He saw the first sign of the night’s devastation on the narrow road leading to the Sheikh Jarrah intersection, not more than a hundred yards from his house. A man dressed in a kumbaz and keffiyeh was lying dead on the road, one of his splayed legs blown off. Beside him lay a dead Legionnaire, and there were several more lifeless bodies nearby. For a moment he held his nose against the stench of blood and burnt flesh and felt a sharp pain in his chest. His throat began to burn again and he sneezed. He swung away from his usual route and turned towards the Ambassador Hotel. Suddenly a sheaf of fire spat out over the hotel roof. It’s our people firing, he thought hopefully. But the luxury hotel looked abandoned, its windows were shattered and a body was lying over a windowsill. How strange, just two days ago the Ambassador had been swarming with guests. Why was it abandoned? When? And why wasn’t he notified? After all, he headed the association of tourist and hotel enterprises.
Powerful explosions detonated behind him, any moment now shells would be falling on his head. Abu George turned around and drove away from the scene in the opposite direction, against the traffic. He was trembling all over.
Abuna el-Masih
, Jesus Father, have the Jews got this far? He shouldn’t have left his house, and who’s to say they aren’t firing on civilians? If he’d thought rationally he’d have known that only a lunatic would venture outside at such a time and leave his wife alone. Oh shame, shame – what to do about the shame, and where does shame lead us? He confessed to himself that he’d been ashamed to stay at home and was now ashamed to return there. He stepped on the accelerator and drove at speed to Saladin Street, turned right and parked as he always did beside Al-Hurriyeh, the exclusive restaurant he owned. The gate was open and for a moment he thought of going in, but instead hurried to join Abu Nabil, who was waiting for him in the newspaper’s office across the street.
“
Sabah el khair
, Abu George, good morning,” his partner greeted him and then came straight to the point. “There are reports, still unconfirmed, that the Jews, damn them, have broken into al-Mudawara and are pressing ahead. I can’t believe it’s true, it’s a fortified bastion, but…Maybe we should ask the Governor for information – what do you think?”
“Well, yes, we should publish a special interview with him. It’s important to reassure the population.”
“Right, that’s why I called you. You know the Governor hasn’t spoken to me since…”
Abu George nodded, remembering the Governor’s fury about something Abu Nabil had written a few months earlier.
“So, could you go to him…?” Abu Nabil asked hesitantly.
“No, brother. First of all, your honour is as dear to me as my
own. I couldn’t possibly interview him without you. Secondly, it’s an opportunity to bury that incident.”
Quickly they crossed the street to the Governor’s residence, passed the gate-keeper and almost ran up to the second floor.
“The Governor’s in the conference room,” his secretary said and led them into the familiar chamber. From the walls, portraits of the kings of the Hashemite dynasty stared down: al-Sharif Hussein, al-Emir Abdullah, Talal and Hussein. The Governor looked as though he hadn’t slept and seeing Abu Nabil his face froze momentarily, but he recovered and rose to greet them and shake their hands.
“Pardon us, Governor,” Abu George began, “for barging in like this. We needed to speak to you on such a day. We’re going to print a special issue and wanted to interview you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Please be so kind as to bring us up to date on the news,” Abu George went on, relieved to be where he was. Abu Nabil took a notebook and his favourite Parker-51 fountain pen from his jacket pocket.
The Governor, speaking in his graceful high-flown style, reported that at this very moment, over in the Sinai desert, the Egyptian airforce was pounding the Zionist army, setting its tanks and armour ablaze. Then he read them a letter he had received from His Majesty, and added that the King had received a telegram from President Nasser, assuring him of a complete Arab victory.
The telephone rang. The Governor picked up the receiver and seemed to move uneasily in his armchair as he listened. Then he rose, went up to the big map on the wall and marked something on it.
“And what is happening here, on our front? War?” Abu George asked.
The Governor compressed his lips. “Not war,” he replied quietly. “I’d say, border skirmishes, nothing more. Though they are serious. During the night enemy soldiers managed to penetrate our lines here and there, and at this moment our soldiers are finishing them off. Our men are firing from every roof and every position, and they won’t let the enemy raise its head,” he concluded and leaned back in his armchair.
“On my way here I heard Israel Radio’s Arabic service, claiming that they’d driven us out of the High Commissioner’s residence. Is there any truth in that?” Abu George asked.
The Governor ignored the question. “You listen to the Zionists’ radio?” he asked.
“I’m a journalist,” Abu George replied, his eyes meeting the Governor’s.
The phone rang again. “
Ahlan
, Mr Mayor go ahead.” As he listened, the Governor fiddled with a pen on his desk. “You’re right, my friend. We must reassure the public. These incidents are mainly on the border. Make sure the stores open as usual. There’s plenty of everything, and the main roads to Amman are open.” After he replaced the receiver he cast a worried glance at the wall map.
“Governor, many parts of the city are under fire,” Abu Nabil intervened. These were the first words he had addressed to him since the article that had caused them to fall out.
“Naturally, they’re firing at us and we at them,” the Governor replied, restrained and authoritative. He wiped the sweat from his brow.
Abu George gazed at the two proud men, as full of themselves as their bulging bellies, and suppressed a grin. “On my way here
I didn’t see a single policeman on the street. Where are our security forces?”
“Not to worry – they’re where they are needed. Orders were given to step up their presence.”
The phone rang again. “Good morning to you, reverend Sheikh. Go ahead, yes, I understand…” He covered the mouthpiece and said to the journalists, “Excuse me, please. It’s the Sheikh of the Haram al-Sharif. Yes, reverend Sheikh, you can be absolutely sure that the army is defending the city as it would its own life and soul. We’re distributing weapons to the inhabitants. The Jews won’t dare approach the city walls.”
When he turned back to them Abu Nabil asked if it was possible that the Soviet Union would intervene in the war.
“There is no need!” the Governor declared. “This morning His Majesty informed me that their Prime Minister, Eshkol, had sent him urgent messages begging him not to open fire.”
Abu Nabil quickly made a note of this fresh news item.
“Eshkol didn’t understand that he was giving himself away. You remember how a few days ago he addressed his people on the radio, and stammered with fright?
Miskeen
, poor thing! Ha ha…” The Governor laughed nervously. “Our King, who is as wise as his grandfather Abdullah, immediately spotted this and decided that now is the time to attack them, when they are weakest.” He took a box of cigars from the drawer of his desk, chose one and trimmed it, then offered the box to the visitors.
“How long do you think this war will last?” asked Abu Nabil, greedily inhaling the cigar smoke.
“It depends. We have a manpower problem, though it’s not too serious. We expected most of the enemy forces to be sent south to the Sinai, but apparently a few reserve units were left here, more than we thought. At this moment armoured
divisions, tanks and infantry are advancing from Amman to al-Quds. Iraqi troops have also raced here through the night, and our Syrian brothers are ready to ignite the fire on the northern front. So everything is proceeding as planned,” he concluded with satisfaction. “We have learned the lessons of
al-Nakba
, the catastrophe of 1948. Our new leaders, primarily Nasser and Hussein, God preserve them, are leading us to a splendid, speedy victory!”
Abu Nabil’s eyes lit up at hearing the name of his hero Nasser. Abu George looked at him and at the Governor. Both were Muslim, born in East Jerusalem. He was the only one born in Talbieh, on the western side, the only one who became a refugee. In the 1948 war, too, the leaders had promised that a turning-point would soon be reached, that in a week or two they would return to their homes after throwing the Jews into the sea.
“Governor,” he said, aware that he was spoiling their mood, “Your Honour, this morning Senator Antoine rang me to say that there were dozens of Israeli soldiers around his house. Do you know anything about it?”
“As I said before,” the Governor replied sourly, “there have been minor incursions here and there. The sector commander told me this morning that at about four-thirty, at dawn, the Jews tried to climb up al-Mudawara hill, and were blinded by the rising sun. When they came too close our soldiers skewered and roasted them. The commander invited me to come and see the heap of bodies and dip my feet in their blood.”
“
As-senator khatyar, ayyan wata’ban
– the senator is old, sick and weary,” Abu Nabil said firmly. “Can you give us a quote from the King’s letter?”
“I’m afraid not. I’d have to get His Majesty’s permission. But
you can certainly mention his reassuring, optimistic message.” The Governor stood up. “Now, gentlemen, it remains for us to bless our brave, beloved King and,
inshallah
, victory will be ours.”
Abu George raised his camera and took photos of the Governor standing beside the wall map, holding a long pointer.
Emerging on to the street, Abu Nabil put his arm through Abu George’s. “The war has reconciled me and the Governor,” he chuckled.
“With Allah’s help everything will come right,” Abu George sighed. He was feeling somewhat relieved, despite his lingering doubts. For all he knew Senator Antoine was imagining things, and, given his own history, perhaps he had caught the old man’s panic.
Abu Nabil glanced at the colourful hoarding outside the al-Hamra cinema, displaying a scene from the old romantic film
Al Wardah al Baidha
– The White Rose – with Abdel Wahab.
“I’ll book the four of us a box for next Sunday,
inshallah
!” he said expansively.
“
Ya reit
, that would be nice,” replied Abu George.
On the way back they talked about the special edition, the headline with the King’s message and the Governor’s statement. Reaching the editorial office Abu George stopped.
“Abu Nabil, Um George is very worried. Our friend the senator phones every half hour and terrifies her. Perhaps I should return home, and you…”
Abu Nabil raised his hand and said, “
Ala ayni wala rasi
, upon my eye and my head, Abu George. Leave it to me!”
Abu George started his car but instead of turning right towards
his house in Sheikh Jarrah, he turned left, driving down Saladin Street to the intersection with Suleiman Street. There he stopped and parked. He could hear gunfire coming from the direction of the Rockefeller Museum, and from Musrara on the boundary-line. Who’s firing? he wondered, and walked faster to Bab el-Zahrah, Herod’s Gate, where he entered the Old City.
There were few people in the alleys, perhaps only those who did not believe that war had broken out. For the past three weeks Nasser had been spitting in Israel’s face, every day more copiously, and Israel didn’t even wipe off the spittle. On the contrary, it seemed to be withdrawing into its shell, ashamed and scared. The Arab countries, Russia, France and half the world were against it – how could it hit back? Maybe the Governor is right and the Jews are being crushed under our soldiers’ boots, and perhaps the people here know instinctively that nothing bad can happen to them and neither they nor their city are in any danger.
Someone recognised him and asked about the news. Two anxious elderly men stopped to listen.
“If I tell you, who will buy the special edition of my newspaper?” he joked, then told them what the Governor had said. They broke into cheers for Nasser and for the King. He smiled faintly at these simple people’s naive enthusiasm.
Suddenly he noticed that his legs had carried him to the Haram al-Sharif, the place that the Jews called the Temple Mount and which they longed to seize. If they managed to break into the city they would no doubt go there. But what was the best observation post from which to see it? Of course, in the Church of the Redeemer, or rather on its roof! He began to hurry towards the Bab el-Amoud, the Damascus Gate.
Even this gateway to the Old City, which was usually lively
and crowded, was all but empty. The stone carvings, the loopholes and observation posts built by Suleiman the Magnificent, normally obscured by the tumult of everyday life, could be seen in all their glory.
Having descended the steps of the ancient Roman Cardo he stepped onto the Via Dolorosa. He stood for a moment on the worn paving-stones of the path followed by the Saviour, in the place where he stumbled under the weight of the cross. Are the Jews about to crush us under a new cross? he wondered. He felt the irritating cough starting again and hurried on. In a few moments he reached the church. Climbing its narrow, twisting stairs was increasingly difficult and he felt acutely short of breath. I’m no longer young, he said to himself, and mustered his remaining strength to reach the top. Once there, he clutched at the railing and tried to catch his breath.
“
Sabah al-khair
, good morning, Abu George!” said a familiar voice.
“Oh, good morning, Abu Shawkat!” he greeted the
well-known
photographer. “What are you doing here? You brought the child, too,” he added, stroking the little boy’s head.
The three stood side by side in the narrow gallery beneath the roof of the Church of the Redeemer and gazed at the expansive view. Before their eyes the Dome of the Rock glittered brilliantly in the sunshine, spreading a golden glow all around. To its right, the dome of the mosque of al-Aqsa looked dull and shabby by comparison. Why don’t they polish it, Abu George wondered. Before him lay al-Balad, the city, to which they did not add “the Old”, as did the Jews. Such a small place, yet it was the foundation stone, the bedrock and source of countless Arab traditions passed down from generation to generation for thirteen hundred years.