Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction

by Fedora Horowitz

  Otto’s eyes blurred. His fingers fought to open his tie. He needed air. Water, he thought, I need water. But he was unable to move. Would he be able to play this concert without fainting?

  The tragedy befell him after a rehearsal of Mahler’s Resurrection with the KuBu orchestra in Berlin. It was a starless night. Still haunted by the beautiful poem which Mahler himself had added for the chorus to sing at the end of the Symphony, and so fitting for the terrible times they were witnessing, “Believe you were not born in vain. Stop trembling. Prepare to live,” Otto decided to take a detour and share its glorious and encouraging message with Gretchen and Ruthie before returning to his hiding place in the basement of Heinrich Schultz’s apartment..

  As Otto arrived at the back door of their house, he peered first anxiously to see if anybody was around. He held the key ready in his hand when he heard screams that made his hair rise, “Muti, Muti, Mutter, save me,” followed by a long, desperate wail.

  Oh, my God, it was Ruthie’s voice! He hid behind a bush. He saw a man dragging his daughter, while two others laughed.

  “Now,” the man smirked, “you are going to become a real German woman, not a mongrel. And you’ll never bite a German soldier again or I’ll break your teeth! Stop yelping!”

  He crashed his whip on her back. To his horror, Otto recognized the voice. It was Heinz! Heinz, Gretchen’s brother, dressed in the sinister SS uniform.

  Where was Gretchen? Shaking, Otto fell to his knees. What should I do? If I go to her they’ll take us both away. Maybe, yes, if I run to Schultz for help! His brother is a general in the Wehrmacht. Yes, yes, I’m sure he’ll get Ruthie out.

  Crying, Otto plugged his ears until he could no longer hear his daughter’s wails. Yes, it had been Heinz, his brother-in-law! And Otto knew that he would be condemned to hear Ruth’s wailing and carry the weight of his cowardice for the rest of his life.

  “Everybody ready for tuning,” the concert-master said. “Please, give us an A,” he asked the principal oboe player. A cacophony of sounds followed as all were tuning their instruments.

  “Herr Schroder, Herr Schroder,” whispered the violinist behind him, “have you fallen asleep? The concert-master has called for tuning.”

  Obediently, Otto put the violin under his chin.

  3 7

  Shifra was excited to have Selim all to herself while Musa’s family and Samira were away. She thought the child was too spoiled by Rama and her brother Ahmed, whom Selim adored. Throwing their schoolbooks away the minute they arrived home, they came over to play with him. Lately, during the Ramadan, they played together all the time.

  After the first two days alone, Suha felt she had exhausted the games and the nursery books that Selim knew by heart.

  ”Your fig tree must be thirsty,” Suha said, “let’s go water it.” In honor of his child, Musa had planted a fig tree in the garden the day Selim was born. The child loved to watch his tree grow. He called it his little brother, though the fig grew taller than he was.

  “How about singing our songs?” Suha asked Selim afterward. She loved to hear his silvery voice, which matched hers so well. But after a few songs the child seemed bored.

  “Beach,” he said, “See big wave,” and he raised his arms to show his mother how high the wave would be.

  Hearing that, Suha’s heart skipped a beat. Since the day she saw Chana on the beach, she had avoided the seashore.

  “I have a better idea,” she said brightly. Yes, for sure, why not? Samira wasn’t home, Musa was at the office and during Ramadan he doesn’t return home before dusk. Nobody would know where they went. She felt a desire, almost like an ache, to listen again to music.

  “You’ll hear beautiful music today,” she told her son. Without waiting any longer she brought his hat, tied her kerchief and off they went. It was hot, and Suha realized that in her haste she had forgotten to take Selim’s stroller. After a short time, the child wailed, “Selim no more walk,” and sat on the sidewalk.

  “We are almost there,” Suha said. “It’s the next street, just around the corner.” She took him in her arms, her heart full of expectation. The Schroder’s street was empty and silent, not even a dog was barking. As she drew near, she heard the violin’s exquisite melody. Suha’s heart vibrated in the same rhythm. She realized how much she had longed to hear Otto Schroder’s violin.

  She lowered the child. “Let’s walk slowly and listen,” she whispered. From the first sounds, Selim’s eyes grew bigger. He seemed mesmerized. At the gate, he stopped. His little hands grabbed the rails. He tried to peer inside.

  “It’s not nice to stand in front of other people’s houses. We have to keep moving.”

  “My ears want to see,” Selim said stubbornly. Suha picked him up in her arms, but the child jerked away. The gate opened. Instantly Suha recognized the Arab woman, the maid, Samira’s acquaintance, whom they met in the bazaar.

  Alongside her walked a man dressed in a dark suit and tie, his head bent, counting banknotes into her hand. Suddenly, the shrill of a woman’s voice interrupted the silence.

  ”Otto, it’s her. It’s the girl I told you about, your secret admirer.”

  “Excuse me,” Suha said in Arabic, “It wasn’t polite of us to stand in front of your gate.”

  “Otto,” the voice insisted, “Talk to her; invite her to come in.”

  “Please, don’t go.” Otto’s English had a strong German accent. He watched the window anxiously. “It seems that my wife knows you, she said that you remind her of our daughter.”

  Then he addressed the child, “Would you like to see the violin?”

  Selim frightened and about to cry, looked at his mother. He clutched her hand tightly, hidden in the folds of her dress.

  The servant, who was watching the scene, said quickly in Arabic, “Don’t be afraid. She’s a good woman. And she likes children.”

  Otto continued, “My wife is not well. Please excuse me, we haven’t been introduced.” He bowed slightly. “My name is Otto Schroder. I know I have no excuse to ask you to come in.” His voice sounded nervous, excited. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. “I talk too much.”

  Suddenly Shifra realized that Selim had disappeared. He had slipped away and entered the courtyard.

  “Selim, Selim, come back,” Shifra called, but the child laughed and ran toward the steps. “Selim,” Shifra screamed again. When he saw the door opening, Selim stopped, looking back at his mother, scared by his own daring. Otto Schroder stood in the doorframe holding the violin under his chin.

  He began by playing a children’s tune. Selim smiled. Close to Otto his little body seemed to be one with that of the tall man. It was such a beautiful picture, Shifra thought; a picture she would remember for a long time.

  It started first as a game. Otto played a few notes, and stopped, waiting. The child sang, repeating the melody. Otto raised his eyebrows. He tried again. And again Selim sang the notes, his voice like the sound of a delicate flute. He seemed to enjoy the new game tremendously.

  Otto’s wife appeared at the door, “Otto,” she said, “it is incredible. This child has perfect pitch.”

  She addressed a bewildered Shifra, who had followed the scene, hardly believing what was happening, “How old is your child?”

  Shifra, alarmed, stopped daydreaming. “We have to go! Excuse us.” And to Selim, she ordered, “It is late. We have to go. Say goodbye to the nice people.”

  “Please stay,” Gretchen Schroder begged.

  Shifra bowed her head and repeated, “We have bothered you enough. We must go home. It’s very late. Thank you.”

  Selim seized Otto’s hand which held the violin. Oblivious to their talk, the boy timidly touched the violin, caressed its shiny wood, and courageously plucked one string. He laughed with delight, and plucked another, then a third, singing the sounds of the strings he plucked.

  Otto joined his wife, “Please, come in. I’d like to talk to you about your son. He impresses me
as being an exceptional child.”

  Suha’s eyes moved from Otto to his wife, who looked, like a ghost, even skinnier than the time she saw her in the bazaar. Like a ghost. Otto’s words played like a record in her mind. What should she do? Really, it was time to leave, Musa could be home soon. Yet her feet refused to move.

  “Maybe another time,” she said.

  Selim cried, “Eumi, I want dink, to dink.” For the Arab maid, who witnessed the scene from the beginning, those were the first words she understood. “Come inside,” she said, “and you can choose any drink you like.”

  Not waiting for his mother’s approval, Selim followed her. The two Schroders gestured invitingly at Suha. This wasn’t my decision, Suha thought, as she walked into the house. Maybe it was bashert.

  As she stepped inside the Schroders’ home Shifra was surprised by its darkness. The high windows shielded by heavy curtains seldom let the sun in. The big room had spartan furnishing; around a coarse wooden table were a few mismatched chairs. Between the windows Suha saw two violin stands covered with music sheets and more sheets were spilled on the floor or spread out on top of a huge box covered by a black oilcloth.

  A sofa and an old carpet, its colors faded from use, completed the furnishings. The walls, without any adornment, looked blank to Shifra. She thought of the overgrown weeds in the courtyard; both the house and the courtyard needed a caring hand.

  Meanwhile three grown ups fussed around Selim. The Arab maid sat him at the table and gave him a glass of orange juice.

  “I’m so sorry we have no cookies,” Gretchen Schroder said, hiding her shaking hands in her skirt pockets. “Please, tell him,” she addressed Suha, “next time you visit, we’ll have many goodies for him.”

  Otto, who had taken off his jacket, couldn’t take his eyes off Selim. Seated near him, he took hold of one of his little hands.

  “Otto,” Gretchen scolded in German, “where are your manners? Please, offer the young lady a glass of tea.” The last sentence was said in English for Shifra’s benefit.

  “Oh, we will leave soon. Please don’t bother,” Shifra said.

  But Otto, looking apologetically at Gretchen, got up immediately.

  “It will take only a minute,” he said and disappeared.

  “Please sit down,” Gretchen said. “You know who we are, but we know nothing about you, your name, and your little wonder child’s name.” The tone was warm, inviting. Shifra noticed that her voice, when calm, sounded as melodious as Otto’s violin.

  “Otto already told you,” Gretchen continued, “your son is a little gem, or a little budding rose, which with proper care could develop into the most beautiful flower.”

  While she talked, Gretchen rested one hand on the table, but she retrieved it when she saw Shifra watching her disfigured fingers. Even without knowing what illness afflicted the woman, Shifra’s heart filled with pity.

  “His name is Selim,” she answered, “In Arabic it means peace.” Then she ventured to say, “The same as Shalom in Hebrew. He is not yet two years old.”

  “And who are you?” asked Gretchen, with so much gentleness in her voice that Suha almost lost her composure. “Shif…” she started, instinctively ready to give her real name. She caught herself in time. “My name is Suha, Suha Masri.”

  The Arab maid nodded.

  “Suha Masri,” Gretchen repeated. “And you love music, Suha Masri. I know it because I spotted you when you stopped to listen to my husband’s violin practice. Not only once, but quite a few times. I had also noticed your beautiful blue eyes, dieselben blauen Augen, the same as.…”

  “Tea is ready,” Otto clamored in the same instant, appearing with a tray on which the steam twirled up from glasses filled with boiling water.

  Shifra watched the Arab maid. She had to remind herself that she was a Muslim now. As thirsty as she was, she wouldn’t dare drink during the holy month of Ramadan.

  “Thank you,” she declined, embarrassed, “It’s the Ramadan holiday. We are prohibited to drink before sunset.”

  “Find me, Eumi,” Selim screamed. Following his voice she saw him hidden underneath the big box covered with oilcloth, and standing on sturdy legs, which she had noticed when she entered.

  “Ach, he has discovered the piano,” Otto Schroder said, looking at his wife questioningly. She nodded slightly.

  “Get up and come here, you naughty boy,” Shifra called. She hadn’t noticed the exchange of glances between husband and wife. “It’s late and we have to go home.”

  But Otto had already moved away the oilcloth, revealing the instrument. The finishing wood had a reddish texture to it. Otto gestured Selim to come out. “I’ll show him how this box makes music, too,” Otto said. “Actually it makes the most beautiful music, because it can replace a full orchestra. That’s piano’s magic.”

  Intrigued, Shifra pulled Selim from under the instrument, and holding his hand, approached Otto, who had raised the lid. The shiny ivory keys intrigued the two guests. “Try to play it,” Otto offered, but neither Selim nor his mother dared to get closer.

  A piano; Shifra thought, remembered that in her childhood, one of her schoolmates told her she played piano, but Shifra had never seen or heard the instrument. Timidly, she pressed a key. It produced a clear sound. The entire room resonated. She pressed the next key. On his tiptoes, clinging to his mother, Selim sang the two notes, repeatedly, creating a game with the two syllables, Eu-Mi, Eu-mi. Impatiently, he cried, “Me, too,” raising his arms to be lifted to touch the keyboard.

  At Otto’s sign, the Arab maid brought a chair. After Selim was seated, he tried one key, after which, with a confidence incomprehensible to Shifra, he pressed the same keys his mother had pressed. The child laughed with delight. The old couple nodded.

  “It’s as we thought,” said Otto in German, addressing his wife, who had tears in her eyes. “This child really has it in him.”

  Knowing Yiddish, Shifra understood his words, but didn’t comprehend their meaning. Probably Selim likes to play with sounds, like another child plays with toys, she thought.

  “Your son was blessed by gods,” Otto said solemnly. “Of course, he is a bit too young to start playing an instrument, but his talent is like a gold mine.”

  He thought for a while, “Maybe I could borrow a quarter-size violin from one of my colleagues. It would be worth a try. Gretchen, what do you think?”

  “I agree,” Gretchen answered.

  It was a talk between two professionals, which excluded Shifra. She picked Selim up. “We had a wonderful afternoon,” she said, “for which we thank you very much.”

  “You’ll be back, Ja, yes?” Gretchen asked anxiously. “You’ve heard what my husband said. Your son is a gold mine. No one can bring out the gold from that mine better than my husband.”

  “Oh, Gretchen,” Otto said, reproach in his voice.

  “Don’t be so modest, sweetheart, I just told her the truth.”

  In front of the gate, with Selim in her arms, Shifra turned to wave to the Schroders. With one arm around his wife’s slim shoulders, Otto waved back. On the way home, Shifra felt she had wings under her arms, as Otto‘s words continued to resonate in her ears, “Your son was blessed by gods, blessed by gods.”

  Though she was happy, a cloud pressed on her heart. Could she share Otto’s discovery with Musa? How would he react? Would he let her go back to their house? If she didn’t tell him, he might still find out. The Arab maid was friends with Samira. One word from her would be enough. Oh, what a dilemma! But she was sure of one thing. Nobody could hold her back; she would return.

  3 8

  When would she be able to see the Schroders again? Shifra wondered. Before that meeting, the music was what brought her there, the need to fill her soul with sound. Now she wanted to know them better. But with Samira and the rest of the Masri family due to return any day, she knew it wouldn’t be possible. Samira watched each of her movements.

  The afternoon Nur’s letter arrived, Shi
fra immediately recognized the fifteen-year-old girl’s neat handwriting. She placed the letter next to Musa’s plate. When Musa arrived home, hungry as a wolf, he pushed aside his Iftar meal and tore open the letter. “I don’t understand why my mother didn’t write the letter herself?” He muttered.

  Most honored brother,

  My mother asked me to write to you to dissipate any worries you might have. She decided that for the time being we will remain in Deir Yassin until the end of the Ramadan month, but we’ll be back home before Idul Fitri festivities.

  Na’ima is doing better, Allah be praised, but is still very weak since she lost the baby. She can’t stop crying. The doctor told mother that with all of us around her, she’ll heal faster. He said, “It’s not the first time that the spirits of a woman who had a miscarriage are low. It’s your duty to encourage her to enjoy life again.”

  Rama and I play and entertain Nassim and Faud, but neither one is as smart or sweet as our Selim. Ahmed has become a real farmer. He wakes up with the roosters and works until late in the evening, since Mahmood mostly arrives home in the middle of the night and is seldom here during the day.

  Oh, I want to tell you how much we enjoy the fresh mountain air. Our mother says that the air here is so much healthier than Jaffa’s humidity this time of the year. We sleep with our windows open, but other times we lay our blankets in the orchard and fall asleep under the sweet smell of the honeysuckle and pine trees. Mahmood was furious when he found us. He said that in these troubled times what we did was really dangerous.

  We’ll see you in two weeks.

  Your loving sister, Nur

  While Musa read the letter aloud, Shifra’s mind wandered. Her first thought was, two weeks of freedom, time she could visit the Schroders. Good for Selim too. After Musa finished reading, she said quickly, “I’m glad that your sisters and brother enjoy their stay. As always your mother made the right decision.”

  Musa’s face relaxed, when she said, “It’s time to get back to your meal. You know that cold meat has no taste.”