The Haj - Leon Uris [115]
Within moments, carts began to break down, causing us to stop. Those that couldn’t be repaired immediately were ditched and their contents spread among other carts that could scarcely hold them. Time and again we moved to the ditches as bus and truck traffic drove us off the highway. Off in the distant hills we could hear gunfire and then a windstorm consumed us.
When the villagers were out of sight, Farouk came down from Tabah, crossed the highway and went to the kibbutz gate, and asked to see Gideon Asch.
‘Everyone has left except for myself, fourteen men who have agreed to remain, and a half-dozen trusted families who have stayed hidden. We claim Tabah as our land. I do not have the forces to stop either you or the Jihad from taking the village. I am at your mercy.’
Gideon saw through Farouk’s scheme immediately. The Haganah would use the village’s height for an observation post and would defend the position. With villagers remaining, the Jews would probably leave most of the place intact. If the Jews won, Farouk could claim all of Tabah.
If the regular Arab armies conquered the Valley of Ayalon, Farouk would be there, not only to greet them but probably to claim Shemesh Kibbutz as well. Such was the way of Arab brotherhood, Gideon thought.
‘I am moving a platoon of the Palmach into Tabah,’ Gideon said. ‘Tell your people they will not be bothered. Report any movement of the Jihad to me immediately.’
Farouk bowed many times solicitously and assured Gideon of his loyalty.
‘Does your brother have any idea how beautifully you have fucked him over?’ Gideon said.
‘How can you say such a thing when I, alone, had the courage to remain?’
‘Yeah ... sure ... You can go to the mosque now and pray for the side that brings you the most.’
‘For the time being,’ Farouk answered, ‘I will act as muktar and handle all village affairs.’
13
THE UNRAVELED LINE of broken and rattling carts, braying asses and oxen, women afoot bearing immense bundles on their heads and infants in shawl slings, and weeping stragglers inched toward Ramle. It was more of a sprawl, a sullen mass, a broken array incongruously led by a man, my father, resplendent in his finest robes astride a stallion of magnificent dimensions.
We reached the edge of town just before dark and were rudely shunted to a large field with a cactus fence about it and guarded by the nasty-tempered Jihad Militia. These were our own men, ordinary villagers and townspeople, who in regular life were gentle and warm. But in an armed band with a self-proclaimed authority, they had turned into something ugly.
My father’s horse was eyed enviously and I could see my father sizing up the guards immediately. People from other villages—thousands of them—were already in the field. It was a sea of human misery. There was no water or sanitation.
Haj Ibrahim staked out an area and set a guard, then called the sheiks together.
‘Pass the word,’ he ordered. ‘Do not eat but a few bites. If the others here find out we are carrying a quantity of food, we will be raided.’
My father was well known in Ramle. Many merchants owed him favors and there would never be a better time to call them in. He put Omar in personal charge of his horse and took me, Jamil, and Kamal into the town to try to collect.
The shops were shut tight, with their iron grills rolled down and padlocked. Many bore signs reading: ENGLISH POUNDS ONLY. The souk, where the family had held a stall for decades, was reduced to selling little more than garbage. Anyone with anything was obviously hoarding it. Ibrahim reconnoitered the back alleys, where trading was done in whispers and prices were outrageous. He tried homes. Everyone who had done business with Tabah must have heard of our evacuation and had deliberately made themselves scarce. Suddenly my father had no friends left in Ramle.
We returned to the field empty-handed while a numbness overcame me.