Daughters of Iraq (2 page)

Farida remembered how she, Eddie, and Violet used to sneak out of school. They would look for a horse-drawn carriage, jump on its back, and hitch rides through the streets of Baghdad. If the driver caught sight of the kids, he beat them with his horsewhip and cursed them for not paying the fare. Later, when they were a little older, they raced to nearby Chidekel River, took off their clothes, and swam in its cool waters, free from trouble and pain, splashing each other and laughing endlessly.

During summer, when Baghdad’s rivers dried up, tiny islands surfaced—
jazira
, they were called—and the children searched them for water creatures. They’d pick up animals and insects and examine them. Then they’d dress, pack up, and return home, pretending to come straight from school. Because they went to the Jewish school, the teachers knew all the parents, and if the instructors ever suspected anything, they dropped in for unannounced visits. The kids knew that when a teacher came to the house, their punishment would be severe. They paid the price for their adventures willingly, taking comfort in knowing they would return, again and again, to these moments of pure delight.

“Ach,” Farida sighed. “It’s a shame,
walla
,
it is such a shame.” She was talking to herself in the empty kitchen. “It’s a shame we couldn’t have had that kind of life together.” Farida and Eddie had shared a special closeness during childhood, which later blossomed into a full-fledged love. Farida’s heart clenched at the thought that she and Eddie couldn’t get married, couldn’t bring children into the world. “He was so handsome . . .” She sighed again. “And his eyes, don’t get me started, those eyes . . .” She continued to ruminate, first aloud, then silently, remembering different episodes from her life, scenes that made her feel his absence, and his loss, more acutely than ever.

She sliced the okra, and the vegetable’s color made her think of his green eyes, the intelligence she saw there. Tears slid down her cheeks. She wiped them with the edge of her sleeve to keep them from dripping onto the okra and put down the knife. For a long time she stood, stooped over the cutting board, until the wave of emotions had passed; then she straightened, took another stalk from the platter on the counter, scraped its rough edges, and returned it to the platter. After preparing the vegetables, she dipped her hands in water and began composing the filling for the
kubot
—the semolina pockets. She took ground chicken mixed with parsley and spices, placed it on the dough, and rolled the mixture into small balls, which she dropped into a steaming pot of water.

Farida thought of mid-1940s Iraq. She remembered how Yasmin, Anwar’s wife, had finally given him a son after three daughters, how they celebrated his birth with a
chalri
—a traditional Arabian party with belly-dancing. The
chalri
took place on the seventh day after the child’s birth—the day before his
brit.
Farida’s parents invited relatives from all across Baghdad, Hilla, and Basra. All the important people in the Jewish community were invited. Farida’s mother, Georgia, was a pillar of Baghdad’s Jewry; she came from a family of well-known rabbis, and it was a great honor to attend one of her parties. The family overlooked nothing: the best musicians and singers were summoned to the
chalri
, along with a famous belly dancer who strutted before wild-eyed spectators. Some men stuck bills into her belt and bra, and everyone sang and danced and showered the new baby and his family with blessings.

After the birth of her son, Yasmin took to her bed and barely rose for forty days. At that stage, her duty was to take care of the new baby and to rest. The women from her extended family waited upon and fed her, tended to her and her baby’s needs. It was traditional for female relatives to care for the mother, house, other children (if there were any), and the husband, so that a mother could regain her strength and resume ministering to her family. The women did this with great joy and unlimited generosity.

That was a good year: it featured a charmed birth as well as Eddie’s Bar Mitzvah. He was the first grandson of the family and everyone’s darling. And despite the fact he was almost thirteen, and she was not yet ten, and notwithstanding that this was often when families separated related boys and girls because of the new, strange, amorphous tension between them, Farida remembered they couldn’t stand being apart, not even for a day. Whenever they saw each other, they secretly pledged their love for each other until the end of time.

On the day of Yasmin’s baby’s birth, Eddie, Violet, and Farida were given an important task: they were sent to tell all their acquaintances about the child. Once word got out, the women—relatives, servants, Arab and Jewish neighbors alike—began to trill loudly, celebrating the happy event. Those who hadn’t yet heard the news now understood: something wonderful had occurred in the Twaina household.

At the conclusion of that festive day, the merry trio split up as usual and returned to sleep in their separate homes. It was a stifling Baghdadi night. In the height of summer, when it was too hot to sleep in their beds, people camped on roofs. Farida and Violet, along with their parents, slept atop one of the wings of the big house, while Eddie and his family reposed above another wing. After the excitement of the day, Eddie, Violet, and Farida had trouble falling asleep; they gazed at the lovely full moon shining in the distant sky, at innumerable stars. They were filled with a sense of great satisfaction and indescribable joy. A new son had been born into the family, and they were all part of this creation.

Chapter Three: Noa Rosen

N
oa rushed from the apartment. She hadn’t heard the alarm go off. She’d awakened in a fog to discover it was 8:20. In less than an hour, her
Introduction to Jewish Philosophy
exam would start; it was an important test, and she’d been studying for days. She’d writhed most the night, sleepless, and when she finally did nod off, she’d had a bizarre dream. The course material morphed with her daily life. Angels moved between spheres, changed levels, revealed different faces, gathered around her.
Michael and Gabriel
, she thought. Her brother Guy appeared, but as a small boy with angel wings on his back. Her mother Violet was in it, too. She wrapped Noa in her arms, and Noa felt wonderfully safe. She told her mother she missed her very much and was so happy she’d finally come home. Her mother’s hair had grown back; she’d worn a wig the last time they’d seen each other. But when she reached for her mother’s head, the hair became the kabbalistic chart she’d memorized the previous night. The alarm screeched, and she woke, trembling.

Sitting on the bus, bleary-eyed, she tried interpreting the dream. Angels going up and down, and
Ima
, and Guy . . . no wonder she’d woken up wearier than she’d been the night before. A multitude of thoughts scrolled through her mind, and she attempted to make sense of them. This was Noa’s second year of studying Hebrew literature. She supported herself by working in the university library. She believed in financial independence and refused to be a full-time student unless she could pay her own tuition and living costs.

After her mother died, Noa had extended her tour of duty in the army. She needed the stability and was happy to be far from home. When she completed her military service as a lieutenant, she began saving for college and decided to see a bit of the world. She worked as a waitress, then traveled with Barak, her former boyfriend. When she attended university, she assumed a heavy course load and worked in the library as many hours as she could.

Noa had never believed her strong, vigorous mother would succumb to the cancer that struck when Noa was fourteen. Violet’s stubbornness had bought her a few more years in the bosom of her family, but Noa, like most teenagers, was absorbed in her own life. She didn’t understand how little time her mother had left, so she hadn’t spent the last days at Violet’s bedside.

One fall morning, as Violet underwent a round of chemotherapy, all the systems in her body failed. Noa received a summons in the midst of her tour, and Guy was called out of school. Violet never regained consciousness, and she died the same night, leaving her husband and children broken and aching. Noa was twenty.

The bus was crammed with university students, teenagers, and old people. Noa rested her nose and forehead against the frame of the open window. Though only June, the hot mornings had become oppressive. People pushed up against one another, and the smells of sweat, spices, and fresh vegetables from the market blended into a pungent odor. Noa didn’t notice the chaos. She was in her head, floating to other destinations. The smell of spices and fresh vegetables conjured Aunt Farida, her mother’s sister. She heard Farida’s husky voice—a testament to many years of cigarette smoking. It was soothing and brought a faint smile to Noa’s lips. Noa saw her aunt’s stout body, heard the heavy Iraqi accent. Farida was Noa’s favorite aunt: a tender woman in a large, awkward body.

Farida was truly an enormous woman: her breasts sagged upon her gargantuan belly and grazed her hips. Noa yearned for her aunt’s warm touch, which had quietly protected her over the years. Aunt Farida’s demeanor was kind and reassuring: her nose was as wide as her heart, and her forehead was plowed with wrinkles, which vanished when she smiled. She had a large chin with a dimple in the middle and dark, sympathetic eyes that always looked tired. Aunt Farida’s life had not been easy, but despite the hardships, she exuded optimism and love. Like a Bozo the Clown punching bag, when she went down, she popped right back up. She was always so encouraging, a safe haven in Noa’s turbulent life. Noa didn’t like to think about what she would have done without her.

Noa continued deciphering her strange dream. She understood it had something to do with the exam, but she couldn’t remember the obscure words her brother had whispered. She searched for a connection between the dream and her current preoccupations and thoughts. Her mind returned to her mother, and her eyes teared up when she imagined sharing her thoughts and struggles with Violet. Noa yearned for the comforts of a real home. Her childhood house was nothing like it had been before her mother died; in fact, it was barely recognizable. Every inch of the house, it seemed, was steeped in sadness. The joy that once filled the home, that had almost burst through its walls, had disappeared; now it reminded her of a deserted, queenless castle on the verge of collapse. The study, once packed with papers, had been abandoned; the fragrance of spices was gone, too. And Noa’s grandfather had immersed himself in his own affairs. Since the death of his wife, Georgia, he had buried himself both in work and, in the last two years, his studies. He made a point of cooking dinner every Friday night in an attempt to maintain the family’s long-time tradition of eating together once a week. But the meals weren’t the same without Violet.

Noa wanted to fall into Farida’s arms, rest there, recuperate. Maybe she’d visit her after the test. She had no plans for the rest of the day, and the test would only take three hours. If she caught the noon bus, she’d reach the village within two hours. Yes, that’s what she would do. She’d call Aunt Farida and ask what was for supper. She’d board the bus, wind through the streets to her aunt’s house. She recalled the smells of familiar and beloved Iraqi dishes. Aunt Farida would spoil her: feed her and send her home with packages of food for the rest of the week. Yes, she’d call her after the test. Noa remembered other times arriving at Aunt Farida’s house, forlorn, defiant, like a rebellious teenager. Farida always smiled, plied her with pots of good food and luscious pastries—all the comforts of a real home.

Noa emerged from her daydream. She hadn’t noticed the bus moving or the passengers getting on and off. She had no memory of traversing the usual route from her apartment on the Street of the Prophets to the gates of the university. She almost forgot to disembark near the Gilman building, where the test would be given. While entering the building she slammed her leg into the security guard’s table and stifled a scream. She plodded up the stairs, one step at a time. Only when she sat down for the exam did she feel her distracted mind focus. The morning daydreams receded. Noa bent over the paper, concentrating on her mission. She took a deep breath, rotated her head, shook out her arms, stretched her muscles. Everything had been leading up to this test. She had studied day and night, imbibed the material. She was like a trained soldier ready for battle. Wasn’t she?

Noa lifted her head and looked around. She saw the heads of the other students bent over their work. She looked at the preceptor. The woman walked past her, offered a candy, and wished her luck, like she could read the doubt in her mind. She could do this, Noa thought. If she just relaxed a little, the lines of text would stop dancing before her. Noa took more deep breaths and again looked at the test. She read the first question, then the next four, and she knew her hard work had paid off. She began to write.

Chapter Four: At Aunt Farida’s

“H
ello, my sweet girl, my soul, may God bless you, how did you know I was thinking about you all morning?” Farida hugged Noa and planted wet kisses on both cheeks. “I missed you—what were you thinking: why didn’t you call me all week?”

 “Hi, Aunt Farida,” Noa said, leaning into her aunt’s soft, warm body, wrapping her arms around her, absorbing warmth and security. “I was so busy—you know how it is. Work, school, exams . . . even today I had an exam. You see? I came to visit as soon as I could. What’s that fantastic smell? Okra?” She headed for the kitchen, following the scent.

“You’ve always had a sharp sense of smell, a blessing on your head. I’m so glad you came—there’s okra with meat dumplings, just what you like, and as you can see, I’m also making
machbuz
,” she said, tempting her niece with the promise of Noa’s favorite Iraqi pastries. “Eat, eat,” urged Farida, taking a tray out of the oven, “and when you go, I’ll send you home with a bag of Purim goodies.” She laughed. “Now tell me, Noa, how was the test?”