Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction by Fedora Horowitz

not well yet, and I’m not going to chase her away.”
    Samira knew that her words sounded unusual for a servant and she expected to be rebuffed by Fatima. But Fatima kept silent.
    Samira continued, “Your parents were good to me, and I am devoted to you and your children, but,” she took a yellowish picture out of her pocket, “I look every day at the photo of Grunwald Effendi’s granddaughter. She and her entire family were killed by bad people. Maybe it’s only a coincidence, but I can’t stop thinking of the resemblance with the Yahud girl. I want to help her get her health back. Only then will I feel that I’ve repaid my debt.”
    “I have to consider the future of my children,” Fatima answered. “Keeping her longer will only make Musa think that I approve of her staying here. Who is she? Where did she come from? How long can I extend hospitality to a guest forced upon me? And now you want me to keep her longer!”
    “Only until she gains more strength, I promise. She tries to help me with my chores, poor girl, but she’s still very weak.” Looking at Fatima with a furtive, sly glance, Samira continued smoothly, “Now, about Musa. Would you allow me to give you advice?”
    Blankly Fatima stared at her.
    “I think that you should send him away, maybe to Ramallah to study, or to work for and learn from your cousin the banker in Jerusalem,” Samira said. “I heard in the souk that the Brits are encouraging young Arabs to take positions in the government. Our Musa is so bright.”
    Fatima sighed, “You are speaking my mind. I wanted to keep him close to me as long as I could, but I realize it’s time forhim to fly his own wings. It just hurts to think that my two older children will leave at the same time. I’m sure you know that Amina wants to volunteer for the British Army.”
    Samira nodded. She had always been the children’s confidante. But she felt sympathy for Fatima. She knew how much her children meant to her.
    “As for the meeting of the Arab Women’s League,” Samira concluded, “you shouldn’t worry. The Jewish girl will stay in my room. Your daughters will help me serve the guests. They know to keep a secret when told to do so.”
    The meeting of the Arab Women’s League took place in the
fumoir
, in the men’s quarters. It was the room to which Faud, Fatima’s husband, used to invite his friends for a smoke, a glass of tea or a little glass of arak. It was the first time Fatima had opened it for her own guests.
    The large room was furnished in the Turkish style. Leather ottomans surrounded low glistening copper tables encrusted with beautiful arabesque designs. It was the room Fatima was the proudest of. Heavy Persian rugs in intricate designs of red, blue and black completed the room, giving it a festive look. Samira had aired the room from the smoke that still lingered in the air and washed the carpets with a vinegar solution that brought out the colors to look as fresh as the day they were bought.
    Everything, even the smallest details, like flowers in every vase, were ready when the ladies arrived. With low bows, the greeting “
Salaam Aleikum”
and the hostess’ response,
Aleikum Salaam,”
filled the courtyard. The twenty ladies presented a curious mixture. There was the wife of the mukhtar, the Mayor of Jaffa, two Arab Christian women, the wife of a Muslim cleric whom everybody guessed was sent by her husband to spy on the meeting, and two spinster sisters, both teachers in a distinguished private school for girls. Besides Fatima there were three other Palestinian Muslimwomen. The others were Lebanese or Syrian, married to notable Palestinian men.
    Except for the wife of the cleric, nobody else wore the veil. And even she took it off when she entered the house. The Lebanese women were the most elegantly dressed. They wore knee-length muslin sleeveless dresses in pastel colors. Their French perfume deliciously filled the nostrils of all present. They were also the most