Shlomi smiled, “I’d be very pleased.”
Later on, far from the current of emotions which passed between them during their meeting, Musa thought again of what divided them. Would he ever be able to come to terms and accept that his son now belonged belongs to the people who drove him and his family away from their native land?
It was midday when Shlomi arrived home from Kennedy airport. He felt exhausted. The frequent concert tours had decreased his ability to fall asleep in an airplane; now, he was also reliving the emotions of meeting his father. A shower and a nap was all Shlomi wanted when he entered the apartment. D’vora’s image floated before his closed eyes and he smiled. In less than eight hours, she would be back from Puerto Rico, and find a warm nest in his arms.
He woke up with a start. Glancing at the clock he realized that he slept six hours straight. Not a lot of time left. He went to pick-up Greek food and on the way home he bought blue irises, D’vora’s favorite flowers. Fifteen minutes later, as Shlomi was setting the table, a flushed D’vora opened the door.
“So good to be back!” she exclaimed, while Shlomi helped her put away the cello before taking her into his arms.
“I missed you,” they said in one voice, laughing.
“We were gone only four days, but it seemed longer.” D’vora closed his mouth with a kiss.
“Aren’t you hungry?” Shlomi said, eyeing the table. ” Yesterday I had lunch with my father,” he moved his tongue around the word, father, like tasting an unknown fruit. “in a Greek restaurant. The food was excellent. And now, here, for your pleasure,” he mimicked Yanni’s slapping fingers and dance, “you can delight in stuffed grape leaves and moussaka.”
“Shlomi, stop it. I am not hungry for food. I am hungry to hear everything that happened in London—all the details.” Her eyes sparkled with anticipation. “Start from the beginning.”
“If you hope to hear that my father opened his arms and said, ‘Come, my prodigal son, my long-awaited one, embrace your father and let bygones be bygones,’ you will be disappointed.”
“I am not a child and don’t believe in fairy tales, but I thought—”
“Let’s be realistic,” Shlomi said, taking her in his arms. He saw a tear glitter in her eye. “As I told you on the phone, it was a first encounter, as touching for him, I suppose, as it was for me. Musa is not a person who wears his heart on his sleeve, though in one moment I saw him unable to mask his feelings.”
“You talk only about him, as if you were in his place,” D’vora said with impatience, “But what about you? How did you feel, what went through your mind?”
“I felt like a person who jumped into the sea without knowing how to swim. In the beginning, his lack of trust made me angry, and we both shouted at each other. He asked me to leave and I was ready to go. Then suddenly his attitude changed, and I saw a man overcome by doubts, but with maybe, also, a glimmer of hope.” Shlomi paced the room, “After we met in the restaurant, he said he wanted to hear me play. I remember his words, ‘I’ll make sure to catch up with you.’”
D’vora hugged him, “I know that you did well by going, it was good for your peace of mind. The two of you are starting to walk on a new path together.”
“Still a path full of rocks which might be hard to remove,” said Shlomi.
“As long as you both want to clear this path, I emphasize want. To quote Herzl, “Where there is a will there is a way.”
“My D’vorale, the mind reader, can we finally have supper? I’m starved. Talking about rocks, the cold moussaka has probably become as hard as a rock now.”
Shlomi went behind D’vora’s chair and blew on the delicate hair on her nape, “Let’s sip a little French liquor I bought at Heathrow, and have a ball. Say yes,” he whispered in her ear.“
“Shlomi, please, can’t you be serious for a minute?”
“Only one minute. I want to prove how much I missed you.”
5 5
March 1972
D’vora lay in bed, cradled by a feeling of unabashed happiness. The rays of sun intruded through the blinds and played across her face. She smiled to herself. Everything was going to be fine. She felt at peace. For an instant the noise of her mother moving pots and pans in the kitchen interrupted her thoughts. She didn’t know what time it was, but she didn’t care. In Binyamina, in the little house surrounded by palm trees where she grew up, she felt secure and loved. As her hand moved over the empty space next to her, she felt the bed still warm from Shlomi’s body. He must be running. She stretched lazily.
March in Israel was one of the months blessed with perfect weather. It was the beginning of spring, the renewal of nature, and in a couple of days a new life waited for D’vora, the life of a married woman. Hard to believe that for years she kept postponing it. She never doubted that Shlomi was her Basherte, she knew it from the moment she saw him again at Juilliard, but the institution of marriage scared her.
The pregnancy changed everything. First the surprise, followed by the realization of the miracle happening to her body. She kept it a secret from Shlomi, but called her mother in Israel in the middle of the night with the news. After the emotion of the first minutes, her mother said with urgency, “It’s time to get married. Don’t worry. I will take care of everything. Oh, I can’t wait to tell your father.”
Shlomi’s reaction, after asking her again and again if she was sure of it, was to buy all the books on pregnancy he could find and start reading with the same attention he devoted to his violin practice. He monitored her eating; out went the salty herrings and the wine she liked most. He bribed her to take long walks with him, “for the health of the baby.” D’vora adored the novelty of being spoiled.
The long walks provided them with the opportunity to talk and rehash the events of the last eighteen months since Shlomi’s father became a presence in their life. D’vora had met him when he attended one of Shlomi’s concerts in Amsterdam. For two days they stayed in the same hotel and met for breakfast and again in the afternoons, after Shlomi’s rehearsals with the Concertgebouw orchestra. D’vora was impressed by the concentration with which his father listened to the music.
“Growing up, classical music was not part of my education.” Musa apologized. “At home my mother favored the ballads of Uhm Kultum, the famous Egyptian songstress. This new world of sound is fascinating. I hope it’s not too late to learn what I missed as a youngster.”
D’vora recognized the similarity between father and son, the willingness to take on new challenges. After the concert, Musa said, (did D’vora detect a whiff of nostalgia in it?) “I wish I had known that your mother loved music so much.” He never called her Shifra or Suha, only “your mother.”
“Musa is as cold as a fish,” Shlomi complained.
“What do you want?” D’vora asked him. “You yourself said, after your return from London, that there are still barriers between the two of you. Give him time. Don’t be impatient.”
“He’s already conquered you. I watched you falling prey to his European manners, his kissing your hand, his compliments. After twenty years of living in Europe, my Arab father knows how to please a woman.”
D’vora laughed. “Don’t tell me you are jealous of your father.” Her face became serious. “I think he’s behaving correctly. Look at how much time he spent with us.”
“Correctly yes,” Shlomi said bitterly. “He never calls me Shlomi or my son. He never mentions my mother’s name, either.”
“And you,” D’vora answered him, “did you go out of your way to make him feel closer to you?”
D’vora’s mother bustled into the room, with a filled breakfast tray. “Even pregnant women get out of bed when the sun is at its zenith. Shlomi has been gone for more than two hours. Where? God knows. The wedding is in two days, though both of you don’t seem to care. Have you said since you arrived, Ima, Aba, can we help you? Not that God forbid we need your help. Everything is under control. You wanted a wedding in the Baron’s vineyard,
and that’s fine with us. You asked for a reform Rabbi, we said O.K., though my parents must be turning in their graves. You were smart to bring your civil marriage license issued in New York. I wondered, how did you know that the Rabbanut would not recognize your marriage if officiated by a Reform Rabbi?
D’vora reached to embrace her. “You are the best of mothers. I have become a bit lazy since we arrived. Put me to work, tell me what to do.”
“Be pretty,” her mother had already forgotten her outburst. “Sit in the garden, where the sun will caress your face until it turns the golden color of our sabras.”
D’vora let the book fall on her knees. Where could Shlomi be? He was so mysterious lately. D’vora sighed. They had seen quite a bit of Musa, while D’vora was in London where her quartet performed a concert, and following that, when they visited with Amina and Rama. No one discussed politics, though D’vora was sure it was in everyone’s mind. People couldn’t escape reading or listening to the news of the guerilla war initiated by Egypt against Israel, about Fedayeen shelling kibbutzim during their almost daily border incursions and Israel’s swift response to their attacks. Nasser’s death in 1970 didn’t calm things down.
Shlomi’s aunts and his father seemed to retreat behind a screen, all of them polite but tense. D’vora wanted to ask if they had heard from their brother Ahmed, but was afraid to do so. Did Ahmed belong to the PLO, attacking Israel from Lebanon?
A few days after their arrival in Israel, both she and Shlomi stopped listening to the morning news. It was too depressing.
She knew that Shlomi had invited his father and aunts to the wedding. But were they going to come? Only Amina answered. A lovely letter filled with good wishes, but no confirmation. She wrote that George was busy with a new architectural project; it might be difficult for him to get away. “My sisters and I send you our good wishes. May you be blessed with a hundred sons; the old Arabic wish.” The letter arrived a month ago. Since then, silence.
Where was Shlomi? Maybe I should call Otto, or Mazal. He always confides in her when he has a problem. D’vora closed her eyes. The sun felt so good, as if it was kissing her. But it was a real kiss, it was Shlomi.
”I have a surprise,” he said, a new light in his eyes, “but you’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”
5 6
March 21, the day before the wedding. Walking early in the morning, Shlomi noticed the dewdrops on the flowers and trees on each side of the paths of Nahalat Yitzhak cemetery, where his mother had been buried more than twenty years ago. He felt his heart beat in his ears. How long had it been since he last visited her grave? He remembered how resentful he was when, as a child, Otto made him come along to “visit your mother” while Otto cried, a little farther away, prostrated on his wife’s grave. For a long time Shlomi had been angry with his mother, who had left him, a child, to face the world alone.
For an entire week, since their arrival in Israel, he acted quickly, working on the plan he had made before leaving New York. He did not share with D’vora what he had in mind. Yet Shlomi couldn’t totally keep his secret; he needed Mazal, who, at his call, agreed to help him. How otherwise could he find a stone carver and engraver, serious professionals, ready to deliver their work in the short time he needed?
On the old headstone, he saw the words he remembered:
SHIFRA GAL
MOTHER OF SHLOMI
PASSED AWAY ON DECEMBER 15, 1948
YOUR SON WILL ALWAYS REMEMBER YOU
That was all. No date of birth for her. Shlomi looked at his watch. The workers must arrive any moment now, he thought.
Last night he talked with his parents-in-law, while D’vora fell asleep in front of the TV. Since she became pregnant, she had these spells. “My need to sleep.” she said, “is stronger than my will to stay awake.”
Shlomi told them about the next day’s event. “I don’t know if this is a superstition, but I have heard that many Jews believe that if a person’s parents are alive, this person is forbidden to enter a cemetery. I hope you won’t object if D’vora, whom I love more than anything in the world, stands next to me tomorrow.”
He continued, “Your daughter is smart and very sensitive. When I complained about my father’s coldness, she said. ‘What do you expect? What have you done for him? Have you acknowledged him as your father? Does anybody know he is your father?’’
The stone carver and his team showed up, carrying the new headstone, a simple black marble, the words engraved in gold, the way Shlomi specified. They worked in silence, only from time to time the stone carver gave guttural instructions. Shlomi mouthed the words on the new stone. He was satisfied. In his pockets he felt the candle, the matches and the little booklet.
Would they be finished in time? He became impatient. Shlomi caught the stone carver’s glance and pointed to his watch. The stone carver made an assuring gesture. From afar he saw Mazal holding Otto’s arm, both carrying flowers. Behind them Charlotte and her husband moved slowly to keep in step with Otto. More people were searching through graves, but too far away for Shlomi to recognize them.
When the workers left, Shlomi felt relieved.
He knew Amina intended to come, because she called Mazal for the address of the cemetery. Was she alone? He looked at his watch, ten minutes to eleven. Why am I so nervous?
Two women dressed in black who supported an old lady between them gave his heart a start. If he was not mistaken, they were Amina and Rama and between them, Samira. Yes, Jedati Samira, his Morabia, his old nurse, the nurse of his father and his aunts.
A large group was approaching including Chana, his mother’s old friend. Mazal, must’ve called her. Who else was coming with her? Protecting his eyes from the blinding sun, Shlomi saw his future in-laws, his bride walking in the middle.
He heard the whispers as they neared the grave. From a whisper, it grew, the way a sea wave swells closer to the shore. What did they think? Were they surprised, upset, angry? D’vora looked straight at him, a smile in her luminous gaze.
It was time to start. “We are here to honor the memory of my mother, Shifra. You read the headstone and probably wonder at the name Shifra Gal-Masri. My mother had been married to Musa Masri, my Palestinian father. This I was told only recently.”
A sob interrupted Shlomi’s speech. He raised his eyes and recognized Musa, who was standing back, behind everybody else, his eyes fixed on Shlomi, who went and gently pushed him forward. “I want to bring closure to two young people who loved each other very much, who were young, maybe too young, for the choices they had to make in critical times. It’s not for me to judge them. As a sign of respect to both of them, I decided to change the words engraved on the old stone.”
HERE LIES SHIFRA GAL-MASRI, WHO DIED
ON DECEMBER 15, 1948
SHE WAS 20 YEARS OLD.
FOREVER MISSED BY HER HUSBAND, MUSA,
AND THEIR SON, SHLOMI.
AN ANGEL, MAY SHE REST IN PEACE IN THE
MIDST OF ANGELS.
“I also want to tell those who knew my mother that it took more than twenty years for my father and me to find each other. I hope that the blood that runs through us will be stronger than our differences.”
Shlomi lit the candle and carefully placed it in its niche. Nobody moved. It seemed to him that people even stopped breathing. Shlomi opened the booklet and started, “El Maale Rachamim, God full of compassion…”
To his surprise, Musa, his glasses on, took the booklet and in a wavering voice, uttered the next words, “Shochen b’Meromim, Dwelling in Heaven….” Together, they ended the ancient prayer for the dead. Musa shook Shlomi’s hand, and after a slight hesitation, hugged him and held him as if he would never let him go. “Thank you,” Musa whispered.
With tears in their eyes, people placed little stones on Shifra’s grave, as is the custom for visitors. D’vora said, “I’m proud of you both. I am happy we’ll all celebrate our wedding tomorrow—and Musa, promise me that you’ll dance your wildest Debka.”
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Amina, Rama and Samira surrounded them. Samira was shaking, “Now I can die,” she said. “Allah Ackbar granted my wish, to see you together. It was the dream which kept me alive the last twenty years.”
D’vora embraced her. “You have to live for our little Shifra, who, in a few months will need you, a loving morabia, as every one of the Masri children had.”
Over D’vora’s and Samira’s heads, Musa and Shlomi’s eyes met. Shlomi hadn’t told his father that D’vora was pregnant. He could read his father’s thoughts now, his features reflecting the past and the present melting into one. Musa smiled at his son, the son who soon would become a father himself. It was the happy smile of a future grandfather.
Without words, yet with a song in his heart, Shlomi returned the smile.
L I S T O F M A I N C H A R A C T E R S
Shifra (Suha)
Chana: Shifra’s friend
Fatima Masri: widow
Fatima’s children: Musa, Amina & Na’ima - twins,
Nur, Ahmed, Rama
Samira: The Masri’s family housekeeper
Selim (Shlomi): Musa and Suha’s child
Mahmood: Na’ima’s husband
Abdullah: Fatima’s cousin, banker
Uhm Zaide: a witch
George: English soldier wounded in the war, Amina’s husband
Otto Schroder: Violin teacher, Holocaust survivor
Gretchen: Otto’s wife, German pianist
Schroders’ neighbors in Tel-Aviv:
Charlotte (Lotte) and Hugo Gruber
Sigmund Hochmeister
Bruno Herbst and Mazal (girlfriend)
Nabiha: Schroders’ servant in Jaffa
Mr. Nathan: Watchmaker
Beatrice-D’vora Shlomi’s girlfriend
A C K N O W L E D G E M E N T S
First and foremost I want to thank my husband, Avram, for believing in this book, for his dedication and continuous encouragement. I thank my daughter, Talya Kupin, and my son-in-law, Warren Kupin, for their thorough review of the manuscript. Thanks to my grandson, Aaron, who said, “You can do it, Savta,” in response to my encouraging him during his piano lessons, “You can do it Aaron.”
Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction Page 38