Leon Uris (38 page)

‘Why do you stare, Ishmael?’ my father’s voice said softly.

‘We have no cousins here,’ I answered.

‘But we are still in our own land. There is confusion for the moment because the real war has begun, but we are among our own people.’

‘Father, they have locked us out.’

‘No no. They are frightened. The Jews are just across the road. You will see. In a day we will be provided with food and shelter. A camp of some sort will be made.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I have never turned a man away from Tabah. These are our brothers. Besides, it says in the Koran that we shall provide for one another.’

‘Are you certain it says that in the Koran?’

It was as though I had struck him a blow. My father’s bewilderment was not only over the masses of fleeing people but the ugly reception we had received in Ramle and Jaffa and now in Tulkarm. The tradition of hospitality was ingrained in us and it was deeper in no man more than my father. We bragged of our hospitality endlessly. It was us, our culture, our humanity. Protection and providing for a guest were part of our very manhood.

‘Go to sleep,’ he said.

‘Yes, Father.’

Neither of us slept, but we spoke no more. When his eyes finally did shut and he slid to the ground between his wives, I allowed myself to doze.

My sleep became hard and deep and filled with ugly scenes. Many times I knew I was lying on the ground in an olive orchard, but I was unable to move even a finger. Exhaustion had struck us half dead, yet it twisted my mind with nightmares. I knew that my father had suffered one of the most terrible moments of his life, in that our legend of hospitality might be a myth. This penetrated through my darkness, jumbled up with scenes of my mother being raped. Other dreams were equally horrible ... the dream that Haj Ibrahim was no longer able to protect us and make our decisions ... oh night, night, night ... END!

‘Get off our land!’

We were hacked out of our sleep by a semicircle of growling dogs and their gun-bearing masters beckoning us to leave. My father came to his feet first as the rest of us quivered up against the wall. Haj Ibrahim surveyed them contemptuously.

‘You are not Arabs,’ he spat out. ‘You are not even Jews. Your assholes are so close to your mouths I can smell the shit on your breath. Come, we leave.’

Miraculously we found what seemed to be the last tree in Tulkarm that didn’t either shelter another family or stand on hostile property. We gathered under it and waited until my father came up with some sort of plan.

Every last belonging, except for Father’s pistol and dagger, was laid on a blanket, along with the money Gideon Asch had given us and the few pounds that remained from Father’s transaction with Mr. Bassam. I was allowed to keep Gideon’s watch. Earrings, bracelets, the most sentimental and precious personal trinkets went onto the blanket. Haj Ibrahim’s silver buckle, Kamal’s ring, a few bits of gold my mother had hoarded and hidden. My father reckoned we could live for a few weeks on what we could sell and during that time he would devise a scheme. Well enough, but he could not answer our questions and did not allow them.

Hagar was sent into town to the market to round up a frugal breakfast of figs, goat’s cheese, and a cup of milk for Fatima’s baby, for her own milk had soured in the past week.

My father remained to protect the women and ordered my brothers and me to search for a room to rent. In ordinary times, we could find a room in a place like Tulkarm for a pound or two a month. Now, even on the outskirts, the farmers were asking five pounds for chicken coops and cow stalls and the price continued to rise as we got closer to the central square.

Everyone was packed close to the mosque, where martial music blared from the minaret’s loudspeaker, interrupted every few moments by an announcement.

‘THE ARAB LEGION HAS CROSSED THE JORDAN!’

‘THE IRAQIS ARE ALREADY IN NABLUS!’

‘TEL AVIV HAS BEEN BOMBED BY THE EGYPTIAN AIR FORCE!’

‘THE SYRIANS HAVE SWEPT DOWN FROM THE GOLAN INTO NORTHERN GALILEE!’

‘LEBANON REPORTS SUCCESS ALL ALONG ITS SOUTHERN FRONTIER!’

Rumors of one victory after another deluged conversation. Every new report over the loudspeaker ended with a chilling declaration of what was going to happen to the Jews. On the one hand, my brothers and I were swept up in the exuberance of the moment. On the other, we were shaken with hunger, our displacement, and the total mystery of our situation. Within half an hour, it was clear that any shelter to rent was beyond our means.

By the fourth day in Tulkarm, our quandary had deepened. We had a tree that gave us shelter of sorts and enough money to stay a half step ahead of starvation. Otherwise we did not know where to go or what to do. No government officials or relief agencies had made an appearance, nor did anyone know of a town that had organized anything to help us. Haj Ibrahim seemed impotent in the situation and this worsened our fears.

Rumors spilled out like a million leaves blown from a tree, twisting and fluttering aimlessly. Things looked very good for our armies. Even Father, who was always skeptical of exaggerations, could not help but get caught up in the fever. He hinted that perhaps the Arabs leaders had been telling the truth when they asked us to leave to make the way clear for their armies. Our simple problem was to be able to hold out until we could return to Tabah.

We had scavenged the area and had a makeshift tenting of skins, canvas, wood, and tin. The women had set up a crude but workable stove. During this time, my brothers and I began to feel closer. I even got along with Kamal.

We were in Samaria on the West Bank of the river. Three towns—Tulkarm, Jenin, and Nablus—formed what was called the ‘triangle.’ Within, it was all-Arab territory. Kaukji’s Army of Liberation began to move in, but we no longer feared them, for we had no reason to believe they were still looking for Ibrahim.

Soon forward elements of the regular Iraqi Army linked up with them. The military strategy was obvious. From where we were in Tulkarm, it was only a distance of ten miles to the sea and a Jewish city named Netanya. If Kaukji and the Iraqis could drive to Netanya, the Jews would be cut in half.

Skirmishing was very close to us, but in a strange way it helped. Every time a small battle erupted, the farmers would either run away or they would hide. My brothers and I took advantage of this to loot orchards, pull up what could be taken from the fields, and run down stray livestock. With our stomachs filled, our spirits soared.

The Arab victory march continued! As the Iraqis and Kaukji poised to push to the sea, the Jews were on the defensive all over Palestine. ...

Egypt advanced in two columns. Gaza and Beersheba were taken and the Kibbutz Yad Mordechai was captured!

Syria captured Kibbutz Mishmar Hayarden and spilled into the central Galilee!

Moslem Brotherhood battalions under Egyptian command raced up the Dead Sea toward Jerusalem!

The greatest victories of all went to the Jordanian Legion. The four kibbutzim of the Etzion Bloc were captured, as was the Jewish Quarter of the Old City of Jerusalem. And West Jerusalem was under attack! But most of all, the police fortress at Latrun was in Legion hands! That meant the Legion was only two miles from Tabah!

As suddenly as our mighty march had mounted, it seemed to collapse. Kibbutzim which had previously been reported as having fallen were now reported as putting up stiff resistance. The Iraqi breakthrough to Netanya never materialized. In fact, the Jews were now attacking the ‘triangle.’

When our forces agreed to a truce and freeze in place, it was not in the manner of a victorious army.

On a grim night in the middle of June, Haj Ibrahim called us all to the fire. ‘We leave tomorrow,’ he announced tersely.

‘But Father, why?’

‘Because we have been lied to and betrayed. If we agreed to this truce, it was because we did not succeed. Our attack to the sea has been broken. It will only be a matter of days before the Jews hit Tulkarm.’

‘But the Legion is on the walls of the Old City.’

‘They will never throw the Jews out of Jerusalem,’ Ibrahim answered. ‘Witness my words.’

In the morning, we broke camp and took to the road again, this time moving deeper into Arab territory, into the mountains of Samaria, to Nablus. Again we were greeted by locked doors.

N
ABLUS, THE MAJOR CITY
of Samaria, nestled as a king of the hills amid the spine of low mountains that ran down half the length of Palestine. As the biblical city of Shechem, it had once held the Ark of the Covenant and had known Joshua, the Judges of Israel, and the conquerors from Rome. Nablus and its forty thousand people had a reputation for short tempers and the development of magnificent smuggling routes from Trans-Jordan.

Since the removal of the Ottomans, the city had become a fiefdom of the Bakshir tribe, a wily band of political survivors. The present mayor, Clovis Bakshir, appeared to be a mild sort, more clever than forceful. He had been a teacher who received the major part of his education at the American University of Beirut. Professional men were held in enormous esteem in the Arab society and the Bakshirs always had an heir apparent or two in college.

The predicament of the displaced persons was no better than it had been in Tulkarm. It was further inland and considered in safer Arab territory and there were more hillside nooks and crannies to afford a measure of shelter. But food, medicine, and other relief were not to be had. The welcome was icy.

The Nablus casbah, an ancient, dilapidated, scum-packed quarter, held the usual crush of people that inhabited a ghetto, but in any casbah one could always find space for one more or twenty more. Haj Ibrahim was able to rent a rooftop for the bloated sum of three pounds a month. A tent composed of various materials was pitched over the family’s heads.

The Nablus area was enriched by sixteen natural springs and a well in the center of the casbah eliminated one of our most desperate needs, that of fresh water. Summer was coming on. The city’s height of nearly three thousand feet would offer a smattering of relief, but when the wind blew hot over the Jordan it could melt steel. Casbah life on a rooftop was a treadmill of sounds, mostly sharp and vulgar; of odors, mostly foul; and sights, mostly threadbare.

There were a few extremely lowly jobs to be had. These were not pursued with zeal, for hard labor was repugnant. Obviously Haj Ibrahim could not be reduced to menial work, but he did have four able-bodied Sons.

The displaced in Nablus and its surrounding hills died every day from starvation and disease. Some days there were one or two dead, some days a dozen. Nothing was done about it until the stench reached the homes of the wealthy. The municipality finally undertook the task of corpse removal. This created a number of jobs. Pits had to be dug, bodies collected and detoxified by a layer of lime. Omar and Jamil had the dubious distinction of keeping our family alive by burying others.

Although there were openings, collecting dead bodies was not for me. Neither was begging or selling chewing gum. Yet I was twelve years old and I had to carry my share. There were a number of Iraqi Army camps about, but the competition for jobs among boys of my age was fierce. Most simply begged for handouts. A few picked up a couple of pennies a day, running errands or doing work details that the soldiers had been assigned to do. Some lucky ones latched onto an officer and polished shoes and buckles and served tables. The higher officers, of course, had their own orderlies to take care of their every whim. Some of the more desperate and attractive boys sold their bodies to the soldiers.

Prostitution has always been the faithless companion of armies and Nablus was filled with hungry women. In addition to the oldtime prostitutes of the casbah, there were hundreds of women now willing to take that final step. It had to be done with great care, so husbands and sons would not know. Widows, women one or two months pregnant, and spinsters were the safest. It meant instant death if one were discovered. The professional pimps could easily blackmail a woman and were avoided. Young boys from another clan proved to be the most skillful and reliable pimps. A clever boy working the camp gates for two or three women was able to feed his family without their knowledge of how he got his money.

The new arrivals came into competition with the established Nablus pimps and prostitutes and there were many killings each week. A young pimp always had his balls cut off when he was murdered. In other instances, fathers and brothers learned of a whoring mother or sister and death followed quickly. Along with the thieves and smugglers and dope fiends, the casbah was a frightening place.

Iraqi soldiers in the ranks were very poor and usually quite stupid. Yet they always managed to have something to trade for a woman: cigarettes, arms, a pair of shoes stolen from a comrade, food from the quartermaster. Low-ranking soldiers were not a bad deal because they got their business over with quickly—in the bushes. The women were always veiled so they could not be identified later and a smart one could service a platoon of men in an hour.

On the other hand, the Iraqi officers were demigods of abnormal power. These were serviced by the established prostitutes, who provided drink, oils, a softly lit room walled with carpets to cover the hideousness of the casbah, radio music, hashish, a well-pillowed bed in a dark corner.

Omar and Jamil were collecting corpses and we were still hungry all the time. I began to think about running a pair of girls. I had not lost my deeply ingrained morality about the honor of women, but honor and starvation have difficulty living side by side. Each time the thought came to me, so did the visions of the rape of the women of my family in Jaffa. Girls liked me very much and approached me many times to pimp for them.

But I always thought about Nada. I would rather see Nada die of starvation than submit. I had sworn to protect her from the moment we left Tabah. She was fourteen and had grown breasts and become alluring. I would not so much as let her walk through the casbah alone. I simply could not pimp for anyone’s sister. I had a final consideration in the matter. If Haj Ibrahim ever knew I pimped, he would beat me to death.