The Almond Tree

by Michelle Cohen Corasanti

  THE ALMOND TREE

  Michelle Cohen Corasanti

  THE ALMOND TREE

  Published by

  Garnet Publishing Limited

  8 Southern Court

  South Street

  Reading

  RG1 4QS

  UK

  www.garnetpublishing.co.uk

  www.twitter.com/Garnetpub

  www.facebook.com/Garnetpub

  blog.garnetpublishing.co.uk

  Copyright © Michelle Cohen Corasanti, 2012

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  First Edition

  ISBN: 9781859643303

  British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  Typeset by Samantha Barden

  Jacket design by Sanna Sporrong

  Cover images: Grunge barbed wire background © Bluewren08 and Spring almond blossoms © Emersont, courtesy of Dreamstime.com;

  Man in the Shadows © Arash James Iravan and Mysterious man in the dark shadow © Manuel Gutjahr, courtesy of iStockphoto.com

  Printed and bound in Lebanon by International Press:

  interpress@int-press.com

  To Sarah and Jon-Robert

  “That which is hateful to you, do not unto another: This is the whole Torah. The rest is commentary – [and now] go study.” Rabbi Hillel (30 BC–10 AD), one of the greatest rabbis of the Talmudic era.

  To Joe who gave me the courage to embrace what I would have preferred to bury.

  CONTENTS

  PART ONE 1955

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  PART TWO 1966

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  PART THREE 1974

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  PART FOUR 2009

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CHAPTER 55

  CHAPTER 56

  CHAPTER 57

  CHAPTER 58

  The seeds for this story were planted over twenty years ago. While still in high school, I went to live abroad in search of fun, adventure and parental freedom. Initially, I had wanted to go to Paris, but my parents rejected that idea and sent me, instead, to Israel for the summer with the rabbi’s daughter. Uninformed of the situation there, at that time, I thought Palestinian was a synonym for Israeli. Seven years later, I returned to the US, more knowledgeable than I would have liked.

  Idealistic, I wanted to help bring about peace in the Middle East. After a few years in graduate and law school in the states, I decided I just wanted to save myself. When I met my husband, I disclosed to him my experiences. He said I had a story. Unready, I buried it. But the past has a way of clawing its way out. I’d like to believe that I needed the perspective those twenty years gave me to write this story.

  I’d like to thank my husband Joe for helping me with the research and writing of this book and my children, Jon-Robert and Sarah, for making me want to make this world a better place. I’d like to acknowledge my great editors who taught me how to put my story into words: diligent Mark Spencer, knowledgeable Masha Hamilton, capable Marcy Dermansky, my mother-in-law Connie who corrected every version, efficient Teresa Merritt and the talented Pamela Lane.

  A special thanks to my editor Les Edgerton who really helped to make this book happen. My gratitude goes to Caitlin Dosch and Christopher Greco for their help with the science and maths problems. Much credit also goes to Nathan Stock from The Carter Center for his help and expertise, especially on Gaza. Many thanks to my agent Amanda Luedeke and the Chip MacGregor Literary Agency for believing in me as well as to Garnet Publishing, especially Marie Hanson and Pamela Park who facilitated everything, and to the editors Felicity Radford and Nick Fawcett for the thorough work they did on the manuscript. Finally, my thanks goes to the skillful Gregg Sullivan, for his marketing expertise.

  PART ONE

  1955

  CHAPTER 1

  Mama always said Amal was mischievous. It was a joke we shared as a family – that my sister, just a few years old and shaky on her pudgy legs, had more energy for life than me and my younger brother Abbas combined. So when I went to check on her and she wasn’t in her crib, I felt a fear in my heart that gripped me and would not let go.

  It was summer and the whole house breathed slowly from the heat. I stood alone in her room, hoping the quiet would tell me where she’d stumbled off to. A white curtain caught a breeze. The window was open – wide open. I rushed to the ledge, praying that when I looked over she wouldn’t be there, she wouldn’t be hurt. I was afraid to look, but I did anyway because not knowing was worse. Please God, please God, please God…

  There was nothing below but Mama’s garden: colourful flowers moving in that same wind.

  Downstairs, the air was filled with delicious smells, the big table laden with yummy foods. Baba and I loved sweets, so Mama was making a whole lot of them for our holiday party tonight.

  ‘Where’s Amal?’ I stuck a date cookie in each of my pockets when her back was turned. One for me and the other for Abbas.

  ‘Napping.’ Mama poured the syrup onto the baklava.

  ‘No, Mama, she’s not in her crib.’

  ‘Then where is she?’ Mama put the hot pan in the sink and cooled it with water that turned to steam.

  ‘Maybe she’s hiding?’

  Mama’s black robes brushed across me as she rushed to the stairs. I followed closely, keeping quiet, ready to earn the treats in my pocket by finding her first.

  ‘I need help.’ Abbas stood at the top of the stairs with his shirt unbuttoned.

  I gave him a dirty look. I had to make him understand that I was helping Mama with a serious problem.

  Abbas and I followed Mama into her and Baba’s room. Amal wasn’t under their big bed. I pulled open the curtain that covered the place where they kept their clothes, expecting to find Amal crouching with a big smile, but she wasn’t there. I could tell Mama was getting really scared. Her dark eyes flashed in a way that made me scared too.

  ‘Don’t worry Mama,’ Abbas said. ‘Ichmad and I will help you find her.’

  Mama put her fingers to her lips to tell Abbas and me not to speak as we crossed the hall to our younger brothers’ room. They were stil
l sleeping, so she went in on tiptoes and motioned for us to stay outside. She knew how to be quieter than Abbas and me. But Amal was not there.

  Abbas looked at me with scared eyes and I patted him on the back.

  Downstairs, Mama called to Amal, over and over. She ransacked the living and dining rooms, ruining all the work she had put in for the holiday dinner with Uncle Kamal’s family.

  When Mama ran to the sunroom, Abbas and I followed. The door to the courtyard was open. Mama gasped.

  From the big window we spotted Amal running down the meadow towards the field in her nightgown.

  Mama was in the courtyard in seconds. She cut right through her garden, crushing her roses, the thorns tearing at her robe. Abbas and I were right behind her.

  ‘Amal!’ Mama screamed. ‘Stop!’ My sides hurt from running, but I kept going. Mama stopped so fast at ‘the sign’ that Abbas and I ran right into her. Amal was in the field. I couldn’t breathe.

  ‘Stop!’ Mama screamed. ‘Don’t move!’

  Amal was chasing a big red butterfly, her black curly hair bouncing. She turned and looked at us. ‘I get it,’ she chuckled, pointing at the butterfly.

  ‘No, Amal!’ Mama used her strictest voice. ‘Don’t move.’

  Amal stood completely still and Mama blew air out of her mouth.

  Abbas dropped to his knees, relieved. We were never, ever, supposed to go past the sign. That was the devil’s field.

  The pretty butterfly landed about four metres in front of Amal.

  ‘No!’ Mama screamed.

  Abbas and I looked up.

  Amal made mischievous eyes at Mama and then ran towards the butterfly.

  The next part was like slow motion. Like someone threw her up in the air. Smoke and fire were under her and the smile flew away. The sound hit us – really hit us – and knocked us back. And when I looked to where she was, she was gone. Just gone. I couldn’t hear anything.

  And then the screams came. It was Mama’s voice, then Baba’s from somewhere far behind us. Then I realised that Amal wasn’t gone. I could see something. I could see her arm. It was her arm, but her body wasn’t attached to it anymore. I wiped my eyes. Amal was torn up like her doll after our watchdog ripped it apart. I opened my mouth and screamed so loud I felt like I was going to split in two.

  Baba and Uncle Kamal ran up, panting, to the sign. Mama didn’t look at them, but when they got there she began to whimper, ‘My baby, my baby ...’

  Then Baba saw Amal, out there past the sign – the sign that said Closed Area. He lunged towards her, tears flooding down his face. But Uncle Kamal grabbed him hard with both hands. ‘No …’ He held on.

  Baba tried to shake him off, but Uncle Kamal hung on. Fighting, Baba turned on his brother, screaming, ‘I can’t leave her!’

  ‘It’s too late.’ Uncle Kamal’s voice was strong.

  I told Baba, ‘I know where they buried the mines.’

  He didn’t look at me, but he said, ‘Direct me in, Ichmad.’

  ‘You’re going to put your life in the hands of a child?’ Uncle Kamal’s face looked like he was biting into a lemon.

  ‘He’s no ordinary seven-year-old,’ Baba said.

  I took a step towards the men, leaving Abbas with Mama. They were both crying. ‘They planted them with their hands and I made a map.’

  ‘Go get it,’ Baba said, followed by something else, but I couldn’t understand him because he turned away towards the devil’s field – and Amal.

  So I ran as fast as I could, grabbed the map from its hiding place on the veranda, swung around for Baba’s walking stick, and ran back to my family. Mama always said she didn’t want me to run when I was holding Baba’s stick because I could get hurt, but this was an emergency.

  Baba took the stick and tapped the ground while I tried to get the wind back in me.

  ‘Go straight from the sign,’ I said. My tears blinded me, the salt stinging, but I wouldn’t look away.

  Baba tapped the ground in front of him before every single step and when he was about three metres out, he stopped. Amal’s head was approximately a metre in front of him. Her curly hair was gone. White stuff stuck out in places where the skin was burned off. His arms weren’t long enough to reach it, so he crouched and tried again. Mama gasped. I wished he’d use the stick, but I was afraid to say it to him, in case he didn’t want to treat Amal that way.

  ‘Come back,’ Uncle Kamal pleaded. ‘It’s too dangerous.’

  ‘The children,’ Mama cried out. Baba almost fell over, but caught himself. ‘They’re alone in the house.’

  ‘I’ll go stay with them.’ Uncle Kamal turned away and I was glad because he was making things even worse.

  ‘Don’t bring them here!’ Baba called to him. ‘They can’t see Amal like this. And don’t let Nadia come down here either.’

  ‘Nadia!’ Mama sounded like she had just heard the name of her eldest daughter for the first time. ‘Nadia is at your house, Kamal, with your children.’

  Uncle Kamal nodded and continued on.

  Mama was on the ground next to Abbas. Tears streamed down her face. Like someone cursed and frozen in place, Abbas stared at what was left of Amal.

  ‘Which way now, Ichmad?’ Baba asked.

  According to my map, there was a mine approximately two metres away from Amal’s head. The sun was hot, but I felt cold. Please God, let my map be accurate. What I knew for sure was that there was no pattern because I always looked for patterns and these were random, so no one could figure them out without a map.

  ‘Walk a metre to the left,’ I said, ‘and reach again.’ Without even knowing it, I had been holding my breath. When Baba lifted Amal’s head the air spilled out of me. He took off his kaffiyah and wrapped it around her little head, which was pretty much destroyed.

  Baba reached for her arm, but it was too far away. It was hard to tell if her hand was still attached.

  According to my map, there was another landmine between him and her arm, and it was up to me to direct him around it. He did exactly what I told him because he trusted me. I got him close and he gently grabbed her arm-bone and wrapped it in his kaffiyah. All that was left was her middle, and it was the furthest away.

  ‘Don’t step forward. There’s a mine. Step to your left.’

  Baba cuddled Amal close to his chest. Before he stepped, he tapped the ground. I guided him the whole way; it was at least twelve metres. Afterwards, I had to guide him back.

  ‘From the sign, straight out, there aren’t any mines,’ I said. ‘But there’re two in between you and that straight line.’

  I guided him forward, then sideways. Sweat dripped down my face, and when I wiped it with my hand, there was blood. I knew it was Amal’s blood. I wiped it again and again, but it wouldn’t come off.

  Strands of Baba’s black hair lifted off his face in a gust. His white kaffiyah, no longer covering it, was soaked with blood. Red blossomed down his white robe. He held Amal in his arms the way he did when she fell asleep on his lap and he carried her upstairs. Baba looked like an angel from a story bringing Amal back from the field. His broad shoulders were heaving, his eyelashes wet.

  Mama was still on the ground, crying. Abbas held her, but had no more tears. He was like a little man, watching over her. ‘Baba will put her back together,’ he assured Mama. ‘He can fix anything.’

  ‘Baba will take care of her.’ I put my hand on Abbas’ shoulder.

  Baba knelt next to Mama on the ground with his shoulders by his ears and rocked Amal gently. Mama leaned into him.

  ‘Don’t be scared,’ Baba told Amal. ‘God will protect you.’ We remained like that, comforting Amal, for a long time.

  ‘Curfew begins in five minutes,’ a soldier announced through his megaphone from his military Jeep. ‘Anyone found outside will be arrested or shot.’

  Baba said it was too late to get a permit to bury Amal, so we brought her back home.

  CHAPTER 2

  Abbas and I heard the cries before
Baba. He was focused on inspecting our oranges. He was like that. His family had owned the groves for generations and he said it was in his blood.

  ‘Baba.’ I tugged on his robe and broke his trance. He dropped the oranges in his arms and ran towards the cries. Abbas and I followed closely.

  ‘Abu Ichmad!’ Mama’s screams echoed off the trees. When I was born, they had changed their names to Abu Ichmad and Um Ichmad so as to include my name: that of their first son. It was the tradition of our people. Mama ran towards us with our baby sister Sara in her arms. ‘Come home!’ Mama gasped for air. ‘They’re at the house.’

  I got really scared. For the last two years, when they thought Abbas and I were sleeping, my parents talked about them coming to take our land. The first time I heard them was the night Amal died. They fought because Mama wanted to bury Amal on our land so she could stay close to us and not be afraid, but Baba said no, that they’d come and take our land and then we’d either have to dig her up or leave her with them.

  Baba took baby Sara from Mama’s arms and we ran back to our house.

  More than a dozen soldiers were fencing our land and home with barbed wire. My sister Nadia was kneeling under our olive tree holding my middle brothers Fadi and Hani while they cried. She was younger than me and Abbas, but older than the others. Mama always said she’d make a good mother because she was very nurturing.

  ‘Can I help you?’ Baba asked a soldier, between gulps of air.

  ‘Mahmud Hamid?’

  ‘That’s me,’ Baba said.

  The soldier handed Baba a document.

  Baba’s face went white like milk. He started to shake his head. Soldiers with rifles, steel helmets, green military fatigues and heavy black boots surrounded him.

  Mama pulled Abbas and me close, and I felt her heart beat through her robe.

  ‘You have thirty minutes to pack your possessions,’ the pimply-faced soldier said.

  ‘Please,’ Baba said. ‘This is our home.’

  ‘You heard me,’ Pimply-face said. ‘Now!’

  ‘Stay here with the little ones,’ Baba told Mama. She burst into tears.

  ‘Keep it down,’ Pimply-face said.

  Abbas and I helped Baba carry out all one hundred and four of the portraits he had drawn over the last fifteen years; his art books of the great masters: Monet, Van Gogh, Picasso, Rembrandt; the money he kept in his pillow case; the oud his father made him; the silver tea set Mama’s parents gave her; our dishes, cutlery, pots and pans; clothing and Mama’s wedding dress.