The Omega Scroll (9 page)

‘Some time ago I received a letter from our Bishop. It seems the Holy Father is concerned as to how our Mother Church can better reach out to the youth in our community, particularly in our universities. Some of the Church’s younger priests and nuns are to be granted scholarships for study.’ Mother Alberta swallowed, her eyes hardening. If it had been left up to her she would have simply replied that she had no one suitable, but the Bishop had insisted, pointing out that one member of her Order had achieved the highest grade in the region for science and mathematics. Allegra’s nomination had been the cause of considerable friction between the strong-willed Mother Superior and her equally strong-willed Bishop, but in the end she had no choice but to give way.

‘You have been enrolled to study at Ca’ Granda, the Università Statale in Milano. You will take a major in the Philosophy of Religion and your options include archaeology and chemistry, although to what use you might put the latter is certainly not clear to me. You will spend the next six years studying.’ Mother Alberta sniffed loudly.

‘Oh Reverend Mother, me? In Milano!’ Allegra gasped.

‘I would have much preferred that you attended one of our fine Catholic universities,’ Mother Alberta said quietly, ‘but I am assured that the dangers of the state universities have been fully appreciated.’ She fixed Allegra with her stern gaze. ‘Nevertheless, my child, those dangers must not be underestimated.’ It was as close as Mother Alberta would ever come to disloyalty to Rome. ‘You have been chosen not only for your academic grades, but for your ability to resist the temptations of a dangerous world.’

‘Reverend Mother, I won’t let you down, I promise!’

‘I’m sure you won’t, my child. You will leave in the new year and our prayers will go with you. We will miss you,’ she added, in a rare moment of warmth. Mother Alberta replaced her glasses, signalling that the interview was at an end.

For all of her nineteen years Allegra had lived in Tricarico. Now her Church had made a decision that would have a profound impact on her life. Despite her sadness at leaving all that she had ever known, Allegra could feel butterflies of excitement and she knew it was God’s will that she be allowed to go out and explore the world beyond her Convent and her village. For once, she did not question the decision.

In a world that Allegra was yet to discover, the idea of God’s will was being used in a different way. In Israel it was being used for political purposes, as an explanation to champion the interests of secular politicians. The pointers in the Middle East were coming together.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Jerusalem

E
ach year it seemed that the tiny State of Israel faced an ever increasing threat.

Professor Yossi Kaufmann had exchanged his trademark open-necked shirt and slacks for the uniform of a Major General in the Israeli Defense Force. At a time of crisis all Israelis had obligations to the defence of the country and being a Professor of Mathematics and Honorary Director of the Shrine of the Book didn’t excuse him from those responsibilities. The Head of Israeli Intelligence was ill and Professor Kaufmann, a previous Head of that office, was the ideal choice to step into the breach. The distinguished, square-jawed Israeli was tall with sandy-coloured hair and a face that bore the creases of the years. Yossi Kaufmann was widely respected, but today even his standing might not be enough to avert disaster. He looked around the Cabinet Room with increasing concern.

The Prime Minister sat at the centre of one side of the big table. In front of each minister was a salmon-coloured folder marked ‘Top Secret – Cabinet Eyes Only’. Some of them, Yossi knew, would not have read his report so he had backed it up with a detailed verbal brief, but to no avail. It was the detail they were all ignoring.

‘And so, Prime Minister,’ Yossi concluded, ‘notwithstanding the strategic importance of the Palestinian village of Deir Azun and its close proximity to Jewish settlements in the West Bank, we have no firm intelligence that the attacks on our settlements originated from that particular village.’

‘But given its location it seems logical?’ The question came from the Defense Minister, Reze Zweiman. A big walrus of a man and a veteran of both the 1967 Six Day War and the 1973 Yom Kippur War, he was a staunch member of the hard right faction of the Likud Party and no friend of the Arabs. Zweiman had seen too many of Israel’s sons die on the battlefield.

‘We have an open mind, Minister,’ Yossi replied, ‘but you can be assured that we are doing everything that is humanly possible to pinpoint the source of these attacks.’

‘That may well be, Prime Minister.’ The Defense Minister shifted his gaze from Yossi to the small man sitting in the imposing brown leather chair, the back of which was just slightly higher than the others. Prime Minister Chenamem Gebin looked very grim; his broad, tanned forehead creased and worried.

‘But these Arabs,’ the Defense Minister went on, ‘need to be taught a lesson they will not forget. It’s not only the future of the government, it’s the very future of Israel that is at stake here. There have been no fewer than three attacks on the settlements in the past week; fifteen Israeli citizens, including six children, are dead and three members of the Armed Forces have also been killed. This village is a seething mass of terrorism and we should force the occupants out. Permanently.’

‘No one is condoning these attacks, Reze, but we need to tread carefully.’ It was the Foreign Minister, Shome Yadan. Yossi Kaufmann silently thanked the voice of reason coming from the elder statesman of the Likud Party. ‘Right now,’ the Foreign Minister continued, ‘the United States and international opinion are firmly on our side but if we go in hard against a Palestinian village without proof, and there are civilian casualties, that support can change very quickly, particularly outside the United States. We’ll be seen as the bad guys, especially if we force the Palestinians out and replace the village with an Israeli settlement. Worse still, it will fuel Muslim resentment against the West.’

Reze Zweiman sniffed arrogantly, making no attempt to disguise his contempt for anyone he labelled a ‘dove’. ‘You seem to forget one thing, Minister. At the end of the day, Israeli flesh and blood is the responsibility of this Cabinet and this government. Not some shinyarsed bunch of international bureaucrats in the State Department in Washington or anywhere else. The only way we will ever make Israel secure is to occupy the West Bank to the extent that it is firmly under our control. Over time the strategy should be to incorporate it into Israel and force the Palestinians out.’

‘Where would they go?’ asked the Minister for Agriculture.

‘Who cares,’ the Defense Minister shot back. ‘Jordan. Lebanon. Baluchistan. As long as they’re out of Israel.’

‘The Palestinian people are a reality and our policy should reflect that.’ The Foreign Minister’s voice was quiet but insistent. ‘If we push them over our borders and take over their land it will turn international opinion against us and I predict the rest of the Arab world will be more inclined to provide support and bases for terrorist operations. I would urge a more restrained approach.’

‘I am being restrained!’ the Defense Minister exploded. His nostrils flared and he spat the words across the table. ‘The Arabs are a creeping black cancer that needs to be excised!’

The Prime Minister was used to outbursts from his Defense Minister and without responding he turned to his media adviser and asked, ‘What are the public opinion polls saying?’

‘Three to one in favour of direct action against the Palestinians, Prime Minister.’

The Defense Minister sniffed again and leaned back in his chair with a self-satisfied look on his face.

Silence settled over the Cabinet table until finally the Prime Minister broke it.

‘I think there are arguments on both sides,’ Gebin said, trying to keep the fractious Cabinet together. ‘If we move against the village of Deir Azun it is clear there are dangers, especially if there are heavy casualties. It is equally clear that we can’t just sit back and allow these attacks to continue.’ He turned to Yossi. ‘You say there are three houses that are possibly suspect in this village?’

‘Yes, Prime Minister, but they are only suspect. Our source is unreliable.’

‘It seems to me that if these houses are suspect they should be destroyed. And if that is not enough the whole village should be destroyed,’ said the Minister for Defense.

‘Taking that into account …’ Again the Prime Minister refrained from responding to the roaring walrus opposite him and this time he looked to the Israeli Defense Force Chief of Staff, Lieutenant General Halevy, a smaller version of the Defense Minister. ‘I propose an operation of limited scope,’ the Prime Minister ordered. ‘The village is to be surrounded and occupied, but not permanently. The occupants of the houses that are suspect are to be brought in for questioning and the soldiers are to be instructed to use minimum force.’ He turned to his media adviser again. ‘And those directions should be spelled out to the international media, but only after the operation has commenced.’ Prime Minister Chenamem Gebin surveyed the faces at the table. No one spoke. ‘If there is nothing further we will meet at the same time tomorrow.’

Yossi felt distinctly uneasy. As the Prime Minister issued his orders of restraint, the unmistakable gleam of hatred in the Defense Minister’s eyes intensified.

Deir Azun

The earth in the Samarian hills of the West Bank was red and parched. As the sun began to set behind the mountains that cradled the little Palestinian village of Deir Azun, Yusef Sartawi scooped up the last of the bitter black olives from the nets spread at the bottom of the gnarled and twisted tree he’d been working on. Rivulets of sweat ran down his bare chest and back, soaking the top of his faded baggy shorts. He stretched to his full height of 186 centimetres and pulled his shoulders back, pressing against the dull ache in his muscles and momentarily resting his forehead against the rough wood of the ancient tree. As four generations of his family before him had done, and as the Greeks and Romans had done centuries before that, Yusef shouldered his battered wicker basket of fruit. His cracked leather boots kicked up puffs of red dust as he marched purposefully down the side of his father’s hill between the rows of trees.

‘Muhammad!’

Three rows over Yusef’s ten-year-old brother sat up, startled. Guilt was plastered all over his young face.

‘They won’t pick themselves, you know.’

Muhammad got to his feet sheepishly.

‘I was just having a minute’s rest,’ he said, doing his best to sound indignant.

‘I suppose that’s why you were asleep,’ Yusef retorted, but he said it without malice. At twenty-one Yusef was the second of five children and as a Palestinian he was one of the lucky ones. His parents had worked long and hard to ensure that all their children would receive an education, and now Yusef was enrolled at college in Nazareth, training to become a sound engineer. During semester breaks he came home to help with the harvest. Yusef and his younger brother Muhammad were separated by two sisters, Liana, who had just turned fifteen, and seventeen-year-old Raya. Their eldest brother, Ahmed, was studying to become a cleric and was in his last year at Al-Quds University in Ramallah. Today Ahmed was coming home on two days’ leave to celebrate Liana’s birthday. It would be good to see him, Yusef thought. And to have the family together again.

As he approached the old wooden pressing shed Yusef could hear the unmistakable rumble of the big granite wheel, the
Hajar al-Bad
. The family donkey was plodding a well-worn circular path, laboriously grinding the fruit into a paste, the leather straps and wooden harness creaking in protest at the weight of the wheel. Yusef’s father, Abdullah Sartawi, was hard at work bearing down on the paste in the old lever press. He was not as tall as his sons, but he was lean and fit, his shoulders broad and muscled from years of working in the groves. His dark, closely cropped hair was peppered with grey and the years of Palestinian sun could be seen in his face. Abdullah Sartawi was a man of strong ethics and had passed on his rock-solid faith in Allah and Islam to his family which, despite the Israeli occupation of Palestinian land and the constant threat of war and uprising, gave the Sartawi family a sense of purpose, dignity and hope.

The first-pressing virgin olive oil was trickling into the vat where it would settle. Yusef sniffed at it appreciatively. Sartawi oil was among the finest in Palestine and the subtle aroma had seeped into every crevice of the shed.

‘It is a good crop this year, eh Yusef?’

‘The best, Father, the best.’

‘I will tell your mother tonight, this year I think we might be able to afford a water pump for the house.’

‘She would like that, Father.’ Ever since Yusef could remember, water for the household had to be hauled in buckets. The mudbrick house with its dirt floors was at the end of one of the red dusty tracks that led from the village square. Every day his mother Rafiqa or, now that they were old enough, one of his sisters would trudge down the hill and queue at the rusting, squeaky water pump.

Up at the house in the old kitchen preparations for Liana’s birthday were well under way at the rough wooden bench.

‘Tonight we have an appetiser,’ Rafiqa announced, delegating the slicing of the sweet green peppers to Raya and the tomatoes to Liana. ‘
Shakshoukeh
.’ A dish of sweet green peppers and tomatoes fried in olive oil with thick slices of garlic, pepper and salt.

Despite the years of village life and five children, there was a certain elegance about Rafiqa. She was slightly built, with burnished olive skin, an oval face and dark hair parted severely. Over the years her serenity had calmed the energy of a house full of children. Raya was like her father. With his heavy eyebrows, she was quiet and reflective. Liana, as much as she was allowed to be, was energetic and rebellious.

‘Your father has brought in a chicken.’

Liana’s dark eyes danced. ‘Chicken
fatteh!
’

‘Just for you, my child, with your favourite seasoning – cardamom and nutmeg.’ Rafiqa stoked the cantankerous old wooden stove with an expertise born of long years of practice. Water for the rice simmered in a well-used blackened pot.

Judging the temperature of the oven to be about right, Rafiqa placed the chicken and some onions in a battered baking pan, poured some of the precious water over the top and placed it in the oven. She reached for the pita bread she had baked earlier in the day and sliced it ready for frying.

‘What time will Ahmed be home, Mother?’ Liana asked excitedly.

‘Any time now, I expect,’ Rafiqa replied, her dark eyes softening at the thought of seeing her eldest son again.

The old bus from Ramallah wound up the hill towards the dusty square. Ahmed was surprised to find the driver having to slow down to negotiate his way past lines of Israeli tanks and armoured vehicles on either side of the road. The command vehicle was at the head of the tank column. Four thin aerials flexed in the light breeze and a group of officers in kevlar helmets were clustered around a senior officer spreading a map out on the desert camouflage of the jeep’s bonnet. Towards the top of the hill two Israeli helicopter gunships circled menacingly overhead. Above them, even more menacingly still, two F-16 fighters supplied by the United States were turning, their wings flashing briefly in a sun that on the ground had already been obscured by the mountains.

The bus juddered as the driver crashed the gears; it took him three attempts to get it into low, the gearbox clanging more loudly each time. Ahmed held onto the rusty iron of the seat in front as the bus lurched forward. A great cloud of black smoke belched from the various orifices of what passed for an exhaust system and a little more grime was caked onto the cracked and rusted blue and white paint. Ahmed knew he was almost home.

‘Ahmed! Welcome home!’ His father embraced his son warmly as he walked through the door. ‘The sun is almost set. You are just in time to lead us in prayer,’ he said, stepping back and holding his son out at arm’s length so he could look at him. Ahmed embraced his mother, brothers and sisters and after they had all washed, Abdullah led them out to the veranda where seven old but clean sheepskin mats faced, in accordance with the Sartawi’s
qibla
, towards Mecca. Each day, regardless of where they were or what they were doing, every member of the Sartawi family would observe the second of the Five Pillars of Islam – Prayer or
Salat
. In any one day there were five prayers that were regulated by the position of the sun. At dawn,
Fajr
; after midday,
Zuhr
; late afternoon,
Asr
. Immediately after sunset,
Maghrib
; and before midnight,
Isha
. Together they stood saying the intention or
Niyya
to say four
rakas
of a prayer for God.