On the Hills of God (10 page)

“What was that explosion?” the wife of a mattress maker asked.

Yousif told her what he had seen.

“Was it the British soldiers who did the shooting?” asked the bosomy wife of a bus driver.

Yousif looked at her. “Who did you think?” he asked.

“I was hoping it was one of our men,” the same woman answered.

A quiet moment of understanding passed between them. Suddenly the crowd perked up, showering him with questions.

“Tell us what happened. Was anyone hurt?”

Yousif briefed them, skipping the part about himself. No one was hurt as far as he knew, he told them as they clustered around. Soon they themselves passed on the news: from the wife of the bus driver in the street to the seamstress standing at her doorway, to a widow on the balcony above, to a spinster school teacher at the window across the courtyard, to an endless chain of women at other doorways, windows, and balconies.

His father was home early, standing with his mother on the steps in front of their house, talking to some men and women from their neighborhood. Only his mother acknowledged his arrival with a nod.

“When they postponed the voting two days ago,” a neighbor said, “I was afraid it would come down to this.”

Yousif understood what the man was saying. The United Nations had been scheduled to vote on the resolution Wednesday, November 27. At the last minute, however, the voting was postponed till after the Thanksgiving holiday in the United States. Many feared that the postponement was meant to give the U.S. enough time to coerce countries that received foreign aid from Washington to vote in favor of partition.

“Huh,” Uncle Boulus scoffed. “I knew it thirty years ago, when that damn Balfour promised this country to the Zionists. And I knew it again in 1936 when Britain really tried to test our resolve. What do you think, doctor?”

“It’s unfortunate . . . most unfortunate,” answered the doctor. He seemed to be listening and not listening, paying attention yet preoccupied.

“In 1917 when Balfour promised the Jews a home here they were no more than three percent of the population,” Uncle Boulus said. “Even now they are no more than fifteen or twenty percent. Yet, look what they get. It’s unfair.”

The drizzle changed to a heavy rain, and the people quickly moved inside their houses or sheltered themselves on their balconies. Yousif and his parents were left alone. They stood outside for a minute looking down at the town and the people scurrying in the streets.

All the pieces were falling in place, Yousif thought. Basim was right. War was inevitable. “What happens next?” Yousif asked his father, who was looking west, in the direction of Jaffa.

“The only thing that can happen in a situation like this—war,” his father answered, biting the stem of his black pipe. “Tonight they’ll put a match to the dynamite which Balfour unwisely, unnecessarily, and stupidly planted.”

“Do you see any way out of it?” Yousif asked his father.

It was his mother who answered. “Only by a miracle,” she said, putting her arm around Yousif’s waist. “But if they try to take you away from me,” she said, “I’ll go with you.” She seemed frightened by the prospect.

“Take me where?” Yousif asked.

“If they draft you I’ll join the army. I’ll do something. I don’t care what.”

“What army?” her husband asked, tamping out his pipe. “You know we have no army. This is an occupied country. The British are still here, remember?”

“Who knows,” she said. “Now that things are serious, the Arabs might start one. If they do and take Yousif away—”

“I’m no different from anyone else,” Yousif objected.

“—I won’t wait and die slowly,” his mother added.

“Don’t worry,” the doctor assured her, “you’ll have plenty of work to help me with at the clinic. There’ll be many wounds to patch.”

His words made her shiver. “You speak like a prophet of doom,” she reproached him.

“I’m no prophet, but we are doomed,” the doctor answered with conviction.

The street lights were soon turned on and Yousif’s parents went inside. Yousif walked slowly around the veranda. His eyes traveled from the top of the hills before him to the bottom of the valleys, exploring the town street by street.

It was unnaturally quiet. Not a human being moved; not even a car or a bicycle or a stray cat. His eyes focused on a little house a few acres below him. He could imagine what was going on inside, for he had been there often. In the house was the Sha’lan family, Isaac’s family. Yousif could also imagine how they must be agonizing over their future.

At the dinner table Yousif stirred the lentil soup before him. “What’s going to happen to Isaac and his family?” he asked, as if trying to read their fortune at the bottom of his bowl.

“Nothing, of course,” his mother answered, and looked at her husband for assurance.

Her husband drank his soup in silence, as if, Yousif felt, his wife’s naiveté sometimes were too much to bear.

“Mama, you surprise me,” Yousif said, looking at her. “They live in an Arab town, don’t they? There’s going to be war. Will they be safe?”

His tone upset her and color rose to her cheeks. “Well, they’re not involved. It’s a conflict between us and the outside agitators, the Zionists. The Sha’lan family are just like the rest of us—getting sick over what might happen.”

“That’s not the way your average Arab is going to look at it,” her imperturbable husband predicted, without raising his eyes from his plate.

Yousif broke off a piece of bread. “Don’t be surprised if the police come after me,” he said.

Both parents were startled. “After you?” his father asked.

“Yes,” Yousif replied.

“What on earth for?” his mother wanted to know.

Yousif told them what had happened after Basim’s oration.

“What did you tell them?” his father asked.

“That they can’t order us around anymore.”

“That’s all?”

“I also threatened them with a demonstration.”

His mother gasped. “You threatened them?”

“Yes, I did.”

“That’s the least of their worries,” his father said. “They just don’t want you to throw bombs or go around shooting people.”

“Then why did they try to stop Basim from making a speech? Wasn’t that what a demonstration is all about?”

“Right now they’re nervous. They’re afraid things might get out of hand.”

His mother reached out to touch Yousif’s hand. “Please, son, stay out of it.”

“One way or another, we’re all going to get involved,” her husband said, as he stopped eating, pushed back his chair, and rose slowly from the table.

After dinner, Dr. Safi went out to make his nightly house calls. He had a number of very sick patients, he said, and might be out for a while. His wife helped him put on his jacket and heavy black topcoat and told him that she and Yousif would be waiting for him at her brother’s house.

Five or six people were already hovering around a portable heater and discussing politics with Uncle Boulus. Soon other people from the neighborhood arrived. The living room—with its plush mahogany furniture and thick Persian rug—was almost full of bewildered men and women who had reached a crossroad in their lives and had no idea which way to turn. Some were dressed in native robes and red fezes. Others, like Uncle Boulus, were in modern suits with nothing on their heads. Some were rolling cigarettes; others were fingering worry beads. Most were staring at the medallion in the middle of the Tabriez rug as though it were an open casket. Abu Nassri wore large tinted glasses, like a movie star traveling incognito, and chain-smoked his cigarettes until the fire scorched the tips of his yellowed fingers. One old bearded man had only one tooth. They all wanted to know what had happened that afternoon, and Yousif tried to answer all their questions, finding himself slowly but surely slipping into the vortex.

“Who fired the two shots?” Uncle Boulus asked. “Did anyone find out?”

“One of the soldiers, I’m sure,” Yousif said. “Who else?”

“If I had a gun I would’ve been proud to empty it in their skulls,” the old man fumed. “The sons of dogs! They shaft us and then expect us to like it. Dare we open our mouths?”

“I bet they won’t stop the Zionists from celebrating all over Palestine,” Yousif predicted.

“Hell no,” someone said. “They’re already dancing in the streets of Jerusalem.”

“I bet the British soldiers are dancing with them,” Yousif said.

“Well, of course,” said Abu Nassri. “You think they’d try to muzzle them as they tried to muzzle us? Hell no.”

Then, Yousif heard the heavy iron door open and footsteps cross the long marble corridor. Salman appeared and sat on the sofa nearest the door, followed by Yacoub Khoury, a man in his late twenties whose hair was parted in the middle and slicked down. Yacoub was a house painter who was ashamed of his trade. At sunset, he would throw away his work clothes and dress up like a civil servant. He was also a high school drop-out; to compensate for his lack of education, he would read all the magazines, listen to all the news, and try to engage in serious discussions. He lived with his mother and two older sisters and refused to get married lest his wife mistreat them. Poor Yacoub, people said. He was misery personified. But Yousif liked him.

“What do you think of the Philippines?” Yacoub asked as soon as he sat down, pulling up his sharply creased trousers at the knees.

“That’s Truman for you,” Uncle Boulus answered, crossing his legs.

“But General Romulo was so eloquent, so positive,” Yacoub persisted.

“He wasn’t the only one who had to swallow his pride and buckle under American pressure,” Abu Nassri said. “Truman probably told him, either come across with the vote or there will be no more foreign aid to the Philippines.”

“Sure,” Salman commented. “Washington dealt us a dirty hand.”

“Not Washington, only Truman,” someone corrected him.

“Same thing,” Yousif said.

Silence enveloped them like steam in a hot shower. Yousif wondered what happened to Basim. Did he leave, did he stay in town? Did the police know who he was? Were they now searching for him? He needed to find out, so he got up suddenly and headed for the door without an explanation. A few doors down he ran into Maha, carrying one child in her arms and walking another beside her. She too was on her way to spend the evening at Uncle Boulus’s house to catch up with the latest news.

“Where’s Basim?” Yousif asked her, standing under the street light.

Maha shook her head. “You should know more than I do. Is it true that he made a speech and you both defied the police?”

Yousif nodded. “Haven’t you seen him?”

“No. Don’t look so surprised. I’m used to it by now.”

Her pretty face was long that night, and Yousif could detect the sadness in her voice. He wondered what kind of a family life someone like Basim had; he wondered also what kind of a life he himself would have with Salwa if he were lucky enough to marry her. Salwa, he knew, would not settle for just being a housewife waiting for him to show up whenever he could.

Yousif walked Maha back to Uncle Boulus’s house, with Yousif carrying the baby. An hour later his father came in from his nightly visits and the conversation again gained momentum. All those present wanted to hear the good doctor’s views.

“Only a few weeks ago, Truman came out against the partition plan,” he reminded them, his eyebrows knitted. “Twenty-four hours later he changed his mind. Someone must’ve sat him down and said, ‘Do you want the election or don’t you?’ Now you can see what his answer must’ve been.”

“Then it’s not a matter of conviction, is it, doctor?” the grizzled old man with the single tooth asked. Yousif looked at him, surprised by his probing.

“Expedience is more like it,” the doctor replied, smiling benevolently and reaching for a cup of coffee. “At least Truman was honest. He said he didn’t give a damn where they put Israel so long as they didn’t put it in Missouri.”

“What’s Missouri?” the old man asked, flicking his ivory worry beads with his bony fingers.

“His home state,” Yacoub answered, proud that he could recognize the name.

“That’s it,” Salman concluded, smacking his lips and folding his hands like an old woman. “It’s the Jewish vote.”

“No question about it,” Abu Nassri added, his big abdomen resting almost on his knees. “Money and votes talk—especially in America.”

Yousif sat and listened, impatient with the men’s calm frustration. He wanted them to be angry, restless—even in their probing of what had brought them to this point.

“How should we have handled it?” Yousif asked his father.

Everyone in the room turned and looked at him.

“Handled what?” his father asked.

Yousif’s eyes met his father’s. “What should we have done to prevent this from happening?”

There was silence. Men exchanged looks. Some expelled streams of breath.

“I’m not sure we could’ve,” Uncle Boulus offered. “The West seems set on paying old debts to the Jews. Nothing we could’ve done would’ve mattered.”

“Do you agree, father?” Yousif asked. “We did all we could?”