Three Daughters: A Novel (20 page)

For the next five days, there was no thought of anything but saving lives and alleviating the suffering of the wounded. Blood was everywhere. It was surprising the way it fell—yes, fell—insidiously out of the body, soaking everything quickly in that heart-sickening stain. Every hour there were more men with ragged angry stumps where their legs and hands had been. The filthy shreds of their clothing were plastered to gaping wounds. And the screams. The screams!

She held an enamel bucket and heard the unearthly padded thud of dropping fingers and toes, a hand, and, once, a sight that changed forever her memory of horror—a baby boy’s shelled leg, the knee still round and dimpled, sawn off. Sawn off as vigorously as a piece of lifeless, stubborn meat. There was no room for lust in this context. And yet, it was always on her mind. She yearned for Max at every instant and the knowledge of it made her desolate and despairing. Twice, at the edge of exhaustion, he wept tears of frustration in her arms. More often, they did no more than hold each other briefly in silent sorrow.

As for Nadia, her life improved. As Max had surmised, her difficulty had to do with the animal dander, which he quickly concluded after exposing her. As long as she kept away from the dog, she had no further breathing problems, and Max entrusted her with small errands, advising her with solemnity that she was to report directly to him. She quickly established herself in the long corridors, thrilled with the activity and with the importance of being needed. She lived for that moment in the day when Dr. Max would pick her up in his arms and say very seriously, “You are doing a wonderful job. We couldn’t get along without you.”

On those infrequent days when the stream of wounded slowed, the hospital staff would canvass the overflowing halls for those who were ill but had not required surgery. Miriam was given a corner of the largest ward and had been sponging an old Arab man who outwardly showed no signs of trouble but was running a persistent fever.

“Sister, sister.” He beckoned her near his face so he could whisper. “Please . . . shh, listen.” He was whispering unnecessarily because no one was eager to overhear. “I need something. Can you get it for me?”

“What is it? Are you in pain? What is it I can get for you?”

“
Zeit u zatar
. And hot bread. I know where you can find it . . . shh, listen carefully and I will tell you.”

He must be delirious
, she thought. He wanted bread with oil and spice. “Are you in pain?” she asked again, not knowing what else to say.

“Sister, sister . . .” he continued in that same conspiratorial manner. “
Zeit u zatar
and bread. I know where you can get it for me. Please. Make an old man happy.”

She saw that he was serious. “I can bring you food if you’re hungry.”

“No, no. I don’t want food. Please, just listen. I know where you can get it.”

There was no sensible way to justify indulging the old man’s whim when there was so much to do, but his manner touched her. He was old and frail and he wanted a favor.

“Tell me where to get it,” she said.

“It’s underground.” He made her bring her face very close to his. “In back of David Street near the old suq . . . the old suq
,
” he emphasized. “You know it? Where they used to sell the meat?”

“Yes, I know it.”

“The last building to the right. There are steps down. Knock three times and tell her to give you something for Nassam. You do that for me?”

“Yes, I will.”

She hated going out into the streets. She had to shake herself loose from begging hands, knowing she was powerless to help. She had tried on several occasions to walk to Tamleh to see her mother, but the road was cordoned off and she was turned back. Yet she slipped out and did as the old man had instructed and, sure enough, after hearing a guarded response from behind the closed door, a well-padded arm with at least a dozen gold bracelets jangling delicately passed out a packet of warm food that Miriam delivered immediately to her patient. She didn’t have time to watch him open the package, but he smiled at her with such gratefulness—it was a deeply satisfying moment.

Within the next few days, she repeated this errand three times. The third time she delivered the warm, fragrant packet, the old man held up his hand, asking her to wait. He reached under the bed and brought up a small cotton bag that had seen better days. “I’m going to die soon,” he said simply, as if the event was inevitable and he had accepted it, “and you have been very kind to me. Please, sister. Take this bag. It’s all I have . . . there’s a little money in it . . . Turkish money . . . perhaps the value is no good now but also there’s a deed, a lawful deed. Shh . . . it’s all right, don’t say anything. Just listen. I made a little paper and one of the doctors witnessed it and signed it. The deed is for you. It’s yours. Thank you, sister. You’re a good woman. God bless you.”

Several times while he was speaking she had tried to dissuade him from giving her his earthly possessions, but seeing he had made up his mind and assuming that there was little there of value, she took the bag and placed it inside her sack without even inspecting its contents. He died in his sleep two nights later.

She had been there ten days and it was no longer possible to justify remaining. The fears she had felt initially—that she would not withstand her own desires—had never been realized. The crushing priorities of human suffering had displaced everything else. Max, bone tired, almost incoherent with fatigue, his tongue thick, his eyes an unhealthy map of blood vessels, could focus only on surgery. Several times he had urged her into his apartment but couldn’t do more than sink onto the bed, unable to summon the energy for words or an embrace. Before she had finished removing his shoes and hoisting his legs onto the bed, he was asleep.

One evening, while the ward was unnaturally quiet, she was changing a dressing and deep in thought. Without warning, the need to be away from all the sick, despairing bodies took hold and, after checking to see that Nadia was asleep, she ran out the front door and hurried around the corner toward the Russian compound. In the old days, one of her special pleasures was to listen to the evening prayers sung by the nuns. Some of them were old and bent women, but their voices were exquisite. If she hurried she might still be in time for vespers and be lulled by that glorious harmony.

She entered the compound—the Arabs dubbed it
el-Moscoobiyya
. Once it had been the first building outside the walls and the busiest area in all of Jerusalem, processing the thousands of pilgrims who arrived each year. But now, with Russia at war with Turkey and Germany, the funds from the motherland stopped and some of the nuns were so poor that they had to work as gravel crushers for the government. She saw them scurrying through the streets in their dust-soiled habits, heads bent as if they were ashamed.

As she entered the cathedral, she heard the mesmerizing sound. A unified mellifluous sweetness pulled her in, promising to soothe and heal.

She knelt perfectly still, allowing the music to work on her. There came a moment of such lucidity, she stopped hearing the music altogether and focused on her feelings. Something was different. She felt an exquisite peacefulness—a letting go that was exhilarating. She had been living with the threat of her own desire—any moment he chose, Max could have had her. But what she had refused to see was that it would have been her choice, too. She would have chosen against Nadeem. Willfully, she would have chosen against her husband for a second time, but without the excuse of surprise and discovery. She was horrified by the thought of her own easy faithlessness.

Nadeem was the one true bulwark of her life. The war and circumstances had taken away his business but not his worth. Not his inner goodness and strength, which never wavered. They were as much a part of him as the perfect crystal pitch was a part of these bowed nuns. This time there would have been no salvation.
Nadeem, forgive me. Forgive me.
In that instant, she knew herself more completely than she had thought possible and her first thought was:
Why couldn’t I see it? Oh, I’m so thankful that there was nothing physical between Max and me. I’m no longer afraid. It’s time to return to my family. It’s time to leave you, Max Broder.

Her face must have shown that renewed inviolable strength of purpose, because Max didn’t try to persuade her to stay. He stole away from the operating room for half an hour and Miriam thought afterward that it was more a need to spend the time with Nadia than with her. Did he suspect? It touched her deeply to see them together. He had several glossy picture books about horses and Nadia was devouring them with cries of interest and delight.

“She likes horses?” His tone was almost accusatory. As if Miriam had cheated him by withholding this information.

Miriam nodded. “She lives for horses.” She had no will anymore to deny him this small pleasure. She felt such affection for him and a willingness to comfort him in his aloneness. For that’s how she saw him. Alone. If he suspected his relationship to Nadia, it was a small enough gift to let him know he had passed on so much to her.

“How I wish I had the time to take her riding.” He looked wistfully at the little girl sprawled on the floor with a book almost as large as she. “In any case, it wouldn’t be safe. Snipers are everywhere and even if you have a travel pass, some of the soldiers shoot without asking questions.”

“Why do you stay here, Max?” He wasn’t expecting such a probing question and she could see it crushed his moment of relaxation. “It’s so difficult and you have another life back home.”

The look of bewilderment on his face brought tears to her eyes. “I was going home before the war broke out.” He sounded almost ashamed, as if he had botched up a simple task. “But then I got caught up in”—he waved his arms to encompass all of Jerusalem—“all this. I’m going to have a holiday when it’s over.” His childish mouth hung open, looking so vulnerable, and she thought of Esa.

“Max, Nadia and I must go back. My husband . . . my boys are waiting for me. We must start out tomorrow.”

“Start out . . .” He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “You mean on foot? You’re going to walk back?”

“But that’s how we came.”

“It’s a miracle you didn’t get killed. You can’t walk back. We’re at war!” He rose decisively. “I’ll make arrangements for someone to drive you. My patients are always promising me the moon for saving their lives. Let’s see if I can call in some of those promises.”

She looked stricken. “I can’t, Max. I’ve never been in a car. Is it safe?”

It was the first broad smile she had seen on his face since they arrived. “Of course.” He picked up Nadia and swung her up in his arms. “Your mother’s frightened of riding in a car. It’s up to you to convince her that it’s safe. Go ahead, my little horsewoman, tell your mama she’s got to join the twentieth century.”

“Mama, it’s all right,” said Nadia softly. Then she looked quizzically at Max to see if she had done what he wanted. “You want us to take the car?”

“I want you to be safe.” He embraced her and his voice was filled with emotion. “I want you to always be safe.” Nadia put her small thin arms around his neck and Miriam saw the first glimmer of womanhood in her satisfied eyes. She was comforting someone she loved. Her little soul comprehended something that was still hidden. Max put her down and walked quickly out of the room.

They left two days later in a scarred black cabriolet touring coach whose once extravagant soft-napped top had been torn away and replaced by two corrugated steel sheets. Mother and daughter sat scrunched in the back, holding another piece of metal in front of them that was supposed to protect them from stray bullets. Max had wangled a pass for them so that they could travel as subjects friendly to the realm of the sultan—a ridiculous statement since Turkey was being ruled by a triumvirate. Miriam had no faith that any piece of paper could protect them from her main source of fear, which was the car itself.

She would not have guessed that she would be happy to return to Es Salt, but now that they were on their way, she yearned to see Nadeem and the boys. She had always kept some details of her emotional life at a distance in order to cope with circumstances that were not of her choosing. She had coped with the hurts of childhood by not speaking. She had taken the sting out of Miss Clay’s impersonal assessments by surpassing her expectations and then scoffing at them. She had steeled herself against marriage—outwardly accepting but inwardly reserving the deepest core of feeling until Max. And now—ravaged by the pain of losing those she had loved most—she had no more will to set herself apart. Khalil, Hanna, Nadeem, and yes, Nadia—they were her life. She was thirty-four years old and she had only now opened her arms to the life that was hers.

16.

MIRIAM, WHAT ARE THESE PAPERS? THERE’S A DEED HERE.

M
iriam left Jerusalem the second week of March. During April, Bertha Spafford, who ran the American Colony, went to see Jemal Pasha, the Turkish commander, who was a dread figure known chiefly for his association with the Armenian massacres in Anatolia a few years before. The Germans had closed her soup kitchen, saying the Colony was American propaganda because now the US had declared war on Germany. To his credit, Jemal Pasha acquiesced to Mrs. Spafford’s request to reopen the kitchens as long as she did it in the name of Turkey.

The war, however, was not going well for the Ottoman Empire. By late fall the Turkish army had been in ragged retreat through Jerusalem. As Max stepped outside one morning to get a breath of nonchloroformed air, a soldier warned him that within days, perhaps hours, they should expect heavy cannon fire and street fighting. “The British are in the suburbs,” he said. But the cannons never came. On the eighth of December, in order to protect the holy places from destruction by the British, the Turkish high command reluctantly decided to surrender the city. Two thousand Turkish and German wounded lay in the hospitals with rations for only about twelve hours.

When the British did arrive, Max went out to meet the convoy, waving a torn hospital sheet on a pole, ready to beg for medicine and supplies. When the lead car stopped, he thrust out his hand and a pale British face looked out. It was Major General John Shea, commanding the division that had captured Jerusalem.

“I have worked in this hospital for nine years,” said Max, with full awareness of his German origins. “I have saved lives of every nationality, including those from Mother England. We are in desperate need of supplies.”

“You shall have what you need,” replied the British officer, and the next morning lorries came rolling up to the hospital with rations and bandages and medical supplies. Two days later, General Sir Edmund Henry Hynman Allenby, commanding British forces in Egypt and Palestine, entered Jerusalem. As a conqueror he was entitled to enter the Holy City on horseback, a sword in his hand; but as a gesture of humility and respect, he walked through Jaffa Gate unarmed, on foot, head uncovered. That dramatic picture of Allenby entering within the walls built by Suleiman the Magnificent circulated around the world and thrilled a war-weary population eager for a “noble” incident to distract it from the years of carnage. Many of the long-standing residents, remembering the pompous arrival twenty years earlier of Kaiser Wilhelm II, seated on a white charger, welcomed the British with a sigh of relief.

With the arrival of trained medical personnel, Max, on the verge of nervous collapse, left for an extended holiday in Egypt and remained for six months, attaching himself after one brief week of rest to an army hospital there.

Refugees poured back into Jerusalem by the hundreds, the Mishwe family among them. Though it was only ten miles away, it was still impossible to return to the village. Soldiers and their horses were billeted in many homes and the villagers were scattered.

The churches were taking as many refugees as they could house and Father Alphonse took Nadeem and his family when they arrived in late December. It was an odd Christmas without the influx of pilgrims, but it was also a time of renewed hope, and on Christmas Eve they went to sing carols at Shepherds’ Field near Bethlehem.

After the New Year, the monks found the family two rooms in a boarding house in the Musrara section, which was predominantly Jewish, and Nadeem set about deciding how he was going to earn a living. It was a time of change and excitement in Jerusalem, with the signs of British occupation evident everywhere. By spring, the American Red Cross opened their headquarters and began the gargantuan task of repatriation and relief work.

One evening as they strolled down Jaffa Road for a breath of air, Nadeem pointed out to Miriam a man in Arab dress coming down the steps from a hotel.

“See that man?” asked Nadeem. “He’s not a Bedouin at all.”

She was amazed, for she had never seen a European wear the Arab robe and headdress with such convincing comfort. “His name is Lawrence. He’s an Englishman. I met him by chance when I was in the army. They say the Bedouin do his bidding as if he were God.”

By the fall of that year, this same Lawrence had entered Damascus with Faisal Ibn Hussein, who was to become king of Iraq, and captured it for the British. The Turks had been defeated. The war was over.

For Nadeem, all of his success in life had evolved by virtue of his precocious and active mind, followed by the necessary work to bring his ideas to fruition. Nothing had come easily and, in fact, he was highly suspicious of luck or windfalls. Therefore, he was not prepared for the discovery that he and Miriam made one extraordinary morning in late summer of 1918.

They were still living with assistance from the relief agencies, including food and clothing from the US, augmented by odd jobs. Several times Khalil and Hanna had spoken dreamily of leaving for America, where they would create fortunes. Each time they mentioned the idea Miriam became so agitated and morose that the subject was dropped. There was such an influx of foreigners to the city that it was virtually impossible to secure work. They were able to remain in the two cramped rooms only because Nadeem made repairs on the house and kept the grounds in exchange for his rent. The dwelling was so dingy that Miriam had refused to accept it as a permanent home and never fully unpacked their belongings.

Nadeem was more practical and he was constantly undoing a bundle and taking the contents out so they could use them. It was in this fashion that he came upon a soiled cotton bag that was buried among some clothing of Nadia’s. It held papers that were mystifying to him and he went in search of his wife.

“Miriam, what are these papers? There’s a deed here.”

She had to think awhile before remembering where she had acquired the bag. “When I was here with Nadia, I helped in the hospital a few days and this old man was so grateful he gave me all his papers before he died. I thought it was little more than rubbish. Oh, yes, he said there was some money in there.” Her eyes lit up with expectation. “Did you look? Perhaps we’ll find some money.”

“There’s something much more valuable than money, if it’s legal,” said Nadeem seriously. “Look!” He pulled out an official paper that named a specific address deeded to a man by the name of Esa Nassam. Attached to it was a witnessed transfer of the deed to Miriam Mishwe, stamped and sealed. “It’s transferred to you. If this is legal, you’re the owner of this property—a large piece, too. See here, the dimensions are seventy-five feet wide by one hundred fifty deep, located on Abba Siqra Street, running perpendicular to King David.” They stared at each other in amazement.

“Nadeem, do you think it’s true?”

“No. It seems too extraordinary. I would say it’s not true.”

Now that he was so adamant, she became defensive. “But here’s the deed,” she said irrefutably, “and it’s transferred to me.”

“But how could it be?” Nadeem pushed all the papers away from him to think more clearly. “Things don’t happen like this. It’s too much like a magical event.”

Miriam rose decisively and began to smooth her skirt. “We will have to go to the registry and see for ourselves. It is true,” she added stubbornly. “Now I remember that the old man did say he was giving his property to me. Or something like that. I don’t remember his exact words. But he also said one of the doctors had witnessed the will. Nadeem, come. Perhaps a miracle has happened.”

The bored English clerk at the government office attested to the legality of their deed and seeing nothing unusual—after all, he evaluated deeds daily and didn’t consider any spot in this infernal desert worth a fig—was disgruntled to see these two dance about like enthusiastic dervishes when he confirmed ownership of the property on Abba Siqra Street.

“Let’s go right now and see it,” Miriam said, and saw her husband hesitate. “Now, please, Nadeem, don’t find anything more to worry about. Let’s enjoy it for the moment.”

“Very well. I suppose you’re right. If the truth is not as pleasant later, at least we can enjoy it for the moment,” he said, and they started off, leaving by the Zion Gate, to view whatever was waiting for them.

They had not known what to expect. Therefore, the sight of the two dilapidated houses—faintly Georgian, although of the humblest design—connected by a covered walkway sent them dancing again. “I don’t quite know why,” laughed Nadeem, “but I imagined it was only bare land. And look, two structures. Two solid structures.”

Now it was Miriam’s turn to be cautious. “I wouldn’t call them solid,” she said, eyeing the overgrowth and broken windows circumspectly.

“The damage is only superficial,” explained Nadeem, who was already pushing back an oleander bush to have a look at the foundation. “The understructure is good. And look here. Here’s the mouth of a water cistern and the remains of a hand pump. Miriam, I could put this in shape and we could rent it. I could.”

She recognized the hopefulness in his eyes and the excitement in his voice and thought of the other ventures that had begun this way. “Nadeem”—she swallowed hard, determined not to cry—“it makes me so happy to see you excited again. You’ve never complained through all these months and I know how difficult it’s been for you. But now there’s an opportunity again.”

They stood in a tiny courtyard that sloped drunkenly where the bricks had shifted, surrounded by rust and tangle, shattered glass and crumbling wood, in the shadow of two modest buildings—both of which, they would discover in the next moment, suffered from gaping holes in their roofs—as happy and united as they had ever been in their lives.

Nadeem went the next morning to see his friend Slivowitz and, after divulging the various tragedies that had befallen them—Slivowitz had lost his only son to typhus—Nadeem showed him the deed and related the circumstances surrounding it.

“I never believed in miracles,” said Slivowitz, “and I’m not going to change my mind now. The buildings must be ready to collapse.”

“But they haven’t collapsed yet,” said Nadeem. Now that he had convinced himself of the project, nothing could dampen his spirits. “I will repair them before they do. They won’t be extraordinary buildings, but they are fine for boarding establishments. We’re living in one now that isn’t half so pleasant, and you know the housing shortage is horrendous. I need fifteen hundred dollars for the bare necessities—to get people into them. Afterward when there’s an income, I’ll do the rest.”

“Of course,” said Slivowitz with none of his old feistiness. “I don’t have fifteen hundred, but I’ll give you a thousand.” Nadeem didn’t argue. He surmised that Slivowitz probably couldn’t quite spare the thousand. It troubled him to see his old friend so subdued.

“Wouldn’t you like to see the property?” he asked brightly.

“I’ll come around and have a look when it’s done,” answered the banker. “Why look now and be frightened out of a night’s sleep?” he added and Nadeem saw a glimmer of his old friend.

It was like the old days—working from dawn to dusk with the excitement of a child. But this time there was the added bonus of serendipity—finding little refinements to delight a man who had spent a good portion of his life in the building trade. For instance, he discovered, after pulling away a wisteria vine several inches thick, that the door lintel was beautifully ornamented and the thick front doors, which needed no more than a careful varnishing, each had a carved panel that created a distinguished entrance.

When the houses were habitable, he moved his family into the bottom floor of one building and rented the rest of the space, which he had divided into three apartments.

They lived there happily for six months, by which time Allenby and Lawrence had defeated the Turks in both Syria and Lebanon. The war was really over and they were allowed to travel home to pick up the pieces of a remembered life that had no more substance than a dream.

The clan was reunited—those who were left. Jamilla . . . oh, such a look of grief and torment still on her face. George . . . still bewildered without his twin, Salim. Daud without his wife and child. Zareefa without her beautiful middle daughter.
And I
, thought Miriam,
without Esa and Baba.

Umm Jameel had changed the least, although she had lost her elegant sister Halla, who died along with the sheik. Their son was now head of the clan and his son, Samir, was next in line, as it went in their tradition. But life was quite different from the old days. Cars zoomed up from Jerusalem in fifteen minutes. You could travel from the port of Jaffa in less than two hours. The English had brought in the marvels of the twentieth century.

The Friends schools for both boys and girls reopened and soon gained a nationwide reputation. The elite of the occupying forces sent their children there to rub shoulders with the elite of Palestine. The students replanted the beautiful trees that the Turks had hacked down to feed their locomotives. Samir, the sheik’s son, was enrolled, but he was the only student from the village. It was too extravagant, and also, the parents feared the seduction of Western ideas would rob them of their children. The elegant Friends compound beyond the isolating ornate fence was another world. The parents were right to be afraid.