A toothless old woman asked who she was looking for. Everyone raised their heads when she mentioned Nabiha’s name. “She used to come here, but it must be at least two years since we last saw her.”
“If she comes by,” Samira said, “please tell her that Samira is looking for her. She can find me at the French Convent.” The women nodded, and again Samira left empty-handed.
The hamsin in the fall was followed by the winter rains. Samira was waiting for spring to restart her search. Musa had not answered her letter, and she was torn between the desire to find Suha and Selim and the impulse to leave everything to Allah’s will. She was in the convent’s kitchen decorating cookies for the children when a little girl came running in, almost out of breath, “Samira, Samira, somebody’s at the gate asking for you.”
“You should be in class, instead of watching every passerby. Do you want me to report you to Mother Superior?” Samira reprimanded her. The girl had tears in her eyes, “I did nothing wrong.”
Samira hugged her; the girl was one of her little helpers. “Then go, go quick, before someone sees you.”
Reluctantly, Samira headed for the gate. A woman dressed in black was peering through the iron bars. “Salaam Aleikum,” she said timidly.
Samira did not recognize her. “Aleikum Salaam,” she replied, staring at the holes in the woman’s slippers. A beggar, she thought.
”It’s me, Nabiha,” the woman spoke up. “I was told that you were looking for me.” Samira threw open the gate. They embraced and cried. Samira felt as if she had found an old relative.
The school bell rang for recess.
“Come with me,” Samira took Nabiha’s arm. “Wait for me in my cell, until I finish serving the midmorning snack. We have so much to talk about.” Nabiha bent to kiss Samira’s hand.
She looks so skinny and old, though she must be at least fifteen years younger than me. Samira could barely wait to hear where Nabiha had been the last few years. After that, she would ask the questions burning in her mind. Does Nabiha know where the violin teacher lives now? Has she seen him lately?
What if Nabiha becomes suspicious and starts asking me questions? Should I tell her what happened? With so many thoughts turning in her head Samira burned her hand pulling the trays of cookies from the hot oven.
Samira, you are getting old, she said to herself; you are fifty-five years old and want to play detective. At your age! But now, with Nabiha here, isn’t it a sign that Allah has heard my prayers?
In the late afternoon, Samira, carrying a tray of food, entered the unadorned cell that served as her bedroom and found Nabiha asleep. As she set the tray on the small iron table by the bed, Nabihah woke up.
“I was so tired,” she excused herself, quickly rising.
“Sit, eat, you must be famished,” Samira said, gratified to see Nabiha attacking the food with a wolf ’s appetite. After Nabiha wiped her mouth with the back of her palm, stifling a hiccup, Samira said, “Now, tell me where you’ve been, what happened to you. It’s been a long time since we last saw each other. I remember you worked for a Yahud violin teacher.”
“Those were the good times,” sighed Nabiha, ‘but that was long ago. When my employers moved to Tel-Aviv, my life spiraled downward. I couldn’t find a better place to work so I went back to the fish store. When the first wave of our people left Jaffa, we lost many customers. The fish-seller felt that it was dangerous to remain, especially after his wife gave birth.”
Nabihah stopped and took a sip of the nana tea. Samira waited patiently for her to continue. “They had relatives living in Sassa, a village north of Tiberias, and he thought it would be safer there. ‘Come with us,’ he said, ‘you’ll help my wife take care of the baby and my older children.’ I went. How was I to know that it would be worse than remaining here?”
Nabiha wiped her eyes. “The war caught up with us. It didn’t take long to be driven away by the Syrian soldiers who camped there. We went to Tuba Zangria, another village close by, but not for long. We were chased from village to village by the Yahudim army. No food, no water, no shelter. The baby boy died. At the end, I had to part from them. My employer said, ‘Nabiha, I have to save the lives of my other children. We are Mennonites and many of our co-religionists live in southern Lebanon. We are going there. You decide what you want to do.’”
Nabiha took another sip from the tea, now cold. “I wanted to return here, to Jaffa, the city I have known all my life. I have no family, I am alone, but if I have to die, better to die among my own people.”
Samira took Nabiha’s hands in hers. She felt the hard calluses in her palms, “I’m sorry. We all went through difficult times.”
“What happened to Sit Masri and her family?” asked Nabiha, “Why aren’t you with them?”
“That’s a long story,” Samira said. “I’ll tell you another time. First I want to hear what happened to you.”
“I wandered from place to place, mostly by foot, begging, many times sleeping in the burning fields, every dwelling ravaged by the war. Sometimes I was lucky to sleep in a shed not entirely burned, and where there was still a little food stashed aside. When I got to Nazareth, the monks at St. Paul gave me bread and water in return for cleaning their stalls. I don’t remember how I arrived in Haifa barefoot, my slippers had given up long before. I heard somebody say that there were still a few Arabs living in the city. I went to the port. I missed the sea so much. What a better place to die than on the seashore?”
Nabiha stopped. Samira didn’t urge her to continue. She was deeply touched by her friend’s story. After a long pause, Nabiha said, “I saw a lonely old Arab fishing. He looked sad. After he watched me for some time, he said, ‘I’m alone. My wife died, my children ran away. I was too old for them to take me. I have no money, but I need a woman to clean, wash and cook for me. If you are that woman, you’ll have a bed and fresh fish to eat every day.’ I went with him. He lived in Wadi Nisnas, in downtown Haifa.”
Nabiha wiped her nose with a sleeve. “Until the day he died, about a month ago, he kept his promise. The money he left was enough for his burial, and a little for me to return to Jaffa. At the women’s chaikhana I was told that you were looking for me.” Her eyes looked hopeful.
“You can stay with me here,” Samira said. Nabiha took her hand and kissed it again. “It’s late and we are both exhausted,” Samira continued. “You need a good night’s sleep to gain your strength.”
The Next morning, a Friday, Samira’s free day, she woke up to see Nabiha already dressed and waiting. “Why did you wake up so early?’ Samira asked. A serious Nabiha looked her straight in the eye. “Yesterday you said that you’d tell me why you were looking for me,” she said. “I think it’s time.”
“First, let me bring two cups of Turkish coffee. Friday is the nuns’ fast day so I’m not on duty.” Samira needed to think. A few minutes later she brought the steaming coffee with pita and leben on a tray.
“Do you know where the violin teacher lives now?” Samira asked, going straight to the point.
Nabiha looked surprised, “His address? Why? Before they moved away, he wrote it on a piece of paper and put it in an envelope together with a month’s pay, which he said would tide me over until I found another job. Such a good man! I probably lost the paper. Anyway, it was written in a foreign language.” Nabiha repeated, “Why do you need his address? What do you want from him?”
“It was him,” Samira said with bitterness. “He was the one who turned Suha’s head. I am sure of it. He and his accursed violin! I have to find her and Musa’s child.”
“What are you talking about? I was there the last time she visited. We planted flowers together in the garden. The boy played the violin, like he was born with it. Otto Effendi and his wife cried. They loved Selim. His name is Selim, isn’t it? You must be mistaken, Samira. Those people couldn’t hurt a fly.”
“They are wicked,” Samira screamed. “They and their music destroyed Suha’s marriage. And it’s my fault. I should
have seen it coming.”
“I don’t understand. Start from the beginning. Tell me what happened.”
When she ended her story, Samira said, “I have to find them, for Musa’s sake, for my own redemption.”
After a long silence, Nabiha said slowly, “I remember a number, a house number, fifty-four, or maybe forty-five. It was on the map Otto Effendi drew for me. He said they didn’t move far from Jaffa, and to come to them if I needed help.”
Samira sighed. Nabiha was her last hope, but what she knew led nowhere.
“I do remember something,” Nabiha exclaimed. “On that design with streets crossing each other, he made two signs. He said, ‘This mark is a hospital, if you get there, then you are close to our place, which is the second mark, three houses down the street, across from the hospital.”
Samira repeated, “A hospital, not far from Jaffa! When Suha returned home the evening before she ran away, she said she went to see a woman doctor at a Jewish hospital. I thought that she lied to me but what if it wasn’t a lie?”
Pacing the cell, she said. “Nabiha, we might be onto something. Tomorrow I’ll ask the Mother Superior about hospitals in Tel-Aviv and which one is the closest to Jaffa.” She clasped Nabiha’s hands. “Something tells me,” she said in a tremulous voice, “that we can find them.”
“Samira, think, it’s been two years or more since you last saw them. So many things have changed. It’s time for you to wake up. This is not our country anymore. Open your eyes to the real world.”
Samira embraced Nabiha, “You are a brave woman. I’m glad we found each other. Like you, I have nobody else. Be my sister. From now on we’ll share everything.”
The next day, Mother Superior looked worried when Samira asked her about the location of hospitals in Tel-Aviv.
“Are you sick?” she asked, “We have medicine sent to us from France. One of our nuns is a nurse. She could take care of you.” Samira quickly told her she wasn’t ill, that her question wasn’t important, and that Mother Superior should forget about it.
During the weeks while she enjoyed Samira’s hospitality, Nabiha searched for work. One day she returned, excited. “I was hired to take care of an old Yahud. His grandchildren arrived with him from Yemen. He is a frail man. While they are at work, they need somebody to watch over him.”
Memories of Adon Grunwalt, the sweet old man who was her first employer, returned. “How did they find you? How did you find them?” Samira asked.
“They stapled notices in Arabic on the walls of the souk. People who knew I was looking for work told me. They even helped me make the telephone call. The old man was so happy to hear me speak his mother tongue. I am going to start tomorrow.” Nabiha collected her meager things. “But I’ll come visit you as often as I can. And, Samira…” she hesitated. “Forget about finding Suha. It’s been so long. You are looking for a needle in a haystack. You live in a convent protected by tall walls and have no idea what’s happening outside. It’s a new world. Yahudim have poured in from all corners of the world, thousands, maybe millions. Take my word. They work, they build high-rise houses. You wouldn’t recognize old Jaffa, much less Tel-Aviv.”
With Nabiha gone, Samira felt empty. Nabiha was right; she was a dreamer. She still dreamed of her life in Fatima’s house; brushing Fatima’s hair during their long talks, Na’ima’s festive wedding, and of Musa, her favorite, and the laughter of the children.
Life in the convent became oppressive, the silence in the afternoons after the schoolchildren left, overwhelming. Samira wondered if she should look for work elsewhere. Who’d hire me at my age, with swollen knees wobbling when I move? Am I strong enough to hold a baby in my arms?
Since the nuns took their repast at midday, they didn’t need her to serve the evening meal, so Samira was free to go see the changes that Nabiha had described. She developed a new routine, walking. She must have been longing for Fatima’s house, because her feet led her there. She admired the garden, where the owners had planted new roses and cypress trees. The newly painted house looked clean. The gate was open, but the house was locked. Disappointed, Samira was ready to turn back, when a cheerful voice speaking Arabic stopped her. It was the same young woman she had once seen nursing a baby, holding now the hand of a kindergarten-age child.
“God must’ve brought you,” she answered Samira’s Salaam Aleikum. “I recognized you immediately. You came by years ago.”
“I used to live here,” whispered Samira.
“I remember you saying so. As the last time, I have a letter addressed to you, or anybody who knows you. It came only a few days ago. Roni,” she addressed the child, “there is a letter on top of the dresser. Bring it out.”
A letter from Amina! Samira opened it feverishly. Many thin pages fell out. Her eyes scanned over the traditional greetings.
My heart is full of sadness as I’m writing to you. Our dear mother, Fatima, passed away last week….
Samira did not recall how she got back to the convent.
Clutching Amina’s letter in her hand, Samira sat on her narrow bed. Fatima dead! She couldn’t fathom the news. A chill went down her spine. She felt old, very old. Quivering, she dragged her feet to the kitchen to boil a cup of strong Turkish coffee for the long sleepless night ahead of her. The sadness that she couldn’t properly mourn Fatima overwhelmed her.
Samira sat in the dark, her head empty, tears washing her face. She turned on the only bulb, and read, mouthing each word.
Bath, England 1953
Dear Samira,
You can’t imagine how much we miss you, all of us. When my family arrived in England five years ago, everybody thought it would be a short holiday. My mother even refused to unpack, except for necessities. But soon we realized that Israel, the new Jewish state, would not welcome the return of Palestinians.
Was this the reason for my mother’s illness? Her melancholy was aggravated by the fact that Musa wouldn’t hear of remarrying. “When I married, it was for life,” he said, everytime our mother broached the subject.
Maybe that’s why he lived with us for a short time only. Musa was hired by the British International Bank. He lives in London and travels a lot, hoping that one day he’ll enter the country where his wife hides his son.
Samira stopped. Her body trembled. How could I forget the promises I made to myself to find Suha and Selim? I owe it to Musa, poor soul, now more than ever. She continued to read.
But we have joys also. Nur is so pretty that Eumi wanted her to wear the hijab, which she refused. “At least let me dispel the evil eye,” my mother said.
“This is England, not a backwards place like Palestine” Nur answered. She studied nursing also, and now she is an assistant nurse at my hospital.
With my mother and Na’ima living with us, I decided to work again. The Mineral Water Hospital in Bath is one of the most sought-after hospitals. Its waters have healing powers, and people come from all over the world to be cured.
A young Pakistani doctor, a resident, began to visit Nur’s ward assiduously. His name is Rafik Malek, a Muslim. I invited him home to meet our mother. My mother liked Rafik, who had been brought up in the best Muslim tradition. He sympathizes with the fight of the Palestinians to return to their homeland.
He is a Shiite, and sometimes his fanaticism scares me. For their wedding, he brought a mullah from London to recite their marriage vows. Shortly after, they moved to London. Three years after their marriage, Nur still has no children, to Rafik’s greatest chagrin. He invited our brother Ahmed to live with them. They pray together at London’s Central Mosque. Nur is happy to have Ahmed with her, she said, but worries that the boy has become extremely religious.
I’m sure that thoughts of Musa, Nur and Ahmed, living far from her, aggravated my mother’s illness. One day she said to me, “I miss your father and I don’t feel needed anymore.” Na’ima worried her too, because she wouldn’t remarry, “One husband was plenty,” she said.
Our bright Rama has adopted
England! Rama’s tales about her school, teachers and students amused our mother, who in the afternoons sat by the window, impatient for Rama’s return. She never got used to the chilly English rainy season. I knew that she longed for our beautiful Jaffa, with its sun shining brightly.
Dear Samira, I hope that somehow this letter will find you.
Take care of yourself. Everybody sends their love,Amina
A few days after she received Amina’s letter, Samira went to the bazaar. She found it swarming with people. She had heard that many Yahudim, store owners who ran away from Jaffa during 1948 fights, had returned and reopened their shops. Maybe Adon Nathan was one of them! How come she didn’t think of him sooner? Samira remembered how, in the bazaar, Suha always stopped to exchange a few words with him. “All I need is a bit of luck,” thought Samira.
It wasn’t difficult to find the shop, but to her dismay it was no longer the watchmaker’s shop. In the window were displayed beautifully ornate silver candlesticks, tea sets, Kiddush cups, necklaces with silver Stars of David, others with silver crosses, prayer books with elaborate silver covers. It was a silversmith shop.
She stood in front of the window for a long time, until a young man, the image of a younger Mr. Nathan, appeared in the door frame and asked, “Jedati, how can I help you? Are you looking for something special?”
“Oh, young man,” Samira answered, “I was looking for Nathan Effendi, who once owned this shop.”
“He is my uncle,” exclaimed the young man. “When we arrived from Morocco, on the magic carpet, as my Yemenite wife called the airplane, my uncle, knowing I was a silversmith, helped me start the shop. And as you can see, with G-d’s help, the shop prospers.”
A young man who likes to talk, thought Samira. Should I ask him about what really interests me?
“What did you want from my uncle, maybe I can be of help,” the solicitous young man said.
“I wanted to greet him, Shalom, Ahlan Wa-Sahlan Beek, welcome back. But I’m glad I’ve met you. You seem to be as nice as he.” Gathering her courage, Samira raised her eyes to the young man. “I need to find the name and address of a Jewish hospital in Tel-Aviv, the one closest to Jaffa.”
Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction Page 31