Chapter 7

Originally, she had only wanted to hike from Abraham's Oak to Bethlehem. Her plans changed at the Hospice, where she received a slip of paper from an anonymous benefactor in Bethany, a village on Jerusalem's eastern slope of Olivet. The note assured them of free room and board in the Good Samaritan's house. At the same time, he had arranged for our Donkey Driver to take them to Jerusalem. From there, someone would pick them up and accompany them-all free of charge. It pleased her to recall the kindness of this man's heart. Likewise, she was thankful for the humanitarian aid they received in the Russian Hospice that stood near Abraham's Oak. They never suspected the truth, that our "Hero of the Blood Feud" was the one to whom they owed their thanks.

They did not go into the accursed Valley of Hinnom where the god Moloch was once worshipped. Nor did they ride straight to the house of their anonymous benefactor. They first wanted to ask if we thought it was "OK" for two lonely, Christian pilgrims to accept this man's invitation to stay in his home. We gave them as much information as we could and offered to accompany them to their host's house, for we too wanted to meet this man. They gratefully accepted our offer. Just as we were ready to depart, there was a fourth knock at our door-in stepped our lad Thar.

He was completely out of breath. When he saw Schamah and her mother, he excitedly called out: "So, what the Donkey Driver told me is true! Instead of riding straight to your host's house, you first stopped off here. But why are you staying here longer? Why didn't you travel directly towards Bethany, following the Hinnom Valley, just like I told the Donkey Driver to do?" He was coming close to revealing his other identity. I placed my hand on his shirt collar and brought him into the adjoining room: "I believe it's best that Schamah and her mother don't know that you and the Donkey Driver secretly instigated this part of their visit to Jerusalem. Are you now ready to tell everything?"

He seemed startled: "Allah, Allah! You're right-that was dumb of me! Still, put yourself in my shoes, Effendi. There I was with all of my Lions, Elephants, Hippos, and Whales, standing near the Pool of Siloam as we waited for Schamah. We were all set to provide a festive, multi-stage-parade as we escorted her to Bethany-" "With the Hippos and Elephants?" "Yes, of course!" he nodded. "I called them all together, because I wanted them to help me welcome my new friend with a grand reception. They all wore their best costumes. We had decorated the entire neighborhood with flowers. We even took branches and swept the streets of the parade route. Upon her arrival, we had all planned to bow at the same time. Next, Firdusi was going to recite a poem. Thereafter, it would be my turn to give a good speech in her honor. Following this, there would be more bows, along with a song that included both singing and blowing our horns. Busiri's poem would come next. Finally, there would be a triumphant bellowing 'Huzzah!' At this point, our festive procession would begin to move-half of us ahead and half trailing. I would be riding between Schamah and her mother, leading both of their donkeys."

I laughed as I exclaimed, "Yes, you planned a delightful surprise!" "You're right. Now, imagine how we waited for hours, yet no one came. When Schamah and her mother separated from the Donkey Driver and rode here to your door instead of taking the pre-arranged route, we agreed to modify our plan. Since this thought came to the Driver later on, it was just a few minutes ago that I realized how I might find them waiting here at your place. I hurried here to urge you to come right away-I don't want my Lions and Whales to lose patience!"

It made me sad to know that I had to dampen his enthusiasm, but I couldn't do otherwise-I had to follow through. I shared my reasons regarding why such a grand greeting would be impossible. Think. This would not befit a Christian pilgrim whose inner nature is humble and modest. Likewise, consider her reaction to hearing Islamic poems and the bellowing whoops of your triumphant reception.

He understood enough to see my point of view: "Good, Effendi. So, let's omit those things, but do this instead. Do you know "The Song of Bethany," telling how Jesus came to visit his siblings?" "No." "Alright, you'll soon hear that song. Are you now planning to take the road towards the Hinnom Valley and the Pool of Siloam?" "Yes, my wife will likely take a photograph there." "Good, that works. Please travel slowly. As for me, I'll rush on ahead of you." I wanted to admonish him not to do anything inappropriate, but he waved me off as he hurriedly left in a cloud of dust. We followed him; and just as I thought, my wife reminded me to bring along the camera. She wanted to take a few pictures at the Pool of Siloam and a couple of photos in Bethany.

The purpose of this story is not to describe Jerusalem and its surroundings. For that, I'll let the path of our journey speak for itself. My wife's photographs clearly show the location and the appearance of the Pool of Siloam. In that photo, I'm not dressed like an Arab; instead, I'm wearing European clothes and a safari hat on my head. This partially explains the picture. According to The Book of John, Chapter 9: 7, it was here that Christ healed the man who was born blind.

When we arrived, we saw that no one else was there. I was glad about that. The solitude and stillness matched the moods that we found ourselves in. As we rode along, we limited ourselves to earnest conversations. Little Schamah acted like a lovely inner beam of sunshine that cast its light on our serious-minded subjects. The widow focused on the goal of her journey. One ceaseless, important question quaked inside of her: "Would her pilgrimage be favorably fulfilled, or not?" As for us and what we already knew, we eagerly held onto our high expectations that the moment of decision would soon come.

My wife wanted to have her picture taken with Schamah, but today the child did not trust the dark, dangling three-dimensional camera-so, she declined. I alone would have my picture taken beside the Pool. After the camera clicked and before we left the site, she took one last, close look, as if to memorize this part of our trip. Suddenly, the boys surprised us from the right and to the left, both from above and below, practically from all sides and from all heights where they had hidden themselves behind the rocks. They were singing a peculiar, two-part song in the Arabic language. It was "The Song of Bethany," when Jesus was on his way to visit brothers and sisters, stopping along the way to heal the sick at the Pool of Siloam. Picture our inner moods and the outer backdrop of the scenery; all of this seemed to be waiting for us. Here too, we were completely amazed when we heard the profoundly deep and strangely stirring "Song of Christ." That song left a lasting impression on us, one that almost brought us to our knees as we intently listened. Neither breath nor foot moved. The singers remained concealed in their hiding-places- they had a good stage director. From this moment on, I never doubted that our lad had been born with a natural talent for art.

From the Pool, we traveled toward Cedron, the brook that flows between Jerusalem and the Mount of Olives. We also wanted to see the so-called upper bridge at Gethsemane. On our way to Bethany, we passed by the Jewish burial grounds. Just outside the village, Thar stood all alone. He was waiting for our arrival, so he greeted us. Very softly, he asked me this question: "Have you seen them?" "Whom?" "The singers. They anticipated the time it would take for you to make the trip to Gethsemane, all in order to be here to sing for you once more. Come! I'll lead you to Abd en Nom; you'll want to see the living quarters that we've already reserved for Schamah. After that, we'll go to Lazarus' Tomb, and there you can take a photograph.

He took Schamah by the hand as they went on ahead of us. Abd en Nom's house was located near the site of Lazarus' Grave. The owner of the house stepped outside, bowing respectfully low as he greeted us. His two sons were there, both of whom we recognized from Thar's description of them: "the largest Whale that we have and the strongest Hippo that ever was." Both of them gave us an inspiring impression that they were quite friendly. The little guest house certainly appeared to be clean and cozy. It looked as if the guests would be very satisfied with their accommodations here. When we stepped inside, we saw that we had guessed correctly. Regarding the two rooms prepared for Schamah and her mother, the furnishings were so perfectly arranged that nothing more could be wished for. Besides all this, the rooms were decorated with flowers and palm branches that no doubt were part of the festive parade that Thar had planned.

Secretively, the lad gave me this explanation: "Since I had to hurry so much, everything here had to be put in place very quickly." "Well now, where did you find all of the heroes?" "Right away, you'll hear them." With these words, he went to the door and motioned to someone outside. Immediately, there arose a triumphant whoop that was at least fifty to sixty voices strong. The pitch and tone of this cheer were so shocking and unnatural, that all of this noise could not have come from real lions, elephants, hippos, and whales. "May Allah have mercy on you!" I called out. "That's enough. Please stop!" When he beckoned with his hand, everything quieted down. Still, we couldn't see where these "beasts" were hidden away. "That completes it," he said. "Just one last time, I had to let them blare. Now they've had their way, so they won't do it again. Well now, do we want to visit Lazarus' Grave where you can take some photos?"

We all agreed to go, because the sun was already beginning to sink; if we waited any longer, we wouldn't have enough daylight for a good picture. Thar and Schamah ran on ahead, but her mother asked to stay behind. Before it grew dark, she wanted to be sure that their rooms were ready for night time. Her request was such a natural one, that we fully understood her wish to remain at the house. So we went on without her and soon caught up with the children. We positioned the camera so that it was pointed toward the entrance of the tomb. As far as we knew, no one was inside.

From behind a door inside the cave, out stepped the official attendant, waving his arms in the air and shouting at us: "Not now! Not now! Now it is forbidden, because a Muslim is inside, a Follower of the Prophet!" Click! He was too late; my wife had just snapped the camera's shutter. In spite of our disobedience of his orders, we were thankful to have a good picture that illustrates this part of my narrative. Just as we were putting the camera away, we saw the "Believer of the Prophet" emerge from Lazarus' Tomb. When he recognized us, he happily hurried out to greet us. It was our good friend Mustafa Bustani. "How fitting and how right it feels that we should meet here!" he said. "On our way home, let's go through Kafr et Tur, just like we did yesterday." Turning towards his son, he asked: "And you too?" When he saw Schamah, he respectfully bowed: "And who is this small, lovely child?"

With ever-widening glistening eyes, Schamah stood there. Her petite face beamed with pure happiness. Jumping for joy, she stretched out her tiny arms, begging him to lift her up: "My Daddy! My Daddy!" Thrilled to see him, she clapped her hands together and cried out: "Mother told me so! My Mother said it would happen!" Having no idea that this girl was his son's new friend, the one Thar met just yesterday, Mustafa asked: "Which mother? What did she say?" "On our way to the Grave of Lazarus, Mother told me that the Savior would resurrect you from the dead-just as He brought Lazarus back to life." "Me?" "Yes, you Daddy!" Mustafa turned toward us: "She believes I'm her father! How strange! Who is this child?" "My name is Schamah, the 'forgiveness,' and you'll find my Mother over there in the house." Once again holding up her outstretched hands, she pleaded: "Just like you used to, carry me in your arms as we go to her." His face lost its color. White as a corpse, he retreated a few steps backward. His voice faltered as he asked: "Schamah-the forgiveness?" He directed the next question to his son: "Was this really the small girl from yesterday?" "Yes, it is she," he nodded. "My word, oh my word! Do you know her father's name?" Before the boy could answer, Schamah spoke up: "Truly, you are my Father! Your name is Achmed Bustani. Don't you know me anymore? If not, I can't help but cry. Lift me up and take me to Mother!"

It's impossible to describe what happened next. Simultaneously, Mustafa Bustani let out a cry and fell to his knees. He stretched out his arms to Schamah and pulled her towards him. Nonstop, he kissed her cheeks as he cried out: "Schamah-Schamah-the forgiveness! Just like he told me in my dream, has it happened? These were his words: 'I will send you my forgiveness- she comes here from the East. Every day, look for her!' I have done so, and now she has arrived!"

Suddenly, Schamah withdrew from his caresses. With both arms, she pushed him away, looking him straight in the eyes as she said this to him: "It's not true; it's not so! I like you, but you are not my Daddy. One more time, you must go back into the Tomb in order to be fully brought back to life." He repeated her request: "Yet one more time back inside the Grave? Yes, I clearly understand. There is still something inside of me that must die. Until then and for the time being, I am your daddy's brother. Oh dear, dear child of my heart-from now on, you have my love, just as if I were your father." She smiled when she answered: "If you wish, then I'll do so. Now, carry me to my Mother!" "First, please tell me something else." "What?" "Do you know the date when your daddy died? "Oh yes, Mother and I certainly remember that day. I can never forget that date, because she recalls it so often. He died on the fifteenth day of the Month of Adar, one day after the Jewish Holiday of Purim."

Mustafa leaped to his feet. His face took on an indescribable expression: "Did you hear what she just said? The 15th day of Adar! That's the same day of my dream. He told me that he had died and that he would send me his Schamah, his forgiveness. Allah, Allah! How wonderful all of this has turned out. I honor you. I treasure you. I adore you." "To Mommy, to Mommy!" pleaded the child. What she saw and heard were all too much for her to understand just now. He gathered Schamah into his arms and lifted her up: "Yes, I'll take you to your mother. Where will we find her?" Clinging close to my side, Thar was ready to go with them: "At the home of Abd en Nom." Still full of excitement, his father took almost hesitant steps in the direction of the house-where he soon vanished inside. Thar thoughtfully pondered aloud: "If I may not go inside and hear what is said, I'll just have to speculate on what's taking place. Father is right; marvelous things still happen. I myself played a big part in today's miracle. Without my father knowing, the Donkey Driver and I came up with the plan that involved a note which would eventually lead Schamah to this place-and at this time. Effendi, you and your wife have to agree that all of this could not have turned out any better. Wait for me here! As soon as I put all of this together, I'll ask you to hear me out."

He then left us. My wife and I went on to visit the ruins where we quietly shared our thoughts, almost as if we were in a church. We were completely alone. The site's guardian had already gone for the day. The entrance to the Tomb lay open. Oh what thoughts seemed to come forth from that wide-open door. Daylight began to wane. Oh what a pure and clean breath of fresh air drifted down on us from the heights of the Mount of Olives. Inside of me, I heard something-or was it from somewhere outside? Was someone standing behind us? No human presence could compare to this feeling of a powerful force that embraced us as it seemed to call out: "Lazarus, come out!" Yes, nothing is so surreal as the physical association with miracles that seems to connect the dead with the living.

From somewhere up above, softly sublime and aerial two-part harmony voices floated down to us-once again, the boys were singing "The Song of Bethany," recalling how the Savior went to visit His brothers and sisters. Per Thar's instructions, the boys had climbed behind the ruins and were now repeating the verses they had sung at the Pool of Siloam. It was the song of Christ, the one who caused the blind to see and the dead to live again. As I thought about this song, it almost seemed irreverent and profane to use common words to allude to matters of blindness and death. Such things are deeply rooted in feelings. Herein, I can't instruct you- I can only tell my story.

When the song faded away like an evening vesper from the time of Christ, Thar returned to us. He and his playmates had parted ways, and each had returned home. Once again, his father came out of the house. His sister-in-law and Schamah accompanied him. When I saw their expressions, these biblical words came to mind: "And their faces glistened brilliantly." Thar saw it too: "What an hour, what a blessed time," he said. "Adding in the song, who could have arranged all this?" I asked. Pointing to himself with both hands, the boy answered: "I was the one." "Were you really the one who's responsible? To me, it seemed as if this was some sort of greeting from your mother." The widow joined in: "It's also from my departed husband whose life ended, yet his spirit lives on as his dying wish now comes to fulfillment."

Mustafa Bustani turned to his son: "If all of this truly came about through your mother's and my brother's last requests-and not from you-surely you have done more than your share, and you deserve our thanks. Actually, Abd en Nom told us the name of the architect who orchestrated today's joint-ventures. The compassion which your mother planted in your young soul has born fruit and brought blessings upon us. Schamah, the forgiveness, will be living with us and-" "In our house?" Thar quickly asked. "Yes." "With her mother?" "Yes." "For how long?' "I hope it will be forever."

Upon hearing that, Thar shouted and leaped higher in the air than he ever had before: "Right away, I must hurry to tell them that they'e coming!" "Whom?" "Why, all of our household: Habakek, Bem, his wife, the coffee grinder, and our cook." "We still have plenty of time, because my sister-in-law will spend this evening here with Abd en Nom. After all the preparations are in place to welcome them with a festival, we'll pick them up tomorrow." With a second joyful leap, Thar cheered: "Their reception will be wildly festive! May I invite my Lions and my Elephants?" From the look on Mustafa's face, he didn't approve. When my wife waved her appeal to him, he gave in: "Yes, invite them." "The Hippos too?" "Yes." "And the Whales?" "Yes, they can also come. They can sit in the backyard and be entertained there-but quietly. Before they leave this evening, please have them sing "The Song of Bethany." "Halleluja! My dearest and loving father, thank you. I'll hurry to tell them right away!" Mustafa Bustani tried to hold him back: "Why this very minute?" "Because I still have time to catch up with them. They left just a short while ago." He pulled away, quickly shook Schamah's little hand, and sprang to his feet. As she adoringly watched the boy, Schamah asked: "Will I be staying with him?" "Yes, you will," her mother answered. From now on, you two will be together." "I too want it to be so. I'm very glad about that, because I love him so-such heroes need someone to keep an eye on them. But for now, I'm tired from the long journey. May I soon go to sleep?"

Schamah's desire to sleep now gave us a timely reason to say "Good night" as well. When we also said "Auf Wiedersehen," truly we could eagerly look forward to seeing everyone tomorrow. One more time before nightfall, mother and daughter went to Lazarus' Tomb as they performed a very personal duty which the Grave now seemed to give way to.

My wife, Mustafa Bustani, and I departed too, climbing the steep and familiar path to Bethpage and on towards Kafr et Tur. When we reached the height's Bread-bush of Jonathan, we paused for awhile. Now in the grasp of the distant horizon, the sun sank, then vanished. With its last beams of light, the sun embraced the earth's most holy city. Unless you yourself see and feel this marvelous sight that Jerusalem and The Mount of Olives offer at sunset, I can not describe its wondrous beauty. We stood there for a long time, completely absorbed in this vista.

Mustafa Bustani took a deep breath before he spoke: "Compared to this same time yesterday, it's even more beautiful, a thousand times lovelier. You know, this kind of deep appreciation comes from inside of us. I'm a completely different man than I was yesterday-I feel and I see things in an entirely better light. There is a world of difference between yesterday and today. I know that you don't expect me to talk for hours about events and my personal feelings. It's "OK" with you when I feel the need to be silent. Please, go on without me. Leave me here, alone with my thoughts and alone with the brother who forgave me today-even though I once disowned him.

So my wife and I went on without him. As we reached the next bend in the road, the evening bells of the Holy City began to ring. An undulating sea of sacred music rose up to capture us-as if it wanted to take us towards heaven. When we looked behind us, we saw Mustafa Bustani on his knees-as church bells pealed, this Muslim was praying. Can I say more? No.

For those readers who can not tolerate gaps in stories, I'll tell you that I eventually received the Pasha-saddle. Mustafa Bustani made it all possible, and I believe he did so with a great deal of personal sacrifice. Even though this showpiece may seem to be an impractical item in my home, I nevertheless love and treasure it. It reminds me of those two days in the Holy Land when Thar, Schamah, the "blood feud," and "the forgiveness," all combined to send me a sign from above. I shall never forget that.

[Translator's Addendum]

To an unknown recipient of Karl May's signed copy of his 1906 drama, Babel and the Bible, the playwright penned this poem of dedication on the play's title page. Unfortunately, the recipient of May's personalized, autographed copy is unknown. Possibly, this was Karl May's final poetic work.

"Widmungsgedicht" [Poem of Dedication] By Karl May. 22 February 1912

On that day when the Great Spirit awakened, Where once He lay across world-dreaming waters And thought upon the Word of the Most High; Therein His Lord spoke this promise to Him:

"Now, I endow You with this thought: 'Earth, Go forth and humanely guide men's lives So that they may become righteous in the Love Which you receive from your Father's house!'"

In the East, the Light of Lights streaked forth- This Life-tide eternally, endlessly springing. In amazement, the Spirit saw face-to-face God's holy-harmonic image emerge."

From Himmelsgedanken, Gedichte von Karl May [Karl May's Thoughts of Heaven Poems]

"Das Theater soll nicht ein Rendez-vous fuer bevorzugte Klassen, sondern eine Volksschule im wahrsten und besten Sinne dieses Wortes sein."