On the Hills of God (56 page)

The room stood still. Eyes became glazed. Silence reverberated.

“Don’t move,” a voice commanded.

Yousif’s heart sank. He could recognize the voice as that of the burly soldier, who apparently had crept back from the balcony and was now standing behind him, his barrel inches from his neck. Salwa and Yasmin shrieked in unison.

As Yousif’s gallantry evaporated, one of the soldiers stepped forward and took the gun from his hand. Yousif surrendered it without a whimper. Repossessing the gun, the mouse turned into a lion. He moved toward Yousif briskly, and slapped him on the face.

“One more stunt like that and I’ll fuck you, too,” he said, slapping Yousif on the other cheek. Then he walked away, motioning for the new arrivals to bring Hiyam to him.

The soldier with the birthmark and the one with the scar above his eyebrows pulled Hiyam from her husband’s embrace and led her to the adjacent living room. Yousif’s mother covered her eyes with her hands. Izzat turned around and buried his head in a corner, plugging his ears with his fingers. His cheeks still burning from the couple of slaps, Yousif fully understood the meaning of helplessness. His heart ached for Hiyam and her husband. What if they raped Salwa? Or his mother? But the house was bursting with motion and he was too dazed to think any further.

Yousif shifted his eyes from one room to the next. In the foyer where they were standing, the soldier with the scar on his eyebrow had returned and was now forcing Izzat to turn around and look. Then the soldier with the birthmark pulled Yasmin’s hands from her eyes. By showing no sign of shame or anger, Salwa seemed to escape their attention. In the living room, the tall soldier put his helmet on the round table and threw Hiyam on the sofa, pushing her clothes above her waist. Hiyam tried to cover herself and flee, but the Zionist soldiers again overpowered her. Yousif heard the metallic tear of a zipper. He saw him force Hiyam’s panties off and plunge himself between her naked thighs.

Izzat trembled and closed his eyes. The Zionist was pushing himself in and out of Hiyam, oblivious to her pitiful cries and her hands trying to push him away. Yousif saw his mother faint and fall. He bent over her to try and revive her. He patted her cheeks, still hearing the sofa’s springs squeak rhythmically under the officer’s thrusts. A moment later he heard the officer grunt and looked up to see him collapse on Hiyam’s body.

Yousif and Izzat were forced to watch the soldier zip up his pants with a sickening smirk on his face, then pick up his helmet as though he had done nothing unusual. To Yousif, the humiliation was unbearable. Hiyam covered her face with a pillow and began to sob; Izzat stared, his eyes glazed and wild. His mother still lying on the floor unconscious. Yousif scanned the room for some water to sprinkle on her face. But before he could rise, the soldier with the birthmark reached for the vase by the mirror and dumped the water and the tulips on her face and neck. She looked like a corpse in a coffin ready to be buried. Yousif was outraged. But the splashing of water made her stir. Yousif was relieved to see her open her eyes.

“Now get some clothes on,” the rapist soldier demanded, winking at his comrades.

“Todaraba,”
Yousif’s mother said.

Yousif understood the Hebrew word. It meant thank you very much. Why in hell was his mother thanking the attackers? He looked at her and then at Salwa, shocked. But she looked pitiable. The poor woman, he realized, had lost her senses.

“You have less than a minute,” the soldier said to Yousif, “or we’ll fuck the rest, including you.”

Yousif knew better than to argue. They threw clothes on their backs and were ready to leave. Their arms around each other, as if to hide their unspeakable shame, Izzat and Hiyam hurried out of the house. The crowd on the street was big and Yousif did not want to lose them. He wanted them to wait so they could journey together and look after each other. But Hiyam and Izzat seemed encapsulated in a world of hate and disgust. Yousif respected their wish to be alone. With more tears in his heart than in his eyes, he watched them reach the wrought-iron gate. As they merged with the flock of displaced people, he wondered if they would be able to catch up with them. In a flash of despair, he even wondered if he would ever see them again.

“The keys, Mother,” Yousif said, searching his body. “The keys.”

“What keys?” she asked, frantic.

“Salwa, where are the car keys? I put them down somewhere.”

“Yes, find them,” the officer said, glad they remembered.

Was there a shift in the soldier’s attitude? Yousif wondered. First he had let them put on some clothes, and now he was anxious for them to find the car keys. When at last Yousif found them under a book on his dresser, the tall soldier snatched them from him.

“You can’t have the car,” the officer told them, pocketing the keys and pushing the four off the front veranda. “The military needs all the vehicles and all the highways. Hit the mountains.”

“Look,” Yousif protested, trembling. But the sight of the compact gun in the officer’s hand made him stop.

The officer walked away, arrogance pouring out of his eyes. Suddenly, a thought crossed Yousif’s mind. He remembered something he had to do. Yasmin and Salwa were standing in the yard, their arms loaded with dresses. The other young soldiers with the birthmark and scar were a few steps away, their guns at the ready. Yousif was alone with the short heavyset soldier.

“Listen,” Yousif begged. “I’ve got to get back to the house.”

“Absolutely not,” the pudgy soldier objected.

“Please. It would only take a minute. Come with me if you like.”

“There’s no time. Move, I said.”

“Here, take this. It’s a gold watch. Take it, I don’t mind. Just let me go in for a minute.”

Yousif slipped off his wrist the watch that had once belonged to his father. The soldier took it and put it in his pocket without looking at it. The two regarded each other.

“If you try something foolish, I’ll kill you,” the soldier warned, his look deadly.

“Promise,” Yousif said. Then he ran up the steps and entered the house.

The heavyset soldier was at his heels.

Yousif went directly to the aviary. Daylight was creeping in gently. The birds were up, their cheery chirping and singing filling the room. He entered it, his heart fluttering as much as the birds around him. The soldier with the gun stood at the door. Yousif walked to the east window. Without the slightest hesitation he opened it for the first time in a year. The birds began to fly out. He opened one chamber after another until all the birds became aware of the open window and sought the outdoors. The lattice iron slowed down their escape. Some of the openings were jammed with birds. Smiling at their hurry, Yousif walked to the window facing the balcony.

“You’re taking too much time,” the soldier snapped.

Yousif seemed unconscious of the remark. Nothing mattered now, he thought. The soldier and the whole rotten world could go to hell. With some effort, Yousif jarred the window loose and opened it. Again he watched the same rush repeated. In less than a minute the whole room was empty. Yousif stood in the middle of the room, as though his own soul had taken flight. He surveyed the cages with the moving swings and the food and water containers. Now they looked deserted—as Ardallah soon would be.

“You’re crazy,” the soldier told him. “And I’m crazy to stand here and let you do this.”

Yousif appeared not to have heard. He looked outside and saw that some of the birds had not flown far. They were on the trees just outside the east window. He looked at the other side of the room and saw some of the birds on the balcony railing. They, too, were hovering close to the window. Then he heard a shot, followed simultaneously by a woman’s sharp cry. The pock-marked soldier was on the balcony firing at the birds. Yousif saw one bird fall, stirring the rest to fly away in every direction. Most of them dipped and twisted and escaped the swift bullets which rang through the cool air of dawn. Yousif was relieved. But the cry which had come from outside was his mother’s. He knew that she and Salwa were terrified for him. He ran down the dim hallway to reassure them.

“Waqqif willa battookh,”
the pock-marked soldier hollered after him. “Stop or I’ll shoot.”

Yousif stopped and turned. “I just wanted to let the women know—”

The pudgy soldier caught up with him, his eyes expanded.

“I wasn’t running away,” Yousif explained. “How can I possibly—?”

Silence crackled.

“A rifle is no good for bird hunting,” the soldier said, standing inches from him. “But it’s ideal for killing men like you.”

“But not the human spirit,” Yousif said, smelling cigarettes on the man’s breath.

“You’re a bastard,” the soldier told him, grazing his throat with his gun.

Death was at hand. Yousif trembled inside and raised his hands to surrender.

“One false move,” the soldier cautioned, “and I’ll splatter your brain all over the wall. Move and keep your mouth shut.”

Their faces white, Salwa and Yasmin were standing frozen on the steps. The officer and the other two soldiers were keeping them from re-entering the house. Where was Salwa’s militancy now? Yousif couldn’t help but think. He felt sorry for her, knowing that she knew what he was thinking.

“The shots—” Yasmin said, looking pathetic. “I thought he killed you.”

“I should’ve,” the pock-marked soldier said, pouting. “Now keep moving and don’t stop.”

But before they had descended the steps, Yousif heard the soldier call him. He stopped and slowly turned. Danger melted his bones.

“Here’s your damn watch,” the soldier said, throwing it at him.

Yousif caught it, glad to get it back. Their eyes met. But then the soldier looked past him, unwilling to show a trace of kindness.

“Keep moving,” the soldier barked, pointing the gun.

Yousif and his wife and mother moved on command. But at the wrought-iron gate Yousif turned and looked back. The house, the little villa, loomed before his eyes. The bacchanal rang in Yousif’s ears. The food, the drinks, the chanting. Where were Captain Malloy and his entourage who had then professed friendship? Where was Isaac, still alive when the house was being built? Salwa, shining like a golden star in her yellow dress? Amin’s father, who supervised the chiseling of every stone? How many cups of coffee had Fatima served the stonecutters who had toiled and sweated in the sun for months on end?

This was the house that sat like a crown on one of the seven hills. Would he come home again? The flowers, the fruit trees—would he smell them, taste them again? He could see his father in his robe walking around the garden, bending to smell his roses, reaching to pluck one for his wife. Would an outsider from Europe now claim it? Live in it? Yousif choked up. “Whoever you may be,” his soul cried, “take care of the house my parents built.”

In front of his uncle’s house, Yousif, Salwa, and Yasmin joined the long line of disinherited.

Like the tributaries of a mighty river, people first trickled, then poured into Ardallah’s main street to form a gigantic procession, the biggest Yousif had ever seen. The hour of gathering was most unlikely. Night was lifting slowly, revealing a pale blue sky above the interlacing tree branches around the homes and between

the high shadowy buildings in the business district.

Ironically the
muezzin
near the marketplace was circling his minaret as he had always done at this hour, calling man to pray. An Israeli soldier standing at the entrance of a dark alley shouted at him to stop. But the
muezzin
either did not hear him or did not heed his order. He went on chanting his Qur’anic verse. Yousif could see him in his black robe and white turban, his right hand cupping his right ear for harmony.

Swept along in the human flood, Yousif and his two women passed all the familiar places: Fardous Cafe, Salman’s “apothecary,” Nashwan’s Ice Cream Parlor, and Arif’s Bookstore. At the
saha,
four of the five streets were blocked by Israeli soldiers mounted on trucks that were parked sideways. The road to Ramallah, just north of Jerusalem, was blocked. The road to Jaffa was blocked. The road to Lydda and Ramleh was blocked. The road to Nablus, in the northeast, was blocked. The road on which they had just traveled was blocked by the thickening crowds. That left them shepherded on a back road leading to—where? Yousif had no idea.

Old residents and new arrivals were joined together in an exodus. Some had managed to bundle a few of their belongings in white bed sheets tied with brown twine and carried on their heads. Some were burdened with bulging suitcases and straw baskets which Yousif knew they would soon abandon.

They had not yet left Ardallah, but the fear of separation was already acute. Mothers were calling for children. Husbands were looking for their relatives. Where was Salwa’s family? Where was Uncle Boulus? Where was Amin? He looked around and saw some of his classmates.

At the edge of town, the Israeli soldiers created another panic. They stopped and frisked every man and woman for weapons and valuables. Here the sight of young Jewish women in military uniform was startling. They wore berets and carried guns and looked as mean and threatening as their male counterparts.

To see young Jewish women frisking Arab men and ordering them around caused an ebb in Arab morale. To see young Jewish men frisking Arab women and ordering them around was the ultimate disgrace. But here the Arabs could not band together and resist as they had done when the British soldier tried to frisk Miriam in front of the church. Now it was different. The new occupying power was ready to open fire for the smallest provocation. They took their money, their diamonds, and their wedding rings and bands. They took their bracelets and their earrings, their crosses, and their watches.

“The bastards,” Yousif said, gritting his teeth. “There’s no end to their evil.”

“Ssshhh,” his mother begged, her eyes full of fear.

“Stealing our homes is not enough?” Salwa asked. “Now they have to rob us of everything else? It’s criminal—even in wartime.”

Men and women around them muttered in agreement.

“Will you two stop?” Yasmin begged, pulling Yousif’s hand and staring at Salwa. “Do you want us killed?”

Burning with outrage, Yousif crouched and put his gold watch in his right sock, hiding it under his instep. His mother stuffed the money Yousif had taken out of the bank inside her brassiere.

“What about the other four hundred?” she asked.

“Didn’t I give them to you to put away?” he asked.

“You did,” she answered. “And I put them in the dresser’s top drawer.”

“So why do you think I had them?”

Her frightened eyes were still fixed on him. “I thought you got them when you went back to the house?”

Salwa looked sympathetic. “With the soldier right behind him? How could he?”

“Lehlehlehleh,” Yasmin clucked, wringing her hands.

Yousif felt the twist of a knife. Yet he kept the dismay to himself.

“Well,” Yousif said, “we just handed whoever opened that drawer a nice gift.”

“Lehlehlehleh,” Yasmin repeated. The line at the right corner of her mouth seemed to deepen.

“Don’t hide everything,” a man with a missing front tooth advised. “Leave them something to satisfy their greed.”

It turned out to be good advice. The couple ahead of Yousif had no valuables on them. The man’s pockets were turned out and found empty and his wife had no gold—not even a wedding band. Not believing them, the soldier insisted they open their suitcase. He put his hands through it and then dumped its contents on the flap of an army pickup truck. Still, he could find nothing of value.

“We left everything behind,” the dark middle-aged man protested.

“Liar,” the compact soldier with curly hair replied, going through all items piece by piece. The search continued unsuccessfully for several minutes.

“You’re wasting your time,” the Arab said, the muscles of his jaw rippling.

“I don’t believe you,” the soldier insisted. “Where did you put it?”

“Nowhere. We don’t have anything.”

“Liar.”

The soldier rummaged through the whole suitcase, pulling out, to the couple’s embarrassment, the man’s shorts and woman’s black lacy panties. Finally the soldier stumbled onto something. Apparently, the man had cut a hole under the armpits of his jacket and hidden the money inside the shoulder pads. The soldier ripped both sleeves with a knife and took out the bundle of money. He then set out to make an example of the couple.

“Because they lied,” the soldier shouted, holding the jacket for everyone to see, “they can’t even take their suitcase with them. Don’t make their mistake. Turn in what gold or diamonds or money you have, or you’ll lose everything.”

Yousif and his mother exchanged furtive looks and debated what to do. Yousif wanted to turn in the cross around his neck but Salwa would not let him. It was bad luck, she told him, and made sure he listened. They were next in line. Yousif turned in his Parker pen set and all the change in his pocket. Both Yasmin and Salwa emptied their cluttered purses. The soldier picked up the two blue and red bills, and asked Yasmin to remove the gold-coin earrings from her ears. She handed them to the soldier.

“Next,” the soldier said, snatching the gold from her hand.

Yousif could hear his mother breathe a sigh of relief. But Yousif looked around frantically. Where was Maha, Basim’s wife? Where were Salwa’s parents and brothers? And Hiyam and Izzat—where were they? What if the soldiers did one more humiliating thing to Hiyam? Would she lose her mind?

The crowd passed between two army vehicles full of soldiers. Young and old, rich and poor, they all walked under the muzzles of the guns.

“I’m already lost,” one man said, looking about confused. “Where are we?”

“On your way to Abdullah,” a soldier on the truck told him. “Go to Abdullah. King Abdullah.”

The crowd muttered and continued to walk. They were out of the city limits now. The narrow road was no longer paved. To avoid a bottleneck, some people spilled over on both sides to cross empty fields. Yousif was determined that they should stay on the road, crowded as it was. Yasmin tried to help him carry some of the clothes, but he would not let her.

“Some of the dresses, at least,” she insisted, taking part of the load in his arms.

“If we only had a suitcase,” Salwa said, helping her mother-in-law.

The barren rocky field to their left was full of people huddling or walking or looking for a lost one. A few were striking out on their own, heading toward a shallow
wadi
as though they knew where they were going. A few small houses were nestled on the opposite mountain.

“This is the old Jericho road,” Yasmin recognized. “Now I remember. It’s supposed to be treacherous. Only last year a Ramallah bus rolled over and all the passengers were killed. Yousif, be careful.”

“I didn’t even know there was such a road,” Salwa said, her ankle turning under her.

All kinds of thoughts flashed through Yousif’s mind. Did Basim survive the attack? Who was killed? Did they resist to the last minute? To the last man? Did they cut their losses and run? He wished he knew. He wished he could’ve helped.

“We must get off this road,” Yousif said, shifting the clothes in his arms. “When we get to Beir Zait or Deir Dibwan we must get off. Go to Ramallah, maybe. Or even Nablus.”

“It’s no use,” his mother answered, looking tired already.

“They want us out of Palestine altogether,” Salwa added. “Didn’t you hear what the soldiers said? ‘Go to Abdullah. Go to Abdullah.’ They said it to the people of Lydda and Ramleh. They said it in our house. And they said it on the street. They must really mean it. It’s Jericho they have in mind for us. And from there across the river to Jordan. No part of Palestine is safe now.”

Yousif looked around, swearing. “We don’t have to do what the bastards tell us.” What about Jamal? Ustaz Sa’adeh? And Sitt Bahiyyeh? My God, what was she doing with her eighty-year old mother? He looked around, searching. He thought he saw the
khouriyyeh,
but wasn’t sure. All he was sure of was a building headache. Seeing his mother wiping the sweat off her face, Yousif worried about her high blood pressure.

“Did you bring your pills?” he asked.

“Who had time to think?” Yasmin said, surprised.

They had walked a mile or so. The sun was now just above the horizon. They were on the highest mountain ridge in Palestine. The cool breeze felt refreshing. But should they proceed all the way to Jericho, Yousif thought, they would swelter from the heat. Jericho, a winter resort, would certainly give them a warm welcome.

“Damn!” Yousif said. “We don’t even know where Maha is. She’ll need help with the children.”

Yasmin bit her lip and stared at him guiltily. “Basim would be very upset.”

“If he’s alive,” Salwa told her.

“My God!” Yasmin exclaimed. “You think—”

“The explosions we heard early in the morning,” Yousif reminded his mother. “He may have escaped death and he may not have. We can only speculate.”

Yasmin’s crimson color deepened. “Don’t speculate in front of Maha,” she said, biting her lip.

“First let’s find her,” Salwa said.

“But how can we?” Yasmin asked. “There are at least twenty thousand people on this road.”

“We must, though,” Yousif said. “She can’t manage by herself. The baby is only two years old.”

They were turning a corner. To make way for the crowd while they stopped, Yousif pulled Salwa against a stone wall and let the crowd go by. The sound of thousands of feet drowned the agonized human voices. It was the wrong place for them to stand. They had to continue walking, looking around. Most of the people within reach were strangers.

At the first clearing, Yousif and his two women stepped off the country road. They stood in the shade of an olive tree, watching the marchers. Others joined, equally lost and disturbed. Maha was not in sight. Yousif asked about his Uncle Boulus but no one knew where he was either. Suddenly Amin appeared, and they were happy to have found each other. No, he had not seen Maha.

“Listen, you don’t have any water, do you?” Amin asked. “Silly question, I know, but my little brother is awfully thirsty.”

“No,” Yousif answered. “We’re all going to be in trouble.”

Amin nodded. Their eyes met. The sweat on Amin’s forehead made his dark skin glisten.

“I’d better go,” Amin said. He stepped back on the crowded narrow road and went ahead looking for water.

“Amin,” Yousif called after him, but his voice was lost in the hubbub. “I wish I had asked him where they’re headed.”

“He couldn’t have told you,” his mother said, leaning against the tree. “We don’t know where we’re going either.”

They waited for ten minutes. No one showed up who knew Maha’s whereabouts. Yousif and company abandoned the road, but walked parallel to it. Some were already resting in the fields. Mothers were breast-feeding their babies. Three men were urinating against a tree, their backs to the road.

By noon they had passed the outskirts of Beir Zait and were getting close to Deir Dibwan. “How far have we crossed?” his mother asked, her face smeared with dust and sweat.

“About twelve to fifteen miles,” he answered.

“And Jericho?” she wanted to know. “How many more?”

A stone turned under Yousif’s foot. “Thirty to forty miles,” he answered. “I doubt we’ll make it tonight.”

“Tonight! Are you crazy?” Yasmin asked, stopping. “I can hardly breathe already. It’ll probably take me a week the way I feel.”

“Then you’ll die on the road,” he said. “We have nothing to eat or drink.”

“I wish I had died with your father,” she said.

“Father didn’t die,” he reminded her. “He was killed.”

“Killed, died,” she said. “What’s the difference.”

Some of the marchers broke away from the rest, heading toward Beir Zait or Deir Dibwan. Salwa looked concerned about her mother-in-law. She told Yousif she hoped Yasmin could make it.