Leon Uris (35 page)

We received the news that the fighting on the highway had stopped and normal traffic in and out of Jaffa had resumed. My father was most eager to return to Bassam el Bassam, for surely Uncle Farouk had gotten through and had contacted him by now. We arrived at the trading company just before ten o’clock when the bank would be opened. No news of Farouk.

‘It is mayhem. It is mayhem,’ Mr. Bassam said. ‘Farouk is clever. He will get through.’

‘There is no village without a dunghill; I am smelling ours now,’ my father said. ‘I do not like it.’

‘Come, we go to the bank. We worry about Farouk later.’

It was fortunate that Mr. Bassam was with us, for everything in the bank was crazy. It seemed like ten thousand people were trying to get their money out at once. Mr. Bassam knew the manager, an Englishman named Mr. Howard, and we were whisked through the mob into his private office.

Mr. Howard was dressed in a fine Western suit and seemed obliviously calm, removed from the chaos.

‘You know Haj Ibrahim’s brother, Farouk al Soukori of Tabah,’ Mr. Bassam said.

‘Yes, of course. I’ve had the pleasure,’ the banker said.

‘We wish to withdraw our money,’ Haj Ibrahim said. ‘Seven hundred and fifteen pounds. Some of it is mine, some of it belongs to the villagers.’

‘You do realize there are branches of Barclay’s everywhere and it would be prudent not to put all your eggs in one basket, so to speak. Do you know your destination?’

‘Gaza.’

‘If you withdraw only part of your funds, enough to safely get you down south, I could give you a letter of credit that would be honored in Gaza.’

‘I do not understand such things, Mr. Howard.’

‘Mr. Howard is only looking after the safety of our money,’ Mr. Bassam said. ‘I assure you that it is a proper transaction.’

‘I appreciate your interest. However, I will feel much better if I can touch a lump in my pocket.’

‘As you wish. Do you have your passbook, Haj Ibrahim?’

My father reached inside his robes, withdrew it as though it were the magic key to life, and handed it over the desk. Mr. Howard’s face went into an immediate frown as he accepted the book and thumbed through it. My father and I knew instantly that the banker was grossly uncomfortable.

‘Is anything wrong?’ Ibrahim asked.

‘The account has been closed.’

‘But that is not possible. The sum on the last page says we have over seven hundred pounds in your bank.’

Mr. Howard cleared his throat and looked at my father with great pity. As Ibrahim paled, he realized calamity had befallen him.

‘The final withdrawal has been very cleverly erased. But you see the stamp here on the first page as well as below the last deposit and you’ll notice the corner of the book has been clipped off.’

‘I cannot read what the stamps say. They are obviously in English.’

Mr. Howard handed the passbook to Mr. Bassam. ‘It says the account is canceled, Haj Ibrahim.’ My father snatched the book and handed it to me. I could not look him in the eyes to confirm it.

‘I’m terribly sorry,’ the banker said. ‘Terribly sorry, indeed.’

My father seethed all the way back to the trading company, then exploded in Mr. Bassam’s office.

‘I am returning to Tabah tonight! There will be a big funeral for a mouse!’

‘I know it comes as a terrible shock, but there has been fierce fighting all over the area.’

‘Don’t worry. I can get through anything. I will not rest until I have my hands closing around his throat! I will rip out his Adam’s apple!’

‘What if something happens to you, Father?’ I cried. ‘If you are gone, we will be abandoned!’

‘I must kill him!’

‘There will be all the rest of your life to plan that properly,’ Mr. Bassam said.

‘I can never know a night’s sleep until this is avenged!’

‘Father. Does it not make sense that Uncle Farouk knows and fears you will return? Does it not follow that he is going to spend the next days in hiding?’

‘Your son makes perfect sense.’

My father had been the one man in Tabah who sometimes responded to logic. Our only hope was that he would respond to it now. I knew that once he left, Mr. Bassam’s cooperation would be gone. We could not do without him. It took an hour for the heat of his boiling blood to lower to a simmer.

‘What can I tell our people?’ he moaned. ‘What is there left to say?’

I
T WAS OPENLY ANNOUNCED
by the Haganah that Jaffa would not be attacked if the Arabs stopped sniping at Tel Aviv from their tall buildings and if they stopped ambushing the roads in and out of the city. A tentative truce prevailed, but Jaffa remained a bone in the Jews’ throat, an all-Arab enclave in the most heavily populated Jewish region.

Mr. Bassam el Bassam confided to my father that he hoped the Arabs of Jaffa would accept the partition, avoid battle and the fate of their brothers in Haifa. He counted heavily on the fact that a great deal of British prestige was at stake in keeping Jaffa an Arab city.

Several days after our arrival, we had mixed emotions as units of both the Jihad and Kaukji’s Irregulars entered the city and deployed mainly in the Manshiya, where we were, the closest district to Tel Aviv.

The militias wore out their welcome immediately. They confiscated whatever they wished. Shops were broken into and looted, men were beaten trying to protect their property, cats and dogs were shot for target practice, warehouses on the docks were raided, and any places selling or serving food were forced to close. Worst of all, they shattered the truce with the Jews by shooting at Tel Aviv around the clock.

One night followed the other and found us cringing and clawing at the floors of our hovels as bullets smashed through the meager protection of crumbling plaster. During the hours of darkness, my father tried to answer hysterical calls.

The Haganah responded with an operation that cleared the environs of Jaffa of Arab villages and sealed the city in. Tel Aviv was to the north, Bat Yam to the south, and a brigade of Haganah now controlled the east-west highway. They upped their fire-power into us from Tel Aviv and the villagers of Tabah took their first casualties. An older woman and a child were hit by gunfire and badly wounded. Then we got the chilling word: a unit of six hundred Jewish Irgun troops were positioned opposite us.

My father ordered our men to immediately search for safer shelter deeper in the city, even if it meant we could not all stay together. Every man would be responsible for his own family. Unaccustomed to taking such personal responsibility, our men were plainly frightened. As long as we clung together, we had a sense of security. Splitting up the village meant the loss of tribal warmth. One could not remember when Haj Ibrahim did not make all the decisions. Yet they had to obey because the shooting throughout the night had become unbearable. No one slept. Women wailed and babies screamed, shattering our nerves. The fighting was escalating every day.

Our men departed with a final instruction to move their families immediately and that night they were to meet with Haj Ibrahim at the central Clock Tower and give us their new locations. A few guards were left to protect the women while the others scattered. In our family, Jamil and Omar were commissioned to search for shelter, Kamal to stay and guard.

Mr. Bassam arrived shortly afterward with a glimmer of welcome news. So many people had already fled Jaffa, a small surplus of escape boats had developed and captains were hanging around the port and the Clock Tower bargaining for passengers. Mr. Bassam believed he had a suitable boat for us.

Nada and I were told to find containers and wait until the fire hydrant was opened a few blocks away and to collect water for the family. My father then left with Mr. Bassam to meet the boat’s captain.

Nada and I found some empty gallon-sized olive oil cans near the flea market. She could balance hers on her head so beautifully. I made a yoke with a long pole, so I could carry two on my shoulders. By the time we got to the fire hydrant, the line was very long. From where we waited, we could look back to our hovel through open spaces created when homes had been leveled.

Suddenly two trucks filled with Kaukji’s soldiers roared past our hydrant—almost hitting us—and screeched to a stop on our street. The militia jumped from the trucks and spread out, shouting orders I could not understand from this distance. There was a burst of firing and women screaming.

In a moment, the men who had been left to guard the women were running away toward us. I spotted Kamal without his rifle and chased after him, finally throwing myself on him and bringing him to the ground. He was awash with terror.

‘They have sealed off our street! They are looking for Father!’

I realized instantly that it was Kaukji, seeking revenge for the burning of the fields a decade earlier, for I had grown up hearing the story of the battle every night of my life at the café. For the moment, Father was safely with Mr. Bassam. Kamal was frightened to the point of being deranged. I could not trust him with the task of reaching Father. First, I feared for my mother, Ramiza, Fatima, and her baby.

I ordered Nada to take cover in a nearby shelter. She clung to me and begged me not to return to the house. I was forced to beat.her off me. It was the first time I had ever struck her, but the situation required me to act quickly.

I was small and I was fast and I slithered my way back, darting from cover to cover. I got as far as the adjoining street and stopped to study the situation. If I could only cross the street and get up on a rooftop, I could see what was taking place on our block and also work my way back to our hovel.

I sprinted over the street and for an instant I was frozen by the sight of bullets kicking up around my feet. I plunged into a house through its paneless window and scampered up to the roof before anyone was able to follow, then crawled on my belly down four houses and dared a look into our street.

The women had been rounded up with the children and were surrounded by a dozen soldiers who were herding them at bayonet point. I could tell by their uniforms and accents that they were Iraqis from Kaukji’s Irregulars. Other soldiers had shut off the ends of the street and others were going from house to house, kicking in doors. I looked desperately into the pack of women and children. Hagar, Ramiza, and Fatima were not there!

I worked my way down the rooftops very cautiously until I could get a look at our place. It was blocked off by soldiers. There was a small crawl space between our house and the adjacent one. I dropped down from the roof and froze on the ground until I was certain I had not been seen, then I slithered up to the window.

The sight inside was utter horror! There were eight or ten soldiers or more and an officer with a pistol. Hagar held her arms about Ramiza and Fatima, who cringed against her. The officer pointed to a ghastly burn scar on his face. ‘A present from Haj Ibrahim. I have waited for ten years! Where is he?’

‘I don’t know,’ my mother answered softly.

The officer fired the pistol at their feet. Hagar stood fast while the other two whimpered and clung more tightly to her. He fired again and again and taunted her by putting the pistol against her head. Fatima’s baby shrieked!

‘I don’t know ... I don’t know,’ my mother answered again and again.

‘On your knees, you old whore!’

The officer threw up his hand in disgust and his soldiers fired a dozen shots around them. The officer’s face became wet with perspiration and be began to pant and snarl, then opened the front of his trousers and took his prick out.

‘Take off your clothing, all of you!’

‘Do what he says,’ Hagar said to the other two. ‘Do not fight them.’

‘I am menstruating,’ Fatima whispered.

‘Never mind. Submit to them. If we are found bruised, it will be worse for us later.’

I slammed my eyes shut as my mother lifted her dress and I could hear the soldiers howl with delight. The women were being thrown on the floor. The soldiers were laughing and shooting, but no sounds came from the women. I felt myself the most terrible coward who ever lived, for I shook with fear. What could I do? Allah must understand! There was nothing I could do! Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!

I should not have looked again, but I could not help it. The three were spread out and naked. The soldiers did not even bother to take their pants off, but lowered them and plunged atop the women, grunting like animals, slapping flesh, slobbering kisses, pounding, dripping, staggering off as the others stood around with their pricks in their hands. Fatima was passing blood from her legs.

I doubled over and shut my eyes and clamped my hands over my ears. Coward! Coward! Coward! Allah! What can I do? Think, Ishmael, think! If Father returned, they would kill him after forcing him to look at the terrible sight! I had to get to him and warn him! No! I must not leave my mother! Go! Stay!

Would they never stop! Ibrahim, do not come back! Please do not come back! How long will it go on? How long? Then they staggered from the house. I took my hands from my ears and heard the officer command his men to watch the place from hiding and keep the women as bait.

I knew I was scarred forever from the sight and the dishonor. Yet somehow I had to put aside my own terrible vision to save our lives. I forced myself to forget for the moment what I had witnessed and I crawled up to the window. Ramiza and Fatima were crumpled on the floor. My mother was in a daze, but still she comforted them. She wiped the blood from Fatima, then held them in her arms and rocked them back and forth.

‘Mother!’ I whispered.

Her eyes widened in terror upon seeing me.

‘Do not fear. I will never tell Father. No one will know.’

‘Oh, Ishmael!’ she cried. ‘To see your mother in such shame! Get me a knife! I must kill myself!’

‘Mother, no!’

‘Ishmael, run! Run! Forget what you have seen. Run!’

‘Mother, don’t weep. It is over. Mother, please. We will live!’

‘I don’t want to live!’

It was no use. I did not care any longer. I jumped into the room and slapped her in the face. She stopped her weeping and gaped at me.