The Almond Tree

by Michelle Cohen Corasanti

  All eyes went to Jameel.

  ‘I’m not prepared.’

  ‘This is basic. Are you trying to be an academic zero? You need to shake the sand out of your head. You and your kind are a waste of space.’

  Professor Sharon’s eyes met mine. ‘Mr Hamid, can you tell us?’

  ‘Minus ninety centimetres per second,’ I said.

  Professor Sharon shook his head. ‘How did you arrive at that answer?’

  ‘The momentum of the system after the rifle has fired must equal the momentum before the rifle went off. Originally, the momentum of the bullet and rifle was zero, since they were at rest. Using the conservation of momentum equation (m1+m2)v0=m1v1+m2v2, m1v1=-m2v2, v1=-m2v2, m1=(15 g) ×(3×104 cm/sec)=-90 cm/sec.’

  ‘Is this a sizeable recoil velocity, Motie?’ Professor Sharon asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Motie said.

  ‘And what would happen if the rifle wasn’t held firmly against the shoulder of the shooter?’ Professor Sharon leaned against his desk.

  ‘The shooter would receive a substantial kick,’ Motie said.

  ‘If the shooter held the rifle firmly against his body, what would happen?’

  ‘The shooter’s body as a whole would absorb the momentum.’

  ‘Excellent work, Motie.’ Professor Sharon looked back at me. ‘If the shooter’s mass is 100 kg, then the recoil velocity from the shot is what, Mr Hamid?’

  ‘4.3 cm/sec,’ I said.

  ‘Explain?’ Professor Sharon’s tone said he expected me to fail.

  ‘I used for m1 the mass of the rifle plus the mass of the shooter. If his mass is 100 kg, then the recoil velocity which is now the gun plus the shooter is v1=(15 g)×(3×104 cm/sec) 5×103 g+105 g=4.3 cm/sec.’

  Professor Sharon looked back at Motie. ‘How is the magnitude of this recoil?’

  ‘Quite tolerable,’ he said.

  ‘Excellent work, Motie.’ Professor Sharon smiled.

  When the bell rang, Jameel was the first one out the door. I was hurrying after him when someone tapped me on the shoulder.

  ‘Great job with the homework.’ Motie raised his eyebrows. ‘Let’s go do Professor Sharon’s. We work well together.’

  If I lied and said I had a class or something, Motie would check. And if he caught me lying, who knows what he’d do to me. I’d talk to Jameel when I got back to the room.

  As Motie and I walked into the library I wondered if this was how the condemned felt on their way to the gallows.

  ‘Bag on the table,’ the guard said. ‘Everything out.’

  ‘He’s with me and we don’t have a lot of time,’ Motie said.

  I followed him past the guard and into the library. Within thirty minutes, we finished our homework; as before, I explained how to do the problems. Motie suggested we do Professor Sharon’s assignment together every week. I nodded. Why not? I had to do the work anyway.

  ***

  Jameel sat on his bed smoking a cigarette.

  ‘We Arabs invented the zero,’ Jameel said. ‘Mohammad Ibn Ahmad introduced it in 967 ad. The West didn’t get it until the thirteenth century. We invented algebra. We taught the world to separate trigonometry from astronomy. We founded non-Euclidian geometry. The Europeans were living in caves when we invented physics and medicine. Did he forget we once ruled from Spain to China?’ He breathed hard and shook his fist.

  ‘We’ll study together.’

  ‘May Allah send darkness on Professor Sharon’s soul!’ Jameel almost spat the smoke from his cigarette.

  ***

  Every day after Professor Sharon’s class, Motie, Jameel and I went to the library together. When Motie was with us, Jameel and I weren’t searched. I explained the homework to both of them and they got it. By the end of the month, they could do the work on their own even though we still sat together.

  A few times Motie stopped by our room for help in a different class. One time he stopped by to bring us a Russian cake his mother had made. It was delicious and made me think of Baba’s jam doughnut all those years ago.

  A month later, Professor Sharon handed back everyone’s homework except mine. ‘Homework is an integral part of your grade.’ His voice was stern. ‘I won’t tolerate anyone not doing their homework.’ He stared at me. ‘You, Mr Hamid, are trying to mock me.’

  What was he talking about? I stared, unsure what to say.

  ‘You didn’t do yesterday’s homework.’

  ‘I handed it in yesterday.’ I clasped my hands together to hide my trembling.

  The veins in Professor Sharon’s neck bulged. ‘You’re a liar, Mr Hamid!’

  Motie spoke up. ‘Professor Sharon.’

  The professor turned in his direction. ‘What?’

  ‘Ichmad and I did our homework together yesterday.’

  ‘Well, Mr Hamid forgot to hand it in.’

  ‘No.’ Motie shook his head. ‘I watched him hand it in.’

  ‘Well, I’ll check again.’

  The bell rang.

  CHAPTER 25

  Jameel stared at his reflection in the mirror. In his black turtle-neck and bell-bottom jeans, he could have passed for a Jew.

  ‘These dances are overflowing with gorgeous American girls. Come with me. I’ll take my pick and throw you my leftovers.’

  ‘I need to work some numbers.’

  ‘All you do is study. Look how you dress. Why are you acting like such a martyr?’ Jameel asked. ‘In the name of God, please borrow my clothes. I’m embarrassed to be seen with you. You look like a refugee, not a student.’

  Unable to concentrate after he left for the dance, I opened his closet, took off my homemade clothes, and pulled on a black turtle-neck and a pair of his bell-bottom jeans.

  In the mirror, I studied myself. With my eyes closed, I imagined I was at the party. The band played. Boys and girls danced together like they did in the moshav.

  The knock at the door startled me.

  ‘Is anyone in there?’ The knob turned and Zoher walked in.

  Why had I left it unlocked?

  ‘Particle dynamics are causing me grief.’ He sat on my bed and scanned me from top to bottom. ‘Are you going out?’

  ‘Yes.’ The lie exited my mouth before I could stop myself. Now I was forced to go to the dance. How would I explain it to Jameel?

  ‘Can you stop by my room tomorrow? I’ve got a question for you.’

  ‘No problem.’

  ***

  The dance was in the auditorium on the other side of campus, near the entrance. It would take at least half an hour to walk there.

  As I passed the Israeli flag waving from a tall pole, and the luxurious Kiriyah dormitories, I cursed myself. Why couldn’t I fit in here? Why had I helped Ali all those years ago? Why wasn’t I born in the United States or Canada?

  I thought back to Year 5, and how Teacher Fouad had lifted a copy of our mandatory Israeli history book high in the air. ‘The Israelis require I teach from this.’ He shook the book. ‘In it, the Israelis have erased our history. They call pre-1948 Palestine Eretz Yisrael, the land of Israel, and us, the Arabs of the land of Israel. But despite their efforts, the history of our people can never be erased. We are Palestinians, and this is our land.’

  We chanted ‘Filistine!’ Palestine!

  Teacher Fouad said that if there hadn’t been a rise of anti-Semitism in Europe at the end of the nineteenth century, the Jews wouldn’t have wanted their own homeland. And that Britain, after pitting the Jews and Arabs against each other, realised the no-win situation and handed the question of Palestine to the United Nations. Should anyone have been surprised when, in the wake of the Holocaust, the United Nations partitioned the majority of Palestine to the Jewish minority? I wished that my people had just accepted partition, but Palestine had been erased from the map before I was born.

  Girls, dressed in miniskirts, hot pants and high heels shimmied and shook to an Israeli band playing Western music. Jameel hadn’t exaggerated. He stood, looking conspicuous, in the
centre of the darkened room talking to a petite girl with hair the colour of sunflower petals.

  Jameel noticed me approaching. ‘What in God’s name…?’

  ‘Who are you talking to?’ I interrupted.

  ‘This is Deborah.’

  Strobe lights brought to life the diamond-encrusted Star of David on her gold necklace. It sparkled like it had magical powers. The Sephardic Jews at work used to wear the stars so that they wouldn’t be mistaken for Arabs.

  ‘One minute please,’ I said to her in Hebrew.

  I yanked Jameel’s arm and pulled him towards the door.

  ‘Are you trying to dislocate my shoulder?’

  Outside, I scanned the area. There was no one in earshot. ‘Are you without a brain?’

  He jerked his arm from my grasp. ‘What’s wrong?’

  I addressed the heavens. ‘This guy just doesn’t get it.’

  ‘Get what?’

  ‘What planet are you from?’ I wanted to shake him. ‘She’s Jewish and you’re Palestinian.’

  ‘Your point?’

  ‘Don’t make me think that your IQ is under 60.’

  ‘I’ve dated Israeli Jewish girls. And anyway, she’s American. She’s waiting for me. I need to get back in.’

  He walked towards the door as I stared in disbelief. At the entrance he turned. ‘Glad to see you finally borrowed my clothes. You’ve never looked better.’ He smiled. ‘Come on.’ He held the door open, but I went back to our room instead.

  ***

  Zoher opened his door. A backgammon board was laid out on top of a plastic table. He noticed me looking at it.

  ‘Do you play?’ he asked.

  ‘Used to.’

  ‘I’m the state champion.’

  ‘You haven’t played all its citizens,’ I said.

  ‘Is that a challenge?’ He smiled.

  I didn’t want to appear too cocky – that’s poor strategy. ‘It’s been a long time.’

  ‘Give me a chance.’

  Before I could pretend to refuse again, he pulled the table up next to the bed and pushed a chair up to the other side. He sat on the bed and motioned for me to sit. His white button-down shirt was wrinkleless.

  This was what I really enjoyed; one-on-one competition with a worthy adversary. Like the Israeli guys on campus often said: bring it on.

  He rolled the die with his baby-skinned hands and then so did I, with my callused earth-stained ones. Zoher rolled a five and I, a six. I adopted the running game strategy. Quickly, I moved my stones from his home board to his outer board; I planned on leaving a few exposed so they could be used as stepping stones to establish a strong offensive.

  This was Baba’s game too; the war he loved to fight. We’d often played together. Zoher picked up the dice. A wide grin stretched across his face and a sheen of sweat covered his high forehead. He rolled the controversial five-three. I sat up straight, glanced into his coffee-coloured eyes and then away. He picked up his black stones, but didn’t make the best of the five-three. I knew I had him. Baba had explained this move: that it left blots exposed and, if hit, gave the opponent the immediate advantage, the opportunity to make the three-point being lost. Zoher pulled a handkerchief from his pocket.

  I began to move my stones without gaps directly in front of his to build a prime blocker. Once I had placed six no-gap stones in a row, his stones couldn’t escape. When I got my stones into my home board, I began to bear off.

  Perspiration stains appeared on Zoher’s perfect shirt.

  When I finished, his mouth gaped open. ‘Great game,’ he said. ‘When can I have a rematch?’

  ‘A week from today.’

  He smiled. ‘Next time.’

  We shook hands and I went back to my room. Every Saturday evening, for the rest of the school year, Zoher and I met to play backgammon and he never once beat me.

  CHAPTER 26

  Jameel and I were in our room packing books for our bi-weekly trip to Acre when I heard a knock on the door and Deborah walked in.

  ‘Shalom,’ Jameel greeted her. ‘Ready to go?’ A bag larger than a handbag hung from her right shoulder.

  ‘I love Acre.’ Her Hebrew was good, but her American accent was strong.

  Jameel looked over at me and smiled. I glanced at her Star of David. Had he lost his mind? What if the soldiers saw us? What would everyone think?

  ‘Ready?’ he asked me in Hebrew.

  ‘You’re sitting next to her,’ I said in Arabic. ‘I’m going to pretend I don’t know you.’

  He replied in Arabic, ‘Do what you have to do. Let’s go.’

  Deborah smiled at me and I forced my lips up.

  At the central bus station, Deborah walked over to a market stall. Jameel shrugged. ‘She wants nuts for the ride.’

  ‘Even the Prophet won’t be able to save you!’

  ‘Give her a chance.’

  Deborah returned with a bag of warm nuts and held it towards me.

  ‘No thanks.’

  Her blue eyes sparkled like the ocean in the sun. She was definitely the prettiest girl I’d ever seen.

  Jameel and Deborah sat in the middle of the bus together and I in the back, alone, doing my organic chemistry homework. When we arrived, I waited for them to walk ahead of me, and then I followed.

  Deborah turned to me. ‘Come on.’ They stopped to wait. I feared Jameel’s parents’ reaction. I could only imagine what Mama would have done if I had brought home a girl who wore the Jewish Star of David. I could just see Mama coming out of our tent and spotting the star displayed on the girl’s chest.

  ‘I’ve brought a friend,’ I’d say.

  Mama would be frozen with her mouth agape, her eyes wide in terror. In a shrill shriek, she would recite from the Koran, call on Allah, the Prophet Mohammad and anyone else she could think of to save me.

  Then Abbas would appear. ‘You bring her here to fornicate in our tent?’

  Mama would tell me, ‘My heart goes out to you like fire and your heart goes out to me like stone.’ And then it would go downhill from there.

  Um Jameel greeted us with a smile, steaming tea and an array of appetisers in small dishes she’d placed on their kitchen table: tabboulie, hummus, olives, fried halloumi cheese, falafel, warm grape leaves, labneh, baba ghanouj, and loubia bi zeit.

  ‘Welcome to our humble home,’ she said in broken Hebrew. ‘Please, I wish I’d made more.’

  Deborah, Jameel and Um Jameel made their way to the table. I stood motionless.

  ‘Come on,’ Um Jameel called.

  I followed them to the table.

  Abu Jameel appeared with a platter of grilled meats on skewers: chicken, lamb and kafta from the outdoor grill. We stood. Jameel kissed his cheeks and I shook his hand.

  ‘This is my friend Deborah,’ Jameel said.

  Abu Jameel shook Deborah’s hand.

  ‘Our home is yours,’ he said.

  After lunch, Deborah, Jameel and I headed for the Arab bazaar. The stalls were filled with chess sets made of inlaid wood, hookahs, embroidered textiles, amulets against the evil eye, Bedouin silver-coin necklaces, oriental rugs, Arab headdresses and robes, together with T-shirts, hats and towels with the word Israel written across them.

  While drinking freshly squeezed orange juice from a cart in the road, I heard a man’s voice call Jameel’s name from one of the stalls. We walked past brightly coloured robes and gold and silver bracelets, past necklaces and rings, to the back of the store.

  Jameel and the man hugged. The grey-bearded man with the red-checked headdress motioned for us to sit on the low cushioned divan. A woman arrived with an ornate brass tray with demitasses filled with black coffee, and we drank before we made our way through the market towards the oriental sweets.

  I shuddered upon seeing the butcher with a piece of raw meat hanging from a single hook. I thought of the Jews’ slaughterhouse. No wonder we couldn’t compete: my people were nowhere near as efficient as the Jewish Israelis. The butcher probably slaugh
tered one cow a month.

  Spice sellers weighed small bags filled with saffron, turmeric, cumin and cinnamon.

  I spotted the large circular tray of kanafi in the window and knew we’d arrived at Jameel’s favourite sweet shop. A man brought us three pieces, poured us three glasses of water from a pitcher, and we ate together; Jameel, the Jewish girl and I.

  ***

  On our way back to Jameel’s house, I saw a pack of soldiers in the distance running towards us and I stood in front of Deborah until they ran past.

  Jameel cuffed me on the head.

  ‘Do you know what they would do to us if they noticed she was a Jew?’ I tried not to raise my voice and attract notice. ‘They could kill us. I’m speaking to you in plain Arabic. Do you understand me?’

  ‘Maybe in the rural villages where you come from, but the city-dwellers are different. We live here in peace with the Jews.’

  ‘You must be blind.’

  Jameel and I had been bickering for five minutes when we noticed that Deborah had disappeared.

  ‘Where is she?’ Jameel’s voice was panicked.

  ‘We shouldn’t have brought her.’

  ‘We have to find her!’

  ‘Do you know what they’ll do to us if something happens to her?’ I asked.

  Jameel and I ran around the stalls of the bazaar calling Deborah’s name. People were everywhere. Children in strollers, old men with canes. French, English, Arabic, Hebrew, Russian. But there was no Deborah, and we’d go to prison if something happened to her.

  I peered into every store, and eventually found her in the musical instrument shop, sitting in a chair, strumming an oud. She was oblivious to our panic – was she toying with us? How could things be so different in America?

  Jameel interrupted the owner as he showed her how to play the oud. ‘Where were you?’ He was out of breath.

  ‘I’ve played the guitar for years. I wanted to try the oud. I heard it at a school concert and fell in love.’ She turned to the owner. ‘I’ll take this one.’ She paid him the equivalent of what it took me two months to earn at the slaughterhouse.