Isaac and his parents sat in the living room. The doctor’s words seemed to deepen their sorrow, for they looked at each other, their faces clouded.
“No, I don’t think we ought to wait till tomorrow. See if you can hold one tonight. You know where to find them. They’ll all be at the victim’s house. Send your chauffeur and round them up. No, I’m not going. I have Moshe and his family with us. They’re with us right now. I wasn’t about to leave them all alone when a thug is roaming the streets. By the way, do you want to call Captain Malloy or shall I do it? It’ll be better coming from you. Good. Let me hear from you. I’m going nowhere.”
The Sha’lans felt at home, for Yousif and his parents tried their best to make them feel welcome. It was natural for the mothers to help each other in the kitchen. It was natural for the doctor, in his own reserved way, to be hospitable. But Yousif had never seen his father fill up two glasses of whiskey without asking his guest whether he wanted to drink. Nor had Yousif ever seen his father pick up a child and play with her, as he picked up round-faced Leah that night and sat her on his knee.
“He must’ve been a hoodlum,” the doctor said, reaching for the glass of whiskey. “No one in his right mind would think of you as a Zionist.”
“I certainly thought so,” Moshe replied, lighting a cigarette. “And I’m not the only Jew who feels this way. Many of us are anti-Zionist—including the most pious Jews in Jerusalem.”
“Why is that?” Yousif asked, curious. “Why are they opposed to the Zionists? On what grounds?”
“On Jewish grounds,” Moshe answered, taking a sip.
Yousif was fascinated. “I don’t understand,” he said.
“Zionism is a form of nationalism.”
“Not a religious movement?” Yousif pressed.
“Not really. At least it wasn’t at the beginning. It’s based on politics and economics and so on. The Zionists want a state like everybody else and they want a flag like everybody else and they want an army like everybody else. The pious Jews think this is contrary to prophesy. They don’t think the Messiah is going to come to a state with an air force and a prime minister. He’s going to come to a community of believers . . . a community of the faithful.”
This was news to Yousif. “Do these Orthodox Jews believe a Jewish state would prevent the Messiah’s coming?” he asked.
“Something like that,” Moshe answered.
The next question preyed on Yousif’s mind. “Do you consider yourself a pious Jew?”
The doctor put Leah down and looked at his son, irritated. “What kind of a question is that?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . .” Yousif said, embarrassed.
“I don’t mind,” Moshe interrupted. And then turning to Yousif, he said: “To tell the truth, I don’t know. I believe in the ten commandments, because I believe in God and I don’t steal and I don’t covet anybody’s wife. You know the rest. My philosophy in life is simple. It’s entirely based on the principle of live and let live. Oh, I observe certain holidays and I go through certain rituals but this seems to be out of upbringing . . . out of tradition, if you know what I mean.”
“The same with us,” the doctor said, as a way of apologizing for his son’s impoliteness.
“Whether this makes me pious or unpious, I don’t know,” Moshe added, smiling. “That’s up to God to decide.”
Fatima entered the room, announced in advance by the rustling of her ankle-length dress. She placed before them a bowl of hummus, a dish of turnipgreen pickles, and a basket full of freshly baked bread.
Yousif picked up Leah and put her in his lap. She clasped her arms around his neck. He hugged her back, and continued to listen.
“There’s something you may not know,” the doctor said to Isaac. “Did you know that you and Yousif nursed from the same breast?”
Isaac nodded his head. “You mean Aunt Yasmin’s?” he asked.
“Yes,” the doctor replied. “She nursed both of you. Not once or twice, but for over a month. So in a sense you’re brothers.”
“Brothers, indeed!” Moshe said, clasping his hands as if to bemoan the changing tide.
At the dinner table, where spaghetti, salad, white cheese, and bread were served, they talked about the two unfortunate incidents. There were long pauses, quivering sighs, and a collective hope for peace. Eventually the subject of nursing came up again. The two mothers, the men recalled, had had their babies a few days apart and had breastfed them. Two weeks after Isaac was born his maternal grandmother was murdered.
“Murdered how?” Yousif asked, his fork in mid-air.
The parents did not seem eager to discuss the subject, lest it offend Sarah, Isaac’s mother. They all waited for a signal from her.
“No one knew,” Sarah said, her hands under the table. “Seventeen years later and we still don’t know. It could’ve been a number of things.”
“Did you suspect an Arab extremist?” Yousif inquired.
“We did,” she admitted, nodding. “We even suspected a Zionist.”
“A Zionist! Murdering one of his own people?”
“In those days,” she said, “political troubles were just stirring. A hot-headed Zionist could’ve done it as a warning for the rest of us. Those who came from Europe looked for ways to stop us from mixing with the Arabs.”
Her husband nodded. “They looked for any kind of provocation. That’s how they attracted attention to their cause. That’s how they stayed in the news. It was mainly for publicity. And for fund raising. They kept the pot boiling to further their political aims.”
Yousif turned to Aunt Sarah. “Obviously they didn’t scare you.”
“Nor did they scare my mother, God rest her soul. The more they pushed us the more we resisted.”
There was a pause.
“In any case,” Yousif’s mother said, anxious to relieve her guest from telling the rest of the story, “because Sarah’s whole body—her whole system—was so terribly upset, her milk soured. Isaac threw up constantly. The midwife and the other older women in the neighborhood advised her not to nurse him for a while. That was when I offered to nurse him along with you.” She reached for Isaac’s hand and squeezed it affectionately.
“For nearly two months,” Sarah remembered.
Were those days gone forever? Yousif thought. All signs pointed to a drastic change. He looked at Isaac, wondering what he was thinking.
“In Jerusalem,” the doctor said, reaching for a piece of white cheese, “there used to be a tradition among Jews and Muslims. Children of both faiths who were born on the same day were breastfed by both mothers. And they used to take this relationship very seriously. They exchanged gifts and so on.”
“But in the late twenties,” Moshe explained, “that was the first thing the Zionists stopped. They didn’t want the two communities to mingle.”
The conversation centered on the past as though memories were balsam to their wounds. They recalled the good and bad times in Ardallah. In the old days, however, bad times had always been borne in stride. Now survival was at stake. Like a man digging and sifting through his tangled life to find himself, Moshe recalled his father’s emigration to Palestine.
Again, Yousif was the interrogator. “Where did he come from?”
“Originally my family came out of Spain,” Moshe reminisced, putting his fork down and reaching for a pack of cigarettes. “They migrated to Turkey during the Inquisition.”
The women began to clear the table and Moshe sent his son Alex for an ashtray.
“But the Sultan who ruled at the time,” Moshe continued, “was no less cruel than the Spanish Catholics. He killed at whim.”
“Only Jews?” Isaac asked, chewing.
“Oh, no,” Moshe said. “He killed anybody he didn’t like or who happened to disagree with him. But I guess he had a special hatred for Jews because he killed a great number of them. One boatload of Jewish immigrants would be slaughtered on arrival, another would be left alone.”
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p; “It depended on how the Sultan felt that day,” the doctor added.
“More or less,” Moshe agreed. “My family happened to be among the lucky ones. Whether or not our luck will continue remains to be seen.”
“It’s dangerous for us, too,” Yousif said. “Wouldn’t you say, Father?”
The doctor leaned on his elbow, nodding. “It bodes ill for all of us.”
The room relapsed into silence.
“The trouble is,” Yousif said, crossing his arms, “nothing is being done to stop the disaster from happening.”
All those in the room looked at him, surprised.
“It’s true,” Yousif added. “Ordinary people like us are abdicating their power.”
“What power?” his father asked incredulously. “This country is not independent. You know that. It hasn’t been for centuries. Real power is in the hands of foreigners: first the Turks, then the British, then—who knows! There’s no autonomy in sight for Palestine.”
“It’s about time there should be,” Yousif argued.
“Fine,” his father agreed, “but first let’s get the British out and stop the partition plan from being implemented. Then we can talk about self-government, maybe even democracy.”
“I disagree,” Yousif said. “People must assert themselves now and become involved now, otherwise it will be too late to save the country.”
Curious silence fell all over them.
“What do you have in mind?” Moshe said, puffing on his cigarette.
“Moderate Arabs and Jews,” Yousif began, “should band together and let their voices be heard.”
“How? By shouting it from the highest steeple?” his father asked.
“Not exactly. But something like that.”
“It won’t work.”
“How do you know it won’t work? Here we are six months away from war and all we do is worry.”
Yousif realized that he knew nothing about theories and ideologies and political machinations. Yet from the depth of his soul he was convinced that the Arabs and Jews who had been friendly neighbors for centuries would not want to disrupt their lives and see their country in shreds.
The doctor seemed deep in thought. “I admire your zeal,” he said, holding a glass of water. “But you’re very young, and I’m afraid it’s more complex than you think.”
Yousif was not ready to be dismissed. “By myself I can do nothing,” he explained, pushing his dirty plate away. “One hand cannot clap, I know that much. But two hands can clap. Thousands of hands can create a roar. All of us together can prevent the chopping up of our country.”
The two fathers exchanged glances, their brows lifted.
“Let’s start now,” Yousif resumed. “Let’s stage hunger strikes. Exercise civil disobedience. Let’s charter a plane and fly a hundred children to the United Nations. Let the world hear it from the mouths of these children: that the decent, average citizens of this country, both Arabs and Jews, don’t wish to have their country divided. “
“Behold! A sage!” said Moshe, forcing a smile. Then turning to the doctor, he added, “I think we have another Gandhi.”
The two fathers seemed desperate for a bright moment. A tremor of shock swept through Yousif as he heard them chuckle. In that chuckle he could hear the crack of doom.
“Why not another Gandhi?” Isaac said, defending his friend. “Yousif has good ideas. Don’t make fun of him.”
“I apologize, Yousif.” Moshe said, still smiling.
“Gandhi himself was once a teenager,” Isaac said. “And he was foresighted enough to take on mighty Britain.”
The doctor shook his head, struck a match, and applied it to his pipe. “Not in his teens,” he said, his pipe clenched between his teeth.
“I wasn’t suggesting . . .” Yousif huffed.
“In any case,” the doctor continued, “there’s no turning around now.”
“Father!” Yousif protested. “Will you stop being such a pessimist?”
Genuine concern flickered on the doctor’s face. “The die is cast, son, believe me.”
The telephone rang, cutting the silence like a razor blade. Yousif started to answer it, but the doctor said it was for him.
Momentarily, they heard the doctor speaking to the mayor again. “All right. I’ll be there.”
The doctor returned to the dining room, his coat in hand. It had stopped raining but his wife was standing behind him, ready to hand him an umbrella.
“Feel at home,” the doctor said, buttoning himself. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Moshe expelled his breath. “We’ve caused you too much trouble.”
“Had the shoe been on the other foot,” the doctor said, “you would’ve done the same for us.”
Yousif walked his father to the door. A gust of cold December wind blew in, yet he knew it was going to be a hot winter.
Yasmin and Fatima were busy changing the bed sheets and making last-minute arrangements for the Sha’lans’ comfort.
“Come on, Alex,” Isaac said. “Time to go to bed.”
“Promise you won’t leave us,” Alex whimpered.
“I promise,” Isaac assured him.
“But you will leave us,” Leah said, sniffling. “I know you will.”
“I promise I won’t.”
For several minutes, Yousif and the parents sat in thickening gloom, expecting another danger to spring at them.
“Strange,” Sarah seemed to remember, brushing back her hair. “Didn’t the neighbors hear the shots? I baked bread with Imm Ribhi this afternoon. You’d think she or her husband would ask if any of us got hurt.”
“Maybe their windows were closed,” Moshe said through lips that seemed glued together.
“My God!” his wife exclaimed. “They live next door. They’d have to be deaf not to have heard. Have we come to this?”
A Jew, Yousif reflected, was supposed to be wily, crafty, even cunning. So the story went. Instead, the two human beings who sat in his living room were no more capable of scheming than were his parents. Moshe had his fingers spread on his knees, and Sarah was massaging the back of her neck. In the next room their children were frightened to death. At that moment, he felt particularly proud of what his father was doing on their behalf.
“What are we going to do, Moshe?” Sarah asked, hugging a pillow.
“I don’t know,” her husband answered, gritting his teeth. “We’ll have to wait and see. We might have to move out.”
“Out where?” she demanded.
“Just out,” Moshe told her. “The world is wide. There must be room for us somewhere.”
“We’ve been here for years, Moshe. We belong here.”
“So do the Arabs.”
“There’s room for both of us. Don’t you think, Yousif?”
“Of course,” Yousif answered.
“Unfortunately,” Moshe said, “it’s not up to you two.”
Their uneasiness deepened. Yousif could only imagine what was going on in their minds. Sarah got up and moved to the sofa and sat next to Yousif, the small white handkerchief in her nervous hand fluttering. “You’re a sensible young man. Tell us. What would you do if you were in our place?”
Yousif recoiled from the question.
“Nothing makes sense anymore,” he finally said, wishing he had a better answer. “Maybe in the future . . .”
“Future? I’m talking about right now.”
It hurt Yousif to say what he was thinking. “Would you consider . . .”
“What?” she interrupted, with a flicker of veiled suspicion.
“. . . going away? At least until the hostilities blow over.”
“Go where?” she asked, her eyes focused on him.
Yousif felt awful, and wished he hadn’t opened his mouth. “I only meant . . .”
“You meant well, I know,” she told him, touching his hand. “But these are not hostilities. This is war—declared or undeclared, I don’t care. It could drag on for months.”
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br /> She put her head in her hands and began to sob.
“Shhhh,” Moshe said, moving next to her and putting his arm around her waist. “The children might hear you, remember?”
With a lump in his throat, Yousif turned his head away as he saw Moshe taste the salt of his wife’s tears.
11
The following evening, Yousif stood on the western veranda and tried to start the brazier. But as soon as he added several new pieces of charcoal, doused them all with kerosene, and struck a light—it started to drizzle. It took six matches to get the fire going. For the next fifteen minutes, he fanned the brazier with a piece of cardboard. Then he spent another five minutes waiting for the smell to go away before he could take the kanoon inside.
All the while, Yousif tightened the wool scarf around his neck, listened to the rising wind, and thought about Isaac and his family, who had gone home that morning to repair their house. He doubted that they would be harassed again, now that his father had persuaded the mayor and the entire city council to look after them. But who could tell what would happen down the road? Would they end up leaving Ardallah? Where would they go? And for how long?
He carried the kanoon inside and handed it to Fatima at the door. Then he turned toward the kitchen. He was so hungry he couldn’t wait for his father to come home for supper. He took the lid off the pot on the stove and sampled a few steaming grape leaves.
The dinner table was set as soon as the doctor arrived, dripping wet. It was unusual for him to come home so late, but it seemed he had had a rough day and he looked gloomy. His wife helped him take off his black top coat. She reminded him that he owned two umbrellas and should always keep one in the office and one at home. Her husband did not seem to hear her. On his way to the dining room, the doctor complained about a house-call he had made shortly after five o’clock on a dying baby.
On the Hills of God Page 16