On the Hills of God (55 page)

Her crying turned into intense sobbing. Yousif saw all the women’s eyes fill up again with tears.

He turned to the little girl. “What’s your name?”

“Zahra,” she said, with confidence beyond her age.

“That’s a pretty name,” Yousif told her. “Tell me, Zahra. What are you going to do when you grow up?”

“I’m going to kick them in the shin,” she said, demonstrating with her tiny foot.

No one laughed. Yousif wasn’t sure who would start the inevitable revolution—the Arab forces that were being denied a victory or the Arab masses who were being victimized. If he were a betting man he’d bet on the Zahras of the future.

That evening, after all the refugees had left Yousif’s ground, Yasmin could not wait for Izzat and Hiyam to leave the house. While they were getting ready to go out, Yousif could hear his mother and wife whispering and then opening and closing many drawers.

“What was the banging all about?” Yousif asked his mother as she came into the living room. “What are you two up to?”

“We were looking for these,” Yasmin told him, holding a hammer and a chisel.

Yousif did not understand. He looked to Salwa for an explanation.

“She thinks we need to hide the jewelry,” Salwa told him. “You heard what the people of Lydda and Ramleh said. The Zionists will rob us if they come.”

Yousif put down the book he was reading. “Mother, the Zionists are not coming here.”

His mother paid him no attention. “Don’t bet on it,” she said. “Come, let me show you.”

Salwa went back to the kitchen. Yousif followed his mother into her bedroom. “Where do you think is the best place?” Yasmin asked.

“Under the chifforobe. But I don’t think—”

Without giving him a chance to finish, she opened the chifforobe and began to empty it. First she took out her dresses and laid them on her bed. In the meantime, Yousif, resigned to what she was about to do, began taking out the bottom drawers and stacking them in the hallway.

“What are we going to do with your father’s clothes?” she asked, breathing hard.

Yousif had a lump in his throat when he saw all his father’s suits. “Put them on the other bed,” he told her.

“I mean what are we going to do with them?” she asked again. “We can’t keep them in the house forever.”

“Let’s not talk about it,” he said, putting his shoulder to the chifforobe. It was a big tall closet with two long mirrors on front of it. But now that it was empty, he could move it inch by inch.

“Let me help you,” she said.

“It’s better if I do it alone,” he told her.

After he had cleared a tile that was sitting right under the chifforobe, Yousif took the tools and crouched down. Very gently he went around the tile, chiseling and hammering and blowing the dust away until he loosened it. Then he put the chisel under one side and lifted it up. He was pleased he had done it without chipping or breaking the beautiful tile which bore Arabesque decorations in light blue. Then he began digging a hole which he knew would have to be at least five or six inches deep.

By the time he was through, his mother came into the room. Under her left arm she was carrying a bundle wrapped in a white and green scarf. He knew it was the jewelry. In her hand was a small tin can in which she was stirring a cement mix.

“Are you sure this is what you want to do?” he asked, taking the bundle from her.

“Why not?” she said, watching him unwrap it.

The gold bracelets, crosses and chains, and the diamond rings and broaches and watches were all there. In his hand was a little treasure. She had two diamond rings that were worth some money: one two karats and the other four karats. Even Salwa’s diamond ring and bracelets were there. Even a bride wasn’t allowed to show off her wedding treasures, he thought.

“What are you going to do every time either of you needs them? Dig them up?”

“I won’t need them,” she said, “until the war is over.”

Yousif wasn’t sure. “If you say so,” he said, bending down to bury them under the ground and re-cement the tile.

After he had finished, Yousif washed his hands in the bathroom. Then the smell of cumin filled his nostrils and he went to watch his mother teach Salwa to cook. She was preparing
bamiyeh
with meat and a side dish of rice. The dried okra was tiny and browned just as he liked them.

“Do you think we should take our money out of the bank?” he asked, standing behind his mother.

Yasmin stirred the pine nuts in the skillet, thinking. “Maybe we should get some of it.”

“The Zionists might steal it from us. But there’s a chance we may be able to sneak out with some of it.”

“Good thinking,” Salwa told him, piling rice on a platter.

Yousif threw the towel over his shoulder. “I’ll get to the bank early in the morning,” He said.

An hour later, Yousif saw his Uncle Boulus in the driveway walking toward the house. He looked paler and thinner than usual.

“Some Ardallah families are getting ready to leave,” his uncle informed them, lighting a cigarette. “I can’t really say I blame them.”

Yousif and Salwa were disappointed; his mother was sympathetic.

“I can’t blame them either,” Yasmin said, placing an ashtray next to her brother. “Maybe we should go away ourselves.”

“We just may,” the uncle confided, crossing his legs. “If only for a few weeks or months until the storm passes over.”

“That’s running away,” Yousif objected. “At least the people of Lydda and Ramleh were driven out. We haven’t been.”

His uncle seemed irritated. “The handwriting is on the wall,” he lectured him.

There was a pause. What bothered Yousif most was the calm and finality with which his uncle brushed him aside. Yousif remained quiet and watched his uncle stare out the window. Beneath the surface, the older man’s nerves seemed jangled.

Still, Yousif refused to give in. “I wish father were alive to see them running away like rabbits.”

“That’s what I say,” Salwa said in a huff.

His uncle looked at them curiously. “I’m surprised at both of you. I’d like for you two to show understanding and compassion and not to be so quick condemning people and calling them names. Maybe you’re not afraid. But most people are. The stories they hear from the refugees are scaring them. The enemy has consolidated its gains on the coast and is probably getting ready to go after central Palestine. Logic will tell you we’ll be next. After all, how far are they from us now? No more than a twenty-minute drive. Who’s going to stop them if they show up with their tanks and planes? The thirty or forty guns Basim bought?”

“We now have fifty-two guns and two mortars,” Salwa explained. “And Basim keeps looking for more.”

“By the time he finds any it may be too late. Besides, what will fifty-two guns and two mortars do in a full-scale war like this?”

“No kidding!” Yousif said. “That’s what my father used to say when all of you ganged up on him.”

“I didn’t gang up on him. Besides, forget about your father and the hospital money. Your father is dead. If any of that money is left it can’t be much. Be sensible. Look at things as they are. Whoever thought the Zionists would have the ability or audacity to raid Damascus, Amman, and Cairo? But they did.”

“And what did the Arabs do?” his mother asked. “Nothing.”

“The Syrians are still bogged down in the north,” his uncle continued. “The Iraqis came close to cutting off Haifa from Tel Aviv. But you see, King Abdullah is the commander-in-chief of all Arab armies engaged in this war. Which is fine. The trouble is, Glubb Pasha heads his army. And what do you know! This damn Englishman objected to what the Iraqis were doing.”

“They were messing up Britain’s plans,” Yousif said.

“He warned them to stop their push or he’d cut off all the ammunition.”

“That’s when they began saying
ako slah mako awamer,”
Salwa said. “We have the weapons but not the orders.”

“Do you think that Glubb Pasha is working in our behalf? Or is he here to implement Britain’s policies?”

Yousif remained unmoved.

“All right then,” his uncle continued. “How can we fight a war with our hands tied behind our backs? It’s all politics. Dirty politics at that.”

Yousif remembered his conversation with his principal. “Ustaz Saadeh calls it a piece of theater.”

“I call it a farce,” Uncle Boulus said, lighting a cigarette.

Yasmin exhaled. “People are not stupid,” she said. “They can read the signs.”

Brother and sister seemed to be working in concert, Yousif thought.

“We all know,” Uncle Boulus said, “that the other Arab governments can win if they put their mind to it. For some odd reason they don’t seem to be doing it. The enemy is well-equipped and strong—especially after the truce. What do you expect unarmed people to do? Wait for a miracle?”

Yasmin got excited and began to fan herself with a handkerchief. “It’s hopeless,” she said, her face creased with worry. “What’s the sense of denying it?”

Yousif knew that he had lost the argument, but could not accept the facts. “If Uncle leaves, you go with him. Salwa and I are staying.”

“Absolutely,” Salwa said, walking out.

“I will not budge without you two,” Yasmin said. “What do you think I am—crazy?” She got up, looked out the window, then followed Salwa out of the room.

“Leaving isn’t that easy either,” the uncle reflected, flicking his worry beads. “It takes money. And that’s something I’m short of at the moment.”

What startled Yousif most about the confession was the sadness in his uncle’s voice. He had always thought him to be financially comfortable, if not rich. He must have been living far beyond his means, Yousif surmised.

“Business hasn’t been too good the last few months and I, uh, I lost what I had . . . at the poker table,” the uncle explained. “I hit a losing streak that wouldn’t stop. Every time I tried to recover my losses I sank deeper. Now I even have a mortgage on my house.”

“You what?”

“Very few people know it. Not your mother, not even my wife.”

His uncle’s fingers clicked the
masbaha
nervously. And for the first time Yousif noticed the dark rings under his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Yousif said. “I really am.”

For his proud uncle to admit such a secret to his young nephew, Yousif realized, was tantamount to stripping himself naked. A soul had just been shamed before his eyes.

“Whatever we have is yours,” Yousif offered, fixing his uncle with a meaningful look. “You know that.”

Emotion, unarticulated and genuine, passed between them.

Within a week, about ten thousand of the refugees who had come to Ardallah departed further inland to towns such as Ramallah and Nablus. Many left the country altogether, headed toward Jordan and Syria. The six or seven thousand who stayed behind were mostly the feeble or destitute who could neither afford to pay their way nor walk the distance.

Overnight, refugee camps sprouted all over Ardallah. The neighborhood playground was not spared. Yards belonging to churches, mosques, or schools were found ideal. Yousif’s schoolyard was among the first to be converted. Some of the refugees tied the four corners of a green or yellow bedspread to a tree, a window or a post they stuck in the ground, and made it their shelter. Some had fought their way into the marketplace and managed to obtain a tent from a Jordanian army truck, which they raised in the middle of an empty field. Those, Yousif thought, were the lucky ones. Many simply camped out in the open air.

Just before dawn, Yousif was awakened by the sound of bombs exploding in the distance. Was it an air raid, he thought? Where was Basim?

He woke up Salwa. Then the two met Yasmin and the other couple in the dark corridor. They all rushed to the living room to determine the source. Yousif opened the window. Heavy firing was coming from behind the cemetery on the opposite hill. Yousif hurried to the west balcony, followed by the others. From there they could hear some distant screams and see many lights dotting the mountaintop.

“Oh no!” his mother cried, putting on the pink bed-jacket she was carrying. “It’s an attack.”

Sporadic firing increased. One car was heard screeching and shifting gears. The valley echoed shouts and incoherent cries, coming from all directions. On the balcony the four listened, mesmerized.

“It’s a major attack,” Izzat concluded. “The Israelis must’ve entered the town.”

“What’s happening on the hilltops?” Yousif asked. He was thinking of Basim.

“I won’t be surprised if there were casualties already,” Izzat said, putting his arm around Hiyam’s shoulders.

“I’m going to find out,” Yousif told them, rushing inside.

“Find out how?” his mother asked, alarmed. “Where are you going?”

“Our men need help,” Yousif said, taking off the robe and reaching for yesterday’s clothes that were piled on a chair in his room.

Salwa urged him to go; Yasmin begged him not to be hasty.

“Wait for me,” Izzat said, from his room. “I’ll go with you.”

Yousif thought of the money that they might need. He realized now he had made a mistake not withdrawing all of it from the bank. He had left only ten pounds in the checking account but had not touched the savings.

“You’re not listening,” his mother complained, putting her hand on him.

“No, I’m not,” Yousif said, buttoning his shirt and rushing into the corridor.

“Auntie!” Salwa protested. “You expect him to sit here while the town is being invaded?”

“What can he do?” Yasmin asked. “He can’t even fire a gun.”

“He’ll learn,” Salwa said, confident.

Hiyam was almost in tears. “I’m scared,” she told her husband.

“You’ll be all right,” Izzat said, stuffing his shirt in his pants. “Just lock the door and keep each other company.”

His car keys in hand, Yousif rushed out of the front door. Izzat was right behind him.

They got in the car in a hurry. Yousif turned the ignition and started to back out of the driveway. Izzat shouted at the women standing on the balcony to go inside and lock the door behind them.

But as Yousif tried to back out through the iron gate, a jeep suddenly pulled up and blocked their way. Two uniformed men wearing helmets jumped out, their guns at the ready.

One of the soldiers was tall and slender. The other was shorter, heavier, with a thick mustache. Yousif knew they were Israelis.

“Get out,” the tall soldier demanded in English, pointing his gun through the open window. It was no more than inches from Yousif’s temple.

Yousif froze. He cut off the engine, his mind racing. What could he do? He had no gun. Izzat was unarmed. The two soldiers were flanking them, nervous.

Yousif and Izzat glanced at each other.

“I said get out,” the same soldier barked, touching Yousif’s chin with his barrel.

“Oo inteh kaman,”
Yousif heard the burly soldier tell Izzat. “You too.
Inzal.”

Yousif nodded, opening the door. He did not dare look at Izzat. But he could hear the other door opening and closing.

To Yousif, the walk between his car and the front door of his own house was torturous. All kinds of thoughts and fears went through his mind. The moment everyone had dreaded came true. The Zionists had invaded. They had beaten all of Ardallah’s defenses and probably killed Basim. What were the invaders going to do now? Occupy Ardallah? Disarm the people, put them under curfew?

The darkness of the hour was soon criss-crossed by the headlights of several speeding cars. Yousif could hear tanks rumbling up the opposite mountain and on the street below. His mind flashed back to the summer before. He remembered the nine Jewish men and women who had descended the bus wearing short shorts and carrying duffle bags on their backs. The spade work of those spies, he thought now, was paying off.

“Iftah al-bab,”
the tall soldier ordered Yousif, nudging him with the tip of his gun. “Open the door.”

Of course, Yousif thought. One of the attackers spoke Arabic like a native. Yousif tried the handle but the door was locked.

“Tell them to open up,” the same soldier commanded.

As though in a nightmare, Yousif found himself knocking on his own door, hoping it would not open. He could imagine his mother and Salwa inside, clinging to each other, worried stiff.

“I’m warning you,” the tall soldier said in English, clicking his gun. “If the door is not open in one minute I’ll shoot.”

“Mother, Salwa, open the door!” Yousif pleaded. “They’ll kill us if you don’t.”

“Hiyam, hurry up,” Izzat begged. “It’s serious.”

Yousif bit his lip, knocking louder and louder. He thought he heard Salwa’s footsteps, but then the screams in the streets drowned the sound.

“Thirty seconds,” the tall soldier said, the barrel of his gun resting on Yousif’s shoulder.

The key clicked. The iron bar was unlatched. The handle was now moving. The door opened. The two soldiers pushed Yousif and Izzat in front of them, using them as a shield. Yousif’s mother looked like Mary at the foot of the Cross. Salwa was wide-eyed and stiff. Hiyam looked sickly, panic-stricken. She tried to run to her husband but one of the soldiers blocked her with his gun.

The short, burly, mustached soldier kept his gun on Izzat and Yousif. In the light Yousif could tell that his face was pock-marked. The tall soldier had a concave chest and odd way of walking. He seemed to throw his feet in front of him.

“Anyone else in the house?” the soldier barked, his blue eyes roaming all over the house. He seemed to be in charge. Yousif took him for an officer, even though he saw no stars or stripes on his earth-colored uniform.

Yousif and the other three occupants shook their heads.

“Out,” the tall soldier said, pointing to the door with his gun.

Yousif thought they were crazy. Why did they bring him and Izzat in then? But his mind was in a riot. He couldn’t worry about their idiocy. The main thing was to survive.

“Out where?” Yousif asked.

“Out of the house,” the officer said. “And out of town. It’s being occupied.”

Hiyam and Yousif’s mother began to cry, but not Salwa. Unable to reach their men, they clung to each other. For a moment, Yousif wanted to jump the invader and wrest his gun from him. But he soon felt the muzzle of the second gun in the narrow of his back.

“We just got here from Haifa,” Izzat protested. “We can’t be pushed out twice in a month.”

“That’s your problem,” the soldier spoke again. “Out. And do it quickly.”

“Bavakasha,”
Yousif’s mother pleaded.

Like everyone in the room, Yousif looked at his mother—surprised. What was she saying?

“Haeem atta medaber Hebrew?”
the officer asked. “You speak our language?”

“Lo,”
Yasmin answered, shaking her head. “Only a word or two. I used to know more when I lived in Jerusalem.”

The officer studied her from head to toe. “It doesn’t matter. Out,” he grunted.

“Bavakasha,”
Yousif’s mother again pleaded. “Please. Occupy the town, do what you want. But don’t force us out. This is our home. We can’t leave it. Where would we go?”

“Go to Abdullah,” the burly soldier told her, stepping on her bare toe in his attempt to block her from going anywhere.

“Abdullah?” she cried, looking at her son.

“Abdullah?” Hiyam asked, bewildered. “Where’s Abdullah?”

“He means King Abdullah,” Salwa explained. “Trans-Jordan.”

“Go to Abdullah. Go to Abdullah,” the soldier repeated, anxious to get rid of them.

Through the door, Yousif could see his Uncle Boulus and his wife, Aunt Hilaneh, pushed out on the street. He could see the Haddad family, Hiyam’s sister and husband and children, milling in the square. There were many mothers carrying children, and he could hear their crying.

But now Yousif felt powerless. And he hated himself because Salwa was there to see him in such a state. Only a few days ago he had been haranguing all those who were thinking of leaving. He had wanted them to stay and fight. Fight with what? he now asked himself. He wondered about Basim and the men on the hilltops. Were they fighting? Did many of them get killed? He thought of Amin and his family. What were they doing? And how was Maha, Basim’s wife, handling the children?

Yousif looked at the two soldiers with machine guns. What could he do to defend his women? Nothing. His head buzzed. Obey. No. Defy. Obey. Defy. Defy. Obey. Shame filled his being.

He heard his mother speak.

“As you say,” she said to the soldier, squeezing her son’s hand. “Just give us time to put on some clothes and throw a few things in a suitcase.”

“Are you crazy?” the burly pockmarked soldier said. “There’s no time. What do you think this is? Move.”

“Go out like this?” Salwa asked, shocked. “In our robes?”

“As you are,” the same soldier commanded.

Izzat became furious. He looked at his wife in her flimsy gown and robe, put his arm around her protectively. “My wife is not going out like this,” he said. “She’s practically naked.”

“Shut up,” the tall soldier warned him.

“We’re willing to cooperate,” Izzat explained, “but you must give us a chance to put on some clothes.”

“You want a chance, we’ll give you a chance,” the soldier said, reaching for Hiyam.

“Hey, wait a minute,” Izzat protested, holding on to his wife. “What are you going to do?”

“We’re going to give you a chance to watch her ass getting fucked,” the soldier answered.

The arrival of two more soldiers on the balcony seemed to make the tall officer more cocky, for he confidently motioned with his head and spoke to the other soldier in Hebrew. Yousif watched their every movement. What he saw gave him a glint of hope, although he didn’t know why. The two soldiers seemed to be arguing with each other. The tall soldier raised his voice and the shorter burly soldier shook his head and then stormed out of the house. Yousif looked at his mother for a clue, for she seemed to remember a few words of Hebrew. But she either didn’t know what they were saying or was afraid to do any interpreting. But what they were arguing about soon became clear. The tall soldier handed his gun to one of the new arrivals and began to pull Hiyam from her husband. She screamed. Izzat enfolded her with both arms. Now the two new soldiers, one with a violet birthmark on his left cheek, the other with a scar above his right eyebrow, moved in on Izzat, hitting him with the butts of their guns.

Yousif sprang forward and tried to pull them away from Izzat. But the two men turned on him and flattened him against the wall with their fists. Stunned by the quick blows, Yousif saw the whole room spinning. He shook his head to recover his senses, and felt his cheeks burning.

The soldier who was now carrying two guns leaned one of them against the wall to better restrain Izzat, who was fighting like a cornered cat. In a split second Yousif saw his chance and dashed for the gun against the wall.

“Leave that girl alone or I’ll shoot, so help me God,” Yousif threatened, thankful for Basim’s lesson in handling firearms, however brief.

He had them at a disadvantage and was determined to fire at the slightest provocation. Outraged by what they were about to do, he felt raw energy run through his veins, cleansing his system of any doubt or fear. Without his gun the tall soldier looked like a mouse, and the other two had their arms entangled with Izzat’s. Yousif was the only one with the gun at the ready. And he was poised to blast them off, the barrel of his gun inching from one head to another.

“You asked us to leave and we said we would,” Yousif protested. “What more do you want? Must you rape to be satisfied?”