22/6/97
The
Cleaning
Lady’s
Story
You
can't
find
a
woman
more
feminist
than
Sarah
Tzuberi
--
though
she'd
look
at
you
crazy
if
you
called
her
that.
Sarah
never
waved
placards,
or
joined
demonstrations.
As
a
younger
woman,
she
was
another
sort
of
feminist:
primitive,
illiterate,
socially
retarded
by
the
backward
ways
of
her
menfolk;
abandoned
on
a
mountaintop
with
eight
young
children
to
raise
...
yet
elevated
by
some
force
of
nature
to
overcome
the
limitations
foisted
upon
her.
Her
stricken
family
survived
on
one
thing
alone:
Sarah's
ferocious
fortitude.
She
was
born
in
1917
to
poor
Yemenite
parents
who
buried
more
children
than
they
raised.
Her
father
didn't
work;
didn't
do
anything
much,
in
fact,
but
engage
in
religious
study.
Her
mother
sold
coffee
beans.
"I
was
a
girl.
Girls
counted
for
nothing.
We
weren't
allowed
to
learn
at
all.
I
grew
up
confined,
like
in
a
box."
Life
in
San'a
was
wretched,
but
there
was
consolation
in
the
fact
there
was
life
at
all:
the
king,
Sarah
recalls,
was
benevolent
to
the
Jews.
But
when
the
king
died,
the
pogroms
began,
and
her
parents
knew
it
was
time
to
get
out.
In
1944,
they
did:
on
foot
to
Aden.
The
port
city
was
aswarm
with
fleeing
Jewish
refugees,
all
with
one
magical
word
on
their
lips:
Jerusalem.
Her
family
was
lucky
--
sort
of.
"With
so
many
people
and
so
few
boats,
there
was
a
waiting
list
of
a
year.
But
they
held
a
lottery
to
choose
who
would
gain
passage,
and
my
family
was
allowed
to
go
--
everyone
but
me."
She
was
shanghaied
there
for
a
month.
"I
was
very
afraid.
I
had
no
education,
I
didn't
know
anything,
I'd
never
been
left
alone.
I
cried
bitterly.
But
there
was
no
choice."
That
was
to
be
her
later
fate.
The
year
after
she
arrived
in
Jerusalem,
a
dashing
young
Yemenite
named
Shalom
informed
her
that
he
planned
to
marry
her.
Sarah's
eyes
light
up
at
the
memory.
"Don't
be
foolish,
I
told
him.
I
can't
marry
you
without
permission
from
my
parents.
So
a
neighbor
tried
to
get
my
father's
permission.
He
said
I
was
old
enough
to
decide."
They
were
a
stunning
couple:
he,
with
big,
soft
eyes
and
matinee-idol
looks;
she,
a
delicate
beauty
with
a
hint
of
oriental
exotica.
"He
was
the
first
traffic
policeman
in
Jerusalem,
you
know,
in
1948.
He
stood
on
a
platform
in
the
intersection
and
wore
white
gloves."
Shalom
had
been
here
since
1936,
the
same
year
Sarah's
brother
immigrated.
"Back
then,
the
boys
ran
from
Yemen
to
Israel
the
way
boys
now
run
from
Israel
to
America."
Unknown
to
Sarah
when
they
married,
Shalom
was
already
dying,
slowly.
While
serving
in
the
Hagana,
he
was
severely
wounded
when
a
British
soldier
cracked
his
skull
during
a
protest
against
the
nefarious
1939
White
Paper.
As
a
result,
for
the
rest
of
his
life,
Shalom
was
tormented
by
ever-worsening
epilepsy.
They
struggled
desperately:
the
stifling
poverty,
Shalom's
disability;
the
city
attrited
by
war,
seige,
guerrilla
attacks,
austerity;
the
shared
home
they
were
given
was
cramped
and
unsuitable;
and
their
family
was
increasing
every
year.
Shalom
decided
this
was
no
way
to
raise
children,
and
in
1951
they
moved
to
Moshav
Beit
Zayit,
five
kilometers
from
Jerusalem.
"This
was
paradise
for
the
children;
for
me,
it
was
hell."
It
was
so
remote,
so
desolate,
so
undesirable,
the
Jewish
Agency
set
them
up
for
free.
"In
the
'40s
there
was
nothing
here,
just
olive
trees.
No
houses,
no
road,
it
was
filthy
and
fly-infested.
Now?
You
say
'Beit
Zayit,'
and
people
say
oh,
how
wonderful!
"The
Jewish
Agency
gave
us
a
small
house
--
two
rooms,
really
--
and
two
chickens.
I
bought
two
more
chickens
so
we
could
start
earning
money
from
the
eggs."
They
were
stranded
on
a
forest
hilltop
without
electricity
or
running
water,
incommunicado
--
no
telephone,
no
car,
and
a
distant
bus
stop
that
was
her
only
link
with
the
outside;
the
bus
came
only
at
6
a.m.
and
6
p.m.
"Every
little
thing