Chapter 5

Sly as a fox, he winked at me and laughed; his gorgeously white teeth glistened as he answered: "It's because I wanted to double your delight, and the cure can only be doubly pleasing when it follows prior turmoil. Watch this!" He took the middle of the rope and firmly tied a knot around the tail of "the dove," so that both ends of the cord hung down-then he climbed onto the saddle. We wanted to start out on our trip to Harem Ramet el Chalil, to the Sacred Heights of Hebron. My wife sat upon her mule, and I climbed onto the one that Thar had been riding. Now, we simply had to wait and see what the boy was going to do. The donkey driver handed him both ends of the rope, which he calmly held in his hands. "Now, watch how quickly this works," he said. "Make room; I'm riding on ahead."

We moved to the side. He goaded dear Guewerdschina. She swished her ears and waggled her tail, but she took no steps forward. He struck her, but that did no good. He screamed at her and slapped his feet into her sides-all to no avail. So he pulled on both ends of the rope. With that trick, the mule's tail flipped up and onto her rump. Thar then wrapped the cords around her belly and tied a knot, thereby firmly stretching the ropes in a way that they could not release backwards. Guewerdschina was visibly startled. Nothing like this had ever happened in her lifetime. Like the wings of a windmill, she flailed her ears. She also wanted to whisk her tail, but that couldn't happen. At this point, she let her ears droop down as she contemplated her troubles. To this spirited annoyance, the boy added a rambunctious swat. This caused "the dove" to turn her head to the right, trying to look behind her-but she saw nothing. So she turned to her left and tried to see what was behind. In spite of her tremendous efforts to move her tail so that she could see it, she couldn't.

"Now she's unbearably worried!" laughed Thar. "She thinks her tail is gone. She believes that some frightening thing is behind her. Now she will run for all she's worth!" The words were hardly out of his mouth when Guewerdschina let out a bone marrow-jarring hee-haw. She cringed and arched her back like a cat. She lunged to the right and to the left-then with sudden haste, she shot straight forward, as if she wanted to charge beyond her own head. It required a very good rider not to fall off; Thar effortlessly stayed in the saddle. Laughing heartily, we followed him as fast as we could. In light of the tragically comical, apprehensive demeanor of mules, it really was impossible to keep a straight face.

Our new route led us through the ruins of the village of Chirbet en Nasara, then on towards the road to Jerusalem. There we caught up with the boy, noting how the mule pretty much obeyed him. From this path, it was just 400 paces to Abraham's Well; in the corner of the photograph, note the large, square stone wall. No one knows why this wall exists, nor whether it was ever expanded. Now, it is simply a rubble. The blocks are often five meters long, yet they are no longer joined with mortar. In Baalbek, I have seen hewn stones that are over nineteen meters in length. Given the era of this wall's origin, a five meter stone was plenty to manhandle. Nearby is still another cistern; it's called "The Bath of Sarah," Ishmael's mother's well. In the nearby rugged rocks, two oil lamps have been affixed. Not far from the crumbled wall is a large church, most likely the basilica that Constantine the Great erected at "The Strong Terebinth Tree of Mamre." To this day, this place is called "The Valley of Terebinth," a place to search for acceptance and adoption.

When we reached the four-cornered wall, we saw a poorly clothed Arabic woman and her small daughter sitting in a corner near the well. As soon as they saw us, they stepped back from the water. After we dipped up some water for our animals and gave them time to drink, my wife found a spot to take a photograph. When the Donkey Driver saw her camera, he immediately removed himself and his mules to a place of safety-for he believed that only Christians and Jews were able to withstand the power of photography. Every other creature, whether man or beast, risked destruction.

Peering from behind a large stone, his curiosity drove him to see what was taking place. He saw "the eye of the monster," the lens of the camera, which was pointed directly at me and towards the corner. He wanted to make sure that this "eye" did not focus on him- but a shaft of sunlight just so happened to shine on him. Actually, we no longer needed him and his mules. Since our present location was only a few hundred paces from the road where Mustafa Bustani was supposed to wait for us, I told him that we would just walk from here.

When the photography was finished, I paid him. In my business dealings with other people, it's never been my nature nor my way to be a stingy man who haggles over the cost of things. Extending an open hand goes considerably further than acting like a miser. The same is true in this land. The Donkey Driver counted the money that I gave him: "Effendi, that is too much." I insisted: "No, I gladly give you this money. You have been friendly and polite, so you've earned the baksheesh." "Even this tip is too much. Perhaps I can do still more that will justify this baksheesh. I will not leave this area until you also depart. I have nothing more to do, so nothing precludes me from serving you further."

We had thought that Thar would want to take an interest in photography, but this was not the case. More than he realized, the exotic Arabic woman and her young daughter held a greater gravitational attraction than the cloud-black camera. He was looking for a way to meet them. In the way that boys do, he first meandered from a distance, then he came ever closer to them. Suddenly, he sat down between the two and began to talk with uncommon familiarity-as if he were an acquaintance from long ago, or even a relative of theirs.

After I had finished taking our photos, he brought the small girl to where my wife and I were seated on the edge of the cistern. Her mother remained sitting. The young girl had the most lovingly sensitive, wholesomely healthy face, with peach-red cheeks and large grey-blue velveteen eyes. Judging from her appearance, it seemed like some deep and undisturbed charming riddle was miraculously working inside of her. Like a fountain, her light brown hair flowed from under her desert-red scarf. One of her sunburned, delicate hands held a few long-stemmed Canterbury-bell flowers. She kept her other hand in the thin pleats of her spotlessly clean dress. I distinctly recall how her dainty, suntanned feet with miniature ivory nails partly emerged from elegant leather sandals. In light of this extraordinarily pleasant first impression of her, an endless sense of compassion filled my heart for this girl who was as poor as she was pretty. In my respect for her and her mother, I somehow felt more and more compelled to be prepared to offer them some great and suitably timely service. Later on, my wife told me that she too had felt this instant bonding-at precisely the same moment.

She turned to ask Thar: "Well then, what is her name?" "I don't know, but you yourself can ask her, right? In talking with her, I learned no more than these three things: she likes me; I'm her hero, and I'll fight for her." "I'm called Schamah," she said, putting an accent on the second syllable of her name. The fidgeting hand that formerly hid in the pleats of her dress now directed an outstretched forefinger as she pointed: "Over there is my mother." Her voice sounded soft and tender, yet strikingly moving. Its tone had a hard-to-refuse ring. With open arms, my wife hugged the girl as she asked me this question: "What does the name Schamah mean?" So, I briefly explained: "It's the East Jordanian pronunciation of Samah, which means 'forgiveness'."

Smiling as she talked to the child, my wife hugged her again: "Oh, innocently young and dear little soul, you've done nothing that requires forgiving." With laughter in her voice, Schamah offered her colorful bouquet: "I bring you bells." She held the Canterbury-bell flowers to my wife's ear and lightly shook them: "Now, I'll ring them. Can you hear them?" "Yes, I do." "Isn't it so? Quite softly, faintly, gently- like the sound is falling from heaven. When they grow up, they will be as grand as the ones that hang in churches; then, the entire world will hear their ringing."

Thar joined in: "You speak of the church. Are you then a Christian?" "Yes, I'm a Christian," she nodded. "And also your mother?" "She too." He then clapped his hands and called out: "That's beautiful! That's wonderful! I'm glad to know that!" "Why?" "It's precisely for these reasons: I'm a hero, and I want to put up a good fight for your rights. No one can properly perform heroic deeds for a Muslim girl. Unattractive as a frog, she wraps herself in fabrics and limps around with wooden slippers on her feet. By contrast, I can clearly see the Christian girl. That fact is essential whenever heroes like us are inspired to risk our lives for others. Do you know how I will look when I fight for you?" "Like you are dressed today, right?" "No. What I have on now is not bold enough. Do you know that certain colors can scare an enemy? For this reason, I put on war paint as soon as a conflict arises. One side of my face becomes blue, and the other side is painted green-" "Phooey, phooey, phooey!" "You don't like that?" he asked, halfway astonished and partially disappointed. "Not at all. I like you just the way you are-not all painted up!"

Thar was pleased with her answer: "Good, I'll remain who I am. Now that I think more about what you've said, you're right, very right. From now on, whenever I struggle with enemies, they may paint themselves blue, yellow, and green-but not I. I'll bear that in mind. Our four clubs must have newer and better rules. Foremost, whoever presents himself in war paint will be judged as beatable. To please you, I'm ready to bound away from all rules that are good for nothing!" He then stretched his legs and flexed his muscles so convincingly that her eyes widened in wonder as she pointed to him and asked this question: " Yes, I already believe that you're a hero; but what exactly could be a reason to knock someone down, just for my sake?" "A cause can always be found if you look for it. Maybe it's coming from over there. Look!"

He pointed in the direction of the church ruins, to people whom we hadn't previously seen-to those who were now coming towards us. There were ten or twelve men who were riding on donkeys. Behind them was a column of forty or fifty armed boys who were carrying all kinds of banners. This was one of those parades for children who excitedly circled the city on this festival day. "Isn't this a dangerous situation?" my wife asked. "We should leave quickly."

My answer was one of caution: "Under no circumstances and in no way should we hurry. This would merely show them that we have some reason to be fearful, something to hide from. We'll freely give them the water, but not right away. I hope they will give us some kind of greeting."

The procession had now arrived at our spot. The men stopped to talk with our Donkey Driver, asking some questions about us. They learned that we were Christians- be that as it may, that we were not bad people. Schamah's mother left her seat and came nearer to us. She feared the fanatical people of Hebron, so she begged us to pack up and leave. She was a Christian, a widow from the region called Al Karak, a city in Jordan that contains a famous Crusader castle. It's located on the other side of the Dead Sea. She and her young daughter were on a pilgrimage to the holy cities of Bethlehem and Jerusalem. Truly, she was a simple and poor woman. Still, I'd like to extend my impression of her; in every way, her clothes were expressly Arabic and chic-like those customarily worn by a Middle Eastern woman, or even by a Bedouin. Her clothing was beautiful yet tasteful, with no suggestion of melancholy nor fascinating glamour. She was a daughter of sorrow, not a woman of good fortune. My wife extended her hand to Schamah's mother, drawing her close to her side. I advised her to put aside any concerns; nothing was going to happen to them.

The riders now came up to us. They stopped a few feet from us and climbed down from their donkeys. It was clear that they didn't intend to greet us. I couldn't tolerate that sort of contempt, because such insolence involved behavior that I wanted to bypass and avoid completely. Whenever you want others to know that you hold a certain air of strength, it's always effective to put on a special sort of image. I crafted such a first firm impression, and it seemed to work with the leader of the group. He shifted his weight, held his hand to his chest, slightly bowed and said: "Salam. Peace be upon you."

Those words sounded brusque. Just as curtly, I stood my ground and answered: "Salam." Before I could say more, Thar spoke up: "Here is my Effendi, the Supreme Secretary of Germany's Chancellor. From his briefcase flows the complete control of all tax revenue. He levies a tax on whomever he wants. He has just returned from Hebron where he sought to buy The Oak of Abraham from the Russians, then transport it home. Hail to Effendi!"

After he said that, he took his new girlfriend by the hand and went towards the boys from Hebron. Since I was still so overwhelmed with surprise that he would meddle and make such fantastic claims about me, I completely forgot to caution him. Thank God, something unforeseen did not happen. The men believed he was serious. They held a brief discussion, then they all bowed deeply as Abdullah said this to me: "Effendi, you are a great and powerful official. Unfortunately, you are also a Christian. For this reason, we are not permitted to invite you to be our guest. The children's games can only begin when you have left this site."

Indirectly, this was an invitation to leave only our dust behind. Taking their donkeys with them, the men moved to a more remote spot. A little more peaceable scene was taking place where Thar and Schamah met together with the boys from Hebron. The boys were very excited. Since so many of them were hollering, they shouted something that we didn't understand. Fearlessly, Thar stood there in front of the boys. As if protecting the girl, he put his left arm around the girl and gestured menacingly with his right-we could not hear what he was saying to the crowd. Schamah's mother was anxious about the safety of her daughter. I tried to reassure her. We drew closer to the aroused and animated group.

When Thar saw us coming, he called out to us: "Nothing will come of their threat. They want to drown Schamah-in the water close to where you have been sitting. They justify themselves by saying that she is a Christian who has defiled today's festival. I told them that I won't allow that, so I'll fight for her. They are now choosing the ringleader that I'm supposed to deal with. Ah, there he is!"

He pointed to a tall, robust boy who now stepped forward. Following the customary way that the adults had taught him, he gave his pre-battle speech. He struck a pose and called out to Thar, as well as to us: "You are a Christian-dog, and she is a Christian girl, which is even worse than a cur. We will drown her in the deepest part of the well, in a spot where she can not touch bottom. We are true, absolute, and obedient believers of the Prophet. In this celebration of Ishmael's birthday, we can not endure the sacrilege of a Christian's feet to touch this ground. So, she must die. But you want to fight for her, because you claim to be a hero. We are game for this, because we too are heroes. I demand that you state your conditions for combat!"

When Schamah's mother heard all of this, her fear reached its peak. I explained to her that it was probably not a case of violent rage that would actually be carried out-rather, it would be handled as a game. After all, today was supposed to be the "Day of Children's Games." She could rest assured that nothing would happen to her daughter. So, it was not necessary to take her away from our boy Thar.

Thar then spoke to Schamah: "You are Queen of the Games; and before your eyes, they are about to begin. Come and be seated!" She sat upon a stone bench, and he took his place beside her. Next, he took his notebook from his vest pocket, opened it, and began to deliver his counter-reply to the ringleader: "You call me a Christian-dog. On the contrary, I'm a Muslim from Jerusalem, and that is far greater that your Hebron sect. Who then are you?" He began to read the following lines: "You are all Canaanites: Hittites, Jebusites , Girgashites, Hivites, people of Arka, Amorites, Sidonians, Phenicians, those from Zemar, Arvadians, Hamathians, and all others dwelling in Zidon. In the refining process of Islam, you were found lacking and were passed over-now, you are simply sediment. If your faith were pure and noble, then your people would not find it so necessary to keep others away from your places of worship!"

He returned his notebook to its vest pocket and continued speaking: "You say that my young girl friend is worse than a dog. A true hero would not say such a thing. By contrast, I'm a hero, I'm civil, and I oppose you. I'll fight with you, but not on your terms- all of you against only me. Instead, we'll follow the custom we practice in Jerusalem-one on one. You will find yourselves transformed into Lions, Elephants, Hippos, and Whales. From among you, select the boldest Lion, the most powerful Elephant, the strongest Hippo, and the largest Whale. I will fight all four beasts. When I defeat all four of your fighters, I'll receive-" "My Canterbury-bells," Schamah called out. Her small hand raised the flowers upward. "Yes, your bluebell flowers," Thar chimed in. "Palestinian Hebronites, sit down in front of her and me, and I'll explain to you what all of this has to do with Lions, Elephants, Hippos, and Whales.

With pleasure, they immediately obeyed him. For a few moments, they scurried helter-skelter, crawling over and under each other like crazed insects. A deep silence then took over, broken only by the boy's clarifying voice. When they all grasped the picture that he was describing, they began to cheer loudly. A thing like this had never happened before. Everyone pressed forward, wanting to be chosen as one of the beasts. In the midst of these would-be-juggernauts who strove for revenge, there sat Schamah, "Forgiveness." Without any fear of harm, she kept a peaceful smile on her loveable face. Curiously enough, the adult men were just as excited as the boys. They all flocked around. The Hebron men joined their boys in the process of selecting and appointing. They marked out the fight-arena. Abdullah, who was the Secretary of State for the Palestinian Sheik of Balad, even took it upon himself to appoint security police as part of the rules for this fight. What more can be said about hate and disputes among religious people.

The field for fighting formed four corners: Lions to the north, Hippos to the south, Elephants to the east, and Whales were confined to the west. Schamah sat on the southern side of her throne, where she could easily keep her eyes on everything. Guewerdschina the mule served as her throne, the most protected place that remained on that site. Musicians sat in the corner: a jar-drum, a tambourine, trumpets, and a fipple flute. If Thar were wrestled to the ground, they were supposed to make the loudest possible clamor. With the victory never tipping to their side, the Hebronite musicians had no chance to play their instruments.

They had chosen their strongest athletes. The competition's rules were very simple: the loser would be whoever was thrown to the ground in the first three beast- matches. The battle of the Whales would take place in the fountain. The winner had to dunk his opponent, then publicly spew a mouth full of water in his face. Before the matches began, the Four Heroes of Hebron were asked whether they wanted to withdraw their names from the competition. "For no amount of money!" they replied.

Secretary of State Abdullah then gave the signal for the battle of the Lions to begin. The Lion of Hebron stepped forward. He was the same tall, robust boy who first gave a speech. When he saw all eyes turn towards him, his face took on an overly confident expression.

Thar stood beside us: "Watch carefully! See how quickly this happens. The main thing is to give your enemy no time to think." He then stepped into the ring, bowed to Schamah, and positioned himself squarely in front of his foe. No doubt he had learned this knightly behavior from hearing some legend, or from some fairy tale. Abdullah now clapped his hands three times. In the blink of an eye, it happened. When his opponent hesitated, Thar lunged. He let him come quite close, then sprang to the side as he clenched the boy from behind and completely buckled him under. Just as he had wrestled old Eppstein down to the ground, he firmly held the young Hebron Lion as he called out to the musicians: "Now you can sound your notes of triumph for him!" Of course, they were silent. The loser slowly stood up; with his head lowered, he slinked away.

Next came the Battle of the Elephants. The opponent was a cumbersome guy who seemed to have twice the strength as our boy possessed. With a smile, Thar gave a nod to us. That was a good sign. He had told us how those in the Elephant Club had to do their trampling in unison. First here, then suddenly over there, he didn't simply take the kid down-he bounced him to the ground. When Abdullah gave the signal, Thar powerfully launched forward, swung himself upward, and simply sprang over that heap of a foe. In an instant, he put his knees upon the boy and called out to the musicians: "Loudly, loudly, now play your song of triumph for him!" All around, stillness reigned.

Only Secretary of State Abdullah angrily called out: "Oh my, two are already down. This is not acceptable. Let our Hippo come forth, and he will stomp him into the ground. The Hippo was a short, thick rascal who was not endowed with muscles, just a lot of fat. Fearlessly, he rolled his eyes; he had good courage. As the time drew nearer for the start of the match, he put his head down like a runner. Letting out a colossal hoo-ha, the Hebron Monster then lay down on the ground and stretched his legs into the air. He held his head with both hands and bellowed as if someone were planning to roast him on a grill. Thar just stood there erect; with a laugh, he teased the musicians: "You guys don't need to play your drums nor blow your horns, because he's making his own music."

Now the giants of the ocean would show what they could do. The former four sides of the ring now collapsed. Everyone headed to the deep well, wherein the final judgment was supposed to take place. Thar was the first to arrive at the cistern; he stood ready to descend into the water. The Hebronites came less quickly. Slowest of them all were the Whales. The very last one to arrive was the guy that was supposed to fight with Thar. With a very embarrassed look on his face, he came to the brink of the well, then looked away as he said: "I don't want this job anymore!" Abdullah responded: "You've already accepted the position, so you must go through with it!" As the boy turned and hurried away, he called out: "Not for any amount of money! I'm leaving!"