Daughters of Iraq (15 page)

Ofir looked at Noa with amusement and admiration. He was touched by her enthusiasm, by her eagerness to prove to him that this poet who had insinuated herself into Noa’s heart was in fact worthy of her respect, and maybe of his respect as well. He stroked her hair and told her that having this kind of conversation so early in the morning made him hungry.  He admired her fighting spirit, he said, even when her head was pounding.

Noa gazed at Ofir’s naked behind as he climbed out of bed. She stretched and smiled with contentment as he walked into the kitchen to make coffee. The sun shined outside, and her pillow was soft. She heard Ofir in the kitchen, opening cupboards and running water, and inhaled the wonderful smell of fresh salad and fried eggs. This morning, life seemed beautiful. A few minutes later, Ofir returned, grinning, with a large tray loaded with a luscious breakfast and two aspirin. How was it that all this time, she hadn’t been able to see him as a sensual man? And what was it that caused the relationship to change so dramatically? And how could friendship blossom into something bordering on love? And what was love, anyway? Did she even know the meaning of the word? She felt unsettled and, to her astonishment, her eyes filled with tears.

There were times, in the past, when Noa had thought she knew what love was. With Ehud, she thought it was the real thing, but in fact it was a one-sided, frustrating, painful kind of relationship. She and Barak had seemed to experience a genuine love but, in retrospect, it was selfish and all-consuming, something she’d seized on to help her through the difficult period after her mother died. She’d been dependent on this love, until realizing she couldn’t rightfully call it her own. She’d been
in
love, but she knew she still hadn’t gotten to the heart of the matter.

She thanked Ofir for the splendid breakfast, and for his attention and friendship. “Why don’t you sit here next to me,” she said, “and I’ll feed you. One bite for me, one for you.” Noa offered a forkful of food, then another. With each bite, he kissed her knuckles.

Noa savored both the attention and the reciprocity. She felt strong, alive, and full of optimism.

When they finished eating, Ofir drew her close, caressed her face, and whispered into her ear. He told her she was the one. That he’d loved her from the moment they met. He told her about the day he’d replied to her advertisement at the university: how he’d climbed to the third floor and rang the bell, how the sight of her dried his throat, how her long black hair, dark eyes, and luminous face bewitched him. He had decided, on the spot, to share the apartment, and ever since that day, nearly two years ago, he had been waiting for her. He didn’t dare take the first step until he knew she was open to love; he waited until she was ready to love him back. He couldn’t believe he was telling her this, he whispered.

Noa sat on the bed and listened, smiling to herself. Her legs were drawn up, her arms rested on her knees, and her head lay on her forearms. She told him she’d been drawn to him, too, from the moment she saw him, but she’d never thought they’d be anything more than friends. She said she was touched, and very happy, but he needed to be patient, because she still felt confused.

The color drained from Ofir’s face. In the past, women had fallen in love with him easily, but not so with Noa. Nevertheless, he had assumed, after their passionate night together, that Noa would feel as he did.

She took his hand, pressed it to her heart, and looked him in the eye. She told him he was her best friend in the world. That everything was still so new, he had to be patient. She wasn’t emotionally prepared for what had happened last night, and, as lovely as it had been, she still needed time.

“Best friend in the world,” Ofir said. “I hope you don’t mean best buddy.”

“I don’t mean best buddy,” Noa replied with a smile. After a moment, he told her he thought he understood what she was trying to say—or at least he hoped he understood. He hoped she didn’t consider last night a momentary lapse or an exploited opportunity, but she assured him it had been mutual and that, with time, everything would be clear.

Ofir pulled her close again, and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I have all the time you need,” he whispered, “and all the patience. I’ll wait for you forever.”

Chapter Twenty-One: Violet

Monday, February 16, 1987

I
just finished another grueling round of treatment. Most of my hair has fallen out; I gather the remaining hair into what I call a “savings-and-loan” hairdo, on account of its attempts to make a little bit look like a lot. Then I cover it up with a wig that I bought in B’nei Brak. It’s awful. My beautiful hair.

I lie in bed for days at a time, exhausted. I stare at the ceiling and I wait, not knowing exactly what it is I’m waiting for. Sometimes I imagine I’m a captured princess and that at any minute my knight will come and carry me far, far away. Then I pull myself together and smile weakly. Who could possibly save me from myself? It is my own malevolent body holding me prisoner. I feel like someone sentenced to a lifetime of hard labor: he comes home at the end of the day, lies down in his berth, and stares hopelessly at the ceiling. All of his limbs throb, and he knows that the next day, and the day after that, and all the days after that, will be just as tortuous, and he doesn’t know what to pray for—that tomorrow will arrive quickly or not at all.

And if it weren’t for Dan—my dearest friend, my rock—and for our wonderful children who look after me, whose happiness, I know, is dependent upon my happiness—if it weren’t for them, I would have given up long ago. But you are my beloved, my safety net. You are my princes and princesses. It is for you that I battle this cursed disease, and it is for you that I write. I have to bear witness. What started out as a mission—to tell you about my past, to share my life with you—has turned into a sanctuary, a warm and welcoming reprieve from my suffering. Writing frees me; it feels good to remember the past. My life was rich and beautiful, and I have no regrets. And so, back to Eddie, my incredible nephew. There has never been anyone quite like him, and there will never be. 

Eddie stayed in Iraq with my mother, and the house continued to serve as headquarters for the Resistance. During the day, Eddie supported
Ima
and himself by working as a junior accountant at a haberdashery; his boss was a Muslim willing to hire Jews. At night he worked with the Resistance, performing military exercises both inside the house and on the streets of the Jewish neighborhoods. They wanted to be sure that there were no disturbances where they lived, that nobody was plotting against them from within.

The prevailing mood had it that Jews were responsible for Baghdad’s problems. If a person didn’t get a job, it was because “the Jews took all the positions.” The same was true if someone didn’t get accepted to school. If the cost of housing went up, or if it went down, or if there was any kind of shortage, it was always the fault of the Jews. Our family had had enough of the hatred, and we knew that at our first opportunity we would leave this country and go to the land we’d dreamed of, the land of our fathers, our eternal home. And we did.

Most of those who left Iraq moved to the Holy Land. There were some who tried their luck in other places, usually following in the footsteps of a relative who’d sent them tickets and money, but the vast majority went to Israel. The land we had dreamed about for so many generations could now become real. Every Passover, for countless years, the Jews of Baghdad had greeted each other with the words
next year in Jerusalem
, and now they could actually fulfill the quest and move their families to the nascent state. People left everything and just took off. Most couldn’t even take money. They exchanged lovely homes and warm beds for a life of austerity and hardship. Their tents were leaky in the winter and sweltering in the summer. Their days were exhausting, and their new homeland was fighting for survival. But regardless of the cost, they finally had a home of their own. Most paid the price with love and never regretted it.

And so the number of Jews in Iraq dwindled each week. Both my grandfathers, along with my maternal grandmother, passed away in Iraq. My other grandmother, Daisy, moved to Israel shortly after we did; my uncles and aunts were already there; our close friends, too. Muslims were moving into what had been the Jewish neighborhoods, and there was a feeling of insecurity. Eddie never considered leaving his friends. He was confident no harm would befall him. And
Ima
she opened her home to the whole group. Aside from Evelyn, our one non-Jewish servant, the household help had moved to Israel.
Ima
had to learn to take care of the house by herself. If it had been up to her, she would have gone with the others, but she had promised my sister Chabiba that she would take care of Eddie. She would protect him, she said, as if he was a rare gem, and she kept her word.

For the first time,
Ima
did all the cooking and the cleaning. Eddie’s friends came over every evening. Evelyn helped, but since
Ima
couldn’t pay her, Evelyn worked mostly in other people’s homes. If possible, she would have moved to Israel with the rest of us.

Every so often,
Ima
would implore Eddie to leave Iraq. His response was always the same: “I have a responsibility to those who are still here. As long as they’re here, I’m not going anywhere.”

Ima
waited for weeks, then months, for Eddie to agree to go. As the Jewish community grew smaller, her longing for the rest of us intensified. She was tired of this unsettled life, tired of the constant worrying. But Eddie showed no signs of wavering. In fact, as more of his comrades left for Israel, his role in the movement became more crucial. He worked to smuggle his friends out of the country before the Iraqis could catch and hang them in the town square. Sometimes, while waiting for the next flight out of Baghdad, they took refuge in
Ima
’s house.

Ima soon realized that Eddie had no intention of leaving. At first she tried persuading him, appealing to his conscience: “Your mother is going crazy,” she told him. “She doesn’t sleep at night, doesn’t eat during the day it’s hell for her. There’s nothing here for us anymore. What if something happens to you? How will I be able to look your mother in the eye? What about your father, and your brothers? and what about Farida and Violet? Don’t you miss them?”

But Eddie was intractable. He continued to tell my mother that he had a responsibility, and he couldn’t walk away from his friends. It would just be a little longer, he said. Only a few more people had to leave. How could he even consider abandoning his confederates in a place like this?
Ima
waited. As time passed, she sank deeper and deeper into despair. The noose was tightening, she felt, and if she didn’t get them out soon, they would both hang from the same gallows, like other Jews, many of whom they’d known. One morning
Ima
woke and knew she couldn’t continue living this way. She had to do something, now, before it was too late. It was time for her to stop him from putting both their lives at risk, and that’s exactly what she did.

Chapter Twenty-Two: Farida

E
arly the next morning, Farida awakened to the sound of the telephone ringing. She struggled from her armchair and shuffled to the phone.
I suppose I did fall asleep after all
, she thought to herself.

“
Ima
?”

“Sigi? Why are you calling so early? Is everything alright?”

“Everything’s fine,” Sigi said. “But I need to ask you a favor. Ruthie didn’t feel well last night, and I don’t want her in school today.”

“A blessing on her head, my soul, may God watch over her. What does she have?” Farida ran a hand across her face.

“Don’t get so upset,
Ima
. It’s really nothing. She has a little fever, that’s all. Listen, I have to get to work, I have an 8:00 meeting. I’m dropping her off at your house, okay? Can you be downstairs in twenty minutes?”

“A blessing on your head. Of course, bring her over?”

Sigal thanked her mother, and Farida began putting the house in order. She washed coffee dregs out of the mugs and opened the blinds and windows to air out the house. The smell of cigarettes lingered, but a pleasant breeze blew through the small apartment.

Farida took some
machbuz
out of the freezer and put them on a plate decorated with white flowers, a plate Ruthie adored. Then she went to the bathroom and put in her false teeth. She dressed, combed her hair, and looked at her reflection in the mirror. “
Ya walli
,”
Farida muttered. “An old lady . . . it is what it is, every day a little older . . . and those wrinkles….” Sometimes she couldn’t find herself in the lines of the face looking back at her. She left the apartment.

Farida sat on the stone fence outside the building and waited for Sigal. She imagined she wasn’t a wizened old woman, but a young lady waiting for her suitor. She looked at everything familiar to her: the bus that came by at precisely 7:15, the children reluctantly walking to school with bags slung over their shoulders, the grocer stacking milk cartons and bringing in fresh rolls.

She looked at the sun, basked in its warmth, enjoyed the wonderful morning nature had bestowed upon her. She spotted Sigal’s car and straightened her clothes, leaned forward, and wrapped her arms around herself, as if her granddaughter were already standing there. When the car stopped, Ruthie jumped out and ran into her grandmother’s arms. Sigal said goodbye and went on her way. Farida held her granddaughter’s small hand, looked into her innocent face, and wondered how such a tiny creature could be the source of so much happiness.

“Okay, Tutti. What should we do today?” she said with a wide smile.

“Whatever you want,” the little one answered.

“You know what, let’s go upstairs first, have something to eat, something to drink, and then we can go for a little walk.” Farida kissed Ruthie’s forehead. “I see your fever has gone down.” Farida ruffled Ruthie’s hair. “A lot of new flowers have blossomed in the field across the way. And there are a lot of stories for me to tell.”