Ishmael's Oranges by Claire Hajaj Page B

He could not bear to see him exposed so brutally, like a beggar without his clothes.
    â€˜ Yallah ,’ said Abu Mazen, standing up. ‘I’ll see you, then. Next time you come, come for coffee in Jaffa. My very best regards to Umm Hassan. A beautiful wife is the only luck a man needs, eh?’ And with that, he turned and strolled away.
    â€˜ Yallah , Mazen,’ he called back over his shoulder, and Salim saw his old friend flinch at the command.
    Mazen paused for an instant, turning around towards the huddled Al-Ishmaelis. Salim saw his hand move outwards towards him, the fleshy palm open. And the thought came that the boy he’d known was still there, trying to reach beyond all this with an apology.
    But the hand kept rising, and as Mazen touched his finger to his forehead Salim recognized the salute at once. It was the obeisance that a worker gives his master, the grateful thanks when the wages were handed over. And as Mazen’s smile broke out, more confident now, Salim knew that the boyhood jokes had finally become real. He was the fellah with his hand out, and his masters had just given him his last payment.
    The envelope and its pitiful contents nestled in Tareq’s briefcase on the long, slow journey home, along with the now useless title deeds. Tareq talked during their weary drive, working hard against the persistent silence in the car. He came up with solutions and strategies, court battles and cases they could put.
    Abu Hassan grunted and nodded his assent. But Salim knew it was just for show. His father had acquiesced to fate. The world would have to go on, and Salim would have to find a new place in it.
    As they pulled up into the little, dark garage Salim was overwhelmed with a desire to see his mother, to feel her soothing hand on his forehead. He raced up the dim flights of stairs, through the sweaty heaps of dust, and burst into the flat calling, ‘Mama! We’re home!’
    Nadia came rushing out of the kitchen, a wet cloth in her hands. She was holding it in a strange way. ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Where’s Mama?’ She did not reply. A disconnected part of his brain realized that she held a wet tissue, and not a dishcloth at all. Her body and face seemed wrong too. Her eyes were red and her face bloated. She reached out her hands to him but he backed away, suddenly terrified.
    Turning around, he ran into his mother’s bedroom shouting, ‘Mama! Mama!’ The room was dark, with the curtains closed. But even in the dim light Salim could see the gaping holes of open, empty cupboards where once clothes had hung.
    He pushed past Nadia’s reaching hand, tearing into the bedroom he shared with Rafan. The small box of Rafan’s clothes was gone. The blanket they’d shared for all these years was missing too, along with the old duffel bag that Salim had brought from Jaffa.
    His legs gave way and he fell onto Rafan’s stinking mattress, nausea filling his throat. Now I understand you, Mama . She had known how it would go. She had known they would fail. After years of pretending to belong to them, she had left at last.
    â€Œ
‌ 1959
    Returning from Shul one afternoon, Dora called her husband and daughters together to make a grand announcement.
    â€˜Judit’s going to have a Batmitzvah!’ she said triumphantly, one manicured hand reaching down to pinch Judith’s chin. ‘I talked to the Rebbe and he agrees completely. Hymie and Martha’s girl had one last week, and there are at least three more planned this year.’
    Gertie clapped her hands, and Jack said, ‘Okay, well, if you think so, why not? She has a year to get ready, after all.’
    Judith stood stock still in horror. Her eleventh birthday had come and gone almost unnoticed, to her great relief. The thought of reading the Torah in front of dozens – maybe hundreds – of Doras and their yarmulked husbands sent a chill of fear down her