The Haj - Leon Uris [116]
We huddled around a grubby little fire near the highway. Jihad vehicles raced back and forth. Many of the soldiers fired into the air. My father commented that they were doing it because the sound of their own guns made them believe they were brave. The great airport of Palestine was nearby and there would soon be a fierce battle for it, so the Jihad was pumping up its courage.
The fire glowed down to ashes. An eerie silence encompassed the field. Haj Ibrahim sat stone-faced, trying to comprehend what had befallen him. As always, I sat as close to him as I could manage. Our family was huddled together on the ground, sleeping fitfully. My father began to wonder aloud.
‘I should have listened to Sheik Azziz,’ he mumbled. ‘He is keeping the Bedouin clear of everyone’s armies, Jew and Arab alike. He will survive. What will happen when he finds six hundred of us dumped on the Wahhabi doorstep? How can the desert provide? Look what we have been brought to, Ishmael.’
‘We can still go back,’ I said.
‘You cannot make a waterfall flow uphill, my son,’ he said. ‘As Arabs, we must pay the price for foolish pride. It would have been simple to allow a few Haganah into Tabah with my blessing. I think Gideon did not lie when he said the Jews were more like brothers to us ... than that Jihad Militia. Still, we must pray that the Arab armies crush the Jews.’
He nodded, dozed, awoke, and mumbled again.
‘A good thing Farouk is coming with livestock and stores. We will need every lira we can get our hands on ... we must find new land right away ... perhaps I will stay in Jaffa and open a store ... I am tired of leading people... at least we know the Jews can never take Jaffa.’
‘Father, you are very tired. Sleep. I will guard the family.’
‘Yes, Ishmael... I will sleep now... I will sleep.’
The confusion of the first day was embittered by a frosty morning. There was hunger throughout the field and my father’s first command was not to eat. Despite our guards, many families reported their carts had been looted.
Haj Ibrahim found a meeting of muktars from a half-dozen villages trying to make sense out of the morning rumors. Each village seemed to be heading in a different direction to get to their closest tribal unit in Arab territory. No one knew which route was safe, which was closed by fighting. We had only one choice—Jaffa. That was where our money was banked and where Uncle Farouk would be coming with the busload of supplies and live-stock.
One by one the field emptied of its clans, all seeming to strike out on a different route in an atmosphere of universal uncertainty. There was no Arab authority of any kind to give advice on the roads or dispense food rations. The British were nowhere to be found.
‘We must push hard, very hard today. We must reach Jaffa.’
Out on the road again, we became part of a horde spilling toward the illusion of safety. By the end of the second night, we reached the edge of the city and, although we were beyond weariness, the sight of the lighthouse and minarets buoyed our spirits. There were British about and we were herded into a large park near the Russian church on the outer edge of the city. As my father set up a perimeter around our people, he reckoned that some of the livestock could be slaughtered for a meal. I could see, though, that he was desperately concerned that Uncle Farouk had not linked up with us. When questioned, he waved it off.
‘You saw the roads and the confusion. Perhaps it will take him a bit longer than we planned. Certainly he will be in Jaffa by morning.’
With that Ibrahim set out, with me tagging along, into central Jaffa to the home and business of our cousin, Mr. Bassam el Bassam, who owned a trading company. Farouk had purchased village supplies from him for over twenty years. My father had lent him money several times during lean years and other times he had given crops on credit for Mr. Bassam to export. In our world, which operates