“And sturdy,” said Nadeem.
“And sturdy,” echoed Slivowitz, uselessly thumping a wall. “Well,” he added as an afterthought, “I have a tenant for you.”
“Oh?” Nadeem wasn’t ready to part with his creation. “Who is that?”
“Another man to whom I’ve loaned money. At least I’ll know the health of his business. If he pays you the rent, I’ll sleep at night.”
“What is his business?” asked Nadeem morosely.
“Cutlery. And cooking utensils from the Continent.”
“You think there’s a market for such things?”
“I don’t know,” said Slivowitz, frowning.
While the southern tip of their empire prospered, the Turks had been locked in battle with the vigorous Albanian mountaineers, who scored a succession of startling victories, causing the Turks to lose all of their Balkan territory except for Constantinople.
The protracted Ottoman and Balkan crisis was attended by almost convulsive efforts on the part of every European state to increase its military and naval forces. The instruments of war had become revolutionized. The giant gun, the scouting and bombing plane, the trench bomb, the tank, poison gas, and the submarine were the new tools of destruction. The French led in the development and manufacture of the warplane, including the Farman, the Caudron and Breguet. Their world-famous Spad and Nieuport were to become the standard pursuit planes of the US services in a war where supremacy was settled by one fighter plane battling with another. It was France’s great flying aces—René Fonck and Nungesser—who would keep the skies cleared of the enemy’s deadly Taubes and Fokkers until Great Britain was ready with her Sopwiths, Bristols, and Handley-Pages.
There was no hint that war would touch Palestine. Miriam’s days were ordered. Life was easier than in the old days. Nadeem had put in a pump and at five each morning, Jirius came to pump water from the garden well into the storage tank. He executed a hundred strokes before going to the next house.
The milk woman arrived next, balancing two heavy jugs, one with milk, the other with yogurt. There followed the egg man calling out, “Beyyd, beyyd.” At Zareefa’s urging, Miriam used these services, conserving her strength for dealing with the younger children, who still needed help. For diversion she ordered cloth and made garments for Esa and Nadia and very seldom for herself. She had completely retreated to her old life and found few occasions to leave her familiar surroundings.
With Mustafa’s help she planted a vegetable and flower garden that was as beautiful as it was fruitful. The property around the house became an appealing maze of paths bordered by purple gorse, vetches, poppies, cyclamen, and the dainty lavender crocuses that the villagers called serâj-el-ghûleh, lamp of the ghoul, because it is the first brave color bearer after the long, dry summer.
She engaged Baruch, a cotton fluffer from Jerusalem, to come and restore all the mattresses. He stayed two days, working far into the night, refusing any food but tomatoes and eggs and frightening Miriam with his habit of putting the lantern too close to his materials.
“He’ll burn the house down in our sleep,” she whispered to Nadeem. “I feel I should stay up and watch him.”
“He’s been doing this for many years. You would insult him watching him like a child.”
“I’d rather insult him than find my house gone by morning. I wish he’d just sleep at night like the rest of us.”
“Consider it a blessing. He’ll be finished sooner and you can stop worrying.”
“I suppose.”
“All right, sleep now,” said Nadeem. After a moment of silence, he added, “You’d better bring Nadia in here to sleep. Just to be safe.”
She scrambled out of bed, not needing a second urging. “I’ll bring Esa, too.”
When they were settled and she had adjusted herself in bed, he spoke again. “I saw a poster today warning against rabid dogs. You mustn’t let Nadia near any strange animals.”
“Nadia is always the one you worry about. What of Esa?”
“Well, of course, Esa, too. All of them, but Nadia doesn’t understand and she is too fond of animals. You know what she has named the dog? La-la. She points to him and shrieks, ‘La-la, Baba. La-la.’ This is all her own thinking.”
Miriam smiled into her pillow, pleased that Nadia brought him so much happiness, but she also enjoyed kidding him about his preoccupation with the baby’s safety. “Don’t worry. They came yesterday from the public health. A man in a horse-drawn van. He lassoed ten strays with his rope. But the poor dogs kept hurtling themselves against the barred window, trying to escape.”
“Never mind. Better to have the dogs unhappy than children dead.” He raised his head, listening to his daughter breathing noisily in the corner. “Her breathing is always heavy. Do you hear it?”
“It’s nothing, Nadeem. She has a little something. Maybe it’s the cotton dust from the mattresses.”
“Maybe you should take her to Dr. Malouf.”
“It’s nothing. You worry too much about her.”
Nadia grew and her preference for animals became more ingrained. She adored the dog until the day Uncle Daud hoisted her in front of him on a gentle gray gelding and took her for a twenty-minute ride into the hills. From that day the request most frequently on her lips was “Hordee. Nadia ride hordee.” Miriam, remembering Max’s passion for riding, tried to dissuade her. She still had her old fears, but Nadeem gave in and whenever they had a horse available he patiently led Nadia around until she drooped from exhaustion and had to be carried to bed.
So many events—so much change crammed into those few years—had shifted everyone’s awareness. At thirty-two Miriam was a graceful woman with many elements of beauty and an unassuming confidence. Umm Jameel deferred to her with a childlike reliance that was touching. Her own mother reverted to the age-old custom of calling her Yuma—Mother. Zareefa came daily to chew over some aspect of her life. Nabile’s wife, Diana, her weight now over three hundred pounds, often struggled up the hill with one of her children and although she complained and criticized, Miriam could see she was the neediest of all.
Two less familiar visitors came from Umm Jameel’s wealthiest relatives. The sheik’s oldest son, Jamal, a widower, had married Sara, an exquisitely beautiful girl from Nablus with strong ties to America, and their firstborn son, Samir, was two years older than Nadia. Twice, the breathtaking Sara, outfitted in her fashionable European clothes, brought her striking little boy to play with Esa and Nadia. He wore linen shorts that buttoned to a linen shirt and white high-top shoes with reddish soles. He seemed unduly serious and very advanced. His mother said they already had a tutor for him and he was learning to read although he was barely four. “He sits in with the council members when they meet.” She smiled as if it were a joke. “He’ll be admitted to the Friends school next fall.” Nadia liked him because he had placed himself at her disposal on all fours and she had climbed on his back and ridden him like a horse. Watching them, Miriam had an odd feeling. These two youngsters seemed to be set apart even at this young age.
With no large event to mark its passing, time had less meaning. Nadeem worked harder than ever and the strain showed in the deepened creases around his mouth and the gray in his hair. The loan weighed heavily on his mind and his constant wish was to repay it in full. He returned to take charge of the shop, but Khalil could not be persuaded to continue in school and went to work in the printing plant run by the Catholic Church. Hanna, in his submissive way, returned to the Franciscans for an additional year of reading and mathematics. Of all the children, Esa remained most constant. He didn’t outgrow the sweetness of his joyful nature. His face didn’t lose its innocence; his curls remained silky, his eyes bright and innocent. If Nadia was Nadeem’s source of sustenance and joy, then Esa belonged to Miriam. Besides their children, there was the clan to absorb and enclose them.
Life seemed to have settl
ed into what it would be forever.
14.
THEY BEAT THE DRUMS FOR WAR.
In July of 1914, Nadeem, in an uncharacteristic moment of relaxation, opened the newspaper on the glass-topped counter of his shop and was startled to see in a photograph occupying almost half the page the French biplane, the Spad, with René Fonck, the flying ace, at the controls.
At midday he tucked the paper under his arm and went to see Slivowitz. He told himself it was for a companionable chat, but it was for reassurance. “Why do they show a warplane on the front page? What has this to do with us? This is between Austria and Serbia.” He was referring to the shocking assassination of the Austrian archduke by a Bosnian youth.
“Do you really believe the rest of Europe will stay out?” asked Slivowitz. “And miss the opportunity to reshuffle the territory?” he added ruefully.
“I can’t believe they’ll come to blows over the antics of the small peninsula states.”
“Russia, Germany, and France have been mobilizing for war for the last three years. The only mystery is who will side with whom.”
“Surely, England won’t go against Germany.”
“Don’t be too certain.” Slivowitz sighed the sigh of a man in a world he didn’t understand. “Or too logical. Each of them has an exaggerated fear for their safety and they’ve been jockeying for alliances long before this. England’s mad at Germany because she had the audacity to build up her navy. Germany’s furious with France over Morocco. And France and Russia are thick as thieves.”
As it turned out, Slivowitz was right. Germany, threatened by England’s new entente cordiale with France and Russia, created “incidents” and found support only from Austria. In August of 1914, Turkey signed an alliance with Germany from which they expected security against Russia, the power they feared and hated.
One night the family was at dinner together with Jameel and Zareefa. They heard the monotonous sounds of drums coming steadily closer. Everyone became silent. “Why are they beating the drums?” Esa was the only one who dared to ask the question.
“They beat the drums for Ramadan,” said Khalil. “But this isn’t Ramadan.”
“They don’t beat the drums for Ramadan in a Christian village,” said Nadeem softly.
“They beat the drums for war,” said Jameel, and everyone looked at him as if he knew something more. Then he peeled an orange carefully, scoring the skin neatly into quarters and removing a section at a time. Everyone concentrated on the orange as the drums came closer. What a dreadful, mournful sound.
They went and stood in front of the door, waiting for the drums to reach them, and were surprised to see their local crier. “It’s Jirius,” said Zareefa in an annoyed voice. Jirius pumped their water in winter and carried water to them during the summer—he was a safe, familiar figure. “What’s he up to?”
At the intersection, a few hundred feet from them, Jirius stopped and read loudly from a piece of paper. “Men born between 1876 and 1895 must report to the recruiting center within the next forty-eight hours. Who fails to do so will be prosecuted.”
“What does it mean, Jirius?” asked Jameel.
“It means war, Amo,” Jirius answered sadly, calling to him like an affectionate uncle. “The war is now real. We have to fight for the Turks.” He spat on the ground. “We are at war against France, against England! Ya Allah!” He continued down the road. Dum-de-de-dum, dum-de-de-dum.
Nadeem was exempted because of his eye and Jameel was above the age limit. The twins, George and Salim, went again and Jamilla was inconsolable. Daud was deferred because he had pneumonia at the time of the induction and hadn’t the stamina to march. Many young men hid in the stone huts in the fig orchards to avoid the army and ventured home only at night. They were called the army of fugitives.
The first deprivation was the scarcity of flour. In a good year with adequate rainfall, two full sacks of wheat could be had for about eighty cents. But the local wheat supply was meager for the needs of the larger villages and the cities had to be supplemented. The great wheat field of the country was the Hauran, east of the Sea of Galilee. Caravans of camels brought sacked wheat to the western coast and as far south as Jerusalem.
One day Nadeem came home and found Zareefa in the kitchen crying. “It’s Jameel,” Miriam explained. “He’s been called up again.”
“Jameel is forty. It must be a mistake.”
“It’s not a mistake. They’ve extended the age limit. They need men. Will you come later and persuade him to hide?” she asked Nadeem. “He’ll listen to you.”
“I will.”
When Zareefa left, Miriam looked fiercely at her husband. “I’m glad that your eye will keep you out. I have no patriotism for this hateful war. The Turks have ordered my father to grow food for them. For no payment, of course.”
“Yes?” Nadeem was distracted. On the carriage ride home, he’d heard tales that frightened him. Turkey was planning to use Palestine as the base for the assault on Egypt and the Suez. The Fourth Turkish Corps was marching through the villages, commandeering supplies. Property was being confiscated, wheat stores taken.
The family he had met in the carriage was fleeing from Nablus. “If we stay, we’ll starve,” the man had said. “Maybe not this week or this month, but soon. It’s already difficult to buy oil or wheat, even barley. Medicine is scarce. If there’s an epidemic, my children and wife will die. In Madaba, the Turks will leave us alone.” His eyes had a tinge of yellow and Nadeem wondered if he was already sick. The man had had a quiet conviction and now, looking at Miriam’s anxious face, Nadeem wondered if he, too, should be taking steps to leave.
“Are you worried about the shop?” Miriam tried to read his face. “Will you have to close it? And what about your building? How can the tenant pay rent? People won’t be able to buy cutlery—they’ll need their money to eat. If there’s anything to eat. If the Turks don’t take it all.” Her normally husky voice was shrill. She was almost whining—something he had never heard her do—and he knew it was fear working in her.
“Hush, hush.” He smoothed her hair. “Don’t worry. We’ll manage. I can always do masonry. I’ll do what I can until the war is over and then we can salvage something and begin again. Don’t worry.”
“Poor Diana,” she said out of the blue. “She’s so heavy. Suppose we have to move quickly to hide or flee? Nadeem, we mustn’t leave her. We’d have to help her hide, too.”
“Don’t worry.” Nadeem looked at his wife with pity. He wanted to dispel such thoughts, but in all honesty he couldn’t. “If we have to move quickly, we won’t leave Diana. I promise. Now, where is Nadia? I want to see her before we visit my mother. Perhaps you’d rather stay here and not go? My mother is sure to be agitated over Jameel. I can save you all of that. I’ll say you’re not feeling well.”
“Oh, no.” She seemed alarmed. “I want to go. I feel so sorry for Umm Jameel. She needs me now.”
The perfumer who shared the shop with Nadeem closed down the next week. “You’d best sell what stock you have quickly,” he told Nadeem. “They’ll use your sheets for bandages.”
Nadeem took his merchandise to the suq and rented a table in the open air to dispose of what he could. He closed the shop, leaving a small sign: “Due to extraordinary circumstances, business is halted until further notice.”
People greeted each other with narrowed eyes, rubbing their hands together in silent agitation. Those who had their own presses had oil a few weeks longer. Those who had stored wheat in their cisterns to capacity had bread, but they didn’t lose the anxiety of looking into the future with fear. The streets of the village were deserted. Merchants no longer put their sacks and bins out of doors to entice customers. The supplies dwindled daily and replenishments, if they were available, were hoarded, to be doled out at exorbitant prices.
By the summer of 1915, when the harvest came, the Turks were w
aiting to take it. The bitterness engendered by this confiscation overflowed into every aspect of life, but there was nothing the villagers could do but make bread out of barley flour until that, too, was scarce.
Miriam’s house was a dead house. The children tried to play, but they were uneasy and it made them quarrelsome. Visitors still came but the greetings were somber and there was a great deal of crying.
Nadia would approach each of the crying women and poke them until she had their attention. “Wa wa?” she would inquire solemnly, using the name for children’s aches and hurts.
The milk woman and the egg man didn’t come anymore. Miriam usually went into the village early each morning to shop, stopping at the bakery on the way home to avoid using up her supply of wheat. There came the day, however, when she found a queue of about a hundred women outside the bakery and the bread was sold out long before it was her turn. Still, no one left and the breadless women began to chant and shout as if it were the baker’s fault. Miriam returned home with the glassy stare of shock.
“What’s wrong?” asked Nadeem when he saw her.
“There’s no bread to be had in the village. Not a loaf. Hassam closed the shop but the women stayed there, refusing to go home.”
Nadeem didn’t respond. He had had his own shock. The Friends Boys’ School, a brand-new building that had been built as a companion to the Girls’ School and was a source of pride and joy to so many, had been taken over by the Turkish army. The beautiful dining hall on the main floor was being used to quarter the horses. He kept the news to himself and ate little of the simmering vegetable stew Miriam placed before him.
“My father sent the cauliflower and squash for us,” she said peevishly. “He wants us to have a healthy meal and now you’re not eating.” There was resentment in her voice, but Nadeem knew it was brought on by fear and he placed another unwanted helping on his plate.
News of the war was sketchy, except for the battle of Jarrab, which proved to be a decisive victory for the Turks against the English. No one could guess it would be the last important Turkish victory.
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