Daughters of Iraq (7 page)

“We are lucky to live in Israel. Very lucky,” said Ruthie with a solemn look. Farida broke out into a broad smile. Ruthie, waiting in suspense, asked, “Then what happened? Did they get there?”

“Of course they did,” Farida said. “And when they got there, we all went downstairs to greet them. The kids got out of bed and ran, and the reunion with Grandmother, it was so emotional, you wouldn’t believe how much hugging and kissing . . . My grandmother gave me a bear hug, just like I give you when you come over. Like this.” She pressed Ruthie to her chest in a hug so tight it almost suffocated the child.

“I get the idea!” Ruthie said, laughing. “Stop, you’re practically choking me.”

Farida laughed, too. She loved telling Ruthie these stories about her family. She was so happy; it was hard to tell which of them enjoyed the stories more. When their laughter died down, Farida continued.

“Eddie got so many Bar Mitzvah presents. Grandmother made him three suits: one for being called to the Torah, one for the special ceremony of tying the
Tefillin
to the head and to the arm,
and one for the party, which I’ll tell you about in a minute. My grandmother didn’t forget anyone; she brought all kinds of goodies. You know what we got?”

“What? Did she bring you candy? I love candy,” Ruthie said dreamily. “Did you get a lot of candy?”

“No,” said Farida. “We didn’t get any candy at all. When I was a kid, ‘candy’ meant dried fruit: figs, dates, raisins, and tamarind, which is kind of sour. Even those were a rare treat. Oh, I remember now. My grandmother also brought
mlabas.
Do you know what those are?” Farida couldn’t wait for an answer; once again, she was a small child, savoring many tastes. “It’s a sweet, sticky kind of delicacy, filled with almonds. Sometimes I buy Iraqi treats at Ezra’s shop downtown. But they’re not the same.”

“Oh,” she went on, “how we waited for something sweet . . . On very rare occasions, we got foreign chocolate, if we had a guest from England or something. But for my grandmother,
Allah yirchama (may God bless her memory)
, nothing was too good for us. That day, we even got chocolate, which to this day I can still taste.”

“Yum,” Ruthie said, licking her lips. “Me, too.”

“The next morning, after everyone got ready, we gathered in the parlor. Eddie had put together a whole performance for all the important guests. What can I tell you?” Farida tapped her thigh, and her face was radiant. “Eddie was a master. The plays he would put on! Sometimes he even made movies with us. He organized the whole thing himself. He’d write the story—the screenplay, it’s called; he’d cut pictures out of newspapers and glue them to paper, one after the other. You know, we didn’t have television back then, and Eddie was the only one allowed to go to the movies.”

“Why?” Ruthie asked.

“That’s how it was when I was a kid,” she said, waving her hand. “Eddie was a boy, but Violet and I were girls, so we weren’t allowed to attend movies. The other boys in the family were too young. But hold on a minute—where was I?”

“At the play, Grandmother,” Ruthie said. “Did you forget already?”

“Oh, yes, that’s right.” Farida returned to her memories. “So Eddie put on a special play in honor of his Bar Mitzvah. He played the lead role, and he was in love with the lead actress—you know what the lead is, right?”

“Not exactly,” Ruthie said.

“Well, if you don’t know, you have to ask, okay?” Farida pursed her lips.

“Fine. So what’s the lead?”

“The lead is the most important actor in the play. He’s kind of in charge of all the other actors, understand? And who do you think the lead actress was?”

“The lead actress is like the lead actor, right, only she’s a girl?” asked Ruthie.

“That’s right. God bless you—how smart you are.”

“So who was the lead actress?” Ruthie asked.

“Me.” Farida pointed to herself with pride. “Eddie played the role of someone in love with me. And me? I was thrilled, I was just thrilled. I was in heaven. You know why?” Again, she didn’t wait for an answer. She leaned in close to her granddaughter. “Because I was in love with him,” she whispered. “But like I told you, that’s our little secret, right?”

“Yes, Grandmother. I already promised you.” Ruthie pretended to zip her lips. “But if you were in love with him why didn’t you marry him?”

“Wait a minute, my little one,” Farida sighed. “That’s a long, long story, which I’ll tell you another time.”

“First tell me about the play.”

Farida happily continued: “So this is what happened. The two of us, Eddie and I, we were the stars of the show, like I said. There were other actors, too. For example, the parents of the happy couple were played by two of my girlfriends. They borrowed clothes from their parents. We all worked so hard; people couldn’t wait to see our shows,” Farida bragged. “What didn’t we have in that play? We had an evil old uncle played by Farcha’s oldest son Danny—you’ve met him. He was younger than us. I think I’ve named all the actors . . . what a plot,
ya walli
,
such a sad story about love, heartbreaking, really. I even sang some songs by Leila Mourad—she was a famous vocalist. And Eddie sang songs by another famous singer: Abd al-Wahhab.”

“Oh, Grandmother, that sounds so nice. Do you think we can put on a play for Mommy and Shai when they wake up?”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Farida smiled, “but not today, okay? I mean, if we’re going to do a play, we might as well do it right. With costumes and everything.” She winked at her granddaughter and continued: “Well, nobody missed this play. Everyone was looking forward to it: my father and mother, and Anwar, and my sisters, and of course all of their kids, and Aunt Madeline, and Grandmother, even the neighbors. We rehearsed and rehearsed,
ya binati
,
until we were absolutely certain we were ready. Then we made invitations for neighbors and friends, for family, and for all the important guests.  We wrote, ‘You are invited to the most important, earth-shattering show in the world.’” Farida said like a town crier; she waved her hands in invitation. “Everyone was invited. ‘Bring handkerchiefs,’ we told them, ‘there will be much crying.’” Farida chuckled, then succumbed to a fit of laughter that brought tears to her eyes.

The bedroom door opened, and Sigal joined them. “Oh,” Farida said apologetically, “I see
Ima
has woken up.”

“But you still haven’t told me anything about this Bar Mitzvah,” said Ruthie.

“That`s not so bad, Ruthie, a blessing on your head,” Farida said. “Next time we’ll pick up right where we left off. Now come with me and we’ll make your
Ima
some coffee, okay?” And with that, she plodded off to the kitchen.

Chapter Eight: The Bar Mitzvah

Thursday, October 18, 1986

B
ack to my nephew Eddie’s Bar Mitzvah—the Bar Mitzvah that was one of the highlights of my life.

“Grandmother’s here!” we all cried from the rooftop. “Grandmother’s here!” We ran downstairs to greet her, and I threw my arms around her neck. My beloved grandmother held me to her chest and whispered she loved me, that she’d brought a gorgeous dress made just for me, a dress I could wear to the fancy party that followed the regular celebration. “Oh, Grandmother,” I whispered in her ear, “thank you! I missed you so much . . .” My parents also came down to welcome their guests; then we all went inside. The house was ready for the Bar Mitzvah.

When I look back at the party, after all these years, I realize Eddie didn’t really want to be the center of attention. Every chance he got, he evaded the commotion, slipping out to ride his new bicycle, a gift from Richie’s parents. Richie, Eddie’s best friend, was the son of Mr. Hardy, my father’s boss. The Hardys lived in England and were only in Iraq temporarily. Iraq was administered via British Mandate back then, and Mr. Hardy was the manager of the Department of Water and Agriculture. The primary function of this department was to protect the Chidekel River from flooding. My father’s division was responsible for stockpiling sandbags, wood, bags of cement—materials that would allow citizens to protect homes and property when the river flooded, which occurred almost yearly.
Aba
was the department’s chief accountant, and it was his job that was responsible for our family moving to the big city.

Eddie and Richie were best friends. They’d meet after school and hang out in the Hardy mansion’s courtyard. They went to movies and plays, and they fantasized about girls. Eddie dreamed of Farida; even then, he was in love with her. Farida was a real beauty: raven hair; alabaster skin; big, dark, curious eyes. Her good nature was apparent to everyone. In her heart, Farida was
Ima
’s good girl, but because she tried to emulate me, she got into trouble.

For the
tefillin
ceremony—the first time Eddie wore phylacteries—people thronged the house. We all wore our finest clothes. Grandmother made two dresses for Farida and me, one for each party. For the
hanachat tefillin
,
we both wore white muslin gowns with long pink sashes. Our evening frocks were made of velvet. Farida’s was blue with white trim, and mine was purple, to highlight the paleness of my skin. Eddie wore a suit to both events, but he changed ties; he seemed very confused. My sister Habiba looked resplendent, and she was very emotional. This was her eldest son’s Bar Mitzvah, the first of the grandsons. Habiba was a young mother; she was only thirty-one when Eddie celebrated his Bar Mitzvah. Today, women her age are just starting to become mothers.

When Farida looked at Eddie, her eyes sparkled with pride and happiness. He was sneaking glances at her, too. When he first donned his
tefillin
,
the women trilled with joy. Eddie didn’t make a single mistake. Afterward, the rabbi of our community, Chacham Sasson, spoke of the importance of
tefillin
and Eddie’s responsibilities henceforth. Even after all these years, I still remember the details. That day is etched in my memory forever.

Chacham Sasson blessed the entire family and wished Eddie health, wisdom, and a long life. And he blessed himself as well, asking for the privilege of attending Eddie’s future wedding. When the rabbi talked of Eddie’s wedding, Farida blushed. I remember monitoring her reactions. Her love for Eddie was a secret, and she hadn’t exactly told me about her feelings, but she always was—and still is—unable to hide things from me. Years later, Farida told me that on that day, when she was not even eleven years old, she imagined herself and Eddie standing under the wedding canopy, Chacham Sasson officiating. She dreamt of that day; she hoped and prayed for it. My father’s grandmother was betrothed at the age of nine, married at twelve, and had her first son at fourteen, so it felt natural to be in love at such a young age, even planning a wedding.

After the
tefillin
ceremony, it was time for the festive meal we’d planned so long for. The tables stood stacked with delicacies: all variety of meat and fish, vegetables, fresh fruit, dried fruit, different kinds of pickles—like
mkhalela
, turnips steeped in saltwater—and
tum ajam
—garlic marinated in salt and curry. Everyone enjoyed the lavish hospitality and gorged themselves. We kids focused on the desserts served after the meal, which included all the sweets we loved so much. We stuffed ourselves with ginger, marzipan, baklava, and
mlabas
.
These days, I still go to Petach Tikvah every now and then to buy these treats, usually right before Purim.

After the big meal, we capped the glorious day with a European-style dance party—a Bar Mitzvah gift from my parents (Eddie’s grandparents) to Habiba and her husband.

My mother, whose expertise and authority made her the natural choice, was in charge of putting together the impressive invitation list. Needless to say, it included all of the Baghdad bigwigs, many of whom were not Jewish. We waltzed, tangoed, and danced all of the couples dances just becoming popular at Iraqi-Jewish parties. The men wore elegant suits, and the women were garbed in fantastic dresses modeled on Paris and London catalogues and made by the best seamstresses in Iraq. Farida and I, in the dresses made by our grandmother, looked much older than we were, which made us giddy. We waited nervously for men to ask us to dance.

I will never forget the excitement that seized us that day. Farida, I remember, was even more emotional than I was. Around her neck she wore our mother’s pearl necklace, and her blue dress brought out her lovely dark eyes. She pinched her cheeks to make them red, outshining the other girls at the party. Eddie wore his Bar Mitzvah suit, with a flower in his lapel. He wasn’t accustomed to these kinds of festivities and acted very flustered, although it may have been Farida’s beauty that stunned and unnerved him. Her looks certainly had the same effect on the other boys. Eddie couldn’t stop watching her. He was good-looking, with an attractive personality, and, because he came from a well-known and respected family, he was considered an excellent match. Many girls vied for his attention, but it didn’t matter. Farida was the only one who interested him.

Farida stood next to our mother, waiting for an invitation to dance. I’m sure she secretly hoped Eddie would approach her. I danced with neighborhood boys. I felt radiant; my dress accentuated my body, and my long hair, usually tied back, was loose. I felt womanly, no longer a little girl playing in the mud, running around, getting into trouble, but practically a real woman. And Eddie . . . Well, Eddie asked Farida. He danced the first dance with her, and the second, then the third and the fourth. Eddie danced with her the entire night. Their feelings were so intense they were on the verge of tears. This was the first time Eddie’s face was so close to Farida’s, the first time they’d touched like this—not as part of a game, not as a way to annoy each other. This was different: a mature touch, a loving touch. I heard
Ima
whisper to
Aba
that they’d have to pay closer attention to the kids, to their eldest grandson and their youngest daughter. Many romantic relationships between family members weren’t seen as peculiar back then—forty-five years ago in Iraq there were marriages between cousins, between uncles and nieces. But with Eddie and Farida, something wasn’t right. Marriages between nephews and aunts, those were unusual.