Daughters of Iraq (25 page)

Chapter Forty-Two: Noa

Friday, October 15, 1993

Dear Aba’le,

How are you? The photos you sent me in your last letter from Oregon made me very happy. Hiking does you good. You look tanned and relaxed, and why not? If I were at a beautiful, magical place like Crater Lake, with its crystal-clear water, I’d be smiling, too. Your plan to continue south to the Mexican border sounds like a dream come true. Someday I hope to follow in your footsteps and make my way down America’s west coast, but in the meantime I’m working hard. The semester started yesterday, and it looks very challenging. I’m trying to work more hours, too; I need the money. Other than that, everything here is fine. Except for the horrible suicide attacks on the buses, of course. I’m using your car, like I promised, and even though driving through the city is impossible, and parking is a nightmare, I never take the bus anymore.

You asked if I’ve finished my thesis on Yona Wallach. The answer is yes, I finished it, but as soon as I was done I felt like there was so much more to explore. Her curiosity, her need to dig below the surface, to expose layer after layer until she unearthed the truth—they’ve bewitched me. It must have taken so much courage and an extraordinary amount of creativity. I have no doubt she lived before her time. I have a hunch that one day I will return to her work and explore it further.

You also asked about
Ima
’s journal, if it’s too painful for me to read, if Guy has read it yet. The answer to your second question is yes: I gave Guy the journal last week. I confess, it was hard to hand it over, but Guy also deserves to read it, and I am eager to hear his thoughts. As to your first question . . . well, it’s complicated. Until now, I wasn’t ready to discuss the journal with you. I couldn’t get over the feeling that you had betrayed me. For a long time, I couldn’t distinguish between what I was feeling and what I was thinking. Rationally, I understood that you and Aunt Farida had only the best of intentions, you weren’t planning on keeping the journal from me forever, but deep inside I felt deceived. I wondered what other tricks you had up your sleeve. I kept asking myself: who gave you the right to keep something so precious to yourself, especially something
Ima
had written explicitly for me and Guy? The more I read, though, the more I understood your decision, which must not have been an easy one to make. It’s not like
Ima
had written us personal messages; she wrote about her past. She wasn’t trying to convey any instructions or moral admonitions, only her love for us. Still, I did learn some important lessons from her journal. I had to read it numerous times before I could decipher these lessons. I’m not sure I would have understood all the nuances had I read it earlier.

The very fact that
Ima
wrote a journal just for us never ceases to move me. I learned a lot this summer about
Ima
and the family, and, to be perfectly honest, about myself as well.
Ima
was a very strong person. She knew what it was like to immigrate to another country, and she knew about loss. From a very young age, she had to support her family and at the same time see to her own future. I also experienced loss at a young age, but my life was much easier than hers. I can learn a great deal from
Ima
, even if she’s not here next to me, and this learning makes me stronger.
Ima
didn’t say it explicitly, but I think I can speak for her: in our family, the women are strong. Chabiba, Farida,
Savta
, and
Ima
, and even me, know what it means to face hardship. And maybe, like Yona Wallach, we also seek the truth—and aren’t afraid to face it.

My darling
Aba
, I miss you so much. Your trip abroad has also taught me something about myself, something I hadn’t known before. Wherever you are, wherever
Ima
is, wherever Guy is, I am there, too. We are a unit; we are a family. The powerful connection between us fortifies me. I know that I am a part of your life, just as you are a part of mine, and the same goes for
Ima
and Guy. I know it’s going to be alright.

Much love,

Noa

Chapter Forty-Three: Dan

June 15, 1987

V
iolet, the love of my life, passed away on Shavuot, the seventh day of the Jewish month of Sivan, June 1987, in Ichilov Hospital in Tel Aviv. She didn’t have a chance to say goodbye to anyone; her body simply shut down in the middle of one of her treatments. She fell into a coma and never woke up. We called Noa and told her to come home immediately. Guy was there right away, and all of us crowded into the room. You will always be missed, my dear. May you rest in peace.

July 2, 1987

My heart is broken. I long for you so much, my soulmate. There are so many things you’ll never be able to do, Violet, mother of my children. You will never be able to walk your children down the aisle. Or see your grandchildren. Never again will you hold my hand, and we won’t grow old together. You didn’t have the chance to write everything in your journal: how you managed to go to university despite having to work so hard to support your family and pay tuition. You did it all by yourself. You didn’t write about your academic success, about how we met in the library, and how we fell in love. I am filling in those blanks, adding them to your uncompleted journal—for your sake and for the sake of our children. I am telling Noa and Guy how lucky they were to have you for a mother, what a privilege it was for me to be your partner. When we have grandchildren, I will tell them all about the grandmother they never met. I love you today as much as I loved you when I first laid eyes on you, as much as I loved you through all our years together. You are in my heart. You always will be.

January 21, 1988

Noa completed her army service today. She is talking about taking a trip to Europe, but she doesn’t have any definite plans. Time passes, and we miss you so much.

March 3, 1988

Five days ago, Guy was drafted. He’s in basic training, and will be serving in Intelligence.

June 4, 1988

I’ve been without you for an entire year, and every day feels like an eternity.

February 2, 1989

Guy has begun an officer’s training course. Noa and I are so proud of him, and you would be, too, if you were here.

June 15, 1989

Two years without you. We went to the cemetery today. Your grave is cold and impersonal, and you are nowhere to be found.

May 2, 1990

Noa is back from abroad, and she’s decided to live at home. I’m pleased with her decision.

June 4, 1990

Three years without you, my love. I can’t believe that three years have already passed. I long for you terribly.

February 1, 1991

I decided to go back to school; I’m now working part-time. I took classes in geography and Jewish philosophy. Simply amazing. Noa decided to go to university. She starts in October.

May 15, 1991

Noa’s moved out and is renting an apartment. Guy is serving in the army, stationed at a base near Tsfat. I barely see him. It’s so sad without you. So empty . . .

June 4, 1991

Four years without you. I put roses on your grave. The summer is so hot, and you are not here. Noa decided to study Hebrew literature. Guy is still in the army.

March 15, 1992

Guy finished his army service and is looking for work as a waiter. For now, he’s living with me until further notice. Noa finished her first semester with excellent grades; apparently she takes after her mother.

June 4, 1992

Five years, and you are not here. Sometimes I dream about you and you are so real, then I wake to another day without you. It’s hard for me.

December 31, 1992

Everyone is going out for New Year’s Eve, and I’m thinking about you. Without you, I’m not in the mood to celebrate.

June 4, 1993

Six whole years without you, my love. I’ve gotten used to your absence, but not a day goes by when I don’t think about you. Noa’s already finished her second year of school, and Guy has enrolled at the “Technion Institute of Technology”. He left home a few months ago, and once again I am living in an empty house, without you. Each day, the pain is fresh. I’ve decided to take a trip to Seattle: a change of scenery, a chance to hike. It won’t be the same without you. I am entrusting Farida with the journal in my absence. (Even when I’m here, she occasionally asks to borrow it, and I lend it to her until I miss it so much and ask for it back.)

I am thinking about when to let our children read your journal. I have a feeling the right time is fast approaching. They are adults now. I am waiting for a sign, a signal that they are ready for it; then I will know the time has come. I want the journal to serve its purpose.

Chapter Forty-Four: Noa

T
he pen slipped from Noa’s hand and fell to the ground. She picked it up, rested it on the folded letter, and contemplated the sea. If there was anywhere in the world where Noa could let her emotions run wild, she thought, this was it. She focused on the horizon, and formed a picture in her mind: a father, a mother, a girl, and a boy sitting on the beach. Noa and Guy building a sand castle,
Ima
helping to build a wall,
Aba
giving out slices of cold watermelon. Soon the ice cream man would come with his popsicles, calling out, “Ice cream, ice cream, makes you fat, makes you thin, good for your body, good for your skin . . .” Every summer the same vendor, the same jingle. Every summer they’d look at each other and laugh; every summer they’d buy his popsicles. Noa looked down at the letter. She read it over, then read it again. There was more that she wanted to tell her father, to ask him about, but how could she? He was so far away.

It was only yesterday that Ofir had left for reserve duty, and she missed him already. When she looked at the water she couldn’t help but think of his eyes. The apartment felt empty without him, and, as she had often done before, she escaped to the café across from the beach. At this early hour, she was the only customer. The sound of the waves mingled with the clinking of the dishes, which mingled with the noise of the congested streets. Everyone was rushing off somewhere, but there was no place Noa had to be. She sat in the corner and sipped her coffee slowly. The ice cream man didn’t come here anymore; maybe, she thought, he had gone into a different business. She tried to concentrate, but it was difficult. Random thoughts kept popping into her head: her tenth or eleventh birthday party; her mother’s embrace when she came home from the army; Farida heaping food onto her plate in her small apartment; Ofir admiring the new dress she was modeling. There was nothing better, she decided, than letting your imagination take you to all kinds of secret places. She felt a relief that was almost dizzying. The distress that had been gathering inside her for the last few weeks seemed to be dissipating.

She smiled to herself. When she opened her purse to pay, she came across a scrap of paper with Ehud’s phone number scribbled on it. She’d had it for so long, it was practically an antique. She remembered the thrill she had felt the night of the reunion, how she had hoped to get to the heart of things. She also remembered how Ehud tightened up when he sensed her trying to shift their conversation to something more personal. His excuses bordered on ridiculous. That evening Noa understood that intimacy scared Ehud. The mysterious halo that had surrounded him all those years, that had enchanted her so much, disappeared, and he suddenly struck her as foolish, and a bit childish. When she’d come home, she’d knew that she’d never yearn for him again. And now, in the café, Noa looked at the familiar handwriting, ripped up the note, and threw the scraps into the ashtray. She paid for her coffee, and left.

2002–2006

Zichron Yaakov, Israel, and Seattle

a b

alright
is okay in written dialogue—in all other instances, it should be
all right

Baghdadi
(using this as an adjective that can describe objects as well as people; e.g.,

Baghdadi man
or
Baghdadi night
)

c d

e f g

h i

Holy Land

j k l

kabbalistic
(adj.)

m n

menorah

makeup

o p

okay
(rather than
OK
or
O.K.
)

Pesach
(Passover)

phylactery
(a receptacle containing a holy relic;
Judaism
: two black, leather cubes

containing scripture-inscribed parchment, worn on the left arm and forehead

during prayer)

q r

Rosh Hashanah
(Jewish high holy day that marks the beginning of the Jewish New Year)

s t

Silon
(Israeli cigarette brand)

tefellin
(a religious ceremony involving phylacteries)

toward
(rather than
towards
)

u v w x y z

worshiped
(one “p”)

punctuation / ligatures

series comma

colons (follow Garner, Chicago)

a.m.
and
p.m.
, as opposed to
A.M.
or
AM
etc.