The Haj - Leon Uris [142]
I made up requisition lists that would pass the test of any army, much less those stupid Iraqis. I also made up a letter from Colonel Hakkar to pass us through the lines.
However, one detail disturbed me greatly. I had located a recent military map and learned that once we left Jericho, we would be on a treacherous nonroad, a path used only for camel caravans. If we hit sudden sand or water, that could end the journey on the spot. The whole business of the mechanics of the truck was the weakness of the plan. I did not want to tell Haj Ibrahim because it was always easier to work around bad news than actually deliver it. The more I pondered, the more I realized we were in jeopardy. I waited to go to my father until I could wait no longer. When he informed me that the Jordanian Colonel Zyyad was returning to Nablus in two days, I had to confront Haj Ibrahim with my heart in my mouth. My eyes were red from work and my brain was fuzzy, but mostly I feared disappointing him.
‘Father,’ I croaked, ‘I must be honest with you, very honest. Neither Kamal nor I are capable of driving to Jericho through these mountains, much less into the desert. Half the Iraqi motor vehicles are in repair half the time. They are poorly maintained and they all arrive in Nablus after traveling a great distance from Baghdad. Between that and bad roads, there is no possibility of getting to the caves without breaking down. Neither Kamal nor I have the slightest idea of what goes on underneath the hood of a truck.’
I was grateful that my father took the news philosophically. He realized instantly that if we had a breakdown for any length of time at any point before we reached the caves, we were as good as dead. With all those supplies and with soldiers and desperate people everywhere, we would be massacred within an hour of a breakdown. He paled.
‘I have thought of something,’ I said.
‘By the Prophet’s beard, tell me!’
‘There is a boy who works in the garage in my compound. His name is Sabri Salama and he is sixteen years old. He is a wizard of a mechanic and knows how to repair trucks. He can take spare parts from a broken truck to repair other trucks with. He is a great driver as well. There was a battle at his town and during the fighting he got separated from his family. He was away when the Jews struck and he could not return. He is certain his family headed for Gaza. He wants desperately to get out of Nablus. I know he will come with us if we ask him to.’
My father’s face turned into a dictionary of suspicion. ‘He cannot get from Nablus to Gaza unless he has wings. As a mechanic, he can live the war out as a prince right where he is.’
‘Sabri confided in me that ... that ... that ...’
‘What!’
‘An Iraqi lieutenant has taken him ... made him ... forces him ... to be his ... his girlfriend.’
My father slapped my face. It would have hurt more, but I was prepared for the blow. ‘It is not his fault. He has been forced by painful torture.’
Haj Ibrahim gained control of his temper. ‘How did he learn his profession? I mean, the profession of being a mechanic?’
‘His father owned a garage and five trucks, which they used to pick up crops with and transport them to Jaffa from the villages around his town.’
‘What town?’
‘Beit Ballas.’
‘Beit Ballas! A city of thieves! A den of Mufti cutthroats!’
At this point, I did not care if my father beat me to death. I could not doom my family by pretending this danger did not exist.
‘Father,’ I said, ‘you are now slamming the door in the face of an innocent brother, just as doors have been slammed in our faces.’
I was slapped again so hard I thought