On the Hills of God (28 page)

A hundred yards in front of them were two men hiding behind two crumbling stone walls and firing at each other like cowboys in American Westerns. The boooooom would soon turn into a zzzzzing as a bullet chipped a rock above one of the combatants’ heads. Yousif could hear loud gasps mingled with shouts and see men leaping and chasing each other. A retreating man fell and kept rolling down a steep hill. Some of the housewives in curlers and robes split the sky with their trilling and cheered on those after him.

Yousif’s reverie was shattered by a burst of applause and shouts of joy. He turned to look, nudging Amin. Short and mustachioed Aziz Malouf, the town’s best known hunter, was passing by, flush with excitement, his sleek-looking hound lolling its tongue and panting at his side. How many times, Yousif recalled, he had seen Aziz with quails or pheasants or rabbits attached to his belt, pulling it down to his hips. That was the way he had swaggered after a successful hunt. As Aziz crossed the field below with his shotgun slung over his shoulder, Yousif noticed the same look about him. He trembled.

“Anyone killed?” Yousif asked the bare-chested Aziz.

“If not, there soon will be,” Aziz boasted.

“It’s better than hunting rabbits, eh, Aziz?” the baker, Abul-Banat, asked.

“You bet,” Aziz said, taking longer strides.

Yousif could see a jeep speeding on a dirt road, a column of dust rising behind it. Suddenly there was a movement close to the stone wall on which Yousif was standing. It sounded like an animal squeezing its way between the wall and the bushes. Yousif looked down but saw nothing. Moments later, he heard a rustle in the dry leaves. Again he looked, but couldn’t detect the source. This time, however, he noticed a bulging curve in the wall and decided to look beyond it. He stepped off the wall and walked around.

A small man was crouching between the wall and the wild overgrowth. Instinctively, Yousif wanted to pounce. But then, what would he do with him? Uncertain, he hesitated a second too long. Sensing his presence, the man started running.

“Here’s one . . . here’s one!” Yousif yelled, going after him.

The terrorist ran up the hill, where the field was full of olive trees.

Yousif chased him full tilt, but the man was faster. Afraid of losing him, Yousif looked back for help. Several men had jumped off the stone wall and were now joining the chase. Mehdi, a lean fellow of about thirty, passed Yousif and gained on the fugitive. They zigzagged behind each other, and circled around a tree. The terrorist tricked Mehdi and ran off again. But to Yousif’s surprise he climbed a dark, silvery olive tree. What a mistake, Yousif thought.

Within seconds, several Arabs were under the tree waiting for the terrorist to come down. Middle-aged Jubran, the quilt maker, tried to climb after him. But the fellow stomped on his hand, forcing him to release the branch. Yousif shook the tree but the frightened man wrapped his arms around the tree trunk. Hanania, the jeweler, broke off a long, thin limb and started switching him on the leg. The man climbed another notch until he became unreachable. More people gathered around, knowing that the enemy was as good as caught. A pretty young girl in a blue tunic picked up a pebble and threw it. She gave the men an idea, and they started pelting him. The terrorist began to cry, but clung to the tree.

“You’ll get hurt a lot worse if you stay up there,” Yousif cautioned. “It’s safer for you to come down.”

Instead of answering, the terrorist climbed one more notch.

Yousif saw Abul Banat jump and get a good hold on a branch. The jeweler and a bricklayer helped him bend it down. Now the terrorist was exposed and within reach. A toothless old woman tried to hit him with a long broom. But she was too short. A stranger, a thin, pockmarked man, took the broom from her and did the same. Still the terrorist—whom they could now see was no more than a teenager—would not surrender. The thickset bricklayer lifted to his shoulder another man who grabbed the boy, forcing him down.

The sky was velvety blue. The sun was shining brightly when all the terrorists who had been captured were rounded up and brought back to town. First they were toured around in a truck. Basim and his men led an awesome two-mile parade. It stopped at every major intersection. It stopped in front of the mosque where a
muezzin
circled the minaret and chanted from the Qur’an. Church bells were rung in triumph. In front of the Municipality, the rotund mayor stood on the balcony and delivered his impromptu congratulations to all the captors.

“People of Ardallah,” the mayor declared at the top of his voice, “I’m proud of every single one of you. With this kind of spirit, Ardallah is safe, Palestine is safe . . . Death to the enemy.”

The crowd roared with approval. After the speech, it began to move again, winding itself through narrow streets. Hundreds stood on their terraces and balconies, or leaned against their windows, gazing at the spectacle.

An hour later, the sea of relieved but angry demonstrators stopped at the five-point
saha
. Many gloated over their victory; others bristled from insult. How dare these Zionists, they all said.

“They don’t worry me,” one cobbler said to another. “Even with a gun in his hand, a Jew is nothing but a chicken.”

Yousif wondered about the fate of the terrorists after the “show” was over. Who would take charge of them? The British were too busy packing to bother. The Zionist underground would ask for them. The British might act as intermediaries and hand back all the prisoners—living or dead. Damn the British! They caused all this.

“Power to the masses,” Basim shouted, both his hands forming “V” signs. “Glory to those who seek freedom. Glory to those who rise and defend themselves. Glory to every man, woman, and child who has participated in this victorious morning.”

Men cheered, shaking their fists at the
terrorists. The sidewalks and rooftops were congested. Children stood on top of parked cars or window sills. A mother balanced her baby on her hip, looking stunned. A shriveled old man leaned on his cane.

“Brave people of Ardallah,” Basim continued, scanning the attentive crowd. “And brave brethren from the surrounding villages. Last week they came and killed two of us—and they became emboldened. They thought we were easy picking. They thought by hitting the villages on either side of the highway, they could stop our recruits from joining Abd al-Qadir, who’s heroically defending our sacred land.”

The roar was deafening. “Long live Abd al-Qadir,” someone shouted, waving the Palestinian flag.

“Long live Abd al-Qadir,” someone added, his voice hoarse. “Long live Basim.”

“Long live
Palestine,”
Basim corrected, motioning with his arms for them to quiet down. “But, dear brothers and sisters, not every time will we be this lucky. Today we managed to stop them. Tomorrow we might not be able to. Unless we stay alert, unless we remain united, unless we become strong, we will face threat after threat from a relentless enemy bent on usurping our land. Today let us be satisfied that we can send the enemy this message: woe to him who will trespass against us, for he will not be forgiven or forgotten. Woe to him who will dare provoke our ire—dare provoke our wrath.”

“Woe to him,” the crowd shouted.

Yousif counted fifteen
terrorists on the truck, but he had been told there were seventeen. Two terrorists had been killed and thrown on the floor. He saw men climb on the truck and strip the terrorists of their Arab disguise. As the unveiling proceeded, Yousif heard the mob gasp and fall silent. All the invaders were teen-agers, shaking with fear. The demonstrators became motionless. They thought they had seized a band of fearless fighters. What they had captured were mere boys. The victory was now hollow. Looking at the pale, smooth, pimpled faces of the raiders, Yousif felt sorry for them. They did not seem anything but helpless.

“Look at them,” Basim thundered. “Kids who should be home with their mothers are already killers. Don’t let their young looks deceive you. Don’t let their innocent eyes mislead you. Look what they’ve done.
They’ve killed Mitry Freij and Hani Mahmoud—”

“—and blinded Suha Badran,” Shafiq, Salwa’s cousin, shouted.

“—and wounded Taher Khalifeh,” added Shukri, who had once picked on Moshe Sha’alan at the cemetery.

“And God knows what else they would’ve done if we had given them half a chance,” Basim thundered again. “They have come to kill and they have killed. They have come to maim and they have maimed. If we let them, they’ll kill and maim again. Again and again until we and our children are all
dead
. And what’s our crime? Our crime is that we were
born here.”

With a few words Basim canceled any sympathy the crowd might have had toward the young raiders.

“Kill them!” somone shouted.

“Kill them!” the crowd echoed.

Yousif was terrified. “No,” he begged. “Basim, please, listen . . .”

“Kill the bastards,” shouted Aziz, the famed hunter, unslinging his rifle.

“No . . .” Yousif pleaded, his arms stretched toward Aziz.

“YEEEES!” the crowd shouted.

One of the invaders attracted attention to himself by trying desperately to hide. Yousif noticed that every time a man reached to remove the Arabic headdress, the boy would get on his knees and double up. He had tied the
hatta
around his neck and face and secured it further by pressing the
iqal
around the top of his head. His eyes only showing, he stood behind the others and never looked directly at the crowd. Maurice, a lisping hairdresser, climbed on the hood of the truck, then lay flat on his stomach on the roof above the driver’s seat. From there Maurice reached for the camouflaged boy’s head and uncovered it. The crowd gasped again. It was Isaac without his glasses.

“Look!” Salman exclaimed, pointing his finger.

“Can you believe it!” Abla, Salman’s wife, added.

“Isaac? My God—” said midwife Hanneh, who had delivered him.

Saadallah, a waiter at Zahrawi’s cafe, jumped on top of the truck. At the urging of the crowd, he pulled Isaac to stand at the back of the truck where everyone could see him. Yousif was shocked. He sensed Isaac’s humiliation and feared for his life. Looking around, he found Amin wide-eyed and gaping. People stared at Isaac with hate in their eyes. Isaac raised his two hands to hide his face. But Maurice forced them down.

“Isaac, you came to kill us?” seamstress Zahiyyeh said, her hand going up to her lips.

“Shame, shame on you,” a rosy-cheeked woman blasted.

Yousif felt a lump in his throat. This same woman had given the three boys a loaf of bread on the last day of bird hunting—the day Yousif wanted the three of them to make a pledge of friendship.

“You dirty dog.”

They cursed him. They spat on him. They chewed him with their eyes.

“Isaac, this can’t be true,” rang Yousif’s voice.

Isaac raised his eyes to seek out Yousif standing in the middle of the street next to Amin. Their eyes met, and Isaac’s lips trembled. Yousif and Amin waved their hands and tried to move forward. Isaac couldn’t face his friends and began to cry.

The crowd waited for Isaac to speak. To Yousif’s surprise, Isaac’s voice was strangely calm. It was not the voice of a young boy but of a man prematurely old and weary.

“It would be foolish of me to plead innocence,” Isaac continued, “and to think that you would set me free. This I know. But I also know that in your hearts you don’t want to kill me, just as in my heart I didn’t want to come back to you with a gun. I was
forced
to come and you’ll be
forced
to kill me. Alive or dead, we’re all victims—we’re caught in a war from which we can’t escape. But before you kill me, I want you to know that I bear you no grudge.”

A tremor of hope stirred in Yousif’s heart. Isaac’s words were touching; people were plunged in deep silence. They might spare Isaac; they just might. But their sympathy could swing like a pendulum. A few minutes earlier they had shouted for death. Now they were full of compassion. As he pondered Isaac’s fate, Yousif heard the postman Costa demanding punishment. Again Yousif’s heart sank.

“They blow with the wind,” Yousif whispered to Amin.

The two friends pushed their way toward Isaac. They wanted to tell him not to give up. But before they actually reached him, they heard a wild, woeful cry. Everyone stopped and listened. Again a woman’s cry electrified the scene. The mass of humanity parted, as if her voice had sliced it. Yousif saw her running down the narrow human path, wailing hysterically. Her ankle-length dress was beltless and torn to the waist, her long gray hair blowing, her face scratched and bleeding.

Yousif recognized her. She was the mother of Mitry Freij.

Her frightful appearance and wailing brought tears to the people’s eyes. Yousif’s heart ached for her and for Isaac. But her son was already dead. Isaac was still alive.

Other women joined the bereaved mother in her crying. They threw off the native head coverings, untied their hair and let it blow. They tore the fronts of their dresses, and wrapped their handkerchiefs or colored scarfs around their foreheads. Then they began to jump in a rhythmic dance of death. Yousif knew that the tide was turning against Isaac and he became frantic. He snaked his way toward the pick-up truck and climbed up to be with Isaac. When Isaac saw the effort Yousif had gone through to be with him he began to cry. Yousif wanted to hug him like a lost brother, but satisified himself with throwing his arm around his shoulders lest a greater intimacy offend someone in the mob.