ABOU WAS GROGGY when he awoke, still sleepy yet unable to fall asleep again. He listened to Akbar’s small voice asking what he was getting in his lunch pail.
“Oh, you will be happy today, young Akbar,” Sophia said seriously. “Funny, I thought I had cookies in this jar. Well, anyway, I obtained an apple yesterday and it is already waiting in your box for lunch. But no cheating. You must promise not to eat it in class while the teacher isn’t looking.”
“I would never,” he protested, delighted with the treat. “I will save it. Perhaps I shall share it.”
“That would be nice,” his mother replied. “But don’t give away more than a quarter. You need fruit to make you strong.”
“As my father?”
Sophia hesitated. “Yes, as strong as your father. Now finish your breakfast and be off.”
“Can I visit Grandfather after school?”
“Yes, and come home with him, too. I will be waiting for you men with a hearty supper.”
Abou could hear the baby mewing like a kitten. He waited until he heard the gate latch fall, which meant that Akbar was gone, and the shuffle of feet that indicated Sophia was in the rear of the house preparing to feed the baby, before he rose and made his way to the latrine behind the house. He found a portion of the day’s paper left by a neighbor. As Abou sat there, he read of the Israeli official response to the killing of their soldiers at the checkpoint. Words like “measured response” and “provocative acts” sprinkled the pages like dust. Down in the far corner of the last page was a short item about how the mother of one of the dead soldiers pleaded with the Jewish leadership to seek peace. Abou read the words over and over, wondering if this were the mother of his young trooper.
Abou sighed deeply, dreadfully tired of living amid such strife, killing, and reprisals. Suddenly, two things happened. He evacuated his bowels and his mind cleared as he muttered aloud, “This violence must stop! It doesn’t matter who is right or wrong. It simply must stop!”
His spoken words shocked him. Although skeptical at times, never had he seriously questioned the rectitude of the Palestinian cause. He had mouthed appropriate words about the desirability of peace, but he realized that it was always a peace that better suited the Arabs than the Jews. Fifty-odd years of mayhem was enough. He thought again of the young Israeli soldier who had given him the headache tablet. He was probably gone from the earth forever, dead for no other reason than some intangible advantage in what seemed an endless struggle. Abou decided there should be no winners or losers. The hostility should just end.
After cleaning himself with his left hand, Abou marched back to the house determined to make his new thoughts known. When he entered the kitchen, he said, “This killing must stop, Sophia! We must stop killing the Jews and they must stop killing us.”
Mixing dough with her strong fingers, she looked at him and said, “That would be nice, Papa. Have you been at the cookies? I thought I had more.” When he looked away to cover his embarrassment, she asked, “Who is to tell both sides?”
“I shall,” he replied, deciding to ignore the question about the sweets. Certainly this wasn’t the time to explain about Cohen’s sweet tooth. “Our lives are intolerable. Confrontation has led to nothing but death, poverty, and hatred. That young Israeli gave me medicine and is now dead.”
“He also participated in your getting knocked about. If he is dead, I am sorry, but what he was doing was wrong. We were bothering nobody. Why force us off our bus and beat you on the head?”
“None of it is right,” Abou replied. “This strife is absolute madness. I intend to tell anyone who will listen that violence must stop on both sides. We should simply give up fighting. If the Israelis don’t, so be it.”
Sophia shrugged and muttered, “You are elderly and most people will ignore what you say, so hopefully no harm will come to you.”
Abou looked at his daughter in shock. “So, if you are old, you can speak the truth without fearing retaliation, but if you are young, you must be close-mouthed for self-preservation.”
She kneaded the dough vigorously. “I do not want to hurt your feelings, Papa, but you know this is true. One must be careful about what one says. Only the aged or the demented can speak the truth, and it’s even better if you are both old and demented.”
Abou nodded slowly. “You are a wise young woman, Sophia. Sadly, I must admit you are right. But I, and people like me, should try to end this foolishness. I have known some peace in my lifetime, but your entire life has been enveloped in hatred and war.”
“We know nothing else,” she admitted. “And probably my children will know nothing else.”
Abou laughed. “I will be prudent, but I want others to know that everyone doesn’t approve of this never-ending struggle. I can only hope there is one old, demented Jew who thinks the same as I.”
“We can only hope,” Sophia replied with a smile. “You will be with the children this afternoon?”
“Oh, yes,” he replied, watching her work the dough into a tough pile, then beat it down with vigor. “Have you decided about your husband?” he finally asked, unable to say Yasser’s name.
She shook her head. “No, I have not decided. I thought I had last night, but when I awoke this morning, I had doubts. I keep thinking it would be best for me to welcome him back. The children and I have no future here otherwise, but . . . I just don’t want him.”
She smiled weakly as she rolled the dough balls into flat bread. “Life becomes so uncertain,” she murmured. “When you are young, the dream seems so simple. Marry a wonderful man, have beautiful children, raise them, and then enjoy them when they are grown. But reality never seems to work out so well.”
“This will all work out, Sophia,” he assured her.
“You are a kind and thoughtful man, Papa,” she replied.
Abou blushed. He was not used to such compliments. “I must hurry,” he said in a low voice. “First thing, I must ask Marwan to lend me a book. I do not want to disappoint the children. If he won’t lend it to me, I shall have to find pictures of animals somewhere.”
Abou dressed and left the house hurriedly, rushing down the roadway, feeling the hot, gritty sand between his toes. The sun was already beginning its daily task of baking the buildings, as well as the residents, stealing water from pails and wells, distorting the air so that it appeared as waves of heat. Abou slowed. It was not prudent to hurry in such weather.
Marwan’s office faced the street in front of his palatial home. Abou had been invited into the courtyard of the house once, years before, to enjoy mint tea in the shade of the fig and lemon trees. Marwan was sitting in the shade inside the doorway, fanning himself with a paper fan covered with Chinese characters. A large ceiling fan turned slowly, now and then striking a sluggish fly.
“Ah, Abou,” Marwan greeted him. “Come for more information on how to leave our great country?”
“No, my friend, unless you already have information about how I can leave with my family.”
“Not I,” Marwan admitted. “I have sent an inquiry, but I must be prudent. It is the sort of inquiry which could pique officials’ interest.”
Abou smiled. “I have come concerning another matter. I, and others, have been telling the children each afternoon about life years ago as our parents and grandparents lived it. The bank has donated the property, and my old herder’s tent is one of the exhibits. In any case, yesterday I somehow began telling them about strange animals around the world, and I made the sound a llama makes. Since the children had no idea what a llama was or what it looked like, I told them I would attempt to find a picture for them, and that is why I have come to you.”
“Why me?” Marwan questioned.
Abou shrugged. “Perhaps your extensive library might have a picture of a llama? I didn’t know where else to turn. I promised the children that I would try to bring it this afternoon.”
Against the encroaching sun, Marwan moved his chair backward and shaded his eyes as he looked up at Abou. “I find it odd that anybody would think I had such a picture. I’m surprised that anyone has thoughts about my library.”
“I just thought I would try you first.”
“And if unsuccessful?” Marwan asked. He was no fool, Abou decided.
“There is a little library behind the jail. It hasn’t much, but maybe it might have a picture book of animals.”
“Is Hamas sponsoring this?”
Abou was somewhat taken aback. “Hamas? Oh, the whole children’s program is under its auspices, I suppose, but the members seem far too busy to concern themselves with it. Yesterday there were a couple of their men there to help feed the children, and Hamid and myself to entertain with our tales, but Hamas seems too involved with its own political business to be concerned with us.”
Marwan stared a long time at Abou, obviously trying to decide upon his response. Slowly he said, “I have heard something of what’s going on. It’s a worthwhile endeavor, to give the children something educational to do after school.” Marwan looked steadily at Abou for a moment, and then continued, “Far too much of their time is spent in the streets selecting just the right rocks to hurl.”
Abou relaxed somewhat. “I have often thought we must find a way to reduce the tension. I wish to find a way to say that to the children.”
Marwan laughed. “I wouldn’t if I were you, as long as Hamas is involved with the project.”
“Perhaps,” Abou replied, unwilling to give up this new mission so easily. “But someone should say such things.”
“Granted,” Marwan answered, rising from his chair. “Come, we will see if I have such a book.”
They made their way through the courtyard and up a stairway. Marwan opened a door and Abou found himself in a room, an office by the looks of the computer (Abou had not known there was one in the village) on one desk and papers with open law books on a second, but what startled Abou most were the books. The walls were lined with them. Abou tried not to gawk, but he read the titles rapidly, afire with a desire to draw out the substance of this one or that.
“My wife loves to read,” Marwan said.
“It is remarkable,” Abou replied in awe. “I have not seen so many books since I was in New York and my friend took me to this huge library in the center of the city.”
“And you? Do you own many books?”
Abou raised a hand. “No, I survive on periodicals. Yasser, my son-in-law, brought old magazines and newspapers home from his shop and I would read them, as would Sophia, but not to his knowledge. He doesn’t approve of women reading, but he thought my reading harmless.”
Marwan pulled a cord on the wall and gestured for Abou to sit. “Perhaps some tea?”
Abou hesitated. “I can’t stay long. I must try to find the book with the picture of the llama, if you don’t have one.”
“I have such a picture. I will lend you the book to show to the children. But try to keep it clean, will you? It is a book my wife and I dote upon.”
“I shall be very careful. I would not want to disappoint the children, and I shall be careful about what I promise in the future.”
Marwan continued, “You know, I haven’t met many people who just read whatever comes into their hands. My wife is like that.”
Abou waved his hand in embarrassment. “Please, you make too much of it. It is only lately I’m getting some insight into why we humans behave as we do.”
“You are?” Marwan replied. “How interesting. And these insights are coming from reading?”
Abou laughed. “You will think me an old fool, but I dream and matters somehow become very clear to me in my sleep. Sometimes I wonder if being asleep isn’t the real world and this is unreality.” He swept his hand around the library.
Marwan pursed his lips. “I have heard of people solving problems in their sleep. Are you one of those?”
Abou hesitated. “Last night, or more precisely this morning, but as a result of dreams I have been having, it came to me that there was never going to be any satisfactory resolution in fighting the Jews. That both sides should simply stop. Only then will we be able to talk of peace and stability.”
Marwan bent forward and said, “With whom have you shared this truth?”
“Just my daughter and you,” Abou replied.
“Don’t say such things in public, Abou. Hamas controls Helar and it would be taken amiss if they heard you were saying such things.”
“Perhaps I could seek the protection of the Islamic Jihad?” Abou suggested.
Marwan shook his head. “The Jihad, and for that matter Fatah, has little power in this area, and all three would oppose your idea in any case. The unilateral cessation of hostilities would be considered surrender by all three organizations, and by a vast majority of nonaligned Palestinians as well. These groups would laugh at your idealistic notions, and if it looked like anyone was taking you seriously, they would find a way to silence you.”
Abou replied, “I’ve been a loyal follower all my life. They would eliminate me for suggesting there might be a better way?”
Marwan shrugged. “Abou, these people are masters of intrigue and guile and have been nursed on hatred and weaned on mistrust. They will not tolerate dissent.”
“Perhaps you are right,” Abou conceded. “I shall be careful.”
Marwan rose. “Let me get you the book. My wife purchased it in Paris. Lovely plates of exotic animals throughout the world. If I remember correctly, it has a picture of a llama in it.”
Exotic Animals was extraordinary. Never in his life had Abou held such an expensive book. The photographs were sharp with beautiful color, exquisite shots of beasts from every corner of the world. He would certainly show the children the llama, but he vowed to himself that he would display as many pictures as he could in the time he had this afternoon, telling the children tales of as many animals as there was time. The picture of the llama was awe inspiring, set against a backdrop of majestic mountains. “It is very beautiful,” Abou whispered. “Could you give me something to wrap it in?” At the same time, he saw the price of the book inside the cover and gasped. It was more than his monthly pension check.
Marwan returned with a burlap shopping bag. “Perhaps it will inspire the children to get an education and travel the world.”
At the Camel’s Hump, Abou selected a table far from other customers. He ordered nothing, not wanting to take a chance of soiling the book. Carefully he began turning the pages and found a picture of a Laplander with a herd of reindeer. When he had casually mentioned reindeer, the children had not believed that deer could be domesticated, and Abou had assured them that the Laplanders used deer for work as Arabs used the irritable camel. The picture did not exactly prove his point, but at least the deer looked docile.
“What is it?” Hamid asked, approaching the out-of-the-way table. “Why are you sitting over here?
Abou smiled. “I have borrowed this book from Marwan and I wanted to look at it without soiling it.”
Hamid looked at the pages as Abou turned them. “What is that one?”
“An orangutan.”
“A strange-looking beast,” Hamid remarked, putting his leather pouch on the table. “You put my effort to shame, Abou. I gathered some material on computers. I understand that there is enormous information that can be gotten from those machines, and we don’t have one in Helar, but I thought the children should know about them. I am going to tell them about electronic mail around the world, too.”
Abou decided he wouldn’t correct Hamid about there being no computers in Helar. He thought it was just possible that Marwan would suffer if it were known he owned such a device, although Abou wasn’t quite sure why. “I think I’d better listen too, Hamid. Computers are a mystery to me.”
“I fear someday they will replace mail,” Hamid said sadly, looking at his satchel. “There will be no more letters.”
Abou put his hand on his friend’s arm. “If that is true, it is many years away. And in a way, it will make communication even more exciting. Just think of all the words flashing back and forth.”
Hamid nodded. “But the letter in hand means so much.” He was sad for a moment, then he brightened. “I’m told e-mail can be printed.”
“You are lucky to have such interest in writing,” Abou remarked.
Hamid smiled sheepishly. “Most think I’m just slow.”
“True,” Abou agreed cheerfully. “But most of us didn’t really understand what you were saying about communication. It is very important.”
“Sometimes I think I’m slow.”
Abou smiled. “You may be the wisest of us all. Absollah thinks only of his bank. Ammon has his business. Me? I don’t know what I think about.”
Hamid laughed. “You think about angels!”
The outside eating area had slowly filled with noonday customers. Ammon waved at them from the street and moved between the tables to join them.
“Hello. Why over here?”
“I was trying to protect a book Marwan lent me. I sat over here so that no coffee or tea would spill on it.”
“A book! What sort of book?” Ammon sat down.
“A book of animal pictures,” Abou replied. “I was foolish enough to promise the children that I would locate a picture of a llama for them to see.”
“A llama? I have never seen a llama,” Ammon replied. He reached for the book, but Abou intercepted him.
“You must be very careful,” he warned.
Ammon leafed slowly through the pages. “I have never seen many of these animals.”
“The world is certainly filled with strange creatures,” Hamid responded cheerfully.
Ammon looked at him sharply, closed the book, and handed it back. Something seemed to have suddenly darkened his mood.
“Is Absollah coming?” Abou asked.
Ammon nodded his head. “He said he would join us,” and, as if his words were revelatory, Absollah appeared at the table.
“I thought you had all decided to eat lunch somewhere else,” he said as he sat. “You are out of the way over here.”
Ammon replied, “It is Abou’s book. He must keep it clean.”
“A book?”
“For the children,” Abou explained. “I promised to find them a picture of a llama.”
“A llama?” Absollah repeated the last words. “How in the world did you find a picture of one?”
Abou smiled. “By chance. I had heard Marwan had a large library, so I asked him. I believe the book belonged to his wife, who reads a great deal.”
Hamid and Ammon exchanged glances. “Subversive,” Ammon said. “Women reading can only undermine our society.”
Hamid looked at him with a sour expression. “All our people should be able to read.” Abou said, “I thought I would talk to Khaled about offering the children some sort of tutoring. What do you think?”
“Splendid!” Absollah responded quickly. “Perhaps I can help with their mathematics, or some of my clerks for that matter, if they are not busy.”
“I shall mention you to Khaled,” Abou replied with a smile, enjoying the perfectly seasoned goat’s curd and lamb they had ordered after Abou put the book safely away. “And you, Ammon? Can you come some afternoon and tell the children about barbering?”
“I doubt if they’d be interested,” Ammon replied. “It is neither an exciting nor a lucrative profession.”
“You seem to be doing all right,” Absollah said. “Two barbers working for you. Not half bad.”
“I have been lucky,” Ammon replied, nibbling at his lunch. “My wife’s management has had more to do with it than my skill.”
“My, how strange a fellow you are, Ammon.” Abou murmured. “I thought hair was your whole life.”
“I have other interests,” the barber replied but didn’t amplify.
Absollah was the first to mention the Israeli intentions. “I cannot believe the Israelis are going to let pass the killing of their patrol.”
“Problems in their cabinet have caused the delay is what my customers are saying,” Ammon replied, seemingly relieved that the topic of conversation had shifted from him. “Ariel’s coalition is falling apart. Labor is in one minute, out the next, or so I hear.”
“Still, the Israelis never forgive or forget an attack. Something will happen. A tank strike. Commandos. Something.” Absollah was nodding his head as he spoke. “Their retribution is always so severe. You sometimes wonder why our people do these things when the response is so draconian.”
“Why indeed?” Abou replied, and lowered his voice. “I have decided that we should call for a cessation of fighting on both sides. This war will never end unless we stop, and hopefully they will also stop, too.”
The three looked at Abou in amazement.
“You are not saying this aloud,” Ammon whispered. “Are you?”
Before Abou could answer, Absollah whispered, “Such thoughts are dangerous, Abou. You could get us all killed. There is such a thing as guilt by association. People will remember we were your friends, and in our world it is much easier to kill someone you have doubts about than to examine their words and thoughts carefully.”
Absollah’s words were sobering. Even Hamid was nodding in agreement.
“I shall be careful. I don’t want any of you hurt,” Abou replied, “and I certainly don’t want to create more violence.”
“Absolutely not!” Absollah replied with a smile. “It would be very bad for business.”
WHEN AMMON AND ABSOLLAH DEPARTED, Abou and Hamid walked toward the bank. Abou carried the book against his chest, protecting it from being jostled by the crowd.
“Ammon seemed a bit out of sorts,” Hamid remarked.
“I think it is his wife,” Abou replied. “She is a very determined woman who is only interested in making money.”
They crossed the street to the bank and went to the back. Khaled’s men were working in the building at the rear, and one man was raking the lot, picking up the debris from the previous day.
“Khaled said the site must be cleaned each day,” the man told Abou.
“That is kind of him,” Abou replied and deposited the animal book in his tent. He brought out a stool and sat in the afternoon sun.
The warm sun had almost lulled Abou to sleep. His eyes were closed when he heard his name spoken. He found Yasser and Khaled standing before him. The younger man was looking down at his shabby sandals.
“He wishes to speak to you, Abou Ben Adhem, but he thinks you will not listen.” Khaled spoke in his deep, rumbling voice.
“Of course I will listen,” Abou replied. “I have a cushion in the tent.”
Khaled waved his hand. “I will leave you two.”
“I would speak to you, if you have the time,” Abou addressed Khaled. “Will you be here this afternoon?”
“Alas, no. One more big meeting today and then perhaps my men and I can devote more time to this project. But certainly, before I leave, I will come to talk to you.”
As the Hamas leader walked away, Yasser shuffled his feet. Finally, he said, “I was wrong, father-in-law. I was ashamed of my poor business dealings and didn’t want you to witness my failure. I thank you for providing a home for my wife and children.”
Abou shrugged. “These things happen. It is the will of Allah,” he said and thought at the same time that it was really the result of Yasser’s unfortunate personality.
“Sophia and I have been talking,” Yasser explained, and then hesitated. “We are unsure of the future.”
Again Abou shrugged. “It is something you will have to work out with her.”
Yasser nodded, a small smile flirting with the corner of his mouth. “You are too generous, Abou Ben Adhem. But first, before Sophia and I can make plans, I must find work. Khaled has said he will help me, as has our holy man, Ariis Malluk. And Khaled has promised me work within the Hamas organization. It wouldn’t be much money, I suppose, but it would be a job, and I have missed my son.” Abou noted there was no mention of the baby.
Abou nodded. “Akbar should be here soon.”
“I know. I thought I would wait to see him.” Yasser smiled his thin, humorless smile. “I will be working on the building in the rear and will come to see him when he arrives.” With a salute, he turned and strolled past the tent to the building in the rear, where men were carrying building material and wheelbarrows of debris in and out of the building. As Abou watched, he saw Yasser take an empty canvas carting bucket on his back and enter the building.
“He needed work,” Khaled said. He had come up behind Abou.
Abou looked the Hamas leader in the eyes, trying to divine Khaled’s intent in sponsoring a reconciliation between him and Yasser. The black eyes showed nothing, no humor, no malice. “You wished to talk to me?”
“Oh, yes.” Abou replied. “The suggestion was made that we might want to begin some sort of tutorial program for the children, help them with their reading and sums. Hamid and I would be happy to help. If you approve, and perhaps some of the men working for you could help, too.”
Khaled beamed. “A truly splendid idea, Abou. I must say, finding you has been a boon for the movement. We will begin planning tomorrow. Helping the children with their studies is generous. Perhaps we could read them poetry—Al-Mutanabbi or my favorite, Abu’l-’Ala al-Ma’arri.”
Somehow it surprised Abou that the Hamas leader cared for poetry.
Children began to appear at the edge of the property. Khaled took note, looking at his watch, and then saying, “The children’s snacks will be set out, and today we have a treat for them. We were able to obtain Coca-Cola. No ice, of course, but the children like it anyway. Another infernal product of the devilish Americans, but toothsome. They seem to have no end of these exports that seduce our people, but, as I said, the children like it.”
“Thank you,” Abou replied. He, himself, preferred Pepsi Cola.
“Sadly, I need all my men today. Can you and Hamid manage alone?”
“Yes, we can manage. Hamid is going to explain computers, and I will hand out the cakes and Coke.”
“You are a good man, Abou. You will be rewarded in heaven.”
“I had hoped for something a little sooner.”
Khaled looked at him sharply but said only, “I must be off. Tomorrow we will talk about your tutoring program. We shall return today before evening prayer.”
He stalked off, his men following as if mysteriously signaled. Abou watched as the workmen emptied out of the building in the rear. Even Yasser went along, evidently forgetting his plan to meet Akbar. Abou decided that Yasser was more deeply involved in Hamas than he had let on.
Akbar appeared and ran to his grandfather, who picked up the boy and gave him a huge kiss, which Akbar wiped away immediately.
“I wish to see a llama,” Akbar said when he was returned to earth. “You promised.”
“And I am a man of my word.”
“The children said there is no such animal, and the teacher wasn’t sure.”
“I shall show you such an animal, Grandson. It climbs the highest peaks of the Andes, faraway mountains in South America.”
Soon the area was filled with children and Abou handed out cola after cola. The cakes disappeared like magic, and soon twenty or so were seated around Hamid. Akbar was sitting right in front of the mailman, his face serious as he listened as Hamid explained how they could chat with people in Iceland (Impossible!) or China (Unbelievable!) and information was whizzing around the world as they spoke (Absurd!). Several of the children looked up at the sky as if expecting to see the whizzing words.
“All the books you read in a year can be stored on one of these small disks and you can play them back whenever you want,” Hamid explained, holding up a soiled CD he had procured somewhere.
“Why do people stay here where there are no CDs or Internets?” one of the little girls asked. There was sudden silence as the profundity of the question sunk in.
It was a question that Hamid had thought about. “They are like me. I came here from Cairo, a more populous area, but I liked it here, for it was quiet and everyone knew each other.”
The children frowned as if they disagreed with Hamid’s choice. Hamid ended his lesson with the suggestion they listen to Abou explain about the strange animals of the world.
Abou took his seat in front of the tent, and Hamid, Akbar on his lap, sat on the ground on the outer fringe of the group. His leather mail pouch lay beside him.
“I have found the picture of the llama,” Abou began. “Remember, I said I had heard one in a zoo and it made a sound like this.” Abou made the short trumpeting sound he had heard years before. The children laughed.
“This animal lives high in the mountains in South America,” Abou said, refreshing their memories, and pulled out Marwan’s book. Unwrapping it, he said, “Normally, I would pass this about and let all of you look at the pictures, but this book cost a great deal and was lent to us by Marwan, the attorney, so I shall turn the pages and show you the pictures, not only of the llama but of other strange animals. Is that satisfactory?”
There was a murmur of assent and the children edged closer. Abou suggested, “If you are big and can see well, perhaps you can sit in the back so the little ones can see.”
Several of the bigger children moved, but one wearing glasses, which were held together by wire and tape, sat where he was.
“First the llama,” Abou said, and opened the book to the place where the strange beast appeared. The children’s necks craned, their eyes bugged, and several shook their heads in disbelief.
“It looks like a woolly camel,” one boy said and the others agreed.
“I have read they are distant cousins,” Abou said. “I will have to look that up and make sure I’m correct.”
What they really wanted was to see the rest of the pictures in the book. Abou started from the beginning with the aard-vark. Each picture caused great excitement and discussion. Just as he reached the two-toed sloth, the distinctive sounds of helicopter rotors filled the air and a shadow suddenly crossed the pages of the book.
All looked up, and Abou, seeing the outline of the gunships, stared for a moment in disbelief and then, in spite of his natural reserve, yelled at the children to seek cover as he staggered to his feet, dropping Marwan’s book and grabbing a small child who was sitting close to him.
“Hurry! Under cover! Close to the buildings,” Abou called and, carrying the child in one arm, waved his other children to the back of the bank.
The first rocket exploded in the area where the swings and climbing bars were assembled, sending small fragments of metal in all directions. Soon a fusillade of stones, glass, and metal bombarded the whole area. A child in front of Abou fell to the ground holding his head. Grasping tighter the little boy he was carrying, Abou bellowed again at the children to seek the security of the bank’s wall. In terror, the children—those who weren’t lying wounded on the ground—dashed to the rear of the bank. Hamid ran toward Abou with Akbar in his arms, his leather satchel wrapped around the little boy like primitive armor.
The children clustered near the bank’s wall. A clerk opened the rear door and several of the youngsters crawled inside, but others huddled with their knees pulled up and their heads covered with their hands. Abou knelt, covering several children with his body.
The second rocket blasted the building that Hamas had been renovating in the rear of the lot. A fireball engulfed Abou’s tent. Stone and shards of metal and glass tore into the children, who screamed in terror. Abou felt a sharp pain in his shoulder and another on his cheek, and he saw blood dripping from his face onto the children beneath him.
And just as suddenly the helicopters were gone. Nothing was left but the wailing of the smaller children and the moans of the wounded. Abou looked down at one small boy and saw he wasn’t seriously hurt. Next to them, one of the girls who had stayed near the wall stared at him with huge black eyes. A great gouge of flesh had been torn from her upper arm. Abou hastily pulled up the hem of her chador and pressed the cloth into the wound, placing her hand on the compress to staunch the blood. He saw her thin legs exposed and vulnerable in the afternoon sun. “Press it hard,” he whispered.
Staggering to his feet, he turned and looked at the scene. Several children were lying quite still near the play area, and in the center, just ten feet from where Abou stood, Hamid lay facedown, his arms around Akbar, the leather pouch over the boy’s head. Neither moved, and Abou saw the great wound in Akbar’s back. Abou staggered to the bodies, touching his grandson’s throat for a pulse. There was nothing. Hamid’s face was twisted in a grimace, his eyes open. Abou again felt for a pulse. Nothing. A pool of blood was widening beneath Hamid and Akbar. Abou suddenly collapsed next to the bodies, sitting in the debris-strewn dirt, holding Akbar’s little hand.
People were running into the area, screaming and tearing at their hair in rage and despair. Two emergency vehicles appeared from nowhere, one an ambulance, the attendants running from the rear doors with medical bags and various emergency devices in hand.
Abou sat silently on the ground, holding Akbar’s small hand, feeling its warmth seep away. He touched Hamid’s shoulder gently, then bent forward and kissed Hamid’s cheek, one last gesture before his friend disappeared into eternity.
Khaled and his men appeared, cursing and shaking their fists at the sky, firing their weapons into the air. The leader stood by the bank wall, his great barrel of a chest expanded, and his deep voice cut through the din.
“These barbarians!” he stormed. “They, who complain of the Holocaust, butcher our children and attack our village without provocation! The world will know of this. Israel will not escape the condemnation of the world for this cowardly attack!”
Abou slowly removed Hamid’s arm from around Akbar, cradling the boy’s body against his chest. How the little fellow would have detested such a public show of affection, Abou thought, as he felt the boy’s hair against his face. A medical worker stopped next to them, checked Akbar and Hamid, and then, without a word, pressed the wound on Abou’s cheek together and put a plaster on it.
“You must have this tended to,” he said, looking at the old man’s shoulder. He applied a compress and taped it. “It must be cleaned and sewn.” Abou saw Yasser standing behind the medic, holding a stretcher, but he said nothing to Abou, staring at his dead son as if he were a stranger.
Abou nodded absently, still looking down at Hamid as he held Akbar. How would he ever be able to face Sophia’s grief? Unsteadily, he rose, first on his knees, and then with great effort to his feet, still holding the small boy in his arms.
“Tomorrow we will have a state funeral!” Khaled bellowed. “All Palestine will know of this atrocity and people will come from distant places to honor these dead! The whole world will know what cowardly swine the Israelis are!”
As Abou started to walk away, carrying his grandson in his arms, he saw Marwan’s book in the mud, the pages torn, the binding broken. He suddenly sobbed for his grandson, for his friend, for Marwan’s book.
Khaled saw him. “Abou Ben Adhem, you are wounded! Let me help!”
Abou turned and looked at the Hamas chieftain. “No,” he replied in a low voice, conserving what little strength he had left. “I must take Akbar to his mother.”
Absollah appeared from nowhere and followed his friend at a respectful distance, ready to lend a hand if needed but somehow understanding that Abou must carry Akbar by himself.
The trek home seemed endless, but Abou, clutching the body of his grandson, placed one foot ahead of the other until he finally reached his courtyard. Sophia was waiting. Other women were already there wailing for the dead, but Sophia stood silently.
“You should have let others bring Akbar home, my father,” she said in a soft voice, taking her son in her arms.
“I couldn’t,” Abou replied and suddenly sat on a bench in the courtyard. “I promised you I would bring him home.”
“Thank you,” she replied slowly, as if each word was painful. “We will take him inside and wash him in preparation for burial. Yasser’s mother is coming, as is his sister. Others will be here.”
Abou sat and watched his daughter carry the boy inside the house. The sun was gone and he sat in weary despair. Inside, the house lights came on and the anguish in the women’s voices seeped into the courtyard. Abou found himself going over the events of the day again and again in his mind, as if something he might have done could have changed them. He had no control over the liquidation of the Israeli patrol, and he certainly had no control over the Israeli response. Little Akbar and Hamid had been caught up in these events like twigs in a roaring river, flung about aimlessly.
Sophia came and offered him a hot cup of tea. “I do not know what I will do without him.”
Abou didn’t know what to say.
“I scolded him this morning for not keeping his robe clean.”
“He knew you loved him.”
Sophia nodded slowly. “Yes, I suppose he did. I never said that to him, but I suppose he did. It is not something you often say to a male child.” She didn’t keen, but Abou saw in the dim light the tears on her cheek.
“It is the will of Allah,” he murmured, hating the cliché even as he said it.
“It is the will of lunatics,” she hissed, “killing innocents for no good reason!”
“Yes,” Abou agreed. “That is true.”
“I hate them all,” Sophia cried out. “They have stolen Akbar’s life from him. They are thieves.”
At that moment, Khaled, with several of his men, entered the courtyard. The men all carried automatic weapons. “Abou, we have come to talk about tomorrow.”
Abou rose with some difficulty. His bones ached. “This is my daughter, Sophia, the mother of Akbar.”
“It is with great sorrow that we meet like this,” Khaled said with a deep bow. Sophia simply looked at him. “What we came to say is that Hamas wishes to conduct the funeral tomorrow for those who died in this slaughter of innocents, and we will also see to the burial. Those who died are heroes of Palestine and should be recognized as such.”
“My son is a hero?” Sophia asked. Her meaning was clear.
Holding up his hand, Khaled said, “He was just a little boy who had a right to live, but they took that from him and we feel partly responsible. We think it was our facility they wished to destroy.”
Sophia agreed with a short nod.
“Who else died?” Abou asked.
Khaled focused on him. “Hamid, of course, and two other children. One boy lost an eye and another child an arm.”
Sophia and Abou said nothing.
Khaled cleared his throat. “We will send an honor guard here at ten in the morning to bring Akbar’s body to the square near the mosque and then to the cemetery.”
Sophia and Abou remained silent.
“Yasser will lead the honor guard for Akbar. Again, we wish to express our deep sympathy.”
Their heavy boots pounded on the stones of the street as Khaled and his men disappeared into the night.
“I would prefer burying him quietly,” Sophia said with a sigh, “but Yasser would make a fuss if we rejected this honor.”
“It makes no difference to Akbar,” Abou replied wearily, sitting himself on the bench.
“And Hamid,” Sophia. “Poor, gentle Hamid.”
“He tried to save Akbar,” Abou said quietly. “He grabbed him up and was trying to shield him with his mail pouch when they were both hit.”
She sat beside him. After a time, she asked, “Why do you think the Israelis did this?”
“Retribution for their ambushed squad,” Abou replied. “The Hebrew bible calls for a life for a life. And we do the same. It is never-ending.”
“So it would seem,” she replied and stood. “I must rejoin the women. Akbar is in his shroud. I must help sew it.” She looked at her father in the dim light. “You should have your wounds tended.”
LATER, WHEN THE STREETS HAD EMPTIED, Abou made his way into the village and went to the hospital, which was, in fact, little more than a clinic, with inadequate lighting and sanitary facilities, little or no medicine, and an exhausted staff. The halls were still filled with the wounded and Abou waited for treatment. The hopeless poverty of his world became clear to him as he looked at the moaning victims.
After treatment, Abou walked slowly up the lanes to his house, feeling a little dizzy. He stopped several times on the way to steady himself but finally made it back to the courtyard. There were voices from inside the house. He simply could not face people just then. Waiting at the bottom of the garden, he looked up at the sky and thought of Akbar and Hamid, the postman.
Later, when the house had quieted, after Yasser and his tribe had departed, Abou went inside and stood beside the small white form on the table. He touched the boy’s shoulder under the shroud and wept. He could see Sophia sitting in the far corner of the kitchen among some neighborhood women, her back to him. She was hunched over, nursing the baby. The women around her were moaning in low voices.