The Haj - Leon Uris [188]
That evening I gave Father my findings. Sheik Taji was the leader of a semi-nomadic tribe that had occupied an area north of the Gulf of Aqaba and the outpost of Eilat. In the beginning of the war with the Jews, the Egyptians ejected them from their homeland for military purposes and they fled to Hebron. The end of the war found the Jews conquering the Negev Desert and leaving Sheik Taji to wonder why he had left. Other Bedouin had remained and were left in peace by the Jews or cooperated with them by supplying trackers and intelligence.
While Sheik Taji regretted his mistake, he found himself in an impossible situation in the Hebron Camp. The mayor of the city was an Abdullah stalwart and had turned the camp into one of the king’s strongholds on the West Bank.
My father showed me the little talisman Taji had passed to him, a black jasper pendant with an abstract carving. I recognized it as a common Bedouin talisman to ward off jinn.
‘This will bring Sheik Taji to us later,’ my father said. ‘What did you learn about the camp here?’
I cleared my throat importantly. ‘Schneller and all the camps around Amman are much worse off than Aqbat Jabar,’ I said. ‘They live or die here by one rule. Abdullah has enlisted all the important old muktars and given them and their families all the Red Crescent jobs. If you are against the king, you do not eat and you do not protest. There have been many assassinations and imprisonments, so that all dissidents have been removed.’
‘It is as I thought,’ Father said.
‘The same goes for the jobs in Amman. Only those cooperating with Abdullah can find work in the city. I am told that all the camps in Jordan are being similarly run.’
On the third evening, I was able to report to Father that I had discovered another strong dissident, who, unlike Ibrahim, had kept quiet about his feelings.
‘His name is Charles Maan. He was a teacher at the gymnasium in Haifa. He is very prominent in the Ramallah Committee.’
‘I have heard of him,’ Father answered. ‘The Ramallah group is strong. He can be trusted?’
‘Yes, on all matters except one,’ I said.
‘Aha, what is that?’ he asked.
‘He is a Christian, and you know how they lied about Jesus being their lord and savior.’
‘Is that the only thing?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Nonsense,’ my father said, startling me. ‘The Christians and the Moslems have lived in Palestine for centuries without real trouble. Religious fighting around here is Lebanese madness. We even got along with the Jews until the Mufti.’ Haj Ibrahim’s revelation confused me.
Charles Maan was also in the Schneller Camp, only a few streets away.
‘Stay near his tent and observe without being observed,’ Father ordered. ‘When he is alone, approach him with great care and introduce yourself either by speaking to him or by giving him a note. Tell him I would like a quick, passing meeting.’
‘Where, Father?’
We both pondered for a moment. ‘At the latrine, where we do our business,’ he said.
I waited for over two hours near Charles Maan’s tent, but delegates were coming and going endlessly. I decided to write a note. When there was a break in the line of visitors, I stepped in quickly and handed it to him.
He was a man older than Father, with bags of weariness under his eyes. He took the note in a hand with fingers yellow from tobacco stains.
I am Ishmael, son of Haj Ibrahim al Soukori al Wahhabi. My father would like to meet with you at the latrine at two o’clock in the morning.
He tore the note into shreds and nodded yes to me. The latrine was a long corrugated-tin shed built atop a running ditch that carried the open sewage to a series of collection pits. A few moments before two o’clock Father and I left our tent with great caution. It was extremely dark and quiet, and we hoped it would stay that way. We waited in the shadows until the tired, rumpled figure of Charles Maan,