Daughters of Iraq (3 page)

“It was fine.” Noa let out a loud sigh, popping a piece of cheese pastry into her mouth. “I’m glad it’s over. This exam was weighing on me. There was so much material, you can’t even imagine. I spent so much time at my desk my behind was starting to ache . . .”

“
Nu
, I’m sure you did well. With your mother’s intelligence and your father’s good looks, you’ll go far,” Farida said, clasping her hands.

Noa laughed. “Wait a minute, what are you saying? That my mother was ugly and my father stupid?”

“God forbid!” Farida said, wringing her hands, spitting, doing whatever she could to disperse any evil spirits lingering outside her door. “Your mother,
allah yirchama( may god bless her memory)
, was beautiful
and
good
and
smart, and your father—is there anything that man can’t do?
Ya’allah
,
come here and sit down.” Farida pointed to the empty chair across from her. “When you’ve finished eating, we’ll get to work. You see,” she said with a smile, “I already made the dough for the
machbuz
.”

“I came at the right time,” Noa said, laughing. “As if you really need help. . . but, actually, I’m in the mood to bake something together.” Noa leaned back. “Do you remember when I was little, I would spend my vacations with you, and Sigali and I would help you bake? We each had our own little jobs: Sigali was in charge of rolling the date spread into little balls and stuffing them into the dough, and my job was to dip the dough in water and sprinkle it with sesame seeds.”

“Yes, of course I remember, that’s what’s called ‘
Tena Maca
.’” Farida’s laugh disintegrated into a coughing fit, and she cursed her cigarettes.

“
Tena Maca
? What’s that?”

“Ah,” Farida sighed. “
Tena Maca
is a code word for babysitting. If a woman needed a little peace and quiet, she would ask her neighbor to give her children a
Tena Maca
—to keep them occupied for a few minutes . . . Oh, baking was such a
Tena Maca
.” She waved her hand. “You and Sigali helped me in the kitchen, and Uncle Moshe got to rest a little bit.
Ya’allah
,
my sweet girl, even though Uncle Moshe’s been gone awhile, and nobody in this house needs a
Tena Maca
, I’ll still let you help me. But first, have a drink, taste my okra—I even have some rice ready. Work can wait a bit.”

Farida scanned her niece from head to toe. “What’s the matter, Noa’le? You don’t look good to me today.” She piled fresh-baked treats onto Noa’s plate. “What? You’re not sleeping at night? You’ve lost a little weight. What’s going on? Aren’t you eating?”

“No, Aunt Farida, really, I’m fine. And what’s this about losing weight?  I wish.” Noa gave her aunt a rueful smile. “Actually, it wouldn’t be so bad if I lost a few pounds. It’s this test,” she added. “I didn’t sleep well last night.” Noa sat next to the little table. It was loaded with delicacies, as if Farida were planning to feed an entire platoon. “Is someone else coming?”

“No,” Aunt Farida said, a little sadly.

“So who are you cooking for?”

Aunt Farida sat in the chair opposite her, looked around, and sighed. “I don’t know how to cook for two people. Only for an army—that’s how it is. It’s not so bad; whatever’s left over, you can take back to your apartment.” She gazed out the little kitchen window.

Children played outside, and the laughter made Farida forlorn. She remembered other days. For a moment there was a strained silence between the two women. Each seemed to be remembering: a house buoyant with life, crammed with people. So much had changed in recent years, leaving both of them yearning for the past.

Of Farida’s children, Sigali had married and left the house first; then Oren got married. Sigali had two children before leaving her husband. “It killed me,” she had said, “that he wasn’t doing anything with his life.” Oren lived in Nahariya and rarely visited. Sigali lived near Aunt Farida, and whenever one of her kids got sick, she brought the child over. But most of the time Sigali was busy with her own affairs; she was a single mother, and it wasn’t easy. And Uncle Moshe . . . Uncle Moshe had died two years ago. Only Farida remained, and being alone was not easy for her.

For many years, Uncle Moshe was out of work, and the family lived off social security. Moshe suffered from what we call shell shock. He had left for war as a confident man and returned shattered, unable to transcend the trauma. From conversation fragments gleaned over years, Noa collected an assortment of images, and from those images she pieced together the complete story.

Uncle Moshe had fought in Sinai. He was the platoon’s cook, and one morning he woke from a dreadful dream, soaked in sweat. In his dream, all the men in his unit were killed in a surprise attack by the Egyptians. Uncle Moshe had just climbed out of his sleeping bag and was looking for a quiet spot to urinate and calm his nerves when the bombing started. His friends didn’t even make it out of their sleeping bags; only Uncle Moshe found shelter, and he was saved. When it was all over, he realized his nightmare had become a horrific reality.

Uncle Moshe’s life, and the lives of everyone in his family, would never be the same after the Yom Kippur War. He couldn’t hold a job. Some nights he screamed and cried in his sleep; other nights he couldn’t sleep at all. Aunt Farida loved her family fiercely and strove to maintain a sense of normalcy for Uncle Moshe and their kids. She ministered to him, and made sure his children respected him. Two years ago, Uncle Moshe’s heart could no longer carry the burden of all those memories, and he died. Farida was left alone.

“
Ya’allah
,
Noa, start eating,” Farida urged. “The food is getting cold, and you haven’t even touched it. Eat already, before it cools and becomes
jifa
—nobody wants rotten food. Now, tell your Aunt Farida a little about Noa: how is she doing, and when will she get married already, with God’s help?”

“Really, Aunt Farida,” Noa said, her mouth full. “Get married? Who exactly do you suggest I marry? I don’t even have a serious boyfriend. You know Barak and I broke up.”

“Do I know? Of course I know. Okay, I’ll tell you the truth. You want the truth?” Farida hoped Noa would be willing to listen to her. Farida had a strong opinion on the issue—she had strong opinions on every issue—and it was hard to keep her thoughts to herself.

“Sure, I want the truth—why not?” Noa said, laying her fork on her plate. She knew nothing would keep her aunt from voicing her thoughts about Barak. She looked at her and waited.

“He’s all wrong for you,” Farida said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “He loves himself too much, what can I tell you? You need someone who loves you more than he loves himself. This young man is killing you.”

 “Right.” Noa smiled. There was no ambiguity in Aunt Farida’s outlook on the world; there was right, and there was wrong. “In the meantime, I’m kissing a lot of frogs,” she said with a wink, “until I find a real prince.”

“I pity those boys when you’re around,” Farida laughed. “Do they know they’re just frogs in your eyes?” Her plump arms fell to her sides. “So some day, one of these frogs will turn into a prince? I like that idea. Now that I think about it, most of the men I’ve known were frogs, too. A couple were princes, including your father, God protect him. Do you know I saw him yesterday at Uncle Anwar’s house? He is a good man, your father. I hear he’s taking a class in geography, and sometimes you two meet between classes?”

“That’s true,” Noa said. She picked up her fork and took a bite, surprised and relieved the Barak conversation was over. “We do meet from time to time, and it’s great we have new topics to discuss. He’s quite the student,” she said. “He never misses a lecture. You won’t believe his latest kick: he wants to earn a doctorate in geography—
Ima
’s field—and complete her research.”

“Are you serious? I had no idea. Good for him,” Farida said.

“You know, it’s really nice to see him there,” Noa said. “He’s smiling again. He looks much younger.”

“Good,” Farida said, “very good. I’m happy for him. It’s time he started looking for a wife, don’t you think?” She grinned.

“It is time, but you know how it is. At that age, it’s not so simple.”

“Tell me about it!” Farida said. “I’m in the same predicament.”

Noa felt uncomfortable. It would be difficult seeing her father with another woman. “So what’s new with you, Aunt Farida?” Noa looked at her aunt’s large hands. “Look how rude I’m being, I haven’t even complimented you on your delicious okra. The crust is amazing.
Gute
,
gute
,
like my grandmother would say. Just how I like it. We’ve been talking about me this whole time. What’s going on in your life? How are Sigali and the kids? I haven’t seen them in ages.”

“Bless God’s name forever and ever, may his name be blessed, I can’t complain,” Farida said, staring at the kitchen ceiling and shaking her hands toward heaven. “Look, I’m keeping busy, as you can see. I couldn’t even make it to the hairdresser, and tomorrow Sigali’s taking half a day’s vacation and bringing the kids for a visit. Can you believe that Ruthie’s in second grade already? You should see this little slip of a girl reading and writing like the devil. And Shai is in his last year of preschool, driving his teacher crazy. Did you know he has a male teacher this year?”

“What? A man teaching preschool?”

“That’s right. You don’t need breasts to enter the profession anymore. He’s a fantastic teacher,” Farida said. “He takes the kids on nature walks, teaches them plant names. He knows all the songs, and on
Pesach
(Passover) he taught the kids how to stomp grapes and make wine.”

“Nice,” Noa said, impressed.

“But while we’re on the subject of me,” Farida said, “it’s not easy living alone. The days are one thing, I keep busy, but the nights . . .” She tried to recline, but her corpulent body slid forward on the seat, and she couldn’t get comfortable.

“I can’t fall asleep at night,” said Farida. “The nights go on forever—they have a beginning, but no end. I go to bed as late as I can, I watch the late shows, and I still can’t fall asleep. I wander the house like a sleepwalker. I have no idea what’s going on . . . maybe it’s my age or the approach of summer . . . maybe it’s the heat.” She looked at Noa’s plate. “You ate everything, a blessing on your head—come, let’s clean up and start baking.”

Aunt Farida stood and walked to the counter, which was covered with delicious food. She bent to pick up the huge platter that sat beside the neat rows of spices; her house dress rose, reavealing a pair of thick legs. She rummaged around one of the shelves for the baking implements she’d had for so many years. After clearing the table, Farida put down the yeasty dough that had already risen. Taking pleasure in its appearance, in its very presence, she rolled it into a log and split it into two pieces, one of which she gave to Noa. The two women, one young, one old, sat by the table and rolled the dough into tiny balls. They were making s
ambusak bejiben
, a cheese-filled pastry. Later, they’d fill some of the dough with dates and sprinkle it with sesame seeds. The sweet smell of these yeast cookies, or
baba,
would fill the room. The women fell silent as they concentrated on their tasks. Both focused on their own work, engrossed in their own thoughts.

“From everything you’re telling me,” Noa said, returning to the topic of Farida’s sleeplessness, “it sounds serious. Maybe you should try warm milk. Or deep breathing, like they do in yoga.”

“Nothing’s going to help,” Farida said, “it’s awful.
Ya’allah
,
forget it. There’s no point in discussing it.”

“Well, if we’re pouring our hearts out,” Noa said. “If we’re talking about truth and feelings . . .” She spoke slowly, eyes averted, concentrating on her work, as if rolling little balls of dough was the most important thing she’d ever done. “I’ve been very unhappy lately. I don’t know what’s going on.”

“As soon as I saw your face in the doorway I knew something wasn’t right,” Farida said. She raised her arms, then put her hands to her cheeks and shook her head from side to side. “My girl, a blessing on your head, why are you sad? What’s missing in your life? Maybe you should live with your father again? Maybe leaving home wasn’t such a good idea? You had everything you could ask for living there. And now you’ve left your father all alone. I’ve been saying for a long time that living by yourself in that apartment was a mistake.” She wagged her finger. “If you lived at home, your father could take care of you. He could cook and do your laundry. What’s so great about all this solitude, anyway?”

“Maybe, Aunt Farida. I’ve thought about it; we’ll see.” Noa was losing patience. She hadn’t come to be lectured, and she certainly hadn’t meant to upset her aunt. She drew a deep breath. “It’s not as simple as you think. I miss
Ima
so much—every day I long for her more,” she said, eyes on the table. ”I’m asking myself questions, and I’m not getting answers. Do you understand?” Noa finally lifted her head, searching her aunt’s face. “I keep asking myself, where is she when I need her? I know it makes no sense.”

“Not everything in life makes sense, Noa’le,” Aunt Farida said. “It is what it is, as the young people say,” she added, half smiling.

“But do you understand? I feel like she disappeared too soon, like I don’t know enough about her, her family, you, your childhood.
Ima
didn’t talk about growing up. And I have my own feelings of guilt,” Noa said, pointing to her heart. “I feel like maybe I wasn’t there for her when she needed me.” Her voice was soft, and she spoke fast, as if worried she wouldn’t be able to speak if she slowed down.

“What? Why are you tormenting yourself?” This conversation was hard for Farida, and she distracted herself by putting all her energy into rolling the dough into little balls. “You were in the army when your mother got sick. What could you have done?”

“It’s true. I was in the army.” Noa looked her aunt in the face. She took a deep breath and forced herself to examine the whole truth, all at once.
Let it all out
, she told herself.
Don’t keep anything inside your aching heart; tell Aunt Farida the whole thing before she has a chance to stop you.
“I was in the army, but I was selfish. I should have asked to serve closer to home, but instead I ran away, ran from the sickness. I couldn’t stand watching her body deteriorate. Her beautiful face looked more and more sunken every time I saw her, like her eyes were about to meet, like her cheeks were stuck together. I couldn’t abide her trying to convince me everything was fine, that she was strong. I knew there was no chance she’d make it. It was just a matter of time. I can’t live with these thoughts all the time, do you understand?” Tears streamed down her cheeks, and her breathing grew ragged.