Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction (36 page)

“In times of turmoil, making good music is our way to encourage the young fighters, and to let them know, that on the home front, everything is all right.”

Though the conversation in the Gruber home was always about politics, to which he had little to contribute, Otto felt good to be included, that feeling of
gemutlichkeit
, the comfort and intimacy of being among friends. The thought that from the beginning they should have lived in Tel-Aviv, rather than Jaffa, nagged Otto again. But what was done couldn’t be undone. Otto was grateful to Charlotte Gruber and to Mazal for the time they spent with his Gretchen. It was clear to him that she liked being with both of them, as different as they were from one another. She conversed in German with Charlotte, but both women were serious about teaching her Hebrew.

Sie leben in diesem Land, müssen Sie sprechen ihre Sprach
, when you live in this country, you must speak its language, Otto heard Charlotte say time and again when Gretchen complained that it was too hard, or she was too old to learn Hebrew.

“Nonsense,” answered Charlotte, who wouldn’t take no for an answer.

Mazal, twenty years younger, brushed Gretchen’s now mostly gray hair as she whispered in her ear, “You are beautiful.”

“Only conversation,
b’ivrit kala
, in easy Hebrew, commanded Charlotte, and Gretchen, like the good student she once was, tried hard. Otto noticed that her nightmares had become less frequent.

Sigmund Hochmeister, the bass player, with the perennial cigar in his mouth, played with the radio knobs. “Nine o’clock, time to hear the broadcast from
Kol Zion Halochemet.”

“You are obsessed with Etzel. Begin should listen to Ben-Gurion. This should be a time of restraint, not of war. At least until May, when the British Mandate ends,” said Hugo Gruber.

“You want us to sit with our arms crossed, when every day we lose people? We are no cowards,
nicht so
, Otto?” asked Sigmund, Sigi to his friends.

Bruno Herbst was quicker. “The
Haganah
, as Ben-Gurion has determined, is not going to initiate fights. It will only retaliate and punish a violent attack.”

“It is that simple? Have the snipers on top of the minarets of Jaffa’s Manshya’s Mosque, or the terrorist bands hidden in the hills along the highway to Jerusalem been silenced? How many victims have already fallen prey to them?”

A moment later they heard the sound of bullets from the areas of Shchunat Hatikva and Kerem Hateimanim, the two oldest Tel-Aviv communities and the closest to Jaffa.

Sigi got up and paced the room. “You see that they are not afraid of the Brit’s curfew. Why should we be?”

“We have to stay calm and not give way to hysteria. Haganah is strong and well-organized. All you think about is revenge. In the long run this is not what we want,” Hugo Gruber said in a quiet voice.

“We are as concerned as you are,” Charlotte Gruber, who was knitting a sweater, joined the conversation. “Only the other day, the kibbutz of one of our boys, Ef’ Al near Tel-Aviv, was under attack. Thank God, the attackers were repelled.”

“Good evening, you are listening to the news from Kol Zion Halochemet.”

The stern voice of the broadcaster brought silence to the room. “Again, Arab attacks and violence occurred simultaneously, at
Kfar Uria
, near Ramla and other settlements in the North as well as at the edge of towns.
Lehi
, in retaliation, has attacked and wiped out the Arab villages of Yazur and Tira.”

“It’s really a war,” whispered Otto, bewildered.

“
Sheket
, silence,” demanded Sigi, who bent his cupped ear toward the radio.

“Syrian Bedouins attacked Kfar Szold,” continued the announcer, “but were quickly defeated and pushed back across the frontier.”

“Bravo,” Mazal clapped her hands. Unobserved, she had entered the room. Otto stood up, his eyes worried, but Mazal gestured for him to sit down.

“We have noticed that most of the wealthy Arabs are leaving. They are going to Damascus, Amman or Ramalla,” the broadcaster continued. “They think they are taking a holiday, and will be back soon. The Mufti Al-Husseini is upset, because not only women, children and old people are leaving, but also young men who should serve in the towns’ militias and the Arab Liberation Army.”

Sigi turned off the radio. Nobody talked, but each one could guess the others’ thoughts. Arabs could leave to get protection from the neighboring Arab countries, but where could Jews go? They had no other place. Their brethren, even if they wanted to help, lived in faraway countries.

“For better or for worse, we are going to stay and fight until the last one,” said Charlotte, speaking for everyone in the room. “Our son, Uri, is training orthodox Jews, who volunteered for the Haganah. Isn’t this extraordinary? Can you imagine, a Jew with the Torah in one hand and a rifle in the other?”

Everybody smiled. They knew that she wanted to raise their spirits. Otto kept his eyes shut. He thought of the little boy, Selim, who showed such a rare gift for music.
Where were they, the child and his mother? Had they left already? He felt sorry for the boy. Would he receive the musical training he deserved?
He remembered that Charlotte and Mazal had told him that the mother came looking for him and Gretchen.
Should he try to find her, the girl with the bluest eyes, Ruthie’s eyes?

“I am sorry,” Otto said, blushing, when he saw five pairs of eyes riveted on him, “I dozed. I am getting old.”

“You were dreaming,” said Mazal. “You had such a serene smile. What did you dream of?”

Otto was amazed by Mazal’s boldness, but he knew that she had the gentlest of souls and she cared so much about Gretchen
.

“I was thinking of the little Arab boy, such musical promise, the one I told you about. Where would he be? Has he any chance to develop his talent, a refugee in an Arab country?” Otto answered.

He saw Mazal’s eyes open wider, as if his words took on a special meaning for her. “We have to find her and tell her the truth,” Mazal said. “No Jew can feel safe in an Arab country. My mother thought that Morocco was heaven, until Arab hooligans burned her store. Poor girl, she doesn’t know what awaits her and maybe her son as well.”

For a long time before falling asleep, Otto thought of Shifra and Selim. How could he find out what happened to them? Maybe Nabiha, his former housekeeper in Jaffa, would know.
But where could he find Nabiha?

It had been by chance that Otto hired her. He was shopping in Jaffa’s
souk
when he noticed a strong woman crouched on the floor, cleaning the entrails of a freshly butchered chicken. Though he hated the stink, Otto admired her efficiency. Through sign language and a volunteer interpreter, he made her understand what he wanted. She wiped her hands, ready to follow him. Every day for four years, she took care of Gretchen and their needs, but he never knew where she lived.

Otto fell into a deep sleep, dreaming that he had offered his life in exchange for his daughter’s, his obsessive dream.

Mazal also had difficulty falling asleep. She kept thinking of the young girl who had enough courage to approach them, before Mazal let her slip away. She was sure the girl didn’t come just to pay a courtesy call. Maybe she needed help. She turned over in bed. It was hot and Bruno’s snoring annoyed her.

Mazal arose and went onto the balcony. The February night was bleak and cold and made her shiver. She thought of a plan. She knew it could be risky even in peaceful times, now it would be plainly dangerous. If she told Bruno, he’d say, “You want to abduct somebody?
At ishtagat
-are you crazy
?”

Back in bed, Mazal threw her arm around Bruno’s large back. His body warmed hers. Before falling asleep her last thought was, “
Why would I want to play with fire? Is my desire to protect a Jewish girl strong enough to take such a risk?”

Shifra awoke with a start. What was that noise? It was still dark outside. Careful not to wake up Selim curled next to her, she rose and peered through the window. The neighbors across the street were busy loading their household wares into a donkey drawn cart, already filled with mattresses and pillows. A weeping child carried a load of pots and pans taller than himself. When one of the pots fell, the father, his arms filled with chairs, screamed, “Not again, Ali, you good-for-nothing, you break one more thing, and I’ll break your back.”

Shifra sighed. What she saw had become a familiar sight. People were leaving Jaffa.
Where were they going
? A few days ago Samira told her about the two Lebanese ladies who came to visit Fatima.

”You must remember them,” Samira said, “The owners of the French Perfume Shop. Cool, beautiful and elegant as ever. Fatima was so happy to see them. It had been a long time since she had visitors. She called me to help her serve the guests, but they said, no need, they had stopped for only a minute, to say goodbye to Fatima. They were leaving, returning to Lebanon.”

Shifra did not need to ask the reason. The answer was everywhere. Menace floated in the air, the clouds of war becoming denser every day.

“Fatima cried,” continued Samira. “She had ordered Musa to come home, but he answered that there was still time, not yet reason
to hurry. Now is the orange picking season. He had consulted with other orange-grove owners who said they would leave after the oranges were boxed and shipped to their regular customers.”

Shifra waited to hear more. Samira had yielded to her pressure and told her already that Musa had written to his mother about the house he bought in the village of Ein Karem.

“Another reason for Fatima to be upset with her son,” Samira had said. “Who needs to buy a new house, when we don’t know what tomorrow will bring?”

Shifra knew that Samira repeated word for word what Fatima said. She was seized by tremors.
So that was the surprise Musa had for her! To live close to Jerusalem!

Musa’s sister, Nur, came home crying one day, saying that most of her classmates had left, and she did not want to return to school. Only when Fatima threatened to whip her, did she relent. Samira told Shifra that Fatima said, “Our life must continue the same way as always. That’s your brother Musa’s wish.”

But life was not the same. Every day when Samira returned from the souk, she complained that the prices for flour and eggs had gone up, and sugar and butter were scarce. “More stores are closing. The farmers are scared, they stopped harvesting and many have even left their villages.” Gone was the old Samira, the one who only a few years ago, had sung Yiddish songs to help her fall asleep.

During those anxious days, Selim had a good time. Fatima had hired a tutor at home for Rama and Ahmed.” They don’t learn that much in school,” was her excuse, but Samira knew better.

She told Shifra, “Fatima is afraid of the militia men patrolling the streets. She’s heard about small children being stolen. She’s like a mother hen.”

The children loved the tutor, an unassuming young man with a face marked by chicken-pox scars, and long, bony arms
hanging away from his shoulders like a marionette. He taught the children that chanting the verses of the Koran would help them memorize quicker.

The minute he heard singing, Selim ran to his grandmother’s house and begged to be included in the lessons.

”You know that Fatima can’t refuse Selim anything,” Samira told Shifra, without adding that Fatima also said, ‘Musa is away, and I don’t believe the
Yahudia
would give the child a proper Muslim education.’

The tutor was surprised by the speed with which Selim learned everything he was taught. Fatima and Samira delighted in his singing, “Like a muezzin,” Samira commented, amazed.

For Selim it became a new game. He sang from the minute he woke up in the morning until he went to sleep. Samira spat on him a few times. “To chase away the evil eye,” she told Shifra, casting her eyes meaningfully toward the two Iraqi soldiers who were just leaving the house. They weren’t often at home now that they were training the Jaffa militia.

One evening before falling asleep, Selim whispered, “I want to sing my new songs for Jedi Otto and Jedati Gretchen. It’ll cheer them up. When are we going to see them?”

Shifra was astounded.
Her son hadn’t forgotten the violin teacher and his wife
.

“A letter from England,” announced Nur. She had waited by the gate, hoping to receive mail from friends who had left Jaffa not so long ago. “From Amina and addressed to Musa,” she added, somewhat disappointed.

Fatima stepped out. “Eumi, a letter from Amina,” Nur repeated, though she had already handed it to Shifra.

Fatima stood undecided. “Let me have it,” she ordered. Silently, Shifra gave the letter to Nur, who handed it to Fatima.

Fatima’s children and Samira surrounded her, like bees around their queen. Before opening the letter, Fatima said, “Nur, take Rama and Ahmed to your room and help them with the Koran recitation.” Disappointed, the children left.

Fatima’s fingers trembled as she tore the envelope. She signaled to Samira to come closer to her. Their gray heads bent over the letter, as they started to read, Samira mouthing the words in silence.

March 15, 1948


To my dear brother Musa, Salaam Aleikum
,


I pray that Allah continues to protect all of you in these difficult times
.


Even though we are far from you, our hearts and minds are constantly with you as George and I have followed with increasing anxiety what happens in our dear Palestine.


I have good news. George’s uncle, the member of the British Parliament, has obtained a position for George to assist Sir Alan Cunningham, the British High Commissioner in Palestine, with the withdrawal of the British Army at the end of the Mandate. He will arrive in two weeks
.


George says that what the British government wants is to maintain law and order, now, and also after it leaves Palestine. Although the British troops were ordered not to intervene between Arabs and Jews, sometimes they have had to do it
.