” Fatima was almost screaming. “How can you ask me that? You are going too far, my son. First you begged me to give her shelter because she was sick. Then you asked me to keep her because she was an orphan and had no place to go. I’ve done all this, isn’t that enough?” Her voice grew louder.
“Hush, hush,” Samira said, entering the room. “You two will wake up the neighbors.”
“Samira, listen to him, listen to my son.” Fatima was choking. “What insolence! I don’t want to hear any more about it. I’ll try to forget it. Never again! Go to bed, my son. When you wake up tomorrow morning you’ll realize how foolish you have been tonight!”
“I’ll ask you again tomorrow, and after tomorrow, and every day after,” Musa said. “Suha is already part of our household. You’ve given her an Arabic name. She has learned to speak Arabic, and all of her embroidery work has made you not only proud but wealthier, too.”
Fatima brought her hands to her throat, as if she were suffocating.
“Think about it, Sit Fatima,” Samira offered, “maybe Musa is not entirely wrong.”
“What are you talking about? I’ve shared my children with you, Samira. You want this girl in this house as much as Musa does. The two of you want to kill me tonight? Think of Na’ima, what would she say? She never liked the Yahud girl. Oh, I should have gotten rid of her long ago.” Fatima pressed her temples. “I’m getting a migraine again. Leave me alone. This is an order.”
“If Suha doesn’t take part, I’ll not be in the wedding either,” Musa persisted.
Though he tried to sound firm, his insides were shaking. He had never spoken to his mother in that way. By the Muslim code, he was being seriously disobedient and disrespectful.
“Musa, you are going too far. This is no way to talk to your mother,” Samira said, taking charge. “Please, Sit Fatima, reconsider. Wasn’t she the one who sewed all nine of Na’ima’s wedding dresses, one more beautiful than the next? Wouldn’t you have invited such a talented seamstress to the wedding? The girl has been living with us long enough, and though it might not be your will, I think she deserves it.”
Samira turned to Musa, “Apologize to your mother and leave us alone.”
She never gave him orders, but Musa understood.
Fatima sat prostrated while Samira paced the room, mulling over how she could dissipate Fatima’s anger, and more than that, convince her that Musa was right. She couldn’t say like in the old days,’a good night’s sleep will cool you off ’, or, ‘Pray to Allah and He’ll show you the way.’
She loved all of them so much, Fatima, Musa and Suha, that orphan who was trying so hard to please, just the way, she, Samira was. “You are a good person, Samira, you’ll find the way,” a voice seemed whispering in her ear, a man’s voice with a Yiddish accent, Mr. Grunwald’s voice? The time was short. Samira had witnessed the scene in the kitchen, that very evening, just before she served the Iftar meal. Musa came in and seeing Suha, he asked her feverishly, “Are you happy here?” Samira saw Suha’s neck suffused with color before she nodded. No words, but for Samira that was enough. Suha wouldn’t need the love potion from Uhm Zaide.
“I want to brush your hair,” Samira started, as in other times of stress.
“Not now,” Fatima answered. “I have no patience for it. Leave me alone.”
“Now is the best time,” insisted Samira. “Besides, I want to talk to you.”
“Didn’t you say enough? Now, leave.”
“You’ll have to hear me, Fatima Masri, even if you fire me afterward. For more than twenty years, I’ve worked for you. You know that I’m ready to sell my life to the devil to save yours.”
“Say what you have to say and leave.”
Samira was undisturbed by Fatima’s harsh tone, “Please, help me remember. Didn’t Faud Effendi have a good friend in Alexandria? If I’m not mistaken, he was French, married to an Egyptian woman, wasn’t he? He was one of Master Faud business partners.”
Fatima was surprised, “That’s true, but why are you asking me that? It was a long time ago, before Faud died. What’s so urgent? You make it sound as if it’s a matter of life and death.”
“You told me that only death could separate them. Something happened to that fellow before Faud Effendi died. What happened?”
Fatima stared into Samira’s eyes. Samira returned the most innocent of looks.
“He died in a car accident, both he and his wife. Faud was inconsolable. For days he couldn’t eat or sleep”. Fatima seemed to be looking into a gallery of ghosts, “Why do you ask me? I have no time for charades.”
“Wasn’t there a child, a girl?” Samira softly asked, “What had happened to her? “I don’t know what got into you to ask those questions tonight. Yes, there was a girl. She was two years younger than my twins. Some said that she escaped alive from the accident. Faud tried to find her, ready to adopt her, but he lost track. She was such a pretty child.”
Silently and gently, Samira undid Fatima’s long hair. She started to brush it when Fatima, as if waking from a dream, asked sharply, “Samira, why did you bring all this up? You knew what happened, didn’t you? What’s on your mind?”
“You said it yourself. You would have adopted the girl, if you had found her.” Samira took a deep breath. “Think of Suha as being that girl.”
Abruptly, Fatima snatched the brush from Samira’s hand, “What nonsense. How dare you compare the two, and come to me with such a proposition? That girl, I loved her with all my heart. Oh, Samira, you not only disappoint me, you make me angry!”
Fatima got up. “Go, and don’t talk to me again.”
“Please, Sit Fatima, think,” Samira insisted.
She knew she had to play her last two cards, “Think of Musa. You heard him. Maybe he has fallen in love with the Yahud girl.”
Seeing the flicker of shock in Fatima’s eyes, Samira changed her approach. “Maybe not, but for sure he has some warm feelings for the girl he saved from drowning. He feels responsible for her. He is also stubborn, especially when he thinks that he is right.”
Fatima didn’t answer.
Samira played her trump card, “You don’t want to lose your son, your comfort and consolation at old age.”
While Samira talked, Fatima prostrated herself on the rug, “Allah Ackbar, Allah Ackbar,” she wailed, “Save me, save me, and give me sustenance.”
Samira waited. When Fatima raised her head, Samira helped her up. Fatima’s eyes were red. She cried as she said, “In this holy month of Ramadan, you want me to commit the biggest sin, you want me to lie. I wouldn’t do that, not even for the Prophet Mohammed.”
From the tone of her voice, Samira knew she had gained some ground. “I am not asking you to lie. Besides, the wedding takes place after Ramadan ends.”
“What do I say to people who ask me who she is? That she is the Yahud girl Musa saved from drowning?”
“Nobody will ask you. Everybody’s attention will be on the bride and groom, or on Amina and Musa returning home after a long absence: Suha will wear a hijab and jelebia. She will stand near me.”
“And what if somebody addresses her? You seem to have thought of everything, but have you thought of this possibility?” Fatima’s voice was breaking as she said, “Samira, Samira, seeing how sly and cunning you are now, could I trust you in the future?”
Samira fell to her knees. She was moved by the bitterness in Fatima’s voice.
“Sit Fatima,” Samira took the hem of Fatima’s dress and kissed it, “maybe not today, but sometime later, you’ll think again, and you’ll not judge me so harshly. I had nothing in mind but the happiness of your family.”
She looked up at her mistress. “As for what you asked me before, if Suha is questioned, I’ll make sure that I answer for her. She is too shy.”
Fatima sighed. “Don’t be sure you’ve convinced me. Have you thought about Na’ima’s reaction? She has a right to decide if she wants Suha at her wedding.”
That was a consideration Samira hadn’t foreseen. Fatima was right. Na’ima could be an obstacle.
“See, as clever as you are, you don’t have answers for everything,” Fatima said. “Go now. I’d like to say that I am going to forget our talk, but it would be a lie.”
Samira left. Although she had not achieved what she wanted, she did not doubt that the seed she had planted in Fatima’s mind would bear fruit. Yes, talking to Fatima was important, but who would approach Na’ima?
“I’m counting the days,” Na’ima had told her. “Four more days until Amina comes home. Oh, we’ll have so much to talk about.” Suddenly, she hugged Samira, “And by this time, next week, I’ll be married! I can hardly believe it.”
2 0
Amina was expected to arrive one day before the start of the wedding festivities. At dawn Musa left for Lydda airport. Though it was still early, the entire Masri household was already on its feet.
From her
window, Shifra watched the bustle. Young boys from the neighborhood hung colored lanterns in both courtyards. In her guttural voice, Samira gave short orders, pointing to where they were to be placed. Nur and Rama filled baskets with the traditional sugar-coated Jordan almonds, while Fatima checked Na’ima’s dresses once more for any small defect that might have escaped her critical eye.
Exhilaration was in the air. Shifra, to whom Samira had explained the customs of a Muslim wedding was as excited as the bride. At Samira’s urging, Shifra had used the remnants of a material matching the color of her eyes to sew a dress for herself. It was a modest jelebia, without any of the adornments she added to the dresses she made for Na’ima, for Fatima or the white dress awaiting Amina. Samira had bought a white hijab to cover Shifra’s head.
Na’ima, meanwhile, was busy opening the boxes of gifts she received from the groom’s family, from neighbors, from Aiisha, her mother’s cousin in Cairo, and especially the little packages with which Amina had showered her every day for the last week.
“Eumi, come see,” Na’ima exclaimed with the opening of each new package as the mailman delivered them: an Egyptian shawl, a bottle of perfumed oil, a papyrus with her and Mahmood’s names encircled in elegantly designed hieroglyphics.
Later in the morning, after the rented long tables had arrived, Ahmed arranged the borrowed chairs and ottomans around them, while Rama and Nur set the tables with the starched embroidered tablecloths that Fatima kept in a chest in her bedroom, gifts she had received twenty years earlier at her own wedding.
In the kitchen, the baskets of fruits and vegetables, delivered and ready for the big event, were competing for space with pots and pans lent by neighbors. Moving around in the kitchen was so treacherous that Samira, the kitchen’s supreme chef, had to chase the children away, “This is not the time to fall and break a leg.”
At noon, a cheerful voice called out from beyond the gate, “Inshallah, I’m home. Nur, Rama, Ahmed, open the gate quickly and give your sister a big hug!” Musa followed Amina with a suitcase in one hand and a big package in the other.
Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction Page 11