Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction (11 page)

“You brought food and a girl for me to eat, too?” She laughed, showing the darkness of her toothless mouth.

“Eat, eat to your heart’s desire,” Samira urged her, taking the dishes from Suha’s hands and placing them on the floor. Then she sat next to the witch.

“Nice of you to bring me food,” said a satiated Uhm Zaide after a while. Her eyes scanned Shifra from top to bottom. “What is this Yahud girl doing here? Why did you bring her?”

Samira moved even closer and whispered in her ear. Uhm Zaide nodded a few times, while Shifra looked at both of them with apprehension.

“Bo’i ena, come here,” Uhm Zaide said in Hebrew, while her crooked index finger signaled Shifra to get closer. “Kneel,” she barked.

Seeing Suha tremble, Samira encouraged her. “Do what she says. Don’t be scared. She’s a good woman. She’s not going to hurt you.”

Uhm Zaide lit a candle and held it close to Shifra’s face.

“Hmm,” she said appreciatively, after she looked into Shifra’s eyes for a long time, “gorgeous eyes, as clear as the sea in the morning.” Then she ordered, “Stand up.” Taking a small wooden hammer, she gently hit Shifra’s knees and elbows. She watched the girl’s reaction with satisfaction.

“There is nothing wrong with her,” Uhm Zaide declared.

She got up and spit on Shifra’s forehead, then over her left and right shoulders.

“To drive away the bad spirits,” explained Samira, seeing how bewildered Shifra looked.

Uhm Zaide opened Shifra’s palm and studied it attentively. She turned toward Samira, “As I said, her body is healthy, but her heart is in turmoil. She doesn’t know it yet, but her love line,” and Uhm Zaide traced it with her finger, “predicts great things. She’ll not only be loved, she’ll be worshiped like a goddess. And that will heal her sadness.”

All of a sudden, Uhm Zaide frowned. “I can’t see much more,” she said. “Either the future is clouded, or my eyes are too weak.”

The witch let go of Shifra’s hand, “Go now,” she pointed towards the opening of the hut, “go outside.” After Shifra left,
Uhm Zaide went to a drawer where she searched for some time until she produced a small envelope filled with powder.

“No one can live without love,” she said, giving Samira the envelope, “but it does no harm to push it a bit. Take this powder. Each day, during the three days of the Ramadan feast, pour a little in her tea. There is already love in her heart, even though she doesn’t acknowledge it. This powder will make it stronger.”

The two women’s eyes locked with understanding. Samira wanted to thank her, but Uhm Zaide stopped her short, “You are my friend. I did what you asked me to do. Yet I don’t know why you encourage Musa’s pursuit of this girl. I can only hope that you’ll not be sorry one day.”

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A
fter leaving Uhm Zaide’s hut Shifra and Samira continued on their way in silence. It was the first time Shifra had walked through the Manshiya neighborhood. She breathed the salty air with delight, hopping from rock to rock, happy to be far from the darkness of Uhm Zaide’s hut. She still didn’t understand why Samira had to take her, though she was pleased, for once, to be far from Na’ima’s scrutinizing eyes.

It was hot, the sun at its zenith, and few people ventured onto the streets. Shifra saw a path leading to a narrow street with whitewashed walls and old trees shadowing the sidewalks. Gamely, she turned into it, ready for adventure.

“Where are you going?” Samira, suddenly alarmed, cried out. Shifra only hurried her steps without answering.

“Stop it!” Samira ordered, breathing hard, trying to keep in step with Shifra. “This is not the way home.”

Shifra shuddered when she heard the word “home.” For the two of them, home didn’t have the same meaning. Shifra continued to march ahead, letting the old woman run after her.

The sounds of a violin made Shifra stop in her tracks. It was the most endearing, tender, yet sorrowful music, so beautiful and pure, it made her heart cry. It sounded so familiar.

“Listen,” she whispered to Samira, afraid that by speaking louder the magic of the music would stop. ”Have you heard anything more beautiful?”

Samira looked at the house where violin strains had broken the silence of the placid afternoon. A copper plate was dangling dangerously on the gate. On it in bold letters was written, DR. OTTO SCHRODER, PROFESSOR OF VIOLIN. Whispering, Shifra translated the plate.

“Let’s go, let’s go,” Samira nudged her, taking her arm, but Shifra would not move.

She couldn’t break away from the dream state created by the music.
What was the music she heard?
The music had entered her heart. Shifra closed her eyes and, feeling weak, leaned on the wall beneath the magic window.

A vision appeared in front of her eyes. She saw herself in the little room that served as a
shul
for her parents and their neighbors. It was very hot. Through the partition that separated men and women, she saw the men, swaying back and forth, singing the melody that she heard being played by the magic violin.

Then another image superimposed itself upon the first. It was the violin in her friend Chana’s apartment, brought by Chana’s father when he ran away from Germany. It was kept in a glass compartment and nobody was allowed to touch it.

“My father was a child prodigy,” Chana told Shifra. “But he stopped playing the violin after he found out that his entire family was taken by the Nazis and no one heard from them again. His first impulse was to break the violin, but my mother saved it. My father never played it again except for the Kol Nidrei prayer in remembrance of his parents.”

That was the music she listened to now, walking on that dusty little street in Jaffa. She was sure she had heard Chana’s father playing it one evening long ago. Shifra opened her eyes
. How long had she been dreaming?
She saw a worried Samira watching her. The music stopped. Somebody opened the window and a middle-aged lady peered into the street. Samira dragged Shifra away and both hid behind a tree.

“
Ruhig, die Strasse ist ruhig
- the street is quiet, Otto. There is nobody here.” The lady turned her back to the window and called to someone inside the house, “Please, my darling, continue.” She had spoken in German, which for Shifra, who spoke Yiddish, was easy to understand. Shifra had noticed the lady’s sad eyes and pale face.

“Come on, we have to hurry,” Samira urged her. “Na’ima won’t understand what took us so long.”

Shifra looked at the house once more. Number 34 was written in black charcoal between its two large front windows. All the way back to Fatima’s house, the sounds of the violin followed her. Silently, she took an oath never to forget the house, the street and the violinist’s name, Otto Schroder. She didn’t know yet when and how she would return, but she knew she would be back.

As the two of them approached Fatima’s house, they heard a lot of noise in the courtyard.

“What could that be?” Samira hurried, anxiously. Opening the gate, they saw an idyllic tableau. Fatima was seated on a three-legged stool; at her feet, Na’ima, Rama, Nur and Ahmed listened entranced to their mother’s tale. Around them were half-opened packages, all gifts Fatima had brought from Jerusalem.

“Oh, here you are!” Fatima exclaimed when she saw Samira and Shifra enter the courtyard. So excited she was, she didn’t even ask why they weren’t home.

“A friend of cousin Abdullah had business in Jaffa, and he gave me a lift in his beautiful Studebaker. I returned earlier,” Fatima
explained to Samira, “because we are going to have guests next week, important guests,” she stressed the last words, “and it’s never too soon to start preparing for them. Look here.”

She opened a big package from which a diaphanous muslin material fell to the ground, “We are going to have new curtains to make the house look cheerful.”

Shifra slipped away unobserved. In her heart the music never stopped. Impulsively, she took a piece of paper and a pencil and started drawing the cross streets leading to the alley, the violinist’s house, the high windows and even the pale woman’s features. She wrote the name Otto Schroder and 34, the number of the house on top of the paper. She hid the paper under her pillow. Just in time, as she heard Samira turning the knob to her door.

“Come, don’t sit alone,” Samira said.

Silently Shifra followed Samira. Even before stepping into the courtyard Shifra heard Fatima assigning tasks to each of her children. Shifra knew that she would be included in those tasks, and that she would have to work hard. But right now, for a few more seconds, she wanted to keep hold of the memory of the music and how peaceful she felt upon hearing it.

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August 23, 1943


To my dearest and cherished sister Amina, Salaam Aleikum!


It’s been more than three months since you left home and so many things have happened that I don’t even know where to begin. But I think I’ll start by telling you my big news. I’m engaged to get married,with Allah’s will, very soon, on Idul Fitri holiday
.


Can you imagine, me, to be the first to get married? I never dreamed of it. It all happened so fast. Mother went to Jerusalem to visit Musa, who is working in cousin Abdullah’s Bank
.


Cousin Abdullah, a wonderful man, introduced her to Mahmood’s mother. Mahmood is my fiancé. Isn’t that a beautiful name? I feel as though my mouth melts when my lips form his name
.


Cousin Abdullah knew Mahmood’s father. His people were customers of the bank, and cousin Abdullah knew the family personally
.


Have I told you how good-looking my Mahmood is? He’s twenty-five years old, you might say, a bit too old for an eighteen-year-old girl, but I think it’s good for me to have a husband to look up to, one who’d make the right decisions
.


Mahmood sports a mustache, which is very becoming, especially when he smiles, like a little crown above his bright teeth. I hope I’ll be able to make him smile every time he looks at me. But I’m getting ahead too fast. Must be the excitement of everything I want to tell you, all at once
.


Your letters addressed to our mother were signs of your filial respect, but they never had a little separate section for me. I had hoped that you would write to me, and say that you missed me as much as I missed you
.


If I continue rambling like this, this letter will never get finished. I can already hear Samira clapping her hands, asking for everybody to get going. There is so much to do preparing for a wedding
.


Do you remember how you said that we would both get married on the same day, two sisters marrying two brothers, and we would live together forever?


Well, Amina, those were beautiful dreams. You are so far away, my heart aches. I’d love so much to have you closer, especially right now. This letter is written with the hope that you’ll come home, five weeks from now, when my wedding will take place
.


You might ask why so soon? I didn’t tell you that Mahmood is a widower, he has a little boy, five months old. His wife died in childbirth. It’s for the sake of the little boy that our mother decided to rush our wedding
.


Musa has met Mahmood and they like each other. Have I told you that I’m going to live in Deir Yassin? It’s a beautiful village perched on the hills outside Jerusalem. I’ll live close to Musa and cousin Abdullah’s family. I know that I’m going to miss my mother and sisters terribly and you, Amina, most of all
.


When our mother returned from Jerusalem she told me to expect a visit from Mahmood’s mother, who arrived a few days later, her arms full of gifts for everybody. I received five golden bracelets, which had belonged to her. I wear them even when I go to bed and their ting-a-lings put me to sleep. Mahmood came a week later. I was trembling. What would happen if he didn’t like me? I’d become the laughingstock of the neighborhood
.


I wore the white dress Suha, the Yahud girl, had embroidered for me, and Samira had done my hair in a new style she saw in a French magazine. My heart beat so fast, I thought I was going to faint. He was respectful to my mother and played shesh-besh with Ahmed, which gave me time to take a better look at him and quiet my rapid heartbeats
.


Mahmood said that he couldn’t remain long in Jaffa, since he had to return home to plant new olive trees. Last year’s drought made him lose a lot of trees. During his visit we decided on the date for our wedding
.


Oh, Samira is calling me. She screams “Na’ima, we don’t want to deliver a lazy bride to her bridegroom. Time to work, my girl.”


Doesn’t this sound like her? Amina, I know that you are busy learning a profession. But for the sake of the times when we were so close, please come home and be in my wedding. The wedding will be in Jaffa and not in Deir Yassin, as is usually the custom, in the bridegroom’s village. Mahmood said that the villagers might be sensitive to the fact that he is getting married only a few months after his wife died
.


As I write to you, I see Suha sweeping the courtyard. She’s the only thorn in my life. What made Musa bring her home?


Suha had the common sense, or maybe my mother ordered her, to stay in her room during Mahmood and his mother’s visit, but I wonder what will happen during the wedding, when so many of Mahmood’s friends and relatives, as well as our extended family, will be here? We can’t hide her forever, can we?


Samira has already opened the door to my room and is now threatening to hit me with the broom. It’s time to hug you and send lots of kisses. I want to see your smiling face at my wedding
,