Heinrich discovered that the Berlin radio station had acquired the tapes of our trio’s concerts. Two of the three performers were needed to sign the release of the tapes. Imagine how much I am looking forward to hearing again my beautiful Gretchen’s piano-playing. Her performance was so full of life. Meanwhile there is a lot of bureaucracy, as some of East Germany’s radio stations continue to create problems and delays.
Heinrich and I cried reminiscing about old times, mostly talking about Gretchen. I always suspected that he was a little in love with her, but I couldn’t hold it against him.
It’s strange to walk on these same streets, see the same coffee houses, and smell the flowers, which continue to bloom every year from that bloodstained soil.
Grandpa Otto
How much he had loved her, Shlomi thought, shivering. Fifteen years had passed since Gretchen’s death. Her last years were a source of suffering for everybody around her, but not for Otto. She remained forever his angel.
Otto’s letter made him realize how much D’vora meant to him, how much livelier he felt when she was with him and how much he missed her.
Amina told him that Musa never considered remarrying. Although Rama wrote how proud his father was at his birth, Shlomi wondered if Musa would not resent that his son was alive while the wife he loved so much was dead.
A glance at his watch reminded Shlomi that D’vora‘s plane was due shortly. At a nearby kiosk he bought flowers; then signaled a taxi, “To Kennedy airport, please.”
It seemed to Shlomi that not a week, but a month, had passed since he saw her last. D’vora waved her arms while she called his name. A new light radiated from her. He noticed that people around them smiled when they embraced.
“Tonight calls for a celebration. I made reservations for Tavern on the Green.”
Shlomi knew it was D’vora’s favorite restaurant. She once said, “One of my pleasures living in New-York is to smell the fragrance of the pine trees and feel part of nature as we walk through Central Park.”
When Shlomi ordered champagne that night, D’vora said. “You’re spoiling me.”
Shlomi took her hand and kissed it. “That’s what I’d like to do for the rest of my life.”
“It’s good to be back, though I feel that when I’m here I miss Israel and when I am in Israel, I miss America.”
“Now you are here with me. It’s all that counts.”
D’vora woke up in the middle of the night. Shlomi’s head resting on her shoulder made her feel uncomfortable, but she didn’t move. She looked at him, her lover and best friend. She thought of the conversation they’d had a few hours ago and how happy Rama’s letter made him, He seemed distracted that Amina didn’t share her news with his father. Shlomi is so vulnerable, D’vora thought. She knew how important it was for him to be accepted by her family, not only for himself, but for his parents, too.
He reminded her of school friends, children of Holocaust survivors, who for years felt ashamed that their parents had lacked the courage to fight the Nazis. Years passed before her friends made peace with their parents’ past.
Poor Shlomi, though different, is burdened by a similar problem. D’vora’s heart throbbed, “I love you for who you are,” she whispered, “and I’ll help you win over your demons.”
May, 1970
“I just got a call from Marlboro,” Shlomi said. D’vora stopped practicing, lifted her eyes toward him and waited. The echo of the cello sounds still reverberated in the room.
“Mr. Serkin invited me to participate in this summer’s Festival.”
D’vora rose and placed the cello in its case. “Doesn’t it seem kind of late?” she asked. “I thought the programs had been established already.”
“I didn’t ask for details,” Shlomi felt embarrassed. “I don’t have to go, D’vora. Five weeks is a long time. I haven’t answered yet.”
“Sweetheart, this is an honor. It took me by surprise. My best memories date from the summer we spent there as students. Not only because of the music-making or the beauty of the nature,” D’vora took his hands into hers, “but because our romance started there.”
At Marlboro, an oasis of music nestled in the rolling hills of Vermont, they found paradise. Marlboro, a commune of musicians, well-known artists and young aspiring ones, were all united by the same desire, to make music of the highest quality at an unhurried pace.
“If you don’t want me to, I won’t go,” Shlomi said.
“Just the opposite, as I said already, I was surprised. I think it will be good for you, and not only musically. You’ll be able to rest. The Vermont air will bring back your color. Lately you look pale and tense.” Shlomi’s lips touched her hands.
“I have to go. I’ll be late for our rehearsal,” D’vora said brightly. “Don’t worry about me. Giorgio Ciompi of the Ciompi Quartet, resident at Duke University, has invited us for a performance of the Mendelssohn Octet during their summer season. I’ll ask to be scheduled while you are at Marlboro. Will this make you happier?”
“I don’t know,” Shlomi joked. “Those Italians scare me. They see a skirt and start to run after it. I hear Giorgio has a reputation of—”
“Oh, stop it,” D’vora closed his mouth with a kiss. “You know you can trust me.”
D’vora was right, he thought. He needed to relax. He was stressed and not only because of his heavy schedule. After he received Rama’s letter, he had asked his London manager to find her phone number.
“Selim,” she cried, after he identified himself. “My dear, I’m so happy to hear your voice.”
“I want to thank you for your letter and picture. It was a nice surprise, especially since I haven’t heard from Amina.”
“Oh, she’s going to write you. I long to see you, Selim, when are you coming to London?”
“Not in the near future, I’m afraid, but I’m working on it.”
There was silence on the other end. “Rama,” Shlomi hurried, “Did Amina tell my father, I mean, about my letter?”
“Amina is our oldest sister and the closest to Musa. In the past, anytime she mentioned Samira’s letters in which she wrote she found you, he claimed that those were the fantasies of an old woman and asked Amina not to bother him anymore.”
“I shouldn’t have asked.”
“Musa is a bitter man. But, trust us. Now everything is going to be different.
Bye, my dear.”
“Another reason for you to have a vacation, to meet old friends and make new ones,” D’vora said after Shlomi told her about the phone conversation with Rama. “At Marlboro there are no phones, no contacts with the world outside, complete relaxation.”
He didn’t tell her that he had asked to have his mail forwarded.
He drove the four hours from New York to Marlboro in a rented car. A few years earlier the two of them had car-pooled with other Juilliard students. A letter from Otto, from Germany, which the mailman had brought just as he was leaving, was tucked unopened in his pocket. I’ll read it when I stop for gas, Shlomi thought. Strange that he’s still in Germany. He’s been there three months already.
Shlomi thought about his father. How childish it had been to think the two of them would meet, embrace and live happily ever after. Shlomi could not bring himself to blame Musa. Life had treated him harshly and no doubt he was protecting himself from other disappointments.
Shlomi didn’t realize how fast he was driving until he saw himself facing the entrance to Marlboro. The yellowish poster, Caution, Musicians at Play, made him smile. After the first time they made love, D’vora said jokingly that at Marlboro there were more ways for musicians to be at play.
He received a room as Spartan as the one he had a few years before, no TV, no radio, and, of course, no telephone. He was told that an oboist expected to arrive the next day would share his room. Shlomi unpacked and was ready to practice, when he remembered Otto’s letter.
July 30, 1970
My Dear Shlomi,
You proba
bly wonder why I’m still in Germany. For years I have wanted but lacked the courage to search for what happened to our daughter Ruthie, after she was taken away. When our friend Heinrich, the cellist, showed me Ruthie’s last picture playing flute with a youth orchestra, I wept. Heinrich let me cry.
He suggested I cut out Ruthie’s picture and send it to Bildzeitung, with a caption asking that whoever recognizes her, or had seen this girl, to please call.
I was doubtful. What I knew was going to die with me, but Heinrich insisted. We placed the caption in other city newspapers, not only in Berlin. Then we waited.
Nothing happened. I was ready to leave Germany when a woman called. In a trembling voice, she said that she had seen this girl, who played flute in the camp prisoners’ orchestra. She said her playing was so beautiful, sounds like tears dripping from the flute.
I asked her, which camp? What did you do there? Did you speak with her? What happened to Ruthie? I was losing my mind, my body was shaking. For almost thirty years I was hoping against hope to hear those words.
Heinrich took the receiver from me. Please could we meet with you, he asked. You’ll receive compensation for your time.
Meine Herrn, she answered, I was this girl’s age, but it was forbidden to get close to a prisoner, I would have lost my job, maybe my life. For years, I couldn’t get her out of my mind. I waited two weeks before I decided to call you. Maybe now I can finally find peace.
I heard a click. She hung up. Heinrich wanted to call the phone company for her number. I didn’t let him. We couldn’t talk. This letter is mailed from the airport, before taking off. I am going back to Israel, the only place I can call home.
Grandpa Otto
Shlomi folded the letter and put it away. At long last Otto had said good-bye to his daughter.
He picked up his violin and drew the bow across the strings. But the violin wasn’t responding the way he wanted. It had happened other times, when his mind was not quiet.
5 4
Bath, August 15, 1970
Dear Selim,
I started to write you a letter describing our family. I changed my mind thinking that you’d be more interested to learn about your mother’s life in our midst.
In the spring of 1943 two months before I left home to join the British Army as a student nurse, something happened that changed the tranquil life of our house, and maybe all of us. Musa walked on the beach, and heard screams of, “A girl is drowning!” Without hesitation he threw himself into the sea. He saved and brought home a fragile girl with a faint heartbeat.
Who was she? Was she a runaway? We never found out. During her recovery Musa fell in love with the unknown girl. Suha, the Arabic name by which our mother called her, must have felt the same.
I was the one who discovered her talent for drawing and convinced my mother that Suha could replace me. Though pleased by Suha’s work, my mother’s eagle eyes had observed that Musa couldn’t stay away from the beautiful blond girl with skin like fresh milk. She decided that Musa should leave for Jerusalem to learn the business of banking.
I was marching in a new direction also after George encouraged me to become a professional nurse. My mother’s rage knew no bounds when I told her that I was going to marry George.
Musa, the only one I corresponded with, informed me about his marriage to Suha, another blow to my mother. I was delighted to read about your birth, Selim, our youngest Masri.
I didn’t see my family again until 1948. Having no news from them I was desperate to get them out. George left for Palestine on an assignment, but mostly to find my family. He met Musa when he brought our sister Na’ima and her children to Jaffa after the catastrophe which befell her village, Deir yassin. There, another drama awaited, Musa’s wife and son were missing.
“I have to find Selim” Musa said; he was going to search every house until he found you. Our mother reminded him of his responsibilities as the head of the family. She won at a terrible price!
And now there is a chance for Musa to meet you! Would it be possible for you to come to London in September? Musa will be there for the entire month. Rather than wait for him to visit me, Rama and Nur think that the three of us should meet him in London. Our ardent wish is for you to join us.
D’vora insisted on accompanying him to the airport. “You should have left the violin at home. It’s insured, so you have nothing to worry about. Now it’s only going to encumber you.” Shlomi didn’t answer.
“What do you expect to happen?” D’vora had asked him. He knew she worried for him. D’vora’s recipe for important events was cautious optimism. “Don’t get me wrong,” she embraced him, “I wish I could be at your side, rather than go play the Schubert quintet in Puerto Rico.”
“You agreed to play it,” Shlomi held her tightly, “and it’s going to advance your career tremendously. It’s not every day that a young, still unknown cellist is asked to perform with the Schneider Quartet.”
As the plane took off, Shlomi continued to see D’vora’s smile and hear her whisper, “Be yourself—don’t let anything change you.”
“Would you like a pillow?” the flight attendant asked. It startled Shlomi. He didn’t realize he had fallen asleep. He tossed and turned, but he could not sleep any longer. He read again the postscript in Amina’s letter.
A few days before she died, my mother said that she never cared for Na’ima’s boys. For the first time, I heard her crying and whispering, “Selim, Selim, my sweet grandson, where are you?”
Shlomi felt a chill. He, who couldn’t remember his grandmother, had tears in his eyes. His throat was dry. He had to move about the cabin, stretch, drink a glass of water.
“Please, take your seats and fasten your seatbelts. We are descending toward Heathrow airport.”
Shlomi felt tired. As he placed Amina’s letter in the violin case, he read again Amina’s last sentence, Merciful God, I hope Selim will be the catalyst and help our family reunite. We need him as much or more than he needs us.”
London, September 5, 1970
A fine rain slid down the window as the plane made its way to the gate. Shlomi was glad that D’vora had forced him to take his raincoat. He made two phone calls before he left New York, one to Rama, to say that he would call her after his arrival, the second to Geoffrey, a former colleague from Juilliard, now assistant concertmaster at Covent Garden’s orchestra and teacher at the Royal College of Music.
An exuberant Geoffrey offered to host Shlomi. “We’ll play duets, as we did at Juilliard, old chap. I am kind of rusty and need you to make me work.”
Though Shlomi told him that he had to take care of personal business, Geoffrey continued to insist. Shlomi promised to call from the airport.
When he took his small luggage from the overhead compartment, sheets of music fell out. To surprise Geoffrey, Shlomi had brought the Moszkowski duets, the most difficult pieces for two violins. That will really make Geoffrey sweat!
The big hall at Heathrow looked as gray as the sky outside. As he searched for a telephone booth, Shlomi saw three women holding a banner, WELCOME SELIM. Was this meant for him? At 7:35 in the morning, whoever they were, they must have been up since five o’clock.
Shlomi heard whispers, “That’s him.” He knew Amina; the tall lady; a younger copy of her was probably Nur, and the petite one running toward him, all smiles, was Rama.
“Salaam Aleikum,” they greeted him,
“Aleikum Salaam,” Shlomi answered, embarrassed. He didn’t know whether to shake hands or to hug them.
Rama got hold of his hands, “I dreamed so much of this day,” she said.
“I am your Aunt Nur,” the tall one said. With her oval, luminous eyes, she was by far the prettiest. “You have to excuse Rama, she gets excited easily.”
“Please,” Rama said, taking Shlomi by the arm, “Selim must be tired from the long flight. He needs to rest.”
I wish they wouldn’t call me Selim. It makes me feel uncomfortable. Amina knows my name is Shl
omi. She should have told the others.
“Selim, don’t pay attention, the emotion makes them act like schoolgirls,” Amina said.” We want you to have a nice visit. Everything is ready. Nur’s car is waiting outside. She has offered to host both of us in her apartment near Green Park, a very quiet neighborhood. We invited your father for coffee tomorrow afternoon. He doesn’t know yet that you are here.”
Shlomi was overwhelmed by their solicitude—it was too much. How was he going to decline their offer without being rude?
“This is so unexpected,” Shlomi said. “I’m touched that you came to meet me at the airport, but I have made arrangements to stay with a good friend, a violinist. I was just going to call him when I saw you.”
The sisters exchanged glances.
“Please don’t get me wrong.” Shlomi said, “I didn’t know about your plan, and it would be difficult to get out of my commitment.” I won’t let them run my life. “Be aware,” D’vora had cautioned him, “women who seem protective can also be overpowering.”
“Then when can we meet?” a disappointed Amina asked. “I know Rama and Nur would like to get to know you. It’s important for us to talk, to be prepared for the meeting tomorrow.”
“If I’m not mistaken that’s the reason you are here,” added Nur, coldly.
Rama came to his rescue, “Sisters, try to understand. We can’t monopolize him. Selim,” She squeezed Shlomi’s hand, “I’m sure we’ll have ample time to be together.”
Shlomi smiled, “Any time, any place” he said.
“Call your friend,” Nur commanded, “I’ll drive you to his place. We’ll decide later when to meet again.”
What a whirlwind the last twenty-four hours had been, Shlomi thought, walking the short distance from Geoffrey’s apartment to the Royal College of Music, where he had obtained permission to look over the manuscript of Elgar’s violin concerto.
It was ten o’clock in the morning. At noon he was expected to have lunch with his aunts at Nur’s apartment, four hours before Musa’s visit. Shlomi smiled as he remembered that Amina, worried, had asked him if he would eat the Middle Eastern dishes they planned to serve.
Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction Page 36