On the Hills of God. Ibrahim Fawal

hospital in Jaffa.

      “We’re going to be late coming home,” Yousif told his mother.

      “How late?” she asked.

      “I have no idea. Father just said I’d better call you and tell you not to wait for us.”

      “I’m glad you did. Isaac has been by twice to see if I heard from you. How is Amin?”

      Yousif expelled his breath. “Pretty bad. He has developed gangrene.”

      “Oh, I’m so sorry. Is his arm in real danger?”

      “Absolutely. Maybe even his life. Father says if they can’t stop the gangrene from spreading it might kill him. Mother, can you believe all this?”

      “No, I can’t. It happened so fast.”

      “It’s that Abu Khalil. Every time I remember his blowing his damn nose while working on Amin’s hand . . .”

      “It’s just meant to be, son,” his mother said. “The death of the uncle, the trip to Gaza. None of this helped. It just piled up on poor Amin.”

      “If anything happens to him I don’t know what I’ll do.”

      “God forbid, nothing is going to happen to him. I’ll keep him in my prayers. And call me whenever you can. I’ll be right here.”

      “Mother, will you send a word to Isaac?”

      “No need to. I’m sure he’ll be back. He said he would.”

      After he hung up the receiver, Yousif sat in the hospital administrator’s office, thinking. The bright summer day began to grow dusky in his eyes. How quickly and mercilessly, he thought, could life turn on the least suspecting. A few days ago Amin was in pink condition, eager to catch lovers in the act. Now his arm was broken and his hand black and blue. Who would have thought this could happen overnight? Who would have thought one’s own life could be threatened when least expected? No wonder people did not trust happiness.

      They spent the night in Jaffa. But Yousif did not sleep. Early the next morning he called his mother again, sounding more and more depressed. The gangrene, he said, could be stopped only by amputation. That was in the morning. By late afternoon, Amin’s left arm had been cut off above the elbow.

      A curtain of gloom descended on the doctor and his family when they sat that night on the balcony. Yousif’s heart and mind throbbed with sorrow for Amin, as he looked around the circle of friends and relatives. Several neighbors were there. One was a barber who catered to the villagers. He was big enough to be a wrestler and his mustache was as thick as the Kaiser’s. His wife wore the traditional ankle-length costume, took snuff, and cackled like a hen. Another visitor was a man who had spent most of his life in Brazil. Now that he was nearsighted and his mouth was slightly twisted from the ravages of Bell’s palsy, he had come to retire in Palestine. He struck Yousif as pathetic, for he seemed an outsider—a stranger—in both “homes.” His wife was Spanish, had big dimples, and spoke the few Arabic phrases she knew with such a heavy accent that she was almost unintelligible.

      Cousin Salman, the bald-headed shopkeeper, looked smaller than usual, for he sat with his arms folded and his eyes glued to the floor. Salman specialized in potions for the lovesick and was known as the druggist for the superstitious. Of all their relatives, the doctor enjoyed this nephew’s company the most. Salman amused him with stories about customers who’d come for potions to stop their husbands from cheating or to make a certain man or woman fall in love with them. But tonight, Salman was as sorrowful as one of his jilted lovers.

      Sixty-year-old Uncle Boulus, Yousif’s mother’s only brother, was also deep in thought. A prosperous grain merchant who lived a few doors away, Uncle Boulus was known for his sharp business nose and considerable common sense. This intelligent and respectable man loved to sit at his doorstep, where people from all walks of life would stop and chat with him, sometimes unloading their most intimate burdens. If Uncle Boulus had something to say tonight, Yousif reflected, he was keeping it to himself. Uncle Boulus sat in silence, flicking thirty or forty yellow beads as though they were a rosary. Those worry beads were his trademark, for Yousif never saw his uncle without them.

      But of all the night visitors, none impressed Yousif as much as cousin Basim, who happened to be in town. Basim was visiting this evening with his wife, Maha, and their two young boys, ages three and one. Basim was forty-two years old, his black hair and mustache hardly touched by gray. For all Basim had been through, Yousif thought, they should have already turned white. Here was a veteran who had fought both the British and the Zionists in 1936 and 1937 and had been exiled from Palestine from 1939 till the end of 1944.

      Yousif eyed him with admiration and respect. Basim was handsome, manly, and powerful looking, with broad shoulders, a wide forehead, big hands, and long limbs. Men respected him, even those who did not agree with his radical political views. Women loved him for his strong profile and deep smoky eyes. Basim could sit brooding for hours, but when he talked, everyone listened. Tonight, Basim too was in a quiet mood. Even he who had seen many die in battle seemed touched by what had happened to Amin.

      “Yes, I believe bones can be set by a layman,” Dr. Safi explained, tapping his armrest with the bowl of his black curved pipe. “But not every case is simple. When the skin is broken it becomes a serious matter. It needs antibiotics which only a doctor can prescribe. So Amin didn’t have any when he needed it.”

      Basim turned to Yousif. “How did Amin break his arm?” he asked.

      “A stone wall collapsed under him,” Yousif answered. “We were following a Jewish group—”

      His mother gave him a restraining look.

      “First we thought they were out for some romancing in the woods. Then I thought they weren’t.”

      Silence lingered for a moment too long.

      “Yousif was suspicious from the start,” his mother said. “He thinks they weren’t just tourists.”

      Basim pouted, the tips of his ten fingers touching. “You thought they were out for some fun,” he said. “Then you changed your mind. Why?”

      Yousif knew all eyes were on him. “It struck me that they might actually be involved in espionage,” he explained.

      Not a breath could be heard.

      “How did you know they were Jewish?” Basim asked quietly.

      “Isaac thought they were speaking Yiddish,” Yousif answered.

      Basim nodded and wiped his mouth. “You were right,” he said. “They were spies.”

      The word “spies” fell in their midst like a hand grenade. Yousif was the only one who felt a sense of elation. Here was someone who believed him.

      “Yes, Jewish spies,” Basim repeated, fixing his stare on his astonished audience. “Probably here to survey the hills and valleys. So that when the time comes they can occupy them and quickly seize strategic points. While we’re sitting on our haunches, they’re planning for war.”

      “War!” Yousif’s mother said. “Do you think there’s going to be war?”

      “No doubt about it,” Basim told her.

      “When?” the mother interrogated him, sitting on the edge of her chair.

      “It’s already started. But if you want an official declaration, you’ll have to wait another year.”

      “When the British Mandate ends?” she asked.

      “More or less.”

      Cousin Salman, who had not cracked a single joke all evening, folded his arms and seemed to double up. He smiled wryly and his first word seemed to hover on his lips. “Why do you always see the dark side of things?” he asked. “The story of innocent young boys who are curious about lovers was sweet. Why did you have to ruin it?”

      “Ruin it?” Basim shot back, pulling out a cigarette from