Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction (5 page)

“Go change. You are all wet. You’ll catch cold,” Fatima said, after looking around and seeing how alarmed her daughters were. They adored their brother and she knew it.

“Don’t worry about me. Please, Mother, she’s the one who needs dry clothes right now. Look, she’s shivering.” He moved a lock of Shifra’s hair aside from her face. His sisters gasped, “She’s so pretty!” they said in one voice.

Fatima clapped her hands, “Girls, go to your rooms. I’ll talk to you later,” she approached Shifra and placed her hand on the girl’s forehead. “She’s burning,” Fatima said. “What am I supposed to do now? Oh, my son, I don’t know if you saved a life, but surely you’ve brought a lot of trouble for the Masri family.”

Musa kept quiet. He already knew that his mother was going to help. “Bring her to my room,” she ordered. “There’s no need to call Dr. Farid. I’ll use my grandmother’s old remedies, wash her body in vinegar and wrap it in dry sheets. Then I’ll hang wet sheets to keep the room temperature down. She should drink lots of chamomile and elderberry tea. Hopefully by tomorrow there will be no more fever.” As they were carrying the girl together, Fatima
added, “Tomorrow the two of us will have a serious talk. Until then, tell your sisters and brother to keep their mouths shut. You know how much our neighbors like to gossip.”

There’s going to be trouble
. Fatima smelled it two nights ago when Musa first brought the girl into the house. Now after she had tried all the remedies she knew, the girl’s fever remained high. Fatima had put compresses with potato slices on her forehead, yet her eyes were still shut. From rosy, the girl’s face had turned sallow.

All during the night, Musa sat at the girl’s side and moved only when his mother asked him to change the compresses.
What am I going to do?
Fatima asked herself, upset that her knowledge did not help.

In the morning she saw that Musa looked agitated. He held a piece of paper in his hands. “Read this,” he said, “I found it clutched in her palm.”

Though the paper was torn in many places, and the water had erased some of the letters, Fatima could make out its content. It mentioned a missing girl, one of the thousand Teheran Children, saved by a miracle from the Nazis’ claws, who traveled from Europe through Siberia towards Teheran, from there to Alexandria before reaching Palestine.

Could Rifka Mendel be the half-dead girl now under her roof?

“How old is this paper?” Fatima asked after returning it to her son. Musa shrugged his shoulders, “I don’t know.” He looked again at the paper. “What I understand from reading it is that she was brought here, together with other orphans. If she’s that girl, she must be an orphan.”

After a few minutes of silence Fatima said, “I have an idea. I will take the grandfather clock to Adon Nathan. For some time it hasn’t worked properly. Maybe it needs oiling.”

Musa looked interested. She continued, “Maybe I’ll be able to find out if there is any news in the Jewish newspaper regarding a missing girl.”

“Thank you, Eumi,” Musa said gratefully, “Allah will bless you for your good soul.”

It wasn’t long before Fatima returned home, empty-handed. She echoed what Mister Nathan said: “Except for the terrible war ravaging Europe, there was no other urgent news.”

5

“S
o it seems that nobody has claimed the girl,” Fatima said looking straight into Musa’s eyes. A long silence fell between mother and son.

“What do we do now?” Fatima asked.” I don’t want her to die under my roof. You know I’ve tried everything I know.”

While she talked, Samira, her faithful servant, who had been Fatima’s nanny, and followed her from Jerusalem to Jaffa after Fatima married, sneaked silently into the room. Samira had been the midwife for each one of Fatima’s six children and Fatima considered her a second mother, her confidante and best advisor.

Samira was the one who, during the night, had helped Fatima change the sheets imbued with the girl’s perspiration, had washed them quickly and hung them in the courtyard, where the fresh breeze and the smell from the eucalyptus flowers perfumed them. She had also put ice on Shifra’s parched lips, while Musa tried patiently to squeeze a few teaspoons of chamomile tea through her lips.

Samira hadn’t asked any questions and Fatima knew that she wouldn’t, unless Fatima was going to tell her what happened.

Samira had heard Fatima’s last words, “Musa, I pity the girl, but it’s time to take her to the hospital, or to the French Convent. I have heard that some of the Catholic nuns are trained nurses. Musa, my son, it’s time to restore back the calm of this house.”

Samira noticed Musa’s face becoming darker, “Mother, please don’t do anything hastily.”

“Can you imagine the consequences of your deed? Have you thought about your sisters? Any young man would have been honored to be married into the Masri family. I’ve already had matchmakers come from as far as Alexandria making inquiries. Now you want to bring shame to our good name. People will want to know what a Yahud girl is doing in our home.”

With each word Fatima had raised her voice. At the end she was breathless. And upset. She turned toward Samira, “Can you bring my son to his senses?” Fatima knew that Samira loved Musa as much as she did.

“We can try Uhm Zaide,” Samira said in a quiet voice.

“The witch!” Fatima and Musa exclaimed simultaneously.

“She has cured people. Everybody knows that her mixtures of herbs have saved lives,” Samira said. She sounded sure of her words. “Musa could go and bring her, though she lives far from here and moves slowly, poor woman. She’s getting up in years.”

Musa and Fatima looked at each other. Neither one seemed convinced of the wisdom of Samira’s words.

Fatima was on the point of answering, but Samira was faster. She could always guess her mistress’ thoughts. “Before calling Uhm Zaide, with your permission, I’d like to try another cure first.” Musa’s face lightened.

“I need you two to help me,” Samira said. “Musa, you bring me a pan with a few burning coals from the hot stove. Fatima, bring a bucket of cold water,” she commanded.

After they brought what she asked for, Samira ordered, “Now leave me alone with her.” Musa stood undecided “Go, go,” Samira said with impatience, when she saw him still lingering.

Alone with Shifra, Samira cooled the burning coals in the water; then placed them on Shifra’s chest. Shifra shivered. Samira dipped a clean rag in the water in which the burning coals had been extinguished, and with it brushed Shifra’s forehead, cheeks, and arms while whispering, “
Mein kind, mein kind
, my child.” The girl’s eyelids fluttered. From Samira’s lips came a song, one she didn’t know she remembered.
Where had she heard it? Did the old man sing it?

Again Shifra’s eyelids moved. Samira could almost see the blue underneath her eyelids. Shifra’s lips opened, “Mama,” she whispered.

Samira tried to hold back her tears. From around her neck, she took her talisman, the precious amulet that had never left her neck for the last twenty-five years. She kissed it before she placed the string holding it around Shifra’s neck.

“It’s a
mezuzah
,” Samira whispered, “Now I’m placing you in your God’s hands. He is going to heal you.”

When she was twelve years old, the orphaned Samira was sent by her grandmother to clean the rooms of an old Jewish man who had left his family in the faraway country where he was born and had come to die and be buried in the Holy Land, an old custom of very religious Jews. “He is one of many,” her grandmother, who was cleaning for other old Jews, told her.

Mr. Grunwald lived in Jerusalem’s Jewish Quarter surrounded by the walls of the Old City. He prayed the entire day, ate very little, and despite the language barrier between them, he smiled at Samira often. His smile warmed her heart. Many times Samira imagined that her grandfather, whom she had never met, must have resembled Mr. Grunwald. His room was full of books and
yellowed photographs which Samira dusted with care. For that, Mr. Grunwald added a few piastres to her fee.

Once when he got a cold, he asked her for a
gleizole
, a small glass of tea, and from his signs she understood what he wanted. She served him the tea along with bread and cheese, the only two items she saw him eating at other meals. He smiled gratefully. After he fell asleep, Samira took his hand and held it for a long time. She felt closer to him than to her own grandmother, who never had time for her.

Samira was born in Al Fashha, one of the Arab villages west of Jerusalem. Her father was taken by the Turkish Army to fight in what she learned later was The Great War. He never returned home. From too much work and exhaustion Samira’s mother died in childbirth, not long after her father left with the army. The baby didn’t survive either. It was then that her grandmother took Samira under her roof. But money was scarce and she had to send Samira to work, too. That’s how Samira came to work for Mr. Grunwald.

The seasons passed one after another and with time, a strange kinship developed between the old Jew and Samira. She learned a few of the Yiddish words, enough to be able to serve him, to buy his newspaper and the few groceries he needed. In turn he showed her the photographs of each one of his children and
einikleh
, grandchildren. They were beautiful blond girls and handsome boys, all well-dressed, each one smiling, maybe at their grandfather.

Samira hoped to serve Mr. Grunwald forever. In her heart he had already replaced the grandfather she never knew. But one day he received a letter. He had received many letters before, which he told her were from his children. But that time it was another kind, a terrible letter. The letters on the envelope looked different from the ones she had become familiar with. When she came to work the next day, she saw Mr. Grunwald prostrated on the floor, a burning candle at his side. He seemed unable to move and refused to eat. Not even to drink his tea.

His body was moving forward and backward and he often broke into tears, mumbling constantly, “
Oi, meine kinder
,” Other old bearded Jews came to keep him company, prayed with him and she heard them whispering with dread in their voices one single word, again and again, “Pogrom, pogrom.”

One said
, “Wie in the Petliura tzeiten, die gazlan
, like in the times of the monster, Petliura.”

At the time she didn’t know what it meant but understood that it must have been something terrible. Not long after that the old man took to his bed and despite all her efforts—Samira wanted so desperately to save him—he died shortly afterward. All through his illness he never spoke to her again.

Samira was still holding his hand, now completely cold, unable to move from his side, when the people from
Hevre Kadishe
, the Jewish Burial Society, came to take his body and bury him according to the Jewish tradition. One man approached her, a piece of paper in his hand.

Samira stood up respectfully. The man spoke in a language she couldn’t understand. He pointed to something written on the paper after which he gave her money, “From Mr. Grunwald,” he said. The money, an amount equal to a full year of service, was not all he had left her. Samira was in shock when the man who had given her the money took the old pictures from the wall and pressed them into her hand, “They are yours, too,” he said, “Mr. Grunwald’s wish.”

Samira waited for the people from the Burial Society to leave. Then with eyes swimming in tears, she went to the door post and kissed her palm after she touched the
mezuzah
, the way she saw the old man do it every time he left home and after he returned. He had told her the mezuzah was holy. A moment later she took a ladder and, with the help of a hammer, removed the mezuzah. She put a piece of string around it and fastened it around her neck. In that way, she told herself, the old man would always be with her.

Now, gently knotting the mezuzah around Shifra’s neck, Samira felt she was returning Mr. Grunwald’s kindness toward her. The girl’s looks reminded her of one of his grandchildren, whose pictures she kept hidden in her closet, in her room behind the kitchen.

Watching Shifra, whose fingers lingered on the mezuzah, a forlorn smile on her lips, Samira was cheered to see that the girl’s chest moved at an even pace and she slept peacefully.

Samira’s life wasn’t easy after Mr. Grunwald passed away. Her grandmother was hit by a car when she tried to cross a narrow street in the Old City. The car was driven by English youngsters, laughing and shouting and probably drunk. Jerusalem was full of English tourists. Her grandmother was almost deaf, and the kerchief she wore on her head didn’t help her hearing; neither did the long
jelebia
help her move quickly. Her heart didn’t recover from the shock. She died immediately after.

When Samira was hired by Fatima’s wealthy parents, she wasn’t much older than Fatima. Fatima took a liking to her and taught her to read Arabic. The family was good to her, but they kept her at a distance. For them she was a servant. They never broke bread with her the way old Mr. Grunwald had.

When she missed him the most she’d go to the Jewish cemetery on the Mount of Olives, wash the headstone, light a little candle in the glass box and put little stones on the grave, the way she saw other people do.

After Fatima got married and moved to Jaffa, and especially after the children were born, Samira found a new meaning in life. She adored the children, Musa especially, and they returned her love. She never missed being married. As she told Fatima many times, “I don’t need a husband who’d get drunk and beat me.” She was only eleven years old when her father was taken into the Army, but she still remembered how her father used to slap her mother after drinking a few glasses of arak.

Fatima entered the room, her eyes full of questions. “I think she’s out of danger,” Samira whispered, “But I’d like to keep an eye on her, so I want her to sleep in my room.” This she added quickly, as she had already seen the frown of displeasure on Fatima’s face. Yet Samira knew that Fatima wasn’t going to object, because their long history together had created a strong bond of trust between them.