The Shahid's Widow

by Danny Bar

  The needle sprang wildly.

  “All right. I’m sorry, but we need to stop this test,” he said and started disconnecting the agent from the sensors attached to his body. Then he went to a side room and asked Amos to join them.

  “”Magic Flute rose to greet him and embraced him. Amos hesitated a while, then yielded and placed his hand on his agent’s shoulder.

  “What happened?” Amos feigned innocence and barely managed to hide the turbulence of emotions he truly experienced.

  “Abu Ghazall, I have nothing to say, just don’t lose your faith in me,” said Khalil quietly.

  Amos felt a great burden. He knew Khalil would be taken to the interrogation complex until he opened up to reveal his secrets. The separation would be hard on both of them.

  Three days had passed since “”Magic Flute had been arrested. During that time, Khalil kept utterly silent and withdrawn, even refusing food. He sat in his cell and stared into the air, chain smoking cigarettes that Amos regularly provided for him.

  He was alone in his cell. Having all the time in the world, and with nothing else to do, he began to think of Yasmina. For the first time in his life, he longed for a woman, an unfamiliar feeling for him. He had known many women, but never loved any of them.

  This time it was different. This time he spoke from the deep recesses of his heart. The more he deliberated with himself, the more he realized he wanted to tie his destiny with Yasmina’s.

  For three days Yasmina had heard nothing from Khalil and did not know what had become of him. One evening she returned home and prepared to retire to her bed at an early hour when she was alarmed by a knock on the door.

  “Masa al khair,” Jamil greeted her.

  “There’s nothing good about an evening where you show up on my doorstep,” she said angrily.

  Jamil wasn’t too impressed with that cold welcome, pushed her into the house, and went to the kitchen. As always, he devoured the food Yasmina had prepared for herself and went out to wash his body in the yard.

  “Leave your shoes outside,” she instructed him.

  Much to her surprise, he obeyed and placed his shoes by the doorstep. Yasmina waited for him to fall asleep, took the water jug from the kitchen and went to fill it up in the yard. Outside, she took one of his shoes and buried it in the ground under the fig tree.

  In the morning, she woke to the sound of Jamil’s angry grunts. He searched for his other shoe and couldn’t find it. He cursed the dog and even placed the remaining shoe close to his nose so he could sniff it.

  The dog barked at him and forced Jamil to retreat back into the house.

  Yasmina waited.

  “The villagers will soon wake, I have to leave,” he said fearfully.

  “Take the slippers, pink velvet might look good on you,” she teased him.

  Jamil was not amused and began to appear visibly stressed.

  “Where are Issam’s shoes?” he asked her.

  “You should know where they are, you were the last one to see them,” she said cynically and looked at the heavens, “you sent them there.”

  “He must have had another pair in the house.” he grumbled and began to rummage the small closet in the corner of the room, “What’s this?” he pointed at a cardboard box he had found in the closet with a pair of brand new shoes inside it.

  “His new shoes. He didn’t even get a chance to wear them,” she clasped her hands and pressed them to her body.

  “He doesn’t need them anymore,” he said coarsely and tore them from her hands, not before she had managed to pull the metal strip out of the sole, thus activating it. The satellite immediately kicked into action.

  “I’m getting a trace on him,” said the dispatcher sitting in the Tel Aviv headquarters and began to follow Jamil. On a large screen, he could see Jamil walking down the wadi descending from Tarqumiyah and leading to the village of Idna. His gait was brisk. A red aura of heat surrounded both his legs. The computer began documenting his route and cross-referencing it with addresses of known terrorists living in the area.

  22

  Just as he did every day, Adnan sat for half an hour at the A-Sha’ab café in East Jerusalem, waiting for the messenger from Amman. The glass of tea and open newspaper on the table made him blend in perfectly with the café’s landscape.

  The café was a meeting place favored by the terrorist organizations. It was there that they regularly held secret meetings between their people in the West Bank and messengers arriving from the Jordanian headquarters. The messengers would give instructions or receive the information regarding potential targets for future attacks.

  The A-Sha’ab café was perfect for their purposes. It had a central, bustling location, which made it easier for their members to lose themselves in the crowd and quickly disappear when they needed to. The café had two separate exits, one of which led into the old central bus station, while the other led to Sultan Suleiman Street, which was teeming with people at all hours of the day.

  The place was also popular with the farmers who came from secluded villages, some of them visiting Jerusalem for the very first time. Until then, Jerusalem had seemed to them like a distant place, like the city of Mecca they all dreamed of visiting so they could observe the Hajj, the pilgrimage to that holiest of cities for Muslims.

  The group Adnan had arrived with already left for Jordan. Obeying the instructions he had received from the Sheikh, he got rid of his Venezuelan passport and obtained a Spanish one, thus leaving no trace behind him, even those left by the Israelis following his interrogation at the airport.

  He felt relieved, and had every reason to feel that way.

  Speaking with the Arab receptionist of his hotel, he found out that the airport interrogation had been nothing but a routine procedure intended to prevent illegal workers from entering the country. Now that he had gotten rid of his original passport, shaved his mustache and removed his glasses, Pablo Ramirez Mendoza vanished as if the earth had swallowed him whole.

  But it was then that Adnan began to feel a great sense of loneliness. He was assailed by a yearning to return to his village, if only for a few moments, just to see the childhood landscapes he had longed for all those years in Venezuela. He yearned to climb the fig tree that covered Ein Harasha, the well whose cool waters he would drink with a stalk of wheat.

  He also yearned to go down Wadi-a-Tawahin to hide once more in one of its ravines in a game of hide-and-seek, then wade in the cool water of the Zarqa springs, where would go with the older children and that seemed to him like the farthest ends of the earth.

  More than anything, Adnan yearned to visit his brother’s grave, place palm leaves on it and tell him: “Brother, everything I am about to do is intended to avenge your blood and redeem the family honor. Be patient, because we shall soon meet in heaven.”

  He struggled with the intense emotions. Any contact he would make with the village or his past would draw the attention of the villagers. Soon enough, the Shin Bet would get a report about his activities from one of their many agents in the village.

  His new passport and appearance were his only security. And so, after many hours of doubts and deliberations, he finally convinced himself to give up. His heart ached for it; he was going to his death without parting from the views of his childhood that he loved so dearly.

  While he was lost in thought, the scheduled time of the meeting had passed. Just like yesterday, no one had come. Disappointed, Adnan left the café and returned to his hotel.

  23

  Bleep. Bleep. Bleep.

  The officer in the Operations room raised his eyes to the screen in front of him. The satellite camera zoomed in on the village of Beit Kahil, situated not far from Tarqumiyah, where Yasmina resided.

  It was 2:30 am.

  Jamil had walked all through the night until reaching a secluded house on the outskirts of the
village. Moments later, the computer buzzed and the screen began to fill with information related to the tenant: “

  Walid Abu Sita, a senior organization helper, served a prison sentence for taking part in an attack against settlers during which two Israeli citizens were killed. Released following the Jibril prisoner exchange agreement. Since then, he has returned to be active, smuggling wanted terrorists to Jordan.

  The Shin Bet has decided not to arrest him in light of the fact that his cousin was the agent who provided that information. Lately, he has provided further information according to which Walid is in contact with Jamil and has even received a pistol from him.”

  The officer immediately called the head of the Arab Affairs Division and woke him from his sleep to report the news. It took him a few seconds to recover, following which he got dressed and drove to the office.

  On his way, he called the head of the district and updated him with the news.

  “Don’t do anything if Jamil is in the house,” the head of the district warned him, “not a hair on his head must be harmed,” he is the only lead we have on that suicide bomber from abroad.”

  “Am I Jamil’s keeper?” he asked cynically.

  The Duvdevan unit was once again chosen to carry out the task. The commando force took positions in Gush Etzion and waited for the order to take action. Meanwhile, the soldiers prepared the equipment and checked their weapons repeatedly. In the command post, the division commander joined the Shin Bet officers, in the hope that Jamil would soon emerge from hiding. The force’s objective was to arrest Walid, who was believed to be the lead to the explosives intended for the terrorist attack.

  Jamil’s location had not changed throughout the day. It seemed that he was sleeping during the days, emerging from his various hiding places only at night. Two more hours remained before nightfall.

  The commanders made use of the time to go over the aerial maps of the village and close-ups of the house. At 10:00 pm, the satellite camera picked up Jamil leaving the house and followed him as he made his way toward Tarqumiyah. Amos knew that Jamil was making his way to Yasmina’s house and pitied her. In moments of candor, she had already hinted to him, more than once, about Jamil’s vile acts.

  The unit split in two, got inside the transporter vehicle and drove toward the target, with some of the commando soldiers hiding between the bleating sheep in the back. The observation post was situated behind a high terrace inside an olive grove.

  “Status report.” the team commander requested.

  “Walid is at home, the lights are on, the car is outside,” the observation post reported.

  “Copy that, we’ll be with you in five.”

  “Lights approaching.”

  “It’s us.”

  A cry was suddenly heard on the radio. “Go! Go! Don’t stop, get out!”

  “Driving away. What happened?” the Operations team commander asked worriedly.

  Three men are standing in the dark next to the house.

  “Copy.” The team quickly drove away from the house and waited nearby. The headlights were turned off and the team members inside maintained absolute silence.

  Ten minutes passed. A passerby looked at them suspiciously and suddenly started running toward a nearby house.

  “Not good,” the team commander muttered under his breath, “the whole village will wake up soon.” He decided to change the plan, “I am coming now, be ready.”

  The car stopped near the house and the soldiers quickly jumped outside the vehicle and took positions in front of all the house openings.

  A squad of soldiers approached the door and called Walid’s name.

  They were met only with silence, even after repeating the calls several times.

  The team commander instructed his men to break inside.

  A small explosive device was attached to the door and tore it off its hinges. The team commander was the first to break inside. A man stood just three feet away from him with the pistol in his hand and pulled the trigger.

  The pistol did not fire.

  Walid threw his large body at the team commander and hurled the pistol at him.

  A soldier who stood next to the team commander fired at Walid, who collapsed to the floor bleeding.

  The village began to quickly rouse and the mosque speakers called the residents to block all exits from the village.

  The military paramedic who accompanied the team began to treat Walid and stopped the bleeding in his injured leg. The team laid him on a stretcher and quickly took off from the village.

  After being treated at the hospital, under heavy guard, Walid was transferred to the Shin Bet for an interrogation.

  “Who gave you the gun?” the interrogator asked him.

  “Jamil,” he answered angrily, “may Allah bring ruin upon his house. He gave me a gun that doesn’t fire.” The interrogator looked into Walid’s face, and said nothing. He knew perfectly well why the pistol didn’t shoot.

  24

  Yasmina beamed with happiness upon hearing so many compliments about the way she had handled Jamil, but her happiness was far from being complete, something had clouded it.

  “Abu Ghazall, you asked me to always be outspoken with you…” she said hesitantly, “I have a feeling that you’re hiding something from me. Am I right?” she asked sadly.

  “Yes, Yasmina. I didn’t want to make you sad. Khalil is under arrest for now, until we are finished with his interrogation. He keeps asking about you. It seems that you are the only thing on his mind. I’ve known him for quite some time and never heard him speak about a woman like he speaks about you.”

  “And what will become of him?” she asked with concern.

  “Insha’allah, he will be fine, we will be finished with the interrogation soon.”

  Yasmina leaned back in her chair and a pensive expression rose to her face.

  “It can’t be. Khalil would never have done anything that might hurt you. He appreciates you so much, Abu Ghazall. Let me see him and I’ll tell you what he is going through. A woman’s intuition can’t be matched by any machine.”

  “Let me think about it.”

  “Shukran,” she thanked him feebly. For long hours after the meeting had ended, she continued to think of possible circumstances that might have led Khalil to perform such an act.

  Before finally falling asleep, she discovered the answer.

  ~

  The prison guards pushed Walid into the small cell and locked the grated door behind him.

  “Who are you?” his new cell mate asked him.

  “Walid, from the Kahil family.”

  “And what were you arrested for?”

  “They found a gun in my house.”

  “That’s not too bad, they can only try you for possession of a firearm,” the prisoner encouraged him, “you’ll be back outside in a year or two.”

  “No, no. I used it too.”

  “Against whom?”

  “The soldiers that broke into my house,” said Walid.

  “ Too bad,” he muttered.”

  “But I didn’t kill anyone, the gun didn’t go off,” Walid continued to explain while repeatedly pulling an imaginary trigger with his finger.

  “Just keep your mouth shut, they can’t do anything to you because their courts forbid them to use torture in their interrogations.”

  “By Allah?” Walid was surprised, “How is that possible?”

  “How should I know?” the other prisoner replied apathetically.

  “They are all crazy!” Walid determined, “I said nothing during my investigation, I kept screaming from pain and asked for a doctor until the interrogator gave up and stopped the interrogation.”

  “I don’t believe you, maybe they put you in the same cell with me to try and get me to talk.”

  “Are you crazy? Me? I�
��d rather kill myself than cooperate with these dogs.”

  “Your story has more holes in it than a sieve,” said his cell mate, turned his back demonstratively and did not return to speak with him until the evening.

  The two had spent an entire week together, during which Walid saw him taken from the cell for long interrogations. When his new cell mate returned, he would tell him at length about his interrogations.

  “Ya Walid,” he groaned with pain, “I was framed. By Allah, I would have loved to personally tear the heart out of anyone who collaborates with the Jews, but it wasn’t me this time.”

  Gradually, an amicable relationship had grown between the two and Walid began to empathize with his cell mate, tried to encourage and support him before his next interrogation.

  “Be like me, just hang in there a few more days, then you will get a visit from the Red Cross and your situation will improve,” he advised him with a wink.

  At the end of the week, a full-fledged friendship had already been formed between the two. It was only natural for Walid to ask him for a favor, as his cell mate had told him the news that the Israelis were finally convinced of his innocence and had decided to release him.

  “Give this note to the owner of the butcher shop in Halhul so he can pass it on,” Walid whispered to him and placed a sheet of toilet paper in his friend’s pocket, covered with dense handwriting.

  Their parting was emotional and the two embraced as the prison guard arrived to take the prisoner outside his cell.

  Two days passed. In the morning, Walid was taken back to the interrogation room.

  “We caught this in your cell mate’s pocket,” the Israeli interrogator told him and showed him the written sheet of toilet paper.

  Walid broke down and began to talk. He gave the interrogators all the information he had about Jamil and his hiding places.

  “You’re as stupid as a mule. They’ve tricked you,” his new cell mates at the central prison complex told him, “your cell mate was a collaborator.”

  “By Allah?” he cried