Jericho Mosaic (The Jerusalem Quartet Book 4)

by Edward Whittemore

  At first the PLO concentrated on Israeli airliners. But when armed men were put on Israeli flights, the PLO began hijacking European and American airliners. The campaign culminated in September 1970, when three hundred hostages from Swiss and American flights were taken to an airfield held by the PLO in Jordan.

  King Hussein of Jordan had steadily been losing control of his country to the PLO. After the three hundred Swiss and American hostages were freed, the Jordanian army attacked the PLO bases in Jordan—Black September to the PLO—and drove their armed units out of the country into southern Lebanon. Syrian forces invaded Jordan but then pulled back when Israel made it clear it would oppose a Syrian attempt to overthrow Hussein.

  Such was the course of history for the Palestinian national movement in the first years after the Six-Day War, a murky tale of violence and conflicting intrigues, of ruin and retreat and terror, made up of innumerable moments of hope and despair, disinterest and suffering.

  Ali was one of those young men who heard the call of idealism in the summer after the Six-Day War. Unknown to his brother, Ali joined a cell of el Fatah in east Jerusalem. The boys he dealt with were amateurs and their organization was inept. Ali at nineteen was among the older members of the cell. They met at night to design the acts that would lead to a better future, to plan liberation from the conqueror in passionate surges of commitment.

  But Ali’s role in history was over almost as soon as it began. His cell was raided one night and he tried to escape out the back of the building, firing a revolver which he didn’t really know how to use. The exit was covered and he was shot, killed on the spot.

  Yousef was so stunned by the suddenness of Ali’s death he didn’t know how to react. After the interrogations ended he went to sit in the church of the Greek monks who had educated him, the church dedicated to the miracle of Lazarus raised from the dead. There, alone and undisturbed, he could weep like a child and experience his feelings of loss, above all his emptiness. Their mother had died several years before, and Yousef had no one in the village to share his grief.

  Yousef didn’t pray in the church. He was too skeptical to be a follower of rites and rituals or a believer in divine mystery of any sort. The figure of Jesus had always been meaningful to him but in the simplicity of the Nazarene’s life, not in the hierarchy of ceremony man had constructed from it. As with Mohammed or the Buddha or Moses, Jesus was to him a messenger and prophet of God, a bringer of the vision of man’s better nature and a teacher of the great moral truths which would allow man to realize it. In this as in so many things, Yousef reflected the feelings of his own moral teacher—Bell.

  For a long time Yousef was suspended in remembering. He hovered over his memories of Ali as a hummingbird hovers over a lemon tree and savors the mysteries of its blossoms, recalling his brother’s passionate smiles and warm embraces and loving voice.

  He could make no sense of Ali’s death. Yousef believed in liberty and equality as much as anyone, and because of his reading in history he knew more about them than most people. But what did Ali’s death, he kept asking himself, have to do with any of that? This pathetic attempt at conspiracy? These gestures of defiance and enthusiasm offered up in the company of some spellbound village boys beguiled by their own rhetoric? Ali had gone about reworking the future the way he would have gone about any childhood game, eyes glittering with confidence, ready to set things right with his very own hands and then exult in the triumph, as if history and wars and conflicting peoples, the whole enormity of memory, were no more complex than a little electric motor waiting to be undone and rewired by nimble fingers and a clever mind.

  It was pathetic, futile. If only they had talked about it, thought Yousef. If only Ali had come to him and told him what he had in mind. Then they could have examined it together and Yousef could have helped his brother to see more, to grasp more, to do more.

  The bell tolled above the church of Lazarus and the solemn Greek monks came and went leaving their trail of prayers and incense. The candles burned low and shadows flickered over the walls of the church as Yousef sat on in the half-darkness, remembering Ali.

  He talked with the Greek fathers and heard their prayers, which brought him no solace. He raised his eyes and gazed at the painting of Jesus on the dome of the church, arms spread in hope in the role of the Paraclete, the comforter and intercessor. Jesus had walked in this village with friends. He had accepted their food and their water and even raised a brother among them from the dead. And it was in this poor place that Jesus had chosen to stay, not in glorious Jerusalem on the other side of the Mount of Olives.

  Yousef left the church and took to wandering across the barren hills below el Azariya. All day and most of the night he sat out on the empty slopes in the fierce summer heat and the cool evenings looking down on the bare hills, watching some bird soar in the sunlight, alone in the still starry nights.

  When he was able to face it he went down to Jericho to grieve with Abu Musa, with Bell, with Moses. Abu Musa burst into tears and gripped him tightly, holding him for long minutes.

  Such a fine boy, sputtered Abu Musa. Such an excellent boy. So full of life and laughter and the good things of the earth, our passionate little Ali.

  Bell, too, wept. Alone with Yousef under the grape arbor, he bowed his head and let the tears flow, his face a thousand years old in its grief, a timeless map of endurance as scarred and ravaged as the Judean wilderness itself.

  Gentle Moses the Ethiopian also expressed his sorrow.

  Each morning at four, said Moses, I sing the Psalms for our lost little brother. In my language the very act of prayer is known as to repeat David, to recite the Psalms, and this I do each morning in wonder and thanksgiving at the memory of our departed Ali.

  Abu Musa sat hunched in his great bulk. To live, he murmured sadly, is to become expert in farewells.

  I feel responsible for his death, said Yousef. I didn’t talk with him enough and explore his concerns and help him consider what is and what might be done. It was all so pointless, so useless and to no end, but what can I do now? What can I do?

  To each of the three men in Jericho, Yousef put this same question.

  You can live honorably and according to your own inner voice, replied Abu Musa. Every man must do that and no man can do more.

  I am a monk, said Moses, and I believe a man should seek God with all his heart and all his strength. Many are the ways to seek, but surely they all demand a broad-minded and merciful and humble spirit.

  Words. Mere words to Yousef in his pain and suffering. But then Bell’s reply seemed less elusive.

  People only speak from what they know, said Bell, and we in turn only hear what is already shaping itself within us. Words are always pale reflections of what we feel, shallow and approximate, grossly inexact. At twenty-three you know farewells, but fortunately you haven’t become expert in them yet. So for a while, Yousef, perhaps do nothing. I mean, make a point of doing nothing. Don’t try to work things out or reach decisions. Let your feelings shift and your thoughts wander. Walk and sit and look at life going on around you. You can’t join in it, I know that. So just watch and give yourself a period of doing nothing, three months or six months or whatever. Remind yourself that only regret gives nothing. It’s always a sickly futile thing. You’re strong, turn away from it. Then when the time comes go back to teaching school. Do it out of habit, the way you walk down the street. Eventually, things will shape themselves within you. We can talk whenever you like and eventually words will have some meaning for you again…

  At the end of the summer Yousef went back to el Azariya. His inattention was still too great to allow him to read when he wasn’t at school, so instead he wandered over the hills, looking down on the Judean wilderness and doing nothing as Bell had advised, waiting for his emptiness to subside.

  That autumn a young stranger moved into el Azariya, a Jew who spoke perfect Arabic, a former Israeli soldier recuperating from wounds received in the June war. The stranger
limped with a cane and moved his shoulders stiffly. In a few months he would be nineteen, the same age Ali had been. The stranger’s name was Assaf.

  The stranger was renting a small house at the end of the village. Each morning he limped over to the store to buy his food and each afternoon he went to sit alone in the coffeeshop. He was correct in his behavior and the villagers couldn’t fault his manners. He greeted people when it was appropriate but waited for others to begin a conversation. When asked a question he answered directly.

  He had been wounded in the night battle near Damascus Gate in east Jerusalem. A paratrooper. Shrapnel in his legs, his shoulder, his chest. His mother was from Egypt and his father, dead in the 1956 war, had been from Iraq. For his regular meals he ate olives and cheese and tomatoes and bread like everyone else, but he didn’t eat much, perhaps because of his wounds. Once or twice a week he went off by bus to visit a hospital. He had grown up in west Jerusalem. At set hours he limped up and down in front of his house, exercising his legs. A village carpenter rigged bars on ropes in his house so he could exercise his torso. He was quiet and reserved and seldom smiled. He drank neither beer nor arak. In a village as small as el Azariya, Yousef knew all about the young stranger.

  Yousef often passed the stranger’s house on his walks out of the village in the evening. The first few times he nodded or waved from a distance, then he greeted the stranger and exchanged a few words in passing.

  On Friday, his day off, Yousef set out early in the morning to wander across the hills. The sun was just above the Moabite mountains on the far side of the Jordan Valley, the wilderness golden in the first light of day. When Yousef went by that Friday the stranger was out in front of his house limping back and forth with his cane, exercising his legs.

  The stranger smiled. Coffee for the traveler with the world at his feet? he offered.

  Yousef accepted the offer and thanked the young man and walked ahead of him through the gate. Despite the early morning chill they sat in the front yard, where there was a sweeping view of the desert dropping away to the Jordan Valley.

  It was the first of many visits Yousef made to Assaf’s small house. In the beginning they were both careful not to talk about the war, but they couldn’t ignore Assaf’s wounds and soon Yousef had also spoken of Ali and his death. He had no idea what he was doing, concluded Yousef.

  Nor did I that night on the road to Damascus Gate, said Assaf. You just keep pushing on until you’re cut down. But now I have to make some sense of what happened, or not make sense of it but live with it anyway.

  It was Assaf’s wounds and Ali’s death that made their friendship grow so quickly, so easily. They shared even more feelings than they knew. Both of them were desperate to reach out and be understood, to be forgiven, to find a way to go on. In their friendship they found the power of forgiveness, which was strengthened by the difference in their ages. Assaf became like a younger brother to Yousef. The need was great for both of them, and before the end of the year Yousef was brought to meet Anna in the old stone house on Ethiopia Street.

  Anna liked Yousef. She found him thoughtful beyond his years, a serious young man who was having a beneficial effect on Assaf. She had been doubtful when Assaf said he wanted to live for a time in an Arab village near Jerusalem, while he was getting back the use of his arms and legs. But Tajar was strongly in favor of the idea and convinced Anna she should be too.

  Right now, Tajar had said, anything he wants to do should be encouraged. Being on his own is good, living in a village is good. Of course you want to take care of him, but giving him encouragement is probably the best way to help.

  Tajar stayed away when the two young men came to visit Anna. He felt it was important for her to be alone with Assaf and his friend. Anna came in from painting and served them one of her vegetable soups, which they gulped down, unused to such fine fare. Afterward, Yousef wandered around the room admiring Anna’s landscapes.

  They’re wonderful, said Yousef. To me, such simplicity conveys great honesty. The hills around Jerusalem look exactly like that. The houses cling to the slopes and seem to grow right out of the rock, to be part of the hills.

  Yousef stopped in front of a painting which showed some Arab women sitting under a tree, gathering olives. It was a monochrome rendered with severe economy, the only painting in the room with people in it.

  You’ve just begun doing people? he asked.

  Yes, said Anna. It’s an experiment. I’m not really sure of them yet.

  Yousef peered at the painting more closely. Landscape matters in ancient places, he said, but anyway, it’s an experiment that’s working. Your power of suggestion is truly extraordinary. Every line is specific but the effect is timeless.

  He turned to Anna, smiling.

  Someday your house will be a museum, he said. Cakes and coffee will be served on the balconies and people will come from far away to experience the beauty of Jerusalem through your eyes, the way it used to be. What a grand thing to be able to give so much, to leave so much behind you.

  Anna smiled and Assaf laughed, the first time she had heard him laugh since the war. He’s found a friend who helps him laugh, thought Anna. And we have Tajar to thank for seeing the good of his living alone.

  After the visit to Anna there was a trip to Jericho, so Assaf could meet the formidable trio of wise men on Bell’s front porch. Abu Musa was deeply pleased and showed it.

  Nothing heals like love, he whispered to Moses over the shesh-besh board. How splendid that Yousef has found a brother when his heart aches. The two boys will make each other whole again. Each of them has much to give.

  Bell agreed. After sitting with the young men under his grape arbor, he came away impressed with their devotion to one another.

  They’re unalike in many ways, Bell said later, but so were Ali and Yousef. In any case, I imagine their friendship will be lasting and profound because of the way it came about.

  And because Assaf is a Jew, added Abu Musa. In times like these, that’s also something special.

  Oh yes, that too, said Bell.

  Jesus was a Jew and I’m a Christian, murmured Moses, so naturally I rejoice in brotherly love that’s both lasting and profound. But perhaps the two of you already suspected that?

  THREE

  ALL THE WHILE YOUSEF was watching life go on around him, waiting to discover what course his own life would take. Assaf’s companionship hastened the healing of the wounds in Yousef’s heart. And as Yousef grew stronger in spirit, Assaf walked with greater confidence, his limp less pronounced.

  Yousef talked with Assaf more than he ever had with his brother, as if to make up for that failure he blamed on himself and its terrible outcome. No feeling was too intimate for Yousef to lay bare to Assaf, who was eager to listen. For Assaf, listening to Yousef and understanding him became a way of escape from the alley of death, a kind of absolution from the horror he had survived when so many others hadn’t.

  As time went on Assaf felt Yousef’s resolution growing. From the way Yousef talked Assaf knew his friend was nearing some decision having to do with himself and his people and the Palestinian cause. Yet Assaf also knew his friend wasn’t warlike or fit for conspiracy. Yousef was a scholarly man, a dreamer and a thinker incapable of aggression. Killing was abhorrent to him and he would never hate nor fear enough to set aside his abhorrence. Significantly, when Yousef talked about himself and the Palestinian people, his thoughts always returned to his village, the poor place on the edge of the Judean wilderness where Jesus had chosen to stay with friends.

  Assaf also came to realize how important the austere one-eyed man in Jericho had always been to Yousef. Something in Bell’s life, Bell’s manner, Bell’s ways, had an enormous hold on Yousef.

  What is it exactly that appeals to you so much about Bell? Assaf once asked his friend. Yousef gave several answers, then admitted he had never been able to describe it adequately to himself.

  It has to do with his calm, I suppose, said Yousef, and how he
set about achieving it and did achieve it. To me, that seems a miraculous accomplishment. Of course I don’t believe he’s really a holy man the way Abu Musa does, but perhaps that’s because we don’t have that kind of faith today, Abu Musa’s kind of faith, or at least I don’t. There have been times when I wished I did, though. When I was a boy I used to marvel at the faith of the Greek fathers, and envy them for it, their absolute belief that what they were doing was the right thing to do. Bell has never had faith like that and he’s not a religious man in that sense. Then too, there’s his drinking and all it implies. Yet somehow despite all that, and despite his face or because of it, there’s a grandeur to him. He denies it and always has, but you can’t be around him without feeling it. As wise a man as Abu Musa senses it implicitly, and no one’s shrewder than Abu Musa when it comes to human beings and what they’re up to. Moses recognizes it too, and he’s far more knowledgeable about people than you might suspect from being with him just once or twice. No, it’s not a light matter, and the very fact that Bell has done what he’s done, without a religious kind of faith, is what’s so arresting about him. To me it’s an astonishing mystery, intriguing and indefinable. Haunting, even…

  Assaf listened and nodded and felt he understood most of it. In his own manner Yousef was seeking Bell’s way in life, and Yousef’s period of doing nothing, as he called it, was the time needed to let that path reveal itself. As for Assaf, he was surprised by his own understanding. His grasp of Yousef’s feelings was itself a step toward self-discovery, the sort of knowledge he might have expected to hear from Anna or Tajar in the past.