Daughters of Iraq (19 page)

Besides Hebrew, Chanan also taught me to love the land with my feet. On Shabbat, we went for long hikes around the kibbutz. Occasionally we took his truck and went farther afield. I memorized the names of rocks and mountains; I knew the names of stones before I knew how to construct complete sentences. “Chalkstone.  Say it: chalkstone.” And with my Iraqi-Romanian accent, I would try to repeat his words.

“Chakestone?”

“No, chalkstone,” he’d say. Try it again. Chalkstone.”

Because of my love for Chanan and his love for rocks, I went on to study geology many years later.

I will never forget what Chanan did for me. For a long time, he was my whole world. Of course, Farida was there, too, and her presence took the edge off my longings for my far-flung family. But for the most part, I sought out Chanan. I tried to spend every free minute with him.

When Dan and I got married, we invited him and his wife to the wedding. I knew they had a daughter, and that they traveled all over the world. Chanan was very curious, and loved to go on long trips. Tragically, he was killed in the Six-Day War, in one of the battles for Jerusalem.

I met Chanan’s only daughter two years ago, at the university, and the resemblance between them was uncanny. When I first looked at her, I saw the contours of his beautiful face reflected in hers. Like her father, she had deep blue eyes and a glimmering smile. They had the same last name. When I asked her if she was related to the Chanan who had died in the war so many years ago, she told me she was his daughter. For a minute, I remember, I had trouble breathing, and my heart raced. Memories of our courtship washed over me like waves. I told her who I was and invited her over.

When Chanan’s daughter came to the house, she asked a lot of questions, trying to reconstruct her father through my stories. She was only three years old when he died, and most of what she knew about him, she told me, came from photographs she’d seen and stories she’d heard. I understood that she was searching for her identity, and so I tried to impart as many details as possible. I told her about his hearty laugh, his good heart, his intelligence and meticulousness. Mostly I spoke of his insatiable curiosity and love for the land. She devoured every morsel of information.

But back to the kibbutz I don’t want to confuse you too much. My life was good on the kibbutz from the very beginning, as I already told you. But for Farida, the change was drastic and difficult. She was a pampered child, whose life had been tidy and safe, and here she was, thrust into a harsh and callous reality. Back in Iraq, Farida had spent all her time in school or playing with friends. Our mother and father had taken care of all her needs. But here, she had to become an adult. She spoke a different language, her parents were far away, and the only person she could depend upon was me. It wasn’t always easy. It’s true, I was a little older than her, but don’t forget that I was still young myself.

Farida loved the little babies, and after two months on the kibbutz, her Hebrew improved tremendously. She befriended the other Iraqi immigrants and gradually became less bitter. But all this would soon change. Once again, our lives were about to capsize.
Ima
and Eddie arrived from Iraq, and
Ima
decided it was time to fortify our tribe and reunite the family
.
She couldn’t begin to imagine the hardships we were about to face. First, though, I must tell you about Eddie’s and
Ima
’s immigration to Israel.

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Noa

N
oa finished reading of her mother’s life on the kibbutz and smiled to herself. It was strange to think of her mother as a young woman, as someone who had been in love before she met Noa’s father. It was stranger still to imagine Violet pursuing a young man. She had never shared this experience with her daughter, and Noa wondered why. Perhaps it was too embarrassing; or maybe she thought Noa wouldn’t want to know. When Noa broke up with her high school boyfriend, she had gone crying to Violet. Her mother had been supportive, but she hadn’t told her about her own unrequited love. Why had she kept this part of her life a secret? Noa couldn’t explain it, and she felt disappointed, even insulted. Her mother had zealously guarded her privacy. Maybe she simply didn’t want Noa intruding upon her personal love story. And yet, through her diary, she was inviting Noa in. Why had she kept so much of her life a secret? She was close to Noa but at the same time removed. She had protected, nurtured, cared for her daughter, but she had kept her heartaches to herself. Why?

Noa put down the diary. Something else occurred to her: when this story took place, her mother was younger than she herself was now, but she had shown such wisdom, such independence! It couldn’t have been easy for her, being all alone, far from her family, with only a limited knowledge of the language. And the dramatic change in lifestyle, from her coddled life in Iraq to her life on the kibbutz, couldn’t have been easy, either. Noa knew what kibbutz life was like; she had done her army service on a kibbutz, and the transition from her childhood home to the long hours and harsh conditions of the kibbutz had been hard for her, too. Now more than ever, Noa recognized her mother’s vitality and optimism. She had learned so much about Violet in the last few weeks, and she wanted to learn more.

The following morning, Noa awoke to the dry desert winds blowing wildly. The air was thick with dust. She opened her bedroom window, then slammed it shut. Everything outside looked murky and tinted orange. Noa lay back down. In weather like this, she thought to herself, people didn’t even want to stick their noses outside. Anyway, she didn’t have much planned for the day. She had to make some progress with her seminar paper on Yona Wallach, that was all. Before she got started, though, she would see if Ofir was back.

She jumped up and went to the bathroom, sat on the toilet, and yawned. She brushed her teeth languidly, looking at herself in the mirror. She liked what she saw. She strolled through the apartment, naked, and went into Ofir’s room. He lay on his side, one leg entangled in the blanket, the other exposed, lying hairy and muscular, dark against the white sheet. His hands were tucked beneath his head like a pillow, and he slept soundly. The sight of his innocent face aroused Noa. She wanted to caress it, this face that was at once strange and familiar, but for the next few minutes she stayed where she was.

He looks so sweet
, she thought.
He looks delicious
. She walked to his bed and climbed under the covers, pressing her breasts against his back. When she nibbled on his ear and put her hand between his legs, he pushed back against her.

“Noa,” Ofir whispered. “What are you doing? Don’t you want me to sleep?” His voice was torpid, indulgent.

“Do you always talk in your sleep?” she said.

“Always. It’s been a hobby of mine for a long time. Now come here,” he whispered, turning to face her. He pulled her close and kissed her full lips, then gently licked her ear. Noa settled into his embrace, felt his racing heart, measuring her body against his, matching the movements of his body. She was overcome with desire. She didn’t think about tomorrow or the next day but submitted completely to her passion. She knew he was hers, he wouldn’t turn her down, she wanted his body, and she gave in to her own pleasure. She’d leave the thinking for later. Now it was time for love.

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Farida

N
ight descended upon the village. Inside her cramped apartment, Farida felt as if she could get lost inside her own walls. The emptiness was its own sound, rattling in her ears, filling her head with desperation. She heard everything: one couple argued, someone showered, another person flushed a toilet. In the apartment below, she heard clotheslines squeaking. These were the difficult hours. Sigal had come to take Ruthi home and left her alone. It was too late to call anyone, too late for a walk. She writhed in her bed, laying first on one side, then the other.

Giving up on the idea of sleep, Farida turned on the television and watched the late-night news. The same horrifying headlines repeated over and over: more deaths, more casualties. Fatah claimed responsibility. “Murder in the family!” announced the anchorman, and Farida had heard enough. It’s not as if the news helped her sleep, she thought, and besides, there was nothing she could do. If only she could sleep like a rock at the bottom of a river, and wake refreshed the next morning after a dreamless slumber.

“Ach,”
she sighed, “Ach.”
There was nothing else she could do. She couldn’t even read Violet’s diary; Noa had it now.
I really must talk to that girl. I’ll call her first thing in the morning
, she promised herself.

She plodded to the kitchen, reached for the pack of cigarettes on the counter. She stuck a cigarette in her mouth and burrowed through her small matchbox. She pulled out one dead match after another. “Everything is burnt out,” she muttered. She removed the cover of the box and searched again for a match just one with a red tip. When she still came up empty, she threw the box into the sink and opened a drawer in the cabinet, looking for a new box. Once again, she was disappointed.

She opened every door of every cabinet and rummaged through every drawer. Nothing. She went to the bedroom and ransacked every drawer in the bureau, scattering clothes around the room. She looked on every surface, on every shelf. She even crouched painfully to search beneath the bed. Eventually she stomped to the armchair on the porch and fell into it, defeated. A black night awaited her, she thought, blacker than black. In her despair, terrible thoughts rushed into her mind: I’m abandoned here, alone; nobody needs me anymore; and I don’t even have a single goddamn match!

This loneliness . . . Two years had passed since Moshe had left her a widow. She kept active during the day, but her nights were long and barren. In the last years of his life, especially when he was sick, Moshe had filled her life. Taking care of him, accompanying him to the hospital, cooking, doing laundry, constantly trying to lift his spirits all of this had kept her busy. She still hadn’t adjusted to life without him. Her life seemed a deep and terrible chasm, impossible to fill. She cooked, cleaned, lent a hand to Sigal, entertained friends, but the nights . . . they were endless.

Every evening, Farida girded herself for another war against sleeplessness. When the day came to an end, and silence blanketed the neighborhood, she faced a battle she knew was lost before it even began. She prayed for the elixir of sleep and was rewarded with despair. Memories sneaked in, poked through every crack, paralyzing thoughts that tormented her. Finally, early in the morning, her harrowed, exhausted body would surrender. She usually fell asleep in the armchair. Then her daughter’s daily “good morning” phone call would wake her. After several ragged nights, she would be rewarded with a one night of deep, blessed sleep. Then she’d face the cycle all over again.

The sudden ringing of the telephone shattered the silence of the night, and her heart began to race.
What had happened now? Who died?
She rushed to the phone.

“Hello, hello, who is this? What happened? Sigali?” The words tumbled out of her mouth.

“Hello, Chana?”

It was a man’s voice, with the same thick Iraqi accent she had, but she didn’t recognize it. “No, this isn’t Chana. Chana who?”

“Hello, Chana?” It was as if he hadn’t heard her.

“No,” she repeated, “this isn’t Chana. There’s no Chana. I’m afraid you have the wrong number.”

“Oh, pardon me . . . I’m so sorry . . . I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“I wish you had woke me up! It would have meant I was asleep.”

“Oh. I was looking for Chana,” the man said. “But it’s okay.” After a moment, he spoke in Arabic: “
Anti man Iraq?
” Are you from Iraq?

“Yes,” she said in Hebrew, then switched to Arabic: “
Mi inat?
”
Who are you?”

“
Ana kaman man Iraq
,”
said the unfamiliar voice. He was also from Iraq.

Farida smiled. She wasn’t the only one in the world still awake at this late hour. And he, too, was Iraqi. She decided to learn more about this man who was also awake after the midnight broadcast of “The Daily Verse,” when the only sound emanating from the television was the monotonous, miserable hiss of static. Somehow, it was understood that they would converse in Arabic, and so they did.

“What city are you from?” Farida asked.

“I’m from Basra. And you?”

“Baghdad,” Farida said. “But my grandmother lived in Basra for many years, and my family lived there for awhile, too.”

“Who was your grandmother? Maybe I knew her. You know how it is in Iraq,” continued the anonymous voice. “Everyone knew everyone else.” He sounded apologetic, hoping his candid question hadn’t put her off.

“Yes.” Farida smiled. “Her name was Daisy Twaina,
allah yirchama
.
She was a very special woman. She went from door to door selling cloth, and she made dresses, too, and suits for the boys. She made everything,” Farida said with pride in her voice. “My grandmother was widowed at a young age, and she had to make a living. I don’t know if you knew her. She died when my father was just a child.”

At the other end of the wire, the man patiently waited for his turn. When she was done, he said, “Give me a minute to get my brain going. I think I know who she is . . . Twaina—
Um Daoud?
” The mother of David?

“Yes, that was my grandmother!
Ya’allah
, what a memory you have! What a small world. How did you know who I was talking about? How do you know her? You must know my father, too.”

“I know your grandmother because my mother used to buy her wares, and I even remember your father,” he said. “Your grandmother and your father used to come to our house to sell cloth. I was only six or seven years old, but I remember them. Your father was already a young man he might have even been married. He must have been about twenty-five. He helped her he was a good son to his mother. And she . . . well, she was something else!” he gushed. “She was what we now call a feminist. She wasn’t afraid of robbers she would walk around at night, during the day, in the heat, in the cold. Nothing stopped her.”