On the Hills of God (32 page)

“Read,” commanded a hunchbacked old man wearing a fez.

“Read, read,” others echoed.

Yousif began reading aloud. His voice was low, shaking. He felt someone touch his arm. When he looked up he saw a villager, with delicate features and a well-trimmed beard, begging him with his eyes to raise his voice. Yousif read loud enough for the man to hear. The crowd grew bigger.

“According to the residents of Lifta and Kiryat Abu Ghoushe,” Yousif read, “something terrible must have happened last night in nearby Deir Yasin, a village four miles south of Jerusalem. For four hours they could hear shelling of unprecedented intensity. A sixty-year-old man, Ali Abu Ridda, who rushed out of bed and stood on the roof of his house to see what was going on, said, ‘It sounded like a gigantic invasion. In the quiet of the night I could hear explosions and I could see the sky ablaze. It was glowing so red I’ve never seen anything like it.’”

Men and women pushed around Yousif, wanting to see as well as hear him.

“Fear is mounting,” Yousif continued, “that of the population of about five hundred, no one was spared to tell the tale. So far the British police have been barred from entering. It is generally believed that the Zionist invaders were, in the words of a high official, ‘still mopping up.’ They needed time to remove the litter and wreckage they have wrought for this peaceful, defenseless Arab village.

“What gives rise to genuine concern is the fact that all hospitals in Jerusalem reported that no casualties were brought in during the night. Obviously there was too much shelling, too much military activity for no one to be hurt. Where are the wounded, who must be in desperate need of immediate medical treatment?

“The question everyone is asking is this: What exactly has happened? It may be sometime before we find out. One can only hope and pray that Deir Yasin has not been turned into a graveyard—literally overnight.”

Yousif looked up at the sea of red eyes, feeling whipped by his own emotions. The cessation of all sound and all movement was unnatural. Nobody seemed capable of breathing. Then commotion started, like a trickle that led to a flood.

“May they never enter the gate of Heaven,” the midwife Najla cursed, her voice shrill.

“May they never see the face of God,” the widow Martha responded.

“May all their children be orphans,” the dressmaker Julia echoed.

Yousif decided to go home and listen to the news on the radio. There he could have control over the dials and switch them as he pleased. Besides, his mother shouldn’t be left alone at a time like this.

But by the time he reached Zahrawi’s cafe, the radio was blaring more ominous news. The crowd in the terraced garden numbered over a hundred. All looked mesmerized. Yousif stood at the outer edge, listening.

“Slaughtering a whole Arab village must not have been satisfying enough to the invaders,” the announcer was saying. Hushed silence enveloped the men and women present. The unmistakable voice of Abu Walid, of the radio station, was distraught.

“Women’s torn underclothing and naked sprawled bodies,” the announcer added, “bespoke of the terrible shame and suffering to which the residents of Deir Yasin must have been subjected before they were disfigured and ultimately murdered.”

“Allahu Akbar,”
shouted Arif, the bookstore owner.

“Virgins were raped in the presence of their parents,” the announcer continued, his voice hoarse, strident. “Pregnant women were slit open and embryos were scattered on the floor. One woman was cut by a bayonet from her womb to her mouth. Babies’ heads were crushed like chestnuts. Eyes were knocked out and left hanging like large marbles. One man was burned to ashes in his sleep. His bones and right foot were the only parts which had escaped the blaze. Children were dissected and their young flesh mercilessly scraped off their tender bones.”

A waiter smashed a glass against the building. But the eyes and ears of the crowd remained riveted on the radio set.

“The Red Cross observers,” the announcer said, “were shocked . . . mortified. Some cried unabashedly. Others recalled the holocaust. According to eye-witnesses, the ghost of Nazism could be found in every street of Deir Yasin, nay, in every home. Shocking evidence is there for the whole world to see. Hitler’s victims have turned into victimizers. At their hand Deir Yasin has become a crematory, a cemetery, and a blot on the Jewish conscience forever.”

The earth moved under Yousif’s feet. He could see women in the crowd shutting their ears with their palms. Others were leaning against their husbands, crying. Men were chewing their lips. All stared. All seemed visited by a nightmare.

The announcer returned. “God,” he agonized, “what is the meaning of this cruelty? When, when, O God, are the Arabs going to wake up and face the horrible facts? Save us, O Lord, from our heartless enemy. Save us from ourselves.”

A woman with a big wicker basket on her head and a baby in her arms began to cry. She sobbed so fitfully that the baby slipped out of her arms and fell to the ground. The crowd rushed to pick up the infant. Yousif saw a man leaning against a wall, retching.

At the end of the broadcast, Yousif’s taut fingers crumbled the paper he was holding. His chin trembled; his teeth cut a wound in his lower lip. Through his blurred eyes he now saw the cafe garden and the street below swarming with people. The atmosphere was electrified. Live wires hummed. Wild angry voices rose from the crowd. Shrieks punctuated the air.

Yousif knew they felt helpless in this new dilemma. The scope of the catastrophe awaiting them deepened their fears. To whom could they turn now? What should they do? How could they meet the Zionist ferocity that threatened their very existence? Yousif trembled with them. Again he was awakened to the true and shocking meaning of real danger.

The throng seemed strung on one cord, pulled by one force. Yousif heard all kinds of cries, all stressing one point: something must be done before it was too late. The Zionists had set Deir Yasin as an example of the terror the Arabs should expect. It would be disastrous if they were not checked in time. One man called for a general strike, others for reprisals.

“This is a
jihad,”
cried a vegetable vendor. “The gates of heaven await those who defend themselves.”

Ardallah shut down. People walked aimlessly, lurched drunkenly. Others poured out from everywhere. Hundreds of students carrying their books under their arms hurried to ask questions. From the other side of the street ran a large group of schoolgirls, all donned in blue. From around every corner, every street, every alley, Yousif saw individuals and groups arriving.

“Dear God!” Yousif thought. “Not another demonstration.”

Everywhere he saw people beating their chests, slapping their cheeks, biting their own fingers. Anger, bitterness, frustration gripped them. Not in their wildest dreams, some muttered, did they expect anything so cruel, so blasphemous.

“Where is this Deir Yasin?” Yousif asked Elias Kanaan, a habitual gambler. He was leaning against the wall, holding his black suspenders with both hands, and viewing the scene with the sobered look of a man who had bet on life and lost.

“Never heard of it,” the gambler answered, shaking his head.

“Why do you think they did it?”

“A war of nerves,” the gambler muttered and walked away.

Church bells began to toll mournful tunes. The
muezzin,
atop a minaret a mile away, could be heard reciting from the Qur’an.

“We need arms,” shouted someone Yousif couldn’t see.

“YEEEEES,” the crowd echoed.

“To hell with the aggressors,” screamed Fouad, a cinema usher.

“May God send them the plague,” another shouted.

“Damn the British!”

“Damn the butchers of Deir Yasin!”

“Damn the Arab regimes!”

“Yes, down with the Arab regimes. Down with the eunuchs who call themselves kings and presidents.”

Not far from where they were gathered was a pharmacy owned by a Jew. Now it was closed, for the thin bespectacled pharmacist had left Ardallah with the Sha’lans. This small well-stocked apothecary became the crowd’s first target. Yousif saw several men step back and then charge its corrugated iron door. They tried it again and again until they broke its lock. Then they became wildly destructive. Hands went up to shelves and bottles were swept to the floor. Showcases were shattered by the men outside.

“Why waste all this good medicine?” Yousif pleaded, grabbing a man’s arm. “At least take it and use it.”

An angry man swung around and held Yousif by the collar. “If you don’t like it it’s just too bad,” he told him, pinning him against the wall.

“Get your hands off me,” Yousif demanded, pulling free.

A moment later Yousif saw that Amin was among those who had gone berserk.

“Amin, what are you doing?” Yousif asked, pulling his friend aside.

“Leave me alone,” Amin screamed, knocking the fragile contents of a showcase to the ground. “What do you think I’m doing? I’m going crazy. CRAAAAAAAZY, do you hear?”

Yousif let a moment of anger pass then approached Amin again.

“That’s enough now,” Yousif said to Amin. “Come on, let’s go.”

“You leave me alone,” Amin said. “The dirty sons of bitches.”

“Come on, now. Come on.”

Slowly, Yousif led Amin away from the shelves he was destroying. Slowly he walked him to the door, glass crunching under their feet. Five blocks later they saw the same thing happen to Moshe Sha’lan’s store. The enraged crowd forced the door open and began looting everything on the the racks.

“You’re going home with me,” Yousif told his friend, his arm around his waist.

“No I’m not,” Amin said, calm but drained.

“Why not? We should stay together at a time like this.”

“I’d better go home. But thanks anyway.”

“Thanks for what? Since when have you become so formal.”

“You know what I mean. You go home, and I’ll see you later.”

Yousif walked away in a stupor. The words of the announcer rang in his ears. The images flashed before his eyes. What madness! What heinous crimes! Was this the Wandering Jew’s way of returning to the Promised Land? Was this the fulfillment of biblical prophecy? How inhumane! How immoral!

As he reached the bottom of the hill which led to his house, he saw a small crowd of excited men and women in Isaac’s front yard. Yousif stood in the middle of the street and watched the burning of his old friend’s house. Other people were rushing to join in, but he remained in his place. Memories of Isaac and his parents flooded his mind. Now Isaac was dead. According to Amin, things were different. Heavy black smoke rose from the doors and windows of Isaac’s house.

He climbed the hill, crossing deserted streets. The town’s clock struck two as he opened the wrought-iron gate. His mother must have seen him coming. She opened the door and came out to meet him, her face pale, her hair disheveled. They met in the driveway, near the pear tree. He told her all he knew. She hugged him and began to weep.

“What are we going to do?” she asked, sobbing.

He put his arm around her waist and walked toward the house. Sharp wails came to him from near and far. The town was still going through convulsions. Cars sped by at eighty miles an hour. Children plastered themselves against walls to escape getting hurt. A mule got so frightened it took off through the narrow streets.

“Why didn’t you bring the paper with you?” she asked, her eyes red.

“I was so angry I tore it up,” he told her.

They stood on the balcony to stay in touch with neighbors and passersby. An hour later the doctor arrived, bringing with him a bundle of the latest edition of the newspapers. Yousif and his mother grabbed two and began reading, their faces pale. Momentarily they were joined by Fatima and her elderly husband, Abu Taher. Trailing them were three of their children. Their youngest was Sabha, a three-year-old girl.

“Listen to this,” Yousif said. “‘A single baby was found among the hundreds of corpses in the slaughtered village.’” A touching picture was printed in the middle of the page. It gripped Yousif’s attention. He moved closer to show it to his parents. His father nodded knowingly.

The baby was a few months old, found suckling on his dead mother’s breast. He was lying next to her, its mouth clinging to her nipple. The gunners, Yousif thought, obviously had not noticed him; otherwise, he would not have escaped. Younger infants had been slaughtered and tossed in a well. Only as the investigators had passed from house to house did the baby’s crying reach a human ear. The baby must have been hungry, but the warm flow in his mother’s milk had ceased.

Tears filled Yousif’s and his mother’s eyes. Yousif looked at the baby’s picture again with mixed feeling. He showed it to Fatima and Abu Taher. He also showed it to the neighbors, the barber and his wife, who were climbing the steps, huffing and puffing.

“Look,” Yousif said, showing them the picture of the baby. “The only survivor.”

The barber’s wife burst out crying. Her huge husband wiped his tears and blew his nose.

“Not true,” the doctor said.

“What’s not true?” Yousif asked.

“According to one report,” the doctor informed him, “the Zionists are parading the ones they captured but did not kill.”