Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction (19 page)

Dear Fatima, I wish you good health and joy from all your children
.


May Allah bless you, Aiisha


Both women remained silent. Samira stood up and hugged Fatima. The gate bell rang. It was the mailman, bringing a letter. “Na’ima,” Fatima said, impatiently opening it. As she read, Samira saw Fatima’s features relax, a smile on her face.

“She’s five months pregnant,” Fatima said her eyes suddenly clear.

“Already!” wondered Samira.

“Young people, hot blood,” Fatima said. “She’s asking me to come. She doesn’t feel well.”

“And she wants her mother. It’s natural. Tell me what to pack for you.”

“Not so fast, not so fast, though I know you want to get rid of me,” laughed Fatima. It was a happy laugh. “Would Mahmood be pleased to see me visiting there so soon?” She remained pensive. “But my daughter is calling and my heart aches to go.”

“What else has she written?” Samira asked. “I see she covered two full pages.”

“Oh, yes. The news that she’s pregnant was such a surprise, I didn’t read the rest!” Fatima’s eyes scanned the letter. “She writes that the weather has changed and she needs a warm blanket. She’s not used to Deir Yassin’s cold nights. She wants me to buy rolls of wool for her to knit sweaters for Nassim, for herself and for the coming baby.”

Fatima continued to peruse the letter. “She writes, ‘I could play with Nassim all day long. He’s such a good baby. When he sees me, he stops crying, smiles and stretches his little arms toward me. Oh, Eumi, I think that motherhood is marvelous. I promise myself to try to be as good a mother as you have been for us. Come soon. It will be an honor to have you with us.”

“What did I tell you?” Samira said, her eyes dancing in her head.

“I’m going to the bazaar,” an energized Fatima said, “There is a little store that sells the best quality wool. I want to knit an afghan for Na’ima. Meanwhile, take out from my chest the goose-feather blanket that my mother made and we never used. Air it out and clean it. I want everything to be ready by tomorrow, do you hear me?”

“That’s my girl,” gushed Samira happily. “I’ll do more than that. Remember the patchwork quilt we started and never finished? We
called it the patchwork of love. Wouldn’t it be a perfect bedspread for Na’ima’s new baby?”

Watching Fatima leave, Samira felt overjoyed by her sprightly steps; Fatima was almost dancing as she unlocked the gate and disappeared beyond it.

2 3

D
uring the months following Na’ima’s wedding, Musa’s life became busier. Thanks to his command of the English language and his cousin’s satisfaction with his aptitude for banking, Abdullah promoted Musa to Assistant Manager of the Foreign Exchange department. Musa was ready for the challenge. It was in step with the plan he had made the day he returned to Jerusalem.

The plan included a managerial position at Barclays Bank in Jaffa, which he was sure he could obtain with Abdullah’s recommendation. But he was not going to disclose his plan to his cousin yet.

Musa still basked in the memory of Suha’s brilliant eyes watching him dance the Debka at Na’ima‘s wedding. Her eyes had been full of promises. In his new position he traveled to other Barclays branches. During a short visit to Jaffa, he could steal a few hours to kiss his mother’s hand and to see Suha. Once when he mentioned that he might move permanently to Jerusalem, he saw Suha’s face freeze and her eyes take on the fearful look of a wounded rabbit. Somehow he understood that for her Jaffa was
a safe place. Maybe later, after their marriage, he would ask her about her fears, or remind her of that day … or maybe he’d never ask. So many things are better left unspoken.

Contemplating their future, Musa knew that he would not want them to live in his mother’s house. He was sure that Fatima would expect it and would be hurt, but that was not part of his plan. Since he would not want to live far from her, Musa decided to rebuild the old house on the adjacent plot of land, his father’s gift to his mother.

When he told Fatima about his idea to repair and modify the old building, she was suspicious, “Why?” she asked. “There is more than enough space in our house, especially now with Amina and Na’ima married. There was plenty of space even before. What is in your mind?”

Cautiously, he answered, “We need a guest house. Na’ima and Mahmood will visit you, and Inshallah, after her baby is born, there will be two children. The day is not far when Amina and George will visit, too.”

“As always, you think of everything, Ibni,” Fatima kissed him, “You are right. Talk to Attia, he’s the best builder in town. Tell him you have my blessing.”

Musa had seen a few elegant dwellings in Jerusalem and wanted to model his Jaffa house after them. From Petra, that magic place, he wanted to bring red rocks and have them cut into tiles. The new house would definitely have a bathroom, the sides of the bathtub covered in blue tiles, the color of Suha’s eyes.

He had seen such a bath advertised in a Cairo magazine. In his mind he could see Suha’s alabaster body lying in it, her face turned toward him with a big smile, while he would be ready to dry every drop of water on her body with his kisses. Every night he dreamt a different variation of this scene.

”I’m in no hurry,” he told Attia, the contractor, whose powerful muscles seemed to coil under his shirt
. Fatima would probably faint when she heard the cost
.

Rebuilding the house gave Musa a reason to visit home more often. As he said to his mother, “I trust the builder, but he has to know I am the boss. Without control, he might use cheaper materials and charge for more expensive ones.”

Musa told no one he was building his future love-nest. He kept it a secret even from Samira, his usual confidante.

There was only one cloud on Musa’s clear sky: Mahmood. Since their talk in the Jerusalem restaurant, he had been after Musa, pressing him to join his political group.

“Don’t you see what’s going to happen?” Mahmood asked in a harsh tone, “The Brits are going to leave, or we’ll make them leave. But the Yahudim remain. After pressure from our leaders, the Brits’ White Paper reduced the number of Jewish immigrants to 75,000. Even this number was too big. The future will confirm it. We have to prepare ourselves for a fight, my brother!”

From his mouth, “my brother” sounded like a sneer. Mahmood was waiting for an answer. And Musa was caught unprepared. Finally, in order to end Mahmood’s insistence and fearing that a refusal would arouse his suspicions, Musa agreed to come to one of the group’s meetings.

It was held in Abu-Gosh, the village well-known for its vineyards. Musa saw young people, the
Mujahedeen
—holy warriors, Mahmood called them with pride, as heated as his brother-in-law was.

There was a lot of smoke and screams of “Out with them,” meant for the British or the Jews, Musa couldn’t tell which. One thing was certain. A young man to whom the others seem to look up told the crowd, “Soon we are going to receive arms from our brothers in Syria, Egypt and other Arab countries. The forests around Jerusalem,” he added, “would be the perfect training ground.”

“See,” a satisfied Mahmood said afterward, slapping Musa’s back, “we are making progress. Sooner than you think, your mama’s darling boy will learn to put a gun to good use.”

After he left Mahmood, Musa decided that first thing in the morning he would tell the builder to hurry and finish the house.

2 4

I
t had been more than a year since that fateful day when Musa found her on the deserted Jaffa beach. Lately she had started thinking of herself as Suha, as everyone called her. Only in the intimacy of her room did memories of her past intrude her. Days Like today, when the rain finally burst out of the skies, a vengeance after the long dry winter, reminding her of the dismal day in Jerusalem when the
neft
man had pinched her cheek with his oily hand smelling of kerosene. The next thing she knew, was that her father had promised him her hand in marriage. The memory still made her tremble.

“Brrrr,” Samira suddenly entered, “it’s almost as cold as the Jerusalem winter. Come into the kitchen to warm yourself. I’m making tea for the two of us.”

The children were in school and Fatima was visiting Na’ima. It was one of her bi-weekly visits. At the beginning of these visits, Samira told Shifra, “Fatima seems to be reliving her life as a young bride. She goes to the bazaar and buys trinkets, a flower vase, or another prayer shawl, all for Na’ima. And when she goes there, she cooks Mahmood’s favorite dishes,
kafta, a meatloaf
, and fattoush. After she leaves, Na’ima and Mahmood have food to last a week.”

“Fatima said it was your fault that Na’ima didn’t know to cook,” Shifra said smiling, warming her hands around the cup of tea, “She said that you spoiled her children.”

“It wasn’t me, she did it and she continues doing it now. Look how much knitting and quilting we’ve done already. She has less and less time for her children here at home.”

Shifra knew what Samira meant. The children’s grades had declined, especially the thirteen-year-old Nur. The English teacher had sent a letter complaining of her lack of interest in the class and that she was not doing her homework.

“Why should I break my head with it, when in a few years I’ll be married? How much does Na’ima use her English now?” a stubborn Nur had answered her mother’s reprimands.

“I might be able to help her, though my English has become quite rusty,” Shifra whispered timidly in Samira’s ear. Nur had told Shifra that her school, Tabeetha, run by the Church of Scotland, offered intermediate and advanced evening classes for adults. Shifra became excited; she would love so much to go back to school. Could she find a way to register? She confided in Samira, but to no avail.

On one of Musa’s visits home, now more frequent since the rebuilding of the house next door, Fatima complained of Nur’s laziness, to which he answered, “It must be a phase, it will pass.” But it did not.

Lately, Shifra observed with delight that Musa was coming home often during his mother’s visits to Na’ima. Musa would show Shifra the plans for the guest house. He asked for her suggestions, to choose the paint color for the walls in different rooms, or to select the window frames and tiles, nodding approvingly at her choices.

Her heart beat faster when she was alone with him, and it warmed her soul to see how attentively he listened to her. He brought her flowers at almost every visit. During one of his visits, Shifra told him about her wish to study take a English class, “In that way,” she said, “I could help Nur to better prepare her lessons.”

Musa did not answer immediately.
Was he still afraid that she was going to run away?

At breakfast the following morning, a smiling Musa said, “Last evening I talked to Samira about your wish, and like me, she thinks it’s a good idea since,” he emphasized, “You’ll be able to tutor Nur. Samira offered to accompany you and wait until the end of the lesson.”

I am not a prisoner
, Shifra was displeased, but she knew that it was better to have Samira on her side; especially if Fatima would do more than raise an eyebrow at hearing her latest request.

Seeing the anxiety with which Musa waited for her answer, Shifra thanked him with a gratifying smile, happy to see the color returning to Musa’s face.

2 5

“A
child brings happiness,” Fatima told Na’ima, putting a cold compress on her daughter’s forehead. “Our Prophet, in his great wisdom said, ‘Go and multiply.’ One more month and you’ll be up and running. Then you’ll remember my words.”

Na’ima moaned, “I wish you would stay longer, or send Samira. Oh, I miss Amina so much. Where is she when I most need her?”

“I’d rather we don’t talk about her. There’s no reason to aggravate ourselves.”

“You and Mahmood,” cried Na’ima. “He doesn’t let me answer her letters. He says, ‘When she married her Brit, she stopped being your sister. No wife of mine has a British brother-in-law.’ He tore up her letters. Eumi, you are as cruel as he is.”

Fatima did not answer. She also missed Amina, who had written long letters describing the cruise on the Nile during her short honeymoon. They had the most elegant cabin, and George made sure that every morning the cabin steward brought fresh flowers and a box of Swiss chocolates for his bride. “Eumi,” she wrote, “it feels so good to be loved.”

Fatima thought how different the lives of her twin daughters had become. At Mahmood’s commands, Na’ima had to wake up at dawn and feed the chickens, prepare breakfast for him, change and bathe Nassum, then dress and feed him. No wonder she was exhausted.

Amina wrote about the large apartment overlooking the Nile George rented for them in Zamaluk, Cairo’s most elegant neighborhood with two bathrooms, and a sleep-in maid who learned from Amina the recipes for Samira’s delicacies.

Fatima’s eyes turned toward the well-worn clay floor.
Mahmood should install tiles
. She made a mental note to tell him. She feared for Na’ima, who could easily get a cold, especially during the winter rains for whom neither she nor Nassum were equipped. Meanwhile, she’ll buy a few carpets in Jerusalem’s bazaar when she’ll go visit with Musa and Abdulah.

Fatima, who had stopped listening to Na’ima’s flood of words, heard suddenly, “I wonder... If Mahmood is so adamant about Amina marrying George, how will he react when he hears that you hide a Yahud girl under your roof?”

Fatima’s heart skipped a beat. She was aware of Mahmood’s nationalistic views, with which she basically agreed, but she was alarmed at the hatred that flared in his eyes anytime he talked about the “unwelcome strangers who grabbed our land,” as he called the Jews.

She knew her daughter tolerated Suha only because she was liked by the other members of the family. “She’s an orphan girl, whom nobody claimed,” Fatima answered, “and she’s learned our ways.”

Taking Na’ima’s hand in hers, Fatima continued, “My mother, Allah bless her memory, said on the eve of my marriage, ‘Even if you adore your husband, there could be times when things would be better left unspoken.’ Mahmood is quick-tempered. A few weeks before giving birth, if telling Mahmood about Suha could provoke his
wrath, it wouldn’t be healthy for you or for your child. I see no need to bring it up.”