Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction

by Fedora Horowitz

  Fatima’s cheeks were suffused with a flush of red.

  “I don’t know why you bring those forgotten things up. Faud was a good husband, a good father, a good provider. And yes, I loved him and you know that. I learned from my mother that marriage builds love, day after day, month after month, and that’s what happened to me. I was lucky. So don’t remind me of my foolish youth.”

  “It’s true that you were lucky. But how many Muslim women are as lucky as you were? My mother wasn’t one of them. After drinking a few glasses of arak, my father beat her so badly that she had a bloody miscarriage. For one lucky woman like you, I know ten unlucky ones locked in unhappy marriages.”

  “You are talking a lot today, and I still don’t know the purpose of it. What do you want? Do you want to change my mind? This will never happen, so don’t bother!”

  Samira decided to try another angle. “The times are changing,” she started, “even the customs are not the same. You’ve given a good education to Amina and Musa and you encouraged them to taste the life of big cities, Cairo, Jerusalem. You allowed them to have freedom. And freedom comes with a price.”

  “What price? What are you talking about? You think it is my fault that my daughter wants to marry a Brit? I am sure he’ll ask her to convert.” Fatima rubbed her temples. “Just the thought of it makes me crazy.”

  “Why don’t you ask her, instead of imagining it? Maybe you’ll learn something, rather than instead of falling prey to your dark thoughts, to your nerves and worries. Talk to her, you still have time, she’s not leaving until tomorrow.”

  Fatima raised her eyes.

  “And when you talk to her,” continued Samira, “tell her again how much you love her and worry for her. Don’t let your pride get in the way. If you could ask the Prophet Mohammed what to do, he would say that it’s a bigger sin to lose a child than to lose your pride.”

  Behind the door, Amina and Musa tried to listen through the keyhole, but the two women spoke in whispers. “You promised to help me,” Amina said bitterly.

  “Eumi didn’t give me a chance,” answered Musa. “But we both know that Samira can move mountains. Have patience.”

  PART I I :

  2 2

  Na’ima tried to turn over. Six months pregnant, she felt as big as an elephant. Her hand inched across the bed sheet but she didn’t find what she was searching for. The place beside her was empty. It was still dark outside. Where could Mahmood be? She tried to find a more comfortable position. Was it her fault that she got pregnant on their wedding night? She closed her eyes and remembered their arrival in Deir Yassin.

  When cousin Abdullah ceremoniously opened the limousine door and she stepped out, still dressed in her red wedding gown, the entire village was there to welcome her. Mahmood, proud and a bit tipsy, took her in his arms and lifted her over the threshold. “You’ll have time to meet her tomorrow,” he turned away the well-wishers, “tonight she’s mine.”

  All the men cheered.

  The house, though small, looked clean. She saw the empty wooden shelves along one wall and thought to place there Amina’s gifts, the coffee and tea sets. Mahmood took her arm and guided her to a small alcove off the main room. A large iron-framed bed and two chairs were the only furniture.

  “Here,” he said, “you can undress while I go to check on the sheep and the chickens.”

  As she still seemed unsure of what to do next, he impatiently repeated, “I want to find you undressed and waiting for me. I’ll not be long.”

  Unpacking the filmy nightgown that had been Amina’s gift, Na’ima felt herself invaded by heat from her soles to her head. The only window had no curtain, and she made a mental note to make one, first thing in the morning. She turned off the single bulb and undressed. She sat on the bed and felt the coarse sheet prickling her skin.

  Mahmood came in, his breath smelling of arak. With one hand he turned her on her back, the other reaching to knead her breasts. He lowered himself on top of her. “You don’t need this,” he said, fumbling with her nightgown and throwing it over her head. He forced his hands between her thighs, and before she knew it a sharp pain made her scream. He was pounding her, his breath short and heavy, while she felt that something sticky trickled down her legs. The pain didn’t stop. He moaned. The sheet scratched her shoulders. When he was finished, he turned his back to her. She wanted to get up to clean herself, but he stirred and she became afraid.

  “Where do you go?” he asked in a drugged voice. “I’m not done yet.”

  He pushed her back and entered her again. Na’ima wept.

  “Don’t,” Mahmood said. “I am fed up with you women. The other one cried, too. You must’ve been told what your duty is.”

  He laughed. “In time you’re not only going to like it but you’ll beg for it.”

  The next morning when Mahmood’s mother brought the baby, who had slept with her that first night, a proud Mahmood showed her the bed sheet covered with bloodstains. His mother embraced a dumbfounded Na’ima.

  “I was sure of it! Now I’m going to show it to the neighbors, too. They were making bets that my son wasn’t marrying a virgin, you being a city girl. I’ll keep the sheet to show it to your mother as well.”

  The following nights continued in the same fashion. Na’ima became used to it, and though Mahmood’s touch wasn’t tender, Na’ima liked to feel his strength overpowering her. To please him she started to move her hips in rhythm with his movements.

  “I told you you’d like it,” her husband laughed, pinching her nipples.

  During the day, Na’ima kept busy putting the presents away, cooking for Mahmood and taking care of Nassum, Mahmood’s little boy. She loved the baby, who reminded her of her brother Ahmed at the same age, when she and Amina competed to be the first to bathe or feed him. She felt that Nassum returned her love from the way he smiled at her while his eyes followed her every move.

  She started feeling tired and nauseous six weeks after her wedding. When she told her mother-in-law, Mahmood’s mother kissed her on both cheeks and said, “Mavrook, mavrook, I’m sure it’s going to be a boy. I’m running to tell Mahmood. What a breeder my son is,” and she laughed happily.

  But it turned out to be a difficult pregnancy, and Mahmood’s memories, still fresh from his first wife’s pregnancy, left him continuously upset and preoccupied. Na’ima saw that he didn’t seem as happy at the prospect as his mother was, and she didn’t know the reason. Months passed and she felt sicker every day. “You’ll feel better when you feel the child moving,” her mother-in-law told her, but Na’ima felt just the opposite.

  “Why don’t you invite your mother to come be with you for a little while?” Mahmood’s mother proposed. When Na’ima finally wrote to her mother, she didn’t dream that the thought of a grandchild would revive her mother’s old energy.

  After her three older children left home, Fatima suffered from lassitude and fatigue. Samira tried to lure her by cooking her specialties, but Fatima left most of the food untouched.

  “You should go somewhere,” Samira said one evening. “You need fresh air. Go to Jerusalem, go to Abu-Gosh. How about visiting Na’ima?”

  “It’s too soon,” Fatima said. “She has to get used to her new life first.”

  “Nonsense,” retorted Samira. “You refused to go to Cairo to Amina’s wedding; now you don’t want to go to Na’ima, though you know very well that you’ll enjoy being close to Musa and the rest of your family. You need them. The older one gets, the more one needs family.”

  “Don’t harass me. If not for you, Amina wouldn’t have married that Brit. You pressured me,” Fatima said bitterly. “‘For the sake of not losing her,’ you said. What kind of wedding was that, with the British consul marrying them? And how do I know that she is not going to convert, if she hasn’t already?”

  Fatima’s cheeks burned from the pathos of her words, but Samira didn’t concede. She said, “Read me again your cousin Aiisha’s letter. Was there something in it abou
t Amina’s converting? I don’t remember.”

  Reluctantly, Fatima rummaged in her pockets until she found the letter.

  To my most honored cousin, Fatima, Salaam Aleikum,

  Fatima stopped to search for her glasses. Samira saw that the letter was stained from dried tears. Who knew how many times she had cried over it?

  I just returned from the British Embassy. I promised Amina, for whom I was a witness at hercivil ceremony, to write to you. Though only George’s parents and I were there, we felt that it was a very moving event. Your daughter looked splendid, dressed in a mother-of-pearl gray suit and a petit chapeau of the same color with a veil that covered half of her face. She held a bouquet of white roses in her gloved hands. A white rose was in George’s lapel. His face radiated happiness.

  The consul, an aristocratic-looking gentleman, asked if they want to say something to one another before taking their vows. Blushing, Amina nodded. She then read in English a love poem by Omar Khayyam. At his turn George, looking into her eyes, recited a poem by Lord Tennyson. I cried, and George’s mother had tears in her eyes, too.

  Oh, my dear, dear cousin, I know that reading this letter pains you, but I believe in destiny, fatma, your name. Amina and George were destined for one another. After the ceremony, we drank champagne in their honor. The young couple left immediately for their honeymoon, a cruise on the Nile.

  Dear Fatima, I wish you good health and joy from all your children.

  May Allah bless you, Aiisha

  Both women remained silent. Samira stood up and hugged Fatima. The gate bell rang. It was the mailman, bringing a letter. “Na’ima,” Fatima said, impatiently opening it. As she read, Samira saw Fatima’s features relax, a smile on her face.

  “She’s five months pregnant,” Fatima said her eyes suddenly clear.

  “Already!” wondered Samira.

  “Young people, hot blood,” Fatima said. “She’s asking me to come. She doesn’t feel well.”

  “And she wants her mother. It’s natural. Tell me what to pack for you.”

  “Not so fast, not so fast, though I know you want to get rid of me,” laughed Fatima. It was a happy laugh. “Would Mahmood be pleased to see me visiting there so soon?” She remained pensive. “But my daughter is calling and my heart aches to go.”

  “What else has she written?” Samira asked. “I see she covered two full pages.”

  “Oh, yes. The news that she’s pregnant was such a surprise, I didn’t read the rest!” Fatima’s eyes scanned the letter. “She writes that the weather has changed and she needs a warm blanket. She’s not used to Deir Yassin’s cold nights. She wants me to buy rolls of wool for her to knit sweaters for Nassim, for herself and for the coming baby.”

  Fatima continued to peruse the letter. “She writes, ‘I could play with Nassim all day long. He’s such a good baby. When he sees me, he stops crying, smiles and stretches his little arms toward me. Oh, Eumi, I think that motherhood is marvelous. I promise myself to try to be as good a mother as you have been for us. Come soon. It will be an honor to have you with us.”

  “What did I tell you?” Samira said, her eyes dancing in her head.

  “I’m going to the bazaar,” an energized Fatima said, “There is a little store that sells the best quality wool. I want to knit an afghan for Na’ima. Meanwhile, take out from my chest the goose-feather blanket that my mother made and we never used. Air it out and clean it. I want everything to be ready by tomorrow, do you hear me?”

  “That’s my girl,” gushed Samira happily. “I’ll do more than that. Remember the patchwork quilt we started and never finished? We called it the patchwork of love. Wouldn’t it be a perfect bedspread for Na’ima’s new baby?”

  Watching Fatima leave, Samira felt overjoyed by her sprightly steps; Fatima was almost dancing as she unlocked the gate and disappeared beyond it.

  2 3

  During the months following Na’ima’s wedding, Musa’s life became busier. Thanks to his command of the English language and his cousin’s satisfaction with his aptitude for banking, Abdullah promoted Musa to Assistant Manager of the Foreign Exchange department. Musa was ready for the challenge. It was in step with the plan he had made the day he returned to Jerusalem.

  The plan included a managerial position at Barclays Bank in Jaffa, which he was sure he could obtain with Abdullah’s recommendation. But he was not going to disclose his plan to his cousin yet.

  Musa still basked in the memory of Suha’s brilliant eyes watching him dance the Debka at Na’ima‘s wedding. Her eyes had been full of promises. In his new position he traveled to other Barclays branches. During a short visit to Jaffa, he could steal a few hours to kiss his mother’s hand and to see Suha. Once when he mentioned that he might move permanently to Jerusalem, he saw Suha’s face freeze and her eyes take on the fearful look of a wounded rabbit. Somehow he understood that for her Jaffa was a safe place. Maybe later, after their marriage, he would ask her about her fears, or remind her of that day … or maybe he’d never ask. So many things are better left unspoken.

  Contemplating their future, Musa knew that he would not want them to live in his mother’s house. He was sure that Fatima would expect it and would be hurt, but that was not part of his plan. Since he would not want to live far from her, Musa decided to rebuild the old house on the adjacent plot of land, his father’s gift to his mother.

  When he told Fatima about his idea to repair and modify the old building, she was suspicious, “Why?” she asked. “There is more than enough space in our house, especially now with Amina and Na’ima married. There was plenty of space even before. What is in your mind?”

  Cautiously, he answered, “We need a guest house. Na’ima and Mahmood will visit you, and Inshallah, after her baby is born, there will be two children. The day is not far when Amina and George will visit, too.”

  “As always, you think of everything, Ibni,” Fatima kissed him, “You are right. Talk to Attia, he’s the best builder in town. Tell him you have my blessing.”

  Musa had seen a few elegant dwellings in Jerusalem and wanted to model his Jaffa house after them. From Petra, that magic place, he wanted to bring red rocks and have them cut into tiles. The new house would definitely have a bathroom, the sides of the bathtub covered in blue tiles, the color of Suha’s eyes.

  He had seen such a bath advertised in a Cairo magazine. In his mind he could see Suha’s alabaster body lying in it, her face turned toward him with a big smile, while he would be ready to dry every drop of water on her body with his kisses. Every night he dreamt a different variation of this scene.

  ”I’m in no hurry,” he told Attia, the contractor, whose powerful muscles seemed to coil under his shirt. Fatima would probably faint when she heard the cost.

  Rebuilding the house gave Musa a reason to visit home more often. As he said to his mother, “I trust the builder, but he has to know I am the boss. Without control, he might use cheaper materials and charge for more expensive ones.”

  Musa told no one he was building his future love-nest. He kept it a secret even from Samira, his usual confidante.

  There was only one cloud on Musa’s clear sky: Mahmood. Since their talk in the Jerusalem restaurant, he had been after Musa, pressing him to join his political group.

  “Don’t you see what’s going to happen?” Mahmood asked in a harsh tone, “The Brits are going to leave, or we’ll make them leave. But the Yahudim remain. After pressure from our leaders, the Brits’ White Paper reduced the number of Jewish immigrants to 75,000. Even this number was too big. The future will confirm it. We have to prepare ourselves for a fight, my brother!”

  From his mouth, “my brother” sounded like a sneer. Mahmood was waiting for an answer. And Musa was caught unprepared. Finally, in order to end Mahmood’s insistence and fearing that a refusal would arouse his suspicions, Musa agreed to come to one of the group’s meetings.

  It was held in Abu-Gosh, the village well-known for its vineyards. Musa saw young people, the
Mujahedeen—holy warriors, Mahmood called them with pride, as heated as his brother-in-law was.

  There was a lot of smoke and screams of “Out with them,” meant for the British or the Jews, Musa couldn’t tell which. One thing was certain. A young man to whom the others seem to look up told the crowd, “Soon we are going to receive arms from our brothers in Syria, Egypt and other Arab countries. The forests around Jerusalem,” he added, “would be the perfect training ground.”

  “See,” a satisfied Mahmood said afterward, slapping Musa’s back, “we are making progress. Sooner than you think, your mama’s darling boy will learn to put a gun to good use.”

  After he left Mahmood, Musa decided that first thing in the morning he would tell the builder to hurry and finish the house.

  2 4

  It had been more than a year since that fateful day when Musa found her on the deserted Jaffa beach. Lately she had started thinking of herself as Suha, as everyone called her. Only in the intimacy of her room did memories of her past intrude her. Days Like today, when the rain finally burst out of the skies, a vengeance after the long dry winter, reminding her of the dismal day in Jerusalem when the neft man had pinched her cheek with his oily hand smelling of kerosene. The next thing she knew, was that her father had promised him her hand in marriage. The memory still made her tremble.

  “Brrrr,” Samira suddenly entered, “it’s almost as cold as the Jerusalem winter. Come into the kitchen to warm yourself. I’m making tea for the two of us.”

  The children were in school and Fatima was visiting Na’ima. It was one of her bi-weekly visits. At the beginning of these visits, Samira told Shifra, “Fatima seems to be reliving her life as a young bride. She goes to the bazaar and buys trinkets, a flower vase, or another prayer shawl, all for Na’ima. And when she goes there, she cooks Mahmood’s favorite dishes, kafta, a meatloaf, and fattoush. After she leaves, Na’ima and Mahmood have food to last a week.”