Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction
Read Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction Online
Authors: Fedora Horowitz
JAFFA BEACH
H i s t o r i c a l F i c t i o n
F e d o r a H o r o w i t z
Copyright © 2013 Fedora Horowitz
All rights reserved.
ISBN-10: 1481991701
ISBN-13: 9781481991704
Library of Congress Control Number: 2013906077
CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform
North Charleston, South Carolina
PART I :
1
H
er mother’s voice reached the girl, “
Shifra
, are you
s
till sitting by the window, daydreaming?” With a sigh, Shifra turned around and took in the drabness of the room.
The family lived in a two-room apartment on the second floor of a building in a narrow street in Geula, one of the two ultra orthodox neighborhoods in Jerusalem. From the kitchen, her mother’s voice admonished her again. “Shifra, didn’t you hear the bell of the kerosene man? He’s passing through our street. Quick! Take the ten-liter container and this money. Tell the
neft
man he’ll get the remainder next time.”
In the street in front of each apartment building, Shifra saw women in
shaitels
, their black stockings showing underneath their long skirts.
The sky was gray. Shifra shivered. It was cold in Jerusalem, even now in March, the month that was supposed to bring back the sun she was longing for so much. Their apartment was always cold, though the kitchen’s three primus stoves and the heating
tanur
in the big room were lit all the time. Their building was built
with Jerusalem stone, heavy blocks of rock, dating probably from the time of the Prophets, Shifra thought, but that thought didn’t warm her up.
She had arrived just in time. The
neft
man, walked alongside his cart, ringing a bell while the smell of gas invaded the narrow street. The women waited in line, Shifra the last one.
“
Nu, Shifrale, wus machst du
, what do you do?” the bearded man asked her with a smirk. She kept her head low, but he continued. “Oy, if the Almighty had blessed me with a son, I would love to have you as my
shnur
, my daughter-in-law. Since my
weib hot gistorben
, you know that my wife died, I feel so lonely.”
Shifra didn’t answer. She had heard these words before. Silently she handed the man his money, “My mother said she’ll give you the rest next time.” He counted it then gave her back two piastres. “Go buy yourself a bow for your beautiful hair,” he said with a wink.
Shifra looked around. The street was deserted. She put the change in her pocket without a word, picked up the heavy can and started to climb the steps of her apartment, while from afar she heard the
neft
man ringing his bell again. It wasn’t the first time the man had given her change, a few piastres, even when he was paid the right amount. For the last few weeks she’d had to listen to the man’s litany. She had hidden the money in a tin can under her bed. It wouldn’t be long before she would use this money for her dream.
“Hurry,” her mother called Shifra from the top of the stairs. “There is much to do. Your father is going to come from
shul
soon, and you have to clean the rooms.”
After Shifra’s oldest sister married, her father decided that it was time for Shifra to stop going to
Beth Yaakov
, the girls’ yeshiva. She was thirteen at the time. “She has to help raise the little ones,” was his decision, though her father had never spoken directly to her on the subject. Actually, she didn’t care for the school, where
they spoke mostly Yiddish, leaving the
Lushen Kodesh
, the holy language, for the reading of the Holy Books. But she was fond of two of her classmates, Chana and Shula, and she missed them. Their tales had opened a window to a world she never knew existed. After she left school, it was very seldom that she met them, but what they told her remained printed in her memory.
“The sea is so beautiful, blue and huge. When you look at the horizon, it seems that the sea is one with the sky,” Chana gushed enthusiastically one day, when she had just returned from visiting her cousins who lived near Tel-Aviv. “The water is warm, the waves cradle you. It is so delicious. When I grow up I want to live by the sea.” Shifra loved the cheerful Chana.
When Shula invited Shifra to her home, Shifra discovered a house full of books, not only in Yiddish or
Lushen Kodesh
, but in English and other languages, too. “My father loves to read,” Shula had said with pride, “There are so many things one can learn,” she added. Shula told her that her father, who was born in Germany, had studied at the yeshiva, and also at the university. “Even before the Nazis came to power, he felt that it was no good for Jews to live in Germany. He left and came to Jerusalem.
Rebono shel Olam
, the Master of the Universe, guided his way.”
That evening Shifra told her mother about her visit with Shula. Her father was home and overheard her. “Shifra is not allowed to go there anymore!” he screamed. As always, he did not talk to her directly. “Those books are the books of the devil.”
Shifra’s mother’s face became livid, “You’ve heard your father,” she whispered, “You can’t go to Shula again.”
Though Shifra made excuses for not visiting Shula, that didn’t end their friendship, or Shifra’s desire to read the books Shula lent her. AS Palestine was under the British Mandate, the English language was an obligatory part of the curriculum, in yeshivas also. Shifra would wake up at dawn and read until her eyes hurt. She especially loved Andersen’s story about the orphan girl selling
matches in the frosty night in Copenhagen. Like that girl’s eyes marveling at the warmth and the miracle of light, so Shifra’s eyes opened wide at the miracle of reading.
Her mother called her a dreamer. Shifra, sitting by the window, wove stories in her mind. Many times she sang to herself melodies she had heard her mother sing when she cradled the babies. But Shifra was cautious not to sing when her father was home. She was told that a woman’s voice could attract the devil. Singing was what Shifra loved most. She listened to the birds’ calls and tried to imitate their trills. That’s when she felt most alive. She’d love to be a bird, to feel free to sing, to feel free to fly over Chana’s wondrous sea.
“We have to go to Mahane Yehuda,” Shifra’s mother woke her from her reverie. “Tomorrow is
Erev Shabbos
, there is no time to be idle. Take the baskets and let’s go.”
Mahane Yehuda was the open market on Jaffa Street, the main thoroughfare in Jerusalem. First they went to the
Shochet
, the slaughterer, to buy the chicken they ate only on
Shabbos
. Then she helped carry the baskets with fruits and vegetables after her mother bargained with the sellers, always succeeding in saving a few piastres. While crossing the street she saw the yellow bus with the sign “Jaffa” stopping not far from the market. “Hurry,” her mother said, when Shifra slowed her pace, “stop looking around. The time moves fast and there is a lot to do at home.”
On Friday evening after the meal, her father seemed to be in a good mood. While Shifra washed the dishes, she heard him say to her mother, “I have something to tell you. Today Klotznik, the matchmaker, came to the study house to talk to me.”
“Not now,” answered her mother, putting a finger on her lips, “
Vart, shpater
, wait until later.”
That night Shifra couldn’t fall asleep. What did her father mean? She remembered when Klotznik came to propose the
shammas’
son for her older sister. But Brana was eighteen at the
time. When the entire household was quiet, she heard her father say, “It’s Shifra. The
neft
man sent Klotznik to talk to me. He wants to marry her.”
“You can’t be serious,” her mother said. “Shifra is barely fifteen. And he is about forty, if not more.” Her mother’s voice grew louder.
“Sh, sh,” said her father, “Klotznik says that he has fallen in love with Shifra. He has only daughters. Shifra could bear a son, a son to say
Kaddish
after him. Think what a
mitzvah
that would be.”
Shifra heard her mother turning and tossing in bed. “No,” her mother said after a long pause, “she’s too young. Shifra is still a child.” But her father was snoring already.
Shifra couldn’t sleep all night. At
shul
on
Shabbos
morning, though she had to strain her eyes to see through the dividing
mehitze
, she saw the
neft
man approaching her father. She couldn’t hear but she saw the two men shaking hands at the end of their short conversation. Wiping his lips after the Shabbas meal, her father addressed his wife, “Get ready. We are going to celebrate a
chasana
on Lag Baomer,” (the only holiday during the seven weeks between Passover and Shavuot when weddings are permitted by the Jewish Law).
“A
chasana
! A wedding! Father what are you saying? She’s still a child,” exclaimed her mother. She stopped suddenly when her husband, with frowning eyebrows, raised his hand to silence her.
That night Shifra’s feelings went from despair to revolt. It’s not right! They can’t sell me to the
neft
man! There should be a law that parents can’t decide their children’s future! But she knew that she couldn’t confront her father. He could do with her whatever he wanted. Even her mother couldn’t change his mind. Her fate was sealed. She cried, her face burrowed in the pillow, afraid she might awake her siblings.
In the morning, after her father had gone to study and her mother was busy preparing the small children for school, she took
the tin can with the small change she received from the
neft
man and went to count it in the privacy of the bathroom. She didn’t know if the money was enough for the plan she had thought of during her sleepless night.
She realized that it was dangerous and maybe it wouldn’t work, but she knew she had to act. Just to wait for the right opportunity. Until then, she was going to make herself
nishtvisendick
, as though she was not aware of what awaits her.
The opportunity arrived earlier than she had hoped for. One evening, about two weeks before Pessach, she overheard her father whispering to her mother, “
Nu, sheinele, vein?”
to which her mother, her cheeks blushing, replied, “
Morgen in der free–
tomorrow morning.”
The next morning after her father and the children left for their yeshivas her mother said, “Shifra, I am going to
Mikve
. Take this note to Itzik, the grocer. I wrote everything we need on it. Ask him to add one more bottle of Kiddush wine for your father. He likes to take a sip not only on
Shabbos
. Tell Itzik that I’ll come at the end of the month to pay the account.”
Shifra kept quiet, though she felt tremulous. ”It’s going to happen, it’s going to happen,” her heart sang.
At the door, her mother turned around and after fishing a coin from her pocket said, “Shifrale, lately you’ve been such a good girl, you deserve a reward. Buy yourself something sweet from Itzik.” And she left.