Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction (32 page)

At Musa’s request, Ahmed started to teach Selim rudiments from the Koran and now the child was chanting them all day long, making her head spin. Though she still coached Nur on her English, and sometimes sewed dresses for Rama, Shifra felt that she had too much free time. She had finished sewing the skirt and blouse she made for herself. The hem of the skirt was just below the knee, but she didn’t dare wear it yet.

She missed the time when she had been busy sewing and embroidering, when at the end of the day she was so tired that she’d fall asleep like a log. She didn’t think much about the future then. She had a roof over her head, Samira hovered over her like a mother hen, and Musa made her heart beat faster anytime he looked at her. She tried to forget where she came from. Anytime she thought of her parents, she chased those memories away. For them she was dead. She was an outcast…
but was she really?

Thinking of the day she met Chana on the beach, Shifra’s heart cringed at how she lied to her old friend. Now she longed for her old way of life; she missed Shula and Chana and their open, confiding friendship. In her ears, Chana’s shouts of surprise and happiness still rang.

And shortly after she found Musa’s gun in the shed she realized that he, too, kept secrets. Would he ever tell her what he was doing with a gun in the middle of the night?

The visits with Otto Schroder and his wife were special. At the time she tried to convince herself that their enthusiasm about Selim’s musical talent was the reason for her desire to go back. Now she knew that she found solace in their company, just as the violin music soothed her anxious soul.

Did their haste in moving out of Jaffa have anything to do with Musa’s secrets? Or with Amina’s letter postponing her visits to Palestine because she foresaw troubles in the near future? She remembered Otto’s words, “My friends advised me to move. It is not safe for us to continue to live in Jaffa.” Seeing her astonished
eyes, he said, “Don’t you read the newspapers? Don’t you know what’s happening? We are sitting on a bomb ready to explode.”

Musa never brought newspapers home. Lately when she went shopping with Samira, Shifra became aware that Samira was watching her intensely when she stopped at a newspaper stand, “Don’t throw Musa’s money away; he knows better what you should read.”

How long would she continue to live in a vacuum
? Shifra was relieved when Musa told her that he planned to go to Jerusalem. “I am going on behalf of the bank. I’ll be gone for a few days. It will be a chance to meet with cousin Abdullah. I hope I’ll be able to see Na’ima, too.”

He took her in his arms, “I’ll not be gone for long. Don’t worry.” Seeing her clouded eyes he continued, “What would you like me to bring you? Silk for a blouse, or ribbons to braid in your beautiful hair?” When Musa smiled his frowns disappeared.

And now she was waiting for his departure, her head full of plans to spend the time he’d be away from home. It wouldn’t be easy to find her way in Tel-Aviv. She’d been there only once, for a bar-mitzvah in her father’s family. She remembered her father, looking at the streets bursting with groups of people who were laughing or seated around tables outside Beit Kafes, speaking loudly, watching passers-by. His words were full of contempt, “A city of
epicorsim
, nonbelievers, no fear or respect for the Almighty.” And to her mother, “Tell the girls to keep their heads down. No need for them to watch this Sodom and Gomorrah debacle.”

She knew the Schroders’ new address, 31 Yehuda Halevi. She repeated it to herself every day. From fear that Samira might find it, she had torn the little paper into pieces. She would go alone. Maybe she could convince Samira to take Selim to the beach. The child had begged for a long time to go back to see the “big water.” She would feign a headache. It would not be a complete lie. Lately, the
restlessness tightening her heart made her temples throb, while her entire body felt weak.

Samira only smiled at her complaints, “Your sickness will soon have eyes. Inshallah, it will pass. But you certainly must rest.”

Samira was happy to take Selim to the beach. “Just be careful,” Shifra called after her, “Don’t keep him in the sun too long; take his drinks and, please, don’t let him get too close to the water.”

After they left, Shifra feverishly readied herself for adventure. She put the new blouse, skirt and shoes into the bag she used when she went to the
souk
. She did not leave before watching Fatima’s windows to make sure she wasn’t being spied on. Dressed in her
jelebia
and
hijab
, Shifra knew that she wouldn’t attract attention.

She would enter the St. Peter’s church halfway between Jaffa and Tel-Aviv, go to the rest room and change clothes—enter as Suha and exit as Shifra. That was her plan. Then with the money she had saved at the souk the last few weeks, for which Samira clicked her tongue in admiration, “I didn’t know you were such an expert shopper,” she would pay the bus fare. Here her plan ended. She did not know if she would find the street in Tel-Aviv or what she would do after she found it.

Shifra was lucky. Aside from two women kneeling in front of the altar, the church was empty. Shifra changed her clothes in a hurry, the smell of the burning candles giving her a headache. Outside she breathed with relief. For the first time she was not wearing stockings, as she did as a religious Jewish girl, nor the long
jelebia
, as an Arab woman. She felt embarrassed thinking that people could watch her naked legs, so she walked along the seashore.

Walking did not scare her. On Shabbat, her family would walk for hours from their Geula neighborhood to visit their uncle in Mea Shearim and back.

“Hey,
ialda
, hop up, we’ll give you a lift.” The Hebrew words startled her. The voice belonged to the driver of a small truck
filled with watermelons, which stopped near her. Among the watermelons she saw two girls and a boy, about her age, smiling at her. They were dressed in short pants, and Shifra could see the tan of their naked arms and legs. Shifra hesitated.

“I don’t have an entire day to wait for you to make up your mind,” the driver said, “are you coming, yes, or no?”

The girls extended their arms to pull her up. “We are delivering the melons to
souk
Hacarmel,” one of them said, while the other made a place for Shifra on the narrow bench.” My name is Aviva, this is Ayelet,” she pointed to the second girl, “and Amnon here is the
leitzan
, the comedian of our moshav Yarkona.”

“I am Shifra,” Shifra found her tongue. She felt overwhelmed by the way her adventure was turning out. “I must’ve been dreaming. I guess I lost my way.”

“Aren’t you lucky?” said the girl called Ayelet. “Avram, our driver, knows Tel-Aviv like the back of his palm. Where are you going?”

“To Rehov Yehuda Halevi,” Shifra answered.

“That’s really close,” Avram, following their conversation, remarked. For Shifra’s benefit he continued to call the names of the streets he drove on, while Shifra tried to memorize the way, as well as note the turns he took.

“What number?” Avram asked.

“
Bevakasha
, please leave me at the beginning of the street, I don’t remember the number, but I know what the house looks like,” Shifra lied. She hopped down from the truck, saying “
Toda raba
, Avram, many thanks to all of you,
lehitraot
, goodbye.”

The boy called Yehuda said, “Hey, Shifrale, wait, catch this,” and he threw a small watermelon into her arms, “Enjoy it!”

Shifra walked on the even-numbered side of the street, thinking how friendly and helpful the young farmers had been. She found a passage, across the street, from where she thought she could watch unobserved the house at No. 31. On the third-floor
balcony a beautiful dark-haired woman with dangling earrings was hanging wet clothes on wires stretched in three rows outside the balcony.
Who was she?
Wasn’t that the Schroder’s apartment? Was she their helper?

“Mazal,” called a plump woman walking out the front of the house. “Mazal,” she repeated, looking up, “are you done? It’s time we take G’veret Schroder to the park.” The woman rolled her R’s with a strong German accent. Behind the woman, Shifra saw Gretchen Shroder’s frail silhouette. When both women accompanying her were on the street, Gretchen Schroder raised her hand to protect her eyes from the sun. Suddenly Gretchen screamed, “Ruthie,” pointing her finger at Shifra. “This is Ruthie, my sweet child,” She opened her arms, “Ruthie,
Commen sie, bitte
, come,please.”

The heavy set woman took Gretchen’s arm, whispering in her ear, while Shifra squeezed behind a group of passers-by. The woman named Mazal was faster. Like an arrow, she crossed the street and tugged at Shifra’s sleeve. “Who are you?” she asked. When Shifra didn’t answer she repeated with impatience, “Who are you? Answer me.”

At that moment the strident sound of an ambulance stopped all movement. Everybody, including Mazal, watched it. A British policeman appeared from nowhere and whistled for people to disperse. Feeling Mazal’s grip on her arm lessen, Shifra quickly disengaged herself and disappeared in the crowds.

“It was too soon,” she tried to calm the rapid beats of her heart while hurrying her steps. “That wasn’t in my plan. I wanted only to see where they lived, maybe to hear the violin.”

Shifra was still running long after she knew she was out of danger.

Now that they lived in Tel-Aviv and Lotte and Mazal were watching over Gretchen, Otto mostly walked home after the orchestra rehearsals. He liked to unwind after the intense work. It was
October, his favorite month, which reminded him of Berlin in October when, holding Gretchen’s arm, they would walk on Unter den Linden, under the trees’ fine rain of flowers. One could not get much shade under Tel-Aviv’s palm trees, but it was a short walk from the orchestra’s residence on Rehov Balfour to his apartment.

Otto thought of the concert schedule for the month, Joseph Rosenstock conducting his friend from Berlin days, Szimon Goldberg, in the Mendelssohn violin concerto in Tel-Aviv and the Beethoven concerto in Jerusalem. “Beethoven for the connoisseurs, the
yekim
in Jerusalem,” laughed one cellist, a
Sabra
.

Otto did not like the cellist or his big mouth. What worried him were the rumors concerning travel to Jerusalem, the terrifying fights between Arab and Jews. The concertmaster, who might have guessed Otto’s thoughts and probably others’ too, announced, “We will travel by armored car. We live through troubled times, but the show must go on. This will be a contribution to our brethren who fight to create a state for all of us.”

Otto was thinking how he would break the news to Gretchen. When they lived in Jaffa, Nabiha was with her until late at night when he returned from Jerusalem or Haifa, but what would he do now?

He didn’t realize that Lotte and Mazal were waiting for him. Lotte opened the door to her apartment and whispered, “Herr Schroder, Herr Schroder, please come in. We have to ask you a question.”

Mazal was standing next to Lotte.
Where was Gretchen
?

Guessing his thought Mazal quickly said, “Your wife is asleep upstairs. She drank two cups of chamomile tea, and we watched over her until she calmed down. Now she sleeps peacefully.”

“Something happened?” Otto asked alerted.

“Who is Ruthie?” Lotte asked in return.

Otto saw both women’s eyes riveted on his lips. He never told his neighbors details about their family. But he wasn’t going to lie. Otto swallowed hard, his mouth dry, “Ruthie was our daughter.”

Otto’s eyes became moist. “We don’t know if she’s still alive. I asked many people returning from the camps. No one knew about her. Neither did the Red Cross. I took great care to prepare Gretchen that Ruth might not be among the living,” Otto took out a handkerchief to wipe his forehead, “but she refused to believe it.”

“It’s horrible, so horrible,” he fell onto a chair, his hands covering his face.

Lotte put her hand on Otto’s shoulder, while Mazal, looking reproachfully at Lotte, brought him a glass of water.

Otto struggled to stand on his feet with difficulty. “I have to go.”

He stopped, “If my wife talked to you about Ruthie, why did you ask me who she was?”

Lotte turned to Mazal, “You tell him.”

“We planned to take Mrs. Schroder to the park. I was hanging laundry on the balcony when Lotte, always thinking I’m going to be late, called—”

“Oh, you always talk and talk,” Lotte interrupted her. “We were on our way when Gretchen pointed across the street and screamed, ‘Ruthie, this is Ruthie, my Ruthie,’ she was trembling, then Mazal—”

“I saw the girl,” continued Mazal, “and crossed the street like a bullet. She was blonde, her eyes the color of sapphires. I took her arm, but she slipped from my hand and was gone. It must’ve been a coincidence. Mrs. Schroder became upset.”

“Maybe it wasn’t a coincidence,” said Otto thoughtfully. The women looked at him, questions in their eyes.

“Did she have a little boy with her? Otto asked.

“No,” said Mazal

“When we lived in Jaffa,” Otto said, “a young Arab girl stopped many times to listen to me practicing. Gretchen watched her. The girl’s eyes were as blue as our Ruthie’s, she said. We didn’t see her for a long time, but when she showed up again she had a little boy with
her. We got acquainted. We discovered that her son, the little boy, was a musical prodigy. Gretchen and I were fond of him.” Otto fell silent. Then he raised his head.

“Please forgive me. I have to go attend to my Gretchen.”

“What happened next?” asked Lotte, “Don’t leave us in the middle of your story!”

“That’s all. When I told her that we were moving to Tel-Aviv because the British didn’t allow Jews to travel by night, she confessed that she was Jewish, too.”

“That’s all you know?” Mazal seemed disappointed. “No name or how to get in touch with her? Maybe this girl was abducted, maybe she’s in danger.”

“You, and your romantic soul!” exclamed Lotte. “You read too many cheap five-piaster books.”

“Why do you think she might be the girl we saw?” Mazal asked Otto. “Do you know her name?”