Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction (10 page)

Your loving daughter, Amina


Fatima read and reread the short letter. No, she wasn’t going to read it in front of Na’ima. She started to dress. There was a slight knock on the door and when she opened it, Samira entered with a tray of steaming Turkish coffee and sweets.

“I know you have to leave early for the docks,” Samira said, ogling the open letter on Fatima’s desk. “Oh, I see you’ve got a new letter.”

“Nothing escapes you,” Fatima said. She told Samira the content of Amina’s letter.

“What are you going to do?” asked Samira

Fatima raised her shoulders, “I did not decide yet. Things are so different now. It’s like living in another world.”

“Your feet are grounded in our tradition,” Samira said, “But you have to keep your head clear and look into the future. There are going to be many changes. I even heard Uhm Zaide say it.”

“You and your Uhm Zaide,” Fatima smiled. Anytime Samira wanted to make a point, she hid behind ’Uhm Zaide said so, too.’ “Better help me get dressed. I have a long day ahead of me.”

- - -

Less than two weeks after she mailed the letter to her cousin in Jerusalem, Fatima received Abdullah’s prompt answer. The postman joked while handing the letter to her, “Lately you’ve become my best customer.” Fatima gave him his tip and hurried to her room.

July 10, 1943


To my most esteemed and cherished cousin, Fatima, Salaam Aleikum!


I pray that my letter finds you in good health and that Allah is smiling upon you. Your letter concerning your daughter Na’ima’s future, Allah keep her in His Grace, arrived as I was just preparing to leave on one of my regular visits to our customers living in the villages around Jerusalem, Ein Karem, Deir Yassin, Abu Gosh. I took your dear son Musa, a serious and industrious young man, along with me to acquaint him with our clients
.


Only a few days before my planned visits, Mahmood Abu-Hassan, a young man from Deir Yassin, came to see me regarding a loan. I knew his late father well.Like him, Mahmood is hard-working and a good person. Unfortunately, he lost his wife in childbirth some months ago. While taking care of the baby, he neglected his olive orchard and because of this year’s drought, his harvest is lost. He asked for a loan in order to buy and plant new trees. I promised I’d come to visit him as I usually do, to make sure that our debtors have the means to pay back the loans
.


I don’t know if you’ve ever been to Deir Yassin. The brown-pink houses are raised in tiers on a mountainside terrace, three kilometers south of Jerusalem. Mahmood’s house is surrounded by a thriving vegetable and fruit garden alongside the olive orchard. And he owns sheep as well
.


I had a talk with Mahmood’s mother, who now lives with him and helps to take care of the baby. She’s a sensible woman. She said that she’d like to see him remarried. “Mahmood is only twenty-five years old”, she said. “He needs a young woman. I am too old to look after a baby.”


I hope I’m not too bold in saying that Na’ima’s dowry, which you mentioned in your letter, could nicely help him rebuild his orchard and increase his income
.


Now, my dear Fatima, please think about what your humble cousin has written. If you decide that it’s worth your time, I’d be most happy to be your host, while you visit with Mahmood’s mother and gather information about his family. Of course this will be done with utmost discretion
.


Allah be with you always, Abdullah


Fatima read the letter again.
A peasant
, the proposed bridegroom is a peasant. It didn’t thrill her. She trusted Abdullah’s judgment; in his youth Abdullah was called the Fox because he was so quick and bright. He wouldn’t have written her about Mahmood unless he was sure of the young man’s character.

“Samira,” she called from the hallway, “come here quickly.”

Samira appeared, wiping her hands on her apron. “What’s the hurry,” she asked, “are we expecting guests?”

“We might be,” answered Fatima with a smile, “but not for a while. Now, listen to this,” and she began to read Abdullah’s letter.

“Abdullah is right,” Samira said. “Go meet his family. And don’t look so sad. I don’t think you expected Na’ima to marry a sheik.”

Fatima didn’t answer.

“If he’s a hard-working man, as your honored cousin has written, that’s worth more than ten lazy sheiks. Na’ima is a strong girl. She is not afraid to work. Together they could blossom. But I
know what bothers you. That it’s against the tradition for the girl’s mother to inquire first. Mahmood is a widower. In such a case the tradition can be bypassed.”

Like a poker player using her winning card, Samira, added, “When I hinted to Na’ima that you might consider her getting married, I saw stars appear in her eyes.”

The postman was right. Few days passed without new letters. Even though Fatima decided to make the trip to Deir Yassin, as her cousin Abdullah proposed, she couldn’t leave immediately. Besides putting her house and business in order, she had to buy gifts for the mother of a future bridegroom, as was the custom.

Her heart was thrilled that she would also be seeing Musa. In one of his first letters from Jerusalem he wrote that cousin Abdullah kept him so busy, he didn’t think he would come home before Ramadan, and there were two more months until the holiday. Fatima had sighed when she read it. But here was a new letter from Musa, which Fatima tore open with impatience. Her darling son, the light of her eyes! She knew that she would read it later for everybody, but first she wanted to enjoy it alone, in the intimacy of her room, where she could cry unseen.

July 14, 1943


Most honored Eumi
,


I hope that my letter finds you and everybody in your household in the best of health. I am writing in a rush because many things have happened lately and I want to share them with you. First, I got a letter from Amina addressed to me at Barclays Bank. She said that she’s accompanying a group of convalescent British soldiers to Cairo. She asked for my blessing as the head of the family
.


When I told Cousin Abdullah about it, he immediately called the Red Cross. He was relieved to hear that there is no danger. The convoy will be guarded by military men. Moreover, he called the Barclays Bank in Cairo, and opened an account in Amina’s name. He also called your Cairo cousins to expect Amina’s visit
.


So, dear Mother, please do not worry. She’ll return home safe and sound
.


Now, about myself! I go regularly to pray at El Aksa Mosque for the late afternoon prayers, when the colors of the limestone and rocks change from the most ardent red to all the shades of blue and violet. What a sight! But you surely know that, as you are a Jerusalemite yourself!


Cousin Abdullah wants me to take classes in International Banking. He says that as Palestinians it’s important for our future. An-Najah University in Nablus seems to be his choice, but Al-Quds in the old Jerusalem has a good reputation also
.


Meanwhile, I got a letter from our mukhtar, urging me to register for the law and order classes offered by the British Police. In his letter, the mukhtar emphasized Palestine’s need for young people to join the leadership when the British Mandate ends. I feel honored by his trust.


In the evenings I take long walks in Bakka, cousin Abdullah’s neighborhood. Sometimes I walk as far as Katamon or Musrara. The evening’s breeze and the flowers’ perfume remind me of our beloved poets.There is no one here to whom I’d like to read a poem. For that I’ll have to return home
.


Your devoted son, Musa


1 2

S
amira was left in charge of the household. It was not the first time. When they were young, Fatima and Faud took trips to visit their families on holidays, for weddings or anniversaries. Samira always proved she could be trusted.

“Now that the children are older,” Fatima said, “Na’ima can help you, making your job much easier. Just don’t let strangers in.”

Samira nodded. She had heard that every time Fatima left on a trip. Maybe Fatima was thinking of the
mukhtar’s
wife who came unexpectedly the evening before Fatima’s departure for Jerusalem. She was panting, and instead of the customary greeting she cackled, “Your daughter, your daughter Amina, whose character everybody admired, has run away with an Englishman. She’s gone to Cairo, my daughter wrote me. What shame she brought upon your good name!”

As soon as she uttered the last words, the
mukhtar
’s wife left quickly, without waiting for an answer.

“I cannot delay my departure any longer,” a pale Fatima told Samira after the
mukhtar’
s wife disappeared. “I am going
to Jerusalem to see my cousin. With Allah’s help, I’ll call on Mahmood’s mother. We need to hurry, before the
mukhtar’
s wife spreads her miserable gossip.”

“Don’t worry,” said Samira, putting her arms around Fatima, “I’ll give you a little massage to make you feel better. I think the
mukhtar’
s daughter was always jealous of Amina. She knew that a letter to her mother would light a fire.”

“You are probably right,” answered Fatima, “But it doesn’t make me less anxious. For all of us, and now especially for Na’ima’s sake, no stain should blot our good name. I am leaving tomorrow morning for Jerusalem.”

The next day when the children awoke, Samira told them that their mother had left at dawn to go to Jerusalem to see Musa.

Rama said, “For how long? How come she didn’t kiss us goodbye?”

“When is she going to be back?” Nur asked.

“Soon,” Samira said. “Meanwhile everybody goes by his daily routine as usual.”

Only Na’ima didn’t seem curious.
Has she guessed the reason for Fatima’s quick departure
?
In the end I’ll have to tell her. She should be prepared
, Samira thought.

A few days passed without news from Fatima. Then a letter addressed to Samira arrived. It wasn’t from Fatima, as Samira found out when she opened the envelope. From it fell a thin booklet, then a letter written in Musa’s delicate handwriting.

It was the first time Samira had received a letter.

July 21, 1943


Allah be with you, my dear Samira
,


Many times I started to write to you, but I realized that it might appear disrespectful to my mother. Now that she is here in Jerusalem, I can finally send you this letter
.


You know what’s in my heart. My feelings are unchanged, or even more ardent because of the distance
.


Dear Samira, do you remember the promise you made to me before I left? Are you talking to Suha about me? My heart aches from so much longing. I wish I could be a bird sitting on her window sill and sing to her songs of love, like this verse from a poem by the beloved Egyptian poet, Ibrahim Nagy. Read it to her:


Has anyone been drunk with love like me?

Has anyone seen love as I have seen it?

Oh, Samira, I am burning with love
,


Musa


Indeed, it’s time to keep my promise. Samira folded the letter carefully and hid it in the drawer holding her other treasures: the photographs of Mr. Grunwald’s grandchildren.

For a few days, she concentrated all her labors on Na’ima’s appearance. She knew what she wanted to do. First she mashed together bananas and cucumbers to make a paste, which she applied to Na’ima’s face. “This concoction does wonders,” she said authoritatively. “I’ve seen how the skin glows after only a few applications and becomes smooth like silk.”

After she washed her face, Na’ima ran to look into the mirror hanging in the kitchen above the sink. Seeing that her blackheads had disappeared and her face was without blemishes, she hugged Samira and danced with her around the kitchen.

“Stop it!” laughed Samira. “Now I’m going to shape your eyebrows to look as thin as the arch of the moon when it first appears in the sky at the beginning of each month.”

Nur and Rama witnessed Na’ima’s transformation with exclamations of admiration.

“Samira,” begged Rama, “when are you going to shape my eyebrows, too?” Her sisters laughed. “When you are as tall as Na’ima,” Samira joked. For a long time she brushed Na’ima’s long hair with perfumed oil, after which she rolled it up to form a crown. Samira admired the result, sighing with satisfaction.

She hadn’t forgotten the promise she made to Musa. She would follow the plan she thought of from the day she received Musa’s letter. But first she needed Na’ima’s absolute trust.

On Friday, the Muslim Sabbath, when the shops were closed, she told Na’ima, “Yesterday I cooked the meal for today, lamb filled with rice. While I made the tabbouleh and baked the bourekas, I was thinking, wouldn’t be nice if I take some food to Uhm Zaide too? She’s so old and doesn’t cook anymore for herself.” Na’ima nodded.

“So I want to ask you a favor,” continued Samira. “If you’d agree to look after Rama, Nur and Ahmed, I’ll take Suha to help me carry the food to her.”

Na’ima nodded again.

As always before leaving, Samira covered Suha’s head. Uhm Zaide lived in Manshiya, a no man’s land between Jaffa and Tel-Aviv, the Jewish city. It was almost noon when they reached Uhm Zaide’s hut. Crouched on the mud floor, Uhm Zaide was scratching a wooden plate of its dried humus remnants.

“Here you are,” she cried joyously when she saw Samira. Uhm Zaide sniffed the air with delight. “What goodies do you bring me?” At the sight of her, Shifra hid behind Samira’s back.