“Nasir! How was your work today?” he cried, kissing his cheeks three times.
“It was fine, Baba,” he replied, returning his father’s embrace. His father was quite tall, but so was Nasir. Not long ago, Nasir would have to stand on his toes to reach his father, but in the last year he’d grown so fast that he now matched his height.
“You’re just in time for dinner,” Baba said, leading Nasir over to the tiny dining table. “Come sit down and tell me what happened.”
While father and son sat and discussed the details of their day, Mama and the two older girls brought the dishes to the table. They started the meal with mezze: olives, hummus, baba ganoush, and tabouleh. Sameera passed around freshly baked loaves of taboon bread, which they tore into small pieces to scoop up the dips. They continued with the baed u batata — cubed potatoes and eggs fried in olive oil and allspice — and ended with fruit and mint tea.
Throughout the meal, Mama pressed them all to refill their plates several times — she was only ever truly happy when those dining at her table had stuffed themselves. As usual, she served herself only after everyone else had finished.
When the meal was over, the family sat back in their chairs and lingered over their empty plates and full stomachs. Sameera told a story about two of her girlfriends from school, giggling and covering her mouth so much that her words were almost unintelligible. In contrast to Sameera, Nasir’s middle sister, Amar, was quite shy. Her parents tried to persuade her to perform the little song she was learning in her class, but she blushed and ran to Mama’s lap, burying her face in the folds of her dress. Baby Rana, who was still learning how to feed herself, sat in Mama’s arms, babbling and fingerpainting her round cheeks with the leftover hummus. As messy as she was, her older siblings couldn’t help kissing her.
By the time the table was cleared, it was getting late. One by one, Mama began carrying the sleepy girls to their bed. Once they were alone, Mr. Hadad pulled Nasir aside to talk.
“There’s something I’d like to speak to you about,” he said, motioning for his son to join him on the couch — the same couch that would be Nasir’s bed in just a few more hours. Nasir sat down beside him, guessing from the low hang of his father’s eyebrows that this was going to be serious. He was right.
“I don’t know if you’ve overheard Mama and me talking about it, but our family in Askar is in real trouble. Your grandparents’ health is not good, and your aunt has just lost her job. They need our help. We have to start sending more money.”
Nasir nodded. He knew that their relatives in the West Bank had a terrible life. Compared to the way they lived over there, their own tiny apartment in Jerusalem was luxurious. Ever since Nasir could remember, his parents had been sending money to support them.
“I know you’ve been helping out with your salary from the store,” he continued. “But it’s just not enough.”
Nasir nodded again. “What do you want me to do?”
Baba leaned his head close to his son’s and lowered his voice to a barely audible whisper. Clearly, he didn’t want Mama to hear what he was about to say. But that would be difficult. Their apartment was too small to keep many secrets — a fact that was made embarrassingly clear to Nasir every few nights when noises from his parents’ room travelled through the walls and into his mortified ears.
“I’ve found a way to make some extra money,” he whispered. “I’m going to need your help and strong arms to do it. It’s going to mean hard work and late hours — you might have to miss some soccer games.”
Nasir watched his father’s eyes moisten with sadness as he spoke. Baba had grown up in Askar, moving to Jerusalem only after his parents arranged his marriage to Mama, who was already an Israeli citizen. Because of the tight border regulations, he’d only been back to visit them a handful of times over the past twenty years. Nasir could only guess how hard it was for him to be away from his family. And it was probably even harder not to have enough money to support them.
Years ago, Baba used to earn a decent living as a tour guide. But ever since the second intifada began, the whole tourism industry had really suffered. Lately he’d only been working sporadically. As the oldest child and only son, Nasir had always known that he would one day be expected to stand beside his father and help support their family. But he never imagined the day would come when he would be asked to take a second job. And especially not while he was only sixteen.
The call to prayer sounded in the distance, bringing a quick end to their conversation. Baba jumped up from the couch and reached for his prayer rug, which had been carefully rolled and placed in the corner of the room. Nasir went to get his, too. The Hadad household was a fairly traditional one. Mama still covered her hair in public and Baba prayed five times every day. He expected his son to pray, too, and Nasir went along with it to please him. Over the years, this had all become a well-established routine.
In almost perfect synchrony they washed their hands, removed their shoes, turned towards Mecca, and rolled out their prayer rugs side by side on the floor. Then they dropped to their knees and brought their foreheads down to meet the matted woollen fibres of their rugs.
But that is where the similarities of their routines ended. As usual, while Baba started praying, Nasir’s mind began to wander. Against all his best efforts, his thoughts crept back to the girl. He wondered if she’d ever noticed him watching her. He wondered what it must be like to have the money to waste on gum and candy every day. He wondered what her name was and what her voice sounded like.
Every time she came up to the counter he opened his mouth to talk to her, but always ended up losing his courage. Maybe he would manage to say something tomorrow — he was almost certain she’d be back.
Turning his head slightly, he snuck a quick peek at his father praying so intently beside him. Their conversation replayed itself again in his mind. He knew his father felt guilty for living in Israel while their relatives languished in a refugee camp. Nasir sometimes wondered whether he should feel guilty, too. But he never did. He was very happy not to be over there. In fact, most of the time he didn’t even want to be over here. He couldn’t imagine living the rest of his life this way. There were places in the world where people didn’t have to struggle so hard to support their families — places in the world where life was easier. Nasir knew this for a fact.
Just then, Baba opened his eyes and saw his son watching him. Nasir quickly turned his eyes back down to his rug and continued on through the motions of his prayer.
Chapter 6
I decided the dark-skinned boy with the big brown eyes had a crush on me.
Although we hadn’t spoken yet, I was almost positive it was true. Every time I went into in his little hole-in-the-wall store, his eyes would follow me up and down the aisles. Even when he was helping another customer, it seemed like he was always watching me. It was pretty shameless — he didn’t even try to hide it. And I could see his hands trembling whenever I came up to the counter.
It made me nervous. I didn’t know what to say; I didn’t know what to do, either. It was just so embarrassing.
Sometimes I’d steal a glance or two from underneath the thin veil of my hair while he was busy at the cash register. He had thick dark hair that was almost long enough to brush his shoulders, smooth tanned skin, and a thin white scar cutting across the bottom of his chin.
And of course, those eyes! They were rimmed with lashes so long and dark that he almost looked like he was wearing mascara. Every time I looked at him I felt jealous. Why should a boy have lashes like that? My own blond eyelashes were practically invisible.
At first I only dropped into the store on my way to Ulpan when I needed something like a pack of gum or a roll of Life Savers. Every time I walked in I could feel the intensity of his gaze. Those brown eyes would burn into me until I had no choice but to just get out of there as fast as I could. But I would always find myself coming back for more a few days later. I have to admit, it was flattering. Never in my
life had a boy stared at me like that, and I’d begun to like it. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was something unusual about him — something different from the guys I went to school with back in Canada. I started finding excuses to go to his store as often as I could. I must have seemed like a crazy girl with an obsessive gum habit, but it was the only thing I could afford to buy on such a regular basis. I wondered what he thought of me and why he looked at me that way. Harrison Finch never once looked at Hailey Wintrop like that, and they’d almost gone all the way!
When I told Marla about it, her reaction surprised me.
“You mean that Arab boy at the local makolet?” she gasped.
“Mako-what?”
“Trust me, you’ve got to forget about him!” she warned, ignoring my question. “Sure he’s cute, but he’s also Muslim! His parents will never let him date you!”
“I never said I wanted to date him!” I replied, suddenly feeling very defensive. “I just think he’s nice looking. And anyway, why not?”
“Why not? Don’t you see?” she asked, shaking her finger at me. “You’re white and Christian. It’s not going to happen!”
Still, I couldn’t get him out of my head. I dreamed about him at night. I got dressed in the mornings totally based on what I thought he’d like. It’s funny, at home just bumping into a guy wouldn’t put me over the edge like this, but I guess when you’re in a foreign country, any male attention is better than nothing. Soon enough, I found myself going into his shop every single day. Between coffee and gum, I was running out of money fast.
I think I was getting a crush on him, too. And I didn’t even know his name!
Chapter 7
By coincidence, my fifteenth birthday fell on the last day of Ulpan.
I don’t know if Dad called and told him or what, but somehow my teacher got wind of it and led the whole class in a shaky chorus of the Hebrew happy birthday song. As you can imagine, it was mortifying. Of course, I turned red as a beet. I always do when people sing “Happy Birthday” to me.
Later that night, Dad took me out for dinner at a local shish kebab place and gave me my present over a plate of shwarma. At first when I opened the box and found a cellphone, I was ecstatic. Pretty awesome birthday present, right? Well, as it turned out, not so much.
“This is for emergency use only, Mack,” Dad explained in his most authoritative parental tone. “I get nervous with you running all over this city and I want you to be safe. But you’ll have no more than ten minutes of call time per month, so use it wisely.”
Um, hello? What was I supposed to do with ten minutes a month? For a teenager, it was like getting a key to the candy store and being told you could only have one jelly bean. Not wanting to hurt his feelings, I smiled and did my best to hide my disappointment. After all, what did I expect? Mom had always been the one to buy the presents in our family — Dad would just sign the card and show up for cake.
Presents aside, now that I was fifteen, what I had really been hoping for was the green light to start dating. When I brought it up, though, Dad looked pained — like someone had just stuck a pin in his butt.
“Well, uh — I don’t think this is the right time to discuss that, Mack,” he stammered.
My heart sunk. This was not how I’d imagined this conversation happening. At this rate, I was never going to have a boyfriend!
“What do you mean ‘not the right time’?” I whined, trying to keep from crying. “I’m fifteen years old now, Dad. All my friends are dating!”
That last part wasn’t exactly true, but I thought it made my argument sound more convincing. Unfortunately, Dad didn’t agree.
“Oh gosh,” he said, pushing his couscous nervously around with his fork, “Let’s wait a little bit longer on this one, okay, honey?”
I could hear a slight hint of begging in his voice; I knew he was dying to drop the subject, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out why. In all his years as a parent, he’d never imagined having this conversation with me. Mom had always handled the tough parenting subjects. You know, the birds-and-bees talk, the first-period talk, the say-no-to-drugs talk. He’d been on the sidelines of my childhood, and probably never expected he’d have to handle the ready-to-start-dating talk all by himself!
Maybe it was because it was my birthday, but I was feeling kind of generous. So, in a rare moment of weakness, I took pity on him and let him off the hook — for now, anyway.
After my birthday I began to see less of him as he started working longer hours at the university getting ready for the beginning of the first semester. Sometimes he wouldn’t get home until after dark. Of course, I was always there waiting for him. The local pizza guy already knew our order by heart.
Some things never change.
At least Ulpan was finally over. And there were still a couple of weeks before the beginning of school in October, so Marla suggested we celebrate the end of summer by going on a trip to a nearby beach town called Netanya.
Naturally, Dad didn’t want to let me go, but when I promised to be home for dinner he finally agreed. We hopped on a bus early in the morning and got there just over an hour later. Unlike Canada, where it would take weeks to get from one end of the country to the other, nothing in Israel is very far. They say the entire nation is about the size of New Jersey.
The first things I noticed in Netanya were the palm trees. They were everywhere, as abundant as maple trees back at home. And there were miles of the most beautiful sandy beaches I’d ever seen. We spent the whole time splashing in the Mediterranean, eating ice cream, and lounging on the sand — Marla in the sunshine working on her tan and me right next to her, under an umbrella, slathered with SPF 45.
While we lay there, I thought a bit about my friends back home and how they’d spent their summer sitting on the banks of the mud-bottom lake at Camp Towango. Steffi would have been so jealous of this beach. Scratch that — all my old friends would have been jealous if they could see where I was. God, it’s amazing how quickly you can lose touch with people. I’d barely spoken or written to any of them all summer. And you know what? I wasn’t missing them at all. Not even Christina. It was strange to think that in only a couple of weeks I’d be seeing them again when I flew back home to Toronto.
I dreamt about the beach that night — the blue water, the soft sand, the warm breeze, and the cloudless sky. When I woke up the next morning it was almost eleven o’clock. I stretched my arms lazily up in the air, enjoying the feel of a good sleep-in. But just as I was getting out of bed, a deafening noise pierced the air.
“Waaaaaa-oooooo … waaaaaaa-ooooooooo … waaaaaaa-ooooooooo … waaaaaaa-ooooooooo …”
I almost jumped out of my skin.
Oh my God! The air raid siren!
My brain seized up with fear as I tried to remember what to do.
Are we under attack? Are bombs falling on us? Panicked, I grabbed Frou-frou and Mom’s sweater (her picture still inside) and ran to the bomb shelter. My heart was pounding out of my chest. The siren was so loud, so constant, and so urgent. There was no escaping it.
I can’t believe I’m all alone! Daddy! Daddy! I wish you were here with me!
I grabbed a gas mask and pulled it over my face, then set to work sealing the doors with duct tape. The siren screamed in my ears the whole time.
“Waaaaaa-oooooo … waaaaaaa-ooooooooo … waaaaaaa-ooooooooo … waaaaaaa-ooooooooo…”
Oh no! Somebody help me! I don’t want to die! What do I do now? Where’s the instruction sheet?
I found it and frantically began reading the directions.
In Case of Emergency
Bring radio into shelter.
Damn it! I messed up the very first instruction!
I stared at the sealed door and imagined a giant green cloud of poisonous gas forming on the other side.
Oh well … too late to go get the radio now!
I sat down on the floor and started to cry. I felt more hideously alone in that moment than ever bef
ore in my entire life. A couple of terrifying minutes later, the siren stopped just as abruptly as it had started. What did that mean? I wiped my eyes under the gas mask and checked the instruction sheet. My breath sounded like Darth Vader.
Do not leave until you hear the
“all-clear” signal.
I cowered in the corner and waited. I had no idea what an all-clear signal was supposed to sound like, but I figured I’d know it when I heard it.
Hours went by; the morning passed into afternoon. I was sure we were at war. I strained my ears to listen for gunfire, but I couldn’t hear anything besides my own breathing in the stupid gas mask. My face was hot and sweaty and uncomfortable, but I was too scared of the poisonous gas to take it off. I thought about Dad and prayed that he was all right and that he’d made it to the university bomb shelter. And for the first time ever, I found myself wishing I hadn’t been so hard on him all this time. After all, he was hurting, too.
Feeling desperately alone, I picked up Mom’s sweater and pulled the neck down carefully over my gas-masked head. At some point I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew there was a loud knock-knock at the shelter door.
“Who’s there?” I yelled, my whole body quivering with relief. Was it the army coming to save me?
“It’s me, stupid,” came a familiar voice from the other side. “What are you doing in there?”
“Marla?”
I jumped to my feet, un-duct-taped the door, and flung it open. “What do you mean ‘what am I doing in here’?” I gasped. “What are you doing out there? Didn’t you hear the air-raid siren?”
She started to laugh. “Um, yeah. But that was hours ago. Don’t you have a radio? What were you waiting for, the army to personally come and release you?”
“No!” I lied. But I could see in her eyes that she knew she was right. My cheeks burned red with embarrassment. Thank God for the gas mask. I kept it on for a little longer to give my face a chance to turn back to its regular colour. “So, how’d you find me in here?”
Mackenzie, Lost and Found Page 4
