The Lulus
My Yemma, my great-grandmother, had a cousin by the name of Lulu. Lulu’s husband died, leaving her a widow at an early age. She had a son who took over his father’s business when he was in his late teens. He was quite bright and made enough money to support them in a fairly comfortable style. He had a head for business, just like his late father.
Lulu was illiterate. She could not read or write. Lulu’s greatest gift was the gift of the gab! In Baghdad, the day started early. By six o’clock in the morning, everyone was out and about. That way, they beat the summer heat. The men came home for lunch and a siesta. They returned to work at four until seven in the evening, when the day became cooler.
Lulu would leave at the same time as her son to go to the market. On her way back, she would inadvertently stop to visit with her cousin Rifka, my Yemma. My Yemma was educated. From the privacy of their home, Yemma did the accounting for her brothers’ firm.
As Yemma went about her chores, Lulu would recount how she had gone to the ‘souk’, the market, to shop for something to make for their midday meal. “I can only stop for a short while,” Lulu would reassure Yemma. “I have to prepare lunch.”
Yemma would nod her head sagely as Lulu continued to prattle on and on nonstop until her irritated son eventually found her and dragged her home.
Many years passed. My parents got married. After they had me, they fled Baghdad because of unrest against the Jews of Iraq. They fled to Tehran with me as a toddler. Life was good in Tehran. They very soon became an active part of their community. They were happy.
Across the avenue, my mother met a woman with whom she became friendly. She had three daughters who attended the same school as my sister and me. She also had the strangest of husbands. He worried that someone would find his daughters attractive and abscond with one of them. To prevent that from happening, he took them to the barber every few weeks and gave them men’s haircuts. They were not allowed to wear pretty dresses, shoes, or sandals. They wore men’s lace-up shoes at all times, no exceptions! During summer holidays, they were not allowed to leave their home. For some reason, we were allowed to go to their home, but they were not allowed to come to ours. The same applied to their mother.
From a window in their home, they would gaze out into a neighbor’s garden. They longingly watched the people swim and frolic in their swimming pool. They could hear the sound of the water splashing as they swam. They heard them laugh with enjoyment. They yearned to be able to go swimming as well. One day when we went for a visit, we were greeted with a blue blanket spread across the room. “Let’s play swimming,” they suggested. We belonged to a club. Days on end, we would swim and frolic in the pool. Very often, we would dine at the club in the evenings. My heart went out to them, but if they were not even allowed to come to our house, how could we invite them to our club? I was perhaps ten years old then. I can still feel the sadness I felt for them.
Each morning, the mother would peer out her window, watching, making sure my father had left for the office. As soon as she saw the car drive away, she would hurry to the phone and call my mother. My mother was very much aware of the extreme loneliness that this poor lady felt, yet sometimes she had chores of her own to attend to. As much as she tried to accommodate the poor woman, she could not do much to help her. Because of her loneliness, she often lingered on the phone for hours on end. Mama felt slightly trapped, but she pitied her. When he did not have outstanding appointments, Papa would stand staring out of the window at her. He felt sorry for her but was protective of Mama. Eventually, we moved away, and the phone calls gradually stopped. Papa called her Mama’s Lulu.
Years passed. Once more, we had to leave a country that we loved and called our home. This time, we left not because of Jewish political/religious issues but because of Islamic political ones. It had nothing to do with us, yet it did. It became an issue of the well-off against the poor, the religious versus the broad-minded. It was called the Islamic Revolution, and it was alarming. We experienced and heard of violence and sheer terror. Overnight, the country where the people sang joyfully in the streets became a drab and somber one. All women had to cover their heads so no hair could show, regardless of their religion. One little girl was on her way to school one day. She wore the headdress, but a strand of her hair had escaped. The morality police approached her, pushed her hair back under the headdress, and thumb-tacked around her forehead and her cheeks. She became hysterical and traumatized. As soon as they were able to, her parents sent her and her siblings to family in New York to safety until they could settle their affairs.
Because of such circumstances, we left as well. It felt as if we were violently pulled up from our roots and heartlessly flung any which way. We settled in Fresh Meadows where I still live. Over here, I met my Lulu. She’s a lovely person with a heart of gold and the gift of the gab. And here in New York, I was destined to acquire my very own Lulu.