“Slow down, Noa,” Dan protested. “I can’t keep up with you. Take your plate and let me look at you. You’re dressed so nice this evening. What’s the occasion?”
“I’m going to a party later.”
“I was hoping we could go to a movie together.” Dan frowned.
“I’m sorry, Aba’le,” said Noa. “Listen, I’ll try to stop by tomorrow. But I was invited to this party, and Ofir is coming by later to pick me up.”
“Oh, fine. I’ve gotten used to the idea that there are other men competing for your attention.” He kissed her cheek.
“Thanks, Aba,” she said. “You told me over the phone you had something important to tell me. What is it? The suspense is killing me.”
“First, eat something. I can see you’re hungry. Then we’ll talk.
“No. Look, I’m done.” She put down her fork and looked at him. “First we talk, then we eat. I’m all ears.” She rose from her seat, went into the living room, and sat in her mother’s old armchair.
“Whatever you want. You’re the boss.” He sighed, and sat down opposite her.
“Okay, well, it’s like this,” he began. “You know that your father is growing up . . .” An ironic smile spread across his face.
“You mean you’re getting old . . .”
“You little troublemaker—I’m simply growing up.” He rubbed his face with his hands and continued. “In short, I’ve decided to take a trip in honor of my growing up. You could say that I’m going to find myself. I bought an open ticket to America.”
“You’re kidding, Aba! What’s gotten into you?”
“Listen, Noa.” Dan tried to explain. “I’ve been living alone for a long time; I’m tired of my work; I don’t want to be two hundred years old and suddenly realize my body is giving out on me, that I can’t do any of the things I dreamed about, that it’s too late. My boss, Tamir, persuaded me to take a few months off instead of retiring, and I made up my mind to go, and the sooner, the better.” Dan breathed heavily; this wasn’t easy for him. He knew that Noa would miss him more than anyone. They were particularly close; lately, they’d even been meeting up at the university.
“Wow, Aba, you never stop surprising me. Give me a minute, I have to get used to the idea . . . who are you traveling with?”
“I’m traveling by myself. You remember Itzik, my friend from the army? He’s been living in Seattle for years. He has a studio apartment downtown that happens to be for rent, and he offered it to me for as long as I want. I’ll have a place of my own. This is the perfect opportunity to see the west coast. You can even join me, and we can travel together.”
“Sure,” Noa said, bitterly.
“Noa, it’s not the end of the world.” Dan reached for her hand. “I’ll only be gone a few months, and it’s America, not the moon.” He spoke quietly, trying to soften the blow.
“Why do you have to go for such a long time? And what if you decide to stay there? What’s so bad about here?” She felt like a little girl again, abandoned by a parent. Her breathing grew ragged.
“It’s a little hard to explain,” Dan said, staring at the ceiling for a moment before facing her again. “Look, you and Guy are grown. You don’t even live here anymore. Do you see? I feel stuck, irrelevant. There are things I haven’t done, places I’ve never seen. I need air, my Noa—I don’t want to die without seeing them.” He looked into her face. “I want you to be happy for me. Come with me, Noa, my treat. I don’t want you to be angry with me.”
“What about your studies?” Noa’s voice quavered. She felt sadness, yes, but anger, too, even guilt.
“My studies can wait until I come back, Noa’le.”
“Everything’s always happening so fast,” she blurted. “Do you know that I was at Aunt Farida’s on Tuesday, and she gave me Ima’s diary? You never bothered to tell me it existed.”
“She gave you the diary? She didn’t say anything to me. And did you read it?” he asked with trepidation.
“I’ve only read a little,” she confessed. “I wasn’t up to reading past the first chapter.” Her voice shook. “I thought we could talk about it, the diary, but now . . . Aba, don’t you know how hard it’s going to be, not having you here?” She softened as she saw the regret play across his face. Voicing her troubles would make things very hard on him.
Dan made a fist and worked the knuckles against his forehead, as if trying to flatten the creases. “I’m sorry it turned out this way, Noa. She shouldn’t have given you the diary yet, at least not without consulting me. It was a mistake, a big mistake.”
“Listen,” she said. “I understand, you should go . . . of course, you should. I’ll be fine.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes,” she said, faking a smile.
“Now can we eat?” Dan asked as he stood.
“Come, Aba.” She took his hand. “I need you to know that I want you to be happy. But the distance . . . it’s on the other side of the world. I’ll miss you.”
“I know, my girl, I’ll miss you, too. But maybe it’ll inspire you . . . to breathe different air, see different landscapes, different people. Now it’s my time, and,” he said with a wink. “I don’t have any grandchildren to take care of . . . at least, not yet.”
“I do understand, Aba. I’m trying not to be selfish.”
He drew her into his arms. “You know you’ll always be my little bird. You’ll always be in my heart. And if it gets too hard, just hop on the next plane and tour the country with me. It could be really nice. Even the other end of the world is less than a day away.”
“Okay.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“And about the diary, Noa, I’m still here for a bit. If you want, you can read it here, with me. Maybe it’s good Farida gave you the diary, even if she should have talked to me first. But that doesn’t matter, Noa: Ima wanted you to read it. I think you’re ready. It will be good for you to see your mother from an adult perspective. Ima would be very proud of you if she were here.” He kissed her head. “And another thing, Noa . . . I love you very much.”
“I love you, too, Aba,” Noa said. His praise had lifted her spirits.
“So can we eat? I’m dying.”
“Don’t die on me . . . and promise me you’ll take care of yourself.”
“Always.”
“In that case, let’s eat,” she smiled. “Now tell me, which places are you planning to visit?”
Chapter Twelve: Violet
Sunday, January 22, 1987
When Eddie turned seventeen, he became active in the Zionist movement, and our house became both a meeting place and an arsenal. We had a secret room under the kitchen floor, where we hid the weapons. After the 1941 pogroms in Baghdad, during which Jews were arbitrarily slaughtered on the street, Iraqi Jews resolved not to be easy prey for the Arabs. If there ever was another pogrom, they decided, they would defend themselves.
Right before the declaration of the state of Israel, and especially right after, the plight of the Iraqi Jews deteriorated. People were fired from their jobs, and young men couldn’t get into the universities. By the time Jews began to leave, the situation was dire. My parents, along with my brother Anwar and his wife, and Farcha, Habiba, and their husbands, decided to fulfill their dream of living in the holy land and join those who were leaving. There was just one problem: Eddie. When they told him about their plans, he refused to go along; he insisted on staying in Baghdad. As a member of the Resistance, he felt he couldn’t leave his friends behind. My mother and Habiba decided that he couldn’t be left alone in Iraq; someone would have to remain with him. Eddie was nineteen and mature beyond his years. Habiba and my mother were afraid of what might happen. They knew that if the Iraqis captured any Resistance members, they would torture them until they gave up the names of their comrades, and then the Iraqis would hang them all.
Deciding who would stay behind with Eddie was excruciating, but, of course, it was my mother who decided t
o make the sacrifice. Eddie was everything to her, and there was no changing her mind. Habiba had small children—her Yosi (called “Yusuf” in Iraq) was only four years old—and Ima declared it was Habiba’s duty to accompany her family. She swore to Habiba that she wouldn’t let him “act out,” and that she would be responsible for his fate. And that’s exactly what happened: we began making preparations for our move to Israel, with the knowledge that Ima and Eddie would remain in Iraq. Farida and I, the oldest of the children, knew what Eddie was doing, and we understood the risks involved. Would we ever see Eddie and Ima again? We had no idea.
When Aba told us about the trip to Israel, Farida burst into tears. She knew Eddie wouldn’t be joining us, and that Ima would stay with him. I worried, too, but in other ways I was glad. I was ready for change, for adventure, for something different; I was tired of living in the Jewish ghetto.
We sold what we could. It was forbidden for Jews to take cash out of Iraq, and we weren’t about to take any chances. We left most of the money with Ima and Eddie. And we still had our house, a huge home with only two people living in it. I insisted on taking my dolls. I was almost nineteen, but I couldn’t leave them behind. I’d made them myself, and over the years I’d added new clothes and accessories. They were their own miniature world. Aba refused to take the whole collection; he allowed each child to take one thing, no more. I picked Fahima, my oldest and most beloved doll, and I still have her to this day, although she is now in tatters. I can’t dispose of her. She is the thread that connects me to my childhood, to my home in Iraq, to the Chidekel River, the palm trees, the desert heat, the aromas . . .
At the airport, I collapsed into Ima’s arms. I couldn’t let go. We both cried, and she promised that she and Eddie would join us as soon as they could. She begged me not to worry. She kissed me through tears and said to take care of Aba, never imagining she and Eddie would be trapped in Iraq for over a year.
We wore our best clothes when we climbed into the giant silver bird. We flew to Cyprus, switched planes, and continued to the holy land. When the strange, oversized plane landed, we walked down the ramp and looked around. The heat was the same, just wetter, stickier. I looked for Aba but couldn’t find him. Then I heard sobbing. There he was, kneeling, kissing the ground and weeping. “Aba, why are you crying?” I asked. I was afraid something had happened to him; maybe he had fallen. But all he said, in a trembling voice, was “Shehechiyanu v’kimanu v’higianu lazman hazeh, amen.” He was reciting the shehechiyanu blessing, thanking God for allowing us to live to see this day. I was a young girl, full of life, and I practically burst out laughing. Then Aba said: “You have no idea how I have prayed for this day, how I have waited for it, dreamt about it, just like my father, and his father, and his grandfather. One generation after another. And I’m the fortunate one. The day has finally arrived, may God’s name be blessed.”
I didn’t understand. Today, many years after that moment, many years since Aba has passed on, I know what he meant. He never thought he’d live to see that day, to touch the land his father, grandfather, and grandfather’s grandfather had wished and prayed for. And here he was, the first in all those generations privileged to move to the Promised Land.
Chapter Thirteen: Farida
Farida woke in a good mood. She stretched her legs luxuriously, heaved herself up, and walked over to the closet. It was filled with dresses, some of which she hadn’t worn in thirty years, others she’d never worn at all. One of them, a shabby red dress, had been her favorite. Although it didn’t exactly flatter the lines of her body, Farida pulled it over her head and examined herself in the mirror. She applied red lipstick, which only emphasized the gap between what she wanted to see and what she did see in the mirror. She slipped on walking shoes, left the house, and headed toward the bus stop. On the way, she encountered Dora, her Romanian neighbor from down the hill, and wished her a good morning.
Dora bombarded Farida with a stream of polite questions. “Good morning to you, too, Farida, how are you? The children? The grandchildren?”
The two of them chatted as usual, Dora complaining about her husband who hadn’t left the house since he’d retired, Farida envying her neighbor for having someone at home to keep her company.
“Patience, Dora. Think how nice it is for you, not being alone. I can’t remember the last time I woke up next to a man, even one who behaves like a little boy.” Farida put her hands on her hips and rebuked her neighbor: “When was the last time someone said something nice to me? Or brought me a cup of tea when I was sick? All my days and nights are like this. Lonely.”
“You know what?” Dora chuckled nervously. She seemed taken aback, unsure how to respond to her neighbor of more than thirty years. “You might be right. But believe me, things were better when he was working. At least it was quiet.”
“Everything will be alright, Dora,” Farida assured her. “You should visit me once in a while. At my house it’s quiet. You can have all the rest you want. I’ll make you some strong coffee, just as you like it, and we’ll read our fortunes in the coffee grounds.” They often drank Turkish coffee together, then inverted their cups when they finished, deposited the piled grounds on the table, waited for them to dry, and read their futures in the brown mosaic. “Ya’allah,” Farida said, trying to wrap up the conversation—it was putting her in a bad mood. “I’ve got to get moving; my bus is almost here.”
“Where are you going?” Dora asked.
“Town. To get my hair cut, colored, and styled. Look at me! I’m a train wreck, as Sigali would say. Ya’allah, my dear,” she said, “Salaam. And come visit me, Okay?”
As she continued down the street, Farida ran into Carmella from the first floor, who asked her about Sigal, and Jamil from the market, who complimented her dress. After that, she felt a little lighter on her feet. She stepped onto the bus, greeted the driver, and sat down behind him.
The bus wove its way through the neighborhood. People came on and got off, said hello to each other, asked after one relative or another. Everyone in the small town knew one another, and they knew all the gossip: who was pregnant and when they were due; who was having an affair; who was getting divorced; who was getting married; who owed money. Knowing each other’s business was a fact of life here, for better or for worse, and Farida felt at home. When the bus arrived downtown, she got off and walked toward the beauty shop.
A fellow named Shimon owned and operated the small salon. His uncle had given him the shop when he’d retired. Shimon had renovated the place, installed a stereo system, and installed comfortable chairs. He’d even set up an aquarium for the clients to enjoy. The salon was the social hub of the neighborhood. Everyone stopped by, and not just for a haircut. They came to drink coffee, talk about this and that, see and be seen. Gossip reached the salon first.
Farida walked into the salon, sat down, and gazed into the mirror opposite her. She grimaced as she ran her hand through her hair. Shimon waited patiently for her to complete the ritual, then offered her something to drink.
“Just some cold water,” Farida said. “You know how it is, the diet.” But when she turned her head and saw the plate of cookies on the table, she was suddenly hungry. She pointed to the sweet date-filled cookies. “Is that ma’amul?”
“Walla, yes, fresher than fresh. My mother baked them yesterday. Do you want to try one?”
“Your mother, may she live and be well, knows how to bake.” Farida took one and tasted it, smacked her lips, and—like a true epicurean—rolled her eyes in pleasure.
Shimon waited for the verdict. “Well? What do you think?”
“Walla, these date cookies are the best I’ve ever had—almost as good as my baba with dates. Ya’allah, don’t be stingy—bring me another one.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Shimon said. He put the plate in front of her and got to work.
“What are you doing? Are you crazy? I told you I was on a diet. I only asked for one, remember? If you leave them here, I’ll eat
them all.”
“Alright, alright.” Shimon chuckled as he removed the plate. He stood next to her, staring at her hair and rubbing his stubbly cheeks. Not shaving—that was the style among young people, she thought, among lazy people. “So what are we doing today?” he asked, passing a comb through Farida’s thin hair.
Farida stared into the mirror and sighed. She spoke in her sweetest voice: “Shimon, I’m counting on you. I come in here looking like kusa machsi—you know what that is?”
“No, what is it?”
“Kusa machshi is stuffed squash. It means I look like what young people call a train wreck.”
Shimon was about to respond, but Farida stopped him. “Wait a minute—I still haven’t told you how I’m going to look when I walk out of here.”
“How are you going to look?” Shimon smiled.
“I’m going to look like a bride,” Farida said, tossing her head. “Do whatever you want, ya’allah, surprise me.” She ran her hand through her hair and flashed him a skeptical smile.
Shimon thought for a minute, then said, “I want to cut the front and the sides and leave it a little longer in the back. And color it. What do you say?”
“Whatever you want, minus a twenty percent discount,” Farida laughed.
“It’s a deal.” Farida was a loyal client, and she also referred a lot of her friends to him.
“Farida,” Shimon said. “You know how we do it. I work, and you tell me stories.” This was the custom between them. Farida was telling him her life story, one chapter at a time. Every time she went to the salon, Shimon would hear another segment, always with a humorous slant, which he liked.
“So what are we going to hear today?”
“Today you’ll hear about what happened when we got to Israel.” She said Israel with an exaggerated accent. “How does that sound?”
Daughters of Iraq Page 8
