The Haj - Leon Uris [119]
Mr. Howard was dressed in a fine Western suit and seemed obliviously calm, removed from the chaos.
‘You know Haj Ibrahim’s brother, Farouk al Soukori of Tabah,’ Mr. Bassam said.
‘Yes, of course. I’ve had the pleasure,’ the banker said.
‘We wish to withdraw our money,’ Haj Ibrahim said. ‘Seven hundred and fifteen pounds. Some of it is mine, some of it belongs to the villagers.’
‘You do realize there are branches of Barclay’s everywhere and it would be prudent not to put all your eggs in one basket, so to speak. Do you know your destination?’
‘Gaza.’
‘If you withdraw only part of your funds, enough to safely get you down south, I could give you a letter of credit that would be honored in Gaza.’
‘I do not understand such things, Mr. Howard.’
‘Mr. Howard is only looking after the safety of our money,’ Mr. Bassam said. ‘I assure you that it is a proper transaction.’
‘I appreciate your interest. However, I will feel much better if I can touch a lump in my pocket.’
‘As you wish. Do you have your passbook, Haj Ibrahim?’
My father reached inside his robes, withdrew it as though it were the magic key to life, and handed it over the desk. Mr. Howard’s face went into an immediate frown as he accepted the book and thumbed through it. My father and I knew instantly that the banker was grossly uncomfortable.
‘Is anything wrong?’ Ibrahim asked.
‘The account has been closed.’
‘But that is not possible. The sum on the last page says we have over seven hundred pounds in your bank.’
Mr. Howard cleared his throat and looked at my father with great pity. As Ibrahim paled, he realized calamity had befallen him.
‘The final withdrawal has been very cleverly erased. But you see the stamp here on the first page as well as below the last deposit and you’ll notice the corner of the book has been clipped off.’
‘I cannot read what the stamps say. They are obviously in English.’
Mr. Howard handed the passbook to Mr. Bassam. ‘It says the account is canceled, Haj Ibrahim.’ My father snatched the book and handed it to me. I could not look him in the eyes to confirm it.
‘I’m terribly sorry,’ the banker said. ‘Terribly sorry, indeed.’
My father seethed all the way back to the trading company, then exploded in Mr. Bassam’s office.
‘I am returning to Tabah tonight! There will be a big funeral for a mouse!’
‘I know it comes as a terrible shock, but there has been fierce fighting all over the area.’
‘Don’t worry. I can get through anything. I will not rest until I have my hands closing around his throat! I will rip out his Adam’s apple!’
‘What if something happens to you, Father?’ I cried. ‘If you are gone, we will be abandoned!’
‘I must kill him!’
‘There will be all the rest of your life to plan that properly,’ Mr. Bassam said.
‘I can never know a night’s sleep until this is avenged!’
‘Father. Does it not make sense that Uncle Farouk knows and fears you will return? Does it not follow that he is going to spend the next days in hiding?’
‘Your son makes perfect sense.’
My father had been the one man in Tabah who sometimes responded to logic. Our only hope was that he would respond to it now. I knew that once he left, Mr. Bassam’s cooperation would be gone. We could not do without him. It took an hour for the heat of his boiling blood to lower to a simmer.
‘What can I tell our people?’ he moaned. ‘What is there left to say?’
14
IT WAS OPENLY ANNOUNCED by the Haganah that Jaffa would not be attacked if the Arabs stopped sniping at Tel Aviv from their tall buildings and if they stopped ambushing the roads in and out of the city. A tentative truce prevailed, but Jaffa remained a bone in the Jews’ throat, an all-Arab enclave in the most heavily populated Jewish region.
Mr. Bassam el Bassam confided to my father that he hoped the Arabs of Jaffa would accept the partition, avoid battle and the fate of their brothers in Haifa. He counted heavily on the fact that