Farewell to Dejla by Tova Murad Sadka

Author:Tova Murad Sadka
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Chicago Review Press
Published: 2009-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

III: Iraqi Jews in the United States

Uprooted

“Look at him, just look at him,” the young mother fumed. “As though it’s the end of the world. Look at him.”

Seven-year-old “him,” Eli, was lying on the floor, crying miserably, his sobs shaking his body, one leg pulled toward his face, the other stretched against the living room sofa.

Grandma did not look. She went on with her cooking, stirring the steaming rice with the starchy smell, her white hair gleaming in the late afternoon sun. She ignored the uproar, as though it did not matter or it did not concern her. To the mother the forced dead silence was as articulate and unnerving as any formal accusation: she, the mother, was at fault; the grandson, never. What a fool she had been to expect some approval, some understanding, anything but this usual partiality. So partiality it was, partiality let it be. She waited, expecting, almost hoping, for some outspoken rebuke from Grandma. Then she could blow up and pour out her anger. But no rebuke came, so she talked on.

“Look at the other kids.” She shook her head. “And when I remember myself at his age….”

“You were different.” Grandma finally spoke. “Quite a mature girl. Everybody is not the same.”

It was too mild and general a comment to justify an outburst, and the young mother, tense and nervous, remained alone with her anger.

She finally took herself out of the kitchen into the living room. A fading afternoon sun flooded the apartment and the air was hot. Israel’s April was usually cooler. She watered the gardenia plant and sent Eli a furtive, scrutinizing glance. His sobs had dwindled into hiccoughs. Tears wiped by dirty hands had smeared his face, and his nasal dripping threatened to reach his mouth. The unappealing sight exasperated her; frantically she grabbed a tissue and went for his nose. He fought the intrusion and burst into a new fit of loud sobs, appalled at her insensitivity in attending to his hygienic needs, while refusing him the one thing, that very thing …

This time it was a small, motor-equipped airplane displayed in the window of a stationery store. He had seen it on his way back from school and, from that moment on, his whole life revolved around it and it alone. He exulted in its exquisite form, its lively colors, the motor which allowed it to circle twice and make a short flight. He described it as wondrous, magical, the ultimate toy.

“I’ll buy it for you next week,” the young mother had agreed, “if you’re a good boy.”

But he begged and bargained for an earlier date, promising exemplary behavior, plenty of chores; he nagged, sulked, then cried and demanded. She scolded, shouted and finally resorted to force; a light smack on his behind. The crying had turned into sobs, no longer because of the airplane, but because of the beating, the humiliation, the injustice. He had lain on the floor near the living room sofa.

She went about her chores, adamant about ignoring him, adamant about not feeling sorry for him; discipline above love.

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