Dazzle The Complete Unabridged Trilogy (117 page)

'Then I must go to him at once!'

'There's no need for that, madam. As soon as he's debrie
fed, he will be on his way here, possibly within the week.'

'In that case,' she said, leaning over the table and blowing
out the candles, 'I think it would be appropriate to celebrate
Rosh Hashanah a little later than usual this year.'

For Tamara, the war was finally over.

Tamara was sure that Dani's return home would be the single happiest day of her entire life, but she was unprepared for the
bittersweetness of the occasion. She barely recognized him
when he came off the ship, and could only stare at him in a
state of shock. He was not the same man who had marched
off healthy and fit and tan to do battle with the Nazis. He was
but a shadow of the Dani she had once known. His eyes were
sunken into concave hollows and their expression ranged from
weary and unfocused to hunted and suspicious, as though they
had seen more horrors than they could endure. His cheeks
were hollow as well, and his once-tanned complexion was sal
low and sickly. His uniform hung from a skeletal body.

She nearly let out a scream of horror.
What had they done
to him?

She took him into her arms and held him close, the tears
streaming from both their eyes.

It was obvious to Tamara that what he needed was rest, and a good diet, and no end of loving care. She dropped everything
she had been involved in, packed some suitcases, and the four
of them went immediately to Eilat, where they had spent their
honeymoon. For three months they did nothing but catch up
on the years, draw strength and comfort from each other, and
after the twins had been put to bed, make love.

Tamara dedicated herself completely to Dani. She cooked
for him, cared for him, and nursed him back to health.
Although he would never divulge the horrors he had been
forced to witness and endure, often he awoke from nightmares
screaming and drenched in a cold sweat, and she would hold
him and comfort him as best she could.

Slowly, she, the sun, the sea, and the boys worked their
wonders.

Dani began putting on weight, and the regimen of daily
exercise she prescribed for him, as well as the games the twins
forced him to endure, fleshed out his muscles. His sickly, sal
low complexion took on the darkness of a healthy, glowing
tan. But the single most important thing with which she
infused him over those first crucial three months was a sense
of stability, of normality and family life, of a nightmare turned
right. Instead of famine, there were feasts; in place of abuse
there was tender love, and Tamara managed to allay and then
banish his fears. But it was also during his convalescence that
she realized how wrong she had been. The war was far from
over. Its grisly residue would haunt them all for a lifetime to
come, lurking just behind the facade of happiness.

'I've been licking my wounds and feeling sorry for myself long
enough now,' Dani announced unexpectedly over breakfast
one morning. He and Tamara sat alone, as the boys had gone
fishing with another family. 'It's time to go home.'

She looked at him silently, tears of happiness blurring her
vision.

He smiled. 'Well, aren't you going to start packing?'

She could barely speak. 'You mean you're . . . you're . . .
ready to leave
now?'

'We've idled long enough. It's time we got going and started
to move those mountains we used to speak of.'

She wanted to applaud. The Dani she loved so fiercely had
returned.

They sealed their happiness with a kiss. But his was no mere
loving kiss. It became urgent, prolonged, a resurrection of body and soul, a reawakening to life and all its pleasures, a
celebration of life over death. The savageness of it brought
tears to her eyes. She was so overcome by her happiness for him—and for
them
—that there was something dreamlike, almost mystical about the lovemaking that followed. Before
his tongue found her breasts, and long before he entered her,
her mind and body had merged as one with his.

On that morning, their breakfasts abandoned on their
plates, they conceived their third and last child.

Chapter 29

The oasis of al-Najaf, Jehan, the wife of Naemuddin al-
Ameer, cleared away the last vestiges of the morning meal
and then tied back the curtain which divided the one-room
house into two separate living areas. She draped her head with
the thick black veil she always wore when she went out-of-
doors, paused to adjust it, and glanced out the open door.
From nearby came the shouts and shrieks of Iffat and Najib,
her grandchildren happily at play.

How innocent the sounds of childhood! she thought, shaking her head mournfully. And how short that time of inno
cence was. Already Iffat was six, Najib twelve. How soon
before they would be grown and discover the world for what
it really was—harsh and cruel and unfeeling?

Suppressing a shiver, she looked over at her husband. He
was seated in his usual spot, a cushioned carpet at the far end
of the room. Flutters of nervous apprehension ran through
her. He had not touched his breakfast, and now he was letting
his sweet mint tea get cold. She could tell that he was deeply
troubled. His head was bowed forward, his wide brow deeply
furrowed with worry; he was far away, lost in thought.

Soundlessly she walked toward him and dropped to her
knees in front of him. 'What troubles you, my husband?' she
asked softly. She took his hands in hers and looked down at them. They were rough and gnarled, just as hers were, only
larger. 'There is nothing to worry about, is there?'

Naemuddin raised his head. At sixty-four he was still tall
and imposing, but the strain he was under was showing. The
proud, flowing black beard and moustache surrounding his
hawk's beak of a nose were shot with grey, and in his gaunt face the bones were becoming more and more pronounced.
His eyes, once sharp and canny, had become increasingly sad
and confused.

'I fear there is much to worry about, my wife,' he said gently.
'For two days now, my half-brother's men have been oiling
and cleaning their weapons. Now they are preparing to
sharpen the knives in their scabbards. Do you think they do
that in order to feast and celebrate?'

'Abdullah always feasts at the expense of others!' she spat
in disgust. 'Because he refuses to labour honestly, tending the sheep and goats, and he will not soil his hands with the crops.' Then her voice grew softer. 'But he is young. In time, perhaps
he will see the er—'

'No! He wants only to play at death and destruction.' His
hands trembled and she clung to them. 'But it is no game. He
and the others will not be satisfied until the desert runs red with the blood of the Jews. You will see, my wife. Before the
sun sets on three more days, their guns will be empty and their
knives will drip red with blood.'

'You have only to speak to make them see the folly of their
ways!' she urged.

Naemuddin grunted. 'You know I have done so many times.
It is useless.'

She tightened her grip on his hands. 'Then speak to them
again! You are their leader! They will follow you as the sheep
follows the shepherd.'

He shook his head. 'It is too late. Their ears are deaf to all
reason.'

'Perhaps if you show them your strength,' Jehan suggested,
and then she felt the blood rush to her head. She was amazed
at her own audacity: the words seemed to have burst forth of
their own accord. Swiftly she looked away from him in shame.

Naemuddin regarded her sadly. 'I have tried, my wife, but
they refuse to listen to words which they no longer wish to hear. They think me weak because I urge peace, and they
think Abdullah strong because he rages for blood.' Again he
shook his head. 'They do not understand that bloodshed will
only beget more bloodshed.'

'But they still come to seek your advice,' she said stub
bornly. 'Surely you can see that. Why else would they come
here, as they will again in a half-hour's time?'

He shook his head. 'The only reason they come now is
out of courtesy and respect for a weak old man. Do not fool
yourself, my good wife. I am no longer the leader of our tribe.'
His cracked lips trembled and his voice took on a bitter self-loathing. 'It is time my young half-brother wore the dis
tinguished headgear of the leader. It is no longer mine to
wear.'

'Naemuddin!' She looked shocked. 'You know that Abdul
lah only wants power and war! You cannot seriously hand him
the headdress of chieftain!'

'I will. I must.' He nodded gravely, and she could not bear
the depths of torture she saw in his eyes.

'Nae—'

'Do not try to dissuade me. What good is a leader if he leads
his people in name only, or splits their loyalty in two?' He
paused, but she had no reply, as he knew she would not. 'No,
my wife, my time of abdication has come. There is nothing
more I can do. Abdullah has gained the respect of everyone.
Now everything is in the hands of Allah.'

Jehan squeezed his hands to let him know that she shared
in his pain and humiliation. Her eyes shone brightly with tears.

What her husband said was true, she thought. Abdullah had
become the true leader of the tribe. Subtly at first, and then
with increasing boldness, he had undermined her husband's
authority until his power had steadily diminished to uselessness. Abdullah's rousing, feverish speeches against the Jews
had inflamed the men's passions and won them over. His
image as fearless warrior was respected by young and old
alike, and, regrettably, was even being emulated by the chil
dren in their games. His ability to procure weapons and ammu
nition and to raid armouries had astounded them all. And his
teaching the men to use them had sparked off a bloodthirst
which went back to primitive times and made them hold their
heads high and walk tall. Yes, Abdullah had given them some
thing her peace-loving Naemuddin had not been able to pro
vide—a feeling of confidence and pride, a fighting spirit in a
new age. Through sheer strength and willpower, Abdullah
had moulded the men of the tribe into a cohesive militant
group with a purpose, and his cries against the Jews had been taken up until there was hardly a man other than Naemuddin
who did not echo it.