by ILIL ARBEL
“Why not?” said Feera. “I am so tired . . .”
“I know, but you are covered with lice. Don't embarrass us by infesting the hotel. Soon we will bathe.”
Bathe? Nonsense. We had not seen a bathtub for months. I looked at Mama skeptically, somewhat annoyed, and suddenly felt extremely proud of her. Dirty, pale, and tired, her dark hair messily tacked with a few pins, she stood erect and dignified, careful of the good name of our family.
We entered our rooms, accompanied by a pleasant, polite chambermaid. We could not communicate verbally, she only spoke Chinese and did not understand any of the languages Mama and Papa tried. It didn't matter. She knew the hardships we experienced on the road from the tales of hundreds of other refugees.
I will never forget the first bath in this hotel. The chambermaid brought kerosene and poured it on my head. She combed it in, then took a handful of a strange-smelling ointment and rubbed it into my scalp and hair. This process, meant for the elimination of lice, was so interesting that I completely forgot my fatigue. After another vigorous combing, she rinsed my hair and washed it two or three times with strong shampoo. Only then I was permitted to sink into the most heavenly warm bath I had ever known. While I was soaking, one of the hotel's employees was sent to buy us new clothes, since every scrap of clothing we had on during the trip had to be burned. The maid braided my wet hair, I put on clean new pajamas, and crawled into a bed covered with soft, white sheets. Not needing to scratch lice bites this night, I slept so deeply I didn't even dream.
I cannot remember the chambermaid's name, but she remained in my heart to this day. Somehow Mama found out her story. She came from a small, distant village, the daughter of wretchedly poor peasants. She even had big feet, the sign of an extremely poor family, because in those days even women of modest means had their feet bound during infancy. She was proud to support herself, but desperately ashamed of her big feet. One dress for work and one for leisure comprised her entire wardrobe, but she always managed a scrupulously clean and neat appearance. At the early days of our stay in Shanghai, I could not tell the Chinese people apart. Slowly I began to notice their faces, to differentiate, and how I loved the friendly maid's beautiful face!
Without a common language, this kind woman tried to please us in so many ways. One evening, when her grueling workday was over and she had already taken her bath, she took Feera and me to her room to show us how she washed her own hair. Her modest, clean room was filled with objects I did not know or recognize, totally different from our European-style rooms. The simple arrangement was attractive and restful. The maid filled a large porcelain bowl with fragrant oil and put it on a small table on which stood a single flower in a white vase. She undid her luxurious black hair and passed a wooden comb through it. Bending over the bowl, she dunked her hair in the oil and swished it vigorously, then wrung the oil out. She quickly mounted the hair on her head in the shape of a pretzel, stuck two long pins in it – and the ritual was completed.
From our window we saw the bustling street, much like a large stage with varied and strange spectacles. The rickshaw struck me as the most amazing surprise. A wheelbarrow on two wheels and a roof, a padded seat, and instead of a horse – a man! The first coolie I saw, thin and sweaty, ran with his shirt open to the wind, breathing hard. I saw circuses in Russia, with animals trained to behave like humans, to dance on two legs, or to drive a bicycle – but I had never seen a man trained to be a beast of burden. Tears choked me.
But I was a child, and despite the pity I felt enormous curiosity. I looked at the rickshaws every morning from my window until I got used to the idea. I was encouraged by the fact that some of the coolies smiled cheerfully as they were paid; perhaps they did not think about their job as humiliating and I was just imagining things again? The next step involved persuading Mama to take us for a short ride in a rickshaw. She clearly didn't want to, but finally succumbed to my begging. We climbed on one and started out, but after a “trip” of about a hundred meters, she stopped the coolie, paid him, and we got off. For a few minutes she was silent. Then, holding back the tears of pity, she said fiercely, “I am not ready to eat their 'roaches', and I don't want to ride their people!”
Secretly, I was glad we got off the rickshaw. I felt nauseous throughout the course of this “trip.” I tried – and didn't want any more of that.
I enjoyed strolling in the streets much more. Food was sold from small stalls in all street corners, including eels, oysters, and shrimps. These were the “roaches” Mama referred to; she could not abide seafood except simple fish, and as this food also seemed so foreign to a girl from Siberia, I never ate anything exotic in Shanghai and stuck to Western foodstuffs. But the new and exciting toys that were sold there! I had never seen such marbles before, every size and all the colors of the rainbow, transparent, opaque, swirled. I started collecting them, not so much to play, but to admire their beauty and arrange them in different configurations. Feera fell permanently in love with the tiny, elegant boxes, made from cinnabar, enamel, wood, and silver; she continued to collect pretty boxes even as a mature woman. And the marvelous dolls, all with Chinese faces and so elaborately dressed in silks! We wanted everything.
By now, however, money started to run out. Papa, with his usual enterprising spirit, decided to earn some. Right there in the hotel, he took out his dental tools and arranged a makeshift dental office. He told everyone that he started seeing patients, and in a few days had a large practice comprised of the hotel staff, guests, and even many Chinese townspeople who felt like trying exotic dentistry from Russia.
We stayed in Shanghai for a month, a month of rosy days and peaceful nights. While waiting for the ship that would take us to Egypt, we met many children from various countries, made friends, and enjoyed new adventures every day. For a while, I was so busy I even stopped looking for Hulda. We forgot the lice; our health improved. Mama, Feera and I wandered about all day enjoying ourselves, and at night Papa joined us to explore English theater and Chinese dance companies. It was so good to see Mama looking beautiful and well-dressed again, her dark hair elegantly done and her warm gray eyes just a tiny bit less worried.
All the while, the lemon tree did very well on the window sill, enjoying more sun than it could get on the train from Siberia. It even unfurled a few new, delicate leaves. Interestingly, the hotel staff treated it reverently, with innate understanding of its being both a living, beloved plant, and a cherished symbol of hope.
Official papers from the Chinese consulate in Irkutsk
The Hongkewmarket in Shanghai
CHAPTER EIGHT: THE SHIP
Finally, the festive month in Shanghai came to a close; the ship that was to take us to Egypt had arrived.
The first ship in my life! A floating palace. Halls furnished in European style, crystal chandeliers, gilded walls. What excitement.
We did not travel first class, of course; despite Papa's patients in Shanghai, our huge expenses exceeded our income. So we had to separate again. Papa shared a cabin with three other men, and Mama and we shared one with a lovely Japanese lady.
As usual, the separation worried me, bringing back the anxiety and rage over Sasha's death. I left our cabin, letting Mama and Feera attend to our things while I followed Papa to check that he did not feel too lonely in his cabin as he settled in. He seemed to be all right, so I just sat and chatted with him as he unpacked. Suddenly Feera burst into the cabin in high excitement.
“Ida, come at once, you must see the strange things the Japanese lady is doing –”
We ran back to our cabin. All seemed peaceful and normal. The lemon tree already stood on the little table under the porthole, and the Japanese lady and Mama conversed amicably in French while arranging their belongings. I looked at Feera skeptically, seeing nothing extraordinary. The lady hung a number of elegant kimonos on wooden hangers. Then she sat on her bunk and like a magician performing an elaborate sleight-of-hand, started taking object after object out of her wide sleeves! I st
ared as small candy boxes, a fan, cosmetics, money, a mirror, and a tiny book with an illustrated cover made their appearance. The lady laughed at our amazement, turned the sleeve inside out and showed us a capacious hidden pocket in the silk lining. She opened the little book with the illustrated cover, and I saw that nothing was written on the creamy white pages. Motioning us to approach her, she tore out the first two pages and rubbed them on our noses – each page, made of the softest rice paper, was saturated in fragrant face powder! We were speechless with admiration for this great invention. Noticing that, she fished deeper into the sleeve, produced two little identical books, and gave one to each of us. I ran to the mirror to admire my elegantly powdered nose, but Feera grabbed me.
“Wait! Look at her bed,” she said. “That's what I called you for.”
Something strange happened to the bed; the pillow disappeared, and was replaced by an intricately carved wooden box.
“She sleeps on this, she already explained it to Mama when you were out. Let's ask her to show us.”
“No,” I said, intimidated. “We'll wait. Maybe she was just joking and she'll laugh at us.”
Later at night we stayed awake to spy. The lady came in, and arranged herself for bed with a long and interesting beauty ritual of makeup removal, cleansing, washing, putting on various lotions, and powdering, entirely unaware of our heartfelt appreciation. We never saw such a thing at home; Mama didn't use makeup. Like most ladies at that time, she believed that only sparkling cleanliness and simple elegance and neatness of dress were morally acceptable, with perhaps just a touch of powder on the nose. When she finished her preparations, the lady reclined on her back, placing her big, elaborate hairdo right into the little wooden box. This way the hairdo remained neatly arranged and she didn't have to redo it every morning. As I looked at her, sleeping peacefully, I had a funny, improbable thought. What if she had lice? What would she do if her head itched?
The experiences I had during the extended journey on the trains served as a life-long lesson: I learned to enjoy little things, to be happy over every small comfort, and most important, to greatly appreciate people who treated me kindly. On the ship, the travelers became a big family, and so the long trip turned into a stay in paradise.
One morning, I noticed a most bizarre contraption on deck – a small room without a ceiling, its walls and floor made of cloth. I went to investigate, and saw some people hosing water into the incomprehensible thing. This ship had no swimming pool, but the resourceful Japanese travelers created a freestanding pool from thick, watertight canvas. Splashing in the pool turned out to be great fun, but I discovered that redheaded people with delicate skin must watch for the sun as well as the frost. My poor nose, now safe from freezing, turned bright red from sunburn, while Feera's golden skin tanned beautifully. “How unfair,” I wailed, and Mama laughed and smeared suntan oil on me. “But your new freckles look so good with your green eyes,” said Papa convincingly. “I am sure they are fashionable in the Middle East, where the sun is so strong. You will be greatly admired.” We dunked in the pool and played with the Japanese children whose language we did not understand except “arigato” (thank you). They were incredibly polite and friendly children, and loved to give little presents. One particularly curious present I still remember. They gave us small balls, each about the size of a thumbnail and made of some rubbery material, half green and half white. You put it under your tongue and played with it, swishing it in and out, much like using chewing gum. For the entire time I didn't search for my Hulda. I was happy.
Occasionally we stopped in a port and were permitted to have a short visit ashore. I don't remember much, as impression upon impression already crowded my short, eventful life. I retain one hazy memory from Hong Kong. A few ladies, wearing gorgeous silk dresses, stopped us in the middle of the street to express their admiration of Feera's incredible chestnut hair. They had never seen, they said, such long hair on a Western child. I also recall a memory from Singapore, a land of unimaginable tropical beauty, and the sweet and tangy taste of my first pineapple, picked there straight from the plant and sliced, the golden, fragrant juices dripping on my hands.
The lemon tree, bravely withstanding all the hardships of the road, continued growing on the ship. Mama caressed its leaves every morning, and the warm weather must have been good for it; it was spring, the blooming season for citrus trees. All the travelers on board heard its history and shared our feelings. Many came to visit it every day, some from curiosity and some because our faith rubbed off on them.
***
Finally, we arrived at Port Said, in Egypt. As usual before any new event, I couldn't sleep all night, but the excitement of being almost there, almost in Israel, kept me from feeling even the slightest degree of tiredness. Feera and I went on deck at dawn. We wanted to see the sun rise on the approaching land.
“Do you think we will be in Tel-Aviv this afternoon?” I asked.
“Definitely,” said Feera. “It's really close, Papa said. Remember the map? Port Said seems like a step away.”
“I want to go straight to our new apartment,” I said enthusiastically. “Papa said he'll give us all the keys, and we can find out which key fits into each door and closet. That will be such fun.”
“The sun is so bright here,” said Feera. “Just like Sasha used to tell us.”
Suddenly, without warning, we both stood there, holding hands and sobbing. Sasha's memory and the pain of his loss were somewhat dulled during the trip. But here we were, where he longed to be, and it all seemed so unfair, so unfair . . . “We'll plant the lemon tree in the best orchard, just like he wanted,” said Feera, wiping her eyes. “Stop crying immediately. Mama and Papa will be sad if they see us.”
“Maybe we'll do it tomorrow, if the orchards are close by,” I said.
CHAPTER NINE: ANOTHER VARIETY
OF SHIP
Unfortunately, it didn't happen quite that fast. The ship didn't even go into the port. It was moored far away, and we had to go to the shore by boats. Secretly, I was terrified of the small boat, bobbing on the blue waves, and it took all my will power not to disgrace myself in public by refusing to go into it. Mama supported me through the short trip, holding me close, as I experienced seasickness that never hit me on the large ship. Mercifully, we quickly arrived to the shore of Port Said, a large, bustling city.
Here we had to wait as well. We lived in a hotel where many Jews stayed on their way to Israel, waiting for the official papers to be set in order. Again, Papa stacked a few crates in a street corner, covered them with clean white sheets, and added a wooden chair to the arrangement. Before he could finish organizing the dental tools on the crates, a line of Egyptian patients formed in front of the makeshift office. They were smiling and friendly despite their obvious toothache and poverty, and paid whatever they could afford.
Papa was tremendously excited by the Red Sea and the Suez Canal, and we did some sightseeing in Port Said. I can't recall how Mama and Feera felt, but I was tired from all the new impressions, and retained no strong memories from Egypt. I only remember the impatience; I wanted to arrive, I wanted so much to reach Israel. Our trip lasted an entire year.
***
One day, Mama, Feera and I drank our tea on the hotel's porch. We almost had it to ourselves, the only other occupant a very young man, almost a boy. I had often seen him before, but never spoke to him because he wore traditional Arab clothing and I assumed we had no common language. We could see Papa, who had just finished treating his last patient, cleaning and packing his tools. Suddenly a man in a white suit approached him. They spoke for a few minutes and the man handed Papa a sheet of paper. Papa entered the hotel, sat down, and with a look of total despair slapped the paper on the table. Mama picked it up and read carefully, slowly.
“It can't happen,” she finally said, gently laying it on the table as if it threatened to explode. “Not when we are that close.”
We looked at Papa, too frightened to ask.
“It's a government paper, and they won't let us go to Israel,” said Papa, and translated it for us.
The letter declared that our papers were not in order, and therefore, the government could not take it upon itself to sign a permit for crossing the border to Israel. They gave us two options. We could return to our port of origin, Shanghai, on the first ship that would become available, and would have to present the officials with a proof of our intended trip. Or we could go to court, right there in Port Said, and try to reverse the decision by submitting additional papers. Either way, the choice had to be made within a couple of weeks.
“We can't have additional papers, because such papers don't exist,” said Papa. “Our papers are in perfect order.”
“I wonder what they really want,” said Mama.
“Money, I think,” said Papa, “It's probably the work of some petty officials trying to extort money from refugees. And we don't have any funds.”
“But we can't go back to Shanghai,” said Mama. “We don't have papers to reenter there.”
“Of course not. They won't let us in. Ever since the end of the war, ships full of refugees are turned away from one port after another because they don't have the proper papers.”
“We may have to write to your family in America.”
“What's the point? We can't arrange anything in such a short time.”
I waited for the line that always followed difficulties. One of them would say, “There has to be a way,” and the other would suggest a course of action, and something would inevitably be attempted. But both my parents were silent. There seemed to be no solution. Cold despair made my stomach sink. After all our efforts, we were finally defeated.