Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction

by Fedora Horowitz

  The child laughed with delight.

  The return of Musa’s family filled Shifra‘s heart with anxiety. She knew that she couldn’t visit the Schroders anymore, much less investigate the rifle. Dark clouds were fencing her in.

  Musa took the day off from work waiting for his family’s arrival. Every few minutes he peered down the length of their street. Shifra felt his mix of impatience and tension. At midday, even before the black limousine stopped in front of their house, Musa had run to open the gate. “Inshallah,” he sighed with relief.

  “Salaam Aleikum, welcome home, my honored mother,” he bowed to her, as he opened the car door to help her descend. “I’m happy cousin Abdullah offered you the bank’s car for the trip.”

  The children and Samira crowded around Selim, exclaiming, “Look at you, you grew so big in only two weeks,” kissing and passing him from one another. Shifra watched the scene. She saw a tired and older-looking Fatima whispering something in Musa’s ear. Musa’s face darkened suddenly.

  It was time for Shifra to welcome them. She went out and bowed, “Salaam Aleikum, welcome home.” Only Samira and Rama turned to her. “You are prettier than ever,” Rama said, blowing her a kiss.

  “It’s good to be back,” Samira sighed happily. “But I have no time to waste. Idul Fitri is almost upon us and little time to prepare for it.”

  “Don’t worry, Samira, I went to the souk this morning and brought everything fresh and ready for you to cook.” Fatima heard what Shifra said and nodded in her direction, her only gesture acknowledging Shifra’s presence.

  In the evening, after he finished his meal, Musa said, “I’m going to visit my mother. I want to hear news about Nai’ma’s health, also about cousin Abdullah. You go to sleep. Don’t wait for me.”

  Fatima saw Musa coming. She motioned him to follow her to her bedroom. Musa’s quick eyes saw the Egyptian Al Ahram and other Arab newspapers stacked on her desk. Under a half-opened letter, a page of an English newspaper showed its headlines.

  “Sit down, ibni,” Fatima said. Musa felt warmth flowing in his heart. She hadn’t called him “my son” since he married Suha. “We have grave and important matters to discuss.”

  It must be Mahmood, Musa assumed. She must have discovered his real nature, a fox with the face of a lamb. Fatima shuffled through the newspapers in front of her. “I don’t know how up-to-date you are on what’s happening in the country, but Abdullah is worried and warns me that war is imminent.” So she wasn’t going to talk about Na’ima’s health, nor about Mahmood.

  Musa raised his hand in protest. “Let me talk,” Fatima said. “You are still a child. You got married against my will. Your eyes are only for your wife. And you are a father. Now you have become responsible for your son, but not only for him. As a good Muslim,” and she emphasized the word, “You are responsible for your widowed mother and for your young siblings.”

  Musa waited. His mother handed him the newspapers. “Read what the Egyptians, Lebanese and Syrians think. In the beginning I doubted him, when Mahmood talked about the Yahudim threat, but no more! This morning when Abdullah came to say goodbye, he brought me the newspapers. He told me to pass them to you after I finished reading. You’ll see that our real enemies are not the English. They have washed their hands of us, and let the United Nations decide our future. And what do they mean by our future?” Fatima spat. “We’ve been in this land for thousands of years. The Yahudim intruded on us little by little, and now they want to throw us out?” her voice raised its pitch.

  “I know,” Musa answered, “that Palestinians refuse to consider partition.” He continued emphatically, “There will never be two states.”

  “Don’t be so naïve, my son. The Jews have powerful friends, even the American president is on their side. Everybody deplores the crimes committed by the Nazis, but it wasn’t our fault, and Palestine shouldn’t have to pay for it. Now a committee has to decide our future. What does this committee know about our history, about our culture?”

  His mother was right. Musa’s eyes stopped over a quote from Azzam Pasha, secretary-general of the Arab League, “If the General Assembly ratifies the decision for a Jewish State to be established, there will be war. There would be no other option. We have to try to prevent Jews from achieving something that violates our emotion and our interest. It is a question of historic pride. If there is to be a decision, that decision will be taken only by force.”

  Musa folded the newspaper. The dye was cast, he thought. He hoped a war could be avoided.

  His mother continued, “Abdullah thinks that we should transfer more of our savings to Cairo and Alexandria. As long as the Brits are still here, there is time. When their Mandate ends, in six months or so, it might be too late.”

  “Cousin Abdullah is right,” Musa said. “He’s a cautious man and has always held your best interests at heart.”

  Did his mother blush? Even if she did, his mother’s affairs of the heart never interested Musa, and definitely not now. His eyes fell on the half-opened letter.

  “It’s a letter from Amina,” she said, visibly embarrassed. “It’s addressed to Abdullah, but meant for me.”

  “Can I read it?” Musa asked.

  “Later,” Fatima put the letter in a drawer. Musa was surprised by his mother’s reaction. She had never refused to share her news with him.

  After he left his mother’s house, Musa lingered in the courtyard. He was keyed up after their meeting. Without stars, the sky looked bleak, its sliced moon hidden by clouds dipped in black ink. Like my thoughts.

  Why didn’t Fatima say a word about Na’ima’s health? Wasn’t it the reason they all went? Of course he could ask Samira tomorrow, but still it seemed peculiar. And what about her admiration for Mahmood! She said Mahmood was the first one to be aware that the Jews were the real danger.

  Would he tell Suha about tonight’s talk? Lately, he had been hiding so many things from her. It bothered him because she was so loyal, trusting and loving, so devoted to him and their son. His mother said that Selim, like the rest of the family, needs Musa’s protection, but she made no mention of Suha. His mother should have known by now that he was ready to kill for Suha.

  And Suha! How would she feel about her husband fighting her brethren, maybe her brothers? She converted to Islam, he told himself. Yes, because it was the only way they could get married, his other self answered. But in her heart, does she really feel Muslim? She never prays. It’s true that he didn’t ask her to, but she respected the holy days. Suha didn’t eat meat, only fish or vegetables, which didn’t bother him until now, when he thought of it. Why? Because she tried to keep faithful to the way she was raised?

  Does Suha know anything about the disturbances happening outside the walls of their home, about the tension in the air? Musa read the newspapers only at work or at the chaikhana, careful not to bring them home.

  He knelt in the dark Oh, Allah Ackbar we all need your help. Musa rose, shaking. He felt tired, very tired. As he slowly opened the front door, a new thought troubled him. What did Na’ima tell Mahmood about Suha? How could he find out?

  His house was quiet. How long would it stay as peaceful as tonight? Trying not to make noise, Musa took off his clothes and climbed into bed with a heavy heart.

  4 1

  The smell of brewing coffee awoke Shifra. It was early. The sun wasn’t up yet, but she realized that Musa was already gone. In the kitchen the rattle of pots and pans continued—Samira is back, Shifra smiled. Her face froze midway. It also meant that she wouldn’t be free to move about as she pleased. I should go and help her.

  “Oh, it smells so good,” she said, entering the kitchen, “I hope you had a restful night. I imagined how hard you worked at Na’ima’s, cooking for a legion.” Shifra embraced Samira. “And now you are starting all over again. But I am here to help.”

  Samira laughed, “You forget that I am used to cooking for as many, or more people. When master Faud was alive, the house was filled with guests
.” She sighed, “But those times are gone. I am sad that Na’ima and Amina are not with us to celebrate the holiday.”

  “How is Na’ima? Is she well? Completely recovered?” Shifra poured hot water over nana tea leaves. She returned Samira’s penetrating gaze with innocent eyes.

  “She’ll be fine,” Samira answered, busy with the pots singing on the stove.

  She doesn’t want to talk. Musa will tell me tonight. Strange, why did Fatima call her son last evening? Was there an emergency or secrets from which I am excluded?

  “If you don’t need me,” a disappointed Shifra said, “I’m going to see if Selim is up.”

  “Don’t wake him,” ordered Samira, “Sleep is the healthiest thing for a child, healthier even than food.”

  Shifra entered her bedroom. For a second, she stood undecided. Then, she remembered. Quickly she took the Schroders’ new address from her pocket and hid it inside her new shoes on the bottom of the armoire. The remnants of fabrics saved from the time when she embroidered dresses to be sold at the bazaar caught her eye. The light yellow cotton would be enough for a short-sleeved blouse. After rummaging further, she found two different fabrics, dark green and brown, which together could make an adorable short pleated skirt. She’d start sewing right away. Musa would be pleased, she thought. For a long time he had asked her to wear modern clothes instead of the perennial jelebia. And he’d never suspect what she had in mind.

  “Eumi, Eumi, come, Selim is up,” her son called.

  Shifra smiled, “You are going to have a nice morning. Everyone is back, waiting to play with you.”

  “Are you ready to eat breakfast?” Samira asked Selim, her arms wide open for him to nestle.

  “Jedati Samira,” the child said and repeated with delight, “Jedati Samira,” returning her kisses.

  “You are as hungry as a wolf,” Samira said with satisfaction. “Didn’t your mother feed you while I was away?”

  The child nodded; his mouth full. Leaving her pots and pans, Samira sat on a chair next to Selim. “You are like your father,” she said, caressing his hair. ”He was always hungry. Inshallah, you’ll grow up to become as big and strong as he is.” Shifra smiled at the tableau of her son and Samira together.

  “Now you tell Jedatha Samira what you did while we were gone.”

  “He watered his fig tree every morning,” Shifra hastened to answer. “He loves doing it.”

  “And what else did you do?” asked Samira.

  Selim looked at Shifra, then at Samira, and said smartly, “I went to see my Jedi and my other Jedati.”

  “Who? Say it again, I didn’t hear well,” an astounded Samira said, while Shifra’s ears rang with warning bells.

  The child got off his chair and with a serious face turned his left arm toward his shoulder as if holding an imaginary violin, while his right hand mimicked the movement of a bow. “Jedi Otto,” he said.

  Moving the imaginary bow, he tried to sing the sounds of the five open strings. Samira turned toward Shifra, her eyes changed from surprise to fury. “What?”

  “Selim, that’s enough. Go play with Rama and Ahmed,” Shifra said, trying to gain time. When she finally looked at Samira, she knew she couldn’t lie.

  “Selim was bored at home, so we went for a walk. As we approached their house, Selim heard the violin. You should’ve seen him! He was transfixed; he didn’t want to leave. Otto Schroder saw us and invited us in.”

  “Does Musa know?” Samira asked after a long silence. Shifra made a negative gesture.

  “You are playing with fire,” Samira said harshly. “You have to stop it. You are not a child. Promise, you’ll never go there again.”

  “Samira,” Shifra cried with enthusiasm, “he discovered that Selim has a talent for music, a wonder child, he said!”

  “More reason to stop,” Samira said. “I’ll take Selim to Uhm Zaide to cast out his spell.”

  “There is no need for it, Samira,” Shifra whispered. “The Schroders have moved away.”

  - - -

  Samira sighed with relief; finally, a quiet moment. The Holy Days were over. Since their return from Deir Yassin, she had been busy shopping and cooking, washing and ironing clothes for the children’s return to school. The memory of her conversation with Suha still simmered in her mind. But yesterday she had proof that Suha didn’t lie to her as she accidentally ran into Nabiha at the souk. She told Samira that her employers had moved away.

  “Do you know where?” Samira asked.

  Nabiha raised her shoulders. “Somewhere in Tel-Aviv, I believe. I am sorry for my poor lady, who is so sick. Schroder Effendi said he doubted they’d find somebody as devoted as I was. I know I’ll miss them.” Then she added, “They became very fond of your Selim, Allah grant him a long life. I believe your young mistress will miss them too.”

  If they moved away, Samira thought, there is no need to alert Musa. Why was I so worried? There was no threat in Suha’s listening to the violin music.

  The two weeks at Deir Yassin were worrisome enough, she didn’t need extra worries. Musa and Suha should have another child. Both are young and strong. Now is the right time, Samira decided. I’m sure Musa would like another boy. I am going to nudge him. Then surely Suha will forget her violin dreams.

  As she was about to turn off the light, Samira heard the gate unlock. She ran to the window. She saw Musa’a shape slip by. A few minutes later there was a light knock, and without waiting, Musa entered her room. It’s after midnight, what is he doing up at this hour?

  “Salaam Aleikum, Samira,” Musa said, “I saw a light, and I guessed you weren’t asleep yet. Since your return I have wanted to talk to you.”

  “Sit down, my boy. Though you are a father now, you are still my boy,” Samira said affectionately.

  Musa took her hands, “Samira, I don’t want to beat around the bush. I am worried. Since her arrival my mother hasn’t once mentioned Na’ima. I saw she received a letter from Amina, but she found an excuse to hide it from me. I know my mother confides in you. What’s happening?”

  His reddened eyes prove how much he cares, thought Samira.

  “I really shouldn’t talk, but you are now the head of the family. Things are not good at Na’ima’s. She must have had wrong notions about marriage.” Samira sighed, “Mahmood is a strong man, too strong for her. He says that she’s lazy by day and not willing by night.”

  Musa nodded. “I had a bad feeling about him from the very beginning.”

  “Once when he returned home at dawn, while your mother filled his nargilea with water, we heard him say, ‘Tonight I shot into the air. You should’ve seen how scared those Yahudim were! But next time I’ll shoot straight at them.’ Later, Fatima said that Mahmood was right, good for him, he’s not waiting for others to make decisions for him; he’s taking the law into his hands.

  ‘And he’s doing the same with Na’ima,’ I answered. ‘Last night I heard him beat her.’ To that your mother had no answer.”

  “This is breaking my heart, especially knowing that I am unable to help her,” Musa got up and started pacing the room. After a while he whispered, “What was in Amina’s letter that made my mother refuse to show it to me?”

  “When Na’ima was taken to the hospital, the night of her miscarriage, she wrote a letter to Amina and asked one of the nurses to mail it. If Mahmood were to find out about it, he would kill her, Na’ima said. That’s why Amina addressed it to your mother, yet mailed it to Abdullah. When he showed up, Abdullah explained to Mahmood that the reason for his unexpected visit was to lend your mother the bank’s limousine. He was afraid, he said, that we might encounter trouble on the way from Deir Yassin to Jaffa. It calmed Mahmood, who is suspicious anytime Abdullah visits. Abdullah slipped the letter into your mother’s hand.”

  “Na’ima! It was a mistake that my mother agreed so fast to her marriage.”

  ”Fatima read the letter in the car. She looked sad and put it aside without telling me much. Maybe she was afraid Nur wa
s listening.”

  “Do you know what Amina wrote?” Musa asked.

  “A few days ago your mother was less distraught and said now she could read the letter to me. To tell you honestly, I understood only the parts about Na’ima and what Amina asked your mother to do. The other things she wrote went a bit over my head.”

  “Would you please tell me what you know?”

  “It sounds like a crazy idea. Amina wants Na’ima to leave Mahmood, take her baby and come live with her and her husband in England. She begged your mother to understand Na’ima’s unhappiness and not to judge her harshly. No woman, she wrote, should submit to her husband’—and here I try to remember the word, but I can’t—it sounded like sodo or sodm. Your mother cried. She said that everyone has his own fate and that must be Na’ima’s.”

  Musa pressed his hands to his temples. He gestured to her to go ahead. Samira whispered the words she had memorized. “Bring Na’ima to England with her little Faud, the bearer of our father’s name. We’ll raise him together. George fully agrees with my plan and urged me to ask you to do it sooner rather than later. Please don’t wait until November.”

  Samira stopped. “Does it matter which month? Why November,’ I asked your mother.’ In November’ she said, ‘Palestine’s future will be decided.’ Amina mentioned something about war. ’War is a terrible thing’, she wrote; three years after it ended, the British still suffer the aftermath of the European war.”

  “Thank you, Samira,” Musa said, while his fists were locked locked from tension. “You did well to tell me.”

  Samira kissed Musa’s forehead, “You’ll not solve anything this minute. We are all in Allah’s hands.”

  Life could have been so beautiful, Musa mused, remembering the day he first saw Suha asleep on the beach. He was only nineteen years old. His future looked like Jaffa’s azure sky, no blemish on it. Now, four years later, he felt a terrible weight on his shoulders. He wished he had a close friend to unburden to and receive counsel. He couldn’t talk to Suha! To Abdullah, yes, Abdullah, their perennial protector! He’d have to leave soon for Jerusalem.