On the Hills of God (31 page)

The sidewalk was congested. Amin looked around, being careful. “Don’t you want to stop the Zionist takeover?”

“I do,” Yousif replied, the din of the
souk
filling his ears. “But I still think that before things get any bloodier, both sides should sit down and talk. Face to face. Heart to heart. Arabs and Jews are the oldest and sharpest traders in the world. Let them drive a hard bargain. Let us drive a hard bargain. Let the negotiators lock horns for months, for years, if need be. But around a peace table—not on a battle field.”

Amin studied his face. “I’m beginning to think you really believe all this?”

“With all my heart. I only wish I knew how to make it happen. You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”

“No, not crazy. Just touched,” Amin answered, pointing to his own temple.

The few afternoon shoppers were milling around. Several peddlers were poised at various street corners, their trays and carts full of piping-hot sweets and polished fruits. Right in front of a wholesale warehouse stood a clean-faced boy selling boiled lupini and fava beans. Yousif and Amin ambled toward him, stopping to buy two piasters’ worth. Then they continued their stroll, eating out of newspaper cones.

“Tell me something, Amin,” Yousif said, peeling the lupini bean between his front teeth.

“What?” Amin asked, chewing.

“Joshua is gone but Jericho is still here . . .”

Amin looked confused. “I don’t get it.”

“Samson is gone but Gaza is still here. Nebuchadnezzar is gone but Jerusalem is still here.”

“I changed my mind,” Amin said, smiling. “You
are
crazy.”

“Maybe I am. But please listen. Where is Alexander the Great? Where is Richard the Lion Heart? Where is Salah id-Din? Where are their conquests?”

“Gone to dust—I guess.”

“Exactly. And you’d think man would’ve learned something by now. Either history is useless or we are too dumb. We seem to be taking the same test over and over and over again—and never passing.”

Amin shook his head and tipped the newspaper cone over his mouth. “Eat your lupini beans,” he said. “It’s better for you than all this gibberish.”

“It’s not gibberish,” Yousif insisted, trying to work out his own thoughts. “We are all sojourners, I tell you. We play rich and we play poor. We play merchant and soldier and tailor and housewife and playboy and we think we’re here to stay. How foolish of us . . . and how pathetic.”

“’Tis a tale told by an idiot / Full of sound and fury / Signifying nothing,” Amin quoted, in jest.

“Touché,” Yousif said. “Only the meadows, the valleys, the seas and stars are permanent. And we can’t own those, can we? What makes us think we can own the land? These hills belong to neither Arab nor Jew, believe me. And we must behave like guests. Not just you and me, but the whole creation.”

“Pray tell, wise man,” Amin said, popping more beans in his mouth. “What should man do? Kneel and worship the sun?”

“No, just bask in it. And ponder the mystery of existence. Marvel at the butterfly and the giraffe. Make love. Harvest the field. Write poetry. Drink wine. Say a prayer. Heal wounds. Smell the roses, if you will. But for God’s sake—don’t shoot.”

They passed a blacksmith shop, full of soot and noise. The fire in the furnace was two feet high. At the anvil the short but powerful blacksmith was hammering and shaping a pointed fence.

“If I only could see Salwa and talk to her,” Yousif lamented.

“Not when you’re in this mood, I hope,” Amin told him.

“She should know how I feel. There are so many things we should be doing instead of killing each other. Isaac would’ve been a good musician. You should have the opportunity to complete your medical studies. Salwa and I should get married, have children, build a future—”

“First,” Amin reminded him, light-heartedly, “you need to get Salwa out of that engagement. You start talking to her about Nebuchadnezzar and Richard the Lion Heart at a time like this and you might as well be kissing her goodbye forever.”

“True,” Yousif agreed, nodding.

“Then you can join the seminary in Bethlehem and become a monk. Or you can kill yourself.”

By the time they reached the flour-mill, the sun was setting over Jaffa and the Mediterranean Sea. Yousif looked in awe. It was a tableaux of magnificent colors—a feast for the eye, the soul, and the mind. He stood silent for a long moment like a man in a cathedral, letting the stillness wash all over him, drinking the sunburst as though it were the elixir of life. But reality wasn’t far off. Children were riding bicycles and filling the narrow street with laughter. Lights were being turned on in windows. A mother was calling her son to come home. A shepherd was returning with his huge flock, bells tinkling around their necks.

Suddenly an idea occurred to Yousif that could perhaps assuage his conscience.

“Do you know what I’m going to do?” Yousif asked his friend.

“What?” Amin said.

“I’m going to borrow father’s car and put it to some good use. Maybe you and I can get some food to our fighters. Who’s feeding them? Who’s looking after their needs?”

Amin stopped walking. “That’s a good idea,” he said. “Let’s do it.”

“We’ll go to different shops and bakeries,” Yousif said, “and fill up the trunk with breads and fresh vegetables.”

Enthusiasm brightened Amin’s dark face. “We could drive to where the men are fighting. Maybe get in on some action.”

That prospect didn’t appeal to Yousif, but he didn’t show it. “At least,” he said, “we can take the wounded to hospitals.”

“What hospitals?”

“Jaffa or Jerusalem. And if we have to, we can take them to father’s clinic or to Dr. Afifi’s.”

“I bet there are a lot of casualties already,” Amin said.

That night Yousif convinced his father to let him use the Chrysler. He and Amin would start at Salman’s shop in the morning and make the rounds until he had his trunk and back seat filled.

“Then what?” his father told him, sitting on the balcony.

“What do you mean?” Yousif asked.

His father eyed him skeptically. “Do you know how to get to Kastal?”

Yousif didn’t, and he thought Amin didn’t either. But he refused to be discouraged. He turned around and looked at Salman, whose arms were folded in his lap. “Maybe Salman will show us the way. Will you go with us?”

Salman looked thunderstruck. “Who me? You must be kidding.”

“Why not?”

“What about the shop? I can’t close it.”

“Just for a few hours.”

Salman’s face turned red. “I’ve never been to Kastal in all my life. I don’t even know where it is.”

Yousif looked disappointed. “You’re not afraid, are you?” he asked, aware that he was beginning to sound like Basim.

“Don’t be silly,” Salman answered, his lips twitching. “I’m not afraid. I just don’t know the way. Let Amin ask his father to go with you. He can probably take you through the back roads blindfolded.”

Yousif woke early with every intention of cutting classes to proceed with his plan. But before he could get started, a curtain of doom fell upon the Arabs. During the night Kastal had fallen again. The fighting men would probably be scattered until they regrouped somewhere else. It was a major setback and Yousif felt battered. Besides, he was uncertain what the day would bring. How would such a defeat affect his immediate plans? Would his father change his mind about the car? Yousif would just have to wait and see.

At seven o’clock, Kol-Yisrael, the Zionist radio station, claimed that Abd al-Qadir himself had been killed. Dream on, Yousif scoffed, slipping on his pants. He dismissed it as Zionist propaganda, yet frantically switched the dials to Arab stations for confirmation or denial. The Palestinians’ Sowt Falastin, a new underground station, spoke of a fierce battle the night before. It admitted a major setback but said nothing of Abd al-Qadir’s fate.

But by the time Yousif drove his father to his clinic, the rumor was spreading like a gust of yellow fever. Men on the sidewalk were shaking their heads. Faces were etched with fear.

“Have you heard?” nurse Laila said, meeting them at the curb.

“Don’t believe it,” Yousif told her, his elbow resting on the open window.

“I bet it’s true,” she said, alarmed. “My brother was one of the men who went with Basim yesterday. He came back early this morning after they had been driven out. He said all the Arab fighters were worried about Abd al-Qadir. They hadn’t seen him all night.”

“He probably slipped away to recruit more men,” Yousif offered, uneasy.

The doctor pursed his lips and shook his head. “Abd al-Qadir wouldn’t leave the battle scene. If it’s true he’s been killed or captured, God help us.”

“Were there a lot of casualties?” Yousif asked. “Did your brother say?”

Laila nodded, her eyes moist. “He says both sides lost plenty.”

“You might not need the car after all,” the doctor told his son, stepping out.

“I could help pick up the wounded,” Yousif suggested.

“And take them where?” the doctor asked, dismayed.

“Jaffa or Jerusalem,” Yousif answered. “Where else? Unless you want me to bring them to your clinic.”

The doctor shook his head, his brows furrowed. “That’s exactly why we need a hospital in Ardallah. No, leave it parked here until we see what’s going on.”

“I’d like to keep it, if you don’t mind,” Yousif insisted. That his father could brush him off made his skin tighten.

The doctor looked surprised. “Not after all this. Anyway, I need it more than you do.”

“Laila just said there were lots of casualties,” Yousif argued.

“That was last night,” his father explained. “Do you think they’re still lying on the ground waiting for you to pick them up?”

“I’d like to find out,” Yousif insisted.

“No,” the doctor said. “Hand me the key.”

The fact that Laila was still on the sidewalk listening to this exchange made Yousif angry.

“You promised I could have it today,” Yousif said, frustrated.

“Listen, Yousif, I don’t have time for this.”

“Then let’s go together. They need medical help.”

The doctor towered over his son. “Have you heard the saying, The road to hell is paved with good intentions? What you want to do is good, honorable. But it’s too dangerous. Too late. The Jaffa-Jerusalem road is impassable with all the caravans trying to go through. The Kastal area is probably swarming with Zionist soldiers now that it’s under their control. You’ll be shot on sight. You want to help, fine. You’ll have plenty of opportunities, believe me. But right now it’s too hopeless. So give me the key and go on to school.”

Yousif’s anger nearly overwhelmed him. He rolled up the window, locked the car, and handed the keys back to his father. They parted without saying a word.

Crushed and humiliated, Yousif continued his walk, stopping here and there to hear what men were saying. They were all wearing mournful looks and whispering the same thing. Abd al-Qadir was missing! By the time he got to school, the rumor was chiseled in rock. Teachers hit the walls with their fists. Students cried. Yousif felt his head spinning.

Within minutes, the church bells were tolling—not only for the distinguished martyr, Yousif thought, but for the Palestinians’ best hope.

Next morning, Palestine was rocked by another tragedy. Again the seven o’clock broadcast crackled with bad news. Still in his pajamas, Yousif tried to shake the sleep from his head. He couldn’t be hearing right.

“Deir Yasin,” the Arab announcer was saying, his voice choking, “a village four miles south of Jerusalem, seems to have been invaded last night . . .”

Yousif motioned for his father to hurry up, but kept his ears glued to the radio set. The doctor crossed the room, stepping in and out of the bright morning sun that had slashed the floor.

“. . . Residents of Lifta and Karyet Abu Ghoush, two neighboring Arab villages,” the announcer continued, “report extraordinarily heavy shelling and bombing, coming from the direction of Deir Yasin. The British army would neither deny nor confirm the reports. But they promised to investigate immediately. So did the Red Cross. For further details, stay tuned to this station.”

The doctor pouted and knit his eyebrows. Yousif watched him nervously switch the dial from Damascus to Cairo to London and back to Jerusalem. The two were soon joined by his mother, who must have heard snatches of the broadcast and tiptoed into the room, her face white. The three sat enveloped in gloom.

Yousif ran to school. Students and teachers were in the schoolyard talking about Deir Yasin. The radio set from the faculty lounge was placed on the window sill for everyone to hear. A big crowd gathered to await the latest news. All morning reports were sketchy, but ominous.

By noon, new editions of the newspaper were sold and devoured. Yousif and Amin ran out to the street to get a copy. The square around the bus terminal was crowded with people rushing to buy the few left. Yousif elbowed his way through and purchased one. He unfolded it and was immediately surrounded by many onlookers. The headlines were big and screaming red: massacre at deir yasin.