Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction (27 page)

“Your mother loves your child. For hours she watches Selim playing in the garden. She’s his real Jedah, blood from her blood and flesh from her flesh.” Samira said. “You’ll see, pretty soon she will turn around.”

And maybe that was about to happen, but the call from Mahmood changed everything. Hearing the news, Fatima burst into tears. Then, without skipping a beat, she took control, as strong as ever. “We are all going. Not only Samira and I. Rama and Nur can help take care of Faud and Nassum. Ahmed,” she addressed her youngest child, “you’ll work with Mahmood in the orchard. It will do you a world of good.”

Musa did not interfere. He was not going to oppose his mother’s decision. When he told Suha, she complimented his mother’s solution, “Na’ima needs their help, not only for cleaning and cooking. She needs the closeness of her family, the people who love and care for her.”

Musa was touched by Suha’s sensible words, yet he insisted, “But we need Samira. Who’ll help you watch Selim, cook, shop? With me at the office, you’ll be alone all day.”

Suha closed his mouth with a kiss, “Trust me,” she said.
Was she going to tell him that she took care of her own brothers and sisters, at a much younger age
? She kissed him again, “Don’t worry, Selim and I will be fine and I promise you that the
Iftar
will taste as good as Samira’s.”

So spoke his darling wife, whom he was betraying this very moment, armed to frighten away her brethren who wanted to enter the Holy Land. At least, he reasoned with himself, he didn’t aim at them, like the others; he shot into the air trying to scare them. But he knew that lately, bands of armed Jews waited on opposite hills ready to open fire on whoever attacked the boats. What misery! Could he ever dare tell his trusting wife what he was doing? His heart ached at that thought.

Suha is Muslim, he tried to assure himself, not Jewish. She took the
Al-Shahada
; she is a good, obedient wife. Stop being suspicious, her lovemaking alone should be enough proof for you.

He waited, but no boats arrived that night. It must have been a false alarm. Relieved, Musa returned home. Peering at his dark bedroom windows, to assure himself that Suha was asleep, he slipped furtively along the wall, toward the shed behind his house where they kept the gardening tools and the bric-a-brac. He wrapped his rifle in a piece of fabric and buried it deep in the soft earth. Then he washed his hands at the garden pump.

His wife smiled in her sleep. But his sleep became disturbed by unusual dreams. Mahmood screamed, “I know she did it to herself, she’s not a real Muslim wife. Na’ima doesn’t want more children! She wants to shame me!”

Musa arose to drink a glass of water. It took him a long time to fall asleep. The second dream was no better. He dreamed of the
mukhtar
speaking to the group of volunteers for the nightly watch. “
It’s your duty to be vigilantes. We can’t allow strangers in our land. Palestine belongs to Palestinians! Musa, I want you to be in charge, you have experience. I’ve been told about your training in the Jerusalem forests. All of us,” and he gestured to his audience, “Are proud of you. I always knew you were born to be a leader.”

One Palestinian shouted, “Inshallah, you spoke well, mukhtar.”

“We trust Musa,” screamed another with enthusiasm
.

Musa woke up sweating.
It was a dream, only a dream
, but it kept him awake, reminding him that he had to talk to the
mukhtar
, before, Allah help us, such a dream could become a reality.

3 6

O
n September 1st 1947 the day of the first rehearsal of the eleventh season of the Palestinian Orchestra, Otto Schroder entered the Ohel Shem Hall in Tel-Aviv dressed as usual in a suit and tie. He came earlier to practice a few scales for warm-up. To his surprise quite a few of the Orchestra members were already there.

His stand colleague, his former pupil Hugo Myerson, who changed his name to Chaim Ben-Meir after he arrived in Eretz Israel, grinned at him, “A
Guten Morgen
, Herr Professor.” The young man wore knee-long khaki pants and sandals without socks, which Otto considered completely disrespectful to their profession. “
Was Machst Du?”
he asked.

Otto shrugged. He was sure that Hugo had purposely changed the polite address,
Wie Sind Sie
, into the slang version. But he didn’t answer because his attention was caught by a fiery discussion taking place between other members of the orchestra.

“What’s happening?” Otto asked, bewildered.

“Didn’t you read the papers?” retorted Hugo. He took the Palestinian Post out of his pocket. “Here, read for yourself.”

The British Government Ends Mandate in Palestine. Because of the inability to arrange an understanding between the two parties, Arabs and Jews, regarding the British proposal for a partition, the British Government announces that it will end its Mandate on May 15, 1948. The newly formed United Nations will take over. The UN has already formed a commission to study the proposal and present its report as soon as possible.

Musicians crowded to peer, one over the other’s shoulder, and read aloud from DAVAR, the Hebrew newspaper.

“It’s going to be chaos,” said the burly trombone player.

“We’ll never agree to part with Jerusalem. Jerusalem is ours,” a defiant oboist replied.

“You and your
Etzel
terrorists would do better to listen to the voice of wisdom,” thundered a cellist. “Without compromise we’ll never have a state.” He was one of Otto’s former colleagues from Berlin.

“What was the reward the European Jews got for their pacifism, for compromising? Nothing but a slaughterhouse!” screamed a second violinist.

“
Palmach
is forming special units. My son was called to serve,” whispered the French horn player.

“It’s going to be war. We Jews are like a drop of oil in a sea filled with Arab hatred.”

“You European Jews were always fearful of your own shadows. Enough of that! Here we are raising Sabras. We teach our children to know no fear,” shouted the Etzel sympathizer.

Otto thought there was going to be a fight. At that moment the concert-master appeared. All took their seats, but the anger lingered in the air.

Suddenly, Otto remembered that he hadn’t warmed up.
All those arguments, what for, they couldn’t resuscitate the dead
. He looked at the two pieces of music in front of him and turned pale.

“Attention, please,” the concert-master called, striking a stand with his bow. “In his desire to identify with our brethren, martyrs who perished
Al Kidush Hashem
, the conductor has decided to change the initial opening program of our season. Instead of the Beethoven Third and Fifth Symphonies, we’ll perform Mahler’s Second Symphony-The Resurrection, and Mussorgsky’s Kindertotenlieder-The Children’s Death Songs.”

Otto’s eyes blurred. His fingers fought to open his tie. He needed air. Water, he thought, I need water. But he was unable to move. Would he be able to play this concert without fainting?

The tragedy befell him after a rehearsal of Mahler’s Resurrection with the KuBu orchestra in Berlin. It was a starless night. Still haunted by the beautiful poem which Mahler himself had added for the chorus to sing at the end of the Symphony, and so fitting for the terrible times they were witnessing, “Believe you were not born in vain. Stop trembling. Prepare to live,” Otto decided to take a detour and share its glorious and encouraging message with Gretchen and Ruthie before returning to his hiding place in the basement of Heinrich Schultz’s apartment..

As Otto arrived at the back door of their house, he peered first anxiously to see if anybody was around. He held the key ready in his hand when he heard screams that made his hair rise, “Muti,
Muti, Mutter,
save me,” followed by a long, desperate wail.

Oh, my God, it was Ruthie’s voice!
He hid behind a bush. He saw a man dragging his daughter, while two others laughed.

“Now,” the man smirked, “you are going to become a real German woman, not a mongrel. And you’ll never bite a German soldier again or I’ll break your teeth! Stop yelping!”

He crashed his whip on her back. To his horror, Otto recognized the voice. It was Heinz! Heinz, Gretchen’s brother, dressed in the sinister SS uniform.

Where was Gretchen
? Shaking, Otto fell to his knees.
What should I do? If I go to her they’ll take us both away. Maybe, yes, if I run to
Schultz for help! His brother is a general in the Wehrmacht. Yes, yes, I’m sure he’ll get Ruthie out
.

Crying, Otto plugged his ears until he could no longer hear his daughter’s wails. Yes, it had been Heinz, his brother-in-law! And Otto knew that he would be condemned to hear Ruth’s wailing and carry the weight of his cowardice for the rest of his life.

“Everybody ready for tuning,” the concert-master said. “Please, give us an A,” he asked the principal oboe player. A cacophony of sounds followed as all were tuning their instruments.

“Herr Schroder, Herr Schroder,” whispered the violinist behind him, “have you fallen asleep? The concert-master has called for tuning.”

Obediently, Otto put the violin under his chin.

3 7

S
hifra was excited to have Selim all to herself while Musa’s family and Samira were away. She thought the child was too spoiled by Rama and her brother Ahmed, whom Selim adored. Throwing their schoolbooks away the minute they arrived home, they came over to play with him. Lately, during the Ramadan, they played together all the time.

After the first two days alone, Suha felt she had exhausted the games and the nursery books that Selim knew by heart.

”Your fig tree must be thirsty,” Suha said, “let’s go water it.” In honor of his child, Musa had planted a fig tree in the garden the day Selim was born. The child loved to watch his tree grow. He called it his little brother, though the fig grew taller than he was.

“How about singing our songs?” Suha asked Selim afterward. She loved to hear his silvery voice, which matched hers so well. But after a few songs the child seemed bored.

“Beach,” he said, “See big wave,” and he raised his arms to show his mother how high the wave would be.

Hearing that, Suha’s heart skipped a beat. Since the day she saw Chana on the beach, she had avoided the seashore.

“I have a better idea,” she said brightly.
Yes, for sure, why not? Samira wasn’t home, Musa was at the office and during Ramadan he doesn’t return home before dusk. Nobody would know where they went. She felt a desire, almost like an ache, to listen again to music
.

“You’ll hear beautiful music today,” she told her son. Without waiting any longer she brought his hat, tied her kerchief and off they went. It was hot, and Suha realized that in her haste she had forgotten to take Selim’s stroller. After a short time, the child wailed, “Selim no more walk,” and sat on the sidewalk.

“We are almost there,” Suha said. “It’s the next street, just around the corner.” She took him in her arms, her heart full of expectation. The Schroder’s street was empty and silent, not even a dog was barking. As she drew near, she heard the violin’s exquisite melody. Suha’s heart vibrated in the same rhythm. She realized how much she had longed to hear Otto Schroder’s violin.

She lowered the child. “Let’s walk slowly and listen,” she whispered. From the first sounds, Selim’s eyes grew bigger. He seemed mesmerized. At the gate, he stopped. His little hands grabbed the rails. He tried to peer inside.

“It’s not nice to stand in front of other people’s houses. We have to keep moving.”

“My ears want to see,” Selim said stubbornly. Suha picked him up in her arms, but the child jerked away. The gate opened. Instantly Suha recognized the Arab woman, the maid, Samira’s acquaintance, whom they met in the bazaar.

Alongside her walked a man dressed in a dark suit and tie, his head bent, counting banknotes into her hand. Suddenly, the shrill of a woman’s voice interrupted the silence.

”Otto, it’s her. It’s the girl I told you about, your secret admirer.”

“Excuse me,” Suha said in Arabic, “It wasn’t polite of us to stand in front of your gate.”

“Otto,” the voice insisted, “Talk to her; invite her to come in.”

“Please, don’t go.” Otto’s English had a strong German accent. He watched the window anxiously. “It seems that my wife knows you, she said that you remind her of our daughter.”

Then he addressed the child, “Would you like to see the violin?”

Selim frightened and about to cry, looked at his mother. He clutched her hand tightly, hidden in the folds of her dress.

The servant, who was watching the scene, said quickly in Arabic, “Don’t be afraid. She’s a good woman. And she likes children.”

Otto continued, “My wife is not well. Please excuse me, we haven’t been introduced.” He bowed slightly. “My name is Otto Schroder. I know I have no excuse to ask you to come in.” His voice sounded nervous, excited. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. “I talk too much.”

Suddenly Shifra realized that Selim had disappeared. He had slipped away and entered the courtyard.

“Selim, Selim, come back,” Shifra called, but the child laughed and ran toward the steps. “Selim,” Shifra screamed again. When he saw the door opening, Selim stopped, looking back at his mother, scared by his own daring. Otto Schroder stood in the doorframe holding the violin under his chin.

He began by playing a children’s tune. Selim smiled. Close to Otto his little body seemed to be one with that of the tall man. It was such a beautiful picture, Shifra thought; a picture she would remember for a long time.

It started first as a game. Otto played a few notes, and stopped, waiting. The child sang, repeating the melody. Otto raised his eyebrows. He tried again. And again Selim sang the notes, his voice like the sound of a delicate flute. He seemed to enjoy the new game tremendously.

Otto’s wife appeared at the door, “Otto,” she said, “it is incredible. This child has perfect pitch.”

She addressed a bewildered Shifra, who had followed the scene, hardly believing what was happening, “How old is your child?”