My Fatima

By LYDIA LIN

"My Fatima" is a 195-page historical novel for young adults and older readers. It describes the friendship between two teenage girls, one from Germany, and the other from the Middle East. Both girls attend a girls school in Beirut, Lebanon in the 1960s. The German girl, Trudy, is the daughter of the ambassador to Jordan, while the schoolmate she admires and befriends is a Palestinian named Fatima. It turns out that Fatima's boyfriend, Ali, is a PLO militant. Just before graduating from middle school, Trudy is kidnapped by Ali's team. The friendship between Trudy and Fatima is put to the test by this unfortunate incident. This poignant story develops into a tragedy that bears out the important point that the world needs peace, not wars.

• Language: English
• Publisher: LYDIA LIN
• Release date: Jun 10, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393569879

LYDIA LIN

Lydia Lin has a background in science and technology. She enjoys reading, writing, music, painting and gardening. She believes that an important part of education is to enlighten people, to help them realize their potentials, and to enable them to appreciate and preserve all that is good about humanity.

Book preview

Arrival

"Vati , how do you say thank you in Arabic?"

"Shukran."

"Shukran. Okay, how about 'How are you?'"

"Al salaam aleikum. That means 'Peace be with you.'"

"Gosh, that's hard. Can I just say Salaam?"

"You could. Or, you could say Marhaba, which means welcome or hello."

The year was 1966. It had only been one week since we arrived in Amman, Jordan, where my father had been appointed to serve as the German ambassador. We had overcome the jet lag, and most of our personal effects had been unpacked and placed where they belonged in our new residence. A tall and stately stone building, the embassy featured numerous arched doors and windows. Concrete steps led to the guarded main door. The offices and the formal reception room and dining room were downstairs. We lived on the second floor. There were additional meeting rooms and a small gym on the third floor. A well-maintained garden lay quietly behind the building.

My father spoke fluent Arabic, but my mother and I only understood German and English. Fortunately, the staff and servants at the embassy all spoke English, albeit with a heavy Arabic accent. Among them, my father's valet Amir was the most articulate. This tall and mild-mannered man had a clean-shaven face, and the top of his head was mostly bald. Amir was about forty years old, but he was not married. At night he stayed in a small room on the ground floor. My parents were pleased with the quiet, unhurried way in which he rendered his service to our family. I noticed that Amir rarely looked us directly in the eye. While he went about doing his chores, his eyes were naturally cast down. But even when he was speaking to us, he still gazed at the floor most of the time.

"Liebchen, my mother came into the sitting room and announced, the guests will arrive soon. Please get dressed for dinner then go downstairs to wait for them. I showed Hessa how to make your favorite Obstkuchen. We'll have it for dessert tonight."

"Danke schön, Mutti."

Hessa was our cook. She had been serving us Western-style foods. She said it would take a while for us to acquire a taste for the local cuisine. My mother agreed, as she knew that I did not care for lamb meat at all. It gave me goose bumps to think that people actually ate raw ground mutton around here.

I put on a white blouse with ruffled collar and cuffs, and then pulled my blue velvet jumper dress over it. This was the attire my mother suggested for me to wear for the dinner party. When I looked into the mirror, the first thing that greeted my eyes was my father's nose. My father had a fine nose that stood proud and straight on his elegant face. A slight hook concealed the nostrils from the front view, adding a trace of intrigue to his countenance. My nose had the exact same characteristics, except that I also had a few faint freckles that were sprinkled across my nose bridge and below my eyes. Those I thought I could do without. My witty blue eyes and short, straight golden hair in pageboy style looked all right to me. In my opinion, they went well together.

The more I studied my own face, the more I felt I could pass for a handsome young prince. I began to see why my ballet teacher back in Bonn used to assign a male role to me in our annual ballet performances. In Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, I was Prince Charming. In another performance, the other girls danced as flowers, and Fräulein Marie cast me as the gardener in suspended trousers and a straw hat. I smiled, and a pair of curly quotation marks formed around the corners of my mouth.

When the guests arrived, my parents shook hands with them, and so did I. This was to be an informal dinner for us to acquaint ourselves with the principals of a couple of German businesses in Amman and a few local officials who were especially friendly towards West Germany. Some of the guests hugged and kissed among themselves. It was strange to see men kiss each other on the cheeks. Herr Bauer, my father's attaché, showed the guests to the formal parlor.

I sat quietly in an armchair by the rosewood curio cabinet while the grownups held a conversation over their liqueur. It was much like any dinner party we had had back in Bonn, except that now there was a mix of German and Jordanian guests. One Jordanian lady turned to me and asked in English,

How old are you, my dear?

Fourteen, I answered.

The lady brought her palms to her cheeks and gasped, her large and bright eyes round as golf balls. Still agape, she turned to my mother, Really? She's only fourteen?

Trudy is tall for her age. She takes after her father, my mother replied with a gentle smile.

The truth was that it was my fourteenth birthday. This dinner party served a dual purpose, just like the many other parties we had had before. My parents were expert at hitting two birds with one stone, so to speak. Although I enjoyed the delicious appetizers, entrées and desserts served at these parties, I had secretly wished for a simpler birthday party with just my parents and me celebrating it, rather than a houseful of guests, with whom I had to be on my best behavior the whole time. On this happy occasion, I wanted to be able to eat, laugh, sing and dance to my heart's content. Instead, I had to sit up straight like a demure lady and listen to boring diplomatic talk with feigned interest. It was not fair.

The main dish that evening was roasted prime ribs, and Amir went around pouring Burgundy wine for the guests. I joined the toasts with chilled grape juice in my stemware. All of the guests spoke English as well as Arabic. It was interesting to see my father talk with them one moment in English and the next moment in Arabic. I tuned in only when they spoke English. However, not being that interested in politics, I did not really understand a whole lot of what they were talking about. After my father had had a few drinks, I could see a certain smugness steal up his face as he adeptly moved the conversation from one subject to another, and the guests nodded happily in agreement. After all, my father represented the German head of state, and it was nice to see that he had made a very good first impression in this country. I felt mighty proud of my father.

Well, my father finally announced, it happens to be Trudy's birthday today!

Everyone cheered. They raised their glasses and roared Happy Birthday! to me.

On that cue, Amir brought in the large round Obstkuchen, which delighted everyone. As this cake had a glazed fruit topping and was decorated with whipped cream rosettes, my mother did not place any candles on it. Amir carefully sectioned the cake and gave me a large piece with a complete canned peach half on it.

"Shukran, I said. Amir was visibly taken aback. This was the very first Arabic word I had ever spoken to him. After a momentary pause, he collected himself and whispered, Afwan." Then he leaned forward to resume the task of serving the cake.

The man with a bushy brown moustache, who sat on my right side, took notice and smiled at me approvingly. He turned to my father and said in English, Ambassador Heinemann, I think the Israelis have their eyes on the Gaza Strip. Do you think they are any match for the Egyptian forces?

Let's not spoil the evening by talking about those barbarians. My father replied without blinking his eyes.

The guest appeared to be immensely pleased by this remark. He raised his glass to my father and said, Bottoms up!

After dinner, the party repaired to the parlor again, where tea and brandy were served. By the time all the guests had left, it was already half past ten. We switched to speaking German.

My mother went upstairs for a little while and then returned with my birthday present. I removed the ribbon and opened the package to find a beautiful porcelain music box inside. On top of the music box was a pair of cute figurines that stood on a green grassy pad dotted with wild flowers. The two young girls, each wearing a pretty dress, held hands in a dancing position. The taller one had short golden hair. The other one sported a garland of yellow flowers that adorned her shoulder-length dark-brown hair.

Oh, this is so lovely! Thank you very much! I gave my parents each a hug and a peck on the cheek.

Excuse me, please, Amir came in to clear out the teacups and glasses from the tabletops.

I wound up the music box then brought it up to my tilted head. The familiar tune of the song, Brüderlein Fein, chimed out in deliberate, crystalline tinkles. I was immensely delighted.

The figurines turned slowly together and went round and round as the music played on. I watched them with absorbed admiration. What a charming pair of friends, and how happy and contented they appeared to be!

And then, I remembered something.

"Vati, do you really think the people in Israel are barbarians?"

Of course not, replied my father. They are the persecuted ones. They have every right to defend their young nation.

I saw my mother freeze. She threw a quick glance at my father, who got the message at once.

Of course, if they become too aggressive, the Arab nations must put a stop to it. It's getting late. Let's wash up and go to bed. With this, he stretched his arms and let out an audible yawn. I covered my mouth and yawned quietly.

After Amir had left the room, my father whispered to my mother, Do you suppose he understands German?

God only knows, my mother shrugged and whispered back. Discretion is the better part of valor.

❖

Each morning an Islamic prayer call coming from the nearby mosque's minarets roused me from sleep. The call to prayer, known as the adhan, blared over the city on a regular basis several times a day–before sunrise, at sunrise, about noon, in the mid afternoon, at sunset, in the evening and after midnight. A sure and steady chant in a rising and falling clear male voice would be broadcast in all directions for a few minutes for all to hear. My father had told me that the muezzins, who led the calls at the mosques, were chosen on the basis of good character, voice and skills. At first the protracted melodious calls sounded unfamiliar and queer, but after a while they started to grow on me. In fact, in a foreign place with so many unknowns, the adhan had become one of the few things that I could count on with total assurance. To me, it was more than just an announcement of the time of the day. I felt it evoked a certain kind of empathy in me, and a part of me wanted to respond to it.

There were many interesting places in Amman to see. We had visited a few historic sites in the vicinity, such as the Temple of Herakles (Hercules) and the Umayyad Palace, in the company of Herr Bauer. My father thought it would also be educational for me to visit the holy city of Jerusalem. Herr Bauer offered to serve as our guide on that trip as well. He informed us that we could visit the Old City on the east side, which belonged to Jordan, but not the newer west side, which belonged to Israel. If we visited Israel and received an Israeli stamp on our passports, then the other Arab countries would not let us in any more.

That Saturday we set out in early morning, with our chauffeur Farid at the steering wheel. It was the end of August, very hot and dry. What met our eyes along the way was mostly parched desert land with clumps of heather scattered here and there. After squinting at the endless arid landscape for a while, I lost interest and dozed off a few times. Although Jerusalem was only about 72 kilometers away in direct flight distance, the trip took longer than expected because the terrain was rugged and at times challenging. Farid drove at an easy pace, and we cleared the mountain passes without any problem.

Suddenly, my father exclaimed with great excitement, Look over there! Wow! That's the famous Dome of the Rock! He pointed at the golden dome that stood out prominently among the multitude of jagged rooftops that came into view as we approached the city.

Wow! I echoed.

My mother joined in. Isn't that amazing! 

The large elevated dome blazed in the bright sun and dazzled our eyes. It punctuated the glory and mystery of the land that was still quite foreign to us. Herr Bauer said that the Dome of the Rock was built to perfect mathematical calculations on the huge pedestal of the Temple Mount, and that it could be seen from anywhere in Jerusalem. This shrine sheltered a sacred rock from which the prophet Muhammad was believed to have ascended into heaven on his winged steed.

The Old City encompasses four distinct quarters: Christian, Muslim, Jewish, and Armenian, each with buildings that reflected its own cultural and religious emphases. We entered through the Damascus Gate on the north side and came upon an open-air market at which many Arabs sold foods, drinks and trinkets. We stopped at a stand and sampled a few fried chickpea balls called falafel. They tasted quite good.

In the Christian quarter, we walked through narrow alleys and visited a few old churches along the way. Then we followed a crowd into the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. This was the site where Jesus Christ was crucified, buried, and resurrected. We quietly admired the different architectural styles in the various chapels in the church, and were impressed with its serene ambience. I could not keep count of how many churches and mosques we visited that day.

Next, Herr Bauer had Farid