Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction (40 page)

Musa became angry only when his mother said, “You are young. Think. Allah will bless you with many sons and help you forget the pain of today.”

“Never, do you hear me!” Musa yelled. “Never will I trust a woman again.”

What made Musa decide to leave immediately, the Deir Yassin massacre or the arrival of Amina’s husband
? Samira wondered on April 8, 1948, the day of that catastrophe, a day forever imprinted in her memory. She had arrived home exhausted after walking from farm to farm to beg for eggs, flour and vegetables. Jaffa’s souk was empty. Even before she opened the gate she heard Fatima’s wails. Samira froze.
Somebody died. Who
?

Fatima, whose radio was on from morning till night, heard it first. From Ramalla to Cairo, from Damascus to Beirut, every Arab radio station blasted the news, making each broadcast more frightening than the previous one:
The Yahudim have attacked Deir Yassin, assassinated all men and children, raped the women, and burned the village to the ground
.

“Na’ima, my dear daughter, Mahmood, my grandchildren, where are you? Oh, Allah Ackbar, who decides upon life and death, why did you let me live to mourn the death of my children?” Terrified, Rama, Nur and Ahmed surrounded their howling mother.

Samira’s bones shook so hard she thought she could hear them rattle. Musa showed up, his face the pallor of death. He brandished a rifle. “I swear on the holy Koran, before I’m killed, I’ll shoot all of them.” He went into the courtyard where the two armed Iraqi soldiers waited for him.

Fatima, suddenly awakened from her stupor, screamed, “Ibni, my son, in the name of Allah, don’t go!” Rama and Nur tried to hold him back, while nine-year-old Ahmed yelled, “Brother Musa, take me along. I too want to kill the
Yahudim
.”

That afternoon, the stretched silence, like the silence of eternity, was broken only by Fatima’s sobs. No one moved. It must have been past midnight when they heard the noise of car brakes jamming.

“
Eumi, Eumi
,“ a voice cried. Fatima ran out. From the armored military car a disheveled Na’ima descended, holding two sleeping boys in her arms. Behind her, a red-haired British officer saluted, taking off his cap.

”Na’ima!” screamed fatima. She kept repeating her daughter’s name, as if doubting a vision. “Eumi, this turned to the Brit. “This is George, Amina’s husband. He came immediately after he heard what happened. He found us buried underneath the rubble of our house. He saved us,
Eumi
! We owe him our lives.”

All wept and embraced again and again. Nobody asked about Mahmood. Only at dawn, when Na’ima and the children were asleep and a fatigued Musa had arrived home, did George tell them that Mahmood, who was the fighters’ leader, had been one of the first victims.

“I have borrowed the car from our headquarters for twenty-four hours,” George said. “Amina’s orders, and my ardent wishes, are to drive you to safety. Ramalla will be our first stop.”

Fatima watched Musa. He was the head of the family. Her eyes told him clearly what he should do.

Samira had to make her bed in the shed, since Na’ima used her room for her sleeping boys. When they left, Fatima locked up both houses.
In their hurry to leave, nobody remembered to say good-bye to me
, Samira thought with bitterness.

She couldn’t continue to live in the shed. She was cold and hungry. But it was a good place to hide. As the news about Fatima’s leaving spread, the Iraqi soldiers, together with their peers, got drunk every night and in their stupor broke Fatima’s golden edged dishes and the crystal glasses she used only on holidays. In the mornings after their orgies, Samira collected the broken pieces they had hurled through the windows and hid them in the shed.

Samira saw them carry out the precious Shiraz carpet, which Fatima’s father had brought from Iran. After that, the thefts never stopped. Samira cried; it was so hard for her to witness. She had to leave. But where would she go? She would ask Uhm Zaide for shelter in her hut, but was the old woman still alive? All Samira knew was that outside a war was raging.

“Battalions of Brits have taken Jaffa,” she heard one of the Iraqi soldiers say. “They are planning something big pretty soon.”

“They’re concentrated around the Hassan Bek Mosque in the Manshieh Quarter. They know that our snipers and raiders have shot thousands of Yahudim from there,” the other Iraqi added.

A few nights later bombs fell on Jaffa. From the shed, Samira saw the flames illuminate the sky like big patches of bright blood. She heard the shouts of the fighters mixed with the screams of the wounded. Samira opened her Koran to find the prayer for the dead, sure she was going to die, but her hands trembled and her eyes were full of smoke and tears. She couldn’t read the prayer, the prayer which would have delivered her from her sinful life.

Suddenly she heard a terrible explosion.
Was it the end of the world
? In that moment Samira was happy for Fatima and the children, who were in a safe place. Much, much later, when she had the courage to climb out of her hole, she learned that the explosion wiped out the Manshieh Police Station, where most of the Syrian Liberation Army was stationed.

The streets were quiet, like the calm after a storm.
What should I do? Where can I go? I am ready to work for a piece of bread, but who would hire me?
When she started walking, her legs carried her to the English Convent. The gate was open wide, but there was nobody there, not a soul. A woman beggar approached. Samira gave her one of her last piasters.

“Are you looking for work?” the beggar asked.

Samira nodded.

“Go to the French Convent. The French nuns didn’t run away. I heard they are looking for a washerwoman,” and she left.
A washerwoman!
Samira sighed. Any work is decent work, she said to herself, climbing the steps to Notre Dame de Sion.

Samira rang the bell. A young nun in a black habit and a huge wide hat, its sides waving like the wings of a big bird, smiled and spoke in French. Samira did not understand. She said in Arabic, “Work, any kind, bread.”

When the French nun opened the gate and took her hand, Samira entered a new world. The nuns moved quietly, and spoke with gestures. They even helped her hang the laundry in the huge courtyard.

And how beautifully they sang!
Their marvelous blending of voices comforted her soul. One sang like an angel. Her voice reminded Samira of music she had heard but couldn’t recall where. In her mind’s eye, she saw herself walking with Suha on a quiet street, when Suha suddenly stopped and said, “Listen!” and Samira heard the strains of a violin, playing with the same heavenly effect as the nun’s voice. It was the violin teacher!
Oh, a curse on him!

That night Samira couldn’t sleep. Maybe the violinist knew where Suha was hiding. The thought racked her brain.
Would it be safe to go and look for him?
Maybe she could go on Friday, her free day, the nuns’ day of fast
. But was it safe to leave their sanctuary
? Maybe she should forget about it altogether.

The Mother Superior had observed that in her free time Samira liked to help in the kitchen. The cook, an old nun with swollen hands, could barely chop the vegetables. Even worse, she had lost her sense of smell. Many times Samira saved food that would have burned otherwise. A few weeks later Mother Superior decided the nun should supervise the vegetable garden and Samira should cook. In her new job, Samira’s time passed faster than she expected.

When the nuns reopened their school, there was a flurry of girls, Arabs and Jews together. To Samira’s wonder the nuns didn’t treat them differently. There was a little
Yahudia
, with big blue eyes just like Suha’s. Samira’s heart ached.
Where were Suha and Selim now?

On one of their outings to the market, where Samira went with the nun who kept the money purse, they passed Fatima’s house. In the courtyard Samira saw a young woman nursing a baby. She stopped transfixed. The woman was dark-skinned, yet she didn’t look Arab. Samira wanted to ask her who she was, but the words died in her mouth. “Are you looking for somebody?” the woman called out in Hebrew.

Samira answered in Arabic, “I am looking for the owner of the house.”

“The house belongs to the Israeli government and it was allocated to us,” the woman responded in Arabic in which Samira detected a twinge of French. “We are immigrants from Tunis.”

For the first time, Samira learned that she was living in a country called Israel. It was not Palestine anymore. In that moment, she understood that there was no hope of seeing Fatima and her
children again. They would not return to a country that was no longer theirs. She was ready to die.

A cloud passed over the young woman’s face. “Is your name Samira?” she asked. Samira nodded.

“Somebody left an envelope for you. He said he’d had it for more than a year but didn’t know where to find you.” She went inside the house to get it. A wave of warmth penetrated Samira’s heart, when she recognized Musa’s writing, but she didn’t want to open the letter in front of the unknown woman.

The short note from Musa said, “I’m sorry. What happened wasn’t your fault.” Inside the envelope was money and Amina’s address written in English. The letter was addressed to Habib, the apprentice in Mr. Nathan’s shop. Samira hid the letter.
Allah, in His great compassion, has decided to give new meaning to my life. For Musa’s sake, I have to find Suha and Selim!

But where should she start? The first Friday, her only free day, she went to search for the neighbors she remembered had lived next door to the violin teacher. She had not been on that street for almost two years. Those neighbors, whose servants she had befriended, had abandoned their homes, and the newcomers, Jews who spoke Arabic well, looked at her with narrowed eyes when she asked about the
Yahud
violin teacher. Samira could read their thoughts.
Why does an old Arab woman seek a violin teacher
?

Her first attempt ended in failure. Another, when she went to look for Mr. Nathan or Habib at the reopened bazaar, ended the same way. The shop was closed; wooden bars crossed each other on its window and door. There was only a sign, “Moved,” in Arabic.

Samira racked her brains. She couldn’t think of anybody who could help. Then, during one of her sleepless nights, she dreamed of Nabiha
. Of course, Nabiha! She had worked for the violin teacher and his handicapped wife. Why didn’t she think of her sooner?
Samira felt that she was onto something.
Where can I find her
? Samira didn’t know where Nabiha lived. She used to see her at the souk
when she shopped there, and they would exchange a few words, but that was all.

Samira had been Fatima Masri’s housekeeper in the days when Nabiha crouched on the dirty floor of the fish-seller’s stand, was cleaning and packing the fish for customers. “
Mrs. Samira
,” she used to address her with respect. Those days were long gone. Finally, Samira remembered that there was a
chaikhana
where maids used to meet, drink nana tea, smoke a
nargilea
, and gossip about their masters. Samira never went there, feeling it was below her position, but now she had to go. To her disappointment, Nabiha wasn’t there.

A toothless old woman asked who she was looking for. Everyone raised their heads when she mentioned Nabiha’s name. “She used to come here, but it must be at least two years since we last saw her.”

“If she comes by,” Samira said, “please tell her that Samira is looking for her. She can find me at the French Convent.” The women nodded, and again Samira left empty-handed.

The
hamsin
in the fall was followed by the winter rains. Samira was waiting for spring to restart her search. Musa had not answered her letter, and she was torn between the desire to find Suha and Selim and the impulse to leave everything to Allah’s will. She was in the convent’s kitchen decorating cookies for the children when a little girl came running in, almost out of breath, “Samira, Samira, somebody’s at the gate asking for you.”

“You should be in class, instead of watching every passerby. Do you want me to report you to Mother Superior?” Samira reprimanded her. The girl had tears in her eyes, “I did nothing wrong.”

Samira hugged her; the girl was one of her little helpers. “Then go, go quick, before someone sees you.”

Reluctantly, Samira headed for the gate. A woman dressed in black was peering through the iron bars. “Salaam Aleikum,” she said timidly.

Samira did not recognize her. “Aleikum Salaam,” she replied, staring at the holes in the woman’s slippers. A beggar, she thought.

”It’s me, Nabiha,” the woman spoke up. “I was told that you were looking for me.” Samira threw open the gate. They embraced and cried. Samira felt as if she had found an old relative.

The school bell rang for recess.

“Come with me,” Samira took Nabiha’s arm. “Wait for me in my cell, until I finish serving the midmorning snack. We have so much to talk about.” Nabiha bent to kiss Samira’s hand.

She looks so skinny and old, though she must be at least fifteen years younger than me
. Samira could barely wait to hear where Nabiha had been the last few years. After that, she would ask the questions burning in her mind.
Does Nabiha know where the violin teacher lives now? Has she seen him lately?

What if Nabiha becomes suspicious and starts asking me questions? Should I tell her what happened
? With so many thoughts turning in her head Samira burned her hand pulling the trays of cookies from the hot oven.

Samira, you are getting old
, she said to herself;
you are fifty-five years old and want to play detective. At your age! But now, with Nabiha here, isn’t it a sign that Allah has heard my prayers?

In the late afternoon, Samira, carrying a tray of food, entered the unadorned cell that served as her bedroom and found Nabiha asleep. As she set the tray on the small iron table by the bed, Nabihah woke up.

“I was so tired,” she excused herself, quickly rising.