Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction (23 page)

They remained in Germany. He couldn’t blame Gretchen. At the time they lived in Berlin, the musical capital of the world. It had been another stroke of luck that the principal cellist of the Berlin Philharmonic, Heinrich Schultz, came to hear one of their recitals, while visiting Leipzig. Enthusiastic about their performance, Mr. Schultz offered them a chamber music partnership, a violin, cello and piano trio. Gretchen was excited. “Herr Schultz,” she said, “what you propose is a dream come true.”

She tried to convince the doubtful Otto that it would be a good move. “Leipzig is still a provincial town. Everything happens in Berlin. You deserve to be heard there. This is your chance! We can’t turn down Heinrich.” She already called Schultz by his first name.

That was in 1929, a year after their marriage. Ruth was two months old. “It’s too soon,” said Otto, “I joined the Gewandhaus orchestra a year ago. Nobody leaves such a good position for a dream. How are we going to manage in Berlin? It’ll take months of practice before the trio is ready to perform. We’ll have to pay rent, hire a nanny for Ruth. My love, forget it for the moment. I think this is impractical.”

But Gretchen had made up her mind and she was not going to be defeated. “You know,” she said, “we can use part of my inheritance.”

The subject of her inheritance had been a sore point with Otto. It wasn’t the first time she had offered it. Otto would not hear of it. He felt that a husband had to support his wife, not otherwise. To Gretchen’s chagrin, he took in more students in order to pay his loans.

“You’re wasting your talent,” she said. Then Gretchen tried another tactic. “When my parents refused to see or talk to us, I decided that unless they accept you, I’ll have nothing to do with them. Still, it is difficult to live in the same city, where I know everybody and everyone knows me. In Berlin we’ll turn over a new leaf.”

Otto sighed. He suspected, though Gretchen never complained, that her parents’ attitude was a constant wound. They moved to
Berlin, where they found a small apartment close to Heinrich Schultz’s residence, not far from Unter den Linden, where on beautiful afternoons they pushed the baby’s carriage, under the alleys of linden trees, proud to see people stop and compliment Ruthie’s beauty.

Otto heard Gretchen’s moans, “I’m coming,
Shatz
. My princess’ breakfast is ready,” he called in a voice he forced to sound cheerful.

He had only one hour to shave, shower, get dressed, and ride two buses in order to be on time for the rehearsal of the Palestine Orchestra. Sometimes he regretted that he hadn’t rented a place closer to his work, on a street like Shenkin or Allenby, where other members of the orchestra lived. But he had been worried about Gretchen’s feelings. By living in Jaffa, he wanted to protect her from the other musicians and their wives, from their gossip or a negative attitude toward his German wife. He wouldn’t use Gretchen’s pain to gain their sympathy.

Otto heard the gate squeak, a sign that Nabiha, their faithful servant, had arrived.

Otto’s colleagues pressed him to move to Tel-Aviv. “You are sitting on a volcano,” they told him. “The numbers of Jewish immigrants from the displaced persons’ camps, are seen as a threat by the Arabs, and are not welcomed by the British. Jaffa is an Arab city. Be careful. The English mandate ends in 1947 and we have to prepare ourselves for turbulence.”

After four years of living in Palestine, Otto had only a limited knowledge of Hebrew, but he knew what they were talking about. He read the Palestine Post daily and was aware of the English proposal to divide Palestine between the Arabs and the Jews, a proposal that met with Arab anger.
How long was it safe to remain in Jaffa?

When he returned home, he found Gretchen trying to work the beads brought by Nahiba. It was painful to watch Gretchen’s deformed hands passing a thread through the center of the bead. Her beautiful, agile fingers had once made the piano keys dance
with joy. Her entire life seemed described by those fingers. When they reached Switzerland, after the trip that could have cost them their lives, the Swiss doctor they consulted took him aside.

“There is no hope,” he said. “Her knuckles were broken into small pieces. Those little bones cannot be attached again. Maybe if I inserted metal platelets between the fingers, the hand would look less deformed, but she’ll suffer more and it would not be of great help.”

Otto wept. “I’m sorry,” said the doctor, “I heard that your wife was a great pianist.”

To his orchestra colleagues he had said that their last years of living in Berlin, with no heat and Gretchen waiting in line for hours for bread, had produced the acute, debilitating rheumatism of her fingers. His colleagues commiserated, they knew how it was, but they did not know all of it. And he could never bring himself to tell them what they had lived through.

Otto took off his jacket and hat and hung them on a coat hanger. From a pocket he fished a large handkerchief and wiped his forehead. He kissed Gretchen’s cheek.

“How is my lovely wife today?”

“Look,” she said the blue of her eyes as bright as ever, “I think I’m making progress.”

Nahiba nodded. She caressed Gretchen’s hands. She’s beginning to understand German, thought Otto. Gretchen held in her hand ten little beads strung together.

“Oh,
liebchen
, sweetheart, this is beautiful,” exclaimed Otto and kissed her again. There was a time when he was afraid he would lose her, that when she realized that she could not play the piano anymore, the life would drain out of her. But now this kind, simple housekeeper’s patience started to bear fruit. That slow, repetitive work could be the therapy Gretchen needed. As long as Nahiba was with them, Otto decided, they would not move away from Jaffa.

2 8

T
hese last months I have become quite lazy,
Shifra thought, stretched out in bed, her hand caressing the warm spot where her husband had slept. She turned and embraced his pillow, which had the hollow left by his head and his familiar smell. Musa, her husband! It was every morning’s pleasure to remember that she was married to Musa; she had to pinch herself to recall that it was not a dream. And yet how could it have been a dream when Musa’s baby was kicking hard, playing football in her belly.

Shifra smiled. Could it really be that she would be a mother soon? She did not know if she was ready for it, but she was happy to see how excited Musa was to become a father. Still in bed, Shifra’s thoughts returned to the events preceding her marriage.

First Fatima’s wire, telling them that Na’ima’s baby came sooner than expected,

”
Inshallah
, we have a new Faud in the family,” she wrote a few days later. She would remain in Deir Yassin until Na’ima felt stronger.

In Jaffa the Masri children became ecstatic. “Can we go see the baby?” Rama and Ahmed asked in one voice.

It was hard for Samira and Musa to calm them down. “Not right now,” Musa said, “In a few days, when Eumi writes that Na’ima is ready for guests, we’ll all go.”

The same day after the children left for school, Musa took Samira aside. “Allah is on my side. Now or never,” Shifra heard him say.

Samira nodded. The look on his face was enough for Shifra to know that he was talking about her. He surely meant her conversion to Islam.

Oh, God, what should I do
? Shifra remembered brooding. Where could I turn for advice? Yes, she loved Musa, whenever she looked at him her heart fluttered. Yes, she felt comfortable in the Masri household. The children loved her, Samira loved her, and even Fatima had good words for her work. But wouldn’t God, her God, the God of the Jews, punish her? Didn’t she learn in school that the Jews of Spain preferred to be burned at the stake rather than convert? Why does life have to be so difficult?

She knew she had to make a choice. But hadn’t she already made a choice when she ran away from home, afraid to become the wife of that bad-smelling old man to whom her father had promised her?

“Suha,” Shifra heard Samira calling her. They were alone in the house.

“Today is the day,” Samira said quietly, taking her hand. “You will be taking the oath. There’s nothing to be scared of. Think only of Musa and how happy it will make him. Now repeat after me, I acknowledge that there is no God but God.”

Shifra repeated the words.

“I acknowledge that Mohammed is the messenger of God,” Samira continued.

Shifra recollected the Jews of Spain who did convert, but continued secretly to observe their ancient religion. Samira looked at her, waiting. Shifra’s mouth felt as dry as parchment, when she
whispered, ‘I acknowledge that Mohammed is the messenger of God.” Then she closed her eyes, but there was no thunder, no blow to her head. There was only Samira, who embraced her.

“I witness that you took our sacred oath, that you said the
Al-Shahada
. You have become a Muslim. Now you are really one of us.
Mavrook
.”

Seeing that Shifra remained quiet, Samira added, “You know how pleased Musa will be. Nothing could stop him now from marrying you. Doesn’t it make you happy? Musa, the most sought-after bachelor in Jaffa, has chosen you. You should be dancing and cheering with joy!”

Shifra’s eyes were swimming with tears. She did not understand why, while her heart palpitated with hope, she still felt so uneasy after taking the oath.

“I’m telling you, girl, you are becoming lazier by the day. Do you know what time it is? The sun has been out long ago and you are still in bed. If I had known what a lazy wife you’d become, I would never have encouraged Musa to marry you!” Samira’s outburst made Shifra smile.

“Have you forgotten that we are going to the bazaar today? The earlier we go the better—fewer people, better prices, enough time to bargain.”

Dear Samira, thought Shifra, she truly enjoys bargaining. How many times had Musa told them to stop hassle the merchants? “Everybody has to make a profit,” he would say. Oh, Musa, her dear husband was such a fine, caring person.

Slowly, Shifra got out of bed.

“It’s hard for me to walk,” she answered. “I am so heavy. I don’t think I can get any bigger. And still another month to go!”

“You are doing fine. You’re just too spoiled. I haven’t seen yet a husband pampering his pregnant wife as much as Musa does. If not for me, you’d be in bed all day long.”

Shifra hugged Samira, “You are right.” She looked around the room, searching, “I know that last evening I finished sewing the
stitches on the baby’s blanket and now I can’t remember where I put it.”

“Here it is,” a triumphant Samira brought forth a little package. “I came early this morning while you were still sleeping. I brought a cup full of fresh coffee for poor Musa, who leaves at dawn for prayers, then goes straight to work.”

Shifra understood what Samira’s words meant. She, his wife, should have prepared the coffee for him.

“I took the blanket to see how far have you’ve gotten with it,” continued Samira. “All you need to finish are the ornaments, silk and beads.”

No compliments. That was Samira. But Shifra knew that she admired her work. They both had been sewing and knitting the baby’s layette for the last two months.

“Maybe it’s too early,” Shifra had said at the time, “we don’t know if it’s a boy or a girl.” She remembered that her parents never prepared clothes before a baby was born. Her mother said that it would bring bad luck.

“It’s going to be a boy,” Samira said. “Look at your belly. All in front like a sugar loaf. With a girl you’d have larger haunches. Don’t laugh. I know it. I saw many pregnant women in my life. Besides, I’m sure Musa expects a boy.”

It was mid-morning by the time they entered the bazaar. It seemed quieter than usual. Shifra and Samira approached the stall of their favorite bead-seller. They weren’t the first; a tall lady in European clothes that hung in disorder on her slim body, and an Arab woman were looking at beads.

Samira exclaimed, “Nabiha,
Salaam Aleikum
, I haven’t seen you in a long time!”

The woman turned, and seeing Samira, answered with great joy, “Samira, what a surprise!” She bowed. “I am here with my mistress.” She lightly touched the woman’s arm.

Nabiha’s mistress, whose shaking, deformed hands Shifra had already observed when she touched the beads, raised her head. Seeing Shifra, she put her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide. Shifra heard her murmur, “
Dieselben blauen Augen
.” The woman’s intense stare disturbed Shifra.

“
Saleim, Shailam
,” the unknown woman tried to address Shifra, “
Enstschuldigen Sie mich
, excuse me,” she continued in English, “I have the feeling that I’ve seen you before,
es ist nicht wahr
-Isn’t that so?” Her eyes traveled down Shifra’s body, surprised to discover her pregnancy.

Shifra noticed the web of wrinkles on her face.

“I don’t think we’ve met before,” Shifra answered in her best English, and she bowed, “My name is Suha Masri.”

“
Ach
, you speak English,
sehr schon
, very nice.” The woman’s eyes never blinked; she continued to look at Shifra as if she wanted to swallow her up. Shifra felt embarrassed. She searched for Samira, who was chatting with her friend.

“Suha,” Samira said, guessing the question in Shifra’s eyes, “Mistress Schroder is the violin teacher’s wife. Nabiha, my friend, works for them. She tells me that working with beads helps—” but Shifra had already turned to the woman,

“I’m sorry,” she said, “I don’t know you, but I heard your husband play while I walked on your street. The music seemed to descend from heaven. It spoke to me more than a thousand words.” Shifra stopped, suddenly feeling shy.

“I knew I had seen you, “Mrs. Schroder said, “and I was right. You were hiding behind a tree. Now you don’t have to hide. Please, come,
Kommen sie bitte
,” her swollen hands shook harder, trying to touch Shifra’s hand. “You’ll be more than welcome in our home.”

“We have to go,” Nabiha said quickly. “My lady seems excited and it’s late, it’s the time she should take her medicine.” Gently taking her arm, she directed her mistress toward the exit, while Gretchen kept turning back to look at Shifra.