Three Daughters: A Novel

by Consuelo Saah Baehr

  “Maryland. They call it the tidewater region.” She looked as if she’d seen a ghost.

  The next day she took the clipping to Nadia. “Look. You should know about this. Nijmeh comes from a large distinguished family. It says the father”—she gulped—“Nijmeh’s grandfather is to be buried at Laurel Hill, the family estate. He’s survived by his wife, two daughters, one son, and five grandchildren. Nadia, they’re her cousins.”

  Without hesitation, Nadia tore the clipping into fine little pieces. “Samir has never been happier. He adores Nijmeh, can’t you see that? I would do the same thing again and again,” she said vehemently. “The only cousin she has is Delal,” she added firmly. “We have two fine girls, Julia. They’ll grow up together just as you always wanted. Look at them.” The girls played at their feet. “They’ll be the best of friends.”

  The two most privileged toddlers in the village stared as if the other were the ultimate irresistible toy. Within the next ten minutes both would grind crackers into the irreplaceable hand-knotted silk carpet, and their mothers, blinded by adoration, would ignore it.

  Nijmeh offered her duck, her bear, and her musical bird in quick succession, scanning her cousin’s face for signs of happiness. Delal flung each gift to the side. She looked at her mother. “A baby,” she said.

  “Yes,” said Julia, “another baby.”

  Delal put her pudgy fingers on Nijmeh’s rosy cheek and patted it. “Nice,” she said, biting off the end of the word and giggling deliriously. “Nice baby.” She slapped the cheek again, grinned, and then struck once more. The last slap was so hard it startled Nijmeh and she let out a baffled howl.

  “Ooh.” Julia rushed to hold her daughter’s hand captive. “That hurts the baby. You love Nijmeh,” she explained in a coaxing tone. “You don’t want to hurt her.”

  As it happened, although Nijmeh adored her cousin, Delal never learned to like Nijmeh. At some visceral level, she understood everything. Nijmeh had begun by stealing some of the breast milk that was rightfully hers. And that was just the beginning.

  Mother and daughter started out early to avoid the worst heat, but before they crossed the square to reach the road to Miriam’s house, the hot east wind was nipping at their heels. Julia’s news about the Walkers had let out demons and being outside was better than staying in. The news story was always in the back of Nadia’s mind and she had learned to live with it. But this was different. It had made her dream of death.

  She couldn’t afford to have her strength eroded. She was drawn to her mother’s house for a good reason that had not yet occurred to her, although she’d climbed that road more than once that week.

  The sirocco at best was suffocating. At its worst it had a chemical effect on the nerves, killed cattle, and stunned the hardiest of men. Nijmeh stopped and held up a dust-covered sandaled foot to her mother. “Off.”

  “I can’t take your shoes off.” Nadia looked around for a place to sit. “Let’s stop in the post office and see what the trouble is.”

  “Pebbles out.”

  Nadia knew that Rose Muffrige, the postal clerk, would have something to say about taking Nijmeh out on a day like this. “Let’s take the pebbles out right here. Sit down.”

  Nijmeh sat immediately. She patted the sidewalk and then put her hand to her face, leaving a black smudge. She turned over her palm. “Dirty.”

  “Everything’s dirty.” Nadia emptied the shoes, buckled them, and rose to leave. They crossed Main Street, past the Roman Catholic church and school, past the old Friends meeting house, veering left to the dirt road that led to her mother’s cottage, which was shaded and set high up to receive any available breeze. They walked a few yards in silence. She could hear Nijmeh panting, each breath punctuated by a grunt. “Heh, heh, heh.”

  Heat waves danced above the road. Nadia stopped and looked back. “Are you hot? Ooh. Look at your face. It’s so red. Are you all right?”

  “Hot,” said Nijmeh.

  “I know you are, sweetheart. I didn’t think it would get this hot so early. Can you walk?”

  “Walk.”

  “I could carry you.”

  “Walk.”

  “We’ll be there soon.”

  By the time they reached Miriam’s house, Nadia was agitated and remorseful. “We shouldn’t have come.” She took Nijmeh to the sink and began to sponge off her arms and face. “Her feet are all swollen.”

  Miriam, who had been silent during Nadia’s ministrations, crossed her arms in front of her. “You’re making too much of a fuss.”

  Her words were unexpected and made both women silent. Nijmeh looked from one to the other.

  “Her face is terribly red,” said Nadia.

  Miriam turned to Nijmeh. “Wa wa?” she asked, using the term for any physical hurt. “Does anything hurt you?”

  “No.” Nijmeh answered timidly and looked at her mother.

  Nadia, feeling fragile, had decided to deal gracefully with her mother’s words, but just then she realized why she had sought out this tidy kitchen so eagerly.

  “There, you see,” her mother was saying, “she’s sturdier than you think. This is the weather we have and everyone walks in it if they need to. We’ve learned to live with all sorts of discomfort. Don’t make her feel she has it so bad. She’s a beautiful girl, but it’s better if you let her take life in her stride.”

  Mama, didn’t you have a secret, too? Dr. Max. Help me deal with mine.

  “The important thing is that Nijmeh has caught your interest,” her mother continued. “I never had my mother’s interest and that’s the worst thing. It makes you feel lost.” This unexpected confession made Nadia’s eyes fill, but she held back. Her mother was not asking for pity.

  “Can we have something to drink?” she asked to show she wasn’t annoyed. She felt better.

  “Of course. I have lemonade and cookies, unless you’re ready for lunch.”

  “Lemonade and cookies,” Nijmeh said, speaking with such unusual clarity that the women laughed.

  When they finished eating, Miriam took them outside. “I want to show you something,” she said to Nijmeh. They followed a neat, straight path bordered by miniature ivy. “Look, the ants got into the wheat and each one is taking out a grain. It’s like a caravan of ants.” What Nijmeh saw—it made her stoop down so that her bottom scraped the ground—was a ribbon of moving wheat, as if each grain had legs, in a precise undulating line. “Can you imagine how much work it is for them carrying twice their weight? It makes me respect them for their courage even though they’re stealing my wheat. I respect you, too,” she said, knowing she was speaking too grandly for a girl barely two. “You’re a good girl who does many hard things without complaining.” It was her way of telling Nadia she was proud of her. It was her way of saying she loved her.

  All the way home, Nadia felt the comfort of her mother’s kitchen. She thought about the cool, amazingly fitted stone floor and the open wooden shelves holding well-worn utensils and beautiful old clay bowls. There was always an abundance of tasty food ready to fill anyone who wandered in. Sustenance and power were in that kitchen. More potent than hugs and kisses that were easily given. Her mother had never coddled her. Even during the war, when they had walked from one town to the other without relief, without enough to eat, she’d never expressed pity. Thinking back, she was in awe of her mother’s gift of acceptance. She had never transmitted fear to her children, even though life had been fearful. Nadia wanted to pass the same things on to Nijmeh, but didn’t feel capable.

  That wasn’t the worst of it. Many times she wanted to cling to Nijmeh, to bury her face in that soft neck and confide everything and then have Nijmeh respond, “You’re the only mother I want.”

  29.

  THE ONLY REALLY GOOD THING THAT’S HAPPENED IS THAT BABY. AND NOW HE LOVES HER MORE THAN LIFE ITSELF.

  Unrest. That was the pre
ss’s catchword for the late thirties. You had the picture of people thrashing about in their beds and then collecting in the streets to writhe and share their agitation. No one was happy with the Mandate government—not the Muslims and Christians who suspected the British intended to step up immigration of Jews due to the troubles in Germany, and not the Jews themselves. It became usual for bombs to go off at the gates to the Old City. Snipers peppered buses with gunfire. Violence incited more violence and when the frustration became unbearable, there were work strikes that lasted for months. During the late 1930s, the crisis in the Jewish world increased immigration tenfold. The Palestinians became alarmed and revolted against British policies. A royal commission of inquiry admitted that the promises to the Jews and the Arabs were irreconcilable and that the Mandate in its existing form was unworkable.

  While they were sympathetic to a partition plan to create a Jewish state, the commission realistically pointed out that “Muslims would resent most deeply the setting up of a Jewish state in the close proximity to the Old City” and that “Jerusalem is sacred to the Christian faith and not only the Old City, within which stands the Church of the Holy Sepulcher . . . and the Way of the Cross but also the surrounding area, the Garden of Gethsemane, Bethlehem, and the Church of the Nativity, the village of Bethany, and the road to Emmaus.” The sympathies of Britain continued to seesaw and whichever group was out of favor took out its rage in violent acts.

  The fatalistic view that sudden death could come at any time led people to take their pleasures as they came. One of the great pleasures of the villagers, especially the women, was to watch Samir with Nijmeh. It wasn’t only the sentimental kick of seeing a man enchanted with his little girl. It was this particular man with this particular girl. If Samir pulled down Nijmeh’s dress or tightened the ribbon around her braids or helped her climb on a bench to wait for him, it became an irresistible tableau. “Isn’t that something! Look at that face! Isn’t she so cute?” Rose Muffrige, who worked in the post office, summed it up. “Nothing’s ever been easy for that family,” she said. “The only really good thing that’s happened is that baby. And now he loves her more than life itself.”

  For Nijmeh her father was easily the most important part of her life. She didn’t know any games, nor was she interested in them, because she had no companions to teach them to her. She was familiar with the things that interested Samir and they satisfied her. Often when she was very young, her chubby legs were draped over his shoulders and her hands held his head as she accompanied him on short, early morning walks.

  Other times she was hiked up on his arm. Or she fell asleep with her face against his chest. The smells of his wool tweeds in winter and his spongy cotton abas in summer were as comforting as her blanket and her thumb. She was capable of giving him exactly what he needed: loyalty and unquestioning devotion.

  As she grew, they had long rambling conversations during which he gently hammered facts into place. The stems of the young fig trees were braided two together for strength. The grape clusters were lifted off the ground onto smooth stones to ripen blemish-free. The vines were pruned and the cuttings mulched the fruit so it wouldn’t be scorched by the sun. “See here,” he would say, “what’s under this pile of dry leaves? Anything worthwhile?”

  “Nudding wuthwhile,” she would lisp, knowing she was in for a surprise.

  “And what’s this?” He’d pick off the dead leaves and reveal a cluster of firm white grapes that they ate.

  He showed her a knot that could be slipped out in an instant but could also hold anything tight.

  “An elephant?” she asked.

  He laughed. “When I was a boy, I had to tie my horse to a camel and then—in one fast move—untie it and leap from the camel to the horse.” It sounded as if he was trying to impress her with his daring, but he enjoyed telling her about himself. “This knot is the one I used and it never let me down. A boy taught it to me.”

  “Oh?” She was instantly jealous. “A little boy?”

  “Yes, but I was little, too, at the time.”

  “Was he a nice boy?”

  “Why? Do you know a boy who isn’t nice?”

  “Teta Miriam told me about a boy who was very mean to her. She says he killed her dog but she still loved him.”

  “This was a brave boy. He’s dead now. He died in my arms.” He hadn’t expected to say that.

  “Oh!” Quick tears of sympathy spilled over her cheeks.

  “Hey, hey, hey.” He bent down and wiped her face. “It’s all right. It happened a long time ago.”

  “But you didn’t forget the knot he taught you?”

  “No. And a lot of other things that I’m going to teach you.”

  Just as Marwan had done for him, he set up a small tent so they could practice marksmanship by shooting pebbles at the pegs with a slingshot.

  At least once a week, they passed the spot where the old Jerusalem Road crossed the Friends school. The Mediterranean lay to the west, a straight unindented coastline that dissolved into a wide fertile strip. In the late months, the orange groves were pure gold. Next came the secondary ridge of hills. “We’re at the top,” Samir would say. “We live on the primary ridge, the most beautiful, the most civilized.” He would turn her to face the east. “There’s the Ghor. That’s the bed for the Jordan River. It begins here and goes all the way up, up to Galilee.” They could see the Dead Sea, the lowest spot on earth. “See how quickly the land falls away, one cliff after another.”

  “Like stairs.”

  “Exactly. Like a beautiful but dangerous staircase. The mountain we live on is safely hidden unless you’re coming from the west. That’s why the first family settled here. When Tamleh began, the entire town was related.”

  “Everyone here is related to me? Even Jo-Jo, the megnuneh?”

  “Not exactly. Jo-Jo wandered here and decided to settle down. There are some others. Joseph Lam came from Rafidia. His father was a shoemaker and his mother was a midwife who delivered many children, including me. The Rasals came here from Nazareth, but the boys married local girls. The older boy left and settled in another country. He went to England.”

  “Is that good?”

  “I wouldn’t do it. I wouldn’t live anywhere else.”

  “I wouldn’t do it either. Never.”

  “We even have a Muslim living here. Let’s see if you know who it is?”

  “Father Breen?”

  He laughed. “No. It’s Mr. Saleem, the plumber. Let’s say you’re probably related to seventy percent of the people. When you marry, it will be to someone you’ve known most of your life. I knew your mother when we were babies.”

  “I’ll marry Delal.”

  He laughed again. “No. You have to marry a boy. There are lots of them around to choose from. But that won’t happen for a long, long time.”

  “Can I marry you?”

  “No. I’m your father. Suppose I had a lot of children—I couldn’t marry all of them.”

  “Do you want more children? More than just me?”

  “No. That’s not to say they might not come, but I’m happy just with you.” He meant it. He loved her beyond words.

  And she, the product of two thoroughly Yankee Episcopalians, who had not bred out of their English-Scotch roots for four generations, felt her heart squeeze together with pride and satisfaction to be Samir’s child.

  As it happened, no child came to displace Nijmeh. Nadia had one more failed conception. “No more pregnancies for you, young woman.” The doctor had his mouth clamped in angry disapproval. “One of these times, the womb will tear in a way we can’t repair. You’ll die. Think about that in case you decide to disobey me.” He looked at her as if she had already disobeyed and his predictions had come true. “Nijmeh will lose her mother and be raised by a stranger.”

  He gave her a rubber circle with a rigid edge and made her sq
uat like a frog and insert it inside herself while he felt to see if it was seated properly. He didn’t have to paint any more pictures. She used the pessary every night.

  Christmas, 1939. The war clouds had formed but America had no intention of participating in what she considered someone else’s confrontation. The Jerusalem newspapers were quoting Charles A. Lindbergh (whose influence was second only to that of President Roosevelt): “We must not be misguided by this foreign propaganda that our frontiers lie in Europe,” he pronounced. Senator Vandenberg swore never to send American boys to war under any circumstances. Others thought the war was just so much manufactured hysteria.

  They were wrong. World War II began on September 1 at 5:20 a.m., Polish time, when a German warplane bombed Puck, a fishing village on the Gulf of Danzig. Although Congress was set against involvement, Roosevelt helped the Allies by closing US waters to “belligerent submarines.”

  The conquest of Poland took less than two weeks and then Hitler played a waiting game with the western front. Americans refused to get excited, although expatriates sailed home. As with everything the people were polled and two-thirds of the country wanted no part of the war but took a sudden interest in geography. Rand McNally sold out their large-scale European maps.

  The war was so quiet and (for the moment) uneventful that those who had hoarded hundred-pound sacks of sugar and cases of chicken noodle soup and canned peas felt they had acted impetuously. They had not. Early in 1940, the Wehrmacht invaded Denmark and Norway. France and Greece fell by midsummer and it was a blood-chilling jolt to wake up and find Mother England was vulnerable. Shakespeare had said, “This England never did nor ever shall / Lie at the proud feet of a conqueror.” Would this still hold true?

  Britain had nothing to gain by alienating the Middle East and she had begun a plan to limit Jewish immigration. If this was expedience on Britain’s part, it worked. Jews and Arabs alike fell over themselves helping England’s war effort. There was a general anxiety over the threat of a German invasion, but none came. Schools didn’t close as in World War I. Soldiers from the battle zones in the Mediterranean came to Jerusalem on leave. Refugees from Poland and Europe came to stay and lived in camps. Inflation was rampant and rationing imposed, but the war that devastated most of the world brought a period of peace to Palestine and a sort of do-or-die adolescent gaiety to Jerusalem. Various royals waited out the war ensconced in the luxurious King David Hotel.