Daughters of Iraq (13 page)

“I’m talking about the fact that the world around me is always changing and, I can’t keep up.  I’m trying to be independent and strong, but it’s hard.”

“I still don’t really understand,” Ofir said, kissing the top of her head.

“Look,” sighed Noa. “It’s been six years since my mother died, and now her diary turns up, a record I didn’t know existed. And then my father decides to go to America. Guy is busy with his own life . . . I barely see him . . . I feel like there is nothing permanent in my life, and that everyone keeps abandoning me.”

Ofir was at a loss. What did he, with his modest life experience, know about questions like these? “I didn’t know your father was going away,” he said.

“Neither did I. Not until this evening, anyway.”

“Where is he going?” He stroked her hand and looked into her black eyes.

“He’s trying to find himself, acting like he’s twenty years old again. First he’s going to Seattle, in the northwest part of the United States. From there, he said, he’ll travel around the country. He’s going to be on the other side of the world—who knows for how long.”

“I understand.” Ofir took a deep breath. “But why do you feel like there’s no stability in your life? It’s not like he’s leaving for five years, and Guy is around if you need him. And don’t forget, I’m here, too. I’m always here. At least, until you get sick of me.” He smiled. “I’m right here.”

“I know.” Noa smiled and rubbed moisture from her eyes. “What would I do without our friendship?”

“I’m sure you would get along just fine without me. On second thought, maybe there is something in what you’re saying. It really is hard to get along without me. It’s simply impossible, you know.” Ofir wiped a tear from Noa’s cheek, and his heart ached. How he wished he could just wipe away this cloud of sadness, just make it disappear. “Noa’le, never forget that you are smart and strong and beautiful and successful.”

“Yeah, right,” she said, smiling as she pushed him away. “I’m practically perfect.”

“I don’t get it,” Ofir said. “How can you not see it? Look how proud your father is of you. He wouldn’t be going away for so long if he thought you couldn’t manage without him. And in the end, Guy is always around, even if he’s distracted by his own issues. You always seem so together. You look like someone who knows right from wrong, who knows what her goals are, where she’s going.”

“I wish it were that simple,” Noa whispered, “but it’s not.” She looked into Ofir’s face, marveling at the deep blue color of his eyes. And those eyebrows, and the tiny groove in his forehead . . . how could she not have noticed them before? His serious expression touched her. His arms were wrapped around her, and she felt the heat of his body and his breath.

She leaned back, changing her angle of observation. A strange, warm feeling coursed through her. She felt at home, and this confused her: was it only Ofir’s friendship she wanted? Or something beyond that? Until that day, she had never thought of Ofir as anything other than a friend, but tonight, with her father’s upcoming departure, the wet smell of the earth, the aroma of the orchards . . . something in the air, in the atmosphere, was different.

Ofir suggested they continue on to the party. Noa nodded. Then they were on their way.

Chapter Sixteen: Violet

Sunday, February 15, 1987

W
hen we arrived in Israel, I thought the adjustment would be easy, but it didn’t take me long to realize how wrong I was. We lived in a transit camp: Iraqis, Romanians, Moroccans, Hungarians, Poles . . . a host of nations, each with its own customs, language. My family and I, accustomed to a very comfortable life in which servants took care of everything, had to learn to care for ourselves.

And yet, in spite of the hardships, I remember this period quite fondly. I loved the sea, and every day I went to the beach and dug my fingers in the sand, scooping handful after handful. I’d lift my hands and watch the golden grains slip through my fingers. From the moment I laid eyes on the sea, I was drawn to the frothy blue water. I immersed my body, and when the liquid rushed into my mouth, I marveled at its saltiness. In my new country, the sea was my first love, and I love it to this day. It is a salve for my aching body and soul. Whenever I float in the water or lie on the sand, I remember those early days in Israel: the sense of beginning anew, the feeling of hopefulness, the desire “to swallow the entire world right away and all at once!”

At the
Sha’ar Aliyah
—where they processed the immigrants—each tent was given a ration of food. The girls took charge of the situation right away. They watched the small children, and they cooked. Or, I should say, they tried to cook. They had never done this kind of work before, and there wasn’t always enough to eat. But we got by. Every morning, the men went to work. My father’s job was to help pave the roads. On his first day,
Aba
wore his best white suit. He didn’t realize he’d be doing physical labor rather than sitting in an office, like he had in Baghdad. The next day, he wore different clothes.

Aba
—who’d been a valued employee of the Iraqi government—didn’t complain. Not then, not ever. Every day, right up until he died, he thanked God for bringing him to the holy land, even after
Ima
arrived and the family dynamics shifted so dramatically.

The little kids were unfazed by the colorful tapestry of cultures. They played together from the start: Romanians with Iraqis, Russians with Poles. They all looked alike. They communicated with the very basic Hebrew they all had.  The only thing that distinguished the newcomers from all other children, who arrived earlier or from the native Israelis, the “Sabra” kids, was their clothing. The Israeli children were, in my opinion, the most beautiful I had ever seen: tanned skin, sparkling eyes, short pants, sunhats, confident smiles. That was my first impression of these children, called “sabras,” I later learned.

At the
Sha’ar Aliyah
they taught us a smattering of Hebrew, but, for the most part, we communicated in sign language, usually accompanied by laughter. I recall one time—I wanted to ask for an egg. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t remember how to say
egg
in Hebrew, so I clucked like a chicken and put my hand beneath my rear end, hoping someone would see I was mimicking a hen laying an egg. At first, our Romanian neighbor had no idea what I was asking for, and the two of us erupted in laughter. She called her son, who immediately understood: he was sure I wanted a chicken.

This was a time of uncertainty. Every day, trucks brought new immigrants and trucks transported other immigrants from the
Sha’ar Aliyah
to different parts of the country. We waited our turn like everyone else. We never imagined we would ultimately be separated from everyone else: from
Aba
, from our brothers and sisters, from our beloved nephews.

After a month at the
Sha’ar Aliyah
,
the adults in our family were gathered and informed that
Aba
was going to an
Ulpan
to learn Hebrew, after which he would do government works. The rest of us would be scattered among the various kibbutzim
willing to take us. My brother and his family were going to one kibbutz
,
Farida and I to another. We were classified as adults so that we could support ourselves and stay together. I was almost nineteen, and Farida was nearly seventeen; we’d need to round her age up a few years for her to be considered an adult. My older sisters were sent to two other kibbutzim
.

We wept as we boarded separate trucks. We’d never been apart from one another, and the prospect was terrifying.

Farida refused to be comforted. I promised her she and I would never part. I swore on my life, and on
Ima
’s, and on our grandfather Reuven’s (our mother’s father, beloved by both of us). “I will never leave you,” I told her. “That’s how it’s always been, and that’s how it will always be.” I hugged her, stroked her hair, held her to my heart. Today, I think of how I may leave her forever, sooner than I’d imagined. To this day, I have always been at her side, through everything, and I will remain so until my last breath. She is a part of me, flesh of my flesh, my beloved sister, my soul’s twin . . .

For Farida, the move was agonizing. First, she’d had to leave
Ima
and her beloved Eddie. When we got to Israel, her material comforts were gone. Now she was leaving
Aba
and Chabiba, Anwar, and Farcha. For my part, I wasn’t particularly distressed, despite all the goodbyes. Israel had cast its spell upon me: the smell of the sea filled my nostrils, and the Carmel Mountains tugged at my heart. Every day, I was greeted by the sight of the Carmel, in all its glory. So green, so proud. I loved the diversity of my neighbors; I loved hearing the many languages. These people were so different from those I had known before, and, yet, quite similar, too.

The pine trees bowed their heads, as if welcoming me to their land. Time seemed arrested. I felt I could go on like this forever, driving between the mountains. The path was twisted, and the road was narrow. We had to stop so other drivers travelling in the opposite direction could pass us, but I didn’t care. I knew Farida and I were together, that it was going to be wonderful. Farida calmed down, and for the rest of the ride, the two of us sat in silence. Lost in her own thoughts, she eventually fell asleep. I cradled her head in the crook of my arm and stroked her hair. “Don’t worry,” I whispered. “Everything will be alright.”

Chapter Seventeen: Noa

T
hat night, Noa dreamed of Ehud. In her dream, he hurried to an urgent and covert mission, and he called to ask for her help. He wanted to know if she could pack thirty-eight sandwiches, for the unit, and a few bags of fruit. She agreed immediately and got down to work. She crossed the street near her parents’ house and headed to Avram’s market, where she purchased ten loaves of bread, big salami, and much humus. Avram asked her what all the food was for, and she told him it was for her brother’s birthday; she couldn’t reveal the truth because she’d promised Ehud to keep the mission a secret. Noa paid and returned home. When she returned to her parents’ house, her mother asked why she’d bought so much bread. Noa didn’t answer for a moment. Then she composed herself and explained she was preparing care packages for the soldiers. Her mother returned to her study. She was writing an important article, she told Noa. If Noa needed help, she knew where to find her.

Noa went to the kitchen and began slicing bread. As she prepared the sandwiches, she imagined Ehud’s lips touching the bread she was handling. She cut two slices, spread humus on them, pressed them together, and wrapped the sandwich in brown paper. She imagined Ehud’s hands unwrapping the paper, bringing the bread to his mouth, lustfully biting off a hunk. His teeth would grind it up, his tongue would lick the humus, and he would swallow the whole thing, one bite after another. His saliva would soften the bread, his tongue would roll it around in his mouth, his teeth would crush it, and his belly would absorb the warm dough. Noa wondered whether he’d be thinking of her while he ate. Then, suddenly, she was standing, naked, in front of piles and piles of bread.

She prepared stacks upon stacks of sandwiches; the task was endless. Ehud devoured one sandwich after another: egg, cheese, mayonnaise, humus. The stacks grew taller and taller. Noa wiped her brow, and Ehud stood opposite her, angry, intimidating. Why hadn’t she completed her assignment? Did she want the entire operation to fail? He had to go, and nothing was ready! She thought,
don’t leave me again
, but didn’t say it. She made another sandwich, then another, and suddenly, instead of Ehud, it was a Gestapo officer towering over her, holding a whip and cursing. Again, the sandwiches piled up in gigantic heaps, hundreds of them, thousands, sandwiches of every imaginable kind. More and more and more, and soon the room was full of sandwiches, there was no room for her, she was being crushed to death.

Noa woke in a panic and ran to the bathroom to vomit. When her stomach was empty, she leaned back, her breath coming in short, staccato gasps. A bad dream, she told herself, a nightmare. No doubt spurred by her chance encounter with him that morning and because of everything that had happened in the last few days. Between her mother’s diary and her new-found feelings for Ofir, no wonder she was disoriented.

Ofir approached her sleepily. “Hey. Are  you okay?”

She nodded. “Sorry if I woke you. I must have eaten something at the party that didn’t agree with me.”

“You barely ate anything,” Ofir said. “But boy did you drink! You must have quite a mixed cocktail there in your stomach.” Ofir reached for Noa’s hand and kissed it lightly. “Come,” he said, leading her to the bathroom sink to wash her face. Noa allowed him to do as he wished, as if she were a little girl; the feeling was pleasurable. Her mind was clear. She felt safe, and she knew Ofir would take good care of her, that she would be alright. He pulled her close and kissed her on the lips.

“No,” Noa whispered, turning her head away.

“Why?”

“Because my mouth must smell terrible,” she stammered.

“Your mouth happens to smell very sweet,” he said, inhaling her scent.

Noa turned to face him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and looked into his eyes.

“I want you,” he whispered.

“I want you, too.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

Ofir pulled her close, very gently, as if she were a crystal doll. He hugged her. Noa put her cheek next to his and breathed deeply. Her heart beat fast.

“It’s been a long time,” he said.

“What’s been a long time?”

“I’ve wanted you for a long time, but I didn’t have the nerve to do anything about it. Tonight, in the car, I almost swallowed you up, but I restrained myself. Just.”

Silence.

“I’ve been waiting patiently,” Ofir went on. “Waiting for you to want me back.” He looked away, embarrassed at his candor.