On the Hills of God (16 page)

“Before you sit down, Isaac,” his father said, “turn that damn thing off.”

“The news will be on in five minutes,” Isaac said, unwrapping his food.

“I don’t want to hear any news. I’ve got a headache already.” Then he turned and looked at the doctor. “I’m sorry. Perhaps you want to . . .”

The doctor shook his head, taking a bite. “That’s all right. I’ll listen to it later. Let’s eat in peace.”

Isaac walked to the radio set and turned it off. Then he went back to his seat. The four men ate and sipped tea in silence. The mother sat with her hands folded in her lap.

Suddenly the room was showered with exploding bullets. Their cups, saucers, and plates crashed to the floor. The half-dressed children ran out of their bedroom screaming. All of them, including Yousif, found themselves stretched flat on the floor, hiding under tables and behind sofas.

“Papa . . .” Alex cried.

Little Leah was hysterical. She clung to her father, the bottom half of her pajama in her hand.

“Get down, lie on the floor,” their father warned.

Mother and father held the two children protectively, crouched in corners, and waited for the danger to end. Glass, plaster, and food were all over the wet floor. There was a row of pockmarks on the wall facing them. Yousif felt a sharp pain in his knee. Bending over, he saw a large shrapnel lodged in his kneecap. Slowly he pulled it out, cringing. His eyes fell on his father. There he was on his hands and knees, his eyeglasses ready to fall off the tip of his nose. And there were the Sha’lans, prostrated at the other end of the room.

“Get out of town, Moshe,” a man outside shouted. “This time we came to warn you, next time we’ll come to kill you.”

Yousif strained his ears to recognize the man’s gruff voice.

“I can’t place him,” Yousif whispered to his father.

“Sshhhh,” the doctor cautioned. “Let him talk.”

But the man on the street did not speak again. Instead, he underscored his threat with another bullet. It hit a picture of Moshe’s bearded father, which was hanging on the left wall. More glass flew everywhere. Moshe’s hand cupped Leah’s mouth, for she seemed about to scream.

They waited for the attacker to speak again, but he didn’t. Nor did he fire any more bullets. They did not know whether he was still there or not.

“Whoever you are, you ought to be ashamed of yourself,” the doctor goaded him.

“How would you like to have your tires slashed, Doctor?” the man answered. “First the tires, then your neck, if you keep their company.”

“I recognize your voice,” the doctor bluffed, exchanging glances with Yousif. “If I were you I’d go away.”

Two more bullets whizzed into the room, grazing the top of a sofa and knocking off a lamp stand. The shade fell on top of Leah and she filled the room with a terrified scream. Yousif was glad the lamp had not been lit when it was broken in half.

“Next time that baby won’t be able to open her mouth,” the attacker warned.

Crouching under the table, Yousif knew the full meaning of helplessness. What could he do now? he asked himself. Could he stand up to that armed man in the street and tell him he was firing at the wrong house? Of course not. He felt humiliated.

After ten minutes more of silence, they got up. The doctor felt a cramp in his right leg, and had a difficult time straightening his back. Isaac went inside and Yousif could hear him groping in the dark. He returned with a kerosene lamp whose bluish light shed ominous shadows in the room. Isaac placed the light on a small table in the foyer, then picked up little Leah from his mother’s lap. She began to cry again.

Moshe inhaled a lungful of breath, expelling it in a deep sigh. In spite of his age and strong physique, he seemed as terrified as the baby Leah who was afraid of the dark.

“I think you ought to go home with us tonight,” the doctor suggested.

All eyes fell on him, not comprehending.

“I’m not going to leave you here alone,” the doctor added. “Come and spend the night with us.”

The suggestion seemed to deepen Sarah’s anguish. Her hand went up to her mouth. If the doctor was frightened for them, her look seemed to say, then perhaps they were in bigger danger than she had imagined.

“There’s no need,” Moshe said.

“I think it’s a great idea,” Yousif agreed, wishing he had thought of it first.

Moshe shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said, looking at his wife.

The doctor rose to his feet, confident. “It’s a big house. We’d enjoy each other’s company. What do you think, Isaac?”

“It’s okay with me,” Isaac replied, rocking Leah.

“Good,” the doctor said. “Get your pajamas, all of you. And let’s go.”

Yousif was delighted. He looked at Isaac’s parents. They looked relieved. Perhaps, their expression seemed to say, spending the night at the doctor’s house might not be a bad idea after all.

Fifteen minutes later, the doctor and his son returned home with their guests. They were all bundled in their winter clothes. Yousif’s mother, who met them at the door, was surprised to see them all come together. What seemed strange to her wasn’t so much that they had come unannounced, but that Isaac was carrying a suitcase.

“We came to spend the night with you,” Aunt Sarah said, her round face flushed.

“Ahlan wa sahlan,”
Yasmin said, extending a welcoming hand. The two women kissed.

Yasmin took Leah from her father’s arms. “You came to spend the night with Aunt Yasmin?” she asked, her face brightening. She kissed the children and greeted Moshe and Isaac with a warm handshake.

While everybody was settling in, the doctor walked to the phone and began dialing. Moments later, Yousif heard him talking to the mayor.

“First Shukri acting smart at the cemetery, and then the shooting,” the doctor said, outraged. “Yes, I was at their house when it happened. So was my son. He even got a cut on his knee.”

Yousif was surprised that he had to be reminded of that. The cut was so small he didn’t think his father would even mention it.

They were still standing in the living room. Yasmin had to put little Leah down and then look at her son’s knee.

“You didn’t tell me,” she said, worried.

Yousif felt embarrassed. “It’s nothing,” he said.

“You ought to call an emergency meeting,” the doctor continued on the phone. “I doubt that Shukri was involved in tonight’s shooting, but I can’t swear to it. The man who spoke didn’t sound like him. Whether or not he put somebody else up to do his dirty work is something for us to look into. In any case, we cannot allow this sort of thing to happen. The word must go out that such bullying will not be tolerated. Otherwise we’ll have bloodshed on our hands long before the real war starts. And they certainly picked on the wrong man. I don’t know about the rest of the Jews in Palestine, but if any of them is half as good as Moshe Sha’lan and his family then by God no one had better go near them.”

Isaac and his parents sat in the living room. The doctor’s words seemed to deepen their sorrow, for they looked at each other, their faces clouded.

“No, I don’t think we ought to wait till tomorrow. See if you can hold one tonight. You know where to find them. They’ll all be at the victim’s house. Send your chauffeur and round them up. No, I’m not going. I have Moshe and his family with us. They’re with us right now. I wasn’t about to leave them all alone when a thug is roaming the streets. By the way, do you want to call Captain Malloy or shall I do it? It’ll be better coming from you. Good. Let me hear from you. I’m going nowhere.”

The Sha’lans felt at home, for Yousif and his parents tried their best to make them feel welcome. It was natural for the mothers to help each other in the kitchen. It was natural for the doctor, in his own reserved way, to be hospitable. But Yousif had never seen his father fill up two glasses of whiskey without asking his guest whether he wanted to drink. Nor had Yousif ever seen his father pick up a child and play with her, as he picked up round-faced Leah that night and sat her on his knee.

“He must’ve been a hoodlum,” the doctor said, reaching for the glass of whiskey. “No one in his right mind would think of you as a Zionist.”

“I certainly thought so,” Moshe replied, lighting a cigarette. “And I’m not the only Jew who feels this way. Many of us are anti-Zionist—including the most pious Jews in Jerusalem.”

“Why is that?” Yousif asked, curious. “Why are they opposed to the Zionists? On what grounds?”

“On
Jewish
grounds,” Moshe answered, taking a sip.

Yousif was fascinated. “I don’t understand,” he said.

“Zionism is a form of nationalism.”

“Not a religious movement?” Yousif pressed.

“Not really. At least it wasn’t at the beginning. It’s based on politics and economics and so on. The Zionists want a state like everybody else and they want a flag like everybody else and they want an army like everybody else. The pious Jews think this is contrary to prophesy. They don’t think the Messiah is going to come to a state with an air force and a prime minister. He’s going to come to a community of believers . . . a community of the faithful.”

This was news to Yousif. “Do these Orthodox Jews believe a Jewish state would prevent the Messiah’s coming?” he asked.

“Something like that,” Moshe answered.

The next question preyed on Yousif’s mind. “Do you consider yourself a pious Jew?”

The doctor put Leah down and looked at his son, irritated. “What kind of a question is that?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . .” Yousif said, embarrassed.

“I don’t mind,” Moshe interrupted. And then turning to Yousif, he said: “To tell the truth, I don’t know. I believe in the ten commandments, because I believe in God and I don’t steal and I don’t covet anybody’s wife. You know the rest. My philosophy in life is simple. It’s entirely based on the principle of live and let live. Oh, I observe certain holidays and I go through certain rituals but this seems to be out of upbringing . . . out of tradition, if you know what I mean.”

“The same with us,” the doctor said, as a way of apologizing for his son’s impoliteness.

“Whether this makes me pious or unpious, I don’t know,” Moshe added, smiling. “That’s up to God to decide.”

Fatima entered the room, announced in advance by the rustling of her ankle-length dress. She placed before them a bowl of
hummus,
a dish of turnipgreen pickles, and a basket full of freshly baked bread.

Yousif picked up Leah and put her in his lap. She clasped her arms around his neck. He hugged her back, and continued to listen.

“There’s something you may not know,” the doctor said to Isaac. “Did you know that you and Yousif nursed from the same breast?”

Isaac nodded his head. “You mean Aunt Yasmin’s?” he asked.

“Yes,” the doctor replied. “She nursed both of you. Not once or twice, but for over a month. So in a sense you’re brothers.”

“Brothers, indeed!” Moshe said, clasping his hands as if to bemoan the changing tide.

At the dinner table, where spaghetti, salad, white cheese, and bread were served, they talked about the two unfortunate incidents. There were long pauses, quivering sighs, and a collective hope for peace. Eventually the subject of nursing came up again. The two mothers, the men recalled, had had their babies a few days apart and had breastfed them. Two weeks after Isaac was born his maternal grandmother was murdered.

“Murdered how?” Yousif asked, his fork in mid-air.

The parents did not seem eager to discuss the subject, lest it offend Sarah, Isaac’s mother. They all waited for a signal from her.

“No one knew,” Sarah said, her hands under the table. “Seventeen years later and we still don’t know. It could’ve been a number of things.”

“Did you suspect an Arab extremist?” Yousif inquired.

“We did,” she admitted, nodding. “We even suspected a Zionist.”

“A Zionist! Murdering one of his own people?”

“In those days,” she said, “political troubles were just stirring. A hot-headed Zionist could’ve done it as a warning for the rest of us. Those who came from Europe looked for ways to stop us from mixing with the Arabs.”

Her husband nodded. “They looked for any kind of provocation. That’s how they attracted attention to their cause. That’s how they stayed in the news. It was mainly for publicity. And for fund raising. They kept the pot boiling to further their political aims.”

Yousif turned to Aunt Sarah. “Obviously they didn’t scare you.”

“Nor did they scare my mother, God rest her soul. The more they pushed us the more we resisted.”

There was a pause.

“In any case,” Yousif’s mother said, anxious to relieve her guest from telling the rest of the story, “because Sarah’s whole body—her whole system—was so terribly upset, her milk soured. Isaac threw up constantly. The midwife and the other older women in the neighborhood advised her not to nurse him for a while. That was when I offered to nurse him along with you.” She reached for Isaac’s hand and squeezed it affectionately.

“For nearly two months,” Sarah remembered.