Along each jaundice-yellow wall inside the synagogue, ragged prayer books were wedged tight or stacked haphazardly on their sides behind the glass of their book-cases. A curtain of blue velvet embroidered with Hebrew characters in gold thread hung behind a dais at the head of the hall. The thick walls preserved the chill of night in the air. Omar Yussef shivered and pulled his French collar higher, pressing it to the slack skin of his jaw.
“It’s as cold as a cellar in here,” Sami said.
“Or a grave.” Omar Yussef caught Sami’s frown. “Don’t worry. I may not be certain that this truly is a day of pleasures, as you put it, but by the time of your wedding, I’ll be cheeriness personified.”
Sami walked down the aisle toward the blue curtain. Between the Hebrew characters, the outline of two stone tablets had been stitched into the material. “Can you read this, Abu Ramiz?” Sami asked.
“No, but the tablets are a representation of the command-ments given to the Prophet Moussa, I think. The ones that contained the Jewish law.”
“The Samaritan law.”
A man of about seventy years approached from a stairwell at the back of the room. He was tall and slender, like an evening shadow. He wore a white ankle-length cotton robe, a long vest of coarse gray wool, unfastened at the front, and a fez wrapped with a red cloth so that it resembled a turban.
“The Jewish law is very similar to ours, gentlemen,” the old man said, “but their holy texts include seven thousand mistakes. The books of the Samaritans are without error.”
“Then you are without excuses for your mistakes.” Omar Yussef smiled. “That’s a terrible fate.”
“No one is ever short of justification for their sins in this part of the world.” The man’s mild eyes appeared unfocused and bemused, like cafe habitues Omar Yussef had met in Morocco who smoked too much kif. He shook hands with Omar Yussef. “I’m Jibril Ben-Tabia, a priest of the Samaritan people. Welcome to our synagogue.”
Sami stepped forward. “Lieutenant Sami Jaffari of the National Police. This is my colleague Abu Ramiz.”
“From Bethlehem,” Omar Yussef said. He glanced at Sami. His granddaughter had been trying to make a detective of him since he had been forced to investigate accusations of murder against a favorite former pupil over a year ago. Despite his insistence that he was happy as a history teacher in the Dehaisha refugee camp, Sami seemed now to have made his change of career official.
The priest tilted his head as though wondering why an investigating officer should have been brought from Bethlehem. He kept Omar Yussef’s hand in his.
“The lieutenant asked me to join him because I have a special interest in Palestinian history,” Omar Yussef said. He raised an eyebrow at the young officer. “I understand the crime relates to one of your historical documents.”
“It did.” Ben-Tabia let go of Omar Yussef’s hand and raised his arms in a shrug. “But I must apologize, honored gentle-men, particularly to you, Abu Ramiz, for bringing you all the way from Bethlehem for nothing. The crime is solved.”
Sami dropped his cigarette and ground it out with his heel. “Solved?”
The priest glanced sharply at the cigarette butt on the floor and rolled his lower lip over the edge of his mustache. “Yes, there was a theft, but the stolen object has been returned. So, you see, your intervention is unnecessary.”
“Has the criminal been apprehended?”
“Everything has been sorted out to my satisfaction.”
“I’m here now, so my satisfaction enters into this, too, your honor,” Sami said. He held the priest’s gaze.
“Very well,” Ben-Tabia said. “Please, let’s sit. I’m not so strong these days.”
Omar Yussef and Sami sat on the front bench. The priest took a seat in the second row.
“I must apologize,” he said. “I would offer you coffee in greeting, but this synagogue is only used for the first prayers of every month and no one but me is here to prepare a drink for you today.”
Omar Yussef waved his hand. “Coffee is unnecessary. Your regular place of prayer is on top of the mountain?”
“As you surely know, Brother Abu Ramiz, the Samaritans have a long history in Palestine.” The priest’s face became grave and proud. “We have lived here in the shadow of our holy mountain, Jerizim, since the Israelites entered the land of Canaan. Our community has dwindled to little more than six hundred, but we remain, protected by Allah and our adherence to the ways of our people.”
“It’s one of the greatest traditions of Palestine,” Omar Yussef said.
The priest bowed his head. “During the violence of the eighties, we moved out of this neighborhood and created a new village on top of Jerizim, including, of course, a synagogue.” He lifted a long finger and pointed out of the window toward the ridge. “We wanted to be close to our holiest place.”
“I’m new to Nablus,” Sami said. “I’ve never been up there.”
“Welcome to our city.” Ben-Tabia lowered his head, closed his eyes and placed his palm over his heart. “The site of our ancient temple is just beyond the crest of the ridge, the smooth flat stone where Abraham prepared to sacrifice his son Isaac. It’s where Adam and Eve lived when they were expelled from Eden. It’s the home of Allah.”
“Quite an address.” Sami smiled. “I’d like to come up and see it.”
Omar Yussef thought the priest hesitated before he said, “You will be most welcome, Lieutenant.”
“What exactly was stolen from you, sir?” Omar Yussef asked. “It was an old religious document of some kind, I understand.”
“Though we moved our community to the mountain, we maintained this synagogue and we continued to keep our most precious documents here. It was one of these that was stolen.”
“From where?” Sami said.
“From a safe in the basement.”
“The safe was blown?”
“Blown? Ah, yes, with some kind of explosive. But the safe has been replaced. There’s nothing for you to examine.”
“When was the theft?”
“A week ago. Yes, or perhaps a little more.”
“You didn’t report it immediately?”
The priest fidgeted with the ends of the gray vest. “I was ordered not to do so. By the thieves. They told me that if I involved the authorities, they would destroy the scroll.”
“The scroll?” Omar Yussef twisted toward the priest.
“Our greatest treasure was stolen, Abu Ramiz,” Ben-Tabia said. He lifted the tips of his fingers to his beard, as though he might pull it out in despair at the thought of such a calamity. “I felt terrible shame that it should be during my tenure as a priest here in our synagogue that the Abisha Scroll might be lost.”
“The Abisha?” Omar Yussef’s voice was low and reverent.
“What’s that?” Sami said.
“A famous Torah scroll,” Omar Yussef said. “The oldest book in the world, they say.”
The priest raised his eyes to the ceiling. “The five books of Moses, written on sheepskin three thousand six hundred and forty-five years ago. It was written by Abisha, son of Pinchas, son of Eleazar, son of Aaron who was the brother of Moses, in the thirteenth year after the Israelites entered the land of Canaan. Every year, we bring it out of the safe only once, for our Passover ceremony on Mount Jerizim.”
“It must be very valuable,” Sami said.
“It’s beyond all value. Without this scroll, our Messiah can never return to us. Without this scroll, we cannot carry out the annual Passover sacrifice, and if we fail to sacrifice on Passover we cease to be Samaritans and the entire tradition of our religion comes to a terrible close.” The priest’s eyes were moist.
“You said the thieves told you to keep quiet?” Omar Yussef spoke softly.
“I was blindfolded and taken to a place where I was shown the stolen scroll. They took me because they knew I would be able to recognize it and tell the rest of the community that it was safe. Then they demanded a million dollars for its return.”
“Did you pay?” Sami asked.
“We don’t have a million dollars.”
“But the Abisha Scroll has been returned?”
“We asked for help from all our friends in Nablus.” The priest lifted his hand in front of him, fingers pointing upward. “Perhaps one of them was able to influence the thieves.”
“What friends?”
“We’re part of the local community. My accent is like everyone else’s in Nablus-I say Oi, when I mean to say I, just like the people in the casbah. We have friends among the business community, wealthy, powerful friends.”
“Did one of them pay the ransom for the Abisha?”
“No one told me they did so. I finally reported the scroll stolen during the weekend, because our Passover takes place in three days and, as I told you, the entire ceremony would have to be abandoned if I couldn’t carry this scroll in our procession. But the scroll was returned overnight. I came here this morning to meet you, as your office instructed me to do when I called in the theft. But then I found the scroll on the steps, safe in its box. My prayers had been answered.”
“Just like that?” Sami spoke calmly, but Omar Yussef heard the suspicion in his voice. “The thieves didn’t tell you they’d returned it?”
“No one comes here unless they’re accompanied by me. I have the only key to the building. They must have known I’d find it.”
“Who knew that the scroll was kept in the safe?”
“Many people in Nablus.”
“Who knew where the safe was?”
“We often welcome guests such as you in this synagogue. Then, there are international scholars who come to study our community. Any one of them might know where the safe is kept.”
“Was the scroll damaged when the safe was blown?”
“No, it’s in good condition, thanks to Allah.”
“Let’s take a look.” Sami stood.
The priest rose with some reluctance and led them to the back of the synagogue.
At the foot of a whitewashed stone staircase, he opened a heavy metal door and entered a small office. A tall green safe the size of a refrigerator stood in one corner. “A moment, please. The combination,” he said, working his fingers to mime the twisting of a dial. He shut the door behind him.
When the priest allowed them to enter, he beckoned to Omar Yussef. On the desk, beside a pile of ragged prayer books, was a box with three curved sides covered in dull, blotchy hide and less than two feet in length. Omar Yussef bent close and saw that the case was overlaid with silver panels, oxidized to a dark gray tone. He lifted his hand toward it and glanced at the priest. Ben-Tabia nodded and Omar Yussef touched the box. He felt a thrill of electricity pass through his hand. He smiled at the priest. “It’s one of the most beautiful objects I’ve ever seen,” he said.
“The box was made several hundred years ago on the orders of one of my predecessors in the priestly caste,” Ben-Tabia said. “Inside is the ancient scroll, but I cannot show you that today. Only on Passover may it be seen.”
“The workmanship is wonderful.” Omar Yussef ran his hand over the raised silver. Under its grimy coating, it was decorated with scenes from biblical stories. At the center of one of the plates was an image of a building that looked like a castle with high walls surrounding a courtyard and a central turret. Omar Yussef stroked a fingertip around the outline of the building.
“That’s our temple, which once stood on top of Mount Jerizim.” The priest inclined his head toward the place where Omar Yussef’s hand rested. “The Jews say the temple was in Jerusalem, where your famous Dome of the Rock now stands. But we know it was on Jerizim.” He swallowed hard. “May I return the Abisha Scroll to the safe? It makes me nervous even to have it here on the table.”
Sami left the room with Omar Yussef, while the priest again worked the combination on the safe.
In the stairwell, Sami pursed his lips. “He’s lying,” he whispered.
“You’re right,” Omar Yussef said. “Why would someone steal the scroll and simply give it back?”
The priest came out of the office and shut the metal door. He straightened his fez, gave a brittle, polite smile and gestured for them to lead the way up the stairs.
“Forgive me if I seem to be overprotective of the scroll, pasha,” he said.
Omar Yussef blanched at the unearned senior rank mistakenly accorded him by the priest. Thanks be to Allah that he doesn’t expect me to arrest anyone, he thought.
“It truly is important to the redemption of the entire world,” the priest continued. “You see, our holy texts tell us that the Messiah will be born to the tribe of Levi or Joseph. We Samaritans are all that’s left of those two tribes. But what makes us Samaritans? Only that we celebrate Passover and also the Feast of Tabernacles in the way taught by our tradition.”
“With the Abisha Scroll at the head of your procession.”
The priest opened a hand to acknowledge that Omar Yussef’s understanding was correct. “If we were to miss both these festivals for a single year, we would no longer be Samaritans. The lines of Levi and Joseph would come to an end, and there would be no possibility of a Messiah being born to redeem mankind.”
Omar Yussef stroked his chin with his knuckles. “Were there other ancient documents in the safe?”
“A few, but nothing else was taken.” The priest looked out of the window at Mount Jerizim. “Most of our ancient documents are kept in my house on top of the mountain. Some are almost a thousand years old. But none are nearly as old as the Abisha Scroll. Only the most valuable are stored here in the safe.”
“Do you preserve all your people’s old texts?”
“The Torah scrolls and original manuscripts used in religious services.” Ben-Tabia pointed toward the blue curtain above the dais. “When they can no longer be used, these documents are packed away there inside the holy ark.”
“Why don’t you throw them away?” Sami asked.
“For the same reason you Muslims don’t use pages from the Koran to wrap falafel.” The priest smiled, but Omar Yussef saw a glint of hostility behind the old man’s outmoded spec-tacles. “Each page from a prayer book must be preserved, even if it’s beyond repair.”
He lifted a corner of the velvet curtain to reveal a low box built into the wall. At first it looked like a bench, but Omar Yussef saw that it was hinged at the back. “In here we safe-guard many fragments of documents, all unusable, but still filled with the holy word. We call them ‘Allah’s secrets.’ ”
The priest dropped the curtain. “If you would like to see the Abisha Scroll itself, not just its box, please come to our Passover celebration on Jerizim later this week. I am happy to invite you.”
“Do we have to convert to Samaritanism to attend?” Omar Yussef laughed with a short, coughing exhalation. “Neither Sami nor I are particularly committed to Islam.”
“Conversion to our religion is only possible for women who wish to marry our men, pasha,” the priest said. “But we should be honored to have men like you share our celebration.” He laid his hand over his heart. “People come from all around the world-foreign journalists and international academics-to watch our ancient rites.”
“It’ll be a great pleasure, Your Honor,” Omar Yussef said.
The priest went out onto the wide top step at the entrance to the synagogue. As Omar Yussef and Sami followed him to the door, they heard footsteps hurrying outside. Ben-Tabia froze, his eyes wide.
A breathless voice called to the priest from the steps: “Long life to you.” Ben-Tabia looked quickly at Sami, then dropped his eyes to the floor. Omar Yussef took a short breath and felt the muscles in his back tighten. The traditional greeting meant someone else’s life had ended. The voice came again: “Your Honor, we have to call the police.”
Sami stepped through the door. Omar Yussef followed. A tall young man with a thick mustache stood at the foot of the last flight of steps. His thin chest heaved with the effort of running from the street. He flinched when he saw Sami’s uniform.
“Who’s dead?” Sami spoke sharply.
The young man glanced at the priest, but Sami descended a few steps and leaned toward him.
“Come on, what’s happened?”
The breathless man looked over Sami’s shoulder and called to the priest. “It’s Ishaq, Your Honor. Ishaq is up on top of Mount Jerizim, at the temple.”
“Why shouldn’t he be?” The priest spoke slowly, as though his tongue were prodding through a minefield.
The young man coughed hard. “Your Honor, Ishaq has been murdered.”