“He had stopped supporting the mufti,” Yusuf said.
“And the only way to be a patriot is to support the mufti? As far as I know, the Nashashibi supported the rebellion to begin with, but they didn’t like the mufti’s methods, and neither do I.”
“That’s why you don’t wear the kufiya . . .”
“I prefer the fez.”
“Which is what the followers of the Nashashibi wear . . .”
Mohammed usually brought these discussions to an end by saying that Emir Abdullah had not shown himself all that opposed to the partition of Palestine as proposed by the Peel Commission. Yusuf was hurt that some Arabs presented Abdullah as a British lackey. He didn’t share the emir’s politics, but he understood that he didn’t have many options if he were to remain in place in Transjordan. The emir knew that he would lose his kingdom if he lost British support, so he played the hand he was dealt. The only remnant of the dreams of his father, Sharif Husayn, was this little piece of land that had become an improvised kingdom. The British had troops in Transjordan, and regularly emptied the kingdom’s coffers.
“Abdullah can’t afford to openly confront the British,” Yusuf said in the emir’s defense.
“He is defending his own interests, and has to accept that these interests do not necessarily coincide with our own,” Mohammed replied.
“We are fighting alongside the Hashemite family for a greater Arab nation, you were in Faisal’s armies yourself,” Yusuf replied.
“Yes, and we opened the door to the British without wanting to.”
One Friday, coming back from prayers in the Dome of the Rock, Mohammed found Igor in his house, chatting to Salma. Wädi and Naima were with them, and so were Ezekiel and Ben, but even so he was upset to see that Igor had come in, knowing him absent.
“I came to pick up Ben and Ezekiel, Marinna was worrying because they had not come home. And when Ben and Ezekiel disappear, there’s only one place they can be. Here,” Igor said with a slightly false smile as he left, holding Ben’s hand.
Mohammed looked Salma in the face, but saw nothing except her habitual sweetness.
“What were you talking about?” Mohammed asked Salma.
“Nothing in particular, about how naughty the children are. Apparently Ezekiel is very nervous now that he knows Dalida is leaving with Samuel, and he keeps on trying to draw attention to himself by being mischievous. Igor told me that Ezekiel has run away from school on a couple of occasions now, and that Miriam doesn’t know what to do with him.”
There was something approaching curiosity in Salma’s eyes, as if she had realized how uncomfortable he was, and that this, far from worrying her, in fact filled her with satisfaction.
“It’s not right for him to come here alone, knowing that I’m not around,” Mohammed said.
Salma looked at him in surprise and bit her lip trying to hold back her reply. Then, looking for the proper words, she spoke:
“They are your friends, Mohammed, and they have always been well-received in this house, but if it bothers you I will try to stop them coming.”
“It’s not that . . . but it’s not good for him to come alone.”
“This is the first time he has come alone, but if he comes back don’t worry, I won’t receive him.” Salma said, looking straight at her husband, and Mohammed seemed to calm down.
“Omar Salem is right, the relations between the Arabs and the Jews are more difficult every day.”
Salma said nothing.
Samuel came to visit Mohammed one rainy afternoon in November. A few days earlier, Jerusalem had been shaken up by attacks carried out by a group of ultranationalist Zionists called the Irgun.
“I’m coming to say goodbye, I’m returning to England. I’m sorry about what happened in Jerusalem . . .”
“You’re sorry? Weren’t you shocked that the Arabs would attack Jewish farms as well as fighting the British? Well, now your friends are throwing bombs into cafés where unarmed men are peacefully discussing their business.”
“And you think I approve? All I can say is that neither Ben-Gurion nor the Jewish Agency are in agreement with these atrocities . . . There are extremists in our ranks whom I hate as much as those in yours. I met Judah Magnes yesterday, the president of Hebrew University. If there’s one man I agree with completely it is Magnes. He wants there to be a single country, for Arabs and Jews, with a bicameral parliament . . . Everyone together, as I have always wanted.”
“It seems that this is now impossible. If you think like that then you have lost already. Also, please permit me not to believe that Ben-Gurion and the Jewish Agency are really opposed to the terrorists. Why should we believe you?”
They smoked in silence. Mohammed knew that something other than the political situation was bothering Samuel, but he waited for his friend to speak.
“At times like these I miss your mother. She always knew what advice to give me about Mikhail. We don’t understand each other. I thought that his marriage to Yasmin would calm his nature, but it hasn’t.”
“Mikhail loves you,” Mohammed said, uncomfortable at Samuel’s intimate confession.
“That’s what your mother said . . . You know what? I’m not sure I’ll come back . . . I can’t bear there being so many friends who are not here, Ahmed, Ariel, Jacob, Abraham, and now your mother, dear Dina . . . She has been a very important person in my life, a loyal and sincere friend I have always been able to trust. She’s the only woman who scolded me like a child . . . Although we were far apart, Dina was one of the pillars of my life.”
Mohammed listened to Samuel’s confession in silence. He did not need to say what he knew in words, but he understood Samuel’s need to express the infinite tenderness he had felt for Dina. He needed to express it as well, but to whom? He felt alone and would feel alone for the rest of his life, because that is the sadness that comes when you lose your parents. The father is the roof, the mother is the floor, and when both are gone, the countdown to one’s own disappearance begins, and there is nothing supporting you. You are left alone in thin air.
They said goodbye to each other in the shade of the orchard, among the olive trees, where in their youth Ahmed had always liked to sit and share a cigarette with Samuel, the same place that was now Mohammed’s refuge. They both sobbed a little as they embraced, as if they knew that this was their final parting.
13
The Years of Disgrace
“Ezekiel’s eyes were closed, he seemed to be asleep. Marian blamed herself for not having realized it sooner. She had been speaking for more than an hour, and, as on other occasions, she felt as if she had not been talking to Ezekiel or to anyone in particular, but had rather been telling the story for herself, just as she remembered the Ziads telling it to her. She got up, trying not to make any noise, but Ezekiel opened his eyes and smiled at her.
“I’m not asleep.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter, you must be tired and I’ve just kept on talking. I’m not really being very considerate, given your condition.”
“Don’t worry, these conversations are good for both of us.”
The door to the room opened and a young man wearing a uniform came in. It was Jonah, Ezekiel’s grandson. He had a submachine gun casually slung over one shoulder, just as he’d had the first time they met. Marian thought he looked like his grandfather; yes, the blue-grey eyes were the same.
“Jonah, come in! I’m with Marian.”
The young man came forward and shook her hand strongly.
“I was just leaving . . .”
“Don’t worry, stay as long as you want,” the new arrival said.
“I’ll leave you, I don’t want to be a nuisance. I hope that you get better and get out of the hospital soon.”
“I think I’ll be home in a couple of days. And you, what plans do you have?” Ezekiel asked.
“I have to go to Amman, but I won’t be more than a day.”
“Are you still at the American Colony?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll call you. It’s my turn to speak. I think you’ll be interested in what I have to tell you.”
Marian left the hospital feeling sadder than she had on previous occasions. She could see death in Ezekiel’s eyes.
She made a few phone calls when she got back to the hotel. She had to arrange an appointment in Amman and another in Ramallah.
She was starting to feel crushed in this area, in the face of the constant presence of the soldiers who treated everyone trying to get in or out of Jordan or the territories controlled by the Palestinian National Authority with the same rudeness. She asked herself how they could live with so much hatred and so many irreconcilable differences.
The next morning she took a taxi that left her at the Allenby Bridge border crossing into Jordan. Israel and Jordan maintained formal diplomatic links, but the Israelis treated people entering and leaving the country with suspicion. Especially those who were entering. She waited patiently while the taxi that had been sent for her from the other side of the border was checked and sent through. There were a few meters of no-man’s-land. She remembered two images from the Cold War: the Bridge of Spies in Potsdam and Checkpoint Charlie in Berlin. When the taxi dropped her off at the office where she had to fill out the paperwork to enter the country, she was pleased to see Ali Ziad waiting for her with a smile.
“How’s work going in Jerusalem?”
“Good, I don’t think there’s that much more to do.”
“You’re so lucky! Maybe I’ll go to Jerusalem one day.”
“I’ve said I can arrange it for you . . .”
“No, I don’t want to go like a stranger, I don’t want people to look at me with hatred or treat me with condescension. Why should I put up with something like that?”
“So . . .” Marian fell silent and didn’t dare continue.
“What?” Ali asked curiously, in the face of the sudden silence.
“They won’t go, Ali, they won’t go, they’ll never give you back Jerusalem . . . They won’t go . . . They’re not going to step back, they will stay . . .” Marian’s voice was bitter and despairing.
“They have to give us back what they stole from us,” Ali replied. “Sooner or later they will have to.”
She did not reply and instead let her gaze and her thoughts wander to the cultivated land on either side of the asphalt highway that led to Amman.
Ali turned on the radio and a smooth voice filled the morning air, singing a popular song. Soon they could make out the Fortress and, packed in front of it, the hundreds of houses that made up Camp Hussein, where a number of exiled Palestinians lived in hopes of one day returning to their country.
An old man was waiting impatiently for them in the doorway of a house on a narrow street. He smiled when he saw Marian coming with Ali, and as soon as he said hello he offered them a cup of tea and some pistachios.
Marian thought about how comfortable she was in this modest, jerry-built house, put up without any plan just like the rest of them, built over what had once been a refugee camp for those leaving Jerusalem after the defeat of the Six-Day War. It was only ever intended to be a provisional encampment, because the people all thought that they would return one day, but there were elderly people living here now, with their children and grandchildren, waiting for the day when they would be able to gather their belongings and travel back across the Jordan River.
She could stay only a few hours, as the next day she had to go back to Jerusalem first thing in the morning. She had a meeting arranged in Ramallah with members of al-Fatah. Listen, listen, listen, all she could do was listen and put together the pieces of a puzzle that seemed infinitely large and difficult. She wanted to see Ezekiel again. These endless talks with the old man tired her out and above all left her feeling bitter, a bitterness it was difficult to get rid of. But she would listen to him as much as she had to—this was her job.
Ezekiel was in the hospital with his grandchildren. It was only two days since she had last seen him, but she found him even worse.
“I want my father to come back, to see if he can make him eat something. A granddaughter has no control over her grandfather, but a son should be able to influence his father, at least a little, don’t you think?” said Hanna, although it was more an affirmation than a question.
Marian didn’t know what to say and looked at Ezekiel.
“I brought you some sweets from Amman. I think you’ll like them, they’re made with pistachios.”
“From Amman?” Jonah’s voice was distrustful. He stood up and looked at the box.
Marian was offended by the young man’s attitude.
“I swear that they’re sweets and not poison,” she said angrily.
“I’m sure, but I don’t know if my grandfather should eat them . . . ,” he said a little shamefacedly.
“Why shouldn’t he eat them? If he likes them then at least he’s eating something,” Hanna said, taking the box and showing it to her grandfather.
“Let me try one,” said Jonah.
“Yes, try them, make sure they’re not poisoned.” Marian was offended.
“Don’t be silly! Of course there’s nothing wrong with them. I had these sweets when I was in Petra and I loved them,” Hanna said.
“You’ve been to Jordan?” Marian asked with interest.
“Of course, we have diplomatic relations with Jordan and many Israelis have taken the chance to go see Petra. If you haven’t gone I suggest you go, it’s one of the most beautiful and impressive places in the world. Do you have to go back to Amman?”
“I hope so . . .”
“Well, next time take a couple of days off and go to Petra and Wadi Rum . . . It’s a real experience to sleep in a Bedouin camp in the desert,” Hanna said.
When Hanna and Jonah had gone, Marian sat next to Ezekiel’s bedside.
“Jonah is a good boy,” the old man said.
“I don’t think he likes me.”
“He’s prejudiced against you, or rather, against your NGO. He thinks that your report will be biased against Israel.”
“And Hanna? Does she think the same thing?”
“My granddaughter is different. She’s a committed pacifist and is harsher in her criticism of the government than you could ever be. She works a lot for Peace Now and has friends in Ramallah, human rights activists. Yaniv, her boyfriend, declared himself a conscientious objector so as not to serve in the Territories. Don’t think that it’s an easy decision, the youngsters who choose not to serve in the Territories are not only looked down upon by their friends, but also by a large part of society. But people like Yaniv and Hanna will make the world a better place in the future than it is right now.”
“So Jonah is the hawk and Hanna is the dove.”
“Yes, I suppose. I wouldn’t think that all of us in Israel think the same and that we all follow our government’s advice like sheep . . . Although it is difficult for you to believe it, I think that there are people here who think that it is possible for Palestinians and Jews to live in peace. Hanna is one of them.”
“Like Samuel was, right?”
“Yes, my father thought the same. But it was easier for him. I think that my granddaughter has more of my mother than my father in her. She’s inherited her sweetness.”
“Shall I pour you some tea? I think it will go well with these sweets.”
Like Mohammed, I never saw Samuel again. We heard from him until the beginning of the war and then his letters, and those of my sister Dalida, stopped coming.
It was not easy for me to say goodbye to my father. He invited me to lunch at the King David Hotel. I accepted on one condition, that Katia would not be there. He accepted. I was twelve and felt sorry for my mot
her. I realized the effort she had to make not to lose her composure when Samuel came to see us at Hope Orchard.
I remember one afternoon Dalida and I hid and eavesdropped on a conversation they had about Miriam’s refusal to let us go live in England.
“You are denying them a better future than they could ever have here. Let them study in London and when they are older they will decide where they want to live. You can go see them whenever you want, and they can come home during the holidays, of course,” Samuel insisted.
“You want to take my children from me as well? What will I have left? Tell me, Samuel, what will I have left?”
“Miriam, don’t be melodramatic! Dalida and Ezekiel will be with us, I am their father and there will not be a single minute when I’m not looking after them.”
“I don’t want my children going to boarding school; they are happier here.”
“Living here is becoming impossible! There are deaths every day, Miriam; the Arabs attack the British, the British kill the Arabs, and we’re here in the middle, a part of the conflict. And some of our own people are involved in reprisals against the Arabs. This group, the Irgun . . . I am ashamed that there are Jews capable of committing such atrocities.”
“I was born here, Samuel, and I will stay here. I understand that you don’t think of this land as being yours, but it is mine, and it will be our children’s as well.”
They could not understand each other, much less come to an agreement, but something unexpected happened that afternoon. Dalida walked into the room and revealed that she and I had been listening to the conversation. My sister was sixteen and starting to express her opinions forcefully. After my father had come back she argued with her mother, she blamed her for the separation, and on more than one occasion had blamed her for taking us away from Paris.
“You are fighting about us, but Mother, you haven’t asked me what I want, or Ezekiel what he wants.”
Shoot Me, I'm Already Dead Page 57
