Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction (14 page)

“My mother is waiting for me.” Musa was in a hurry to take his leave. “But we’ll see each other again soon, at Nai’ma’s wedding.”

Samira had already planned the agenda for the day.
Fatima and Musa must be alone
, she thought. So she asked Na’ima to go together with her to check the grocers for the items they needed for the wedding’s celebration days, “I think we should place our orders now,” Samira said, “to make sure they’ll arrive in time, especially the dishes for your henna party. Your mother wants to send the traditional
makhloota
, the sweet pastry, along with the invitations for the wedding. If we order now, we could take this load off her shoulders.”

It was almost noon when Musa returned. As he entered the courtyard, he noticed Suha’s silhouette between the fluttering curtains of her bedroom. For a second their eyes met. Musa saw her blushing and felt a delicious tremor course through his body.

Fatima came to meet him as soon as she heard the gate open. Mother and son exchanged formal greetings. Then Fatima hugged him and sobbed.

“My prayers have brought you home,” his mother said. Fatima handed him Amina’s letter, “Read it. Tell me what you know that I don’t.” While Musa read the short letter, he could hear his mother murmuring, “I have only myself to blame for allowing her to leave home.”

Musa knew that there was no way to postpone the talk with his mother. Now or never! But he was saved by the noise of his sisters and brother returning from school. During the Ramadan fast, the school hours were shorter.

“Musa, Musa,” they screamed in one voice. “You are home! What a nice surprise. Nobody told us you were coming!”

“If I had known I wouldn’t have gone to school,” said Rama, pouting her lips. Ahmed took his older brother’s hand and wouldn’t let go. Nur brought him a chair, and the three children crowded at his feet.

“You have to tell us everything about life in Jerusalem,” Nur said. “Our parents took me there once, when I was little, but I remember only that it was crowded, big and noisy.”

From the corner of his eye, Musa saw Suha watering the flowers. She stopped and glanced in his direction, her hand playing with the
hamsa
amulet.
Was that gesture meant for him?

Fatima seemed upset by the children’s disruption, “Children, Musa and I have important matters to discuss.”

“Eumi, please, we’ll talk tonight after
Iftar
,” Musa said, “After they are asleep. Now I want to know what they did in my absence, and how many verses of the Koran Ahmed has learned. I want to tell them about Jerusalem too.”

Did Suha’s shoulders really quiver when she heard the word Jerusalem, or was it only his imagination?

As Fatima left Musa at the mercy of the children, Samira, followed by Na’ima, burst through the gate.

“Musa, Musa,” exclaimed Na’ima, bewildered. She had not been told about his arrival. “You came! I’m so happy!”

Musa got up. ”
Salaam Aleikum
, my dear sister and future bride!
Salaam Aleikum
my dear Samira.”

Na’ima’s new looks impressed Musa, “I bring warm salutations from your future husband. I saw him only a few days ago.”

“You did!” Na’ima glowed. “You have to tell me all about him.”

“Let’s get rid of these first,” said an impatient Samira. Her arms and Na’ima’s were full of fresh flowers.

“Oh, I completely forgot,” blushed Na’ima. “I was surprised to see Musa. Here, take mine.”

“I’ll take them,” Musa offered hoping to be closer to Suha. But Samira was quicker.

“You’ll love your future home, Na’ima,” Musa told his sister. “Your garden has cedars from Lebanon, and oaks, maybe a hundred years old, also fir, which Mahmood sells to Christians on their holy day. All the people in Deir Yassin sell their beautiful flowers in the souks of Jerusalem.”

The shrill of the muezzin calling for the third prayer of the day interrupted Musa.

Hurriedly, he said, “I have to go to the mosque, but after I get back you’ll hear more.” It wasn’t the prayer Musa was thinking of, but an urgent call to his sister Amina. He went straight to the Post Office.

Amina cried when she heard Musa’s voice, “I’m so happy you called. George contacted the bank this morning, wanting to talk to you, but you weren’t there.”

Musa couldn’t stop the avalanche of words tumbling from Amina’s mouth, George this and George that...

“Through the British Embassy, George obtained permission for me to fly on one of the regular British military flights to Lydda airport.”

“Why not by train?” asked Musa. He had never been in an airplane and felt uneasy about her flying.

“He said it would be much quicker this way. In two hours I can be at Lydda, while by train I need at least two days each way. Musa, I’ll be arriving in time for Na’ima’s henna party and stay for the three days of the wedding.”

A postal clerk approached Musa and whispered that the office would be soon closing.

“I’ll be waiting for you at Lydda airport. I’m looking forward to seeing you, Amina.”

“Musa, Musa, don’t hang up. Have you told mother about George and me?” Musa heard the anxiety in Amina’s voice, but he couldn’t lie to her.

“Not yet,” he answered, “but I think it would be best for you to talk to her after Na’ima’s wedding. And I’ll be there to give you support.”

The phone went dead.
Probably the clerk’s doing. He looked so impatient. I should’ve given him a tip
. Musa rushed out of the post office, straight into Jaffa’s twilight, at the hour the sky and the sea became one.

Musa was home and Shifra could sense the excitement in the air. After Fatima’s return from Jerusalem, she heard her tell the children about her trip, and how proud she was when cousin Abdullah praised Musa’s work at the bank. Afterward, Shifra’s days became so busy helping to prepare Na’ima’s trousseau that only during the night, especially during the
hamsin
nights, when the heat and humidity kept her awake, could her mind return to Musa, her savior. She had almost forgotten how he looked.
Was he as strong as Na’ima’s fiancé, whom she had watched from behind her window’s curtains? Was he sporting a moustache too
? Only her body remembered his strong arms when he had carried her, half-alive, to his mother’s house.

Now she could hear Musa giving orders to the workers paving the courtyard or laughing with the children. She also caught his furtive glances toward her window. After Samira brought the sewing machine home, Shifra spent most of the days in her room.

The sewing machine had been Shifra’s idea. One day she took the courage to tell Samira, “If we had a sewing machine I could make a dress, from beginning to end, and save the buyer the extra money he spends for a seamstress.” She did not add that she enjoyed the work, and wanted to create the whole garment herself, from start to finish.

Samira had looked doubtful. “When did you learn to use a sewing machine?”

Shifra blushed. Her mother had sewn all the children’s clothes at home and many times had let Shifra finish a seam or a hem.
“I’ve watched the seamstresses sewing in the store. It’s not so complicated. For a
jelebia
one has to seam only the sides of the dress, and add the sleeves. I’m sure I could do it.”

Samira didn’t seem convinced, so Shifra added, “Na’ima’s dowry dresses have to be ready on time, and we also have to keep up with the orders. The work would go faster and easier if we had a sewing machine.” Shifra knew that mentioning Na’ima’s dresses would lend her demand more appeal.

Samira smiled. “I’ll tell Sit Fatima. She’ll decide.”

Shifra was satisfied. It was the same answer Samira gave her when Shifra proposed embroidering with beads. The two of them were in the bazaar, and Shifra had stopped by a stall selling beads.

“Samira,” she asked, “what do you think about doing the embroidery with beads? Nobody has done it yet. Wouldn’t that look nice?”

Samira pinched her cheek, “You are some girl, but we’ll have to ask Fatima for approval.”

The beads were an instant success. More and more orders came their way. Shifra’s mornings were filled with work, but in the afternoons she played with Rama and Nur, after the children first checked her progress in Arabic. Her biggest joy was the few times she could steal away to hear the magic violin.

On sleepless nights, she asked herself why she pushed herself to be useful in a stranger’s house
. Was she hoping for acceptance, knowing that she couldn’t return to her own family? Was it her need to belong, to feel that people cared for her? She had Samira’s trust. Wasn’t that enough?

After Musa arrived, she hated the sewing machine. It kept her indoors, while in the courtyard Musa was the center of everybody’s attention. She could not hear what he said that provoked everybody’s laughter.

Perhaps Musa guessed her thoughts. On many afternoons, after the workers left, he sat on the bench, underneath her window,
and read aloud from the Palestine Post, the English newspaper. It seemed to Shifra that he especially chose the news which might interest her. Sometimes Fatima joined her son, listening to him.

“Italy’s disintegration,” Musa read. “After the Allied Forces conquered Sicily in July, in September they landed in Salerno from where they will start the invasion of Italy. This is good news, Eumi.”

“If you think so, surely it must be so.” Fatima patted her son’s hand.

“Everybody who loves freedom thinks so,” answered Musa. “On the Eastern Front the Russians are raising their heads and moving against the common enemy. Trust me, before long the Nazi machine will be destroyed.”

He folded the paper, “Just a shame that for many people freedom will come too late, like for the innocent children and their parents who lost their lives when the Warsaw Ghetto was burned to the ground.”

When Shifra heard the word Warsaw, she stopped sewing. She remembered her mother dreamily saying, “
One day, children, we’ll visit my family and you’ll meet your cousins and uncles.”

“My new acquaintance, a German Jew who works at the Rehavia branch of Barclays Bank, said that Hitler decided to exterminate all European Jews. This fellow and his family were saved by coming to Palestine,” Musa said.

“Don’t listen to hearsay, my son. You are too sensitive. My friend, Mr. Nathan, is also filling my ears about it. How could one man kill millions? Some people have too much imagination.” Fatima said with disdain. “What I know is that Jews were and are still smuggled in, through the new port the Jews built in Tel-Aviv. They violate the British embargo: at the same time their port has caused Jaffa to lose a lot of business.”

Fatima’s discourse was interrupted by the repetition of a plaintive sound.

“Oh, I hear the muezzin calling for the fourth prayer. Go my son, go to the mosque and pray for the happiness of our family.”

Shifra’s tears fell on the dress she was making, staining it, but she didn’t care.
Millions of Jews were killed? Oh, God!
Then the victory Musa talked about would arrive too late, for her mother and people like her, who lived with the hope of reuniting with the families left behind.

1 9

M
usa enjoyed being home. He knew that his presence made his brother, sisters and mostly his mother, relaxed and cheerful.
What about Suha?
The few times their eyes met, he felt that they spoke a language of their own, without need for words. Yet words would have to be spoken.

One more week was left before the end of Ramadan, which meant only one more week before Na’ima’s wedding. He had to hurry. He had to talk to his mother. The opportunity occurred one evening after the
Iftar
meal.

“My son,” she said, “I am very pleased with everything you have done in the short time since you’ve been home. I really don’t know how I could have managed all by myself.”

She took his hands, “You are a good son. I’ve been always proud of you. Come sit near me,” she patted the pillow next to her.

It was true that Musa had done everything she had asked him to do. He had hired the musicians for the wedding. Under his supervision the extension of the courtyard was completed. And conforming to the Muslim tradition, he personally invited the neighbors and his friend Yusuf, to Na’ima’s wedding.

“Eumi,” Musa said, “There is something I want to ask you.” He stopped, searching for the right words.

“Go, on,” Fatima encouraged him. “You know I’d do anything for you.”

“I want you to invite Suha to be at the wedding party.”

“You want what?” Fatima was almost screaming. “How can you ask me that? You are going too far, my son. First you begged me to give her shelter because she was sick. Then you asked me to keep her because she was an orphan and had no place to go. I’ve done all this, isn’t that enough?” Her voice grew louder.

“Hush, hush,” Samira said, entering the room. “You two will wake up the neighbors.”

“Samira, listen to him, listen to my son.” Fatima was choking. “What insolence! I don’t want to hear any more about it. I’ll try to forget it. Never again! Go to bed, my son. When you wake up tomorrow morning you’ll realize how foolish you have been tonight!”

“I’ll ask you again tomorrow, and after tomorrow, and every day after,” Musa said. “Suha is already part of our household. You’ve given her an Arabic name. She has learned to speak Arabic, and all of her embroidery work has made you not only proud but wealthier, too.”

Fatima brought her hands to her throat, as if she were suffocating.

“Think about it, Sit Fatima,” Samira offered, “maybe Musa is not entirely wrong.”

“What are you talking about? I’ve shared my children with you, Samira. You want this girl in this house as much as Musa does. The two of you want to kill me tonight? Think of Na’ima, what would she say? She never liked the Yahud girl. Oh, I should have gotten rid of her long ago.” Fatima pressed her temples. “I’m getting a migraine again. Leave me alone. This is an order.”

“If Suha doesn’t take part, I’ll not be in the wedding either,” Musa persisted.

Though he tried to sound firm, his insides were shaking. He had never spoken to his mother in that way. By the Muslim code, he was being seriously disobedient and disrespectful.