Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction (47 page)

“You can’t refuse,” Shlomi said when D’vora told him. “You’ve been his favorite student. And while in New York it is still winter, you’ll bask in the Israeli April sun.”

D’vora looked at him quizzically. “Is there an ulterior motive in your wanting to see me gone?”

“You’ll benefit from it, while I’ll be madly practicing for the Walton recording. I’d rather be in your place.”

From the beginning Shlomi had not been enthusiastic about the recording, but he’d signed the contract and had to honor his commitment. He complained to D’vora, “This piece sounds like a rainy day in England, small drops on perfectly manicured lawns. No lightning, no thunder.”

D’vora laughed, “It’s his country’s character. Stop searching for the romantic in every composer.”

D’vora was right. Trying to emphasize a romantic line brought the first incident with the English conductor.

“No
rubato
. Please, Mr. Gal, respect what’s written.”

“What’s written is a matter of interpretation,” answered Shlomi. He was upset and became even more so during the next interruptions.

Ten hours, Shlomi muttered to himself, ten hours to record one movement! What a dog’s life! He almost failed to notice that he was in front of his building. He checked his mail. Two letters, one from Otto in Germany. Aha, Shlomi thought, Otto got tired of waiting for me to travel with him.

But who is Rama? The second letter came from England; on the back of the envelope there was only one name, Rama, POB 4670 London, UK. He opened the door of his apartment and heard the telephone. He ran, but the rings stopped. Maybe it was D’vora. What time is it? Nine p.m. Her concert was tonight, but she wouldn’t call at this hour, four a.m. in Israel.

He sat down, trying to catch his breath. He looked at the two letters in his hand. Rama… why did this name ring a bell? Three months after he wrote to Amina, he gave up hoping to receive a letter from her. Rama! When he opened the letter thin papers fell out along with the picture of a small boy holding the hand of a girl in a long embroidered dress. They were both smiling. On the back of the picture the names
Selim and Rama 1946
, were written in Arabic.

March 25, 1970


Dear Selim
,


I am Rama, your father’s younger sister. I can’t describe my joy when my sister Amina called to tell me about your letter
.


Oh, my dear Selim, my nephew. When Samira let me hold you a few minutes after your birth, I kissed your eyebrows, my heart trembling with happiness. Your mother, Suha, looked peaceful and more beautiful than ever. And Musa, my brother—no one was prouder than him. He opened the front door and invited every passer-by to come in and drink a glass of arrack in your honor
.


I remember you started to sing even before you started to speak. Your mother taught you songs and it was lovely to hear the two of you singing together. I couldn’t wait to come home from school and play with you. You were my favorite doll
.


I am so excited, dear Selim Ibn Musa Ibn Faud, our youngest Masri. Amina told me that you have a great gift, that when people listen to you playing the violin they forget the vicissitudes of everyday life
.


The phone rang. It took Shlomi a few seconds to hear it, engrossed as he was in the letter.

“Hello, this is the third time I’ve tried to reach you. The minute I leave home, you become a vagabond,” D’vora said, but her voice sounded full of joy.

“How was the concert?”

“A triumph! I want to tell you that everybody already knows about our engagement.”

“Well it didn’t take long for your parents to spread the—”

“Listen,” D’vora interrupted him, “there is a good chance that Haifa Symphony will ask us to play the Brahms Double concerto next season. Wouldn’t that be fabulous?”

“Indeed! I am just reading a letter. You couldn’t guess from whom,”

“From Amina?”

“No, from Rama, her younger sister. Come home, my love. I am lost without you.”

Suddenly, the contact was lost. Though he was tired and hungry, Shlomi couldn’t put Rama’s letter down.

Your father is away on business in the Arab Emirates and we have no way to reach him, but we barely can wait to tell him the great news
.


I was the first to teach your mother Arabic, and proud of her progress. The dress I wore in the photo and the embroidery were made by your mother. She had hands of gold.


Dear nephew, I pinch myself to make sure it’s you I’m writing to. Please come to London soon
.


Your aunt who longs to meet you
,


Rama


Shlomi read the letter twice. He tried to recognize himself in the plump little child. What a wonder to see himself as a child for the first time. In the mirror he compared the picture with his adult face. He gave up. Maybe D’vora would see a likeness. He smiled thinking of her excitement on the phone.

Before he went to sleep he put the picture next to the photo Chana had given him.

At breakfast the next morning, Shlomi opened Otto’s letter.

Baden-Baden March 23, 1970


My Dear Shlomi
,


I am sorry I didn’t consult with you before leaving for Germany, but when you know the reason you’ll understand my haste. Our dear friend Heinrich Schultz, the cellist of our old trio, lives now in a musicians’ retirement home in Baden-Baden. I started corresponding with him after he inquired about my whereabouts at the Israeli Philharmonic. I told you that Heinrich’s brother was crucial to our escape from Nazi Germany
.


Heinrich discovered that the Berlin radio station had acquired the tapes of our trio’s concerts. Two of the three performers were needed to sign the release of the tapes. Imagine how much I am looking forward to hearing again my beautiful Gretchen’s piano-playing. Her performance was so full of life. Meanwhile there is a lot of bureaucracy, as some of East Germany’s radio stations continue to create problems and delays.


Heinrich and I cried reminiscing about old times, mostly talking about Gretchen. I always suspected that he was a little in love with her, but I couldn’t hold it against him
.


It’s strange to walk on these same streets, see the same coffee houses, and smell the flowers, which continue to bloom every year from that bloodstained soil
.


Grandpa Otto


How much he had loved her, Shlomi thought, shivering. Fifteen years had passed since Gretchen’s death. Her last years were a source of suffering for everybody around her, but not for Otto. She remained forever his angel.

Otto’s letter made him realize how much D’vora meant to him, how much livelier he felt when she was with him and how much he missed her.

Amina told him that Musa never considered remarrying. Although Rama wrote how proud his father was at his birth, Shlomi wondered if Musa would not resent that his son was alive while the wife he loved so much was dead.

A glance at his watch reminded Shlomi that D’vora‘s plane was due shortly. At a nearby kiosk he bought flowers; then signaled a taxi, “To Kennedy airport, please.”

It seemed to Shlomi that not a week, but a month, had passed since he saw her last. D’vora waved her arms while she called his name. A new light radiated from her. He noticed that people around them smiled when they embraced.

“Tonight calls for a celebration. I made reservations for Tavern on the Green.”

Shlomi knew it was D’vora’s favorite restaurant. She once said, “One of my pleasures living in New-York is to smell the fragrance of the pine trees and feel part of nature as we walk through Central Park.”

When Shlomi ordered champagne that night, D’vora said. “You’re spoiling me.”

Shlomi took her hand and kissed it. “That’s what I’d like to do for the rest of my life.”

“It’s good to be back, though I feel that when I’m here I miss Israel and when I am in Israel, I miss America.”

“Now you are here with me. It’s all that counts.”

D’vora woke up in the middle of the night. Shlomi’s head resting on her shoulder made her feel uncomfortable, but she didn’t move. She looked at him, her lover and best friend. She thought of the conversation they’d had a few hours ago and how
happy Rama’s letter made him, He seemed distracted that Amina didn’t share her news with his father.
Shlomi is so vulnerable
, D’vora thought. She knew how important it was for him to be accepted by her family, not only for himself, but for his parents, too.

He reminded her of school friends, children of Holocaust survivors, who for years felt ashamed that their parents had lacked the courage to fight the Nazis. Years passed before her friends made peace with their parents’ past.

Poor Shlomi, though different, is burdened by a similar problem
. D’vora’s heart throbbed, “I love you for who you are,” she whispered, “and I’ll help you win over your demons.”

May, 1970

“I just got a call from Marlboro,” Shlomi said. D’vora stopped practicing, lifted her eyes toward him and waited. The echo of the cello sounds still reverberated in the room.

“Mr. Serkin invited me to participate in this summer’s Festival.”

D’vora rose and placed the cello in its case. “Doesn’t it seem kind of late?” she asked. “I thought the programs had been established already.”

“I didn’t ask for details,” Shlomi felt embarrassed. “I don’t have to go, D’vora. Five weeks is a long time. I haven’t answered yet.”

“Sweetheart, this is an honor. It took me by surprise. My best memories date from the summer we spent there as students. Not only because of the music-making or the beauty of the nature,” D’vora took his hands into hers, “but because our romance started there.”

At Marlboro, an oasis of music nestled in the rolling hills of Vermont, they found paradise. Marlboro, a commune of musicians, well-known artists and young aspiring ones, were all united by the same desire, to make music of the highest quality at an unhurried pace.

“If you don’t want me to, I won’t go,” Shlomi said.

“Just the opposite, as I said already, I was surprised. I think it will be good for you, and not only musically. You’ll be able to rest. The Vermont air will bring back your color. Lately you look pale and tense.” Shlomi’s lips touched her hands.

“I have to go. I’ll be late for our rehearsal,” D’vora said brightly. “Don’t worry about me. Giorgio Ciompi of the Ciompi Quartet, resident at Duke University, has invited us for a performance of the Mendelssohn Octet during their summer season. I’ll ask to be scheduled while you are at Marlboro. Will this make you happier?”

“I don’t know,” Shlomi joked. “Those Italians scare me. They see a skirt and start to run after it. I hear Giorgio has a reputation of—”

“Oh, stop it,” D’vora closed his mouth with a kiss. “You know you can trust me.”

D’vora was right, he thought. He needed to relax. He was stressed and not only because of his heavy schedule. After he received Rama’s letter, he had asked his London manager to find her phone number.

“Selim,” she cried, after he identified himself. “My dear, I’m so happy to hear your voice.”

“I want to thank you for your letter and picture. It was a nice surprise, especially since I haven’t heard from Amina.”

“Oh, she’s going to write you. I long to see you, Selim, when are you coming to London?”

“Not in the near future, I’m afraid, but I’m working on it.”

There was silence on the other end. “Rama,” Shlomi hurried, “Did Amina tell my father, I mean, about my letter?”

“Amina is our oldest sister and the closest to Musa. In the past, anytime she mentioned Samira’s letters in which she wrote she found you, he claimed that those were the fantasies of an old woman and asked Amina not to bother him anymore.”

“I shouldn’t have asked.”

“Musa is a bitter man. But, trust us. Now everything is going to be different.

Bye, my dear.”

“Another reason for you to have a vacation, to meet old friends and make new ones,” D’vora said after Shlomi told her about the phone conversation with Rama. “At Marlboro there are no phones, no contacts with the world outside, complete relaxation.”

He didn’t tell her that he had asked to have his mail forwarded.

He drove the four hours from New York to Marlboro in a rented car. A few years earlier the two of them had car-pooled with other Juilliard students. A letter from Otto, from Germany, which the mailman had brought just as he was leaving, was tucked unopened in his pocket. I’ll read it when I stop for gas, Shlomi thought.
Strange that he’s still in Germany. He’s been there three months already
.

Shlomi thought about his father. How childish it had been to think the two of them would meet, embrace and live happily ever after. Shlomi could not bring himself to blame Musa. Life had treated him harshly and no doubt he was protecting himself from other disappointments.

Shlomi didn’t realize how fast he was driving until he saw himself facing the entrance to Marlboro. The yellowish poster,
Caution, Musicians at Play
, made him smile. After the first time they made love, D’vora said jokingly that at Marlboro there were more ways for musicians to be
at play
.

He received a room as Spartan as the one he had a few years before, no TV, no radio, and, of course, no telephone. He was told that an oboist expected to arrive the next day would share his room. Shlomi unpacked and was ready to practice, when he remembered Otto’s letter.

July 30, 1970


My Dear Shlomi
,


You probably wonder why I’m still in Germany. For years I have wanted but lacked the courage to search for what happened to our daughter Ruthie, after she was taken away. When our friend Heinrich, the cellist, showed me Ruthie’s last picture playing flute with a youth orchestra, I wept. Heinrich let me cry
.