On the Hills of God (37 page)

Jihan screamed and rushed into her husband’s arms. Huda pulled Salwa’s hand and both started to run. While the crowd scrambled and screamed, the plane continued to dip lower and lower. It dropped a cylinder that seemed to be three feet long. Then it nosed up into a steep climb.

This time there was panic, men and women bumping and tripping each other.

“Salwaaaaaaaaaa!!” Yousif cried, hoping she would listen.

The bomb exploded, shaking the ground, tearing the hotel’s front balcony, twisting wrought iron, scattering glass, blackening the pinkish stone walls. Yousif pivoted to make sure Salwa was still near him. But the portly agent, Abu Nassri, was running backward. Before he could warn her, Yousif saw Abu Nassri plow his hundred kilos into her, knocking her down on her face. At the same moment a huge tree limb started to fall right over her head. In a split second Yousif fell on his knees by her and raised his hands to push the limb back. As it crashed down, he saw that it was too big to handle and threw himself between her and the limb, letting the many branches poke his back, rip his shirt, cut his arms, and bruise his neck.

“What are you doing?” she screamed under him, her dress hiked half-way up her thigh.

“You were about to be crushed,” he told her, trying to ease the limb off his back.

“You’re crushing me now,” she complained, her voice muffled. “I’m about to suffocate.”

She felt wonderful under him. Touching her flesh was enough to make him crave her forever. He could hear people talking around him. Some were trying to roll the limb off his back.

“Ouch,” he said, pine needles and sharp wood spars sticking in his ears and scratching his face.

“What will people say?” Salwa protested, trying to get on her knees.

Her movements brought her body closer to his. He reveled in the warmth that was generated between them. If he could only make her see the futility of everything except love.

“I love you, Salwa,” he whispered, his lips an inch away from her ear. Smelling the delicious fragrance of her hair, he wanted to cover her nape and supple arms with kisses.

“I love you, too,” she confessed. “But please hurry up and move. I’m embarrassed.”

He pulled his knees up and hunched his back, giving those who were trying to help a better chance of lifting off the branch. By the time they were freed, a group of men and women were marvelling that neither of them had been really hurt.

“He saved you in the nick of time,” Abu Nassri told her, the buttons of his shirt popping off. “That branch could have broken your back. And it was all my fault. I’m sorry.”

Salwa seemed confused. “I don’t understand.”

“I knocked you down. Yousif saw the branch falling on top of you. But he threw himself just in time.”

Yousif took off his torn shirt and wiped the blood off his cheeks and neck. But he was more concerned about the bumps and scrapes on Salwa’s leg and arms.

“I’m sorry if I embarrassed you,” he told her, tearing part of his shirt to let her wipe the dirt off her face.

She blushed. “I didn’t realize what was going on.”

“I’ll try to do better next time,” he said, the memory of her under him stirring his blood.

“Let’s hope there isn’t going to be another time,” she said, giving him a tender look.

There was a long pause. Yousif was oblivious to the whole world around him.

But his reverie was short lived. The black smoke rising above the hotel building paralleled the cries rising from the women who were present. Apparently several men and women had been injured. A stone had fallen on a boy, fracturing his skull. Dr. Afifi was rushing him to his clinic for some stitches. The tall thin choir director was cradling his right elbow in his left palm and biting his lip. The baker’s wife, Imm Farah, was clutching her eye with her handkerchief, screaming that she would never be able to use it again.

Worst of all, the proprietress’s fiancé, Kamal Malouf, had met his fate at the front door. When they picked him up from under the rubble his face had been smashed beyond recognition.

Another bead on a layered necklace of tragedies, Yousif thought as he stood with his parents at the edge of a crowd at Kamal Malouf’s graveside. The cemetery was overflowing with over a thousand mourners who had come to bid farewell to Ardallah’s latest victim.

As never before, Yousif and his parents felt like strangers among their own people. Squeezing the bandaged gash under his rib cage to stop it from throbbing, Yousif chafed at what he was seeing and hearing. While his father stood courtly calm, his wife at his side, people turned sideways, their brows knit and their eyes full of curt distrust. From the way these people looked, Yousif knew that the aftermath of the hotel garden meeting was still festering like an open wound.

The funeral service had not started. A few feet away from where Yousif was standing, several men were discussing the air raid of the day before. Yousif perked his ears, although his father seemed to feign indifference.

“I never thought they’d send their planes in broad daylight,” Jiryes Abdu was saying.

“Why?” asked the cabinet maker, Nicola Awad. “Are they afraid of our anti-aircraft? The whole idea is to scare us. To drive home the fact that they have military superiority.”

“I bet they know,” Nicola said, casting a furtive look in the doctor’s direction, “that some of us are fainthearted.”

“You mean ready to raise the white flag,” Jiryes Abdu said, smirking.

Yousif saw the whole group look at his father, as though to make sure he had heard them. The insolence in that look infuriated him. But his father looked ahead, his hands clasped before him and his face wearing a melancholy mask. Yousif nudged both parents to move on.

“What’s the matter, Yousif?” Badr Khalifeh asked. “Is your head still in the sand?”

Yousif looked at him, surprised. “My head has never been in the sand,” he answered.

“Maybe in the clouds then.”

Yousif stiffened. “Have respect for the dead,” he said, walking away.

As the plain casket was being brought to the open grave, Yousif saw Salwa with her parents. Her left cheek bone looked bluish despite the heavy make-up. That shadow of a bruise hurt him more than his own wounds. He wished to God she hadn’t even been scratched. He thanked God he had been able to save her from that falling tree limb. But what about her father, Yousif wondered. Did he know that he had lain flat on top of his daughter—in public? Yousif shuddered. Admiring Salwa at a distance, he forgot for a moment the townspeople’s hostility toward him and his father.

Abandonment and loss rode with them as the doctor drove his family home after the funeral. Silence filled the automobile. Yousif couldn’t hear the Chrysler’s engine, as though they were weightless in space. Normally they would go to the dead man’s home for a mercy meal after a funeral. But today his father decided to skip it. The way the doctor’s hands rested on the steering wheel and the way he pouted, Yousif could tell he wished he were driving them out of town forever.

“Are they going ahead with the lawsuit?” his mother finally asked, wiping the sweat on her forehead and neck.

The doctor nodded. His lower lip overlapped the upper one.

“I hope you don’t plan to let them run all over you,” she said, facing her husband.

“What do you want him to do?” Yousif asked, remembering Badr Khalifeh’s belligerence.

“The least we should do is get a lawyer,” she suggested.

“What good will that do?” Yousif asked. “We have enough headaches already.”

“One more headache won’t kill us,” she insisted. “The way they behaved at the cemetery you’d think we bombed the town. Not one said good morning to me. And the ones I spoke to didn’t even bother to answer. The nerve!”

The doctor honked his horn before turning around a corner. “At least Fouad Jubran, the town’s attorney, is refusing to handle the case for them,” he said.

“Good for him,” Yousif said.

“What about the other lawyers?” the wife wanted to know. “Would they put you on the stand and quiz you like a common criminal?”

“They would if I let them,” the doctor said. “I don’t plan to be in court.”

“You’re not going to contest it?” his wife asked, livid.

“No, I’m not,” the doctor answered, with the voice of a man with a skewed dream. “There are no real courts anymore, nor any justice. They’ll ram a decision through before you can blink an eye, and I’m not going to give them a chance to claim another victory. They want the money, let them have it.”

Nothing, Yousif knew, was dearer to his father’s heart than the dream of a hospital. He felt so sorry for the loss of that dream and for the town’s grievous insult to her noblest citizen. Now the doctor was acting nonchalant. But Yousif knew better.

“You don’t mean that, I know,” Yousif said.

“Mean it or not, that’s the way it is.”

Yasmin would have none of it. She spun sideways, curling her left leg under her. “Then why didn’t you give in to them to start with? Why did you let it go this far?”

“I hoped to spare them some foolishness,” the doctor said.

“Then I say back up your conviction to the limit.”

The doctor’s tongue moved around his closed mouth, as though licking his wounds.

“Mother!” Yousif said. “You sound like somebody else I know.”

“Salwa? I’ve always liked that girl. She’s got spunk.”

“I hated to see that bruise on her face,” Yousif said, wishing to change the subject.

“Your face will be bruised a lot worse,” his mother said, “if her father hears you topped his daughter.”

“I didn’t top his daughter!”

“They tell me she was under you for quite a while.”

For the rest of the ride home Yousif could think of nothing short of his secular and spiritual salvation. Salwa and Palestine completed the trinity of his soul.

While waiting for a trial date to be set, the same undertow of coldness they had experienced at the cemetery spilled even into the women’s club. Not one lady showed up for the last meeting that was to be held at the doctor’s home. Not one called his mother to tell her why she was not coming. Yousif was home when she rang up those who had telephones in their homes, only to be accused of condoning her husband’s stubbornness.

Yousif watched his mother roll her eyes and bite her tongue as she listened to Imm Fahmi lecture her.

“Please don’t get me started,” Yasmin said, making a ball out of the silk kerchief in her hand. “What does our club have to do with arms and armaments? Don’t you think he knows we’re at war?

That night Yousif saw his scarlet-faced mother cry and berate her husband. One minute she’d accuse him of letting the situation get out of hand; the next minute she’d implore him to hire an attorney and stop them from “robbing” him of the hospital money. It was the first time in years that his parents had argued in front of him. For the rest of the evening his father played solitaire: scowling, grunting, but not budging.

Three days later the court ruled against his father. That same morning the hospital’s bank deposit was transferred to the municipality’s account. The news spread throughout Ardallah as though it were a national event. It reached Yousif at school, where he took it like an arrow in his heart. At least this time the students did not make fun of him or his father.

During lunch break Yousif ran to his father’s clinic. The waiting room was empty. His father was out on a house call.

“You mean some people are still using him as a doctor?” Yousif asked Nurse Laila who was doing bookkeeping at her desk.

“Oh, they’ll all come around,” she said, sighing.

“How’s he taking it?” he asked.

“He didn’t say much, but I could tell he’s bitter,” she answered. “I don’t blame him. After all he has done for this town.”

“If I were him I’d feel sad, not bitter,” he said, biting his own lips. “All they’re doing is throwing that money away.”

“I agree,” she said, nodding. “But let’s not be too hard on them. They can’t get Deir Yasin out of their minds.”

Dr. Safi came home with gifts for his wife: an expensive blue purse, a silk blouse, and a bottle of perfume. Having unwrapped the three boxes in the middle of the living room, Yasmin put everything on the round table and looked at her husband affectionately.

“Thank you,” she said, smiling, as if to apologize for her own behavior.

But Yousif was not satisfied. “None of this bashful stuff,” he said, pushing them toward each other, until they made up with a tender kiss.

Half an hour later, they were sitting by themselves drinking cocktails when the door bell rang. Yousif got up to answer it. At the door was Makram, the taxi-driver, carrying a tray of
kinafeh
and a kilo of tasty-smelling
shish kabab
.

“What’s all this?” Yousif said, surprised.

“A delivery from Al-Karnak Restaurant,” Makram answered, a boyish smile revealing his splendid teeth.

By that time his parents were standing behind him.

“Did you order this?” his wife asked, surprised. “What on earth for?”

“What do people do with food?” the doctor answered, tipping Makram.

“What am I going to do with the two pots of rice and
mlokhiyyeh
I just finished cooking?” she asked, leading them to the dining room.

“Don’t worry,” Yousif said, following both of them.

When they reached the dining room, Yousif waited for Fatima to place hot pads on the table. Then he uncovered and sampled the warm juicy kabab as if he hadn’t had any in years.

As the sun slipped behind the far horizon, Yousif and his parents had a good, quiet meal together. They touched glasses and sipped red wine, not merely for pleasure but almost as a ritual. The wine seemed to bear for Yousif the significance of Eucharist, cleansing them of yesterday’s “sins.” A few rays streamed in, turning the window panes golden.

Yousif was happy to see his parents relaxed. In spite of the troubles outside, they appeared at peace with themselves and the world. Even without make-up his mother looked pretty. Her pale skin seemed to have recovered its softness. Yousif had been worried that the city’s heavy-handed takeover of the money might crush his father. Now it was obvious that his father was sad, bitter—but somewhat relieved. His equanimity seemed to foretell refusal to retreat in a cave—or to hide behind a cocoon of hurt feelings. It also confirmed his tolerance of human folly.

Yousif wished that, one day, he and Salwa would be that understanding and forgiving.

For all the twenty-five thousand pounds they had raised, Basim could purchase only two Enfield rifles, thirteen Bren guns, eighteen Sten sub-machine guns, three light Mortars, and ten boxes of ammunition. The total cost was no more than twelve thousand—the rest was to be saved until more guns could be found. But they were glad to get whatever they could. Basim was praised for acquiring the weapons so quickly and was empowered to look for more.

But the lack of sufficient guns did not deter the people of Ardallah from feeling exhilarated. A sense of pride swept every neighborhood, every shop, every cafe. Suddenly nobody was afraid. Everybody seemed gripped with a sense of mission: to save Ardallah. Another Deir Yasin it would never be. This Yousif could read in the women’s faces as they shopped and bargained. He could see it in the way men talked and moved. He could see it in the manner children played hopscotch or flew their kites above the stunted houses, above the pine trees, and against Palestine’s unblemished blue sky.

Amin’s father was rejuvenated. With a crew of ten, he set out to build cement roadblocks at Ardallah’s every entrance. And on top of each of the seven hills he proceeded to build modest watchtowers. He could have made a lot more money chiseling stones to build fine homes. But doing something on behalf of Palestine was his ultimate desire.

What also had the people cheering was that Basim had been able to grease a few palms and get the soccer players, Rassass and George Pinkley, released from prison. These two, who had been incarcerated over the “shoeshine incident,” were now free, ready to help Ardallah in her hour of need.

When Yousif saw them again in the garden of Zahrawi’s cafe, it was like witnessing the return of conquering heroes. The throngs around them were gleeful. Everyone was pressing to shake their hands, to offer his congratulations, to buy them drinks. Yousif could see Rassass and his pinkish companion, their bodies lithe and firm and their smiles broad and luminous. Breathing the air of freedom was making them giddy. Yousif was happy for them too.

During the third week of April, Basim set up a recruiting station in a grain merchant’s shop not too far from the heart of town. Was this mobilization? Yousif thought. It struck him as too elementary to fight a war of destiny, but then he remembered who they were and how hard it had been for them to come that far. He watched as Basim, Rassass, and the hunter Aziz (for once without rabbits or partridges hung from his belt) manned three tables and took applications. Never had Yousif seen so many idlers leave their perpetual seats at the cafe, abandon their backgammon and pinochle games, and await their turn to serve. Yousif wondered if they had known there weren’t enough guns to go around.

The same high morale was rampant at school. There was no doubt in Yousif’s mind that all students were ready and willing to volunteer. All ustaz Hakim had to do was announce that those who would spend a night guarding the town would be excused from finals—and all of Yousif’s classmates clapped for joy.