Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction (35 page)

“What you just said is new to me,” Musa felt as if a bucket of ice had poured over his head. “Maybe I was too optimistic in thinking that we could resolve our differences without bloodshed. I doubted that the Yahudim would want a war after so many of their brethren were killed by Hitler not so long ago. Couldn’t we find a way—”

Angry, Abdullah stopped him, “Musa, are you blind or deaf? I don’t want to hear more of this nonsense. You are a man responsible for your family. Everybody waits for you to decide their future, your mother, your brother your sisters, and the little boy you fathered.” Abdullah shouted, “It’s time to prove that the man they love and respect is worthy of their trust.”

Musa had never seen his cousin so upset. He thought of the mukhtar obliging his mother to host two Iraqi “volunteers” in her house. He shivered.

“Of course I want to protect my family. I’d gladly give my life for them. I think I knew what was on your mind, but I wanted to hear it straight from your mouth.”

“My boy, I love you as if you were my own son. All I want is to make sure that your family is not going to suffer during the approaching bloodshed. Your mother has amassed enough money in Cairo, Aman and Alexandria banks for you to live comfortably. When the fighting is over—and hopefully soon, as our Arab allies promise—we will all return to our homes. Other people in your mother’s position have left already.”

In Musa’s mind a flood of thoughts crossed Musa’s mind. How could he face the
mukhtar?
He would certainly think Musa was a traitor. What about his own pride, and his deceased father’s pride? What would Faud do in his place?

What about Suha. He felt a pinch in his heart. He had not told her anything. Would he be able to persuade her to leave Jaffa or would she agree to it without objecting?

“And Mahmood,” Musa asked, “is he ready to leave?”

“Not Mahmood!” Abdullah said. “He’s made of another alloy. He fights in al-Jihad al-Mukaddas led by Abdul Kader al-Husseini, Mufti’s representative. They are enforcing the siege at Bab al-Wad to prevent the Jewish supplies and men from reaching Jerusalem’s Jewish quarters.”

The Barclays Bank messenger brought Musa’s letters, one for his mother, one for his wife, delivering them both to Samira. Musa had been gone for more than a week, and the letters were the first signs that he was alive and well.

Suha snatched her letter and opened it with trembling fingers. With a gesture of her hand she dismissed Samira.
Musa, my boy, you chose the worst time to leave for Jerusalem
. Samira sighed and readied herself to deliver the second letter to Fatima. Since the two soldiers from Iraq arrived, boisterous and commanding, Samira had grown cautious and avoided them when she could.

It was a nice day, the rains had stopped and Selim, cooped up in the house for the last couple of days, asked to play outside. Samira took him along with her on her errand. They were traversing the courtyard, when the soldiers, bursting noisily, came out.

“Boy, come here,” one of them called. Selim hesitated. “Come, come, we want to show you something,” the one with the silver tooth said. Selim looked scared.

“I’ll go with you,” Samira pushed the child in front of her. “The uncles are good people.”

“They are not my uncles,” cried Selim. “I want my father, I want Abu Selim.”

Samira saw Shifra and Fatima watching the scene behind their closed windows. At the beginning, the men played with Selim,
throwing him from one to another, like a rubber ball. The child laughed.

“You see, Selim,” Samira said, relieved, “you have no reason to be afraid.”

“We’ll teach you to be fearless. A sheik’s son should be brave,” the unshaven one said.

He took the rifles propped against the wall.” Let’s show him,” he said to the second soldier, who seemed uncertain of the first one’s intention. They put the rifle muzzles under the child’s armpits. “Hold on to them,” the first one commanded. In a second they lifted him up in the air while Selim clutched the muzzles with his small hands.

Howling, Fatima ran out of her house.

Panicked, Samira shrieked, “In Allah’s name, what are you doing? Put the boy down immediately!”

They laughed.

Wailing, Selim urinated in his pants.

Samira took the shaken child in her arms. “Despicable men,” she spat on the ground, though she wanted to spit on them, “Shame on you, to frighten a small child.”

Thank Allah Suha was not in sight
. But when Samira entered Musa’s house, carrying Selim, she found her unconscious on the floor.

“Eumi, Eumi,” Selim cried.

Samira threw cold water on Suha’s face and was able to arouse her. Later, Suha shivered even under the warm shawls Samira enveloped her in. After both Suha and Selim were settled comfortably, Samira discovered looked down to see that she still held the second letter.

Fatima opened the door, her finger on her lips commanding silence. The fear of the Iraqi soldiers made her house as quiet as a tomb. In her bedroom Fatima eagerly opened Musa’s letter. Her face went pale as she read it: she handed it to Samira without a word. Samira started to read it aloud, slowly deciphering his dense writing,

Jerusalem, December 1947


Salaam Aleikum, Dear Eumi, My Honored Mother
,


Cousin Abdullah has shared with me his thoughts and worries about our immediate future. I am grateful to him for the concern he’s always shown our family
.


I haven’t yet spoken with Mahmood. If it will come to pass that we leave Palestine, even for the shortest time, I think that neither you nor I would want to do it without Na’ima and her family
.


Unfortunately, the visit with Na’ima filled my heart with sadness. If I leave and take the children with me, she cried, Mahmood will find us and kill me.


I know how fanatic Mahmood is, cousin Abdullah knows it too, yet I want to convince Mahmood that Abdullah’s plan is wise. Leaving Na’ima’s house, I couldn’t stop thinking that not all marriages are made in heaven like mine.”


Samira stopped reading and looked at Fatima. Seeing no reaction, she continued.

Yesterday, I went with cousin Abdullah to Ein-Karem, the beautiful village in the valley west of Jerusalem. One of the bank’s clients defaulted on his payments and his house was slated for foreclosure.


“I want to sell it,” the man said, “but in these unstable times who would buy it?”


I suddenly thought that with some restoration the house could be a nice, cool summer place for us. We’d all be happy to stay away from Jaffa’s merciless summer sun. I gave the man a deposit. He kissed my hand in gratitude
.


“Can you believe this?” Fatima screamed. Samira was startled; it had been a long time since she had seen her mistress so angry.

Though it is winter, and the rains never seem to stop, I don’t think it will take long for the house to be fixed up. Meanwhile I will work in Abdullah’s bank while I keep an eye on the builder
.


Dear Eumi, I think that we should all wait in Ein Karem to see how events develop further. There is no need to rush
.


Your faithful son, Musa


Samira looked at Fatima. “What are you going to do?” she asked cautiously. “Are you going to answer him?”

Fatima burst into rage, “What’s going on with him? Is he irresponsible? Why does he want to stall our departure? Does he realize the danger we are in? Did I raise my son to be a coward? I am going to order him to come home immediately. There is no time to waste. He doesn’t know the danger his son, and all of us are in since the arrival of our guests.”

She sat at her desk and started writing, while Samira, with fear in her heart, made her way back to Musa’s house and the other letter. She was wondering what he wrote to his wife and whether Suha would tell her.

Though nestled under a mountain of blankets, Shifra felt frozen. Since the terrible afternoon when the Iraqi soldiers played cat and mouse with her child, laughing as they tossed him up in the air, she could not stop shaking. A feeling of dread had taken root in her heart. Musa was away when his son needed him most!

Now what she had from him was a letter!
Not a piece of paper… Musa, you should be home to protect your family
. Her trembling hands found it difficult to tear open the envelope.

To my sweet wife, Suha, My Dove, Salaam Aleikum!


It’s hard for me to be away from you and from our son, for whom I constantly pray to Allah to grant a long life. Yet I have to ask you for more patience, because I am delaying my return. For a good reason! I’ll tell you about it when I get home. I’m sure you’ll be pleased!


Take care, my love, and don’t spoil Selim too much
,


Musa


While still puzzled by Musa’s letter, Shifra heard Samira’ steps approach her door. The older woman coughed
. Has she caught cold
? Shifra wouldn’t be surprised.
The ceilings in the Arab houses are so high that it makes it impossible to heat the rooms properly
.
Maybe she coughed to let me know she was back
. Shifra wanted to know what Musa had written to his mother, but she felt tired. She closed her eyes. She heard Samira gently open her door; stand for a minute, then retreat.

Shifra knew Samira was worried about her, particularly about her loss of appetite. The more Samira pushed, the less she ate. After seeing the two Iraqi soldiers holding Selim at the tip of their bayonets, Shifra could not stop throwing up.

A worried Samira said, “You have to see Uhm Zaide,” her face wrinkled with concern.

“I was so afraid Selim would fall and die,” Shifra said, her eyes filling with tears,

“Ssh, it’s over. Nobody will touch a hair on Selim’s head. Not as long as I live,” Samira said.

Yet almost every day, Samira insisted Shifra should call on Uhm Zaide.

“If not Uhm Zaide,” Samira said, disappointed, “maybe we should go to the English nuns. They might know of a cure,” though
Shifra could guess from her tone that Samira had doubts. As sick as she felt, Shifra wouldn’t see Uhm Zaide nor would she consult the English nuns.

She dreamed of resting in her mother’s arms, while her mother sang a forlorn Jewish song. In her dream, following her mother’s song, she heard the siren of an ambulance.
Where did she hear that lately
? Feverishly awake now, Shifra searched her memory. Yes, it was on Yehuda Halevi, the street where the violin teacher lived. People said that a hospital was close by.
Was that an omen?

For a few nights the dream returned, first her mother’s song, then the siren’s howl.
What was the dream telling her?
It surely had a meaning: go back, go back where?

Otto’s image floated before her eyes. Yes, her dream had a meaning. She has to go back! To see Otto, to confide in him and ask for his advise; Otto, in whose eyes she saw the love and care for her son, was the only person whose sincerity she did not doubt.

But could she leave home without arousing Samira’s suspicions? She is so worried about me; especially after I refused to see Uhm Zaide, or go to the English convent.

“I need a doctor, a woman doctor,” I’ll say to her, “and soon.” I know that Samira suspects that I am pregnant. “I am out of the pills she had prescribed for me and my headaches kill me.”
What should I do if Samira opposes this or if she wants to go with me? I’ll be adamant, “Musa trusts me, and so should you. You don’t want me to complain to Musa about your attitude, when he returns home.”

With or without Samira acquiescence, she would go the coming friday afternoon, when Otto surely would be home. Shifra remembered that when he lived in Jaffa, he used to teach home on friday afternoons.

4 5

O
tto felt relaxed sitting in the familiar ambiance of the Grubers’ home, with its needlepoint curtains, and Charlotte’s family portraits on the wall, her mustached grandfather, looking like Emperor Franz Joseph, holding the chain of his onion-sized vest watch, standing proudly behind the chair, where his petite wife was seated holding three children on her lap. Lotte never missed a chance to point out that she was the youngest of them.

During that night of terror when Otto had dragged an unconscious Gretchen out of their house, photos weren’t on his mind. His thoughts were focused only on the need to escape from Germany. It pained him to watch the display of Charlotte’s family pictures when he had not been able to save one image of his daughter Ruthie.

After a tiring day of rehearsals with the Palestine Philharmonic Orchestra, Otto was grateful for the cup of steaming coffee and the
apple strudel
Charlotte placed in front of him. Yasha Horenstein, whom Otto knew from Berlin, was a very demanding conductor, and though the members of the Orchestra were anxious about an imminent war, Yasha wasn’t going to lower his standards.