On the Hills of God (14 page)

“Don’t be afraid, Mother. He’s too far from us now.”

“But there are others to be afraid for,” she said, reproachful. “How could you say a thing like that? Look at them, like ants. If the bomb goes off God knows how many will be killed.”

“Let’s hope not.”

Angry shouts flew from store owners whose goods had been knocked over. Someone picked up a huge ripe melon and threw it at the soldier. It hit him in the back of the head and he stumbled and fell on the cobblestone pavement. Before he could get up, the Arabs converged on him and held him to the ground.

“There’s a bomb on that man,” the soldier pleaded.

“He says you’re lying.”

“I’m telling you the God’s truth.”

“Shove it up your ass.”

Just then down the street the bomb went off with a horrible, deafening blast. But the screaming was even louder than the sound of the explosion.

“Oh no . . . oh no!” said Yousif’s mother.

The roof of the arcade was blown away. Soon the pedestrians were showered with rubble. A dozen men and women were piled up in the middle of the narrow street, rendering it impassable. Dust particles danced in the sun rays like those in the beam of a motion picture projector. Goods were now the color of dry clay. Blood oozed from the arm of one man nearby, and Yousif rushed to help. Images of Amin flashed in his mind and he envisioned an amputation.

“You need to cover it from all the dust,” Yousif warned the injured man, offering him a handkerchief.

“Aaaaaahhh . . .” the man cried, not heeding Yousif.

It was a cry among many. Here was a ten-year old girl yelling for help and squeezing her right eye. When Yousif tried to help her she pushed him away, groping for whomever had been with her. There was a crying woman with her headdress knocked off. A wound as wide as a pencil ran from her right ear to below her chin. Mothers were calling for their children. Children were lost and hurt. Silk scarfs, leather hassocks, embroidered vests were scattered everywhere. Earthen jars full of honey, molasses, and sesame oil had broken open. Sweet and tangy smells filled the air.

Yousif slipped over a box of
halkum
and a jar of pistachio nuts, catching himself in time. He was pulling a bald-headed old man up, when he heard his own mother calling.

“Yousif, what are you doing?” she reproached. “Let’s get out of here. I’m about to die.”

She did look crimson, but Yousif knew she was prone to exaggeration. He wanted to stay and help out, yet he couldn’t abandon his own mother. After all, her blood pressure was a problem. He pushed his way toward her.

“Come on,” he obliged, putting his arm around her and hurrying her away.

In the rush to escape, they failed to turn on
souk
Khan iz-Zait, which would have taken them to the
Qiyameh,
where Yousif’s mother had wanted to light a candle. Instead they were on Via Dolorosa and then al-Wad Road, stopping every now and then to catch their breath. When they reached the Khalidiyeh Library, at the corner of the Jewish Quarter, they slowed down so as not to arouse suspicion. On the top of a few roofs Yousif could see Jewish men looking at them down the barrel of a gun. He kept it to himself lest his mother become alarmed.

They turned right on Bab al-Silsilah Road, crossing several streets until they got to Omar Square, just inside Jaffa Gate. It was not twelve o’clock yet but she was too tired to go any further. To the right, less than a block from the Tourist Information Center, was a small restaurant in a dark alcove. She wanted to stop there and freshen up and have a glass of water. She needed to take the pills for her high blood pressure. But the restaurant was closed.

“Let’s go to Al-Amad just outside the gate,” Yousif told her, remembering a place famous for its kabab. He could almost smell the appetizing aroma drifting from the popular restaurant.

“No, let’s stay in the old city for a while,” she told him, leaning against a wall. “We’re not far from the Qiyameh. Now that we’re here we might as well visit.”

Yousif stared at her. “I don’t think we should. This town is terrifying. If we get stuck here we might not be able to make it home tonight.”

“What about Makram? We told him to meet us at three o’clock. It’s not twelve yet.”

“Knowing him I bet he’s waiting for us already.”

But getting out of the old city was not as easy as they had thought. The British police had blocked Jaffa Gate.

“What now?” his mother asked, still frightened.

“They’re not letting anybody out.”

“What for?”

“There may be others carrying bombs.”

“Talk to that soldier. Tell him I have high blood pressure. I can’t stand this.”

“It wouldn’t do any good. We’ve got to wait in line.”

“I wonder how many people were killed.”

“Who knows.”

“I should’ve listened to your father. We chose the wrong day to come.”

“From now on every day will be the wrong day.”

The soldiers began to search the line, one by one. There was lightning in the sky and then shattering thunder in the heavens. Most people looked startled, suspecting another explosion.

While his mother leaned on his shoulder, Yousif inspected the scene. In front of him was the Citadel, which the Jews liked to call the Citadel of David, although it was built centuries after David was dead and buried. The Jews wanted the whole thing whether it was theirs or not, he mused, and that was the root of the whole problem. The citadel itself was an imposing fortress that had defied many conquerors. Next to it was a minaret. Beyond it were the Armenian and Jewish Quarters with more churches and synagogues than the rest of Jerusalem.

Behind him was the Christian Quarter and the old Terra Sancta, where his father had gone to school before going to Columbia. Next to Terra Sancta was the Greek Orthodox Patriarchate, which was only two blocks from the Freres School. He had been enough times to Jerusalem, especially the old city, to know it like the back of his hand. And his mother was even more familiar with every brick and every cobblestone.

The multi-faceted character of Jerusalem had always fascinated Yousif. Within that ancient wall were the Holy Sepulchre, the Wailing Wall, and the Dome of the Rock—holy monuments of Christianity, Judaism, and Islam—all proclaiming the same God. No wonder even the misguided United Nations had insisted on internationalizing Jerusalem. Truly, it was a legacy for all mankind. Yet, Yousif’s heart ached. He knew that for this Holy City doomsday had come.

“I wonder who that man was?” Yousif whispered.

“What man?” his mother said, her eyes searching the crowd.

“The one with the bomb. What was he up to? Where was he taking it? Who’s behind him?”

“Who knows. I feel sorry for his mother.”

“Not for him? Not for his father?”

“For them too. But mainly for his mother.”

Soon, Yousif thought, the man who had carried the bomb would be called a martyr. What a euphemism for ugly death! Thousands of martyrs would follow. Mothers of Jerusalem, you might as well start crying. Your sons may be snuffed in their prime. Yousif took a deep breath. At that very moment, he thought, men on both sides were already stalking each other. Who were the Arab groups? Did Basim know them? Who was their leader? What plans did they have? What were the enemy’s plans? The word enemy sounded harsh. But, El-Quds, the holy city of Jerusalem, was rapidly becoming a battleground. Who would be the victim? Who the victor? His heart ached for both.

Again, Yousif wondered what had happened to Isaac. He had not seen him in a few days. Could he be in Jerusalem right now? With whom . . . doing what? Yousif wanted to know. Above all, he wanted to know that he was safe. He also wanted to know if this was a precursor of a longer separation. Was their friendship doomed to be one of the casualties of war? Aunt Sarah had predicted it. And old people seemed to know.

After about an hour, Yousif and his mother were frisked and allowed to go. Outside the gate, the mother, looking wan, thanked God they were still alive. The labyrinth of Old Jerusalem had been so claustrophobic and gloomy, they were glad to breathe the fresh outdoor air. She leaned against the wall for a moment of rest, her face ashen and her breathing heavy.

Looking at new Jerusalem from where they were standing, Yousif could see Mamilla Street. Far above it, in the middle of the slope, was Mea Shearim. Every time he had come here with his mother to visit his grandparents or his aunt, she would buy him something from the Jewish shops on these streets. The best football he had ever owned came from one of them. So did the velvety yellow suit with the brown leather buttons he had loved so much.

Those streets were now off limits for him and his mother, simply because they were Arabs. Only a fool would dare set foot in the enemy’s neighborhood. His eyes sweeping over the hills before him, Yousif could see a reminder of the violence to come. Right next to the YMCA was the King David Hotel, which the Zionist underground terrorist organization, the Irgun, had bombed fourteen months earlier, killing ninety-six innocent people, wounding many more, and shocking the whole civilized world.

In front of Jaffa Gate were three dilapidated buses with great numbers of people waiting in line to go to Jaffa or Bethlehem or Hebron. Every time a taxi appeared, men, anxious to get their wives and children out of the city, ran to meet it. There was no sense fighting the crowd, Yousif decided. After all, the walk to Barclays Bank should not be too difficult. They would rest at Al-Amad Restaurant, then go on to meet Makram.

“You don’t mind walking up the hill?” Yousif asked his mother.

She looked dismayed. “I do, but there’s no sense waiting. Let’s go.”

They started up the incline, walking parallel to the Old City’s wall. Just before they went around the bend, Yousif saw a van on Mamilla Street make a left. It stopped in the middle of the street—about a hundred yards in front of them. Two men opened the back of the truck: one stayed on top and the other got down. They seemed to be in a big hurry. Together they lowered a ramp, easing out two large oil barrels. Then the one already on the ground pushed them down the street, one after the other. Instinctively, Yousif pulled his mother to his side.

“Something terrible is about to happen,” he predicted. “Look at these barrels rushing toward the bus stop.”

“What do you suppose is in them?” she asked.

“Dynamite! What else.”

“Oh, God!” she said, clinging to him.

As the barrels rumbled on the wet asphalt, Yousif panicked. Pedestrians were going about their business, unaware of what had taken place. Yousif screamed for them to watch out. Then he turned around to take down the tag number of the van that had deposited the barrels, but it had vanished. Men and women stopped to watch. Many more rushed inside buildings to hide. Customers from Al-Amad restaurant stepped out, napkins in hand. Shoppers coming out of Spenny’s with packages under their arms, looked bewildered.

“What did you see?” they all wanted to know.

Yousif pointed to the two barrels still rolling down the street between two lines of curiosity seekers who had gathered on the sidewalks.

“They’re booby-trapped,” he said, excited.

Fear spread like brush fire. People began to run.

“If they are booby-trapped,” said a sullen man wearing a loose neck-tie, “they’ll explode on impact.”

One barrel careened toward the sidewalk. They all gasped. Yousif saw some men put their hands to their ears and back away, expecting an explosion. Miraculously, the barrel straightened itself out and kept heading toward the unsuspecting crowd at the bus stop. The other barrel got caught between two vehicles trying to pass each other in order to avoid it. Crushed between the two cars, the dynamite within exploded with a deafening roar. The two cars were now pieces of metal flying in all directions. Spilled gas and oil quickly burst into flames. A bearded photographer who had been standing on the sidewalk snapping pictures was among the first victims. With the camera’s black, old-fashioned sleeve over his head, he was flattened against a wall. He had no idea what had hit him. When he finally removed the cloth from his eyes, he was aghast. Besides the mayhem in the street, he saw his camera twisted and felt tongues of fire lapping up his legs. An artist to the end, the old photographer tried to snap his last picture. Touched and horrified, Yousif shut his eyes and said a quick prayer. When he found the courage to open his eyes again, he saw that the man had already been charred. Fire was consuming him like a bag of bones. Tears flowed out of Yousif’s eyes. Where was the camera to photograph the cameraman for the whole world to see!

“Oh, no!” Yousif yelled, running to the middle of the street to snatch up a little girl from the spreading flames. A wave of hot air enveloped him as he bent down to pick her up. She filled his ears with screams. Where were her parents? She was no more than two or three and beyond herself, beating on him with hands and arms, and kicking him with her knees and feet. What if her parents were already dead? he thought. He didn’t know for whom to cry. There were so many injured people. Both sides of the street were littered with bodies. Finally a young man in his late twenties yelled at them from a few yards away.

“Lamia!” the man cried, weaving his way toward her with open arms.