by Maha Akhtar
“No!” Takla turned on her. “You can’t help!”
“But at least tell us what is the matter,” Yvonne tried.
Rania silently put a glass of orange juice in front of Takla.
“Have a seat, Tante Takla,” Rania urged softly. “Whatever it is, we’ll work it out.”
“No … this cannot be worked out,” Takla said sadly, her shoulders sagging, tears filling her eyes.
“My Nassim is going to fight this war,” Takla said, her voice breaking. “And it’s all Salah’s fault. He put all these nonsensical ideas about Arab freedom into his head and now he’s leaving me and he’s going …”
Silence fell on the farmhouse table. No one knew what to say.
“And he and Hisham are leaving … I don’t know when … maybe even this week … with Salah and Rabih in a few days,” Takla sobbed.
“Takla, take a deep breath,” Yvonne encouraged.
Takla took several.
“Now tell us what is going on.”
“Where are Salah and Rabih taking Nassim and Hisham?” Rania asked.
“I don’t know … somewhere in the Hejaz,” Takla sobbed.
“The Hejaz …”
“Why did Salah do this? What did I ever do to him to deserve his taking my only son away from me?”
No one knew what to say.
“Who is he to meddle in my life and Nassim’s?” Takla shook her head sadly, tears forming rivulets down her cheeks. “He knows Nassim has no father … he has manipulated my son and filled him with all these crazy ideas. Isn’t it enough that I lost my husband? Do I also have to lose my son?”
There was another long silence.
Rania went back to the kitchen. Rabih was in the back alley mixing whitewash to spruce up the inside and outside of the café. She crossed her arms and stood in the doorway and watched him for a few minutes. He stood up and was about to pick up the bucket when he saw her.
She was wearing a white cotton dress with multicolored polka dots. A piece of the same fabric was wrapped around her head to keep it out of her face as she worked. Her hair was tied in a loose, messy chignon.
“When were you going to tell me?” she asked.
He cocked his head to one side and put his hand in his pockets. “Tell you what?” he replied a bit sheepishly.
“That you were leaving,” she snapped.
He remained silent.
“And on top of that … not just leaving, but leaving to go into the middle of a war.”
Rabih shrugged.
“So when were you going to tell me?” she said.
“Today,” Rabih muttered.
“When today? And you didn’t think I would find out?” Rania said angrily. “This kind of news travels fast in the souk.”
Rabih said nothing.
“When did you decide this?”
“Yesterday.”
Rania didn’t know why she felt so angry. After all, it was she who had decided to cool things off between them, so she really had no right to feel the way she did … but she couldn’t help it.
“How can you just leave like this?” she cried. “You’re going to leave the café half finished!” she accused him.
“No,” he answered. “I am almost done. It will be finished before I go.”
“Are you planning on coming back?” she asked, almost spitefully.
“I don’t know when.”
“I see,” she said, tears of anger filled her eyes. “Fine!” She jutted out her chin, her head held proudly high.
“I need to get on with my work,” Rabih said and picked up his bucket.
Rania stood aside and let him pass. As she watched him go through the kitchen, his shoulder muscles rippling as he balanced the heavy bucket, she wanted him to stop, turn around, and come back and take her in his arms and tell her everything was going to be all right. But he didn’t and the tears she had been holding back spilled out, filling her eyes like big dark pools of salty water. Rania stepped out in the alleyway, her chest heaving from breathing heavily in an effort to push the tears back. She paced up and down, hoping the exercise would alleviate the heaviness she felt in her heart. But the heaviness only became stronger until it dropped like a cannon ball into the pit of her stomach. She let out a little cry and bit her own hand to stop herself from giving in to the big, huge sobs that she knew were roiling inside her. This damned war was taking him away. God! She looked up at the sky. Why is this happening to me again?
Fatmeh wrung her hands nervously as she sat in the kitchen waiting. In front of her was a telegram Charles had sent earlier that evening. She read it for the hundredth time. “Need to see you. Important. Tonight at the café.” Fatmeh had been sick with worry ever since she’d received it, wondering what was so important, going round and around in circles, creating all kinds of scenarios in her head, scaring herself half to death.
There was a gentle rap on the window. Fatmeh got up and hopped to the door on her crutches.
“How’s the foot?” he asked.
“Healing,” she replied.
“I really am sorry.”
“About what?” Fatmeh smiled. “It wasn’t your fault. It was mine.”
Charles looked tense.
“Where is Rania?” he looked around.
“She is consoling the mother of a young boy who’s decided to go join the Arab Revolt.”
Charles rolled his eyes. “Nassim or Hisham?”
“Nassim,” Fatmeh confirmed.
“What can I get you to drink?” Fatmeh offered, turning slowly to go through to the café.
“Let me help you.”
She looked up at him and smiled. He put his arm around her waist and she draped hers around his neck.
“It’s good to see you again,” she ventured timidly.
“Yes,” he murmured.
“So what is so urgent?” Fatmeh asked.
“Fatmeh … I’m being shipped out … to the Hejaz.”
“To the war?”
“I am a soldier.” He smiled.
“For how long?”
“I don’t know.”
“Charles … ,” her eyes filled with tears.
“I know …” He caressed her cheek. “I don’t want to go, believe me. But I have to.”
Fatmeh sank down onto the bench.
“I wanted to come here tonight and tell you myself,” he added. “I was looking forward to seeing you, if only for a moment.”
He took her hand in his and stared at it, caressing the soft mound of her palm with his thumb. She waited expectantly.
“Just … please wait for me.” He looked into her eyes.
Noura’s sewing business was booming. It had been only five months since she’d moved in with Saydeh the previous November, but word had spread quickly and she was now fixing, mending, and repairing the uniforms of the British Army soldiers. They loved her work, and especially appreciated her washing and ironing the uniforms before sending them back. Twice a week, Noura went to British Army headquarters and dropped off and picked up bags of work. The British captain in charge of uniforms had suggested that Noura come to work at the barracks, an offer that she was considering and had been trying to find a moment to talk to Salah about.
Noura was sitting at her sewing machine in her attic atelier, rethreading the needle on her machine. She was so deep in concentration that she jumped when she felt hands on her shoulders. She took off her wire-rimmed glasses and turned around to see Salah looking down at her.
“Salah!”
“Hello, my beautiful Noura,” he said, bending down to give her a gentle kiss on her lips. “Come sit with me in the living room.”
“What’s the matter?” Noura asked.
“I have to talk to you,” he said over his shoulder as he went down the spiral staircase. Noura followed him down, her eyebrows knitted.
Salah took her hands in his when they sat down on the sofa.
“This is going to be bad,” Noura said.
“Noura,
I’m going back out to the Hejaz with Lawrence and Charlie and Rabih.”
“Why?”
“Why? You’re asking me why?”
“Yes, I am,” Noura said sarcastically.
“Noura, I have to go. Lawrence and I have a new plan that we think will propel the Arab Army further up into Palestine.”
“I don’t care! And what am I supposed to do? Wait here and wonder every day if you’re going to come back to me or not?”
“Of course I’m going to come back.”
“Salah, there is a very good chance that you will not come back.”
Salah clicked his tongue. “Of course I will.”
“No!” Noura yanked her hands back. “I will not let you go. I cannot lose the man I love … not a second time.”
“I have to finish this. I have to see it through.”
“I hate this revolt,” Noura steamed. “It has taken everything and everyone from me.”
“Noura, I don’t like it either,” Salah said. “I never wanted to be involved. I have gotten dragged into it.”
“Fine! Then if you’re going, so am I.”
“Don’t be silly!”
“I am not. If you are going to fight for the idea of an Arab state, which is what Khaled also wanted, then I will go with you.”
“Noura …”
“No, Salah! Don’t patronize me,” Noura said.
“Noura, I cannot, in all good conscience, take you out into the desert and have you fight.”
“I’m sure there are other things for me to do.”
“No.”
“I will not sit here in this atelier and sew military uniforms while you are out in the desert fighting.”
“Noura, you cannot come with me. I will never forgive myself if something happens to you.”
“I am not going to sit by idly.”
Salah remained quiet.
“Salah, this is not fair.”
“Noura … this is a war I am going into.”
“Salah, need I remind you that it was I who cut the cables from the dynamite bundles around Rania’s? I am not scared.”
“Have you not thought about your daughter?”
“Siran will be fine here with your mother.”
“And if something should happen to you?”
“She will be fine here with your mother,” Noura repeated.
“Noura, what you are suggesting is crazy …”
“Then go! Get out! Go to hell, Salah!” Noura shouted. “I don’t need you. I can look after myself and Siran just like I have been doing.”
Salah got up and walked to the staircase.
“This is the end of our engagement,” Noura said.
Salah stopped.
“If you go to the Hejaz on this damned foolish scheme, I will not be here when you come back.”
Salah looked at Noura, whose chin jutted out defiantly.
“Noura … aren’t you being a little dramatic?”
“You choose, Salah … it’s me or the revolt that you claim was never something you wanted to get involved in,” she said bitterly.
Silently, Salah turned and walked down the stairs. She’ll come around. She will. She has to.
Fatmeh walked out of Rania’s Café and looked left and right. She knew Walid was having her watched. She’d caught too many glimpses of his thug friends in the past few days for it to be a coincidence. She was on her way to the mosque. She wanted to speak to the imam.
It was a particularly windy day, with unexpected gusts blowing through the alleys and lanes of the souk. Fatmeh pulled her abaya close around her as she hurried up Zuqaq al-Hamra toward the main artery of the souk, which would take her to Midan Al-Hussein. As she turned a corner, a man stepped out in front of her. Startled, she took in a sharp breath. “A’afwan,” she muttered as she tried to skirt by. But he stepped in front of her again. Fatmeh tried again, but he wouldn’t let her go by.
“Look out!” she suddenly shouted, and when he looked up, Fatmeh slipped by him and tried to run. But even though he’d been momentarily distracted, he was fast. He caught her by the folds of the abaya that billowed behind her. He held her arms behind her back, pinning her to him.
“Shoo baddak?” she asked, nervously. “What do you want?”
“A word to the wise, Madame Fatmeh,” he growled in her ear. “Don’t do anything you’re going to be sorry for.”
He twisted her arm behind her back, causing her to cringe in pain.
“No more flirting with the enemy,” he said harshly.
“I … uh … let me go!” she cried.
“Do you hear me, Madame Fatmeh?” He shook her.
“Please, you’re hurting my arm,” she grimaced, as he twisted it even more tightly behind her.
“I would stay away from men with monkeys, if I were you,” he sneered. “And no more secret car drives … we wouldn’t want you to do worse than sprain an ankle.”
“Let me go!” she cried louder.
“Did you hear me, Madame Fatmeh?” he said gruffly, his tone threatening. “Otherwise, this is what you’ll see …”
And catching both of her hands in one of his, he drew out a jeweled dagger and swiped it from left to right in front of her neck.
Fatmeh swallowed, petrified. Ya Allah, she prayed. Please save me. Do not let me die here today at the hands of this scoundrel. Suddenly, in the distance she saw Rania walking up the lane.
“Rania!” she cried with all her might. “Help me!”
Suddenly, the man’s hand was on her mouth, muffling her screams. She tried to fight and bit his hand as he dragged her away into another, even smaller, alleyway. I’m going to die, Fatmeh thought. Or worse, he will rape me and then kill me.
Fatmeh fought as hard as she could. But he was too strong for her. Tears welled in her eyes.
He dragged her down and put his hairy forearm on her chest and mouth, pinning her to the ground, preventing her from screaming. He pulled up her abaya, but there was too much material. He pulled out his dagger and ripped it open. Using his free hand he began to pull up the tunic she wore underneath.
She felt his hand on her inner thigh. She tried to scream but her voice stuck in her throat. As he fumbled with his pants, his forearm slipped and moved off Fatmeh’s mouth. She let out a bloodcurdling scream before bringing her teeth down to bite him with all her strength.
The man screamed in agony and rolled off her. Fatmeh somehow got to her feet and grabbed his dagger, holding it to his neck.
“It seems as if the game has changed,” she said, drawing on every last ounce of courage she had, her eyes glinting.
“Don’t you ever dare come near me again,” Fatmeh heard herself say in a voice, which, when she thought back on the incident, didn’t sound like her own.
“I want you to take a message to my husband … you tell him to watch his back. And you … ,” she spat, “next time I will do worse than just bite you.”
And with that, she kicked the man in his groin. The man groaned, rolling on the ground. Fatmeh walked away, her fingers wrapped tightly around his dagger. Her heart was still pounding and she shook from the adrenaline coursing through her.
“Fatmeh!” Rania came running around the corner. “Oh, thank Allah!” she muttered, taking her in her arms. Fatmeh stood, her arms limply by her side, as all the energy drained out of her. If it hadn’t been for Rania’s arms, she would have fallen to the ground in shock.
“Where is he?” Rania looked around, but the man had disappeared. “What happened?” she looked at her.
Fatmeh stared blankly in front of her. Slowly, Rania took the dagger from her.
“Fatmeh!” Rania shook her, realizing she was in shock. “Fatmeh!” she shouted.
Finally, Fatmeh looked up at her. Recognizing Rania, her eyes filled with tears and she clung to her.
“It’s all right.” Rania soothed her. “Whatever happened, it’s all right. Did he hurt you?”
Fatmeh said nothing.
“But he tried
?”
She nodded.
“You’re all right, apart from the fright he gave you?”
She nodded again.
Rania inhaled deeply before letting it out, her shoulders sagging with relief.
“Come … I’m going to take you home. Can you walk?”
“Yes.”
But when Fatmeh took a step, her legs gave way and she stumbled. Quickly Rania put her arm around her, holding her close.
“Rania … ,” Fatmeh began, “Walid knows about Charles. He sent this man to threaten me. I was on my way to see the imam this morning …”
“Why?”
“I want a divorce.”
Chapter Fifteen
A month after the meeting at El Fishawy, in mid-April 1917, Charles, Salah, Rabih, Nassim, and Hisham all boarded a train, along with a handful of other men from Charles’ Special Forces unit and a platoon of soldiers who were headed toward Gaza. All the windows in the train car were open, but the heat was nonetheless stifling. The train was carrying ammunition, food, water, and other supplies for the expeditionary forces under General Archibald Murray, who was waging the Mesopotamia and Palestine campaigns against the Ottomans. So far, the British had fared well in Mesopotamia, wresting Baghdad from the Turks, but in Palestine, they suffered great losses in the first and second battles of Gaza and fell back. The British were currently regrouping near Beersheba.
“Forty winks,” Charles announced and pulled his cap’s visor down over his nose, crossed his arms, leaned his head against the window, and went to sleep.
“God! It’s really hot!” Hisham complained, his face already drenched in sweat, the handkerchief he wore around his neck soaking. “How can he sleep in this heat?”
“Better get used to it,” Nassim said.
“You can’t get used to heat,” Hisham scoffed.
“Of course you can,” Nassim argued.
Hisham looked to Salah for help.
“Actually, he’s right,” Salah said.
They all felt silent, swaying with the movement of the train as it chugged along.
“I kind of like this uniform,” Hisham said as he smoothed down the jacket of his new khaki brown military uniform. “Tante Noura sewed my name inside,” he added, proudly. “I wonder why that is.”
“So in case you die, they’ll know who you are and can tell your family,” Nassim said.