Hope Valley

by Haviva Ner-David

  A waiter came to take their order. “Marchavah. Kahwee oh shai?” He looked at Ruby, waiting for an answer, and seemed surprised when Talya answered instead.

  “Kahwee,” she said to the waiter. Then to Ruby she said, “I didn’t have my morning coffee today, knowing I was coming here. I love traditional Palestinian coffee.”

  “Me too,” Ruby said. “But I had mine at home earlier today.” She turned to the waiter. “Shai,” she told him and he nodded and walked away. “They do make their tea well here, too, with mint leaves and lots of sugar. But their coffee is legendary.”

  “Great. And it’ll tide me over until I can get some lunch.”

  “So why are we here?” Ruby asked, shifting to find a comfortable position in her chair. She would ask more questions about Mahmoud later.

  Talya leaned over the table, her freckles looking more defined. “I’m worried about my mother. You know she has MS, right?”

  So that is what she had. Multiple Sclerosis. That was a tough one. Not deadly, like what Ruby had. But sometimes Ruby was thankful she had something that would kill her instead of letting her linger on, suffering. She shook her head.

  “She didn’t tell you? Well, I doubt she told you what a talented artist she is, either.”

  “Not in so many words, no. She mentioned that she used to paint. And the curator of the show at the port recognized her from when she used to show her work, so I gathered she was not just an amateur.”

  “No. She was no amateur. But she dropped it all together. She has not painted since I was a teenager. Did she tell you about my father?”

  “About his war trauma, you mean?”

  “Yes. He was in Lebanon. He was high up in the military. He revived the K-9 unit that had been defunct since things went haywire with some dogs back in 1948—”

  “—Yes, those were not just some dogs. That happened in my father’s village, Yakut al-Jalil.”

  Talya raised her plucked crimson eyebrows. “Really? In the village where Sapir is now? I wonder if my father knows that. Well, it seems something went wrong again with the dogs during a battle in the hills near Beirut. My father was there. It’s what made him retire from service. He did not fill me in on too many details, but that much I know. He’s told me more than he’s told my mother for sure.”

  “Why is that?” Ruby asked. For such a small family, they certainly had complicated dynamics.

  “He’s afraid of upsetting her. He made me promise not to let on that I know more than she does. He treats her like a fragile china doll. And she does the same with him.” Talya sighed. “She asked me not to mention Udi to him. She’s afraid he’ll go crazy. But I think he can handle it, even if he won’t like it. Secrets and avoidances cannot be a good thing.”

  Ruby thought of the secret in her own family. A secret she had not known existed until she came back home and discovered her father had a diary hidden away. Why had he not told her mother? What was in that diary that he preferred she not know? “Well, sometimes maybe they could be. The truth is often too hard to take.” Ruby had not told her family about her own prognosis, after all.

  Talya grimaced, her eyes half-closing into a squint. “I disagree. There’s no avoiding the truth. It will always come out anyway and cause more trouble than it would have had everyone just been honest from the start. I’m glad she finally took in that dog to shake things up a bit.”

  Ruby considered her own life. She had run away, but that had been justifiable. Courageous, even. Because of Mustafa. But she had not returned for so many years, not because of Mustafa. He was long gone. But, rather, because she was avoiding having to face her family’s tragic history on this land.

  The waiter returned with their hot drinks on a tray. He set a small ceramic pot in front of Ruby and a small metal pot in front of Talya; and glasses not much bigger than those used for shots of alcohol, he set down next to the pots.

  “Shukran,” Talya said, thanking the waiter.

  “Afwan. Sachah!” he replied, and left them to their drinks and conversation.

  Talya poured herself some coffee while she spoke. “So the reason I wanted to meet you, aside from the fact that I love your work, is that I am so glad you and my mother have become friends. Not just because it delights me to think she has befriended a Palestinian woman and may be starting to wake up to the reality around her, but also because you’re an artist. I was hoping you could encourage her to start painting again.”

  An interesting thought. Tikvah did seem to want to paint again. But Ruby’s original plan had been to get the diary and run. Now this daughter of Tikvah’s was asking her to become involved in Tikvah’s life. Did Ruby even care enough to try to help?

  “I know you think I’ve been having an influence on her,” Ruby said, as she poured herself a glass of tea. “But artist’s block is a complicated thing. And she’s not well. She has a degenerative neurological disease. Her hands shake. Maybe her brain is affected. She may even suffer from minor depression because of her illness. That could explain her lack of motivation. Her days as a serious painter may have passed.”

  Talya looked like she might cry. “Please don’t say that. You yourself are ill. Have you stopped painting? I think it’s a psychological block with her that’s not only related to her condition. I think the MS is what pushed her over the edge. That’s when she stopped completely, when she was diagnosed. But she already was not painting much before she became sick, when my father came back from the war. Everything changed then.”

  “How so?”

  A nostalgic smile spread across Talya’s already bright face, accentuating the dimple in her chin. “My parents used to be that kind of couple who finished each other’s sentences. I never saw them fight. I had this idyllic childhood, really. And my mother was always there for me, always supportive. My friends were jealous of our relationship. She was like a big sister.” She lifted her glass to her freckled lips and took a sip.

  Ruby did not have trouble believing that Tikvah was the kind of mother Talya described. She saw how much Tikvah wanted to support her daughter’s choices, even when she disagreed with them. Enough to cross her husband and even blind herself to the risks involved. Perhaps a mother was what was needed here more than a big sister, she mused, and then pushed the thought away. She was surprised at the maternal instincts that arose in her chest when she was with this young woman. Like in the restaurant in Yaffa, she found herself feeling sad for what had not been, yet also wanting only to be in Talya’s presence more, even if the emotions that evoked were bittersweet.

  “And my parents, they really stuck together,” Talya continued when she put her steaming coffee back on the table. “We had no family here in Israel, but it didn’t matter. They had each other. They still do. But in a different way. The caring is still there. I know that. They still love each other. It’s why they are so careful not to upset each other. It’s like their love inhibits the relationship instead of enhancing it. It’s so sad for me to see. That’s one reason I come home less these days. Although Udi is another reason, of course.”

  Talya’s description of her mother and of her parents’ marriage gave Ruby more insight into Tikvah, made her feel sorry for her, even. In spite of her resentments about the house, she felt herself wanting to help. She was becoming enmeshed, despite her better judgment. “So what do you think I can do?”

  “I guess it was a long shot, asking you to meet me. Whimsical, even. But I felt drawn to you when we met.” So she had felt it, too. “I thought it was worth going out on a limb and just asking you to help, since you are already friends with my mother.”

  “Listen, Talya. I only just met her. We don’t really know each other that well . . .”

  “Well, I just wanted you to know this about her, since I doubted she would tell you herself. I wanted you to know how reclusive my parents’ life is, and how troubled. Whether or not you consider her a good friend, you are the first person I’ve seen her let into her life since they moved up here.” Talya lif
ted her glass again to her lips. “We were always a tight-knit family, as I said. A circle of three. A triangle, I guess. But then it felt embracing, nurturing. Now it feels unhealthy. My mother needs a friend. And it seems she chose you. Interestingly enough.” She took another sip and put her glass back down.

  Ruby did not say that it was she who had chosen Tikvah, not the other way around, and not because she wanted a friend. Or was that not entirely true? “Why do you think she chose me of all people, as you put it?”

  “I think she has always felt an outsider on the moshav, so it’s not surprising she feels more comfortable opening up to an outsider, too, like yourself. But she wouldn’t have considered befriending someone from the surrounding villages before now. It might just be my relationship with Udi that has opened her up to this possibility.” A pensive look came across Talya’s face. “But I don’t think it’s just that. I think her waning health is opening her eyes to the suffering around her. And to who she really is. Her calling. I’d like to think her artist’s block, as you call it, has been more of a hibernation, like cocooning, and that meeting you will be the final push needed for her to emerge as the butterfly she was meant to become.”

  “That’s a lovely image.” Ruby drank from her glass again. The mix of mint and sugar was like candy in her mouth.

  “Her art was always skillful, but I think it lacked a certain inspiration, a purpose, a message, even when she was at the height of her career. Maybe something positive can come out of her illness.”

  Ruby thought of her own illness, of how it brought her home and in search of her father’s diary. If she had not come home, perhaps the diary would have been lost forever. She was getting closer to it with each interaction with Tikvah. And now with her daughter, too. If Tikvah did not invite her to the house, perhaps Talya would. “There are some who would say art with a message is not true art.”

  “Is that what you think?” Talya opened her eyes widely. Their color and glint were as refreshing as the sea water they suggested.

  Ruby thought of her own art and how it had changed since coming back home. “No. I used to think that. But now I think that the best art combines the two, so that the technique is at the fore of the work, but the feeling it evokes is equally as important. So, yes, I agree art should not have a message exactly. But it should make a lasting impression that is beyond just its aesthetic value.”

  “Exactly. And I know my mother well enough to think that she has been denying a piece of herself until now, and that her best art is yet to come.” Talya hesitated. “I don’t know you well enough to know if you believe in fate, but I think you and my mother were meant to meet, were meant to serve a purpose in each other’s lives.”

  Ruby looked at the young woman across from her. She was wise beyond her years. If only she knew just how true her words were. Would it be so terrible if Ruby was not the only one who benefitted from the synchronicity in this situation? Apparently there was much more at work here than she had even realized. Was she willing to open herself up to all of the possibilities arising from this relationship, and not just the ones she herself had planned? That meant taking her hands off the controls of her unfolding destiny and letting the road take her in whatever direction it was leading. It was a scary thought, but at this point in her life, getting off the road felt like the saddest option of all.

  JAMAL

  February 18, 1948

  Dear Father Allah,

  Today is finally the beginning of my life. I met her, my angel. The woman I’ve been waiting for. Like me, she came to the church for quiet, to be alone with her heart. It’s so hard these days to find quiet. To be still. Even at the book shop, there is so much noise now. Alarms, shouting, arguing, crying. It’s become a shelter more than a bookstore. No one is buying books now. They’re looking for food, for weapons, or just for some words of hope. My soul longs for peace. My body is starved for it, thirsts for it like water.

  That is why I lost control today. I had to get away. Ahmad and Kareem are barely home now, as they are organizing and training to fight. Amir, too. Umm Ahmad, Fatima, Nahla and I are keeping the farm going. Abu Ahmad is bedridden with a horrible cough. Everything is falling to pieces around me. There’s no chance I will go to study abroad now. Who even knows if we’ll be able to hold onto our land? The village of Sasa north of here was attacked only a few nights ago, killing tens of villagers. It’s inevitable that our village too will be targeted when the Haganah decides the time is right.

  Today, my brothers graced us with their presence out in the fields. There are vegetables to harvest and sell. Potatoes, squash, beets, eggplants, lettuces and cilantro. Every day feels like an uncertainty; the more we can sell now the better, so we need their help more than ever. But I don’t know if it was worth having to endure their rantings. I am tired of hearing about the “evil Jews.” I want to argue with my brothers, but I know I’d only be laughed at, if not beaten.

  I couldn’t take it anymore. I left right in the middle of the harvesting. Umm Ahmad called after me to come back, but I had to get away. I ran and ran, through the fields, to the olive groves and further down the valley. I didn’t know where I was headed, but I knew I had to keep running. But when I looked up and saw your golden cross, I knew I was being guided. That cross has always been there, hovering on the horizon, a constant reminder of you, Father Allah, watching over me when I’ve felt lost and alone. That is why I think I heard your cross calling me today.

  Since my grandparents started taking me to their church, I have always appreciated the silent reverence of their house of worship, so different from the boisterous familiar atmosphere of our village mosque. I knew the nuns were in silence. I longed for silence. I heard the silence calling me. And the peace. The stillness and peace. So I followed your cross until I was standing at the foot of the front gate of the Sisters of Mary. “Sisters of Mary: Enter in Peace,” the sign read. And so I did.

  I walked along the flower-lined paths—red poppies, violet cyclamens, white irises, and yellow narcissi—until I reached the church. It was a small church, more like a chapel. I touched the door, and like the front gate, it too was not locked. I went inside, and there she was, sitting in front of baby Yasuaa in Maryam’s arms. I saw only her back, then, and her hair. It was the color of sunshine. Her shoulders were shaking, like she was crying. I walked into the chapel, slowly, trying not to disturb her. But it was so quiet, she would have heard me even if I were a turtle crawling across the floor. She turned around, and I saw her face. The face of an angel, covered with tears. She lowered her eyes—blue like the sapphire in the name of my village—gesturing towards the pew behind her, and I understood that she wanted me to stay.

  We sat there in the chapel, together but not together, for at least an hour. I had never been alone in a room with a woman. I felt her presence acutely, yet it also felt natural to be sitting there with her, as if our souls knew each other already from an ancient time. When she stood to leave, I noticed she was dressed like a kibbutznik. But she held a rosary in her hands. She smiled at me and indicated with her head that I was welcome to follow her. So I did.

  “Ahlan wa sahlan,” she said, once we were outside. She had a French accent.

  “Shalom,” I answered. I wanted her to know I spoke Hebrew, since I had a feeling her greeting was the extent of her Arabic.

  I discovered that the angel has a name. Marie. Like the Virgin Maryam. I told her my name. Both names. Ayush Jamal. She said it a few times, as if testing the sound of it. Then she asked what it meant. I told her that my birth name, Jamal, means handsome. When she told me my name suits me, my face grew warm, and I hoped she did not notice I was blushing. Then I told her why my parents added my second name, Ayush, long life.

  When I finished telling her the story of the well, she said, “We are both survivors.” And then she told me her story.

  She lives on the kibbutz now, but she lived in a convent during the war. Her rosary is from there. She says that is why she came to the chu
rch. She missed Maryam, the only mother she ever knew. Her father was Jewish, but her mother was Catholic, although she died when Marie was too young to even remember her. I told her my mother was raised Christian, too, although she raised me Muslim. I told her I believe in Yasuaa, that Muslims believe in all of the prophets: Musa, Yasuaa and Muhammad. I confessed that I don’t know if I believe, Father, that Yasuaa was your son, that any human could be your child. Not literally, at least. And if it is just a metaphor, I said, aren’t we all your children? So how could one human be more your child than any other? But I do believe in Yasuaa’s teachings, his wisdom, and even his ability to prophesize and heal, I told her.

  The words kept flowing from my mouth, like they do when I write to you, Father Allah. And she listened attentively, with a knowing look on her face, letting me go on without interruption. And when I finally stopped, she said, “So you understand how it feels.”

  I nodded. Someone, finally, who not only wanted to hear what I thought, but who actually understood, even empathized with, what I was saying. And not just from the head, but from a deeper place inside her. I had never had this kind of interchange with anyone before, let alone a woman. We talked as we walked, and I kept hoping that if I was having a vision, that it would never end. It was not just that this angel wanted to hear me, but I also wanted to hear her. Every sentence from her mouth opened up into another idea to ponder, another emotion to explore.

  Marie had not wanted to leave the convent, but the nuns gave her no choice. She says she understands why they made her leave. They could have kept her there, to “save her soul,” she explained. But they did what they thought was right. For her sake. For honesty’s sake, since her father was Jewish and there was some uncertainty about her baptism as a child, it seems. Besides, the Jews were willing to take her to Palestine. More Jewish bodies to create a presence here and populate their kibbutzim. Now that she is here, she does not know what she wants. That part of her life is over, she says. And she is here now, in the present, with nowhere else to go.