The Haj - Leon Uris [131]
On a grim night in the middle of June, Haj Ibrahim called us all to the fire. ‘We leave tomorrow,’ he announced tersely.
‘But Father, why?’
‘Because we have been lied to and betrayed. If we agreed to this truce, it was because we did not succeed. Our attack to the sea has been broken. It will only be a matter of days before the Jews hit Tulkarm.’
‘But the Legion is on the walls of the Old City.’
‘They will never throw the Jews out of Jerusalem,’ Ibrahim answered. ‘Witness my words.’
In the morning, we broke camp and took to the road again, this time moving deeper into Arab territory, into the mountains of Samaria, to Nablus. Again we were greeted by locked doors.
2
NABLUS, THE MAJOR CITY of Samaria, nestled as a king of the hills amid the spine of low mountains that ran down half the length of Palestine. As the biblical city of Shechem, it had once held the Ark of the Covenant and had known Joshua, the Judges of Israel, and the conquerors from Rome. Nablus and its forty thousand people had a reputation for short tempers and the development of magnificent smuggling routes from Trans-Jordan.
Since the removal of the Ottomans, the city had become a fiefdom of the Bakshir tribe, a wily band of political survivors. The present mayor, Clovis Bakshir, appeared to be a mild sort, more clever than forceful. He had been a teacher who received the major part of his education at the American University of Beirut. Professional men were held in enormous esteem in the Arab society and the Bakshirs always had an heir apparent or two in college.
The predicament of the displaced persons was no better than it had been in Tulkarm. It was further inland and considered in safer Arab territory and there were more hillside nooks and crannies to afford a measure of shelter. But food, medicine, and other relief were not to be had. The welcome was icy.
The Nablus casbah, an ancient, dilapidated, scum-packed quarter, held the usual crush of people that inhabited a ghetto, but in any casbah one could always find space for one more or twenty more. Haj Ibrahim was able to rent a rooftop for the bloated sum of three pounds a month. A tent composed of various materials was pitched over the family’s heads.
The Nablus area was enriched by sixteen natural springs and a well in the center of the casbah eliminated one of our most desperate needs, that of fresh water. Summer was coming on. The city’s height of nearly three thousand feet would offer a smattering of relief, but when the wind blew hot over the Jordan it could melt steel. Casbah life on a rooftop was a treadmill of sounds, mostly sharp and vulgar; of odors, mostly foul; and sights, mostly threadbare.
There were a few extremely lowly jobs to be had. These were not pursued with zeal, for hard labor was repugnant. Obviously Haj Ibrahim could not be reduced to menial work, but he did have four able-bodied Sons.
The displaced in Nablus and its surrounding hills died every day from starvation and disease. Some days there were one or two dead, some days a dozen. Nothing was done about it until the stench reached the homes of the wealthy. The municipality finally undertook the task of corpse removal. This created a number of jobs. Pits had to be dug, bodies collected and detoxified by a layer of lime. Omar and Jamil had the dubious distinction of keeping our family alive by burying others.
Although there were openings, collecting dead bodies was not for me. Neither was begging or selling chewing gum. Yet I was twelve years old and I had to carry my share. There were a number of Iraqi Army camps about, but the competition for jobs among boys of my age was fierce. Most simply begged for handouts. A few picked up a couple of pennies a day, running errands or doing work details that the soldiers had been assigned to do. Some lucky ones latched onto an officer and polished shoes and buckles and served tables. The higher officers, of course, had their own orderlies to take care of their every whim.