by Maha Akhtar
And when everything in the kitchen was destroyed and overturned and upside down, she looked around and grabbed what she had in the pantry. The flour, the lentils, everything, went flying out of the neatly tied sacks as she stamped and threw them. When there was nothing left, she started beating the walls with her bare fists, drawing blood from some of the sharper edges.
Finally, spent, she collapsed in a heap on the floor, sobbing, her shoulders heaving as she wept. Slowly, Saydeh got up and made her way over to her. She got down on the floor next to Rania and put a gentle hand on her back. When Rania felt her hand, it brought about a fresh bout of sobs.
“Tante Saydeh,” she looked up at the older woman. “I … I …”
“Hush, child.” She took her in her arms.
“Tante Saydeh,” Rania moaned into her shoulder. I couldn’t tell him … Tante … I didn’t tell him … and now it’s too late. I couldn’t tell anyone, not even myself. Oh God! Tante Saydeh … I miss him. I miss his gentle presence … and he loved me so much … and I couldn’t love him back.”
Saydeh silently held the younger woman in her arms, her own tears pouring down her cheeks.
“He did so much for me … he spruced up this dump and I didn’t even tell him how much I appreciated it … I didn’t even tell him how much I loved it … how beautiful his work was.”
“Shhh, Rania … it’s all right … he knows. Wherever he is, he knows.”
“How can he know? He’s dead … ,” she sobbed.
“He knows, Rania. I am sure of it. If it is in your heart, then he knows.”
“How could I have been so selfish? My heart is breaking Tante Saydeh … oh please, God … please let him come back to me.” Rania put her face in her hands. “Just for a minute … just so I can tell him I love him.”
Saydeh motioned to Yvonne to join her. “Hold her,” Saydeh said while she reached for her handkerchief.
“Tante Yvonne, I’m so sorry,” Rania kept saying as Yvonne rocked her gently.
“Don’t apologize to me, child.” Yvonne kissed the top of her head.
“Oh God … Rabih! I’m sorry … ,” she cried, her eyes looking to the ceiling. “I’m sorry I pushed you away … I was scared. I didn’t want to get hurt again … and here I am … Please…please help me … ,” she begged, her hands clasped up as she stared up at the ceiling.
Yvonne wiped the tears from her eyes and she and Saydeh both put their arms around Rania and held her as hard as they could.
Rania’s hand healed, as did all her bruises and scratches, but even the slightest reference to Rabih would bring tears to her eyes. That would take time, Saydeh said,“That heart,” Saydeh shook her head, touching her own left breast, “no matter how hard you try. It has a rhythm of its own.”
After Rania’s meltdown, everyone got together and put her kitchen back together again. Noura made new curtains and tablecloths and napkins for the café and Saydeh presented Rania with a brand new chandelier for the one that got caught in the middle of two flying saucepans and the oven paddle. Yvonne donated a whole set of pots and pans she had received as part of her wedding dowry and never used. And Fatmeh helped Rania with the running of the café in the morning, making the bread and pastries, serving coffee, and cleaning up while juggling her time with Noura.
Chapter Eighteen
Back in Europe, US troops arrived in France and Germany began to drop bombs on London. Outside the El-Khalili, the Arab Revolt continued through the rest of 1917 and the best part of 1918. The guerilla campaign that Lawrence continued when Salah stepped down was successful and achieved its primary goal of tying down Ottoman troops and cutting off Medina.
And General Allenby, who replaced General Murray, finally broke through Turkish lines in Palestine, captured Gaza in November 1917, liberated Jerusalem in December, and moved north into the Levant in the spring of 1918.
“Sir! Governor!” Omer Erdogan ran into Ahmed Jemmal’s office in the Grand Serail in Damascus. Seeing the governor seated at his desk, calmly going through some papers, he stopped and saluted him. Omer Erdogan looked filthy. His face was black with gunpowder, which, mixed with the sweat of battle, had created little black rivulets all over his face, seeping down to stain his already dirty shirt collar.
“At ease, Colonel,” Ahmed Jemmal ordered, without looking up.
“Governor, we have to leave Damascus … please, I must get you out of here.”
“Why?’
“The British are at our doorstep, Pasha,” Omer Erdogan told him.
“They will not defeat the great Ottoman Empire,” Ahmed Jemmal said quietly.
“Ahmed Pasha, please, I need to get you to safety,” Omer said again.
“I will not leave.”
“Sir, they crossed the Jordan River yesterday and they already have Beirut and Baalbek.”
“They have our supply camps in the Beqaa?” Ahmed Jemmal asked.
Omer Erdogan nodded.
“And now they are in Deraa and coming this way.”
“Then we will go out and meet them,” Ahmed Jemmal said, getting out of his chair.
“Sir, please, it is too dangerous.”
“I will not have my troops without a leader,” Ahmed Jemmal said. “We will meet them at Tafas.”
But despite Ahmed Jemmal’s presence, the Ottoman brigades were routed and the governor had to retreat, having lost five thousand Turks over two days. He beat a hasty retreat to Damascus as the Arabs kept on coming.
“Sir.” An exhausted and defeated Captain Omer Erdogan stood in front of the governor. “Please, Sir, it’s now or never. The Arabs have closed the north and northwest gates of the city. It’s all over, Sir.”
“It is not over.”
“Sir … the garrison, the Damascus garrison is retreating through the Barada gorge. From there it is a quick ride up into Turkey. We have to go. Please, come with me, Sir.”
“I cannot, Captain,” the governor declared. “I cannot leave Syria to the English.”
“You will be leaving Syria to the Arabs, Ahmed Pasha,” Erdogan said. “They intend for Damascus to be the capital of this new united Arab nation.”
“It’ll never last, Captain.”
Suddenly, explosions sounded in the distance.
“What is that?”
“Those are the English, Sir.”
“So close already.” Ahmed Jemmal took a deep breath.
“Come, Ahmed Pasha.” Omer Erdogan held out his hand. “Let us go back to Turkey, where we belong.”
Slowly, Ahmed Jemmal moved. He looked around his office and walked out the door in front of the captain, his head high.
“Quickly!” Captain Erdogan shouted to his men who were waiting outside. “Get the Pasha to safety.”
Ahmed Jemmal climbed into a car. “Thank you, Captain.” He turned and saluted the young man who was already on his horse.
“Thank you, Sir.” Omer Erdogan saluted back.
“Colonel, give the order to destroy our ammunitions,” the governor said as he sat down in the car.
“Yes, Sir!” Erdogan turned his horse around and saw a group of British soldiers headed for the governor’s palace. They were only a mile away and moving in fast. I have to stop them, or they’ll capture Ahmed Pasha …
Taking a deep breath, he started galloping toward them, his sword raised. He let out a horrible cry as he neared them, spurring his horse, rocking in his saddle as he galloped full speed into the British column.
Captain Omer Erdogan slid off his horse, riddled with bullets and wounded by scores of bayonet points.
Damascus fell to the British on October 1, 1918.
Charles’ eyes flew open. He lay there wondering if he’d dreamt the explosion. But no, there was another one. And another one. What is going on out there? He got up off the filthy straw he was sleeping on and walked to the stone wall of his cell. He looked up at the tiny, barred window that was on the side of the pitched ceiling. The sky was changing color. It was almost dawn. There wa
s another explosion. He banged on the heavy wooden door. “Guard!” he called out. “What’s going on out there?”
There was no response.
“Guard!” he yelled again.
The explosions were much closer now and from the window in the ceiling, he could see smoke. The rats in his cell were scampering around the sides of the walls trying to get out. Suddenly, he heard voices; loud, angry ones that were shouting, but he couldn’t tell what they were saying, the words muffled by the thick stone walls.
“No … no … no … !” he heard a man cry out. “Please … spare me … I have a wife and children!” the man begged, after which Charles heard a bloodcurdling scream. What is going on? Charles paced his small cell. He wondered who was out there and whether he should make it known that he was inside.
He heard noises outside his door. “Get them out! Get them all out!” someone yelled. Oh God! Charles shivered. This was it. They were killing them all. “Come on! Open all these cells! The orders have come from Damascus. And make sure you get every one of them.”
Charles froze in his cell. He was trapped. After a year and a half of enduring a filthy Ottoman prison, he was finally going to die. God knows how they would do it, he wondered as he waited for them to come for him. He heard the cell next to him being opened. “Come on out!” he heard someone say. “Allah!” he heard the prisoner in the cell next to him burst into tears. “Yallah, Yallah! Khalas! Get to your feet.”
He heard the key turn in the door to his cell. He stood up as straight as he could to face the soldiers. But he was so weak. He hadn’t eaten in days, his broken leg had not mended properly, and he limped badly. His shirt was filthy, his trousers were torn and he was barefoot. His hair and beard were long and filled with lice and all kinds of insects. His skin was black with dirt and he was sure he had bacteria in his stomach and who knows what other diseases.
A man dressed as a British soldier appeared at the door. Charles looked at him and was sure his eyes and mind were playing tricks on him.
“You!” the man pointed his bayonet point at him. “What’s your name?”
“Charles … ,” Charles stuttered. “Major Charles Hackett, British Army, Cairo.”
The soldier backed out slowly, still aiming his bayonet at Charles. “Sir!” he shouted when he got to the door, looking to his right. “Sir! There’s an English soldier here.”
Another man came running over. “Thank you, private. Keep moving. Open the next one. Get everyone out of here and into the infirmary.”
Charles didn’t say a word. He stared at the man who walked in. He was tall with a beard and moustache and a Sikh’s turban.
“Who did you say you were?” The officer approached Charles.
“Major Charles Hackett,” Charles replied. “Special Forces, British Army.”
Suddenly, the man in front of him stood tall and saluted. “Major! Sir!”
“At ease, soldier,” Charles said, still confused. “Your name?”
“Captain Sukjit Singh, Sir, third Lahore Division of the Egyptian Cavalry Force.”
Charles stared at him, still dazed.
“We’ve won, Sir,” the Sikh told him. “We’ve defeated the Ottomans. Field Marshal Allenby and the Arabs have entered Damascus.”
When Charles woke up again, he was lying in a soft white bed, covered with starched white cotton sheets and a white blanket. He was wearing a white robe and when he looked under the blanket he saw he had no underwear. His beard was gone, as was his hair … he was completely bald. He looked down at his arms and they looked clean except for the blotches of red Mercurochrome on his cuts. Charles looked around. There wasn’t a single empty bed. He saw men with bandages, casts, legless, armless, eyeless; he saw doctors and nurses running around efficiently, speaking softly to the wounded; he heard a man scream and start to cry.
“What’s wrong with him?” he asked his neighbor.
“I think they’ve just told him he’s to lose his leg,” the man replied.
“How are you doing?” Charles asked.
“All right, I suppose … I’ve still got all my limbs.”
“I’m Charles Hackett.” Charles held out his hand.
“Michel Khoury … lieutenant.”
“Lebanese?” Charles asked.
Michel nodded.
“Where are you based? Beirut?”
“No, Cairo.”
“As am I.” Charles smiled. “I’m sure we’ll see each other then.”
“So, Major Hackett, how do you feel?” a doctor with a clipboard interrupted.
“Quite well, thank you.”
“You’re a tough man, Major,” the doctor said, looking at his clipboard. “From what we can tell, they certainly had a good go at you.”
Charles smiled ruefully.
“But you seem to be all right,” the doctor said. “Unfortunately, you’re always going to have a limp because of the way your leg healed. And we’ll be giving you some medicines to kill anything you might have caught … but you can leave whenever you like.”
“Thank you.”
“Anything else you need?”
“I’d love a hot shower.”
Charles showered, soaping every bit of himself, rubbing his skin with a brush, getting all the dirt out from under his fingernails and other crevices, trying to rid himself of the grime of the last eighteen months. He soaped his head again and again to make sure there was not a single louse left. He stood under the hot shower, letting water run all over him, washing away all those months he had languished in jail, withstanding the horrible torture and the pain, both mental and physical, the Turks had inflicted on him. At one point, he thought he was going to break, but somehow he had pulled through.
He dried himself thoroughly. He was very thin and gaunt and he still felt weak. Time, he reminded himself. Give yourself time.
He dressed quickly in a fresh army uniform, enjoying the feel of the starched shirt, the jacket and pants that all smelled fresh and clean. He walked out of the bathroom and went to find the reception area to let them know that he was leaving earlier than expected. The nurses argued with him for a bit but soon acceded. He didn’t need to be a captive anymore.
“Well I’m off, ladies!” he smiled charmingly at the two nurses at the desk, who both looked up at him and smiled back.
“Goodbye, Major Hackett,” one of them said. “We’re going to miss you.”
“And I will miss you too, Nurse,” Charles kissed her hand. The nurse visibly swooned. Charles chuckled and walked through the door after a final wave. Outside, his mouth fell open.
“Hello, Charlie ol’ boy!”
Charles walked as quickly as he could and threw himself into Lawrence’s open arms.
Charles looked at himself in the small mirror in the little bathroom that was part of his accommodations in the barracks in Cairo. His hair was starting to grow back, but was still very short. He had decided to sport a very trim beard and moustache that was no more than a five o’clock shadow. He examined his face. His forehead was furrowed, the lines around his eyes were deeper, and his usually chiseled jawline was lined. But at least he looked healthier than before. Normal sleep patterns, exercise, and three square meals a day had helped. His leg still hurt a bit, especially during a chilly night, and he had to walk with a cane to walk straight, otherwise, it tended to buckle. But he didn’t mind. Lawrence said the cane made him look more regal. And perhaps one day he wouldn’t need it anymore. He’d started work with the army physiotherapist and they were hopeful that, with some hard work, he might even be able to run again. He sat down on a chair in his room and put on his socks. He picked up his shoes, inspecting then, making sure they shone before he put them on. Putting on his officer’s cap, he gave himself a final look in the mirror, and opened the door. He stopped. He went back to the bathroom and splashed on a little spicy Saint John’s Rum cologne. There, he said to his reflection in the mirror. Now you’re ready.
“What do you think?” he asked George, his
little monkey who had been left in the care of one of the young assistants in the Arab Bureau.
The monkey stood up and beat his chest, squealing and showing his gums.
“Well thank you, George,” Charles said, putting his hand down so the monkey could run up his arm to his shoulder. “I think you look very well too.
“Do you feel like coming to the El-Khalili?” he asked the monkey.
The monkey nodded, squealing and jumped up and down on his shoulder.
“Let’s go then … perhaps you can wait for me at El Fishawy? Just don’t go around stealing food from tables.” He shook his finger at the monkey.
With the monkey sitting around his neck, Charles walked down the hall. “You know, it’s really good to see you, George …”
He went outside to the entrance of the barracks, hoping to get a tram.
“Major!” he heard a voice call out.
Charles turned. It was the lieutenant from the infirmary in Baalbek. “Khoury! What are you doing here?”
“I’m back on duty, Sir.”
“Excellent to see you up and about.”
“Who’s the little creature?”
“My pet monkey, George,” Charles introduced them.
Michel laughed.
“Where are you going, Major? Can I give you a lift?” He pointed to a motorbike and sidecar parked at the curb.”
“I’m going to the Al-Hussein mosque.”
“So am I … what a coincidence. Come on! I’ll take you,” Michel offered.
“That would be very kind, thank you.”
“Not at all.”
“Why are you going to the mosque?” Charles asked, getting into the sidecar.
“Actually I’m going to the El-Khalili.”
“Really?”
“Yes, my father has a few shops in the souk, and I’m going to see a couple of friends who are also back from Palestine. Their father has a fruit stand, and unfortunately, one of their brothers was killed a few months ago,” Michel added. “So I’m going to pay my condolences.”
“Don’t tell me … was his name Hisham?”
“Yes!” Michel replied. “Why? Did you know him?”