On the Hills of God (46 page)

After leafing through magazines in the waiting room for about five minutes, Yousif was ushered into Dr. Afifi’s office. It was much smaller than his father’s. And there was no human skull staring at him with piercing empty sockets. Short, heavy-lidded Dr. Afifi was friendly but nervous. He dropped the pen in his hand and walked around the cluttered desk to greet him. Yousif could have sworn that the doctor’s hair had turned grayer in the last few weeks.

“Nothing is wrong with you, I hope,” Dr. Afifi said, extending his hand.

“Not medically,” Yousif said, shaking it.

They sat down. The noise on the street below lapped at the window like tongues of flame.

“Father’s clinic,” Yousif said, taking a deep breath. “What do we do with it?”

“I’ve been thinking about that myself,” Dr. Afifi said, lighting a cigarette though the one in the ashtray was still long and burning. “Have you and your mother given it much thought?”

“Not really. I know we can’t keep it closed.”

“No, that wouldn’t be proper. You need income and—”

“There aren’t enough clinics to take care of all those people.”

“Especially now. God knows we could use the hospital your father,
Allah yirhamu,
wanted to build.”

Yousif remained silent.

“Let me check around,” the doctor said, smoke billowing around his head. “Maybe one of the doctors from Jaffa or Haifa could operate it until they go back—if they go back. Maybe one of them can rent it from you outright, or give you a percentage. I’ll just have to wait and see. I went to medical school with Ali Mehdi from Jaffa and Edward Tuffaha from Haifa. I don’t know if they’re here or not. If they are I need to look after them. My God, the rich and the poor are in the same boat nowadays.”

Yousif got up to leave. “Thanks, Doctor. I’ll be grateful for all your help.”

“Don’t mention it. Give my regards to your mother. Jihan and I will be coming to see you soon.”

“We’d love to have you.”

Before Yousif reached the door, the doctor called his name.

“Yousif . . . I don’t know how you’re set for money. But you know you can always count on us. You hear?”

“Thanks,” Yousif replied, touched.

“I mean it. These are uncertain times. With the loss of your father and the loss of income and the troubles ahead, one can’t be too sure.”

“You’ll be the first to know.” Yousif closed the door and went out, a lump in his throat.

The ominous parting words followed Yousif like a bandit. Were they on the brink of yet another disaster? Might he and his mother need financial help?

Yousif knew that they still owned the old home, which was a source of rental income. His father had also owned a large stock in Cinema Firyal. The annual dividends from that investment alone came close to two thousand pounds a year, more than the annual income of ten teachers put together.

Yousif’s father had been a saver. When Yousif had checked at al-Wattan Bank a week after his father’s death, he discovered that they had sixteen hundred pounds in a savings account and seven hundred and fifty in a checking account. That was more money than Amin and his family had seen in their entire lives. And if Yousif and his mother lived sensibly it should last them several years without ever needing anyone’s help.

But as Yousif hurried through hordes of refugees from Jaffa and Haifa swarming the streets, he knew that sooner or later they could be among the displaced. He was struck by other concerns. So what should he do about the money in the bank? Should he leave it there? Should he withdraw it to take with them if they too were expelled? Wouldn’t that be dangerous? What if they were robbed? What if they left it in the bank and it became a frozen asset? What if the enemy confiscated it altogether? To top it all, he thought of Salwa. Good God, what if they were separated?

Yousif’s mind and heart were in an uproar as he approached Sitt Bahiyyeh’s quiet neighborhood. He climbed her stairs and rang the bell. By the time the door opened and he saw the teacher standing before him, the skin puffy under her eyes, he was convinced that drinking poison would be easier for him than relinquishing Salwa. If he couldn’t save her from the clutch of domestic tyranny, how could he hope to save Palestine?

“Mother is taking a nap,” Sitt Bahiyyeh whispered, gently closing the door behind her. “Let’s talk out here.”

Yousif looked around, out of customary precaution. Then he realized that he wasn’t a thief, for God’s sake, and he couldn’t care less who might see him.

“I expected you sooner,” she began.

“I couldn’t—” Yousif replied.

“Well, of course,” she said, extending her hand.
“Yislam rasak.”

“Oo rasik,”
he said, shaking it.

An eight-wheeled truck full of refugees was going up the steep hill. The chatter of the men, women, and children riding above the bedsprings and mattresses and bundles of clothing filled the neighborhood.

Sitt Bahiyyeh’s bosom heaved as the homeless paraded before their eyes.

“There are a lot of sad people in this world,” she said, holding the railing.

It was a bad omen, Yousif thought. The ending was embedded in the beginning. Was she preparing him for a blow?

“Tell me,” he begged.

“What’s there to tell?”

“Did you talk to Salwa? In person? What were her exact words?”

“My mind is cluttered these days,” she said. “I can’t even tell you what I had for breakfast. But I do remember her telling me that she did all she could on your behalf, but it was no use.”

Yousif’s heart stopped. A young boy riding a bicycle downhill seemed to have lost his brakes and was screaming at the top of his voice. A mob of youngsters were running behind him, those coming up rushing out of his way. But Yousif’s eyes and ears were now glued on Sitt Bahiyyeh.

“She’s getting married Sunday,” Sitt Bahiyyeh said, pursing her lips.

“No, she’s not,” Yousif said, in disbelief.

“I’m afraid she is.”

“This coming Sunday?”

Sitt Bahiyyeh nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

“That’s three days after my eighteenth birthday!”

“Ya haraam!”
she said, shaking her head. “The scar will be reopened every year.”

“What am I going to do?” Yousif moaned, kicking the wall.

“I wish I didn’t have to tell you this, but you asked me and I’m not going to lie. That’s what she told me Friday. I happened to be in the principal’s office when she came and asked to be excused for the rest of the semester on account of the wedding.”

Yousif was shocked. “That was the first time you talked to her? Didn’t you two have a private conversation earlier? Didn’t you tell her about my visit?”

Sitt Bahiyyeh’s face contorted in sympathy. “Of course I did. I told her that the next day after you came. We had heart-to-heart discussions several times since. When I found out you weren’t making things up, I bent my own rules and got involved. So I can tell you with all honesty she did try to break off the engagement. She even got her mother to lean toward you. But when her father got wind of what the two of them were up to, he made Adel Farhat rush the wedding date.”

“The father did?” Yousif asked, astonished.

“I believe so,” she said. Then as if reading his mind, she added:
“Masabbato iddini tasbihon bimatrahiha.
At certain times, cursing religion is as good as saying a prayer. The fact remains: she’s getting married and there’s nothing you can do about it. Take my advice. On that Sunday, go out of town. If you can’t, get drunk, get a long night’s sleep. When you wake up in the morning you won’t feel any better, but at least it will all be behind you.”

Yousif was in a daze. “Get drunk?”

“If I weren’t supposed to be a lady, I’d say come over and we’ll get drunk together.”

“You would?” Yousif said, still in a trance.

“Why not? I am the expert around here on the pain that lingers.” She said the last words with a twisted mouth that mocked the whole East. “But scandal at my age would kill my mother quicker than the Zionists. And it would ruin the rest of my already inglorious life. Go on Yousif. I’ll be thinking of you while I’m tipping the glass in solitude.”

Yousif’s legs were weightless, yet he had no energy to lift them. Her raw wounds aroused in him memories of Jamal. The blind musician wasn’t the only one who had not recovered from unrequited love. Wasn’t he still suffering even though the girl he loved had been married for twenty years and had three children?

“I’ll do two more things for you,” Sitt Bahiyyeh promised.

Yousif waited, convinced that the bile in her system was surfacing. “I’m listening,” he said.

“I’ll compose a litany of curses for you—should you need them.”

“And the other?”

“I will not attend Salwa’s wedding—even though she is my favorite student.”

Yousif began to thank her, then his mind blanked. A tidal wave had just crashed over him and he didn’t know whether he was being thrown off to the shore or was about to be swallowed by the deep dark waters.

Darkness was beginning to fall. But no night could be as black as Yousif’s heart at this moment. Between his personal losses and the Arabs’ military defeats, he felt he was being sucked in by a vacuum. There was little he could do about the general situation in Palestine. But he swore to God and to all the angels and saints and demons who could hear him that Salwa’s wedding to Adel Farhat would never, ever happen.

All the neighbors were in front of Uncle Boulus’s house, including Yousif’s mother. Some were sitting in the familiar semi-circle. Others were listening and leaning against the building. From a distance Yousif recognized the center of attention. It was Maria—the robust, red-headed neighbor’s daughter. She was a nurse who had worked in Jaffa. Her white uniform and the little white cap above her carrot-red hair filled his childhood memories. When she had visited her family and strode through the neighborhood, her round body and genuine smile made her look like a lovable snowman. Maria and Yousif’s mother were good friends, although Maria was many years younger.

“Several months ago,” Maria was telling the group, “the British made me the head nurse at the hospital. I ran it as best I could. When they left they told me I was doing a wonderful job. Then one day this week, Dr. Ruttman told me that a ship was coming to take the Arab patients to Beirut. She’s a Jewish lady and a long-time friend. I couldn’t believe it. They’re too sick to be moved, I argued. But it was no use. She said they were doing it for humanitarian reasons. There was no sense in keeping them in a war-torn city, she said, when they could get better care somewhere else. I asked her: ‘Are you sending away the Jewish patients, too?’”

“Good question,” Uncle Boulus said, flicking his
masbaha
.

“She stared at me and said, ‘Just do as you’re told.’ But then I said, ‘If you’re scared being in an Arab town, don’t worry. You and the patients will be safe. We will all look after you. There are plenty of Arab doctors and nurses who would take care of all patients. But no patient must be moved.’ Dr. Ruttman would have none of it. I couldn’t figure her out. Then it hit me. She was acting on someone else’s orders. ‘Get them out,’ she said and walked away.” Maria paused to catch her breath.

“Well, did you get the patients out?” Yousif asked again.

“We had to,” Maria said. “She was chief-of-staff. Her word was final.”

Here, too, Yousif was disturbed. He wanted to tell Maria that they did not have to leave just because a Jewish doctor told them to leave. The Arab nurses and doctors and orderlies and patients should have staged a rebellion and refused to let her push them around. Even if the Jewish soldiers had already occupied the hospital, the Arabs should not have let that woman intimidate them. What could the soldiers have done? Killed them? All of them? Were the Jews that bad? That strong? Then he remembered the massacre of Deir Yasin and realized that the Irgun or the Stern Gang might have slaughtered whoever resisted.

“We moved the patients outdoors until the garden was full,” Maria continued, perspiring. “Some were put on stretchers. Others we sat in chairs. Many were dying and those we tried to keep in their rooms. But again Dr. Ruttman insisted that there would be no exceptions. ‘Out’ she repeated, pointing her finger to the door. How that woman changed. All of a sudden she became a different person. When the ship arrived, the whole thing turned out to be a hoax.”

Yousif was puzzled. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“It wasn’t a rescue ship at all,” Maria explained. “It came full of Zionists from Europe. They wanted the hospital evacuated to make room for them.”

“Aaaaaaahhhhh!!!!” many gasped.

The rest were stunned.

“They tricked you,” Aunt Hilaneh finally said, her hands folded.

“That doctor knew all along the ship was full of Jewish immigrants,” Uncle Boulus added. “But what happened to the patients?”

“By the time we knew what was happening,” Maria said, “things were moving pretty fast. When the Zionists occupied Al-Manshiyyeh and Hassan Bey Mosque we knew it was all over for us. Some of us wanted to stay and ride out the storm, others didn’t. Two nurses and one patient had been raped the week before, and if that wasn’t bad enough they remembered Deir Yasin. So we all pitched in. The Arab doctors and nurses and orderlies helped—even some of the British soldiers helped. We put the patients in ambulances and cars and sent them home. Some were even moved as far as Lydda and Ramleh. And now listen to this: in my confusion I forgot the payroll in my desk. No one has been paid. I don’t know what to do.”