55

A little before midnight, we drove in the direction of al-Qastal; people were asleep and a precautionary calm surrounded Jerusalem and its hills. Al-Qastal had fallen, as well as the villages of Khalda and Deir Muhsin. The Jews were able to end the siege and brought in a caravan comprised of forty large trucks filled with food and ammunition, under the protection of a plane that attacked the positions of the mujahideen and followed them as they fled, killing them all.

When we got closer to the location, there was total silence over the area. The lights of the settlements were shining in the night, showing the towers, the barbed wire, and the fences, while the Arab villages were completely dark and gripped with fear. The men spent their night in the open, on top of the roofs, between the rocks and the cactuses, their hands poised on their guns and their scythes. As soon as they saw us, they joined us, despite our leader’s warnings regarding our limited ammunition, which was hardly sufficient for us. It did not deter them. They joined us and kept quiet.

I was with the leader in his car. He was silent all the time, and whenever we passed a weak light, I would see his face or its blurred image close to me. His lips were moving, reciting Qur’anic verses or poems; it was not possible to know which. He was looking straight before him. We were sitting in the back and Rabie, our driver, and the leader’s guard Awad were sitting in the front seats. The rest of the commanders and the divisions had either preceded us or were following us. There was a nervous calm in the streets and the alleys, and total darkness covered the hills, villages, houses, and nearby farm.

The attack began with the advance of the Maymana forces under the command of Barakat and my brother Wahid. They began firing heavily from the west, to give the Jews the impression that the attack would be from the west, and that the battle was about to take place on the western edge of the village. While this was happening, we surrounded the foot of the mountain from all directions and we waited. But the Jews were waiting, too; they attacked the forces in the center, killed a large number of fighters, and wounded its commander, Abu Dayyeh. The group dispersed and the fighters spread out, their ammunition exhausted. Its members fell to the ground, some dead, others wounded. Some retreated and left with their empty guns. It looked like the campaign had failed from the start.

The leader lost his temper and raised his voice, threatening and menacing. Then he regained his calm and stood for a few seconds, thinking. I watched him with one hand on my heart and the other hand nervously on the Bren. He called me over and asked, “What do you think?”

I said, “We should withdraw and come back after we get reinforcements and arm ourselves better. It is clear that they have fortified their positions and were ready for an infiltration. The convoy must have provided them with more food and weapons. You see how they stood like human barricades.”

He shook his head and repeated the word after me: “Barricades, barricades. Yes, barricades.” He took my arm, said, “Come,” and pulled me to his car, where we had been standing a short while ago. Opening the trunk, he said, “Carry this.” He saw my hesitation and confusion, and realized that I was worried about dropping the Bren.

“This Bren is a real distraction for you. Toss it and help me carry.”

Confused, I said, “But it is my Bren!”

He took it from my hands, mumbling sarcastically, “His Bren, his Bren! We understand it is your Bren. No one will steal your Bren. Carry with me. Carry!”

There were boxes of dynamite. I understood his intention. His famous dynamite did not miss; it was sure and precise. We had talked so much about it, but dynamite during the night, in these conditions, at this distance, with us at the bottom and they at the top. They were in al-Qastal, with the burnt quarries of Jishar facing them; they were in a naturally fortified position, protected by the citadel and the barricades and tons of weapons. It is true that we had dynamite, but how could we take it to the top of the mountain? Who would fix it and light it?

“Who will carry the dynamite to the desired location?” I asked carefully.

He gave a muted laugh and said, “You and me.”

I whispered, panicking, “You and me! I don’t know how to plant them. I don’t know how to install explosives. I do not know how to—”

“Didn’t you receive training?”

“On installing explosives? I learned how to shoot and aim and how to use this Bren.”

“Damn the Bren! Forget the Bren and carry this with me.”

I asked once more, while carrying the first case, “Me and you?”

He did not reply, but put the case on top of the hood of the car and said to me, “Quick, call Awad, al-Yazouri, and Abu Tarboush. Quickly!”

I placed my case on top of the hood of the car, next to his case, and rushed to Awad, his guard. He was standing in front of the ambulance, surrounded by a number of fighters, some sitting on stones and others on larger rocks. They were watching the battle at the top, and the withdrawal of those escaping the fight, rolling down, the stones clicking under their feet, while the branches of the trees shook and broke as they passed them, unsteady. Awad and those around him were watching the dark sight before them as if it were a football match they did not like. They were nervous and put their hands on each other’s shoulders, silent and dejected.

There was silence everywhere and their eyes were fixed on the higher ground, while the night covered them and the weak moonlight projected on them was gray and pale. Despite the bullets and the sound of the cannons, I could hear clearly the sound of their breathing, their panting. At least that was how I felt. I was able to get close to Awad by shoving at the shoulders around him. I touched his shoulder and he jumped and turned violently, in a manner that surprised me. He was nervous and excited, and he was swearing. When he saw me, he said sharply, “Yes? Yes?” I told him what the leader had said. He moved a few steps and returned with two others. I assumed they were al-Yazouri and Abu Tarboush. They were tall, fat, and armed.

They stood with the leader and I stood behind them, trying to catch what they were whispering. I heard him say as he was pointing toward the east, “This is the bolt,” and I understood that the responsibility to explode the dynamite would not fall on my shoulders and those of the leader. I was somewhat relieved, but was still worried because I had not heard what had happened to the group coming from the right, led by Barakat and my brother Wahid. I saw anxiety on every face and I thought that the battle had ended and we had lost, because many were killed and wounded. Those who escaped were arriving one after the other, and the men would rush to help them and carry them to the ambulance where a priest and a nun were standing. This is all the medical help we had: a closed truck and a doctor priest wearing a white coat and a nun dressed in black. We had mercurochrome, injections, and bandages. We were three hundred fighters with limited ammunition and basic, almost nonexistent medical help, and a stubborn leader who refused to give up and ignored my advice to retreat. We also had a number of boxes of explosives that he had made and perfected in his lab, but that were not intended to be used in a decisive battle, in al-Qastal. They would destroy the barricades, the ones that I saw located far away, as far as Hell was from us. I thought the battle was over, and our withdrawal was almost certain and inescapable.

I saw him point once more to the eastern pillar and the lights of the tower. The men emptied the contents of the boxes into their pockets and walked toward the top from the opposite direction of the battle, while the defeated fighters were withdrawing, surrounded by the sound of the bullets and the roar of the cannons. Their grenades hit a rock or dug into the earth, and we received the splash of the shrapnel, forcing us to take cover behind the rocks and the cars.

The moon was a quarter or a third full, but it lit the area, together with the floodlights on the elevations. I could see ghosts moving or lying and hiding behind the ambulance car, and a weak light from the door of the truck showed the sister holding a rosary and praying. I remembered Widad and the women of the associations who organized the first aid groups, but none of them had come. Our movement was secret and the decision to attack was known only to the commanders; the individuals and the freedom fighters knew about it only when they gathered in the courtyard of the office and were bused to al-Qastal. Only one priest working in the clinic of one of the convents came to provide medical aid. He was a member of one of the national committees. He had been informed late, and brought with him a nun, first aid equipment, and bandages.

We waited a long time, but the explosion in the northern barricade did not take place. The bombardments continued with some intervals of respite, and the outcome of the battle seemed obvious. Our wounded got onto a truck that carried them to the Jerusalem hospital, but no one from the force who had attacked from the right appeared. We waited till dawn, hoping to gather our wounded or hear the explosion of the dynamite in the barricade, but no one appeared. I could hear the leader talking to himself, saying, “Come on, Awad. Come on, Yazouri and Abu Tarboush.” But Awad, Yazouri, and Abu Tarboush gave us no sign and there was no explosion. The ramparts remained as they were, lit before our own eyes, with electricity and floodlights. Every now and then we would see the fire from a tommy gun or a grenade far from us, as if it were aiming at the west. We expected the right wing to be still hiding or surrounded somewhere. That was what had prompted the leader to send the men to Qulounya for help.

Suddenly he got in the car, and we got in as well, myself, Rabie, and three others. We were five in the car and he was the sixth. He drove himself in the direction of the Jishar quarries facing al-Qastal. I saw the tree on the top, where Wahid and I had sat the morning of the day before. I remembered what Wahid had said and what I had heard from him the first time in the stable in Sanour. I remembered what he said about the loss and the damage and how he used to feel whenever he lost one of his men. Strangely enough, my feelings were not like his. I only felt fear and the beating of my heart, surrounded by the darkness of the place; I felt as if I were drowning, totally naked in hot water, then cold water, the sweat running down my back. Every now and then I would become aware of the others. I heard them breathing, or appealing to God for help, or whispering; then I would enter my own world again, within myself. I saw the ghost of the leader before me, as he was removing his hatta and his hair appeared uncombed, like a huge bird. I remembered that he had not been to the barber’s since we left Damascus, ten days or more ago. Most probably he had not bathed, and neither had I, but the smell of bullets hid the smell of our bodies. My underarms dripped sweat while April dew covered me with cool droplets. My eyes wandered, and my thoughts flitted between Jishar, my brother Wahid, and the tree, while the lights of al-Qastal were shining as if celebrating a wedding.

The leader jumped from the car and we followed him. He entered a small empty room, probably that of a guard or a farmer; it contained nothing but a mattress and was overlooking al-Qastal above Jishar.

He looked through his binoculars for a few minutes, then gave them to one of his companions and said, “Look, look! Watch there, from the left side, facing the north.” The man looked through the binoculars, then gave them to his friend, and they passed from hand to hand until they came to me and Rabie. We returned quickly and went straight to his car.

We opened the trunk and took a few boxes, emptied their contents into our pockets, and without question or answer, we walked together with him before us, and began climbing toward the summit where the fences were set. We had hardly advanced a few steps when al-Emari, al-Emad, and al-Musous caught up with us and called, “Wait, wait!” We waited for them and the three rushed toward the leader, surrounded him, and begged him to return and not take risks with his life because he was the leader and a leader did not have the right to take risks. I heard someone shout, surprised, “This can’t happen! It is impossible! This is suicide! You are the leader!” He freed himself from their grip while signaling with his arm, and we walked behind him. The three men stayed behind, uttering religious expressions and placing everything in God’s hands. One of them shouted loudly, “This is suicide! What will we do? If something happens to you, what will we do?”

Midway up, we stopped at a cave and removed our hattas so their whiteness wouldn’t betray us in the dark night. We split up, three moving in the direction of the eastern barricade and the leader and Rabie going west. I followed them, carrying my share of dynamite. I was carrying my beloved Bren on my back as well. We climbed like cats and crawled on our bellies like snakes.

Before reaching the summit, he gave me a signaling revolver and asked me to shoot twice when I saw him wave his hands. I had to remain behind the rock, hiding until he waved to me. I sat waiting in expectation, mumbling prayers and remembering all that had happened throughout the last week. I watched him climb to the top with Rabie. He was ahead, then slowed down and Rabie was ahead. Rabie was younger, much younger, but the leader was not forty yet—he would turn forty at dawn. He said to me on our way from Damascus to Amman that he would be forty on this day. His wife had called him and asked him to join her and the children on this day. She told him that she would cook a dish he loved, stuffed carrots in tamarind sauce; she had baked an apple cake with cinnamon and nutmeg, which she would decorate with four candles, each one marking ten years. He had looked into the distance far away from the window and said, “Poor Wajiha. She has been very patient with me.” I sensed that he felt guilty and I tried to cheer him up, telling him what I was enduring. I said that I would never marry because I was deeply in love with a woman who did not share my feelings, and her love burned my heart. He turned toward me, looked at me, and said, as if remembering, “You are right. Marriage for people in our situation is not convenient. But don’t you think that she is too old for you?” He did not refer to her religion like Widad did and he did not mention her name, but he seemed to know her and know about me. Everybody knew and maybe made fun of me behind my back. It was possible that Lisa derided me as well. Now, however, at this time of the night and on this mountain, over the thorns and the cold surface of the rocks, while my stomach was freezing and the dynamite was digging into my thigh, I saw no one but Lisa before me—not my mother’s face, not Wahid, nor Widad, and not even the leader who was in front of me. I saw only Lisa, her eyes, her smile, her short hair, and her lips when she was involved in discussions, when she laughed, and when she read my articles and my poems. When she smiled at me and encouraged me, saying, “Bravo, Amin! Bravo, bravo!” I blushed, my face turned dark, I became resentful and distressed, and I felt young—much younger.

He called and signaled to me; I resumed climbing. He saw me stumbling because of what I was carrying. My pockets were filled with dynamite and the Bren was slipping off my back, hitting the rock. I was concerned about it, Wahid’s last gift to me. He had deprived himself and given it to me.

“What’s wrong?” he said encouragingly. “Are you tired?”

I replied, trying to be funny and courageous, “This Bren is the source of a constant worry to me.”

He repeated my words, “This Bren is a constant worry to him! Damn the Bren. Although, frankly, this Bren is worth its weight. They have weapons that reach the ceiling and they thought it was too much to give us a few cannons, Stens, and Brens. This Bren is worth its weight—take good care of it.”

I said affectionately, remembering the right wing and what might happen to my brother, “It is a gift from my brother, may God protect him. What do you think? Did they escape or were they killed?”

“If they killed them, we would have known,” he said seriously. “I’m sure they are in an ambush. They are certainly waiting for the reservists and the rescue from Qulounya. I know this man Barakat—he is cunning and bright and has experience. He knows how to play tricks; he knows how to dodge the enemy. I do not fear for him or them, do not worry. What counts now is the dynamite and blasting through the barricades. If we succeed in blowing them up, as well as the ramparts, we will infiltrate them immediately. The most important thing now is the dynamite. How are you doing with it? Don’t drop it!”

I patted my swollen pockets and said anxiously, “The problem is not dropping them, but if they explode.”

“They won’t explode unless we light them,” he reassured me. “Don’t worry, don’t worry.”

I added, concerned, “Or if the Jews shoot at us and hit us.”

“Move, move! You are fainthearted! You are a poet and a journalist, good only for office work and files. I told you to stay there.”

I remembered Wahid scolding me, and I replied, breathless from the hard climb and the weight of the dynamite: “What is the use of poems and articles? Can I explode the barricade with a poem? One piece of dynamite is worth all the poems and the articles.”

“Well said! A hero and brave man. You take after Wahid, Sheikh al-Qahtan, and your sister Widad, God bless you.”

I thought about Wahid and felt my heart cower. Was it possible that they had been ambushed and were waiting for help from the reserves?

He said, panting, “I have truly grown older. Today I am forty years old. It is my birthday. If all goes well today, we will return to Jerusalem safely and you will come with me and eat carrots cooked in tamarind. Do you like carrots?”

“My mother does not cook carrots in tamarind.”

He asked, with exaggerated surprise, to make things appear normal, as if we were on a country outing, “She does not cook carrots in tamarind? And apple cake with cinnamon and nutmeg?”

I did not reply because I was rearranging the Bren on my back. He laughed, or so it seemed to me. “You in Nablus are famous for kunafeh. Kunafeh only, not cookies and not cake and not pies. Only kunafeh. But today, if God grants us safety and security, and we return to Jerusalem, you will come with me, God willing, and eat carrots cooked in tamarind and a spiced apple cake. Why are you silent? Are you afraid? Watch the rock! It’s slippery. Come to my side. Listen, listen.”

We heard some shots and a bomb. He remained in his place behind the rock and opened his ears, saying anxiously, “That bomb was thrown on the northern barricade. God only knows!”

I tried to turn and look in the direction of the northern barricade or under it, but could not see anything. We were surrounded by darkness despite the approach of dawn.

I said, “If they were hit, the dynamite would have exploded and the sound would have been much louder.”

He agreed with me: “You are right, you are right. Let’s go and catch up with Rabie.” Then he turned to me and said, “If Rabie and I are wounded or killed, this revolver is for signaling. You shoot twice for the group. Do you understand?”

I had a moment of panic as I imagined him being shot or killed together with Rabie, leaving me alone in the dark, in a Jewish area, in front of the barricade. I would be left alone with the bodies, and the mujahideen would leave me, and the Jews would come. I sought God’s help and forgiveness.

I said quickly, “May God’s will prevail, Leader. Let’s hope this happens to the enemy. I would give my life to save you. I hope I die. If I go, we will not be affected and the battle will continue. But if you go, Jerusalem will be lost and we will all go. You are the leader.”

“Don’t be pessimistic,” he said to reassure me. “Even if I go, there is a long line that would fill the ranks. I am certain that if all the leaders are killed, the young generation will carry on. This is a long story. The Damascus group, those stupid donkeys will soon be affected by the Nakhshun plan. It is unpleasant to remember them. However, Amin, if something happens to me, this revolver is for signaling. And take care of this Sten. Give it to Wahid to replace the Bren—a gift from me. You have a Bren and he has a Sten. Even the British would be afraid of you. It’s the weapons that count, don’t you agree? Those horrible people, if they had listened to us and given us weapons and helped us to win . . . God is our witness. But we must forget about them.”

I told him, as my heart was pounding, that the battle was not determined by a Sten or a Bren, or even a cannon and a plane; what counted was the leadership and the heroes, and the honor, skill, and devotion, and the education and discipline. We did not have a leader like you. All those who came before you were honorable and devoted. They gave a lot and did not hold back, but they were simple and counted on God for their success. You were different and the Damascus group was like mummies, fit for museums and preservation. He laughed and said, “Even mummies are too much for them. Talking about them is a heartbreaking subject. Forget them. We have arrived. Give me what you have. Rabie, you hold this and help me attach it. Keep the sticks aligned. Give me this side, reinforce the wire, and pull it, turn it, then pull, pull. Give me the remaining sticks. Give them to me . . . wait, let me pull. We are done. Pull the wire, and be careful not to cut the wire of the fuse. Stand back, quickly. We are done. Give me the matches. Ready? Ready? Put your hands over your head. Rabie, lie on your stomach and do not look. One, two. . . !”