Leon Uris (26 page)

‘Don’t move, don’t grab me,’ she instructed. ‘Accept.’

‘I will try, but you are driving me out of my mind.’

‘Try. You are a good man.’

‘I’ll try,’ he repeated.

She bathed herself in scented oils before him under a dim light, then bathed him. As she slithered atop him she admonished him again softly to remain still. He allowed himself to be taken over. Ursula was in control and loved him and loved him and loved him until he was holding a volcano at bay inside himself. This time she joined in the delight, forcing him to submit to her in tiny stages until the volcano could no longer contain eruption and the most blissful of all weariness overcame him.

‘Ursula,’ he whispered later.

‘Yes?’

‘Why did he bring me here?’

‘I should not tell.’

‘Please.’

‘Tomorrow you will meet with Kaukji and Abdul Kadar Heusseini.’

Ibrahim sat up, his fogginess dispelled instantly. ‘But they are my blood enemies. They are Kabir’s blood enemies!’

‘It seems that all Arabs are to become brothers, now.’

Haj Ibrahim grunted in dismay. Ursula put the pipe in his mouth again and lit it. He took a very deep draw and fell back on the pillow and she was beside him.

‘I will begin to worry tomorrow,’ he said.

T
HE VOICE OF THE
muezzin, wailing out to call the devout to prayer, pierced the air as night turned to day. Haj Ibrahim awakened to it automatically, as he had done every day of his life. He blinked his eyes open slowly. He was very groggy. Damascus! The Effendi Kabir! He bolted upright and his head pounded from the night of hashish, wine, and lovemaking.

He looked quickly to his side. She was gone, but he could still smell her fragrance and the pillow was indented where she had slept. He moaned an enormous sigh of remembrance and smiled, groaning equally at his hangover, smiled again, and threw the sheet back. It probably never even happened, he thought. Even if it had been a dream, it had been worth it.

Haj Ibrahim unrolled his prayer rug, laid it down facing Mecca, and bowed.

‘In the name of Allah, the merciful, the compassionate.

Praise belongs to Allah, the Lord of the worlds,

The merciful, the compassionate.

Wielder of the Day of Judgment.

Thus do we serve, and on Thee do we call for help;

Guide us the straight path,

The path of those upon whom Thou has bestowed good,

Not that of those upon whom anger falls, or those who go astray.’

When the prayer was done he arose gingerly, for he ached in many places. ‘I have prepared a bath,’ a woman’s voice said behind him. He turned to see Ursula by the door and his heart raced. ‘I’ve ordered breakfast on the veranda. Your meeting is not until later.’

She helped him down three steps into a great marble caldron of a tub. They sat with hot foam up to their necks. She sponged him off pamperingly.

‘You naughty old man,’ she said, ‘five times. The last ones were so very good. You are a marvelous student.’

Their conversation on the veranda was in snatches ... she told of Berlin and air raids ... the terrible artillery bombardment ... the terror of the Russians entering the city ... a young girl hiding in the rubble ... rape ... starvation and destitution ... escape ... Beirut ... blondes, they like blondes ...

‘War,’ he rasped, ‘I don’t want this war. There must be another way.’

‘You are in trouble here, aren’t you?’ she said.

‘Yes, I believe so. Fawzi Kabir did not send for me to reward me for being a good Moslem.’

‘I don’t know if I’ll be able to come back tonight,’ she said, ‘but I can remain with you until your meeting.’

‘It is not necessary,’ Haj Ibrahim replied, ‘I must meditate. Besides, I’ve had my preview of paradise, thanks to you. I would be the worst kind of fool to think I could find it again on earth. I want always to be able to think back to the one moment of perfection. I don’t want to take a chance that something could go wrong tonight and change that memory. Do you understand that?’

‘You are a good man, Ibrahim. And wise, as well. After all, I am really only a prostitute.’

‘Allah has given me many things in many different kinds of ways. I accept that He sent you as some great reward. Do not berate yourself. Any woman who can give a man a look into paradise is a good woman.’

‘I don’t think I have blushed since I was a little girl,’ Ursula said.

‘I don’t want you to go quite yet,’ he said. ‘I have learned something of importance. It is very difficult to teach me anything. No one among my people could even presume they could teach me. It is I, Ibrahim, who must make the decisions for everyone else and I alone out of a hundred men who will take any responsibility. I have a son, Ishmael. He is my single hope, but he is very young. He is brave and he is cunning, so he may become a leader. He is also clever. He already knows how to manipulate me. Ishmael reads to me so I can be informed. But in the end, I must make all decisions according to Sunna, according to tradition. To live by tradition, one cannot gain too much knowledge for himself. Knowledge clashes with tradition. I have followed the Koran by surah and verse. To do that you must shut out much inquiry. Forgive me, Ursula, I am rambling.’

‘Please go on.’

‘It is to say I have learned something last night. A friend has been trying to tell me for years to open my mind, my soul. The Koran tells me not to do that, but only to accept everything in life as fate and Allah’s will. I reached out last night. You gave me my first true look into this frightening world the Jews have brought to Palestine. I accepted mercy and compassion from a woman. I now know my first woman and acknowledge that she ... you ... knows more than I do about many things. Do you understand what it means for Haj Ibrahim, the Muktar of Tabah, to accept that from a woman?’

‘I know of Arab men,’ Ursula said with a tinge of tiredness creeping into her voice.

‘Do you know what it means?’ he repeated. ‘To suddenly open a door to a forbidden room? I have battled with a man who is probably my best and maybe my only friend. Oh, I have friends, many friends. But a man I trust... I do not even trust my son, Ishmael.’ His voice became pained. ‘The man is a Jew. See, I am now even speaking to a woman about my private thoughts.’

‘What is it, Haj Ibrahim?’

‘What is it? We should sit down and talk to the Jews. The Grand Mufti of Jerusalem established the pattern of hatred. Maybe it was established before him. Maybe it has always been part of us. I learned last night from a woman, you see, and I have shut out the truth and the truth is that we can learn from the Jews... and we can live beside them. If there was a single voice in our world inclined to moderation, it would be stilled by assassination. That is our nature. This war will be very hard for my people and I am the only one who will make the decisions.’

He reached out and patted her hand and smiled, sadly. Haj Ibrahim had responded to the summons from Kabir by bringing along his finest robes and by wearing his finest jewelry. It was not the jewelry of a rich man, but the pieces were antique Bedouin, primitive, but powerfully lovely. He took a ring from his small finger, opened her palm, placed it within, and closed her hand.

‘Please,’ he said.

‘Thank you, I’ll treasure it,’ she whispered.

‘Now, if you please, I must meditate.’

‘Haj Ibrahim.’

‘Yes?’

‘Please be careful of Kabir. He is treacherous.’

A brackish streamlet of the Barada River slugged its way past the veranda. The fragrance of the Damascus roses hung on silenced air. Haj Ibrahim sat and contemplated. Since Ishmael had been reading to him, he had learned many new things and reasoned out others.

Haj Amin al Heusseini, the Grand Mufti of Jerusalem, was his blood enemy. Now the Mufti was wanted by the Allies as a war criminal. He jumped a ‘gentleman’s’ detention by the French and escaped into the Arab world, which showed no embarrassment at sheltering him. Indeed, he and his philosophies were revered. Unable to return to Palestine, the Mufti directed his continuing vendetta against the Jews from various Arab capitals.

The instant the United Nations voted for the partition of Palestine, the Mufti appointed a nephew, Abdul Kadar Heusseini, to enlist and command a force of volunteers on his behalf. The Heusseini tribe and clans were mainly in the Jerusalem area. The volunteers were to be known as the Army of the Jihad.

Abdul Kadar knew almost nothing about military matters, but he was popular from Hebron to Ramallah along the West Bank. He had become the surrogate of his uncle and titular leader of the Arabs in Jerusalem, Judea, and Samaria. Ibrahim knew that the militia he was recruiting consisted of a potpourri of unemployed workers, youth clubs, fanatics from the Moslem Brotherhood, farmers, and tradesmen. They knew even less about military matters.

A few thousand Palestinian Arabs had received British training in the war and another few thousand were members of the police and border guards. This Army of the Jihad would consist of five or six thousand men with small arms and without real organization or leadership.

During the Mufti’s revolt a similar militia calling themselves Mojahedeen the Warriors of God, had very limited success against the Jews, mainly on the vulnerable Jerusalem road. Their greatest victories were over fellow Arabs and came by assassinating and massacring the Mufti’s political opposition. Certainly this new Army of the Jihad would have minimal effect. In Haj Ibrahim’s mind it could be all but written off.

His thoughts turned to another old worm who had come out of the woodwork. Kaukji, who was either Lebanese, Syrian, or Iraqi, had spent the war in Nazi Germany. His Irregulars had had a miserable record during the Mufti’s revolt. They were a ragtag band of brigands who evaporated every time a battle heated up.

Haj Ibrahim was more concerned about the defeat he had administered to Kaukji. He knew he was a candidate for Kaukji’s revenge, for one does not forget in this world.

Haj Ibrahim also knew that in the fanciful Arab mind the terrible record of Kaukji could convolute defeat into victory. Somehow Kaukji still remained a respected military figure in the Arab world. Always on the prowl for spoils, Kaukji announced formation of an Arab Army of Liberation to be recruited from Morocco to Oman, an army of many thousands of volunteers. They would be supported by a variety of Arab treasuries.

Tens of thousands of Arabs answered his call on the night of the partition vote, swearing to volunteer. Their anger was quickly spent. In the end, a few hundred idealists found their way to the Army of Liberation’s recruiting offices.

With his ranks empty, Kaukji set out to purchase an army. He found the best mercenaries available among the Arabs. Bonus money always brought a response, but this time the response was poor. He found former Nazis hiding among the Arabs, British deserters, Italian deserters, and he bought officers from standing Arab armies. He then appealed beyond the Arab world to Islamic nations and this brought another few thousand from Yugoslavia, the Moslem parts of India, Africa, and the Far East. He obtained early releases of criminals from prisons in Baghdad, Damascus, Beirut, and from Saudi Arabia. He signed on several companies of the Moslem Brotherhood, who were men of intense hatred but totally undisciplined. Kaukji hoped for ten thousand men. He was over two thousand short. His self-ordained sacred mission was to enter Palestine and grab off whatever he could. He had four and a half months to operate before the regular Arab armies invaded.

It was obvious that both commanders were in Damascus scouring for arms and money. What then? Haj Ibrahim pondered. Abdul Kadar and Kaukji loathed one another. It was beyond comprehension that they could operate with a unified command. It was beyond doubt that each of them had made side deals with Abdullah, the Egyptians, and the Syrians. Who was in bed with whom? Where did the Effendi Kabir fit in?

Did the Arabs have a policy or just a series of secret deals? Did they really know what they were after with any clarity? Were they in agreement on any single question except the abstract mania of destroying Jews? With so many Arab armies and militias in Palestine, was it not logical that if the Jews were defeated it would only lead to an even bloodier mess of Arab fighting Arab? Haj Ibrahim had followed Arab conference after Arab conference and knew the only thing that ever came out of them was time-tested anarchy.

And what of the soldiers of the Army of the Jihad and the Army of Liberation? They were men like his own villagers in Tabah, coffeehouse fighters, impoverished men of little self-esteem with no real training and less stomach for the bitterness of bayonet combat.

Ibrahim did not know the entire strength of the Jews, but he had long respected their tremendous organizational capacities, their commanders, and their unity of purpose. Against the British the Haganah had had startling success. Against the Arabs they were undefeated. Tens of thousands of new Jewish veterans of the war filled their ranks. The stationary defense of the kibbutzim would be able to turn back anything Abdul Kadar or Kaukji could throw at them.

The Jews also had several battalions of young, hard Palmach men.

The Jews also had reality in their planning instead of fantasy and the support of the Yishuv in place of intertribal disarray.

In the end it would not be Kabir, Kaukji, or Abdul Kadar who paid the price but the fellahin of Tabah and the struggling peasants and townsfolk of Palestine.

‘Haj Ibrahim.’

He turned and looked into the ever-mournful face of Dandash. ‘The Effendi is ready for the meeting.’

‘B
ROTHER.’

‘Brother.’

‘Brother.’

‘Brother.’

The office of Fawzi Kabir held a conference table around the likes of which kings and foreign ministers would debate. Haj Ibrahim was determined that the setting would not intimidate him as he was placed opposite Abdul Kadar Heusseini and Generalissimo Kaukji, resplendent in a new field marshal’s uniform.

‘Before we begin,’ Kaukji said, ‘I want Haj Ibrahim to know that I never have nor ever will hold thoughts of personal vengeance against him or the people of Tabah for the time he outfoxed me. We are now all brothers facing a common enemy.’