Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction (48 page)

He suggested I cut out Ruthie’s picture and send it to Bildzeitung, with a caption asking that whoever recognizes her, or had seen this girl, to please call
.


I was doubtful. What I knew was going to die with me, but Heinrich insisted. We placed the caption in other city newspapers, not only in Berlin. Then we waited
.


Nothing happened. I was ready to leave Germany when a woman called. In a trembling voice, she said that she had seen this girl, who played flute in the camp prisoners’ orchestra. She said her playing was so beautiful, sounds like tears dripping from the flute
.


I asked her, which camp? What did you do there? Did you speak with her? What happened to Ruthie? I was losing my mind, my body was shaking. For almost thirty years I was hoping against hope to hear those words
.


Heinrich took the receiver from me. Please could we meet with you, he asked. You’ll receive compensation for your time
.


Meine Herrn, she answered, I was this girl’s age, but it was forbidden to get close to a prisoner, I would have lost my job, maybe my life. For years, I couldn’t get her out of my mind. I waited two weeks before I decided to call you. Maybe now I can finally find peace
.


I heard a click. She hung up. Heinrich wanted to call the phone company for her number. I didn’t let him. We couldn’t talk. This letter is mailed from the airport, before taking off. I am going back to Israel, the only place I can call home
.


Grandpa Otto


Shlomi folded the letter and put it away. At long last Otto had said good-bye to his daughter.

He picked up his violin and drew the bow across the strings. But the violin wasn’t responding the way he wanted. It had happened other times, when his mind was not quiet.

5 4

Bath, August 15, 1970


Dear Selim
,


I started to write you a letter describing our family. I changed my mind thinking that you’d be more interested to learn about your mother’s life in our midst
.


In the spring of 1943 two months before I left home to join the British Army as a student nurse, something happened that changed the tranquil life of our house, and maybe all of us. Musa walked on the beach, and heard screams of, “A girl is drowning!” Without hesitation he threw himself into the sea. He saved and brought home a fragile girl with a faint heartbeat
.


Who was she? Was she a runaway? We never found out. During her recovery Musa fell in love with the unknown girl. Suha, the Arabic name by which our mother called her, must have felt the same
.


I was the one who discovered her talent for drawing and convinced my mother that Suha could replace me. Though pleased by Suha’s work, my mother’s eagle eyes had observed that Musa couldn’t stay away from the beautiful blond girl with skin like fresh milk. She decided that Musa should leave for Jerusalem to learn the business of banking
.


I was marching in a new direction also after George encouraged me to become a professional nurse. My mother’s rage knew no bounds when I told her that I was going to marry George
.


Musa, the only one I corresponded with, informed me about his marriage to Suha, another blow to my mother. I was delighted to read about your birth, Selim, our youngest Masri
.


I didn’t see my family again until 1948. Having no news from them I was desperate to get them out. George left for Palestine on an assignment, but mostly to find my family. He met Musa when he brought our sister Na’ima and her children to Jaffa after the catastrophe which befell her village, Deir yassin. There, another drama awaited, Musa’s wife and son were missing
.


“I have to find Selim” Musa said; he was going to search every house until he found you. Our mother reminded him of his responsibilities as the head of the family. She won at a terrible price!


And now there is a chance for Musa to meet you! Would it be possible for you to come to London in September? Musa will be there for the entire month. Rather than wait for him to visit me, Rama and Nur think that the three of us should meet him in London. Our ardent wish is for you to join us
.


D’vora insisted on accompanying him to the airport. “You should have left the violin at home. It’s insured, so you have
nothing to worry about. Now it’s only going to encumber you.” Shlomi didn’t answer.

“What do you expect to happen?” D’vora had asked him. He knew she worried for him. D’vora’s recipe for important events was cautious optimism. “Don’t get me wrong,” she embraced him, “I wish I could be at your side, rather than go play the Schubert quintet in Puerto Rico.”

“You agreed to play it,” Shlomi held her tightly, “and it’s going to advance your career tremendously. It’s not every day that a young, still unknown cellist is asked to perform with the Schneider Quartet.”

As the plane took off, Shlomi continued to see D’vora’s smile and hear her whisper, “Be yourself—don’t let anything change you.”

“Would you like a pillow?” the flight attendant asked. It startled Shlomi. He didn’t realize he had fallen asleep. He tossed and turned, but he could not sleep any longer. He read again the postscript in Amina’s letter.

A few days before she died, my mother said that she never cared for Na’ima’s boys. For the first time, I heard her crying and whispering, “Selim, Selim, my sweet grandson, where are you?”


Shlomi felt a chill. He, who couldn’t remember his grandmother, had tears in his eyes. His throat was dry. He had to move about the cabin, stretch, drink a glass of water.

“Please, take your seats and fasten your seatbelts. We are descending toward Heathrow airport.”

Shlomi felt tired. As he placed Amina’s letter in the violin case, he read again Amina’s last sentence,
Merciful God, I hope Selim will be the catalyst and help our family reunite. We need him as much or more than he needs us.”


London, September 5, 1970

A fine rain slid down the window as the plane made its way to the gate. Shlomi was glad that D’vora had forced him to take his raincoat. He made two phone calls before he left New York, one to Rama, to say that he would call her after his arrival, the second to Geoffrey, a former colleague from Juilliard, now assistant concertmaster at Covent Garden’s orchestra and teacher at the Royal College of Music.

An exuberant Geoffrey offered to host Shlomi. “We’ll play duets, as we did at Juilliard, old chap. I am kind of rusty and need you to make me work.”

Though Shlomi told him that he had to take care of personal business, Geoffrey continued to insist. Shlomi promised to call from the airport.

When he took his small luggage from the overhead compartment, sheets of music fell out. To surprise Geoffrey, Shlomi had brought the Moszkowski duets, the most difficult pieces for two violins.
That will really make Geoffrey sweat!

The big hall at Heathrow looked as gray as the sky outside. As he searched for a telephone booth, Shlomi saw three women holding a banner, WELCOME SELIM. Was this meant for him? At 7:35 in the morning, whoever they were, they must have been up since five o’clock.

Shlomi heard whispers, “That’s him.” He knew Amina; the tall lady; a younger copy of her was probably Nur, and the petite one running toward him, all smiles, was Rama.

“Salaam Aleikum,” they greeted him,

“Aleikum Salaam,” Shlomi answered, embarrassed. He didn’t know whether to shake hands or to hug them.

Rama got hold of his hands, “I dreamed so much of this day,” she said.

“I am your Aunt Nur,” the tall one said. With her oval, luminous eyes, she was by far the prettiest. “You have to excuse Rama, she gets excited easily.”

“Please,” Rama said, taking Shlomi by the arm, “Selim must be tired from the long flight. He needs to rest.”

I wish they wouldn’t call me Selim. It makes me feel uncomfortable. Amina knows my name is Shlomi. She should have told the others
.

“Selim, don’t pay attention, the emotion makes them act like schoolgirls,” Amina said.” We want you to have a nice visit. Everything is ready. Nur’s car is waiting outside. She has offered to host both of us in her apartment near Green Park, a very quiet neighborhood. We invited your father for coffee tomorrow afternoon. He doesn’t know yet that you are here.”

Shlomi was overwhelmed by their solicitude—it was too much. How was he going to decline their offer without being rude?

“This is so unexpected,” Shlomi said. “I’m touched that you came to meet me at the airport, but I have made arrangements to stay with a good friend, a violinist. I was just going to call him when I saw you.”

The sisters exchanged glances.

“Please don’t get me wrong.” Shlomi said, “I didn’t know about your plan, and it would be difficult to get out of my commitment.”
I won’t let them run my life
. “Be aware,” D’vora had cautioned him, “women who seem protective can also be overpowering.”

“Then when can we meet?” a disappointed Amina asked. “I know Rama and Nur would like to get to know you. It’s important for us to talk, to be prepared for the meeting tomorrow.”

“If I’m not mistaken that’s the reason you are here,” added Nur, coldly.

Rama came to his rescue, “Sisters, try to understand. We can’t monopolize him. Selim,” She squeezed Shlomi’s hand, “I’m sure we’ll have ample time to be together.”

Shlomi smiled, “Any time, any place” he said.

“Call your friend,” Nur commanded, “I’ll drive you to his place. We’ll decide later when to meet again.”

What a whirlwind the last twenty-four hours had been,
Shlomi thought, walking the short distance from Geoffrey’s apartment to the Royal College of Music, where he had obtained permission to look over the manuscript of Elgar’s violin concerto.

It was ten o’clock in the morning. At noon he was expected to have lunch with his aunts at Nur’s apartment, four hours before Musa’s visit. Shlomi smiled as he remembered that Amina, worried, had asked him if he would eat the Middle Eastern dishes they planned to serve.

“Humus, tahini, or baba-ganoush would be a real feast,” Shlomi had answered.

“Oh, you are talking peasant food,” said Rama, laughing. “A guest like you deserves the best,
kube and fattoush
, and, of course, baklava for desert.”

Nur had dropped him in front of Geoffrey’s apartment. Shlomi declined her offer to pick him up the next day. “I have an appointment at the archives of The Royal College of Music early in the morning. At noon sharp I’ll ring your doorbell.”

Geoffrey welcomed him with a hug and two cold beer. Shlomi barely had time to wash and change when Geoffrey said mysteriously, “I heard that Pollack has got his hands on an extraordinary bow. People say it plays by itself. Maybe you should try it.”

Shlomi knew Pollack, the most famous violin dealer in London. Though he already had two bows, it was always exciting to try a new one.

“Afterward we’ll play some music together,” Geoffrey said. “And for the evening I’m taking you to my favorite pub.”

Shlomi sighed. He had hoped for a quiet evening; to retire early to think about the next day’s meeting, an encounter he wished for and feared at the same time…

“My apartment is on Maple Street, close to University College Hospital, where I work,” Nur had told him.

As Shlomi mounted the exit steps of Euston Station, he faced an imposing mosque. He counted the minarets, knowing that the number of minarets indicates how rich or poor a mosque is.
This one seems to be well endowed
.

At noon he entered the elegant foyer at 254 Maple Street. The doorman followed him to the elevator. Arriving at Nur’s floor, his nostrils were prickled by the smell of mid-eastern spice. He saw the apartment door set ajar.

“How did you guess that yellow roses are my favorite?” Nur asked as she buried her face in the bouquet.

Shlomi blinked to adjust his eyes to the heavy curtains, mahogany furniture, dark red upholstery and thick oriental carpets. A few hidden Moroccan lamps made it look like a place from “A Thousand and One Nights.”

“You seem surprised,” Rama laughed. “For the world outside, my sister Nur is as English as the natives, but at home she keeps our tradition.”

Amina opened the door to the lighted dining room and Shlomi saw the feast awaiting them.

“This is what we think we’ll do,” after lunch, Amina said, as they sipped Turkish coffee served in beautifully hand-painted cups. “We want to make Musa feel at home, since we haven’t seen him in quite some time. We don’t want to startle him with the news that you are here.”

“Assure him that our feelings toward him have not changed even though he hasn’t participated in our lives lately,” Nur said.

“There is an alcove, off the living room, which used to be Ahmed’s room. Selim, please wait there. You can see and hear us,” Amina said. “If everything goes as we hope, we’ll call you. Is this agreeable with you?”

Three pairs of eyes watched Shlomi. Before he could answer, Rama said, “We are gathered here because we care for and love our brother—”

“And we love you, too,” interrupted Amina.

“And we think it’s time,” Rama continued, “to make amends for the past, to forgive and....”

The doorbell rang. Silently, Nur signaled Shlomi to follow her, while, quickly, Rama took his cup and saucer to the kitchen and Amina stepped towards the door.

From his hiding place, Shlomi watched his father enter, a man about his own height, dressed in a dark three-piece suit, a raincoat on his arm. His sisters surrounded him, but as Amina bent to kiss his hand, Musa quickly lifted her head, hugged her and his younger sisters. Amina and Rama led him to an armchair.