Free Three Daughters: A Novel by Consuelo Saah Baehr Page B

a small dot of color in the distance. Twice she called out to him on the pretense that she had forgotten some inconsequential news, but she really wanted to see his face once more and reassure him that he had not failed in her eyes.
    No blows could have hurt her as much as his calm forgiveness for her outburst. He was a decent man who worked hard to make their life as secure as possible and she had paid him by insulting him.

    The carriage was jostling her, so she held her stomach protectively, fearful it might bring the baby prematurely. Khalil had fallen asleep against her but when they reached Jaffa Gate she put him in a sling and walked inside the walls to St. James Road. As she passed the ancient cathedral of the same name, she shuddered. It was said that the martyred apostle James’s head was entombed there.
    Past the old Crusaders’ Church of St. Thomas was a screened window with metal bars behind which was located a branch of the Austrian post office. Once or twice a week mail from Europe arrived in Jaffa by boat. At daybreak a three-horse carriage brought it to the line of hopeful persons waiting for letters or packages. Consulates and patriarchates would send their jawasses , the armed protectors assigned to foreign delegates by the Turkish government, to receive their mail. The heads of Jewish institutions dependent on outside financial aid were always in line. After these came the private citizens who waited for the clerk to call out their name.
    “A letter for Hanna, the weaver,” or “A packet for Yusef, the barber,” he would shout. Addresses were imprecise: “the third house behind Christ Church,” or “in back of the Pool of Hezekiah.”
    During the day, while Nadeem was in Bethel, Miriam had begun her secret trips, telling Zareefa that she was going for the heated tiles in the bathhouse to ease a painful back. Some days she left Khalil—screaming—with Zareefa so she could walk the distance and save the carriage fare. On her third visit, she had waited patiently through the distribution. As always, she was fascinated by the personal dramas that took place. There was a letter for David the blacksmith from his cousin in Brazil. Nabile the carpenter had received some tools from Germany. Farida Saah received a letter from her daughter Mary living in America and she began to cry so loud and hard the others couldn’t hear the mail calls. Finally someone realized she was crying because she couldn’t read the letter and a young man offered to do it for her.
    When all the mail had been distributed, the postal official returned to his warren of mail slots behind the counter and began to shuffle and reshuffle several soiled and tattered envelopes. Miriam approached the counter but was too embarrassed by her obvious pregnancy to speak.
    “Madam?”
    “We are expecting mail from France.” As with anyone who had never heard her speak, the man immediately took a closer look intrigued by that haunting sound. “In whose name, madam?”
    “In the name of Mishwe. Nadeem Mishwe. Perhaps the address is the Hotel St. Anselm, outside the walls, on Louis Botta Road. It would come from France. Paris, France.”
    He took the envelopes he had been shuffling and inspected each one closely. Suddenly, he grunted triumphantly. “That is the name. You see”—he directed Miriam’s gaze to the spot with his finger—“right here. Mishwe. The m and the i are almost gone; the ink has been washed out. The hotel returned it to us. This mail has been on two trips, madam. Why didn’t you inquire before?”
    “We don’t live nearby,” she said distractedly, not daring to take her eyes off the envelope.
    “Well, here you are then. One mystery completed. I wish all the rest would be united with their owners. I don’t like to have mail left uncollected.”
    “Thank you,” said Miriam. The envelope was so undistinguished she felt none of the exhilaration she assumed would result from the letter. She tucked it in her sack