Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction

by Fedora Horowitz

  Musa’s sister, Nur, came home crying one day, saying that most of her classmates had left, and she did not want to return to school. Only when Fatima threatened to whip her, did she relent. Samira told Shifra that Fatima said, “Our life must continue the same way as always. That’s your brother Musa’s wish.”

  But life was not the same. Every day when Samira returned from the souk, she complained that the prices for flour and eggs had gone up, and sugar and butter were scarce. “More stores are closing. The farmers are scared, they stopped harvesting and many have even left their villages.” Gone was the old Samira, the one who only a few years ago, had sung Yiddish songs to help her fall asleep.

  During those anxious days, Selim had a good time. Fatima had hired a tutor at home for Rama and Ahmed.” They don’t learn that much in school,” was her excuse, but Samira knew better.

  She told Shifra, “Fatima is afraid of the militia men patrolling the streets. She’s heard about small children being stolen. She’s like a mother hen.”

  The children loved the tutor, an unassuming young man with a face marked by chicken-pox scars, and long, bony arms hanging away from his shoulders like a marionette. He taught the children that chanting the verses of the Koran would help them memorize quicker.

  The minute he heard singing, Selim ran to his grandmother’s house and begged to be included in the lessons.

  ”You know that Fatima can’t refuse Selim anything,” Samira told Shifra, without adding that Fatima also said, ‘Musa is away, and I don’t believe the Yahudia would give the child a proper Muslim education.’

  The tutor was surprised by the speed with which Selim learned everything he was taught. Fatima and Samira delighted in his singing, “Like a muezzin,” Samira commented, amazed.

  For Selim it became a new game. He sang from the minute he woke up in the morning until he went to sleep. Samira spat on him a few times. “To chase away the evil eye,” she told Shifra, casting her eyes meaningfully toward the two Iraqi soldiers who were just leaving the house. They weren’t often at home now that they were training the Jaffa militia.

  One evening before falling asleep, Selim whispered, “I want to sing my new songs for Jedi Otto and Jedati Gretchen. It’ll cheer them up. When are we going to see them?”

  Shifra was astounded. Her son hadn’t forgotten the violin teacher and his wife.

  “A letter from England,” announced Nur. She had waited by the gate, hoping to receive mail from friends who had left Jaffa not so long ago. “From Amina and addressed to Musa,” she added, somewhat disappointed.

  Fatima stepped out. “Eumi, a letter from Amina,” Nur repeated, though she had already handed it to Shifra.

  Fatima stood undecided. “Let me have it,” she ordered. Silently, Shifra gave the letter to Nur, who handed it to Fatima.

  Fatima’s children and Samira surrounded her, like bees around their queen. Before opening the letter, Fatima said, “Nur, take Rama and Ahmed to your room and help them with the Koran recitation.” Disappointed, the children left.

  Fatima’s fingers trembled as she tore the envelope. She signaled to Samira to come closer to her. Their gray heads bent over the letter, as they started to read, Samira mouthing the words in silence.

  March 15, 1948

  To my dear brother Musa, Salaam Aleikum,

  I pray that Allah continues to protect all of you in these difficult times.

  Even though we are far from you, our hearts and minds are constantly with you as George and I have followed with increasing anxiety what happens in our dear Palestine.

  I have good news. George’s uncle, the member of the British Parliament, has obtained a position for George to assist Sir Alan Cunningham, the British High Commissioner in Palestine, with the withdrawal of the British Army at the end of the Mandate. He will arrive in two weeks.

  George says that what the British government wants is to maintain law and order, now, and also after it leaves Palestine. Although the British troops were ordered not to intervene between Arabs and Jews, sometimes they have had to do it.

  I know that George made his decision because of my constant worries about my family. He promised he’d not only protect you, but he’ll see to it that you’ll come to England, for a short vacation, until things quiet down in the Middle East. He is convinced, as most British people are, that after the intervention of the Arab Liberation Army, the brotherhood army of five Arab neighboring states, peace and calm will be restored in Palestine.

  Dear brother Musa, please convince my mother of my undeterred love and respect, and that my concern for the well-being of our family is sincere.

  Be assured that George is as devoted to my family as I am.

  Your loving sister,

  Amina

  Fatima groaned, “Her Brit husband is coming to save us? She should be ashamed of even mentioning it!” She spit the words out, “Amina married without my consent, she left us, and now she’s worried about our well-being!”

  Fatima crumpled the letter and threw it away. She paced the room, “We have to leave before her George sets eyes on us. We don’t need his help. Samira,” she ordered, “Bring my shawl. We are going out now.”

  “Going where?” Samira asked, while she picked up the crumpled letter and smoothed its pages, before pocketing it.

  “We are going to the Post Office. I want to call my cousin Abdullah. Musa has to come home immediately. I’ve waited long enough. It’s time to take action, no dreams of romantic summer homes in Ein-Karem.”

  “There are long lines at the Post Office,” Samira said. “You don’t know because you haven’t left the house lately. All Jaffa is at the Post Office making calls. You’ll have to wait for hours!”

  “If I can’t call from the Post Office, I’ll go to the mukhtar’s office,” Fatima answered stubbornly. “I must get through to Abdullah today.”

  Fatima is right, thought Samira. Suha needs her husband around, especially now that she is pregnant. It is what I suspected all along, but more so, after she decided to go alone to see the woman doctor, last Friday.

  Sighing, Samira followed her mistress.

  Shifra saw her mother-in-law and Samira leaving. Where were they going? She felt hurt when Fatima ordered her to hand over Amina’s letter. She still considers me no more than a servant. Four years after their marriage, Fatima still would not recognize her as Musa’s lawful wife. Sad and embittered, Shifra started to pull the curtains. Wait! Who is that woman standing on the sidewalk across the street? Is she taking a stroll? She seemed to look with persistence toward Shifra’s house. Had she seen her at the window? Shifra took a step back. The woman dressed in Arab garb looked familiar.

  When the woman rearranged the hijab on her head, Shifra caught a glimpse of big golden hoops gleaming in her ears. Shifra approached the window again. She saw the woman raise her hand, an inviting smile on her lips. In an instant Shifra recognized Mazal, Otto Schroder’s neighbor. Shifra felt a tremor in her heart.

  “Were you looking for me?” an out-of-breath Shifra asked Mazal.

  “We want to help you,” Mazal said. “The time is short.”

  Shifra nodded, a knot forming in her throat. They spoke in the shed, Shifra fretting that Fatima and Samira might return any minute and find the unknown visitor.

  “Come now,” there was urgency in Mazal’s voice.

  “I can’t. They’ll be back soon, my mother-in-law and Samira. They will be suspicious,” a disheartened Shifra answered.

  “There is no time to wait. It’s your decision. We can be here at midnight. If you wait longer, it might be too late.”

  ”I’ll be ready,” Shifra answered

  “You’ll hear our signal, three howls of a jackal,” Mazal’s black eyes seemed to burrow into Shifra’s soul.

  After they returned from the Post Office, Samira told Shifra that Fatima telephoned Abdullah, who promised her that Musa would come home the next day.

  At supper, Shifra poured a bit of arrack into Samira’s te
a. Shortly afterward Samira’s head fell on the table, asleep. But she could wake up before midnight. And who could tell if Musa wouldn’t change his mind and arrive earlier?

  She let a fully dressed Selim fall asleep in her bed. From tonight your name is Shlomi, she whispered in his ear. Lying near him, Shifra trembled with anxiety.

  Mazal was so mysterious. She did not say who would come to pick them up. Who would bypass the Brits’ curfew and put their lives on the line for Shifra and her boy? And even if they pass the curfew unobserved, another danger awaits: the nightly exchange of fire between Arabs and Jews through the Manshya quarter.

  Feverishly, Shifra took a piece of paper and started writing.

  Musa, my darling,

  Things happen so fast. There were so many words left unspoken between the two of us. I was too shy to tell you about my former life. I felt my life really started when I woke up in your arms. Then on one of your late nights out I saw you hiding a rifle in the shed. It scared me. Your secret talks with your mother which you never shared with me made me wonder if I really knew you…

  Why didn’t you tell me your plans? Why was I kept in the dark? If you shared your thoughts with me before deciding to leave, maybe I would’ve shared with you my fears and also my hopes for our son’s future.

  What could be our son’s future in a strange and unwelcoming country? The Palestinians didn’t welcome the World War Jewish refugees, what makes you think that another country would welcome us, a Yahudia and her son?

  Now it’s too late.

  I want to think that I love you less but this would be a lie. I love you today as much as ever, but I know that uprooted, I’d wither like a flower without water. My heart bleeds at the thought of not seeing you again.

  I pray to have the courage to leave you this letter. I hope that one day you’ll be proud of the way our son was raised.

  On the floor, close to Shifra, a small bag was packed with one change of clothes for Shlomi and a blouse and the short skirt she had sewn for herself. Shifra closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I’m doing it for the future of my child.” She repeated the words in her mind; it helped her relax. The clock chimed nine times; three more hours to wait. Shifra closed her eyes.

  In her dream, her mother entered the room, arms outstretched. Shifra wanted to jump up, but she felt nailed to the bed.

  Shifrale, her mother said, I didn’t sit Shiva for you. For me you never died. I always hoped to find you. For a full year, the year the family mourned you, I took an oath, not to speak to your father or let him touch me. I separated our beds like during the weeks I am impure.

  Your father was upset. “It’s not enough the bishe your daughter brought upon us, you want to shame me too.” After the year of mourning ended, I said to him, “Our Shifra is not dead. I feel in my heart that she is somewhere not far from us. She ran away because our home was stifling. She wanted to learn. She wanted to sing.”

  “Shifra inherited your streak of independence,” your father accused me.

  Shifra heard a sob; she couldn’t tell if it was hers or her mother’s.

  I don’t know what you did during the years since you left us. Maybe you joined a kibbutz. Often I dream of you coming toward me, dressed in a white blouse and navy skirt, your golden hair cut short. What did you do with your beautiful curls? I see a baby in your arms, and a tall young man walking at your side.

  All the time I waited for a sign. But now I’m scared. I see you less and less, only as a shadow. You are moving away from me. Shifrale, the war is at our doorstep and I am afraid for you… afraid for you… for you.

  Shifra awoke with a jolt, her face wet. It seemed so real, if she had extended her hand she could have touched her mother.

  Ten o’clock. It was still early. Her throat was dry, but she was afraid to move. She saw a smile on Selim’s lips; it reminded her of the responsibility she was taking by deciding his destiny. Shifra stood up and paced the room. Who could predict how he would judge her, when he grew up? Better not to think of it. She heard Mazal’s words, “The child’s future is in this country. You’ll not be welcome in an Arab country. You’ll feel like a stranger wherever you go.” Those were Mazal’s words, a woman she barely knew, but who was ready to risk her life for her. In Shifra’s mind, the wreckage she had seen in Adon Nathan’s store in Jaffa’s souk was still fresh. It was done not by strangers, but by his lifelong neighbors.

  What about Musa? Her heart would break if she thought of his shock, his anger. No, she shouldn’t think of Musa now, because if she did, she’d lose her courage.

  The jackal’s howl, three times, their signal! Shifra enveloped the sleeping child in her cloak and took him in her arms. With wavering steps, she left by the back door, straight into the dark night, the letter for Musa crushed in her fist.

  PART I I I :

  4 6

  “I know so little about you,” his lover said, tracing her finger slowly over his body.” Since we were children, you seemed so mysterious, so serious.”

  Shlomi laughed. His lips covered her mouth. They were in bed, still naked after an afternoon of making love.

  “Let’s either rehearse or make love again,” he gamely proposed.

  “Shlomi Gal, violinist and the latest recipient of the Leventrittt Award, performing tomorrow night at Carnegie Hall, can you for once answer my question?” She turned toward him, her elbow propped on the pillow.

  In the silence that followed they could hear the hiss made by the old heating system. Shlomi Gal and Beatrice D’vora Sonnenfelt were lucky to find an apartment in a building where the renters were all musicians. At any hour of the day or night they could hear a practicing cello or a soprano gargle her scales.

  Shlomi climbed out of bed and approached the window. He looked down from their sixth-floor apartment and saw an almost empty street. Here and there the wind swept away the leaves gathered on the wet pavement. “I can answer you in two sentences. I was raised by my grandfather, Otto Schroder, violinist, member of the Israeli Phiharmonic Oorchestra. He’s due to arrive tomorrow morning from Israel.”

  D’vora pulled the blanket over her shivering legs. “I remember him. He used to come with you to the Gadna rehearsals, always carrying your violin; a neat man who wore a jacket and a bowtie even in summer. But so did you, which our hevra found so peculiar. Was he your mother’s father?”

  A cloud passed over Shlomi’s face. “No,” he answered shortly.

  “Oh, your father’s then,” she insisted.

  “D’vora,” Shlomi liked her middle name and always used it. “Why all these questions? I love you. Isn’t that enough? Love doesn’t come easy to me. I barely remember my mother. I have no pictures of her or of my father. She died in a car accident. Grandpa Otto told me that my father died during the War for Independence. Nobody knows where he has been buried.”

  “Oh, my love, my sweetheart,” D’vora threw the blanket away, her arms outstretched. “Come here. I promise I’ll never ask you anything anymore. It will be up to you when, if ever, you want to open your heart to me.”

  That night Shlomi could not fall asleep. His grandfather’s impending arrival brought back so many memories. It had been three years since he last saw him, on the day he left Israel after he received a scholarship from the Israel America Cultural Foundation to continue his violin studies at the Juilliard School of Music.

  And now, on the telephone, after he heard about the award, Otto said, “I’m very proud of you. I’m coming and bringing with me a surprise.” What did he mean?

  But mostly, Shlomi was troubled by D’vora’s questions. He had tried to get rid of that riddle regarding his parents. When Shlomi had almost succeeded in shutting the unanswered questions out of his life, D’vora, his darling D’vora, had to reopen that sealed box.

  Forgotten images appeared in his mind’s eye: Grandma Gretchen crying at his mother’s grave and screaming, “Ruthie, Ruthie, wo bist du?” when it was clear that his mother’s name, Shifra, was etched on th
e headstone. Lotte and Mazal later told him that Ruthie was Grandpa and Grandma’s daughter who disappeared during Hitler’s Germany. If not for Lotte and Mazal, Otto’s neighbors, his adoptive mothers, as fondly Shlomi called them, his daily life with Otto, continuously worried about Gretchen’s mental instability, would have been a wasteland. He thought many times of running away, but always stopped short, thinking of the pain it would inflict on those two old people, but more than that, he knew that without Otto, who had opened the path for him, he would never have found his passion—the violin.

  Otto was not easy to please, and Shlomi cried many times, especially when Otto decided which pieces he should perform in public. “You are not mature enough to play the Mendelssohn concerto,” he said after the conductor of the Gadna, the Israeli Youth Orchestra, asked Shlomi to solo with the orchestra. “You’ll play the Beriot Third.”

  “But Grandpa Otto, I’ve been practicing the Mendelssohn for a year. All the members of the orchestra know that. I’ll be embarrassed.” cried Shlomi.

  “You are not ready. You are only twelve years old. You have an entire life in front of you to perform it. I am preparing you to become a solid violinist, not a child star.” Otto was firm, and Shlomi knew that it wouldn’t help to discuss it further.

  D’vora turned in bed and nestled in his arms. She puffed slightly during sleep and he teased her about it. “You snore,” Shlomi told her one morning. He laughed, “Sometimes in A, but mostly in B flat.”

  “I do not,” a hurt D’vora answered.

  “And when you are tired, it sounds like C sharp.” The following night, D’vora took her pillow and went to sleep in the living room. He had to kneel in front of her and beg her to return to bed.

  Sweet D’vorale, the cello player, a head taller than he when both were fourteen years old. “What a player, this D’vora, she has a lot of fire!” Otto said with admiration. To have fire was his best compliment. Yet they never became friends during their Gadna years. Shlomi was too shy; besides, he knew the children called him names behind his back, the kindest being, “Herr Professor,” because his shirts were always pressed and he wore shoes and socks, never sandals.