Sigal shapira
Translated to english: Shirley Ganor
The Violin
The violin lay cradled silently in its case, its strings loosened, its bow, not taut, lying by its side. A question penetrated the hollow of the attic. Would they ever have the pleasure of my sister’s hands? Their power weakened from anticipation for human fingers, as the inanimate derives its animation from the living and absorbs the beat of the soul. It was into this violin that my sister wanted to pour her youth, imprisoned within the shackles of tradition and conservatism inside the home and outside.
The concept “rebellion of youth” was unheard of in the society in which she grew up and there was no legitimization for the “foolish teens”. Youth skipped from childhood directly to the age when the weight of the world was placed on their shoulders: the men – to produce bread from the earth, and the women – to produce a new generation as proof of their fertile womanliness. And since my sister belonged to the second category, so her fate was sealed for marriage. Immediately the merciful women mobilized, scrutinized each other’s families to find a man or even a boy in order to liberate her from her chastity. However instead of rewarding them for their goodness and their efforts, as would be appropriate for a modest daughter who does not embarrass her parents and dear ones, and respond to the match that they found for her, she got up one day and took off the gold bracelets. Those bracelets she was keeping for the day when the prospective husband would agree and knock on her door, and which her mother could then use to entreat the groom and his family as was customary. And what did she do with these bracelets? She went and exchanged them for a carved violin hidden in a leather case and brought it secretly to her room.
However, a violin is a violin, and it is its custom to gladden and it ignores restrictions, walls and borders, as long as human hands pluck at its heart. One day my sister could no longer resist and she stole one note, which rose and split and froze my parents’ heart and then made the door-posts tremble. Immediately from every corner of the big house came all the aunts, uncles and cousins, piled on top of each other, to see what this sound was. Even as they pressed their ears closer, their astonishment grew. My father’s hand reached for the door but before he touched it, the same note rose again, this time softer and more certain and after it additional sounds drifting out of the room to the open ears on the other side of the door.
- A violin, my father stated.
- A violin! My mother repeated in wonder.
- A violin, a violin! Agreed those gathered at the door waiting to catch the sounds, some in their ears and some in their hearts.
- Why a violin? Why does a girl have a violin?! – My father shouted, while the anger closed in on him and his fists pounding on the door echoed in the air. The violin was quiet. I climbed on tiptoe to see my sister’s head start showing slowly from the crack in the door, like a turtle afraid to come out of its shell, and her lips were sealed.
- Speak! – my father commanded and his tone of voice completely disqualified any explanation.
- Father it is only a violin – my sister tried to explain.
- A violin! It is only a violin. A woman needs an apron, not a violin! Get it out of here immediately! He shouted at her.
- But father – my sister pleaded and begged.
- The violin!
My mother suddenly raised her voice and shouted: the bracelets, the dowry, the wedding.
- She wrung her hands in anguish.
- Mother, try to understand, it is not a groom I want, but a violin.
Mother, please! – my sister pleaded as she saw my mother working her way towards the entrance through the crowd of relatives blocking the way, her face drained of all hope. Her mother had not yet heard her speak. The bracelets were gone, and she had already promised them to the groom’s family. The woman’s jewelry had always served as a guarantee for her wellbeing, her security and her standing. A wise woman planned for a rainy day, she would skimp on her food and that of her children in order to fortify herself with precious jewels for such a day. It was unheard of that a woman would exchange her precious jewels for a violin! Everything was upside down, and what would excuses help, forgiveness? There were no bracelets and that was that!
My father didn’t waste any time, immediately he packed the violin while my sister cried and pleaded, and went to return the violin and to bring back the happiness and security to the house.
The address he had brought him up against a solid wall in the form of a sharp Muslim tradesman who knew the power of his position as a non-Jew, who Jews would go out of their way to please. He looked at my father, heard his request and began to laugh hysterically.
- You are brave, Jew, to come to me – he said convulsively, choking from laughter, and turned out of breath to the man sitting with him.
- Did you heard that Abu Hamdan? This Jew has a daughter who loves to play – he winked and both broke out in a coarse laughter. Father swallowed his shame, straightened up and turned towards the door to leave without a word. They viewed this as Jewish fear and their laughter grew and seared my father’s back. A year passed, all that time the violin lay in the attic and was nearly forgotten, except by my sister. Those notes that had caused a storm in the house remained a dream which perhaps would never come true. The ears and the heart were now bent towards what was happening outside. Things were taking place in the world that changed the face of the community. New words were spread in its language. Words which were whispered in awe: “State”, “movement”, “Haganah”. Spoken with mistakes by housewives testified to the fact that these words came from a different culture, but were accepted with love. The agitation in the Arab world disturbed and terrified life in Iraq and the word Zionist hurled against a person would in effect decree his fate. And then the critical day arrived – the day of the vote in the United Nations. Ears were turned to the radios to hear what the world would decide.
Yes! The world decided yes – A State for the Jewish people!
My father turned off the radio and stood very straight, and walked towards the stairway. He stood a moment, turned and gave my sister a meaningful look, then went up to the attic and returned carrying the violin in its dusty case. At that moment the family were carried along on the waves of happiness of that historic moment, counting again and again the votes for and against, forgetting the limitations of the state in which they lived, and speaking out loud, interrupting each other. Only my sister followed my father in wonder. He approached her, extended the violin to her with a smile of exultation on his face. My sister reached out, her eyes veiled with gratitude for the forgiveness, the recognition and the redemption he brought her and her violin. Then she grabbed the hem of her dress and cleaned the dust off the case as if she was wiping the tears from the face of a child. She opened the case and took out the violin like one who raises pearls from the sea, waved its bow, closed her eyes and produced one long wavering note like a bird that has just learned to fly. The entire household immediately fell silent, and all eyes turned to her. True, one must tighten and tune the violin in order to hear pure sounds, but the longing and desires of the heart did not hesitate over small details as these. Their hearts were open to joy and each sound seeped into their bones.
A year passed. The authorities allowed people to leave to go to Israel, but they stripped the Jews of their citizenship and their possessions. Each person was only allowed to take one suitcase without valuables. The violin was of course considered to be a valuable. My father ran from one office to another to receive special permission for the violin but was refused. He didn’t give up. Despite the danger of being prevented from going to Israel, he researched, requested, pleaded and did not rest until he received the desired permit. The violin came with us to Israel. This was clear from the beginning, as the violin had become an inseparable part of the family.
Armed with oral instructions from my father and with the permit of the authorities, my sister stood in the airport filled with immigrants and facing the representatives of the government. They hurried the immigrants with mastery, one last chance before the wheel would turn and these would become Zionist soldiers. The officials set their eyes on the girl standing in front of them hugging a large case and were filled with wonder, as if this was Jeanne D’Arc who suddenly appeared before them.
- What’s this? One asked.
- It’s a violin.
- Jewess, I see that it is a violin, but how can you be so brazen as to smuggle a violin? And perhaps it isn’t a violin at all, maybe there is a weapon inside, open it!
- Here, my sister opened the case, sir, I am not smuggling anything, you can see, I have here a signed permit.
- The officer looked at the permit and claimed:
- It is a trick, a forgery, you are smuggling a violin in order to sell it in Palestine! And immediately hovered over the violin.
- Please sir, it is not a trick, it is a violin, I play it, and it is very important to me. I do not intend to sell it.
The officer turned to his friend and said mockingly:
- She plays the violin, did you hear? She says, she plays the violin. You are lying! He shouted at my sister. The second officer decided to be a wise guy, it would be sort of fun, that would break the tedium of a boring job of searching in the possessions of the Jews.
- If you say you know how to play, prove it to us! – he said.
To the amazement of the immigrants, my sister pulled the violin from its case, as if it was a sword from its sheath, waved the bow and with it carved one of the melodies she had already learned… As she played, her young heart strengthened, and trespassed into another melody, one that was forbidden, a song of the Land of Israel, to the dismay of the Jews standing around and still feeling the sword of exile over their heads. My father who stood a ways away waved his arms, in a desperate attempt to get her to stop, but she gained in stature and continued to play as if this were the most natural thing on earth, that a Jewish girl would play “Hatikva” in an Arab airport under the nose of government officials while in the Land of Israel there was still a war going on between the two peoples.
The officers were shocked by the brazenness, from the very fact that a Jewish girl expresses herself publicly, and didn’t pay attention to the content of the song, and perhaps they did not yet recognize the melody, which became the national anthem of the new Country. When the last note fell silent, the officers gathered their wits and their broken pride and shouted aloud, “go, go, get out of here, Jewess!”
סיפור זה מופיע במקור שלו בעברית
כתבה אותו: סיגל שפירא
סיפור זה תורגם גם לערבית על-ידי סמיר נקאש
המקור והתרגום לערבית מופיעים בספר דו-לשוני "הבוסתן"
המקור והתרגום לערבית מופיעים בספר דו-לשוני "הבוסתן"
הספר יצא לאור ב- 2007
בהוצאת המרכז האקדמאי של יוצאי עיראק בישראל
הסיפור בעברית התפרסם ב- משא בעיתון דבר ב- 27.01.1995
השבמחק