Daughters of Iraq (18 page)

Our
Purim
celebrations in Israel were different. We didn’t dress up, but we marked the holiday in other ways. The table was always piled high with delicacies, like in Iraq. We went to synagogue dressed in our finest clothes. We waited all year, us kids, for the reading of the
megillah
.
Every time the evil Haman’s name was recited, we shook our noisemakers and screamed, making as much racket as possible. This was nothing like other visits to synagogue. Usually were on our best behavior, sitting quietly and respectfully.
Purim
was the one day of the year we were allowed to act out, make mischief, and be as silly as possible. The novelty never wore off, and every
Purim
we were as excited as ever.

Since coming to Israel, we rarely go to synagogue. Moving here took us further away from religion and closer to “Israeliness.” The only person who continued to attend services was my father. He went to synagogue every morning and kept the traditions until his dying day.

Aba
was thankful for all that God had given him. He was especially grateful God had granted him the privilege of coming to the Holy Land, of living there, raising his family there. On the anniversary of
Aba
’s death, the whole family gathers at his old synagogue to honor his memory. Perhaps we do it to appease our own consciences: we’d stopped treating him with respect from the moment we first arrived in Israel.

Chapter Twenty-Six: Farida

I
n the early afternoon, Farida took her little granddaughter Ruthie for a show off walk through the neighborhood. It’s the kind of walk that’s very popular in neighborhoods like Farida’s, where everyone knows everyone else. As you promenade, you show off your little treasure, and before your eyes, every silly little thing she ever did or said is transformed into a brilliant accomplishment. Whenever Ruthie asked a clever question, or remembered one of their names, or identified a flower, or gave someone a compliment, the neighbors were astounded. How she’s grown, they would say. How beautiful she is (like her grandmother), how clever she is (like her great-aunt, of blessed memory), how she lights up the whole town with her joy (also like Aunt Violet, of blessed memory). And could it be she looks like Noa, Violet’s girl?

In the hallway, they bumped into Chaimke, who patted Ruthie on the head, greeted the two of them, and asked why the little girl wasn’t in school that day. They answered, at the same time, that Ruthie was sick. Then they both almost laughed but restrained themselves, not wanting to embarrass him. Chaimke looked away, implying this kind of buffoonery was beneath him. He muttered something about how he didn’t mean to be rude, but he was in a rush, then he moved quickly down the stairs. Farida and Ruthie stepped aside to let him pass, and the moment he was out of sight they burst out laughing while trying to keep their voices down. When they reached the first floor, they knocked on Carmella’s door. An Iraqi immigrant like Farida, Carmella was delighted to see them and immediately began heaping blessings upon Ruthie.

“A blessing on your head, Ruthie, may you be protected from the evil eye how you have grown!” Carmella spat to both sides of the girl, wrapped her arms around Ruthie, and smothered her cheeks with kisses. “She looks just like you, Farida you’re like two drops of water,” she announced, clapping her hands. For several minutes she continued to bless and spit, bless and spit; then she urged pastries upon them and begged them come and spend some time with her. Farida gracefully declined; they couldn’t stay, she said, because she had promised to take Ruthie for a walk through the wildflowers across the way. Another time, thank you, goodbye. They took their leave and continued down the street to Dora’s house.

Dora’s house, which was always immaculate, was filled with the aromas of cooking and baking. Dora and Aaron were childless, and Dora invested all her energy in preparing food for her husband and anyone in the neighborhood who might need help. Whenever a woman had a baby, Dora visited the same day with all kinds of food. If someone was sick, God forbid, she appeared on their doorstep with steaming pots in her arms. Dora loved to feed people, and people loved to eat her food. Giving to others helped ward off the loneliness she sometimes felt. In exchange for her generosity, her neighbors made it their business to invite her and Aaron for Shabbat and holidays.

Before they entered Dora’s home, Farida made sure to remind Ruthie not to ask about Dora and Aaron’s children. “They have none,” she pronounced. “End of story.”

“Of course they have children,” Ruthie said. “Dora’s always telling me they’ll be back any minute, but no matter how long I wait, I never get to meet them.” She looked skeptical. Whom should she believe, Dora or her grandmother? Because she couldn’t decide, she continued searching for an answer she could accept once and for all.

“Dora doesn’t like those kinds of questions. She has no children, Ruthie,” Farida said, “so stop asking her about them. It puts me in a very uncomfortable position, do you understand?”

“But why don’t they have children?” Ruthie asked, for the hundredth time.

“Because some people just don’t have children. Dora couldn’t have children—that’s why they don’t have any. Okay?” Farida was losing patience.

Ruthie persisted. “Why couldn’t she have children?”

“Because that’s how life is. Enough with the questions, Ruthie.” Farida ruffled her granddaughter’s hair. “Just do what I say. Don’t ask about children.”

Ruthie shrugged but didn’t promise anything. She knew she wouldn’t be able to keep her word if she did. Dora greeted them warmly and invited them inside. “Come in, come in. Welcome. What are you doing, standing there in the doorway?”

“We just came by to say hello,” Farida said. “We’re on our way to the field. The flowers are magnificent this year.” Ignoring her friend completely, Dora lifted Ruthie in her arms, as if she were an infant and not a second-grader.

“Aaron,” she called to her husband, “you’re never going to believe who’s here. Sigali’s girl Ruthie! Come. Come see this little doll.” Aaron came in and began his interrogation. “What, there’s no school today? What’s your teacher doing without you? Who’s your best friend at school? How much is seven plus seven minus seven plus seven?”

Farida could tell that Ruthie enjoyed being the center of attention. She answered all the questions willingly, looking at her grandmother from time to time and smiling. When she got mixed up, she simply corrected herself and went on, which pleased her hosts even more. After finishing Dora’s ice-cold lemonade, Farida and Ruthie wound up their visit and headed for the door. At that moment, Ruthie couldn’t stop herself.

“When are your children coming home?”

Farida looked at her granddaughter in embarrassment and wrinkled her eyebrows, trying in vain to signal Ruthie to change the subject.

“They’re not here today, my dear,” Dora answered. She looked at Farida in desperation.

“So where are they?” After stealing a quick glance at her grandmother’s cringing face, Ruthie looked directly at Dora, her eyes pleading for answers.
Let them tell me the truth just this once
, she thought,
and I’ll never ask again
.
Maybe I’ll finally know whether or not Dora has children. If she doesn’t, why not? And if she does, where are they? And how come whenever I visit Dora and Aaron, the children aren’t home?

“They went on a long trip,” Dora answered sadly.

“And you don’t miss them?” asked Ruthie.

“Yes . . . yes, of course I miss them,” Dora said.

“We really ought to get going,” said Farida. “Soon it will be too hot for us outside.” She put an arm around Ruthie’s shoulders and propelled her toward the door. “The winter was so difficult and the summer will no doubt be very hot, so we have to take advantage of this beautiful day.” Farida spoke quickly. “There’s been much rain this year thank God the Sea of Galilee is full and there’s enough water. Maybe this year, for a change, they won’t ask us not to water our gardens. I can’t stand dry grass; it’s just a reminder of death.” Sweat sprung out all over her body as she tried to undo the damage. “It’s really very sad to see it, and whenever I see grass that hasn’t been watered in a long time, and it’s starting to turn yellow, I have this urge to turn on all the sprinklers and let the poor thirsty grass drink to its heart’s content.”

Dora smiled. She nodded to her friend, covertly thanking her for once again rescuing her from the young girl’s relentless questions. Farida hoped that because the girl was so sweet and Farida’s granddaughter Dora might not be offended. They’d known each other for many years.

“I remember when your mother was born,” Dora said to Ruthie. “Moshe was on reserve duty, there was a war, so Aaron and I took Farida to the hospital.”

“And two day later, at five in the morning,” said Farida, “I knocked on your bedroom window and said, ‘Wish me
mazel tov
I’m a grandmother! Sigali had a baby girl!’” She stood behind Ruthie, resting her hands on her shoulders, grateful for the change of topic but ready to propel the little girl out of the house if she resumed her questioning.

“And Moshe and Aaron and Farida and I piled in the neighbors’ brand new Subaru and drove to the hospital,” said Dora. She seemed to be looking beyond Farida. “We stared through the nursery window at you, Ruthie you were so tiny. Barely weighed five pounds. We couldn’t understand how such a small creature could make so much noise.” She smiled, but Farida saw the sorrow in her eyes.

“You have always been a wonderful friend,” said Farida. And then she and Ruthie took their leave.

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Violet

Thursday, March 26, 1987

I
loved our life on the kibbutz, and I remember this period as one of the happiest of my life. Of course I missed my family, the members of which were scattered throughout the country, and I missed
Ima
and Eddie who were still in Iraq. Still, I enjoyed the freedom. I worked in the dining room, which was the epicenter of our world. My sister Farida was assigned to the baby house, where she took care of the infants. The hours suited me perfectly: I was, and always have been, a morning person. Just this morning, in fact, I woke at dawn, while the rest of you slept like babies. The chirping of the birds announced the arrival of a new day. I made myself a cup of coffee and sat down, savoring each sip. This is my favorite time of day. I’ve always loved it, even when I was a young girl.

In the kibbutz, I would go to the dining room at four a.m. to start getting ready for the new day. The first to come were the stable workers, preparing for the morning milking. Then came the drivers, who were responsible for transporting our dairy products to Tenuvah, the country’s main dairy, and for bringing fresh food from the factory back to our kibbutz. Every morning, I dragged the carts from the kitchen to the dining room, loaded them with a variety of cheeses, chopped vegetables, tuna, and fresh bread. (We ate well in the kibbutz and hardly ever felt the austerity that gripped the rest of the country.) Next, I would put up a gigantic urn of hot coffee. After that, I stacked clean dishes by the dining room door and waited for everyone to arrive.

Once the stable workers and drivers were on their way, it was the farmers men’s turn. They would drink their first coffee of the morning, then go to their jobs. Finally, the children and all the other members took their turn, and the dining room would fill with jovial chaos. And I would feel utterly at home. Every so often I’d refill a platter or wipe down a table, but mostly I socialized with everyone else.

It was among the drivers that I met my first love. He was a little older than me, and his eyes were the color of the sky. He thought I was the love of his life, and he promised me the moon. The first time I saw him, my legs trembled, and the platter I was holding fell and shattered. Not what I would call an auspicious sign. He looked at me, slightly puzzled, and burst out laughing, showing his white teeth. I was so self-conscious that when I bent to pick up the fragments of the first plate, a second plate fell out of my hands and broke. In the beginning, he had no idea I had such a crush on him. Every morning I waited for him in the dining room; he would blow in like a hurricane, grab a couple of snacks, say hello, flash his brilliant smile, and disappear.

My whole life revolved around him. When I wasn’t waiting for him between meals, I daydreamed about him. I’d memorized his schedule, and I tried to intercept him during the day. I knew where his room was, and I would enlist Farida to join me on night walks through the kibbutz on the off chance he’d see me from his window or we’d run into him on the road. My guess is that he sensed I was lurking, waiting to ambush him, but he never said a word. I didn’t mention it, either, even after we became a couple. It was unseemly for me, an Iraqi girl from a good home, to chase after a young man. Especially an Ashkenazi Jew from Europe.

His name was Chanan, a name I found thrillingly Israeli. I’d whisper his name to myself, emphasizing the throaty
chet
sound, smiling foolishly. Chanan, Chanan, Chanan . . . Finally, one morning, he invited me to sit with him at breakfast.

“Good morning, Sigalit,” he said. I was so excited all I could do was grin at him, like an idiot. I was shocked that he knew my name. I tried to respond, but I couldn’t utter a single word.

His eyes shone, and he smiled his handsome, sparkling smile. My knees shook. With some difficulty, I managed to hide my trembling hands in my apron pockets. I averted my eyes, afraid they would betray my emotions, and tried again. “Good morning to you, too.”

He invited me to sit and have a cup of coffee. I looked around the room, searching for the dining room supervisor. She smiled at me and nodded her consent.

For many months, Chanan was like a brother and a friend to me, sometimes a father, and, above all, a teacher. He taught me Hebrew with tremendous patience. In the beginning, we didn’t talk much; my language was still quite limited. We would walk through the kibbutz, gazing at one another in mutual admiration. This was enough for us. In his small room, Chanan taught me to read and write. He sat next to me for hours, uncovering the mysteries of the language. “Repeat after me:
Ha-doar ba hayom / b’oto ha’adom
.” Each day without fail I  wait for the mail. It was through children’s rhymes like this one that I learned to speak Hebrew. Chanan was Romanian by birth, and I picked up his accent along with his vocabulary. Even today, I speak Hebrew with a trace of both Iraqi and Romanian accents, a confusing combination nobody can identify.