“Eumi,” Selim asked, turning his face to her, “You know the lady? Why she said, Shif-a Shif-a?”
“It was a mistake. She thought I was somebody else.” Shifra was happy that Selim couldn’t hear her heart, which beat like the bells of the nearby Armenian Church.
“Look,” she pointed her finger, “here comes Jedatha Samira. We don’t want to upset her, right? So not a word about what happened. If you’ll be a good boy, I’ll try to forget it, too.”
“Jedati Sami-a, Jedati Sami-a,” Selim called, running to her and snatching the bottle from her hand. In seconds he gulped down its entire contents. “He really was thirsty,” Samira said, stroking his hair.
“It’s time to go home,” Shifra said, folding their towel. She didn’t want to look at Samira just then. Samira could read her face better than her own mother. Shifra double-knotted the kerchief on her forehead, “Let’s go,” she repeated, forcefully, walking ahead of them.
You can’t hide forever. You heard Chana. You thought that you were safe. You became somebody else, and oh, how much you wanted to believe it! But now just look at yourself, your insides shake. To see Chana was to feel the ground tremble under your feet. How easily you lied to your best friend, the girl who told you about the magnificence of the sea and inspired your desire to come and see it with your own eyes. Aren’t you ashamed? And who are you? Is Suha a real person? In your mind don’t you call yourself Shifra? Do you have the courage to tell Musa about today’s encounter? Would you tell him about your real identity? An identity you just denied and ran away from, like a coward?
The two halves of her conscience fought with one another. I love Musa, one said. Yes, but do you love him enough to disclose everything?
Her feet were burning, but Shifra didn’t dare tell Samira that she had lost her slippers on the beach. Though troubled by her thoughts, her ears could still hear Selim babbling, “Jeddah Sami-a, tomowow- again beach, yes? I want to play with the gi-l.”
“What girl? Tell me Suha, what’s he talking about?” Samira asked Shifra.
“Oh, look, we are already home,” Shifra sighed with relief, “I feel tired. I think I’ve got a headache from too much sun.” She feigned a yawn. “Selim met a little girl while gathering shells. I don’t know who she is. I didn’t ask.”
Shifra opened the gate. “What we all need right now is a good bath,” she said, forcing her voice to sound cheerful. “We are filthy and perspiring. Selim, you’ll be first. Quick”
She saw Samira glancing at her furtively, somewhat puzzled, but no words came out of her mouth. Shifra took a deep breath. One thing she knew for sure. There would be no more trips to the beach.
3 4
When the letter with the British stamps arrived, the children recognized the neat writing on the envelope. “A letter from Amina,” they chanted and brought it like a precious gift to Musa. All crowded around him to listen. Samira was there, Suha too, while Selim played on the floor not far from them. Musa tore the envelope open and began to read:
November 9, 1946
To my dear brother Musa and his household, to my honored mother, my sisters and little brother, Salaam Aleikum!
From the beginning I have to say that I am afraid this letter is going to disappoint you. Three years I have waited for our reunion and yet, with a heart full of distress, I have to let you know that strong reasons oblige us to postpone it.
My husband, George, says that the political situation in Palestine is too unstable to take the risk of visiting at this time. Oh, dear brother, I wanted so much to hug you and be again under one roof with all of you!
It’s hard for me to understand what’s happening. We always lived in good relations with our Jewish neighbors. I loved to buy pastries from Mr. Abulafia’s bakery, who never forgot to add a sweet baklava, just for me, without charge, and there was Mr. Nathan, mother’s friend, who always advised her wisely. Our mother gave shelter to Suha, a survivor of the war in Europe, who now is your lovely wife.
What do the Jews want? George agrees with me that Palestine belongs to us; we inherited it from our ancestors, it is our country from time immemorial. It seems that bands of Jewish terrorists attack the English troops stationed in Palestine, and now, he says, England is forced to send more troops to keep the spirits quiet. But, I am sure you are well aware of what’s happening and I am not telling you anything new.
At that point, Musa stopped reading, and looked anxiously around him. Nur, Rama, Ahmed, and Samira kept their eyes locked on him. Not Suha, whose attention seem concentrated on Selim, who suddenly clapped his hands, and said, “Auntie Amina, Auntie Amina, come, play with Selim.”
Nervously, Musa folded the pages, “There is nothing else interesting for you,” he addressed his listeners, putting the letter back in its envelope. “Go tell Eumi,” he said to his sisters and brother, “that Amina has postponed her visit.” It was through her younger children that proud Fatima heard news from her favorite daughter.
While Samira and Suha were busy in the kitchen preparing the evening meal, Musa reopened the letter.
George told me what happened at the King David Hotel in Jerusalem. It was Jewish hoodlums, he said, and their explosives that killed some of their brethren together with British and Arab officials. The British are worried. They sent 100,000 troops to Palestine, to calm down the situation.
So I am sad and pray for you and talk to my flowers about my faraway family. My garden has grown and awaits guests. In my mind I see a child like Selim playing there, but for now I have to postpone my dream.
George is adding a few words too.
Good bye for now. Your loving sister, Amina
_ _ _
Honored Family,
Though we have not yet met, I feel as if I already know you from Amina, who talks constantly about you with love and longing.
Probably you, my dear brother-in-law, are well aware of the situation. We, the British, have always felt solidarity and obligation toward you, and more so right now, when our troops have daily skirmishes and harassments from those ultra-nationalistic Jews. We had to retaliate and even hang a couple in Accra in order to teach them a lesson.
They want a Jewish state! Never! Mr. Bevin, our Prime Minister, is definitely opposed to it. Palestine belongs to the Palestinians, he declared only yesterday. We cannot permit those ships with survivors to dock in your ports; we don’t want any more Jews in Palestine.
Only united, the British and the Arabs, will we be able to have absolute control and make sure that no one lands on Palestine’s soil, indifferent of the consequences.
As a student and admirer of your history, I know you will prevail. Hopefully, we’ll meet in quieter times.
I remain your respectful brother-in-law, who hopes that soon could call you, my brother
George
The first thing Musa did, was to hide the letter. Suha should not see it. He wanted to keep her far from the turbulent problems, which he was only too familiar with. He entered the bedroom, his mind preoccupied with the letter, not noticing that Suha followed him. Quickly he placed the letter under the mattress. Suha backed off silently.
Tonight, I’ll tell Suha that I’m going to the chaikhana for the last time. She always waits for me when I’m out at night. I have to talk to the mukhtar, I’ll say, I have a young wife who wants me at home. I hope he’ll understand what I mean. Lately, I am so tired I can not even enjoy her. I have to stop.
Shifra was not upset when Musa told her that he was going out again that evening. She wanted a chance to read the letter, especially after she saw Musa hiding it. Did he hide it from her?
She waited patiently until Samira put Selim to bed. Then Shifra went to sing for him, and as always when they sang together her heart filled with happiness. He did not know all the words, but his pitch was better than hers. Should we take Selim to Uhm Zaide?
Alone in her bedroom, she plucked the envelope from under the mattress. With each sentence she read, she felt a whirlwind in her head.
Since encountering Chana on the Jaffa seashore, her heart cringed at the pain of keeping secrets from Musa. Reading George’s letter—easier for her to read his English than Amina’s Arabic handwriting, full of flourishes, she discovered that Musa had secrets to keep from her, too.
What she read was devastating. And so hard to understand!
What was happening in the world, the real world beyond the fences of her garden? She did not know that Jews fought the British. Who were those Jews? Jews, like her father, who feared God? And what did Musa know? George, in his letter, seemed sure that Musa knew what was happening: skirmishes and killings and people being hanged.
Shifra shivered, rereading George’s missive. It was clear he liked the idea of a coalition between the Arabs and British against the Jews. How could that be possible? Didn’t the Arabs hate the British?
She had more questions to which she didn’t know the answers. What would happen to those boats filled with Jewish survivors not allowed to land? And those words, no matter what consequences, flitted back and forth in her head. Did it mean that those who tried to set foot ashore would be killed and thrown into the sea? Maybe one of them was a member of her mother’s family, an escapee from the war, seeking a final shelter only to be killed at the gates of the Holy Land.
Tears fell from Shifra’s eyes. She cried for the weltshmerz, the world’s grief, as her mother called it, and for her own distress; the pain of a girl who thought she had found paradise only to realize that paradise existed simply in her imagination.
Under a sudden impulse, she went into Selim’s room. The child was sleeping peacefully. Shifra wanted to take him in her arms and hold him close to her heart forever. She took a deep breath. From what she discovered that night, after reading the letter, she knew she could pretend no longer that her life would continue as before.
3 5
The emergency call from Mahmood had taken Musa by surprise. It was the first time Mahmood had called him at the office. He sounded angry, his voice hoarse.
“I have bad news,” Mahmood started, bypassing the conventional greetings. “Na’ima woke up this morning in a pool of blood. She lost the baby. Neither my mother nor other women in the village were able to help. I took her to Al Maqassad Hospital in Jerusalem.”
“I didn’t know she was pregnant,” Musa answered, his voice shaking.
Mahmood stopped him short, “She asks for Samira. She cries that she wants her mother and Samira to come. That’s the reason I’m calling. Tell them. Me, I have no time to pamper her.” Mahmood hung up.
As he was on the watch for the boats bringing Jewish illegal immigrants, something Musa had done often in the last few months, he thought of Mahmood’s call. Hidden behind a rock, rifle in hand, he was watching the sea, waiting, in the company of Jaffa’s other young men summoned by the mukhtar, to help turn away those who ignored the British orders.
His mind turned back to the events preceding Mahmood’s call. How pleased he was when during the Ramadan holiday his mother had made peace with Samira. Was it the holiness of Ramadan, which demands that Muslims pray for forgiveness, or the fact that his mother missed Samira’s company? Whatever the reason, it had been an important step, he hoped, toward improving the relations between the two households, his mother’s and his. Furthermore, he understood from Samira’s words that Fatima seemed more inclined to accept Suha as her daughter-in-law.
“Your mother loves your child. For hours she watches Selim playing in the garden. She’s his real Jedah, blood from her blood and flesh from her flesh.” Samira said. “You’ll see, pretty soon she will turn around.”
And maybe that was about to happen, but the call from Mahmood changed everything. Hearing the news, Fatima burst into tears. Then, without skipping a beat, she took control, as strong as ever. “We are all going. Not only Samira and I. Rama and Nur can help take care of Faud and Nassum. Ahmed,” she addressed her youngest child, “you’ll work with Mahmood in the orchard. It will do you a world of good.”
Musa did not interfere. He was not going to oppose his mother’s decision. When he told Suha, she complimented his mother’s solution, “Na’ima needs their help, not only for cleaning and cooking. She needs the closeness of her family, the people who love and care for her.”
Musa was touched by Suha’s sensible words, yet he insisted, “But we need Samira. Who’ll help you watch Selim, cook, shop? With me at the office, you’ll be alone all day.”
Suha closed his mouth with a kiss, “Trust me,” she said. Was she going to tell him that she took care of her own brothers and sisters, at a much younger age? She kissed him again, “Don’t worry, Selim and I will be fine and I promise you that the Iftar will taste as good as Samira’s.”
So spoke his darling wife, whom he was betraying this very moment, armed to frighten away her brethren who wanted to enter the Holy Land. At least, he reasoned with himself, he didn’t aim at them, like the others; he shot into the air trying to scare them. But he knew that lately, bands of armed Jews waited on opposite hills ready to open fire on whoever attacked the boats. What misery! Could he ever dare tell his trusting wife what he was doing? His heart ached at that thought.
Suha is Muslim, he tried to assure himself, not Jewish. She took the Al-Shahada; she is a good, obedient wife. Stop being suspicious, her lovemaking alone should be enough proof for you.
He waited, but no boats arrived that night. It must have been a false alarm. Relieved, Musa returned home. Peering at his dark bedroom windows, to assure himself that Suha was asleep, he slipped furtively along the wall, toward the shed behind his house where they kept the gardening tools and the bric-a-brac. He wrapped his rifle in a piece of fabric and buried it deep in the soft earth. Then he washed his hands at the garden pump.
His wife smiled in her sleep. But his sleep became disturbed by unusual dreams. Mahmood screamed, “I know she did it to herself, she’s not a real Muslim wife. Na’ima doesn’t want more children! She wants to shame me!”
Musa arose to drink a glass of water. It took him a long time to fall asleep. The second dream was no better. He dreamed of the mukhtar speaking to the group of volunteers for the nightly watch. “It’s your duty to be vigilantes. We can’t allow strangers in our land. Palestine belongs to Palestinians! Musa, I want you to be in charge, you have experience. I’ve been told about your training in the Jerusalem forests. All of us,” and he gestured to his audience, “Are proud of you. I always knew you were born to be a leader.”
One Palestinian shouted, “Inshallah, you spoke well, mukhtar.”
“We trust Musa,” screamed another with enthusiasm.
Musa woke up sweating. It was a dream, only a dream, but it kept him awake, reminding him that he had to talk to the mukhtar, before, Allah help us, such a dream could become a reality.
3 6
On September 1st 1947 the day of the first rehearsal of the eleventh season of the Palestinian Orchestra, Otto Schroder entered the Ohel Shem Hall in Tel-Aviv dressed as usual in a suit and tie. He came earlier to practice a few scales for warm-up. To his surprise quite a few of the Orchestra members were already there.
His stand colleague, his former pupil Hugo Myerson, who changed his name to Chaim Ben-Meir after he arrived in Eretz Israel, grinned at him, “A Guten Morgen, Herr Professor.” The young man wore knee-long khaki pants and sandals without socks, which Otto considered completely disrespectful to their profession. “Was Machst Du?” he asked.
Otto shrugged. He was sure that Hugo had purposely changed the polite address, Wie Sind Sie, into the slang version. But he didn’t answer because his attention was caught by a fiery discussion taking place between other members of the orchestra.
“What’s happening?” Otto asked, bewildered.
“Didn’t you read the papers?” retorted Hugo. He took the Palestinian Post out of his pocket. “Here, read for yourself.”
The British Government Ends Mandate in Palestine. Because of the inability to arrange an understanding between the two parti
es, Arabs and Jews, regarding the British proposal for a partition, the British Government announces that it will end its Mandate on May 15, 1948. The newly formed United Nations will take over. The UN has already formed a commission to study the proposal and present its report as soon as possible.
Musicians crowded to peer, one over the other’s shoulder, and read aloud from DAVAR, the Hebrew newspaper.
“It’s going to be chaos,” said the burly trombone player.
“We’ll never agree to part with Jerusalem. Jerusalem is ours,” a defiant oboist replied.
“You and your Etzel terrorists would do better to listen to the voice of wisdom,” thundered a cellist. “Without compromise we’ll never have a state.” He was one of Otto’s former colleagues from Berlin.
“What was the reward the European Jews got for their pacifism, for compromising? Nothing but a slaughterhouse!” screamed a second violinist.
“Palmach is forming special units. My son was called to serve,” whispered the French horn player.
“It’s going to be war. We Jews are like a drop of oil in a sea filled with Arab hatred.”
“You European Jews were always fearful of your own shadows. Enough of that! Here we are raising Sabras. We teach our children to know no fear,” shouted the Etzel sympathizer.
Otto thought there was going to be a fight. At that moment the concert-master appeared. All took their seats, but the anger lingered in the air.
Suddenly, Otto remembered that he hadn’t warmed up. All those arguments, what for, they couldn’t resuscitate the dead. He looked at the two pieces of music in front of him and turned pale.
“Attention, please,” the concert-master called, striking a stand with his bow. “In his desire to identify with our brethren, martyrs who perished Al Kidush Hashem, the conductor has decided to change the initial opening program of our season. Instead of the Beethoven Third and Fifth Symphonies, we’ll perform Mahler’s Second Symphony-The Resurrection, and Mussorgsky’s Kindertotenlieder-The Children’s Death Songs.”
Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction Page 20