Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction

by Fedora Horowitz

  “Fatima said it was your fault that Na’ima didn’t know to cook,” Shifra said smiling, warming her hands around the cup of tea, “She said that you spoiled her children.”

  “It wasn’t me, she did it and she continues doing it now. Look how much knitting and quilting we’ve done already. She has less and less time for her children here at home.”

  Shifra knew what Samira meant. The children’s grades had declined, especially the thirteen-year-old Nur. The English teacher had sent a letter complaining of her lack of interest in the class and that she was not doing her homework.

  “Why should I break my head with it, when in a few years I’ll be married? How much does Na’ima use her English now?” a stubborn Nur had answered her mother’s reprimands.

  “I might be able to help her, though my English has become quite rusty,” Shifra whispered timidly in Samira’s ear. Nur had told Shifra that her school, Tabeetha, run by the Church of Scotland, offered intermediate and advanced evening classes for adults. Shifra became excited; she would love so much to go back to school. Could she find a way to register? She confided in Samira, but to no avail.

  On one of Musa’s visits home, now more frequent since the rebuilding of the house next door, Fatima complained of Nur’s laziness, to which he answered, “It must be a phase, it will pass.” But it did not.

  Lately, Shifra observed with delight that Musa was coming home often during his mother’s visits to Na’ima. Musa would show Shifra the plans for the guest house. He asked for her suggestions, to choose the paint color for the walls in different rooms, or to select the window frames and tiles, nodding approvingly at her choices.

  Her heart beat faster when she was alone with him, and it warmed her soul to see how attentively he listened to her. He brought her flowers at almost every visit. During one of his visits, Shifra told him about her wish to study take a English class, “In that way,” she said, “I could help Nur to better prepare her lessons.”

  Musa did not answer immediately. Was he still afraid that she was going to run away?

  At breakfast the following morning, a smiling Musa said, “Last evening I talked to Samira about your wish, and like me, she thinks it’s a good idea since,” he emphasized, “You’ll be able to tutor Nur. Samira offered to accompany you and wait until the end of the lesson.”

  I am not a prisoner, Shifra was displeased, but she knew that it was better to have Samira on her side; especially if Fatima would do more than raise an eyebrow at hearing her latest request.

  Seeing the anxiety with which Musa waited for her answer, Shifra thanked him with a gratifying smile, happy to see the color returning to Musa’s face.

  2 5

  “A child brings happiness,” Fatima told Na’ima, putting a cold compress on her daughter’s forehead. “Our Prophet, in his great wisdom said, ‘Go and multiply.’ One more month and you’ll be up and running. Then you’ll remember my words.”

  Na’ima moaned, “I wish you would stay longer, or send Samira. Oh, I miss Amina so much. Where is she when I most need her?”

  “I’d rather we don’t talk about her. There’s no reason to aggravate ourselves.”

  “You and Mahmood,” cried Na’ima. “He doesn’t let me answer her letters. He says, ‘When she married her Brit, she stopped being your sister. No wife of mine has a British brother-in-law.’ He tore up her letters. Eumi, you are as cruel as he is.”

  Fatima did not answer. She also missed Amina, who had written long letters describing the cruise on the Nile during her short honeymoon. They had the most elegant cabin, and George made sure that every morning the cabin steward brought fresh flowers and a box of Swiss chocolates for his bride. “Eumi,” she wrote, “it feels so good to be loved.”

  Fatima thought how different the lives of her twin daughters had become. At Mahmood’s commands, Na’ima had to wake up at dawn and feed the chickens, prepare breakfast for him, change and bathe Nassum, then dress and feed him. No wonder she was exhausted.

  Amina wrote about the large apartment overlooking the Nile George rented for them in Zamaluk, Cairo’s most elegant neighborhood with two bathrooms, and a sleep-in maid who learned from Amina the recipes for Samira’s delicacies.

  Fatima’s eyes turned toward the well-worn clay floor. Mahmood should install tiles. She made a mental note to tell him. She feared for Na’ima, who could easily get a cold, especially during the winter rains for whom neither she nor Nassum were equipped. Meanwhile, she’ll buy a few carpets in Jerusalem’s bazaar when she’ll go visit with Musa and Abdulah.

  Fatima, who had stopped listening to Na’ima’s flood of words, heard suddenly, “I wonder... If Mahmood is so adamant about Amina marrying George, how will he react when he hears that you hide a Yahud girl under your roof?”

  Fatima’s heart skipped a beat. She was aware of Mahmood’s nationalistic views, with which she basically agreed, but she was alarmed at the hatred that flared in his eyes anytime he talked about the “unwelcome strangers who grabbed our land,” as he called the Jews.

  She knew her daughter tolerated Suha only because she was liked by the other members of the family. “She’s an orphan girl, whom nobody claimed,” Fatima answered, “and she’s learned our ways.”

  Taking Na’ima’s hand in hers, Fatima continued, “My mother, Allah bless her memory, said on the eve of my marriage, ‘Even if you adore your husband, there could be times when things would be better left unspoken.’ Mahmood is quick-tempered. A few weeks before giving birth, if telling Mahmood about Suha could provoke his wrath, it wouldn’t be healthy for you or for your child. I see no need to bring it up.”

  Na’ima sighed, “You speak the voice of wisdom, Eumi.” She kissed her mother’s hand.

  Something will have to be done quickly, Fatima thought. The minute I get back I’ll tell Samira, the girl has to convert or leave. Tomorrow I’ll see Musa and let him know my decision.

  A child cried in the adjacent room. “Oh, it’s Nassum. He’s up from his nap,” Na’ima said, climbing out of bed, as cumbersome as a whale. “Eumi, please bring him while I get his snack ready.”

  Yes, Fatima thought again, the sooner I talk to Musa, the better.

  Musa was waiting for his mother at the central bus station in Jerusalem. She had called him at the bank and asked him to meet her at the station. Her voice sounded tense. She said she needed to talk to him about an important matter, a matter which could not wait.

  He held in his hand the Palestine Post. Since the Allied Armies’ debarkation, Musa had followed the news with excitement. The war in Europe was going to end soon.

  At the bus station, a mob and noise surrounded Musa. Peasant women, their babies tied in blankets on their backs, carried cackling chickens. People descended or climbed the old yellow buses, while the stink of burned tires and smoke brought tears to their eyes.

  “Musa Masri! Mr. Masri!” Musa turned when he heard his name. The caller was Jonathan Goldring.

  “Unbelievable,” said Musa, shaking Jonathan’s hand, “What a coincidence to encounter you in the midst of this hullabaloo.”

  Musa barely recognized Jonathan. He was dressed in a khaki uniform, with the red beret’s ribbon flying in the wind. Proudly Jonathan raised his hand. “A member of the Jewish Brigade salutes you. There are five thousand of us who have finished training with the British Army and are ready to fight the Nazis.”

  A vision flashed through Musa’s mind; Mahmood and his cohorts training in the woods as he unwillingly watched them, too afraid to arouse his brother-in-law’s suspicions to object.

  Does Jonathan know what Mahmood and his friends are doing in the forests around Jerusalem? Their training is not only to get rid of the Brits. Musa heard Jonathan say, “I was chosen because I speak German and I could obtain important information during prisoner interrogations. I never thought I’d be facing Germans again. My parents hope that I can find out what happened to the family we left behind. I’m scared of what I might discover.”

 
“Good luck to you,” Musa said shaking Jonathan’s hand. “May Allah guide you,” Realizing his mistake, Musa blushed. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize,” Jonathan smiled, “we need everyone’s God praying for us.”

  “Deir Yassin local bus arrives on line 4,” the loudspeaker announced.

  “Excuse me,” Musa said, “I am here to meet my mother.”

  From afar he saw Fatima. His mother looked tired. She descended the steps with difficulty.

  After the customary greetings, Fatima blurted out, “Either she converts or she has to leave.”

  “What are you talking about?” Musa asked, though he had little doubt who she meant.

  “It’s Suha. She’s been with us more than a year. We healed her and brought her back to life; we fed and clothed her. She has a safe roof above her head. For everything we did, has she ever mentioned that she wants to become one of us? No! How do we know she’s not a snake in our midst?” Fatima ended out of breath.

  What happened to her all of a sudden? Why this outburst? She never spoke like this before. Musa couldn’t understand his mother’s anger. She sees Na’ima too often, Musa thought, knowing that only Na’ima didn’t like Suha. Mahmood’s face flashed again through his mind.

  “It’s because of Mahmood, isn’t it?” Musa asked.

  “No,” answered Fatima, “he doesn’t know yet. But Na’ima might tell him any day.”

  Then I have no time, Musa thought, he should immediately proceed with his plan.

  “Eumi, you shouldn’t worry,” he said, trying to calm his mother, “everything will work out for the best. Now let’s go meet Abdullah for lunch. He’s invited us to be his guests at the French Quarter’s finest restaurant.”

  Musa knew that he wanted to marry Suha. His dream was to live in the renovated house, where he could wrap his arms around her and never let her go. And the walls of the house would witness their love.

  But had he ever asked Suha, whose love he was now sure of, if she would renounce her religion to marry him? Would she convert to Islam? Could the strength of his love be enough to convince her? She seemed docile, but he’d heard Samira say more than once, “One never knows what lies under quiet waters.”

  And if she didn’t convert, what would be their alternative—to run away? He knew that his father had amassed a fortune, which, thanks to Abdullah, was tucked away in safe places; Alexandria and Cairo, even London. It would be so easy for him…No, that wasn’t in his nature. He wasn’t going to hide. He would marry Suha in the open, proudly facing the world.

  Musa tossed in his bed, unable to fall asleep. As much as he disliked the Brits, he could try, as a last resort, to be married by a British judge. Then he remembered that Suha didn’t have a single document to prove her identity. No birth certificate. It was as if she never existed. Oh, what a mess.

  But, maybe this wasn’t so bad. He remembered what Samira told Adon Nathan, the Jewish watchmaker, at Na’ima’s wedding. She said that Suha was an orphan whose parents died in the accident, in which she lost her speech. It was a thin line to walk on, but it might solve his problem. He would need only two witnesses. It wouldn’t be too difficult to persuade two people; he knew that money’s power to convince is stronger than a thousand words.

  Musa fell into a deep, disturbed sleep. His first dream was of Jonathan fighting with Mahmood, in the Abu-Gosh forest. He woke up and went to drink a glass of water. The second dream was worse. His brother-in-law was grinning at him. “You thought you and your Yahudia whore could hide from me. I’ll find you even if I have to walk to the end of the world. For me the lovers of Yahudim are the enemies of Islam. You are a sinner, a sinner, sinner...”

  The following morning when a tired Musa looked in the mirror, he saw a pale face and fatigued eyes. But he had made a decision. He would take the first bus to Jaffa where soon the wheels would start turning.

  2 6

  What Musa had asked of her was difficult. Yes, Samira loved him as she would have loved her own child, but even for one’s own child, there are times when a parent can refuse to comply with his wishes. Musa had asked Samira to convince Suha-Shifra to convert to Islam. And he told her that it had to be done quickly. No time to wait.

  Musa had arrived at dusk, had kissed the children, but she noticed his impatience when he immediately went to check the progress on the new construction. When he returned, he said, “Samira, after dinner, I need to talk to you.” He barely glanced at Suha, who looked as happy as the children when he arrived.

  And now, the news! He wanted to marry Suha as soon as possible. But how could a Muslim man marry a woman of another faith? Samira knew as well as Musa that this was unlikely.

  “She’ll have to convert,” Musa said. “You are the closest to her.” His eyes begged Samira. “From the beginning you helped our love blossom. I know she loves me, I feel it in my soul. But does she love me enough to convert? We know that it’s only a formality; it can be accomplished in front of you or another witness. Samira, Samira, do you listen to me?”

  Everything he said was true. Now she had to face the result of her foolishness, of her romantic notions, of her unfulfilled life. What was she thinking when she took the girl to Uhm Zaide and asked for the love potion? Wasn’t she encouraging a forbidden love? And now she was responsible for that dream. Oh, she’s going to be punished. The Prophet doesn’t forgive trespassers.

  Samira turned her face toward Musa. “He’s still a child,” she thought, seeing how anxiously he waited for her answer. She remembered Adon Grunwald, the man who had made her miserable childhood bearable. He was a wise man. If he was alive what would he say? She sighed. On the other hand, where would Suha go? Samira’s heart cringed at the thought of Suha lost in the midst of strangers.

  The first step would be to find out who Suha thinks she is, an Arab, a Jew?

  For sure Suha loves Musa. She didn’t need the love potion. The girl was already in love with Musa from the minute she opened her eyes and saw him.

  “I’ll talk to her,” Samira said after a while. “I understand it would be easier for me than for you, but,” she added when she saw Musa’s eyes lighting up, “I can’t promise I will succeed.”

  Musa kissed her hands.

  “Think of tomorrow, your big day,” Samira’s eyes were wet, “when you’ll tell Suha how much you love her and ask her to be your wife.”

  The next morning, Musa left early to apply for a position at Jaffa’s Barclays Bank. During a sleepless night, Samira thought of different ways to approach Shifra, but when the two of them were seated at the kitchen table, she only said, “Musa is in love with you. And I know you share his feelings.”

  Shifra’s face reddened as Samira continued, “Last night he told me that he wants to marry you. That’s the reason he came home.” Samira stopped, waiting for a reaction from Shifra, who didn’t move.

  “Doesn’t it make you happy?” Samira asked. “Do you realize that half of Jaffa’s girls would want to be in your place?”

  Still no response from Shifra, though her blue eyes looked brighter than ever. Samira became impatient. “What would you say to him if he asked you today?”

  Shifra lowered her head. Almost imperceptibly she nodded. When she raised her head, Samira saw tears in her eyes.

  “Come here,” Samira said, opening her arms. She cradled Shifra. “I have something else to say to you. A Muslim can’t marry a woman of another faith unless that woman converts.”

  A tremor passed through Shifra’s body and she tried to release herself from Samira’s embrace, but Samira tightened her grip.

  “Listen to me,” Samira said. “For more than a year you have shared our life. Nobody asked you where you came from or who you are. We accepted you and cared for you, and you became a part of our household. Now Musa wants to marry you. It’s time you prove that you want to be one of us.”

  “Even if I wanted to, “Shifra sobbed, “I can’t.”

  “Of course you can,” Samira caressed her
hand. “You’d only have to say the Al-Shahada, the acknowledgement that you accept our God. It’s very simple and I can teach it to you.”

  No answer. Samira felt tired. Was it Shifra’s limp body, which suddenly felt too heavy for her arms, or what Musa had asked her to do that was oppressing her soul? She shouldn’t have involved herself in their affairs of the heart, and now it was too late for regrets.

  “If you really love Musa, you’ll do it. You need only one witness to hear you say the Al-Shahada,’ she whispered, “And I will be your witness.” Gently, Samira pushed Shifra out of her arms.

  After Musa heard that Suha took the declaration of faith and became a Muslim, he knew it was his duty to tell his mother without delay. His conscience wouldn’t be at peace unless he received her blessing. First he went to see Abdullah. It was only fair to tell the man who considered him like his own son, and who had had hoped that one day Musa would marry one of his daughters.

  Musa was relieved that Abdullah didn’t ask any questions after he told him that he wanted to marry a girl he had met in Jaffa and had fellen in love with. Musa prayed that the encounter with his mother would be as easy.

  With his arms full of gifts for Na’ima’s newborn baby, he descended from the yellow screeching Jerusalem-Deir Yassin bus. The sun was already fading. Even before knocking at the door he heard Mahmood screaming at the whimpering Nassum.

  “Don’t slap him, don’t slap him,” Na’ima pleaded, “he didn’t do anything wrong. It’s my fault. I told you it’s my fault.”

  “Then you should stop encouraging him,” Mahmood turned his fury on his wife. “You are lucky you’re still recovering, otherwise you’d get it from me.”

  “Be quiet, somebody’s knocking at the door,” Musa heard Fatima’s voice.

  “It’s Musa!” Na’ima screamed, her face radiating happiness, “Musa, my darling brother is here.”

  “Salaam Aleikum, Mavrook, may your child find grace in the eyes of Allah!” Musa wished them, shaking Mahmood’s hand and kissing Na’ima.”