The Collaborator of Bethlehem

by Matt Beynon Rees

  He stopped bailing and slowly straightened his back. He looked out into the night. Tomorrow they would mend the pipes. They would clean the basement and his grandchildren would sleep there again soon enough. But that would not be the end of the smell. The reek would remain in his nostrils, and he knew that in his dreams he would feel the ooze rising over his skin.

  Chapter 18

  Omar Yussef came down with a flu. It started in his legs, after the night’s freezing immersion in the sewage downstairs. By the time the municipality cut off the flow of effluent through the pipes and Omar Yussef had tossed the mess out of his back door with a saucepan, his knees were stiff and burned feverishly to the touch. His back ached. His face was clammy. His pulse was fast.

  Maryam sent her husband upstairs to rest and called in their neighbors to shovel out the remaining few inches of sewage from the basement and to scour the tiles until the stink of effluent receded. He lay on his bed. His back throbbed as though a small child were kicking it in time with his heartbeat. He would have to take off a day or two from his investigation to organize the repairs to the pipes and to his home. He would need to recuperate from the night’s damp exertions. It was time that he didn’t have to waste, and neither did George Saba. He tried to sit up, but his back rebelled and he fell, feeling very cold, though Maryam had lit the gas heater. Yet it was hot in the room, too, and he undid his shirt down to his belly. There was sweat in the hair about his navel. Still, he felt cold. Cold, when he should have been hot, and weak and feverish when he should have been forceful, standing strongly against the wrong done to George. He imagined his friend in the freezing cell at the police headquarters. He wondered what he would say if he could see Omar Yussef lying on his back with his shirt open over his slack, perspiring stomach and the heater turned on full.

  There was a knock at the door. His neighbor Leila Salman looked in. She was a cheerful woman who worked for the head of the local university as a secretary. Omar Yussef enjoyed her company, because she was one of the few people he knew who was less interested in the intifada than in the history of art, recipes for stuffing dumplings with ground meat to make kubbeh, and archeology. She was not yet forty, and she had become quite fat after giving birth to her last child four years ago. She had a fulsome, motherly roundness that made Omar Yussef wonder what it would be like to touch her, to hold her. He often played with what might ensue if she were to enter his bedroom, but those fantasies typically didn’t include his incapacitation through fever and a strained back. She bustled through the door in an old gray sweatsuit and pink dishwashing gloves and held out a small cup of coffee toward him.

  “I made it sa’ada for you, Abu Ramiz, as you like it,” Leila said.

  Omar Yussef tried to sit and accept the coffee, but his back gripped him and he collapsed. Leila put the coffee on the bedside table and placed her knee on the bed. She clutched Omar Yussef under his arms and pulled him upright. His cry of pain was muffled farcically by her large breasts. Omar Yussef cursed the pathetic figure he must make before a woman to whom he felt attracted. She sat on the edge of the bed and handed him the coffee.

  “Umm Ramiz asked me to come over and help,” she said. “Such a terrible mess down there.”

  When she mentioned his wife, Omar Yussef felt ashamed and silly for his fantasies about Leila. He drank the coffee and breathed heavily.

  “Leila, thank you for everything.”

  “What are neighbors for these days, Abu Ramiz?”

  The coffee had the delicious grittiness that Omar Yussef loved. He finished drinking and handed the cup to Leila on its gold-leaf saucer. “Speaking of neighbors, I hear you have a new arrival in your building,” he said.

  “Not just in our building. In the apartment right next door. It makes me shiver to think that those men and all their guns are just on the other side of the wall from the room where my children sleep.”

  “Is it only Jihad Awdeh and his family?”

  “The family, yes. There’s his wife and two children, I think. But at all hours there are so many men, with all kinds of guns and I don’t know what. Last night I was sure the tanks that tore up the road outside had come to get him, or to destroy our entire building. I am just waiting for that night, and I’m certain it will come.”

  “I’m sure it won’t happen, Leila.”

  “Then you’re the only one who feels such certainty. Even the Martyrs Brigades are preparing for it.”

  “What do you mean? They’re fortifying the apartment?”

  “No, they’re planning where they’ll run and hide. I went to Jihad Awdeh and asked him to keep his guns inside the apartment, so that my kids don’t see them in the hall when they’re out playing. He was very nice to me. He told me he’d keep the weapons out of the way. He seemed to like me, so I asked him if he wasn’t worried that the Israelis would come for him.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said, ‘I can see that you are worried I will draw the Jews down on your head, my sister. Don’t worry. If they invade our town, I will leave the apartment. My family is here, after all, and I want them to be secure, too. I plan to take refuge inside the Church of the Nativity. The Jews won’t dare enter, and so I’ll be safe.’”

  “He would hide inside the church? He has no respect.”

  “I don’t think it’s a matter of respect with him, Abu Ramiz. He’s fighting them to the death, by the looks of all the weaponry in his apartment. He’d do anything to get away from the Israelis, even if it means hiding in the very crypt where Jesus was born.”

  “Would the monks let him in?”

  “I suppose that depends whether he holds a gun on them or not, doesn’t it? Not everyone wants to be a martyr.” Leila stood and took the coffee cup away. “The monks would also have to consider whether barring the gunmen from the church would make it look like all the town’s Christians were against the resistance. Everyone calls the Christians collaborators. Here would be their proof, right?”

  Omar Yussef heard Leila’s footsteps receding to the kitchen. The coffee cup tinkled as she set it down, then she descended the stairs to help with the clean up.

  So Jihad Awdeh would run to the Church of the Nativity when the Israelis came for him. If he had a few minutes warning, the gunman could quickly be into the narrow streets of the souk. From there, he would only have to cross Manger Square and he’d be at the church. One of the most important churches anywhere in the world. Unless the priests closed the Gate of Humility before he got there, Awdeh would be inside. Then he would be safe. The soldiers wouldn’t dare follow him into the dark, brown church. Omar Yussef imagined how the world would condemn the Israelis if they fought out a gun battle inside the Byzantine basilica, or if they finally shot down Jihad Awdeh on the fanlike staircase to the cave where Jesus was born.

  It was a plan that might save Jihad Awdeh, but it would be a disaster for Bethlehem. Perhaps the Israelis would attack the church after all. Some of the priests might be killed. Or they might kick Jihad Awdeh out of the church and the town’s Muslims would turn on the Christians. Omar Yussef wondered if he ought not to pass on the information to someone in the church hierarchy. With warning, they might be able to lock the gates and keep the gunmen out. He would go to Elias Bishara and warn him. When his back was better.

  Omar Yussef wanted to lie down again, but he was stuck in the upright position in which Leila had left him. He edged a little lower in the bed, but only succeeded in sliding his back into a painful curve. With a great effort, he dropped onto his side and lay panting, his heavy breathing rasping in time with the throbbing in the small of his back.

  It was in this position that Khamis Zeydan found him in the early evening. Omar Yussef heard the police chief’s hearty voice downstairs and Maryam’s answering laughter. She was enjoying the crisis, her anger at what the Israelis had done mitigated by the generosity with which her friends came to her aid. Omar Yussef knew that Khamis Zeydan would come upstairs to see him. He struggled to roll onto his back, b
ut he couldn’t move. He was sweating thickly when the police chief entered.

  “Abu Ramiz, you look terrible.” Khamis Zeydan pulled a chair to the edge of the bed. He was about to sit when he decided to shift Omar Yussef into a more comfortable position. “Let’s get you sitting straight.”

  “I can manage,” Omar Yussef said.

  “Even so.” Khamis Zeydan lifted his old friend and sat him with a pillow behind his back against the center of the headboard.

  Omar Yussef shoved him away. “Leave me alone.”

  Khamis Zeydan retained the good humor he had shared with Maryam and the crowd downstairs. He waved his black-gloved prosthetic hand, playfully. “This reminds me of the time I was shot in the back in Damascus, after I escaped from Jordan during Black September. Did I ever tell you about that? I was almost arrested by King Hussein, and I had to escape across the Jordanian border to Syria with Abu Bakr, you know, my friend from Majdal who’s now down in Gaza working for General Intelligence. But we knew someone was following us. In the end, they got to me when I was about to leave for Lebanon. The doctors said I was very lucky the bullet didn’t hit my spine, or I’d be in even worse health than you now. Of course, I imagine the only thing that could make anybody’s health worse than yours is a bullet in the spine.”

  “Is someone planning to put a bullet in my spine?”

  Khamis Zeydan’s jaunty bedside manner disappeared. “It’s quite possible.”

  “Did you come here with a message from them?”

  “I’m not their messenger boy.” The police chief was angry now.

  “You seemed content enough after you carried the message to them that got Dima Abdel Rahman killed.”

  “Are you still thinking that way? I can’t believe it. Do you really think I’d pass information from you to people who would commit murder? Even if I knew for sure who murdered Dima Abdel Rahman, I would never have led her killers to her.”

  “You know who the killers are.”

  “No. If I had proof, I’d arrest someone. As I told you, I suspect it might be an honor killing. The father or brother may have believed she was sleeping with someone and killed her to prevent her dishonoring her dead husband. Or she might have been meeting a man in the woods at night; someone whose lust got a little out of hand. But I can’t prove any of that. Not yet.”

  “You told me when we went to see her body that there was more to this than I knew. What is it you aren’t telling me?”

  “Only what’s not good for you.”

  “Get out of here. If you can’t be honest with me, I don’t want you in my house.”

  Khamis Zeydan stared at the bedridden schoolteacher. Quietly, he spoke again: “I came to tell you that the president signed the order for George Saba’s execution. They’ve set a date.”

  Omar Yussef was silent and still.

  “George will be executed at noon, the day after tomorrow.”

  “No, that’s too soon.”

  “Too soon for what? For you to clear his name? You can’t help him, Abu Ramiz.” Khamis Zeydan put his good hand on Omar Yussef’s leg. “You need to think of yourself, to protect yourself and your family. George is beyond your help.”

  I am protecting myself, Omar Yussef thought. If George dies in this disgusting way, they may as well blindfold me and tie me to the same execution post, so much of me will be gone with him.

  “You need to get fit and go back to the school.”

  Omar Yussef looked curiously at Khamis Zeydan. “Didn’t you hear I’m retiring?”

  Khamis Zeydan shook his head. “Your boss the American, Steadman, has been telling everyone that he wouldn’t dream of letting you retire. I mean, really, he’s telling absolutely anyone who’ll listen. He even came into the police station this morning to announce it. I don’t know what you said to him, but if he wanted you to resign before, he sounds now like he’d do anything to keep you on the job.”

  An appeal to cultural sensitivity can have an amazing effect on a clueless, liberal snob, Omar Yussef thought. If he hadn’t felt so miserable and suspicious, he would have loved to share the joke with Khamis Zeydan, but the fever and the impending execution froze the smile lines around his eyes.

  “Steadman even said that your temporary replacement was no longer working and that he was teaching your classes himself until you returned.” Khamis Zeydan stood and slapped Omar Yussef’s leg. “Well, I have to go. May Allah help you to feel better. And go back to work at the school.”

  “I will,” Omar Yussef said. “I will be at my old desk in the morning.”

  Khamis Zeydan smiled and left.

  Omar Yussef willed his back to recover. He had less than two days to save George Saba. Perhaps he could persuade the judge to change the verdict. He would take the old Webley pistol and the MAG cartridge cases to the judge. He had his vague personal connection from their meeting at that UN function a few months back. Maybe the judge would remember him.

  The president already had signed the order. No one except Omar Yussef appeared to want to stop the execution. But he had to try.

  It was dark and cold. The digital clock on the bedside table glowed red through the gloom. It was 7:00 P.M. precisely. George Saba was condemned to die in forty-one hours. It seemed a matter of seconds, so short was the time Omar Yussef had to work with. He rubbed his face and looked back at the clock. It was 7:01 P.M., and yet it seemed as though the executioners must already be preparing George for death. At 7:02 the crowd would have gathered, a drum roll sounded at 7:03, and by 7:04 Omar Yussef felt it was all over for his friend. Every minute of the next two days he knew he would live through George’s judicial murder, again and again. Those would be the last minutes of George Saba’s life. Unless Omar Yussef could stop the clock.

  He wondered how he might push on with his investigation. Perhaps there would be a clue in the way George was arrested, something that would definitively show that Tamari was responsible for framing him. He’d been told repeatedly that George had confessed. That couldn’t be. So far Omar Yussef had heard only the girl Khadija Zubeida’s twisted account of the arrest on that first morning in the schoolroom. What truly was said when the policemen went to George’s house? Khadija’s father was a part of the arresting squad. Omar Yussef would go to the school in the morning and ask the girl where he might find her father. Then he would go to Mahmoud Zubeida and get him to recount the story of George’s apprehension. He must piece together the details of what happened, and who had led the operation.

  Chapter 19

  The rain threatened, darkening the dawn and squeezing cold licks of ice onto Omar Yussef’s face as he hunched along the main road to the UNRWA Girls School. He had fallen asleep early and without dinner, so exhausted was he by the flood in the basement and the night without sleep. He awoke early and showered, spraying hot water on his strained back. It surprised him that he felt so much better than he had when he lay on his bed the previous evening. Even the cold wind and the darkness of the early morning couldn’t dampen his resolve. His deadline was short to save George Saba, and for the first time in days he felt that his body was up to the task. He almost would have said that he felt younger after his long night’s sleep.

  It was just before 7:00 A.M. The children would arrive in a quarter of an hour. If Khamis Zeydan’s information was correct, Steadman would be in the history classroom now, looking up a few unknown phrases in an English–Arabic dictionary, preparing to lecture the students in his strange pidgin. The poor idiot was prepared to put himself through the excruciating task of talking to the kids in Arabic and, worse, struggling to comprehend the slurring slang of teenagers, just to avoid the impression of cultural insensitivity. Well, by the end of the month, he would know that it had all been a waste of effort. Omar Yussef would be back at his desk, ready to teach for another decade. He would still be instructing the girls of Dehaisha in the meaning of their history and culture when Steadman had moved on to the kind of distant United Nations posting in which Omar Yussef always ima
gined him, sweating it out at some hinterland Somali schoolhouse, or teaching Arabic to Bosnian Muslims. Yes, that would be the man’s specialty. Omar Yussef smiled. Steadman would think of himself as an expert on things Arab now.

  Omar Yussef crossed the road to the school. The tall, gray column carved into the shape of the map of Palestine blended into the oppressive sky, so that at first glance he wondered if it had been obliterated by some nighttime Israeli raid. When he was able to pick it out in the gloom, he wished it had disappeared. He stopped to look at it. He couldn’t help it; each time he saw the sculpture, he fixed his gaze for a moment on the spot where he was born, his father’s village. That was the purpose of the sculpture, of course, to perpetuate the desire for a return to those places, communities that had ceased to exist, memorialized in the sentimental recollections of the old people and weighted around the necks of the youngsters in this massive stone. Omar Yussef hated the sculpture.

  The blast pounded like a heavyweight fist into Omar Yussef’s chest. It dropped him onto his backside in the mud outside the school. He was dazed a moment, sitting on the cold ground. A billow of black smoke wafted out of the school entrance with the scent of charcoal on it. Omar Yussef tried to calm himself. At first he thought he must have been in the center of the explosion, so strong was the blow. It felt as though the shock wave had collapsed his ribcage. But his heart continued to beat. He saw that the detonation had been inside the school. Who would be inside now? It was too early for Wafa. The janitor might be in there cleaning—his chair next to the entrance was empty.