Leon Uris (41 page)

‘Mumkin,’ I mumbled.

Ibrahim glared at me.

‘These are truly difficult questions,’ I added.

‘I will help you,’ he answered. ‘The main problem is whether all of this will fit into an Iraqi Army truck, along with the family.’

It was as though I could feel the blood draining from my body. Why should we ever leave such a place? Had we not suffered enough? Yet one does not question the wisdom of one’s father. ‘I cannot answer without many hours of calculation.’

‘It must be done before the next Sabbath,’ he said.

Four days! It was crazy! However, no one in our world likes to give a direct or disappointing answer, but there was no use trying to work around Haj Ibrahim. I nodded numbly.

‘How long would it take Kamal to learn to drive such a truck?’

‘We already can drive a little bit. Since the truce is about to end, there are many convoys of military supplies coming in from Baghdad. When they arrive, the soldiers driving the trucks either want to go off and sleep or go to the casbah. Often Kamal and I are left alone to organize a working party to unload. We hire the boys who hang around the gate and pay them in cigarettes. I and Kamal can drive the trucks up to the loading docks and then park them in the yard.’

‘And this Captain Umrum?’

‘He is seldom around and when he leaves, the other soldiers in his command usually slip away. He is crazy for women. Father, I don’t know what you are planning, but many of the items you mention are not in your warehouse.’

My father handed me a letter and told me to read it. It was on the stationery of the mayor, Clovis Bakshir, an order by him to give Haj Ibrahim anything he needed from the nearby Red Crescent warehouse. Between the two warehouses there was almost everything we would need. With such a letter, we would have no problem.

‘Is this everything?’

‘No,’ my father said. ‘We must have a machine gun, four rifles and many thousand rounds of ammunition, and, most important, Iraqi uniforms for Jamil, Omar, and Kamal.’

‘The uniforms, yes; the guns, no,’ I answered, daring to disappoint him. ‘The warehouse with the guns are not in Captain Umrum’s section anymore and it is heavily guarded all the time.’

‘We may have to do without the machine gun,’ he mumbled. ‘Getting the rifles will be no problem. The casbah is filled with deserters of both Kaukji and the Iraqis. They are all selling their weapons on the black market. We will need lots of cigarettes to bargain with.’

‘Tobacco is possible,’ I said to mollify him at once. ‘Why must we leave?’ I blurted out. ‘Why can’t we stay just as we are?’

‘Tell me, Ishmael, why do you think we got this villa?’

‘Because you are a great and respected muktar,’ I answered.

‘The fields, the ravines, and hills all around here are filled with great and respected muktars,’ he said. ‘You have read to me many times about Abdullah. You know who he is.’

‘The Hashemite King of Jordan,’ I answered.

‘And as an educated boy, you know who the Hashemites are.’

‘The Hashemites are the same clan as Mohammed. They come from Arabia, from the Hejaz. They were keepers of the holy places of Mecca.’

That is right,’ my father concurred. ‘They are a clan of mosque keepers. It is a bone they threw to these dogs because of Mohammed. None of them were ever more than minor emirs and these titles were honorary. We are sayyids. We are also related to Mohammed and direct descendants. Believe me, Ishmael, you have more right to be the King of Jordan than Abdullah. There was no Hashemite dynasty until three months ago, only a long line of mosque keepers. This king business was an invention of the British Foreign Office, just as the whole of Jordan is an invention. They are as much a royal family as a line of donkeys at a well.’

He clasped his hands behind him, his worry beads in motion, and for a moment he recited many of the ninety-nine names for Allah, then became pensive. ‘We must leave because once we call Abdullah master, we are his dogs forever. In order to remain in Nablus, I must agree to lure our people from the fields and over the Allenby Bridge to Amman. Abdullah needs our bodies to fill his so-called kingdom. What do I lure our people to—a land of milk and honey? I am not Moses and Jordan is not our promised land. It is a kingdom of camel shit and sand, so impoverished it could not feed an extra mouth, even at the king’s coronation. The Allenby is a one-way bridge. Once it is crossed, we will not return.’

‘I believe I understand,’ I said, almost breaking into tears.

‘You must understand! If there is anything we have learned with salt in our eyes in the past months, it is that our penchant for brotherhood and hospitality is fine as long as our vines are full and there is peace. When there is fear among our people, they slam the doors of mercy in our faces. What fool believes it will be any better in that wasteland over the river? Abdullah is not my king and he is not your king. He has more enemies than any man in the Arab world and, believe me, I cannot count that high.’

My father slumped and his face became an agony. The prayer beads in his hands were still. His voice groaned as he spoke. Tabah,’ he said. ‘Tabah. We must return to what we know and love. We must reclaim our land, find our people, and bring them home. These idiots here will butcher each other for eternities trying to figure out who is the ruler of Palestine.’ My father then looked at me, his eyes filled with sorrow. ‘I would want to return to Tabah tomorrow, even if the Jews are in power.’

It was the first time my father had confided in me in such an open and honest manner and I would never forget it. ‘I am already working on a plan,’ I said.

He put his hand on my shoulder. ‘I have come to depend on you. We spend far too much time conspiring and far too little time planning.’

‘I will not fail,’ I said. ‘Where are we going?’

The final part of our escape requires the help of our fictitious friend, Colonel Hakkar. You must write an order on Iraqi stationery to pass us through all lines and roadblocks. With your brothers dressed as Iraqi soldiers, we can succeed.’

‘I begin to see.’

‘When I was a boy about your age, we had a terrible plague in Tabah. I was sent to live with the Wahhabis. It was at the same time that Farouk, may Allah strike him blind, was taken in by Christians and taught to read. Our clan always moved from the Beersheba area in the summer and traveled along the Dead Sea. There is an ancient Jewish fort midway down the sea called the Masada. North of the Masada to where the sea ends near Jericho is an area filled with hundreds, perhaps thousands of caves—great caves, little caves, hidden caves, caves halfway up the cliffs. These caves have been a haven for smugglers, for great religious men, for defeated armies since time began. They are cool in the summer. Some are as large as a house. Most of them are only a mile or so inland from the sea.’

‘Can we drive a truck close to them?’

‘Only part of the way. We will carry everything on the rest of the way. We will need much rope to make slings and pulleys and to tie supplies to our backs. After we have emptied the truck, Kamal will drive me to East Jerusalem. It will not be difficult to get rid of a surplus army vehicle.’

‘What about fresh water?’ I asked, knowing the Dead Sea was very salty.

‘You are thinking,’ my father said. ‘There is a magnificent oasis and spring called En Gedi where our great King David hid from Saul. However, there is a kibbutz nearby and I am not certain if it is in Arab or Jewish hands.’

‘But don’t others know of these caves?’

‘Perhaps. However, no one goes back into that place without supplies and who else can do it? It is the Bedouin I am worried about. They will smell our first meal from a hundred miles away. That is why we must have arms.’

‘Father, I beg of you ... so long as we will be living for many months in a cave ... that ... I be allowed to bring some books.’

‘Books! Will you never change? Well, the villa we are so kindly living in is the home of a learned man who fled. Help yourself, so long as there is room in the truck. And don’t trick me by changing numbers. We need food more than books.’

‘I promise I will not trick you,’ I lied. ‘When do we tell Kamal, Omar, and Jamil of the plan?’

‘Two minutes before we put it into motion,’ he answered.

Figuring the supplies was a head-breaking task. I slept in little snatches day and night. The beautiful part was that I got to work with my father all the time. My brothers were suspicious of our long, isolated talks.

When I had compiled what we needed, I located everything in either the Iraqi quartermaster warehouse or the Red Crescent warehouse. I drew a map with the location of food, fuel, ropes—everything on the list. When the time would come to leave, we would not be delayed by having to search the warehouses blindly.

I brought my father several dozen cartons of cigarettes and in a single day he found not only a machine gun but two rifles, two hand-held submachine guns, ammunition, grenades, and dynamite.

I kept the plan simple. The day we were to execute it, it would be necessary to get Captain Umrum out of the way. I knew of a boy who pimped for an especially beautiful woman and made a handsome deal with him. Afterward, I began telling Captain Umrum that I had seen this fantastic creature and knew she was available. Of course Umrum, the perfect idiot, took the bait and insisted I get her for him. I assured him that I would work diligently at obtaining her for an entire day, but she was very popular and it would be difficult. He drooled as I dangled the bait.

I made up requisition lists that would pass the test of any army, much less those stupid Iraqis. I also made up a letter from Colonel Hakkar to pass us through the lines.

However, one detail disturbed me greatly. I had located a recent military map and learned that once we left Jericho, we would be on a treacherous nonroad, a path used only for camel caravans. If we hit sudden sand or water, that could end the journey on the spot. The whole business of the mechanics of the truck was the weakness of the plan. I did not want to tell Haj Ibrahim because it was always easier to work around bad news than actually deliver it. The more I pondered, the more I realized we were in jeopardy. I waited to go to my father until I could wait no longer. When he informed me that the Jordanian Colonel Zyyad was returning to Nablus in two days, I had to confront Haj Ibrahim with my heart in my mouth. My eyes were red from work and my brain was fuzzy, but mostly I feared disappointing him.

‘Father,’ I croaked, ‘I must be honest with you, very honest. Neither Kamal nor I are capable of driving to Jericho through these mountains, much less into the desert. Half the Iraqi motor vehicles are in repair half the time. They are poorly maintained and they all arrive in Nablus after traveling a great distance from Baghdad. Between that and bad roads, there is no possibility of getting to the caves without breaking down. Neither Kamal nor I have the slightest idea of what goes on underneath the hood of a truck.’

I was grateful that my father took the news philosophically. He realized instantly that if we had a breakdown for any length of time at any point before we reached the caves, we were as good as dead. With all those supplies and with soldiers and desperate people everywhere, we would be massacred within an hour of a breakdown. He paled.

‘I have thought of something,’ I said.

‘By the Prophet’s beard, tell me!’

‘There is a boy who works in the garage in my compound. His name is Sabri Salama and he is sixteen years old. He is a wizard of a mechanic and knows how to repair trucks. He can take spare parts from a broken truck to repair other trucks with. He is a great driver as well. There was a battle at his town and during the fighting he got separated from his family. He was away when the Jews struck and he could not return. He is certain his family headed for Gaza. He wants desperately to get out of Nablus. I know he will come with us if we ask him to.’

My father’s face turned into a dictionary of suspicion. ‘He cannot get from Nablus to Gaza unless he has wings. As a mechanic, he can live the war out as a prince right where he is.’

‘Sabri confided in me that ... that ... that ...’

‘What!’

‘An Iraqi lieutenant has taken him ... made him ... forces him ... to be his ... his girlfriend.’

My father slapped my face. It would have hurt more, but I was prepared for the blow. ‘It is not his fault. He has been forced by painful torture.’

Haj Ibrahim gained control of his temper. ‘How did he learn his profession? I mean, the profession of being a mechanic?’

‘His father owned a garage and five trucks, which they used to pick up crops with and transport them to Jaffa from the villages around his town.’

‘What town?’

‘Beit Ballas.’

‘Beit Ballas! A city of thieves! A den of Mufti cutthroats!’

At this point, I did not care if my father beat me to death. I could not doom my family by pretending this danger did not exist.

‘Father,’ I said, ‘you are now slamming the door in the face of an innocent brother, just as doors have been slammed in our faces.’

I was slapped again so hard I thought my head would roll off. I wanted to scream at him to drive the goddamned truck himself, but I merely stood at attention and waited for what seemed to be twenty minutes.

‘Bring this Sabri to me. I will speak to him.’

It was fortunate that my father used common sense over pride. Sabri Salma proved to be not only an excellent driver, but was the difference in our making it. We opted to leave early in the morning instead of night, for the night has eyes watching us that we cannot see. If there were to be a breakdown, it would be far better to make repairs by daylight.

We had our eyes on a newly repaired truck, but it was snatched from our hands at the last moment. We had to settle for a truck that had just made the grueling run from Baghdad. When the truck was loaded, we were packed in so tight that a belch could have been disastrous. We broke down four times between Nablus and Jericho, a distance of less than fifty miles through mountain roads. At each stop we nervously staked out a guard while Sabri dove under the hood or beneath the truck. Fortunately he seemed to have the answer and the spare part every time. His was an awesome display.