Bitter Almonds

 

Also by Lilas Taha:

Shadows of Damascus

 

LILAS TAHA

 

To the loving memory of my father

 

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Acknowledgments

1

Jerusalem

1948

They told five-year-old Fatimah not to turn around, but no one told her to close her eyes. No one told her not to listen. She pressed her face against the window, a rag doll forgotten in her lap. Quiet rain speckled the cold glass, and a flickering street lamp cast broken yellow beams on the desolate street. Fatimah sat mute, comforted by the soft drizzle, and watched the scene behind her unfold on the reflective pane. If she sat very still, they might forget she was there.

Her mother pushed aside the midwife's fussy hands and scooted her huge body to the edge of the bed. Grunting, Mama got to her feet. She yanked at the collar of her cotton gown, ripping the front buttons and exposing her sweat-drenched chest. She spread her legs wide apart. Fluids trickled down and dampened the hem of her gown and the faded rug.

‘Get back on the bed,' the midwife instructed in a raspy smoker's voice.

‘I can do this,' Mama panted. ‘Baby is coming. I can feel it.'

‘Do as I say.' The midwife brought her wrinkled face close to Mama's. ‘Your baby needs help. You will not be able to push it out by yourself. You've been trying all day, and the night—'

The door flew open. The next-door neighbor, Subhia, walked in. She closed the door and rolled up her sleeves. ‘How can I help?'

The midwife slid her hands under Mama's arms and attempted to get her back on the bed. ‘Come. Help me before it's too late. Lift her legs.'

‘We should've taken her to the clinic.' Subhia bent to hold Mama's feet. ‘Now it's too late. Everyone in the village has left.'

‘She's stubborn. If she had done what I said, this baby would be out by now.'

Quick knocks shook the wooden door. The women froze.

‘We have to go.' Subhia's husband urged from behind the closed door.

‘I can't leave her now, Mustafa!' Subhia shouted over her shoulder.

‘The gangs are bound to head this way. I'm not waiting any longer. The children are in the truck. I'll make room for the women. Hurry!'

Subhia gripped the midwife's arm. ‘What do you think?'

‘We can't even get her back on the bed.' The midwife shook her head. ‘And I'm not leaving her. Go with your husband.'

With a loud cry, Mama squatted, bringing down the two women beside her. She gripped the edge of the bed and held her breath. Her face turned crimson and her eyes welded tight.

‘Stupid woman, stop pushing. It's not time!' the midwife yelled. ‘You'll hurt yourself.'

‘I don't care. The baby is here!' Mama screamed the words. She then screamed for her own mother. Screamed for her dead husband. Screamed for God to help her, to protect her baby, to end her misery. Screamed until her voice failed her.

For a brief moment, a suspended instant in time, all the noises of the world disappeared. No raindrops tapped the window in front of Fatimah's face. No women frantically bellowed instructions to her mother. No panicked neighbor banged on the door. Only one sound could be heard.

A gasp.

A cry.

Fatimah ran to Mama's side, forgetting to remain invisible. ‘A boy?'

The women ignored her.

‘Oh, Mama, look at his hair,' Fatimah whispered, surprised by the wispy red fuzz.

The midwife wrapped the baby with a towel. She placed her lips over his nose and mouth and sucked hard, her cheeks sinking deeper in her bony face. She pulled back, spat on the soiled rug and repeated the process several times. She thrust the baby into Mama's trembling hands.

Another knock shook the door. ‘Subhia, please. We have to leave now.'

Mama touched her lips to the baby's forehead. The simple movement drained whatever energy she had left. Her head dropped back on the bed's edge, eyes closed. ‘Take him,' she mouthed.

Fatimah smoothed back hair off Mama's damp forehead. ‘I will help you take care of him, Mama.'

Subhia cradled the boy, her eyes searching the midwife's face, grim and ominous.

‘I'm coming in!' Mustafa shouted from outside.

The midwife snatched a blanket off the bed and covered most of Mama's body.

Mustafa stormed in, took his wife by the shoulders and pulled her to her feet. ‘Get in the truck.' He knelt on the floor. ‘Grab whatever you need. I'm taking you out of here.'

‘Go. Take Fatimah too. I'll stay with her.' The midwife swatted away his hands. ‘Take your family.'

‘I'm not leaving you two behind. There's no one left. You'll tend to her on the road until we get to the next town. If it's safe, I'll find a doctor.'

‘She will bleed to death if you move her.'

‘And you will both die if you stay. You heard what Stern and Irgun gangs did in Deir Yassin. They butchered people, women
and
children.
They will do the same once they get here. Now stop talking and get moving, old woman.'

Subhia settled on a pile of blankets in the truck bed. She had the baby in her arms. Her three-month-old son, Shareef, slept in the arms of his eight-year-old sister, Huda. The plastic tarp shielding them from rain sagged in the middle and rested on Subhia's head.

Fatimah squeezed her little body next to Huda's and placed Mama's head in her lap.

The midwife climbed in. She worked on getting Mama into a comfortable position.

‘Did you remember to lock the door?' Subhia asked.

‘I did.' The midwife patted her chest. ‘I have the house key here.'

‘We'll be back in a couple of weeks.' Mustafa slammed the truck tailgate. ‘Once this is over.'

 

2

Damascus

Ten years later, 1958

Fatimah balanced a laundry basket on her head, gathered the hem of her long dress with one hand and climbed the stairs to the roof. She pushed open the metal door and walked out to a bright day. Sagging ropes crisscrossed the wide open area. She used every inch of the clothesline to hang her wet load, working as fast as she could, humming all the while. She had other chores to take care of, but doing laundry for the big family was a full-day chore. This was her sixth and final load. She had started at dawn and now the midday sun would finish the job. She flipped the empty basket to drain the water and stretched her back.

A boy shouted a series of profanities from the street. Fatimah knew that voice, but she ran to the railing to check anyway. Her brother stood in the middle of a ring of boys, all older and bigger than him.

‘Omar!' she yelled. ‘Meet me at the bottom of the stairs!'

Omar looked up and scowled at his sister for interrupting the scuffle. He pushed past the throng of boys, heading for the entrance to the three-story apartment building.

Fatimah's running footsteps echoed in the stairway. Omar waited for her at the last step. Taunting boys' voices came from behind.

‘Saved by big sister!'

‘We're not going anywhere, Omar!'

‘A real man finishes what he started!'

‘What do you need, Fatimah?' Omar's tone showed his impatience.

She shook the front of her dress to keep damp spots from sticking to her legs. ‘I heard what you said. How many times have I told you not to use that kind of language?'

‘I was trying not to use my fists.'

‘You would have, had I not interrupted, right?'

He shifted his weight from side to side. ‘Sorry for cursing.'

‘What were you fighting about?'

He shrugged, failing to look innocent. ‘Nothing.'

Fatimah had her suspicions. Her brother stood out like a sore thumb. Everyone in the neighborhood knew he was not Uncle Mustafa's blood relative. At least she had the same coloring as his children. Fatimah blended in. But her brother had fair skin, golden red hair and blue eyes. Omar carried himself differently than other boys. He walked with a purposeful stride, furrowing his brows as if concentrating on something in the distance. Rarely smiling, he projected the image of someone in pursuit of a mission.

For reasons unknown to Fatimah, an annoying old woman used to call him ‘the Englishman,' and the nickname had stuck. Her brother hated it, and she knew it was the reason behind almost every fight he got into. Most likely the cause of this one. She stepped closer to brush dirt from his collar.