Quill of the Dove

by Ian Thomas Shaw

  She reaches out to the immobile Taragon. His face is so beautiful, like a Greek god. She pulls back from fear of destroying this ivory vestige of what he had been. Starlight replaces the rivulets of red that grace her palm. She presses her hand against his cheek and breathes into him her fragrance of olive trees and cedars. For a droplet in time, Taragon comes to life. The light fades. Sand fills her open wound.

  Chapter

  61

  Beirut – 1982

  RILEY LOOKS AT FOUAD SAADEH sitting in his living room. He’s never seen the old leftist leader look so desperate.

  “We can’t let this happen,” Fouad says. “We have to stop the election of Bashir Gemayel. He’ll destroy Lebanon.”

  “I don’t think that you have any options left. Arafat and the Syrians are gone. The multinational forces have already left. The nationalist members of parliament have been cowered into submission. They’ll vote for Gemayel as ordered.”

  “It can’t happen, it can’t happen,” Fouad mutters.

  Riley hands him a Scotch. “Drink. It’ll make you feel better.”

  “No.” Fouad rises up. “I tell you that we won’t let this happen. I have things to do.” He picks up his coat and embraces Riley before leaving. Riley wonders if he will see his friend again.

  He thinks about contacting Marc, but forgets which hotel in Tunis he’s at. Like much of the international press, Marc is covering Arafat’s move to the Tunisian capital. Riley decided to stay behind in Beirut, waiting to see what the Phalangists and Israelis will do next.

  The knock at the door is soft, so soft that first Riley doesn’t hear it. Then it comes again. Riley picks himself up from the sofa. He pulls a revolver out of the side drawer. These days, he can never take enough precautions. Since the departure of the PLO, looters have become bolder.

  He looks through the peep-hole. It can’t be. There in Israeli fatigues is Jonathan Bronstein.

  “Jonathan, is that really you?”

  “Yes, open up. I came for that scotch you promised me.”

  Riley opens the door. The two men grab each other by the forearms and embrace. Down on the street, an Israeli army jeep with a driver and two heavily armed soldiers stand guard. At either end of the street, Lebanese Forces militiamen are setting up barricades.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to see if you were okay. Wadi al-Yahoud is being secured by our allies. Some of them don’t like your reporting, neither does General Sharon. I suggest that you relocate to the King George Hotel. We can escort you through the Lebanese Forces’ lines.”

  Jesus, thinks Riley. He certainly doesn’t want to be there when Bashir Gemayel’s thugs come knocking.

  “Okay. Give me ten minutes.”

  “Take your time. As long as we’re here, you’ve nothing to worry about.”

  Munir bounces Meryem on his knee. He loves his young cousin. Hedaya and Hoda listen to their children laughing. It alleviates the daily stress of scavenging for food and medicine and caring for her bedridden parents.

  The music on the radio is interrupted by the announcement that the parliament has just elected Bashir Gemayel as President of Lebanon.

  “It won’t be long before the Phalangists enter West Beirut,” Hedaya says. “I need to check on my parents. Can you take care of Munir?”

  “Tayyib, but return before dark. The old men and boys out there can’t protect the camp. There have been reports of more looting.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”

  Abdullah waits for Fouad Saadeh. Things are going too fast. Bashir Gemayel is under pressure to sign a peace deal with Israel. Although the new Lebanese president resisted in the meeting with Begin in Nahariya, it’s clear that he’s going to cave in to Israeli demands. In exchange, the Lebanese Forces will be given free rein to quash the Muslims while Syria watches helplessly from the sidelines.

  Fouad’s car pulls up. The Druze militiamen recognize him and wave him through to the empty store where Abdullah has set up camp. Abdullah hears the car, looks through the curtain and walks to the door to unlatch it.

  “May God preserve you, Fouad.”

  “And you.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I need to warn the people in the camps.”

  “About what?”

  “We’ve decided to stop Bashir. You need to rearm the camps. After we strike, the Phalangists will take revenge on all of us. We can defend ourselves, but they’ll also come after your people.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Can you give us men?”

  “No, we need all of them to defend our areas against the Phalangist backlash, but I have a trunk full of arms. How many men do you have?”

  “None. I’m alone.”

  “What about the reports of hundreds of fighters infiltrating back?”

  “Israeli propaganda.”

  Fouad looks at his friend, realizing what’ll happen, but it’s too late to call off the operation.

  “Take the guns anyway, and get your family out of Sabra.”

  “I’m trying to.”

  “Go in peace, my friend.”

  “Thank you.”

  Chapter

  62

  Beirut – September 1982

  HODA AND HEDAYA sit in shock around the radio. Lebanon’s new president, Bashir Gemayel, and twenty of his top commanders have been assassinated.

  “Hedaya, go bring your parents here. They shouldn’t be alone.”

  Munir starts to follow his mother, but Hoda holds him back.

  “Habibi, your mother will be back soon. Stay with Meryem, please. I need to check on my parents.”

  “Yes, Auntie. Will mommy be long?”

  “Not long. I promise.”

  Hoda enters the bedroom. Her mother is awake, but her father sleeps soundly.

  “Hello, Mama.”

  “Hoda, come here. Sit with me.”

  Hoda takes her mother by her hands, and looks into her eyes.

  “Mama, I have some bad news.”

  Hoda’s mother pats her hand and nods her head.

  “They killed Shaykh Pierre’s son.”

  Her mother looks over to her sleeping husband. She understands immediately the hopelessness of the situation.

  “Hoda, you must leave Sabra. Take Hedaya and the children, and find Abdullah. He’ll protect you.”

  “Mama, I can’t leave you.”

  “You must. We’ll be fine.”

  “No. Now go to sleep, and don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere.”

  Hoda leans over, kisses her mother on the forehead and lets her sink listlessly back onto the mattress.

  From the far end of the street, Abdullah watches the Merkava tank lead the convoy of trucks into the Fakhrani district. Gemayel’s assassination is proving the perfect pretext for the Israelis to break the agreement to stay out of West Beirut. Abdullah ducks behind the wall as the trucks drive by. He weighs his options. Should he head for Sabra now or wait until dark? Fouad has given him a lot of guns. If he could get them into Sabra, perhaps then even the old men there could stave off an attack long enough for the women and children to get away. But how? The old street vendor comes into view, slowly pushing his cart along as if invisible to the Israelis passing by. Abdullah thanks God for his luck.

  For the last hour, Bronstein has gone over the preliminary intelligence reports with his adjutant Aaron Rabin. There’s no doubt that the bomber is the Social Nationalist Habib Shartouni. Israeli troops accompanied by Phalangist militiamen are now combing the downtown area to find him.

  A young corporal comes up with a piece of paper. Bronstein reads it.

  “What the fuck!” he blurts out. “What shit is this?”

  A cocky lieutenant walks in. “Those are your orders, Captain. We’re going to secure the perimeter of the southern camps.”

  Epstein, that bloodsucker. What’s he doing here?

  Bronstein crumples the paper and walks t
o the window. The trucks are already lining up in the street below.

  Bronstein looks dismissively at Epstein and then waves to Aaron to follow him down the stairs. Most of the trucks are empty.

  “Where are my men?”

  “I’ve already sent them on their way. These trucks are for our allies,” Epstein says. “They’re going into the camps for us.”

  Bronstein glares at the man, barely holding back from smashing his face. He knows precisely who’s left in the camps. He’s written the reports to the General Staff himself, confirming that there isn’t a single fedayee still there—just women and children and a few old men and young boys with rusty guns. The Phalangists will slaughter everyone if they’re let into the camps. He has to reach the General in charge of this insane operation. He jumps into the first truck and sets off with Aaron toward Sabra. The engine’s roar drowns out Epstein’s protests that the truck must go first to Ashrafiyeh.

  The General quickly shuts down Bronstein. He doesn’t care for this Arab-loving intelligence officer. All this protest about not trusting the Phalangists and how there are no fighters left in the camps. What does he care? He’s Sharon’s man, and he has his orders. Epstein has now joined them on the rooftop. He’s accompanied by three of Gemayel’s men. They greet the General. Bronstein stands to the side. He doesn’t want any part of this. Below, a street vendor pushes his cart. He studies the man. There’s something familiar about his large frame. He decides to investigate. It’s probably nothing, but he needs to buy some cigarettes anyway.

  Abdullah watches the Israeli officer walk toward him. It’s unbelievable—the same man he freed four years earlier. Bronstein. Jonathan Bronstein. Will the Israeli recognize him? It’s too late to run. The trucks are arriving with reinforcements. Dozens of Phalangists, Guardians of the Cedars and even SLA militiamen jump out and march right by him. He can smell the alcohol on their breath and see the wide amphetamine-induced look in their eyes. Bronstein is now only two metres from him.

  “Cigarettes? Do you have some cigarettes to sell me?” Bronstein asks in perfect Arabic.

  Abdullah tries to look away, but it’s too late. Bronstein immediately recognizes him. Unsure what to do, Brownstein reaches for his gun. Abdullah’s right hand also disappears into the back of the cart. Just then Aaron catches up with them.

  “They’re insisting that you come back. The General is muttering something about a court-martial.”

  Bronstein stares at Abdullah. If he arrests him, the General will just hand him over to the Phalangists. He knows what will lie in store for the Palestinian fighter. After all, Abdullah has killed dozens of their men, and he was at Damour. Worse, Epstein is here, and will certainly volunteer to help with the interrogation. Knives are his speciality. The man is a psychopath, but he has a reputation for getting results so the General will let him join the Phalangist interrogators. He can’t let this happen. If it wasn’t for Abdullah, he wouldn’t be alive today. He decides that it’s time to repay his debt. A life for a life. Besides, Abdullah is only one man. There are no other Palestinian fighters left in the city. Israel has already won this war. He pulls himself together and plays the charade.

  “Give me one pack and then leave immediately. This is a military zone. Aaron, please accompany this man out of the area.”

  Bronstein watches Abdullah wheel the cart down the street, Aaron dutifully walking behind him, gun in hand. He knows that Abdullah will find a way to return, but hopes that they won’t meet again. He heads back to the command post. If he can’t stop this madness, at least he will bear witness to testify later on what is about to occur.

  Chapter

  63

  Beirut – September 1982

  THE NIGHT’S LONG, but there’s no sleep for any of them. The General has ordered all his officers to wait up with him, watching with binoculars the militiamen do their work. The Lebanese Forces commanders stand on the roof in a corner, sharing cigarettes and bottles of Arak. They’re drunk on alcohol, power and vengeance. Epstein curses them—Arabs. He hates them, both foes and allies. But at least these animals will do the dirty work that has to be done, the work that his countrymen won’t do themselves.

  “Epstein, Bronstein, come here!”

  The General has had enough watching the two pace like tigers eyeing each other in the night.

  “Ari, I want you to take these friends with you into the camp, and find out what is happening.”

  Epstein looks at the new arrivals, South Lebanon Army fighters flown up from Marjayoun. One stretches out his hand and says in broken Hebrew: “I am Hussein.” Epstein ignores the man’s hand. “Tov, now let’s go.”

  Bronstein is about to follow them.

  “Wait! I’ve another job for you. Take your man and check the perimeter. Bring back anyone who tries to get out of the camp.”

  A Guardians of the Cedars officer overhears them.

  “That’s not necessary, General. I’ve sent my men to watch the wall. No one will escape.”

  “Fine! Just bring me any prisoners.”

  The militiaman looks at the General with disbelief. Prisoners? Can the Israeli be so naïve? He then curls his mouth into a disparaging smile, and says: “Tayyib, Effendi.”

  Bronstein understands immediately what that means.

  “I’ll go,” he says and sets off down the stairs before the General can change his mind.

  Hoda looks in horror at Munir and Meryem. Hedaya hasn’t returned. She fears the worst. Since the PLO left, marauders have been abducting women from the camp. She tells Munir not to worry but knows better. Whining sounds followed by small explosions. Through the windows, she watches the night sky light up. At first, she doesn’t understand, and then she hears the crackling of rifle shots.

  Hoda lifts Meryem in her arms. She kisses her several times, and her daughter laughs. She puts her down and gives Munir a hug, whispering in his ear: “You must take your cousin away from here. Run along the wall until you find an opening. Hide in the city until morning. When you see men from our side, ask for your father.”

  “Are you coming with us?” Munir asks.

  Hoda looks toward her parents’ bedroom.

  “No, I can’t. But you’re a man now. Be brave. Take care of Meryem! Here, take these photos with you.”

  Munir looks up at Hoda.

  “Auntie, I’ll be brave. I’ll make you proud of me. And Papa too.”

  She kisses the boy one last time. She lifts her daughter and places her in Munir’s arms. Meryem waves at her mother as they leave quickly through the back door. A dagger strikes deep into Hoda’s heart. What has she done? Sending the children into the darkness! Perhaps straight into the hands of Bashir’s men. In her mind, a thousand scenarios race by. Even if the children reach safety, will they find Abdullah? Alone how can she protect her parents from what’s coming? She remembers the pistol Abdullah left with his wife. She rifles through Hedaya’s possessions until she finds it. She closes the bedroom door behind her, sits down beside her parents and waits.

  Epstein and Hussein cross into Sabra. Three militiamen follow them. They inspect the first houses. Nothing is moving inside. Epstein smiles. The Phalangists are doing a good job. Then a moan. In a corner, a small shape begins to stir. Epstein approaches it. A bloodied head with a jawbone blown off turns toward him. He signals to Hussein to step forward. A single shot puts the child out of her misery.

  Epstein and Hussein continue “mopping up.” They pass some Phalangist militiamen resting from hours of “cleansing.” They’re now deep inside the camp. The houses are deserted. No matter, the fleeing inhabitants will run into the militiamen coming in from the opposite entrances. No one’s going to escape. From a distance, they watch a boy run from a house, with a small girl in his arms. Epstein holds Hussein back. “It could be a trap.” They proceed to the door of the house and break it down. Hussein orders the three other militiamen inside. No one’s in the main room. There’s another room. Its door is locked. They aim their guns and listen.<
br />
  Hoda sits in the darkness. She hears them whispering. The horrors of Tel al-Zaatar pass in front of her. Then Akil’s face, his heavy body on top of her. She will not submit to these animals. She looks at the pistol and then at her parents. She bites her lip and takes aim.

  Bronstein and Aaron proceed cautiously down the street. Every two hundred metres, a Guardian of the Cedars emerges from the shadows to begrudgingly greet the Israelis. It’s clear that the militiamen don’t appreciate being checked up on by their “overlords.”

  After half an hour, Bronstein decides he’s seen enough. He takes a look at the camp’s wall as Aaron shares a cigarette with a young Guardian. A head bobs up over the wall. Instinctively, Bronstein reaches for his pistol. Another head appears and then a body. A young girl is being lifted onto the wall. An older boy pulls himself behind her. Bronstein turns away. He has no intention of bringing children back to the command post.

  “Aaron, let’s go.”

  The two Israelis turn to head back when they hear a thud. The boy has jumped and is now raising his arms to catch the girl. A shot rings out. The Guardian lowers his gun and walks to the wall. The boy lies on the ground, clearly dead. The girl is still in his arms. The militiaman continues toward her, knife in hand. Bronstein calls on him to stop, but he keeps moving forward. Bronstein raises his pistol and squeezes the trigger just before the killer reaches the child. The dead man lurches forward, his knife frozen in his grip. He falls on the young girl who helplessly raises her hands to ward off the blade.

  Aaron races forward to pick her up. Other Guardians menacingly approach the Israelis. Bronstein screams at them to back off. Aaron is now at his side, cradling the girl in one arm. Blood flows from the cut across her palm.

  One of the militiamen kneels over the dead man at the wall.

  “Sharmout! You’ve killed Fadi.”

  There are more than a dozen armed men now on the scene. The situation is turning ugly. Three shots in succession ring out from just inside the camp. Bronstein and Aaron seize the distraction to move behind a parked car and fire into the air. The militiamen duck for safety. As they begin to race toward the command post, a bloodied photo falls from the girl’s tiny hand. Aaron grabs it in mid-air while Bronstein takes out the lead pursuer with a clean shot to the head.