Circle Around the Sun

by M. D. Johnson

  It was not the first time Yacouta had played intermediary. She had often worked on the release of Arab soldiers after the Six Day War. Conversely, she had also worked with the Israeli prisoner relief efforts and Amnesty International to ensure that prisoners of both sides were humanely treated. She lived for the day when there would be peace in this holy land. Through her work in the refugee camps she became the confidante of both Arab and Jew. People knew if they were in need she could help. Having done her duty, she called Ahmed, her house manager, telling him to immediately ring Madam Shavit’s home in Tel Aviv and let her cook, who was his cousin know that Madam’s order for figs, spearmint and the ten cartons of duty free French Gaulloise as well as the Chanel perfume and specially made Eucalyptus and Spearmint bath oils had arrived and would be delivered in person through the British Embassy courier. She then contacted Colonel Beresford in London who arranged for the “tokens of goodwill” she had mentioned to be delivered through diplomatic channels from the Embassy in Cairo to the Embassy in Tel Aviv. As Hanna would say, “It is always better to use honey,” and these gifts would surely sweeten the deal.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  The secret negotiations resulted in the release of some of the woman and children without condition or fanfare. However, each hour that passed brought greater unrest to the terrorists.

  Jordan, England’s oldest Middle Eastern ally was now under the rule of the young, handsome King Hussein whose wife, the former Toni Gardner, now Princess Muna, was British. Hussein feared with much reason that his country would fall to the Palestinian guerillas. Realizing that Syria was now heavily backing the guerillas, the British Government was in a state of panic. Should Hussein prove correct and the guerillas succeed in taking over parts of Jordan, the Middle East would eventually fall to the Marxists. Israel would be annexed and oil prices would escalate. Efforts were made to persuade Israel to intervene and help the Jordanian king’s army destroy the Palestinian terrorist training camps. At the same time, when official channels failed to bring speedier results, Yacouta D’Aboville was asked once more to use her circle of social contacts to assure the king that all that could be done was being done and that he should remain calm.

  Yacouta rang her old friend Toni, who was busy nursing her eight year old son Crown Prince Abdallah through a bout of the flu in the safety of the palace nursery in Amman. Even Toni had said, “Why the bloody hell they can’t simply release the Khaled girl so that we can all go about our business amazes me. Between you and me, Yacouta, I fear that my position is also in jeopardy”.

  There was a vicious rumor circulating that even though she was her husband’s most loyal supporter and the mother of his son, because Princess Muna was English the time would surely come when he would be forced to remove her and take another “first” wife. Arab men, Yacouta thought to herself, Why bother?

  Within a week Syrian forces officially entered Jordan. Leila Khaled was still in British custody. King Hussein sent urgent messages to what he had always affectionately called ‘Number 10’, appealing to the British Prime Minister for “diplomatic and moral support of the United Kingdom and the Untied States.” They must, he had said, urge the United States to seek the involvement of Israel on his behalf. Israel’s Prime Minister, Golda Meir was in New York on a goodwill mission visiting public schools and being seen in the benign role of the elderly former school teacher who loved all little children. As long as they weren’t Palestinian, thought her detractors! Mrs. Meir received a telephone call from Hanna Shavit while drinking tea from her room overlooking Central Park. “There will be no peace in the Middle East until the Arabs love their children more than they hate the Jews,” she began, after Hanna Shavit had relayed the plea for help. “Tell our mutual friend that I will consider helping the boy-king, but for now, I will sit back like the wise old warrior woman I am and simply observe the fun. And Hannah, before I forget, tell Yacouta also that her niece will of course enjoy all the comforts of the United States should she decide, of course, to shall we say, resettle!” The Prime Minister concluded dryly “She has my word.”

  Officially, Israel did not intervene. Yacouta D’Aboville however ensured that arms were supplied to Jordan and that the threat also affecting Israel’s survival would be short lived. Within days the Swissair DC-8, the TWA Boeing 707 and the BOAC VC 10 were forced to land at a disused British Army Airfield called Dawson’s Field some thirty miles from Amman. In full view of the press the planes were blown up! Amidst media reporting, Palestinian refugee camps were raided and PLO hideouts were infiltrated. The guerillas ran out of food and water. Villages were abandoned, fleeing women and children were raped and atrocities were committed by both sides. It was alleged that six thousand Jordanian officers and enlisted men individually defected to the side of the Palestinian guerillas and in the midst of these acts, The Black September terrorist movement was born.

  King Hussein’s air force counter-attacked the Syrian invaders ending their advance. Syria refused to use its air force against the Jordanians, fearing US and Israeli retaliation. The Arab League of Delegates speedily convened to end the war that was making the Palestinian cause look ridiculous. From within came shouts of, “The Israelis are laughing their arses off at us. We fight each other while they and the Americans supply both sides with arms. Can’t you see what they do?” Egypt’s ailing President Nasser urged negotiation and peace. The delegation appealed to King Hussein to end his air force strikes. The peace talks were hindered by more internal fighting as leader Yasser Arafat, a master of disguise moved quickly from camp to camp, fearing capture but continuing to encourage resistance. Miraculously, Arafat remained in total command of the PLO Forces and stonewalled the progress made by calling for an overthrow of the Jordanian “Capitalist” monarchy. Legends remain that Hussein held off bombing while a radio call throughout the PLO camps was made for Yasser Arafat to make contact. When he did, it is said that King Hussein was in full knowledge of his plan to escape and that Arafat was allowed to leave the country and his departure was then used as a diplomatic signal of an end to the fighting. There was, however, smoldering on the sidelines still the issue of the hijackers!

  Arafat pleaded that he had no control over the “dissidents” who had claimed responsibility for Dawson’s Field. Hussein declared martial law. The Jordanian artillery’s barrage raged against the PLO at Zarqua and within hours many other PLO strongholds in refugee camps at Sweileh, Salt, and Irbid had fallen. The Palestinian forces held on and joined by the Syrian Army invaded Northern Jordan. Arafat declared the opening of the front a victory for “Greater Syria”, the liberated area. The Arab league called again for a meeting of all heads of state. Israel’s telephone tree, from Golda Meir to Hanna Shavit, through Yacouta D’Aboville and finally to Crown Princess Muna informed her husband the king to continue his country’s defense and that Israel’s armies were readied and waiting to assist and honor their secret agreement now known clandestinely as “Sandstorm”.

  There were few prisoners taken in the ferocious fighting that took place. There were no victors at its end, just a banal handshake on September 27th, 1970 between Arafat and Hussein, observed by Egypt’s president Nasser, who died of a heart attack shortly afterwards. On September 30th, 1970, in line with the British Government’s BBC World Service Announcement in Arabic ten days previously, Leila Khaled and six other Palestinian guerillas held in Switzerland and Germany were released.

  Forty years later, in more peaceful times, the much sought after lecturer and activist Leila Khaled would comment, “The success in the tactics of the hijacking and imposing our demands and succeeding in having our demand implemented gave us the courage and the confidence to go ahead with our struggle.” But the woman once known as “the terrible beauty” did not vanish into obscurity. Neither did the other former camp trainee Amina Desai.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  Emily remained in Germany for several years after Tony Shallal’s departure. Their paths seldom crossing in the years that foll
owed. The first time was preceded by a telephone call to Emily’s Ziegelhausen apartment. It was May 11th, 1972. She would remember the date as clearly as that terrible Autumn day almost three decades later.

  Emily had been stunned when Shallal left. He did not, as far as she knew, make any attempt to contact her. There was no word from anyone in intelligence circles of his whereabouts. No place to find him and absolutely no question that she had been little more than a brief, meaningless fringe benefit. While disheartened, she did not feel abandoned but she made the decision then to remain in Heidelberg. Feeling more comfortable without the scrutiny of her parents, she resumed her career with Heinrich Scholl Exports, GmbH, consulting on international antiquities purchases and sales. Emily used her father’s name and reputation at every available opportunity. Her commissions were such that she did not have to utilize the stockpile of monies she had received for the service she had performed. In fact, she hardly considered those times at all. However, one evening she was driving home from work, feeling hungry and wondering whether her children’s nanny and housekeeper, Atiya, had begun dinner or whether they should eat in the quiet of a local café. Emily was in the mood for a dish called a “Strammer Max”, which was fried eggs on thick slices of ham over toasted rye bread topped with melted Swiss cheese. Just the thought of it made her mouth water. It had been a rough day and she was utterly starving. The children and their nanny could probably do with a night out, she thought to herself. It wasn’t easy bringing up two children and the pleasant relationship she had with Atiya would benefit from the luxury of being waited on in the café.

  Masud now liked to be called Mason. At two years old he was over half as tall as his mother. He looked remarkably like his Grandfather Ibrahim. He was handsome, intelligent, and cognizant of everything around him, but what was most remarkable was his command of English, German and Arabic, each as good as most four year old native speakers. Mason talked constantly and was in love with the whole world, but the person he loved most of all was his baby sister Hallah, now a fat, sturdy little thirteen-month old. Like her brother, she too had thick, dark, unruly curls and luminous brown eyes. She was just learning to walk. She had already mastered many words and she followed her big brother around adoringly. He called her Hayley and insisted that everyone else do the same. He had decided that she would always be his best friend and told her so every minute of the day. He gave her his toys, she would throw them defiantly. He would pick them up and place them back into her pudgy little hands reassuring her that she could do better than throw things. Mason was kind and patient, and his favorite games with Hallah always involved making new toys from remnants of the old ones. Atiya, who was a medical student encouraged him and Mason could identify all of his body parts as soon as her could pronounce them perfectly. If one asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up he would ponder a bit, yet he always come back with the same answer, “I’m going to be a doctor.” And with the passing of time, his mother’s friends and colleagues began to refer to him as “Dr. Mason.”

  Whenever Emily saw her children her heart skipped. She firmly believed they were her greatest accomplishment. She had of course debated telling Tony Shallal on discovering she was pregnant, but had always thought better of it. This time the entire pregnancy was on her terms. Emily had given birth in a private clinic in Heidelberg and Hallah’s entrance into the world was indecently fast, natural and completely different to the birth of her brother. Emily was a participant this time; she had taken natural childbirth classes and labored swiftly, easily and in full control as the baby’s head crowned. She had made the decision to have a tubal ligation immediately after her baby was born and considered herself finished with all things relating to childbirth. She had told her parents who the baby’s father was and they were horrified that she would even consider facing the world as an unmarried mother. Elizabeth Desai, despite her disapproval was the birth coach and when she saw her grand-daughter for the first time she squealed with delight. “A little girl! It’s you all over again. The hair is dark but she has our chin and nose and your daddy’s eyes. Oh my precious little girl!” Emily’s father, Ibrahim waited with Mason outside. They paced the floor. The little toddler followed every move his grandfather made, like a miniature mirror image. But when they were led into the room, Mason cried when he saw his sister and his grandparents, fearing that he was resentful, chided him. He mastered walking and hesitatingly inched up the basinet holding the baby and patted the part of her that he could reach lovingly, smiling, contentedly. She opened her eyes as if she could actually recognize him and he muttered some baby gibberish in response to what looked like a smile. All three adults swore she had understood what he had been trying to say. From the time Hallah could waddle around unassisted the children were inseparable. They created their own language and would frequently chat away without anyone else knowing what they were talking about. Both of them played happily together and their mother was delighted, secure in the knowledge that her children would never as feel alone as she had in childhood.

  And so it was on the evening of May 11th that Emily climbed the stairs of the apartment building with a strange sense of foreboding. She remembered that her English granny used to say, “She had something hanging over her” at times like this when there was no explanation for feeling so extraordinarily sad. She knew when she put the key in the lock and saw Atiya, holding both children closely with a horrified expression on her face that something was very, very wrong.

  “Miss Emily, I am so glad you are home. There’s been a bombing in Frankfurt at the American Military Base! The I.G. Farben Building, I think. One soldier is dead and there are thirteen injured. Oh Miss Emily, they said on the news that it was a terrorist attack!”

  The phone did not stop ringing. The first call came from her parents, telling her that the Rote Armee Fraktion, an offshoot of the Baader-Meinhof Gang had claimed responsibility for the attack. The second call was from Anthony Wallace-Terry, now Chief of Section in Frankfurt’s British Embassy urgently requesting a meeting. He would, he said, send a familiar face as an intermediary. They needed to ask a couple of questions and verify some information they had received from our “cousins”, he said, referring to American Military Intelligence.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  Tony Shallal arrived at Emily’s apartment two days later. She had hoped that Atiya would take both the children out for the day so that she and Shallal would not be disturbed. Atiya, however, had been glued to the television reports and refused to move, fearing that everywhere in Germany was dangerous and everyone not German would also be a target in retaliation. She was adamant, “If, Miss Emily, the United States Military cannot protect itself, how can we? No. I’m not going to classes. I’m staying here.” Emily’s argument that the bombing had been in Frankfurt at the U.S. Fifth Army Command and not here in peaceful Heidelberg didn’t impress her. Atiya knew nothing of Emily’s past. She had been told that Emily was divorced and that her ex-husband was dead. Atiya always assumed that he had left her very well provided for and from her scant knowledge of Emily’s family and the photographs she had seen, she considered herself very fortunate to be helping this wealthy young woman with her children.

  Emily relied on the young medical student greatly and provided her with room and board, giving her a generous weekly allowance and tuition help. Atiya also got to use a blue VW Beetle which had been purchased expressly for her by Emily. It was an arrangement, however, that was strictly professional. They were not friends. Emily confided in no one other than her parents. It was an absolute shock then, when Atiya opened the door to the handsome Middle Eastern looking man whose clipped English accent reminded her of the British “Krimi’s”, crime shows broadcast on television with German subtitles. Atiya saw it straight away! The arched eyebrows, the promise of his hooked nose and the penetrating stare, all belied an undeniable, striking resemblance to her beloved Hallah. Atiya was stunned. She felt betrayed that Miss Emily had not told her.

  Ati
ya didn’t notice the expression on Tony Shallal’s face when both children finally made an appearance. Emily introduced both of them to “Uncle Tony”, an old family friend from England. Mason stood protectively in front of his sister, holding her hand but keeping her firmly behind him just in case. “Haley is my sister,” he said, accentuating the “My” possessively. “We take care of Mummy with Nanny Atiya. Nanny Atiya is a doctor and I’m going to be a doctor too.”

  “How interesting, Masud. I knew your Mummy before you were born.”

  “Did you know Daddy?” the little boy asked inquisitively.

  “Yes. We met in Lebanon. That’s a country far away from here.”

  “I know. I was born in Lebanon. My Mummy says it’s dweadfully hot and vewy dangerous!

  Quite taken aback and before he could answer, Haley left her brother’s side, marched up toward Shallal with Paddington Bear in her fat little arms and smiling gleefully, deposited herself in his lap.

  “If Haley likes you then I will too,” Mason edged up closer to the tall man, smiling all too knowingly.

  “If Haley doesn’t like me what happens then?”

  “Then you have crocodile legs,” Mason answered with a grin.

  “Certainly reason for assassination,” Shallal replied not to be taken off guard by the provocative child.

  Emily walked into the room balancing tiny cups of Arabic coffee on a wooden tray. “I see you’ve met the children,” she said trying to be calm as Haley pulled her father’s hair. “I call her ‘Mischief’ as she is always into something she shouldn’t be.”