The Haj - Leon Uris [110]
‘I am under terrible pressure to evacuate Tabah.’
‘I know.’
‘If I take my people out, even for a short time, will I be able to bring them back?’
‘If we abandoned Shemesh Kibbutz, would the Arabs allow us to return?’ Gideon countered.
‘No, of course not. Gideon, what can you tell me?’
‘We have no policy to run the Arabs out of Palestine. No responsible man among us has any illusion that we can create a state without peace with our neighbors. God knows, we do not want to condemn ourselves and our children to generations of bloodshed. We have tried to reach every Arab leader. They are all committed to war.’
‘Can you tell me ... have you made deals with any Arab villages? Will any of them stay?’
‘We have made deals. Even with villages in the Jerusalem corridor.’
‘What kind of deal?’
‘Don’t go to war against us and we won’t go to war against you. Simple enough. One of these days, you’ll learn that the Jews of Palestine have a better future planned for you than your blessed Arab brothers over the border.’
‘Suppose I ask for the same deal for Tabah?’
Gideon arose and grunted. ‘You’ve become an enemy village. Some three dozen of your people are in the Jihad Militia. More than fifty were in the attack on the Kastel. Irregulars come to and go from Tabah at will. In other words, you are an active participant in the attempt to starve out a hundred thousand people in Jerusalem. Ibrahim, I don’t want to recommend an attack on Tabah, but once a war starts, forces beyond anyone’s control take over.’
‘I am crushed,’ Ibrahim said. ‘It is the Arabs who are forcing me out.’
‘I know.’
‘The village is on the brink of panic. If one loud shot is fired into the air, everyone else will take flight.’
Gideon studied the distraught man, now being helplessly swept up in that sea’s tidal wave of events. Hatred of the Jews had been building in Tabah since the world war. Many would be opposed to neutrality, others too frightened to implement it. But God help them all if they ran.
Ibrahim moved his hands pathetically and reeled to his feet. Gideon scribbled some numbers on a piece of paper and handed it to Ibrahim. These phone numbers will reach me. If you get into personal trouble, I will try to help.’
‘If only you and I could sit down and talk this out,’ Ibrahim said in a faraway monotone. ‘We could work things out between us. We could make peace.’
‘We’ll always be ready when you are.’
One of the phones rang. Gideon listened to an emotional voice babbling in Hebrew. He said he would come right away and set the receiver down. He gave Ibrahim a terrible look.
‘The Irgun hit an Arab village near Jerusalem. Deir Yassin.’
‘What happened?’
‘There was a massacre.’
Gideon Asch arrived at Deir Yassin within the hour. He was under instructions to make an immediate assessment of the situation. The village had been cordoned off and Colonel Brompton was on hand. He trusted the Englishman’s briefing, for it matched what he already knew, and he dispatched an aide, a young Palmach officer, back to Jerusalem with an initial report.
Gideon then went through the grisly business of a personal inspection of bodies, speaking with the wounded, and reconstructing the events of the nightmare.
The smell of burning flesh and putrid smoke of battle was overpowering, as was the soft steady drone of numbed weeping, punctuated by outbursts of rage and hysteria. He made a feeble offer for use of Jewish medical facilities, but the wounded were too terrified. The shrill of sirens racing back and forth overcame him. It was all he could do to keep from breaking down.
It seemed that something of this sort was bound to happen. After the Haganah opened the road long enough for three convoys to get through, the Arabs closed it again. Among the string of Arab villages used as staging points against Jewish traffic, the village of Deir Yassin, on the edge of West Jerusalem, had been one of the most hostile. Looking for a victory of their own to match Haganah successes, the Irgun had assembled a hundred men and targeted the village for capture.
But the