On the Hills of God (36 page)

The few hundred seats were soon occupied, and a few hundred more people were standing. Everyone was busy looking around, either to be seen or to see who was not present. The mayor and a few prominent citizens, including Lutfi Khayyat, the bank manager, sat at the front row. Basim was among them, looking restless. The mayor walked up to the makeshift podium.

“Let’s all stand and bow our heads for a minute of silence in memory of the victims of Deir Yasin,” the mayor said.

The crowd rose and remained standing, all heads bowed. A minute later everyone sat down.

“I need not tell you why we’re here,” the mayor said, clutching the podium with both hands. “But I can tell you that we are approaching a watershed in our destiny. We need money and we need arms. It’s as simple as that. And we need them now. If there ever was a time for us to dig deep in our pockets—this is it. If there ever was a time for us to sacrifice—this is it. So let me open this fund-raising drive by pitching in two hundred pounds.”

The audience applauded. The humming began. A short, slightly cross-eyed clerk from the municipality was seated behind a small table. People walked up to him with money in their hands. Each pushed forward to be next. Each contribution was announced with fanfare. Yousif folded his arms and watched. The bank manager contributed one thousand pounds from the bank and three hundred from him personally. Deafening applause followed. Yousif then saw both Dr. Afifi and Attorney Fouad Jubran contribute two hundred pounds each. The tailor Shibli Mubarak, who was melting with diabetes, huddled with his hefty wife for a minute and then stood like a ghost. Yousif watched him shuffle his feet, weave his way to the podium, and hand the clerk twenty pounds. Some applauded, others said it was too much. But the tailor stood erect, his head high. Even Abu Amin, as poor as he was, contributed ten pounds.

Basim was pacing the floor, his eyes at the main gate. Yousif knew whom he was looking for. When their eyes met, Basim motioned for Yousif to follow him inside the building. They met just before entering the lobby.

Basim narrowed his eyes. “I want to check one more time and see if Uncle would come.”

Yousif hesitated. “I doubt it, but you can try.”

“All hell will break loose if he doesn’t,” Basim warned.

Behind the registration desk stood a tall eager clerk, his mustache pencil-thin. Basim asked him to use his private telephone and the clerk was only happy to oblige. But the doctor was not at his clinic. Nurse Laila did not know where he was. Basim was disappointed; Yousif was not sure how he felt. Both withheld their emotions from each other and walked out. But when they reached the balcony they did not like what they were hearing.

“Who does he think he is, refusing to give us the hospital money?” Ayoub Salameh was asking. “Again and again I propose that we, as a body, move against him now. Let’s all—everyone of us—walk out of here and head in one direction. Let’s all go to his clinic. If he’s not there, then let’s go to his house. Let’s hound him until he realizes that it’s not his money.”

It was the mean tone, more than anything else, that offended Yousif.

Beautiful Jihan Afifi, her pitch-black hair combed in a bun, rose to her feet. “Let’s not get carried away,” she said, her voice trembling. “Dr. Safi isn’t the kind of man one demonstrates against. Have we forgotten who he is? Have we forgotten his thirty years of dedicated service? He
should
give us the money, but my God! We shouldn’t treat him as we would an enemy. Whatever reasons he might have, I’m sure they are well-intentioned, moral reasons. If one thing we can be sure of in these tormented times it’s his kindness, his decency. So let’s remember the good things about him and not rush to an unfair judgement which we will, for sure, come to regret.”

Yousif was so pleased he wanted to run and hug her. Instead, he remained in his place, anxious to see how the others reacted. To his surprise Jihan’s words were met with sporadic clapping. Most men, however, remained unmoved.

“He’s a pacifist,” Ali Ramadan said, wearing his chef hat.

“He’s a lot worse than that,” Nael, a waiter at Zaharawi’s cafe, blasted.

Jihan shook her head. “You can’t find a nobler human being in this town or anywhere else.”

The crippled councilman sneered. “You should’ve been with us when we went to see him. He treated us like we were beggars. The Zionists are terrorizing our villagers, threatening other Deir Yasins, and our holier-than-thou doctor won’t even show up at a meeting like this. What do you think of that?”

Yousif and Basim, still on the balcony, looked at each other.

“We shouldn’t let him get away with it,” Yousif muttered.

“It won’t be easy,” Basim said, walking away.

Yousif returned to his seat. But Basim went straight to the podium, nudging the mayor aside. In a surge of excitement, the mayor motioned with both arms for everyone to quiet down.

“For the sake of time and harmony,” Basim cautioned, “let us stick to the matter at hand. We are gathered here today to raise money for arms. Let us do so without further delay. In the meantime I promise you this: no one will sweep the issue of the hospital fund under the rug. And now, with the permission of our good mayor, I urge you to continue with your contributions so that we may defend our beloved Ardallah. I already have my gun. And by the way, it was Uncle Jamil, Dr. Safi, who gave me the money to buy it with months ago. Let us at least remember
this
about him and be kind.”

Many hands were raised, but Basim scanned the audience until his eyes fell on Yousif.

“Yousif,” Basim said, giving him the floor.

Yousif stood up. “Before I make my father’s contribution, I’d like to say a few words.” Some men turned around and looked. Others hissed.

“Words!” the crippled councilman growled. “We need money, not words.”

“Yes,” the crowd responded. Some even laughed.

The mayor motioned for Yousif to step forward.

Yousif made his way up to the front, aware of the derisive stares of those around him.

The crowd waited. Yousif pushed them to the edge of patience. His love and respect for his father were such that he wanted them to squirm.

“First I’d like to thank the gracious Mrs. Fareed Afifi for what she said about my father,” he said, looking straight at Jihan. “He will be honored that she has come to his defense. Also, I’d like to thank those brave souls who dared to applaud Mrs. Afifi’s kind words.”

“Get to the point,” Yacoub said.

“How much money do you have?” a stranger wearing a fez asked.

Yousif reached in his pocket and pulled out the check. “From my father—a check for five hundred pounds.” He handed it to the mayor, who looked at it, dismayed.

Dr. and Mrs. Afifi and Attorney Fouad Jubran led a vigorous applause, participated in by at least a third of those attending.

When Yousif started to return to his seat, the audience stirred.

“Is that all?” asked Nicola Awad, the cabinet maker.

“Yes,” Yousif answered.

“What about the hospital money?” the barber, Maurice, asked. “That’s what we want.”

“Basim explained—” Yousif began.

“Not everybody is willing to wait,” Abu Nassri said, hostility lurking behind his dark glasses.

Ignoring the two who had just spoken, Yousif returned to his seat and looked around, still hoping to see Salwa. She wasn’t there, but he could see her father and Adel Farhat standing under a tree, both looking as though they had swallowed lye.

Ayoub Salameh was on his feet, leaning on his cane. “I move that we conclude this drive shortly and then descend on the doctor wherever he may be.”

Ghanem Jadallah stood up. A sickly man in his late sixties who had suffered a couple of heart attacks, he looked ashen. Also, he had a tendency to stutter, especially when he was emotional. From the way he was now mouthing his first words, Ghanem seemed very upset.

“I aggggree with ccccouncilman Salammmmeh,” Ghanem stuttered. “But before we go I’d llllike to aaaask Yousif a qqquestion. Is it tttrue that your father isn’t ccccoming forth with the hhhhhospital money because he uuuuused it to build his bbbbig house?”

Those near Ghanem gasped. Others wanted the question repeated. The mayor obliged.

“That’s a lie,” Yousif snapped, truly outraged.

“PPPProve it,” Ghanem said, sitting down.

The mayor was frantic. The purpose of the whole enterprise was derailed and he was trying hard to get it back on track.

“We haven’t raised three thousand pounds yet,” the mayor shouted, “and here we are already fighting. Why can’t we conduct our business in an orderly manner?”

Everyone spoke at the same time. Many converged up front. Others stood on their chairs.

“Wait a minute . . . wait a minute,” the mayor was saying, flailing his arms. “I have a suggestion. We have with us right here Mr. Lutfi Khayyat, the manager of Al-Wattan Bank, where I presume the doctor is still keeping the hospital account.”

The mayor looked at Lutfi Khayyat, the bank manager, for confirmation. “Just before I came to this meeting,” Khayyat said, “I checked the hospital fund account. I’m happy to report that it’s all intact.”

“That’s good to know,” the mayor continued, looking around.

Many applauded. Ghanem looked embarrassed and was gesturing in self-defense.

“What I’m trying to say is this,” the mayor continued, looking around. “Now we know for sure that the hospital money is all there, and that’s good. But we also have with us today several lawyers. Maybe all of them—including the bank manager—could answer a question. Is it feasible for us as citizens of Ardallah to sue Dr. Jamil Safi for the hospital money and collect it?”

Yousif’s back stiffened. How dare they challenge and revile his father!

“In other words,” the mayor explained, “could we take him to court, win the case, withdraw the money from the bank, and buy arms with it? After all, we gave it to him and we want it back. Is that possible?”

Lutfi Khayyat, Fouad Jubran, and a few others looked at each other and seemed to agree that it was.

The bank manager hesitated. “It can be done,” he said, looking around for legal support. “Whether I’d advise it or not is another matter.”

Yousif was so disgusted he wished he hadn’t given them the check. But it was too late. The fervor was rising. Basim had disappeared into the lobby.

Yousif rested his foot on one of the chairs, contemplating the immediate future. There was no question the city would conspire to rob his father of his hospital account. They would take him to court. What court? There was no law in the land. Anarchy—only anarchy!

In the meantime, he noticed that Salwa’s father and Adel Farhat were already gone. He couldn’t care less. Had Salwa been with them it would have been different.

As he stared toward the podium, he felt Jihan nudge him.

“Look who’s coming,” she said.

At first Yousif didn’t understand. Then he saw it was Salwa herself. Coming in among other stragglers, Salwa was dressed in red, her hair tied back with a white ribbon. With her was Huda, in a sleeveless polka-dot dress. Both were walking briskly. He wondered why Salwa was coming so late. Did she wait until her father and Adel had left?

“You still love her?” Jihan whispered.

What a superfluous question, Yousif thought. But coming from Jihan he had to respect it.

“Does a bird like to fly?” he answered.

Jihan smiled, as though eager for a moment of relief. “It likes to sing too,” she said, teasing.

“So do I,” Yousif told her.

On her way into the garden Salwa stopped to talk to an old couple. The three of them seemed to be having an animated conversation. Yousif could only guess what they were saying. But when Salwa shot him a dirty look, he knew.

“She knows,” Jihan whispered.

“I think so,” Yousif said.

A moment later, Salwa headed toward Yousif, looking angry. He braced himself but wasn’t about to let her belittle him.

“Tell me it’s not true,” Salwa said to Yousif, her lips twitching.

“What’s not true?” Yousif asked.

“You know what I’m talking about,” she said, her gaze steady.

“Let’s not—”

“Let me tell you something,” she blurted. “They say the town is going to file a lawsuit against your father to collect the hospital money. Are you defending his position? If it’s true then something must be wrong with you.”

Suddenly an airplane zoomed over the trees, drowning the uproar of the crowd. Like others, Yousif tilted up his head, startled. The plane looked hawk-headed, antiquated. He could see four propellers and two sets of wings.

“A Jewish plane,” Yousif cried, reaching for Salwa’s waist.

Salwa pushed him away and looked up. The bi-plane cleared the treetops, made a circle, and returned. Yousif threw himself on the ground, motioning frantically for everyone else to do the same.

“Get down, Salwa,” he implored her.

As though to defy him, Salwa turned her back and went on talking to Huda. The plane was diving toward them, the blue-and-white Star of David painted on its tail.