The Haj - Leon Uris [113]
12
CAN THERE BE A scar deeper in the life of a twelve-year-old boy than the memory of the fellahin of his village laying down their tools by the prophet’s tomb? They left them there because the tomb was on sacred ground and only the most vile of villains would steal from such a place.
‘We will be back in time for the harvest. Cairo assures us of that.’
‘Yes, perhaps within a week.’
What to save? What to leave? What difference did it make when one abandons one’s fields and one’s cottage?
My father sat at his table in front of the café, calmly answering questions, giving orders, and trying to make a plan.
He reckoned that our movement would be very slow and counted on three days to reach Jaffa. He dispatched several men from our clan to find a suitable field or grove for us to camp in the first night near Ramle. I sat beside my father with some of the village records, trying to make a count of the number of people involved. It came to somewhat over six hundred who had not already left.
He ordered all donkey and ox carts to be assembled in the village square, loaded with enough food for four days. Everything of value should be taken, for it would have to be sold when we reached Jaffa. Each family was allowed one or two goats or sheep to either be slaughtered for food or sold at the Jaffa market.
Otherwise, only bare necessities would be allowed.
The Effendi Kabir still had not sent the funds he had promised, so each villager would have to sell everything down to the shirt on his back in order to charter a ship to take us to Gaza.
The women ran back and forth from their homes to the carts, loading them and weeping hysterically as they did. When the carts were full, the women filled sheets and blankets, knotting the ends together so they could balance them on their heads.
‘Yes,’ my father said, ‘all guns and ammunition must be taken.’
‘How much water, Haj Ibrahim?’
‘Two jugs for each family and enough to water two animals.’
‘Will the Jews seize the village? Will they blow up the houses after they have looted everything?’
‘We won’t know until we return,’ Ibrahim answered.
‘Will they open the graveyard?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘What about this jewelry?’
‘Take it if it can be sold.’
‘Chickens? Dowry trunks? Photographs? Seeds?’
‘Blankets ... take plenty of blankets. It will be cold at night.’
‘Koran?’
‘One for each family.’
‘Surely the Jews will steal everything growing in our fields.’
‘If the Jihad Militia doesn’t get to them first.’
‘I have six daughters. Who will protect them?’
‘Each clan will set up its own guard.’
As the square bulged and panic and frustration heightened, men began cursing and fighting one another while the women did the work. Wild stories of the Deir Yassin massacre poured in. They said all the old men had been decapitated; all the young men had been castrated, all the women had been raped. The Irgun was coming.
Some had relatives in Jaffa, but most would need shelter. My father had a close cousin there who was a successful merchant and we were depending on him heavily. Ibrahim wanted to go on ahead to find housing and to charter a boat, but he feared leaving us alone.
British jeeps dashed back and forth from the Latrun Fort offering help, offering no help. They would clear the road as far as Ramle but would escort us no further. We were apprehensive at the thought of a thousand Jihad Militia in the vicinity.
‘Do not fear. Do not fear. We will keep together,’ my father said.
I walked with my mother through our house what seemed like a hundred times, partly to look at it and weep and partly to see if there was one more thing she could load on our carts. I had made it my sacred duty to watch after Nada. We had not been allowed to play with each other or touch for a long time, but I still loved her and she loved me. I would defend her against everything with my dagger.
I saw my father