On the Hills of God (39 page)

“Please help me. I’m in the dark. Am I hoping against hope?”

“How do your parents feel about all this? Are they for it? I’d hate to have two sets of parents accusing me of indiscretion.”

“Don’t worry about them. I’m my own man.”

She smiled, her eyes growing misty. At that moment Yousif thought he had found an ally. A woman who had been jilted, perhaps because of a suitor’s weakness or family pressure, would understand his deep concern.

“I’m glad to hear that,” she said. “Very few men are, you know. But what about the war? People are worried about survival—and here you are making yourself sick over a girl.”

“A very special girl,” Yousif said, rising to leave. “I’d face the bombs better knowing she’s mine.”

“Tejri irriyaho bima la tash tehi issufunu
. Sometimes the winds blow against the wish of the ships.”

A shiver went down Yousif’s spine. “Please don’t say that.”

“Breaking off an engagement is about as rare around here as a three-headed cat.”

“There’s always a first time. I’ve also been to see Father Samaan. With the help of you two . . .”

“Father Samaan?” she asked, standing. “Did he say he’d help you?”

Yousif looked startled. “No, he wasn’t home. But I intend to see him when he comes back from out of town. What’s wrong?”

“Father Samaan is Salwa’s father’s relative. Second or third cousin, I’m not sure. Anyway, he’s not going to turn against his own kin. I wouldn’t count on his help if I were you.”

Yousif could feel his knees buckle under him. “I see,” he said, sweating. “But isn’t this a church matter? Would he marry her against her own free will? What do family ties have to do with it?”

She shook her head. “Blood runs thicker than you think.”

Yousif looked at her straight in the eye. “That means you’re my only hope. That means you’ve got to help me. Will you, please?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

In the vestibule Yousif ran into Sitt Bahiyyeh’s eighty-year-old mother. She looked like a ghost leaning on a cane. Her frightened eyes matched his.

Yousif decided to spend that night on the western hill. The sky was clear, the air nippy. The moon was full. A dozen men—a school teacher, a postman, a truck driver, a farmer, an electrical engineer, a bartender, a garbage collector, two former policemen, and a few shopkeepers—were sitting in a circle, all wishing the enemy would show up. They looked motley in their disparate clothing. At best, they were a long way from the steel-helmeted soldiers he had watched in movies, and from British soldiers he had grown up seeing in Palestine, all decked out in starched cotton khaki uniforms.

Was this what people referred to as the “front”? Where were the bunkers and the trenches? The watchtower Abu Amin had started was so far no more than six feet tall. Even when finished it wouldn’t be more than a dingy closet. Was this war?

Soon a few men began to pace alone. One carried his rifle in his hand; others had them slung over their shoulders. It was getting cold and Yousif was fighting himself not to shiver in front of others.

“To do this job properly,” Basim said, “we need at least two hundred guns and six hundred men. Maybe more.”

“That many?” asked Omar Kilani, owner of the elegant variety store.

“Think about it,” Basim said. “To protect each mountain you need three shifts, each consisting of thirty men. That means ninety men around the clock. Multiply that by seven (the number of mountains) and you’d need six hundred and thirty men. And don’t forget another hundred men, at least, in the town itself—to guard the streets from a surprise attack.”

“And Ardallah is a small town,” Yousif observed. “What about big cities like Haifa and Jaffa? How many men do we need there?”

“Thousands,” said Salah Shaaban, a public school teacher.

“Of course,” Basim agreed. “And these cities have only recently begun buying some arms, just like us. We’re totally unprepared. On the other hand, the Zionists have started taking their fighter planes out of the hangers that we must’ve mistaken for barns full of hay. They have a squadron of Messerschmidtt-109s from Czechoslovakia. Their American bombers include B-17s, C-46s, Constellations, Piper Cubs, Austers, Rapides. And what do we have?” He gestured lewdly with his middle finger.

“Damn the Arab armies,” said the postman, Costa, his small eyes glistening in his apple-shaped face.

When they dispersed, Yousif heard Basim call out his name. He turned around and waited, not knowing what to expect. Suddenly, Basim threw a rifle at him.

“It’s not loaded, is it?” Yousif asked, catching it.

“No,” Basim replied, smiling. “You don’t know much about guns, do you?”

“Nothing,” Yousif replied, embarrassed.

“This is what you call an Enfield 303. British made. Had one like it in 1936—a gift from the Mufti.”

Yousif didn’t know one gun from another. Not even the difference between a gun and a rifle.

“What’s a Mauser?” Yousif asked, for the sake of conversation. “I used to hear about it all the time.”

“A clip-loaded German rifle,” Basim told him. “A mighty good one, too.”

“And the bazooka and the mortar?” Yousif asked. “What are they? Two names for the same thing?”

Basim grinned. “Boy, you are green,” he said, lighting a cigarette. “They’re not even close. The bazooka is carried on the shoulder. It’s used for knocking out tanks and armored cars. I wish we had a few of those. The mortar is like that one over there. It sits on a base, has a long tube, and it takes two men to operate. One to feed it the shell, and one to adjust the angle of firing. Who knows, before the war is over you might know a thing or two about weapons.”

The Enfield rifle felt heavy and cold in Yousif’s hands. Again he was full of doubts. If he couldn’t carry a gun, what was he doing here? He looked at the gun and then at Basim, feeling awkward.

“I might as well give you a lesson right now,” Basim said, stepping closer.

In the moonlight Yousif could see his cousin’s cunning grin. Yousif was inclined to tell him that he didn’t want to learn how to use the gun, that he didn’t believe in violence. But he kept quiet. This was neither the time nor the place. Besides, they both knew how the other felt.

Basim took the gun to demonstrate how it should be used. He removed the safety latch, cocked the firing mechanism, and showed Yousif how to aim. When he clicked it the other men were startled, but Basim quickly explained what he was doing.

“Hold it firm in your hands,” Basim instructed him. “And support it with your shoulder. If you don’t, it’ll knock you down. I have no bullets to spare, but that’s all you really have to know for now. Line the sight with the head of your enemy and shoot.”

Yousif cringed. “Just like that? Shoot only to kill?”

“If that man is out to kill you, killing him first is easy,” Basim said, the lines of his jaws firm. “Anyway, by the time you get a gun, the war might be over.”

There was always that note of frustration, Yousif thought.

“Keep it for a while,” Basim said, again handing him the gun. “You need to get used to it.”

“It’s so heavy,” Yousif said, cradling it.

Basim nodded and went to talk to a couple of men about fifty feet away. They talked in whispers, as if afraid to make a noise. Basim was the only one who gestured. Then each went his way, passing Yousif in silence.

Far below, Yousif could see the lights of the international airport in Lydda. He could also see Jaffa, a town as Arab as London is British. Yet at its harbor, ship after ship had come full of Jewish refugees bent on making Jaffa their own. How could that be! It boggled his mind that the Jews could even think it possible. Palestine was theirs but not his? Ridiculous!

The mere mention of the word Palestine tingled his spine. The sound of it was music to his soul. Did the Jewish immigrants grow up in Palestine? Did they have an inalienable birthright to it but he didn’t? What a travesty on logic! Did they play on these hills and in these valleys? When they were in Poland and Hungary and Germany and Russia and South Africa—did they pick almonds and figs and olives and oranges off the trees in the plush orchards that dotted the land of Palestine? Did they swim on the shores of Jaffa and Haifa and float on the salty waters of the Dead Sea? Did they smell the sweet open air, touch the soil, eat the fruits?

For thousands of years, the Palestinians had been here. And now the Jews want to come back and reclaim it? Just like that? How could they even think it? Even if they did capture it, how long could they hold it? A generation or two—then what? What would they do when justice reared its head?

Yousif thought of the Palestinians who had sought their fortunes abroad but had always come back. He thought of the people of Ramallah and Bethlehem who had migrated to North and South America. They had gone, toiled for many years, but always returned to live and die in the homeland—Palestine. All the glitter and gold had not kept them away. Very few families, less than one tenth of one percent, had gone and stayed. Only Palestinian water could quench their thirst.

Yousif closed his eyes and took a deep breath, drinking in the soft cool air. The stillness enthralled him. The gun in his lap held no magic for him. He himself did not want to fight the Jews—only to warn them. Their dream would only turn to dust. They would be creating a bed of thorns for themselves and for their children and their children’s children. A Jewish nation carved by the sword would never, never have peace. Simply because no Jew could possibly love the land of Palestine more than those who were born and raised on it could. Simply because in the Palestinian’s veins ran the distillation of all his living on the hills of God.

The hours of the night crept away. At midnight Yousif heard the town clock chime its twelve lingering strokes. His ears became sharpened enough to hear distant sounds. The wailing of a fox sailed up the mountain like a note of despair. Yousif wondered what kept the fox awake. He got up and moved about, looking down at the twisting highway. The headlights of a passing car shone like two eyes above a black veil.

“It’s brisk,” said Omar Kilani, the most eligible bachelor in town. The suave forty-year-old man owned and operated the one store where every fashionable woman did her shopping. He was tall and dark with a smile that made Cary Grant’s look like a frown. Rumors had it that Omar could steal any bride from her groom—even at the altar. What was he doing there with a gun in his hand? His cuff links and tie clip sparkled in the moonlight.

“Quite brisk,” Yousif agreed, proud to be in such company.

The two stood on the cliff silently. Omar took out a package of cigarettes and offered him one. To Yousif, any gesture of acceptance was welcome. He hesitated a moment, then took one, hoping that Omar had not noticed his clumsiness. Both lit their cigarettes from Omar’s gold-leafed lighter. Yousif relished the new experience. He appreciated the definite, purposeful movement of Omar’s fingers, which flicked the lighter, cupped the flame, and then snapped it shut. Never had the act of lighting a cigarette seemed so meaningful, so artful. With his first cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, Yousif felt like an adult. But every now and then he would turn around to suppress a rising cough.

“They must know we’re on guard,” Yousif said. “That’s why they’re not coming.”

Omar flashed a smile. “Sooner or later they’ll be here.”

“You think so?” Yousif asked, puffing.

“I’m sure.”

Each resumed pacing.

Because the mountain was bare and the moon full, Yousif could see a long way down. He could see the vineyards, the olive orchards, and the gray stretches of barren land.

Moments later Yousif thought he saw a man coming up the mountain. The man was only a couple of fields down. Yousif assumed that he was someone from Ardallah, coming to help. Then he realized that the man was coming from the wrong direction.

“Who’s there?” Yousif asked, tensing.

The man did not answer. A second later, the man made a quick movement and hid behind a stone wall. Yousif’s suspicions were confirmed. Before he could turn to tell the others, they were already beside him.

“Behind that wall,” Yousif said, pointing his finger.

“Are you sure?” Basim asked, taking the rifle from him and cocking it.

“I saw him.”

“Let’s wait,” Basim whispered. “The moment he moves we’ll see him. Go back to your places. We don’t want to be an easy target.”

The men dispersed.

“Watch out!” Basim called suddenly, throwing himself flat on the ground and pulling Yousif down with him. A hand grenade exploded about ten meters away. Had Basim not seen it coming, Yousif thought, they would have been both killed.

Yousif was still sprawled on the ground when Basim got up and sprinted to the lower field, chasing the man who had thrown the hand grenade. Yousif scrambled to watch. The man ran into a high stone wall which he could not jump over but started to climb. He reached the top and got ready to jump. Basim took deadly aim and a single shot echoed throughout the valley. Yousif heard a painful shriek, saw the man’s hands fly away from his body which was plunging headlong.

They waited for few minutes before they went down to inspect his body.

“Eliyaho Slavinsky,” Basim announced, reading the dead man’s ID. “Look, here’s another grenade.”

“Is he by himself?” Yousif asked, his eyes searching the hills.

“I doubt it,” Basim told him, removing a pistol and a bandoleer off the corpse. “They sent him to scout the area.”

“I see,” Yousif said. “Will they still come, now that they know the hill is guarded? They must’ve heard the shot.”

“It depends on how strong they are,” Basim explained. “If they think they can overtake us, they won’t hesitate.”

They started to walk up the hill, back to their positions.

“What about him?” Yousif asked, pointing to the corpse. The Zionist had been hit in the neck. His head was almost severed, flesh torn open and bleeding, tongue sticking out, eyes frozen. This was the kind of brutality Yousif had expected—had feared. He wanted to vomit.

“Let him rot,” Basim answered, stomping on the dead soldier’s fingers. “Here, take this. It’s a Colt .45. Not as heavy as a rifle.”

Yousif refused. “I can’t believe you said that.”

“What? That he should rot? Let me tell you something, big boy. He would’ve killed you in a second. And before he would’ve let you rot to hell, he would’ve beat the shit out of you, kicked your kidneys, and then sliced you up with his knife. Here, take this and start growing up.”

Yousif accepted the dead man’s revolver. But there was something still gnawing at Yousif’s heart and he wanted to have it out with Basim. There was no sense holding a grudge.

“Killing this
yahudi
is one thing,” Yousif told his cousin, “killing Isaac was something else, don’t you think?”

Basim stopped abruptly and looked at Yousif, whose eyes were boring at him.

“I see no difference,” Basim said. “An enemy is an enemy.”

Yousif gnashed his teeth. “Isaac was a good
yahudi
. Not like the rest.”

“Maybe,” Basim said, walking again. “But anyone who comes after me with a gun in his hand cannot be trusted.”

“I would’ve trusted Isaac with my life,” Yousif said, walking behind him.