On the Hills of God (25 page)

“Thirty minutes from now,” the lieutenant continued, hitting his pants legs with his billy club, “strict curfew will be imposed all over Ardallah. Once you get inside your homes, stay there till tomorrow morning. At six o’clock, everyone in town will go to the nearest church or mosque or to Cinema Firyal. Every home and dwelling place must be vacated. There will be no exceptions.”

It did not require a college degree, Yousif thought, to realize that they were going to turn Ardallah upside down in search of weapons, or that they were going to harass the citizenry until the killer was apprehended. But would they be able to put ten thousand people in one mosque, eight small churches, and a theater auditorium? Most of all, what would they do if the killer were never found?

“You
must
be at one of the designated places not later than seven o’clock,” the lieutenant said.

“Does that include women and children?” Yousif asked, mainly for the benefit of those who might not have understood him properly.

“I said everyone—men, women and children,” the lieutenant reiterated, “including pregnant women and the sick who are on their death beds. Understand? And be sure to leave all doors unlocked. I repeat: leave all doors unlocked: closets, cupboards, drawers. Everything. Maybe that will teach you not to hide criminals.”

They left the cafe like a herd of sheep, guns pointed at their heads. In the streets, military jeeps were circulating throughout the neighborhoods, booming on loudspeakers the lieutenant’s message.

“Should you fail to unlock your doors,” a soldier’s voice warned in the dark, “you can be sure the lock will be busted. To avoid damage to your property, do as you’re told: leave everything open. Repeat: leave everything open.”

Enveloped in darkness, walking home by his father’s side, Yousif had an inkling of the powerful troubles yet to come.

Early next morning, people headed toward the “prisons.” Mothers and fathers carried or dragged their sleepy children. British soldiers pushed and ordered them to move on. Yousif and his parents were no exception.

“Get going,” a soldier said to Yousif’s mother.

“You don’t have to push,” the doctor said to the officer. “We’re walking as fast as we can.”

“Shut up and keep moving,” the soldier ordered, jabbing his ribs with the butt of his gun.

“There are children,” the doctor complained. “They can’t walk faster. The parents’ arms are loaded, can’t you see? If you’re in such a hurry, why don’t you provide some transportation?”

“That’s your problem. We didn’t tell you to have so many pigs.”

Then the doctor became incensed. “Don’t call our children pigs,” he demanded.

The soldier turned angry. He smashed down the butt of his gun on the doctor’s shoulders so brutally that Yousif was afraid he might have broken his bones. Had it not been for so many people jammed against each other, his father would have fallen to the ground. The doctor closed his eyes, bit his lower lip, and leaned against his wife.

Yousif clenched his fist. “How dare you!” he shouted at the soldier.

Another soldier, sitting in a jeep barely crawling amidst thousands of marchers, slapped Yousif twice, once on each cheek. Yousif’s face turned red as he looked around for help.

Some of the marchers exchanged furtive looks. Then, as if on cue, several husky men lifted up the jeep about a foot off the ground. Quickly, a dozen billy clubs fell on their heads and backs from all directions. One soldier fired a round of bullets in the air. The marchers panicked, and the men finally dropped the jeep to the ground.

The officer in the jeep stood and faced the crowd. “Next time we won’t use billy clubs. We’ll bring tanks and crush you like bloody cockroaches. March on and keep your eyes to the ground.”

The crowd grumbled. One man refused to be silenced.

“Why don’t you lock up the Zionists?” he shouted. “They hanged three of your fellow soldiers in Nethania.”

The soldier pointed his gun at the crowd. “Who said that?”

No one answered. The crowd resumed walking.

Even children, Yousif noticed, were gripped by fear. Their faces were pale; their quiet unusual.

“What did he say, Mama?” a little boy asked his mother who was carrying him on her shoulder. “What did he say?”

“He said,” his mother answered, “when a foreign nation occupies your country, kick and fight and never stop. Because when you do, then it’s time to lie down and die.”

“We’re not going to die, are we? Are we, Mama?”

“No son. We’re just going to practice living in hell.”

Yousif felt his spine tingle. The rest of the crowd mumbled, groaned, and muttered their grievances.

The Roman Catholic Church in which Yousif and his family were imprisoned was by far the largest in town. It had a seating capacity of about three hundred, but was so overcrowded today that Yousif estimated two thousand must have been packed inside it.

“Do they think we are sardines?” Yousif asked.

“Shhh,” his mother admonished him.

“The hell with quiet,” Yousif said, sitting in the middle of an aisle.

Yousif searched about for Salwa but could not find her. People sat everywhere: on the choir balcony, around the altar, in the pews, on each other’s laps, wherever they could squeeze themselves. Some seemed to enjoy the warmth of cuddling and nestling so close together on a cold winter day in a church without a heating system. But soon it became suffocating. The church was as foul smelling as a barn.

“Why couldn’t they search our homes when we’re there?” Yasmin asked her husband. “No one would’ve stopped them. Not when they have these awful guns pointed at us.”

“We’d be too comfortable,” the doctor said, feeling his bruised left shoulder.

“Remember what the officer said?” Yousif reminded her. “We’re here to pay for the death of that policeman.”

The doctor exhaled. “Just pray they don’t hang that fellow Rassass. The only thing that might save him is that an Englishman was arrested, too. If they hang one they’d feel obliged to hang the other. So Rassass might be safe after all.”

“Don’t bet on it,” Yousif said. “Most likely they’d hang the Arab and let their own go free.”

A baby began to cry. The baby’s mother held him close, covered herself with her orange shawl, and took out her breast to feed him.

Yousif looked around the church with some nostalgia. This was his church, the one with which his school was affiliated. Here he had spent every Sunday and religious holiday, not only kneeling and praying, but singing in the choir or serving as an altar boy.

“I can still hear Father Saliba,” Yousif said to his parents, “standing in that corner telling us about the meaning of Communion—how to open our hearts and accept Christ.”

“If Father Saliba were alive,” his mother said, “he’d have a heart attack to see his church today.”

“I remember this church differently,” the doctor said, taking out his pipe and looking around to see if others were smoking. They were, so he opened his pouch to fill it.

“You’re not going to smoke, are you?” Yousif asked, shocked.

“God will forgive me,” his father said.

“I don’t think you should,” his wife admonished.

“I need something for my nerves,” her husband insisted. “As I was saying, back in World War I, the Turks used this place as a hospital. Their casualties were mounting, so they demanded from us mattresses, pillows, and blankets. But who had such things to spare? One was lucky to have a couple of mattresses for a whole family of six. People were poor. But what could we do? When the occupying power says do something, you do it. A week later, a British plane circled above this church, suspecting that it was being used for other purposes and dropped a couple of bombs. They went through the roof and blew the whole thing up—wounded and all.”

“Are you serious?” Yousif asked, fascinated. “I’ve never heard that.”

“The whole thing,” the doctor repeated, opening his right hand and blowing at his palm to show how the church-hospital had gone up in smoke.

“Oh,” his mother remembered. “I had forgotten about that.”

“They rebuilt it in 1922,” the doctor continued, striking a match and applying it to his pipe.

Yousif had to find Salwa. He had not seen her since the announcement of her engagement. He wondered what his reaction would be should they come face-to-face. Should he speak to her, ignore her, or tell her off? Could he find out why the wedding was postponed till next July? A suspicion lingered in his mind that she was stalling. He needed to know the truth so he could plan his next move. Would he ever see her—alone? He stood up and looked around. Too many people were standing and the church was packed.

Finally he spotted her by the right side door, not too far from the organ. She must have seen him first, for she was up on her feet looking at him. Taller than anyone around her, she scanned the scene and fiddled with her earrings. Yousif felt she was nervous . . . eager . . . anxious to know how he felt. She stood with her parents and a few relatives, including her barrel-chested cousin Shafiq who braved the January weather in a short-sleeved white shirt. Luckily, Adel Farhat was not at her side.

Yousif felt a lump in his throat. God, how much he loved her! He glared at her, trying desperately to stop his hand from waving. Seconds later she smiled like an aggrieved Madonna. But before her smile faded, her father must have grown suspicious, for he turned around and ordered her to sit down. Yousif watched her obey in quiet resignation.

Father Mikhail was holding Mass. To keep his mind off Salwa, Yousif watched worshipers make the sign of the cross and close their eyes piously. But the temptation to have a better look at her was too strong for him to stay still. A marble column was obstructing his line of vision. He rose to find a more suitable spot.

By chance Yousif was sitting in the back, near the main door. Salwa was sitting in the middle, on the other side of the aisle. To see her better, he’d have to walk down the middle aisle, go past her, and join someone as a pretext. Then he could turn around and look at her all he wanted—her father be damned.

Salwa was now talking to her mother, her back to him, having shifted in her seat in deference to her father. The pews and aisles were so crowded that Yousif had to be careful as he made his way across the church not to step on those squatting on the floor. He brushed against a man’s cigarette and knocked off its ashes. He looked behind him to make sure he hadn’t burned a hole in his pants. Before he reached the aisle that crossed the church from right to left, he was no more than ten feet from her and her family. He felt the back of his neck tighten as he was determined to look straight at her—in explicit defiance of her father.

“Yousif,” a young voice shouted from her side of the aisle.

Yousif turned around, surprised. It was Akram, her twelve-year old brother.

“Hi,” Yousif said, making sure that Salwa saw him.

“I did well in school,” Akram told him, beaming. “The teachers can’t believe the change in me. I didn’t tell them you were my tutor.”

“You’re a good student,” Yousif said, smiling. “Keep it up.”

“My report card was just as good,” ten-year-old Zuhair volunteered.

“I’m not surprised,” Yousif said. “I’m proud of both of you.”

Salwa fidgeted, her face crimson. Her father’s eyebrows were knit. Salwa’s mother was deliciously uncomfortable: glad to see him, but definitely aware of her husband’s restraining look.

“How are you enjoying this ordeal?” Yousif asked, eyeing them one by one, including cousin Shafiq, who looked too dim-witted to be a relative of theirs.

All eyes were on Yousif—except Salwa’s. She looked at her hands, her neck bent, reminding him of paintings of the Virgin Mary at the foot of the Cross.

“Can’t say we’re enjoying it,” her mother said, exploring his eyes for a hint of how badly he had been hurt. “Where are your parents?”

“Over there,” Yousif answered, pointing his finger.

“Well, how are they taking all this?” Salwa’s mother asked.

Yousif hesitated, hoping Salwa would look up.

“As well as can be expected,” Yousif answered. “With all this going on, who knows what will happen next. The best-laid plans can turn topsy-turvy.”

His veiled threat did not escape the father, whose face turned pale and eyelids appeared to stretch. Yousif’s ears seemed to filter out all the hubbub around him. It seemed as if he and Salwa and her parents were alone in the room. The rest of the church began to look unreal, almost a vacuum. During the long pause, Salwa looked up—her eyes sending shivers down Yousif’s spine. She looked disturbed.

Then Yousif moved on, unable to speak further. What words, what poetry, he thought, could express the hopes, the pain, the hungering that were mounting dizzily in his heart and mind.

Near the vestry, he came upon Dr. Fareed Afifi and his wife, Jihan, her hair tied back in a bun. With them were Uncle Boulus and Aunt Hilaneh, both looking dour. Next to them were their neighbors: the massive barber with the handlebar mustache and his snuff-snorting wife who cackled like a hen. Yousif had a strong feeling Jihan was bored stiff with her company.

“Aunt Jihan,” he said, standing behind her.

Jihan was startled, then delighted. “Yousif, can you believe this? We’re all prisoners. Fareed, look who’s here.”

“Well, hello,” Dr. Fareed said, extending his hand.

Yousif shook hands all around. Aunt Hilaneh motioned for him to bend down and give her a kiss. Jihan’s eyes were moist and her lids red, apparently from crying. But the tension had also made her giggly. Uncle Boulus went on clicking his
masbaha
, faster and louder than ever.

The barber’s wife, whom he called Aunt Imm Marshood, took out her snuff box and asked about his parents.

“They’re over there,” he pointed with his finger, casting an eye in Salwa’s direction. They were on opposite sides of the aisle, but at least they could still see each other. Her father was huddling with Shafiq.

“I heard about your bravery last night,” Dr. Afifi told Yousif.

“How?” Jihan asked, curious. “What did he do?”

“He tried to stop the fight at Zahrawi’s cafe,” her husband explained, “and all he got for it was a bang on the leg.”

“It still hurts too,” Yousif said, hiking his pants leg to show them the bruise.

“Aaaah!” Jihan exclaimed.

“You should’ve heard the interrogating officer,” he told them.

“What did he say?” Jihan asked.

“He was an idiot,” Yousif replied, watching Salwa watching him. “But what’s the use. Here we are like sheep obeying their commands.”

“It burns me up to know they’re getting away with it,” Jihan said, looking at the soldiers with contempt.

“Astonishing,” Yousif said.

They seemed to run out of anything to say. Yousif took the opportunity to watch the speaker at the pulpit and steal another look at Salwa. To his surprise her big almond-shaped eyes were darting from him to her father, then back to him.