Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction (7 page)

The Lebanese ladies were eager for the League to encourage women to attend Jaffa’s new cinema unaccompanied.

“As they do in Cairo, or Beirut,” added the youngest.

“That will never happen!” Fatima heard the shriek of the cleric’s wife, who had just heard the last comment. Two other Muslim women nodded.

“It’s a shame,” one of them murmured.

The League started from the premise that all Arab women were sisters driven by the same ideal, Fatima recalled. But was this still holding true? Her thoughts were interrupted by the mukhtar’s wife calling out, “First, I hope all of us agree to say a big
Shukran
, thank you, to Mrs. Fatima for her hospitality.”

Fatima heard murmurs of approval.

“And now, my dear ladies,” the mukhtar’s wife continued, “As we resume our meeting, it’s time to take a strong position about what the Jewish call their
aliya
, their immigration. Our newspapers warned us that they have infiltrated our land; many arrived illegally and spread like ants. We have to do our part in helping our men fight to preserve Palestine for Palestinians. This is our fatherland, this is our homeland.” Everyone applauded.

Samira, who entered to clear up the tables, heard the last sentence. She glanced furtively at Fatima, and watched the tension narrow her eyes and tighten her lips.

7

S
hifra couldn’t fall asleep. She had heard unusual noises in the house, many women speaking loudly, all at once.
Where was Samira
? She didn’t know what time it was, but it seemed long after the queen of the night had covered the sky with her mantle. Shifra had grown accustomed to the Arab woman’s singing in her croaking voice, mixing Arabic and Yiddish words.

How much time had passed since she was brought to this strange house? Shifra remembered the beach.
But what beach, and what was she doing there
? She had opened her eyes to find herself in unfamiliar surroundings, strange people, two women and children who looked at her with worried eyes.

Oh, she felt so tired, so tired. Whenever she tried to think, her head hurt. There was a young man, who had carried her in his arms, she remembered! The blood rushed to her face. He seemed again, how did she get where she was now? The longer she thought, the more confused she became. And the headache started again. She drank the glass of water filled with nana leaves that Samira had left at her side.

After a slight tap at the door, Rama, the youngest of the daughters entered. By now she knew the little girl’s name.

“I brought you pastries,” Rama said in Arabic, putting a plate by her side. Shifra didn’t understand the words, but understood their meaning and smiled at the little girl.

“You know,” Rama said in a mysterious tone, “soon Amina and Musa will go away. I’ll miss Amina so much.”

Rama started to cry. She wiped her tears and looked hopefully at Shifra. “I want you to live with us and be my new sister.”

Neither of them had heard Samira, who had slipped inside the room. “It’s time you go to bed, sweet angel,” Samira said, taking Rama in her arms and kissing her.

“Samira,” Rama pointed toward Shifra, “Do you think I could try to teach her Arabic? Then she could really become my sister.”

“Maybe,” Samira smiled, “now run, before your mother finds out that you’re still up.”

At the beginning of the lessons Rama pointed to the objects in the room and named them in Arabic. She waited for Shifra to repeat the words after her, again and again. This child is a born teacher; Samira, proudly, witnessed her efforts. She would love to tell Fatima, but the latter was too busy preparing Amina before joining the British Red Cross.

In time, Rama became bolder. One day when Samira brought Shifra in the courtyard to enjoy the sun, Rama asked Nur, her older sister for help. “Please teach her our letters,” begged Rama, who wasn’t yet going to school.

“I am too busy, leave me alone,” Nur answered. But Rama insisted, “You don’t know how fast this girl can learn. She can name everything in the house. Please, Nur, please.”

Samira wanted to intervene, but after she heard Rama insisting so much, Nur said, “I’ll do it only because you asked me to. I don’t see why she should learn Arabic. You heard Mother say that as soon as her health gets better, she’ll have to leave.”

As much as Shifra wanted to remember her past, now as dark as the sea that almost swallowed her, she made little progress. Vaguely, Rama reminded her of a little girl she had known before, but who? Shifra grew fond of Rama and for her sake, and wanting to make her proud, she took Rama’s and Nur’s lessons seriously.

“Look how pretty she writes,” marveled Rama after a few days. “And she embellishes each word with designs. I have to show it to Amina. This girl’s drawings are as beautiful as my sister’s.”

Excited, Rama took the notebook out of Shifra’s hands and went to look for Amina. On the margins of her notebook, Shifra had drawn birds, flowers of paradise, and small animals, each one matching the characters of the Arabic letters.

Amina took the notebook looking attentively at each picture. “Eumi,” she called her mother, still contemplating the drawings in her hand, “You were worried that after my departure, you wouldn’t find anybody to produce the design which my dear sister Na’ima embroiders on the fabrics. You called us your winning team.”

Fatima and Musa joined her. “Now,” a triumphant Amina said showing the notebook, “I think that I found the person who could replace me, and this person already lives under our roof.”

Amina’s words created a commotion. Shifra didn’t understand everything, but she felt that something special was going on. Lifting her eyes, she saw Musa nodding, visibly excited.

Amina spoke again, “Yesterday, in the bazaar, I was proud to see how many tourists bought our fabrics. They were snatching them out of each other’s hands. I felt really sad thinking that my leaving would stop our work.”

Rama clapped her hands. “And it was me! I discovered her.” All eyes were on Fatima. They could have heard the buzzing of a fly in the silence that followed, everybody waiting for Fatima to speak. Fatima, who had never addressed Shifra directly, finally asked her,
Sho ismek
, what’s your name?

Shifra had heard this question before. Rama had asked her almost daily, encouraging her by pointing to herself and saying, “My name is Rama,” but Shifra had never answered.

Now everybody’s eyes were riveted on her. Samira looked worried. So did Musa. Shifra tried, “Sh—” she started, then, “Shif—” she continued. Finally, she said on one long, trembling breath, “Shifffrrra.”

Rama applauded. “See,” she said, “you have a name.”

Shifra felt so happy, she repeated it a few times, each time a little louder. Fatima looked puzzled. She opened the torn piece of newspaper that Musa had found in Shifra’s fist. “Isn’t your name Rifka?” Fatima asked.

“
La
, no,” Shifra answered.

“Are you sure?” Fatima asked again. Shifra nodded. Fatima looked at Musa, waiting for an explanation. But Musa was just as baffled as she was.

“What does it matter if she’s that girl or not,” said Samira, who had followed the entire exchange with growing anxiety. Fatima had told her about the missing girl whom she had read about in the old newspaper and the fact that the Jews were after her. “She’s here now,” Samira continued, “and she can be helpful.”

It took sometime for Fatima to answer. She said decisively “From now on your name is Suha. This is your name. Remember, your only name.”

“Suha, Suha,” Rama repeated, “what a beautiful name, as beautiful as you are, Suha,” and she took Shifra’s hand, “I told you, you’ll be my sister, now.”

But Shifra didn’t hear Rama’s words. In her heart she heard a continuous chant,
Shifra, Shifra, this is me, Shifra
.

“Come,” Samira said, destroying the spell, “You’ve been in the sun too long. You’ll get a headache again.” She took Shifra’s arm, “You’ve heard what Sit Fatima said, from now on, you are Suha.
That’s who you are.” Samira pressed Shifra’s arm again, “Come, Suha.”

Still dreaming, Shifra-Suha felt herself dragged away by Samira. As they were leaving, she saw Amina and Rama hugging their mother, while Musa watched her with moist eyes.

8

S
o many things had happened in the few weeks since he found the blond girl—his angel, as Musa called her in his heart. Now in the silence of his room Musa loved to repeat her name, “Suha, Suha.” Those syllables sounded like a melody, Su-ha, Su-ha, a name so suited to his love.

He felt such an attraction, a desire to touch her, and became dizzy just looking into the pool of her blue eyes. Until that moment, women and girls held no interest for him. He always knew that his mother would find him a match, a girl from a family as honorable as theirs, which was of utmost importance for families of their rank.

And now, was he ready to tell his mother, if she hadn’t guessed already, that he had fallen in love with Shifra-Suha, the girl who came from nowhere, and who was, of all things, Jewish! He knew that this was inconceivable. Arabs and Jews didn’t mix, as water does not mix with oil.

Like every Arab youngster, Musa had learned the slogans and participated in meetings where the speakers urged those present to fight against Jewish immigration. Yes, he had no doubt that
Palestine belonged to the Arabs. He had known it since he was a little child, and heard the Imam speak with so much fire in his voice, or at the meetings when he accompanied his father. It was there that the men swore to fight the
kafir
, the infidel, to the last one, like the
mujahedin
, the holy warriors.

But he couldn’t drive away his feelings, the tremor that filled his heart each time he saw Suha. He followed with trepidation Samira’s efforts to heal the girl.

Now, after his sister Amina left with the British Red Cross and thanks to Suha’s newly discovered talent for drawing, Musa was relieved to see that his mother seemed inclined to accept her as part of their household.
But would his mother accept Suha as a daughter-in-law?

Maybe it was too early to think about marriage. If he wanted to obtain his mother’s consent, Musa decided, it would be better to wait for her signals and listen to what she encouraged him to do. If she wanted him to go to Ramallah or Jerusalem and learn to become an official within the government, Musa wouldn’t oppose her will. He knew that the British would not rule forever. Their empire would crumble.

When the British leave Palestine, Arab leaders will be needed to take over the government. He must be ready for that time.

Yes, everything was working in his favor. If only Suha would smile at him! But she didn’t look his way anymore, as if she were avoiding him. Maybe she was too busy with the drawings. But he longed to meet her eyes and see her blush, as had happened that first time, the morning after he brought her to his house.

He watched when Samira gave Suha one of her old
jelebias
and covered her blond hair with a
hijab
, while dark glasses hid the azure of her eyes. Dressed like that, nobody could have guessed that Suha wasn’t an Arab woman. Almost daily Samira found reasons to take Suha to the bazaar or the
souk,
and it was usually hours before the two of them returned home. Though they looked tired
from carrying heavy packages, Musa observed how exhilarated they were at their arrival. Suha’s pale cheeks looked like the first apples he used to pick in the family orchard in the spring.

Musa became jealous of Samira, who shared a bedroom with Suha and, he suspected, shared her secrets as well. He promised himself to have a good talk with Samira before leaving on his journey.

Meanwhile, his mother had been busy writing letters of introduction for him to members of her family in Jerusalem, Ramallah, and even Amman. It seemed to Musa that Fatima wasn’t as anxious to see him leave as she had been in the beginning. Amina had been gone for two weeks and Fatima sorely missed her daughter. It was the first time that one of her chicks had left the nest.

When Amina’s first letter arrived, everyone crowded around Fatima, who read it aloud,

Esteemed Mother
,


The work keeps me very busy, but I’m glad I can be of help. I miss you, my brothers and sisters and Samira, of course. The Brits are very respectful of women. I have in my care a soldier recuperating after a shoulder surgery which closed the wound left by a bullet. Anytime I do something for him he thanks me and kisses my hand. I feel embarrassed and as you taught me, Eumi, I never address him, but he likes talking and telling me about his family. He’s from Cornwall, and he says that when he’s well, he’d like to show me his country. I never answer. I only do my duty. By the way, his name is George and he has the curliest red hair
.


How are you all doing? Did Musa leave already? Are you happy with Suha’s designs? Dear mother, I pray to Allah to keep you and our family in good health. Please don’t worry for me. I know how to take care of myself
.


Your loving daughter, Amina


Not one muscle moved on Fatima’s face after she finished reading her daughter’s letter. Only Musa and Samira, who could read her heart, felt her worry. Silence reigned in the courtyard while each waited for Fatima to speak first.

After Fatima folded Amina’s letter, she clapped her hands. “Children,” she said, “I’ve made a decision. From now on, Nai’ma and Nur are going to share Amina’s large bedroom, young Rama will come sleep with me, and Samira will take Rama’s room.”

Fatima stopped, trying to catch her breath. As an afterthought, she added, “Suha can have Samira’s old room.” Musa raised his head. He saw Suha shivering and Samira looking surprised. Something unusual seemed to have happened.

“Don’t stand here and look at me, “Fatima dismissed them, “Go about your business, all but Musa.”

When the two of them were left alone, she said, “I have news for you also. My cousin Abdullah, the banker, has agreed to host you during your stay in Jerusalem. You’ll like it there. He has a big household full of beautiful girls,” Fatima added, a sly smile fluttering on her lips. “I think you should leave tomorrow.”