On the Hills of God

by Fawal, Ibrahim

  By one o’clock, it had stopped raining. There appeared long patches of blue sky and several bursts of sunshine. Hundreds of people poured in from the neighboring villages so that Ardallah began to look as it had during summer. Wave after wave of mourners had come from all directions. United in sorrow, they came to pay tribute to the district’s first victim—even though many of the mourners had never known him. His death sparked their fears and brought home the darker reality of the conflict. Most shops in town closed, all schools shut down, and the town stood still—except for the long, slow cortege that meandered from the western part of town to the Greek Orthodox Church in the heart of the old district, and to the cemetery overlooking the Jerusalem-Jaffa Road. The distance was nearly three miles, all traveled on foot.

  At the Greek Orthodox Church, Yousif chose to remain outside. He did not wish to go in to be squeezed into the midst of an overflowing humanity.

  As expected, women formed circles outside the old church and chanted their haunting lamentations. They moved and stepped rhythmically. Some twirled their handkerchiefs, tore their dresses, and beat their breasts. The pageant consisted of several circles in motion at once. At one point, there were circles within circles. Death united the people, Yousif noted, and the gods heard them cry.

  “I hear they didn’t open the casket,” Amin whispered.

  “I’m not surprised,” Isaac whispered back.

  “The poor fellow was probably torn to bits,” Yousif said. “It’s possible they couldn’t find all of him.”

  “Just think, it could’ve been me or my father,” Isaac said. “We were near the Citadel less than half an hour before the explosion.”

  “You were?” Yousif said. “Mother and I were there too. I remember wondering at the time where you were.”

  “Father and I had just dropped mother and the children at a friend’s house in the old Jewish Quarter and were on our way to do some shopping for the store. Then the sky split.”

  “Mother and I saw the barrels rolling down the street. Imagine!”

  The sky darkened and it began to drizzle. What if it rained all the way to the cemetery? Yousif thought. It was a long walk, at least two hours at the speed they’d be going. But the women did not seem to mind. They continued with their painful chant, their headdresses falling and their cheeks bathed with tears.

  Heading the procession to the cemetery were religious leaders. There were Muslim shaykhs, even though the victim was Christian. There were altar boys dressed in black and white tunics, even though he was not a Catholic. There were at least six priests and a bishop who chanted and prayed and filled the streets with fragrant incense. The men followed in silence; the women wailed.

  “It’s an honor to be the first victim from this town,” Yousif heard an old man in traditional clothes say to another.

  “I know what you mean,” said the man walking beside him.

  “You’ll never see another funeral like this one. When you and I die, we’ll be lucky if we get buried.”

  “You think it’s going to be that bad?”

  “Worse.”

  “By God I’ll fight, and I’m sixty-four years old.”

  “Who wouldn’t fight?” an older man said.

  The priest was sprinkling the closed casket with a handful of dirt, intoning the lines “from dust to dust.” Once the service had been completed, Yousif realized that the moment belonged to the orators and poets. He was amazed at the speed of some poets. What inspiration! What talent! When did they have time to write all this? Yousif thought. Some of it was even good. He was less impressed by the orators, even though their rhetoric was stirring. Scores cried and hundreds remained deadly silent. War was their theme, revenge their message.

  One of the speakers was ustaz Hakim.

  “Even if the Irgun had not claimed responsibility,” ustaz Hakim said, his tone measured, “one could see the fingerprints of its leaders. Every vicious act so far seems to have sprung from that fountainhead of evil.”

  Yousif stood by his two friends and listened. Salwa’s parents were among the mourners, looking ashen. But where was Salwa? Why hadn’t she come? He hadn’t seen her in a few days and he had so much to tell her. Half listening to his teacher eulogizing George Mutran, Yousif turned around, still hoping to see her. He saw his father, dressed in black topcoat, standing with Dr. Afifi, away from the open grave. His face was taut and gray.

  Standing at the graveside was the victim’s mother, supported by two grim men: her brother and one of her cousins. Her black dress contrasted sharply with her pale, waxen skin. She was so frail that when Yousif had first seen her spindly legs stumbling toward the grave, he had felt a sharp pain in his chest. They should have spared her and left her home, he had said to himself. Now she was leaning against her brother’s shoulder, her wispy gray hair and sunken glazed eyes making her look like a ghost. The poor woman needed a chair, Yousif thought, checking the tears in his own eyes.

  “You made a mistake with me, God,” the bereaved mother cried. “You picked the wrong man. My son is too good to die a vicious death. And now they won’t even let me see his face. I want to see him one more time. I just want to see him.” She started to throw herself over the casket, but her brother and cousin held her back.

  Her pathetic outburst caused many women to shriek. Even men couldn’t help but reach for their handkerchiefs.

  Again Yousif’s eyes fell on his father. During the commotion, the doctor was stealthily receding into the background. Yousif saw him move toward Moshe Sha’lan. Moshe was on the outer fringe of the mourners, standing with Selim Rihani, who owned a store next to his. Yousif did not know what to make of it, but he intended to find out.

  Yousif made his way to where the doctor and Moshe were now whispering. Moshe was nodding when barrel-chested Shukri Mutran, a relative of the victim, spotted him and walked over.

  “You’ve got the nerve,” Shukri said, his small eyes boring into Moshe.

  “Why do you say that?” Moshe said, slightly shaken.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Moshe looked first at the relative, then at the doctor, bewildered. The doctor walked between the two men in an attempt to stop anything from starting.

  “I said what are you doing here?” the relative repeated.

  “Why not? Like everyone else, I’m—”

  “Don’t tell me you’re sorry for the dead.”

  “Of course I am.”

  “The hell you are. Your people killed him, didn’t they? And now you come to bury him. You kill a person and then walk in his funeral, is that it?”

  The merchant Selim Rihani and Yousif tried to quiet the angry relative. But the more they tried, the louder and angrier Shukri became. “Get out of here, Moshe,” the relative said. “Get out. And take your dirty son with you.”

  Shocked, Yousif had a hard time restraining himself. “What’s the matter with you, Shukri?” he said, gently laying his hand on the relative’s shoulder. “These are the nicest people.”

  “The hell with that,” Shukri interrupted, ready to fight. “They’re all dirty.”

  Yousif knew that if anything started, Shukri would become uncontrollable. Someone could get hurt. Luckily old man Rihani and Amin were able to walk the angry relative away.

  “Moshe, listen to me,” Dr. Safi said under his breath. “This man is a brute. You’ve heard of him. And the dead man is his first cousin. If I were you I’d slip out of here while he’s still calm. Go home and I’ll see you later.”

  “My God,” Moshe said, shaking his head. “You’d think I killed his cousin.”

  “Just do as I tell you,” the doctor advised. “Go on as if nothing has happened. Don’t let others see that you’re leaving. Don’t attract any attention.”

  “I understand. Come on, Isaac. We’re not wanted here.”

  Grim, the doctor squeezed Moshe’s arm. Isaac pulled away from his two friends and followed his father.

  “I’d better go with them, don’t you th
ink?” Yousif asked his father.

  “Good idea,” the doctor answered. “Take Amin with you.”

  The four left the cemetery unnoticed, and hardly spoke all the way home. The streets were deserted. They could have spoken without fear of being heard but were too stunned to talk. When they reached the Sha’lans’ house, thirty minutes later, Yousif and Amin followed them in without being invited. Both felt it was the proper thing to do. They sat in the living room, lost for words.

  Only ten-year-old Alex was there, baby-sitting for four-year-old Leah. Their mother was still at the cemetery.

  “Why aren’t you at the store, Papa?” Alex asked.

  Moshe picked up Leah and hugged her. “I have a headache,” he pretended.

  Alex seemed not convinced. “Are all the stores closed?”

  “If they’re not they ought to be,” his father answered, pressing Leah’s cheek to his. “This is a day of mourning.”

  Thirty minutes later, a car stopped in front of the house. Yousif looked out the window. It was his father’s Chrysler, out of which came Aunt Sarah, Isaac’s mother. She looked agitated and walked in briskly. At her heels was his father, looking somber.

  When they entered the living room, Moshe asked Isaac to take away his young brother and sister. Sarah sat by her husband, her hands in her lap. As soon as the children were gone, she burst out crying. Yousif felt as if someone gripped him by the throat. Blood seemed congested in his father’s face.

  “What’s the use?” the wife sobbed. “If that’s the way it’s going to be . . .”

  The doctor gritted his teeth and his lips twitched. “In a moment of anger anything can be said,” he reasoned. “We shouldn’t blow it out of proportion. Don’t misunderstand me, four-year-old Leah has more brains than Shukri.”

  Moshe crossed his legs and kept his arm around his wife. “I’m not holding it against him. If one of my relatives had been killed I’d be upset too. Shukri was angry at the killers—not me personally. They happened to be Jewish and I happened to be the first Jewish man he ran into.”

  The room was electrified with tension. Amin excused himself and left. The doctor wanted to leave too, but Sarah was making coffee and Moshe asked him to stay. When the coffee was served, five minutes later, they dismissed Shukri as inconsequential and concentrated on the victim’s mother. They agreed that all her life she had been an unfortunate woman.

  “With her only son gone,” the doctor said, knitting his forehead, “I don’t think she’ll live much longer.”

  “A broken heart is hard to heal,” Sarah said.

  They grieved for the old lady. Soon, Yousif felt numbed by a long sustained stillness. The rising wind caused the shutters to rattle and a whistle to pass through a broken windowpane.

  Unnerved, Sarah tidied the already neat living room. She moved from one sofa to another. She went to the kitchen and worked in spurts. She sent the children back to the bedroom against their wishes. Once, Yousif heard her speak to Isaac in the hallway, her voice low. Immediately, Isaac opened the door and left.

  Minutes later Isaac returned with a sack full of falafel sandwiches. He served the guests first, then his father. His mother was soon to follow with a tray of hot tea. Suddenly, the room became alive.

  “Before you sit down, Isaac,” his father said, “turn that damn thing off.”

  “The news will be on in five minutes,” Isaac said, unwrapping his food.

  “I don’t want to hear any news. I’ve got a headache already.” Then he turned and looked at the doctor. “I’m sorry. Perhaps you want to . . .”

  The doctor shook his head, taking a bite. “That’s all right. I’ll listen to it later. Let’s eat in peace.”

  Isaac walked to the radio set and turned it off. Then he went back to his seat. The four men ate and sipped tea in silence. The mother sat with her hands folded in her lap.

  Suddenly the room was showered with exploding bullets. Their cups, saucers, and plates crashed to the floor. The half-dressed children ran out of their bedroom screaming. All of them, including Yousif, found themselves stretched flat on the floor, hiding under tables and behind sofas.

  “Papa . . .” Alex cried.

  Little Leah was hysterical. She clung to her father, the bottom half of her pajama in her hand.

  “Get down, lie on the floor,” their father warned.

  Mother and father held the two children protectively, crouched in corners, and waited for the danger to end. Glass, plaster, and food were all over the wet floor. There was a row of pockmarks on the wall facing them. Yousif felt a sharp pain in his knee. Bending over, he saw a large shrapnel lodged in his kneecap. Slowly he pulled it out, cringing. His eyes fell on his father. There he was on his hands and knees, his eyeglasses ready to fall off the tip of his nose. And there were the Sha’lans, prostrated at the other end of the room.

  “Get out of town, Moshe,” a man outside shouted. “This time we came to warn you, next time we’ll come to kill you.”

  Yousif strained his ears to recognize the man’s gruff voice.

  “I can’t place him,” Yousif whispered to his father.

  “Sshhhh,” the doctor cautioned. “Let him talk.”

  But the man on the street did not speak again. Instead, he underscored his threat with another bullet. It hit a picture of Moshe’s bearded father, which was hanging on the left wall. More glass flew everywhere. Moshe’s hand cupped Leah’s mouth, for she seemed about to scream.

  They waited for the attacker to speak again, but he didn’t. Nor did he fire any more bullets. They did not know whether he was still there or not.

  “Whoever you are, you ought to be ashamed of yourself,” the doctor goaded him.

  “How would you like to have your tires slashed, Doctor?” the man answered. “First the tires, then your neck, if you keep their company.”

  “I recognize your voice,” the doctor bluffed, exchanging glances with Yousif. “If I were you I’d go away.”

  Two more bullets whizzed into the room, grazing the top of a sofa and knocking off a lamp stand. The shade fell on top of Leah and she filled the room with a terrified scream. Yousif was glad the lamp had not been lit when it was broken in half.

  “Next time that baby won’t be able to open her mouth,” the attacker warned.

  Crouching under the table, Yousif knew the full meaning of helplessness. What could he do now? he asked himself. Could he stand up to that armed man in the street and tell him he was firing at the wrong house? Of course not. He felt humiliated.

  After ten minutes more of silence, they got up. The doctor felt a cramp in his right leg, and had a difficult time straightening his back. Isaac went inside and Yousif could hear him groping in the dark. He returned with a kerosene lamp whose bluish light shed ominous shadows in the room. Isaac placed the light on a small table in the foyer, then picked up little Leah from his mother’s lap. She began to cry again.

  Moshe inhaled a lungful of breath, expelling it in a deep sigh. In spite of his age and strong physique, he seemed as terrified as the baby Leah who was afraid of the dark.

  “I think you ought to go home with us tonight,” the doctor suggested.

  All eyes fell on him, not comprehending.

  “I’m not going to leave you here alone,” the doctor added. “Come and spend the night with us.”

  The suggestion seemed to deepen Sarah’s anguish. Her hand went up to her mouth. If the doctor was frightened for them, her look seemed to say, then perhaps they were in bigger danger than she had imagined.

  “There’s no need,” Moshe said.

  “I think it’s a great idea,” Yousif agreed, wishing he had thought of it first.

  Moshe shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said, looking at his wife.

  The doctor rose to his feet, confident. “It’s a big house. We’d enjoy each other’s company. What do you think, Isaac?”

  “It’s okay with me,” Isaac replied, rocking Leah.

  “Good,” the doctor
said. “Get your pajamas, all of you. And let’s go.”

  Yousif was delighted. He looked at Isaac’s parents. They looked relieved. Perhaps, their expression seemed to say, spending the night at the doctor’s house might not be a bad idea after all.

  Fifteen minutes later, the doctor and his son returned home with their guests. They were all bundled in their winter clothes. Yousif’s mother, who met them at the door, was surprised to see them all come together. What seemed strange to her wasn’t so much that they had come unannounced, but that Isaac was carrying a suitcase.

  “We came to spend the night with you,” Aunt Sarah said, her round face flushed.

  “Ahlan wa sahlan,” Yasmin said, extending a welcoming hand. The two women kissed.

  Yasmin took Leah from her father’s arms. “You came to spend the night with Aunt Yasmin?” she asked, her face brightening. She kissed the children and greeted Moshe and Isaac with a warm handshake.

  While everybody was settling in, the doctor walked to the phone and began dialing. Moments later, Yousif heard him talking to the mayor.

  “First Shukri acting smart at the cemetery, and then the shooting,” the doctor said, outraged. “Yes, I was at their house when it happened. So was my son. He even got a cut on his knee.”

  Yousif was surprised that he had to be reminded of that. The cut was so small he didn’t think his father would even mention it.

  They were still standing in the living room. Yasmin had to put little Leah down and then look at her son’s knee.

  “You didn’t tell me,” she said, worried.

  Yousif felt embarrassed. “It’s nothing,” he said.

  “You ought to call an emergency meeting,” the doctor continued on the phone. “I doubt that Shukri was involved in tonight’s shooting, but I can’t swear to it. The man who spoke didn’t sound like him. Whether or not he put somebody else up to do his dirty work is something for us to look into. In any case, we cannot allow this sort of thing to happen. The word must go out that such bullying will not be tolerated. Otherwise we’ll have bloodshed on our hands long before the real war starts. And they certainly picked on the wrong man. I don’t know about the rest of the Jews in Palestine, but if any of them is half as good as Moshe Sha’lan and his family then by God no one had better go near them.”