Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction (39 page)

Mazal took over, “Otto said, ‘I am wondering about your talented son, I hope somebody will discover his talent, wherever he’ll be.’

“When Shifra clung to Otto’s hands, I thought about the
conversos
in Spain, hundreds of years ago, who never gained the trust of their new co-religionists,” added Charlotte. “But I couldn’t bring myself to tell the poor girl.”

“Gretchen stood up. She looked formidable, her eyes sparkled,” Mazal said. “That scene still brings shivers down my spine when I think of it. I couldn’t understand because she spoke German, but Otto, Charlotte and Shifra did, and I could read on their faces that what she said was frightening.

“She screamed, ‘Heinz, Heinz, stop! Ruthie is as German as you and I. Heinz, my little brother, I beg of you. You laugh? Yes, she is German, she is not a
mischling.
I kneel in front of you. Have pity on us. Let me have my little girl. Heinz, Heinz, what are you doing? Your boots are breaking my hands. Why, why Heinz? Because I married a Jew, you say. You want to punish me! Go ahead! Break my hands, but don’t take Ruthie.’

“I saw Gretchen falling on her knees, crawling, her shaking hands trying to reach up. It was like watching a horror movie.” Mazal’s hands covered her eyes.

“Otto was as shaken as the rest of us,” Charlotte whispered. “We made her lie down. When Otto tried to give Gretchen a sedative, she refused. With so much turmoil, we forgot Shifra.”

“Not I,” Mazal said. “Shifra was as pale as the
moon
, and trembling. I took her in my arms. The silence was overwhelming. We didn’t notice, but Bruno and Hugo, alarmed by Gretchen’s screams, rushed into the apartment.”

“We were still dumbfounded by what we’d witnessed when Gretchen opened her blue eyes, which in spite of everything she went
through, had remained clear and beautiful, looked at Otto and said, ‘
sweetheart
, I’m sorry. You don’t deserve this pain.’ Weeping, Otto kissed her hands.”

“With a voice as gentle as a sea murmur,” Mazal said, “Gretchen turned to Shifra and said in a mixture of German and Hebrew, ‘Young girl who remind me so much of the daughter I lost, think of the future of your child while there is still time. My own brother took my daughter to the slaughterhouse. Yes, yes,’ Gretchen dismissed Otto’s denying gesture. “He did. That’s what happens when hatred seeps into people.”

“As Shifra returned our glances we saw a new determination in her eyes. ‘I’ll be ready,’ she said. Mazal held her tight. After she left, our husbands discussed plans for rescuing Shifra and her child,” concluded Charlotte.

Chana’s eyes were moist. “You saved her,” she said.

“Unfortunately, for a short time only. That untimely accident,” Mazal shook her head in disbelief. “Her life cut so short, so—”

“We are starting our descent to New York. Please return to your seats and buckle your seatbelts.”

Chana turned to Mazal, “You two saved Shifra’s child. Who saves one soul, saves the entire world.” She took Mazal’s and Charlotte’s hands in her own. “I feel privileged to know you, and I am looking forward to meeting Shifra’s son—your son.”

Shlomi felt better after his run. Back in the apartment he made himself a cup of coffee. “No more than one cup on the day of a concert, you don’t want to have jitters,” Otto always warned.

He shaved and turned on the shower. The water warmed up slowly and Shlomi lost patience. He loved a hot shower, and his girlfriend B.D. as their Juilliard colleagues had nicknamed her—short for Beatrice D’vora—frequently kidded him that one day he might get burned.

The rehearsal was scheduled for 10 a.m., and Shlomi wanted to arrive earlier to warm up
. “
Scales played slowly and with full tone will do it,” Otto’s words rang in his ears.

Otto
, w
hy can’t I stop hearing his words?
He glanced at his watch. No wonder, Shlomi thought, by now he is probably resting at the hotel, he and my childhood’s protective angels. Shlomi smiled, remembering that in a phone conversation, he squeezed out of Otto the surprise he was bringing with him.

Dear Charlotte, loaded down with the pastries she had baked the night before leaving Israel, would raise a scolding finger and say, “You are too skinny, you have to come back home and let me feed you properly,” while Mazal, smiling, would ask if he lost weight running the New York Marathon. Always sly, that Mazal, but he was fond of both of them
.

After a while Shlomi realized that lost in thought he was headed for Carnegie Hall on foot. Any other day he wouldn’t mind walking the almost forty blocks, but not today! “Carnegie Hall,” he said as he opened the door to a yellow cab.

“Wow,” the cab driver said with respect. “Have you practiced enough, young man?”

Both laughed. Everybody knew the jokes about Carnegie Hall, the
Sancta Sanctorum
of all concert halls.
The great violinists who graced Carnegie Hall, Jascha Heifetz, Isaac Stern, Nathan Milstein, make one feel humble, thought Shlomi
. He felt a thrill of pleasure thinking of Isaac Stern. He and his wife Vera would surely be at the concert tonight. Vera was the director of the Israel-America Cultural Foundation, and it was Isaac who insisted that Shlomi should study in the United States. “How long do you want to hide him in Israel?” Isaac chided Otto. “It’s time for Shlomi to spread his wings.”

It was still early when he arrived at Carnegie Hall. People swept the aisles. It was cold and dark. He’d better warm up. Carefully, Shlomi took the violin from his case. It was Otto’s violin, made by
Vuillaume
, a famous 18th century French violin-maker, which he had presented to Shlomi on his eighteenth birthday. “You deserve it,” Otto had said. “My teacher gave it to me. I hope you get as much pleasure from it as I did.”

Shlomi never changed the interior of the case. On the silk, behind the two bows, was Gretchen’s smiling photo together with her daughter Ruthie, playing flute. Otto and Gretchen told him that his mother, Shifra, resembled their daughter,
diesel blaueen Augen
, was Gretchen’s continuous refrain. Shlomi loved to look at Ruthie’s photograph and imagine his mother. He had so few memories of her, a woman in a long dress running after him on the beach, her hair waving in the wind. He wasn’t sure if it was real or if he made it up. Shlomi felt too self-conscious to add D’vora’s picture to the case, so he kept it in his wallet.

In half an hour the members of the orchestra would appear. After warming up, Shlomi started the opening theme of the Mendelssohn, his favorite concerto, the concerto Otto didn’t allow him to play at age twelve, saying that he was too young to express its passion and emotions. At the time he didn’t dare stand up to Otto, who was the ultimate decision-maker.

But Shlomi felt that the Mendelssohn concerto was his homage to the mother he lost at such young age. From the first notes of the soaring melody, he would pray as he did when he was young calling his mother, with his own lyrics for the melody, “Mother, can you hear me? I play for you. My music should tell you how much I miss you.”

Every time he fingered the first phrase of the concerto, like now, so many years later, the words were there, ready to explode in his head. He felt a kinship with Mendelssohn, and though he played most of the violin concertos; Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, Sibelius, he always returned to his favorite—as tonight, when he chose to play it at the Leventrittt Gala.

The applause of the orchestra members interrupted his thoughts. Shlomi blushed. He had asked Otto not to come to the
rehearsal, yet there was an unexpected guest in the hall. It was Isaac Stern! When Shlomi was about fourteen years old, Isaac Stern in one of his many concert tours in Israel heard him play. “The boy should come to the United States,” he said. “In Israel he swims in a small pond; outside Israel he’d have no barriers. Look at Itzhak Perlman who came at fifteen or Pinky Zuckerman at sixteen.”

But Otto was stubborn, “Shlomi has a lot to learn in this small pond.” After a few months of training in the Israeli army he was offered a chance to become the first violinist of the Israeli Defense Force string quartet. Shlomi disappointed that he was not going to be a fighter like his father, completed the application for the Israel-America Cultural Foundation and obtained the coveted scholarship to study at Juilliard.

Before he left for the United States, Otto took Shlomi aside. In his hand he held a checkbook from the Deutche Bank issued in Shlomi’s name. “A long time ago, Gretchen and I decided that we were not going to accept German reparations. What we suffered and what we lost couldn’t be repaid. After you became part of our life, we reconsidered it. This money will serve Shlomi’s future, we said.”

Though moved by Otto’s offer, Shlomi refused to accept it. “Grandpa Otto, you are getting old, you’ll need it for yourself. I can’t take it.”

“Tz, tz, you talk too much! End of discussion.”

Shlomi never used his Deutche marks. He started performing concerts at Jewish communities from Miami to Duluth, from San Diego to Martha’s Vineyard. The audiences welcomed him with enthusiasm, especially after the Six-Day War, when people wanted to touch and kiss him. Shlomi, embarrassed, told them he was only a kleizmer, not a war hero.

“Gentlemen, let’s begin. You are familiar with Shlomi Gal, our soloist.” The conductor raised his baton and with everyone’s eyes focused on him, he started the rehearsal.

4 8

1948-1953

W
hat time was it? Where were Suha and Selim?
It was the day Musa was due to return home. “Come on, everybody up,” Samira yelled, waking with a jolt and a headache. “We have a lot of work to do!” But there was no answer.

Samira tried to recall what had happened. She remembered that Suha came home late, saying she went to see a
Yahudia
woman doctor who treated her when she was a child.

“Look,” she opened her palm and showed Samira the pills the doctor gave her. “These are for headaches, the others to have more appetite. You don’t have to worry about me anymore.” She took Selim in her arms and started dancing, “Selim, you and I are going to cook supper. Tonight
Jedatha
Samira should rest.” Then she tied an apron around her waist.

Who could have guessed then the curse she would bring upon us? Oh Yarab-el-Alameen-Harachman Al-Rahim
, World G-d, forgiver and merciful
, why didn’t I die that morning rather than face Musa when he arrived from Jerusalem?

Samira’s wails, as she searched the empty house brought over Fatima, who after Musa’s marriage had never entered his house. Samira didn’t have to tell her what had happened. The table was covered with dirty dishes, and on the shelf she saw the half-empty bottle of
arrack
.

“You miserable scum,” Fatima screamed. “You got drunk like a sailor, and let her run away. That thief took my grandson with her, my Selim!”

“In my entire life I have never put a drop in my mouth,” Samira said, but Fatima pushed the tea glass under her nose to smell.

“Oh, Allah Harachaman! Suha—a curse on her—prepared the tea. She planned to get me drunk and then run away!” Samira cried

“
Nackba
, the
Yahudia
brought us only disaster,” Fatima cried. “You trusted her; you encouraged Musa’s foolish love. Now you’ll have to answer to my son. What can you say to him? That you betrayed him and all of us?”

Fatima picked up a knife and came closer. Samira knelt. “Kill me,” she said, “I don’t want to live anymore.” Through her tears, Samira saw big chunks of her hair falling.

Suddenly they heard Musa’s voice. “Eumi, stop, stop immediately. What are you doing? What has happened? Have you gone mad?” He pulled the knife from his mother’s hand.

“Ask her what happened!” Fatima said before storming out of the house.

“Why didn’t your mother kill me? It would have been better than to see the pain I inflict on you with every word I utter,” Samira sobbed.

Musa stood frozen, numb, as if he didn’t understand Samira’s words. “Selim,” he called, “Selim, my son, Abu Selim is home. I know you are hiding.” He ran from one room to another, unable to accept the reality. “My son, my son,” he moaned, calling Selim. Musa fell to his knees, banging his chest with his fists, “Selim, Selim.”

When he rose, his eyes blazed. “I’ll find her, even if I have to comb each house. No one plays games with Musa Ibn Faud.” Samira could hear Faud’s voice in Musa’s words, and recognized the pride of the Masri family speaking through him. “If she’s left me, she’s nothing now but a
sharmoota
, a prostitute, and she’ll be punished for it, but first I want my son back.”

When Fatima reentered the house, Musa told her, “I am going to find my son. I’ll never leave the country without him.”

Musa did not find Selim. While Samira cried, abandoned by all, she heard Fatima’s accusing Musa, “It’s your fault. You warmed an enemy, a serpent, at your breast.” When Musa didn’t respond, she took another tactic, “You jeopardize the lives of your sisters and brother. Have you forgotten your responsibilities? Where is your pride? Are you an Arab man, a Muslim, or a bag of rags?”