Jerusalem
E ach year it seemed that the tiny State of Israel faced an ever increasing threat.
Professor Yossi Kaufmann had exchanged his trademark open-necked shirt and slacks for the uniform of a Major General in the Israeli Defense Force. At a time of crisis all Israelis had obligations to the defence of the country and being a Professor of Mathematics and Honorary Director of the Shrine of the Book didn’t excuse him from those responsibilities. The Head of Israeli Intelligence was ill and Professor Kaufmann, a previous Head of that office, was the ideal choice to step into the breach. The distinguished, square-jawed Israeli was tall with sandy-coloured hair and a face that bore the creases of the years. Yossi Kaufmann was widely respected, but today even his standing might not be enough to avert disaster. He looked around the Cabinet Room with increasing concern.
The Prime Minister sat at the centre of one side of the big table. In front of each minister was a salmon-coloured folder marked ‘Top Secret – Cabinet Eyes Only’. Some of them, Yossi knew, would not have read his report so he had backed it up with a detailed verbal brief, but to no avail. It was the detail they were all ignoring.
‘And so, Prime Minister,’ Yossi concluded, ‘notwithstanding the strategic importance of the Palestinian village of Deir Azun and its close proximity to Jewish settlements in the West Bank, we have no firm intelligence that the attacks on our settlements originated from that particular village.’
‘But given its location it seems logical?’ The question came from the Defense Minister, Reze Zweiman. A big walrus of a man and a veteran of both the 1967 Six Day War and the 1973 Yom Kippur War, he was a staunch member of the hard right faction of the Likud Party and no friend of the Arabs. Zweiman had seen too many of Israel’s sons die on the battlefield.
‘We have an open mind, Minister,’ Yossi replied, ‘but you can be assured that we are doing everything that is humanly possible to pinpoint the source of these attacks.’
‘That may well be, Prime Minister.’ The Defense Minister shifted his gaze from Yossi to the small man sitting in the imposing brown leather chair, the back of which was just slightly higher than the others. Prime Minister Chenamem Gebin looked very grim; his broad, tanned forehead creased and worried.
‘But these Arabs,’ the Defense Minister went on, ‘need to be taught a lesson they will not forget. It’s not only the future of the government, it’s the very future of Israel that is at stake here. There have been no fewer than three attacks on the settlements in the past week; fifteen Israeli citizens, including six children, are dead and three members of the Armed Forces have also been killed. This village is a seething mass of terrorism and we should force the occupants out. Permanently.’
‘No one is condoning these attacks, Reze, but we need to tread carefully.’ It was the Foreign Minister, Shome Yadan. Yossi Kaufmann silently thanked the voice of reason coming from the elder statesman of the Likud Party. ‘Right now,’ the Foreign Minister continued, ‘the United States and international opinion are firmly on our side but if we go in hard against a Palestinian village without proof, and there are civilian casualties, that support can change very quickly, particularly outside the United States. We’ll be seen as the bad guys, especially if we force the Palestinians out and replace the village with an Israeli settlement. Worse still, it will fuel Muslim resentment against the West.’
Reze Zweiman sniffed arrogantly, making no attempt to disguise his contempt for anyone he labelled a ‘dove’. ‘You seem to forget one thing, Minister. At the end of the day, Israeli flesh and blood is the responsibility of this Cabinet and this government. Not some shinyarsed bunch of international bureaucrats in the State Department in Washington or anywhere else. The only way we will ever make Israel secure is to occupy the West Bank to the extent that it is firmly under our control. Over time the strategy should be to incorporate it into Israel and force the Palestinians out.’
‘Where would they go?’ asked the Minister for Agriculture.
‘Who cares,’ the Defense Minister shot back. ‘Jordan. Lebanon. Baluchistan. As long as they’re out of Israel.’
‘The Palestinian people are a reality and our policy should reflect that.’ The Foreign Minister’s voice was quiet but insistent. ‘If we push them over our borders and take over their land it will turn international opinion against us and I predict the rest of the Arab world will be more inclined to provide support and bases for terrorist operations. I would urge a more restrained approach.’
‘I am being restrained!’ the Defense Minister exploded. His nostrils flared and he spat the words across the table. ‘The Arabs are a creeping black cancer that needs to be excised!’
The Prime Minister was used to outbursts from his Defense Minister and without responding he turned to his media adviser and asked, ‘What are the public opinion polls saying?’
‘Three to one in favour of direct action against the Palestinians, Prime Minister.’
The Defense Minister sniffed again and leaned back in his chair with a self-satisfied look on his face.
Silence settled over the Cabinet table until finally the Prime Minister broke it.
‘I think there are arguments on both sides,’ Gebin said, trying to keep the fractious Cabinet together. ‘If we move against the village of Deir Azun it is clear there are dangers, especially if there are heavy casualties. It is equally clear that we can’t just sit back and allow these attacks to continue.’ He turned to Yossi. ‘You say there are three houses that are possibly suspect in this village?’
‘Yes, Prime Minister, but they are only suspect. Our source is unreliable.’
‘It seems to me that if these houses are suspect they should be destroyed. And if that is not enough the whole village should be destroyed,’ said the Minister for Defense.
‘Taking that into account…’ Again the Prime Minister refrained from responding to the roaring walrus opposite him and this time he looked to the Israeli Defense Force Chief of Staff, Lieutenant General Halevy, a smaller version of the Defense Minister. ‘I propose an operation of limited scope,’ the Prime Minister ordered. ‘The village is to be surrounded and occupied, but not permanently. The occupants of the houses that are suspect are to be brought in for questioning and the soldiers are to be instructed to use minimum force.’ He turned to his media adviser again. ‘And those directions should be spelled out to the international media, but only after the operation has commenced.’ Prime Minister Chenamem Gebin surveyed the faces at the table. No one spoke. ‘If there is nothing further we will meet at the same time tomorrow.’
Yossi felt distinctly uneasy. As the Prime Minister issued his orders of restraint, the unmistakable gleam of hatred in the Defense Minister’s eyes intensified.
Deir Azun
The earth in the Samarian hills of the West Bank was red and parched. As the sun began to set behind the mountains that cradled the little Palestinian village of Deir Azun, Yusef Sartawi scooped up the last of the bitter black olives from the nets spread at the bottom of the gnarled and twisted tree he’d been working on. Rivulets of sweat ran down his bare chest and back, soaking the top of his faded baggy shorts. He stretched to his full height of 186 centimetres and pulled his shoulders back, pressing against the dull ache in his muscles and momentarily resting his forehead against the rough wood of the ancient tree. As four generations of his family before him had done, and as the Greeks and Romans had done centuries before that, Yusef shouldered his battered wicker basket of fruit. His cracked leather boots kicked up puffs of red dust as he marched purposefully down the side of his father’s hill between the rows of trees.
‘Muhammad!’
Three rows over Yusef’s ten-year-old brother sat up, startled. Guilt was plastered all over his young face.
‘They won’t pick themselves, you know.’
Muhammad got to his feet sheepishly.
‘I was just having a minute’s rest,’ he said, doing his best to sound indignant.
‘I suppose that’s why you were asleep,’ Yusef retorted, but he said it without malice. At twenty-one Yusef was the second of five children and as a Palestinian he was one of the lucky ones. His parents had worked long and hard to ensure that all their children would receive an education, and now Yusef was enrolled at college in Nazareth, training to become a sound engineer. During semester breaks he came home to help with the harvest. Yusef and his younger brother Muhammad were separated by two sisters, Liana, who had just turned fifteen, and seventeen-year-old Raya. Their eldest brother, Ahmed, was studying to become a cleric and was in his last year at Al-Quds University in Ramallah. Today Ahmed was coming home on two days’ leave to celebrate Liana’s birthday. It would be good to see him, Yusef thought. And to have the family together again.
As he approached the old wooden pressing shed Yusef could hear the unmistakable rumble of the big granite wheel, the Hajar al-Bad. The family donkey was plodding a well-worn circular path, laboriously grinding the fruit into a paste, the leather straps and wooden harness creaking in protest at the weight of the wheel. Yusef’s father, Abdullah Sartawi, was hard at work bearing down on the paste in the old lever press. He was not as tall as his sons, but he was lean and fit, his shoulders broad and muscled from years of working in the groves. His dark, closely cropped hair was peppered with grey and the years of Palestinian sun could be seen in his face. Abdullah Sartawi was a man of strong ethics and had passed on his rock-solid faith in Allah and Islam to his family which, despite the Israeli occupation of Palestinian land and the constant threat of war and uprising, gave the Sartawi family a sense of purpose, dignity and hope.
The first-pressing virgin olive oil was trickling into the vat where it would settle. Yusef sniffed at it appreciatively. Sartawi oil was among the finest in Palestine and the subtle aroma had seeped into every crevice of the shed.
‘It is a good crop this year, eh Yusef?’
‘The best, Father, the best.’
‘I will tell your mother tonight, this year I think we might be able to afford a water pump for the house.’
‘She would like that, Father.’ Ever since Yusef could remember, water for the household had to be hauled in buckets. The mudbrick house with its dirt floors was at the end of one of the red dusty tracks that led from the village square. Every day his mother Rafiqa or, now that they were old enough, one of his sisters would trudge down the hill and queue at the rusting, squeaky water pump.
Up at the house in the old kitchen preparations for Liana’s birthday were well under way at the rough wooden bench.
‘Tonight we have an appetiser,’ Rafiqa announced, delegating the slicing of the sweet green peppers to Raya and the tomatoes to Liana. ‘ Shakshoukeh.’ A dish of sweet green peppers and tomatoes fried in olive oil with thick slices of garlic, pepper and salt.
Despite the years of village life and five children, there was a certain elegance about Rafiqa. She was slightly built, with burnished olive skin, an oval face and dark hair parted severely. Over the years her serenity had calmed the energy of a house full of children. Raya was like her father. With his heavy eyebrows, she was quiet and reflective. Liana, as much as she was allowed to be, was energetic and rebellious.
‘Your father has brought in a chicken.’
Liana’s dark eyes danced. ‘Chicken fatteh! ’
‘Just for you, my child, with your favourite seasoning – cardamom and nutmeg.’ Rafiqa stoked the cantankerous old wooden stove with an expertise born of long years of practice. Water for the rice simmered in a well-used blackened pot.
Judging the temperature of the oven to be about right, Rafiqa placed the chicken and some onions in a battered baking pan, poured some of the precious water over the top and placed it in the oven. She reached for the pita bread she had baked earlier in the day and sliced it ready for frying.
‘What time will Ahmed be home, Mother?’ Liana asked excitedly.
‘Any time now, I expect,’ Rafiqa replied, her dark eyes softening at the thought of seeing her eldest son again.
The old bus from Ramallah wound up the hill towards the dusty square. Ahmed was surprised to find the driver having to slow down to negotiate his way past lines of Israeli tanks and armoured vehicles on either side of the road. The command vehicle was at the head of the tank column. Four thin aerials flexed in the light breeze and a group of officers in kevlar helmets were clustered around a senior officer spreading a map out on the desert camouflage of the jeep’s bonnet. Towards the top of the hill two Israeli helicopter gunships circled menacingly overhead. Above them, even more menacingly still, two F-16 fighters supplied by the United States were turning, their wings flashing briefly in a sun that on the ground had already been obscured by the mountains.
The bus juddered as the driver crashed the gears; it took him three attempts to get it into low, the gearbox clanging more loudly each time. Ahmed held onto the rusty iron of the seat in front as the bus lurched forward. A great cloud of black smoke belched from the various orifices of what passed for an exhaust system and a little more grime was caked onto the cracked and rusted blue and white paint. Ahmed knew he was almost home.
‘Ahmed! Welcome home!’ His father embraced his son warmly as he walked through the door. ‘The sun is almost set. You are just in time to lead us in prayer,’ he said, stepping back and holding his son out at arm’s length so he could look at him. Ahmed embraced his mother, brothers and sisters and after they had all washed, Abdullah led them out to the veranda where seven old but clean sheepskin mats faced, in accordance with the Sartawi’s qibla, towards Mecca. Each day, regardless of where they were or what they were doing, every member of the Sartawi family would observe the second of the Five Pillars of Islam – Prayer or Salat. In any one day there were five prayers that were regulated by the position of the sun. At dawn, Fajr; after midday, Zuhr; late afternoon, Asr. Immediately after sunset, Maghrib ; and before midnight, Isha. Together they stood saying the intention or Niyya to say four rakas of a prayer for God.
Allah Akbar – God is Great
Bismillah ir-rahman ir-rahim – In the name of God, the Most Gracious,
Most Merciful…
Finally, with the whole family still sitting, Ahmed intoned first to the right and then to the left.
Assalamu ’alikum wa – Peace and Mercy of God be on you.
And with that, the Sartawis rose and gathered for Liana’s dinner celebration.
‘There were Israeli tanks on the road as the bus pulled in, Father,’ Ahmed said as they sat on the mats around a low table.
His father shrugged. ‘It’s just show,’ he said philosophically. ‘They’re only soldiers doing the politicians’ bidding.’ Not even a whole regiment of Israeli tanks could disturb Abdullah’s quiet optimism or diminish his thanks to Allah for his daughter Liana. Abdullah Sartawi could not have been more wrong.
Jerusalem
The Israeli Chief of Staff, General Halevy, strode into the Command Centre and planted himself in front of one of two big operations maps that showed the West Bank and the Gaza Strip in great detail, along with the rest of Israel and the Golan Heights. General Halevy stared at the borders of the West Bank. How he detested the Palestinians.
The border with Jordan was a straight line formed by the west bank of the Jordan River and the Dead Sea. From there it was as if a big kidney had been cut from Eretz Israel, a cut from the land. This Arab scum fouled the surrounding landscape. To the south of Jerusalem were the Palestinian cities of Bethlehem and Hebron. To the north, Ramallah, Nablus and Jenin, and not far from Jenin was the festering little pustule of Deir Azun. The slightest excuse and he would erase it from history.
‘Get me the Commander of the 45th Brigade.’
The Director of Operations nodded to his communications officer.
‘Eight Nine Zulu this is Zero Alpha, fetch Falcon, over.’
The speakers in the Command Centre crackled and the voice of Brigadier General Ehrlich boomed in loud and clear.
‘Zero Alpha, this is Eight Nine Zulu, Falcon speaking over.’
Halevy took the handset and depressed the transmit button.
‘Eight Nine Zulu, this is Eagle. Confirm H-hour, over.’
‘In ten minutes, over.’
‘Roger. Minimum force might apply but should there be any resistance, the lives of your soldiers are not to be put at risk and you are to respond accordingly, over.’
‘Understood, over.’
‘Be prepared to stay as long as is necessary,’ Halevy said, adding yet another layer of interpretation to the Prime Minister’s original direction. ‘Out.’
Brigadier General Eliezer Ehrlich towered over his commanders with an understated presence. His demeanour was quiet and self-contained. Highly respected by superiors and subordinates alike, the tank general was a soldier’s soldier. He always made sure he was never far from the front. General Ehrlich passed the handset back to his signaller. Privately he didn’t have much time for politicians and even less for generals who followed them like an arselick. Whatever had happened in Panic Palace today, he thought, had caused old rubber dick Halevy to get his knickers in a right royal twist. Something was not making sense. Fleetingly he recalled the conversation he’d had with his wife Marilyn as he’d left his house the previous morning.
‘I wish you didn’t have to go. I have a bad feeling about this, Elly. When will they see this is not the answer?’
‘I know. One day they will try for peace,’ he’d answered, giving her a hug, telling her not to worry. Marilyn and his two sons, Yoram and Igael, waved until his staff car was out of sight.
As dusk approached Brigadier General Ehrlich kept his troubling thoughts to himself. It was not his place to complain, especially in front of his men. His task was to minimise the danger. For both sides. Ehrlich knew better than anyone the difficulties of the operation they were about to conduct. It was a filthy war and the expectations of those who judged from the comfort of their leather armchairs in the Cabinet Room were well nigh impossible to meet. Expectations that men who were trained to kill could, in the heat of a fire fight, somehow determine the difference between an innocent civilian and a terrorist. It was an advantage that terrorists and insurgents had been putting to devastating use ever since Nebuchadnezzar had patrolled the banks of the Euphrates.
‘There are three suspect houses,’ he said, ‘Here, here, and here.’ General Ehrlich tapped his finger on the map. ‘The one at the end of this track is highest on the list. Regardless of resistance we should remember that the majority of these people are innocent civilians. Only use as much force as is necessary. Any questions?’
His commanders shook their heads in unison. Eliezer Ehrlich looked at his watch.
‘Synchronise watches. Ten, nine, eight…
Deir Azun
Salim a’Shami was only nineteen but was already a veteran of more than twenty hit-and-run attacks against the Israelis. The Israelis had killed his two brothers, and Salim’s hatred was etched on his soul.
Hamas had trained him well, and the wiry young Salim had been a good pupil. His dark eyes were clear and his face devoid of emotion as he showed his two fifteen-year-old accomplices where to set up the mortar base plate behind some rocks in the hills overlooking Deir Azun. To the south, the outline of the Mar’Oth minaret could be seen clearly against an orange skyline; to the east, he picked out Mount Malkishua in the Gilboa range. Taking a battered compass from his pocket he took a back bearing on each. Working deftly, Salim converted the magnetic bearings to grid and marked the exact position of their mortar base plate on his precious 1:100 000 map. Taking an equally battered and treasured pair of binoculars, he scanned the road leading in to the village below. He stopped scanning and adjusted the binoculars to get the clearest possible focus. The tall figure of Brigadier General Ehrlich was unmistakable. This man had been pointed out to him on more than one occasion. The general and some of his officers were looking at a map that was spread out on the bonnet of a jeep. Salim knew they would not get a better chance than this. The two boys had finished setting up the mortar and were eagerly waiting for orders. Motioning to them with a slow hand movement signalling they should remain calm, Salim took a bearing on the jeep and made a rough alignment of the mortar bipod. More deliberately he calculated the range and direction to the target and adjusted the direction and elevation on the mortar sights. There would be no time for any corrections as this would allow the Israelis to take cover. The four high explosive rounds had all their charge bags attached and he gave the thumbs up to fire.
Chooonk. Chooonk. Chooonk. Choonk. One after another the rounds were dropped down the tube. Looking up Salim could see the small black shapes of death arcing silently towards their target. With all four rounds gone and without waiting to be told, the two younger boys quickly dismantled the tube and sight from its base plate. Salim didn’t move as he observed his target through the binoculars. All four rounds exploded either side of the road and a slow smile spread across his young face.
Death to the Israelis.
‘Let’s get out of here! The next hill. And stay low!’ he hissed. The hunters were now the hunted.
Death to the Arabs.
‘Watches synchronised at 17:52.’ These were the last words General Ehrlich uttered. With a thumping roar the first mortar round landed barely 20 metres away. Red earth shot skywards and a lump of hot, jagged shrapnel ripped a great chunk out of General Ehrlich’s skull, spattering the jeep and his officers in blood and flesh, killing him instantly. Another piece of shrapnel tore his wallet from his shirt pocket and it lay open 10 metres away. A photograph of Marilyn and the two boys covered in dirt. Three more explosions peppered the Israeli position but the soldiers of the 45th Armoured Brigade were already hugging the red earth in the ditch at the side of the road and the rest of the casualties were light.
‘Medic!’ David Levin, General Ehrlich’s young Brigade Major, knew that it was a futile gesture and with a murderous look in his eyes he reached for his compass and took a bearing on the muffled thumps he had recognised as coming from a Palestinian mortar. Crouching in the ditch he called up the lead Cobra gunship.
‘Hawkeye One Five, this is Eight Nine Zulu. Bearing Three Eight Five Zero. Enemy mortar base plate in the hills south-west of here, approximately one two hundred metres over!’
‘Hawkeye One Five, copied out.’ Captain Raanan Weizman hauled on the collective and banked the aircraft into a tight turn. The Cobra AH-1G gunship, made famous in the Vietnam War, was barely a metre wide with the gunner’s seat in the nose and the pilot on a raised seat behind. Captain Weizman had only been flying this particular machine for ten months, but it felt like an extension of his flying gloves. The 1800 horsepower Lycoming T53-L-703 turbo shaft engine whined effortlessly as the rotors swatted the air.
‘Did you copy that, Dan?’ Two quick bursts of squelch on the intercom between pilot and gunner indicated that he had and Raanan checked his heading while his gunner readied the Cobra’s rockets and three-barrelled 20mm cannon.
Like an angry wasp with a blue Star of David in a white circle tattooed on its body, the sandy-coloured Cobra’s nose tilted forward as it touched on 130 knots. Captain Weizman put the aircraft into a dive and he and his gunner scanned the hills in the distance, while on the road below the men of the 45th Armoured Brigade prepared to avenge the death of their Commander.
‘Got ’em! Eleven o’clock, bottom of the second ridge.’
‘Roger.’ Captain Weizman calmly adjusted his heading.
Thirty seconds later the aircraft recoiled slightly as two rockets snaked towards the ground. Before they exploded below the three fleeing figures, the 20mm cannon smoked like a chainsaw and Raanan’s young gunner held the crosshairs on the targets as the deadly rounds followed the trajectory of the rockets. The young Muslims were torn into shattered fragments of flesh and bone as the Cobra’s rockets and 20mm cannon found their mark.
Death to the Arabs.
Death to the Jews.
‘So how are your studies going, Yusef?’ Ahmed asked.
‘Radio circuitry this semester. I got an A,’ Yusef announced proudly, his dark eyes flashing. ‘And there might be a chance for an opening with Cohatek.’
‘The events people?’
Yusef nodded. ‘Although there is only one position and there are ten of us going for it from our university.’
Cohatek was the biggest promoter of concerts and other events in Israel. Despite the violence the government had encouraged as much ‘normalcy’ as possible and big events were still staged in both Jerusalem and Tel-Aviv. Competition to join the company was fierce, and only the best were chosen. Even Palestinians were not ruled out if they were cleared and at the top of their field.
Suddenly four explosions echoed around the hills. Abdullah Sartawi frowned and conversation stopped. Everyone looked at the ceiling as if expecting something to fall on the house.
‘Peace be upon us,’ Abdullah said finally, getting up to stoke the fire. ‘We are out of wood. I meant to split some before dinner.’
‘Sit down, Father. We’ll fix that. Come on, Yusef, move it,’ Ahmed said, cuffing his brother good-naturedly on the shoulder.
‘What about Muhammad,’ Yusef grumbled, giving their youngest brother a questioning look. ‘He’s spent the day sleeping in the olive grove.’
Muhammad looked sheepish but shot Yusef a triumphant look as his mother intervened.
‘Two is enough to split the wood, Yusef. Muhammad can help Raya and Liana clean up in the kitchen.’ Muhammad rolled his eyes, his look of triumph disappearing as Yusef wrinkled his nose at him from the back door before joining Ahmed, heading towards the trees at the bottom of the yard where the logs were kept ready for splitting.
‘I have some good news, Yusef,’ Ahmed said, putting his arm around his brother. ‘I am to be assigned to Mar’Oth.’
‘That’s only twenty minutes walk away. You can help with the harvest,’ Yusef said with a huge grin, secretly pleased that he would see more of his brother.
‘It’s good to see him again, Abdullah. He is such a good boy.’ Rafiqa’s eyes glistened with the hint of a tear. ‘I wish he wasn’t so far away.’
Suddenly the roar of centurion tanks and armoured personnel carriers shook the whole house. Moments later, in a simultaneous assault from the front and rear of the house, both doors were kicked off their hinges and ten helmeted Israeli soldiers burst into the room, Uzi machine guns cocked and ready. Raya and Liana screamed but as their mother moved to comfort them she was knocked to the ground by a soldier.
‘Stay where you are, you Palestinian scum!’ Sergeant Emil Shahak had been Eliezer Erhlich’s centurion tank driver twenty years before, when Ehrlich had joined the 45th as a troop commander. For Sergeant Shahak the long war against the Arabs had suddenly got personal. Brigadier General Ehrlich was one of the finest generals in the long and proud history of the regiment, but now he was dead, killed by the people from this shitbag village. Emil Shahak’s blood was up and he and his soldiers were itching for any excuse to exact revenge.
Rafiqa was racked with pain as she lay on the dirt floor quietly sobbing. The Israeli soldier had rifle-butted her with such force that two of her ribs were broken. Muhammad rushed towards his mother, brandishing a saucepan at the nearest Israeli. The young soldier, a reservist on his first operation, fired instinctively. The burst caught the Sartawi’s youngest son in the chest and he was dead before he slumped to the kitchen floor, a bright red stain seeping across the cotton of the white shirt he’d worn specially for his sister’s birthday. Raya and Liana screamed again, cowering in the corner of the kitchen. Abdullah Sartawi was pale with shock, and as he tried to make a move towards his son he was struck with a rifle and thrown to the floor.
‘Nobody move!’ Flecks of saliva had appeared at the corners of Sergeant Shahak’s mouth. ‘Watch those two!’ he yelled. The young reservist jerked his Uzi uncertainly, first at Raya and then at Liana, his bottom lip quivering as the enormity of what he had done began to sink in. ‘Search the other rooms!’ Emil Shahak was bellowing now.
Yusef started towards the house, but Ahmed pulled him back and down into the cover of the trees. ‘No, Yusef!’ he hissed. ‘Think. They have guns, we don’t.’
‘There is firing, Ahmed!’ Yusef’s eyes filled with tears.
‘And there will be more if you burst into the house,’ Ahmed urged him quietly. ‘Allah is with us but we can’t help if we’re dead!’ Ahmed kept his arm wrapped tightly around his brother as they lay on the ground, staring at their house.
‘Empty, Emil.’ The look on the corporal’s face was one of resentful disappointment as he reported to his sergeant.
‘ Ben zsona! Son of a bitch!’ Sergeant Shahak walked over to Liana and Raya. With a burning frustration he kicked their dead brother as he stepped over him. Pistol in one hand, his other clenched, he stood contemptuously over the terrified girls. Emil Shahak was furious that he and his men had not found what they were looking for.
He grabbed Liana by the chin and wrenched her face up, forcing her to look at him. Her face was pale and beautiful, but her eyes blazed with a resentment that only fuelled Sergeant Shahak’s sense of impotence. He turned to his corporal, drawing his lips back into a snarl.
‘You can have the ugly one,’ he sneered, pointing his pistol at Raya. He grabbed Liana’s hair and pulled her to her feet, pinning her slender arms together with his huge, hairy hand.
‘I get first crack at her crack,’ he rasped. ‘Privilege of rank.’
‘No! Please!’ Abdullah Sartawi was on his knees, pleading, his weathered face streaked with tears.
‘Palestinian scum!’ Sergeant Shahak kicked at him but despite the pain Abdullah grabbed the Israeli’s boot and clung to it in desperation.
‘No! No! No!’ he cried.
Sergeant Shahak had crossed the point of no return and he struggled to free his boot. He pointed his Jericho pistol at Abdullah and fired. Twice.
Rafiqa screamed and fell on the body of her husband. Shahak moved the sight of his pistol to the back of Rafiqa’s neck and fired twice more. Rafiqa convulsed and her body slid down beside Abdullah’s.
‘Palestinian shit!’ Sergeant Shahak shoved Liana into her parents’ bedroom, banging the flimsy door behind him.
Numb with shock and dimly aware of what was going on, Liana began to struggle to free herself. Sergeant Shahak’s grip was unbreakable.
‘ Zsona! Inahl rabak ars ya choosharmuta! Bitch! Go to hell with your fucking father!’ he yelled in Liana’s ear, his fetid breath hot against the side of her face. He cracked her on the back of the skull with his pistol and threw her on the bed. In a frenzy he tore the clothes off her slender body, and ripped his trousers down to his boots. Liana froze at the sight of Shahak’s ugly erection, acutely and terrifyingly aware of what was about to happen.
With a guttural growl Shahak climbed on top of her, pinning her hands above her head. Liana shrieked as he forced himself inside her, grunting like an animal, his body giving off a stench of stale sweat and the diesel of the armoured personnel carrier that was his home.
‘You’re next, Yigal.’ Shahak came out of the bedroom hitching up his camouflage pants as he eyeballed the young reservist.
‘Me?’ Yigal croaked, shaking his head.
‘There’s a first time for everything, son, and you’re never going to get an easier one than this. Get in and give it to the bitch.’
‘Come on, Yigal!’ one of the regulars yelled. ‘Are you a man or what?’
Feeling more miserable and confused than ever, Yigal allowed himself to be pushed into the room. Liana was curled up on her parents’ bed, her head against the wall, her body shaking with uncontrollable sobs.
Yigal thought he was going to be sick. He wanted to comfort the girl but he was upset over killing her brother and was too afraid to touch her. He waited until he thought enough time had elapsed for him to claim he had done what they had sent him to do, then dropping his trousers, he opened the door and emerged, pulling them up and doing up his fly.
‘Next!’ he called, his voice dry and uncertain.
‘Ehhhhhh!’ A roar of approval echoed around the Sartawis’ house.
The flimsy doors to the two rooms opened and shut until the last of the Israeli soldiers had finished with both sisters. After releasing his rage, Shahak became officious as he considered the implications of what he and his men had done.
‘Get the two Kalashnikovs from the carrier,’ he barked at a soldier. The soldiers all knew where their sergeant kept two Palestinian weapons hidden. They were a legacy of a previous engagement and Sergeant Shahak had decided against handing them in, keeping them as insurance against any investigation or allegations that might be made against his troops.
‘Listen up. Tonight didn’t happen.’ Each of his soldiers looked at the dirt floor. Sergeant Shahak took one of the weapons and wiped it clean with his sweat-stained scarf. He grabbed Abdullah’s lifeless hand, made prints on the rifle and left it beside the body. He did the same with the body of Muhammad. Raya and Liana’s despair could be heard from the bedrooms as Shahak’s Corporal took the Army-issue camera from its case, the flash illuminating Abdullah and Muhammad.
‘Tonight our general was killed by Palestinian terrorists and the reports of this scum giving them shelter are true. Get the two bitches out here.’
Raya and Liana could hardly stand.
‘I’m giving you five seconds to get out of here!’ He shoved them out the back door and watched the girls stumble into the night. Shahak emptied his magazine into Raya’s back and then into Liana’s.
‘No fucking witnesses!’ he snarled at his troops. ‘And remember, it didn’t happen. Let’s go!’
Ahmed and Yusef, deep in shock, waited amongst the trees until they were sure the soldiers were gone. In a daze they stared at the carnage of what had once been their home, their family gone.
The Defense Minister, Reze Zweiman, and General Halevy fronted the cameras together.
‘Brigadier General Ehrlich was one of the nation’s finest soldiers and our deepest condolences go to his wife and sons,’ Zweiman intoned, opening the media conference to the ‘when, where, and why’ of what might have happened at Deir Azun.
One of the final questions came from Tom Schweiker from CCN.
‘The Palestinians are claiming there was a massacre at Deir Azun, General. Is the Israeli Government going to investigate these claims?’
‘I can assure all of you,’ Halevy replied, barely keeping his anger in check, ‘that the only massacre at Deir Azun was the death of an Israeli commander tasked with keeping Israelis and peace-loving citizens free from terrorism. You’ve seen the photographs. These people were armed and have been responsible for countless attacks against innocent civilians.’ Israel’s Chief of Staff closed his folder, ending the tightly controlled conference.
Tom Schweiker watched the men and their minders leave, and wondered.
Back in the Minister’s office General Halevy nodded in agreement as Reze Zweiman vented his spleen on the Palestinians. The loss of one of their commanders had serious implications for the public image of the government and Reze knew his political enemies would use it to turn up the heat.
‘Keep the fucking media away, especially that Schweiker shit from CCN. Occupy the village for as long as it takes and get rid of the scum that live there. If need be, carry out armoured manoeuvres in their olive groves.’
‘Leave it to me, Reze. By the time I’ve finished with them they’ll want to live anywhere but on the West Bank.’
On the dusty red hillside on the edge of the Sartawi olive grove Israeli soldiers looked on sullenly as the villagers buried Abdullah and Rafiqa Sartawi, their two daughters Raya and Liana and their youngest son, Muhammad. After the last of the mourners had left Ahmed and Yusef stood alone at the gravesides.
‘You should have let me try, Ahmed,’ Yusef said angrily through his tears.
‘And have you dead, too?’
‘You don’t know that.’ Yusef spat the words at his brother. ‘Even poor little Muhammad tried to protect them!’
‘What will you do now?’ Ahmed asked, realising that it was not the time to argue the point.
‘What does it matter!’ Yusef stormed away, tears streaming down his cheeks, a hatred for the Israelis and a new hatred for his brother’s cowardice blazing in his heart.
With great sadness Ahmed watched him go. He sat beside his buried family trying to make sense of it all. He would not see his brother again for many, many years, and then only fleetingly in circumstances that no one could have predicted.