Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction (28 page)

Shifra, alarmed, stopped daydreaming. “We have to go! Excuse us.” And to Selim, she ordered, “It is late. We have to go. Say goodbye to the nice people.”

“Please stay,” Gretchen Schroder begged.

Shifra bowed her head and repeated, “We have bothered you enough. We must go home. It’s very late. Thank you.”

Selim seized Otto’s hand which held the violin. Oblivious to their talk, the boy timidly touched the violin, caressed its shiny wood, and courageously plucked one string. He laughed with delight, and plucked another, then a third, singing the sounds of the strings he plucked.

Otto joined his wife, “Please, come in. I’d like to talk to you about your son. He impresses me as being an exceptional child.”

Suha’s eyes moved from Otto to his wife, who looked, like a ghost, even skinnier than the time she saw her in the bazaar. Like a ghost. Otto’s words played like a record in her mind.
What should she do?
Really, it was time to leave, Musa could be home soon. Yet her feet refused to move.

“Maybe another time,” she said.

Selim cried, “Eumi, I want dink, to dink.” For the Arab maid, who witnessed the scene from the beginning, those were the first words she understood. “Come inside,” she said, “and you can choose any drink you like.”

Not waiting for his mother’s approval, Selim followed her. The two Schroders gestured invitingly at Suha. This wasn’t my decision, Suha thought, as she walked into the house. Maybe it was
bashert
.

As she stepped inside the Schroders’ home Shifra was surprised by its darkness. The high windows shielded by heavy curtains seldom let the sun in. The big room had spartan furnishing; around a coarse wooden table were a few mismatched chairs. Between the windows Suha saw two violin stands covered with music sheets and more sheets were spilled on the floor or spread out on top of a huge box covered by a black oilcloth.

A sofa and an old carpet, its colors faded from use, completed the furnishings. The walls, without any adornment, looked blank to Shifra. She thought of the overgrown weeds in the courtyard; both the house and the courtyard needed a caring hand.

Meanwhile three grown ups fussed around Selim. The Arab maid sat him at the table and gave him a glass of orange juice.

“I’m so sorry we have no cookies,” Gretchen Schroder said, hiding her shaking hands in her skirt pockets. “Please, tell him,” she addressed Suha, “next time you visit, we’ll have many goodies for him.”

Otto, who had taken off his jacket, couldn’t take his eyes off Selim. Seated near him, he took hold of one of his little hands.

“Otto,” Gretchen scolded in German, “where are your manners? Please, offer the young lady a glass of tea.” The last sentence was said in English for Shifra’s benefit.

“Oh, we will leave soon. Please don’t bother,” Shifra said.

But Otto, looking apologetically at Gretchen, got up immediately.

“It will take only a minute,” he said and disappeared.

“Please sit down,” Gretchen said. “You know who we are, but we know nothing about you, your name, and your little wonder child’s name.” The tone was warm, inviting. Shifra noticed that her voice, when calm, sounded as melodious as Otto’s violin.

“Otto already told you,” Gretchen continued, “your son is a little gem, or a little budding rose, which with proper care could develop into the most beautiful flower.”

While she talked, Gretchen rested one hand on the table, but she retrieved it when she saw Shifra watching her disfigured fingers. Even without knowing what illness afflicted the woman, Shifra’s heart filled with pity.

“His name is Selim,” she answered, “In Arabic it means peace.” Then she ventured to say, “The same as
Shalom
in Hebrew. He is not yet two years old.”

“And who are you?” asked Gretchen, with so much gentleness in her voice that Suha almost lost her composure. “Shif…” she
started, instinctively ready to give her real name. She caught herself in time. “My name is Suha, Suha Masri.”

The Arab maid nodded.

“Suha Masri,” Gretchen repeated. “And you love music, Suha Masri. I know it because I spotted you when you stopped to listen to my husband’s violin practice. Not only once, but quite a few times. I had also noticed your beautiful blue eyes,
dieselben blauen Augen
, the same as.…”

“Tea is ready,” Otto clamored in the same instant, appearing with a tray on which the steam twirled up from glasses filled with boiling water.

Shifra watched the Arab maid. She had to remind herself that she was a Muslim now. As thirsty as she was, she wouldn’t dare drink during the holy month of Ramadan.

“Thank you,” she declined, embarrassed, “It’s the Ramadan holiday. We are prohibited to drink before sunset.”

“Find me, Eumi,” Selim screamed. Following his voice she saw him hidden underneath the big box covered with oilcloth, and standing on sturdy legs, which she had noticed when she entered.

“Ach, he has discovered the piano,” Otto Schroder said, looking at his wife questioningly. She nodded slightly.

“Get up and come here, you naughty boy,” Shifra called. She hadn’t noticed the exchange of glances between husband and wife. “It’s late and we have to go home.”

But Otto had already moved away the oilcloth, revealing the instrument. The finishing wood had a reddish texture to it. Otto gestured Selim to come out. “I’ll show him how this box makes music, too,” Otto said. “Actually it makes the most beautiful music, because it can replace a full orchestra. That’s piano’s magic.”

Intrigued, Shifra pulled Selim from under the instrument, and holding his hand, approached Otto, who had raised the lid. The shiny ivory keys intrigued the two guests. “Try to play it,” Otto offered, but neither Selim nor his mother dared to get closer.

A piano; Shifra thought, remembered that in her childhood, one of her schoolmates told her she played piano, but Shifra had never seen or heard the instrument. Timidly, she pressed a key. It produced a clear sound. The entire room resonated. She pressed the next key. On his tiptoes, clinging to his mother, Selim sang the two notes, repeatedly, creating a game with the two syllables, Eu-Mi, Eu-mi. Impatiently, he cried, “Me, too,” raising his arms to be lifted to touch the keyboard.

At Otto’s sign, the Arab maid brought a chair. After Selim was seated, he tried one key, after which, with a confidence incomprehensible to Shifra, he pressed the same keys his mother had pressed. The child laughed with delight. The old couple nodded.

“It’s as we thought,” said Otto in German, addressing his wife, who had tears in her eyes. “This child really has it in him.”

Knowing Yiddish, Shifra understood his words, but didn’t comprehend their meaning. Probably Selim likes to play with sounds, like another child plays with toys, she thought.

“Your son was blessed by gods,” Otto said solemnly. “Of course, he is a bit too young to start playing an instrument, but his talent is like a gold mine.”

He thought for a while, “Maybe I could borrow a quarter-size violin from one of my colleagues. It would be worth a try. Gretchen, what do you think?”

“I agree,” Gretchen answered.

It was a talk between two professionals, which excluded Shifra. She picked Selim up. “We had a wonderful afternoon,” she said, “for which we thank you very much.”

“You’ll be back,
Ja, yes?
” Gretchen asked anxiously. “You’ve heard what my husband said. Your son is a gold mine. No one can bring out the gold from that mine better than my husband.”

“Oh, Gretchen,” Otto said, reproach in his voice.

“Don’t be so modest,
sweetheart
, I just told her the truth.”

In front of the gate, with Selim in her arms, Shifra turned to wave to the Schroders. With one arm around his wife’s slim shoulders, Otto waved back. On the way home, Shifra felt she had wings under her arms, as Otto‘s words continued to resonate in her ears, “Your son was blessed by gods, blessed by gods.”

Though she was happy, a cloud pressed on her heart. Could she share Otto’s discovery with Musa? How would he react? Would he let her go back to their house? If she didn’t tell him, he might still find out. The Arab maid was friends with Samira. One word from her would be enough. Oh, what a dilemma! But she was sure of one thing. Nobody could hold her back; she would return.

3 8

W
hen would she be able to see the Schroders again?
Shifra wondered. Before that meeting, the music was what brought her there, the need to fill her soul with sound. Now she wanted to know them better. But with Samira and the rest of the Masri family due to return any day, she knew it wouldn’t be possible. Samira watched each of her movements.

The afternoon Nur’s letter arrived, Shifra immediately recognized the fifteen-year-old girl’s neat handwriting. She placed the letter next to Musa’s plate. When Musa arrived home, hungry as a wolf, he pushed aside his Iftar meal and tore open the letter. “I don’t understand why my mother didn’t write the letter herself?” He muttered.

Most honored brother
,


My mother asked me to write to you to dissipate any worries you might have. She decided that for the time being we will remain in Deir Yassin until the end of the Ramadan month, but we’ll be back home before Idul Fitri festivities
.


Na’ima is doing better, Allah be praised, but is still very weak since she lost the baby. She can’t stop crying. The doctor told mother that with all of us around her, she’ll heal faster. He said, “It’s not the first time that the spirits of a woman who had a miscarriage are low. It’s your duty to encourage her to enjoy life again.”


Rama and I play and entertain Nassim and Faud, but neither one is as smart or sweet as our Selim. Ahmed has become a real farmer. He wakes up with the roosters and works until late in the evening, since Mahmood mostly arrives home in the middle of the night and is seldom here during the day
.


Oh, I want to tell you how much we enjoy the fresh mountain air. Our mother says that the air here is so much healthier than Jaffa’s humidity this time of the year. We sleep with our windows open, but other times we lay our blankets in the orchard and fall asleep under the sweet smell of the honeysuckle and pine trees. Mahmood was furious when he found us. He said that in these troubled times what we did was really dangerous
.


We’ll see you in two weeks
.


Your loving sister, Nur


While Musa read the letter aloud, Shifra’s mind wandered. Her first thought was, two weeks of freedom, time she could visit the Schroders. Good for Selim too. After Musa finished reading, she said quickly, “I’m glad that your sisters and brother enjoy their stay. As always your mother made the right decision.”

Musa’s face relaxed, when she said, “It’s time to get back to your meal. You know that cold meat has no taste.”

After he ate, Musa wiped his mouth, satisfied, “You’ve learned all of Samira’s kitchen secrets. Now you are a real Muslim wife.”

Why did he emphasize the word “Muslim”? After they married he seldom went to the mosque and never demanded that she read the Koran or pray. His words seemed out of place, even strange. But she wasn’t going to ask him. Maybe Musa meant it as a compliment. At any rate it was too late to ask him, because, with Selim cushioned in his arms, both had fallen asleep.

She had no intention of waking them up, so she cautiously cleared the dishes from the table. Her mind raced, trying to find a plausible reason to return to the Schroder’s home. She was aware that such a visit could arouse the Arab maid’s suspicions. Bringing them flowers to thank them for their hospitality seemed like a good reason. She would offer to clean their yard and plant new bulbs, an idea which had already crossed her mind.

From the kitchen she could hear Musa’s light snoring.
Lately he comes home so tired
. After a furtive check on her husband and child, her thoughts returned.

Mrs. Schroder would enjoy the sight and smell of fresh flowers. She could already picture her standing in the window, a smile lighting her face. Flowers have the power to heal. And Shifra would have a reason to return again and again; to water, to weed, to teach Nabiha how to take care of the garden.

Selim’s cry woke her from her reverie. “I’m here,” she whispered, taking him in her arms, and covering him with kisses. The child rubbed his eyes. “Music,” he said, and he repeated the word, music, his fingers tapping on her arm the way she had seen him touching the piano.

“You had a dream,” Shifra said, kissing his fingers one by one. “Now, I’ll tuck you in bed and you’ll continue to dream about music.”

The next morning, Shifra tried to think of ways to explain to the Schroders the purpose for her return visit.
Can I just go and say, I’d like to take
care of your garden
?
They seem so private. Who knows if they would agree to my offer? Yet I can’t go empty-handed. Just flowers, would that be enough?

While preparing the Iftar meal, her face and arms sprinkled with flour dust from kneading the dough for kafta, Musa’s favorite dish, the pouch filled with lamb and rice, she was still preoccupied with her plan to visit the Schroders.
How about baking something for them
? Their house looked empty of sweets. What should she bake, almond cookies or bread rolls, or both? She tied the apron again around her waist. She would make both. In her ears she heard her mother’s voice whispering, it could be a
mitzvah
. Now she felt driven by a mission.

Selim played quietly near her, on the kitchen floor. “Smells good,” he sniffed, “you make cookies for Selim,” and he clapped his hands.

“For Selim,” Shifra answered, “and for other people also.” Selim nodded, as if he had guessed his mother’s intentions.

Taking the trays out of the oven, Shifra thought,
why am I so obsessed with them?
Those people are not my family. What draws me is not only the music; it is the suffering I read on their faces. It makes me feel so close to these strangers and eager to help. Shifra’s heart was filled with pity recalling Gretchen Schroder’s tormented face and her deformed hands timidly inching toward hers on the table surface then retreating fearfully.