The Haj - Leon Uris [194]
Father handed me the black jasper pendant to identify myself. I repeated my instructions on how Sheik Taji was to find the convent and assured Father I would not fail.
Strange, what I remembered most about the day was not the sight in Jericho but the mockery in Jamil’s eyes.
9
THE CONVENT OF THE SISTERS of Zion sat atop the ruins of the ancient Roman Antonia Fortress, which was brutally connected to the agony of Jesus. In a cellar room where traditionally Jesus was tortured and degraded by the soldiers of Rome, Sister Mary Amelia closed the door behind the three men who had slipped into the convent a few minutes apart.
They greeted each other nervously, then settled around a plank table. ‘There is no question about it, my brothers, Abdullah has failed,’ Haj Ibrahim said.
‘The old Hashemite is wounded but he is not dead,’ Charles Maan said, lighting the first cigarette of a new chain.
‘Then let us hammer the nail right through him,’ the graybearded sheik said, pointing to his forehead.
‘We are in the right place when you speak of nailing up men,’ Maan noted.
‘What do you think we should do?’ Ibrahim asked.
‘Assassinate him, of course,’ Taji answered.
‘I have no objection to his assassination,’ Ibrahim said. ‘However, that will not help us achieve our goals. On the contrary, it will only whet the appetite of all the vultures from Baghdad to Morocco who are waiting to pounce on Palestine.’
‘Haj Ibrahim is right,’ Maan said. To murder Abdullah will only bring us under more severe repression. We have already bloodied the Legion and they are impatient to strike us. You would be able to paint the city of Hebron red with our blood after an assassination of Abdullah.’
‘Maybe assassination is not such a good idea, after all,’ Taji recanted. ‘But Abdullah has been dealt a blow, his march has been stemmed. We must follow up with something. Why don’t we simply declare our independence?’
‘Independence? Now, that has some merit,’ Ibrahim agreed.
They turned to Charles Maan, who had sucked his cigarette dry and, when it was about to crisp the tips of his fingers, deftly used it to light another in a movement perfected by much practice. ‘We have already been offered independence and we refused.’
‘When were we offered independence?’ the sheik challenged, now flailing his hands.
‘By the United Nations. Maybe we should have taken the offer and run. However, all we did was run. Both the Mufti and Abdullah have tried to take over Palestine, one with Egyptian backing and one with British backing. Both failed. Who backs us? Who are we? We are three poverty-stricken refugees sitting in a cellar with the ghost of Jesus Christ. Our own brother Palestinians who are not refugees would fight against us. And do you think the Arab Legion will drop dead with fear because we declare our independence?’
‘Then we must enter an eternal struggle,’ Taji said impulsively.
‘Struggle with what?’ Charles Maan retorted with cynicism. ‘We have no organization. Who do we represent? Who will support us? The Americans support the Jews. The British support Abdullah. Who will recognize us? Madagascar? Albania? Outer Mongolia?’
The old Bedouin was becoming frustrated with Charles Maan’s terse observations. He looked to Haj Ibrahim for support.
Ibrahim sized up his confederates. Maan was a logical and learned man, the kind who would be sorely needed in the deftness required by Arab politics. Sheik Taji, if he could be controlled, had the fire in his stomach that was the salt of men.
‘Who else has the right to declare independence if we do not have it?’ Ibrahim prodded.
‘You see my point, then,’ the sheik put in hastily.
‘Of course I see your point. But on the other hand, our eminent friend Charles also makes a point.’
‘What point?’
‘That if we declare independence we will make the impact of a whisper in the middle of a desert windstorm.’
‘Brothers, brothers, brothers,’ the schoolteacher soothed, ‘we have a