Bitter Almonds (2 page)

‘Look what you've done to your school shirt. Go upstairs and take it off so I can wash it and have it ready for tomorrow. How many times have I told you to come straight home and change?'

‘One thousand.' Omar managed to turn the dutiful answer into an accusation.

Fatimah ignored it. ‘And what happened to your hair?' She extended her hand to flatten strands shooting up like antennas on top of his head.

He ducked and ran his fingers through his hair. ‘It's windy today.'

‘Wait a minute.' She narrowed her eyes. ‘How come you're out of school?'

‘Don't you know?' Omar clasped his hands together. ‘Jamal Abdel Nasser arrived today. Here in Damascus!' His voice rose with excitement and cracked on the last word. He cleared his throat. ‘Nasser will declare his leadership of the unity with Egypt. Other Arab countries will join the United Arab Republic.' He inflated his chest and straightened his back, concentrating on a spot behind her left shoulder. ‘We will return to Palestine.'

Omar's enthusiasm bounced off the walls around Fatimah, his face full of elation, a sparkle dancing in his sky-blue eyes. She tried to maintain a stern expression. ‘So school let out early?'

‘People are gathering in the streets around Al Diafeh Square to see President Nasser. I'm going there.' He paused, and pointed back with his thumb. ‘Once I'm done with those guys.'

Fatimah wished she could go with him to see the famous leader. Over the past couple of months, Nasser's presence in Syria was all everyone talked about. Nasser's nationalization of the Suez Canal two years earlier had brought on the triple aggression by Britain, France and Israel to force his hand. His persistent defiance until foreign troops withdrew from the Suez Canal and Sinai ignited Arab nationalism everywhere, turning him into a great hero. Omar was not alone in his idolization of the daring leader.

Fatimah held Omar's elbow. ‘Get as close to the president as you can. I want details.'

Omar's mood shifted. He knotted his brows and drew a long breath. ‘Soon, we will return to our father's house.'

Something in his tone gave her pause. Something serious, making him seem older than his ten years. What was going on in that boy's head? He had never mentioned their father's house before. But again, a fever had gripped the nation, causing people to stay up nights. Was it hope? Had her brother caught it? Glued to the radio almost every
evening, he listened to broadcast messages from Palestinian refugees in Lebanon and Jordan enquiring about relatives dispersed in other refugee camps. Omar never said a word, but she knew he waited to hear news about surviving members of their family. How could one tell a boy he was the only male survivor? That the continuity of the Bakry name rested on his shoulders, and his alone?

She pushed the idea to the back of her head. ‘Where's Shareef? Shouldn't he be out too?'

Omar turned and cast a quick peek outside. He thrust his chin. ‘Shareef's over there.'

Fatimah stepped around him to see for herself. The neighborhood boys were waiting for Omar; Shareef was standing outside their circle. She raised her index finger in Omar's face. ‘He had better not get hurt. You know how much it upsets Mama Subhia. You always get him in trouble.'

Omar's face reddened, as if someone had lit a match under his cheeks. ‘I can't help it if he follows me around all the time.'

‘Yes, but you're supposed to watch out for him. Shareef is not as strong as you are.'

‘He's the older one.' Omar crossed his arms on his chest. ‘If anything, he should be protecting
me
.'

‘Really? Three months' difference?' Fatimah softened her tone. ‘When did you ever consider him older? You order him around as you please. So next time, send him home before you start a fight, all right?'

Omar raised his brows and opened his mouth to say something.

‘And you shouldn't fight at all,' she rushed in. ‘There are other ways to resolve problems.'

A boy's voice called for ‘the Englishman' to come out and eat his words.

Omar placed his hands on her shoulders. ‘Don't worry about Shareef. I won't let him get hurt.'

He tossed her a rare smile. It went straight to her heart. What would she do with this boy when he turned into a man? Good thing he didn't
smile much. Girls would melt at his feet, and he would be fighting grown men.

‘Don't ruin your shirt. I expect you inside in exactly five minutes. You need to change before you go to the square.' She tapped his shoulder. ‘Don't use your sharp tongue or your fists.'

‘What does that leave me to fight with?' Omar headed back to the street.

‘Think, Omar,' she yelled after him. ‘Use your head.'

He did. He walked straight toward the biggest boy in the group and with one head butt knocked him off his feet.

 

3

Three years later, 1961

When it came to taking care of Mama Subhia's five children, Fatimah's maternal nature was second-to-none. The children preferred her loving and quiet disposition to their own stern sister, Huda. Struggling at school, Huda had given up after tenth grade and stayed home. The old midwife took her under her wing, teaching her the ins and outs of her trade, helping her gain a midwife certification when she turned eighteen. Huda became the aging midwife's right hand and was often called upon in their Palestinian refugee community. Her job made a small dent in the financial burdens of the family.

Fatimah filled the void of the big sister at home and managed to get her high school diploma at the same time. Uncle Mustafa encouraged her to enroll in nursing school, told her he would find a way to pay for it too. But Fatimah knew they couldn't afford it. With Uncle Mustafa working at the wool factory and Mama Subhia busy having babies, Fatimah had postponed or abandoned some dreams.

‘What do you mean you found a job?' Mama Subhia asked one evening.

Fatimah walked into the room with a tray of Turkish coffee. She sat on the bed, careful not to disturb baby Salma sleeping by her mother's side. ‘Um Waleed told me she needed a helper a couple of hours in the evening.' Fatimah kept her voice hushed. ‘It's not far from here.'

‘Um Waleed, the dress maker at the end of the street?'

‘You know her. I'll be back in time to help you put the children to bed, so it shouldn't be a problem.'

‘But
habibti
, you don't even know how to thread a needle.' Mama Subhia's use of the loving word in her motherly tone never failed to make Fatimah feel special.

‘Um Waleed said she will teach me. Besides, she needs me to iron the outfits when they're done and do simple mending jobs. She'll pay me for each piece I finish.' Fatimah leaned forward and stressed her words, ‘Just think about it. I'll learn a trade and make money at the same time.'

Mama Subhia shook her head. ‘We don't expect you to make money. If you go to nursing school, you will have a degree and a better paying job.'

Fatimah lowered her eyes to her coffee cup. ‘You know that won't happen, not any time soon anyway. I'm no better than Huda, and she's working.'

Baby Salma made a noise in her sleep only her mother could understand.

Mama Subhia placed her hand on her baby's belly and caressed it. ‘Huda was never interested in school. We had no other options for her. And without Omar, I can't get Nadia to open a book. The way she depends on him worries me. She'll turn eleven soon, no longer a little girl.' Mama Subhia placed her other hand on Fatimah's cheek. ‘You're smart,
habibti
. You can make a future for yourself.'

Fatimah gazed into Mama Subhia's eyes and felt her warmth spill over. Without an ounce of hesitation, this woman had taken them in after their mother died on the road during their escape and given them a home, treating them like her own children. Sometimes a little better. She owed her a lot, and Omar owed her his life. She could not burden this family with her schooling, and she needed to find a way to cover Omar's education as well.

‘A few more years and Omar will graduate from high school. I have to think about his future.' Fatimah drained her coffee cup. ‘If I start working now, I'll be able to save enough to get him enrolled in the university.'

The baby demanded their attention with a loud cry. Mama Subhia lifted her to her shoulder and patted her back. She kept crying.

‘Besides, there's Shareef to consider,' Fatimah continued. ‘Uncle Mustafa has enough on his plate. Let me help. I will prepare a bottle.' She hurried to the kitchen, hoping to relieve Mama Subhia of her baby's cries. She had been unable to breastfeed since she had given birth to her son, Shareef. High fever had gripped Mama Subhia for weeks, and the midwife forbade her breastfeeding him. The same had happened with her daughters Nadia and one-year-old Farah. The family had needed to buy expensive formula for each child, including Omar. All the more reason for Fatimah to find a job, lend a helping hand. Fatimah went back to the bedroom and handed over the warm bottle. Sucking sounds soon replaced Salma's cries.

‘See how you're helping?' Mama Subhia smiled down at her baby. She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. ‘Isn't Um Waleed's son one of the teachers at the boys' school?'

‘Waleed? I think he's the history teacher. Why?'

‘Waleed and his mother are good people. This might not be such a bad idea after all. Let's discuss it with Mustafa when he comes home.'

‘It's the first Thursday of the month.' Fatimah hid a smile behind her hand. ‘Uncle Mustafa will be late tonight.' As long as she could remember, Uncle Mustafa's sole recreational time was spending one evening a month at the café with his friends, listening to the enchanting voice of the legendary singer, Um Kulthoom, on the radio. People planned their schedules around the first Thursdays of every month. Almost no one missed the exhilarating nightlong event.

Mama Subhia handed over the baby to Fatimah and scurried to her feet. ‘I can't believe I forgot to turn on the radio. The concert is about
to start.' She headed to the living room. ‘I'll talk to Mustafa about your job tomorrow. Set a plate of almonds for him to enjoy in the morning.' Winking at Fatimah, Mama Subhia turned on the radio. ‘Eating almonds takes him back to Palestine. It will help put him in a good mood.'

 

4

Mustafa shuffled through the door and headed straight to the bathroom. He stripped and placed his dirty blue uniform in the hamper. Working on the main floor at the wool factory meant he brought home fine fibers on his clothes, body and hair. He needed to make sure they didn't get carried off into the air his family breathed.

Scrubbing his skin clean under hot water, a series of violent coughs gripped him. He leaned a bony shoulder to the wall and watched blood swirl around the drain.

‘Are you almost done?' Subhia's voice came muffled from behind the door. ‘Supper is ready.'

Mustafa closed his red eyes. ‘Two minutes.' He hoped his voice carried a measure of strength.

Small particles had collected in his lungs, taking up space where oxygen should go. That was how the doctor he had seen earlier in the month had explained it. A man like him had no place in the stifling atmosphere of the wool plant. A farmer should be in open fields, sweating under the sun, breathing fresh air. Mustafa had brushed aside the doctor's senseless cure. He worked while many refugee men couldn't find jobs, had a roof over his family's head, almost enough to eat. He could handle a few coughing fits every now and then. Besides, there were no orchards of apricot and plum trees to nurture in this crowded city.

Dressed and feeling a little better, he sat at the head of the table. His children were already in their designated seats chatting about their day, except for Omar. Mustafa sighed.

‘Where is he?' He directed his question to Fatimah, who was bouncing baby Salma on her lap.

‘He went to the bakery on the corner. He should be here any minute.'

Subhia passed a bowl of yogurt. ‘We ran out of bread. Omar volunteered. Let's get started. I'm sure he's already on the stairs.'

Everyone got busy spooning food onto their plates. Omar's distinctive knock—three rapid beats—sounded at the door.

‘Why doesn't that boy just walk in?' Mustafa mumbled under his breath. ‘Why does he need to ask for permission every time?'

Subhia placed a calming hand over his knee under the table. ‘Omar is being polite,' she whispered.

‘This is his home,' Mustafa tried to whisper back. ‘How many times have I asked you to make that clear to him?'

‘He's almost fourteen.' Subhia brought her voice even lower, making sure the others didn't hear her. ‘He's growing up. If it makes him comfortable, where's the harm?'

‘Shareef doesn't knock before he comes in, does he?' Mustafa dropped a dollop of yogurt on his plate. ‘Omar should feel just as comfortable.'

‘Yes, well. We have to accommodate the boy's nature, Mustafa. I hung a heavy blanket as a divider in their room. Shareef and Omar on one side, the girls the other.' She patted his knee again. ‘It's better this way.'

Eleven-year-old Nadia slid from her seat and went to open the door. She lifted her arms and hung on Omar's neck, her usual way of greeting him. Since he had shot up in height quite a bit in the last couple of years, it was easy for him to circle her waist with one arm and carry her to her seat as she squealed and giggled. He placed the flat pita bread stack he had in his other hand on the table. ‘They ran out of today's rations in the bakery. I had to go to the one two streets over. I grabbed the last stack.' Omar moved to his seat next to Nadia and dropped down. ‘Sorry for being late, Uncle Mustafa.'

Mustafa was tired and couldn't help being irritated. Was it Omar's tardiness that caused his nerves to flare, or something else? He couldn't put his finger on the issue. He nodded in acknowledgment and helped himself to a healthy serving of
ma'loubeh
. The main dish of rice and cauliflower was missing a main ingredient—meat. Again. It was near the end of the month. Subhia stretched his paycheck as far as she could, which meant no meat or chicken dishes the last few days.