Leon Uris (72 page)

With Omar and Jamil gone, Father began to sense shifts in the family winds. When Nada was missing from the house, it was noticed. These days she was gone a great deal, and it did not take much to figure out where. The little birds of the fedayeen were a flock in constant flight. The Haj did not like it. There was bound to be a clash.

One morning after the meal, Father summoned us together. It was unusual to do so at this hour of the day. We entered, one by one, knelt, and kissed his hand. Kamal and I took our seats on either side of him and the women on stools along the wall.

‘Nada,’ Ibrahim said, ‘stand up.’

She did as she was told.

‘I have been extremely fortunate to find a position for you in Amman in the home of a United Nations official. He is a great and honorable Syrian, Mr. Hamdi Othman. Although he is an Alawite by religion, he is still a man highly beloved in the ranks of UNRWA. He has three small children. You are to attend them. I have made an arrangement whereby you will be able to come and see us every second month. In many ways this is so fortunate for you. The Othmans are very kind people. They have traveled in the West. It is so crowded here. Now you will have a room of your own, which you will only have to share with two other girls. I know this must please you greatly.’ There was silence. ‘Well, Nada, it does please you.’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘Good, then I am pleased that you are pleased. I know the honor of the Soukori clan will be foremost in your mind and heart. Before you leave, to ensure modesty, your mother will cut off your hair, and you will henceforth veil yourself in public. Let us move it along. Mr. Othman and his wife will be here to fetch you shortly.’

Haj Ibrahim got up and left.

Instantaneous weeping, an oft-occurring matter, broke out among the women, except for Nada. I have never witnessed such fury in anyone’s eyes. She remained motionless as Hagar ran the scissors through her lovely thick brown hair and let it fall around Nada’s ankles. When her head was shaved smooth, Mother tied a kerchief about it, then fled to gather her belongings.

I have to be alone. I did not even want to speak to Dr. Mudhil. I went up into Mount Temptation. May the prophet have mercy on me, but I believe I had begun to hate Haj Ibrahim. There would be no photograph of Nada to go alongside Jamil and Omar. Just an ignoble dismissal.

My head spun a million plots to escape. I would go to Amman, kidnap Nada, and escape with her. We would plunge into the desert and take refuge among the al Sirhan Bedouin. Oh, curse it. What would surely happen then? Nada would be taken in marriage to the old sheik.

Beirut. Money would be difficult to obtain for travel papers. I could steal it. That would take time and planning. If we could get to Lebanon, we could not go among our own people. Ibrahim would find out and come after us.

Cairo. It was impossible for a boy to travel with a woman that far. We could not enter Egypt anyhow.

How about fleeing to another refugee camp? The idea revolted me.

Damascus. With great courage we could walk to Damascus. But we would be illegal. Some from our camp had tried it and were thrown into prison and tortured. Nada would be raped.

Where is there to go! We are trapped! We are prisoners!

Baghdad ... oh, that’s really crazy.

Oh God! Oh God!

‘You have not spoken to me since Nada went to Amman,’ Father said.

‘I am sorry, Father.’

‘You think I was cruel to Nada.’

‘No, you were very kind and loving, Father.’

He slapped me hard, but I did not even feel it.

‘What do you want for your sister? A life in Aqbat Jabar?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Oh, come now, Ishmael, you always have all the answers. What do you want for her? Why do you think they are letting girls into the fedayeen? For the noble revolution?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You have two sisters in Beirut. I made arrangements for their marriages to fine men. They are now together with their husbands and children and their families. I did well for them. What can I do here for Nada? She is my last daughter. What kind of life can I arrange for her in this place? Don’t you think I want to make a nice marriage for her?’

‘Let me take Nada to Beirut,’ I begged. ‘Omar has a job. I will find one. We will take care of Nada. We will see to it she is protected and we will find a suitable man.’

‘Without me! Let my last daughter go! You speak like a fedayeen. Go, break up a family! Let it die! They are luring these girls, making lovely little birds out of them so they will be their prostitutes. They are destroying our families.’

‘Yes Father, no Father, yes Father, no Father.’

‘Come back here!’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘You will learn in good time that I have done the only possible thing for Nada to keep our honor.’

‘Yes. Father.’

‘And you must get over this. You must remain with me always, Ishmael.’

‘Yes, Father.’

I could not even attempt to speak to Haj Ibrahim about letting Nada be free to find a man she loved and love him and take on life together, even in Aqbat Jabar. That was why she was driven into the fedayeen ... into the company of cutthroats.

He would never understand and I was not all that certain his motives were honest. Did he really fear that some boy might take Nada away? Was he really not secretly glad that he did not have to marry her off so long as he had the excuse of Aqbat Jabar? He had made up a lie to himself in order to hold on to Nada. I think he loved her in a secret way that was not entirely healthy.

G
REETINGS,
I
SHMAEL
!

It is your old comrade Sabri Salama who writes to you at last. I have been writing this letter in parts for many months but have been unable to send it until I found someone trustworthy to place it directly into your hands. As you will read, it contains many confidences and secrets.

Greetings to your beloved, noble, and compassionate father, Haj Ibrahim.

Greetings to your generous and loving brothers, Kamal and Omar.

On this glorious occasion I want your father to know I am not a thief. I have every intention of paying back the money I borrowed from the sale of your weapons. I cannot pay it right away, but the day is coming soon.

My adventures, since I left you over two years ago, have not been unlike those of Sinbad the Sailor.

After I sold the guns to an unscrupulous dealer, I crossed over to Amman and let it be known I was a valuable truck mechanic. Because trucks are always breaking down in the desert along the King’s Highway to Damascus, it was easy for me to arrange a ride in exchange for repairs.

I started the journey with two great fears. Firstly, that my papers would only get me into Syria, and once there, I could go no farther, but only to a refugee camp. Secondly, that I was carrying a great deal of money. Even though I dressed poorly, I knew I would be searched. I figured out a way that served me well. I put the money into bills of large denominations of American currency, wrapped them tightly inside a plastic bag, and swallowed it. Each day after I shit, I cleaned the bag and swallowed it again. I was searched many times, but the money was never found. You must remember that if you travel.

My first moment of terror was when our truck crossed the border into Syria at Deraa. I was automatically taken to the border fort, put into jail, and questioned for several days. There was no reason for the questioning except that it is dull duty at the fort, and when the Syrians have a chance to play with you, they are very dirty about it. All I could think of was not to get caught passing and swallowing my money.

At any rate, I became friends with the Syrian captain in command of the border post and stayed for another week out of friendship when he kindly allowed me to continue to Damascus with a personal letter guaranteeing me safe passage. All praise to this kind man, who also gave me a letter of introduction to his cousin, who was a wealthy merchant and lived alone with his servants. This was fortunate, for otherwise I would have had to report to a refugee camp and be interned. The Syrians keep a very close watch on the Palestinians, and if you are caught without papers it can mean three years in prison.

At first I believed that Allah had blessed me. The merchant had just lost his chauffeur and personal servant. It was risky for him to keep me, but he showed great compassion in the beginning. Unfortunately, it took many weeks to figure out how to escape his hospitality. The threat of being turned in was used against me. You see, I was such a good mechanic he didn’t want to lose me.

My other problem was how to get into Lebanon. It is very difficult and dangerous for a Palestinian, since the Lebanese are viciously on the lookout for us crossing into their country. If I were caught, it would mean an even longer prison sentence.

How could I solve this mighty dilemma? One night I was driving the merchant home from a party. He was very drunk and unconscious. At that moment Allah sent a message to me. I carried a pistol for I also acted as his bodyguard. I shot him and buried his body in a very hidden place, then stole the papers of another servant and drove to the Lebanese border. I had my chauffeur’s uniform, papers, and an American Cadillac.

At the border I could tell the Lebanese wanted to play games with me. I told them I was going to Beirut to get my master and warned them it would go very hard on them if I did not show up on time. When they started shuffling me around from official to official, I boldly demanded to telephone my master. They fell for the bluff and let me through. Oh, Ishmael, it broke my heart to have to ditch such a magnificent automobile, but I was certain that if I kept it, it would have led to my capture. Anyhow, I did strip it of all the valuable parts I could carry and sell, and I made my way into Beirut.

Once in Beirut, it was easier to hide at first, for there are many refugee camps around the city and Palestinians
are
allowed to come and go freely. The reason for that is we do all the filthy work for the wealthy Lebanese. They are a very cruel people, particularly the Christians, and they deride us unmercifully about our misfortune.

A Lebanese joke: Question: Who has a pair of pants? Answer: Four Palestinians.

The Lebanese are only interested in making money. One day we will have to get our vengeance on them as well as the Syrians.

But even the refugee camps are not truly safe. The camps are all divided by clans. Strangers are quickly noted and looked upon with suspicion, for many destitute Lebanese Moslems slip in, pretend to be refugees, and try to get ration cards. I also learned that one must be very careful, even among brother Palestinians, because people like me without papers can be blackmailed.

Gangs of boys roam the camps and have everyone intimidated. The cowardly Lebanese do not let them form into Fedayeen units, and they do not permit raids from their territory over the border into the Zionist entity. Believe me, Ishmael, in the Prophet’s good time the Lebanses will become involved in our struggle.

I realized I had to make a courageous move. I had to go down and ‘play’ the waterfront. There is a street called the Avenue des Français that has many nightclubs to lure sailors. Between that street and the central police station is where most of the prostitution takes place. In addition to sailors and tourists, many rich Saudis and Kuwaits roam that area in search of sport. You know how it is in places like this which deal in special services. The pimps will kill you if you are not careful, and everyone is on the watch for strangers.

I bribed a police detective to take me around with him to the clubs and let everyone know that I was okay and under police protection. Then I spent some of my money on some girls. They are mostly European girls trying to act as belly dancers and not very good, but everyone, and the Saudis in particular, likes blondes. So after a time I became friends with the owner of the Miami Club and made myself valuable by fixing his automobile so he could run hashish in it safely.

From my base at the Miami Club and a nearby hotel I was able to know all the slip movements. It took patience, but I finally found a Portuguese tramp steamer that was destined for Gaza. How did I find out? Some Portuguese sailors came into the club one night and were soon off with the girls for a party in my hotel. One of them became very drunk and passed out and was left there. I knew the girl and talked her out of rolling him and personally took him back to his ship. The captain of the ship was grateful. We talked over my situation and he offered to stow me aboard and take me to Gaza. It would take all the money I had left.

What could I do, my brother? Once we were on his ship and out of the harbor, he could have fed me to the sharks. I had to
pay
him in advance. The ship was old and the engine room in bad condition. Here I showed my skill, and it impressed him. Then a true friendship developed and he was honorable to his word and delivered me in Gaza.

After a week of search I finally found my family in the Rafah Camp on the border of Eygpt
and the
Sinai. It was the day of my great bereavement. Oh, my dear brother Ishmael, I still weep at the thought and sight of it. My beloved father, may Allah comfort him personally, had died of tuberculosis. He, who was the greatest living garage mechanic in all of Palestine, to die in such a place! While he lived, the family had managed. Now they were beyond destitution. Sixteen members of my clan were living in two rooms of a corrugated tin shack. Three of the children had died along with my father, and half of the rest were ill. The Rafah Camp is larger and far worse than Aqbat Jabar.

How can I make such
a
statement, you ask? Well, at least the Jordanians allowed us to travel freely. The Gaza Strip is jammed with humanity from one end to another and is kept like one large prison by the Egyptians. We were locked in like beasts. Before the UNRWA came, our people were so devastated by the Egyptian brutality that they did not have the will to protest. Fortunately, I gathered up enough extra ration cards to keep us alive.