set by a layman,” Dr. Safi explained, tapping his armrest with the bowl of his black curved pipe. “But not every case is simple. When the skin is broken it becomes a serious matter. It needs antibiotics which only a doctor can prescribe. So Amin didn’t have any when he needed it.”
Basim turned to Yousif. “How did Amin break his arm?” he asked.
“A stone wall collapsed under him,” Yousif answered. “We were following a Jewish group—”
His mother gave him a restraining look.
“First we thought they were out for some romancing in the woods. Then I thought they weren’t.”
Silence lingered for a moment too long.
“Yousif was suspicious from the start,” his mother said. “He thinks they weren’t just tourists.”
Basim pouted, the tips of his ten fingers touching. “You thought they were out for some fun,” he said. “Then you changed your mind. Why?”
Yousif knew all eyes were on him. “It struck me that they might actually be involved in espionage,” he explained.
Not a breath could be heard.
“How did you know they were Jewish?” Basim asked quietly.
“Isaac thought they were speaking Yiddish,” Yousif answered.
Basim nodded and wiped his mouth. “You were right,” he said. “They were spies.”
The word “spies” fell in their midst like a hand grenade. Yousif was the only one who felt a sense of elation. Here was someone who believed him.
“Yes, Jewish spies,” Basim repeated, fixing his stare on his astonished audience. “Probably here to survey the hills and valleys. So that when the time comes they can occupy them and quickly seize strategic points. While we’re sitting on our haunches, they’re planning for war.”
“War!” Yousif’s mother said. “Do you think there’s going to be war?”
“No doubt about it,” Basim told her.
“When?” the mother interrogated him, sitting on the edge of her chair.
“It’s already started. But if you want an official declaration, you’ll have to wait another year.”
“When the British Mandate ends?” she asked.
“More or less.”
Cousin Salman, who had not cracked a single joke all evening, folded his arms and seemed to double up. He smiled wryly and his first word seemed to hover on his lips. “Why do you always see the dark side of things?” he asked. “The story of innocent young boys who are curious about lovers was sweet. Why did you have to ruin it?”
“Ruin it?” Basim shot back, pulling out a cigarette from a half-empty pack. “What are you saying? Even young Yousif didn’t believe it. The Zionists were doing this sort of thing in 1936, and they’re doing it now. It’s their system, their style. Last month we caught a group near Hebron; a week ago some Zionist map-makers were caught in the hills overlooking Nablus. It’s nothing new. And for every group we accidentally discover there are dozens more. It’s a pattern the Zionists have been following all over Palestine for years, no doubt in my mind. They’re getting ready for a big offensive. As soon as all the pieces fall in place they’re going to come at us with a vengeance.”
Maha sighed deeply, which attracted everyone’s attention. “It’s 1936 all over again,” she said, leaning her head against the wall behind her and holding her one-year-old close to her bosom.
There was something sad about the curve of her neck, Yousif felt.
“There’s no comparison,” her husband corrected her. “We are on the verge of something catastrophic—either for them or for us.”
“Or for both,” Uncle Boulus added, his thin lips drawn tight.
“Could be,” Basim agreed. “All the troubles we’ve had with the Jews and the British are nothing but a prelude—a rehearsal—for what’s to come. Believe me.”
The mention of 1936 seemed to throw everyone into memories of those hard times. Yousif had grown up hearing stories about Basim and his bravery in 1936. Shocked by Britain’s treacherous merry-go-round policies toward the Arabs, Basim had abandoned a flourishing law practice and at the age of thirty joined the Arab revolt that had broken out against the British and the Zionists. Basim had distinguished himself as a brave man. Eyewitnesses swore they had seen him run after armed British soldiers with an empty revolver, a bayonet, or just a pocket knife. He had killed so many that the British government had once sent a whole battalion to capture him. But he had eluded them.
When the revolt ended in 1939, the British had insisted on exiling him—and Basim would have remained in exile had it not been for petitions and pleas sent by his family to the British High Commissioner in Jerusalem. The Commissioner had refused time and again, until finally, and after five years of roaming the earth, Basim had sent his word that he would stop his anti-government activities.
“If we catch you doing anything wrong,” the British officials had warned him, “we’ll hang you from the highest minaret.”
Basim had accepted their terms, for the sake of his aging parents, knowing very well that he could serve the Arab cause much better from inside the country. Following his return, he reopened his law office, married Maha, the sister of a comrade-in-arms who had been killed during the Revolt, and settled down. But his fire remained ablaze. His family and intimate friends had known that he would never rest until the Palestinians achieved their complete independence and eradicated the new Zionist threat.
“If the Zionists are that active in preparing for war,” Yousif asked, waking up everyone from the doldrums, “what are we doing about it?”
His cousin’s jaws tightened. “Very little,” Basim replied. “It would take a concerted effort on the part of a large number of our people to stop such things from happening. Unfortunately we don’t have an Arab government in Palestine.”
“What about the Arab Higher Commission?” Yousif pressed. “What about the Mufti? He led the 1936 Revolt. Why can’t he lead it now?”
All eyes were on Yousif, who seemed to surprise everyone by his questions. Then they looked at Basim, who seemed reluctant to talk about the Mufti or the Arab Higher Commission. Yousif knew that Basim had more or less broken off with the old resistance movement, but he did not know to what extent. From Basim’s reaction, he thought perhaps the timing of his question was wrong.
Basim stretched his legs before him. “The Mufti and the Arab Higher Commission are still there,” he replied, his low voice full of hurt and disappointment.
Yousif studied his cousin’s words, tone, and gesture. Yousif felt a dark and mysterious bond forming between him and his revolutionary cousin. Their eyes met and held.
“As I said,” Basim continued, “we don’t have the organizations or the money or the manpower to ‘police’ the countryside. The British authorities who are still running the country don’t care. So the Zionists are left free to roam our mountains and valleys as they wish. The payoff for them will come when they jump us from every
