The Haj - Leon Uris [242]
I came down faster than I went up. Each day Father’s will became less passionate, less resolute. To move all of us to Beirut would be a monumental task. Ibrahim was now at peace with the Jordanians. He was in a position that required little work and carried much influence and privilege, and our living conditions were decent.
Why move to the unknown? In Shatilla he would have to fight long and hard to establish himself and acquire the same status he now had. In truth, Father was weary. The flight to Jaffa, to Qumran, to Zurich, Jamil, Charles Maan, the Jericho Project had all taken pieces of his spirit.
This powerful man who had only played around the fringes of fantasy now dipped into it. Oh, I pressed hard for Beirut, but he became dotty about it, irregular in his reasoning.
I continued to write letters to individual villagers and to my sisters, but it was strange: I couldn’t remember their faces too well. Even Father was unable to keep straight the relationships between the clans and families of Tabah.
At the end of a few months, Beirut was a mirage.
On the days Father had his private meetings with Ne Swe I translated for him to make certain there were no misunderstandings. Father would wait for me at a café across the road from the school. When classes were over, we would stroll to UNRWA headquarters. On these walks I began to notice the changes in him. He had become very diplomatic and pragmatic, avoiding trouble, keenly playing the tribal game. Shrewdness had replaced anger.
I was surprised to see him in the doorway of my classroom one day. He was visibly distressed, an emotion he never displayed in public. He nodded. I quickly received permission to leave and followed him from the school.
Out on the road he stopped and gripped me. I believe I actually detected fear in his eyes.
‘I have received secret information from Amman. In two weeks the Jordanians are going to order all boys of military age to register for a draft into the Arab Legion.’
‘Oh my God,’ I said shakily.
‘You are safe,’ Father said, ‘but they will take Omar.’
I am ashamed to admit I was more relieved for myself than sorry for Omar. After the murder of Abdullah, and the exile of Talal, the regency rule around his grandson, young King Husain, had taken firm hold. Once again the Jordanians pressed forward with their obsession to annex the West Bank. Putting Palestinian boys in Jordanian uniform was a cleverly thought out trick. It would give the impression that the Palestinians were loyal to the king. Furthermore, if there were riots and troubles, Palestinians in the Arab Legion would be used to do the dirty work. We would have the blood of our own people on our hands while Jordan would be clean.
Father was badly shaken. Why? He was no longer a political threat. He was at peace with the Jordanians. Surely he would know how to get Omar exempted. I could not comprehend his reaction.
Ne Swe greeted us in a manner that reflected Father’s urgency. I explained to him that Father had been tipped off by a Jordanian minister.
‘Father says we must arrange immediate travel papers for Omar to get into Lebanon.’
Ne Swe blinked a bit, realizing the quagmire of bureaucracy and bribes he had to wade through and the pressure of time. He thought hard. ‘The quickest way is to hire Omar for an UNRWA job in Beirut.’
‘Can that be done in time?’
‘It is possible.’
There was a large United Nations complex in Jerusalem on the Hill of Evil Council. There Ne Swe could make direct radio contact with UNRWA in Beirut. The world of favors and the system was already at work. Father seemed much calmed as we made for home.
The instant we entered our house I realized why Father had been on the brink of panic. I saw Jamil’s photograph with the little vase of flowers and the burning candles. Jamil’s hand had reached out from the grave.
Colonel Farid Zyyad was a patient man with a long memory. Ibrahim feared that Zyyad’s thirst for vengeance had not been fully appeased by Jamil’s death. Once Omar was taken