Bloodline (27 page)

When the guard had left, Ibrahim cautiously walked along the north, then the east, and finally the south corridor to Bilal's cell, which he shared with another remand prisoner now that he was no longer in isolation or on suicide watch.

Ibrahim stood there in the doorway. Bilal looked up in surprise. He'd seen the man a couple of times in the exercise yard and the dining hall, but hadn't paid him much attention. The man was small and wiry, but there was a strength about him and a coldness about his eyes and lips that made people want to avoid him.

“Yes?” said Bilal.

His cell mate looked up from his magazine and then sat up on the bed.

“You,” he said, nodding to the man in the upper bunk. “Fuck off.”

Suddenly terrified, Bilal's cell mate jumped down from the upper bunk, walked quickly out of the room, and made his way downstairs to where people were playing card games.

“What do you want?” Bilal asked, suddenly frightened, wondering whether to get up from the lower bunk.

“You piece of shit,” said Ibrahim. “You've been singing to the Jews, haven't you?”

“No!” said Bilal. He'd learned quickly neither to explain himself nor engage in aggressive conversations. And the look in this man's eyes was the stare of death.

“Get up from the bunk,” ordered Ibrahim. “I want to talk to you.”

“Go fuck your mother,” Bilal said with all the vocal weight he could muster, wondering how to get out of whatever was soon going to happen.

Ibrahim checked the corridors, left and right, and knowing he had about five minutes to do the deed and get away he walked menacingly into the cell.

Adrenaline was pumping through Bilal's body. He was still hurting from the operations, but suddenly his body felt as it had when he was years younger, when he was at school. His mind flashed back to the days when he was bullied by older kids, before he'd learned to fight. He'd learned how to punch and kick in the most painful places on a boy's body—dirty, unscripted fights, full of fury and retribution.

Now he was seeing another bully, somebody he'd seen only a couple of times, walk into his cell to intimidate him.
Well, fuck him,
Bilal thought. He watched Ibrahim saunter arrogantly toward him, and when he reached the bunks, Bilal suddenly lashed out with his right leg in a savage kick aimed exactly at Ibrahim's balls. As his foot connected with the other man's crotch, Ibrahim let out a scream of pain. Bilal instantly jumped off the bunk and stood.

It was so totally unexpected that Ibrahim rocketed backward, and as he fell, Bilal sprang forward and aimed another sharp jab of his foot into Ibrahim's face, knocking him sideways and sending him cascading into a chair as he fell. Pumped up with surprising energy and feeling none of the pain from his operations, Bilal picked up the fallen chair and brought it smashing down on Ibrahim's head, shoulder, and arm.

Lying on the floor, Ibrahim tried to shield himself from the blows. He screamed in agony as the chair broke apart across his body. Strength and energy were coursing through Bilal; he hadn't felt like this since the night he slit the Jew soldier's throat: powerful and in control. He picked up a chair leg that had detached itself from the seat and brought it down mercilessly on Ibrahim's
back, then his shoulder, then his leg, then his neck, and then the side of his face. When Ibrahim wasn't moving, Bilal straightened up, breathing heavily, and supported himself against the wall. Suddenly the pain of his wounds flared up as some of the stitches broke. Now in agony, Bilal looked down at the unconscious and bleeding man and saw something metallic in his hand, but before he could bend down and take it from him, he heard the sound of feet running in the direction of his cell.

In seconds, guards were inside, their batons raised, and they immediately saw what was happening. One pulled Bilal roughly away from the wall and another brought his baton down brutally on the back of Bilal's knees. They left him kneeling against the concrete wall as his arms were pulled behind his body and handcuffs were slapped on his wrists. Bilal peered around and saw another guard bend down to determine whether Ibrahim was alive or dead.

“He's breathing. Get a gurney.” He looked at Bilal and said, “What the fuck's going on?”

“He attacked me,” he replied.

Then the second guard cried, “Look!” He pointed to the homemade knife still in Ibrahim's hand.

The guard turned to Bilal and said softly, “You know who this is, don't you? You're either lucky or stupid, kid.”

B
ILAL SPENT A WEEK
in solitary confinement over the fight. And the silence of enclosed walls gave him time to think. Images of Ibrahim and the knife blended with the words of Yaniv and the memories of the skunk-haired man, his imam, and the strange rabbi Jew in the shadow. His head pounded with confusion. But as the week wound on, the reality of what had happened and what it meant became clearer to him. One of his own had tried
to take his life. A prisoner he had never met wanted him dead. While Bilal wanted to scream: Why? he found himself asking only: Who? Who ordered Ibrahim to kill him? The only certainty Bilal knew was that there was no one he could trust. Neither the Jew guards nor his Palestinian brothers. He was alone.

When the week of solitary confinement was over, Bilal walked the corridors back to his cell, accompanied by a guard. He was surprised that as he passed, men who'd once looked at him in contempt now avoided his eyes. If they were afraid of him now, there was a good chance they'd leave him alone. But in that moment the thought of being forever alone terrified him more than Ibrahim with a knife.

Deep down he knew Ibrahim wouldn't be the last. He had to speak to somebody. On request prisoners could have access to a phone to speak to family or lawyers or spiritual leaders. When Bilal asked to use the phone and was given access to a small booth, he phoned the last friend he believed he had.

T
HREE DAYS LATER
Hassan was granted permission to visit the prison. He had lied and said he was Bilal's cousin. Nobody questioned it, although he knew he would be searched and his conversation with Bilal would likely be monitored.

As Hassan approached the prison, all the fears instilled in him of what lay beyond those walls, the fate of so many of his brothers and cousins, gripped him. But as he steadied himself and entered the gate, he wondered if there were other forces at work that tied his stomach in knots. He had been instructed to kill: the imam had told him what he must do. The Jewish doctor must die. And yet, he was about to see his lifelong friend alive and breathing because of that same doctor. Would Bilal know what Hassan had been ordered to do? Would Bilal owe honor to
the woman who saved him? More than anything Hassan knew that Bilal would see through any lie that he told, and Hassan was afraid of the truth.

He and Bilal sat opposite each other in the reception room where wives and children came to see their husbands and brothers.

“My brother, you look—” Hassan began, but the urgency on Bilal's face stopped him talking.

Bilal whispered, “They're trying to kill me. Hassan, I need your help.”

Hassan was shocked but Bilal didn't wait for a response.

“One man with a knife. I broke his arm and beat the shit out of him, but they'll come again.”

Hassan was horrified. “Who? Who would want to kill you? They know who you are. They know you're the one who bombed the temple.”

“Hassan. Nothing is right. Nothing in here is right.” Bilal clenched his teeth and fought back tears. He would not let Hassan see him like a woman or a child.

Hassan for his part was shocked to see his friend in such a state and saying such things. He'd always looked up to Bilal for his strength of character, his courage. “What did you do?”

Bilal's fear became anger, his words said through gritted teeth. “I did nothing. I said nothing. I told the Jews nothing. I spoke to no one. I did what I was told to do. I did everything the imam wanted . . .” The words caught in his throat. Hassan put a hand on Bilal's arm, not knowing what to say.

“Hassan. I can't trust anyone. Only you. You're the only one.”

“What can I do?” Hassan asked as Bilal stared at him.

“There is someone . . .”

“Who?” asked Hassan, leaning in and lowering his voice conspiratorially.

“The doctor . . .”

The words hung in the air and Hassan's eyes opened wide. “The Jew doctor? The one who operated . . .” he said, stunned by what Bilal had just told him. “The Jew?”

“Hassan, you must trust me and do what I ask you. She is a Jew but she helped my family; she helped me. She saved me when I would have died. And now . . .”

Hassan's mind was spinning and he struggled to grasp anything firm. “But why are they trying to kill you? Who's trying to kill you? I don't understand.”

“I don't know. But, Hassan, you must trust nobody. I trusted everybody and I'm in here. You must trust nobody. Do you swear to me? Nobody.”

“But who?” he asked. The tension in his voice showed he shared Bilal's concern.

Bilal leaned closer. “The imam,” he whispered.

Hassan's eyes widened in shock. He was speechless.

Softly, conspiratorially, Bilal said, “I drove the imam to a village near Bethlehem. He ordered me to stay in the car, but there was the girl. Remember? The video I showed you?”

“I remember,” replied Hassan.

“On that night the imam was in a meeting with important people.”

“So? The imam meets with important people all the time.”

“He was talking to a man with white hair on his head. He was talking to a Jew!”

Hassan looked at Bilal, showing no comprehension of where Bilal was going with this.

“That man with the white hair. He came to me. He works for the secret police. He works for Shin Bet.”

Hassan slowly shook his head. He failed to see the relevance.

“Why was the imam talking to a Jew from Shin Bet? Why are my Palestinian brothers trying to kill me? Please, Hassan, my brother, go to the doctor. She is the only one who can help me.”

“Bilal, my brother, I came to see you because . . . your parents . . . I don't know what to do. I don't know if I can. I'm not good at this.”

J
OSHUA THE PRIEST
feared that the number of Jews who camped outside the walls of the city of Damascus after their long twenty-day march would be considerably fewer than those who would leave with him to travel to Jerusalem. Many who had arrived exhausted had been overwhelmed by the seductive charms of the city. Damascus was like a perfumed dancer, a sacred prostitute in a pagan temple, open, willing, full of fragrances and soft fabrics, and always ready to ensnare the unwary.

Damascus was still under the control of the Babylonians even though Babylon had recently been conquered by King Cyrus the Great of Persia. But for those Hebrews who entered the city after their exhausting weeks of walking, it was a reminder of the lifestyle they'd once enjoyed back in Babylon but now had left far behind. The hardship of the road, the constant traveling, the robbers and bandits, the freezing nights spent in tents or under the stars and the fetid heat of the day—all contributed to their misery as they trudged along, and to their joy as the huge walls of the city came into view.

When they wandered through the gates of the city, the coolness of the houses and drinking places, the life and vitality, the colors and smells of the city of Damascus, made many weep. And they wept louder when, to their distress three nights later, Joshua called a meeting of elders to announce that in the next few days they would leave to journey onward to Jerusalem.

They had left Babylon in a spirit of adventure, knowing that they would be the chosen and righteous ones in the eyes of their
Lord, Adonai. But the rigors of the journey had caused many to reconsider their decision and some, Joshua knew, were thinking either of staying in Damascus or returning to Babylon.

He was so concerned that he prayed both to the Lord for guidance and to his ancestor Ahimaaz for strength of purpose. Joshua often prayed to Ahimaaz in those quiet moments when he was alone in the synagogue. To be the descendant of one of the greatest of all high priests, whose reputation as a son of Zadok had grown with each generation, was a gift from the Almighty. Among those who remained faithful to the Lord, Ahimaaz was revered for his wisdom, his knowledge, and his steadfast uprightness. The legends spoke of shouting matches between Solomon and Ahimaaz over the false idols and pagan gods that the king's many wives and concubines had brought into the palace. Being a descendant of Ahimaaz gave Joshua an authority that no other rabbi or priest held.

But Joshua's authority was being undermined just six streets away, in the northern part of the city of Damascus, a hilly area of rich people's houses where cool winds blew and the stench of the marketplace was absent. Ten Hebrews had climbed the hill to reach the house where Reuven, the wealthy merchant, and his pregnant wife, Naomi, were staying.

As the men sat in the shaded alcove in his garden of spices, fruits, and flowers, they looked in expectation at Reuven, who had asked them to come to this meeting.

“Friends,” he said, although this was one of the few times that they had been allowed into his presence; none had ever been invited to his palatial home when they all lived in Babylon, “it is time, I think, to ask ourselves who we are and what we are.”

They looked at him in surprise. He'd asked them to come to his temporary home in secrecy, and none had any idea what was the purpose, so his statement was intriguing.

“We were an exiled people in Babylon, but for fifty years of our exile we gained respect in the eyes of the city and the king;
now that Babylon has a new king, we are no longer slaves or servants but proper citizens of his empire. Cyrus has asked us to return to Israel, rebuild that devastated land, use our abilities and make it flourish.”