After he ate, Musa wiped his mouth, satisfied, “You’ve learned all of Samira’s kitchen secrets. Now you are a real Muslim wife.”
Why did he emphasize the word “Muslim”? After they married he seldom went to the mosque and never demanded that she read the Koran or pray. His words seemed out of place, even strange. But she wasn’t going to ask him. Maybe Musa meant it as a compliment. At any rate it was too late to ask him, because, with Selim cushioned in his arms, both had fallen asleep.
She had no intention of waking them up, so she cautiously cleared the dishes from the table. Her mind raced, trying to find a plausible reason to return to the Schroder’s home. She was aware that such a visit could arouse the Arab maid’s suspicions. Bringing them flowers to thank them for their hospitality seemed like a good reason. She would offer to clean their yard and plant new bulbs, an idea which had already crossed her mind.
From the kitchen she could hear Musa’s light snoring. Lately he comes home so tired. After a furtive check on her husband and child, her thoughts returned.
Mrs. Schroder would enjoy the sight and smell of fresh flowers. She could already picture her standing in the window, a smile lighting her face. Flowers have the power to heal. And Shifra would have a reason to return again and again; to water, to weed, to teach Nabiha how to take care of the garden.
Selim’s cry woke her from her reverie. “I’m here,” she whispered, taking him in her arms, and covering him with kisses. The child rubbed his eyes. “Music,” he said, and he repeated the word, music, his fingers tapping on her arm the way she had seen him touching the piano.
“You had a dream,” Shifra said, kissing his fingers one by one. “Now, I’ll tuck you in bed and you’ll continue to dream about music.”
The next morning, Shifra tried to think of ways to explain to the Schroders the purpose for her return visit. Can I just go and say, I’d like to take care of your garden? They seem so private. Who knows if they would agree to my offer? Yet I can’t go empty-handed. Just flowers, would that be enough?
While preparing the Iftar meal, her face and arms sprinkled with flour dust from kneading the dough for kafta, Musa’s favorite dish, the pouch filled with lamb and rice, she was still preoccupied with her plan to visit the Schroders. How about baking something for them? Their house looked empty of sweets. What should she bake, almond cookies or bread rolls, or both? She tied the apron again around her waist. She would make both. In her ears she heard her mother’s voice whispering, it could be a mitzvah. Now she felt driven by a mission.
Selim played quietly near her, on the kitchen floor. “Smells good,” he sniffed, “you make cookies for Selim,” and he clapped his hands.
“For Selim,” Shifra answered, “and for other people also.” Selim nodded, as if he had guessed his mother’s intentions.
Taking the trays out of the oven, Shifra thought, why am I so obsessed with them? Those people are not my family. What draws me is not only the music; it is the suffering I read on their faces. It makes me feel so close to these strangers and eager to help. Shifra’s heart was filled with pity recalling Gretchen Schroder’s tormented face and her deformed hands timidly inching toward hers on the table surface then retreating fearfully.
3 9
Selim’s whimpering awakened her. Shifra’s hand touched the spot alongside her. It was empty. Musa is with him, she thought. He was the first to get up at the smallest sound coming from the child’s room. But Selim’s cries continued. Barefoot, Shifra ran to his room.
“Hush, hush, my sweetie, sleep well, my son,” she murmured, rocking him to sleep, thinking, “Where can Musa be?”
Suddenly she heard a screech. Somebody was unlatching the gate. Quickly she set the sleeping Selim back in his bed. Could it be Musa? Where has he been? Weren’t the coffee houses closed during the Ramadan? Some time ago, Musa had explained to her how important it was in his position at the bank to socialize with his clients.
“The bank benefits from it,” he said, “and so do I. I’ve been promoted twice since I started. Even the mukhtar is my client.” But seeing her sad eyes he promised to go out less often.
With her heart beating like a drum, she saw Musa carefully walking toward the shed behind their house. Kneeling near the kitchen window she followed her husband’s silhouette with her eyes. What was he doing in the shed? What was taking him so long? What time was it? The hands on the clock hanging on the wall above the sink showed two in the morning. She saw Musa washing his hands with the garden hose. She quickly returned to bed, feigning sleep.
But sleep evaded her. Shifra thought of the last few days’ events. Maybe that would calm her. They had visited the Schroders twice. Before the second time, she stopped at the souk and bought the flowerpots she intended to fill with plants. Then her eyes caught sight of a pair of shoes in the bazaar next door. Solid leather shoes, not slippers, similar to the shoes stolen from her on the beach, on the day Musa found her. Impulsively, she bought them, the first item of clothing purchased since her marriage. Now they were hidden in her closet.
While Shifra and Nabiha were cleaning the weeds in the courtyard, Otto Schroder told her, “At your next visit I’ll have a surprise for you.”
She hadn’t noticed him coming out of the house, where he was playing a new game with Selim. While Otto touched a piano key, Selim, underneath it, held the pedal with the entire weight of his little hands, enchanted by this new discovery, an endless sound.
“Eumi, Eumi,” he screamed, “Come quick and listen.”
Perspiring, Shifra tightened the head kerchief and straightened her back. It was so hot. She would love to go into the house, but she didn’t want to leave Nabiha to work alone.
“My lady’s eyes are clearer and she cries less since you came,” the Arab woman told her, with wonder in her voice. “She looks forward to your visits.”
“Nabiha, let’s take a break to go see what Selim is doing,” Shifra proposed.
They found him dozing on the sofa, while Gretchen Schroder sat near him holding his hand and humming a lullaby, love pouring from her eyes. Shifra had never heard the song, but moved by the scene, she was ready to cry, especially after Otto picked up the violin and accompanied his wife. Later, he told her that it was a lullaby by Brahms, a German composer.
The Schroders were Jews, yet so different from her parents, or her friends’ parents, from all the people in the community where Shifra had been raised.
As soon as Musa left for work, Shifra stepped into the shed looking for garden tools, a small hoe and a rake, to put in Selim’s stroller before going to the Schroder’s house. She had forgotten Musa’s previous night’s foray into the shed. Her eyes caught sight of Selim’s old blanket. It looked dirty and was partly buried in the ground. Why is it here? Curious, she tried to pick it up, but it was heavy. She unearthed it and found a rifle enveloped in it, its unfriendly eye aimed at Shifra. Her hands started shaking.
Oh, my God, what’s that? She saw herself, a four-year-old child, whose father, with bulging, red eyes, locked her and her sisters in their stuffy old apartment for what seemed to be days and nights without end. “Nobody leaves,” he screamed, while the windows shook from the shots outside.
“Rebono Shel Olam,” he knelt, “Hob Rachmoones, they are murdering Jews.” She saw people running in the streets. One man suddenly fell, blood all over him.
Much, much later she learned about the 1933 events, when many Jews were killed by Arabs, and about the dreaded bullets which have that power.
Why does Musa keep a rifle? Is he hiding it from me? Where was he last night?
Shaking, Shifra went to look for Selim, who held a branch of his fig tree. “This is for Hada Jedi, Grandpa, and my new Jedati,” he said. “I will plant it myself.”
Only yesterday on the way home from the Schroders he had asked, “Hadola kaman Jedi wa Jedati? Are they your parents, my grandparents? Why do they speak in such a funny way?”
Shifra picked up the child and his fig branch and
hugged him tightly. She did not know what she’d do after her discovery in the shed, but she knew she’d never be the same.
Shifra couldn’t get ready; as she was loading the stroller with the garden tools, she stopped again and again to think about the hidden rifle. Had it been buried for a long time in the shed, or did Musa bring it last night? If he meant to protect his family from, God forbid, thieves, why didn’t he keep it in the house? Is he protecting somebody who committed an ill deed, by hiding the offending object?
“Let’s go, let’s go,” an impatient Selim interrupted her reverie. “Look, I dressed myself.”
By the time they left home, the sun was high above their heads. As they walked on Jerusalem Boulevard, Shifra heard the newspaper sellers scream, Falistin! Big news! The Brits decide to end the Mandate. The Palestinians reject the proposal to divide the country.” Men were snatching the newspapers, shouting with excitement.
“I’ll ask Otto about it,” Shifra decided, hurrying her steps. In her mind she already called him Otto. At the Schroder home they were greeted joyously by Gretchen and Nabiha.
“I’m sorry Otto is not at home,” Gretchen said when she saw Selim inspecting the rooms. “But he’ll be back soon. Please, tell Selim,” she addressed Shifra, “he looks disappointed.”
“We’ll plant the flowers, and he’ll help us,” Shifra said brightly. “Have you shown Jedatha Gretchen the fig branch?”
“For you,” Selim said timidly, looking up at Gretchen, who didn’t need translation. Her eyes were already brimming with tears.
We feel so good here, Shifra thought, a home away from home. Shifra and Nabiha had finished planting when Otto arrived with a package under his arm. He was panting.
“This is for you,” Otto said, bending down to Selim. “The surprise I promised you.” His voice sounded excited. “It’s yours, my boy,” he repeated.
“Otto,” Gretchen called reproachfully, “Please, not in the courtyard. Come into the house.”
“Right,” he answered quickly, taking Selim by the hand, Shifra and Nabiha following.
“It’s a quarter-violin,” Otto explained, “perfect for a small child.”
Like a pro, Selim propped it under his chin, the way he saw Otto do, his eyes glistening like blue diamonds.
“Now let’s try the bow.” Otto showed Selim how to hold it. Hearing a scratch, Selim cried.
“It takes practice,” Otto smiled. “Take it home and practice and show me tomorrow, yes?”
“We can’t take it,” Shifra whispered. How would she explain it to Musa? “Please, excuse us.” She ran away from the Schroder’s home, crying, while in her arms a whimpering Selim poked at her ribs.
Shifra was sorry for the hurried way she left the Schroders’ home. Otto Schroder had the best of intentions, and she was rude and ungrateful. In less than a week, the entire Masri tribe was expected to return home, and then it would be impossible for her to sneak away, especially under Samira’s hawkish eyes.
She would go apologize during Selim’s afternoon nap. But what if he were to wake up scared by not seeing her? He would leave the house in search for her. She had no choice but to take him. An idea passed through her head. Long ago, Samira told her that her aunt, a poor woman, dribbled drops of arak between the lips of her baby to make him sleep longer, while she was at work. It seemed so primitive, Shifra thought.
Before his nap, Now she squeezed a drop of arrack into Selim’s sleepy mouth, but lacking the will to leave him, she put him in the stroller, and hurried toward her destination. Otto and Shifra almost bumped into each other in front of the house. Otto looked worried. With a tired voice, he stopped Shifra when she tried, her cheeks afire, to apologize for her conduct.
“Maybe it was for the best,” he murmured, making an evasive gesture with his hand.
Shifra didn’t understand, so she looked at him, waiting.
“Let’s go inside,” Otto said. “It’s not something I want to talk about in the street.”
The house was quiet. Gretchen was asleep on the sofa, a shawl covering her feet, while Nabiha, seated near her, mended old towels. She got up when she saw them enter, Shifra carrying the sleepy child. Nabiha raised her arms, and Shifra, grateful, settled Selim on her lap.
Otto took off his jacket and loosened his tie. He bade Shifra to follow him to the corner farthest from the sofa. He whispered, “We have to move away from Jaffa. It might be dangerous for us to continue to live here. That’s what my colleagues tell me. They have warned me for a long time, but I wouldn’t listen to them.”
Shifra kept silent. She had no idea what Otto meant. Otto filled two glasses with water, offering one to her, but Shifra refused.
“Since we came to Palestine my only desire has been to protect Gretchen. She has gone through so much,” he paused. “I thought that living in Jaffa would protect her from gossip from people who’d find out she is not Jewish.”
“Gretchen never converted,” Otto continued, “I knew that if I had asked her she wouldn’t oppose it. Yet I didn’t. I knew that our souls were one.” His eyes became dreamy.
Shifra felt that Otto had just opened his heart to her. He looked distraught. Maybe he forgot to whom he was speaking. Shifra coughed slightly.
“I’m sorry,” Otto said, suddenly blushing, “the British have ordered a curfew for the Jews. We live in difficult times. I probably don’t have to tell you that.”
When Shifra didn’t answer or nod, Otto said, “Next month the orchestra is starting its season of concerts. The curfew doesn’t allow Jews to travel after dusk. I’ll be unable to return home. Unfortunately it reminds me of another curfew… years ago.” His shoulders shivered.
“We’ll move to Tel-Aviv,” Otto said decisively, “the sooner, the better. Gretchen doesn’t know it yet, neither does Nabiha. We’ll be sorry to part with her.”
“What makes me even sadder,” he said, “is the thought that we’ll not see you and Selim anymore. Gretchen will be inconsolable. She has become very attached to you. You mean so much to her.”
It was the first time Shifra heard him speak at such lenghth. It was a miracle that Selim and Gretchen were still asleep. Nabiha, who didn’t understand Otto’s words, kept humming a lullaby in Selim’s ears. Shifra’s thoughts leapt from one to another.
“Why,” Shifra asked, “why,” she repeated, as if it was the only sound she could utter. What were her hopes when she thought of a home away from home? Suha Masri, how stupid can you be? You dream the impossible. She felt she was sinking.
Otto raised his eyebrows, “Don’t you read the papers? I’m sure it’s in all the Arab newspapers. Don’t you listen to the radio? The British plan to divide Palestine into two states, one Jewish, one Arab, didn’t succeed. Why didn’t the Arabs agree? The future is unclear. There are skirmishes, I hear, on the way to Jerusalem. Hopefully there will not be another war. Enough Jewish blood flooded this century. Our only daughter….”
Suddenly Otto got up. “Take the violin,” he said. “One day, your son might become a great violinist and if I’m still alive, I’ll be proud to think that I was the first one who discovered his talent.”
“I can’t,” Shifra said, crying. “My husband doesn’t know that I—we, come here. He’s a good husband.” Shifra thought of the rifle she found in the shed and shuddered, “He, I don’t know, he might not understand my need to listen to your music or our visits. This was a beautiful dream,” Shifra sighed, “and like all dreams....”
“It doesn’t have to end,” Otto whispered. “I’ll keep the violin for Selim. The violinist who lent it to me said he doesn’t need it anymore. Here,” Otto rummaged through his pockets until he found a crumpled piece of paper, “this is our future address, 31 Yehuda Halevi Street, entrance B, third floor. Take it. I hope we’ll meet again.”
In an almost inaudible voice, Shifra said, “Danke Schon, Danke Schon.”
Impulsively she bent and kissed Otto’s hand. Then she took the still sleepy Selim from Nabiha’s arms a
nd hurried out.
Otto ran after her, “Stop, stop, please. Please look at me.” Breathless he caught up to her at the gate. He turned her face, streaming with tears, toward him.
“Who are you?” he asked in the gentlest of voices. “Who is this young Arab woman who loves classical music and speaks German?”
Dusk was approaching. Shifra let her hijab drop. The last rays of the sun lit up her hair. Unable to speak, Otto stared at her, his eyes wide.
“I was born Jewish,” Shifra said in a hoarse voice, “but unlike your wife, I converted.”
She pushed the stroller so fast it was a miracle Selim didn’t fall out. For a long time Shifra felt Otto’s eyes following her. The crumpled paper was still in her hand. She’d have to hide it. What did Otto mean by skirmishes on the road to Jerusalem? Who’s fighting whom? She feared for Fatima, Samira and the children soon to be on their way back. Musa’s hidden rifle haunted her again. What was its purpose?
She had to find out soon, but would she have the courage to tell him about her discovery? Selim woke up and she covered him with kisses. “My treasure,” she whispered, praying for her child to grow up in a world in which the word “war” would cease to exist.
4 0
“My family is coming back tomorrow,” an excited Musa told Suha as he entered the house, “Abdullah called me at the bank. We’ll be together for Idul fitri.”
He didn’t kiss her, neither did he pick up Selim, nor ask them how they spent the day. He seemed preoccupied, nervous.
“Don’t worry, I’ll shop early tomorrow morning,” Suha said. “Everything will be ready for Samira to start cooking after their arrival. You’d better open the windows at your mother’s house and let the fresh air in.”
“Good idea,” finally Musa kissed her, while Selim started dancing around them, “Jedati Samira, Jedati Fatima comes home, Ahmed, Rama, Nur too.”
The wrinkles on Musa’s forehead disappeared. He lifted his son. “Come, help me open Jedatha Fatima’s house and see if there is a wolf hidden inside.”
Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction Page 22