“My dear lady, the tea is served,” Otto clamored, bringing in a tray with two tall glasses and two pieces of cake. But Gretchen had fallen asleep, a forlorn smile on her wrinkled face. She must be dreaming of Ruth, Otto thought. And when she wakes up she’ll scream again, “Where is Ruth, where is my daughter?” and thrash around to look for her. Otto put Gretchen’s medication on the tray and carefully rearranged the shawl that had slipped away.
In the evening Otto wrapped his arms around a still sleeping Gretchen and gently directed her steps toward the bedroom. He had already put a hot-water bottle on her side of the bed. Her feet were usually so cold he could feel her shiver even in her sleep. But tonight, Gretchen seemed calm, while he turned and turned, his head flooded by memories.
When did he realize that she was in love with him? Was it when she took him to the imposing Thomaskirche, the church where almost two hundred years before, Johann Sebastian Bach played the organ and conducted the choir? Inside the cold, empty church, as the late afternoon light filtered through the stained-glass windows, she whispered, “Please, play for me.”
Otto stood quietly for a moment, then began playing Bach’s Air on the G String.
He played with closed eyes. Still immersed in the music, he felt her burning lips touch his. A tremor went through his body. He responded with the passion he had tried to hide for more than a year. Only when they played together had Otto’s violin declared his love for her.
“I know that you love me, too,” Gretchen said, breathing hard, when he finally let her out of his embrace. Then she kissed him again.
What a marvelous time! During their long walks, after they finished practicing, Gretchen introduced him to the beauties of Leipzig, its famous University dating back to the 15th century, and its beautiful parks. She took him to Auerbach’s Keller, the beer hall where Goethe had been a frequent visitor. They talked frequently about their future, but very little about their past.
Otto knew that Gretchen was born into a well-to-do family. She told him that her father owned a number of factories that manufactured fine luggage, not only in Leipzig, but also in other cities in Saxony.
“My parents live in the past. Almost ten years after the end of the Great War, their hearts are still wounded by Germany’s defeat.” Gretchen sighed, “My parents are very conservative.”
Was that the reason she never introduced him to them? Otto was sure that she hadn’t told them about their making music together. He imagined how her father would raise an eyebrow and say, “You play with a Jewish Pollack? Couldn’t you find another partner?”
Be realistic, Otto said to himself, what kind of life could you offer Gretchen? The basement you live in? But luck or fate was on his side. His professor retired from his position with the famous Gewandhaus Orchestra. A competition to fill his position was posted. Otto was known to the orchestra members from his recitals, and the many times he substituted for sick orchestra members or was available when the orchestra needed additional players.
Otto was doubtful that at his age, twenty-two, and without much orchestral experience, he could win. But his teacher encouraged him, and so did Gretchen.
“You have to try,” she said. “Remember, I believe in you.”
Before he started to play behind the curtain, as was the rule, the judges not being allowed to see the candidates, Otto took an oath. “If I win, I’ll ask Gretchen to marry me.”
Closing his eyes, he began, Gretchen constantly present in his heart. After he finished he heard a storm of applause; the jury applauded him.
Yes, Otto thought, those were beautiful times. Beautiful memories! But those times were long gone and by thinking of them he was only twisting a knife in his heart. Gretchen turned and murmured in her sleep, “Ruthie, Ruthie, wie bist du?” It scared Otto, but he saw that she hadn’t awoken. Otherwise she would scream inconsolably until the wee hours of the morning.
- - -
When Otto was informed that he was accepted in Leipzig’s Gewandhaus Orchestra, one of Germany’s best, he became delirious with joy.
Gretchen, as thrilled as he was, said, “I told you, I was sure you’d be chosen. This calls for a celebration.”
She wouldn’t tell him what her plan was. “It’s a surprise,” she said.
The same evening, holding a bottle of champagne, she took his arm, “Tonight we are going to have a lot of fun.”
They went through barely lit streets until they arrived before a gate. After Gretchen rang the bell, she whispered her name, and the gate opened. It seemed so mysterious. Only after they entered, Otto understood. They were inside one of the city’s famous underground cabarets. Through the smoke, he saw skimpily dressed women, dancing languidly between tables topped with champagne, whisky and brandy. He breathed in the acrid odor of cigarettes, alcohol and something else that he couldn’t determine, hashish maybe?
Seeing that Otto seemed uncomfortable, Gretchen said, “You didn’t know that places like this existed, did you?” She laughed, “Neither do my parents. But we are not doing anything wrong. We’re just having a good time.”
From a table in a corner, somebody called, “Gretchen, Gretchen, over here.” Otto recognized some of his colleagues from the Hochschule.
“Finally you succeeded in bringing your prodigy to join us,” one of his colleagues said without malice.
Gretchen smiled mischievously. She took Otto’s arm. “At least here,” she addressed her companions, “we can forget what’s happening in Germany today. We don’t cry for its lost status in the world.”
Hearing a storm of applause, Otto turned his head. On the stage, a woman dressed in a black tuxedo jacket, her long legs in black stockings and high heels, stepped into a spotlight and began to sing with a voice as smoky as the hall itself.
“It’s Marlene Dietrich,” Gretchen whispered, “our blue angel.”
The champagne or the way Gretchen leaned so close to him, her legs intertwined with his, made Otto almost lose his head.
The toasts never stopped. “Prosit,” one called, followed by the others. “To your success,” they raised their glasses. Otto had never felt so happy and relaxed.
Leaving the cabaret, Gretchen whispered in his ear, “Let’s go to your place. We’ll continue to celebrate.” As much as he wanted to, Otto thought that it would not be proper. “I’d better walk you home,” he said. “It’s already very late.”
“For only a minute,” she said, snuggling to him, “I want to see your place.”
How could he resist? He thought of his wet socks hanging in a corner of the room, his unmade bed, and the sheets of music scattered on the floor.
He had planned to propose to her after receiving the first paycheck from the orchestra, when he would be able to rent an apartment and buy new clothes. Then, with his heart thudding in his chest, he would go talk to her parents. That was the right thing to do, Otto knew. He was a decent man. His parents had instilled in him the moral code they themselves inherited from their parents.
“It’s too hot in here,” Gretchen said, and without waiting, she took off her fur coat and her dress. “Come,” she said, throwing her arms around his neck, “I want you to make love to me. I knew from the very beginning that we are made for each other. If we wait a minute longer it would be a lost minute.”
Her perfume, her willowy body, her lips! He couldn’t deliberate anymore. He threw all caution to the wind. She belonged to him! That night their bodies made the most beautiful music.
“I’m going to ask your parents for your hand in marriage,” was the first thing Otto said, the morning after their night of ecstasy, “This afternoon, in fact.”
Gretchen laughed. “They’ll never agree,” she said. “You don’t know my parents. But since I am twenty-one, the law gives me the right to decide my future, and my parents can’t stop me. This morning we’ll go to City Hall and get our marriage license.”
Gretchen had thought of everything.
“Sweetheart,” Gretchen said, “aren�
��t you happy? You are so quiet. Did I make a mistake by throwing myself into your arms? Don’t you want to share your life with me?” Tears filled her eyes.
Was he happy? Of course he was, but the idea of getting married behind her parents’ back as well as his—oh, he’d better stop thinking of his parents. He knew that his father’s desire was for Otto to marry the daughter of one of his friends.
Otto knelt in front of her, “You are my love and my life. I am just in shock by so many surprises all at once.” He kissed her hands, “I can’t live without you, you are the air I breathe, my sun by day and my moon by night.”
Gretchen closed his mouth with a kiss. “Let’s get dressed and stop by a coffee house on the way to the City Hall. I want to hear a forceful yes when you’ll answer the registrar’s question if you want to marry me!”
They both laughed. Oh, Gretchen, impetuous Gretchen, the girl more precious to him than his own life!
Dawn. Shortly the Mediterranean sun will appear at the horizon, the signal for Otto to rise. Another lost night sifting through his memories. In his forties, he felt the burden of a man twice his age. Barefoot, he went to the kitchen. Jaffa oranges, Palestine’s pride, filled the small place with perfume. Patiently, Otto squeezed one after another preparing Gretchen’s breakfast. Soon he would have to go to the Palestine Orchestra’s rehearsal, where he occupied the third chair of the second violin section.
He was worried every time he had to leave the house, though by now he trusted the Arab woman who came daily to clean and cook, and most importantly to be with Gretchen while he was away. Third seat in the second violin section, not even section leader, was not a great accomplishment. And yet he was lucky, lucky to be alive, to have employment, to put bread on the table, and to be able to pay for Gretchen’s medications.
He would have had another position if he had followed Bronislaw Huberman, his Polish landsman, when he came to Germany in 1936 and proposed to all Jewish musicians fired from German orchestras to come to Palestine and join him in establishing a Jewish orchestra. Gretchen had said, “What a dreamer. He wants to build an orchestra on sand. What’s happening here, now, it’s only a temporary situation. I know the German people, I am German myself. Soon we’ll get rid of this mustached clown.”
They remained in Germany. He couldn’t blame Gretchen. At the time they lived in Berlin, the musical capital of the world. It had been another stroke of luck that the principal cellist of the Berlin Philharmonic, Heinrich Schultz, came to hear one of their recitals, while visiting Leipzig. Enthusiastic about their performance, Mr. Schultz offered them a chamber music partnership, a violin, cello and piano trio. Gretchen was excited. “Herr Schultz,” she said, “what you propose is a dream come true.”
She tried to convince the doubtful Otto that it would be a good move. “Leipzig is still a provincial town. Everything happens in Berlin. You deserve to be heard there. This is your chance! We can’t turn down Heinrich.” She already called Schultz by his first name.
That was in 1929, a year after their marriage. Ruth was two months old. “It’s too soon,” said Otto, “I joined the Gewandhaus orchestra a year ago. Nobody leaves such a good position for a dream. How are we going to manage in Berlin? It’ll take months of practice before the trio is ready to perform. We’ll have to pay rent, hire a nanny for Ruth. My love, forget it for the moment. I think this is impractical.”
But Gretchen had made up her mind and she was not going to be defeated. “You know,” she said, “we can use part of my inheritance.”
The subject of her inheritance had been a sore point with Otto. It wasn’t the first time she had offered it. Otto would not hear of it. He felt that a husband had to support his wife, not otherwise. To Gretchen’s chagrin, he took in more students in order to pay his loans.
“You’re wasting your talent,” she said. Then Gretchen tried another tactic. “When my parents refused to see or talk to us, I decided that unless they accept you, I’ll have nothing to do with them. Still, it is difficult to live in the same city, where I know everybody and everyone knows me. In Berlin we’ll turn over a new leaf.”
Otto sighed. He suspected, though Gretchen never complained, that her parents’ attitude was a constant wound. They moved to Berlin, where they found a small apartment close to Heinrich Schultz’s residence, not far from Unter den Linden, where on beautiful afternoons they pushed the baby’s carriage, under the alleys of linden trees, proud to see people stop and compliment Ruthie’s beauty.
Otto heard Gretchen’s moans, “I’m coming, Shatz. My princess’ breakfast is ready,” he called in a voice he forced to sound cheerful.
He had only one hour to shave, shower, get dressed, and ride two buses in order to be on time for the rehearsal of the Palestine Orchestra. Sometimes he regretted that he hadn’t rented a place closer to his work, on a street like Shenkin or Allenby, where other members of the orchestra lived. But he had been worried about Gretchen’s feelings. By living in Jaffa, he wanted to protect her from the other musicians and their wives, from their gossip or a negative attitude toward his German wife. He wouldn’t use Gretchen’s pain to gain their sympathy.
Otto heard the gate squeak, a sign that Nabiha, their faithful servant, had arrived.
Otto’s colleagues pressed him to move to Tel-Aviv. “You are sitting on a volcano,” they told him. “The numbers of Jewish immigrants from the displaced persons’ camps, are seen as a threat by the Arabs, and are not welcomed by the British. Jaffa is an Arab city. Be careful. The English mandate ends in 1947 and we have to prepare ourselves for turbulence.”
After four years of living in Palestine, Otto had only a limited knowledge of Hebrew, but he knew what they were talking about. He read the Palestine Post daily and was aware of the English proposal to divide Palestine between the Arabs and the Jews, a proposal that met with Arab anger. How long was it safe to remain in Jaffa?
When he returned home, he found Gretchen trying to work the beads brought by Nahiba. It was painful to watch Gretchen’s deformed hands passing a thread through the center of the bead. Her beautiful, agile fingers had once made the piano keys dance with joy. Her entire life seemed described by those fingers. When they reached Switzerland, after the trip that could have cost them their lives, the Swiss doctor they consulted took him aside.
“There is no hope,” he said. “Her knuckles were broken into small pieces. Those little bones cannot be attached again. Maybe if I inserted metal platelets between the fingers, the hand would look less deformed, but she’ll suffer more and it would not be of great help.”
Otto wept. “I’m sorry,” said the doctor, “I heard that your wife was a great pianist.”
To his orchestra colleagues he had said that their last years of living in Berlin, with no heat and Gretchen waiting in line for hours for bread, had produced the acute, debilitating rheumatism of her fingers. His colleagues commiserated, they knew how it was, but they did not know all of it. And he could never bring himself to tell them what they had lived through.
Otto took off his jacket and hat and hung them on a coat hanger. From a pocket he fished a large handkerchief and wiped his forehead. He kissed Gretchen’s cheek.
“How is my lovely wife today?”
“Look,” she said the blue of her eyes as bright as ever, “I think I’m making progress.”
Nahiba nodded. She caressed Gretchen’s hands. She’s beginning to understand German, thought Otto. Gretchen held in her hand ten little beads strung together.
“Oh, liebchen, sweetheart, this is beautiful,” exclaimed Otto and kissed her again. There was a time when he was afraid he would lose her, that when she realized that she could not play the piano anymore, the life would drain out of her. But now this kind, simple housekeeper’s patience started to bear fruit. That slow, repetitive work could be the therapy Gretchen needed. As long as Nahiba was with them, Otto decided, they would not move away from Jaffa.
2 8
These last months I have become quite lazy,
Shifra thought, stretched out in bed, her hand caressing the warm spot where her husband had slept. She turned and embraced his pillow, which had the hollow left by his head and his familiar smell. Musa, her husband! It was every morning’s pleasure to remember that she was married to Musa; she had to pinch herself to recall that it was not a dream. And yet how could it have been a dream when Musa’s baby was kicking hard, playing football in her belly.
Shifra smiled. Could it really be that she would be a mother soon? She did not know if she was ready for it, but she was happy to see how excited Musa was to become a father. Still in bed, Shifra’s thoughts returned to the events preceding her marriage.
First Fatima’s wire, telling them that Na’ima’s baby came sooner than expected,
”Inshallah, we have a new Faud in the family,” she wrote a few days later. She would remain in Deir Yassin until Na’ima felt stronger.
In Jaffa the Masri children became ecstatic. “Can we go see the baby?” Rama and Ahmed asked in one voice.
It was hard for Samira and Musa to calm them down. “Not right now,” Musa said, “In a few days, when Eumi writes that Na’ima is ready for guests, we’ll all go.”
The same day after the children left for school, Musa took Samira aside. “Allah is on my side. Now or never,” Shifra heard him say.
Samira nodded. The look on his face was enough for Shifra to know that he was talking about her. He surely meant her conversion to Islam.
Oh, God, what should I do? Shifra remembered brooding. Where could I turn for advice? Yes, she loved Musa, whenever she looked at him her heart fluttered. Yes, she felt comfortable in the Masri household. The children loved her, Samira loved her, and even Fatima had good words for her work. But wouldn’t God, her God, the God of the Jews, punish her? Didn’t she learn in school that the Jews of Spain preferred to be burned at the stake rather than convert? Why does life have to be so difficult?
She knew she had to make a choice. But hadn’t she already made a choice when she ran away from home, afraid to become the wife of that bad-smelling old man to whom her father had promised her?
Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction Page 17