Daughters of Iraq by Revital Shiri-Horowitz Read Free Book Online Page B

asked Ruthie.
    “Because silver tarnishes over time. If you really want it to shine, you have to scour it with a special solution. When they finished, you could see your face in the menorah—that’s how much it sparkled.” Farida laughed.
    “Wow,” said Ruthie. “But where is it now?”
    “Ach,” Farida muttered. “Who knows? Maybe they sold it in Iraq; maybe someone took it. It didn’t come with us; it stayed there. They wouldn’t let us bring anything, those Iraqi bastards—they should all go to hell. They barely let us take the clothes on our backs.”
    “Too bad,” Ruthie said, “because the menorah you have now isn’t nice at all—”
    “Well, that’s another matter entirely,” Farida snapped. “Do you want me to go on?”
    “Of course, Grandmother. Tell me what else you had there.”
    “I remember . . .” Farida thought back over the span of many years. “I remember that, for Eddie’s Bar Mitzvah, we took out the good rugs we had rolled up and stored for the summer. Every year we took the rugs out during summer and packed them up for winter. Do you know why they brought out the rugs?”
    “Why?” asked Ruthie, her little eyes wide.
    “Because it was very hot in Iraq. Do you remember when we went to Eilat? How hot it was?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “In Iraq, it was even hotter. And there were sandstorms that blotted out everything. And my mother didn’t want the rugs ruined. But before the Bar Mitzvah, and before Chanukah, she took them out of storage and unfurled them. Ach,”she inhaled deeply, “I will never forget those cleaning smells as long as I live. To this day, they’re still somewhere inside my nose.”
    “Where, Grandmother? Show me!” laughed Ruthie, reaching out to press her grandmother’s nose.
    “Right here!” Farida gently honked her granddaughter’s nose. “You know, cleaning the house, that was really something. And the wonderful smells drifting out of the kitchen . . . wow.”Again she inhaled, breathing in sweet memories.
    “Go on!” Ruthie tugged on her grandmother’s shirt. Farida shivered, and her demeanor turned serious.
    “There must have been ten servants working in our house, maybe more, just to prepare the feast we needed. And to ready the house for the party.” Farida coughed, and the flesh of her large shoulders jiggled. “Most times, we had several servants: one to clean, one to cook, and one to look after me and Violet, and my brothers’ children, too . . . She used to play with us, poor thing. Imagine, a girl just a little bit older than you, taking care of so many children, and every one of them driving her crazy. Sometimes she even had to watch Anwar’s children, my sister Habiba’s children, and my sister Farcha’s children. Everyone had little kids, about your age, even younger, and when the grown-ups went out, she looked after us all.” Farida put her arms around Ruthie’s neck and hugged. After planting several loud, wet kisses on the girl’s forehead, she continued. “We even had one servant, a man, who worked for my mother: he shopped, drove the carriage, ran errands . . .”
    Ruthie sat, mesmerized. She tried to imagine such a display of wealth and grandeur; in her little mind, the scene was lifted straight out of Cinderella’s ball. She looked into her grandmother’s eyes, sighed, and said, “If only I lived in Iraq.”
    These words cut at Farida’s heart. “God forbid!” she shouted, warding off the evil eye. “There’s more to life than money, Ruthie,” she said. “When you grow up, you’ll understand. Sure, money’s nice, but we didn’t want to stay in Baghdad, Ruthie. We wanted to come to the Holy Land. What don’t we have here? Gold? Believe me, things are good here. The people in Baghdad are miserable. There’s a tyrant over there by the name of Saddam; he kills people right and left, for no reason at all. If he thinks a person said bad things about him, he’ll kill him. Do you see, Ruthie?