Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction (8 page)

After he heard his mother’s order, Musa knew that it had become imperative to talk with Samira. It had to be that very evening after everybody was asleep.

He found Samira singing softly in the kitchen. For once Suha was not with her, and Musa was relieved to find her alone. How was he going to start? He felt as if his head was on fire. He could not just say, “Take good care of Suha while I’m gone,” or “At my return I want to find Suha here.”

He was still searching for words when Samira stopped singing, looked at his perspiring face and said, “Musa, my boy, why do you look so worried? Jerusalem is not so far away, neither is Ramallah. Go with Allah and make a name for yourself. I know you’ll make all of us proud.”

Musa blushed. “I came to talk to you about Suha.”

Samira smiled. “What about Suha?” she prodded him. “She’s working and your mother is pleased with her work. Isn’t that enough?”

“I don’t want her to forget me,” he whispered, blushing hard. “Lately she doesn’t even look at me, it’s like I don’t exist. Now, with me gone—” he did not finish his sentence. Musa’s eyes looked imploringly at Samira.
I talked too much, he thought, I shouldn’t have opened my heart to Samira
. To gather courage Musa reached into his pocket and fingered his gift.

Samira looked straight at him, “I know how you feel,” she said, “but you have to be patient. She’s been through a big shock. She tells me that though she tries, she can’t remember much from her past. She seems recovered, yet I feel there is pain in her heart. Who knows how long it will take until this can be healed?”

“Maybe this will help,” Musa said, timidly taking the
hamsa
, the good luck charm worn by both Arabs and Jews, from his pocket. The palm of the five-fingered silver
hamsa
was encrusted with ruby stones shining like fire. “I had the Imam bless it. He said it would safeguard the person who wears it.”

He held the
hamsa
in his hands, caressed it, and impulsively brushed it with his lips. “Give it to Suha. Ask her to wear it. Tell her that I hope it will remind her of me. I know I’ll never stop thinking of her.”

Without waiting for an answer, Musa ran out of the kitchen almost knocking down Fatima, who unwittingly heard his last words.

9

E
veryone in the Masri household missed Amina, but Na’ima knew that no one’s pain could equal her own. She thought about her twin most of her waking hours, and many times at nights before she fell asleep. Amina was not only her sister; she was her best friend and shield. In the intimacy of their room, they shared many laughs and tears while growing up. Na’ima couldn’t remember one day when the two of them had been separated.

And yet they were so different. Amina, tall and slim, with a light complexion like their mother’s, was the pretty one, whose graceful neck “could make a swan jealous,” as Samira, their nanny, said many times.

Na’ima knew she wasn’t pretty. She was short and dark. Though everybody lauded her beautiful black eyes, she knew that they seemed lost in her olive-dark face.

Sometimes on lazy summer afternoons when Fatima invited her neighbor friends for a cup of Turkish coffee or a glass of nana tea, Na’ima had heard her mother say, “Twin sisters, and yet so different, like my two Egyptian cousins, the one in Cairo so fair, and the southern one dark like the Sudanese.”

Na’ima was not upset anymore by Fatima’s remark. Nor when her mother told and retold the story of her birth, so often that she could tell it herself. Amina was born first. The delivery was so easy that after the midwife and Samira explained that the placenta was coming out, Fatima was ready to jump out of bed. “Wait,” the women cried, alarmed, “Here comes another one.” After so many years there was still wonder in Fatima’s voice when she told it. “Another one?” repeated Fatima, “is that possible?” There were no twins in her family as far as she could remember.

“I had no time to think. They asked me to push hard. Five minutes later Na’ima was born. I didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry, but my husband wasn’t upset. He said, “Allah in his wisdom has sent us two girls to help you raise our future children.” After a pause, Fatima added,” and he was right, as always.”

Fatima didn’t mention that it took her a long time to name her second daughter. Amina was named, in respect, after her mother-in-law. If she’d had a boy, she would have named him Ibrahim, after her father. For a time she looked and looked at her unnamed daughter, and no name seemed to suit her. She didn’t have the heart to name her after her own mother.

Until one day, when Samira, seeing Fatima’s indecision, said, “How about calling her Na’ima, the pleasant one?” It surprised Fatima. “Even though she’s not as pretty as Amina,” Samira continued, “it surely pleased Allah to give you another girl. And with this name the evil spirits will be sent away.”

Except for her sister Amina, Na’ima had no other friends. At school, the girls befriended her lovely sister. Na’ima was nicknamed “Amina’s sidekick,” and later on, “Amina’s dark shadow.” The fact that Amina, a brilliant student, was popular, and she was not, did not bother Na’ima. It was enough to know that she was her sister’s best friend as Amina was hers.

But now, looking at Suha’s blond head bent over her drawings, a pain like a thorn pierced Na’ima’s heart. It had been weeks since
Amina left to join the British Army, and although their mother had received weekly letters from her, none was addressed to Na’ima.

“Eumi,” Amina wrote, “Please embrace my sisters for me,” or, “Please convey my best wishes to the entire family.”

Had her sister forgotten her? It was not only the work that had bound them together, though they spent most of their time working side by side; it was the product of their combined hands which made Na’ima so proud. Also she cherished the little secrets they shared.

When Na’ima left school at age twelve, after her father’s death, her mother did not seem to care. Na’ima knew how to read and write in Arabic and English and that was sufficient. There were things she could help with at home. Amina continued school until she was fifteen. By that time, the matchmakers started to fill the Masri courtyard with proposals. Even a sheik who had heard about Amina’s beauty and intelligence sent his emissaries. To all these proposals, Fatima, at Amina’s insistence, answered that her daughter was far too young to consider marriage.

Na’ima knew that Fatima was flattered. She kept a file on all the potential bridegrooms. When the girls were small, Fatima invited Uhm Zaide, who could tell the future by reading the sediments left in coffee cups or tea leaves. The fortune-teller declared that Amina was going to make a brilliant marriage.

Fatima, after the matchmakers’ visits, looked wistfully at Na’ima, patted her daughter’s hand and said, “Na’ima, You’ll live with me, to keep me company in my old age.”

In the intimacy of their room Amina laughed, “I’ll never leave you, “Amina whispered in her sister’s ear, “We are going to marry two brothers, maybe twins, and live in the same house forever.” It made Na’ima so happy!

When she was thirteen years old, Na’ima noticed hair growing on her arms. Too embarrassed to ask her mother what to do, she
started to wear long sleeved
jelebias
. It took her a long time to gather the courage to ask Samira for a way to get rid of her hair.

After Musa brought the Yahud girl into their house, she, Na’ima, like her sisters, had promised their mother to keep the strange girl’s presence a secret.

Now Na’ima was forced to work closely with her. She hated the girl, her golden tresses, her nimble fingers and milky arms. How come her sisters liked her so much? Amina, Rama, and now even Nur, who volunteered to teach her Arabic! Where was her sisters’ patriotism? If she could, Na’ima would pour black dye on her head!

Na’ima was roused from her troubled thoughts by her mother’s joyful shout, “A new letter from Amina! Come, everybody.”

The entire household, including Samira and Shifra-Suha, gathered around Fatima. Na’ima sat closest to her mother. Shifra stood a little farther away, but Rama took Suha’s hand and brought her into the circle. As she tore the envelope open, Fatima exclaimed with wonder, “She has sent us a few pictures, too.”

Na’ima was the first to pick them up. She looked at the three photographs again and again until her mother impatiently snatched them from her hand. “Enough,” she said, “let the others enjoy them, too.”

The black and white pictures showed Amina in a group of Palestinian girls, dressed in white uniforms; a red cross sewn on each of their starched white bonnets.

They were smiling into the camera.

“This is the
mukhtar’s
daughter,” exclaimed Samira, pointing to a girl standing near Amina.

“I didn’t know she joined the group, too,” said Na’ima.

“But nobody is as pretty as our Amina,” concluded Rama. Her mother hugged her. Another picture showed Amina with a British woman, tall, slim and serious-looking. “This lady is our head nurse,” Amina had written on the back of the photograph,

In the last picture Amina was alone. She was smiling, her hair, freed from the bonnet, flying in the wind. From that picture Fatima sensed a feeling of well-being, maybe something more, happiness.

Fatima began to read the letter.

Most honored mother
,


I hope that my letter finds you and everybody I love in good health. For that I pray daily to our Creator, because my family is the most precious gift Allah has given me
.


The pictures probably surprised you. It was George, my patient, who took them. It was guite difficult for him, since his shoulder is still bandaged, but he put the camera on a tripod, after which he covered his head with a black blanket. It was hilarious. He rehearsed us until he was happy with our position and smiles. Oh, we all had such a good time!


But, please don’t think that this is all we do. We are very busy, learning and working at the same time. George says that my English has improved a lot. He gives me books to read. I just finished reading a beautiful book, Ivanhoe by Sir Walter Scott. I s Musa happy in his new endeavor? George, whose uncle is a member of the British Parliament, told me that as soon as the British Mandate ends, Palestine will need professional women as much as professional men. He encourages me to learn a profession, maybe nursing. He thinks I have a gift for it
.


From George’s words I understand that a new world full of possibilities can open up for me. It sounds so exciting. I will wait to hear what you think of it, Eumi
.


I’d like to read a few words from everybody, including Rama
.


Your most devoted daughter, Amina


P.S. George is leaving in two weeks. He is being sent to a convalescence home in Cairo where there are special therapists to exercise his arm in order to regain movement and strength. It will be sad without him. He has become such a good friend. I am afraid that afterward he will be sent to the front again. I pray for his life as I pray for my family
.


Fatima folded the letter in silence. Na’ima burst into tears, “She’ll never come back, never!” When she spoke again, Fatima saw hatred in the eyes of Amina’s twin.

”You did it,” Na’ima screamed pointing at her mother, “It’s your fault. You sent her away, but you kept the Yahud girl here. What are you going to do next? Destroy our family? Oh, Allah Akbar, have pity on us!”

Na’ima’s outburst left Fatima and everybody else speechless. It was the first time they had heard Na’ima raise her voice. Samira hugged Na’ima, whose sobs softened. “Amina, Amina,” she whispered, “You betrayed me.”

Tightly holding Na’ima, Samira directed her hesitant steps toward the house. “Samira is going to make you nana tea,” she told the girl. “Then I’m going to brush your hair as I did when you were a little girl. That will help you relax, my little lamb.”

After Samira and Na’ima left, Nur, Rama, Ahmed and Suha dispersed too with Suha holding onto Rama’s arm. Fatima noticed that Suha looked stricken; but she had no time to think about Suha. She had her own worries.

After a while Fatima went into the kitchen to tell Samira about her decision and ask about Na’ima. She found Samira alone.

“She’s sleeping,” Samira said, guessing the upcoming question, “The storm is over.”

“Tomorrow I am leaving for Jerusalem,” Fatima said. “I have to see Musa. He is now the head of the family. We have important problems to discuss.”

But Fatima could not leave the next day, nor the next, or the next. During the night Na’ima developed a high temperature, and threw up several times. She complained of chills and headaches. Three days later, after the home remedies used by Fatima and Samira did not help, Fatima decided to call Uhm Zaide, the old witch.

“Bring her immediately,” Fatima ordered Samira, “she’s the only one who can cast out the bad spell.” Samira nodded.

In the days following Na’ima’s angry outburst, the household became very quiet. Everyone walked on tiptoes, trying not to disturb the sick girl. During that time a delivery man brought a big order of fabrics to be embroidered. “Sit Fatima,” he said, “my boss asks to have the order finished in two days. The customer can’t wait longer.” And he left.

“With Na’ima so sick, that is impossible,” Fatima told Samira. “I’m going to send the order back.”

Suha tugged at Samira’s sleeve and Fatima saw her whispering in Samira’s ear. Samira nodded several times. After clearing her throat, Samira said, “Suha told me that she would like to try her hand at embroidering. She said she watched Na’ima at work every day, and she thinks she learned the way to cross-stitch, using different needles at the same time. She asks for your permission.”

Since Fatima didn’t answer immediately, Samira insisted, “Sit Fatima, let her try. If she succeeds it would mean one less headache for you.”

“I’d rather return the fabrics, but,” Fatima paused, “she could show me her work tonight, or better tomorrow morning in the daylight. Meanwhile, Samira, go bring Uhm Zaide.”