On the Hills of God (33 page)

“You mean some were spared?” Yousif wanted to know.

“Apparently a few,” his father told him.

“All in all,” the barber asked, “how many did they kill?”

“Hard to tell,” the doctor said, “but the figures I heard range from three hundred to five hundred.”

“Killed?”
his wife shrieked.

“No,” her husband said, putting his arm around her, “first raped, mutilated, burned, and
then
killed.”

“Aaaaaah!” his wife wailed.

The other two women joined her, moaning and crying. Little Sabha tugged at her mother’s ankle-length dress, her face contorted.

Yousif’s attention returned to the Deir Yasin baby. Its large, frightened eyes seemed to fill the picture.

“The poor thing is heartbreaking,” Yasmin said, tears streaming down her face. “What’s to become of it?”

“Can we adopt him?” Yousif asked, clutching the paper with both hands.

The doctor, to whom the remarks were mainly directed, looked up from his newspaper.

“It would be nice, wouldn’t it?” Yasmin asked. “To give this precious baby the care and love he needs. Maybe it’s not practical, but there must be someone we can call and ask.”

“You sound as serious as your son,” the doctor chided her, folding the paper and then rolling it.

“Why not?” she asked.

“If it’s possible we ought to do it,” Yousif urged.

Her husband eyed them skeptically. “He’d be better off adopted by someone who can take him out of the country. Safety is the main thing, isn’t it?”

They entered the house in silence, followed by the others. Soon they were joined by Uncle Boulus and Aunt Hilaneh. After them came Rizik Attallah, with his Brazilian wife, who seemed tongue-tied worse than before. His Spanish-looking wife again seemed disoriented.

“You can have this country,” the Brazilian emigrant said, the ravages of Bell’s palsy still twisting his mouth. “I’m leaving.”

“Where are you going?” the barber’s wife asked, sniffling.

“Back to where I came from,” Rizik said, tapping his cane. “Back to Brazil.”

“Si,”
his wife said, nodding apologetically.

Other women began to weep.

The doctor took out his pipe and tobacco pouch. “What a shame,” he finally said, “Deir Yasin is our own Auschwitz.”

Silence wrapped them like a black shroud.

“I just wonder,” Uncle Boulus said, crossing his knee and clicking his
masbaha
.

When the uncle got lost in his thought, Yousif said: “You wonder what?”

“If it was wise to release the gruesome details of the massacre,” Uncle Boulus explained. “It might backfire. Our people are defenseless. They’re going to be traumatized. And I won’t blame them.”

“You’ve got a point,” the doctor agreed, his face grim.

“Especially those surrounded by Jewish strongholds,” uncle continued.

Yousif gulped. “What do you think might happen?” he asked.

“I hope they don’t start fleeing,” his uncle told him. “If someone told you a tornado was headed your way, what would you do? Would you go about your business, or would you run for your life?”

Late in the afternoon Yousif was alone in the living room. Exhausted, he lay on the sofa, his head resting on his folded arms. Just before he dozed off, he heard his mother tiptoe out of the room and return with a blanket to cover him.

When he woke up, two hours later, he couldn’t rise. Every muscle in his body seemed paralyzed; his feet felt as though they had been chained. Strange! Frantic, he tried to move his hands and legs but couldn’t. His apprehension lasted for a few seconds but seemed much longer. Finally, he unshackled himself and sat up, looking ruffled. He reached for the radio dial. He was moving the needle back and forth when he realized that his mother was in the room ironing.

“Did you listen to the news?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, splashing water on a white shirt. “The Irgun were responsibile.”

“Menachem Begin. Again. He also blew up the King David Hotel in 1946. I could’ve guessed it.”

“The Arabs are outraged,” she said, moving the iron back and forth.

“Oh, really.”

“The whole world is condemning the massacre—even those who voted with the Jews at the United Nations.”

“The Zionists themselves are celebrating, no doubt.”

“Apparently Ben Gurion isn’t. They say he’s furious.”

“I bet.”

Silence fell between them. Yousif looked out the window, wondering if these homes would one day be invaded and their inhabitants brutalized like the people of Deir Yasin. Only yesterday he was crying over the death of one friend. Soon he would have to cry over the deaths of hundreds. And the war had not started—yet. Not officially anyway. But wars, he reminded himself, were nothing new to the Holy Land. They were new to each generation. He would never get used to them, no matter how long he lived.

A thought struck him. He hurried out of the room, without telling his mother where he was going. He headed toward his school-church compound, looking for Father Mikhail. He found him in the church dressed in full vestment, kneeling at the altar and praying the rosary. Six nuns were also kneeling in the front pew. Behind them knelt a dozen or so worshipers, all scattered throughout the church.

Father Mikhail prayed in a deep monotone: “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.”

And the somber, black-clad nuns and everyone else in the church murmured, “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners. Now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”

Circumstances made the prayers sound hollow—as useless as another demonstration, as empty as another political speech. A true god would not permit his people to sink so low. A true god was, is, a loving god. Yousif couldn’t help how he felt. Deir Yasin had knocked all religion and faith out of him.

The recitation droned on and on for the next half hour. Yousif fell into a trance until the service was over, then he approached the priest in the vestry.

“Father, may I ask you a favor?” he began.

“Sure, Yousif,” Father said, removing part of his vestment and kissing it before putting it away.

“Is it possible to get all the Catholic churches in Palestine to toll the bells for the next twenty-four hours?”

The priest’s hands seemed to freeze. “What a strange request! What do you have in mind?”

Yousif moved closer, standing erect. “The bells have a sweet, melancholy sound. Ringing them all night long throughout the country will send a message. It might make an impression on the foreign press and all the embassies. I want them to know the depth of our revulsion at the massacre.”

Father Mikhail took a deep breath. “Also—as an appeal to God for mercy?” he whispered.

Yousif hesitated, not feeling a bit spiritual. “More as an announcement to the world of our sadness, our anger,” he said. “We’re so helpless, so inept. I feel sorry for our people, and disgusted with myself in particular for being so . . . so paralyzed. No leadership, no army, no money, no friends, no initiative. Palestine is going to be lost and I can’t stand it. I want to do something but I don’t know what or where or how.”

“I see,” the priest said, his beard looking grayer than ever.

The tall kindly priest seemed genuinely moved. He stood in the middle of the room, his eyes moist.

“I don’t know about the rest of Palestine, or about all the catholic churches,” Father Mikhail told him. “But you have my permission to ring the bells of this church from now till tomorrow morning.”

“What about the rest? Will you ask the Bishop or the Patriarch?”

“I’ll try. In the meantime go ahead and do it here. We’ll see what happens.”

“Thanks, Father.”

“But let me warn you. You need a lot of help. It’s not an easy job.”

“Don’t worry, Father. I can do it.”

Yousif rushed out to find Amin and look for other classmates. Within an hour he managed to come up with a crew of six bell-ringers, including Jamal.

And so from dusk to dawn they sat on the tiny stairwell taking turns pulling the heavy ropes connected to the belfry. There were two bells to ring: one large and one small. It took two men to ring the big bell, one to ring the other. Every fifteen seconds Yousif and Khalil, or Adeeb and Karam, or Hassan and Isa would pull down on a two-inch-thick rope, feeling the muscles stretched from their shoulders to their fingertips. The huge metallic ball, a hundred feet above their heads, would give one deep resonant clang. Five seconds later, Jamal or Nadim (a medical technician still wearing a lab coat) would answer with a softer ring that sounded like a distant echo. The effect was like a heart crying.

One-armed Amin couldn’t participate in the ringing. Yet he had plenty to do. Yousif could hear him explaining to the curious gathering outside what the constant ringing was all about. Once, Yousif thought he heard Salwa’s voice. He handed the rope to Isa and went out, his arms sore and his hands blistered. There was no Salwa—only men and women and children standing in the impenetrable silence of the moonlight.

Throughout the night, the bells of St. George Catholic Church in Ardallah tolled for the hundreds of victims at Deir Yasin.

Many of the men at Yousif’s house two nights later had been by at Christmas or played poker with his father on New Year’s Eve. But tonight there were others—old men in flowing robes and
abayas,
young and middle-aged men in western suits. In addition to the mayor and his entire city council were Uncle Boulus; ustaz Sa’adeh, a former mayor who was so emaciated Yousif feared he might expire every time he spoke; an elderly councilman with a wooden leg he had lost in a car accident in America; old man Abu Khalil, who had mended Amin’s arm; and Abu Nassri, with his ubiquitous dark glasses.

But tonight there were no drinks and no laughs. Tonight they were yelling all at once. They hushed for a moment, then started all over again. Led by the corpulent, ruddy, and ill-tempered mayor, the group had come to fulfill Basim’s prediction a few weeks earlier: they wanted Dr. Safi to turn over the hospital money so they could buy arms. Ardallah, they all insisted, desperately needed protection. Deir Yasin had made it obvious that they could not wait any longer for outside help. If they wanted to save their town then they would have to do it themselves.

When Basim had predicted such confrontation, Yousif recalled, his father had sounded indignant. Now Yousif feared that a similar posture on his father’s part would be labeled nothing short of treason. These men were out for blood. Should his father, so soon after the recent massacre, recite his opposition to violence of any kind, should he proclaim brotherly love for all mankind—including the enemy—the roof could certainly come tumbling down over their heads.

The salon was now full of fifteen anxious men. The situation was grave; his father had better be careful. The wrong sentiment, the wrong gesture, could be damaging.

“For God’s sake, Jamil, what’s the matter with you?” the mayor asked, the ashes of his cigar an inch long.

“Nothing is the matter with me,” the doctor answered, frowning.

“Since when are you this stubborn?” the mayor continued, gesturing and causing the ashes to fall in his lap. “After all, it’s not your money. It’s the people’s money. And they want it back.”

Dr. Safi shook his head. “I’m sorry but I can’t do it. I never claimed it was mine. But I was entrusted with it to do one thing and that’s what I intend to do.”

Affable ustaz Sa’adeh crossed his legs, leaned on the arm of his chair, and rolled the English newspaper he was carrying. “First things first, Doctor. Without some protection we’d be as good as dead.”

Dr. Safi’s smile was enigmatic. “I can appreciate your fear, Ustaz, believe me. But please answer this: what good would a meager fourteen thousand pounds do?”

“They’d buy sixty or seventy guns on the black market,” ustaz Sa’adeh was quick to answer.

“If they save one family from being butchered,” the mayor added, “it’s good enough for me.”

“The hospital will save dozens of families,” Dr. Safi countered. “To protect ourselves we need fourteen
million,
not thousand. We need a
hundred
and fourteen million, in fact. That’s the kind of armament we’d be facing.”

They all wanted to pounce on the doctor at once. But old man Abu Khalil, the bone fixer, held the floor.

“You’ve got to start with something,” he objected, his white beard trembling. “That’s all we’ve got. And it will have to do for the time being. As the proverb says, you stretch your legs according to the size of your mattress.”

The doctor glared at the old man. Yousif suspected that his father wanted to remind this old goat that they needed the hospital for the express purpose of stopping the likes of him from costing the Amins of Ardallah their arms. Luckily, his father kept quiet.

“Common sense will tell you that,” Uncle Boulus agreed.

“Boulus!” the doctor said, annoyed. “Are you suggesting I lack common sense?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Uncle Boulus apologized.

“It’s a waste of time, Abu Khalil,” the doctor said. “And a waste of money, if I may add.”

“Money, he says,” the emaciated former mayor said, shocked. “Who cares about money at a time like this? We’re talking about lives, Doctor.
Lives
.”

“It will take money to save lives,” the doctor pressed. “If all the Arab armies combined don’t pitch in now, the little money we have will go down the drain.”

“Hell, we agree with you a hundred percent,” said a chainsmoking Abu Nassri. “But we must get out of the hole we’re in. We’ve got families to protect.”

“We should’ve thought of that long ago.”

“It’s never too late,” ustaz Sa’adeh said.

“It will be worse tomorrow,” the feisty Abu Khalil warned. “Even at my age I’ll fight. Just hand me a gun.”

No one laughed. Fatima appeared at the door with a large tray of Arabic coffee. Yousif got up to take it from her. Tradition dictated that coffee should be served according to age, but Yousif was in no mood to guess who was older. He served the emaciated former mayor, then the incumbent mayor and then went around the room. Gloom seemed to descend on them, as they all sipped their demitasse cups without speaking.

It was the doctor who broke the silence. “I’ll tell you what we should do.”

Everybody looked up, curious.

“Let’s leave the hospital money alone and start another fund,” the doctor suggested. “And I’ll put up the first hundred pounds.” He reached for his hip pocket and took out his wallet.

“That’s a good idea,” said Badr Khalifeh, the youngest councilman.

“Hell no, it’s not,” said Jiryes Abdu, removing his thick, horn-rimmed glasses. “We don’t have time.”

“People are terrified,” objected the lame councilman, Ayoub Salameh.

“I have another idea,” Yousif offered, raising his voice above the rest.

They all perked their ears. Before speaking, Yousif got up and cracked the window to let the cigarette smoke out.

“Why not form a delegation and start a dialogue with the Jews?” Yousif asked. “We have intelligent people. They have intelligent people. Why not talk? Words are better than bullets.”

Some men shifted in their chairs, unimpressed. A woman could be heard yelling at her child and then spanking him. The child’s scream filled the air.

The house painter, Yacoub, smacked his lips. “I thought you had something to say.”

But Yousif stood his ground. “One can always fight. But first let’s try talking to them. I don’t think the average Jew likes what’s happening. We lived together like good neighbors. They were happy. We were happy. Why can’t we go on just like before?”

Yousif could tell his father was proud of him. But the two avoided each other’s eyes.

“You seem to have a short memory,” said Lutfi Khayyat, a round-faced bank manager. “Didn’t your friend Isaac come back with a gun? The outsiders have gotten to the local Jews. They’ve changed. We can’t talk to them now.”

“But we haven’t tried,” Yousif said. “Have we?”

“What do you want us to do,” the bank manager asked, “put a full-page ad in all the newspapers here and abroad—in New York, London, Paris—and ask for a PEACE conference?”

“Maybe we’ll be surprised.”

Most of the men shrugged their shoulders. Several turned their backs on him and started talking to each other.

“If a war breaks out,” Yousif argued, “both sides—”

“If a war breaks out?” the lame councilman mocked. “Hell, what do you think this is? A soccer game? Grow up, boy.”

The doctor sat at the edge of his chair, his back stiff. “Yousif is not a boy,” he insisted. “We’ll all be a whole lot better off if we listen to what he has to say.”

“It’s juvenile,” someone blasted.

“It’s not juvenile,” the doctor defended.

There was a short but tense pause.

“Much, much too late,” Yacoub said. “The enemy is baring his teeth. We need arms. Now.”

The doctor pursed his lips. “Then you’d better get you a war chest. Fighting them with the hospital money is like treating cerebral hemorrhage with aspirin.”

“Agreed,” said left-handed Nicola Awad, the cabinet maker. “But time is running out.”

Yousif pulled his chair forward and raised his voice. “Let’s be honest. Have we exhausted all peaceful means? Frankly, I don’t think so.”

“Sure we have,” said Jiryes Abdu. “We offered to live in one country, but they said no. They want a separate
Jewish
state. Where will that be if not on your land and my land and his land?”

“I’m talking people-to-people,” Yousif insisted. “Have we tried to work with the tens of thousands of Jews like the Sha’lans? I’m sure they don’t want war any more than we do.”

Their looks froze him in place.

“What is it with him?” Jiryes asked, leaning toward Yacoub.

“He’s dreaming,” Yacoub answered, shaking his head.

Some of the men began to shift in their seats. Finding no solace in the grim faces around him, Yousif’s eyes fell on the two-layered curtains before him. The ecru-colored sheer behind the white, hand-made lace—which his mother had commissioned the nuns of the Sacred Heart to crochet for her—displayed a scene that for a moment caught his attention. Silhouetted against the window were gracefully-winged cherubim playing the trumpets.

“There are fifteen men in this room,” the doctor said, winding his wrist watch. “I offered to put up a hundred pounds to start a new fund. I raise it to two hundred. Come on, match it. There are at least three thousand families in this town. If every family would come up with twenty pounds, we’d have a lot more money than we’re arguing about.”

“Some people can’t afford it,” someone protested.

“Okay, let them come up with whatever they can afford. And don’t forget that there are many who can give a lot more. That will solve the problem.”

“But that’s not the issue,” the mayor insisted, his face flushed. “The hospital money doesn’t belong to you.”

Yousif was surprised at his Uncle Boulus, expecting him to come to his father’s defense. Uncle Boulus must’ve read his mind. He put his
masbaha
away and accepted a cigarette from a packet Yacoub was passing around.

“In all fairness,” Uncle Boulus said. “The doctor isn’t exactly pocketing the money. He’s safeguarding it for the good of the community.”

“Still,” the mayor argued. “We made a mistake when we didn’t elect a board of directors.”

Soon they were engulfed in a fresh round of arguments.

Before long Uncle Boulus threw up his hands. “Give them the money, for Christsake, and be done with it. After the war, we’ll see—.”

“That’s just it,” the doctor interjected. “I’m not going to wait and see. After the war people will have all kinds of excuses not to pay. Then I won’t be able to raise a shilling.”

“If we lose the war, who cares?” ustaz Sa’adeh asked, slapping his own knee with the rolled English newspaper.

“I care,” the doctor told him, his wallet still in hand. “People will get sick then just as they do now—only worse.”

Again, a heavy silence filled the room.

“Put your wallet back in your pocket, Doctor, we don’t need your money,” councilman Ayoub Salameh, with the wooden leg, said very slowly. “But wait until every woman in town comes knocking on your door. I’m going to organize a demonstration against you, so help me God.”

All eyes looked at the handicapped man and then at the doctor.

The doctor looked tired. “Don’t threaten me.”

“And if that doesn’t work,” Ayoub Salameh continued, his small black eyes unblinking and his voice raspy, “we’re going to drag you to court and smear your name with mud.”

“You’re still threatening,” the doctor said.

“Damn right, I’m threatening, and I’m going to threaten more,” the man shouted, reaching for his cane. “This is war, Doctor, not a crisis. Keep your filthy money and your Goddamn wisdom and I’ll show you.”

The salon was now in an uproar. Someone inadvertently knocked a small serving table. Cups and saucers tumbled to the floor, spilling coffee on the Tabriez rug. The men began to leave, some reticent, some vocal—but all unhappy.

“Read this,” ustaz Sa’adeh said to Yousif, handing him the English newspaper. “And then give it to your father.”

“Anything in particular?” Yousif asked, still reeling from the commotion.

“You’ll know,” the principal said and left.

Like a good host, Yousif walked out with the guests. On the veranda he felt a hand tapping his shoulder. It was the mayor.

“Do you know where Basim is?” the mayor asked, unwrapping a new cigar.

“No, sir,” Yousif said.

“He’s the only who can convince your father.”

“Probably.”

The mayor squinted his eyes. “I admire a boy who’s true to his blood. But if you really love your father you ought to work on him. He’s got to change his mind.”

Yousif appreciated the mayor’s speaking to him as an adult. But because they were standing a few inches from each other, and because the man was reeking with the smell of cigars, Yousif found himself backing away.

“I still think he has a valid point,” Yousif said.