“You’ve got to start with something,” he objected, his white beard trembling. “That’s all we’ve got. And it will have to do for the time being. As the proverb says, you stretch your legs according to the size of your mattress.”
The doctor glared at the old man. Yousif suspected that his father wanted to remind this old goat that they needed the hospital for the express purpose of stopping the likes of him from costing the Amins of Ardallah their arms. Luckily, his father kept quiet.
“Common sense will tell you that,” Uncle Boulus agreed.
“Boulus!” the doctor said, annoyed. “Are you suggesting I lack common sense?”
“That’s not what I meant,” Uncle Boulus apologized.
“It’s a waste of time, Abu Khalil,” the doctor said. “And a waste of money, if I may add.”
“Money, he says,” the emaciated former mayor said, shocked. “Who cares about money at a time like this? We’re talking about lives, Doctor. Lives.”
“It will take money to save lives,” the doctor pressed. “If all the Arab armies combined don’t pitch in now, the little money we have will go down the drain.”
“Hell, we agree with you a hundred percent,” said a chainsmoking Abu Nassri. “But we must get out of the hole we’re in. We’ve got families to protect.”
“We should’ve thought of that long ago.”
“It’s never too late,” ustaz Sa’adeh said.
“It will be worse tomorrow,” the feisty Abu Khalil warned. “Even at my age I’ll fight. Just hand me a gun.”
No one laughed. Fatima appeared at the door with a large tray of Arabic coffee. Yousif got up to take it from her. Tradition dictated that coffee should be served according to age, but Yousif was in no mood to guess who was older. He served the emaciated former mayor, then the incumbent mayor and then went around the room. Gloom seemed to descend on them, as they all sipped their demitasse cups without speaking.
It was the doctor who broke the silence. “I’ll tell you what we should do.”
Everybody looked up, curious.
“Let’s leave the hospital money alone and start another fund,” the doctor suggested. “And I’ll put up the first hundred pounds.” He reached for his hip pocket and took out his wallet.
“That’s a good idea,” said Badr Khalifeh, the youngest councilman.
“Hell no, it’s not,” said Jiryes Abdu, removing his thick, horn-rimmed glasses. “We don’t have time.”
“People are terrified,” objected the lame councilman, Ayoub Salameh.
“I have another idea,” Yousif offered, raising his voice above the rest.
They all perked their ears. Before speaking, Yousif got up and cracked the window to let the cigarette smoke out.
“Why not form a delegation and start a dialogue with the Jews?” Yousif asked. “We have intelligent people. They have intelligent people. Why not talk? Words are better than bullets.”
Some men shifted in their chairs, unimpressed. A woman could be heard yelling at her child and then spanking him. The child’s scream filled the air.
The house painter, Yacoub, smacked his lips. “I thought you had something to say.”
But Yousif stood his ground. “One can always fight. But first let’s try talking to them. I don’t think the average Jew likes what’s happening. We lived together like good neighbors. They were happy. We were happy. Why can’t we go on just like before?”
Yousif could tell his father was proud of him. But the two avoided each other’s eyes.
“You seem to have a short memory,” said Lutfi Khayyat, a round-faced bank manager. “Didn’t your friend Isaac come back with a gun? The outsiders have gotten to the local Jews. They’ve changed. We can’t talk to them now.”
“But we haven’t tried,” Yousif said. “Have we?”
“What do you want us to do,” the bank manager asked, “put a full-page ad in all the newspapers here and abroad—in New York, London, Paris—and ask for a PEACE conference?”
“Maybe we’ll be surprised.”
Most of the men shrugged their shoulders. Several turned their backs on him and started talking to each other.
“If a war breaks out,” Yousif argued, “both sides—”
“If a war breaks out?” the lame councilman mocked. “Hell, what do you think this is? A soccer game? Grow up, boy.”
The doctor sat at the edge of his chair, his back stiff. “Yousif is not a boy,” he insisted. “We’ll all be a whole lot better off if we listen to what he has to say.”
“It’s juvenile,” someone blasted.
“It’s not juvenile,” the doctor defended.
There was a short but tense pause.
“Much, much too late,” Yacoub said. “The enemy is baring his teeth. We need arms. Now.”
The doctor pursed his lips. “Then you’d better get you a war chest. Fighting them with the hospital money is like treating cerebral hemorrhage with aspirin.”
“Agreed,” said left-handed Nicola Awad, the cabinet maker. “But time is running out.”
Yousif pulled his chair forward and raised his voice. “Let’s be honest. Have we exhausted all peaceful means? Frankly, I don’t think so.”
“Sure we have,” said Jiryes Abdu. “We offered to live in one country, but they said no. They want a separate Jewish state. Where will that be if not on your land and my land and his land?”
“I’m talking people-to-people,” Yousif insisted. “Have we tried to work with the tens of thousands of Jews like the Sha’lans? I’m sure they don’t want war any more than we do.”
Their looks froze him in place.
“What is it with him?” Jiryes asked, leaning toward Yacoub.
“He’s dreaming,” Yacoub answered, shaking his head.
Some of the men began to shift in their seats. Finding no solace in the grim faces around him, Yousif’s eyes fell on the two-layered curtains before him. The ecru-colored sheer behind the white, hand-made lace—which his mother had commissioned the nuns of the Sacred Heart to crochet for her—displayed a scene that for a moment caught his attention. Silhouetted against the window were gracefully-winged cherubim playing the trumpets.
“There are fifteen men in this room,” the doctor said, winding his wrist watch. “I offered to put up a hundred pounds to start a new fund. I raise it to two hundred. Come on, match it. There are at least three thousand families in this town. If every family would come up with twenty pounds, we’d have a lot more money than we’re arguing about.”
“Some people can’t afford it,” someone protested.
“Okay, let them come up with whatever they can afford. And don’t forget that there are many who can give a lot more. That will solve the problem.”
“But that’s not the issue,” the mayor insisted, his face flushed. “The hospital money doesn’t belong to you.”
Yousif was surprised at his Uncle Boulus, expecting him to come to his father’s defense. Uncle Boulus must’ve read his mind. He put his masbaha away and accepted a cigarette from a packet Yacoub was passing around.
“In all fairness,” Uncle Boulus said. “The doctor isn’t exactly pocketing the money. He’s safeguarding it for the good of the community.”
“Still,” the mayor argued. “We made a mistake when we didn’t elect a board of directors.”
Soon they were engulfed in a fresh round of arguments.
Before long Uncle Boulus threw up his hands. “Give them the money, for Christsake, and be done with it. After the war, we’ll see—.”
“That’s just it,” the doctor interjected. “I’m not going to wait and see. After the war people will have all kinds of excuses not to pay. Then I won’t be able to raise a shilling.”
“If we lose the war, who cares?” ustaz Sa’adeh asked, slapping his own knee with the rolled English newspaper.
“I care,” the doctor told him, his wallet still in hand. “People will get sick then just as they do now—only worse.”
Again,
a heavy silence filled the room.
“Put your wallet back in your pocket, Doctor, we don’t need your money,” councilman Ayoub Salameh, with the wooden leg, said very slowly. “But wait until every woman in town comes knocking on your door. I’m going to organize a demonstration against you, so help me God.”
All eyes looked at the handicapped man and then at the doctor.
The doctor looked tired. “Don’t threaten me.”
“And if that doesn’t work,” Ayoub Salameh continued, his small black eyes unblinking and his voice raspy, “we’re going to drag you to court and smear your name with mud.”
“You’re still threatening,” the doctor said.
“Damn right, I’m threatening, and I’m going to threaten more,” the man shouted, reaching for his cane. “This is war, Doctor, not a crisis. Keep your filthy money and your Goddamn wisdom and I’ll show you.”
The salon was now in an uproar. Someone inadvertently knocked a small serving table. Cups and saucers tumbled to the floor, spilling coffee on the Tabriez rug. The men began to leave, some reticent, some vocal—but all unhappy.
“Read this,” ustaz Sa’adeh said to Yousif, handing him the English newspaper. “And then give it to your father.”
“Anything in particular?” Yousif asked, still reeling from the commotion.
“You’ll know,” the principal said and left.
Like a good host, Yousif walked out with the guests. On the veranda he felt a hand tapping his shoulder. It was the mayor.
“Do you know where Basim is?” the mayor asked, unwrapping a new cigar.
“No, sir,” Yousif said.
“He’s the only who can convince your father.”
“Probably.”
The mayor squinted his eyes. “I admire a boy who’s true to his blood. But if you really love your father you ought to work on him. He’s got to change his mind.”
Yousif appreciated the mayor’s speaking to him as an adult. But because they were standing a few inches from each other, and because the man was reeking with the smell of cigars, Yousif found himself backing away.
“I still think he has a valid point,” Yousif said.
“People are scared. That massacre woke them up.”
Yousif nodded.
“There’s no reason to split Ardallah at a time like this,” the mayor pressed.
The other men at the bottom of the steps seemed impatient. By look and gesture they were telling the mayor to hurry up. But Yousif wanted to have one more word with him.
“Have you thought about—”
“What?” the mayor interrupted.
“—getting together with Arab and Jewish mayors to see what could be done?”
The mayor’s large hazel eyes became moored. “What Jewish mayors?” he asked. “There aren’t any—except the one in Tel Aviv. Their colonies don’t have mayors, per se. Damn it, that’s the whole point. We’re the overwhelming majority and they want to take over.”
In reply, Yousif tried to be diplomatic. “Wouldn’t you like to go down in history as a man who tried? As a man of peace?”
The mayor scrutinized his face. “You know, I really think you’re serious about all this drivel.”
“It is not drivel.”
Someone blew his horn for the mayor to hurry up. But the mayor took his time. Yousif could tell the man’s facial muscles and hazel eyes were suddenly relaxed.
“When I heard about your tantrum after that boy Isaac was killed,” the mayor said, “I wondered what kind of a milksop you’d turn out to be. I judged you wrong. Now you strike me as a sincere young man. I disagree with you—but I admire your courage.”
Yousif stood on the veranda until he saw the mayor’s car backing all the way out. Then he went inside, heading toward his bedroom. He threw himself on his bed and opened the newspaper ustaz Sa’adeh had given him. It was the New York Times, dated April 10, 1948. One of the headlines read:
200 ARABS KILLED, STRONGHOLD TAKEN
JERUSALEM, April 9—A combined force of the Irgun Zvai Leumi and the Stern group, Jewish extremist underground forces, captured the Arab village of Deir Yasin in the western outskirts of Jerusalem today. In house-to-house fighting the Jews killed more than 200 Arabs, half of them women and children.
At the same time a Haganah counter-attack three miles away drove an Arab force, estimated by the Haganah at 2,500 men, out of the strategic village of Kastal on a hill overlooking the Jerusalem-Tel Aviv convoy road. This village was captured after a six-hour fight during which it repeatedly changed hands. The Jews, who first seized Kastal last Saturday, had been forced out yesterday.
The battle at Kastal was old news by now. Yousif’s eyes scanned the newspaper column looking for more information about the massacre.
The capture of Deir Yasin, situated on a hill overlooking the birthplace of John the Baptist, marked the first cooperative effort since 1942 between the Irgun and Stern groups, although the Jewish Agency for Palestine does not recognize these terrorist groups. Twenty men of the Agency’s Haganah militia reinforced fifty-five Irgunists and forty-five Sternists who seized the village.
The engagement marked the formal entry of the Irgunists and Sternists into the battle against the Arabs. Previously both groups had concentrated against the British.
In addition to killing more than 200 Arabs, they took forty prisoners.
The Jews carried off some seventy women and children who were turned over later to the British Army in Jerusalem.
Victors Describe Battle
The Irgunists and Sternists escorted a party of United States correspondents to a house at Givat Shaul, near Deir Yasin, tonight and offered them tea and cookies and amplified the details of the operation.
Yousif was mortified. “. . . and offered them tea and cookies . . .” he read again, incredulous. Had man sunk this low! Tea and cookies after such an atrocity? But he read on:
The spokesman said that the village had become a concentration point for the Arabs, including Syrians and Iraqis, planning to attack the western suburbs of Jerusalem. If, as he expected, the Haganah took over occupation of the village, it would help to cover the convoy route from the coast.
The spokesman said he regretted the casualties among the women and children at Deir Yasin but asserted that they were inevitable because almost every house had to be reduced by force. Ten houses were blown up. At others the attackers blew open the doors and threw in hand grenades.
One hundred men in four groups attacked at 4:30 in the morning, the spokesman said. The Irgunists wore uniforms of secret design and they used automatic weapons and rifles.
An Arabic-speaking Jew, the spokesman said, shouted over a loudspeaker from an armored car used in the attack, that the Arab women and children should take refuge in the caves. Some of them, he said, did so.
Yousif closed his eyes, unable to read further. His heart was wrenched. How could he be a pacifist after reading such an account? Still, he didn’t believe war was the answer. What in God’s name should he do? Suddenly he jumped up and rushed to the living room, where his father was still fiddling with the radio dials.
“Read this,” Yousif said, handing him the newspaper.
The doctor seemed startled. “What’s it about?” he asked, his tie loosened.
“Tea and cookies,” Yousif answered, sitting in the opposite armchair.
The doctor eyed him suspiciously. Ten minutes later, their eyes met. Yousif kept his eyes on his father, but the doctor turned his head away, absorbed.
“Premeditated mass murder,” the doctor finally said, the newspaper rustling in his hands.
“The details aren’t nearly as graphic as those we heard from the Red Cross and British observers,” Yousif said.
“What do you expect from the Western press?” the doctor said. “I’m surprised they wrote that much.”
“Nothing about the rapes and mutilations. Nothing about the wells they dumped the victims in.”
The doctor nodded, pouting.
“Nothing is new under the sun and nothing will remain hidden under the sun. Sooner or later it will all come out.”
“Sooner or later you’ll have to give up the hospital money,” Yousif said.
“I will not.”
“It would be a pity if you did, but I’m afraid fear is mounting.”
“Mark my word,” the doctor said, the stem of his pipe resting on his cheek, “if I gave them the money they’d go bang-bang-bang for about a week and nothing would be accomplished. I’m sorry to say this, but it’s true. I know our people. What this country needs is schools, hospitals, roads—not another war. Of course the Jews aren’t helping matters any with their insistence on a separate Jewish state. If you ask me, both sides are foolish. The winner will be a loser.”
“That’s beside the point,” Yousif said, his right leg jerking.
The doctor remained stern. “Can you forget Isaac’s murder?
“No I can’t.”
“And you never will,” his father told him. “What you see with your own eyes stays with you. Do you understand? It stays with you. Well, there’s a scene I’ll never forget . . .”
It was going to be a long story, Yousif could tell. But he was willing to listen.
“As you know,” the doctor said, “when I was your age I was drafted into the Turkish army. I fought in World War I against the English. Toward the end of the war—about a year after my mother was brutally—”
The doctor seemed unable to finish the sentence. Then he got up, motioning for Yousif to follow. They walked through the house and Yousif could hear his mother talking on the phone to his grandparents in Jerusalem. Yousif and his father finally stood on the western veranda. It was a balmy night. The lights of Jaffa were like a million jewels scattered by the sea. In the distance they could hear muffled sounds of guns. But from the garden immediately below they could smell the roses.
“See that hill?” the doctor said, pointing his finger. “Just beyond it there’s a huge field that becomes swampy during winter. In the summer of 1917, the British were winning but the Turks refused to surrender. And in that open field the two sides pitched a fierce battle: face to face, hand to hand. Luckily, I was fighting on the other side of Jaffa at the time, but they brought us here to bury the dead. What I saw there with my own eyes I’ll never forget as long as I live.”
On the Hills of God Page 31