Shlomi never changed the interior of the case. On the silk, behind the two bows, was Gretchen’s smiling photo together with her daughter Ruthie, playing flute. Otto and Gretchen told him that his mother, Shifra, resembled their daughter, diesel blaueen Augen, was Gretchen’s continuous refrain. Shlomi loved to look at Ruthie’s photograph and imagine his mother. He had so few memories of her, a woman in a long dress running after him on the beach, her hair waving in the wind. He wasn’t sure if it was real or if he made it up. Shlomi felt too self-conscious to add D’vora’s picture to the case, so he kept it in his wallet.
In half an hour the members of the orchestra would appear. After warming up, Shlomi started the opening theme of the Mendelssohn, his favorite concerto, the concerto Otto didn’t allow him to play at age twelve, saying that he was too young to express its passion and emotions. At the time he didn’t dare stand up to Otto, who was the ultimate decision-maker.
But Shlomi felt that the Mendelssohn concerto was his homage to the mother he lost at such young age. From the first notes of the soaring melody, he would pray as he did when he was young calling his mother, with his own lyrics for the melody, “Mother, can you hear me? I play for you. My music should tell you how much I miss you.”
Every time he fingered the first phrase of the concerto, like now, so many years later, the words were there, ready to explode in his head. He felt a kinship with Mendelssohn, and though he played most of the violin concertos; Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, Sibelius, he always returned to his favorite—as tonight, when he chose to play it at the Leventrittt Gala.
The applause of the orchestra members interrupted his thoughts. Shlomi blushed. He had asked Otto not to come to the rehearsal, yet there was an unexpected guest in the hall. It was Isaac Stern! When Shlomi was about fourteen years old, Isaac Stern in one of his many concert tours in Israel heard him play. “The boy should come to the United States,” he said. “In Israel he swims in a small pond; outside Israel he’d have no barriers. Look at Itzhak Perlman who came at fifteen or Pinky Zuckerman at sixteen.”
But Otto was stubborn, “Shlomi has a lot to learn in this small pond.” After a few months of training in the Israeli army he was offered a chance to become the first violinist of the Israeli Defense Force string quartet. Shlomi disappointed that he was not going to be a fighter like his father, completed the application for the Israel-America Cultural Foundation and obtained the coveted scholarship to study at Juilliard.
Before he left for the United States, Otto took Shlomi aside. In his hand he held a checkbook from the Deutche Bank issued in Shlomi’s name. “A long time ago, Gretchen and I decided that we were not going to accept German reparations. What we suffered and what we lost couldn’t be repaid. After you became part of our life, we reconsidered it. This money will serve Shlomi’s future, we said.”
Though moved by Otto’s offer, Shlomi refused to accept it. “Grandpa Otto, you are getting old, you’ll need it for yourself. I can’t take it.”
“Tz, tz, you talk too much! End of discussion.”
Shlomi never used his Deutche marks. He started performing concerts at Jewish communities from Miami to Duluth, from San Diego to Martha’s Vineyard. The audiences welcomed him with enthusiasm, especially after the Six-Day War, when people wanted to touch and kiss him. Shlomi, embarrassed, told them he was only a kleizmer, not a war hero.
“Gentlemen, let’s begin. You are familiar with Shlomi Gal, our soloist.” The conductor raised his baton and with everyone’s eyes focused on him, he started the rehearsal.
4 8
1948-1953
What time was it? Where were Suha and Selim? It was the day Musa was due to return home. “Come on, everybody up,” Samira yelled, waking with a jolt and a headache. “We have a lot of work to do!” But there was no answer.
Samira tried to recall what had happened. She remembered that Suha came home late, saying she went to see a Yahudia woman doctor who treated her when she was a child.
“Look,” she opened her palm and showed Samira the pills the doctor gave her. “These are for headaches, the others to have more appetite. You don’t have to worry about me anymore.” She took Selim in her arms and started dancing, “Selim, you and I are going to cook supper. Tonight Jedatha Samira should rest.” Then she tied an apron around her waist.
Who could have guessed then the curse she would bring upon us? Oh Yarab-el-Alameen-Harachman Al-Rahim, World G-d, forgiver and merciful, why didn’t I die that morning rather than face Musa when he arrived from Jerusalem?
Samira’s wails, as she searched the empty house brought over Fatima, who after Musa’s marriage had never entered his house. Samira didn’t have to tell her what had happened. The table was covered with dirty dishes, and on the shelf she saw the half-empty bottle of arrack.
“You miserable scum,” Fatima screamed. “You got drunk like a sailor, and let her run away. That thief took my grandson with her, my Selim!”
“In my entire life I have never put a drop in my mouth,” Samira said, but Fatima pushed the tea glass under her nose to smell.
“Oh, Allah Harachaman! Suha—a curse on her—prepared the tea. She planned to get me drunk and then run away!” Samira cried
“Nackba, the Yahudia brought us only disaster,” Fatima cried. “You trusted her; you encouraged Musa’s foolish love. Now you’ll have to answer to my son. What can you say to him? That you betrayed him and all of us?”
Fatima picked up a knife and came closer. Samira knelt. “Kill me,” she said, “I don’t want to live anymore.” Through her tears, Samira saw big chunks of her hair falling.
Suddenly they heard Musa’s voice. “Eumi, stop, stop immediately. What are you doing? What has happened? Have you gone mad?” He pulled the knife from his mother’s hand.
“Ask her what happened!” Fatima said before storming out of the house.
“Why didn’t your mother kill me? It would have been better than to see the pain I inflict on you with every word I utter,” Samira sobbed.
Musa stood frozen, numb, as if he didn’t understand Samira’s words. “Selim,” he called, “Selim, my son, Abu Selim is home. I know you are hiding.” He ran from one room to another, unable to accept the reality. “My son, my son,” he moaned, calling Selim. Musa fell to his knees, banging his chest with his fists, “Selim, Selim.”
When he rose, his eyes blazed. “I’ll find her, even if I have to comb each house. No one plays games with Musa Ibn Faud.” Samira could hear Faud’s voice in Musa’s words, and recognized the pride of the Masri family speaking through him. “If she’s left me, she’s nothing now but a sharmoota, a prostitute, and she’ll be punished for it, but first I want my son back.”
When Fatima reentered the house, Musa told her, “I am going to find my son. I’ll never leave the country without him.”
Musa did not find Selim. While Samira cried, abandoned by all, she heard Fatima’s accusing Musa, “It’s your fault. You warmed an enemy, a serpent, at your breast.” When Musa didn’t respond, she took another tactic, “You jeopardize the lives of your sisters and brother. Have you forgotten your responsibilities? Where is your pride? Are you an Arab man, a Muslim, or a bag of rags?”
Musa became angry only when his mother said, “You are young. Think. Allah will bless you with many sons and help you forget the pain of today.”
“Never, do you hear me!” Musa yelled. “Never will I trust a woman again.”
What made Musa decide to leave immediately, the Deir Yassin massacre or the arrival of Amina’s husband? Samira wondered on April 8, 1948, the day of that catastrophe, a day forever imprinted in her memory. She had arrived home exhausted after walking from farm to farm to beg for eggs, flour and vegetables. Jaffa’s souk was empty. Even before she opened the gate she heard Fatima’s wails. Samira froze. Somebody died. Who?
Fatima, whose radio was on from morning till night, heard it first. From Ramalla to Cairo, from Damascus to Beirut, every Arab radio station blasted the news, making each
broadcast more frightening than the previous one: The Yahudim have attacked Deir Yassin, assassinated all men and children, raped the women, and burned the village to the ground.
“Na’ima, my dear daughter, Mahmood, my grandchildren, where are you? Oh, Allah Ackbar, who decides upon life and death, why did you let me live to mourn the death of my children?” Terrified, Rama, Nur and Ahmed surrounded their howling mother.
Samira’s bones shook so hard she thought she could hear them rattle. Musa showed up, his face the pallor of death. He brandished a rifle. “I swear on the holy Koran, before I’m killed, I’ll shoot all of them.” He went into the courtyard where the two armed Iraqi soldiers waited for him.
Fatima, suddenly awakened from her stupor, screamed, “Ibni, my son, in the name of Allah, don’t go!” Rama and Nur tried to hold him back, while nine-year-old Ahmed yelled, “Brother Musa, take me along. I too want to kill the Yahudim.”
That afternoon, the stretched silence, like the silence of eternity, was broken only by Fatima’s sobs. No one moved. It must have been past midnight when they heard the noise of car brakes jamming.
“Eumi, Eumi,“ a voice cried. Fatima ran out. From the armored military car a disheveled Na’ima descended, holding two sleeping boys in her arms. Behind her, a red-haired British officer saluted, taking off his cap.
”Na’ima!” screamed fatima. She kept repeating her daughter’s name, as if doubting a vision. “Eumi, this turned to the Brit. “This is George, Amina’s husband. He came immediately after he heard what happened. He found us buried underneath the rubble of our house. He saved us, Eumi! We owe him our lives.”
All wept and embraced again and again. Nobody asked about Mahmood. Only at dawn, when Na’ima and the children were asleep and a fatigued Musa had arrived home, did George tell them that Mahmood, who was the fighters’ leader, had been one of the first victims.
“I have borrowed the car from our headquarters for twenty-four hours,” George said. “Amina’s orders, and my ardent wishes, are to drive you to safety. Ramalla will be our first stop.”
Fatima watched Musa. He was the head of the family. Her eyes told him clearly what he should do.
Samira had to make her bed in the shed, since Na’ima used her room for her sleeping boys. When they left, Fatima locked up both houses. In their hurry to leave, nobody remembered to say good-bye to me, Samira thought with bitterness.
She couldn’t continue to live in the shed. She was cold and hungry. But it was a good place to hide. As the news about Fatima’s leaving spread, the Iraqi soldiers, together with their peers, got drunk every night and in their stupor broke Fatima’s golden edged dishes and the crystal glasses she used only on holidays. In the mornings after their orgies, Samira collected the broken pieces they had hurled through the windows and hid them in the shed.
Samira saw them carry out the precious Shiraz carpet, which Fatima’s father had brought from Iran. After that, the thefts never stopped. Samira cried; it was so hard for her to witness. She had to leave. But where would she go? She would ask Uhm Zaide for shelter in her hut, but was the old woman still alive? All Samira knew was that outside a war was raging.
“Battalions of Brits have taken Jaffa,” she heard one of the Iraqi soldiers say. “They are planning something big pretty soon.”
“They’re concentrated around the Hassan Bek Mosque in the Manshieh Quarter. They know that our snipers and raiders have shot thousands of Yahudim from there,” the other Iraqi added.
A few nights later bombs fell on Jaffa. From the shed, Samira saw the flames illuminate the sky like big patches of bright blood. She heard the shouts of the fighters mixed with the screams of the wounded. Samira opened her Koran to find the prayer for the dead, sure she was going to die, but her hands trembled and her eyes were full of smoke and tears. She couldn’t read the prayer, the prayer which would have delivered her from her sinful life.
Suddenly she heard a terrible explosion. Was it the end of the world? In that moment Samira was happy for Fatima and the children, who were in a safe place. Much, much later, when she had the courage to climb out of her hole, she learned that the explosion wiped out the Manshieh Police Station, where most of the Syrian Liberation Army was stationed.
The streets were quiet, like the calm after a storm. What should I do? Where can I go? I am ready to work for a piece of bread, but who would hire me? When she started walking, her legs carried her to the English Convent. The gate was open wide, but there was nobody there, not a soul. A woman beggar approached. Samira gave her one of her last piasters.
“Are you looking for work?” the beggar asked.
Samira nodded.
“Go to the French Convent. The French nuns didn’t run away. I heard they are looking for a washerwoman,” and she left. A washerwoman! Samira sighed. Any work is decent work, she said to herself, climbing the steps to Notre Dame de Sion.
Samira rang the bell. A young nun in a black habit and a huge wide hat, its sides waving like the wings of a big bird, smiled and spoke in French. Samira did not understand. She said in Arabic, “Work, any kind, bread.”
When the French nun opened the gate and took her hand, Samira entered a new world. The nuns moved quietly, and spoke with gestures. They even helped her hang the laundry in the huge courtyard.
And how beautifully they sang! Their marvelous blending of voices comforted her soul. One sang like an angel. Her voice reminded Samira of music she had heard but couldn’t recall where. In her mind’s eye, she saw herself walking with Suha on a quiet street, when Suha suddenly stopped and said, “Listen!” and Samira heard the strains of a violin, playing with the same heavenly effect as the nun’s voice. It was the violin teacher! Oh, a curse on him!
That night Samira couldn’t sleep. Maybe the violinist knew where Suha was hiding. The thought racked her brain. Would it be safe to go and look for him? Maybe she could go on Friday, her free day, the nuns’ day of fast. But was it safe to leave their sanctuary? Maybe she should forget about it altogether.
The Mother Superior had observed that in her free time Samira liked to help in the kitchen. The cook, an old nun with swollen hands, could barely chop the vegetables. Even worse, she had lost her sense of smell. Many times Samira saved food that would have burned otherwise. A few weeks later Mother Superior decided the nun should supervise the vegetable garden and Samira should cook. In her new job, Samira’s time passed faster than she expected.
When the nuns reopened their school, there was a flurry of girls, Arabs and Jews together. To Samira’s wonder the nuns didn’t treat them differently. There was a little Yahudia, with big blue eyes just like Suha’s. Samira’s heart ached. Where were Suha and Selim now?
On one of their outings to the market, where Samira went with the nun who kept the money purse, they passed Fatima’s house. In the courtyard Samira saw a young woman nursing a baby. She stopped transfixed. The woman was dark-skinned, yet she didn’t look Arab. Samira wanted to ask her who she was, but the words died in her mouth. “Are you looking for somebody?” the woman called out in Hebrew.
Samira answered in Arabic, “I am looking for the owner of the house.”
“The house belongs to the Israeli government and it was allocated to us,” the woman responded in Arabic in which Samira detected a twinge of French. “We are immigrants from Tunis.”
For the first time, Samira learned that she was living in a country called Israel. It was not Palestine anymore. In that moment, she understood that there was no hope of seeing Fatima and her children again. They would not return to a country that was no longer theirs. She was ready to die.
A cloud passed over the young woman’s face. “Is your name Samira?” she asked. Samira nodded.
“Somebody left an envelope for you. He said he’d had it for more than a year but didn’t know where to find you.” She went inside the house to get it. A wave of warmth penetrated Samira’s heart, when she recognized Musa’s writing, but she didn’t want to open the letter in front of the
unknown woman.
The short note from Musa said, “I’m sorry. What happened wasn’t your fault.” Inside the envelope was money and Amina’s address written in English. The letter was addressed to Habib, the apprentice in Mr. Nathan’s shop. Samira hid the letter. Allah, in His great compassion, has decided to give new meaning to my life. For Musa’s sake, I have to find Suha and Selim!
But where should she start? The first Friday, her only free day, she went to search for the neighbors she remembered had lived next door to the violin teacher. She had not been on that street for almost two years. Those neighbors, whose servants she had befriended, had abandoned their homes, and the newcomers, Jews who spoke Arabic well, looked at her with narrowed eyes when she asked about the Yahud violin teacher. Samira could read their thoughts. Why does an old Arab woman seek a violin teacher?
Her first attempt ended in failure. Another, when she went to look for Mr. Nathan or Habib at the reopened bazaar, ended the same way. The shop was closed; wooden bars crossed each other on its window and door. There was only a sign, “Moved,” in Arabic.
Samira racked her brains. She couldn’t think of anybody who could help. Then, during one of her sleepless nights, she dreamed of Nabiha. Of course, Nabiha! She had worked for the violin teacher and his handicapped wife. Why didn’t she think of her sooner? Samira felt that she was onto something. Where can I find her? Samira didn’t know where Nabiha lived. She used to see her at the souk when she shopped there, and they would exchange a few words, but that was all.
Samira had been Fatima Masri’s housekeeper in the days when Nabiha crouched on the dirty floor of the fish-seller’s stand, was cleaning and packing the fish for customers. “Mrs. Samira,” she used to address her with respect. Those days were long gone. Finally, Samira remembered that there was a chaikhana where maids used to meet, drink nana tea, smoke a nargilea, and gossip about their masters. Samira never went there, feeling it was below her position, but now she had to go. To her disappointment, Nabiha wasn’t there.
Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction Page 30