The Typewriter by Jennie Hart

credit Jennie Hart    

A curious tap, tapping aroused Leah from another tormented night’s sleep. She was used to unexpected sighs and creaks but more often it was the raucous behaviour of drunken youngsters on a late night out in York city centre. ‘What on earth is wrong with me?’ she thought. She heard Ali’s soft gentle breathing and wished she could sleep so easily. Once more she’d had a nightmare, which played out all her current anxieties especially her anger over the brutal war in Gaza. Israel and Hamas were killing women, babies and children. ‘How could they do that?’ She longed for a baby but could not conceive. Babies, living and dying tumbled around in her mind. She shuddered at the thought of Donald Trump as the President Elect, but could his unpredictability lead to him doing something worthy; like ending that war?  

Leah and Ali had both experienced racial abuse. She had known people who were blatantly racist but claimed not to be, saying, ‘My best friend is Jewish,’ that kind of thing. Leah’s family were Jewish and had lived in York for many generations. She knew of the past and the persecution of her ancestors. Leah lectured in History at the University of York so knew in detail of the Jewish Pogrom in the twelfth century city. She was thankful for her peaceful life. Ali’s own family had suffered discrimination too; his grandparents fled from Iran during the time of the Shah and settled in London’s East End, but Ali considered himself totally British. He had moved to York to help his brother set up the basement Café Cardamon and he and Leah now lived in the apartment above. Leah had been a frequent café customer and now they shared his flat. Ali was devoted to the café and between them, he and his brother had created an authentic Middle Eastern interior welcoming customers of any origin.

Ever since the seventh of October killings Leah had researched the origins of the hatred between Jews and Palestinians. Every news bulletin confirmed the Palestinians were having a raw deal. Both she and Ali understood the conflict concerned land-rights and self-determination. Land rights were clear; every human-being needed land to call theirs. Self-determination was more complicated but she knew too, how important it was for a people to be allowed their own laws and government. She had lectured her students on The Balfour Declaration which concerned the creation of the State of Israel in Palestine and that in nineteen forty-eight, thousands of Palestinians were evicted from their homeland. Those left were given Gaza and the West Bank but did not find peace. Jewish settlers today were illegally colonising the West Bank, and not a single country was preventing it. She was afraid her students might think her an antisemite but it was the truth. She knew many Israelis agreed with her and wanted a two-state solution.

‘Why can’t they solve their differences like we do? Leah said to Ali, ‘By throwing a few plates instead of bombs! After all, we Jews share a common ancestor with you Muslims; Abraham is the father of us all!’

Mentioning that, always made Ali laugh. ‘For God’s sake Leah, what planet do you live on?’

Ali thought it ridiculous to lose sleep over politics. Deep down he was equally concerned; about the war; about world peace; about their lack of a pregnancy, which truthfully, made him question his masculinity, but it didn’t stop him sleeping.

‘Look at him now’ she thought, ‘No problems; nothing wakes him, even a dripping tap; which is probably what the tapping is.’ She quietly lifted her side of the duvet and glided her legs over the smooth sheet and on to the soft carpet; Ali was easy-going but a misery if woken in the night. She felt for her dressing gown draped over the bed; an extra layer in the shivery early hours. She unplugged her phone and turned on the torch-light. The tapping was coming from along the hallway; possibly the bathroom? Her study? Ali’s ‘den’?

The tapping was coming from her room which was bigger than Ali’s. One day, she hoped it would be their baby’s nursery but until then, it had a thousand uses; Her beloved house plants thrived, forever grateful for the wide south-west window, especially her treasured Maranta, once thought dead, but with a little more shade, it had unfurled a new leaf each week. She treated it with reverence because of its Common name, the Prayer Plant. Leah owned a clutter of books and magazines, piled on her desk and shelves. Ali was minimalist and had reduced his paper to a digital form. Admittedly, her students’ essays were digital, but she liked the feel and smell of paper; wanted it in her life.

She cautiously entered her room and felt suddenly frightened; she wanted to call Ali but no need, he was standing by her. He put his arm round her waist as she pressed the chrome button of the desk lamp and turned off her phone. On the centre shelf of the crowded bookcase, was her grandfather’s miniature typewriter, the name ‘Imperial’ printed in gold lettering. Beneath was the complementary description, ‘The Good Companion.’ Leah adored grandad’s typewriter, so bulky yet incredibly simple compared to her laptop with its multiple functions. She had read recently that the author, Jeanette Winterson who, prevented from reading as a child, discovered a love of reading and writing as a young adult and rushed out on her bicycle to buy a huge second-hand office typewriter, the kind that used cassette ribbons. Leah suspected hers was even older than that.

She and Ali looked with horror at the small, black-lettered keys which were randomly rising and falling and at the paper imperceptibly moving up the carriage. Ali pulled her closer and they stared, spell-bound. The machine slowed and stopped and they stared at the uneven looping letters on the thin pale paper she had placed in the roller to create authenticity. She nervously released it and began to read: 

For Leah

I am Leah too, a Jewish woman, a victim of the Pogrom when Richard was King.

I wish to find peace through you.

I feel our bond deeply through your passion for humanity and your desire for a child.

Our home once stood where yours stands now but was burnt down by a mob.

Joseph and I fled with our baby, to the wooden tower now called Clifford’s

Soldiers set fire to the Tower.

It is painful to speak of our fate.

My husband, fearful of capture, strangled baby Benjamin.

Together, he and I took a draft of poison.

The Café Cardamon beneath your home holds many secrets

In  a recess, on a shelf, where spices and utensils are displayed,

is a precious type of amulet

It is called a Hamsa

No one is aware of its antiquity

Joseph carved it out of olive wood for me to touch and pray for a child.

Olive wood has a fine grain and can last for many centuries

A Hamsa is always in the shape of a hand

It predates both Jewish and Islamic religions

A Hamsa gives protection.

It can bring fertility and happiness.

Muslims call it the Hand of Fatima

Jews call it the Hand of Miryam

This Hamsa is important for you and Ali

 

‘I know of Hamsas,’ whispered Ali, ‘My mum wears a necklace with a golden Hamsa, and I once went with mum and dad to the Alhambra and saw a Hamsa above the gateway.’

‘My family know of Hamsas and I have an idea how it may have come to the café,’ said Leah. ’When the modern shopping centre was built around the corner in Coney Street, it was built on the site of the ancient twelfth century synagogue. Dad said workmen digging the foundations unearthed priceless Jewish artifacts and some got stolen. Did any of your family work on that building site?’  

‘It’s likely; my uncle’s branch of the family has lived in York for years.’ said Ali, ‘I can’t believe this Hamsa is in the café, but it’s true, olive wood can lasts for ever if oiled.’

They continued to read:

Find the Hamsa and touch it with your fingertips.

Wish for the baby you long for.

I will rest in peace when your baby lives instead of mine.

If it is a boy

please name him Benjamin.

If it is a girl

please name her Leah

She will be your namesake and mine

May God bless you.

Leah