On the Hills of God (38 page)

Yousif alone held back, determined not to compromise his principles. He was also still smarting from his classmates’ animosity a week earlier. He wasn’t about to do anything they were doing.

Nabeeh, the school’s best runner, looked at him suspiciously.

“Still defiant?” Nabeeh asked, raising his voice to draw the others’ attention.

“Let’s not start that again,” ustaz Hakim said, banging the desk with his fist. “Yousif is entitled to his reasons.”

“If you ask me they’re foolish reasons,” Adnan said. “At least the doctor finally saw the light. Not Yousif.”

“Yousif will do his share,” the teacher defended his favorite student. “I can’t believe what’s happening to this class. You used to get along so well. You were all friends. Whatever happened to you? Has Yousif changed? Not that I can see. So get off his back, will you? We have a lot more important things to worry about.”

Yousif bit his lips and nodded toward his teacher in gratitude. But deep down he was genuinely hurt. It bothered him that he was at odds with his friends. How could he expect Arabs and Jews to reconcile their differences when he couldn’t reconcile his with his friends? He raised his hand.

“Perhaps,” he said, looking around the room, “I’m responsible for some of the tension. If I have done anything wrong I want the whole class to know I’m sorry.”

Silence hung over their heads. Everyone looked stunned. “Nabeeh,” Yousif continued, “I apologize for saying it’s none of your business. It is your business. And you Adnan, forgive me. I didn’t mean to be so short with you. And you Amin, how I hate myself for putting you in awkward positions . . . for making you stand up for me. You are one of a kind.”

Amin winked at him, saying, “One in a million.”

“And you, ustaz Hakim,” Yousif added. “Thank you for your confidence in me.”

The teacher smiled. “See?” he joked, trying to mitigate the sentimentality.

“Above all,” Yousif said, “I don’t want us to go on quarreling with each other. When the time comes, I’ll do my share as ustaz Hakim has said. I still don’t believe war is the answer, but I intend to use my father’s car to deliver food and medication to all the fighters on these hills. Someone should do it. Why not me?”

Adnan got out of his seat and extended his hand toward Yousif. “I’m sorry too,” he said, blushing.

Then Yousif turned to Nabeeh and shook his hands. Adnan and Nabeeh shook Amin’s hand. And for a minute arms were entangled and smiles were breaking out.

“That’s the spirit,” ustaz Hakim said, relieved. “All it takes is for someone to take the initiative. Yousif, we all thank you. Now let’s open to page . . .”

They all turned to their books.

This time, convincing his father to let him use the Chrysler was easier than Yousif had expected. Whether it was the terror and bloodshed that were sweeping the country, whether it was the mellowing after defeat, he didn’t know. But he did appreciate the fact that now he too could contribute to the war without having to apologize. And without having to carry a gun.

“Stop by the office,” the doctor told him the following morning, as they were about to leave the house. “I’ll give you some supplies.”

“What kind of supplies?” Yousif asked.

“First Aid,” the doctor said. “That’s what you meant by medications, isn’t it?”

“Yes, of course,” Yousif remembered.

“And I’ll give you a list of what I don’t have. You can pick those up at the pharmacies in town. They ought to give them to you free. If they don’t just tell them to send me the bill.”

“What about the car? What time can I have it?”

“About five o’clock in the afternoon.”

“I’ll bring you home, then I’ll take it if it’s okay with you.”

“Don’t worry about me. I can always grab a taxi. But you need to check with Basim about getting the food. How do you plan to do it?”

“I guess I’ll go around to the men’s homes and pick up whatever their families have prepared for them.”

“That’s too much trouble. You’re talking about fifty or sixty families every night. It’s a lot easier to make arrangements with suppliers. You need to contact a couple of bakers, a couple of grocers, a couple of restaurants and let them all get things ready for you. Maybe Basim could get them to contribute their stuff, or sell them to you at cost. It needs a lot of coordination, but you can do it.”

It was a bigger job than Yousif had anticipated. “Thanks for telling me all this,” he said, looking at his watch. “Do you mind dropping me off at school? It’s getting late.”

They drove in silence. Yousif’s head was buzzing with excitement.

From then on, his work was cut out for him. Every day, in the darkening light of dusk, Yousif would make the rounds to the several establishments he and Basim had arranged to supply the fighters. He’d pick up the breads and crates of vegetables and the cases of soft drinks and dozens of sandwiches, then head for the hills. Sometimes he would take Amin or Khalil or Adnan to help him. Most of the time he would do it alone.

One afternoon Yousif drove Basim to four hills and five road entrances. What struck Yousif most at these posts were the men. They toted the guns with such enthusiasm, such pride. Looking at their laughing eyes, one would have thought they were getting ready for a wedding party. Among them was Adel Farhat, having a laugh with Rassass. Adel’s gun looked puny compared to his powerful arms. Upon seeing Basim, both Adel and Rassass hastened to shake his hand. Yousif himself stayed several steps behind so as to discourage Adel from approaching him.

On his way back to Ardallah, Yousif was very quiet. Seeing Adel Farhat had depressed him. It also reminded him of how much he missed Salwa. While Basim rattled on about politics and guns and prices, he wondered about the engagement. When was she going to break it? Why wasn’t he helping her? He shouldn’t even let an impending war stand in the way. Maybe she was depending on him to make the next move. At one time he had thought of trying to intercede with her favorite teacher or the priest himself. Why hadn’t he done it? Damn!

He dropped Basim off at the watchtower on the western hill and decided to do something. Enough was enough. Where was she now? What was she doing? What was she thinking? What plans were being hatched behind his back? He was anxious to know.

His first stop was at the house of the Greek Orthodox priest. The gray-bearded Father Samaan would be the one to marry Salwa and Adel Farhat, should she be forced to go ahead. Above all else, Yousif though, he must stave off that dreadful day.

The priest lived in one of the oldest and poorest parts of town, not far from Amin. There was a high stone wall built in front of the dust-colored two-room house, in the tradition of Muslims’ homes—to protect the women from the eyes of strangers. The semi-circle in front was unpaved, and children were playing soccer or hide-and-seek. Yousif recognized many of them as the priest’s grandchildren. He couldn’t help but smile as he remembered this. As a Catholic, accustomed to celibate priests, he had a hard time adjusting to a married priest with five daughters and no less than eight grandchildren. He couldn’t imagine a priest longing for a woman as he himself was longing for Salwa, then holding the Eucharist on Sunday morning. On the other hand, why not? Maybe it was more human than the Catholic tradition. Like everything else, he thought, there were no easy answers.

He felt awkward when he approached the enclosure and came across the priest’s wife, crouching by an outside fire baking
shrak,
thin bread that looked like large doilies.

“Excuse me,” he said. “I’m looking for Aboona Samaan.”

The
khouriyyeh,
whose pale knees were showing, looked startled. She quickly turned her knees away from him and covered them with her elbows.

Yousif felt embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to barge in on you like this,” he apologized, backing out.

“Wait,” she said, lifting the bread off the concave iron plate. She was wearing heavy-duty gloves. Smoke billowed all around her.

“He’s not here,” she said, getting up and smoothing her dress.

“Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“He’s out of town. If it’s an emergency, you need to see Aboona Iskandar, his assistant.”

“No, I need to see him personally. Perhaps later.”

“Aren’t you Dr. Safi’s son?”

“Yes, I am. I’m sorry I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Yousif Safi.”

“Good to know you,” she said. “No, son, I can’t tell you when he’ll be back. He had to go to Nazareth. There’s no telling what might delay him.”

“Is it safe? I mean traveling at a time like this?”

“I begged him not to,” she answered, a faraway look in her eyes.

“Did he say when he’ll be back?”

She shook her head. “What’s today, Thursday?” she asked.
“Inshallah
in two or three days.”

“It can wait. Again, I’m sorry.”

“Think nothing of it. And give my regards to your mother.”

“Thank you,” Yousif told her, and walked back to his car.

Next, he drove to a house behind the Lutheran church. Salwa’s favorite teacher, Sitt Bahiyyeh, lived there. Lights were on, so he assumed she was home. He pulled the car over by the curb and sat with the engine running. He was thinking. Sitt Bahiyyeh was the one Salwa loved most. If any teacher could put in a good word for him, this was the one. But he was hesitant about approaching her on such a delicate matter. Why should she help him break off the engagement when she didn’t even know him? Should he forget all about it and wait for the priest to get back? No, he finally said, the more help the better.

He turned off the engine, stepped out of the car, walked up to the front door on the second floor, and rang the bell.

When the tall, spinster teacher opened the door, Yousif felt tongue-tied. She seemed surprised to see him, and he didn’t blame her. Only once in his life had he spoken to her, very briefly, at Arif’s bookstore. But he had always liked her for her partiality to Salwa.

“Good evening,” he eventually said.

“Good evening,” she answered, her hazel eyes darkening.

They stood silent for a long moment. “I’d like to have a word with you. May I come in?”

She opened the door wider and then closed it behind him. She led him in, waddling in her usual way. Her patterned, blue dress shifted around her hefty hips.

“Who’s there?” an old female voice asked from within.

“It’s for me, Mother. Don’t worry.” Then turning to Yousif, Sitt Bahiyyeh said, “Ever since Deir Yasin, she hasn’t been the same.”

“I can imagine.”

“Every time the door bell rings she turns white like a sheet, thinking the Zionists are coming to slaughter us.”

“That bad?”

“When I leave in the morning to go to school, she locks the door and puts up the iron bar. Sometimes when I come back in the afternoon, it takes me five to ten minutes to convince her it’s me before she’ll open the door to let me in.”

She motioned for him to sit. He sat in the nearest armchair and remained quiet. The heavily draped and carpeted room looked stuffy and gloomy. He watched her turn on a couple of lamps. The yellow light hardly dispelled the darkness.

“It’s about Salwa,” Yousif began, his throat dry.

“Salwa?”

“Salwa Taweel. You’re her favorite teacher.”

She smiled, sitting on a velvet sofa. “How do you know? You’re not related, are you?”

“She told me,” he answered, shaking his head. “I’ve always known.”

“That’s nice. But what about her?”

“She’s engaged.”

“I know.”

“Well, that’s it. I don’t want her to be. She and I, that is, don’t want her to be.”

“She doesn’t want to be engaged? That’s news to me.”

Yousif looked disappointed. He had expected Salwa to be wallowing in misery. He wanted her to let the whole world know she wanted
him
.

“We’re in love,” he confessed, his fingertips touching. “Have been for years.”

Sitt Bahiyyeh laughed and crossed her arms around her big sagging bosom. “Been in love for years!” she repeated. “How old are you? Seventeen?”

Yousif wove his fingers and popped his knuckles. “Almost eighteen.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh. At your age love can be excruciating. But it was charming. Go on.”

Yousif spilled his heart out for her. Sitt Bahiyyeh was kind, listening attentively. A tapestry of the Last Supper loomed big over her head.

“How sad!” she told him, sighing. “What can I do?”

“She promised to break off the engagement. Will you find out what’s taking her so long? Is she waiting on me to do something? I haven’t been able to see her long enough to ask her myself. Will you tell her I still want her? My God, what am I saying? Tell her I can’t live without her.”

One of Sitt Bahiyyeh’s hands cradled her face. “I don’t know if I can do that.”

“I know I’m asking much of you. But I need help. We both do.”

“I’d hate for her father to find out I’ve been meddling in his family affairs. He wouldn’t like it, I can tell you that. We try not to get involved with students’ lives.”