On the Hills of God (26 page)

To break the silence, Yousif told them about the church having been bombed to the ground during World War I. Painful memories seemed to catapult the older men and women to three decades earlier.

“I remember something else,” Dr. Afifi said, lighting a cigarette. “One winter, the Turkish soldiers tore down our wooden doors and window frames and burned them in the middle of our floors to make fire.”

“Fire?” Jihan asked, surprised.

“Yes, to warm themselves,” her husband continued. “In the middle of our floors. There were no chimneys, and no ventilation of any kind. The smoke filled the rooms. The walls and the ceilings were covered with soot. It was heartless. They burned the wood but kept the hinges and bolts.”

“What for?” Yousif asked, keeping an eye on Salwa.

“Iron was scarce then, and they could sell it,” Dr. Afifi explained, putting the burned-out match in the cuff of his pants. “They even tried to sell it back to us. Imagine!”

Yousif shifted on his feet again, but his posture was getting awkward. Even at a distance, Salwa seemed delighted by his discomfort. To please her further, he sat on the floor.

“The Mutran house,” Dr. Afifi continued, “the one on top of the hill—not too far from your house, Yousif—was used as a school. It was one of the biggest homes in town at that time. Six spacious rooms and a magnificent corridor that could hold a hundred people. You can still see where the Turks had their fire. In the middle of that beautiful marble floor there’s a black spot this big,” he said, motioning with both arms to indicate the enormous circle.

“That’s what happens when your country is occupied,” said Yousif.

Yousif walked off, uncertain. Jihan must’ve noticed him staring in Salwa’s direction. Perhaps it was foolish of him to show his emotions so openly. And Salwa herself was a puzzle. How should he read the way she looked at him? She seemed ambivalent about her father. Was she regretting what she had done? Was she miserable because the unwanted engagement had taken place, or because he had failed to prevent it? He was worried that she perhaps thought less of him now.

But she wasn’t married yet, he told himself. There was still time to salvage the situation—to rescue both of them from a lifetime of disappointment. Could she help him out? Could he count on her to break off the engagement?

He waved a general goodbye to Jihan and the rest, and exchanged one more glance with Salwa.

By mid-morning, the church was like a carnival. People were eating, laughing, coughing, and, Yousif was willing to wager, farting. Babies cried, and men smoked while the priest delivered a homily.

Sitting in the aisle next to Yousif and his parents were a woman and her five-year-old boy. Suddenly the boy got up and threw his arms around his mother’s neck. He whispered in her ear something that must have been shocking, for the expression on her face was mock horror.

“Now?” she asked, her eyes widening.

“Yes, Mama. I’ve got to . . .”

“Oh, dear . . . oh, dear,” said the mother, then turned around and told the others. “Hold your stomach,” his mother told him. “Control yourself.”

“I can’t, Mama. My stomach hurts.”

“Yes, you can,” his mother snapped, looking agitated.

A soldier appeared and she waved for him, indicating that she had something important to ask him. The soldier ignored her. A minute later, another soldier passed by.

“Mister,” the mother pleaded, “my son is ill. Please let me take him out. Please, mister.”

“Everybody’s son is ill,” the soldier replied and walked away.

Yousif saw the pitiful look in the boy’s eyes, and felt sorry for his mother, who was on the verge of tears.

“This is an emergency,” Yousif pleaded with the soldier. “Let her take him out.”

“Sit down,” the soldier ordered him.

“Common decency . . .”

“I said sit down,” the soldier insisted, raising the butt of his rifle.

Yousif felt his mother’s hand pulling him down, and heard her remind him how they had hit his father.

“Where is your friend Captain Malloy?” Yousif asked. “Only a month ago he came to wish us Merry Christmas.”

His father faltered. “He may be out of town.”

“May he rot in hell,” Yousif said.

The little boy began to cry. A few seconds later nature had its way. Yousif saw fingers go up to tighten noses. Some laughed, some frowned. The boy’s tears began to fall. He didn’t seem to like being the center of attention.

“Did someone break a bottle of perfume?” an old lady jested, holding her nose and laughing.

To Yousif’s amazement, Father Mikhail was still preaching. He was speaking of Heaven and Hell. His words sounded hollow.

“Stop the singsong, Father,” one man shouted.

“Don’t waste your breath,” a second interrupted.

When the priest finished his sermon, a young man went up to the pulpit and began to recite a long, stirring political poem. Yousif knew him as a good student, but hadn’t realized that he was a poet. Yousif listened carefully. The words were melodious, the imagery provocative. People applauded several times and asked the poet to repeat a certain line. He obliged with a flourish.

“What do you think?” Yousif asked his father.

The doctor looked grim. “It will not defeat the Zionists,” he answered.

“But is he another Al-Ma’arri?”

The doctor raised his brows.

Soon another speaker was addressing the crowd. This one was a young attorney who had not been in practice for more than five months.

“When our capitals—Cairo, Damascus, and Baghdad—were the centers of knowledge and enlightenment,” the wiry speaker shouted, “the kings of Europe couldn’t read or write. When Europe was in the Dark Ages, our libraries contained millions of volumes and our scientists were making gigantic strides in all branches of science. When our people were taking luxurious baths, Oxford University considered such customs dangerous.”

The speaker had the audience in his palm. He was followed by ustaz Hakim.

Yousif nudged his father. “He’s good,” he said.

The short bouncy teacher clutched the pulpit with both hands. “All my life,” Hakim said, “I’ve been hearing too much talk, too much poetry, too much oration. I’m sick of it.”

Yousif led the applause. Hundreds of people joined.

“How long,” ustaz Hakim asked, “will all the poetry you’ve read and heard last in the face of the enemy’s guns?”

As usual, Yousif found ustaz Hakim articulate, sincere, and less sentimental than the poet who’d painted the same rosy picture other poets had painted a thousand times before—and less infatuated with a past that was a thousand years old. Ustaz Hakim was a man of his time—with both feet on the ground. The crowd seemed to listen with respect.

“Why should the British,” ustaz Hakim demanded, “imprison an entire Arab town and search its every corner for a pocketknife when at the same time they are allowing the Zionists to train a whole army right here under our noses? Is this fair?”

“No,” the crowd responded.

“Why don’t they do something to the Zionists who hanged three of their policemen in Nathania only last week?”

“Yes,” the crowd shouted.

“These soldiers with guns in their hands must learn that no matter what they say or do we will defend our land, our homes, and our freedom. And we will not rest until Suhail Shammas—our own Rassass—and his friend George Pinkley are released from jail, the jail they went to because they dared to ask a soldier to pay the piaster he owed for a shoeshine.”

Before ustaz Hakim could go any further, two British soldiers pointed their guns at him and ordered him to step down. The crowd tensed. Soon the whole church was quiet. Ustaz Hakim seemed at a loss. Two soldiers stepped closer to him, motioning for him to step down. The teacher didn’t budge. One of the soldiers cocked his gun. Yousif waited. So did the whole crowd.

“Long live Palestine,” someone shouted, as ustaz Hakim stepped down from the pulpit.

Others echoed the cry.

A third man began singing “Mowtini,” one of Yousif’s favorite patriotic songs. Hundreds joined in. Faces were red and taut, eyes exhilarated, voices strong and compelling. Yousif joined the singing.

We, young men, will never get tired,

Our concern is to be either independent or annihilated.

We would rather drink death,

Than be slaves to our enemy.

A shot rang out above the voices. Then another. Yousif looked around to see who was firing. It was a soldier standing by the organ. The soldier cocked his gun again, but the crowd kept on singing. He fired a third shot, shattering a statue of the Virgin Mary into a thousand pieces. Still no one listened.

All the soldiers in the church scurried around, unslinging their rifles and pointing them at the people near the front door. Yousif did not know what that meant. Others looked confused. The women hid their faces, begging the soldiers to turn their guns away.

“Out, I said,” the soldier commanded, motioning with his gun.

Reluctantly, people began to exit. Yousif and his parents were among the first to breathe the fresh air. Several soldiers were already waiting to search them. The ninth or tenth to be searched was a woman named Miriam, whom Yousif did not know personally but had seen many times. She was in her late thirties, with silky black hair and marble-like neck. She crossed her arms against her chest as a tall thin soldier tried to search her. Her husband, whose wavy hair was parted in the middle, pulled her back.

“Don’t you dare,” the husband said to the soldier.

“All women are going to be searched,” the soldier told him.

“Not by you,” the husband insisted.

Another soldier walked up. His name was Swindle and he was known around town for his cruelty. There were many stories about him, all bad. It seemed he had a roving eye—for boys rather than girls. Consequently he had been beaten up by many fathers and transferred a number of times. The stigma followed him wherever he went.

“What’s going on?” officer Swindle asked.

Before the first soldier could answer, the husband interrupted. “Who’s going to search the women?”

“These soldiers,” Swindle replied.

“No they’re not.”

“Don’t be so brave,” the officer threatened him.

The husband wrapped his arm around his wife. “If they must be searched, then bring women to do the job. No man is going to touch them.”

Yousif admired the husband. So did all those around. The two men stood up to each other, eyeball to eyeball. But Miriam seemed frightened. She was pulling at her husband’s hand to restrain him.

“Lock him up,” officer Swindle said, flashing a contemptuous smile before walking away.

Instantly, two soldiers complied with the order. A third one tried to frisk Miriam. He put his hand on her chest and tried to explore her bosom. But she slapped him so hard he staggered and almost fell. But the soldier was determined. He tried to frisk her again. This time she buried her face in her hands, protecting her bosom with her elbows. She wailed so loudly that people began pushing their way out of the church to see what was happening.

The commotion seemed to displease the soldiers. They began to push away those who pressed around. The soldier tried to search Miriam again, though the imprint of her fingers was still on his face. But before he reached her, her husband grabbed him by the collar. Another Arab came to the husband’s aid and tried with both hands to yank the gun from the soldier.

Yousif could not believe that unarmed men could be so brave. The threat to the soldier brought back officer Swindle. With two quick cracks of his whip, he made the husband and his friend let go of the collar and the gun. Then Swindle hit the husband again on the side of his face and neck. But suddenly, in a flash of black fury the likes of which Yousif had never seen in his life, the hundred or so Arabs around pounced on the six soldiers in sight, until Yousif could only see a big pile of entangled bodies. Yousif was certain that the soldiers underneath would be buried alive.

“Stop, stop,” Yousif screamed, trying to hold back another man from jumping on top of the others.

The doctor was worried. “They’ve gone berserk,” he said.

Father and son began to untangle the pile of flesh. Even the women got involved. Yousif could hear some of them urge the men on as they tried to tear the soldiers limb from limb.

“If they kill one more soldier, may God help us,” Yasmin said.

“Enough, please, enough!” Miriam cried.

Other soldiers rushed out of the church. One blew a whistle. Another fired several shots in the air. A minute later the fight was over. Those who had been buried underneath were visibly shaken. Swindle looked like a sick dog.

“Lucky they didn’t suffocate,” Yousif said to his mother.

The doctor moved to the middle of the circle. He looked around, letting the Arabs know he had something to say. There was silence.

“Listen, Captain . . .” the doctor began, addressing officer Swindle.