On the Hills of God

by Fawal, Ibrahim

  The hours of the night crept away. At midnight Yousif heard the town clock chime its twelve lingering strokes. His ears became sharpened enough to hear distant sounds. The wailing of a fox sailed up the mountain like a note of despair. Yousif wondered what kept the fox awake. He got up and moved about, looking down at the twisting highway. The headlights of a passing car shone like two eyes above a black veil.

  “It’s brisk,” said Omar Kilani, the most eligible bachelor in town. The suave forty-year-old man owned and operated the one store where every fashionable woman did her shopping. He was tall and dark with a smile that made Cary Grant’s look like a frown. Rumors had it that Omar could steal any bride from her groom—even at the altar. What was he doing there with a gun in his hand? His cuff links and tie clip sparkled in the moonlight.

  “Quite brisk,” Yousif agreed, proud to be in such company.

  The two stood on the cliff silently. Omar took out a package of cigarettes and offered him one. To Yousif, any gesture of acceptance was welcome. He hesitated a moment, then took one, hoping that Omar had not noticed his clumsiness. Both lit their cigarettes from Omar’s gold-leafed lighter. Yousif relished the new experience. He appreciated the definite, purposeful movement of Omar’s fingers, which flicked the lighter, cupped the flame, and then snapped it shut. Never had the act of lighting a cigarette seemed so meaningful, so artful. With his first cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, Yousif felt like an adult. But every now and then he would turn around to suppress a rising cough.

  “They must know we’re on guard,” Yousif said. “That’s why they’re not coming.”

  Omar flashed a smile. “Sooner or later they’ll be here.”

  “You think so?” Yousif asked, puffing.

  “I’m sure.”

  Each resumed pacing.

  Because the mountain was bare and the moon full, Yousif could see a long way down. He could see the vineyards, the olive orchards, and the gray stretches of barren land.

  Moments later Yousif thought he saw a man coming up the mountain. The man was only a couple of fields down. Yousif assumed that he was someone from Ardallah, coming to help. Then he realized that the man was coming from the wrong direction.

  “Who’s there?” Yousif asked, tensing.

  The man did not answer. A second later, the man made a quick movement and hid behind a stone wall. Yousif’s suspicions were confirmed. Before he could turn to tell the others, they were already beside him.

  “Behind that wall,” Yousif said, pointing his finger.

  “Are you sure?” Basim asked, taking the rifle from him and cocking it.

  “I saw him.”

  “Let’s wait,” Basim whispered. “The moment he moves we’ll see him. Go back to your places. We don’t want to be an easy target.”

  The men dispersed.

  “Watch out!” Basim called suddenly, throwing himself flat on the ground and pulling Yousif down with him. A hand grenade exploded about ten meters away. Had Basim not seen it coming, Yousif thought, they would have been both killed.

  Yousif was still sprawled on the ground when Basim got up and sprinted to the lower field, chasing the man who had thrown the hand grenade. Yousif scrambled to watch. The man ran into a high stone wall which he could not jump over but started to climb. He reached the top and got ready to jump. Basim took deadly aim and a single shot echoed throughout the valley. Yousif heard a painful shriek, saw the man’s hands fly away from his body which was plunging headlong.

  They waited for few minutes before they went down to inspect his body.

  “Eliyaho Slavinsky,” Basim announced, reading the dead man’s ID. “Look, here’s another grenade.”

  “Is he by himself?” Yousif asked, his eyes searching the hills.

  “I doubt it,” Basim told him, removing a pistol and a bandoleer off the corpse. “They sent him to scout the area.”

  “I see,” Yousif said. “Will they still come, now that they know the hill is guarded? They must’ve heard the shot.”

  “It depends on how strong they are,” Basim explained. “If they think they can overtake us, they won’t hesitate.”

  They started to walk up the hill, back to their positions.

  “What about him?” Yousif asked, pointing to the corpse. The Zionist had been hit in the neck. His head was almost severed, flesh torn open and bleeding, tongue sticking out, eyes frozen. This was the kind of brutality Yousif had expected—had feared. He wanted to vomit.

  “Let him rot,” Basim answered, stomping on the dead soldier’s fingers. “Here, take this. It’s a Colt .45. Not as heavy as a rifle.”

  Yousif refused. “I can’t believe you said that.”

  “What? That he should rot? Let me tell you something, big boy. He would’ve killed you in a second. And before he would’ve let you rot to hell, he would’ve beat the shit out of you, kicked your kidneys, and then sliced you up with his knife. Here, take this and start growing up.”

  Yousif accepted the dead man’s revolver. But there was something still gnawing at Yousif’s heart and he wanted to have it out with Basim. There was no sense holding a grudge.

  “Killing this yahudi is one thing,” Yousif told his cousin, “killing Isaac was something else, don’t you think?”

  Basim stopped abruptly and looked at Yousif, whose eyes were boring at him.

  “I see no difference,” Basim said. “An enemy is an enemy.”

  Yousif gnashed his teeth. “Isaac was a good yahudi. Not like the rest.”

  “Maybe,” Basim said, walking again. “But anyone who comes after me with a gun in his hand cannot be trusted.”

  “I would’ve trusted Isaac with my life,” Yousif said, walking behind him.

  “You’ll learn.”

  “He was like a brother to me. You could’ve saved him.”

  “Too late now.”

  “You let me down, Basim. You really did.”

  “You’ll get over it.”

  “No, damn it. I won’t.”

  Basim wheeled back and gazed at his younger cousin. “Listen, Yousif. A yahudi is a yahudi to the core. When it comes to Palestine, everyone of them is and will always be our enemy. Don’t ever be fooled by their tears or their smiles.”

  Before they reached the top, more gunshots opened up from below. Basim and Yousif spun around.

  “Damn!” Basim said, aghast. “Look at all those men. At least fifty.”

  Dark shadows of men were six or seven fields below. They would have been hard to recognize had they not moved. Quickly Basim hid behind a stone wall and started to fire back. So did the men on top of the hill. Yousif knelt down next to Basim. In the moment of danger he wanted to test whether or not he could shoot. But for the life of him he could not pull the trigger. Finally he gave up, knowing that it was not in him.

  During a pause Basim ran to the hill top, followed by Yousif.

  “Spread out,” Basim told his men, moving. “And aim well. We don’t have enough ammunition and this may be a long night. Also, look around the mountain slopes. Make sure we know all the directions they’re coming from.”

  “What do you think they’re after?” Costa asked.

  “These two hills,” he said, pointing, “control the road to the Jerusalem-Jaffa road. Maybe they’re trying to cut us off from Lydda and Ramleh. We’ll have to wait and see.”

  “Do you think they may be invading the other hill too?” Salah Shaaban asked.

  “Maybe,” Basim answered. “But Rassass and his men will do what we plan to do right here, give the bastards a lesson they’ll never forget.”

  Like the men around him, Yousif cocked his ear to determine whether the opposite hill was being simultaneously invaded. Basim walked briskly, checking all sides of the mountain.

  “Let me have the pistol,” a bicycle repairman, wearing shorts, said to Yousif.

  Yousif handed it to him gladly and stood by watching. Basim returned to where Yousif was standing. Basim crouched behind a stone wall, fire
d cautiously, took his clips out, loaded and fired again. It was hard for Yousif to determine whether anyone was hit. Then he heard someone below shriek.

  “They’re firing too much,” Basim said, referring to his own men. “Damn it, tell them to take their time. Tell them to wait until they get closer. I don’t care how many Jews there are. We can hold them.”

  Yousif carried his cousin’s orders to all the fighters. “Basim says take your time,” he told them.

  The mountain turned metallic. Violence bloomed. Bullets flew all around Yousif as he returned to watch the invaders below. They were now only four fields away. His worst fears were fast becoming real. He was in the midst of a war. He couldn’t run. He couldn’t fight. What should he do? Anguished and confused, he relied on prayers.

  “Lord,” he murmured to himself, “I smell a plague. I hear the footsteps of the angel of Death echoing throughout the land. Rein him in, Lord. Stop him before he plunders, burns, and kills. Lift the evil spell off Your hills and restore peace, harmony, and contentment to the hearts of men. Make our enemies dream a different dream before we inflict so much pain on each other. On my knees, and in the name of Jesus, I beseech you, Lord, to stretch Your arms out and save all Your children.”

  The hand of God did not muzzle the firing guns. Within half an hour Basim and his men were running short of ammunition. The enemy was pounding relentlessly. With all the firework, Yousif wondered why the British army had not come to stop the fighting. Until the Mandate was over, keeping the peace was still their responsibility. No doubt they were busy packing. May 15 was less than a month away.

  “They are spreading out,” Omar hollered.

  “I can see that,” Basim answered, running around to inspect the four slopes, his gun at the ready.

  Yousif could see the Zionists in constant motion. Red fire punctuated the darkness.

  “We must prevent them from outflanking us,” Basim commanded. “Omar, move that sub-machine gun fifty yards to your left. Jawad, move your Bren fifty yards to your right. Someone help them carry the stands. This way we’ll catch them in crossfire. In the meantime, we’ll keep the mortar in the center and I’ll handle it myself. But I need someone with me. Costa, come over here.”

  “I don’t know how,” Costa whimpered.

  “Never mind, I’ll show you,” Basim said.

  Yousif was mortified. Ill-trained and ill-equipped, what saved them so far was the high ground. The whole mountain was rife with men anxious to kill each other. Movement below paralleled movement above. Bullets flashed and whizzed and echoed throughout the valley.

  Yousif wished he could have another look at the dead soldier Basim had left to rot. Had he been in love with a girl like Salwa? How would she get the news? Would his family tell her or would she read it in the paper? Had the dead soldier’s mother missed him for supper that night? Was she now sitting somewhere in Jerusalem or Tel Aviv wringing her hands? Or had she died in one of Hitler’s camps, and her son had come to Palestine with fury in his heart? Yousif wished he could tell all mothers, Arab or Jewish, Kiss your husbands and children whenever they leave home.

  When the two Bren sub-machine guns were in place, Basim ordered the gunners to open fire. Omar threw his fine blazer on a nearby stone wall and loosened his silk tie. Jawad rolled up his long sleeves and stomped his cigarette. Both responded to Basim’s command with relish. Yousif watched the impact of their onslaught on the Zionists four fields below. He could see them scampering in different directions. Some were leaping over stone walls, others falling to the ground.

  Costa took out a pocketknife and gingerly opened a box full of bombs for the mortar. Yousif could see three rows of fours. They looked like cactus.

  “Now what?” Costa asked.

  Basim was busy adjusting the cross-leveling device and raising the barrel toward the sky. It seemed an odd angle for shooting downhill, Yousif thought.

  “When I tell you, drop one in and get the hell out,” Basim told Costa. “The minute it hits the bottom of the tube a pin will puncture it and ignite the dynamite inside the shell. There’s no trigger to pull. The bomb will take off on its own. What I do is control the angle. Understand?”

  “I guess,” Costa said, hesitant.

  “Come on, let’s kill a few,” Basim told him.

  Yousif shook his head and watched Costa take out a bomb. Out of the box it looked more like a light bulb: broad at one end, narrow at the other.

  “Ready?” Basim asked.

  “Here it comes,” Costa said, placing the bomb at the mouth of the barrel.

  “No, no, no,” Basim said, alarmed. “Turn it around.”

  Costa looked confused.

  “It’s not a light bulb you’re screwing on,” Basim instructed him. “Broad base first.”

  A bullet whizzed between Yousif and Basim. Had Yousif turned it would have caught him in the nose. It reminded him that they were not play-acting. Death had just whispered in his ear.

  Basim didn’t even seem to notice the bullet that had almost cut him down. “O.K.,” he was telling Costa. “Drop it in and get out.”

  Yousif stepped back a few yards and watched. Seconds after Costa had dropped the bomb in, it shot out at a frightening speed. It went up about two hundred yards and then zoomed down behind a stone wall four fields below, exploding on impact. Its noise was thunderous. Yousif could hear rocks tumbling down. He couldn’t tell if any Jews were killed, but he could see many of them running. A couple of them couldn’t run fast enough, for they were indeed caught in the crossfire. The immediate area surrounding the blast was covered with white phosphorous smoke. Before the swirling smoke cleared, Basim sent another bomb hurling at the enemy below.

  “I want the bastards never to come back,” Basim said, gritting his teeth.

  No sooner had he finished uttering the last word, than a bullet smashed into his right shoulder. Basim twitched but held onto the mortar with all his might. Yousif rushed closer to him, shocked. Death was inching closer and closer. But no bullet and no wound would stop Basim now. He went on angling the mortar, his shirt soaked with blood. His men saw him and tried to stop him, but he pushed them aside.

  “Basim, you must stop,” Yousif insisted. “You’re bleeding.”

  “Never mind,” Basim shot back like a man obsessed.

  “But you must. You’re losing too much blood.”

  “Then run along and get your father. I won’t leave this hill.”

  Basim began giving orders, undaunted by his wound. From the looks of things, Yousif thought, Basim was losing too much blood. The least he could do was stop the bleeding until his father arrived.

  Yousif rushed to the unfinished watchtower in which he had placed the First Aid kit, grabbed it, and went back to Basim.

  “Didn’t I tell you to go and get your father?” Basim said, his left hand pressing his right shoulder. The handkerchief he was applying was soaking wet.

  “Just let me do one thing first,” Yousif said.

  Inside the kit were three bottles: iodine, alcohol, and peroxide. Yousif didn’t know which one to use to wash the wound. He decided not to use any; he’d let his father take care of that. He piled up ten or fifteen cotton balls, each as large as a small egg, then wrapped them all up in a gauze. He hoped to God he was doing the right thing. The memory of old man Abu Khalil’s mishandling of Amin’s arm was too fresh on his mind.

  “Please, Basim,” Yousif said, “let me tape you and I’ll be on my way.”

  A bullet whistled by a foot away from Yousif, and he belatedly ducked.

  “See what I mean,” Basim told him, “I don’t have time to worry about a silly wound.”

  Yousif touched his cousin’s shoulder. “It’s not silly. You’re losing too much blood.”

  While Basim was rearranging the angle of firing, Yousif managed to unbutton him to see for himself. The underwear shirt was torn and wet. His own fingers became messy. He was trying to stop Basim’s bleeding, unfazed by the stickiness and smell. The bu
llet’s point of entry was about five inches below the armpit, more to the front than to the side. But Yousif could feel no exit wound in Basim’s side. The bullet was still trapped inside his body.

  “Akhkhkhkhkh . . .” Basim hollered when Yousif accidentally touched the collar bone.

  It felt fractured to Yousif’s sensitive finger tips. But it also must have blocked the bullet.

  “I’m sorry,” Yousif said, removing his fingers swiftly. “But I think this broken collar bone saved your life.”

  “And you may be endangering it right now,” Basim told him, “unless you get out of my way.”

  “Just one more minute,” Yousif said, raising the T-shirt with one hand and applying the gauze and the cotton ball with the other. Only after he had finished taping him, did he realize what a hairy devil Basim was.

  “How does it feel?” Yousif asked.

  “O.K.,” Basim grunted, turning the mortar halfway toward Omar.

  “One more thing, please,” Yousif said. “I need to bind you around the shoulder to cut the flow of blood.”

  “Hey, be careful there!” Basim said. “What are you trying to do, kill me?”

  From his tone Yousif could tell that Basim was having luck lobbing bombs in the midst of the enemy. Yousif humored him long enough to arrest the bleeding by binding and twisting a bandage tightly under the arm and over the shoulder.

  Raising and lowering and turning the mortar’s barrel, Basim looked and acted as though he had never been hurt. “Get going,” Basim told Yousif. Then looking at the clumsy binding Yousif had just finished, he added: “Jesus! An army of amateurs!”

  With bullets whistling and flashing up and down the hill, Yousif ran down the other side of the hill to his car and sped to town. Most of the lights were out. The streets were deserted. He rushed home and found his parents as he had expected—waiting.

  “Basim has been wounded,” Yousif explained, excited.

  “Good God!” his mother said, staring at his blood-stained fingers and shirt. “Are you wounded too?”