said. “The Arabs lived here before they did.”
“What difference does that make? We’ve only been here thirty years and we run the bloody place.”
“That’s beside the point, the thing is - ”
“I mean, is there a statute of limitations on ownership? The Romans forcibly repatriated the Jews two thousand years ago. Right?”
“What do you say to the Arabs who have lived here ever since?”
“In 1937 the Peel Commission advocated partition. That’s always seemed like a good idea to me.”
“That’s because you’re not an Arab and your home isn’t inside the proposed Jewish territory. How would you feel if the Americans came along and told you to move to Manchester so the French could take over Guildford?” He realized he had raised his voice and dropped it back to a whisper. “Look at it this way. Our family’s only lived in Surrey for forty years. Some Arabs can trace their roots in a village back to the time of Mohammed!”
James stared at his older brother, surprised by the sudden passion the subject had aroused in him. So unlike Henry. “You’ve changed color, Hal,” he said.
“I’ve been in Palestine a long time.”
“I hope not too long.”
“Don’t lecture me, Jimmy. At least my view of things coincides with my duty. A happy coincidence perhaps, but there you are. Don’t let your opinions allow you to forget what you’re here for.”
“I know what I’m here for. To fight another damned war.” He leaned forward and said in a whisper: ‘I’ve seen the files. In the thirties the kibbutzim instituted a compulsory premilitary training program for all boys and girls between fourteen and seventeen. The CID think the Haganah now has a membership of forty thousand, including an elite professional paramilitary unit of fifteen hundred highly trained men and women, called the Palmach . If they want to make trouble, Hal, they’ve had plenty of time to learn how to do it.”
“It won’t come to that.”
“You seem very sure so maybe you know something I don’t. But the one thing I would like to avoid is surviving D-day and the Ardennes and then coming here and getting shot in some stupid little war I don’t want to fight.”
“No one wants a war here.’
‘Really? Well I don’t know, I’m just new here. But if you ask me who wants a war? I’d say everyone does.’
Old City
The woman in the black abbayah stopped outside the Hass’an Olive Oil Company. She had passed the factory many times this particular evening, in order to familiarize herself with the location, but who would have noticed? A tool of enslavement, the veil also gave her the advantage of anonymity.
She stepped into the alley beside the coffee shop, turned another corner into the shadows of the laneway behind the factory. A wooden staircase led to a door on the second floor. She hurried up the steps and tried the handle. It was open. She took a Beretta from the folds of her abbayah and went inside.
Rishou Hass’an shut down the press and locked the doors. It was late, and no sign of his brother. He had hoped Majid might return so he could go home to Rab’allah for a few days but typically his brother had been delayed elsewhere. Probably with a mistress. Never mind. He would go tomorrow.
Majid was dependable in other ways. Money, for example. Without Majid the Hass’an Olive Oil Company would not be possible. Who knew where all this money came from? Some of it was profit from Majid’s dealings on the black market, some the proceeds from the taxi lease. Allah alone knew what else he was involved in.
It had been Rishou’s idea to use the olives from their orchards to start their own press. Now, at least, they would be able to leave something worthwhile for their sons even if the land around Rab’allah were swallowed up by the Jews.
As their father had predicted, the old ways were dying. Zayyad's influence was waning; it was money that mattered now. Money bought cars and suits and
“What difference does that make? We’ve only been here thirty years and we run the bloody place.”
“That’s beside the point, the thing is - ”
“I mean, is there a statute of limitations on ownership? The Romans forcibly repatriated the Jews two thousand years ago. Right?”
“What do you say to the Arabs who have lived here ever since?”
“In 1937 the Peel Commission advocated partition. That’s always seemed like a good idea to me.”
“That’s because you’re not an Arab and your home isn’t inside the proposed Jewish territory. How would you feel if the Americans came along and told you to move to Manchester so the French could take over Guildford?” He realized he had raised his voice and dropped it back to a whisper. “Look at it this way. Our family’s only lived in Surrey for forty years. Some Arabs can trace their roots in a village back to the time of Mohammed!”
James stared at his older brother, surprised by the sudden passion the subject had aroused in him. So unlike Henry. “You’ve changed color, Hal,” he said.
“I’ve been in Palestine a long time.”
“I hope not too long.”
“Don’t lecture me, Jimmy. At least my view of things coincides with my duty. A happy coincidence perhaps, but there you are. Don’t let your opinions allow you to forget what you’re here for.”
“I know what I’m here for. To fight another damned war.” He leaned forward and said in a whisper: ‘I’ve seen the files. In the thirties the kibbutzim instituted a compulsory premilitary training program for all boys and girls between fourteen and seventeen. The CID think the Haganah now has a membership of forty thousand, including an elite professional paramilitary unit of fifteen hundred highly trained men and women, called the Palmach . If they want to make trouble, Hal, they’ve had plenty of time to learn how to do it.”
“It won’t come to that.”
“You seem very sure so maybe you know something I don’t. But the one thing I would like to avoid is surviving D-day and the Ardennes and then coming here and getting shot in some stupid little war I don’t want to fight.”
“No one wants a war here.’
‘Really? Well I don’t know, I’m just new here. But if you ask me who wants a war? I’d say everyone does.’
Old City
The woman in the black abbayah stopped outside the Hass’an Olive Oil Company. She had passed the factory many times this particular evening, in order to familiarize herself with the location, but who would have noticed? A tool of enslavement, the veil also gave her the advantage of anonymity.
She stepped into the alley beside the coffee shop, turned another corner into the shadows of the laneway behind the factory. A wooden staircase led to a door on the second floor. She hurried up the steps and tried the handle. It was open. She took a Beretta from the folds of her abbayah and went inside.
Rishou Hass’an shut down the press and locked the doors. It was late, and no sign of his brother. He had hoped Majid might return so he could go home to Rab’allah for a few days but typically his brother had been delayed elsewhere. Probably with a mistress. Never mind. He would go tomorrow.
Majid was dependable in other ways. Money, for example. Without Majid the Hass’an Olive Oil Company would not be possible. Who knew where all this money came from? Some of it was profit from Majid’s dealings on the black market, some the proceeds from the taxi lease. Allah alone knew what else he was involved in.
It had been Rishou’s idea to use the olives from their orchards to start their own press. Now, at least, they would be able to leave something worthwhile for their sons even if the land around Rab’allah were swallowed up by the Jews.
As their father had predicted, the old ways were dying. Zayyad's influence was waning; it was money that mattered now. Money bought cars and suits and
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