Three Daughters: A Novel

by Consuelo Saah Baehr

  “And how should it be,” rejoined Umm Jameel, “narrow like a monkey’s? Her broad forehead is full of brains. Like her father’s . . . and her mother’s.” She cast a circumspect look at Miriam.

  “But look—what a mouth. Like an angel.”

  Miriam looked up anxiously. She had caught a glimpse of the baby, but her mouth had been stretched in a yawn. “Umm Jameel, let me have a look at her.”

  It was unmistakable. The mouth was a miniature replica of Max’s and it was more seductive in this feminine face. She also had Max’s strong jawline. This was going to be a determined child. The eyes were already knowing. How could a baby several hours old look defiant? Miriam stroked the downy cheeks and made a cooing noise. Did the intensity of desire at conception mold the child? If so, this one came with strength and passion.

  “What will you call her?” asked Jamilla.

  “Julia, I think.”

  That evening she saw Nadeem with the infant in his arms. He was enraptured. For the first time since she had betrayed him, she felt a deep and terrible fear—not of being punished, but of hurting Nadeem. That steadfast, loving face would crumple in pain at the truth. Her heart pounded. She felt the blood draining from her upper body. Her hands were cold. Worse, she knew that she would do it all again, because her desire for Max had been beyond control.

  “Miriam, you look so pale. What is it? Are you ill? Do you need something?”

  “No, no. I’m fine.” How could he not know? Please, God!

  Nadeem came and sat beside her, still holding the baby in his arms. “Why does this one touch me so?” he asked, staring adoringly at the face peeking out of the blanket. “I want to shield her from everything unpleasant. I want to make her life beautiful. My daughter, my precious Julia . . .”

  “Let’s change her name,” said Miriam. Her emotions made her voice tremble. This little girl would bring him so much happiness that spiritually she belonged only to him. “Let her be called Nadia. She will be her father’s daughter.”

  In the months that followed, it was as if Nadeem had never had a child. He held the tight bundle for long periods, talking in a soothing voice and predicting all the marvels of existence that awaited Nadia.

  Each day he discovered some new spiritual benefit brought about by the baby. “This one has cleansed the army out of me,” he said to Miriam more than once. “She has given me back my optimism.” As the baby grew and began to babble and toddle behind him, he felt a surge of new ambition and eagerness to surpass his old triumphs. Nadia’s independence and boldness in everything she did tugged at his heart and made her seem more vulnerable. He knew that boldness alone wasn’t enough. It was up to him to protect her from danger. He would be her security. But in order to do this he had to have a more dependable income.

  The shop could fall victim to the unstable political times and the income from it was not likely to grow. Goods from Europe were no longer easily transported. There might come a day when he could no longer bring in merchandise. The uninterrupted succession of Ottoman crises had created havoc with shipments from Europe. The war with Italy was barely over when the four Christian Balkan states tried to gain Macedonia and Albania. Turkey was drained of its resources and completely exhausted. Her armies were scattered over too broad a front to be effective. Conversely, southern Palestine flourished for these few years, unable to imagine the devastation that was to come.

  Despite the rumbles of war, the village prospered, giving everyone new hope and opportunity. The lawless outlying enclaves were attracted by Tamleh’s stability and it became the county seat, drawing merchants from the surrounding areas who came to sell or trade their goods and buy supplies. The municipal council was eager to establish standards of morality. Drunkards who violated public decency were fined, as were shop owners who fixed their scales. Criminals were prosecuted according to the imperial Turkish penalty law.

  The Friends Girls’ School, an imposing modern building set amid lush planned gardens and orchards, was acknowledged to be the most progressive in the area. By 1914 it had attracted forty-eight girls from moneyed Arab families and a few Europeans living in Jerusalem. As their parents visited the village and discovered its healthy mountain air, they began to choose it as a summer resort. A large, well-appointed hotel was built to accommodate these vacationers.

  The commercial street had been widened and the livestock market was limited to Thursday so as to stop the practice of slaughtering animals in the street and leaving the entrails to rot there. The village square was beautifully landscaped and the central streets sported kerosene lamps hung from ornate poles. A new western road leading to the orchards had been built, as well as one to Bireh. Along these new roads, enterprising men were building commercial property to house the shops necessary to accommodate all of the trade that poured into the village. Any fool could make money and an ambitious man could become wealthy.

  Every day Nadeem, who still preferred to walk to Jerusalem rather than take the carriage, saw structures begun or finished where before there had only been empty land or dusty rubble. At first he looked upon these new structures with the interested eye of a mason—this one hadn’t used a proper mortar . . . this stone wasn’t cut properly . . . that house had a badly rolled roof.

  Then, for the second time in their marriage, Miriam saw her husband turn moody and silent. “What’s wrong?”

  “Butruss Hanoos is putting up a building next to the printing shop.”

  “Butruss? I wouldn’t have thought he’d have the courage or the brains.”

  “Exactly. The foundation is too shallow. He hasn’t gone below the frost line. The first harsh winter will bring him problems.”

  “And this is why you’ve turned so quiet in the last week? Because you don’t approve of Butruss’s foundation?”

  “No.” Nadeem folded his hands in front of him, his face morose. “I wish I were in his shoes. I feel I should be doing the same. I want to get in on the expansion and have a building, too.”

  “So do it, then.”

  “It’s not that simple. In order to buy land, you need cash. Even if you do the work yourself, you need money for the materials.”

  Miriam thought a moment. She had no fears for Nadeem’s plan, for over the years she had seen that his determination worked in his favor. “I can give you a hundred lira,” she offered innocently. “The same that you repaid when your soap venture turned around. I still have it.”

  “This will require a great deal more money, Miriam. I will have to go to a bank and borrow. And the payment will be more regimented.”

  “Suppose they give you the money but once you’ve built the building no one rents it?”

  “Then I won’t be able to repay the loan and they will take my building.”

  “Oh!” She made a little cry of surprise. “If the rewards are so great, why aren’t more people interested in building and renting?”

  “Why aren’t more people interested in trade or shipping or emigrating to America? There is risk involved. But the greater the risk, the greater the possibility for reward.”

  “You’ve taken risks before without ill effects.”

  “That’s not to say that all my risk taking will enjoy a good fate.”

  “I will support you in whatever you do, Nadeem.” She took his hand in hers. It was a rare gesture. She considered it a failing that she couldn’t be more demonstrative with him. There were many things she felt, but to say them—to find the words and the courage to utter them—was beyond her. “You have always done everything for us.”

  “I care for you so deeply,” he said simply. “You’re mine and that’s all that matters.” For several days, that strange bold statement invaded her quiet moments and made her reflective.

  The next morning, wearing his most austere clothes, Nadeem walked through the embossed brass doors of the Deutsche Palestina Bank.

  He ha
d never been inside a bank as a borrower. In the village the priests often acted as moneylenders and it was a joke that they were less scrupulous than the most avaricious banker.

  He was stopped just inside the door by a young man wearing a wing-collared shirt and morning coat. “Sir?”

  The very sound of the word money would sound ill-bred in these surroundings. Yet that was his mission. “I’m here to see about a loan of money.” What else? A loan of bread? Nervousness made his bad eye throb and his palms itch.

  “And who referred you here?”

  “Must one be referred? Are you not a public bank?”

  “Yes. We’re a public bank,” said the man wearily. “Please have a seat.”

  It was a shallow room with a long marble counter protected by a curtain of thin brass rods that reached the ceiling. Nadeem fought the impulse to leave and soon he was ushered into the presence of a sallow-faced man with a carefully coiffed goatee.

  The banker made a steeple of his fingers and tapped them nervously as Nadeem outlined his plan. Then he handed down an opinion on what he had heard. “You want me to give you the money to build a commercial building that you hope to rent. Deutsche Palestina would hope to receive repayment—both principal and interest—from the supposed proceeds of such a rental.”

  “That is correct.” It was not correct. The way the banker characterized it the request sounded foolhardy. But he wasn’t foolhardy.

  “Have you other buildings that you have financed in this manner, Mr. Mishwe?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Do you own any property that you can present as collateral?”

  “Just my own home that shelters my family.”

  “And it’s a large family, I would venture.”

  “Not excessively so. Four children and my wife.”

  “Still, they are in need of a home. And you have no experience in commercial buildings.”

  “I worked for many years as a mason.”

  “I am speaking of the building and management of commercial rental property. Have you any experience along those lines?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then I don’t see how I can help you. We are not in the business of funding shaky ventures. My job is to protect the assets of this bank and not expose them to undue risks. Your project, I’m afraid, would come under the category of undue risk. If you show some success with this first building, perhaps we would have some interest in the second.”

  “If I show success with this building, I would have no need of your interest,” said Nadeem brusquely. “But thank you very much for your time.”

  When he stepped outside, Nadeem took a deep breath and walked in the direction of the Crédit Lyonnaise. As long as he was dressed so somberly, he might as well try again.

  The garrulous manager of the Crédit Lyonnaise was less disdainful, but his response was the same. No experience, no loan. No collateral, no loan.

  The Banco di Roma offered advice on square footage and location but still refused a loan. As Nadeem was leaving, the Italian banker called out, “There’s a new establishment over the jewelry shop on Jaffa Road. If you have no prejudice in dealing with a Russian Jew, perhaps he’ll lend you the money. The name is Slivowitz.”

  “Thank you,” said Nadeem and set out rapidly along Christian Quarter Road to Jaffa Gate.

  The sign, a simple engraved brass square set discreetly at the side of the building next to a steep staircase, said Slivowitz Trust.

  “Slivowitz Trust?” asked Nadeem of the bespectacled man dwarfed by a large mahogany desk heaped with ledgers.

  “Slivowitz Trust. Trust Slivowitz. I’m Slivowitz.” He said this without lifting pen or eyes from paper and Nadeem, having no alternative, delivered his proposal to the top of Slivowitz’s head. “What have I to do with such a plan?” said the bent head when Nadeem stopped speaking.

  “You might lend me some money for the land and building materials.”

  Finally, M. Slivowitz set down his pen and inspected his visitor. “I might also join the traveling circus that’s here from Egypt. Who sent you here?”

  “M. Carbonara from Banco di Roma.”

  “Why should he wish me ill?” mused Slivowitz.

  “My plan is not preposterous,” said Nadeem, exasperated. “I have enough experience in the building trade to put up a superior structure. I have conducted an import business for several years without a blemish on my reputation. There’s no need to chastise me for trying to do business with you. It isn’t as if I were trying to steal your money.”

  “Stealing, nobody accused you of.” M. Slivowitz turned paternal. “If you have a business, why don’t you leave well enough alone? Stay satisfied in your business. Let me stay satisfied in mine without worrying over a bad debt.”

  Despite his frustration, Nadeem liked Slivowitz and found himself eager to confide in him. “I would do as you say, but I’m afraid that the squabbles in Europe will soon ignite into war. My imports come from France and she’s aligning with Russia, perhaps against Turkey. My family has been through great strife and I want to be certain of their future.”

  “Do you believe Turkey will be involved in the war? My God, she’s been at war continuously. She has nothing left with which to fight.”

  “Germany will drag us in. Turkey is mesmerized by the German military machine. They believe Germany’s strength will be their strength.”

  “But you don’t?”

  “No. The Arab soldier will never be aroused to patriotism by the Teutonic method. I have firsthand knowledge of their disdain for our race. At Jerablus, where they are building their railway bridge, they painted numbers on the laborers so they would not have to learn their names. They believe we’re savages and we believe they are pompous fools.”

  “You were in the Turkish army?”

  “Yes. This eye is a souvenir.”

  Slivowitz mulled this over and his tone became subdued. “But if you don’t believe in the stability of Europe or Turkey, what makes you think rental property will be in great demand?”

  “Palestine has always prospered despite Turkey’s fortunes. Distance makes us immune. My village is growing daily. I don’t know from morning to morning what new structure I will find. We will soon extend our borders closer to Jerusalem. It can only grow bigger.” As he spoke, he felt a great optimism for the future, but the man before him seemed unmoved and Nadeem rose to leave. “Thank you.”

  “For nothing.”

  “At least you listened.”

  “Listening is cheap.”

  “You didn’t insult me by telling me my plan was immature.”

  “I didn’t praise you either.”

  “Good day, M. Slivowitz.”

  “A good day for me it isn’t. I’m going to become your partner, Mr. Mishwe. I’m going to lend you the money.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Sit down. We have some details to work out.”

  When they had settled on the terms of inspection, approval, payments, and repayments, Nadeem said, “I feel ill at ease. As if I were already having difficulty repaying the loan. As if I were burdened with a debt that was doomed.”

  “That’s good,” said Slivowitz. “I have faith in a natural worrier. If you felt happy and optimistic, I would worry.”

  He bought a patch of land on the Street of the Dyers and Weavers because it was off the main path and not so costly. He put up a two-story building of about fifteen hundred square feet with the upper floor set back to create a balcony. He made the loan money go far and put in a foundation for an additional structure and covered it over for the future.

  His hands cracked and bled from the second week. He had to sleep in a crude shelter at the site to protect his materials from theft, yet he had never been so happy in his life. He worked every possible moment he could spare from the shop. The men from the c
lan came to help at the roofing bee.

  Khalil, now a teenager and tall for his age, showed a great aptitude for selling and, after a few weeks apprenticing with his father, was able to look after the linen business for short periods. Hanna helped him as a stock boy and by delivering orders.

  A perfumer had rented the space in the shop vacated by the pharmacist and, with the idiosyncrasies of their customers to bond them, he and Khalil became friends despite the difference in age. Khalil’s new responsibilities had matured him and he enjoyed the role of proprietor, playing it out with relish. He had a feel for merchandise and the sincere interest in human nature that makes for a natural salesman.

  “He can make a more convincing presentation than I,” Nadeem told his wife. “He speaks knowledgeably of the benefits of percale over combed cotton. Of chintz over muslin. Of dimity over linen. He knows how many threads per inch are in the lisle spreads and why they are cool. He likes to spout these facts. I suppose it gives him a feeling of authority. He tells the customers that the construction allows the fabric to breathe. You should hear him. He behaves as if he has two days to spend with them over the purchase of hand towels, and the ladies feel comforted. Wouldn’t you like to see him?”

  “No,” said Miriam. “I would be far too nervous and I’d interrupt him a dozen times.” She had no wish to be in Jerusalem at all.

  Nadeem closed his eyes to the possibilities for error in allowing his son to run the business and spent as much time as he could on construction. The face of the building was stone covered over with golden stucco troweled to a smoothness that took patience and expertise. The windows and doorway were gracefully arched and accented with contrasting burgundy brick in a herringbone pattern. The foundation walls went far below the frost line. He had lived through enough snowstorms to know that the winter weather could be severe, but still there were comments that he was being foolishly cautious.

  “It’s a handsome building,” Slivowitz said when he saw it. “But will it bring in any more rent for its beauty?”