Daughters of Iraq (4 page)

“Do you understand?” Noa caught her breath. “I wanted to get used to her absence before she was even gone. I tried to see what it was like to live without her, and the whole time I knew that when it got to be too much, I’d have a place to go, and she’d always welcome me with a smile. I didn’t think about
her
,” she said, bowing her head. “I didn’t think about how hard it was for her, don’t you see?” I only thought about myself,” she said again, pointing her index finger at herself, jabbing it into her ribs. “I never thought about how I wasn’t there for her on a daily basis. I withdrew while she was still with us, and I didn’t take advantage of the time we had left. And for that I can never forgive myself.”

“Oh, my child,” Aunt Farida said, taking Noa’s hands in her own. “Now listen—listen very closely. Your mother was glad you were busy, that you had a full and productive life, and that you were a successful army officer. At first she was sad when you enlisted, but when she saw how good it was for you, she was happy. And when you became the first officer in our family, she was so proud. She talked about it all the time. The truth is, she was relieved you didn’t see her suffer. She wanted to shield you from her pain; she knew how hard her illness was on you. Your mother talked about you all the time, told me everything you told her, every detail. And to every detail, she piled on her own blessings. Your mother didn’t expect you, a girl of nineteen, to sit with her all day and watch her suffer. You’re a kind and sensitive soul, Noa’le; your mother would have been just as proud of you today. It’s good that you think about her, that you miss her. It’s good, my girl. But sadness?” She stroked Noa’s face. “What a waste,” she said. “Really, that’s no good. Oh, the pastries are burning.” She shuffled over to the oven to take out the dessert, which was truly on the verge of ruin.

Noa tried to digest what she’d been told. There were so many things she hadn’t known. She’d never realized her mother had understood her, that she hadn’t been angry with her. She was struck by how much she didn’t know about her mother.

Aunt Farida stood behind Noa and stroked her long hair. “Shhh . . . shhh . . . it’s alright,” she whispered. “Everything’s alright, my child, my dear one. It’s good that you told me all these things. It’s good to cry, to release it all. You know I’m always here for you, my darling, no matter what . . . How did we get to the point of tears? You must have been thinking about these things for a long time.”

Aunt Farida walked around and stood in front of Noa. Her voice was gentle. “Now listen very carefully to what I’m about to tell you. You’re a big girl. You’re independent. You’re everything your mother wanted you to be, from the time you were in the womb. She wanted a girl exactly like you: sensitive, smart, thoughtful, loving. Even when you were little, you made your mother so proud. And I know your mother, of blessed memory, is looking down now and marveling at what a good job she did raising you. You’re an adult. You’re strong.” She spoke slowly. “And for that reason, for that very reason . . .” She paused, considering her words. “It’s for that reason I can now give you something I couldn’t give you before.”

“What is it, Aunt Farida? What do you want to give me?” Noa’s eyes were wide.

“Your mother’s diary,” Farida said quietly.

They regarded each other in silence. Noa shook off her aunt’s hands and wiped her eyes.  When she spoke, her voice was a combination of surprise and fury. “A diary . . . what kind of diary? What are you talking about? Since when was there a diary? Why didn’t you tell me about this sooner? How dare you hide this from me?” Noa couldn’t believe the person who’d been her protector all her life had cheated her like this. She rose from her chair with such violence that it fell over and clattered against the floor, and she stormed out of the kitchen.

Farida stood, too, as though someone had stabbed her posterior with a pin. She rose so quickly she surprised herself. She stumbled into the small living room after Noa. “My girl, don’t be angry with me. You have to understand. Just wait a minute.” She reached for her niece’s hand, but Noa recoiled, and Farida stepped back.

“You tell me, Noa’le,” Farida said. “How could I have given a twenty-year-old girl, a girl who didn’t know anything about life, her dead mother’s diary? You weren’t mature enough; you weren’t ready. Even without the diary it wasn’t easy for you. To read personal things—confusing things—about one’s mother would be hard enough—but for a daughter whose mother had just died?” She held her hand in front of her, open, pleading. So we waited, your father and I, we waited for you to grow up. We waited until we thought you were ready to understand it. I wanted to give you the diary when
you
came to
me
,
just like you did today. When you started looking for answers about who your mother really was—when you started looking for your roots. I wanted it to come from you, not from me or your father or anyone else. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“So the two of you were in this together? Who else knew?”

“A blessing on your head.” Farida spoke calmly. “Your father and I were the only ones who knew about your mother’s diary, and we decided not to tell anyone else about it because we didn’t want you and Guy to feel like everyone was hiding something from you. Listen,” Farida said. She again tried to place her hands on Noa’s shoulders, but Noa wouldn’t let her. “When your mother started writing, she had no idea what would happen to her. Listen to me very carefully: in the beginning, your mother wrote only for herself—that’s what she told me. It’s not easy being sick, and writing allowed her to express her feelings. Later, though, she wrote for you.”

Farida raised her hands to the heavens. “Do you understand? Your mother, God have mercy on her soul, kept this diary for you and for Guy. She made both your father and me swear we wouldn’t give it to you until you were older. Those were her exact words. She said to me, ‘Farida, I’m counting on you and Dan to give this diary to Noa only when you’re sure she can appreciate what’s inside.’”

Noa’s expression softened, and Farida continued.

“This diary, it has everything she ever wanted to tell you. She wanted you to know, that’s what she told me, may I fall down dead if I’m not telling the truth. Some of the stories you’ve already heard, from me or from her, but your mother wanted you to learn about her whole life. She wanted you to know the story of our family. She thought that when you and Guy had families of your own, you’d want to know, but that until then you were too young to care. Someday, she thought, you might want to know more, and who knew if she’d be around to tell you herself? Those were her exact words. So please understand”—she reached for Noa’s hand, and this time Noa didn’t flinch—“it was for your own good. It was never my intention to take this diary to the grave. I was just waiting for the right moment, and now that moment has come. Do you see now?” Her voice had risen as she talked, and she was nearly shouting. It hadn’t been easy to keep the secret. She had been tempted to give it to Noa many times, and she and Dan had almost done so on more than one occasion, but, in the end, neither of them believed Noa was ready. But now the time had come.

“I don’t believe this,” Noa cried out. Again, tears flooded her eyes, choked her throat. “I want to see this diary! Where is it? Where did you put it? And,” she added, “why do you have it in the first place?”

Chapter Five: Farida

A
fter Noa left, Farida stood at the kitchen window for a long time, looking out into the black, moonless night. Hoping to relieve her anxiety, she lit a cigarette, one of the cheap Silons that were so hard to find, and leaned heavily against the window. She drew smoke into her lungs and tried to calm her mind. Silverware and cutlery lay strewn on the table, a thin film of flour covered the floor, and the sink overflowed with dishes. She normally cleaned everything after finishing her cooking and baking, but tonight she let it all sit.

She considered how the diary would affect Noa. Doubts encroached on her mind. Dan had entrusted her with the diary years ago; she had asked for it. They traded it back and forth, depending on who needed it more. Each time the precious notebook passed from one of them to the other, they reaffirmed their commitment: when the time was right, they would give the diary to Noa. Although Farida felt her intuition was nearly infallible, doubt seized her. She wasn’t convinced Noa could read the diary and truly understand what it meant, its significance. She wanted Noa to learn about her mother’s life, her roots, but she wasn’t sure her niece was mature enough to appreciate the beauty of her mother’s culture. Her hope was that the diary would make Noa feel closer to Violet, and, in the process, ease Noa’s pain. But Farida worried she shouldn’t have surrendered the diary when Noa was so tormented, so caught up in her own thoughts. Perhaps she should have waited. Of course, maybe the diary was exactly what Noa needed to find peace. Maybe knowing more about her mother, even if she didn’t understand all of it, would provide answers to some of Noa’s questions. These and other thoughts trampled through Farida’s head, and she was unable to reach any conclusion.

Her sister’s image materialized before her eyes. It had been six years without Violet, and her absence was still so acute. She and Violet, the youngest daughters of the family. Though Violet was but slightly older, she played the role of big sister. They were inseparable. Violet was the family rebel, and Farida forever shadowed her. As children, they shared a room; they were together in the kibbutz, first in a tent and later in a small apartment. As young girls in Baghdad, when Farida lay awake through the long, cold, dusty winter nights, Violet told her forlorn stories about separated lovers, lame and lonely dogs searching for affection, and desert bandits who roamed by night and attacked by day.

Winter mornings in the desert brought bitter cold, both inside the house and out. Violet, an early riser, would climb from bed, dress, brush her teeth, and go downstairs to make sandwiches for her and Farida to take to school. Then she would pick out clothes for her younger sister, bring them to their room, climb into Farida’s bed, and keep her warm until she was completely dressed. She combed her sister’s hair, and the two of them would go off to school. Whenever they were late—which was often, since Farida always stretched the time in her warm bed to the last minute—Violet begged the guard to let her little sister in while she remained outside, bearing the punishment herself.

When Farida thought about Violet, she felt her standing right there, felt the soft, kind touch of her sister’s hands. She closed her eyes and succumbed to the feeling of her sister’s lips kissing her head, protecting her even now. Violet shouldn’t have left this world the way she did, Farida thought bitterly. Violet was the symbol of a joyful family life, with a dancing smile forever on her lips.

What a miserable, heartbreaking end her beloved sister had met, thought Farida. And now, what was left in this world? Violet was gone, Eddie was gone, and her own Moshe had passed two years ago. How much pain could one person endure and still get out of bed every morning? Farida was overcome by a searing loneliness: her own generation was dying out, the younger generation grew increasingly distant, everyone was busy with their own problems, and what would become of her? She moved to the armchair on the front porch and sank into it. She lit another cigarette, sighed deeply, and leaned back. Tomorrow was a new day. Tomorrow the grandchildren would come. A tiny smile buoyed her lips when she thought of the two children and the noisy laughter that would fill the emptiness in her apartment, the emptiness in her heart.

Chapter Six: Violet

Wednesday, October 17, 1986

T
he ten days that followed my father’s decree—my “Ten Days of Repentance”—were not too bad. I spent my time daydreaming and getting excited: my nephew Eddie’s Bar Mitzvah was fast approaching. Eddie was thirteen—it was hard to believe he was growing up. I wondered whether he would still play with me and Farida.

Eddie was an object of adoration for us. His kindness, intelligence, wildness, everything about him thrilled us. I was a year younger than him and one-and-a-half years older than Farida, and the two of them were my whole world.

Eddie, Eddie, Eddie. Whenever I think of him, my heart aches with the same intensity as when we discovered we had lost him.

Eddie always knew exactly what to say. He was the only one of us kids allowed to attend movies by himself (we were girls, and the other boys in the family were too young), and when he returned from a film, he would describe every scene, every detail. Eddie made his own movies, too, just for us. He’d cut pictures from newspapers and project them onto a homemade screen; he was so good at cycling the images it felt like watching a real movie. He sewed a cloth curtain to cover the screen, and he’d wait until we all sat down, breathlessly waiting for the movie to begin, before removing it. He even made sure there were snacks at intermission: something sweet made by one of our mothers.

Eddie had a marvelous sense of humor, an uncanny memory for jokes, and a gift for impersonation. He mimicked teachers at school,
Ima
’s friends . . . nobody could resist his magic. Whenever I cried, Eddie made me laugh, and when I was bored, he entertained me. He was my best friend, and he, Farida, and I made a joyful trio.

When the evening before the big event finally arrived, we stood on the roof and kept a vigilant watch for my father’s sister, Aunt Madeline, and his mother, may she rest in peace. Grandmother—I must write about her—was unique. Many years ago, when her kids were still young, my grandfather was sent to fight the Turks in World War One. Although he returned alive, he wasn’t the same man. He contracted tuberculosis and could no longer take care of his family. He died when my father was just a boy. My grandmother, a young woman with three small children, did her best to support her little family.