by Mona Yahia
—Did you see that, Hanina? We’re old enough to be her grandmothers, couldn’t she have waited for my sentence to end?
I dash down the stairs, out into the backyard, cursing and holding back my tears, until the children’s curious looks send me inside again. Longing to be alone, I huddle up on the bottom stair, while Joza’s words keep swirling inside my head.
—Hey, did you evaporate or what, I’ve been looking for you all over the gallery, guess who I met?
I turn back, nonplussed, as if Selma has landed from some other Yom Kippur.
—Her mother!
—Whose mother?
—Ferial’s mother, what’s the matter with you? An old chatterbox, goodness, all the rubbish she dumped on me. She claimed Ferial would have been better off in a Moslem school, where the pupils tremble with fear at the mere sight of their teachers. Then she admitted that Ferial had no other alternative. For nobody’s going to employ her, and nobody’s going to ask for her hand either, that’s word for word what she said, I swear by God. In her view, as long as our destiny in this country is not clear, no Jew’s gonna get married, but I didn’t really get the connection. Do you think Ferial’s already twenty-five? If I were a man I’d marry her on the spot. She’s so beautiful, don’t you agree?
I shrug, weary of Ferial and of weddings.
—Eventually she told me that Ferial had attended the morning service here then left with a friend for the Ezra David Synagogue. Have you ever been there? It’s by the river, ten minutes’ away, why don’t we drop in and have a look?
On our way out, we run into a cheerful Hai, dressed in white. He strokes our two heads simultaneously.
—I miss you awfully girls, let’s hope we’ll go swimming next summer again, inshallah.
A bunch of young men and women have gathered in the courtyard of the Ezra David Synagogue. Most of the faces are familiar. Some I associate with the Jewish Sports Centre, others I remember from school, years back. As Selma obtains no definite answer from them with regard to Ferial, she proceeds to the women’s gallery while I loiter outside, under the date palm. To distract myself from the gnawing in my belly, I listen to the group’s discussion.
—Have they entirely gone out of their minds? When in history could losers ever afford to set conditions?
—When they’re swimming in petroleum and when they’ve got the Soviet Union, and all the Communist Bloc behind them.
Isn’t there anything Jews can talk about nowadays, apart from our fate or politics?
—Full of hot air, so pleased with their Three Nos, I’m surprised they didn’t issue stamps in commemoration of their bright summit. A set of three, a stamp for each No.
They burst out laughing.
—Drop your voices, we can be heard from the street…
Their recurrent laughter fills the courtyard of the synagogue. Prayers indoors, jokes outdoors, I wonder which mood is more apt to appeal to our God. The man who suggested issuing stamps for the Three Nos is moving towards me.
—Aren’t you Shuli’s sister? he asks, peering at me over his sunglasses.
I nod my head, apprehensive of a new interrogation.
—I’m Adel, remember? You came over with your parents to see me after my release. I had been detained with your brother in the Rashid Camp.
Now I remember him.
—He was the propagandist, I was the treasurer, that’s how we joked about it when we were in a good mood. I was accused of collecting donations for Israel, but the moment Major Abu Azzam laid his hands on father’s two hundred dinars, the charge stopped being an issue and within two hours I was out. I still have to report to the police though, once a week. But I really shouldn’t complain.
He is wearing a golden pendant: the Two Tablets of the Law shaped like an open book.
—Any progress? Any prospects of … of his release? he asks, voicing the last word with a measure of inhibition.
Release? – our daily source of hopes and disillusions. I shake my head.
Father’s endeavours to intercede through senior officials have proved worthless, while Zeki’s connections soon reached a dead-end. Abu Azzam is as shrewd as a fox, one intermediary concluded, the sort of fellow “who’d lead you to the river and bring you back thirsty”. Apparently, Shuli is a special case, more than 200 dinars’ worth – at least in the Major’s eyes, who might well be saving him for who knows what profitable occasion.
—You’ve got no idea how supportive his presence was to me. God, it all happened too fast. Within a few minutes, my existence became as trivial as that of an ant. I was still dazed when they shoved me into the stuffy cell and locked the door behind me. Anything could happen inside those four brick walls, I thought, and nobody would see it or hear of it. I was entirely at their mercy. On the bricked up window, there was a calendar. The picture on it was of a cosy interior with a pot of flowers on a round table, and a dog napping on a rug. Suddenly I felt like tearing everything to pieces. It was then that …
Adel stops talking, and swallows hard. I wonder why he is telling me all this.
—Shuli had asked for the calendar to keep track of the days he would cross out of his life, I say.
—After I had sobbed my heart out, your brother went through the daily routine of the camp with me, and told me which warders to be careful of. He kept reassuring me that I’d be out within less than a week. And how right he was, poor chap. It must have been desperate to watch us get arrested and then released, while his case came to a standstill. Funny, I used to take him for an arrogant fellow. But there, in that room, where he was too dejected to put on his airs, I came to know him.
Adel takes off his sunglasses and rubs his eyes. His eye-lashes are so long he could have combed them.
—Next time you see him, send him my best wishes.
I have not visited Shuli even once during the last six weeks. I do not have the heart to see him locked up in that hole, downcast like a ten-year-old who has wet his pants. But how can this Adel understand that I prefer the impetuous, antagonistic spirit of my brother to the despondent friend he felt so much at home with?
A scowling Selma shows up, the biology textbook tucked under her arm.
—She was here a while ago, but left again for the Meir Tweg Synagogue. Now isn’t that tough luck? Anyway, Meir Tweg’s not that far, near the YMCA, a question of …
—No, no, no, I cry out, I’ve been to more synagogues today than in my whole life. I’m fed up and worn out, and we still have the trek back to Alwiyah.
—But we’ve got plenty of time. Look, the Haftarah hasn’t started yet.
—You’re not listening, I said I’m done in, enough is enough! You go ahead as far as you wish, I’m off back to Alwiyah, with or without you.
—But wait a minute, maybe …
—Maybe you tell me why you didn’t hand her mother the book in the first place? Maybe because you’re keen on chasing our teacher from one synagogue to the other? Or maybe you’re just enjoying the heat, testing our own biology?
Adel grins. Is he siding with me, or just amused at our girlish dispute?
—Nonsense, I couldn’t have trusted her with the book. I’ve got to put it into Ferial’s hands myself. I’ve promised her.
Selma cradles the old dog-eared textbook as she whispers the last three words. Her gentleness strikes me as unusual, almost suspicious. Eager to extract one more smile from Adel, I push on.
—I don’t think it’s the book you’re worried about …
—Never mind what you think, she cuts me short. Let’s shove off.
—But … but what about Ferial? You’ve promised …
—None of your business! Let’s go now.
Adel pats me on the back and bids us farewell. Selma beckons me with her head. At the gate, I am seized by an impulse to glimpse at the long-lashed man under the date palm one last time. I turn back to find his gaze fixed on me. My heart leaps. Adel’s face lights up. I look at his curly black hair, his Clark Gable moustache, his o
live-green complexion, and wonder whether other girls find him attractive.
We strike out along Abu Nuwas, walking on the river side of the street. The sun is half way down, like a tyrant forced to bow. The heat must have abated, but I barely feel the difference. My head is burning, my throat is sore. Not far from the river’s edge, I discern a barrel-like object drifting downstream. A corpse, a cow perhaps, is floating on its back, its limbs thrust up in the air. There’s something which has drunk itself to explosion, Hai used to joke each time we encountered the blown-up corpse of an animal in the water. Nauseated by the sight, I ask Selma to take a short-cut. She does not even bother to reply. Her face is flushed, from heat, strain, or fury, I cannot tell. She must be terribly frustrated at having missed Ferial again and again. Goodness, what a futile pursuit it has been, and on top of it I let her down and entertained Adel at her expense. Who is he to me after all? Who cares about the length of his eye-lashes, and so what if he discovered my borther’s soul in prison?
While I am thinking up an apology, Selma, without warning, crosses Abu Nuwas and turns into a side-street. If she has complied with my request and is taking a short-cut, why doesn’t she say it?
—Wait, I scuttle after her.
But Selma, acting deaf, is striding along as if resolved to lose me. I would certainly go astray if I were left on my own. Damn you Selma – furious or not, you still owe me the way back to the Alwiyah Synagogue. I summon up my strength, run to catch up with her. We pass a grocer’s, a barber’s, a haberdasher’s, a mosque, girls skipping.
—Three Lucky Sticks for the price of two, only today, only for you! the vendor behind is harassing us.
—Some other day, Selma barks back.
He snuggles his cart up to our behinds. We make off across an unbuilt space, weave through piles of rubbish, and deserted serifas, until the ice-cream tune is out of earshot. The muscles of my flat feet are twingeing, as if about to tear. I lag behind Selma as we go from one side-street to another, with an inkling that our journey at noon was much shorter than the way back. We walk past a Pakistani boy polishing shoes at the threshold of a house. His green plastic sandals increase my doubts. Am I raving, or did we in fact pass this shoeblack a while ago? We must be going in circles, I complain, but Selma ignores my remark. Has she lost her way and will not admit it, or is she determined to drag me through detours until I collapse?
The moment we set foot in the Alwiyah Synagogue, Selma and I split up. Pangs of hunger are tearing my belly. Father has not moved from his place and is listening now to the stories of a former colleague. Ustad Heskel is reading the haftarah. I fetch myself a prayer book, and sink into a chair in the shade. The women around me constantly fan themselves, as if it were part of the service. I search for the passage ustad Heskel is reading. His full voice sends me back to elementary school, when the ustad used to tell us Bible stories while we licked lollipops behind the lids of our desks. Everyone is standing up and facing west. I follow suit. The fasters are turning around me. My legs feel like pencils with sharpened points, they cannot hold up my weight any longer. I grip the armrest, but the congregation is whirling faster and faster. The blown-up cow recurs, lying face down on the shore, while water drains from its eyes, ears, nostrils, and genitals. Nausea overwhelms me. Somebody shoves me into a cube of a room. Unable to distinguish the brick floor from the brick ceiling, I lose my balance. The next moment I find myself sprawled on the floor, my head caught between two chairs.
—The girl’s fainted!
—It’s dehydration!
—These kids shouldn’t be roaming the streets on a hot day like this. They wander from one synagogue to the other as if they were coffee-shops.
—Whose daughter is she, where’s her mother?
Some other mother picks me up. Her voice is familiar, but I cannot place it. She sits me up, gently pats my cheeks and sprinkles my face with rose water. I press my lips together lest a drop sneaks into my mouth. How would Dudi’s dog describe this smell? Sweet? Refreshing? A soft wind is blowing on my forehead. A breeze? I open my eyes. The old lady fanning my face heaves a sigh of relief. All the other women have turned to me now instead of facing the Ark. Let one of them try and worm information out of me and I swear I’ll fetch the hose from the garden and shower the whole congregation.
—It’s nothing child, it has already passed. Just take it easy.
Everyone is seated again. I can barely hold my head upright. If only I could rest it on a pillow, suck my thumb, and surrender to the emptiness within me. My eyelids close. Ustad Heskel’s resonant voice rises, as if all the prayer books in the courtyard were his loudspeakers. I can hardly follow his melodious reading. If only he would tell us a story instead. There he is, the good old ustad, distributing books in our classroom. Selma has taken her usual seat beside me, but what are Shuli and Adel doing in our class, and how can our headmaster make a fool of himself and sit on a school bench again? “Every Jew is entrusted with a book”, ustad Heskel says while Shuli examines a hardback, as fat as a dictionary. “But why so many pages cut out?” my brother cries out with indignation. “No book is new, my boy, and none is flawless,” the ustad replies. Now Shuli must read every written word in the world in order to retrieve his missing pages. Our headmaster gets a telephone directory where the parents of all the pupils are listed. “To lose it is to lose yourself,” the ustad warns, wagging his forefinger, but Selma pushes away the paperback placed on her desk and defiantly clutches the biology textbook to her breast. Joza and Hanina are tittering like schoolgirls in the back row. Their books are sealed and will open only at the utterance of a magic word. That is why the two women are so garrulous and must chatter about every topic, from shehon till behon, until the magic word accidently passes their lips. The pages Adel is turning are scorching, unless he cools them constantly with his tears. Father’s diary is written in a language only he can read, and therefore my father is bound to lead a solitary life. Ustad Heskel motions to me to pick the booklet with the brown leather cover lying on the table. My photograph, which is not really my own – is stuck on the first page. “What’s this?” I ask the ustad. “A passport!” he replies, and at that moment, they all disappear and I am left all alone in the classroom – which is no longer our classroom.
Where is the ustad, why has he stopped reading? I open my eyes to twilight and to some other, younger voice. How long have I dozed and since when has Selma been sitting beside me? The biology book on her lap is open on the fifth lesson, but she is squinting in my direction, with the rueful smile of someone who has broken her mother’s crystal vase. I yawn, stretch out my arms, leaf through the prayer book, and take my time before I condescend to glance at her. After which, Selma immediately bends over me and smacks a loud kiss on my ear.
—It’s the ne’ila. We’ve got only three stars to wait for and then we’re through. We’ve made it, Lina, we’ve made it through our first Kippur!
The fasters are standing again. I push myself up to my feet. You really don’t have to, everyone saw you collapse, Selma whispers. No, no, I retort. No special favours, not on my first fast.
The last supplications are recited. I hope mother remembers to warm the chicken pilau in time. Silence follows for the shofar to break through. The ram’s horn, blasting from all the synagogues on earth this evening, blows our penitence before God and proclaims that we too are a part of this world – whether the world appreciates it or not.
The first stars are shining overhead. More than three, more than ten. What a starry night it is going to be. Shuli would have filled his notebook with sketches and fancy names until, finally calmed down, he would abandon himself to sleep.
What does he do about his insomnia in a windowless room, I ask myself for the first time.
—Next Year in Jerusalem, somebody murmurs. I glance left and right, resentfully. Nobody’s moving from here, nobody’s going anywhere, neither to Jerusalem nor to America. Not even to heaven. Not before my brother is released and among us again.
A taxi honks outside the gate of the synagogue. A lighter snaps. A woman is weeping in her brother’s arms. An old man is washing his unshaved face under the tap. Someone is telling a new joke about the Prime Minister. They are distributing glasses of sherbet to the fasters. Father intercepts one of my two hands reaching out for the tray.
—Take it easy, daughter, one’s enough! Drink it slowly, don’t overload your stomach. You may have your second glass at home, and the third after the meal.
The Seville orange sherbet soothes my throat and spreads a cool bitter aftertaste in my mouth. The flavour of atonement I suppose.
On Stamps and Swallows
Baghdad, 9th June 1968
Dear Clifford,
To my embarrassment, I can’t remember if I ever thanked you for the First Day Cover you sent me two years ago. Please forgive me, although no excuse could justify my delayed reply. I can even recall how carefully I studied the set of British Birds, but of the four only the black-headed gull rang a bell …
I saw gulls for the first time when I sailed on the Anglo-Indian cargo ship from Iraq to England, forty-five years ago. Among the few passengers on board, I was the youngest, fifteen years old, travelling on my own and, scared to death. But soon the sea distracted me from my fears, that is, I was sick most of the journey. Eager to tread on solid earth again I’d cheer “land” together with the English sailors whenever we spotted a harbour on the Arabian Sea, the Red Sea, the Mediterranean, the Atlantic Ocean, or the Bay of Biscay. But when the gulls of Portsmouth joined us, heading to the horizon, gaggling and hovering above the ship, the sailors just whispered,