Naomi closed the diary while she thought. This was written in 1944. Could the Jews of Rhodes really not have known the horrors that were happening in the concentration camps, the brutal extermination of Jews? Wouldn’t their Rabbi have warned people? She tried to imagine what life must have been like for the Jewish population of Rhodes in 1944: being forced to live only in certain areas; seeing their property confiscated; being forbidden to employ non-Jews. Their children were forbidden to attend normal schools; they couldn’t even keep a radio.
Didn’t they realise they were being segregated? Yet now that she thought about it, the Greeks had a hard time too. Ruled by the Italians since the First World War, the Greeks were forbidden by the Italians to speak Greek, and unlike the Jews and Muslims, they were not even allowed to live in Rhodes Old Town. It was no wonder the modern Greek population of Rhodes clung to their deep rooted resentment of Italians, Jews, and Turks.
She decided she’d try to get to Rhodes Old Town and visit the Jewish Museum, if Heleny or Georgia would sit in with Bubba for a couple of hours. She wondered if she could find her great-grandfather’s property. How amazing it would be to stand in the place where her ancestors lived and worked.
‘Naomi, child . . .’
Pulled out of her thoughts and slightly alarmed as she always was when Bubba called, Naomi dropped the diary and went into the next room.
‘Are you all right? Can I get you something?’
‘Sorry to be a pest. I know it’s late, but could I sit at the kitchen table for a while?’
Naomi smiled. ‘Of course. I was getting a bit lonely by myself.’ After a short struggle with Bubba’s arm around Naomi’s neck and Naomi’s arm around Bubba’s waist, they got into the next room.
Bubba’s eyes fixed on the diary. ‘So, you’re reading it.’ She gulped and her hand slid over her mouth for a moment. ‘I can’t remember much of what I wrote, nor do I want to. But don’t take it the wrong way, child; I would do it all again – give it all up for you and Rebecca. You’ve been worth every sacrifice, every moment.’ She paused, staring at the cover. ‘I only wish I could have given you a better life, a bigger house, and not become such a burden.’
‘Bubba! You’re no trouble at all! Don’t be silly. I’m starting my business because of your lotions and potions book. Who else could give me such a wonderful gift? Your recipes are priceless.’ She put the kettle on and then reached for her lemon and honey hand cream. ‘Here, what do you think of this?’ Bursting with pride, she held out the small white jar.
Bubba pulled her chin in and squinted at the green and gold label. ‘Oh!’ She chuckled. ‘I’m famous! Pandora’s Hand Cream.’ She glanced up, and Naomi’s heart soared to see such pleasure shine from her grandmother’s face.
The old lady held the jar further away to read the smaller print. ‘ORIGINAL RECIPE. NO ADDITIVES. GUARANTEED TO FADE AGE SPOTS AND IMPROVE SUN-DAMAGED SKIN.’ Bubba’s crooked grin said everything.
‘I ordered the labels online. Heleny helped me with the design. It’s called branding, when you choose a style for your product. I’m so excited about it all.’
‘Me too, child.’ Bubba’s eyes sparkled. ‘When I first made it, I just dropped a dollop into whatever container people brought, be it a little jam jar or a cracked cup. One of the women I cleaned for, the mayor’s wife, liked to use Simpson’s Salmon Spread and, before I put her kitchen rubbish out, I’d search for empty jars.’ She dropped her head to one side. ‘Squat white glass things, they were, and I’d cut wax-paper circles for the top.’
‘I think I remember them. Didn’t you use pinking shears and yellow gingham to cover them . . . and an elastic band?’
‘I did. The fabric was from a dress with a very full skirt. The material lasted me years.’ She giggled. ‘Did you know, that hand cream bought our first TV? I was very proud of myself.’
‘So you should be.’ Naomi opened the jar and rubbed a little cream into Bubba’s lame hand. ‘I remember when Mrs Voskos allowed me to watch her new TV. It didn’t come on until half past five with children’s programs. I was so excited I couldn’t sleep through siesta. She made me sit on the floor, and I wasn’t allowed to speak! Very difficult for me.’ Naomi laughed. ‘When she went out of the room, I’d run to the little screen and put my face right up to the thick glass. I was sure if the people in the TV studio looked into the camera, they’d be able to see me.’
They smiled at each other, then Bubba’s eyes returned to the diary. ‘I meant what I said. Apart from what happened to Evangelisa, Irini, and of course my darling family, I wouldn’t change a thing. In the end, everything’s been okay. You and your boys, and Rebecca, have been compensation enough for the dreams I sacrificed. I wanted to say that, in case I die in the night.’
‘Bubba! Don’t talk stupid now!’ Naomi wondered who Evangelisa was, and found herself impatient to read more. They chatted for a while, drank their mountain tea, and then Naomi returned Bubba to her bed.
She picked up the journal with renewed curiosity.
My father’s famous in Rhodes for his beautiful suits. Now, we are forbidden to employ non-Jews, so Mama and my brother Danial have to help Papa in the shop.
I’ve three brothers, Danial, Samuel, and Jacob, who are all older than me. I also have a sister, Evangelisa, who’s eighteen months younger than me. We’re not alike. She is taller than me and has Mama’s looks. She’s so pretty, everyone loves her. I’m like Papa, except I hate sewing. Although I’m small for my age, on account of being born early, I’m strong as any boy.
I’ll never be extremely clever, but I try my best and I am sensible, everybody says so. I love writing. My teacher says I have talent, and she has high hopes for me. She told me to write every day and use as many different words as possible, so that’s what I shall do in this diary. When I start work, I’d like to be a newspaper reporter and travel the world. To do this, Papa says I must achieve higher exam results. I’ve six months to go, then I leave school and have to find a job.
The truth is, I want to be a singer more than anything. That’s my dream. Aunt Martha says I should train to be a reporter, in case I don’t make it as a singer. She says you never know how your voice will turn out, but reading and writing is always reliable, so I read my father’s newspaper from front to back every day and look up new words in our dictionary.
Mama says singing, sketching, and writing are all a waste. I should learn to sew and bake; and being a reporter is no job for a woman. Nice women don’t work after they are married, and I shouldn’t get ideas above my station. If I can’t sew, I should become a teacher or a nurse. They’re respectable jobs that I will be able to go back to when my children are grown.
Papa smiles and says I should hang on to my dreams.
According to my music teacher, my ear’s good but my voice needs work. She gave me vocal exercises, scales, but when I practise, Mama tells me to hush. I’ve tried sewing, but although I can write neatly and draw people’s faces well enough, my hands are clumsy with a needle, and the touch of some material gives me goosepimples.
I’d love to join the choir and sing with the Curly Haired Boy, but girls aren’t allowed.
My brothers like to hear me sing. They encourage me and I try to impress them. The Italians all sing well. When the choir practises in the square, opposite my father’s shop, I offer to clean outside.
I sweep the pavement and polish the glass and the brass door handle, but mostly I’m watching the choir’s reflection in the window and listening. The Curly Haired Boy is with them, but he’s not singing.
I told my best friend, Irini, that I thought the Curly Haired Boy had a cold, because he didn’t sing. This meant I’d have to postpone our first kiss. Irini said it was probably because his voice was changing into a man’s and he had to rest it. Irini knows a lot because her older sister tells her everything.
I can’t explain how I feel when the choir sings, except to say my skin tingles. All I want is to fill my lungs and hold an A sharp forever.
Yesterday, they sang O Mio Babbino Caro, and I almost cried with the beauty of it. I stood outside to listen and I’m not exactly sure what happened. I was singing along in my head as I polished the glass, and I closed my eyes for a moment to concentrate on the song. Then, before I could do anything about it, I was holding the last note with every ounce of energy I had. It poured from me, long, even, and powerful. I thought I’d suffocate with the need to breathe in before I got all of the note out.
When I opened my eyes, it seemed everything had come to a halt. Shoppers, walking through the square, stopped to gawp at me. The choir, silent, stared in my direction. I turned to run into the shop and bumped into my father who stood behind me. He appeared astonished.
Everyone thinks I’m mad.
Then, snap! People laughed and clapped, and I loved it. The world sparkled and apart from when the Curly Haired Boy nearly smiled at me, that clapping was the most special moment of my life!
Next time the British bomb us, and we sit in the shelter, I’m going to sing that song. Usually we sing hymns, which is a bit morbid because it’s as if everyone expects to die. The point of being in the shelter is that we’re safe, unless there’s a direct hit, then we are dead.