A grave in Gaza oy-2

by Matt Beynon Rees

  “Still, it’s very upsetting,” Omar Yussef said. He put his hand on the caretaker’s shoulder and received a grateful look.

  Cree went alone toward his namesake’s grave again. He ran a hand along the face of it, tracing the name where it was carved into the stone. He stood and moved purposefully toward the entrance. As he passed Omar Yussef, his eyes were clear and tough and his stride was firm. “Thanks for stopping with me, Abu Ramiz. I had to gather myself. I’m ready to go on now.”

  Omar Yussef stepped onto the path, away from the disturbed turf and the vandalized graves. He bent to flick the dirt from his loafers with his handkerchief. He looked around the graveyard as he straightened, stretching his stiff back. He remembered Nadia’s story about the god Atum, whose weeping made mankind. Man was made to mourn all right. The only way to dry Atum’s tears was for them to turn to dust.

  Chapter 15

  On Rafah’s main street, Omar Yussef leaned out of the UN Suburban’s window to ask directions to the Salah home. He breathed a hot gust of dirt and cleared his throat, as he beckoned to a young man sheltering in the doorway of a hardware store. The man crossed the sidewalk slowly, hands in the pockets of his jeans and shoulders hunched under the red-checkered keffiyeh he had wrapped around his neck as a muffler. He glanced past Omar Yussef to Cree, who stared ahead.

  “Where is the house of Lieutenant Fathi Salah?” Omar Yussef said.

  “The martyr Salah?”

  Omar Yussef thought he detected a smile around the ends of the man’s mouth. “That’s right.”

  “It’s near the border at the far end of town.” The young man leaned his head inside Omar Yussef’s window as he gave his directions, avoiding the swirling dirt.

  Cree groaned in concert with the growling gears of the Suburban, as he ground the car down a sandy lane and came to a halt behind the house where Fathi Salah had lived. He tugged on the handbrake, cut the engine and let his grip on the steering wheel relax for the first time in half an hour. “I bet you thought we wouldn’t make it, eh?” he said.

  “Since when did a blow to the head and a mere sandstorm halt the Royal Scots?” Omar Yussef said.

  “All right, so I’m a former military man who’s too pig ignorant to know when to quit. What’s your excuse for persisting?”

  “I’m a Palestinian. I’m accustomed to eating crap.”

  The Salah house stood alone across a small expanse of ground, a two-story block in unfinished concrete. On the roof, rusting rebar protruded from the supporting pillars like tufts of unruly hair, waiting for the addition of another floor. The silvery matte leaves of a few olive trees waved above the garden wall. In the lee of the wall, the black canvas awning of the family’s mourning tent whipped in the wind. It was two days since the funeral of Lieutenant Salah and the tent was empty, except for one old man.

  Omar Yussef struggled toward the tent, his shoes filling with sand that scratched through his light cotton socks. The wind was hot after the cool of the car and he narrowed his eyes. Under the awning, the wind dropped, but he still tasted dirt on his tongue as he greeted the old man. Cree came up beside him, ducking under the edge of the tent.

  The old man sat, neat and small, on one of the dirty white plastic garden chairs lined around the edges of the awning. He covered his face with the tail of his keffiyeh, wrapping it below his eyes to protect his nose and mouth from the dust. His eyes were brown and mournful and his handshake was limp. He stepped to the garden gate and called a name that was lost in the wind. While the man’s back was to him, Omar Yussef removed his shoes and tipped their sandy contents outside the tent. The old man rearranged his long, grubby white jalabiya and lifted it a little from the hips so that he could sit comfortably.

  At the center of the tent, a small square of stones hedged a pile of burning coals and wood. The wood smoke made the dusty air acrid. A copper coffee pot, ornate and blackened, rested among the coals.

  Along the garden wall behind the old man, posters announced the heroic death of Lieutenant Fathi Salah. A photo of the officer’s darkly threatening face was juxtaposed with an image of the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem. Fathi Salah was extolled as a martyr in a brief, devout panegyric across the top of the sheet. The corner of one of the posters flapped in the wind, a frenzied tenor counterpoint to the rumbling bass of the awning.

  A teenage boy emerged from the garden and poured coffee from the blackened pot into tiny plastic cups and handed them to Omar Yussef and Cree. Omar Yussef enjoyed the brief hit of bitterness, clearing the dirt in his mouth. He turned to the old man and offered his wish that Allah should show mercy to the deceased.

  The old man nodded and mumbled acceptance, removing the keffiyeh politely from his face.

  “We’re looking for the father of Lieutenant Fathi Salah,” Omar Yussef said.

  “I’m his father.”

  “Your name, dear sir?”

  “Zaki Salah. Abu Fathi.”

  Omar Yussef repeated his wish for the protection of the deceased and once more it was accepted.

  “Brother Abu Fathi, we’re here to discover the truth about your son’s death. We hope in that way to free our friend who has been kidnapped by the Saladin Brigades. He will be freed, if Bassam Odwan is released. We want to be sure of the circumstances of your son Fathi’s death.”

  “It’s well known,” Zaki Salah whispered.

  “Odwan denies that he killed Fathi.”

  “That’s a lie. It has been investigated.”

  “What did the investigators discover?”

  “Exactly the story that was in the newspapers. Fathi was ordered to arrest the criminal Odwan. During the arrest, Odwan shot Fathi and fled. Fathi died instantly. Soon after, Odwan was arrested. Now he will face the death penalty, as is appropriate for a cold-blooded killer.” Zaki Salah’s eyes were angry and wet.

  Omar Yussef watched those eyes. He didn’t want to push the bereaved man, but he felt the pressure of time. “Odwan says he went to meet Fathi, because Fathi wanted to sell something to the Saladin Brigades.”

  “How do you know what Odwan says?”

  “We went to see him.”

  “At the jail?”

  Omar Yussef nodded. Zaki Salah shook his head. The old man’s lips were a thin, bitter line. He stood. “Come with me.”

  Omar Yussef put his coffee cup on the chair next to him. Cree rose.

  “Just you, ustaz,” Zaki Salah said.

  Cree sat, with a look of relief.

  Zaki Salah led Omar Yussef through the garden. The wind slapped the olive branches against the wall. As they entered the house, the dirt in the air was overcome by the warm, rich scent of foule. The smell of the vinegary fava-bean mash made him wish to be in his own home, with appetizing aromas drifting to him as Maryam prepared lunch.

  Salah shuffled down the corridor, his sandals slapping the cheap tiles. He was probably no older than Omar Yussef, but he moved even slower and was slightly bent at the waist.

  In the sitting room, Zaki Salah stood before three degree certificates mounted on the wall in gaudy gold and silver frames. He lifted a dark, wrinkled finger and pointed at the first of them.

  “This is the degree my son Fathi obtained from al-Azhar University. He studied political science,” Zaki Salah said. “Why would a man with a university degree and a good position in the security forces make shady deals in the night with a criminal like Odwan?”

  Omar Yussef stepped closer to the wall and adjusted the bent frame of his glasses. He read the other two degree certificates. The first was a Bachelor’s in political science awarded to someone named Yasser Salah; the second, a law degree earned by the same man. Both were inscribed with the crest of al-Azhar University, the dome and minarets of a mosque set against an open book. “Who is Yasser Salah?” he asked.

  “My other son. He’s an officer, too.”

  “In which security force?”

  “Yasser’s in the Preventive Security.” Zaki Salah tapped the frame of the last certificate
on the wall. “After he obtained his second degree, he was promoted to captain.”

  “Congratulations.” Omar Yussef paused. “Abu Fathi, the Saladin Brigades has demanded Odwan’s release.”

  “It’s against all laws of justice.”

  “But the Saladin Brigades are very powerful.”

  “My son was part of the security forces. They’re very powerful, too.”

  “Do you believe General Husseini will execute Odwan, even if it brings him into conflict with the Brigades?”

  “I demand the death penalty. If Husseini is weak and releases him, I will kill Odwan.”

  “You?”

  “My family. My son Yasser will take the responsibility. As a security officer, he’s qualified. Odwan is a murderer. If the government is too weak to give us justice, then you know our customs and laws as well as anyone else and you understand what I must do.” Zaki Salah’s voice was a bloodless monotone, as though fatal revenge were an everyday event. “When Odwan killed Fathi, he killed a whole family. Fathi had a daughter who was only three months old. If Odwan is released, I will kill him, and if I can’t kill him, my son will kill him. Even if we have to wait longer, my grandson will kill someone from the Odwan family.”

  Omar Yussef closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He hated the old tribal laws. They were made for a place where there was no government and where no one could be seen through the sandstorm except the man who came to menace you. Zaki Salah could have spoken these words a thousand years ago, and he might also harbor the desire for vengeance a thousand years.

  “General Husseini has to weigh traditional family justice against the possibility that a foreigner could be at risk,” Omar Yussef said.

  “Who cares about the foreigner? What makes him so important? If Husseini releases Odwan, he’s not a Muslim. My revenge is what Islam requires. The killer must be killed. I can’t give up on my son’s blood.” Zaki Salah brushed his hands together as though he were washing them. His voice was angry and pleading. “You have to explain that to the foreigners.”

  Omar Yussef imagined Magnus Wallender dead and wondered who would avenge his blood. He closed his eyes and fought away the image. “Abu Fathi, was your son ever involved in smuggling?”

  “He was never involved in crime.”

  “Does that include weapons smuggling? Or do you think of that as resistance work, not crime?”

  Zaki Salah looked surly. “He was always very busy fighting against the smugglers. At work, it was his duty. But then he would come home and the smuggling would be at his door, so even here he was forced to confront the criminals. We’re very close to the Egyptian border.”

  “Are we? How close?”

  “If it weren’t for the dust storm, you would have seen it behind the house, when you arrived. It’s a hundred paces to the border fence from where we are now at the back of the house.” Zaki went to the window and drew back the curtain. “There it is, you see?”

  Omar Yussef peered into the thick dust outside. There was a garden behind the house, and a poorly built garage at the edge of the garden. Beyond the garage stood a thirty-foot fence of dark metal, rippled like the tin on a cheap roof. That was the Egyptian border.

  “This area is thick with tunnels. Smugglers dig them under that fence,” Zaki Salah said.

  A young man emerged from the garage and bolted the door with a padlock. He hunched across the garden in the wind. Omar Yussef heard him enter the house, coughing.

  The savory smell of the foule came into the sitting room and hung around them at the window. “You had better go back out to the mourning tent, so the women can set up for lunch,” Zaki Salah said to Omar Yussef. “I would be honored if you would stay to eat with us.”

  Omar Yussef’s bruised temple pulsed in protest at the mention of food. “You honor me,” he said, “but I must continue to investigate this case. My friend may not have much time, unless I can discover the truth. Perhaps your son Yasser will be able to help me, as a member of the security forces and with his knowledge of the investigation.”

  “I’ll send him to sit with you.”

  Omar Yussef went out to the tent. Cree sat in the same spot. He wiggled his shoulders and rolled his neck and smiled at Omar Yussef. The blackened coffee pot stood on the bricks that fringed the hot coals. Cree smiled apologetically. “I’m afraid I already emptied that little bugger there,” he said. “It took some doing with these tiny cups, but it was a case of extreme need.”

  “To your double health,” Omar Yussef said.

  The young man who had crossed the garden at the back of the house came to the edge of the dusty carpets on the floor of the mourning area. He stared at Omar Yussef.

  “You’re Yasser?” Omar Yussef asked.

  The young man nodded.

  “Allah will be merciful on your brother. Please sit with me. Your father believes you can help us.”

  The young man hesitated. He sat opposite Omar Yussef and settled himself forward, leaning his elbows on his knees. He looked Omar Yussef up and down with hard, tight, angry brown eyes. The angle of his head showed his prominent widow’s peak as a point so sharp that it looked like the blade of an axe. He drew his thick eyebrows down toward the bridge of his nose, where they quivered like the hair trigger of a pistol ready to be sprung. His nose was straight and pointed, and his teeth were jagged, broken and bared beneath his mustache. Every feature on his face looked like a weapon, and Yasser Salah seemed ready to use them.

  “Yasser, what is the Saladin I?”

  Yasser Salah’s face sharpened still further. The weapons were cocked for action. He was silent.

  “Do you know about the Saladin I?” Omar Yussef said.

  “What is it?”

  “I asked you.”

  “It sounds like you know. So why ask me?”

  “It’s a prototype for a new stock of missiles to be made here in the Gaza Strip. Your brother was trying to sell it to the Saladin Brigades, when he was shot.”

  Yasser Salah scratched his forehead. Omar Yussef wondered if the man might cut his finger on the point of his widow’s peak.

  “He was arresting Odwan,” Yasser said.

  “That’s not what Odwan says.”

  “He killed my brother like a coward; now he’s making cowardly excuses.”

  “Perhaps he’s telling the truth.”

  Yasser Salah shook his head. Omar Yussef felt the young man’s contempt as strongly as if he’d come over and slapped his face. “You work for the United Nations?” Yasser gestured toward the Suburban, painted with the large black identifying letters of the UN.

  Omar Yussef nodded.

  “What do you know about the Saladin Brigades? What do you know about life in Rafah? This is the forgotten place of Palestine. Everything here is worse than anywhere else. More martyrs during the intifada than any other place. More invasions by the Israelis. You have no idea about life here, or how my brother worked for the people.” Yasser Salah prefaced every sentence with an impatient exhalation that sounded like a man stretching a stiff muscle.

  “When did you first hear about your brother’s death?”

  “Immediately. I was called to the scene.”

  “Why?”

  “I was on duty that night. I’m an officer in the Preventive Security.”

  “Your brother Fathi was alone at the time of the attempted arrest?”

  “No, he was with a squad of his officers.”

  “Really?” Omar Yussef thought of the lonely scene Bassam Odwan had painted of his late-night meeting with Fathi Salah. “What did you see at the scene?”

  “My brother’s body under a white sheet. His comrades in a cordon nearby. Tire tracks from a car that looked like it had left quickly.”

  “Where was this?”

  “On the edge of the refugee camp. Near the border.”

  “Why did Fathi go to such a quiet place to arrest Odwan? Why didn’t he arrest him at home, as his comrades did a couple of hours later?”

  �
�I don’t know the details of the operation. Perhaps he arranged to meet him, but really intended to arrest him.”

  “He lured him to a meeting so that he could arrest him?”

  “It could be.” Yasser Salah cleared his throat with a wet grumble, went to the edge of the tent and spat onto the sand. He picked up the coffee pot and clicked his tongue when he found it empty. He lit a cigarette.

  “As an officer in the security forces, did you hear about a new weapon being smuggled into Rafah?” Omar Yussef said.

  “The Israelis have all the weapons. We have nothing. The Israelis have sonic booms that make Palestinian women miscarry. When they abandoned their settlements near here, they filled them with radiation to make all of Rafah sick. They have tanks that fire sound rays to turn your bowels to liquid.”

  “We have the Qassam rockets.”

  “They’re nothing. They have to land on your head to kill you, more or less.”

  “So they need to be improved?”

  “Yes, but it would be difficult to do.”

  “Why?”

  Yasser Salah held Omar Yussef’s gaze and was silent.

  “Difficult, because you would need to bring a new prototype into the Gaza Strip, under the eyes of the Israelis,” Omar Yussef said. “Isn’t that right?”

  “There’re lots of tunnels under the Egyptian border, but most of them are too small to bring in a missile,” Yasser said. “That’s why it would be difficult.”

  “Anyone who possessed that new missile, though, would be able to demand a high price from a group like the Saladin Brigades, which could use it to manufacture improved missiles. Right?”

  Salah’s eyes were narrow, but he relaxed them and raised his eyebrows with a shrug.

  “The Saladin Brigades want Odwan released,” Omar Yussef said. “They kidnapped one of our foreign staff as a hostage.”

  “They’re criminals.”

  “If Odwan is innocent, our friend could be released.”