“It has, believe me. That woman followed us. She waited patiently during the two hours we spent at the beach and then followed us back. Early one morning, again on a Friday, as I was returning from the souk, she crossed the street and asked me in broken Hebrew mixed with Arabic, “Have you adopted the boy?”
“Yo-seida, old woman,” I answered in Arabic, “why in the world do you ask me that?”
“I know his parents,” she said. “I raised his father. I was the boy’s nanny. But the boy’s mother ran away with him. Since then nothing could console my Musa.” Tears fell from her tired eyes. “She destroyed him. It was my fault,” she kept repeating, “my fault alone, because I trusted her.”
Mazal stopped. The colors in Shlomi’s face changed from pale to dark red and pale again. In a voice in which the others could hear his despair, Shlomi whispered, “My father was an Arab.” He got up from his chair. “An Arab who raped my mother, Oh, God,” he repeated, while his shaking hands covered his face. “What a shame, what a shame.”
With his bloodshot eyes fixed on Otto, Shlomi started to laugh, an unnatural laugh that ended with a sound like broken glass. “You waited until I was on my way to a big career in order to tell me that I am a bastard. Is nicht war, Grandpa Otto?”
The flame in Shlomi’s eyes scared D’vora. “Shlomi, please,” she pleaded.
“That’s not true,” Mazal screamed, while Otto sat crumpled in his chair. “You are mistaken, Shlomi. Your parents were married. Please let me finish. I am just at the beginning—“
“I don’t need to hear anything more. Enough, I’ve heard enough from you, all lies. I’ll never forgive you,” Shlomi looked at his guests with hatred, “Never!”
“Shlomi,” D’vora knelt in front of him, “I know that nobody can take away your pain, but for my sake, please listen to Mazal.” D’vora’s head dropped on Shlomi’s knees, her arms encircling him.
“You’re in tandem with them. Your cousin must’ve told you. Otto needed to bring a full delegation. What a masquerade!” Shlomi pushed D’vora’s arms away.
But D’vora wouldn’t relent. “You forget that each one gathered here loves you and cares for you.”
“I am Arab! I am Arab! I placed my father on a pedestal, a hero of the Independence War, as he told me,” Shlomi pointed an accusing finger at Otto, “A hero, really! My only hope is that a good Jewish fighter took care of him,” he said bitterly.
“Your father is alive,” Mazal said softly.
“Little wonder Shifra never told you about her family. She knew that her parents wouldn’t care for her Arab bastard,” Shlomi continued, deaf to Mazal’s words.
His eyes looked like spears when he addressed Otto, “You wanted to appease your conscience, no matter the price.” Otto wept silently.
Three women spoke. D’vora said, “Shlomi this is not the way to talk to the man who raised you.” Mazal and Lotte took over, “And for whom you became the center of his universe.”
Otto raised his hand, “Shlomi is right. I failed him as I failed Ruthie.”
“Your father is alive,” Mazal repeated.
Shlomi raised his eyes. He had heard her, but he didn’t care. Whoever and wherever his father was, for him he was dead.
“Samira told me…” Mazal started. At the name Samira, Shlomi’s body shuddered. He saw eyes that smiled at him, heard guttural laughter. His lips shaped the word, Samira. He said it, like tasting a word long forgotten, “Jedati Samira.”
“She was the old woman,” Mazal said. “For years, she said, she had searched for you and your mother. She didn’t want to tell me how she discovered us. I told her your mother was dead. She cried ‘I loved her, as I would have loved my own daughter if Allah had blessed me with one. Yet she betrayed me.’
“I saw Samira many times after that, and little by little she told me about the beginning of your parents’ budding romance which she encouraged, against all odds.”
Shlomi’s eyes were closed. Mazal wasn’t even sure that he was listening.
“A love story! Please continue, Mazal,” D’vora said, “I love romances.”
The rain had started, drops beating furiously on the windows.
“Musa, Shlomi’s father, saved Shifra from drowning. Samira called her Suha, the Arabic name the Masri family gave her. Musa fell in love with her and against his mother’s wishes, they got married. Not long after, Selim, the name they called you, Shlomi, was born.”
The telephone rang, startling them. It was almost midnight. The hostess called out, “Shlomi, it’s for you.” Shlomi got up, and D’vora, who still held his hand, went with him. From the living room they heard Shlomi’s voice. “Thanks for calling. No, I am not hiding.” And after a while, “I’ll think about it and let you know. Soon, I promise.”
“It was Mr. Hurok,” D’vora reported back. “He already has two contracts for Shlomi.”
“I wonder how he knew where to find me,” Shlomi said, watching Otto.
D’vora said, “Mazal, please continue.”;
“Samira blamed Otto. She said, ‘It was the violin teacher who put ideas in Suha’s head.’
“How,” I asked her, ‘Because of the music,’ she said. Though she told Suha that the violin was the devil’s instrument, she never realized that Suha continued her visits and took Selim with her, too.
“There was much tension, with the war almost at their gate. Fatima, Musa’s mother, pressed him to leave the country. If Suha had acted like a devoted Muslim wife, she would have followed her husband, but she disappeared, taking the child with her. Suha’s death was Allah’s punishment, Samira said.”
“Abu Selim, Abu Selim” Shlomi whispered suddenly, his eyes closed. “Was there ever a time when I called my father’s name?”
Mazal answered, “One night during your illness, when it was my turn to watch you, you hallucinated and called his name, like now.”
Shlomi shrugged, as if wanting to get rid of a bad dream. “For years I wanted to learn about my parents, hoping to discover who I am. Now, I know.”
He left the room.
5 0
August 1969
In the spacious guest house of the Israeli Philharmonic Orchestra, D’vora browsed through recent newspapers, eager to read the musical reviews. It was early in the morning. She sat on the bed, one leg curled beneath her, the other one hanging bare, while her diaphanous nightgown sculpted her supple body.
She sighed with satisfaction after running her eyes over most of the reviews. “Shlomi,” she called, “Come read. Maariv, Jerusalem Post, Yediot Aharonot’s critics compete in their praises for you. Hear a few of the headlines: Shlomi Gal’s playing is of international caliber, Shlomi is following in Itzhak Perlman and Pinchas Zuckerman’s footsteps, Shlomi’s Beethoven radiated enthusiasm and assurance. And there is much more.”
The bathroom door opened and Shlomi appeared, shaving cream spread over his face. In one leap he was at her side, his arms circled around her body, “Mmm, you smell good.” He hid his face in her hair.
“Shlomi, stop it. Look what you did. Now I’ll have to take another shower. I want you to read the reviews, not to jump on me like a wild animal,” she was laughing.
“I can’t refrain being wild when I am near you,” Shlomi said. “Let’s make love. We’ll read the reviews later. Just looking at you I get hungry.” He wiped his face on her nightgown before sliding it off her body.
“Shlomi,” she protested mildly, “be serious, we have a rehearsal in a couple of hours, this is not the time.” He closed her mouth with a kiss. Their bodies knew each other so well, their rhythms and frissons identical to the rhythm and emotions of their making music together.
“Marry me,” Shlomi said. “Let’s get married today.” Picking her up in his arms, he sang Mendelssohn’s Nuptial March, matching words to the music, twirling her naked body around the room.
“My darling, I want it as much as you do, but today doesn’t seem to be the right time. Please read your reviews. I’ve
started collecting them since the Leventrittt Award opened the gates of the international music world for you. From London, Rome, Copenhagen to Helsinki and Vienna, only accolades for your performances. I am so proud of you.”
With their heads, one blond, one dark, close together, they started to read aloud. Shlomi was invited to play a concert for the Israeli Festival with the Israeli Philharmonic Orchestra in Tel-Aviv and Jerusalem and both he and D’vora were asked to coach students at the Rubin Academy.
“Before a large audience of music lovers and students, Shlomi and D’vora proved that their teaching was as professional as their performances. The students were thrilled with the way they were taught.” D’vora read aloud the critique in The Jerusalem Post.
“Look at this one,” Shlomi exclaimed, picking another newspaper. “It really warms my heart to see Otto mentioned. When he told me that after twenty-seven years with the Philharmonic it was time for him to retire, I felt that he was saying good-bye to the most important part of his life. ‘My hands have arthritis,’ he told me when I stopped in Israel between my European concerts, ‘It’s time to leave. I know that many talented youngsters are waiting for an opening. It’s not right to hold a chair which, by now, belongs to others.’”
“He and his yeke upbringing, you said then,” D’vora reminisced. “You were impressed by Otto’s modesty. He was completely unaware of the surprise you’d prepared for him. You knew that if you suggested that you would perform a concert dedicated to Otto, the management of the Israeli Philharmonic, eager to have you perform for free, would agree immediately.”
Shlomi read, On the podium Shlomi Gal addressed the bewildered man seated in the second violin section of the Israeli Philharmonic Orchestra; ‘Dear Otto, please allow me the honor of performing together the Bach Concerto for Two Violins.’ Then Gal turned to the sold-out captive audience. “This concerto,” he said, “is dear to both of us. We played it many times, my teacher, who is also my adoptive grandfather, and I. I wouldn’t be playing violin if not for him. The piece hasn’t been announced in the program. It’s the surprise the Israeli Philharmonic and I want to offer Otto on the eve of his retirement.”
“Otto had tears in his eyes. He was visibly moved,” D’vora recalled, “and of course he knew the music by heart.”
She continued to read: “Their phrasing, tone, and perfect give-and-take reminded me of the performance I heard with David Oistrakh and his son, Igor. I thought at the time that only blood-related artists could arrive at this level of unity and musical understanding.’
“That’s only the Davar’s critic,” D’vora said, “but I’m sure there will be others too.”
“I am happy,” Shlomi said, “I’m going to call Otto.”
D’vora was pleased. Though Shlomi didn’t tell her, she knew that since that evening in Dobbs Ferry when Shlomi was told the truth about his parents, he had not had any contact with Otto. He was nervous and agitated whenever she mentioned Otto. She had pleaded with Shlomi, “It’s time to make peace. Otto is an old man.” Shlomi only returned a cold stare. But the recent concert proved that he had listened to her.
“Let’s get married right now. We can be at City Hall in half an hour,” Shlomi said interrupting her reverie.
“And how about a rehearsal that starts in half an hour?” retorted D’vora. “I have to shower and get dressed, all in ten minutes.” She took his face in her hands. “Ask me again when there is no concert to perform on the same evening.”
D’vora suspected Shlomi kept secrets from her. One day, as she was cleaning his tuxedo, she saw an empty envelope falling from one of its pockets. No letter. It was addressed to Shlomi c/o Hurok Agency. The return address was Bath, England, written in a beautiful handwriting, careful penmanship, definitely a woman, she thought.
D’vora didn’t ask Shlomi about the letter. And she did not dare ask Mr. Hurok’s secretary; probably an admirer. D’vora knew that Shlomi’s profession and his long tours could present dangers. But each time he returned home from a concert tour, he was more passionate than ever.
5 1
News travels fast in the music world. Yehudi Menuhin’s invitation to have Shlomi perform at his annual Bath Music Festival in England in June 1969 was proof. During the months following the Dobbs Ferry revelations, D’vora had asked him numerous times if he was planning to meet any of his relatives while he was there.
“Leave me alone,” he answered. “I am not interested.”
But he was. He thought of Samira, the only witness of his early childhood, and longed to see her. Her image was clearer in his mind than his mother’s. Before flying to England, Shlomi called Mazal. He hadn’t spoken to her—or Charlotte or Otto—in seven months. “Shalom Aleichem,” Mazal answered to his, “Shalom.”
“I am going to play a concert in England, and I want to swing by Israel first.”
“Otto will be happy to see you.”
“Mazal, you said that you know Samira. I’d like to meet her. She’s the only person from my childhood I can recall clearly. In my ears I hear the tinkling of her many bracelets. Can you help me find her?”
“I probably can. She lives in an old people’s home in Jaffa. But Shlomi, Otto will be disappointed if he learns you were in Israel and didn’t visit him.”
“He doesn’t have to know,” Shlomi said sharply.
“Then there is no point in finding Samira’s address,” retorted Mazal. “Good day, Shlomi.”
“Mazal, wait…”
“Call me again if you change your mind.” Mazal sounded upset.
The next day he called, apologetic. Yes, he was wrong, he told Mazal. All three of them, Otto, Charlotte and herself, his adoptive family, they deserved better. “I am stressed, my mind tells me to do one thing, my heart another. And my concerts! I have to be on top of my performances, even on days when I‘d prefer to crawl into a dark place.”
Shlomi stopped for two days in Israel. After a short visit with Otto and Charlotte, he accompanied Mazal to the old folks’ home in Jaffa. He was dismayed to see the decrepit building where Samira shared a room with three other women.
Samira knew from Mazal that Shlomi was coming. If Mazal had not pointed her out, Shlomi wouldn’t have recognized her. Samira had watched for his arrival, close to the entrance. When she saw him, she screamed, “My boy, my young master, Selim Ibn Musa Ibn Faud Masri, Salaam Aleikum. Allah Ackbar has sent you to shine upon my old eyes.”
Shaking, she started to kneel, but Mazal and Shlomi wouldn’t let her.
“Talk to me, please,” she said in Arabic, kissing his hands and touching him shyly, as if wanting to make sure it was not a dream.
Mazal was the translator. Shlomi kept repeating, “Jedati Samira,” caressing Samira’s calloused hands, bare of bracelets. Did he only dream her bracelets?
Samira pressed into his hands a few yellowish papers written in Arabic, “From England, from your Aunt Amina, your father’s sister,” she said. “Amina, Na’ima, twins, Nur, Rama and Ahmed,” she counted on her fingers, “Your aunts and uncle. I sent Amina your pictures which Sit Mazal, Allah bless her, gave me, though I kept a few for myself, too. Look!”
She showed him a few old black and white photographs taken with Mazal’s amateur camera at each one of his high-school end of the year concerts.
Shlomi looked at Mazal, who said apologetically, “She missed you so much. I gave her your pictures.” Stains left by tears blurred his image.
He looked at the letters in his hand. “Samira probably wants me to read these, but I don’t know Arabic.”
Mazal fired a few words. Samira nodded. “Samira wants you to have them. I can try to translate, of course only if you so desire.”
Samira’s fingers were still intertwined with Shlomi’s when he signaled that they had to part. “I’ll come back,” Shlomi promised, kissing Samira’s forehead and arranging the fallen hijab around her face. “I am happy I found you,” He looked at her bare arms, “Next time I am going to bring you the most beau
tiful bracelets,” and he embraced her again.
“I know a coffee house close by, where nobody will disturb us,” Mazal suggested after they left Samira, “You can have a cup of coffee while I try to decipher your aunt’s handwriting.”
Shlomi was overwhelmed. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear what his aunt wrote. What for? He was not interested in his father’s family. He’d had a childish desire to see Samira. Now that he had seen her, he had to stop this nonsense. Return to reality.
“Mazal, those letters,” he mumbled, “I don’t want to know their contents. They were meant for Samira, not for me. Probably full of hatred for my mother, I prefer not to hear. Let bygones be bygones. Please return them to her.”
Shlomi took the letters from his pocket and as he handed them to Mazal, he saw the return address on the envelope, Bath, England.
“Oh, my God, what a coincidence,” Shlomi fell silent for a few seconds, “Bath is the city where I am going to perform in three days.”
“Now you have an opportunity to meet your aunt through her writing,” Mazal said. “What you’ll discover might help you make a decision; whether to look for her or not.”
Shlomi looked bewildered. “Samira is not stupid,” Mazal continued. “Did she have an ulterior motive when she insisted you take the letters? I say, let’s find out.”
In the Jaffa coffee house Mazal translated Amina’s letters while Shlomi took notes from time to time. I’ll read my scribbles on the airplane.
Peering at his watch, he said, “Mazal, let’s go, otherwise we’ll be late for Charlotte’s lunch. You know that for her, like for all yekes, punctuality is the most important attribute.”
They returned in silence to the house where Shlomi grew up. As Shlomi and Mazal approached it, his nose distinguished the unmistakable aroma of Charlotte’s cooking.
“Hmm” Shlomi said, as he entered. “If I’m not mistaken, it smells of sauerbraten and Wiener schnitzel. Nicht wahr?” he asked, kissing Charlotte’s flushed face.
Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction Page 33