Mahmoud regrets having joined the Ikhwan, the armed wing of Syria’s Muslim Brotherhood. He isn’t a religious man, but his whole village had turned to the Brotherhood for support when their crops failed. For all the socialism that the Baathists preached, their government did nothing to help the impoverished villagers. Instead, the Alawite officers continued to conscript the young men into the army to serve in Lebanon, leaving their families to scavenge for food. Mahmoud had been one of those conscripts.
Without the Brotherhood’s generosity, many villagers would have starved. When Mahmoud returned to the village to ask for his cousin’s hand in marriage, her father refused, saying: “You’re unworthy. You’ve served in the Alawite Army. Prove yourself first that you’re a true Muslim.” So Mahmoud formed a small band of other former conscripts, all being similarly blackmailed by the village elders and reported to the Ikhwan commander in Aleppo. Mahmoud had hoped his group would be assigned light duties, perhaps some simple surveillance of Syrian army movements. Instead, the commander dispatched the new recruits to the regime’s heartland in the South.
The local boy waves his hand. Something is coming down the road. The plan is simple. They will stop the car. If there are Christians inside, they’ll take the richest one hostage. His ransom will finance their next operations and provide funds for the men’s weddings. If the passengers are Alawites, they’ll kill them. Mahmoud doesn’t like the thought of killing anyone, but he has his orders.
Mahmoud gives the order to move forward. The local boy is already on the road with his old rifle pointed at the bend where the vehicles will first come into view.
It’s a military truck, the Sa’iqa thunderbolt painted on its hood. Shit, thinks Mahmoud. He tries to wave his men back, but it’s too late—the boy is frantically clicking the trigger of his empty gun, and is about to be hit by the truck. Muawiya steps forward to push the boy to safety, turns and fires a round into the cab of the truck. The windshield shatters, and the driver slumps forward as the truck swerves off the road. All of Mahmoud’s men start firing their weapons. Two Palestinians stagger out of the back, only to be cut down by the barrage of bullets. Suddenly, a taxi appears around the bend in the road. Mahmoud can see three men and a woman in it. Civilians, he thinks. The car distracts his men long enough for two more Palestinians to scramble out of the truck, their guns blazing. The local boy is the first to be hit. Then Muawiya takes a bullet to the shoulder. Palestinians stream out of the truck firing away in all directions. Most are cut down by the guns of the Idlib fighters. Shots come from the direction of the taxi. A lone gunman has taken position behind the passenger door. He has a clear view of all of Mahmoud’s men. One after another, he guns them down.
Soon other trucks of Palestinian fighters pull up. Mahmoud curses. All his men are now dead or wounded, and he hasn’t fired a single shot. At least, none of the Palestinians have noticed him, hidden in the rocks halfway up the hill. He knows that he doesn’t have much time to make his escape. As the Palestinians finish off the wounded attackers, Mahmoud vanishes into a thick stand of mountain pines. His men will have their reward in heaven, and he will spin a fine tale of his own heroism to his uncle and the village elders. He’ll praise the courage of their dead sons and have his bride.
Perhaps, the guilt of his cowardice forces him to take one last look back at the carnage before he reaches the top. The woman from the car is tending to the wounded. A man with a bandaged face squats beside her and does what he can to help. Even in that horrendous scene of death, he can see that the woman is graceful, elegant, more beautiful than his cousin. He lingers for a moment, then scrambles to the top to speed away on his motorbike. Allah is merciful. This war is now over for him.
Chapter
47
Kibbutz Zikim – September 2007
TARAGON’S MEETING with the chairwoman of the kibbutz goes well. He feels that he has her trust. Sadie walks beside him back to the house, passing the avocado and mango trees at the edge of the fields. The combined fragrance of musk and tanginess fills the night air. He wonders what life is like here. Separated from the world. Hard work for little reward. The putting of the community before oneself.
Sadie picks a few ripe mangoes from the trees. There’s a nobility in the way she moves—a serenity in her demeanour that calms him.
“The fruit looks delicious,” Marc says.
“Delicious, yes, but they don’t have the special taste of those in Ash-Shiafa. We tried to grow the Gazan mangoes here, but without any success. It’s only four kilometres away, but the soil is different there. I’d like to go there one day to test it, to learn what makes their mangoes so special.”
“I didn’t realize that there was a difference.”
“We’ll share Jamil’s mango when we get home. You’ll see what I mean. It’s ironic. No matter, how much we try to reach out to each other, we’re different—the Palestinians and us—just like our mangoes. Can Arkassa change that?”
“Would you like that? I mean, breaking down the barriers between Israelis and Arabs.”
“Of course. I have always liked Arabs. At my hardware store in Kiryat Tiv’on, they’d make my day when they came in. And they were wonderful to Jonathan when he was a boy. They helped make him the man he is today.”
“He speaks fondly of you, you know.”
Sadie smiles. She likes her nephew’s friend.
“So, tell me about your colleague, Marie.”
He’s surprised by the question. Obviously, Bronstein has shared something with his aunt. Perhaps, a suspicion of feelings that are growing stronger inside him.
“Actually, I don’t know too much about her. She normally works for a major Montreal newspaper, but she’s now on a leave of absence to work with me.”
“Is she pretty?”
Taragon looks at Sadie. She has a mischievous smile.
“She’s a beautiful young woman.”
“Tov.”
Sadie’s white adobe house comes into view, illuminated by the security lights on the kibbutz’s watchtowers. They enter the dwelling, Sadie bids Taragon good night and goes into her room. He decides to sit on the porch for a while. Sadie’s house is at the edge of the kibbutz. The sand dunes, which stretch to the Mediterranean, are only a stone’s throw away. His mind drifts to Marie. On the boat to Cyprus and the few days in Gaza, he felt something. He shakes his head. What foolishness. Marie is very young, and she’s his colleague. He leans over and picks up a stone to toss into the dunes. It disappears in the sand as the smell of freshly cut mango caresses his nostrils. He looks up at Sadie’s outstretched hand. She sits at his side, and they bite into the sweetness of the Ash-Shiafa fruit, and dream of what could be.
Minh Chau fiddles with her cell phone as she waits for her flight to Paris. She doesn’t know what she’ll say to Marie. What she learned from Selima won’t bring closure. Marie deserves certainty about who her father is. Is it Marc Taragon? Marwan Kanaan? At least the evidence seems to point conclusively toward Hoda being Marie’s mother. She looks at her watch. Marie’s flight will have already arrived in Amman. But is the telephone really the way to give Marie the news? Minh Chau texts Marie instead: Hi Marie, spoke to Selima. Still unclear. Coming to Amman. Luv MC.
Bronstein looks at the empty meeting room in Jerusalem. He’s twenty minutes early. The secretary was kind enough to open the door for him. He looks at his notes again. He knows most of the players who’ll be there. All Mapai old-timers—the deans of the left-wing elite. Some had cut their teeth under Ben Gurion’s leadership. Most lost a lot of influence though when the Labour Party drifted to the right. One, now ninety-five, had even negotiated the inclusion of Arabs in Israel’s first government. These old men are the true Zionists, so unlike the self-serving demagogues now running the country.
Doubt battles hope in his mind. Can he really pull this off? Can he re-kindle the dream of Jews and Arabs living side by side in peace? He knows that the leaders of the Israeli Left need a sign from the Palestinians,
especially from Hamas and Popular Front supporters. They need to hear directly from the Palestinians that they’re ready to put Arkassa on the negotiating table. He hopes that Taragon can deliver this before the settlers, the psychopaths and rogues in the intelligence community join forces to bury Arkassa once and for all.
Chapter
48
Tiberias – September 2007
TARAGON LOOKS ACROSS the Sea of Galilee. There’s an absolute calm to it as if to invite the sceptics to walk upon its waters. The trip from Kibbutz Zikim was uneventful. Inside Israel, no one questions him. Why would they? He glances in the mirror. He looks as Israeli as any of them, and through years of personal study, he’s learned enough Hebrew to pass as a new immigrant.
Bronstein and the old Mapai leaders had agreed in Jerusalem on Tiberias for its proximity to progressive Arab villages and kibbutzim in the eastern Galilee. Far from Tel Aviv and Jerusalem, the people of the Galilee have minds of their own when it comes to the issue of co-existence.
He watches the delegates arrive at the Scots Hotel. What better place to promote the Arkassa initiative. Built originally as a hospital by missionaries to serve equally patients of all religions, the building was converted by the Church of Scotland into a luxury hotel in an effort to maintain the church’s foothold in the Galilee. The church’s Middle East Secretary, a strong defender of Palestinian rights, insisted that the first Arkassa support conference be held at the hotel.
“Mr. Taragon, your friends would like you to join them,” the young Glaswegian receptionist says.
“Yes, I will be there shortly.”
Taragon looks around. No sign of surveillance. How is that possible? In Barcelona, the opponents of the initiative committed murder to sabotage Arkassa, and now not a sign of them? From the corner of his eye, he sees Bronstein walking toward him. He has a cell phone in his hand.
“Marc, someone wants to talk to you.”
He hands him the phone.
“Marc, it’s Selima.”
“Selima, how are you?”
“I’m fine.”
“How did you get this number?”
“From Leyna.”
“What is it, Selima?”
“We found out what happened.”
“What happened?”
“What happened to her.”
“Selima, you’re speaking in riddles. What happened to whom?”
The line goes silent for a moment. Then a hushed name, too faint to be understood. A sob, and another. It’s the language of absolute grief that finally makes him understand.
“Selima, what did you learn about Hoda?”
“It’s what we always expected. She returned to Sabra.”
“Did she die there?”
“Her papers were found in a mass grave.”
“Merci, Selima. We’ll talk again. I have to go.”
He hears her say something as he hands the phone back to Bronstein, but doesn’t catch it.
“I need a few minutes, Jonathan.”
“Of course. Come when you are ready.”
Taragon wanders into the hotel’s garden. His chest tightens. He leans against a stone pillar. It has been many years since he last punished himself with nightmares about Hoda’s fate. For months, he searched for her. He never believed the rumour that she’d abandoned him for Marwan. He never stopped loving her, but time stills the mind—no question is eternal. A sawfar iris stands out in the hotel’s garden. He picks the mountain flower and puts it into his pocket.
Ari Epstein goes through the reports. Taragon again. His fucking peace proposal is gaining momentum, and now even inside Israel. He could have had the bastard arrested for illegally entering the country, but his superiors ordered him not to. And that traitor Bronstein, he deserves a bullet in the head. Ari is tempted to reach out to his settler contacts in Ma’ale Adumim. They would do the job, but they’re reckless, convinced that no Israeli court would ever convict them of any crime. And maybe they’re right, but he couldn’t risk being implicated because of their arrogance. His bosses are no fools. Ever since the David fiasco in Barcelona, they’re watching his every step.
Ari still can’t believe that Shehadi screwed it up in Gaza. There’s no point getting in touch with him again. Mossad’s top brass would never tolerate a hit by Palestinian underlings inside Israel. And besides, Shehadi is getting greedier.
Ari decides to play his last card. He dials the one individual he can trust, the one man with no ties to Israelis or Palestinians. No sum of money can buy this man, but Ari has something more valuable to the man—something that he’s kept secret for twenty-five years.
If Marie is jet-lagged from her flight yesterday from Montreal to Amman, she isn’t showing it. Nor is the now rotund Minh Chau who’s exiting the baggage room. The two women rush to embrace in the middle of the concourse.
“So tell me everything!” Marie says.
“The woman in the photo is Hoda ‘Akkawi, Abdullah’s cousin.”
“And the man?”
“It’s definitely Marc Taragon, and Selima even remembers when the photo was taken and who took it.”
Minh Chau pauses before continuing.
“Hoda and Marc were together for several years.”
Marie hunches her shoulders and looks away.
“So he’s my father then?”
“Not necessarily.”
“What?”
“Hoda disappeared during the civil war and was said to have left Marc for another man. And that seems to have taken place before you could’ve been conceived.”
“What happened to her?”
“There’s a rumour that she returned to Beirut several years after disappearing in Syria, and died shortly after.”
Minh Chau avoids mentioning the massacre in Sabra. She doesn’t want her friend to relive in her mind how gruesome a death her mother may have suffered. That can be dealt with later.
“What else did you learn?”
“There’s a photo of Hoda with a very young child. It’s unclear whether it’s a boy or a girl. It was taken in a Christian village in northern Lebanon. What she was doing there is a mystery.”
“Could it have been me in the photo?”
“Maybe. Selima has begun visiting the orphanages in Beirut to look for documentation that could clear up things. In any case, she sees Hoda in you. She’s adamant that you must be Hoda’s daughter.”
“And my father? Who does she think is my father?”
Minh pauses again. This time, it grates on Marie’s nerves.
“Well?”
“The man who Hoda is rumoured to have left with. His name was Marwan Kanaan.”
“Was?”
“He disappeared with Hoda during the war and was never heard of again. Selima believes that both died about the same time.”
“Who was he?”
“Selima’s cousin.”
“Is that it?”
“Yes, for now.”
What Minh Chau has shared throws Marie for a loop. The woman in the photo now has a name, a history, and is almost certainly her mother. Moreover, she and Taragon were once a couple. But that’s where the path ends. The math doesn’t add up. Hoda’s separation from Taragon seems too soon for him to be her father. But that’s only if she isn’t older than she thinks. And now, there’s another man, Marwan Kanaan, who could be her real father, a man she knows almost nothing about.
Minh Chau looks at her friend. She places her hand on Marie’s shoulder and says firmly: “You know you could resolve this once and for all by asking for a DNA test.”
“I can’t do that. I haven’t even shown Marc the photo.”
“Show it to him then! You’ve had lots of opportunities to do so. Show it to him tonight and get it over with!”
Marie resents Minh Chau’s directness. It isn’t her friend’s life that’ll change once the truth is out. No, she won’t be rushed. She needs time to think out how she’ll approach Taragon. There is just too much and yet too little inf
ormation now. She needs to get her mind around all of this.
Their driver walks up and takes their bags.
“Ladies, it’s time to leave for the Allenby Bridge if you want to get to Tiberias today.”
“Will we make it in time for the conference?” Minh Chau asks.
“Yes, my cousin will take you from the other side of the border to Tiberius. You’ll arrive just before the conference starts.”
Marie knows that, by the time they arrive, many of the delegates will have made up their minds for or against Arkassa. There’s nothing she can do about that, but what she can and will do is broadcast the message to the world that Arkassa isn’t dead, that there are Arabs and Israelis determined to give it a chance. Her editors are pressing her to get the story before the other media outlets, and she’s also determined to give the conference as much exposure as humanly possible. And then, she’ll ask Marc about the photo, about her mother, and everything will be solved. Just a few more hours.
Chapter
49
Bsarma, Northern Lebanon – October 1979
HODA LOOKS AROUND at the stone walls of the old house. She’s still stunned how badly things went wrong three months earlier.
As soon as Marwan’s wounds had healed, the local Maronite militia, the Marada, pressed him into service. At least, the militia pay is keeping them from starving. The local fighters are loyal to former Lebanese president Suleiman Franjieh, now embroiled in a full-scale war with the Phalangists. The year before, a Phalangist force attacked the Franjieh stronghold in nearby Ehden. They brutally murdered the president’s son and his family. It’s now Maronite against Maronite in a struggle that cuts off Bsarma and many of the neighbouring villages from all contact with Beirut and most of the outside world.
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