The Haj - Leon Uris [236]
‘DOWN WITH THE BALCONY!’
‘DOWN WITH THE BALCONY!’
5
1953
FROM THE MOMENT PER Olsen entered our hovel, we could tell that he was different from the usual breed of bureaucrat. Our new UNRWA administrator was Danish, about fifty, but had neither blue eyes nor blond hair. He was an infectiously decent man with that good humour that quickly overcomes the feeling of formality one has with most foreigners.
Per Olsen had earned his credentials in the backwash of one of the bloodiest civil wars in history, one between the Moslems and Hindus in India. In the exchange of populations following the creation of Pakistan some twenty million refugees came into being almost overnight. Olsen won high acclaim for humanitarian work among them. For him to come to Jericho spelled something more than an ordinary rotation of positions.
My father had been impressed with Per Olsen from the beginning, when the Dane called in his Arab associates for a series of meetings.
‘This is an excellent man,’ Ibrahim told me. ‘I am certain he has special business here.’
I had turned seventeen and had become proficient in English. In addition to a regular teaching position at the Wadi Bakkah School, I acted as the translator for my father. Thus, I was part of the friendship between him and Per Olsen from the beginning.
After getting his feet on the ground and sorting out the capabilities of his Arab staff, Olsen called on us at our home.
‘I want to be able to depend on you as a personal adviser, Haj Ibrahim.’
‘I am but a humble employee of the United Nations. My services are always at your wish and command.’
‘We are going to have an interesting time here,’ Olsen said, whipping out a long, thin Schimmelpenninck cigar from a packet in his shirt pocket. My father tried one.
‘Hummm, different,’ Father said. ‘Quite nice.’
‘Now that we have billowed smoke in your home for the required forty seconds, let me speak to you, not quite as a brother, but as a man I must have on my side.’
Father smiled.
‘What do you want to know about me?’ Per Olsen continued.
‘Your title and prestige have preceded you,’ Father said.
‘I have seen the worst of it on the borders between India and Pakistan. Do you need the details to know that I know what I am doing?’
‘Only time will tell if India can be translated into Palestine.’
‘I have witnessed too much of man’s depravity to be lulled into any sense of false security. To be brief,’ Per Olsen said, ‘I am from neither wealth nor poverty. I am not interested in Jewish and Arab politics. My first wife was a Jewess, killed by the Nazis in Dachau. No children, thank God. My wife now is a Moslem, a nurse who worked with me in India. We have three children. So you see, I am totally mixed up.’
‘Excellent cigar,’ Father said, luxuriating in it.
The two men engaged in a long silence that tried to cut through time, space, cultures, suspicions.
‘What is it you want?’ Father asked.
‘I agreed to come to the Jericho area because I could go forward with a special mission. As you know, idleness and despair are the twin curses of the refugees. Hunger and disease can be coped with. All of it together breeds the crime, the terror, the madness. If I have a God, it is the principle of self-help. I am in a position to help you start helping yourselves. I want to do something in Aqbat Jabar that will startle others in the refugee situation from their lethargy.’
‘What do you know of the Arabs?’
‘I am not a fool, Haj Ibrahim. That is why I have come to you. I first learned of you from Monsignor Grenelli, the Vatican observer on refugees. He told me at great length of your one-man war in Zurich. I made it a point to learn as much about your background as possible. Well, what do you say? I have funds and I have plans.’
‘My first advice, Per Olsen, is to move slowly. Very slowly.’
My father seemed to undergo a spiritual resurgence as Olsen and UNRWA triggered a rash