many arrived illegally and spread like ants. We have to do our part in helping our men fight to preserve Palestine for Palestinians. This is our fatherland, this is our homeland.” Everyone applauded.
Samira, who entered to clear up the tables, heard the last sentence. She glanced furtively at Fatima, and watched the tension narrow her eyes and tighten her lips.
7
S hifra couldn’t fall asleep. She had heard unusual noises in the house, many women speaking loudly, all at once.
Where was Samira
? She didn’t know what time it was, but it seemed long after the queen of the night had covered the sky with her mantle. Shifra had grown accustomed to the Arab woman’s singing in her croaking voice, mixing Arabic and Yiddish words.
How much time had passed since she was brought to this strange house? Shifra remembered the beach.
But what beach, and what was she doing there
? She had opened her eyes to find herself in unfamiliar surroundings, strange people, two women and children who looked at her with worried eyes.
Oh, she felt so tired, so tired. Whenever she tried to think, her head hurt. There was a young man, who had carried her in his arms, she remembered! The blood rushed to her face. He seemed again, how did she get where she was now? The longer she thought, the more confused she became. And the headache started again. She drank the glass of water filled with nana leaves that Samira had left at her side.
After a slight tap at the door, Rama, the youngest of the daughters entered. By now she knew the little girl’s name.
“I brought you pastries,” Rama said in Arabic, putting a plate by her side. Shifra didn’t understand the words, but understood their meaning and smiled at the little girl.
“You know,” Rama said in a mysterious tone, “soon Amina and Musa will go away. I’ll miss Amina so much.”
Rama started to cry. She wiped her tears and looked hopefully at Shifra. “I want you to live with us and be my new sister.”
Neither of them had heard Samira, who had slipped inside the room. “It’s time you go to bed, sweet angel,” Samira said, taking Rama in her arms and kissing her.
“Samira,” Rama pointed toward Shifra, “Do you think I could try to teach her Arabic? Then she could really become my sister.”
“Maybe,” Samira smiled, “now run, before your mother finds out that you’re still up.”
At the beginning of the lessons Rama pointed to the objects in the room and named them in Arabic. She waited for Shifra to repeat the words after her, again and again. This child is a born teacher; Samira, proudly, witnessed her efforts. She would love to tell Fatima, but the latter was too busy preparing Amina before joining the British Red Cross.
In time, Rama became bolder. One day when Samira brought Shifra in the courtyard to enjoy the sun, Rama asked Nur, her older sister for help. “Please teach her our letters,” begged Rama, who wasn’t yet going to school.
“I am too busy, leave me alone,” Nur answered. But Rama insisted, “You don’t know how fast this girl can learn. She can name everything in the house. Please, Nur, please.”
Samira wanted to intervene, but after she heard Rama insisting so much, Nur said, “I’ll do it only because you asked me to. I don’t see why she should learn Arabic. You heard Mother say that as soon as her health gets better, she’ll have to leave.”
As much as Shifra wanted to remember her past, now as dark as the sea that almost swallowed her, she made little progress. Vaguely, Rama reminded her of a little girl she had known before, but who? Shifra grew fond of Rama and for her sake, and wanting to make her proud, she took Rama’s and Nur’s lessons seriously.
“Look how pretty she writes,” marveled Rama after a few days. “And she embellishes each word with designs. I have to show it to Amina. This girl’s drawings are as beautiful as my sister’s.”
Excited, Rama took the notebook out of Shifra’s hands and went to look
Samira, who entered to clear up the tables, heard the last sentence. She glanced furtively at Fatima, and watched the tension narrow her eyes and tighten her lips.
7
S hifra couldn’t fall asleep. She had heard unusual noises in the house, many women speaking loudly, all at once.
Where was Samira
? She didn’t know what time it was, but it seemed long after the queen of the night had covered the sky with her mantle. Shifra had grown accustomed to the Arab woman’s singing in her croaking voice, mixing Arabic and Yiddish words.
How much time had passed since she was brought to this strange house? Shifra remembered the beach.
But what beach, and what was she doing there
? She had opened her eyes to find herself in unfamiliar surroundings, strange people, two women and children who looked at her with worried eyes.
Oh, she felt so tired, so tired. Whenever she tried to think, her head hurt. There was a young man, who had carried her in his arms, she remembered! The blood rushed to her face. He seemed again, how did she get where she was now? The longer she thought, the more confused she became. And the headache started again. She drank the glass of water filled with nana leaves that Samira had left at her side.
After a slight tap at the door, Rama, the youngest of the daughters entered. By now she knew the little girl’s name.
“I brought you pastries,” Rama said in Arabic, putting a plate by her side. Shifra didn’t understand the words, but understood their meaning and smiled at the little girl.
“You know,” Rama said in a mysterious tone, “soon Amina and Musa will go away. I’ll miss Amina so much.”
Rama started to cry. She wiped her tears and looked hopefully at Shifra. “I want you to live with us and be my new sister.”
Neither of them had heard Samira, who had slipped inside the room. “It’s time you go to bed, sweet angel,” Samira said, taking Rama in her arms and kissing her.
“Samira,” Rama pointed toward Shifra, “Do you think I could try to teach her Arabic? Then she could really become my sister.”
“Maybe,” Samira smiled, “now run, before your mother finds out that you’re still up.”
At the beginning of the lessons Rama pointed to the objects in the room and named them in Arabic. She waited for Shifra to repeat the words after her, again and again. This child is a born teacher; Samira, proudly, witnessed her efforts. She would love to tell Fatima, but the latter was too busy preparing Amina before joining the British Red Cross.
In time, Rama became bolder. One day when Samira brought Shifra in the courtyard to enjoy the sun, Rama asked Nur, her older sister for help. “Please teach her our letters,” begged Rama, who wasn’t yet going to school.
“I am too busy, leave me alone,” Nur answered. But Rama insisted, “You don’t know how fast this girl can learn. She can name everything in the house. Please, Nur, please.”
Samira wanted to intervene, but after she heard Rama insisting so much, Nur said, “I’ll do it only because you asked me to. I don’t see why she should learn Arabic. You heard Mother say that as soon as her health gets better, she’ll have to leave.”
As much as Shifra wanted to remember her past, now as dark as the sea that almost swallowed her, she made little progress. Vaguely, Rama reminded her of a little girl she had known before, but who? Shifra grew fond of Rama and for her sake, and wanting to make her proud, she took Rama’s and Nur’s lessons seriously.
“Look how pretty she writes,” marveled Rama after a few days. “And she embellishes each word with designs. I have to show it to Amina. This girl’s drawings are as beautiful as my sister’s.”
Excited, Rama took the notebook out of Shifra’s hands and went to look
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