Three Daughters: A Novel Read online

  The harvesting party was gay and there was much laughing and singing, but the living conditions were harsh. The tent for the women and children was overcrowded. They were huddled together with no privacy and no relief from the constant noise. The donkeys fought and brayed and kept it up all night long. The odors accumulating from unwashed bodies were horrific. When they first arrived, Jamilla had foolishly inquired of a woman where she could bathe. “Hah,” the woman had sneered, happy to get the better of a mountain dweller. “There is no water for bathing. We use sand. Perhaps it will ruin your fair skin,” she added maliciously.

  “What do we drink?” Jamilla persisted.

  “Drinking water is for sale. Someone will come twice a day.”

  Jamilla, who was sensitive to smell, often left the tent and slept outside. Many of the women cried out in their dreams and Miriam would awaken, frightened and disoriented, to find her mother gone. She developed a persistent cough from the damp night air that penetrated her bones. It was followed by the day’s exhausting heat. Yet nothing deterred her from following her mother and retracing the furrows that had been abandoned as picked clean, hoping to find a few extra grains. She kept her precious sack with her at all times, placing it under her head when she slept.

  One night Miriam was awakened by what felt like ants crawling over her body. Her skin throbbed as if bruised and scratching brought no relief. By morning the throbbing had abated but the itching continued. Several times in the next few days Miriam nudged her mother, pointed to her arms and beat her chest over her dress, but Jamilla was too fatigued or unwilling to understand. She searched for Mustafa but he was gone.

  Some of the men left the fields to work in the brick-burning kilns of neighboring el-Mesmiyeh. That work paid fifty cents a day instead of thirty, and Mustafa joined them. They put him in a vaulted room to feed the fire with stubble collected from the cornfields of nearby plantations. The room was suffocatingly hot and only by stripping naked could he endure the heat. In compensation el-Mesmiyeh had an inexhaustible well and four stout mules raised cool, sweet water.

  When the family returned to Tamleh, they were so tanned the twins cried as if they were strangers. Nabiha was shocked at Miriam’s condition. “Look at her hair,” she said reproachfully.

  “The comb won’t go through,” said Jamilla, kissing and inspecting her babies, who were toddling around. “It would take hours to untangle it and my arms are too weary. It’s the tangles that hold the dirt.” Seeing how thin her daughter had become and the deep circles around her eyes stopped Nabiha from scolding her over Miriam’s condition.

  “Come.” She took Miriam’s hand. “That body needs scrubbing and that hair . . . that hair.”

  Miriam slipped her hand out of her grandmother’s grasp and began to scratch.

  “Ya Allah,” said Nabiha. “She has a rash, too.”

  She undressed her granddaughter and found her covered with oozing welts and ran to find Mustafa. He stared at the bony, infested body and his eyes filled with tears. He picked her up and carried her across town to Spiridum Rascallah, who was permitted to dispense pharmaceuticals. She gave him a soothing salve that Mustafa spread over the infected bites.

  Miriam’s muteness affected each family member differently. Her father taught her a few hand signs but mostly they communicated by pantomime and drawings. Jamilla, busy with the twins, distanced herself from the problem and never urged her daughter to talk. Nabiha prayed daily. Nabile asked Miriam privately each day to just say, “Good morning.” Daud, the younger uncle, who had been displaced by her birth, detested her muteness and was determined to end it.

  One day Miriam hid an abandoned pup at the edge of the yard. Dogs were too numerous to arouse sympathy but this one had rounded ears and large eyes. Each day she fed him with a rag soaked in milk, but one morning the tangle of vines hiding him was pushed aside and the crate was empty. Her face, still pale from sleep, crinkled into an anxious squint.

  She walked back to the house and Daud appeared with a covered basket. He was noticeably short and she had almost caught up to him during the winter. “Is this what you’re looking for?” He lifted the cover briefly and she reached out. “Oh, no. When you say, ‘Uncle Daud,’ I’ll give him back.” He poked a knife through the basket’s weave. “No talking, no dog.”

  She went to the far edge of the yard to look down the western road where her father appeared on Saturday. He came home filthy with ash residue from the soap making in Ramleh. He traveled with his own old dog to warn him of noise and danger, and the dog’s collar beat against itself, making a familiar sound. But today wasn’t Saturday.

  Daud moved to the vegetable patch. A slight breeze blew and he lifted his face. Then he sighed, held the dog up by his ears and put the knife against its throat. “Speak!” he ordered sharply. “You bloody little liar. You can speak as well as anyone.” He grazed the throat from ear to ear and a necklace of blood drops appeared. The dog yelped pitifully. The second motion was swift, deep, and sure and the small round head fell back.

  Miriam heard the gurgling before the dog collapsed. She tipped the head back to a normal position but the rest of him sagged pathetically. “Dead,” she said.

  “What?” Daud heard it.

  “Dead.”

  “You little fool. Why speak now?”

  Her mother found her holding the dog in her lap. “What happened? Are you hurt?” She called to Daud, who was a few yards away pitching stones at the herds.

  “I killed her mutt. He was digging in the garden.”

  Miriam was standing by her mother’s shoulder. “No,” she said firmly. Jamilla was startled as much by the quality of the voice as by the fact that she had spoken. “Lie,” said Miriam.

  “Take her to see the doctor,” Nabiha said after hearing her granddaughter rasp out a few words. “It’s a strange voice, but not unpleasant.” Miriam’s voice was deep but with a lovely silvery underside.

  Dr. Hanser, who had been brought to the village by the Society of Friends, examined Miriam’s heart and lungs and looked into her ears and eyes. He took her pulse and recorded her reflexes. Finally, he inspected her throat and had her repeat the vowel sounds. “She speaks low for a female,” he said. “Perhaps her vocal cords are withered.” He had no idea how to reassure the mother. The patient was in good health. “Send her to the Scotswoman near Sarona. She’ll give her lessons in strengthening the voice.” He turned to the Quaker woman who helped him. “Perhaps Miss Haefling can write a letter on your behalf.”

  “Why can she suddenly talk now?” asked Jamilla. She was fearful of having them think she was instigating the muteness to tie Miriam more closely as Mustafa’s natural child.

  “It isn’t anything physical,” said the doctor. “She could have talked anytime.”

  Jamilla, in her confusion, turned pale with anger. “You withheld it on purpose, naughty girl.” Her hand came across with force and struck Miriam.

  Miss Haefling placed herself between mother and daughter. “No one is naughty, madam,” she said softly. “Children have their own reasons and it’s difficult for us to understand them. Nevertheless, your daughter needs to be taught to speak properly. There is a fine school at Sarona affiliated with the German Colony, where she can receive speech therapy.”

  “I can’t spare her,” said Jamilla, already regretting her outburst. “I need her to watch the children during the harvest.”

  “Then you can send her after the harvest.” The doctor spoke firmly. He knew Miriam would speak with or without the therapy but he saw some value in separating the girl from her mother.

  “The expense . . .” Jamilla began. “Perhaps the school’s too dear.”

  “The German Colony is a religious community,” said Miss Haefling. “Most likely they will take your daughter without payment. Let me write and explain the situation.” When Jamilla failed to answer, she added, “The best families send the
ir girls to the school in Sarona.”

  That night, as Miriam lay in her bed, she heard the monotonous cry of the nighthawk calling to its mate, but she was not frightened. Despite the sadness over the dog and the turbulence she had caused, she felt deep relief. Fear had been inside her all this time. Fear of the silence and fear of breaking it. Now it was done.

  2.

  WE MUST HAVE A BATH.

  Miriam and Mustafa left for the school early one morning down the el-Tirah Road, going past the fine orderly vineyards that grew the best grapes in Judea. The road curved down and they could see that the cement in the paved roofs had cracked from the summer heat. There would be leaks with the first showers of fall.

  Nabiha tucked a bag of sweets into Miriam’s pocket. “Eat them on the way, habibty,” she said and began to cry. Jamilla embraced Miriam briefly but was distracted by keeping the twins, George and Salim, from straying down the road.

  The trip to Sarona took two days. Miriam, looking pale, began to lag toward dusk and Mustafa carried her to a hostel in Ludd, where they spent the night. In the morning, their breakfast was goats’ milk cheese, bread with olive oil and thyme, and tea. They took food for the road. Every so often they would stop, moved by the sights of the pomegranate and mulberry orchards and the palm trees, which Miriam had never seen. They passed the ruins of many soap factories.

  They were used to walking barefoot and saved their sandals for the villages. The difficulty came with the dust. The pulverized limestone that leached out of the striated buttes invaded their noses, eyes and mouths and Miriam had difficulty swallowing. She stopped frequently and Mustafa looked back to keep her in sight.

  As they got nearer to the sea, the temperature increased but the air remained dry. They came to the first station of the new railroad from Jaffa to Jerusalem. The locomotive rumbled by, halted, discharged a passenger, and went on again. Mustafa was delighted. He took a small leap into the air and they waited until it was out of sight before continuing to Sarona.

  The school was unmistakable. The area was landscaped with orderly rows of palm trees and formal approaches to the main building, which was made of smooth flush stone with double-height arched windows. A gardener stared at them disdainfully. “Mughbari?” he asked, taking them for itinerant Muslims working their way through the villages on the pilgrimage to Mecca. Miriam shook her head. “This is a school for Muslims,” he informed them. “Rich Muslim girls.” Miriam ignored him and looked at her father, who was filthy with dust. She tucked her hair behind her kerchief and put on a colorful vest from her sack.

  The inside of the building was a revelation. The floors were made of polished wood. Wood! There were divans against the walls for sitting.

  Miss Clay, the headmistress, was taller than her father. “Ma’salamy,” she said. Mustafa didn’t answer and Miriam pointed to the inside of her mouth. “No speak.” Her voice surprised the teacher, and to make matters worse, Mustafa began gesticulating. Miriam reddened but then she saw Miss Clay moving her hands in the same way. Mustafa smiled and seemed satisfied to leave his daughter. When he walked away, Miriam cried into her scarf and ran after him. He made a little maneuver of leaving and then returning to let her know he would be back to visit and she went inside.

  “First,” said Miss Clay, ignoring the tears, “we must have a bath.”

  Maha, the maid, was the first to enter her room in the morning. She took one look at the mattress on the floor and shook her head in disgust. “Stupid,” she chided Miriam, who was startled to be attacked by one of her own kind. Maha appeared to be a villager like herself. “If she sees what you’ve done with the bed, you’ll go right back.”

  Curiosity fought with pride but finally won. “What’s wrong?” She had pulled the mattress to the floor as it was at home.

  “It belongs on the bedstead. Stupid Christian!”

  Instead of cowing Miriam, Maha’s attack gave her new determination. She had been selected to be a pupil, while Maha was just the maid.

  “Lengthen your neck and throw back your head an inch or so. See?” Miss Clay put her index finger to her Adam’s apple. “You can feel what is happening as you make certain sounds.” She placed Miriam’s finger on the appropriate spot. “We’ll begin with ah . . . aaaaaaaaah.”

  “Agh . . . ahgagh . . . agh.” Miriam’s sounds caught and scratched. Sometimes no sound came out.

  “Very good. Keep your finger on your throat and feel the tension there. We’ll try eeh. Eeeeeeeeeh.”

  “Eh . . . egheghegh.” The room was large and the wooden floors had a chevron pattern that made her dizzy.

  “Uh . . . uuuuuuuh.”

  “Uughuuuugh.”

  Each day, beginning at eight, from October until May, Rowena Clay taught two dozen large-eyed Muslim girls to speak and read the King’s English. At the midday meal, they learned table manners, and after lunch they embroidered. It had become the thing to do among some wealthy Muslims to send their daughters to be exposed to European culture. Miss Clay’s academy was sanctioned by the German Colony at a time when the Turkish government was looking to Germany for alliance. When Crown Prince Wilhelm stopped in Jerusalem on his way to open the Suez, he was given half the Muristan, the site of the Hospitallers, the fabulous Knights of St. John. The gift infuriated many Arabs.

  Miriam sat with the others in the reading class but was not expected to participate. Her therapy began at two, when the carriages came to take the others home.

  “Keep your neck long and your ribs high. You must speak from here.” Miss Clay touched her abdomen. “Stand straight.” Miriam straightened by example, because she missed almost everything said in such oddly accented Arabic. As they worked, the sun came through the high arched windows in waves that made the air quiver. She looked longingly outside at barefoot Maha, beating carpets in the yard. Maha was the closest link to her old life. She didn’t want to keep her neck long. She wanted to lie down on the floor and go to sleep.

  When the weather cooled and the routine was familiar, Miriam began to follow the words in the primer read by the girls in the morning classes. The book related the life of an English family named Highwood who lived in a white house in Surrey. And, she thought with triumph, proving that she understood, Jamilla and Mustafa Tawal lived in a white stone house in Tamleh. “I understand,” she cried out with pleasure, but Miss Clay put a finger to her lips.

  The ability to read about the insipid life of Hugh and Sybil Highwood and their three daughters made her feel powerful. She tolerated the speech sessions but was devoted to the reading. She read along with every girl’s halting effort. She was so engrossed in the story she had to be nudged out of her seat when class was over.

  At noon she ate lunch with Maha but had tea with Miss Clay after the therapy. She envied Miss Clay’s (and the girls’) adeptness with a knife and fork. “Why don’t you teach me, too,” she wanted to ask.

  “Do you wonder why I don’t urge you to eat with a knife and fork?” Miss Clay asked one day.

  “No.”

  “Tell me,” she said softly, “does your mother eat with a knife and fork?”

  This was the last thing Miriam expected to hear. Her mother’s face appeared with such clarity it brought a pang of sadness. Her mother rolled the food into balls and put them in her mouth with her fingers. She kept bread on her knee and tore off bits to dip into oil. Miriam looked down at her feet, dizzy with shame. Mercifully, the subject was dropped.

  She tried to convince herself that her mother was infinitely better off than Miss Clay. Her hands were ever in motion, gathering, cooking, watering, washing. What’s more, Miss Clay was just Miss Clay! She had no clan to protect her. To whom could she appeal if someone cheated her or killed a loved one?

  There were only a few weeks left to the term and Miriam attacked her voice sessions with new determination. She held her head erect, her throat arched, her rib cage high, her blue eyes focused direc
tly ahead. “Father . . . bazaar . . . calm. Heifer . . . leopard . . . friend. Toe . . . flow . . . note . . . road. Key . . . field . . . pee-pel . . . pee-pel . . . people!”

  She was anxious to leave Sarona. “Why is it important for me to speak well?” she asked.

  “A beautiful voice delights people of all stations,” said Miss Clay, “but being the odd person in the family is a burden.”

  Three weeks before the school term ended, the teacher said something that made Miriam believe Miss Clay wasn’t so bad after all. “Would you like to learn to sign? To use hand language so you can talk with your father?”

  All she could imagine were the taunts from Daud if he saw her doing any such thing. “Look.” Miss Clay was holding her hand with the thumb up. “What do you suppose that means?”

  “I don’t know.” She looked away.

  “It means hello.” She put her hand up and did it again. “Hello.”

  Miriam went to stare out the window at the trees and bushes that still looked so alien. She tried to imagine what her father would do if she came home and waved her hand at him like that. “Hello, Baba.” She knew what he would do. He would cry with joy. She turned around. “Show me again, please.”

  When Miriam returned home, Nabiha looked much older. Daud looked smaller. The house looked very small and crowded. Uncle Nabile had married the Shihada girl, Diana, and she was very fat.

  “How could you spend the entire day learning to speak?” Her mother looked mystified.

  “Oh, we didn’t do that. Part of the day, I sat in class with the other girls.” She pulled out a book Miss Clay had allowed her to keep. “I learned to read, Mama,” she admitted shyly.

  Jamilla looked at the book with suspicion. It wasn’t unusual to speak several languages. After all, the Protestant schools taught English, the Orthodox taught Greek, and the Franciscans who came from the Levant taught French. The poorest peasant was capable of speaking beautifully accented French. But reading and writing were another matter. Those who could read and write were worlds apart.