Gerald N. Lund 4-In-1 Fiction eBook Bundle, Page 2

  “Little Nasser?” Brad repeated. He had lost a turn somewhere. “What has that got to do with Ali?”

  “Nothing. It was from my other names. Gamal Abdel. Those were the names of President Nasser, Gamal Abdel Nasser. You know, the late president of Egypt.”

  “Yes, I know,” Brad inserted hastily, before his seatmate decided he needed a semester’s course in contemporary Egyptian personalities.

  “You’re American,” Ali continued. It was not a question, and so there was no point in pausing for an answer. “You almost sound like a Californian, too. Are you from California?”

  Brad smiled in spite of himself. He had spoken less than a dozen words. Could this conversational volcano be a linguistic expert as well? “I was on a—” He caught himself, realizing that the word “mission” would require substantial explanation. “I lived there for two years,” he amended.

  “Aha!” Ali said triumphantly. “I knew it. What part? Southern California, I’ll bet.”

  “Yes. Anaheim.”

  Ali’s speech was pure American, and Brad could detect no trace of accent. At first glance Ali had seemed younger, maybe nineteen or twenty, but now as Brad studied him, he could see that the leanness of his face made him look younger than he was. Brad reassessed and put his age at close to his own twenty-four years. In spite of himself, Brad’s curiosity got the best of him, and he forgot his determination to play freeze-out.

  “You asked if I was from California too. Are you from there?”

  “Most recently from Westwood.” Ali reached for his windbreaker, holding it up so Brad could see the UCLA stenciled on it. “Just finished my degree there. Before UCLA I lived in Long Beach for thirteen years. I’m Arab, you know.”

  “I wondered,” Brad said, unable to repress a smile.

  Ali laughed. “I guess that was kind of dumb,” he admitted. “If I had introduced myself as Gerhard Schwartz, I might have had you going for a while, right?”

  Maybe this was going to be all right after all, Brad thought, as he nodded with a smile. Ali’s face radiated an uninhibited, unrestrained love of life, and there were even little crinkles around the corners of his eyes from what Brad guessed was a near perpetual smile. Even now the smile started with the mouth, quickly spread across his face, and finally erupted in those nearly jet black eyes. Brad felt his irritation slipping away in spite of his tiredness. It would be very easy to like this young Arab.

  “My father owned a chain of men’s clothing stores in the south harbor area,” Ali said. “Hey, did you ever hear of Frank’s Stores for Men?”

  “No,” Brad admitted. “But I didn’t get down around Long Beach at all.” He started to ask a question, hesitated, and then decided he was being too sensitive. Why not follow Ali’s own example of openness? “Frank’s Stores for Men?” Brad asked. “Is your father’s name Frank?”

  Again that infectious laugh burst forth. “No way, man. His name was Fawzi. But he was shrewd enough to sense that ‘Fawzi’s Stores for Men’ lacked a little something in Long Beach. So he Americanized his name to Frank.” Ali rolled his eyes upward in mock horror. “Business is business. Anyway he sold out in 1965 and we went back to Palestine.”

  It was like an ant trying to follow a hummingbird. While Ali flitted from flower to flower, Brad was crawling through the dense conversational grass, trying to keep up. “Back to Palestine?”

  “Oh, yes. My father’s family had owned land near Bethlehem for eight or nine generations. When Israel was made a nation in 1948, my father and mother and my older brother had to flee during the so-called War of Independence. An Israeli kibbutz ended up with my family’s land, and my family ended up in a refugee camp near Jericho. That’s where I was born.”

  Ali flashed his white teeth again in a broad grin. “Hey! How does it feel to be sitting next to a real live Palestinian refugee?”

  “You hardly fit the typical image,” Brad admitted with a wry smile.

  Ali’s hoot of laughter startled the very English-looking lady in the row in front of them, and she peered severely at them over the top of her seat. Ali just beamed at her, as totally impervious to her withering look as he had been to Brad’s initial coolness.

  “How did you happen to come to America?” Brad asked.

  “My father had a brother in Long Beach. He had moved to America in 1939. Conditions in the refugee camp were terrible. So my father worked at any and every job he could find until he saved enough money, with some help from Uncle Akhmud, to bring us all to the States. That was in 1952, when I was two years old. At first my father worked in the fields alongside the Mexicans as an itinerant worker. He saved every penny and finally bought a small tailoring shop in Long Beach, which he eventually parlayed into a very respectable men’s store, and then two men’s stores, and finally five. He was the hardest-working man I’ve ever known. A good man. A good father.” Ali’s mood became suddenly somber, and his eyes clouded.

  “Was?” Brad asked.

  “Yes. He was killed five years ago.” Ali paused for a long moment, and then seemed to shrug off the mood. “But anyway, in 1964 my father decided it was time to return to our homeland. That was a terrible shock to my brother and me. America was our home. I couldn’t even remember Palestine. We spoke Arabic in our home, of course, but English was my language. I even dreamed in English.”

  “You do speak perfect American,” Brad nodded.

  “I know. I was American. I was on the football team. I dated American girls. I loved hot dogs and hot rods. Then suddenly I was told I had to move eight thousand miles away to a new country, a new culture, a new everything. It was pretty traumatic for a sixteen-year-old. But in our culture, family ties are everything, and the father’s word is law. My father was adamant. Even mother fought him. But he wouldn’t budge. He said he had betrayed his ancestors by leaving their homeland. Now he had enough money to return.” Ali’s dark eyes were grave. “And so we returned.”

  “Wow! That must have been some adjustment.”

  “Like you can’t imagine,” Ali said fervently. “I came home from my Arabic school with black eyes for nearly three months. Every kid in the school had to take on the ‘rich American pig’ who claimed to be an Arab, but didn’t know how to act like one. My mother bawled, and my older brother and I ran away three different times. But my father always hauled us back and we stayed.”

  Ali closed his eyes and leaned his head back, a tiny smile on his lips. “I can look back now on those times and laugh, but then it was pretty serious.” He fell silent, lost in the memory of those days.

  Finally Brad, who had completely forgotten his original desire to be alone on this flight, broke the silence. “So is that why you decided to go back to the United States?”

  “No, not then. Actually two things happened that deeply influenced me.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. First I found myself starting to fall in love with the land and the people. I didn’t want to. I fought it like mad. I was convinced I was an American, even though my father had never let us become citizens. But Palestine is a fascinating place. Americans read a lot about how the Jews have an almost mystical love for the land, but nobody ever says anything about the Arabs and their attachment to the land. It is there, as powerful for my people as for the Jews. I began to sense what my father felt for his homeland. I began to feel it was my homeland.”

  Brad nodded. That was one of the reasons he had decided to come to Israel. He had even heard Mormons talk about the subtle but powerful draw of the Holy Land and how it affected them. He hoped he could find at least some of that for himself. “And the other thing?”

  “The other was June 5, 1967.”

  Brad looked blank.

  “The Six Day War.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  The light mood had fled now, and Ali’s dark eyes were grave. “Suddenly our family were refugees again. It was a tremendous shock to all of us. One day we were Jordanians. A few days later we were part of the territories known as the West
Bank, which was occupied by the state of Israel. Fortunately this time my father didn’t flee too far. When the fighting was over we came back, and after several months of wrangling with the Israelis, he got his little tourist shop and our home in Bethlehem back. In the long run, it turned out to be a blessing, because the business has really boomed with the increased tourism. Our family eventually bought two more shops in the Old City of Jerusalem.”

  “Then how did the war change your mind about being there?”

  “That’s when I became an Arab,” Ali said. “On the first day of the war, the Israelis smashed through the Sinai and devastated the Egyptian air force in four hours. I was humiliated. Along with the other guys at the school, I ran down to the souks—the markets of Old Jerusalem—and bought weapons. I got an old, rusty British Enfield rifle, twenty rounds of ammunition, and three hand grenades—two of which turned out to be duds—for fifteen dollars. Remember, by this time I’m still not quite eighteen.”

  His voice dropped almost to a whisper. “It was Wednesday, June 7, the third day of the war. At nine o’clock the Israelis launched their attack on the Old City of Jerusalem. About twenty of us were hidden just inside St. Stephen’s gate on the east side. I was up on the wall when they rounded the corner and started up toward us. I could see the paratroopers coming up quickly behind the tanks and half-tracks. I knew we didn’t stand a chance, and suddenly I was crying. Not because I was scared, though heaven knows I was that, too. No, I was crying because my people—,” his voice rose in sudden intensity, “my people, the Arabs, stood helpless in front of the Israeli army. I ran down the steps, firing blindly and hurling the grenades at them as they punched through the gate. One of my friends—one of those I’d had to fight in school a few months before—pulled me back, and we hid in the Old City until it was over.”

  Ali shook his head with the shame of it, his lips tight with bitterness. “They took the Old City, a soldier’s nightmare of twisting, narrow streets and limited access, a perfect place for guerrilla fighters to defend—they took the whole thing in less than three hours! And I cried because it was my people who surrendered, my people who ran. And suddenly I realized that never again could I be an American. I was Arab. It was as though somebody had thrown away the old me and given me a new body, a new mind, a new heart. And I wanted desperately to get even, to somehow take away the shame of my people. It was a bitter, bitter thing.” His voice trailed off, and he stared at the ceiling of the plane.

  “I don’t understand,” Brad said softly, hesitant to break into Ali’s thoughts. “If you found yourself, found your identity, why did you go back to the United States?”

  “Ah, well, that came a little later.” He grinned at Brad, the sober mood lifting. “You must remember that we Arabs invented the art of dragging out a story forever. You know the legend about the woman who saved her life by telling stories for a thousand and one nights?”

  Brad chuckled as he nodded.

  “Fear not, I shall attempt to finish in only half that time.” Ali paused, searching for the right words, then plunged in. “I was so full of shame, so full of bitterness, so moved with a passionate desire to do something for my people. When three of my friends told me they were going to slip across the border into Syria and join a PLO training camp, I decided to join them. I thought maybe hate would be sufficiently strong medicine to wash the taste of shame out of my mouth.”

  As he spoke, his voice was low, and Brad could sense the tension in his lean body. “Well, I should have guessed what was coming. I wasn’t training for the redemption of my people. I was training for terrorism. They taught us how to use every conceivable weapon, how to make and use explosives, and how to kill with our bare hands. I kept telling myself that this was the answer, that this was how I could erase the shame, how I could best help the Arabic peoples. But I knew it was all a lie. My real problem, I am happy to admit, is that I am not a terrorist at heart. In spite of all my hate, in spite of all their propaganda, it wasn’t me, and I knew it. I had just about decided to sneak away from the camp at the first opportunity, when word came of my father’s death.”

  It was as though Ali had somehow been suspended in time. He was staring at Brad without seeing him. Finally he continued, his voice very soft, yet firm. “He and my younger sister had gone to Hebron to buy pottery and glass vases for the shops. Their car broke down, and they had to leave it with a mechanic, so they caught a bus back to Bethlehem. Someone had planted a package of explosives near the back, just two or three seats from where my father and sister sat. They and eleven others were killed instantly.”

  Ali took a deep breath and gradually came back to the present. He shrugged his shoulders, his face showing pain. “I suddenly had a new perspective of the effects of terrorism. Yasser Arafat and the PLO claimed credit for the deed, though, of course, everyone at the camp deplored the fact that—,” his voice became softly mocking, “ ‘innocent people sometimes have to die in the cause.’ But it provided the perfect excuse for leaving the camp without fear of retaliation.”

  Ali fell silent as the flight attendant approached with a tray of drinks. Brad took a Seven-Up, but Ali just shook his head. When she was gone, he brightened visibly. “It’s not really that grim. My older brother took over the family business, and I decided that if my people were going to be saved, it had to be through service, not slaughter. UCLA accepted my application, and I returned to the United States. I have just completed my master’s degree in educational administration, and now I’m going back home to try again. For my people.” He paused, then added softly, “And for my father.”

  “That is absolutely fascinating,” Brad said, suddenly ashamed that he had tried to discourage Ali from sitting next to him. “So what now? You’re going back home to teach? To be a school administrator?”

  “Both,” Ali said, the smile completely conquering his face again. “My family is putting up the money, and we’re going to start our own private school—a combination elementary, secondary, and vocational school. It may not be as direct or dramatic as a bomb or a knife, but I think it beats the PLO all to pieces.”

  “That is great,” Brad said with genuine envy in his voice. “That is really great.”

  Suddenly Ali hit his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Ah!” he said in disgust. “You stupid one!”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “What my mother says is true. She says that I talk more than six Bedouins at a sheep auction. Here I’ve been rattling on for half an hour, and you’ve hardly said a word. What a stupid one I am. You know my whole family’s history, and I don’t know anything about you but your name.”

  Brad smiled. “Don’t apologize. I’ve enjoyed every minute of it.”

  “You’re very kind,” Ali replied, “and a good listener. I really had no intention of going into all that.”

  “I’m glad you did. It really is an incredible story.”

  “Not really.” Ali laughed, dropping his voice into a deep southern drawl. “I’m just your typical run-of-themill Palestinian refugee turned all-around American boy, turned screaming Arab terrorist, turned UCLA graduate student, turned Christian, turned schoolteacher.”

  “Turned Christian?” Brad asked in surprise.

  Ali shook his finger at him. “Oh no, you don’t. You get your thirty seconds of conversation before I launch into my next half hour. So you’re Brad Kennison from California. Are you going on to Israel, or are you getting off in Athens?”

  “No, I’m going to Israel.”

  “Great! Have you been there before?”

  “No, this will be my first time.”

  “You’ll love it. Business or pleasure?”

  Brad hesitated. How did you answer that question—both? neither?

  “I’m sorry,” Ali apologized, noting Brad’s hesitancy. “You’d think I’d got my degree in law or something. I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “Oh no,” Brad said quickly. “It’s not that at all. It’s just that I’m not sure exactl
y why I am going there. I guess in a way I hope to do what you did—to find the real me, to work out some things, to leave some things behind.”

  “I certainly understand that,” the young Arab responded. “So how long do you plan to stay?”

  Again Brad hesitated, his gray eyes darkening slightly as he considered the discontent of the last four months. “Well, dumb as it sounds, I’m not sure of that either. I may even look into the Hebrew University in Jerusalem, see if they offer enough classes in English that I could work on a degree.” He lifted his hands in a gesture of frustration. “I don’t know. It just depends on what happens. Money is a consideration, of course.”

  Ali nodded. “Isn’t it always?”

  “If I stay,” Brad went on, “I’ve got to find some kind of work. I saved almost all my service pay during the year I was in Viet Nam—”

  “You were in Viet Nam?”

  “Yes.”

  “Combat?”

  Brad nodded. “For most of the time.”

  Ali gave a low whistle. “So you’ve had a pretty exciting life of your own.”

  “I’m not sure ‘exciting’ is the exact word I’d choose,” Brad mused. “Anyway, I’ve got enough money to see me through several months, but if I decide to stay, I need some money coming in. I know it sounds strange to come this far not knowing for sure why you’re coming or what you want to do, but—” He brushed absently at his dark hair. That’s what everybody kept telling me at home too, he thought. “If you even knew what it was you’re looking for, it wouldn’t be quite so pointless.” He sighed, suddenly aware of his deep tiredness.

  Ali nodded soberly. “So where will you be staying while you’re there?”

  Brad shrugged. “I don’t know yet. I thought I’d start in Jerusalem and kind of let it happen from there. I’ll find a youth hostel or a cheap hotel once I get there.”

  “No need to worry,” Ali beamed. “I know just the place. Khalidi’s Inn for Weary American Travelers. It’s run by a very respectable Arab-American family in Bethlehem, only six miles from downtown Jerusalem.”