Daughters of Iraq (16 page)

“Hooray, Safta! That’s what I love more than anything else in the world.” Ruthie smiled and looked into her grandmother’s eyes. She took Farida’s wrinkled hands in her own and gave them a tiny squeeze. Ruthie’s small hands couldn’t cover the spotted, calloused hands of her grandmother, but Farida felt their touch keenly, and a sense of fulfillment, joy and purpose filled her.

The two of them walked upstairs: one in the dawn of her life, young and innocent, inexperienced, and the other in her twilight, seeing the world with clear open eyes, counting her days, trying not to think about the impending sunset. This day was a gift for them both: Farida would inhale the sweetness and bustling joy of youth, and Ruthie would reap the fruit of her grandmother’s experience, wisdom, and unlimited generosity.

Chapter Twenty-Three: Violet

Sunday, March 1, 1987

S
pring is in the air, and I, too, feel myself coming back to life. The blossoming of the almond trees and the smell of citrus awaken me, lure me outside. Yesterday Danny took me to Sidney Ali beach in Herziliya. We wanted to see the poppies peeking from underground, enjoy the view of my beloved sea, bask in its salty air. Guy has gone on a field trip with his class for a few days. Noa’s in the army. And we, the young couple, are free to do as we wish.

Guy has a new hobby: photography. Right now, I am his subject, and he chases me around the house night and day, photographing me from every possible angle. I get out of bed, he takes a picture. When he follows me to the bathroom, I have to laugh. That’s it, I say, enough! There are some places even he is not permitted to go. Guy sits and waits patiently for me to get out of the shower, then surprises me again. Sometimes it can be irritating, but I try to encourage him. He is talented, and if this is what he needs in order to learn, so be it.

When we drive, Danny holds the steering wheel with one hand and squeezes my hand with the other. Sometimes he brings my hand to his lips and kisses it. I get very emotional. Even now, after all these years, romance triumphs over all. I feel Danny’s love and devotion, and I am afraid. I am afraid of two diametrically opposed things. On the one hand, I’m scared that if I don’t win this battle against cancer, Danny’s sadness will break him. I often tell him that if something does happen to me, I want him to build a new life for himself, but he always cuts me off and changes the subject. On the other hand, I’m afraid that he
will
build a new life for himself and forget me. I know this isn’t a reasonable fear, that the children will always remind him of me, but jealousy and possessiveness still assault me, driving me to the brink of insanity.

I am besieged by painful feelings. I am afraid of leaving Danny, and I fear the loneliness he will experience when I’m gone. I feel guilty, too: for being so possessive, so inconsiderate, so insensitive, for wanting to be the one and only woman in his life. It simply isn’t possible. Maybe these thoughts are natural, who knows? I don’t dare say a word to him about my feelings. Why hurt him? But being able to put these thoughts on paper is very therapeutic. It puts my mind in order and liberates me from the distress that weighs upon me.

Never love another,

Never take her hand on an autumn night

Or whisper words of love in her ear

This is part of a poem I wrote many years ago; these words resonate in my tormented mind. To be his forever. A popular Israeli folk song runs through my head: “You and I will change the world.” I hum the tune to myself, and my frustration turns to rage. Not only did we not change the world, but it’s gaining on us every day, controlling our lives, turning them upside-down without any warning. Fate tricks us, and laughs its bitter laugh.

When we arrived at the Sidney Ali beach, we gazed down at the water. Normally, we would have approached the water’s edge and hiked among the ruins, but yesterday I was too weak. This place brings back so many memories: Shabbat mornings with the kids, long walks along the shore, breathtaking sunsets. Little things, tiny moments of contentment imprinted on my heart. My eyes filled with tears, and Danny ran over to hug me.

This morning, the house is quiet. Even Danny’s not here. This is a good opportunity to write about
Ima
and Eddie’s immigration to Israel. I return to the spring of 1951. In the end, after waiting for many long months,
Ima
finally understood that she couldn’t wait for Eddie to decide. She couldn’t count on him to make the necessary arrangements for their
Aliyah
. It was clear to
Ima
that time was short, and the longer they waited, the more dangerous it would be. She decided to take action.

One has to understand: Eddie was young and fervent, an uncompromising idealist. He had lost all perspective. From a meek and undistinguished member of the Resistance, he’d risen to a high-ranking officer, and he believed it was his duty to stay until the end. And so
Ima
, who knew it was up to her to initiate the process, started investigating different avenues. She learned that the Resistance oversaw the
Aliyah
process. In order to move to Israel, the first thing she’d have to do was renounce their Iraqi citizenship. She knew that if she wanted to keep this from Eddie, she would have to go to a city where the concept of
Aliyah
didn’t exist.
Ima
asked her servant, Evelyn, to speak to her relatives in Hili. After Evelyn confirmed there was no formal
Aliyah
activity in that city,
Ima
decided to try her luck there. She would go to Hili, and quietly renounce their citizenship. If Eddie figured out what she was doing, she knew, all was lost.

This was right before the spring holiday of
Shavuot.
In Iraq, we referred to this holiday as “Visitor’s Day” because Iraqi Jews had a custom on this day of visiting the burial places of the pious. They would prostrate themselves upon the graves of Ezra the Scribe, near Chara, and Ezekiel the Prophet, in the village of Chifel, right outside Hili.
Ima
left a note for Eddie saying she was going to the cemetery in Chifel to pray for her family’s welfare, and she’d be back the following evening. Eddie thought it a bit odd, since his grandmother was not particularly religious, but he was very busy and ignored his misgivings.

Ima
left the house early the next morning, taking a small pocketbook and a lot of money for bribes, to ensure the immigration process would be quick, efficient, and discreet. She stuffed the money into her bra and wrapped herself in a big black shawl, like an Arab woman. All that could be seen were her two coal-black eyes. She climbed into a carriage and rode to the train station.

Aromas at the bustling train station aroused her senses. The morning smell of
chubiz
,
a kind of Iraqi bread, filled her nostrils. Peddlers sold their wares, people were pushing, being pushed. Even at this early hour, the heat was oppressive.
Ima
bought a ticket and strode toward the train; she looked for Evelyn, who was going to accompany her on the journey. The faithful servant waited next to the train. She was flustered: she and Mrs. Twaina would take the train together! It wasn’t every day someone of her standing had the opportunity to travel with such a distinguished woman. Not only would they spend several hours with each other, but Mrs. Twaina, because this was a secret mission, planned to spend the night with Evelyn’s family!

The two women boarded the train, crowding inside with everyone else. They walked through one car after another, and when it was clear there were no seats available, they stood in a corner.
Ima
stared at a male passenger, and he stood and offered his seat. In those days, men were gallant toward women of high social status. When I remember those days, I feel sick to my stomach: the concept of one person being worth more than another never sat well with me. My mother, on the other hand, never altered her worldview, and even in her death, many years later, she thought of herself as a queen stepping down from her throne.

Ima
sat the entire time, while Evelyn stood next to her, fanning the noblewoman’s face. I heard later that my mother did not stop complaining about the heat and the stench, and it never occurred to her to let Evelyn rest her feet, not even for a few minutes. And Evelyn stood there, shielding her from the heat and the pickpockets, tending to her. Years later, I encountered Evelyn on a busy street in Ramat Gan, a suburb of Tel Aviv largely populated by Iraqis. She smiled when she told me about their long train ride. When she talked about my mother, her eyes shone with admiration. I was uneasy: in the young, idealistic state of Israel, the concept of class didn’t exist. I thanked her for being so devoted to our family for so many years, but I felt awkward with guilt.

After a long journey, they finally arrived at Evelyn’s family’s home in Hili. There, too, my mother was treated like royalty. In honor of her visit, the hosts had cleaned and scoured, cooked and baked, even given up their bedroom.
Ima
accepted their hospitality with equanimity; after all, wasn’t a woman of her status entitled to such treatment?

The next day, the two women set out at dawn. They went to the municipality, where
Ima
filled out forms for renouncing citizenship; she had to forge Eddie’s signature. After their citizenship was annulled, she submitted her request for a visa to Israel. In exchange for a small bribe, she was able to get the right forms that same day. Usually the process of moving to another country took weeks, or even months, but to
Ima
’s good fortune, the combination of her charm and money moved things along. From there, the two women took the train to Chifel, where they prostrated themselves at the prophet’s grave.

Ima
prayed for a long time, asking God to bless our family. That was the last time any relative of ours visited the cemetery. It’s been over four decades since then, and who knows how many more years will pass before someone from our family visits the prophet’s grave. After their visit,
Ima
and Evelyn caught the train back to Baghdad. A few days later,
Ima
and Eddie boarded a plane that took them to Israel, to their family.
Ima
never could have imagined the two formidable challenges of her life: First, getting out of Iraq, second and much more difficult spending the rest of her life in Israel. A life that was about to change forever.

Chapter Twenty-Four: Noa

T
he weekend passed pleasantly for Noa and Ofir. On Saturday afternoon, Noa’s brother Guy stopped by. He came through the front door, vaulted onto the living room sofa, put his hand on his belly, and said, “Is there anything to eat around here? I’m dying of hunger.”

“Of course,” Noa said, smiling. “Have you forgotten I’m half Iraqi?”

“What? You, too?” Guy laughed.

“Come into the kitchen; we’ll make something. I have to talk to you anyway.” Noa took his arm and pulled him off the couch.

“Hi Guy, bye Guy,” Ofir said. “I hate to run, but I’m working the night shift, and I can’t be late.” He turned to Noa. “I’ll call you later.”

“Bye.” Noa ran her finger along his cheek and walked him to the door.

“Hi and bye to you, too,” Guy said. “May we meet only on happy occasions.”

“Amen,” Ofir said, and he closed the door behind him.

“What was that all about?” Guy asked.

“What exactly do you mean?” Noa couldn’t help smiling.

“Is there something going on between the two of you?”

“What makes you think that?”

“Hi, bye,” he said, mimicking Noa’s voice. “All lovey-dovey. What’s happening, big sister? Is this what you wanted to talk to me about?”

Noa blushed. “At this point there’s nothing to say. But he is cute, isn’t he?”

“I’m sensing my older sister is trying to hide something from me. Fine, I understand. But I’ll just say this: I wouldn’t object to having Ofir as my brother-in-law. He has a good head on his shoulders.”

“My lord, you are so far off. It’s really not what you think. But enough of that. What do you want to eat?”

“I don’t care, just make me something already.” Guy sat down at the cluttered kitchen table. “So what’s going on?”

“Everything’s fine. What do you think about
Aba
’s plans?”

“Actually, I think that going on a trip will do him good. Clear his head a little. Most people see the world after the army.
Aba
’s doing it in his retirement. I think I understand him. You know how life can be one big pressure cooker? Especially after what he went through those last years with
Ima
. He deserves some relaxation.”

“And you don’t mind if he goes?” Noa’s voice was hesitant.

“Not at all. I’m happy for him. He’s given so much of himself let the man live a little!”

“I know you’re right,” Noa said. “And I’m ashamed to say this, but I feel like a little girl whose father is abandoning her.”

“Noa, what’s gotten into you? Nobody’s abandoning you.” Guy tilted his chair back and gathered crumbs into little piles. “He’s going for what, a few months? Don’t make a big deal out of it. Anyway, I’m here for you, and as I see from the look in your eyes, so is Ofir.” Guy smiled knowingly. “You’ll be fine. Remember, you’re not a little girl anymore. So, what’s with the food? I’m on the verge of rummaging through your garbage can.”

“Calm down, would you?” Noa chuckled. “Here some first-aid.” She handed him a peeled cucumber. “Yes, I know I’m not a little girl. Everyone’s always reminding me of that. Isn’t it ever hard for you? Don’t you ever miss people?”

“You mean
Ima
?”

“Yes,
Ima
, for example.”

“I’ve gotten used to her absence. Not that I never think of her,” he added with a mouth full of food.

“So don’t you think it’ll be hard having
Aba
gone, too?”