The Collaborator of Bethlehem (8 page)

Omar Yussef considered himself an independent thinker, a man who challenged the way most people in his community saw the world. But that night he had doubted himself. He lay awake thinking,
You’re all talk, Omar. When it comes time for action, you’re paralysed by worry, bullied by the thought that someone will hurt you.
When he did fall asleep, he jolted upright in fear. He thought Hussein Tamari was in the room. His heart was thundering, even as he told himself that there was no one there, no sound except Maryam’s wheezy, light snoring. Did he really think Hussein Tamari had been present when Louai was killed, just because of the cartridges he had found? Why would the leader of the resistance in Bethlehem collaborate with the Israelis? Why would he want Louai dead? Khamis Zeydan had told him that Israeli soldiers used that big machine gun, too. Perhaps Louai Abdel Rahman was mistaken when he spoke to a man he believed was named Abu Walid. Maybe Louai only
thought
he recognized the person lying in wait for him. It had been dark already, according to Dima. It could just as easily have been a soldier from some Israeli hit squad, lying in wait between the pines.

When the first light came and Omar Yussef got out of bed, he returned to that thought.
If I get close to finding out who Abu Walid is, there’s a danger he might try to stop me, even to hurt me, no matter how much protection I have from my clan and its connections with tough guys in Hamas and Fatah. But if there’s no Abu Walid, if Louai Abdel Rahman simply made a mistake, then there’s no one out there who’ll feel threatened by me. I could be placing myself in danger, but only if I’m on the trail of the man who truly has framed George Saba, in which case I’m doing the right thing and this man deserves to be unmasked.

That moment clarified for Omar Yussef what he must do. He tried to keep those thoughts foremost in his mind as he walked to the school.

A Blackhawk chopped southward above Omar Yussef’s head. The Israeli helicopter flew in and out of the low, dark clouds on a reconnaissance mission over the camp. The resonant thudding spooked a mentally handicapped boy in his early twenties whom Omar Yussef often saw when he was on his way to the school. Usually the boy, whose name was Nayif, bounded along the street with exaggeratedly long strides, talking animatedly to himself and wagging an admonitory finger at approaching taxis. When he heard the baritone flutter of the helicopter, the boy panicked. He put his hands on his elongated, egg-shaped head and wailed incoherently. Omar Yussef approached him. He smiled at the boy and held out his hand with the palm upwards, as if testing for rain. The boy did the same, looking up at the clouds. After a moment he grinned and, in his slurred speech, said, “It’s only raining, uncle.”

Omar Yussef nodded and put his hand on Nayif’s shoulder reassuringly before he walked on.

It was true that it would rain soon from the clouds that licked the Blackhawk. It would come hard. The streets would be mud where the tanks had cut them up. The dusty topsoil would tinge the rain the color of urine and, where it gushed down the slopes, it would ride over the top of Omar Yussef’s wing tips and leave them sprinkled with grit that would take him careful hours to polish away. Omar Yussef was not a believer, he usually had trouble remembering Koranic quotations, but the words of that book on the subject of rain came to him as he left the handicapped boy: “Know that Allah restores the earth to life after its death.” Allah, of course, claimed that he would perform the same restoration to the believers on the Day of Judgment. Omar Yussef looked about him as he approached the UN school. The dirty alleys of the camp seemed most desolate in the first, flat light of a winter’s day. Allah didn’t restore life to earth. He multiplied the number of lives on earth, but allowed their quality to diminish and their essence to drain away. Omar Yussef had never thought that life was a waste—what true educator could think that way? He wondered when it would be that Allah would restore life to him. Hell, he would have to do it for himself, and the case of George Saba would be his vehicle.

A tall black stone cut to the shape of the map of Palestine stood on a plinth outside the school. Its dimensions marked the complete area of Palestine, from the squiggle of the Lebanese border down to the long V of the Naqab Desert, the scope of the state to which the camp’s leaders insisted its refugees would return. The statue was intended to make those aspirations firm and real and enduring, like stone. Every time Omar Yussef passed it, he felt as though the block might topple onto him, crushing him with the hopeless rigidity of his people’s politics. His eye picked out the spot on the smooth stone map where his village once stood. His
father’s
village, he corrected himself. Omar Yussef had no village.

Omar Yussef heard the light rap of rain on the cashmere of his flat cap. He looked up and a drop landed on his lips. He remembered the hand he held out for rain before the handicapped boy.
I made it rain,
he thought, mocking himself.

Omar Yussef entered the UN school. He walked down the corridor, greeting the other teachers as he passed them. He went to Christopher Steadman’s office, knocked and entered.

The UN director didn’t stand and Omar Yussef didn’t sit. The smell of body odor was gone. Someone must have found a way to tell Steadman that the history teacher had played a trick on him, or perhaps the American simply decided that he must wash, even if it violated Ramadan. Omar Yussef stood before the desk and said, “I’m ready to consider retirement.”

Omar Yussef detected the barely disguised smile that nibbled at the edges of Steadman’s lips before the American made a serious face. “I think that’s a wise decision, Abu Ramiz.”

“I will make a final decision at the end of the month. In the meantime, I want to take a leave of absence. Perhaps if I don’t come to work for a couple of weeks, I’ll realize that I enjoy not working and I will decide definitively to retire. You won’t object to that, I’m sure,” Omar Yussef said.

“I guess it’ll be hard for us to manage without you.” Stead-man made a sucking noise between his teeth, as though he were wrestling with an awkward dilemma, but Omar Yussef thought it sounded like the hiss of a serpent. “I’ll have to teach some of your classes, and we’ll also hire a part-timer. But we’ll get by.”

Omar Yussef felt contempt for this man. He could see the relief on his face now that his problem with Omar Yussef appeared almost to be resolved. The American would be rid of a teacher who talked back. He would not have to explain to his own superiors why the government complained about his school, just because of the teaching methods of one ageing curmudgeon. Sometimes Omar Yussef wondered if he was too hard on his own people.
Look at this American,
he thought.
He grew up with all the advantages of freedom and democracy and money and education, yet he’s exactly the same as our bureaucrats who bow to the government, even when the rules are scandalously violated.
Certainly, Steadman didn’t care about the children at the school. His salary wasn’t dependent on the quality of their education. In a couple of years, he would be drawing his UN stipend for handing out condoms to truckdrivers in Mozambique or running a carpet-weaving workshop in a women’s prison in Kabul.

As Steadman spoke approvingly about retirement, Omar Yussef almost changed his mind. He couldn’t leave the children to be taught the government’s odious version of history by second-rate hacks or, worse, by Steadman. But he needed the time to find the truth, to save George Saba. He turned and left Steadman’s office.

Chapter 8

O
mar Yussef pulled his car out of the old, sandstone shed in the olive grove behind his home. As he drove around to the front of the house, Maryam looked out of the kitchen window. Her face registered the shock of finding him away from the school, but he pretended not to see her and curved out onto the wide main road toward Bethlehem and Beit Jala.

Omar Yussef was a poor driver and he took the slick roads slowly. It didn’t worry him that other cars passed him in a frenzied stream, or that frustrated taxi drivers would ride their horns until they finally found an opportunity to overtake him. At the junction where he would make a left for the climb to Beit Jala, a slim-waisted policeman ran half-heartedly back and forth, vainly trying to direct the flow of vehicles. Omar Yussef turned slowly across the oncoming traffic, which slid to a halt with a chorus of beeps.

Omar Yussef felt grimly determined after his meeting with Steadman. He ran the facts of the Abdel Rahman case through his mind repeatedly. If he found the connection with George Saba, he would be able to identify the real collaborator. He would have to prove it, but to uncover the identity of the man who had, in fact, led the Israelis to Louai Abdel Rahman would at least be the first step. If the Israelis killed Louai without a collaborator to help them, though, it would make Omar Yussef’s task much harder. Everyone wanted a scapegoat for the assassination, and it would be easier for him to persuade them to substitute another guilty party than to face the possibility that there was no one to blame except the untouchable soldiers. But there was certainly someone in the bushes when Louai Abdel Rahman died, and it was that person whom Omar Yussef needed to find.

It was hard for Omar Yussef to see as he drove. He leaned forward and rubbed the inside of the windshield with his handkerchief. His view remained obscured by a light rain. After driving even more slowly for a period, he remembered to turn on the windshield wipers. The summer dust still lay on the plastic blades and muddied his view with wet, brown smudges, until the rain cleared the window. He gripped the wheel tightly as he snaked up to Beit Jala. A truck came down the hill too fast and Omar Yussef, swerving, almost came to a halt. The cars behind him gave out a chorus of protest, as though their brakes were attached to their horns. He moved on again. The wipers made a moaning sound. The rain had stopped. Omar Yussef pulled over so that he could turn off the stammering wipers, then drove to the top of the hill. He passed the Greek Orthodox Club and recalled his dinner with George Saba. The damp gray stone of the Club looked desolate, like the asperous face of a lost, old man.

A single gunman guarded the final stretch of road before George Saba’s house. He signaled dismissively for Omar Yussef to pull over and jumped out of the way as the car came to a halt with less control than he had evidently expected. Omar Yussef enjoyed making the gunman skip onto the sidewalk. He hated these types, barely more than boys, who stared down their elders with cold faces and contemptuous gestures. Respect for older people was one quality he always instilled in his pupils, and these gunmen certainly lacked it.

“What’s the matter with you? Are you trying to kill me?” the gunman yelled.

Omar Yussef turned off his engine and took his time getting out of his car .

“You can’t park here. This area is reserved for my roadblock.”

Omar Yussef turned a full circle demonstratively in the street. “There’s plenty of room,” he said. “Even a tank could pass through here, and I expect that if the Israelis did drive a tank down here you wouldn’t be around to stop them.”

“Where are you going?”

The gunman’s rudeness made Omar Yussef angry and a little reckless. He returned to his car and turned the key in the door. “I had better lock it. I know that you people are involved in car theft. My car might be a target for thieves, because, thanks to you,” he said, looking along the street, “it’s the only car in the village that doesn’t have a bullet hole in it.”

The gunman looked at once furious and cowed.
After all,
thought Omar Yussef,
he can’t deny that my accusations are true.
Perhaps, for a moment, the young man wrestled with the vestiges of respect for his elders that gradually was draining from him, as from everyone else. Maybe he hadn’t been in the Martyrs Brigades long enough to override that tradition with their new arrogance.

“I said, where are you going?” the young gunman called. His voice was irritable but hesitant.

Omar Yussef sensed that the youth was already in retreat in the face of the older man’s confidence. “I’m a detective and I’m conducting an investigation of importance to national security. Now keep an eye on my car or Hussein Tamari will have your head.”

The gunman kicked a stone along the gutter and looked down. It was the gesture of a resentful, beaten, little boy. Omar Yussef smiled.

The street was empty. Even without the dull spread of the rain clouds, it would have been a sorry place. The windows of the houses on the left were shattered by bullet holes and filled with sandbags. The houses on the right must have been worse. Their backs faced across the valley to the Israeli positions and took the full impact of the gunfire. From the shelter of the street, though, Omar Yussef could enjoy the lovely old Turkish arches and the pleasing squareness of the houses and the clear air left by the rain. Though the clouds had threatened for days, this was the first downpour. He breathed the rising scent of the wet dirt with pleasure as he approached George Saba’s house. He climbed the stairs and saw that the disrespectful gunman still watched him from the curb by his car. He knocked on the door. There were black blast marks around the jamb and the wood was splintered.

George’s wife Sofia leaned out of a window. “Hello, Abu Ramiz, good morning. Can you go to the door at the side of the house? This one is broken and can’t be used. I’m sorry. The police blew it open when they came for George.”

Omar Yussef waved and took the steps down to the basement. He noted that Sofia’s head was bandaged, though she disguised it with the kind of headscarf women sometimes tie behind their ears to do housework.

Habib Saba embraced him in the doorway. His eyes were red from two days of tears, and they filled again when he saw Omar Yussef. He excused himself and guided the schoolteacher inside. “Forgive my emotion, Abu Ramiz, but you are the first Muslim who has been to see us since this trouble.”