Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction (44 page)

She sighed with satisfaction after running her eyes over most of the reviews. “Shlomi,” she called, “Come read. Maariv, Jerusalem Post, Yediot Aharonot’s critics compete in their praises for you. Hear a few of the headlines:
Shlomi Gal’s playing is of international caliber, Shlomi is following in Itzhak Perlman and Pinchas Zuckerman’s footsteps, Shlomi’s Beethoven radiated enthusiasm and assurance.
And there is much more.”

The bathroom door opened and Shlomi appeared, shaving cream spread over his face. In one leap he was at her side, his arms circled around her body, “Mmm, you smell good.” He hid his face in her hair.

“Shlomi, stop it. Look what you did. Now I’ll have to take another shower. I want you to read the reviews, not to jump on me like a wild animal,” she was laughing.

“I can’t refrain being wild when I am near you,” Shlomi said. “Let’s make love. We’ll read the reviews later. Just looking at you I get hungry.” He wiped his face on her nightgown before sliding it off her body.

“Shlomi,” she protested mildly, “be serious, we have a rehearsal in a couple of hours, this is not the time.” He closed her mouth with a kiss. Their bodies knew each other so well, their rhythms and frissons identical to the rhythm and emotions of their making music together.

“Marry me,” Shlomi said. “Let’s get married today.” Picking her up in his arms, he sang Mendelssohn’s Nuptial March, matching words to the music, twirling her naked body around the room.

“My darling, I want it as much as you do, but today doesn’t seem to be the right time. Please read your reviews. I’ve started collecting them since the Leventrittt Award opened the gates of the international music world for you. From London, Rome, Copenhagen to Helsinki and Vienna, only accolades for your performances. I am so proud of you.”

With their heads, one blond, one dark, close together, they started to read aloud. Shlomi was invited to play a concert for the Israeli Festival with the Israeli Philharmonic Orchestra in Tel-Aviv and Jerusalem and both he and D’vora were asked to coach students at the Rubin Academy.

“
Before a large audience of music lovers and students, Shlomi and D’vora proved that their teaching was as professional as their performances. The students were thrilled with the way they were taught.”
D’vora read aloud the critique in The Jerusalem Post.

“Look at this one,” Shlomi exclaimed, picking another newspaper. “It really warms my heart to see Otto mentioned. When he told me that after twenty-seven years with the Philharmonic it was time for him to retire, I felt that he was saying good-bye to the most important part of his life. ‘My hands have arthritis,’ he told me when I stopped in Israel between my European concerts, ‘It’s
time to leave. I know that many talented youngsters are waiting for an opening. It’s not right to hold a chair which, by now, belongs to others.’”

“He and his
yeke
upbringing, you said then,” D’vora reminisced. “You were impressed by Otto’s modesty. He was completely unaware of the surprise you’d prepared for him. You knew that if you suggested that you would perform a concert dedicated to Otto, the management of the Israeli Philharmonic, eager to have you perform for free, would agree immediately.”

Shlomi read,
On the podium Shlomi Gal addressed the bewildered man seated in the second violin section of the Israeli Philharmonic Orchestra; ‘Dear Otto, please allow me the honor of performing together the Bach Concerto for Two Violins.’ Then Gal turned to the sold-out captive audience. “This concerto,” he said, “is dear to both of us. We played it many times, my teacher, who is also my adoptive grandfather, and I. I wouldn’t be playing violin if not for him. The piece hasn’t been announced in the program. It’s the surprise the Israeli Philharmonic and I want to offer Otto on the eve of his retirement
.”

“
Otto had tears in his eyes. He was visibly moved,” D’vora recalled, “and of course he knew the music by heart.”

She continued to read: “
Their phrasing, tone, and perfect give-and-take reminded me of the performance I heard with David Oistrakh and his son, Igor. I thought at the time that only blood-related artists could arrive at this level of unity and musical understanding.’

“That’s only the Davar’s critic,” D’vora said, “but I’m sure there will be others too.
”

“I am happy,” Shlomi said, “I’m going to call Otto.”

D’vora was pleased. Though Shlomi didn’t tell her, she knew that since that evening in Dobbs Ferry when Shlomi was told the truth about his parents, he had not had any contact with Otto. He was nervous and agitated whenever she mentioned Otto. She
had pleaded with Shlomi, “It’s time to make peace. Otto is an old man.” Shlomi only returned a cold stare. But the recent concert proved that he had listened to her.

“Let’s get married right now. We can be at City Hall in half an hour,” Shlomi said interrupting her reverie.

“And how about a rehearsal that starts in half an hour?” retorted D’vora. “I have to shower and get dressed, all in ten minutes.” She took his face in her hands. “Ask me again when there is no concert to perform on the same evening.”

D’vora suspected Shlomi kept secrets from her. One day, as she was cleaning his tuxedo, she saw an empty envelope falling from one of its pockets. No letter. It was addressed to Shlomi c/o Hurok Agency. The return address was Bath, England, written in a beautiful handwriting, careful penmanship, definitely a woman, she thought.

D’vora didn’t ask Shlomi about the letter. And she did not dare ask Mr. Hurok’s secretary; probably an admirer. D’vora knew that Shlomi’s profession and his long tours could present dangers. But each time he returned home from a concert tour, he was more passionate than ever.

5 1

N
ews travels fast in the music world. Yehudi Menuhin’s invitation to have Shlomi perform at his annual Bath Music Festival in England in June 1969 was proof. During the months following the Dobbs Ferry revelations, D’vora had asked him numerous times if he was planning to meet any of his relatives while he was there.

“Leave me alone,” he answered. “I am not interested.”

But he was. He thought of Samira, the only witness of his early childhood, and longed to see her. Her image was clearer in his mind than his mother’s. Before flying to England, Shlomi called Mazal. He hadn’t spoken to her—or Charlotte or Otto—in seven months. “Shalom Aleichem,” Mazal answered to his, “Shalom.”

“I am going to play a concert in England, and I want to swing by Israel first.”

“Otto will be happy to see you.”

“Mazal, you said that you know Samira. I’d like to meet her. She’s the only person from my childhood I can recall clearly. In my ears I hear the tinkling of her many bracelets. Can you help me find her?”

“I probably can. She lives in an old people’s home in Jaffa. But Shlomi, Otto will be disappointed if he learns you were in Israel and didn’t visit him.”

“He doesn’t have to know,” Shlomi said sharply.

“Then there is no point in finding Samira’s address,” retorted Mazal. “Good day, Shlomi.”

“Mazal, wait…”

“Call me again if you change your mind.” Mazal sounded upset.

The next day he called, apologetic. Yes, he was wrong, he told Mazal. All three of them, Otto, Charlotte and herself, his adoptive family, they deserved better. “I am stressed, my mind tells me to do one thing, my heart another. And my concerts! I have to be on top of my performances, even on days when I‘d prefer to crawl into a dark place.”

Shlomi stopped for two days in Israel. After a short visit with Otto and Charlotte, he accompanied Mazal to the old folks’ home in Jaffa. He was dismayed to see the decrepit building where Samira shared a room with three other women.

Samira knew from Mazal that Shlomi was coming. If Mazal had not pointed her out, Shlomi wouldn’t have recognized her. Samira had watched for his arrival, close to the entrance. When she saw him, she screamed, “My boy, my young master, Selim Ibn Musa Ibn Faud Masri, Salaam Aleikum. Allah Ackbar has sent you to shine upon my old eyes.”

Shaking, she started to kneel, but Mazal and Shlomi wouldn’t let her.

“Talk to me, please,” she said in Arabic, kissing his hands and touching him shyly, as if wanting to make sure it was not a dream.

Mazal was the translator. Shlomi kept repeating, “Jedati Samira,” caressing Samira’s calloused hands, bare of bracelets
. Did he only dream her bracelets?

Samira pressed into his hands a few yellowish papers written in Arabic, “From England, from your Aunt Amina, your father’s
sister,” she said. “Amina, Na’ima, twins, Nur, Rama and Ahmed,” she counted on her fingers, “Your aunts and uncle. I sent Amina your pictures which Sit Mazal, Allah bless her, gave me, though I kept a few for myself, too. Look!”

She showed him a few old black and white photographs taken with Mazal’s amateur camera at each one of his high-school end of the year concerts.

Shlomi looked at Mazal, who said apologetically, “She missed you so much. I gave her your pictures.” Stains left by tears blurred his image.

He looked at the letters in his hand. “Samira probably wants me to read these, but I don’t know Arabic.”

Mazal fired a few words. Samira nodded. “Samira wants you to have them. I can try to translate, of course only if you so desire.”

Samira’s fingers were still intertwined with Shlomi’s when he signaled that they had to part. “I’ll come back,” Shlomi promised, kissing Samira’s forehead and arranging the fallen
hijab
around her face. “I am happy I found you,” He looked at her bare arms, “Next time I am going to bring you the most beautiful bracelets,” and he embraced her again.

“I know a coffee house close by, where nobody will disturb us,” Mazal suggested after they left Samira, “You can have a cup of coffee while I try to decipher your aunt’s handwriting.”

Shlomi was overwhelmed. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear what his aunt wrote. What for? He was not interested in his father’s family. He’d had a childish desire to see Samira. Now that he had seen her, he had to stop this nonsense.
Return to reality
.

“Mazal, those letters,” he mumbled, “I don’t want to know their contents. They were meant for Samira, not for me. Probably full of hatred for my mother, I prefer not to hear. Let bygones be bygones. Please return them to her.”

Shlomi took the letters from his pocket and as he handed them to Mazal, he saw the return address on the envelope, Bath, England.

“Oh, my God, what a coincidence,” Shlomi fell silent for a few seconds, “Bath is the city where I am going to perform in three days.”

“Now you have an opportunity to meet your aunt through her writing,” Mazal said. “What you’ll discover might help you make a decision; whether to look for her or not.”

Shlomi looked bewildered. “Samira is not stupid,” Mazal continued. “Did she have an ulterior motive when she insisted you take the letters? I say, let’s find out.”

In the Jaffa coffee house Mazal translated Amina’s letters while Shlomi took notes from time to time.
I’ll read my scribbles on the airplane
.

Peering at his watch, he said, “Mazal, let’s go, otherwise we’ll be late for Charlotte’s lunch. You know that for her, like for all
yekes
, punctuality is the most important attribute.”

They returned in silence to the house where Shlomi grew up. As Shlomi and Mazal approached it, his nose distinguished the unmistakable aroma of Charlotte’s cooking.

“Hmm” Shlomi said, as he entered. “If I’m not mistaken, it smells of sauerbraten and Wiener schnitzel.
Nicht wahr?”
he asked, kissing Charlotte’s flushed face.

“Your favorites,” Charlotte answered, “also a potato salad, ‘a la Russe,’ to complement the meal. Nothing is too good for the return of our prodigal son.”

“Let’s not exaggerate,” said Hugo Gruber, Charlotte’s husband. He, Otto and Bruno were seated at the table, wide napkins tucked into the collars of their shirts.

“First, wash your hands, you two,” commanded Charlotte, “We don’t need germs in here.” Timidly, Otto asked, “How did the encounter go? Are you glad that you met Samira?”

Shlomi looked at Mazal. “I got more than I bargained for. I went to visit a memory. That memory reminded me of a reality that I’m not sure I am ready or want to face.”

Everyone looked puzzled.

Mazal intervened. “Samira gave Shlomi the letters she received during the last ten, fifteen years, from his aunt, his father’s sister, who has lived in England since the end of the war in Europe. Her husband is British.”

“Please sit down. The food is going to get cold. Food is meant to be enjoyed on its own, and not as garnish for discussion,” Charlotte said sternly.

Shlomi smiled, “Charlotte, the universe can change, but you remain the same. That’s why we all love you.
L’chaim
.” he raised his glass.

“
L’chaim, Atzlaha and Briut
,” for life, success and health, replied the chorus of voices.

Shlomi’s El-Al flight was leaving at dawn, and Otto insisted on seeing him off. In the limousine, on the way to the airport, Shlomi broke the silence. “Otto, I always wanted to ask you, but somehow never did. How come my last name is Gal? Chana said that my mother’s last name was Lefkowitz, by marriage she became Masri, Shifra Lefkowitz, Suha Masri. Where does Gal, the name engraved on her headstone, come from?”

Otto did not reply.

Shlomi persisted, “Why don’t we share your last name– Schroder?”

“We never adopted you officially,” Otto answered.

Otto peered through the limousine window at the approaching lights of Ben-Gurion airport. “Your mother had artistic inclinations. She loved music and loved the sea: she said that for her, each
gal
, each wave has its own special sound when it chases the next one. When the wind blows hard, she could hear a full orchestra.” Otto wiped his eyes.

“In 1948 many immigrants arrived in this country. They were survivors of the Holocaust eager to start anew. Most of them decided to change their names to Hebrew ones, like Alon, Zohar or Mishori. They wanted to get rid of their Diaspora names, which were a remembrance of their suffering. It wasn’t difficult to obtain a name change. That’s what Shifra did too. ‘Shlomi Gal,’ she said, sounded like music to her ears. I didn’t dissuade her. I knew that Shifra, like so many others, was ready to start a new life.”