The Shahid's Widow

by Danny Bar

  Sheikh Khaled was the one who suggested, two months later, that Adnan should become a Shahid. Adnan did not even ask for some time to think, he agreed instantly. The Sheikh’s idea perfectly fitted with everything that his heart desired. An operation against the hated Jews in their own home, in the great Palestine. He will reap his vengeance, become a Shahid and join a long line of glorious heroes. A great honor will be bestowed on his family and his father will erect a mourner’s tent. All the dignitaries and religious leaders of the area will flock to it, helping him to finally raise his bent back with pride to their words of blessings and encouragement. And then, so he hoped, his raging soul will finally gain peace. The living hell which was his life will be replaced by heaven with all its seductive secrets.

  The Sheikh was the one who connected him to the Jordan headquarters. A worthy role was immediately found for him, as part of the preparations for a series of attacks intended to undermine the forming peace agreements.

  “Adnan will be our trump card,” said the organization’s senior officers, “and even if everything comes apart and Israel or the Palestinian Authority exposes the cell’s men to thwart the attack, Adnan’s identity will remain a secret. Only a handful of top officials in the Jordanian supreme command will know it. His associates for the operation will not know him either, not even Jamil. The two will meet only at the night of the operation, close to its actual location.”

  That was what had brought him to Caracas that morning. He glanced at his watch. It was seven thirty when the embassy security officer peeked inside the coffee shop and greeted the waiters with a good morning.

  “Buenos dias, Senor,” they answered kindly and asked after his wellbeing. The youngest waiter motioned at the man sitting in the corner.

  While continuing to speak with the waiters his eyes slowly drifted to the corner, where a man wearing an elegant suit was sitting. He measured him with his eyes from head to toe, then went and greeted him amicably.

  “Cómo está?” how is he doing?” He addressed him in the polite, third person.

  “And you are?” Adnan wondered.

  “The embassy security officer,” he introduced himself.

  “Encantado,” answered Adnan politely and extended his hand, “pleased to meet you.”

  The security officer wrinkled his forehead, “I think I’ve already seen you around here, haven’t I?” he asked.

  “I think the senor is mistaken, I’ve just arrived here,” Adnan answered.

  “You were in Los Dos Caminos,” the security officer determined.

  “I don’t even know the place,” Adnan panicked and lowered his eyes.

  “Bueno,” all right, my mistake then.”

  “Puede ser,” probably so, Adnan tried to smile and hide the tension in his face.

  “Have a nice day, then,” the security officer told him and carried on with his morning rounds. When he had finished, he disappeared inside the building and updated the local police officer responsible for the embassy security with the details of the incident.

  “Something about this guy doesn’t feel right, I’m sure I’ve seen him before,” he told him, “perhaps even next to my house, and he wasn’t alone. There was this other man with him, I even remember thinking for a moment that he was Israeli. I have a keen memory for faces, and I don’t normally make mistakes.”

  “Si, senor, we’ll take care of him,” the police officer promised.

  Adnan continued to sit and drink his coffee, his heart was in turmoil. At first he thought of quickly leaving the place, but he changed his mind. This would raise even more suspicion, he thought to himself, and at 10:00 am headed to the embassy floor. Upon emerging from the elevator, he was stopped by a police officer who firmly asked him where he was going.

  “Embajada de Israel,” he answered.

  “And the purpose of your visit?”

  “Visa.”

  “Your name?”

  “Pablo Ramirez Mendoza,” he answered and handed him his passport. The officer took a small notebook from his shirt pocket and wrote down his details, then he searched Adnan’s body, made him go through the metal detector and allowed him to continue only after a meticulous examination.

  “Straight down to the end of the corridor,” he instructed and continued to follow him with his eyes.

  The electric door opened before him and he found himself facing a receptionist sitting behind an armored glass window.

  “Purpose of your visit to Israel?” the receptionist asked him. She was a local Jewish woman who had been employed by the embassy for many years, well versed in the ins and outs of consular work.

  “A pilgrimage,” he answered, “I am traveling with a group of pilgrims to the Tierra Santa, the holy land,” he said with a fluent Spanish accent that did not betray even a hint of his past.

  “Where will you stay there?”

  “I don’t remember,” he smiled at her, “all the names are so difficult, but give me a moment…” he searched his papers and took out the group’s travel plan. “Shepherd’s Hotel, in the city of Bethlehem where our Savior was born,” he read from the page to her.

  “The duration of your stay in Israel?”

  “One week, then we’ll continue to Jordan.”

  The receptionist examined the respectable looking man in front of her, “Buen viaje,” she wished him and stamped his passport.

  Equipped with the coveted visa, Adnan made the long way back to the city of Coro and sat down to plan his next steps with Sheikh Khaled.

  “No one from your family can know that you are in Israel. Tell them that you are traveling to Spain to check the possibility of studying there. Your passport is one hundred percent genuine, I bought it from someone who has connections in the Venezuelan Ministry of Interior, so there’s no reason for anyone to suspect you. Your Spanish is free of any foreign accent, so you’ll be able to easily convince everyone with your false identity.”

  “How do I travel there?”

  “On Sunday, you will join a group of pilgrims traveling to Israel. Stay with the group until it leaves to Jordan. Once the group leaves, get rid of your Venezuelan passport. In the suitcase’s inner compartment, you will find a Spanish passport, which you will need to use from that moment on. This way, you won’t leave any tracks behind you. Move to a different hotel in West Jerusalem. Pay in cash only, US dollars. Understand?”

  “Where do I meet my contact person?”

  “He will find you. Every day, at four in the afternoon, report to the Al Sha’b Café in East Jerusalem, next to the old bus station, everyone knows the place.”

  “How will I recognize the contact person?”

  “Place an Al Quds newspaper on the table with a pack of Marlboro cigarettes on top of it. On the appointed day, a messenger from the headquarters in Jordan will come to you. He will recognize you by the signs I gave you and identify himself with a password.

  “’Are you Sultan Suleiman,’ he will ask you, and you will answer: ‘No. I am Salah al Din al Ayubbi’s brother.’ This messenger is the only man you should receive instructions from. He will take you to the rendezvous point with Jamil and with another man from Gaza who is already there preparing for the operation. Should anything happen to the both of them, you will carry out the operation on your own. Ya Adnan, this operation will be written down in the glorious annals of Arabic history, you will join the greatest Shahids of our nation, the heroes who by sacrificing their body would bring an end to the suffering of our people and pave the way to the liberation of Jerusalem.”

  Adnan was excited, “ Insha’allah,” he said, “Insha’allah.”

  “Good. Now go, and may Allah be with you.”

  It was very difficult for Adnan to part from his parents. He knew he would never see them again. He held back his tears as he embraced his elderly father and pressed him to his heart. His father wept. Adna
n could not recall ever seeing him crying, not even when he had seen his son lying dead on the road.

  His mother asked him to keep safe and filled his bag with all kinds of pastries she had baked for him.

  “You are my pillar,” she told him and kissed his head.

  “When will you come back?” asked his little brother. Adnan picked him up and tears finally welled in his eyes. He hurried to turn his head away, collected his belongings and went away.

  The Sheikh accompanied him to the city’s taxi station. From there, Adnan continued to the “La Guaira” airport, met with the other tourist group members and discovered he was much younger than most of them.

  The flight left at midnight and landed in Amsterdam eleven hours later. Adnan waited two additional hours for the connecting flight to Israel. By the afternoon, he already stood before a female Israeli border control officer and extended his passport to her.

  “Purpose of your visit?”

  “Pilgrimage.”

  She took another look at the entry form, where he had filled his personal details, and typed them into the computer, waited a moment longer, then took another look at him.

  She picked up the telephone receiver, covered it with her hand and whispered something.

  A brief moment later, two armed police officers showed up and asked Adnan to accompany them.

  16

  Jamil’s body became emaciated; his eyes ran wildly in their sockets, panicked. Yasmina recoiled from him in fear. His beard had grown wild, his hair was littered with tufts of straw. His clothes reeked of heavy perspiration and bonfire smoke.

  “What happened to you?” she asked with amazement.

  “I was almost caught,” he said, “I took a taxi, then suddenly saw a roadblock. An armed soldier started to check the vehicle ahead of us. I opened the door and crawled under the taxi, from there, I ran to the wadi. I didn’t even carry my gun, I left it in the well.”

  “They were looking for you?”

  “Maybe, but they’ll never catch me alive. By the way, do you have a letter for me?” he suddenly recalled.

  “Yes, yes.” She brought a sealed envelope out of her bag and handed it to him. He quickly opened it and read it by the faint light of the lamp. After he had finished, he crumpled the letter angrily, tossed it to the floor and went out to the yard.

  Yasmina was curious, she hesitated a moment before picking up the letter from the floor, keeping an eye on the door, but the sound of Jamil’s approaching footsteps made her drop it from her hand and rush to the kitchen. While brewing tea, she decided to plead with him again, perhaps he would finally leave and let her be.

  “Ya Jamil,” she began, “how much longer will you stay here? People might talk.”

  “Unless you start singing like a sparrow, no one will ever know.”

  “But how much longer are you going to stay here as my guest?” she asked him.

  “As long as I need to. Is this your hospitality? I’m about to sacrifice my life for our people.”

  “I’ve had enough. A guest is treated like a sultan on the first night, a vizier on the second night, but like a pig on the third,” her face turned grim and she raised her voice. “I want my life back!”

  Jamil smiled meanly and pushed her from his way.

  “As Allah is my witness, you will pay for this! I swear it!” she said and was pushed back.

  Jamil burst into mocking laughter.

  “This is just the way I like you, lustful but shy,” he said and sent a hand to draw her to him.

  “Careful!” she blurted and drew away. The thought someone else other than Khalil might touch her now seemed like a desecration of her body.

  “A whore, even if she desists from practicing her trade, could only turn into a madam,” he mocked her, “the moment the hand of a stranger has touched you, you are no different than those women of Bethlehem who sell their bodies to anyone placing money in their pockets. You are bereft of honor and support, allowed to all.”

  “Do not mistake me or you will pay for it dearly,” she warned him as he rolled down his pants and approached her with an intimidating look in his eyes.

  “You are toying with me, but you cannot hide your passion, Yasmina, you are yearning for a man to fill your body,” he told her, gripped her hips and pressed her to him.

  She squirmed wildly and tried to release herself from his hold. His hands would not let go and rose up her thighs, unrolled the edges of her thin dress and pushed her to the mattress. Yasmina pressed her thighs together in an attempt to evade his body. She held his face with her hands and pushed it away. Jamil raged, cursed her and tried to evade her hands, which clutched his face and scratched it until they drew blood. His hands pulled at the straps of her dress, revealing her breasts. Seeing them, white and exposed, merely served to inflame his passion, but she continued to resist.

  This wasn’t the Yasmina he had known before. She did not plead with him with words. This time, he was surprised by the force and intensity of her resistance. He decided to teach her a lesson about her place in life as a woman. I sacrifice my life for the sake of the entire Arab nation, he thought, and all women should be happy to serve me while I still live. It is my right, just like it is every Shahid’s right to enjoy the company of the virgins awaiting him in heaven after his death.

  Jamil increased his pressure on her body and the intensity of his curses.

  “Just you wait, ya Jamil, just you wait,” she said and pushed his face away from her.

  Jamil paused for a moment and looked at her.

  “Stop, stay here for as long as you’d like, but let me be. I’ll do whatever else you ask me to, I’ll deliver all your letters wherever you want me to, but do not touch my body. It does not belong to you.”

  “Whore!” he screamed and raised his hand to slap her. Raging, she sent her fingers to his face, clawed the skin with her nails and did not let go until a cry escaped his mouth. As soon as he released her from his grip, Yasmina fled to the kitchen. She looked at him from the door, weeping, her body hunched and her hands straightening the edges of her dress.

  “Damn you,” he told her when he stood up, “I’ll make you mine, and there will be no other. I will kill any man with my bare hands who dares approach you,” he told her angrily and shut the door after her.

  The first light of dawn found Yasmina sitting on her doorstep, her back leaned against one end of the door post and her feet on the other. A mysterious smile filled her face as if the turbulence of the previous night had never happened. A sense of triumph filled her heart.

  This is the freedom of my body, she thought, the freedom of my soul. And I will fight to the death for these two freedoms. I will collaborate with the devil himself, cooperate with the vilest of my enemies to strike him down, he will not escape. Gently, I will lead him to his death. Oh, what sweet revenge I will have, she smiled to herself and rose to light the fire in the yard.

  Now that she had decided, Yasmina was impatient to meet Khalil again. She knew that he would pick her up in their usual place and take her to his apartment, but this time she would tell him of her decision before making love to him.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by a noise coming from inside the house, “Ya Rab,” oh Lord, “I forgot to wake you,” she said to the startled Jamil.

  “It’s late,” he told her and hurried to go outside to the yard and wash his face with water from the jug.

  “Would you like some tea?” she asked softly, as if nothing had transpired between them last night.

  “Yes, but quickly, soon the whole village will wake and I won’t be able to leave here. Meanwhile, I’ll write a letter to the butcher and you will deliver it to him, tell him that I’ll be back in two days.”

  “All right,” she answered and set the sooty kettle on the burner, took out some pita break wrapped in a towel and placed it in front of him, bes
ide a white plate drenched with olive oil.

  Jamil raised his head from the plate from time to time and sent her suspicious looks, “What got into you last night? A jinn?” he asked her as she sat with her eyes fixed on him.

  “That jinn exists in the body of every woman who does not wish to be touched, but you, men, are not aware of its existence,” she answered, the smile not leaving her face.

  “What are you scheming?” he muttered.

  “Nothing,” she said, still with that same smile.

  He suddenly rose and went out to the yard, raised the lid off the barren well and retrieved his pistol.

  After briefly examining it in front of Yasmina’s eyes, he took it, parted from her and slid between the vines and bushes. With a single bound, he leaped over the stone fence surrounding the house, slid into the wadi spread beneath him and disappeared among the cactus bushes.

  17

  Over the past few days, Yasmina’s factory workmates found it increasingly difficult to cope with her independent way of thinking. They interpreted it as condescending. Her behavior served as a mirror for their own, one they were not too keen to look into. Some of them had turned more hostile towards her with every passing day. Therefore, when she was late to the pickup bus that morning they decided to teach her a lesson.

  “Just drive and leave her behind,” they told the driver, but A’ysha, Yasmina’s friend, wouldn’t hear of it. She came to her defense and let the rest of them know she would not leave her behind.

  “This isn’t the Yasmina I know,” one of the others nodded, “since her husband passed, she has changed completely, and you all know exactly what I’m talking about.”

  “How could she not change when the backbone of her life was snatched from under her feet?” A’ysha continued to defend her. It seemed as though she had woken a nest of wasps around her, the dam had broken and a barrage of rumors and gossip washed over the bus.