Ishmael's Oranges by Claire Hajaj Read Free Book Online Page B

gunshots and shouting – a wild mix of whoops and shrieks. His stomach clenched. The back gate clanged; he turned in a heartbeat and saw his father scurrying back into the house. A second later his mother rushed out, her face drawn and blank. She grabbed him by the arm and began pulling him inside.
    â€˜The Jews are here,’ she said, her voice thick. ‘Manshiyya has gone and they’ve reached the sea; they’ll come here next. The British have failed us. Come now, it’s time. Your father says we must go.’
    Salim looked up to see his father hefting two large suitcases down the stairs. Hassan followed with a duffel bag from their bedroom. Tears were running down his brother’s cheeks, and the sight of them sent more surging into Salim’s eyes.
    â€˜I don’t want to go,’ he wept, feeling as helpless as a leaf in a storm. ‘We live here. I want to stay here.’
    â€˜Don’t be stupid,’ said his father, his round face pocked with beads of sweat, his clothes stinking of terror. ‘Jaffa is gone, the Jews are coming. Don’t you remember Deir Yassin? We’ll all be dead if we stay.’ At that moment Salim did not care.
    â€˜We’re going to your sister’s,’ Abu Hassan continued, as he lugged the heavy bags out to their car. Abu Hassan meant his grown-up daughter by his first, long-dead wife. They’d once visited Nadia and her husband, Tareq, sipping sweet tea and eating dates in the hill country of Nazareth.
    In the background, Salim could hear his mother’s gramophone – a woman, singing sadly about love. They can’t make me go . The words hammered in him, louder than the lament, louder than the boom boom boom coming from the port. He ran out to the patio, ignoring Hassan’s shout of ‘Hey, Salim!’ and Rafan’s wailing.
    He couldn’t go. They didn’t understand. The air was thick, and the branches of the trees drooped wearily as he raced towards them.
    The penknife bumped heavy in his pocket, sneaked from Hassan’s wardrobe weeks ago. He pulled it out and dug it into the yielding bark, carving the word out one letter at a time. If anyone comes here, they’ll know you’re mine. His hand was shaking and the marks were weak, and before he could finish he felt his mother’s hand close on his arm.
    â€˜Come on, Salim, don’t make it worse,’ she gasped, pulling him back inside. ‘Your father has made up his mind, and please God it won’t be for long.’
    Over the years to come, Salim would try to replay those last minutes in the Orange House, scraps of memory dancing away like embers from the flames. The fluttering of the yellow curtain in his bedroom as he pulled his socks on and the dim reflections of his mother’s mirror as she gathered the last of her jewellery. The sudden spring wind that set the orange trees whispering as they bundled him into the back seat. The squeal of the gate as the bolt slid shut. And the final slam of the car door. That last sound seemed to ricochet inside his heart, as they tore from the gates of the house, speeding him away.
    â€Œ
‌ 1956
    â€˜Stretch, pet, stretch. Stretch those arms out! For God’s sake, Judith. Give it some heft, girl! How do you expect to get anywhere if you don’t bloody fight for it?’
    Every Thursday afternoon of her eighth year, Judith would put her head under the water at Wearside Swimming Club to escape preparations for the Tercentenary Celebration of Jews in Britain. Mr Hicks at the Wearside Pool didn’t care that the Prime Minister himself – and the Duke of Edinburgh too! – would attend a dinner with ‘every Jew that matters’. Dora’s temper was righteously inflamed: Alex Gold was one of the event’s organizers – and his family didn’t get an invitation!
    Judith knew that they were not rich, because Dora mentioned it at least once a day. She