The Lemon Tree: An Arab, A Jew, and the Heart of the Middle East by Sandy Tolan Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sandy Tolan
him."
There was, in other words, a lull in the battle for the future of Palestine. And on February 16, 1942, at least, Sheikh Mustafa Khairi could be distracted by something far more pleasant than water battles, political attacks, and the prospect of fresh violence in Palestine. His nephew Ahmad would become a father for the seventh time. For the first time, Zakia would give birth to a boy. He was born at home, with the help of a midwife. Zakia was happy and relieved.
"I don't believe it—my wife brings only girls into the world," Ahmad said, according to his daughter Khanom. "He sent one of the young men from the family to come to the house and unwrap my brother's clothes to see if he was really a boy."
Many Iambs were sacrificed as thanks. Relatives came from Gaza, and the entire Khairi clan celebrated with song and dance.
"It was a great occasion," Khanom recalled. "We finally had a brother."
They called the child Bashir.
Three
RESCUE
T HE YOUNG JEWISH salesman walked quickly through the cold down a cobblestone street. Moshe Eshkenazi carried his black leather case full of fine socks, flannel underwear, and other factory samples as he made his rounds from shop to shop in the Bulgarian capital of Sofia. Suddenly he stopped. There in plain view, just at his feet, lay a wallet. It was in good condition, untouched, as if someone had only recently dropped it. Moshe stooped to pick it up. The wallet was filled with money—a small fortune to a struggling Jewish peddler trying to support his family in the Bulgaria of early 1943. During the war, it had become far more difficult for men like Moshe to ensure any security for their families, and for some men, the unexpected find would have been impossible to resist.
Moshe did not hesitate. He made the only decision possible for him. Taking the wallet to the police was the most natural thing in the world to do.
At the police station, the officer on duty was shocked to see the salesman with the yellow star bring in a billfold with its contents intact. He consulted with his fellow policemen, and soon Moshe was sent to another office, where he was introduced to a senior member of the force. The officer looked at his unusual visitor with curiosity: Moshe stood short and squat, with wavy black hair, a heavy brow, and a clear, steady gaze. Before long, the peddler and the veteran policeman found themselves deep in conversation, and in the coming days, they would develop a friendship. Moshe's daughter, Dalia, who grew up w th the story, was not yet born in 1943. She would never hear the specifics of these discussions—whether the two men talked about the war, Bulgaria s alliance with the Nazis, or the country's treatment of its Jews—but at some point the policeman decided to reveal a state secret.
"There is a plan to deport the Jews—soon," he told Moshe. "Settle your affairs, take your family away, and clear out of here." The officer's information, though lacking in some details, had come from senior Bulgarian authorities, and Moshe needed no further warning. His brother, Jacques, had already left the city and joined the Communist resistance in the hills. Moshe had no such intentions, but within days he and his wife, Solia, had gathered their things and were traveling east to her family's home in Sliven, near the Bulgarian Black Sea coast. There, they hoped, it would be safe.
Bulgaria in early 1943 was a monarchy aligned with the Axis powers. Hitler's reach into southeastern Europe had extended to the edge of the Balkans and beyond, where the kingdom of Boris III lay wedged between the Black Sea to the east and Turkey and Greece to the south. In the previous two years under Boris's rule, able-bodied Jewish men like Moshe, Jacques, and Solia's cousin Yitzhak Yitzhaki, along with Communists and other dissidents, had spent the warmer months living in work camps, building roads and railways to fuel the wartime machine of the Axis.
By early 1943, with wind of terrible stories
There was, in other words, a lull in the battle for the future of Palestine. And on February 16, 1942, at least, Sheikh Mustafa Khairi could be distracted by something far more pleasant than water battles, political attacks, and the prospect of fresh violence in Palestine. His nephew Ahmad would become a father for the seventh time. For the first time, Zakia would give birth to a boy. He was born at home, with the help of a midwife. Zakia was happy and relieved.
"I don't believe it—my wife brings only girls into the world," Ahmad said, according to his daughter Khanom. "He sent one of the young men from the family to come to the house and unwrap my brother's clothes to see if he was really a boy."
Many Iambs were sacrificed as thanks. Relatives came from Gaza, and the entire Khairi clan celebrated with song and dance.
"It was a great occasion," Khanom recalled. "We finally had a brother."
They called the child Bashir.
Three
RESCUE
T HE YOUNG JEWISH salesman walked quickly through the cold down a cobblestone street. Moshe Eshkenazi carried his black leather case full of fine socks, flannel underwear, and other factory samples as he made his rounds from shop to shop in the Bulgarian capital of Sofia. Suddenly he stopped. There in plain view, just at his feet, lay a wallet. It was in good condition, untouched, as if someone had only recently dropped it. Moshe stooped to pick it up. The wallet was filled with money—a small fortune to a struggling Jewish peddler trying to support his family in the Bulgaria of early 1943. During the war, it had become far more difficult for men like Moshe to ensure any security for their families, and for some men, the unexpected find would have been impossible to resist.
Moshe did not hesitate. He made the only decision possible for him. Taking the wallet to the police was the most natural thing in the world to do.
At the police station, the officer on duty was shocked to see the salesman with the yellow star bring in a billfold with its contents intact. He consulted with his fellow policemen, and soon Moshe was sent to another office, where he was introduced to a senior member of the force. The officer looked at his unusual visitor with curiosity: Moshe stood short and squat, with wavy black hair, a heavy brow, and a clear, steady gaze. Before long, the peddler and the veteran policeman found themselves deep in conversation, and in the coming days, they would develop a friendship. Moshe's daughter, Dalia, who grew up w th the story, was not yet born in 1943. She would never hear the specifics of these discussions—whether the two men talked about the war, Bulgaria s alliance with the Nazis, or the country's treatment of its Jews—but at some point the policeman decided to reveal a state secret.
"There is a plan to deport the Jews—soon," he told Moshe. "Settle your affairs, take your family away, and clear out of here." The officer's information, though lacking in some details, had come from senior Bulgarian authorities, and Moshe needed no further warning. His brother, Jacques, had already left the city and joined the Communist resistance in the hills. Moshe had no such intentions, but within days he and his wife, Solia, had gathered their things and were traveling east to her family's home in Sliven, near the Bulgarian Black Sea coast. There, they hoped, it would be safe.
Bulgaria in early 1943 was a monarchy aligned with the Axis powers. Hitler's reach into southeastern Europe had extended to the edge of the Balkans and beyond, where the kingdom of Boris III lay wedged between the Black Sea to the east and Turkey and Greece to the south. In the previous two years under Boris's rule, able-bodied Jewish men like Moshe, Jacques, and Solia's cousin Yitzhak Yitzhaki, along with Communists and other dissidents, had spent the warmer months living in work camps, building roads and railways to fuel the wartime machine of the Axis.
By early 1943, with wind of terrible stories
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