The Shahid's Widow

by Danny Bar

  At noon, she used her lunch break to sneak out to the pharmacy and purchase the antibiotics the doctor had prescribed.

  “Three times a day after meals, even during the Ramadan fast,” the pharmacist instructed her.

  No one had noticed her absence and upon her return, she took her place back by the sewing table, but her mind was occupied by thoughts of the man hiding in her house. She was afraid someone might notice him, although she had instructed him to keep absolutely quiet and had even tied the dog in the back yard so it wouldn’t bark.

  At four in the afternoon, she returned to her house and found Jamil sleeping on the mattress, wearing nothing but his trousers. His arm was wrapped with a bandage and she decided to replace it right after he wakes up. Yasmina felt a sense of discomfort at the sight of a man lying on a mattress in the room that had used to be her own private shrine. For a moment, she thought of calling Issam’s father, but quickly ruled out the idea. He does not even know that his son is dead… she sighed and deliberated whether she was still considered a married woman or a widow. If she was not yet a widow, it meant that she was now desecrating Issam’s honor, a sin that could not be forgiven. But did it matter? And did the armed struggle against the Zionist enemy justify this forced intimacy with another man? And how would people regard the presence of a man, whom they regard as a hero of the national struggle, in the house of a young woman?

  Yasmina knew that he would be praised and glorified, while she would be branded with a mark of Cain, a mark that would lead her to a life of disgrace and ostracism. If her father would pity her, he would still admit her back into his house. Then, he would need to refrain from ever visiting the village elders so as not to embarrass them.

  Yasmina was unable to find her place and finally sat on the pillow reserved for the guests who never frequented their house. She looked at the man lying on the mattress, the man who had stormed his way into her life and carried her off into a whirlpool.

  Jamil began to mutter in his sleep, obviously delirious. After placing a hand on his feverish forehead, she brought a water-soaked towel from the kitchen and began to wipe his forehead with slow movements, drawing the fever into the towel, then soaking it with more water.

  When Jamil opened his eyes, she drew her hand back and retreated in fear.

  “Water,” he muttered.

  “I brought you the pills,” she quickly blurted, careful not to meet his eyes.

  “Shukran,” he thanked her, extended his hand to the bag in her hand and took a single pill. Then he unsuccessfully tried to rise. She assisted him in standing up, while he placed his hand on her shoulder and leaned his weight on her slender body. Without noticing, she embraced his back and led him to the chair placed in the kitchen.

  “The doctor said you must eat.”

  He thanked her again and began to devour the food as if this wasn’t the month of the Ramadan fast.

  “Do you have a radio?” Jamil raised his head from the plate for a brief moment.

  “Over there.”

  He turned on the radio and after a series of rustles and squeaks, managed to find the Voice of Israel in Arabic and waited for the news. He peeked at his watch. Ten minutes remained and he was curious to learn of Rafik’s fate.

  Who had informed the Jews about the location of my hiding place? He remembered last night’s events. Was it Rafik? No, it couldn’t be, we were joined at the hip.

  Who was it then? the man who had met with him in Nablus? Only Rafik knew the answers. But where are you, ya Rafik? God rest your soul.

  “In a skirmish that had taken place tonight between an IDF force and a terrorist squad in the Hebron area, one terrorist was killed and another was injured and managed to escape. No casualties were suffered by the IDF forces. The dead terrorist, Rafik Hashem Abd a-Rahman from the village of Beir Fajar was involved with last week’s suicide bombings. The identity of the other terrorist is known to the security forces and they are conducting a manhunt for his capture. He apparently headed the terrorist squad that conducted the terrorist attack in Tel Aviv.”

  Jamil turned off the radio and clutched his head with both hands.

  “The Jews are after you,” Yasmina said worriedly.

  6

  Following the operation carried out by the Duvdevan unit, the Shin Bet head of Judea and Samaria called an urgent meeting.

  “We failed,” he opened the meeting dramatically and looked at the people around the table. The heads of units moved uncomfortably in their chairs.

  One of them tried to protest but was interrupted, “Although we had an accurate information about his hiding place, Jamil has managed to slip between our fingers,” the director said.

  “This means that now he knows we are in his footsteps and he will try to cross the border to Jordan as soon as he can,” suggested one of participants

  “No, I am not sure at all,” the director said, “since the events of Black September in 1970, the King of Jordan hasn’t been especially fond of the organization. He realized they pose a threat to the very existence of the Hashemite Dynasty.”

  “Well then, he will behave like all the other wanted terrorists we were looking for. He will be roaming the wadis, careful to stay clear of his home environment because he knows we would be looking for him there. As time passes, he will need food, water and mainly information about the search for him. Then he will seek temporary shelter in the house of a helper, either a man or a woman.”

  “A woman?” asked the desk officer.

  “Yes,” the head of the unit smiled at her, “many of them were unable to resist temptation and eventually visited the houses of women they had known in the past, divorced or widowed.”

  “Aren’t they afraid?” she wondered.

  “They are, but I guess human nature is sometimes stronger than fear. That is when they make their first but not their last mistake. It is exactly such a mistake that we are looking for.”

  “Well, we can’t just wait and see, so we sent Canard to Jordan this morning to meet with Sabri.” said the head of the Judea department, “We estimate him to be the man behind the last terrorist attack. We hope that he would give our agent details regarding the identity of the suicide bombers, perhaps regarding Jamil’s whereabouts as well. If we’re lucky, he will even give us information regarding future attacks the organization is planning.”

  “Thank you. Yes?” the head of Judea and Samaria turned his eyes to the desk officer.

  “We’ve scanned Jamil’s local contacts and relationships. Two people were recently seen with him during and after prayers in the mosque,” she said, “the first is Issam, his cousin who studies at the Al Najah University. We also know that he has recently become religious and began to grow a beard. He is recently married and lives in the village of Tarqumiyah, close to his parent’s house. According to a report received a short while ago from our agent in the village, there is no sign of the fact he was killed and no mourner’s’ tent was set up in his father’s house.

  “The second man is Hassan Abed al Hadi, who lives in the village of Beit Fajar and works in Tel Aviv. I spoke with his employer and he told me Hassan had left on vacation for the Ramadan fast and will be back only next week. He doesn’t have a telephone line in his house and so we will send ‘The Phantom of the Opera’ this evening to check if he is there.”

  Equipped with precise instructions and a cover story, “agent Phantom of the Opera” arrived during the evening hours at Beit Fajar. On the street, he asked a local passerby about Hassan’s house.

  “You mean Abu sitta, the one with the six fingers? Yes, yes, just walk to the end of the street and you’ll see a tall house with two stories, blue windows and a black iron gate at the entrance.”

  “Shukran,” “The Phantom of the Opera” thanked him and was about to leave.

  “Wait, it’s not there,” the man continued his explanation, “turn rig
ht next to that house. Walk a little further after turning and you will find a blue house.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s the house next to it,” the man concluded the explanation.

  “Allah grant you good health,” “The Phantom of the Opera” thanked him and followed the description he’d received. Soon enough, he found himself in a junkyard without a living soul to be seen. He returned to the village square and asked again. This time he received a completely different explanation sending him on the opposite direction, where he finally found the house.

  “Masa al khair,” he greeted the house owner.

  “Good evening,” Hassan’s father answered him, “who are you?”

  “Hassan’s employer in the market has given me some money that he owed him. He thought Hassan might need it during Ramadan,” “The Phantom of the Opera” told him and handed him four hundred-shekel bills.

  “Hassan is not at home. He went to Nablus for a few days and still hasn’t returned, but I’ll keep the money for him.”

  “Tfadal. Take it.” said “The Phantom of the Opera” and quickly cleared off.

  In the center of the village, he flagged a taxi and drove to Issam’s house in Tarqumiyah, where he received a more accurate description and easily found his parents’ house.

  “Sorry, he is not at home. He is in Nablus, studying for his exams,” his father told him, his face beaming with pride, “come inside and have a cup of tea.”

  “No, shukran, I’m in a hurry,” “The Phantom of the Opera” apologized and hurried to meet with his Shin Bet operator and updated him. “The parents don’t know anything, but I recommend that you check with the Nablus University if they are really there.”

  During a late evening hour, the answer already came from the Nablus area Shin Bet precinct. “Adrenaline,” their agent in the city, unequivocally stated that the university was closed for Ramadan and no examinations were taking place because of the fast.

  “Something doesn’t smell right,” said the district coordinator and glanced at his watch, “when is he due to arrive back from Jordan?” he asked.

  “Who?”

  “Canard.”

  “Oh, he’d left Amman at two, he will probably cross the Allenby Bridge border crossing at four.”

  And so it was.

  An hour later, the phone in the Nablus office precinct rang. Canard was on the line.

  “Ahlan wasahlan,” his operator greeted him.

  “We’d better meet.”

  “Tonight at seven, next to the AbuZid farm.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “These were the two suicide bombers from Tel Aviv,” said Canard with excitement and placed a crumpled note on the table.

  The operator opened the note and asked aloud, “Hassan and Issam?”

  “Yes, these two.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “I’ll tell you the whole story from beginning to end. Samir welcomed me warmly and introduced me to the Sheikh. The Sheikh told me that soon we will hear of another great operation that will wash the streets of Tel Aviv with blood and make the previous operation pale in comparison. These were the Sheikh’s exact words. He also praised the two suicide bombers and mentioned their names as he prayed for their souls. I immediately went to the restroom to write them down,” he smiled at his operator and continued, “they have someone new who is about to join Jamil. They want me to meet him at the entrance of the Al Shifa Hospital in Gaza after the holiday of Eid al Fitr and smuggle him to the Hebron area in my truck.”

  “Did they say anything about the explosives?” asked the operator.

  “Hold on, I’m getting to it. Jamil was able to obtain some of the explosives himself and will get the rest in a dead letter box, I don’t know from whom. I asked several times, but Samir avoided giving me an answer.”

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” the operator scolded him, “don’t ask questions that might raise suspicion. You are endangering yourself and your family by doing so. These guys are dangerous, we need to be slow and steady, haste makes waste.”

  “You’re right,” said the agent with embarrassment, “but I knew this information is important to you.”

  “It is, but your safety is even more important to us.”

  “How will you know who put explosives in the dead letter box?”

  “Wondrous are the ways of Allah,” said the operator with a smile and looked at the heavens, “Yalla, ya habibi, you must be travel weary.”

  It was 10:00 pm when the agent left.

  The operator called the desk officer and gave her the names.

  “Did the agent give their family names as well?” asked Ronit.

  “No.”

  “Perhaps these are only their code names?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “In that case, I will go to the office now and start working on it.”

  Ronit hurried to the office, quickly went over the last reports from meeting with agents in the Hebron area and crossed-referenced the information with additional data collected over the past twenty-four hours.

  After many hours of work, she happily called Canard’s operator.

  “Yes!” she told him with excitement.

  That very same night, large IDF forces moved toward the town of Tarqumiyah and waited next to Issam’s house. With the first light of dawn, loud knockings were heard on the house’s iron gate. The dwellers of the house woke up with a fright. Through the shutters, they saw the soldiers standing by the door of the house. The father pushed the women back and went to the door.

  The noise made by the soldiers had also reached Yasmina’s ears. She woke Jamil with a fright. As if snake-bitten, he jumped up and grabbed the Kalashnikov rifle hidden under the mattress.

  “They’re not here, they are at my father-in-law’s, Issam’s father.”

  Quickly, Jamil crawled on all fours. Through the shutters, he followed the movements of the soldiers surrounding Issam’s parent’s yard.

  “There is no way for you to escape from here,” Yasmina told him.

  “Where is the waterhole dug by Issam’s father?” he asked her in a whisper.

  “There,” she pointed at the waterhole in the yard.

  He hurried to disappear into the waterhole and pushed its metal cover closed. Doubled up, he sat in the narrow waterhole with the barrel of the rifle turned up and his finger on the trigger.

  Yasmina placed an old mat that Issam had used as a prayer mat and scattered on it some sunflower seeds she had just finished salting.

  Issam’s father opened the door of his house. Seconds later, Yasmina heard the wailing of the women followed by the loud shouts of the soldiers searching for weapons and explosives. Half an hour later, a knock was heard on Yasmina’s door. She opened it. A company of three soldiers came into the house and quickly began to search it while their commanding officer went to Yasmina.

  “Where is Issam?” he asked her.

  “In Nablus,” she answered faintly. She clearly noticed how the soldiers were measuring the curves of her body seen through the thin nightgown and did not bother to cover herself.

  At the same time, two interrogators tried to get details about his son’s friends from Issam’s father, without much success. They discovered that the father had no idea where his son had been before the suicide bombing. He repeatedly told them in a voice choked with tears that everything was from Allah and that no man, including his deceased son, possessed the power to change his own destiny.

  After the IDF forces had left the village, the sign was given to begin the setting of a mourner’s tent and numerous people began to arrive and comfort the mourners.

  Yasmina wore a black dress, wrapped her head with a scarf and prepared to leave for Issam’s parent’s house and assist them. Jamil gave her a long stare from the corner of the r
oom.

  “You must leave,” she told him.

  “They won’t return to look here, the dead can never come back and Issam’s father knew nothing. It was enough to hear the wailing of the women for the soldiers to believe them,” he smiled bitterly, “this is the safest place for me in the near future. After that, there won’t be any more need for me to hide, I’ll be a free man in heaven. Who knows, maybe I’ll meet Issam there,” he laughed.

  “I’m going.”

  “Yasmina,” he said her name slowly, “you really are a fragrant flower.”

  She became embarrassed and mumbled a meaningless sentence, then hurried to leave the house, locking the door behind her.

  As soon as she had entered the family house, she drowned in an ocean of heart-wrenching cries and mournful wails. Professional wailers came from the village and began to wail and beat their chests. They encouraged Issam’s mother to shed tears over her own fate and the fate of her son and carried the rest of the village women with them to burst into bouts of wailing. It was difficult for Yasmina to find her place among the multitude of people. All she wanted was to return to her own home and find a quiet corner to mourn in.

  All the people in the house ignored her, some even gave her hostile looks, especially Issam’s family members who accused her of his death.

  Yasmina found no comfort there and returned to her house at a late night hour.

  “How are they?” Jamil whispered.

  She did not bother to answer him, went into her bedroom, took off her dress and hurried to wear the thin nightgown. Then she saw Jamil standing at the door and staring at her. A muffled cry escaped her lips and she hurried to cover herself with a blanket, “Jamil!”