Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction (6 page)

“Whatever you say,” answered Fatima, “but the sooner she leaves the better. I warn you. And hopefully next time there will be no return!”

Samira nodded, a little smile forming at the corner of her mouth. Behind his mother, she had seen Musa. He had sneaked along, his brilliant eyes speaking to Samira more eloquently than words.

6

I
must have had a moment of weakness when I accepted Samira’s idea of having the Jewish girl share her room
. As close as Fatima felt toward Samira, she was bothered by the great interest Samira took in the young girl. Fatima had observed how Samira had washed the girl’s body, how she fed her, teaspoon by teaspoon, with so much patience, as if this were her own child. Samira helped her get out of bed, when she finally started her first hesitant steps, and sustained her all the way. Fatima noticed that the girl’s eyes gleamed when she looked at Samira.

What happened when they were alone? Fatima thought that she had heard murmurs, but she was too proud to ask Samira if she had found a way to make the girl talk. Every noon, Fatima saw Samira boil two soft eggs and place them on a piece of fresh
challah
she had bought earlier in the morning at Abulafia’s bakery exactly at the time the warm bread was taken out of the oven.

By now, Shifra wore one of Samira’s
jelebia
dresses. If not for her blond hair, she could have passed easily for an Arab girl. All that disturbed Fatima. She would have a talk with Samira as soon as possible. Lately when Samira brought the pale girl to the courtyard,
“to get some sun,” as she explained it, Fatima saw her youngest daughters approach the girl and caress her hands. They had begged Samira to let them help her. And the young Rama offered to entertain her. Yes, she definitely had to put an end to all this.

To see the light on Musa’s face every time he glanced at the girl pained Fatima. Moreover, Fatima thought, suddenly feeling a knot in her stomach, in a few days, the Arab Women’s League was scheduled to hold its monthly meeting in her house. What a mess! What was she going to do? How would she explain to those fanatics the presence of the Jewish girl under her roof?

When she had joined the League after her husband’s death, she wasn’t sure that Faud would have approved of an organization that demanded equal rights for women in the Muslim society. Fatima thought that it would be good for her business. The League did charitable work, following the examples of the British women’s organizations that mushroomed during the British Mandate to promote progress in Arab women’s lives. Yes, Arab women, especially the well-educated ones, were ready to learn from the British, even if this was in conflict with their feelings. Lately the Arab Women’s League had taken stronger attitudes against the British Mandate, because it permitted Jews to settle in Palestine. The Arab newspaper
Filastin
newspaper warned daily, “Don’t sell your land to Jews. It’s a terrible danger. Be alert.”

Fatima didn’t sell her land. She had made profitable deals with the Jews, but all the same, she agreed with the organization’s platform: Palestine belongs to the Arabs and only to them.

Now this girl was like a thorn in Fatima’s side. She had to be clear and tell Samira that there was no place for the girl in her house. Fatima clapped her hands. Her daughter Amina appeared, followed by her three sisters. “Amina, tell Samira to see me immediately. I need to talk to her.”

“Yes, Eumi,” her daughter answered, lingering near the door, unready to leave.

“Then, go! Go!” an impatient Fatima urged her.

“Samira is in the courtyard. She washed the Yahud girl’s hair and she let me brush it,” Rama said. ”Oh, Eumi, I would give anything to have hair like that.”

“Enough!” Fatima’s voice sounded harsh, “Go, all of you. I am busy.”

“Mother,” Amina started timidly, “did you give more thought to what we talked about the other evening?” Amina’s voice turned suppliant. “Have you made a decision yet? You know the time is running out.”

Fatima pressed her palms to her temples. It was too much, Musa, Amina, Samira, the Arab Women’s League. It felt like rocks on her head.

“I said, go! We’ll talk about this later,” with a tired gesture, Fatima dismissed her daughters.

First Musa, now Amina, thought Fatima.
What’s happening to my children?
Amina wanted to register as a volunteer for the British Army. The British had made an appeal to the Arab Women’s League to help the war against the Germans. The appeal invited English-speaking Arab women to contribute to the war effort, working as nurses, or nurses’ aides, cooks, or doing laundry. Already many Arab women had decided to respond to the appeal.

“Now the war is hitting close to home,” Fatima thought bitterly. This appeal would be the major issue at the meeting in her house. Fatima knew that her words would weigh heavily in the discussion. She again pressed her palms to her temples. She felt the oppressive heat of the day. And it wasn’t noon yet. It must be the
hamsin
, the hot wind blowing from the desert, kind of early in the season, she thought, but always unpredictable.

Fatima saw the door open quietly. Samira entered, her long black garb flowing. At home Samira kept her head uncovered, but out on the street she wore a hijab.

Her eyes questioned Fatima. “The girls said you wanted to talk to me.”

“Right,” Fatima said. “Sit down, Samira. There are no formalities between the two of us. I want to talk to you about the Yahud girl.”

Fatima saw Samira’s body stiffen. “I’m listening,” Samira said.

“This misfortune has taken too long and has disrupted us in many ways. I don’t have to tell you that I’m worried about Musa. He is at such tender age, a child still.” Fatima’s pitch raised, “Don’t interrupt me,” when she saw Samira lifting her hand.

“What’s more, the girls seemed to have taken a liking to her. I don’t want and I don’t need troubles. I don’t know and I am not asking you what made you take such an interest in this girl, but I warn you that she should leave in the next twenty-four hours. You know as well as I do that the Arab Women’s League meeting will be in my house in two days.”

Fatima stopped. Her heart beat in her ears like the bells of the Orthodox Church across the street. All through her speech Samira had kept her mouth shut.

“The pastries, coffee and tea will be ready for the guests as usual, and as usual the
Sitat
, the ladies from the Arab league will admire how beautifully you master both your business and your home.”

“Stop your flattering,” Fatima frowned. She knew that Samira didn’t trust that “elite group,” as she called the Arab Women’s League, whose well-to-do members didn’t associate with the
fellaheen
, the peasant women. “Your League worries about the education of their daughters, though they have the means to send them to private schools, not for the education of the poor,” Fatima had heard Samira scoff many times.

“You still haven’t answered me. Get rid of the girl,” Fatima said with impatience, “It’s an order.”

“I heard it,” Samira said. “You seem upset. Let me unbraid and brush your hair, as I used to do when you were a young girl, while I’m going to tell you a true story.”

“He was the nearest thing I ever knew to a grandfather.”

When Samira finished telling about Mr. Grunwald, she saw that Fatima had been touched by her story. “After his death, I took an oath, though I was so young, still a child, that I’d help a needy orphan as wholeheartedly as Mr. Grunwald cared for me.” She looked at Fatima, “Here is my chance to keep that oath. This poor girl needs my help. She’s not well yet, and I’m not going to chase her away.”

Samira knew that her words sounded unusual for a servant and she expected to be rebuffed by Fatima. But Fatima kept silent.

Samira continued, “Your parents were good to me, and I am devoted to you and your children, but,” she took a yellowish picture out of her pocket, “I look every day at the photo of Grunwald Effendi’s granddaughter. She and her entire family were killed by bad people. Maybe it’s only a coincidence, but I can’t stop thinking of the resemblance with the Yahud girl. I want to help her get her health back. Only then will I feel that I’ve repaid my debt.”

“I have to consider the future of my children,” Fatima answered. “Keeping her longer will only make Musa think that I approve of her staying here. Who is she? Where did she come from? How long can I extend hospitality to a guest forced upon me? And now you want me to keep her longer!”

“Only until she gains more strength, I promise. She tries to help me with my chores, poor girl, but she’s still very weak.” Looking at Fatima with a furtive, sly glance, Samira continued smoothly, “Now, about Musa. Would you allow me to give you advice?”

Blankly Fatima stared at her.

“I think that you should send him away, maybe to Ramallah to study, or to work for and learn from your cousin the banker in Jerusalem,” Samira said. “I heard in the souk that the Brits are encouraging young Arabs to take positions in the government. Our Musa is so bright.”

Fatima sighed, “You are speaking my mind. I wanted to keep him close to me as long as I could, but I realize it’s time for
him to fly his own wings. It just hurts to think that my two older children will leave at the same time. I’m sure you know that Amina wants to volunteer for the British Army.”

Samira nodded. She had always been the children’s confidante. But she felt sympathy for Fatima. She knew how much her children meant to her.

“As for the meeting of the Arab Women’s League,” Samira concluded, “you shouldn’t worry. The Jewish girl will stay in my room. Your daughters will help me serve the guests. They know to keep a secret when told to do so.”

The meeting of the Arab Women’s League took place in the
fumoir
, in the men’s quarters. It was the room to which Faud, Fatima’s husband, used to invite his friends for a smoke, a glass of tea or a little glass of arak. It was the first time Fatima had opened it for her own guests.

The large room was furnished in the Turkish style. Leather ottomans surrounded low glistening copper tables encrusted with beautiful arabesque designs. It was the room Fatima was the proudest of. Heavy Persian rugs in intricate designs of red, blue and black completed the room, giving it a festive look. Samira had aired the room from the smoke that still lingered in the air and washed the carpets with a vinegar solution that brought out the colors to look as fresh as the day they were bought.

Everything, even the smallest details, like flowers in every vase, were ready when the ladies arrived. With low bows, the greeting “
Salaam Aleikum”
and the hostess’ response,
Aleikum Salaam,”
filled the courtyard. The twenty ladies presented a curious mixture. There was the wife of the mukhtar, the Mayor of Jaffa, two Arab Christian women, the wife of a Muslim cleric whom everybody guessed was sent by her husband to spy on the meeting, and two spinster sisters, both teachers in a distinguished private school for girls. Besides Fatima there were three other Palestinian Muslim
women. The others were Lebanese or Syrian, married to notable Palestinian men.

Except for the wife of the cleric, nobody else wore the veil. And even she took it off when she entered the house. The Lebanese women were the most elegantly dressed. They wore knee-length muslin sleeveless dresses in pastel colors. Their French perfume deliciously filled the nostrils of all present. They were also the most educated and everybody in the group looked up to them.

“We have a busy agenda,” the
mukhtar’s
wife said, as she opened the meeting.” I want to start with the two major propositions we received from the headquarters of the British Army stationed in Palestine as well as from His Excellency, the British High Commissioner.”

The ladies nodded. They were familiar with the subjects.

”We’ll have to vote this evening if we agree to have our daughters, or even some of us, help the British Army. They’ve been successful in pushing back Rommel’s German Army at Tobruk in North Africa. We can now breathe easier. The Germans will never fight us here in Palestine.”

“Hear, hear,” the ladies told one another. They applauded. They sat on the ottomans, in groups of three or four around the low Turkish coffee tables.

“Let’s vote for the first item. Those in favor of our working for the Red Cross and for the war effort, raise your hands.”

The two Christian ladies raised their arms, then the Lebanese ones; Fatima was the last. Amina, her daughter, who had just entered the room with a tray filled with ice water glasses in which rose petals floated, looked triumphantly at her mother.

The only person who abstained from the vote was the cleric’s wife. “You are sending your daughters on the way to perdition,” she said, a crooked smile appearing at the corner of her mouth.

“Thank you, ladies. We’ll move to the next item,” continued the mukhtar’s wife.

“The British High Commissioner is asking us to recommend educated young Arabs for positions in the government. Even though we don’t like to have the British here, my husband thinks that cooperating with them at this stage would only benefit us. For example,” she turned toward Fatima, “Musa, our hostess’ son, would only bring honor to his family and to us all if he received a respectable position within the government.”

Samira, who had entered bringing trays of baklava dripping with honey, and sugar-coated almond pastries, caught Fatima’s glance. They looked at one another. Samira saw Fatima nodding imperceptibly.

Following Samira were Amina and Rama carrying trays of small cups filled with Turkish coffee, and glasses with nana tea. Fatima clapped her hands.

“Ladies,” she said, “let us take a short break. Samira has worked hard for you. It is my pleasure to invite you to taste her pastries.” A murmur of approval ensued.

“So, are you going to send Musa to Jerusalem?” the mukhtar’s wife pressed Fatima.

“He’ll have to make that decision,” answered a noncommittal Fatima.

She got up and as a gracious hostess moved between the different groups and heard snippets of conversation. The two teacher sisters said they had been asked to join the British women’s sports club. They wanted to table the proposal and spread the idea among the other members of the League. At another table the cleric’s wife was adamant about a woman’s need to return to wearing the veil in public.