Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction

by Fedora Horowitz

  Then he turned toward his mother. “And to you, Eumi, our most honored mother, I wish many more grandchildren to sweeten your life like honey.”

  “So be it, so be it,” Mahmood muttered in agreement. Only Nassum stood in a corner crying.

  Musa marveled at little Faud’s good looks, which pleased his sister. Later, during supper, he complimented his mother on her tasty food, “I understand now why Na’ima wants you here. You’re cooking her favorite dishes.”

  “Just don’t fatten her up like a cow,” said Mahmood, “she won’t be able to move.”

  “A nursing mother should eat well,” Fatima said, annoyed.

  After the meal, Na’ima yawned, saying she was tired and wanted to go to bed. Mahmood invited Musa to the village meeting, but Musa, happy for the opportunity to be alone with his mother, excused himself.

  “Eumi,” he said after Mahmood left, “let’s take a walk in the orchard. The mountain air is so refreshing I can’t get enough of it.”

  His mother took his arm, “I’m so happy you came,” she whispered.

  Musa wanted to ask Fatima why Mahmood seemed so angry when he arrived, but he restrained himself.

  To his surprise, Fatima brought it up. “Mahmood has a quick temper, especially after he drinks one or two glasses of arak. He scares me.”

  Musa stopped in his tracks. He had never been fond of Mahmood. “What happened?” he asked, almost against his will.

  “Nassum is still a baby. He’s jealous of little Faud. When he saw Na’ima nursing him, he climbed on the bed and pursed his lips close to Na’ima’s breasts. We laughed. Na’ima nursed both boys, one at each breast. Nothing wrong with it, except that Mahmood got mad.” Fatima shook her head, “It’s no good, no good.”

  Musa didn’t know what to say. He took a deep breath. The rosebushes planted by his sister filled the air with their perfume.

  “It’s stupid of me,” said Fatima, “I shouldn’t worry you.”

  She walked to a bench underneath a pear tree. “Sit with me, Ibni” she said, brushing away dried leaves.

  Musa cleared his throat, “I have good news. According to your wish, Suha has converted to Islam. She took the Al-Shahada. Samira was her witness.”

  He waited, but his mother was silent. In the dark, he couldn’t read her face, which made him nervous.

  “And I am here to tell you that I’m going to marry her.”

  Again silence. Maybe he should have said, “I want to marry her, and I came to ask for your blessing.” Now it was too late for that. He continued, “I wouldn’t do it behind your back. I fell in love the minute I saw her asleep on Jaffa’s beach. Since then, my love for Suha only grew. And I was happy to see how well she adjusted to living with us, and the way she’s been almost adopted by our family.”

  A star fell. In its light Musa saw his mother’s angry eyes.

  “How do you dare?” she said. “What do you know about her? Even if she converted, she’s not one of us. Where does she come from? Did she tell you who she is? You want to marry a strange girl you know nothing about? You want to destroy our good name? You should be ashamed of yourself!”

  Fatima started to cough, nearly choking. It was difficult for her not to raise her voice. “First you brought her home, begging me to give her shelter. I should have known better, oh, I should have known.”

  “Eumi, I respect and love you. It’s because of this respect that I’m here to ask for your blessing.”

  “Never, do you hear, never!”

  The fury in Fatima’s voice grew with every word. “I should have guessed that she would bring nakhba-disaster, upon us. Look what has happened. Amina is gone, married to a Christian. And now you want to marry a Yahud girl! Is that the example you want to give your brother and sisters? What about your responsibility to your family? Have you forgotten your duty towards our ancestors?”

  “My wife will become a Masri and she’ll honor our name,” a stubborn Musa answered. Suddenly they heard footsteps, a neighbor’s squeaking gate, a sign that the meeting was over and Mahmood would be home any moment.

  “There’s going to be a war soon,” said Fatima through clenched teeth. “You’d better keep your eyes open, my son. Forget about marriage. This is not a good time. More important events are on the horizon, events that are going to shape our lives forever.”

  She took a deep breath, “Go now. For your sake I’ll try to forget our talk tonight.”

  The night Musa returned from Deir Yassin, after being rebuffed by his mother, he decided to have a civil marriage as soon as possible. As always, he confided in Samira.

  “It’s easier to say it than to go through with it,” Samira said, “Do you know the requirements?”

  Musa nodded, “Two witnesses—and they must be males, of course!”

  The boy she raised had become a man and seemed now more determined than ever, Samira thought.

  “Who could I ask to witness? I need people who can be trusted and who won’t ask too many questions.” His words lingered in the air.

  “First, let me bring you some fresh nana tea. You look so tired. Then we’ll put our heads together and try to solve the problem,” Samira said.

  It was almost midnight, when Musa, his face lightening, said, “I’ll talk to Yusuf.”

  “I remember him, the limping boy who followed you like a shadow, when you were kids. Even if he would be as faithful to you as a dog to his master, he’s no fool. He’s going to ask you who she is, where she is from, which family. Have you thought of it?”

  Musa remained silent. “Then who should I ask?

  Samira heard the impatience in his voice.

  “There are not many options.”

  She got up and paced the room, “What about Mr. Nathan?” she said after a while, standing behind Musa, her arms massaging his shoulders. “Do you remember at Na’ima’s wedding he asked who Suha was and I told him she was Hassan Effendi’s daughter, your father’s friend from Alexandria.”

  “Are you kidding?” scoffed Musa, “A Jew? You want to bring a Jew as a witness in front of a Muslim Judge? Come on, Samira, you know better.”

  “Don’t answer so fast, young man. First, Mr. Nathan is your mother’s good friend. He’s a Moroccan Jew whose reputation both as an excellent watchmaker and a good person is recognized in the Arab community.”

  Musa shook his head in disbelief. “Still, you are going too far.”

  “At least he could give you good advice,” Samira insisted. “I have a feeling he can be of help. At Na’ima’s wedding, I told him, that Suha is an orphan, the only survivor from her parents’ car accident. With no close family, her neighbors remembering that your parents were good friends of the family, they asked your mother if she would take her in.”

  “It’s a moving tale, but it isn’t going to work“

  “It could work if you start believing it. Ask Uhm Zaide. She could tell you. When you believe in something strongly, it becomes reality.”

  “I don’t want to build my future on a lie.” Musa answered.

  Having raised him, Samira knew how honest Musa was, but she stood her ground. “When there is need, even an honest person can bend a bit. Moreover,” she continued, “I told Mr. Nathan that the accident and the death of her parents caused her to lose her voice. Now that she has regained it, she still has trouble speaking.”

  “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you? So people who’d hear Suha speaking Arabic wouldn’t detect she wasn’t born an Arab.”

  “It’s only because I love you, my boy, and I want so much to see you happy.”

  Samira got up, “Listen, it’s past midnight. Tomorrow you will feel better. A new day renews each one of us.”

  But Samira had difficulty falling asleep. If Musa agrees with my plan, she thought, I’ll pray to Allah to punish only me since I am old, and my life is half over. She knelt. Allah Ackbar, she prayed, let him live and enjoy his love.

  Mr. Nathan said that he remembered Suha, the beautiful blue-e
yed girl who had eyes only for Musa during the men’s Debka dance at Na’ima’s wedding.

  He added laughing, “And you, Musa, seemed to be dancing for her and her alone.”

  Mr. Nathan was courteous, listened with attention and said that he understood the situation when Musa explained that Suha had no papers to prove her identity and needed two witnesses to sign an affidavit declaring they knew who she was.

  “If only my mother could have been here, instead of taking care of my sister and her new baby,” Musa said with false innocence, “she would have helped find the right witnesses.”

  After a long silence Mr. Nathan said, “I think I can help.”

  He called, “Habib, come here, I want you to meet Mr. Musa Ibn Faud, my friend.”

  Habib, his young Arab apprentice, wiped his hands on his apron before answering his master’s call. He listened respectfully and agreed with a smile to be a witness, after Mr. Nathan ended by saying, “Everyone has to help a man in love.”

  After he left Mr. Nathan’s store, a jubilant Musa thought, now I have more courage to talk to Yusuf. He started running, feeling wings carrying his feet.

  “Yusuf accepted without asking any questions,” Musa told Samira when he returned home, still wondering at how easy it had been.

  And so it came to pass that Suha Hassan, seventeen years old, born in Alexandria to a French mother and an Egyptian father, received an affidavit signed by Yusuf and Habib. A grateful Musa bought new kafias for the witnesses and invited them to join him at Jaffa’s famous Turkish baths. Later that evening the three of them continued to celebrate the event by clinking together numerous glasses of arrack.

  At breakfast, the morning after he had the affidavit in his hands, Musa said, “Now we have to obtain a legal union.”

  “Today is a beautiful day, no clouds, the sky as limpid as the sea, a perfect day to get married,” said Samira, smiling.

  “We are going to Baladia in the afternoon and after that, Inshallah, our troubles will be over. We’ll have our marriage license and Suha and I will spend our entire lives together.”

  Musa had planned everything. Samira admired him, even though it wasn’t the wedding his mother dreamed of for him.

  Samira held Suha’s hand as they entered the City Hall where Musa and his witnesses, Yusuf and Habib, were already waiting. Suha, modestly dressed in a blue jelebia and hijab of the same color, kept her eyes locked on the floor. Musa handed Suha’s affidavit, her new identity, to the registering clerk. The room was filled with smoke. The Muslim judge barely looked through the papers presented to him.

  Samira noticed that Suha’s body was trembling when asked if she agreed to marry Musa. She lifted her eyes to Musa as if searching for the answer there. Samira felt the importance of the moment. She glanced at him. In Musa’s eyes she saw the gleam of intense love. Suha must have seen it too. Almost imperceptibly, she nodded her head in agreement.

  After Musa effusively shook hands, thanking the witnesses, the three of them returned to the young couple’s new home. Flowers were displayed in every room. Musa must have bought out the entire flower market, thought Samira.

  They shared a meal, which Samira had prepared in advance, lamb with rice and fattoush for Musa, cold lebenia soup and tabbouleh salad for Suha. After two years of living with us, Suha still didn’t touch meat, Samira mused to herself.

  From time to time Musa touched Suha’s hand as if wanting to reassure himself he wasn’t living a dream. After Samira put a pitcher of fresh nana tea on the table, she retreated, not wanting to disturb the young couple in love.

  Not the usual Muslim wedding, three-day affair, with lots of food and drink, music and dancing. The newlyweds had three days in which they ate and drank in their love, sang and danced to it. For three full days, the worried Samira didn’t see them. Weren’t they hungry?

  Each day she discreetly left trays of food in front of their door. She tried to listen, but then felt ashamed of herself, an old maid spying on young lovers. The trays remained untouched most of the time.

  On the fourth day after the marriage, a bewildered Samira prayed, Oh, Allah Ackbar, I didn’t know that love can be so strong that it can forgo all other needs. She watched at the sky. Gray clouds chased one another as before a storm. Suddenly Samira felt a pressure on her chest. Was that a premonition of days to come?

  2 7

  “It’s been a long time since I last saw the pretty blue-eyed Arab girl,” Gretchen whined wined while peering through the window.“

  Otto stopped practicing the minute he heard her voice. It wasn’t the first time Gretchen had mentioned the girl. His wife seemed obsessed with her. The girl, half-hidden behind a cypress tree, would listen to his music for a half hour, then leave. She never approached them. Even if she had, which language could they have in common?

  Gretchen looked forward to the girl’s appearance. Poor Gretchen! She even saw a resemblance to Ruth, their daughter. No, he mustn’t think of Ruth! It would destroy him as it destroyed Gretchen, and then who would take care of his crippled wife?

  “Please, my darling,” Otto said, “I’m sure she’ll be back soon and then we’ll ask her to come inside and listen, rather than stand outside. Who knows, one thinks of these people as ignorant, but we might discover that this girl has a real sensitivity to music.”

  “One reason I fell in love with you was that you were such an idealist.” Gretchen turned to her husband, her expression more a grimace than a smile. “I remember how you used to say, ‘People who love music cannot be bad people.”

  Otto panicked; afraid she might slide into one of her dark moods. He took the skeleton his wife had become into his arms.

  “Thank you, my dear. Even after twenty years, your words warm my heart. And speaking of warming, how about two nice cups of tea for ourselves? This stone house chills my bones.”

  Gretchen clasped her trembling hands, “You know I can’t,” she whispered, raising her blue eyes to him, the same luminous blue eyes their daughter had inherited from her Aryan mother.

  “You sit here while your husband serves his lady,” Otto said, gallantly helping her to a chair and covering her shoulders with a shawl. Gretchen’s features looked relaxed. For how long, he didn’t know, but he was grateful for even a few moments.

  When Otto Schroder arrived in Leipzig from Wrotzklav, (Breslau in German) he held his violin in one hand and his slim suitcase containing one change of clothes, the socks his mother had knitted for him, his father’s hat, and sheets of violin music in the other. But most important, he had his teacher’s letter of recommendation for the Leipzig Hochschule fur Musik’s most famous professor of violin.

  His German wasn’t great. It was mixed with the Yiddish he spoke at home and the Polish he learned in school. His father, the owner of a small grocery store in a shtetl close to Breslau, had never encouraged him. “Violin, shmiolin,” he said, “What do you want to be, a klezmer, playing for bar-mitzvas and chasanas? That’s not a profession. You go and learn accounting. Then you’ll become somebody.”

  But Otto loved playing the violin more than anything else. He knew that in her heart, his mother approved. When he left, she gave him a kerchief in which there were a few zlotas, her last months’ savings.

  His teacher told her, “Your son has a magic talent. He can make the violin cry or laugh at his will. He’s already an artist. What he needs is to be heard and encouraged.”

  First he lived in his Leipzig professor’s home after the teacher learned that Otto was born in a Polish shtetl not far from his own place of birth. With the help of his professor’s acquaintances, Otto started teaching children and soon was able to move into his own place. His colleagues at the Hochschule acquired a new respect for him after they heard him play at one of the school’s concerts. They didn’t giggle anymore at his out-of-fashion clothes or at his flying hair, the Paganini Jew.

  That same concert brought him another reward, one he never expected—Gretchen Trammer. She was the Hochschule’s mos
t talented pianist, and a beauty for whom, he was told, many of his colleagues wrote poems of burning passion. Her diaphanous blond hair framed a high forehead, strong cheekbones, a mobile, smiling mouth, and eyes, the bluest Otto had ever seen, the way he imagined Lorelei’s, Goethe’s sea enchantress.

  He would have never approached her; he was too timid, and besides, she was always surrounded by a crowd of admirers like a queen bee. It was Gretchen who came to him one afternoon.

  “I heard you play,” she said, “and I was moved like never before. At the end of your recital, I had tears in my eyes.”

  Gretchen stopped, waiting, but Otto, overwhelmed by her presence and her compliments, couldn’t get a word out of his mouth.

  “The other violinists play correctly, but you, you are a magician; in your hands the violin is as alive as a human heart.” Gretchen’s tone changed. “I came to ask you,” she said timidly, “if you’d agree to play with me in the chamber music class. I want to learn from you.”

  Otto felt dizzy. His teeth were clenched so tightly he couldn’t open his mouth. She was asking him to play with her. He would gladly give ten years of his life for the courage to address her. And here she came to him!

  “Of course,” Gretchen said quickly, “if you’ve already committed yourself, I understand.”

  “Oh! No! No!” Otto stammered, “I’d be happy to, more than happy, I’d be honored. I admire you,” he stammered, “I’d be most honored,” he repeated, afraid that he was babbling and she was going to think him a complete idiot.

  “Can we start tomorrow, then?” Gretchen asked, “I’ll bring a few Mozart sonatas to read through.” She smiled, “I’m sure we’ll get better acquainted through our music than through words.”

  He walked and walked that evening, rehearsing in his head what he’d say to her the next day. Then he panicked. Maybe he dreamed the whole thing. Suffering from too much practice and little sleep, he’d probably had a vision. It hadn’t been Gretchen. Yet, since he couldn’t fall asleep, he took out the Mozart sonatas and played until the gray light of dawn announced a new day.