Leon Uris (73 page)

The intimidation here to join the fedayeen was also much stronger than in Aqbat Jabar. The fedayeen were the only ones with jobs and were being paid five hundred percent more than ordinary wages. They were constantly making raids, but only
a
fool could not see there were too many losses and no successes.

What to do in such a place? I learned there was a special unit of the Egyptian Army made up of Palestinian commandos in training for the holy war against the Zionist
intruders.
It was an elite unit. The Egyptians promised that anyone who served in it would be given travel papers to Egypt. I did not trust the Egyptians, but there was no other way. My blessed mother sold the last piece of her jewelry of what had once been a great collection. With the money I was able to bribe the officer in command of the unit to enlist me as a sergeant and put me in charge of the vehicles. It saved my life and the life of my family. Had I gone in as an ordinary commando, I probably would not be writing to you. People with the rank of sergeant and above did not have to make raids, only the privates and corporals. Those who did not get killed by Zionist bullets were so badly treated by the officers that most of them deserted. But that was their problem. Once I took over the garage the money came in. I was able to buy more ration cards on the black market and much more for my beloved family.

At last the gods of good fortune rained down on us when General Naguib, Colonel Nasser, and the Free Officers threw out the corrupt Eygptian king. With officers in control of the government, many raids were launched on British military posts along the Suez Canal Although the attacks did not quite meet with the success we had hoped for, the new government and a friendly press played up the actions. They were very popular with the Egyptian people. After one raid in which we suffered great casualties, General Naguib brought us back to Cairo for a parade and personally gave the Palestinian unit a citation for courage. I again was able to bribe the commanding officer to discharge me from the unit to allow me to enroll in Cairo University.

Let me tell you, Ishmael, the university was not all that magnificent. There were fifty of us boys in a single dormitory room with our beds separated only by small nightstands. It smelled very bad, for it had not been cleaned in years. On the very first night my clothing and all my money was stolen, and I had to attend classes in my pajamas. We found out that none of the courses were free and the teachers were corrupt. Good grades went to the sons of wealthy. Do I have to explain why? As destitute Palestinians we were the scum of the place, terribly maligned by the Egyptian people. They hated us and wanted to keep us locked up in Gaza. The Arab League paid our tuition and gave us four Egyptian pounds a month for food. When they stopped our subsidy, we were evicted from the barracks.

There is a cemetery on the outskirts of the city that is five miles in length, holds thousands of large sepulchers, and is called the City of the Dead. Almost a million people live there. Many of them have never known another home. I and four of my comrades were able to rent a large tomb for six Egyptian pounds a month. We were utterly destitute and on the brink of starvation and so began to demonstrate before the Arab League offices. We came back again and again until they restored our scholarships and allowances.

Many times our money was cut off, and when we demonstrated, more Palestinian students joined us. I and all of my comrades spent much time in jail. I was arrested on six different occasions. Yet we would not be dissuaded. Other Palestinians at Faud University and elsewhere were as desperate as we were, and in time we formed the Union of Palestinian Students. The Moslem Brotherhood was trying to bring down the new government, so we joined them. We got several martyrs, but the union was in business.

Just over a year ago the Brotherhood attempted to assassinate Colonel Nasser. Nasser dismissed General Naguib, claiming he was behind the attempt and then Nasser took complete charge of the democratic government. I and three brothers who were leaders of the student union were in jail for sixty-four days. During that time our brothers rioted constantly.

One day Dr. Mohammed K. Mohammed visited us. He was in charge of the Palestinian Refugee Aid Society. He had been our enemy because we felt he was a tool of the government. How wrong we had been! He is the true and noble leader of the Palestinian people. He told us that he had convinced Colonel Nasser that we students were truly the spearhead of the revolution and should be allies in the holy war to rid Palestine of the Jews. Can you believe that the four of us were released and invited to visit Colonel Nasser himself!

If there is Allah on earth, it is Colonel Gamal Abdel Nasser. I, Sabri Salama, was there before this mighty man. He made total and complete peace with us. He revealed many secrets. Fedayeen would now be able to travel freely to and from Gaza, and large bonuses would be paid them. As fast as units could be formed and trained, they were put into the conflict. He told us the greatest of secrets, that large shipments of arms were arriving from Czechoslovakia, He had already cut off the Zionists’ shipping lanes in the Straits of Tiran, and soon he would take the Suez Canal from the British.

Very soon, Ishmael, we shall be united. All Arabs shall be under Nasser, I am now starting to travel with Dr. Mohammed K. Mohammed to convince various Arab governments to support our movement and contribute generously to the fedayeen. Soon we will no longer be dogs, rootless, frenzied, and anguished. Some unscrupulous nations such as the Syrians and Iraqis think they are fooling us because they plan to use the Palestinians for their own purposes. In the end we will trick them because we will unite and take over our own destiny.

If you ever hear the name Abu Rommel, you will know it is me. It is the revolutionary name I took in honor of the German general who nearly liberated Eygpt during the world war. I urge you to get very active in the fedayeen. There is much money to be made in arming our boys. Tell your father I will pay him back soon. When you see me the next time, I will be in my own car and I will be wearing a gold watch.

I depart now, my beloved comrade Ishmael. I greet you once again in the name of the glorious revolution. All praise to our noble Dr. Mohammed K. Mohammed. All praise to Colonel Gamal Abdel Nasser, the greatest Arab leader since the Prophet, who will take the Arab people to their righteous destiny.

I weep for your martyred brother Jamil, who was slain by the Zionist pigs. We will live to see Tel Aviv in ashes and the Mediterranean Sea run red with the blood of fleeing Jews! Victory is ours!

My sincere greetings to the rest of your family.

Abu Rommel.

N
ADA KNEW THAT THE
abruptness of her departure had the women in shock. She refused to join them in their tears as Hamdi Othman’s white, chauffeur-driven United Nations car stopped before the house. She stood before Hamdi and Madame Othman, eyes lowered, as she was introduced and scrutinized. Mutual assurances were made. Nada’s qualities were extolled by her father for the first time in her life. In turn Hamdi Othman promised that the girl would be well looked after.

The chauffeur took the single bundle of Nada’s belongings, and she and Madame Othman went outside as the men exchanged final pleasantries.

Nada looked about for a moment in desperation. Ishmael was gone! At that instant she felt as if she might break down, but instead she bore the pang in silence.

Nada had ridden in the back of two trucks but never inside an automobile. This and the elegant difference of Madame Othman shifted her mood from sorrow to curiosity.

Cars inside the camp always attracted a crowd of urchins. Othman’s chauffeur was adept at driving them off like unwanted flies. The faces of Hagar, Fatima, and Ramiza filled the windows, sobbing their farewells. Haj Ibrahim remained inside as the car whisked away.

She knew three sets of curious eyes were on her. Strange, despite the intended humiliation of her baldness, Nada knew she was beautiful. She knotted her kerchief and tilted her chin up.

As they passed through Jericho, a sense of relief filled her. She caught Hamdi Othman’s eye. His look was one of studied boredom. Obviously so high a personage would not have come over for her personally except for her father’s stature. He ordered the chauffeur to bypass the waiting line of vehicles at the roadblock before the Allenby Bridge with the authority of a head of state.

‘Stop the car!’ Nada cried suddenly.

‘What!’

‘Please, it is my brother, Ishmael.’

Othman made a magnanimous gesture as Nada flung the door open and threw herself into her brother’s arms.

‘Oh, I thought you were not going to say good-bye.’

‘I could not bear to be around the others,’ Ishmael said.

‘I love you, Ishmael.’

‘Oh God, your hair ...’

‘What is the difference if I lost my hair, so long as I still have my head. Don’t be sad, my brother. I am not sad. Do you understand? I am not sad.’

Nada watched Ishmael grow smaller while the car drove noisily over the flapping timbers of the bridge. As they made for Amman she felt no sorrow. In fact, she was filled with anticipation and the sudden sense of freedom. A terrible burden was gone.

‘Charming’ was the word heard most about Hamdi Othman. A Syrian, Othman had developed his charm when the French governed his country and educated him. Charm was a paramount requisite for an aspiring diplomat.

When the United Nations unleashed its new bureaucracy, an army of middling functionaries swarmed to the bonanza. Each nation claimed its share of the lucrative posts, where quota, not quality, was the criterion. Hamdi Othman was one of Syria’s questionable gifts to the new world order.

As a professional United Nations official, he crafted his way quickly through a mediocre corps, wiggling into a top-echelon position. Othman, as one of the UNRWA heads in Jordan and on the West Bank, wielded power and controlled large funds in a small kingdom of scores of refugee camps.

Personal involvement in the scenes and smells of privation in the camps belonged to the middle- and lower-rank UNRWA officials. Hamdi Othman’s self-imposed status dictated an expansive villa on one of the bleak hills that crowned Amman.

Although the city was the capital of an Islamic state, its long British legacy had eroded the Moslem ban on alcohol. Life was boorish in this forsaken outpost, and the smattering of embassies, the United Nations agencies, and other foreign entities clung together desperately and isolated themselves from the hot dusty unpleasantness of Amman. Their modus operandi was the endless cocktail party.

There were cocktail parties to welcome or say farewell to ambassadors, first and second secretaries, consul generals, consuls, military attaches, and United Nations officials. There were cocktail parties celebrating Bastille Day, the Fourth of July, and the liberation, freedom, and independence days of every nation in Jordan with diplomatic representation. Managing directors of foreign corporations, visiting dignitaries, the airlines and tourist industry, leading Jordanian businessmen, all had a place in the pecking order of cocktail parties.

It was the same old troupe of wandering drinkers whose faces wore dull-eyed masks. The conversation was either equally dull or made up of slashing gossip, for the news of who was whoing whom was the only real excitement except for an occasional royal falcon hunt. The hand-kissing and the stifled yawns and the cast of players seldom varied.

Hamdi Othman was a product of the cocktail party. Even in Amman he thrived on it. His was one of the more ‘interesting’ invitations. His villa was sumptuous; his larder bulged with tax-free, duty-free liquors and French delicacies. The mounds of gourmet food were prepared by his French chef and a battery of kitchen workers. All of this befitted the head of a relief organization.

Amman was still an Arab capital and Hamdi Othman was still an Arab, and despite all that charm the sexes separated themselves, with the women herding together in one room and the men in another.

Madame Othman represented the liberated Arab woman, educated in France, dressed in an elegant French wardrobe, and striking to behold. Still, if one peeled back the layer of Western veneer, Madame Othman was an Arab woman with an Arab husband. Although she did not have to work, she was not allowed to participate in much beyond social functions. Her life centered on endless prattle at the city’s one wretched country club. She was never permitted outside their stifling world of kept, painted birds, partying in lavish bird-houses that were really cages by another name. When the automatic handshake and smile were not required, she was a sad, dull lady, locked into a life of uselessness.

Hamdi Othman prided himself that all of his household staff were refugees, all fourteen of them. Hamdi Othman was neither kind nor generous. Wages were a trifle, and what was not provided for in his expense allowances could be easily manipulated through his control of the UNRWA budget and the almighty ration card. His servants were barracked, and conditions and hours were severe.

His chauffeur, gardeners, bodyguards, butler, and houseboys occupied one cubicled dormitory. The six female employees lived as cloistered as nuns, in a barracks with curtained partitions. Four were kitchen help. There was Madame Othman’s personal maid and there was Nada.

Nada was nursemaid to the Othman’s two daughters, ages three and four, and their five-year-old son. When she subsided from her initial anxiety and culture shock, Nada assumed her position firmly and rather joyously. Much to the relief of Madame Othman, Nada finally took the children off her hands, releasing her for more hours at the country club and before the dressing room mirror.

‘The Othmans’ affection-starved children were soon tendered more love in a single day than their parents had ever afforded them. Nada was the perfect nanny. She sang many songs, read what she was able to read, laughed with them, told mystical and magical tales, hugged, kissed. She was quite stern when she had to be but never with a slap. She controlled them with a mere raising of her voice. There were never too many questions they could ask or games they could play. Nada did not complain. Nada worked any and all hours. What a little gem!