With his use of the word “limits,” the father had again set something in motion—just like this morning when he wanted to take Thar across his knee. In spite of this threat, the boy had to laugh as he answered: “No thoughts? In there, we find all of the People of Israel, King Pharaoh, and all of his Egyptian soldiers!” Incredulous, the father inquired further: “How so? On the contrary, I see nothing of them!”“That’s because they’re in the water! This picture shows the Children of Israel’s passage through the Red Sea. Don’t you see the Red Sea that is right in front of you? And over there is the blue air; directly above your head is the yellow sun, because the time of day is exactly noon. Here to the left, the green land, that is Egypt; and the house, that is the Palace of the Pharaoh. And here to the right, this green land is Palestine; the King of the Jebusites lives in the house that stands there. In between there lies the Red Sea. The Children of Israel were slaves in Egypt. Moses helped them break away. He fled with them into the Red Sea. Even now, all of them are stuck in there. With all of his armies, Pharaoh hurried after them. Look here! The last one of them has just now disappeared. You can still see his heel which is still above the water. On the other side over there, the Children of Israel are just now coming out of the water again. Already you can see the first one’s toes which are half-way out of the water. As soon as all of them are high and dry, I’ll paint in my sharks; then you’ll see that Pharaoh and all of his soldiers will be devoured—not a single one of them will remain. More or less, aren’t those the approximate ideas?”He stretched himself out in front of his father and watched his dad’s face as he thought about these explanations. Behind us rang out the reproachful voice of their African cook. She was standing next to the door with her wind-lantern. She had heard everything: “It was my hand that produced the entire green land of Egypt and all of Palestine’s greenery. Tomorrow, I’m painting Jericho!” At that moment, the good Mustafa Bustani could no longer control himself. All of his temper burst forth. His voice thundered at them: “Tomorrow, you will learn what you can paint. March! Come away with me into the house!”His angry voice shocked the African cook. She let loose of the lantern which shattered and extinguished—running away as fast as her feet would carry her. Realizing the impact of his wrath, the merchant immediately tried to take back its harsh impact. He addressed us in an apologetic tone: “Forgive me. Such anger is never the right thing. Please allow me to accompany you.”We understood and gladly embraced him. He led us towards the gate through which we had come. It still stood open. There, he said this to us: “We’ll keep our plans to travel early tomorrow morning. I’ll pick you up at seven, European time. I don’t yet know whether I’ll bring my son along.”My wife then asked about his son whom she had grown so fond of: “Will you punish him very severely?” Mustafa answered with an unusually solemn tone: “In this situation, I’ll have to think about who deserves the punishment here. With both of you here, it’s as if a light has come to me. Since this morning, it seems as if I now have entirely new eyes and ears. How did it happen that you, without any kind of perceptible reason, came along the same path leading to the heights of the Mount of Olives—the one which I daily climb—precisely at the same time?” I gently tossed out this word: “Coincidence!”“You say that without personally believing it. I know all too well that you consider the word “coincidence” to be an embarrassing fabrication. However, for now that’s unimportant. Above all else this evening, I have to think about my son. I would like to be alone this evening. And without feeling ashamed, I can say to both of you that I must pray. This thought has come to me: I have placed the soul of my child upon the wrong path. Allah alone knows the hidden depths of our hearts. He wants to show me what is correct and what is false. Please, do not concern yourselves about the boy. He won’t receive punishment which he doesn’t deserve. Good night.” Extending our hands to him, we also said “Good night.” We were eager to see how tomorrow’s affairs would develop.II. Towards Hebron!Oh what memories are connected to the name of this old and famous city of kings and descendants of Levi! Located just twenty miles south of Jerusalem, Hebron may be the oldest city in the Promised Land. It existed three thousand years before the birth of Christ. According to the traditional teachings of the Middle Ages, it is in this vicinity where God created Adam.Seventeen miles southwest of Jerusalem, there’s the city of Kirjath-arba, where mythical giants once lived. Later, Hebron was the capitol city of the Hittites, whose princes resided there. After the Children of Israel’s conquest of Canaan, the city fell to the Family of Caleb. Later, King David spent the first seven years of his reign here. At the city gates, David’s General Joab murdered Abner, the Commander-in-Chief of King Saul’s army. Upon David’s orders, it was here that the men who assassinated Saul’s son Ishbosheth were hung. From Hebron, Absalom launched the rebellion against his father, King David. During the Israelites’ captivity in Babylon, the city fell into the hands of the Edomites, Esau’s people—which Judas Maccabaeus drove out. The Romans destroyed the city and sold its inhabitants into slavery. The Crusaders made Hebron their Bishop-City. It has also become ever more holy to Muslims, because it was the dwelling place of the Patriarchs. In the past, Abraham lived there, and Jacob’s caravan to Egypt began at Hebron. The Muslims call Abraham the friend of merciful compassion; from this title, Hebron received its current Arabic name,El Chalil.So, Hebron is highly revered—but unfortunately, the city is not friendly toward strangers, particularly Christians. In the entire land, Hebron’s population is the most bigoted. There are approximately nine thousand Muslims and five hundred Jews, who in fact want to earn as much money as possible from a Christian—yet they consider him to be inferior and even an unclean enemy whose mere touch can make them dirty. Through Hebron’s lanes, a Christian pedestrian gets along OK if he tries very hard to avoid looking into the eyes of “the true believers.” Otherwise, trouble can easily happen. At the least, youth who follow him will not just shout out curse words—they will also throw solid objects. The most pronounced expression of this hostile relationship is evident in the fact that Hebron’s inns are not open to Christians—even though the city’s well-traveled roadway connects to Jerusalem. Today, it may be different; it was in the year 1900 when I last visited Hebron.In light of Christians’ common veneration of the patriarch Abraham, Europeans visit this city of historical names—in spite of its unfriendly population. When his wife Sarah died, Abraham purchased the double burial cave called Machpela; the Hittite Ephron sold him this grave site. Thus in a burial chamber, she was transformed. Some say that the following famous six are entombed here: Abraham. Isaac, Jacob, Sarah, Rebecca, and Leah. Among the Greek-speaking Jews, some say that the Byzantine Emperor Justinian lies here. Above this spot, a church was once established—which the Muslims converted into a mosque; unfortunately, Christians are not allowed to visit this site. Christians are only permitted to come near the outer perimeter of this shrine. In order to go beyond that limit, one must be a high-level, princely person—especially one that holds afirman, a royal decree from the Ottoman Empire. In this same region, uponDer el Arba’in, one finds the grave of Jesse, King David’s father. A half hour from the city stands Abraham’s Well, where some claim that this is the scene where once the Oaks of Mamre stood. [ Mamre was the Amorite chief who gave his name to the plain where Abraham dwelt, Genesis 23: 19.] Almost every place in the surrounding area is intertwined with some memory of the patriarchs. So for this reason, it was also a desire of mine to visit Hebron as often as I was in Jerusalem. So it is now. (Photo, 148 KB-Jpg. The Apostles’ fountain: on the road between Jerusalem and Bethany, which tradition says is the place where Jesus rested with his disciples.)At exactly 7 o’clock the next morning, a comfortable, fully covered four-passenger carriage arrived at our door. Therein, sat Mustafa Bustani and Thar. When my wife saw them, she said: “So, he’s allowed to come after all.” I too was pleased about this. The boy sprang out of the carriage. He was festively dressed: golden shoes, white stockings, white pants, and a white Bedouin-shirt with a red vest that had Hungarian Hussar gold-braided cords. Upon his head sat a red fez, to which a white, silken neck-scarf was fastened. Today, the boy looked exceptionally distinguished. “We are here. Father bids you to come,” said Thar. His voice had an official and powerful ring to it. In a softer and more confidential tone, he officially put forth this question: “Yesterday evening, did you also think that I would receive a good thrashing? No? I’ve thought a great deal about it. I wish that he had whipped me.” For a moment, he pondered over this—then he repeated these words: “Yes, yes, I wanted it that way!”“Why?”“If the beating were over, my father would no longer be angry and sad. It would no longer be painful for me either. As long as I have to await punishment, even as I do right now, he still has the sad eyes—and that causes me twice the pain.” I wanted to know the reason: “In what way is it doubled?”“ First, I’ll tell you about his eyes, then secondly about the thrashing which is yet to come. Due to the fact that the punishment usually never happens, I ceaselessly and hopelessly feel this way in advance. So today, it will perhaps be the same. Since yesterday evening, his sad eyes have hurt me. Mostly, he doesn’t say a word—not a single thing. Early today, he personally woke me up and helped me get dressed. When he stood so silently in my room, I could no longer bear it; I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him, begging him to punish me—soundly and vigorously. He just gently smiled and shook his head. Do you think he is doing the right thing?”I gave him this advice: “At all times, what your father does is the right thing. You must come to understand this.” Thar questioned me: “Even when I regard his actions as wrong?” Here was my reply: “Then too! When you grow older, just as he is now, you will have an experience that will convince you that he was right. Oh well, come on! Your father is always so punctual—we shouldn’t keep him waiting.”“Now just a moment,” he pleaded. “I still have something to tell you; today is Friday, a holiday. It’s forbidden for me to get dirty. For that reason, I didn’t bring along any colors. Nevertheless, I am a hero. You see, it isn’t required that a hero be painted up when he wants to conquer his enemies. There are also cases in which—“ At that point, my wife jokingly added this line: “—the victor actually has no paint at all. Yesterday, you told us that you wanted to paint the first storming of Palestine’s City of Jericho. Didn’t you think about that project on this special Friday?”The boy answered her: “Anyway, nothing could be done about Jericho. I lack the means to capture the necessary noise. I can paint the trumpets and also the walls; but how am I supposed to insert the loud racket when I can’t portray that part of the picture? It’s really too bad—just a crying shame. So, now I’m ready. Let’s go.”We broke off our conversation and went to the carriage. Just as we were climbing in, Lord Pasha Osman Achyr interrupted his morning excursion and came riding upon his fat donkey. For a moment, he reigned back on his steed, gave us a friendly greeting, then directed this question to the boy: “Well then, which hero are you today?” With his usual presence of mind, Thar answered: “I’m Joshua the Conqueror. I’m going into the Land of the Canaanites in order to show them that we are not afraid of them.” The Pasha played along: “Where does this land lie?” The boy replied: “In Gilgal.” The Pascha cautioned him: “My boy, be careful then. Without asking first about your reason for being there, the people will cut you down.” With that parting advice, he rode off.Regarding what was necessary for our journey, Mustafa Bustani assured us that he had taken care of everything. Thar leapt onto the seat beside the coachman where he felt more free and higher than in the deeper part of the carriage beside us. The horses then began to pull forward. Our steep path went from the Jaffa Gate into the Hinnom Valley, which carries the Jewish and Islamic references to “hell.” We traveled farther to the Sultan’s Pool; and from there, again upward to the high and level Bethel. Thereon lies the Cloister of Rabbi Elijah, from which we could admire a broad and outstanding view. This monastery is associated with the Prophet Elijah, and nearby is a spring where the Holy Family reportedly drew water.Beyond this monastery, you’ll find Rachel’s Crypt, the burial site of Patriarch Jacob’s wife. At this holy site, we read these words: “ On the road to Ephratah, which is now called Bethlehem, Rachel died and was buried. So Jacob erected a memorial upon her grave; to this day, Rachel’s monument is still there.” The road divides at this place.To the left, it goes towards Bethlehem; straight ahead lies Hebron. We took the latter direction. After forty-five minutes, we came to the Three Pools of Solomon. Long before the Christian era, these aqua ducts were constructed in order to supply water to Jerusalem. Even though these pools and the region’s small castle hold historical and architectural significance, they have no bearing on our story—so for now, we’ll bypass them.Of more interest to me is the broad Wadi a-‘Arish; midway between Jerusalem and Hebron, a “café” was erected, a place where men and animals can find a place to rest themselves. Don’t picture a European-style café. Instead, imagine a narrow, low-quality, jagged stone building wherein a rather squalid fellow boils dirty water in a filthy pot as he makes a brew which he calls “coffee”—a drink that he sells to European passersby, all at sinfully expensive prices.Yet the sin does not stem from the price that he demands. Oh no, he’s too sly for that. This might result in a complaint that could lead to cancellation of his license to sell coffee. He works this more cleverly. For the locals, he sets the lowest possible price; but for foreigners, he always says this: “I’ll take what you give me!” In this way, he neither dissuades nor pleads. Since European travelers are almost always well-to-do, having extra money to afford elevated sentiments, the coffee-innkeeper gives them the impression that he’s needy—all with the aim that they will pay him a price which is more like a present, or even an excessive tariff. For a very small oriental cup, which contained no more than two or three thimbles-worth of coffee, he held out his hand long enough to receive more than a German Mark—whereas five Pfennig would have been entirely enough. I had always been generous towards him. However, the last time I stopped at his place, I saw how he was laughing at me as I rode away—so today, he shall pay dearly for that.When we arrived at his “café,” we stopped and climbed out of the carriage. He rushed outside; and with an exaggerated deep bow, he asked about our “orders.” Mustafa Bustani first ordered five cups of coffee, then five more; for a third time, he ordered still another five. Altogether, that came to fifteen cups. The man melted into a downcast spirit; he knew that Mustafa Bustani was no foreigner and that he often stopped here on his business trips to Hebron. So, he could not treat him like a European. When we were preparing to leave and climbing into our carriage, I took out my money pouch. The shop owner’s face completely lit up. I asked how much it cost for the fifteen cups of coffee. “Give what you wish,” he said. “I’ll only pay the price that you demand,” I declared.This accomplished nothing. He absolutely refused to set a price. So when I threatened to pay him nothing if he wouldn’t give me a price, he simply answered with this: “OK, I’ll give them to you as a present.” This trick had always worked for him. He assumed that no European would allow him to give away his coffee. So, I acted just as he expected. Appearing to be overwhelmed with his generosity, I gave him a franc. In Palestine, the franc is the most prized silver coin. He looked at it, then handed it back to me and said: “I’m giving the money back to you.” After taking the coin back, I first gave him two, then three francs. Once again, he declined the money and repeated these words: “I give these as presents to you.” I understood how this man operated; I knew just how far I could take this. His greed for money grew with every increase of my offer. I gave him four, then finally five francs. With this last sum, he closed his hand and made a movement as if he wanted to pocket the money. At the same time, he inquisitively looked at me.I put on my most good-natured face and raised my hand as if to reach into my money bag once again. This was too much for him; he could not resist. In a tone of voice which made it seem that any payment for the coffee was simply impossible, he handed me the five francs: “I also give these to you!” Ever so slowly and in a way that would not diminish the pleasure of this scene, I took back the money, put the coins in my bag, and answered him: “So, I give in to your kindness, and I accept your present. I thank you. Live long and well! May Allah bless you and your house for your noble generosity towards all foreign guests!”Since we didn’t want to hurry and thereby lessen the great effect of our departure, we slowly stood up and watched the expression on his face. Acting as if he wanted to keep us there, he held up his outstretched arms. His mouth gaped open. Upon his face lay an expression of confused dismay, one which bordered on outright shock. He was speechless, uttering neither word nor sound. To make up for lost time, the horses fell into a trot. When we came to the next curve in the road where we looked back, the man still stiffly stood there in the same spot. What followed was whole-hearted laughter—even the Arabic coachman joined in the fun.The rest of the trip provided a lot of historical points of interest, which at the time seemed to have no connection to the former events. In Ain ed Dirwe, there is a beautiful hewn-stone fountain where the 8thchapter ofActsdescribes how the Christian Apostle Phillip converted and baptized the Ethiopian Queen Candace’ royal treasurer. Farther on, we came across the ruins of Beth Zur, the “house of rock,” just southwest of Jerusalem. Chapter 15, verse 58 in the Old TestamentBook of Joshuanotes the importance of Beth Zur in the time of the Hebrew hero Judas Maccabeus. Chapter 3, verse 16 ofThe Bookof Nehemiahalso cites its history.A half hour later and perhaps 400 steps on the left-hand side of the roadway, we came to the large stone structure of Abraham’s Cistern, more commonly called “Abraham’s Well.” At this place, we still had a lot to keep us thoroughly busy. Regarding this famous site, I offer one of my wife’s photographs. There in the corner, I am sitting on the edge of the Cistern, clothed like an Arab—except for my bare head. Forward and to the right, is the Arabic Donkey Driver, whom I will introduce later on.Before reaching this place near the city, imagine long ago when there were vineyards and gardens that even in olden times had a reputation for their good fruits. For example, it’s said that this is where Moses’ military scouts visited Hebron’s Brook of Eschcol and cut the gigantic cluster of grapes which they carried back to the camp of the Israelites as a proof of the fruitfulness of the land (Numbers13: 23). From here to the city, it takes only a half hour.In earlier days, whenever I traveled to Hebron, I called on my venerable and extraordinarily agreeable old acquaintance, Jew Eppstein. Since he comes from Germany, he speaks German exceptionally well. Regarding the local hatred of Christians which every German assumes to be the case, he very weakly subscribed to that prejudice. Since I was following Mustafa Bustani’s travel plans, today I was unable to visit Eppstein. By stopping at a Jew’s place, Mustafa would have forever damaged his reputation.So we drove on, arriving at the address of one of his business friends, a place that had enough room to accommodate the horses and carriage. Was it also possible for him to accept my wife and me? Fortunately, he was a man who was among the few broad-minded, tolerant believers who live in Hebron. After some hesitation, we were taken in— but separate from Mustafa and his son. For us, there was a small, four-cornered room that had no windows. In order to have light, we had to leave the door open, which also let in the stinky, filthy air from the farmyard. If we were bold and daring enough, we could sit upon the room’s single piece of furniture, a straw mat. After spending a half hour in there, someone brought us an old pitcher of stagnant water that was not drinkable.When we sought answers to our questions, we could learn nothing more than this: due to the fact that we were Christians and not Muslims, this was the only kind of water that he was permitted to offer us. Besides, no one else would be permitted to drink from our pitcher, because it would now be considered “unclean.” So, this was the hospitality of a so-called “tolerant” Muslim. How would we have fared with one who was intolerant? I asked Mustafa Bustani to come to our room. He came and brought along Thar. He apologized. The man told him that we had been well taken care of—befitting our social standing. We informed Mustafa that we now preferred to go to Jew Eppstein’s.Right away, Thar was determined to accompany us. His father didn’t object. As much as Mustafa wished , he couldn’t do otherwise. Now that he was already there, he pointed out the necessity of the meeting and the visit; this situation placed a demand upon him, but these matters didn’t obligate his son. Thus, he was thankful that we wanted to take Thar with us. First of all, Mustafa suggested that he go to the Arab who had wanted to sell the saddle. It was on account of this saddle that he had made the journey, so it was readily understood that this matter had been settled earlier. At this time, my wife spoke up: “Since it is Friday, are you allowed to buy and sell?” Mustafa answered: “In this case, yes. We don’t live here, so we are considered passers-by and customers who can’t wait.”My wife reasoned further: “After all, we too are part of the hospitality reserved for passers-by, courtesies for those who can not wait. Why are Muslims pliable when it comes to making money, yet harshly inconsiderate whenever it comes to showing love and kind-heartedness to those same foreigners?” Mustafa Bustani pleaded his case: “According to Islam, hospitality belongs to those who are virtuous, and no one is released from this obligation.” She pressed him further: “Also when it comes to other religious faiths?” Unequivocally, he answered her: “Yes, this is true for Christians, Jews, and heathens.”She pressed him for more: “If the residents of Hebron then claim to be Muslims, yet they don’t practice this commandment, how then can they be true confessors of the Prophet Mohammed?” Our friend conceded: “Arguably, no one can answer this.” Here, I joined in: “On the contrary. Our Thar has already answered. Earlier today, he spoke with the Ferik-Pasha.”The boy had been listening to us. When he now learned that he had answered a question that his father believed to be unanswerable, he felt very important: “Yes, that’s correct. I always know more than other people! Thus, our cook and her husband always call me ‘The Chosen One.’ Effendi, please tell me what I said.” I recalled his description: “Figuratively speaking—but not without reasonable cause—you labeled Hebron’s inhabitants as Canaanites.”“Oh yes. I always have reasons. Only on the surface are they Muslims—on the inside, they will always be Canaanites. In the process of refinement during Moses’ time and that of Islam, they have been passed by, and now they are at the bottom of the barrel. Effendi, now I remember that I was the first to figure this out. I haven’t forgotten the history of Moses’ time, nor the origins of Islam. So, just how do we actually identify all the Palestinian people in Canaan? They go by these names: Hittites, Jebusites, Girgashites, Hivites, people of Arka, Amorites, Sidonians, Phenicians, those in Zemar, Arvadians, Hamathians, and all others dwelling in Zidon. You will probably not retain this information.” I agreed: “Here is my notebook. Please write them for me.”From the inner pocket of his vest, he took out a small notebook and gave it to me. I was happy to see what it contained. What he had recorded was quite accurate and concerned fairly serious things. I noted the eleven names, then gave the small journal back to him. Right away, he began to read through the list, as if he were memorizing the words. In the meantime, his father went to the innkeeper, expressing our thanks for the hospitality. When he returned, we went in search of the owner of the saddle.The trader picked it up and showed it to us. Without announcing the cost, he explained that he would sell it for a price that I would judge to be fair— not excessive. The object was really magnificent, and according to him, a bargain. Mustafa made the initial mistake of saying that I was the buyer, not he. Immediately, the Arab explained that he wanted nothing to do with me, a so-called infidel. It would be a sin to sell a Christian this saddle which a Muslim Pasha had owned—so, we must leave without achieving our purpose.Mustafa Bustani was extremely outraged at this kind of treatment. Nevertheless, we were calmly determined to put this incident behind us. Mustafa wanted to accompany us to the Burial Site of Abraham, yet here too we had no luck. In every narrow and dirty alleyway through which we traveled, people looked at us with hostile eyes. Since we wanted to avoid running into danger and being mistreated at the hands of these people, we simply had to turn around at certain places and stations. On such an important occasion as today and as a Muslim, Mustafa Bustani should have felt ashamed to be leading two Christians to this holy site.Never before had I personally experienced such intolerance. Actually, it was always the opposite case; I had been guided to the inner sanctuary, although I never went inside. Mustafa asked someone about the importance of today, so now we learned that this was both a birthday celebration and a commemoration of the expulsion of Ishmael, the eldest son of Abraham. Sarah had insisted that her husband banish his servant-maid Hagar and their son Ishmael to the desert. Now, we better understood the source of our inhospitable treatment from the bigoted saddle-merchant and from the mosque’s fanatical officials.The commemoration of their national ancestor’s exile had absolutely doubled their existing abrasiveness. Jews were put on notice that they were not allowed to be seen—and the same was true for me. Given the fact that my wife was with me, this could easily have been taken as an act of defiance which would have heightened hostilities rather than minimize them. Thus, I had to give Mustafa Bustani my word that I would now go straight to Eppstein’s home and eat at his house. I was to avoid the city streets, following only the outlying paths to Jew Eppstein’s house. There were still two sites that we wanted to visit: Abraham’s Oak of Mamre and the Sacred Heights of Hebron. As I’ve mentioned, the latter route is approximately 400 hundred paces from the road to Jerusalem. So we set the exact time when we would stop the carriage and leave Mustafa and Hebron behind us, thereby starting our journey to Eppstein’s place. At the agreed upon time, we parted company. Thar was exceptionally happy that he was allowed to go with us. Without further words from his father, I didn’t overlook the evident trust that his father had placed in me.With all of his most generous hospitality, my brave and old friend Eppstein received us into his home. What is most commonly known as the home’s “best room” was ours. It was a relatively airy room that was located on the flat roof top. In my wife’s journal, wherein she happily noted such details, she wrote the following lines: “It was a very hot day. We were given a beautiful, cool, domed room that had two broadly curved arches. Three of the walls had windows, and the door was on the fourth. Conditions there were simply splendid. The room’s furnishings consisted of two beds. To the side of one was a reconditioned couch with three antique pillows; next to it was a table with four wooden chairs. The other had a white-ruffled canopy bed. In the corner was a water pitcher that probably dated to the time of Christ. The walls were tinted with a bluish white-wash. A brass wash-service sat upon one of the chairs. I won’t say a word about the pictures on the walls. We were served excellent Hebron wine, a bottle of which cost one franc. We dined on food that had required a great deal of preparation, all of which certainly was worth the effort.” Considering the generous hospitality that we had received, we didn’t need to send for the food that Mustafa Bustani had brought along. Those items were packed away in our carriage and would come in handy when we turned towards home.In the course of the meal, Eppstein told us about today’s big Children’s Fitness-Festival, a birthday celebration in honor of the boy Ishmael. The children were drawn to the city’s open spaces, where they were invited to take part in all kinds of peaceable and war-like games; adults were lining up to help supervise them. Since so many stories are told about the expulsion and the injustices that were sustained, no person from another faith should even want to be a bystander. When Eppstein heard that we had the intention of riding to the Oak and on to Abraham’s Well, he immediately advised us to cancel those plans. There could be trouble if a procession of children were to pass by these holy sites.Filled with indignation, Thar yelled out: “Keep our distance? Flee? That is never the case with us. As for Effendi and me, we fear nothing. Regarding the Mrs., she too is not afraid, because I have told her that I’m a hero, and she can always call upon me in a time of need. Chuckling to himself, Eppstein considered how this child could have such self-esteem: “A hero?” With that remark, he came down on the wrong side of the boy. Thar rose from the table, came towards him, and answered that question: “You laugh at me? I will not tolerate that. My name is Thar, and woe to you if I should ever take revenge against you.”Jew Eppstein kept on joking: “Well, would that be really bad for me?” Thar was irritated: “So, you continue to laugh at me? Mind what you say! In truth, I’m just eleven years old, but in all of Jerusalem there isn’t a single fourteen year old that I haven’t wrestled to the ground!” Still smiling, Eppstein pressed further: “Do you also consider me to be such a fourteen year old?”“No. Well then, how old are you?”“Let’s say sixty.”“For all I care, it’s the same to me if you’re a hundred. Now pay attention!”Thar quickly slipped behind him, forcing his arms behind him. With a jerk and a squeeze, Eppstein ended up sitting on the ground—where previously he had stood. Naturally, this was the result of the boy’s quickness and the way he managed to take the man by surprise. Even so, the boy had physical powers that exceeded the usual strength of an eleven year old. With a satisfied nod to Jew Eppstein, Thar returned to his place at the table: “At first, you laughed from above—now you laugh from below!”“Tell me now, where did you develop such knack and quickness?”Thar answered: “From the Lions Club.”“What is that? How and where?”“It’s in Jerusalem. We boys have four clubs where we can practice. The Lions Club meets in front of the western Jaffa Gate. At the northwestern Damascus Gate, you’ll find The Elephant Club. Just outside of Stephen’s Gate, The Hippos play. The Whales claim The Pool of Siloah as their practice grounds. As you know, these are strong and noble animals. With their speed and the power of their leaps, The Lions triumph, just as I’ve done here. As you already know, The Elephans trample together. The Hippos run with their heads linked together; in this way, the strongest roots himself to the spot while the others collapse inward. The Whales do battle only in the ocean. One ducks under the opposition, and with a mouth full of water he spews it into the air, just like whales do. Therein lies the victory! I’m a member of all four clubs; and to this day, no one has beaten me. Hey, do we want to work together like Hippos?Thar lowered his head and prepared to ram Mr. Eppstein, but he immediately stepped to the side and called out: “Leave me in peace. I am not one of those beasts! I only wanted to warn you about today’s dangers—never considering that I would be treacherously ambushed. Should I contact a reliable rent-a-donkey business for the trip you’re planning?” I answered: “Yes. Preferably one that does not devour Christians.”Mr. Eppstein was glad to help: “There is only one, so I’ll ask him to come. It saddens me to acknowledge that today is such a Day of Hate. I’m sorry to say that your wife was only permitted to see the outside of the mosque. I have always said this, so I’ll continue to repeat it: If the faith of these people were pure and noble, then they would not find it necessary to keep others away from their shrines.”He excused himself and sent for the donkey-lender. Thar pulled out his notebook and thoughtfully recorded this quote from Mr. Eppstein. For him, those words seemed important enough to remember. In a short time, the donkey-driver arrived and heard our requests. As our photograph shows, he looked Moorish, but he seemed to be good-natured and not a person to inconvenience us. He had no horses whatsoever; not even one donkey was available. On account of the festival, all animals had been reserved ahead of time. However, there were three mules that he could lend us. We could honestly say that they were only suited for pulling a cart, not for riding. One of them had an especially stubborn temperament, but we had to be thankful that these dear animals were still available. So we closed the deal with this merchant and asked that he bring the mules without delay.Whenever a Middle Easterner, and particularly a donkey-driver promises to turn up without delay, this may mean that he will arrive one or even two hours from then. Yet this fellow was true to his word; in just thirty minutes, he showed up. He claimed that he would have come even sooner if he hadn’t found it necessary to clean the animals before he delivered them to us. I don’t care to describe them, so I’ll simply confess that the sight of them was no minor fright for us.They consisted of skin and bones. For well over a month, they had neither seen a washing, a scrubbing, nor a curry-comb. What was supposed to pass for a saddle and strapping was a sheer hodge-podge of things that didn’t fit. The lady’s saddle was such a boldly sad afterthought of improvisation. In light of the donkey-driver’s freethinking and artistic invention, I paid him an extra baksheesh—an act for which he solemnly assured me that I had his everlasting love, loyalty, and devotion.Needless to say, we wanted to provide feed for the poor animals. They fed on everything edible, including all the bread that we found in Eppstein’s house—and still they were not full. The prettiest parts about them were their names. Mine was called “Guewerdschina,” which means “dove.” Naturally, I managed to pick the one that seemed to be the most ornery—and it proved to be true. In both a good and bad sense, we would have quite an experience with this one. After we paid the rental fee, mounted our mules, and prepared to ride away, it became evident that Guewerdschina didn’t want to go along. She would not budge from her space.I now applied all of my equestrian skills. The Donkey Driver himself gave it his best effort, and Eppstein’s servants did the same—but all their efforts were in vain. They knew the stubborn nature of this dumb animal, so they were sure that it would rather die than take just two steps from its spot. What was I supposed to do? Like the Donkey Driver, should we too just walk along beside her? No! Once again, I mounted the mule and ordered the Driver to lead Guewerdschina. Of course, she followed him. Once we had left the city behind us and we had reached open fields, I had hoped to convince her to ride on—and I partially succeeded. Kind words and caressing didn’t help at all, and whipping the animal accomplished even less. So I tried something with my thumb; from the side of “the dove,” I pressed hard between the first two vertebrae. She shot forward and obeyed me for a little while, but not for long. I was convinced that I had to experiment from a new angle. During the entire journey, I agonized about what I should do with this contrary beast.From the time we left the gardens till we reached the Oak of Abraham, a half hour passed. It’s said that The Oak of Mamre originated during the time of the first patriarchs. This is an exaggeration. It belongs to the genusQuercus ilex psudo-coccifera, which has a base circumference of approximately ten meters. At the height of four meters, this tree begins to fork and to form immense boughs. For the most part, the tree is already beginning to die as it branches out.As early as the sixteenth century, this tree was venerated; anyway, it has a considerably different age—and it probably will not stand much longer than it already has. It belongs to the Russians who established a hospice here and built an observation tower; from its height, one can see all the way to the Dead Sea. For just a small fee, the key to this tower can be fetched inside the hospice. I sent Thar inside and asked him to bring me the key. After he did that errand, he brought me a cord that he had found.While he was showing the rope to me, he said: “This is for your dear Guewerdschina. I want you to use this when you ride her away from here.” I had my doubts about that: “Do you think you can make her move from this spot?”“With no trouble at all.”“Well then, do you have some kind of remedy?”“Yes, it works every time.”“Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?Sly as a fox, he winked at me and laughed; his gorgeously white teeth glistened as he answered: “It’s because I wanted to double your delight, and the cure can only be doubly pleasing when it follows prior turmoil. Watch this!” He took the middle of the rope and firmly tied a knot around the tail of “the dove,” so that both ends of the cord hung down—then he climbed onto the saddle. We wanted to start out on our trip to Harem Ramet el Chalil, to the Sacred Heights of Hebron. My wife sat upon her mule, and I climbed onto the one that Thar had been riding. Now, we simply had to wait and see what the boy was going to do. The donkey driver handed him both ends of the rope, which he calmly held in his hands. “Now, watch how quickly this works,” he said. “Make room; I’m riding on ahead.”We moved to the side. He goaded dear Guewerdschina. She swished her ears and waggled her tail, but she took no steps forward. He struck her, but that did no good. He screamed at her and slapped his feet into her sides—all to no avail. So he pulled on both ends of the rope. With that trick, the mule’s tail flipped up and onto her rump. Thar then wrapped the cords around her belly and tied a knot, thereby firmly stretching the ropes in a way that they could not release backwards. Guewerdschina was visibly startled. Nothing like this had ever happened in her lifetime. Like the wings of a windmill, she flailed her ears. She also wanted to whisk her tail, but that couldn’t happen. At this point, she let her ears droop down as she contemplated her troubles. To this spirited annoyance, the boy added a rambunctious swat. This caused “the dove” to turn her head to the right, trying to look behind her—but she saw nothing. So she turned to her left and tried to see what was behind. In spite of her tremendous efforts to move her tail so that she could see it, she couldn’t.“Now she’s unbearably worried!” laughed Thar. “She thinks her tail is gone. She believes that some frightening thing is behind her. Now she will run for all she’s worth!”The words were hardly out of his mouth when Guewerdschina let out a bone marrow-jarring hee-haw. She cringed and arched her back like a cat. She lunged to the right and to the left—then with sudden haste, she shot straight forward, as if she wanted to charge beyond her own head. It required a very good rider not to fall off; Thar effortlessly stayed in the saddle. Laughing heartily, we followed him as fast as we could. In light of the tragically comical, apprehensive demeanor of mules, it really was impossible to keep a straight face.Our new route led us through the ruins of the village of Chirbet en Nasara, then on towards the road to Jerusalem. There we caught up with the boy, noting how the mule pretty much obeyed him. From this path, it was just 400 paces to Abraham’s Well; in the corner of the photograph, note the large, square stone wall. No one knows why this wall exists, nor whether it was ever expanded. Now, it is simply a rubble. The blocks are often five meters long, yet they are no longer joined with mortar. In Baalbek, I have seen hewn stones that are over nineteen meters in length. Given the era of this wall’s origin, a five meter stone was plenty to manhandle. Nearby is still another cistern; it’s called “The Bath of Sarah,” Ishmael’s mother’s well. In the nearby rugged rocks, two oil lamps have been affixed. Not far from the crumbled wall is a large church, most likely the basilica that Constantine the Great erected at “The Strong Terebinth Tree of Mamre.” To this day, this place is called “The Valley of Terebinth,” a place to search for acceptance and adoption.When we reached the four-cornered wall, we saw a poorly clothed Arabic woman and her small daughter sitting in a corner near the well. As soon as they saw us, they stepped back from the water. After we dipped up some water for our animals and gave them time to drink, my wife found a spot to take a photograph. When the Donkey Driver saw her camera, he immediately removed himself and his mules to a place of safety—for he believed that only Christians and Jews were able to withstand the power of photography. Every other creature, whether man or beast, risked destruction.Peering from behind a large stone, his curiosity drove him to see what was taking place. He saw “the eye of the monster,” the lens of the camera, which was pointed directly at me and towards the corner. He wanted to make sure that this “eye” did not focus on him—but a shaft of sunlight just so happened to shine on him. Actually, we no longer needed him and his mules. Since our present location was only a few hundred paces from the road where Mustafa Bustani was supposed to wait for us, I told him that we would just walk from here.When the photography was finished, I paid him. In my business dealings with other people, it’s never been my nature nor my way to be a stingy man who haggles over the cost of things. Extending an open hand goes considerably further than acting like a miser. The same is true in this land. The Donkey Driver counted the money that I gave him: “Effendi, that is too much.” I insisted: “No, I gladly give you this money. You have been friendly and polite, so you’ve earned the baksheesh.”“Even this tip is too much. Perhaps I can do still more that will justify this baksheesh. I will not leave this area until you also depart. I have nothing more to do, so nothing precludes me from serving you further.”We had thought that Thar would want to take an interest in photography, but this was not the case. More than he realized, the exotic Arabic woman and her young daughter held a greater gravitational attraction than the cloud-black camera. He was looking for a way to meet them. In the way that boys do, he first meandered from a distance, then he came ever closer to them. Suddenly, he sat down between the two and began to talk with uncommon familiarity—as if he were an acquaintance from long ago, or even a relative of theirs.After I had finished taking our photos, he brought the small girl to where my wife and I were seated on the edge of the cistern. Her mother remained sitting. The young girl had the most lovingly sensitive, wholesomely healthy face, with peach-red cheeks and large grey-blue velveteen eyes. Judging from her appearance, it seemed like some deep and undisturbed charming riddle was miraculously working inside of her. Like a fountain, her light brown hair flowed from under her desert-red scarf. One of her sunburned, delicate hands held a few long-stemmed Canterbury-bell flowers. She kept her other hand in the thin pleats of her spotlessly clean dress. I distinctly recall how her dainty, suntanned feet with miniature ivory nails partly emerged from elegant leather sandals. In light of this extraordinarily pleasant first impression of her, an endless sense of compassion filled my heart for this girl who was as poor as she was pretty. In my respect for her and her mother, I somehow felt more and more compelled to be prepared to offer them some great and suitably timely service. Later on, my wife told me that she too had felt this instant bonding—at precisely the same moment.She turned to ask Thar: “Well then, what is her name?”“I don’t know, but you yourself can ask her, right? In talking with her, I learned no more than these three things: she likes me; I’m her hero, and I’ll fight for her.”“I’m called Schamah,” she said, putting an accent on the second syllable of her name. The fidgeting hand that formerly hid in the pleats of her dress now directed an outstretched forefinger as she pointed: “Over there is my mother.” Her voice sounded soft and tender, yet strikingly moving. Its tone had a hard-to-refuse ring. With open arms, my wife hugged the girl as she asked me this question: “What does the name Schamah mean?” So, I briefly explained: “It’s the East Jordanian pronunciation ofSamah, which means ‘forgiveness.’”Smiling as she talked to the child, my wife hugged her again: “Oh, innocently young and dear little soul, you’ve done nothing that requires forgiving.” With laughter in her voice, Schamah offered her colorful bouquet: “I bring you bells.” She held the Canterbury-bell flowers to my wife’s ear and lightly shook them: “Now, I’ll ring them. Can you hear them?”“Yes, I do.”“ Isn’t it so? Quite softly, faintly, gently— like the sound is falling from heaven. When they grow up, they will be as grand as the ones that hang in churches; then, the entire world will hear their ringing.”Thar joined in: “You speak of the church. Are you then a Christian?”“Yes, I’m a Christian,” she nodded.“And also your mother?”“She too.”He then clapped his hands and called out: “That’s beautiful! That’s wonderful! I’m glad to know that!”“Why?”“It’s precisely for these reasons: I’m a hero, and I want to put up a good fight for your rights. No one can properly perform heroic deeds for a Muslim girl. Unattractive as a frog, she wraps herself in fabrics and limps around with wooden slippers on her feet. By contrast, I can clearly see the Christian girl. That fact is essential whenever heroes like us are inspired to risk our lives for others. Do you know how I will look when I fight for you?”“Like you are dressed today, right?”“No. What I have on now is not bold enough. Do you know that certain colors can scare an enemy? For this reason, I put on war paint as soon as a conflict arises. One side of my face becomes blue, and the other side is painted green—““Phooey, phooey, phooey!”“You don’t like that?” he asked, halfway astonished and partially disappointed.“Not at all. I like you just the way you are—not all painted up!”Thar was pleased with her answer: “Good, I’ll remain who I am. Now that I think more about what you’ve said, you’re right, very right. From now on, whenever I struggle with enemies, they may paint themselves blue, yellow, and green—but not I. I’ll bear that in mind. Our four clubs must have newer and better rules. Foremost, whoever presents himself in war paint will be judged as beatable. To please you, I’m ready to bound away from all rules that are good for nothing!” He then stretched his legs and flexed his muscles so convincingly that her eyes widened in wonder as she pointed to him and asked this question: “ Yes, I already believe that you’re a hero; but what exactly could be a reason to knock someone down, just for my sake?”“A cause can always be found if you look for it. Maybe it’s coming from over there. Look!”He pointed in the direction of the church ruins, to people whom we hadn’t previously seen—to those who were now coming towards us. There were ten or twelve men who were riding on donkeys. Behind them was a column of forty or fifty armed boys who were carrying all kinds of banners. This was one of those parades for children who excitedly circled the city on this festival day. “Isn’t this a dangerous situation?” my wife asked. “We should leave quickly.”My answer was one of caution: “Under no circumstances and in no way should we hurry. This would merely show them that we have some reason to be fearful, something to hide from. We’ll freely give them the water, but not right away. I hope they will give us some kind of greeting.”The procession had now arrived at our spot. The men stopped to talk with our Donkey Driver, asking some questions about us. They learned that we were Christians— be that as it may, that we were not bad people. Schamah’s mother left her seat and came nearer to us. She feared the fanatical people of Hebron, so she begged us to pack up and leave. She was a Christian, a widow from the region called Al Karak, a city in Jordan that contains a famous Crusader castle. It’s located on the other side of the Dead Sea. She and her young daughter were on a pilgrimage to the holy cities of Bethlehem and Jerusalem. Truly, she was a simple and poor woman. Still, I’d like to extend my impression of her; in every way, her clothes were expressly Arabic and chic—like those customarily worn by a Middle Eastern woman, or even by a Bedouin. Her clothing was beautiful yet tasteful, with no suggestion of melancholy nor fascinating glamour. She was a daughter of sorrow, not a woman of good fortune. My wife extended her hand to Schamah’s mother, drawing her close to her side. I advised her to put aside any concerns; nothing was going to happen to them.The riders now came up to us. They stopped a few feet from us and climbed down from their donkeys. It was clear that they didn’t intend to greet us. I couldn’t tolerate that sort of contempt, because such insolence involved behavior that I wanted to bypass and avoid completely. Whenever you want others to know that you hold a certain air of strength, it’s always effective to put on a special sort of image. I crafted such a first firm impression, and it seemed to work with the leader of the group. He shifted his weight, held his hand to his chest, slightly bowed and said: “Salam. Peace be upon you.”Those words sounded brusque. Just as curtly, I stood my ground and answered: “Salam.” Before I could say more, Thar spoke up: “Here is my Effendi, the Supreme Secretary of Germany’s Chancellor. From his briefcase flows the complete control of all tax revenue. He levies a tax on whomever he wants. He has just returned from Hebron where he sought to buy The Oak of Abraham from the Russians, then transport it home. Hail to Effendi!”After he said that, he took his new girlfriend by the hand and went towards the boys from Hebron. Since I was still so overwhelmed with surprise that he would meddle and make such fantastic claims about me, I completely forgot to caution him. Thank God, something unforeseen did not happen. The men believed he was serious. They held a brief discussion, then they all bowed deeply as Abdullah said this to me: “Effendi, you are a great and powerful official. Unfortunately, you are also a Christian. For this reason, we are not permitted to invite you to be our guest. The children’s games can only begin when you have left this site.”Indirectly, this was an invitation to leave only our dust behind. Taking their donkeys with them, the men moved to a more remote spot. A little more peaceable scene was taking place where Thar and Schamah met together with the boys from Hebron. The boys were very excited. Since so many of them were hollering, they shouted something that we didn’t understand. Fearlessly, Thar stood there in front of the boys. As if protecting the girl, he put his left arm around the girl and gestured menacingly with his right—we could not hear what he was saying to the crowd. Schamah’s mother was anxious about the safety of her daughter. I tried to reassure her. We drew closer to the aroused and animated group.When Thar saw us coming, he called out to us: “Nothing will come of their threat. They want to drown Schamah—in the water close to where you have been sitting. They justify themselves by saying that she is a Christian who has defiled today’s festival. I told them that I won’t allow that, so I’ll fight for her. They are now choosing the ringleader that I’m supposed to deal with. Ah, there he is!”He pointed to a tall, robust boy who now stepped forward. Following the customary way that the adults had taught him, he gave his pre-battle speech. He struck a pose and called out to Thar, as well as to us: “You are a Christian-dog, and she is a Christian girl, which is even worse than a cur. We will drown her in the deepest part of the well, in a spot where she can not touch bottom. We are true, absolute, and obedient believers of the Prophet. In this celebration of Ishmael’s birthday, we can not endure the sacrilege of a Christian’s feet to touch this ground. So, she must die. But you want to fight for her, because you claim to be a hero. We are game for this, because we too are heroes. I demand that you state your conditions for combat!”When Schamah’s mother heard all of this, her fear reached its peak. I explained to her that it was probably not a case of violent rage that would actually be carried out—rather, it would be handled as a game. After all, today was supposed to be the “Day of Children’s Games.” She could rest assured that nothing would happen to her daughter. So, it was not necessary to take her away from our boy Thar.Thar then spoke to Schamah: “You are Queen of the Games; and before your eyes, they are about to begin. Come and be seated!” She sat upon a stone bench, and he took his place beside her. Next, he took his notebook from his vest pocket, opened it, and began to deliver his counter-reply to the ringleader: “You call me a Christian-dog. On the contrary, I’m a Muslim from Jerusalem, and that is far greater that your Hebron sect. Who then are you?” He began to read the following lines: “You are all Canaanites: Hittites, Jebusites , Girgashites, Hivites, people of Arka, Amorites, Sidonians, Phenicians, those from Zemar, Arvadians, Hamathians, and all others dwelling in Zidon. In the refining process of Islam, you were found lacking and were passed over—now, you are simply sediment. If your faith were pure and noble, then your people would not find it so necessary to keep others away from your places of worship!”
With his use of the word “limits,” the father had again set something in motion—just like this morning when he wanted to take Thar across his knee. In spite of this threat, the boy had to laugh as he answered: “No thoughts? In there, we find all of the People of Israel, King Pharaoh, and all of his Egyptian soldiers!” Incredulous, the father inquired further: “How so? On the contrary, I see nothing of them!”
“That’s because they’re in the water! This picture shows the Children of Israel’s passage through the Red Sea. Don’t you see the Red Sea that is right in front of you? And over there is the blue air; directly above your head is the yellow sun, because the time of day is exactly noon. Here to the left, the green land, that is Egypt; and the house, that is the Palace of the Pharaoh. And here to the right, this green land is Palestine; the King of the Jebusites lives in the house that stands there. In between there lies the Red Sea. The Children of Israel were slaves in Egypt. Moses helped them break away. He fled with them into the Red Sea. Even now, all of them are stuck in there. With all of his armies, Pharaoh hurried after them. Look here! The last one of them has just now disappeared. You can still see his heel which is still above the water. On the other side over there, the Children of Israel are just now coming out of the water again. Already you can see the first one’s toes which are half-way out of the water. As soon as all of them are high and dry, I’ll paint in my sharks; then you’ll see that Pharaoh and all of his soldiers will be devoured—not a single one of them will remain. More or less, aren’t those the approximate ideas?”
He stretched himself out in front of his father and watched his dad’s face as he thought about these explanations. Behind us rang out the reproachful voice of their African cook. She was standing next to the door with her wind-lantern. She had heard everything: “It was my hand that produced the entire green land of Egypt and all of Palestine’s greenery. Tomorrow, I’m painting Jericho!” At that moment, the good Mustafa Bustani could no longer control himself. All of his temper burst forth. His voice thundered at them: “Tomorrow, you will learn what you can paint. March! Come away with me into the house!”
His angry voice shocked the African cook. She let loose of the lantern which shattered and extinguished—running away as fast as her feet would carry her. Realizing the impact of his wrath, the merchant immediately tried to take back its harsh impact. He addressed us in an apologetic tone: “Forgive me. Such anger is never the right thing. Please allow me to accompany you.”
We understood and gladly embraced him. He led us towards the gate through which we had come. It still stood open. There, he said this to us: “We’ll keep our plans to travel early tomorrow morning. I’ll pick you up at seven, European time. I don’t yet know whether I’ll bring my son along.”
My wife then asked about his son whom she had grown so fond of: “Will you punish him very severely?” Mustafa answered with an unusually solemn tone: “In this situation, I’ll have to think about who deserves the punishment here. With both of you here, it’s as if a light has come to me. Since this morning, it seems as if I now have entirely new eyes and ears. How did it happen that you, without any kind of perceptible reason, came along the same path leading to the heights of the Mount of Olives—the one which I daily climb—precisely at the same time?” I gently tossed out this word: “Coincidence!”
“You say that without personally believing it. I know all too well that you consider the word “coincidence” to be an embarrassing fabrication. However, for now that’s unimportant. Above all else this evening, I have to think about my son. I would like to be alone this evening. And without feeling ashamed, I can say to both of you that I must pray. This thought has come to me: I have placed the soul of my child upon the wrong path. Allah alone knows the hidden depths of our hearts. He wants to show me what is correct and what is false. Please, do not concern yourselves about the boy. He won’t receive punishment which he doesn’t deserve. Good night.” Extending our hands to him, we also said “Good night.” We were eager to see how tomorrow’s affairs would develop.
II. Towards Hebron!
Oh what memories are connected to the name of this old and famous city of kings and descendants of Levi! Located just twenty miles south of Jerusalem, Hebron may be the oldest city in the Promised Land. It existed three thousand years before the birth of Christ. According to the traditional teachings of the Middle Ages, it is in this vicinity where God created Adam.
Seventeen miles southwest of Jerusalem, there’s the city of Kirjath-arba, where mythical giants once lived. Later, Hebron was the capitol city of the Hittites, whose princes resided there. After the Children of Israel’s conquest of Canaan, the city fell to the Family of Caleb. Later, King David spent the first seven years of his reign here. At the city gates, David’s General Joab murdered Abner, the Commander-in-Chief of King Saul’s army. Upon David’s orders, it was here that the men who assassinated Saul’s son Ishbosheth were hung. From Hebron, Absalom launched the rebellion against his father, King David. During the Israelites’ captivity in Babylon, the city fell into the hands of the Edomites, Esau’s people—which Judas Maccabaeus drove out. The Romans destroyed the city and sold its inhabitants into slavery. The Crusaders made Hebron their Bishop-City. It has also become ever more holy to Muslims, because it was the dwelling place of the Patriarchs. In the past, Abraham lived there, and Jacob’s caravan to Egypt began at Hebron. The Muslims call Abraham the friend of merciful compassion; from this title, Hebron received its current Arabic name,El Chalil.
So, Hebron is highly revered—but unfortunately, the city is not friendly toward strangers, particularly Christians. In the entire land, Hebron’s population is the most bigoted. There are approximately nine thousand Muslims and five hundred Jews, who in fact want to earn as much money as possible from a Christian—yet they consider him to be inferior and even an unclean enemy whose mere touch can make them dirty. Through Hebron’s lanes, a Christian pedestrian gets along OK if he tries very hard to avoid looking into the eyes of “the true believers.” Otherwise, trouble can easily happen. At the least, youth who follow him will not just shout out curse words—they will also throw solid objects. The most pronounced expression of this hostile relationship is evident in the fact that Hebron’s inns are not open to Christians—even though the city’s well-traveled roadway connects to Jerusalem. Today, it may be different; it was in the year 1900 when I last visited Hebron.
In light of Christians’ common veneration of the patriarch Abraham, Europeans visit this city of historical names—in spite of its unfriendly population. When his wife Sarah died, Abraham purchased the double burial cave called Machpela; the Hittite Ephron sold him this grave site. Thus in a burial chamber, she was transformed. Some say that the following famous six are entombed here: Abraham. Isaac, Jacob, Sarah, Rebecca, and Leah. Among the Greek-speaking Jews, some say that the Byzantine Emperor Justinian lies here. Above this spot, a church was once established—which the Muslims converted into a mosque; unfortunately, Christians are not allowed to visit this site. Christians are only permitted to come near the outer perimeter of this shrine. In order to go beyond that limit, one must be a high-level, princely person—especially one that holds afirman, a royal decree from the Ottoman Empire. In this same region, uponDer el Arba’in, one finds the grave of Jesse, King David’s father. A half hour from the city stands Abraham’s Well, where some claim that this is the scene where once the Oaks of Mamre stood. [ Mamre was the Amorite chief who gave his name to the plain where Abraham dwelt, Genesis 23: 19.] Almost every place in the surrounding area is intertwined with some memory of the patriarchs. So for this reason, it was also a desire of mine to visit Hebron as often as I was in Jerusalem. So it is now. (Photo, 148 KB-Jpg. The Apostles’ fountain: on the road between Jerusalem and Bethany, which tradition says is the place where Jesus rested with his disciples.)
At exactly 7 o’clock the next morning, a comfortable, fully covered four-passenger carriage arrived at our door. Therein, sat Mustafa Bustani and Thar. When my wife saw them, she said: “So, he’s allowed to come after all.” I too was pleased about this. The boy sprang out of the carriage. He was festively dressed: golden shoes, white stockings, white pants, and a white Bedouin-shirt with a red vest that had Hungarian Hussar gold-braided cords. Upon his head sat a red fez, to which a white, silken neck-scarf was fastened. Today, the boy looked exceptionally distinguished. “We are here. Father bids you to come,” said Thar. His voice had an official and powerful ring to it. In a softer and more confidential tone, he officially put forth this question: “Yesterday evening, did you also think that I would receive a good thrashing? No? I’ve thought a great deal about it. I wish that he had whipped me.” For a moment, he pondered over this—then he repeated these words: “Yes, yes, I wanted it that way!”
“Why?”
“If the beating were over, my father would no longer be angry and sad. It would no longer be painful for me either. As long as I have to await punishment, even as I do right now, he still has the sad eyes—and that causes me twice the pain.” I wanted to know the reason: “In what way is it doubled?”
“ First, I’ll tell you about his eyes, then secondly about the thrashing which is yet to come. Due to the fact that the punishment usually never happens, I ceaselessly and hopelessly feel this way in advance. So today, it will perhaps be the same. Since yesterday evening, his sad eyes have hurt me. Mostly, he doesn’t say a word—not a single thing. Early today, he personally woke me up and helped me get dressed. When he stood so silently in my room, I could no longer bear it; I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him, begging him to punish me—soundly and vigorously. He just gently smiled and shook his head. Do you think he is doing the right thing?”
I gave him this advice: “At all times, what your father does is the right thing. You must come to understand this.” Thar questioned me: “Even when I regard his actions as wrong?” Here was my reply: “Then too! When you grow older, just as he is now, you will have an experience that will convince you that he was right. Oh well, come on! Your father is always so punctual—we shouldn’t keep him waiting.”
“Now just a moment,” he pleaded. “I still have something to tell you; today is Friday, a holiday. It’s forbidden for me to get dirty. For that reason, I didn’t bring along any colors. Nevertheless, I am a hero. You see, it isn’t required that a hero be painted up when he wants to conquer his enemies. There are also cases in which—“ At that point, my wife jokingly added this line: “—the victor actually has no paint at all. Yesterday, you told us that you wanted to paint the first storming of Palestine’s City of Jericho. Didn’t you think about that project on this special Friday?”
The boy answered her: “Anyway, nothing could be done about Jericho. I lack the means to capture the necessary noise. I can paint the trumpets and also the walls; but how am I supposed to insert the loud racket when I can’t portray that part of the picture? It’s really too bad—just a crying shame. So, now I’m ready. Let’s go.”
We broke off our conversation and went to the carriage. Just as we were climbing in, Lord Pasha Osman Achyr interrupted his morning excursion and came riding upon his fat donkey. For a moment, he reigned back on his steed, gave us a friendly greeting, then directed this question to the boy: “Well then, which hero are you today?” With his usual presence of mind, Thar answered: “I’m Joshua the Conqueror. I’m going into the Land of the Canaanites in order to show them that we are not afraid of them.” The Pasha played along: “Where does this land lie?” The boy replied: “In Gilgal.” The Pascha cautioned him: “My boy, be careful then. Without asking first about your reason for being there, the people will cut you down.” With that parting advice, he rode off.
Regarding what was necessary for our journey, Mustafa Bustani assured us that he had taken care of everything. Thar leapt onto the seat beside the coachman where he felt more free and higher than in the deeper part of the carriage beside us. The horses then began to pull forward. Our steep path went from the Jaffa Gate into the Hinnom Valley, which carries the Jewish and Islamic references to “hell.” We traveled farther to the Sultan’s Pool; and from there, again upward to the high and level Bethel. Thereon lies the Cloister of Rabbi Elijah, from which we could admire a broad and outstanding view. This monastery is associated with the Prophet Elijah, and nearby is a spring where the Holy Family reportedly drew water.
Beyond this monastery, you’ll find Rachel’s Crypt, the burial site of Patriarch Jacob’s wife. At this holy site, we read these words: “ On the road to Ephratah, which is now called Bethlehem, Rachel died and was buried. So Jacob erected a memorial upon her grave; to this day, Rachel’s monument is still there.” The road divides at this place.
To the left, it goes towards Bethlehem; straight ahead lies Hebron. We took the latter direction. After forty-five minutes, we came to the Three Pools of Solomon. Long before the Christian era, these aqua ducts were constructed in order to supply water to Jerusalem. Even though these pools and the region’s small castle hold historical and architectural significance, they have no bearing on our story—so for now, we’ll bypass them.
Of more interest to me is the broad Wadi a-‘Arish; midway between Jerusalem and Hebron, a “café” was erected, a place where men and animals can find a place to rest themselves. Don’t picture a European-style café. Instead, imagine a narrow, low-quality, jagged stone building wherein a rather squalid fellow boils dirty water in a filthy pot as he makes a brew which he calls “coffee”—a drink that he sells to European passersby, all at sinfully expensive prices.
Yet the sin does not stem from the price that he demands. Oh no, he’s too sly for that. This might result in a complaint that could lead to cancellation of his license to sell coffee. He works this more cleverly. For the locals, he sets the lowest possible price; but for foreigners, he always says this: “I’ll take what you give me!” In this way, he neither dissuades nor pleads. Since European travelers are almost always well-to-do, having extra money to afford elevated sentiments, the coffee-innkeeper gives them the impression that he’s needy—all with the aim that they will pay him a price which is more like a present, or even an excessive tariff. For a very small oriental cup, which contained no more than two or three thimbles-worth of coffee, he held out his hand long enough to receive more than a German Mark—whereas five Pfennig would have been entirely enough. I had always been generous towards him. However, the last time I stopped at his place, I saw how he was laughing at me as I rode away—so today, he shall pay dearly for that.
When we arrived at his “café,” we stopped and climbed out of the carriage. He rushed outside; and with an exaggerated deep bow, he asked about our “orders.” Mustafa Bustani first ordered five cups of coffee, then five more; for a third time, he ordered still another five. Altogether, that came to fifteen cups. The man melted into a downcast spirit; he knew that Mustafa Bustani was no foreigner and that he often stopped here on his business trips to Hebron. So, he could not treat him like a European. When we were preparing to leave and climbing into our carriage, I took out my money pouch. The shop owner’s face completely lit up. I asked how much it cost for the fifteen cups of coffee. “Give what you wish,” he said. “I’ll only pay the price that you demand,” I declared.
This accomplished nothing. He absolutely refused to set a price. So when I threatened to pay him nothing if he wouldn’t give me a price, he simply answered with this: “OK, I’ll give them to you as a present.” This trick had always worked for him. He assumed that no European would allow him to give away his coffee. So, I acted just as he expected. Appearing to be overwhelmed with his generosity, I gave him a franc. In Palestine, the franc is the most prized silver coin. He looked at it, then handed it back to me and said: “I’m giving the money back to you.” After taking the coin back, I first gave him two, then three francs. Once again, he declined the money and repeated these words: “I give these as presents to you.” I understood how this man operated; I knew just how far I could take this. His greed for money grew with every increase of my offer. I gave him four, then finally five francs. With this last sum, he closed his hand and made a movement as if he wanted to pocket the money. At the same time, he inquisitively looked at me.
I put on my most good-natured face and raised my hand as if to reach into my money bag once again. This was too much for him; he could not resist. In a tone of voice which made it seem that any payment for the coffee was simply impossible, he handed me the five francs: “I also give these to you!” Ever so slowly and in a way that would not diminish the pleasure of this scene, I took back the money, put the coins in my bag, and answered him: “So, I give in to your kindness, and I accept your present. I thank you. Live long and well! May Allah bless you and your house for your noble generosity towards all foreign guests!”
Since we didn’t want to hurry and thereby lessen the great effect of our departure, we slowly stood up and watched the expression on his face. Acting as if he wanted to keep us there, he held up his outstretched arms. His mouth gaped open. Upon his face lay an expression of confused dismay, one which bordered on outright shock. He was speechless, uttering neither word nor sound. To make up for lost time, the horses fell into a trot. When we came to the next curve in the road where we looked back, the man still stiffly stood there in the same spot. What followed was whole-hearted laughter—even the Arabic coachman joined in the fun.
The rest of the trip provided a lot of historical points of interest, which at the time seemed to have no connection to the former events. In Ain ed Dirwe, there is a beautiful hewn-stone fountain where the 8thchapter ofActsdescribes how the Christian Apostle Phillip converted and baptized the Ethiopian Queen Candace’ royal treasurer. Farther on, we came across the ruins of Beth Zur, the “house of rock,” just southwest of Jerusalem. Chapter 15, verse 58 in the Old TestamentBook of Joshuanotes the importance of Beth Zur in the time of the Hebrew hero Judas Maccabeus. Chapter 3, verse 16 ofThe Bookof Nehemiahalso cites its history.
A half hour later and perhaps 400 steps on the left-hand side of the roadway, we came to the large stone structure of Abraham’s Cistern, more commonly called “Abraham’s Well.” At this place, we still had a lot to keep us thoroughly busy. Regarding this famous site, I offer one of my wife’s photographs. There in the corner, I am sitting on the edge of the Cistern, clothed like an Arab—except for my bare head. Forward and to the right, is the Arabic Donkey Driver, whom I will introduce later on.
Before reaching this place near the city, imagine long ago when there were vineyards and gardens that even in olden times had a reputation for their good fruits. For example, it’s said that this is where Moses’ military scouts visited Hebron’s Brook of Eschcol and cut the gigantic cluster of grapes which they carried back to the camp of the Israelites as a proof of the fruitfulness of the land (Numbers13: 23). From here to the city, it takes only a half hour.
In earlier days, whenever I traveled to Hebron, I called on my venerable and extraordinarily agreeable old acquaintance, Jew Eppstein. Since he comes from Germany, he speaks German exceptionally well. Regarding the local hatred of Christians which every German assumes to be the case, he very weakly subscribed to that prejudice. Since I was following Mustafa Bustani’s travel plans, today I was unable to visit Eppstein. By stopping at a Jew’s place, Mustafa would have forever damaged his reputation.
So we drove on, arriving at the address of one of his business friends, a place that had enough room to accommodate the horses and carriage. Was it also possible for him to accept my wife and me? Fortunately, he was a man who was among the few broad-minded, tolerant believers who live in Hebron. After some hesitation, we were taken in— but separate from Mustafa and his son. For us, there was a small, four-cornered room that had no windows. In order to have light, we had to leave the door open, which also let in the stinky, filthy air from the farmyard. If we were bold and daring enough, we could sit upon the room’s single piece of furniture, a straw mat. After spending a half hour in there, someone brought us an old pitcher of stagnant water that was not drinkable.
When we sought answers to our questions, we could learn nothing more than this: due to the fact that we were Christians and not Muslims, this was the only kind of water that he was permitted to offer us. Besides, no one else would be permitted to drink from our pitcher, because it would now be considered “unclean.” So, this was the hospitality of a so-called “tolerant” Muslim. How would we have fared with one who was intolerant? I asked Mustafa Bustani to come to our room. He came and brought along Thar. He apologized. The man told him that we had been well taken care of—befitting our social standing. We informed Mustafa that we now preferred to go to Jew Eppstein’s.
Right away, Thar was determined to accompany us. His father didn’t object. As much as Mustafa wished , he couldn’t do otherwise. Now that he was already there, he pointed out the necessity of the meeting and the visit; this situation placed a demand upon him, but these matters didn’t obligate his son. Thus, he was thankful that we wanted to take Thar with us. First of all, Mustafa suggested that he go to the Arab who had wanted to sell the saddle. It was on account of this saddle that he had made the journey, so it was readily understood that this matter had been settled earlier. At this time, my wife spoke up: “Since it is Friday, are you allowed to buy and sell?” Mustafa answered: “In this case, yes. We don’t live here, so we are considered passers-by and customers who can’t wait.”
My wife reasoned further: “After all, we too are part of the hospitality reserved for passers-by, courtesies for those who can not wait. Why are Muslims pliable when it comes to making money, yet harshly inconsiderate whenever it comes to showing love and kind-heartedness to those same foreigners?” Mustafa Bustani pleaded his case: “According to Islam, hospitality belongs to those who are virtuous, and no one is released from this obligation.” She pressed him further: “Also when it comes to other religious faiths?” Unequivocally, he answered her: “Yes, this is true for Christians, Jews, and heathens.”
She pressed him for more: “If the residents of Hebron then claim to be Muslims, yet they don’t practice this commandment, how then can they be true confessors of the Prophet Mohammed?” Our friend conceded: “Arguably, no one can answer this.” Here, I joined in: “On the contrary. Our Thar has already answered. Earlier today, he spoke with the Ferik-Pasha.”
The boy had been listening to us. When he now learned that he had answered a question that his father believed to be unanswerable, he felt very important: “Yes, that’s correct. I always know more than other people! Thus, our cook and her husband always call me ‘The Chosen One.’ Effendi, please tell me what I said.” I recalled his description: “Figuratively speaking—but not without reasonable cause—you labeled Hebron’s inhabitants as Canaanites.”
“Oh yes. I always have reasons. Only on the surface are they Muslims—on the inside, they will always be Canaanites. In the process of refinement during Moses’ time and that of Islam, they have been passed by, and now they are at the bottom of the barrel. Effendi, now I remember that I was the first to figure this out. I haven’t forgotten the history of Moses’ time, nor the origins of Islam. So, just how do we actually identify all the Palestinian people in Canaan? They go by these names: Hittites, Jebusites, Girgashites, Hivites, people of Arka, Amorites, Sidonians, Phenicians, those in Zemar, Arvadians, Hamathians, and all others dwelling in Zidon. You will probably not retain this information.” I agreed: “Here is my notebook. Please write them for me.”
From the inner pocket of his vest, he took out a small notebook and gave it to me. I was happy to see what it contained. What he had recorded was quite accurate and concerned fairly serious things. I noted the eleven names, then gave the small journal back to him. Right away, he began to read through the list, as if he were memorizing the words. In the meantime, his father went to the innkeeper, expressing our thanks for the hospitality. When he returned, we went in search of the owner of the saddle.
The trader picked it up and showed it to us. Without announcing the cost, he explained that he would sell it for a price that I would judge to be fair— not excessive. The object was really magnificent, and according to him, a bargain. Mustafa made the initial mistake of saying that I was the buyer, not he. Immediately, the Arab explained that he wanted nothing to do with me, a so-called infidel. It would be a sin to sell a Christian this saddle which a Muslim Pasha had owned—so, we must leave without achieving our purpose.
Mustafa Bustani was extremely outraged at this kind of treatment. Nevertheless, we were calmly determined to put this incident behind us. Mustafa wanted to accompany us to the Burial Site of Abraham, yet here too we had no luck. In every narrow and dirty alleyway through which we traveled, people looked at us with hostile eyes. Since we wanted to avoid running into danger and being mistreated at the hands of these people, we simply had to turn around at certain places and stations. On such an important occasion as today and as a Muslim, Mustafa Bustani should have felt ashamed to be leading two Christians to this holy site.
Never before had I personally experienced such intolerance. Actually, it was always the opposite case; I had been guided to the inner sanctuary, although I never went inside. Mustafa asked someone about the importance of today, so now we learned that this was both a birthday celebration and a commemoration of the expulsion of Ishmael, the eldest son of Abraham. Sarah had insisted that her husband banish his servant-maid Hagar and their son Ishmael to the desert. Now, we better understood the source of our inhospitable treatment from the bigoted saddle-merchant and from the mosque’s fanatical officials.
The commemoration of their national ancestor’s exile had absolutely doubled their existing abrasiveness. Jews were put on notice that they were not allowed to be seen—and the same was true for me. Given the fact that my wife was with me, this could easily have been taken as an act of defiance which would have heightened hostilities rather than minimize them. Thus, I had to give Mustafa Bustani my word that I would now go straight to Eppstein’s home and eat at his house. I was to avoid the city streets, following only the outlying paths to Jew Eppstein’s house. There were still two sites that we wanted to visit: Abraham’s Oak of Mamre and the Sacred Heights of Hebron. As I’ve mentioned, the latter route is approximately 400 hundred paces from the road to Jerusalem. So we set the exact time when we would stop the carriage and leave Mustafa and Hebron behind us, thereby starting our journey to Eppstein’s place. At the agreed upon time, we parted company. Thar was exceptionally happy that he was allowed to go with us. Without further words from his father, I didn’t overlook the evident trust that his father had placed in me.
With all of his most generous hospitality, my brave and old friend Eppstein received us into his home. What is most commonly known as the home’s “best room” was ours. It was a relatively airy room that was located on the flat roof top. In my wife’s journal, wherein she happily noted such details, she wrote the following lines: “It was a very hot day. We were given a beautiful, cool, domed room that had two broadly curved arches. Three of the walls had windows, and the door was on the fourth. Conditions there were simply splendid. The room’s furnishings consisted of two beds. To the side of one was a reconditioned couch with three antique pillows; next to it was a table with four wooden chairs. The other had a white-ruffled canopy bed. In the corner was a water pitcher that probably dated to the time of Christ. The walls were tinted with a bluish white-wash. A brass wash-service sat upon one of the chairs. I won’t say a word about the pictures on the walls. We were served excellent Hebron wine, a bottle of which cost one franc. We dined on food that had required a great deal of preparation, all of which certainly was worth the effort.” Considering the generous hospitality that we had received, we didn’t need to send for the food that Mustafa Bustani had brought along. Those items were packed away in our carriage and would come in handy when we turned towards home.
In the course of the meal, Eppstein told us about today’s big Children’s Fitness-Festival, a birthday celebration in honor of the boy Ishmael. The children were drawn to the city’s open spaces, where they were invited to take part in all kinds of peaceable and war-like games; adults were lining up to help supervise them. Since so many stories are told about the expulsion and the injustices that were sustained, no person from another faith should even want to be a bystander. When Eppstein heard that we had the intention of riding to the Oak and on to Abraham’s Well, he immediately advised us to cancel those plans. There could be trouble if a procession of children were to pass by these holy sites.
Filled with indignation, Thar yelled out: “Keep our distance? Flee? That is never the case with us. As for Effendi and me, we fear nothing. Regarding the Mrs., she too is not afraid, because I have told her that I’m a hero, and she can always call upon me in a time of need. Chuckling to himself, Eppstein considered how this child could have such self-esteem: “A hero?” With that remark, he came down on the wrong side of the boy. Thar rose from the table, came towards him, and answered that question: “You laugh at me? I will not tolerate that. My name is Thar, and woe to you if I should ever take revenge against you.”
Jew Eppstein kept on joking: “Well, would that be really bad for me?” Thar was irritated: “So, you continue to laugh at me? Mind what you say! In truth, I’m just eleven years old, but in all of Jerusalem there isn’t a single fourteen year old that I haven’t wrestled to the ground!” Still smiling, Eppstein pressed further: “Do you also consider me to be such a fourteen year old?”
“No. Well then, how old are you?”
“Let’s say sixty.”
“For all I care, it’s the same to me if you’re a hundred. Now pay attention!”
Thar quickly slipped behind him, forcing his arms behind him. With a jerk and a squeeze, Eppstein ended up sitting on the ground—where previously he had stood. Naturally, this was the result of the boy’s quickness and the way he managed to take the man by surprise. Even so, the boy had physical powers that exceeded the usual strength of an eleven year old. With a satisfied nod to Jew Eppstein, Thar returned to his place at the table: “At first, you laughed from above—now you laugh from below!”
“Tell me now, where did you develop such knack and quickness?”
Thar answered: “From the Lions Club.”
“What is that? How and where?”
“It’s in Jerusalem. We boys have four clubs where we can practice. The Lions Club meets in front of the western Jaffa Gate. At the northwestern Damascus Gate, you’ll find The Elephant Club. Just outside of Stephen’s Gate, The Hippos play. The Whales claim The Pool of Siloah as their practice grounds. As you know, these are strong and noble animals. With their speed and the power of their leaps, The Lions triumph, just as I’ve done here. As you already know, The Elephans trample together. The Hippos run with their heads linked together; in this way, the strongest roots himself to the spot while the others collapse inward. The Whales do battle only in the ocean. One ducks under the opposition, and with a mouth full of water he spews it into the air, just like whales do. Therein lies the victory! I’m a member of all four clubs; and to this day, no one has beaten me. Hey, do we want to work together like Hippos?
Thar lowered his head and prepared to ram Mr. Eppstein, but he immediately stepped to the side and called out: “Leave me in peace. I am not one of those beasts! I only wanted to warn you about today’s dangers—never considering that I would be treacherously ambushed. Should I contact a reliable rent-a-donkey business for the trip you’re planning?” I answered: “Yes. Preferably one that does not devour Christians.”
Mr. Eppstein was glad to help: “There is only one, so I’ll ask him to come. It saddens me to acknowledge that today is such a Day of Hate. I’m sorry to say that your wife was only permitted to see the outside of the mosque. I have always said this, so I’ll continue to repeat it: If the faith of these people were pure and noble, then they would not find it necessary to keep others away from their shrines.”
He excused himself and sent for the donkey-lender. Thar pulled out his notebook and thoughtfully recorded this quote from Mr. Eppstein. For him, those words seemed important enough to remember. In a short time, the donkey-driver arrived and heard our requests. As our photograph shows, he looked Moorish, but he seemed to be good-natured and not a person to inconvenience us. He had no horses whatsoever; not even one donkey was available. On account of the festival, all animals had been reserved ahead of time. However, there were three mules that he could lend us. We could honestly say that they were only suited for pulling a cart, not for riding. One of them had an especially stubborn temperament, but we had to be thankful that these dear animals were still available. So we closed the deal with this merchant and asked that he bring the mules without delay.
Whenever a Middle Easterner, and particularly a donkey-driver promises to turn up without delay, this may mean that he will arrive one or even two hours from then. Yet this fellow was true to his word; in just thirty minutes, he showed up. He claimed that he would have come even sooner if he hadn’t found it necessary to clean the animals before he delivered them to us. I don’t care to describe them, so I’ll simply confess that the sight of them was no minor fright for us.
They consisted of skin and bones. For well over a month, they had neither seen a washing, a scrubbing, nor a curry-comb. What was supposed to pass for a saddle and strapping was a sheer hodge-podge of things that didn’t fit. The lady’s saddle was such a boldly sad afterthought of improvisation. In light of the donkey-driver’s freethinking and artistic invention, I paid him an extra baksheesh—an act for which he solemnly assured me that I had his everlasting love, loyalty, and devotion.
Needless to say, we wanted to provide feed for the poor animals. They fed on everything edible, including all the bread that we found in Eppstein’s house—and still they were not full. The prettiest parts about them were their names. Mine was called “Guewerdschina,” which means “dove.” Naturally, I managed to pick the one that seemed to be the most ornery—and it proved to be true. In both a good and bad sense, we would have quite an experience with this one. After we paid the rental fee, mounted our mules, and prepared to ride away, it became evident that Guewerdschina didn’t want to go along. She would not budge from her space.
I now applied all of my equestrian skills. The Donkey Driver himself gave it his best effort, and Eppstein’s servants did the same—but all their efforts were in vain. They knew the stubborn nature of this dumb animal, so they were sure that it would rather die than take just two steps from its spot. What was I supposed to do? Like the Donkey Driver, should we too just walk along beside her? No! Once again, I mounted the mule and ordered the Driver to lead Guewerdschina. Of course, she followed him. Once we had left the city behind us and we had reached open fields, I had hoped to convince her to ride on—and I partially succeeded. Kind words and caressing didn’t help at all, and whipping the animal accomplished even less. So I tried something with my thumb; from the side of “the dove,” I pressed hard between the first two vertebrae. She shot forward and obeyed me for a little while, but not for long. I was convinced that I had to experiment from a new angle. During the entire journey, I agonized about what I should do with this contrary beast.
From the time we left the gardens till we reached the Oak of Abraham, a half hour passed. It’s said that The Oak of Mamre originated during the time of the first patriarchs. This is an exaggeration. It belongs to the genusQuercus ilex psudo-coccifera, which has a base circumference of approximately ten meters. At the height of four meters, this tree begins to fork and to form immense boughs. For the most part, the tree is already beginning to die as it branches out.
As early as the sixteenth century, this tree was venerated; anyway, it has a considerably different age—and it probably will not stand much longer than it already has. It belongs to the Russians who established a hospice here and built an observation tower; from its height, one can see all the way to the Dead Sea. For just a small fee, the key to this tower can be fetched inside the hospice. I sent Thar inside and asked him to bring me the key. After he did that errand, he brought me a cord that he had found.
While he was showing the rope to me, he said: “This is for your dear Guewerdschina. I want you to use this when you ride her away from here.” I had my doubts about that: “Do you think you can make her move from this spot?”
“With no trouble at all.”
“Well then, do you have some kind of remedy?”
“Yes, it works every time.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?
Sly as a fox, he winked at me and laughed; his gorgeously white teeth glistened as he answered: “It’s because I wanted to double your delight, and the cure can only be doubly pleasing when it follows prior turmoil. Watch this!” He took the middle of the rope and firmly tied a knot around the tail of “the dove,” so that both ends of the cord hung down—then he climbed onto the saddle. We wanted to start out on our trip to Harem Ramet el Chalil, to the Sacred Heights of Hebron. My wife sat upon her mule, and I climbed onto the one that Thar had been riding. Now, we simply had to wait and see what the boy was going to do. The donkey driver handed him both ends of the rope, which he calmly held in his hands. “Now, watch how quickly this works,” he said. “Make room; I’m riding on ahead.”
We moved to the side. He goaded dear Guewerdschina. She swished her ears and waggled her tail, but she took no steps forward. He struck her, but that did no good. He screamed at her and slapped his feet into her sides—all to no avail. So he pulled on both ends of the rope. With that trick, the mule’s tail flipped up and onto her rump. Thar then wrapped the cords around her belly and tied a knot, thereby firmly stretching the ropes in a way that they could not release backwards. Guewerdschina was visibly startled. Nothing like this had ever happened in her lifetime. Like the wings of a windmill, she flailed her ears. She also wanted to whisk her tail, but that couldn’t happen. At this point, she let her ears droop down as she contemplated her troubles. To this spirited annoyance, the boy added a rambunctious swat. This caused “the dove” to turn her head to the right, trying to look behind her—but she saw nothing. So she turned to her left and tried to see what was behind. In spite of her tremendous efforts to move her tail so that she could see it, she couldn’t.
“Now she’s unbearably worried!” laughed Thar. “She thinks her tail is gone. She believes that some frightening thing is behind her. Now she will run for all she’s worth!”
The words were hardly out of his mouth when Guewerdschina let out a bone marrow-jarring hee-haw. She cringed and arched her back like a cat. She lunged to the right and to the left—then with sudden haste, she shot straight forward, as if she wanted to charge beyond her own head. It required a very good rider not to fall off; Thar effortlessly stayed in the saddle. Laughing heartily, we followed him as fast as we could. In light of the tragically comical, apprehensive demeanor of mules, it really was impossible to keep a straight face.
Our new route led us through the ruins of the village of Chirbet en Nasara, then on towards the road to Jerusalem. There we caught up with the boy, noting how the mule pretty much obeyed him. From this path, it was just 400 paces to Abraham’s Well; in the corner of the photograph, note the large, square stone wall. No one knows why this wall exists, nor whether it was ever expanded. Now, it is simply a rubble. The blocks are often five meters long, yet they are no longer joined with mortar. In Baalbek, I have seen hewn stones that are over nineteen meters in length. Given the era of this wall’s origin, a five meter stone was plenty to manhandle. Nearby is still another cistern; it’s called “The Bath of Sarah,” Ishmael’s mother’s well. In the nearby rugged rocks, two oil lamps have been affixed. Not far from the crumbled wall is a large church, most likely the basilica that Constantine the Great erected at “The Strong Terebinth Tree of Mamre.” To this day, this place is called “The Valley of Terebinth,” a place to search for acceptance and adoption.
When we reached the four-cornered wall, we saw a poorly clothed Arabic woman and her small daughter sitting in a corner near the well. As soon as they saw us, they stepped back from the water. After we dipped up some water for our animals and gave them time to drink, my wife found a spot to take a photograph. When the Donkey Driver saw her camera, he immediately removed himself and his mules to a place of safety—for he believed that only Christians and Jews were able to withstand the power of photography. Every other creature, whether man or beast, risked destruction.
Peering from behind a large stone, his curiosity drove him to see what was taking place. He saw “the eye of the monster,” the lens of the camera, which was pointed directly at me and towards the corner. He wanted to make sure that this “eye” did not focus on him—but a shaft of sunlight just so happened to shine on him. Actually, we no longer needed him and his mules. Since our present location was only a few hundred paces from the road where Mustafa Bustani was supposed to wait for us, I told him that we would just walk from here.
When the photography was finished, I paid him. In my business dealings with other people, it’s never been my nature nor my way to be a stingy man who haggles over the cost of things. Extending an open hand goes considerably further than acting like a miser. The same is true in this land. The Donkey Driver counted the money that I gave him: “Effendi, that is too much.” I insisted: “No, I gladly give you this money. You have been friendly and polite, so you’ve earned the baksheesh.”
“Even this tip is too much. Perhaps I can do still more that will justify this baksheesh. I will not leave this area until you also depart. I have nothing more to do, so nothing precludes me from serving you further.”
We had thought that Thar would want to take an interest in photography, but this was not the case. More than he realized, the exotic Arabic woman and her young daughter held a greater gravitational attraction than the cloud-black camera. He was looking for a way to meet them. In the way that boys do, he first meandered from a distance, then he came ever closer to them. Suddenly, he sat down between the two and began to talk with uncommon familiarity—as if he were an acquaintance from long ago, or even a relative of theirs.
After I had finished taking our photos, he brought the small girl to where my wife and I were seated on the edge of the cistern. Her mother remained sitting. The young girl had the most lovingly sensitive, wholesomely healthy face, with peach-red cheeks and large grey-blue velveteen eyes. Judging from her appearance, it seemed like some deep and undisturbed charming riddle was miraculously working inside of her. Like a fountain, her light brown hair flowed from under her desert-red scarf. One of her sunburned, delicate hands held a few long-stemmed Canterbury-bell flowers. She kept her other hand in the thin pleats of her spotlessly clean dress. I distinctly recall how her dainty, suntanned feet with miniature ivory nails partly emerged from elegant leather sandals. In light of this extraordinarily pleasant first impression of her, an endless sense of compassion filled my heart for this girl who was as poor as she was pretty. In my respect for her and her mother, I somehow felt more and more compelled to be prepared to offer them some great and suitably timely service. Later on, my wife told me that she too had felt this instant bonding—at precisely the same moment.
She turned to ask Thar: “Well then, what is her name?”
“I don’t know, but you yourself can ask her, right? In talking with her, I learned no more than these three things: she likes me; I’m her hero, and I’ll fight for her.”
“I’m called Schamah,” she said, putting an accent on the second syllable of her name. The fidgeting hand that formerly hid in the pleats of her dress now directed an outstretched forefinger as she pointed: “Over there is my mother.” Her voice sounded soft and tender, yet strikingly moving. Its tone had a hard-to-refuse ring. With open arms, my wife hugged the girl as she asked me this question: “What does the name Schamah mean?” So, I briefly explained: “It’s the East Jordanian pronunciation ofSamah, which means ‘forgiveness.’”
Smiling as she talked to the child, my wife hugged her again: “Oh, innocently young and dear little soul, you’ve done nothing that requires forgiving.” With laughter in her voice, Schamah offered her colorful bouquet: “I bring you bells.” She held the Canterbury-bell flowers to my wife’s ear and lightly shook them: “Now, I’ll ring them. Can you hear them?”
“Yes, I do.”
“ Isn’t it so? Quite softly, faintly, gently— like the sound is falling from heaven. When they grow up, they will be as grand as the ones that hang in churches; then, the entire world will hear their ringing.”
Thar joined in: “You speak of the church. Are you then a Christian?”
“Yes, I’m a Christian,” she nodded.
“And also your mother?”
“She too.”
He then clapped his hands and called out: “That’s beautiful! That’s wonderful! I’m glad to know that!”
“Why?”
“It’s precisely for these reasons: I’m a hero, and I want to put up a good fight for your rights. No one can properly perform heroic deeds for a Muslim girl. Unattractive as a frog, she wraps herself in fabrics and limps around with wooden slippers on her feet. By contrast, I can clearly see the Christian girl. That fact is essential whenever heroes like us are inspired to risk our lives for others. Do you know how I will look when I fight for you?”
“Like you are dressed today, right?”
“No. What I have on now is not bold enough. Do you know that certain colors can scare an enemy? For this reason, I put on war paint as soon as a conflict arises. One side of my face becomes blue, and the other side is painted green—“
“Phooey, phooey, phooey!”
“You don’t like that?” he asked, halfway astonished and partially disappointed.
“Not at all. I like you just the way you are—not all painted up!”
Thar was pleased with her answer: “Good, I’ll remain who I am. Now that I think more about what you’ve said, you’re right, very right. From now on, whenever I struggle with enemies, they may paint themselves blue, yellow, and green—but not I. I’ll bear that in mind. Our four clubs must have newer and better rules. Foremost, whoever presents himself in war paint will be judged as beatable. To please you, I’m ready to bound away from all rules that are good for nothing!” He then stretched his legs and flexed his muscles so convincingly that her eyes widened in wonder as she pointed to him and asked this question: “ Yes, I already believe that you’re a hero; but what exactly could be a reason to knock someone down, just for my sake?”
“A cause can always be found if you look for it. Maybe it’s coming from over there. Look!”
He pointed in the direction of the church ruins, to people whom we hadn’t previously seen—to those who were now coming towards us. There were ten or twelve men who were riding on donkeys. Behind them was a column of forty or fifty armed boys who were carrying all kinds of banners. This was one of those parades for children who excitedly circled the city on this festival day. “Isn’t this a dangerous situation?” my wife asked. “We should leave quickly.”
My answer was one of caution: “Under no circumstances and in no way should we hurry. This would merely show them that we have some reason to be fearful, something to hide from. We’ll freely give them the water, but not right away. I hope they will give us some kind of greeting.”
The procession had now arrived at our spot. The men stopped to talk with our Donkey Driver, asking some questions about us. They learned that we were Christians— be that as it may, that we were not bad people. Schamah’s mother left her seat and came nearer to us. She feared the fanatical people of Hebron, so she begged us to pack up and leave. She was a Christian, a widow from the region called Al Karak, a city in Jordan that contains a famous Crusader castle. It’s located on the other side of the Dead Sea. She and her young daughter were on a pilgrimage to the holy cities of Bethlehem and Jerusalem. Truly, she was a simple and poor woman. Still, I’d like to extend my impression of her; in every way, her clothes were expressly Arabic and chic—like those customarily worn by a Middle Eastern woman, or even by a Bedouin. Her clothing was beautiful yet tasteful, with no suggestion of melancholy nor fascinating glamour. She was a daughter of sorrow, not a woman of good fortune. My wife extended her hand to Schamah’s mother, drawing her close to her side. I advised her to put aside any concerns; nothing was going to happen to them.
The riders now came up to us. They stopped a few feet from us and climbed down from their donkeys. It was clear that they didn’t intend to greet us. I couldn’t tolerate that sort of contempt, because such insolence involved behavior that I wanted to bypass and avoid completely. Whenever you want others to know that you hold a certain air of strength, it’s always effective to put on a special sort of image. I crafted such a first firm impression, and it seemed to work with the leader of the group. He shifted his weight, held his hand to his chest, slightly bowed and said: “Salam. Peace be upon you.”
Those words sounded brusque. Just as curtly, I stood my ground and answered: “Salam.” Before I could say more, Thar spoke up: “Here is my Effendi, the Supreme Secretary of Germany’s Chancellor. From his briefcase flows the complete control of all tax revenue. He levies a tax on whomever he wants. He has just returned from Hebron where he sought to buy The Oak of Abraham from the Russians, then transport it home. Hail to Effendi!”
After he said that, he took his new girlfriend by the hand and went towards the boys from Hebron. Since I was still so overwhelmed with surprise that he would meddle and make such fantastic claims about me, I completely forgot to caution him. Thank God, something unforeseen did not happen. The men believed he was serious. They held a brief discussion, then they all bowed deeply as Abdullah said this to me: “Effendi, you are a great and powerful official. Unfortunately, you are also a Christian. For this reason, we are not permitted to invite you to be our guest. The children’s games can only begin when you have left this site.”
Indirectly, this was an invitation to leave only our dust behind. Taking their donkeys with them, the men moved to a more remote spot. A little more peaceable scene was taking place where Thar and Schamah met together with the boys from Hebron. The boys were very excited. Since so many of them were hollering, they shouted something that we didn’t understand. Fearlessly, Thar stood there in front of the boys. As if protecting the girl, he put his left arm around the girl and gestured menacingly with his right—we could not hear what he was saying to the crowd. Schamah’s mother was anxious about the safety of her daughter. I tried to reassure her. We drew closer to the aroused and animated group.
When Thar saw us coming, he called out to us: “Nothing will come of their threat. They want to drown Schamah—in the water close to where you have been sitting. They justify themselves by saying that she is a Christian who has defiled today’s festival. I told them that I won’t allow that, so I’ll fight for her. They are now choosing the ringleader that I’m supposed to deal with. Ah, there he is!”
He pointed to a tall, robust boy who now stepped forward. Following the customary way that the adults had taught him, he gave his pre-battle speech. He struck a pose and called out to Thar, as well as to us: “You are a Christian-dog, and she is a Christian girl, which is even worse than a cur. We will drown her in the deepest part of the well, in a spot where she can not touch bottom. We are true, absolute, and obedient believers of the Prophet. In this celebration of Ishmael’s birthday, we can not endure the sacrilege of a Christian’s feet to touch this ground. So, she must die. But you want to fight for her, because you claim to be a hero. We are game for this, because we too are heroes. I demand that you state your conditions for combat!”
When Schamah’s mother heard all of this, her fear reached its peak. I explained to her that it was probably not a case of violent rage that would actually be carried out—rather, it would be handled as a game. After all, today was supposed to be the “Day of Children’s Games.” She could rest assured that nothing would happen to her daughter. So, it was not necessary to take her away from our boy Thar.
Thar then spoke to Schamah: “You are Queen of the Games; and before your eyes, they are about to begin. Come and be seated!” She sat upon a stone bench, and he took his place beside her. Next, he took his notebook from his vest pocket, opened it, and began to deliver his counter-reply to the ringleader: “You call me a Christian-dog. On the contrary, I’m a Muslim from Jerusalem, and that is far greater that your Hebron sect. Who then are you?” He began to read the following lines: “You are all Canaanites: Hittites, Jebusites , Girgashites, Hivites, people of Arka, Amorites, Sidonians, Phenicians, those from Zemar, Arvadians, Hamathians, and all others dwelling in Zidon. In the refining process of Islam, you were found lacking and were passed over—now, you are simply sediment. If your faith were pure and noble, then your people would not find it so necessary to keep others away from your places of worship!”