He returned his notebook to its vest pocket and continued speaking: “You say that my young girl friend is worse than a dog. A true hero would not say such a thing. By contrast, I’m a hero, I’m civil, and I oppose you. I’ll fight with you, but not on your terms—all of you against only me. Instead, we’ll follow the custom we practice in Jerusalem—one on one. You will find yourselves transformed into Lions, Elephants, Hippos, and Whales. From among you, select the boldest Lion, the most powerful Elephant, the strongest Hippo, and the largest Whale. I will fight all four beasts. When I defeat all four of your fighters, I’ll receive—““My Canterbury-bells,” Schamah called out. Her small hand raised the flowers upward.“Yes, your bluebell flowers,” Thar chimed in. “Palestinian Hebronites, sit down in front of her and me, and I’ll explain to you what all of this has to do with Lions, Elephants, Hippos, and Whales.With pleasure, they immediately obeyed him. For a few moments, they scurried helter-skelter, crawling over and under each other like crazed insects. A deep silence then took over, broken only by the boy’s clarifying voice. When they all grasped the picture that he was describing, they began to cheer loudly. A thing like this had never happened before. Everyone pressed forward, wanting to be chosen as one of the beasts. In the midst of these would-be-juggernauts who strove for revenge, there sat Schamah, “Forgiveness.” Without any fear of harm, she kept a peaceful smile on her loveable face. Curiously enough, the adult men were just as excited as the boys. They all flocked around. The Hebron men joined their boys in the process of selecting and appointing. They marked out the fight-arena. Abdullah, who was the Secretary of State for the Palestinian Sheik of Balad, even took it upon himself to appoint security police as part of the rules for this fight. What more can be said about hate and disputes among religious people.The field for fighting formed four corners: Lions to the north, Hippos to the south, Elephants to the east, and Whales were confined to the west. Schamah sat on the southern side of her throne, where she could easily keep her eyes on everything. Guewerdschina the mule served as her throne, the most protected place that remained on that site. Musicians sat in the corner: a jar-drum, a tambourine, trumpets, and a fipple flute. If Thar were wrestled to the ground, they were supposed to make the loudest possible clamor. With the victory never tipping to their side, the Hebronite musicians had no chance to play their instruments.They had chosen their strongest athletes. The competition’s rules were very simple: the loser would be whoever was thrown to the ground in the first three beast- matches. The battle of the Whales would take place in the fountain. The winner had to dunk his opponent, then publicly spew a mouth full of water in his face. Before the matches began, the Four Heroes of Hebron were asked whether they wanted to withdraw their names from the competition. “For no amount of money!” they replied.Secretary of State Abdullah then gave the signal for the battle of the Lions to begin. The Lion of Hebron stepped forward. He was the same tall, robust boy who first gave a speech. When he saw all eyes turn towards him, his face took on an overly confident expression.Thar stood beside us: “Watch carefully! See how quickly this happens. The main thing is to give your enemy no time to think.” He then stepped into the ring, bowed to Schamah, and positioned himself squarely in front of his foe. No doubt he had learned this knightly behavior from hearing some legend, or from some fairy tale. Abdullah now clapped his hands three times. In the blink of an eye, it happened. When his opponent hesitated, Thar lunged. He let him come quite close, then sprang to the side as he clenched the boy from behind and completely buckled him under. Just as he had wrestled old Eppstein down to the ground, he firmly held the young Hebron Lion as he called out to the musicians: “Now you can sound your notes of triumph for him!” Of course, they were silent. The loser slowly stood up; with his head lowered, he slinked away.Next came the Battle of the Elephants. The opponent was a cumbersome guy who seemed to have twice the strength as our boy possessed. With a smile, Thar gave a nod to us. That was a good sign. He had told us how those in the Elephant Club had to do their trampling in unison. First here, then suddenly over there, he didn’t simply take the kid down—he bounced him to the ground. When Abdullah gave the signal, Thar powerfully launched forward, swung himself upward, and simply sprang over that heap of a foe. In an instant, he put his knees upon the boy and called out to the musicians: “Loudly, loudly, now play your song of triumph for him!” All around, stillness reigned.Only Secretary of State Abdullah angrily called out: “Oh my, two are already down. This is not acceptable. Let our Hippo come forth, and he will stomp him into the ground. The Hippo was a short, thick rascal who was not endowed with muscles, just a lot of fat. Fearlessly, he rolled his eyes; he had good courage. As the time drew nearer for the start of the match, he put his head down like a runner. Letting out a colossal hoo-ha, the Hebron Monster then lay down on the ground and stretched his legs into the air. He held his head with both hands and bellowed as if someone were planning to roast him on a grill. Thar just stood there erect; with a laugh, he teased the musicians: “You guys don’t need to play your drums nor blow your horns, because he’s making his own music.”Now the giants of the ocean would show what they could do. The former four sides of the ring now collapsed. Everyone headed to the deep well, wherein the final judgment was supposed to take place. Thar was the first to arrive at the cistern; he stood ready to descend into the water. The Hebronites came less quickly. Slowest of them all were the Whales. The very last one to arrive was the guy that was supposed to fight with Thar. With a very embarrassed look on his face, he came to the brink of the well, then looked away as he said: “I don’t want this job anymore!” Abdullah responded: “You’ve already accepted the position, so you must go through with it!” As the boy turned and hurried away, he called out: “Not for any amount of money! I’m leaving!”“So, we must choose someone else!” said Abdullah. From out of the throats of the remaining Whales, this chorus rang out: “You couldn’t pay me enough money! I’m going—I’m leaving—I’m out of here!” One after another, they disappeared, until there were no more to be seen—except one in the distance. Without saying “adieu,” the Lions followed those who had already left. In much the same way, the Hippos and the musicians made the same kind of exit. Most of the Elephants ambled off in single file, but some left in twos and threes. Without saying a word or grudgingly waving good-bye, the adults finally rode away.Thar turned towards Schamah: “Now do you believe that I’m a hero?” She handed him the Canterbury-bells: “From the very beginning, I believed you. You’ve won, so here are your flowers.” He accepted the prize, then he gave the bouquet to my wife, asking her to take care of them; she could do this better than he would.In the distance, we now saw another considerably large procession, and it looked like it was coming our way. With their sharply trained eyes, our adversaries had already seen this approaching caravan. For that reason, they hurried away. They didn’t want their disgrace to be discovered by the incoming crowd. We too no longer had a reason to stay, because the time was drawing nearer for us to move on and keep our appointment to meet Mustafa Bustani. Schamah’s mother said that she and her daughter were headed towards The Oak of Abraham; from there, they wanted to travel to the Russian Hospice and spend the night. The Arabic widow had heard that penniless pilgrims could stay there free-of-charge. Our friendly Donkey Driver declared that the mother and daughter didn’t have to walk that distance; since his return to the city would be the same route that they were traveling, they could ride with him.When Thar heard this, he quietly asked me: “Effendi, do you have a 20 franc coin? Please, give it to me, but don’t let anyone see it.” I suspected why he wanted the money, so I said “Yes,” and secretly slipped him the coin. Schamah and her mother climbed upon one of the mules, and the driver rode upon another. Thar vaulted onto the back of Guewerdschina and said: “I’m riding with you. Once we reach the Oak, I’ll walk back. Before my father arrives, I’ll be there.”He tugged the dove’s tail high into the air—she let out a loud hee-haw and shot down the road. My wife gave the widow our name and our address in Jerusalem and invited her to make every effort to visit us there. We would genuinely and whole-heartedly like to see her and her young daughter. She promised that she would assuredly do her best to visit us. So giving her word, she said good-bye as they rode away and tried to catch up with Thar. My wife and I then took a short walk on the surrounding area, making sure that we avoided any further encounters.When we reached the rendezvous, Thar was already waiting for us: “They’re so very poor. They only know that I was concerned about them and that I wanted to accompany them to the Hospice.”“Do they know your name?” I asked.“Yes.”“And your father’s name?”“No. You may have heard that the Prophet tells us this: ‘Whoever gives to the poor should give everything—only not in the name of his father.’ Anyway, I’ll see them again in Jerusalem. You can count on that.”Soon thereafter, Mustafa Bustani arrived with the carriage. He was very glad to hear that the local citizens did not harm us nor his son. He shared the fact that there had been several clashes between Muslims and Jews. In light of the fact that he personally was so angry about the rude reception from his business colleague, he had even refused to share a meal with the man. Now, he was hungry. As soon as we climbed in and were once again moving, we brought out the food that we had packed earlier. So, our on-the-go evening meal’s setting was atop four rolling wheels.On the return home, nothing happened that would be important enough to retell. When we reached the Hebron Valley, we once again stopped at the café. This time in a much more measured manner, the innkeeper stepped out and asked for our orders. Mustafa Bustani spoke up: “Five cups of coffee!” The drinks were served and sipped. I then pulled out my money pouch: “How much for the five?”“Exactly one half franc,” he answered.“And the fifteen from forenoon?”“One and a half francs.”“So, altogether for the twenty?”“Two francs.”I gave him only two francs—not a fraction of a Turkish piaster more: “Here! Paid in full!” He quickly gripped the money and slipped it into his pocket. This time, he bowed deeply as he sincerely said: “Effendi, I thank you. You are fair as well as wise. May your journey home be a blessed one.”The trip was indeed a blessed one. Mustafa was angry about the fanaticism of his fellow believers; during the entire time, he had no objection to his son’s crush on the small Christian girl. When we reached Bethlehem, he took a deep breath and said: “A lot of love and much goodness has come out of this small city, much more than any other large and famous pilgrimage places. Today, I was rightly and starkly reminded of my own zealot’s mind-set. What have you ever done to the people of Hebron? Not a thing! Still, they transgressed against you. Such unkindness and injustice! What did my own brother do to me? Nothing. Yet, I banished him, my dear brother. I was much more unloving and far more unjust than the Canaanites of Hebron. Now that evening is finally here, I can tell you that thoughts of him were with me throughout the entire afternoon.“What was his name?” my wife asked.“Achmed Bustani. As you heard me say, we still kept the same family name. I now have no greater wish than that he is still alive and that he will find me!”“Would you really divide your wealth with them?”“Of course, immediately! It’s not only because I promised my dying wife that I would do so—for me, it’s a personal necessity. Ever since that dream that I told you about, I’ve had a very strange feeling about something more that I now must be concerned about as we make our way home. When we were outside of Abraham’s Well, it seemed as if some invisible thing accompanied you when you climbed into the carriage—something that took hold of me and now doesn’t want to release me again. Perhaps it’s nothing more than realizing the wrongs that need to be righted. Yet in a strange sense, I’m not anxious; instead, it makes me feel much more at ease. There’s a feeling of contentment. It burrows itself into me—not to torment, but rather to put me at ease. Are you going to laugh at me when I tell you something which you yourselves can not comprehend?”“To laugh would not even occur to us!” I answered. “Be confident of that!”“I have the feeling that today I shall again dream of my brother. Isn’t that funny?”“By no means.”“So, you believe that this is possible?”“Certainly.”“Secretively, what do you think?”“Oh no! All too often, we men make the mistake of treating completely natural things as if they were mystical. In the course of today’s events, the picture of your brother has been shoved into your mind’s consciousness. Until now, you have held all of this tightly inside of you, and it’s become even more deeply embedded. Hence, it’s no wonder, and indeed very understandable, that you would dream about him as you preoccupy yourself with your return home. Whenever we perceive something as wonderful, be certain that in spite of all our experiences, we misguidedly label the obvious things in nature as inconceivably miraculous.”As we now rolled on towards Rachel’s Tomb and to the Prophet Elijah’s memorial, we soon arrived in Jerusalem—at precisely the moment when nightfall tenderly entered the Holy City. Whatever was intended for me to learn in Hebron, I hadn’t yet grasped it. As we would plainly see tomorrow, this here-to-fore unknown would turn out to be quite different and infinitely better. So it seems that life always takes care of things. If we are somehow denied some external, material wish, or if an unexpected grief gets in the way of the joy we were hoping for, our ignorance does not hesitate to quarrel with destiny. That which we were denied on the outside may now become an inner victory. Although this last truth may not be apparent if we oppose it like some kind of enemy, be quite certain that it still knocks on our door. Usually afterwards, we realize that we have gained life’s less-valued, quite inexpensive gifts that we so very much long for. Concerning the saddle, this was also true. I was sure about my desire for it, but my wish to own it had to rely upon earlier circumstances that were directed otherwise. Looking back on those past events, we are most often too short-sighted and impatient to grasp the meaning of these things.The next morning, we had barely risen and sat down to drink some coffee, when we heard a knock on our door. Who stepped in? It was Thar. European style, he stretched out his hand and greeted us: “Good morning!” We gave him our thanks and approvingly saw how he was fully dressed in fresh, spotlessly pure white clothes. “You are probably surprised, right?” he said. “The colors are no longer stylish. Our lady here first spoke about heroism that is authentic and doesn’t need to be painted up. Since then, I’ve wanted to be a real hero—no artificial coloring. Secondly, you also heard how my new girlfriend Schamah yelled out ‘Phooey!’ when I wanted to paint my body with bold blue, green, red and yellow colors. What she said to me is worth more than past advice you have offered. I’ve definitely decided, that in the future, I’ll lay aside the superficial paint and only deal with things that don’t need artificial coloring. By the way, I’m only here on account of Schamah. If she and I are permitted to drink coffee, why then are your cups bigger than ours?”He got what he wanted, so he sat down and continued to talk: “Next, I want you to know that as long as Schamah stays in Jerusalem, I’m withdrawing from all four clubs: the Lions, the Elephants, the Hippos, and the Whales. For this mission, I’ve now dressed in white in order to inform each of the clubs that I may no longer associate with beasts—at least for the time being. Schamah is so polite, and if I’m not nice too, then I’ll feel ashamed of myself. She said ‘Phooey!’ much too readily. Well then, you must be aware of the fact that she’s coming to Jerusalem today.”“How do you know this?” I asked.“It is part of the conspiracy.”“So, there is a plot?”In all seriousness, he nodded and said “Yes.”“Who is doing the plotting?”“I am.”“With whom?”“With the Donkey Driver.”“ As of yesterday?”“Yes. For that secret plan, I needed the twenty francs from you. Here is themoney that I borrowed. Thank you.” He took two golden ten franc coins out of his pocket and laid them on the table. However, I didn’t pick them up—instead, I said: “Before I accept the money, I have to know what it was for. Instead of loaning you the money, I gave it to you.”In earnest, he said: “You’re mistaken! I don’t beg; I only borrow. Schamah and her mother are poor, very poor. At times, they don’t have enough to eat. Without asking anyone, I came to this conclusion. In contrast, I’m rich, and I’m her friend. Thus, without their knowing, I took care of their room and board at the Hospice. Today, the Donkey Driver is bringing them to Jerusalem—of course, on better animals than they rode yesterday. They still do not know that it was I who paid for these things. When they arrive here, they won’t go into the city. Instead, they’ll veer to the right, riding into the Valley of Hinnom, then up the Mount of Olives towards Bethany. At that point, they’ll meet my friend Abd en Nom.“Who is Abd en Nom?”“He is the father of both the greatest Whale in our club and the heaviest Hippo that ever was. He is a host to pilgrims. At the moment, his house is completely empty, so Schamah and her mother have more room than they really need. They’ll also have meals there. Of course, Schamah believes that all of this was because the Hospice recommended them. Abd en Nom likes me. I’ll be going with him as we make the preparations.”“And you are paying for all of this?”“Yes, but I ask you not to reveal this to anyone. Schamah and her mother must never know this secret.”“Does your father know?“No.”“My dear boy, you know this will cost a lot of money!”He happily laughed as he replied: “I have it.”“From whom?”As he answered my question, Thar quickly became serious again: “From Mother—before she died. She loaned me the money, and every month, I receive the interest. Since Father is the trustee of her estate, he gives me the money. I’m not permitted to hold onto the money. I’m required to spend it—not on myself, but for poor, old, sick people who find themselves in need. That’s the way Mother wanted it, so Father has to allow me to spend it how I wish. He may only counsel me if I use the money in a way that differs from Mother’s instructions. That has never happened, because I loved my Mother. With every piaster that I spend, I think about how she would do the same or otherwise. To be truthful, before I borrowed the money from you, I first had to think about what my Mother would say. Before I went to sleep that night, I asked myself that question. As I awoke early this morning, I knew in my heart that she is in complete agreement—and that she’s pleased about Schamah and her mother. Effendi, will you now take back the money you loaned me?”“Yes,” I answered and slipped the coins into my pocket. In recognition of his soul’s goodness, my wife poured him a second cup of coffee. He took a sip, then spoke further: “Seriously, I want to look after her. I would like to be her guide to all of the holy sites, including Bethlehem and anywhere else she wants to visit. Do you know why I would do this?”“Out of compassion,” my wife said.“Yes, I too first thought of this. Yet when I reflected on my heart’s decision, just as I always do when I think of my Mother, it wasn’t a feeling of sympathy. Rather, there was something else. Right now, I’m not sure what to call it, because I’ve never felt this way before. It’s almost like a duty, and yet again, it may be more like something that I very much enjoy doing. Just as you witnessed yesterday, I would do battle with the whole world if it meant protecting Schamah and her mother. And yet, that is much, much too little; that’s a long, long way from the right thing to do. I still want to think about this some more. When I’ve found the answer, I’ll tell you. Now, may I leave you again? There’s something very necessary that I must do. Remember what I said about going to the Lions, to the Elephants, to the Hippos, to the Whales, and to Abd en Nom! Father must know nothing about all of this.”“Does he know that you went to visit us?”“I don’t intend to tell him. As you know, he has such an extraordinary affection for you; if he learned that I planned to come here, you would be stuck with him for the entire day. Well then, may Allah protect you; I’m going now.” He finished his cup of coffee, shook our hands, opened the door, went outside, and stood still. For a moment, he pondered, came inside again, then firmly closed the door behind him. It seemed as if he had some great secret that he wanted to entrust to us: “I simply must ask you a question. Don’t you find this ridiculous? In a man’s own country, he is called “The Chosen One.”I tried to help him with the answer: “How did you arrive at this question?”“In my hours of vanity, I have taken pride in this designation; but seriously, this title actually irritates me.”“So, be angry!” said my wife. “Your irritation is more justified than any pleasure from that title.” As he meditated on that advice, he looked at her. Then he aimed his eyes on me, thoughtfully nodding: “ I put a great deal of stock into what your wife has said. Perhaps you don’t? Up to this point, she has always come up with just the right words. Now, I’m really going to do it! May Allah protect you!”Hardly ten minutes after he left us, there was a knock on the door. Who was it? His father. He asked us to forgive him for disturbing us at such an inconvenient hour. Something had happened which he absolutely had to share with us. “Did you dream something?” I asked him.“Yes, how did you know that?”“No, I didn’t know for sure—I simply had a hunch.”“You guessed correctly. Just think! In my dream, it was morning as I got out of bed and came into my living room. There sat my brother, as real as I am standing here. He smiled at me and said: ‘I have come, and I want to see if I should remain.’ In pure joy, I woke up. Now tell me, is that a phenomenon, or not?”“A miracle? No, to me it is something more like a completely natural occurrence.”“After our conversation yesterday, I too felt comfortable about all of this. Yet in today’s awakening, instantly after the dream, a thought came to me—almost as if this thought itself were to be the continuation of the dream. Do you know what my brother said to me in the previous dream I described to you?”“That he would send you a sign of his forgiveness.”“Now then, do you recall the name of the child whom you met yesterday, the girl whom my son constantly talks about?”“Schamah, the Forgiveness!”My wife swiftly joined in: “Yes, that’s true! That’s exactly right! It might be—“Imitating Old Jew Eppstein, I quickly interrupted: “Pssst! Still! Pssst! Don’t try to force some kind of mystery from all this. Although ‘Schamah’ means ‘forgiveness,’ at the same time, it’s also a girl’s name.” Mustafa interjected: “But as Thar told me, the girl’s mother comes from the region of Al Karak, and that place is in East Jordan, where my brother went.” In order to divert him from this subject, I asked him: “So, did you and Thar talk about her today?”“It was yesterday evening that we talked. Today, he was up early, but he said practically nothing. Whenever his thoughts are focused on his mother, he acts this way. It always keeps him preoccupied as he looks for some kind of gift he can give or a good deed that he can perform for someone. Off he went without having anything to eat or drink for breakfast.“Does he know that you are here with us?”“I don’t think so. If he knew that he could visit you as often as he wanted, he would stay beside you for the entire day. I must confess that his heart dearly loves both of you. Ever since yesterday, I’ve seen changes in him. The young girl seems to have made an impression on him, and that baffles me.”“Surely such a riddle is not a bad one?”“Oh no, it’s especially very pleasant and welcome. Compared to ordinary times, I too have changed. Yesterday was a festival; yet for me, it’s as if the celebration is just now happening. I feel the same joy that I felt in my boyhood—when something long-desired finally promises to come true. Isn’t that strange? Isn’t that laughable?”“It’s not strange to me, and in no way is it absurd. Our souls are linked to an entirely different world than our bodies. This connection is so deeply intimate, that no reasonably sane man would ever doubt what we call our ‘inner voices.’ Did your dream clearly focus on your brother? Or was it merely a figure which you mistook for him?”“Truly and clearly, it was so certain and distinct, that even in the dream I marveled at the joy I felt in seeing him appear precisely as he looked earlier. We were so extraordinarily similar that people often would mistake one for the other. We had fun with that, so he would often enhance that relationship by wearing the same clothes and by growing a beard just like mine. On the inside, we were very different. He was always tender , pliable, and prone to be at peace. By contrast, I was insensitive, unsympathetic, and always ready to play the role of lord and master. In the end, that separated us. However, today—.” Something inside him stopped. He walked to the window, gazed outside and reconciled himself to what would come: “There lies the road to Bab en Nebi Daud, and that way goes to Bab el Amud. For me, it’s the same, whichever path I take. They both lead me around the city and towards the Mount of Olives where I will wait to learn when and how the ‘forgiveness” will come to me. Today, I am in suspense, and I can’t relax. I’m going!”He left, and I openly confess that a portion of his suspense stayed there with us. If I were to try to attach an artificial angle on his narration, one which differed from the view he had just shared with us, then I would have to rearrange the tale itself. The conclusion would be otherwise, even giving his story an extra chapter of its own. For me, it all seemed to follow a natural course of events, which was just as interesting as any literary embellishment that his son Thar would have added. So, I’ll follow the examples from our brave boy Thar and simply report the plain, unvarnished facts. As long as Schamah dwelt among us, she renounced any synthetic coloring of green nor blue, neither yellow nor red.That morning, we visited the Graves of the Kings and a couple of other nearby sites. In the afternoon, we wanted to go to Ain Kahrim,one of my favorite places. However, we could not undertake this outing. Just as we were preparing to eat our lunch, there was a third knocking at our door. Who appeared? Schamah and her mother. We were genuinely glad to see them, and we welcomed their noontime visit. Without hesitation, we invited them to eat with us. The mother was a loving, good-natured, and noble-minded woman. She had an inner pride that stemmed from her heart’s solemn education. In spite of her humility, she spoke with a good deal of satisfaction about her Azerbeijan roots and the fact that she did not come from Syria. So, as far back as tradition stretched, her people had always been Christians. Due to her father’s beliefs, he was oppressed and died as a poor army officer in Al Karah. Her husband was also very poor, but he was blessed with all of the virtues that are necessary to merit the attention and the love of all mankind. His name was Achmed Bustani, and he died from a sickness of the heart, a yearning that never stopped gnawing at him—until death delivered him from that ceaseless longing.Achmed Bustani! Surely, you can imagine the impact this name had on us. Just think—the brother of our friend. As soon as the widow made this disclosure, both women intuitively knew that they had been drawn to each other—both outwardly and inwardly, sensing a bond of confidentiality between them. In spite of the few short lines that I now use to report this surprise, naturally, it took several hours for us to grasp what we had just learned. During the time she talked with us, her heart’s restrained agony peered out from her moist, poignant eyes. Not wanting to increase her sadness by asking insensitive questions, it was especially hard for us to repress our normal curiosity about the details.Quite simply, Achmed Bustani died of homesickness. At most, his love for his wife and child delayed his death, but nothing could prevent his dying. Knowing the inherent importance of very close family relationships among Semitic people, it cost him his life when he could not bear the thought of his father and his entire family banishing him and forever refusing to give him their support. Practically moments from death, he asked his wife to promise him that she and Schamah would make a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. If possible, she was to find his brother and seek reconciliation with him.Originally, she had only wanted to hike from Abraham’s Oak to Bethlehem. Her plans changed at the Hospice, where she received a slip of paper from an anonymous benefactor in Bethany, a village on Jerusalem’s eastern slope of Olivet. The note assured them of free room and board in the Good Samaritan’s house. At the same time, he had arranged for our Donkey Driver to take them to Jerusalem. From there, someone would pick them up and accompany them—all free of charge. It pleased her to recall the kindness of this man’s heart. Likewise, she was thankful for the humanitarian aid they received in the Russian Hospice that stood near Abraham’s Oak. They never suspected the truth, that our “Hero of the Blood Feud” was the one to whom they owed their thanks.They did not go into the accursed Valley of Hinnom where the god Moloch was once worshipped. Nor did they ride straight to the house of their anonymous benefactor. They first wanted to ask if we thought it was “OK” for two lonely, Christian pilgrims to accept this man’s invitation to stay in his home. We gave them as much information as we could and offered to accompany them to their host’s house, for we too wanted to meet this man. They gratefully accepted our offer. Just as we were ready to depart, there was a fourth knock at our door—in stepped our lad Thar.He was completely out of breath. When he saw Schamah and her mother, he excitedly called out: “So, what the Donkey Driver told me is true! Instead of riding straight to your host’s house, you first stopped off here. But why are you staying here longer? Why didn’t you travel directly towards Bethany, following the Hinnom Valley, just like I told the Donkey Driver to do?” He was coming close to revealing his other identity. I placed my hand on his shirt collar and brought him into the adjoining room: “I believe it’s best that Schamah and her mother don’t know that you and the Donkey Driver secretly instigated this part of their visit to Jerusalem. Are you now ready to tell everything?”He seemed startled: “Allah, Allah! You’re right—that was dumb of me! Still, put yourself in my shoes, Effendi. There I was with all of my Lions, Elephants, Hippos, and Whales, standing near the Pool of Siloam as we waited for Schamah. We were all set to provide a festive, multi-stage-parade as we escorted her to Bethany—““With the Hippos and Elephants?”“Yes, of course!” he nodded. “I called them all together, because I wanted them to help me welcome my new friend with a grand reception. They all wore their best costumes. We had decorated the entire neighborhood with flowers. We even took branches and swept the streets of the parade route. Upon her arrival, we had all planned to bow at the same time. Next, Firdusi was going to recite a poem. Thereafter, it would be my turn to give a good speech in her honor. Following this, there would be more bows, along with a song that included both singing and blowing our horns. Busiri’s poem would come next. Finally, there would be a triumphant bellowing ‘Huzzah!’ At this point, our festive procession would begin to move—half of us ahead and half trailing. I would be riding between Schamah and her mother, leading both of their donkeys.”I laughed as I exclaimed, “Yes, you planned a delightful surprise!”“You’re right. Now, imagine how we waited for hours, yet no one came. When Schamah and her mother separated from the Donkey Driver and rode here to your door instead of taking the pre-arranged route, we agreed to modify our plan. Since this thought came to the Driver later on, it was just a few minutes ago that I realized how I might find them waiting here at your place. I hurried here to urge you to come right away—I don’t want my Lions and Whales to lose patience!”It made me sad to know that I had to dampen his enthusiasm, but I couldn’t do otherwise—I had to follow through. I shared my reasons regarding why such a grand greeting would be impossible. Think. This would not befit a Christian pilgrim whose inner nature is humble and modest. Likewise, consider her reaction to hearing Islamic poems and the bellowing whoops of your triumphant reception.He understood enough to see my point of view: “Good, Effendi. So, let’s omit those things, but do this instead. Do you know “The Song of Bethany,” telling how Jesus came to visit his siblings?”“No.”“Alright, you’ll soon hear that song. Are you now planning to take the road towards the Hinnom Valley and the Pool of Siloam?”“Yes, my wife will likely take a photograph there.”“Good, that works. Please travel slowly. As for me, I’ll rush on ahead of you.”I wanted to admonish him not to do anything inappropriate, but he waved me off as he hurriedly left in a cloud of dust. We followed him; and just as I thought, my wife reminded me to bring along the camera. She wanted to take a few pictures at the Pool of Siloam and a couple of photos in Bethany.The purpose of this story is not to describe Jerusalem and its surroundings. For that, I’ll let the path of our journey speak for itself. My wife’s photographs clearly show the location and the appearance of the Pool of Siloam. In that photo, I’m not dressed like an Arab; instead, I’m wearing European clothes and a safari hat on my head. This partially explains the picture. According toThe Book of John, Chapter 9: 7, it was here that Christ healed the man who was born blind.When we arrived, we saw that no one else was there. I was glad about that. The solitude and stillness matched the moods that we found ourselves in. As we rode along, we limited ourselves to earnest conversations. Little Schamah acted like a lovely inner beam of sunshine that cast its light on our serious-minded subjects. The widow focused on the goal of her journey. One ceaseless, important question quaked inside of her: “Would her pilgrimage be favorably fulfilled, or not?” As for us and what we already knew, we eagerly held onto our high expectations that the moment of decision would soon come.My wife wanted to have her picture taken with Schamah, but today the child did not trust the dark, dangling three-dimensional camera—so, she declined. I alone would have my picture taken beside the Pool. After the camera clicked and before we left the site, she took one last, close look, as if to memorize this part of our trip. Suddenly, the boys surprised us from the right and to the left, both from above and below, practically from all sides and from all heights where they had hidden themselves behind the rocks. They were singing a peculiar, two-part song in the Arabic language. It was “The Song of Bethany,” when Jesus was on his way to visit brothers and sisters, stopping along the way to heal the sick at the Pool of Siloam. Picture our inner moods and the outer backdrop of the scenery; all of this seemed to be waiting for us. Here too, we were completely amazed when we heard the profoundly deep and strangely stirring “Song of Christ.” That song left a lasting impression on us, one that almost brought us to our knees as we intently listened. Neither breath nor foot moved. The singers remained concealed in their hiding-places—they had a good stage director. From this moment on, I never doubted that our lad had been born with a natural talent for art.From the Pool, we traveled toward Cedron, the brook that flows between Jerusalem and the Mount of Olives. We also wanted to see the so-called upper bridge at Gethsemane. On our way to Bethany, we passed by the Jewish burial grounds. Just outside the village, Thar stood all alone. He was waiting for our arrival, so he greeted us. Very softly, he asked me this question: “Have you seen them?”“Whom?”“The singers. They anticipated the time it would take for you to make the trip to Gethsemane, all in order to be here to sing for you once more. Come! I’ll lead you to Abd en Nom; you’ll want to see the living quarters that we’ve already reserved for Schamah. After that, we’ll go to Lazarus’ Tomb, and there you can take a photograph.He took Schamah by the hand as they went on ahead of us. Abd en Nom’s house was located near the site of Lazarus’ Grave. The owner of the house stepped outside, bowing respectfully low as he greeted us. His two sons were there, both of whom we recognized from Thar’s description of them: “the largest Whale that we have and the strongest Hippo that ever was.” Both of them gave us an inspiring impression that they were quite friendly. The little guest house certainly appeared to be clean and cozy. It looked as if the guests would be very satisfied with their accommodations here. When we stepped inside, we saw that we had guessed correctly. Regarding the two rooms prepared for Schamah and her mother, the furnishings were so perfectly arranged that nothing more could be wished for. Besides all this, the rooms were decorated with flowers and palm branches that no doubt were part of the festive parade that Thar had planned.Secretively, the lad gave me this explanation: “Since I had to hurry so much, everything here had to be put in place very quickly.”“Well now, where did you find all of the heroes?”“Right away, you’ll hear them.” With these words, he went to the door and motioned to someone outside. Immediately, there arose a triumphant whoop that was at least fifty to sixty voices strong. The pitch and tone of this cheer were so shocking and unnatural, that all of this noise could not have come from real lions, elephants, hippos, and whales. “May Allah have mercy on you!” I called out. “That’s enough. Please stop!”When he beckoned with his hand, everything quieted down. Still, we couldn’t see where these “beasts” were hidden away. “That completes it,” he said. “Just one last time, I had to let them blare. Now they’ve had their way, so they won’t do it again. Well now, do we want to visit Lazarus’ Grave where you can take some photos?”We all agreed to go, because the sun was already beginning to sink; if we waited any longer, we wouldn’t have enough daylight for a good picture. Thar and Schamah ran on ahead, but her mother asked to stay behind. Before it grew dark, she wanted to be sure that their rooms were ready for night time. Her request was such a natural one, that we fully understood her wish to remain at the house. So we went on without her and soon caught up with the children. We positioned the camera so that it was pointed toward the entrance of the tomb. As far as we knew, no one was inside.From behind a door inside the cave, out stepped the official attendant, waving his arms in the air and shouting at us: “Not now! Not now! Now it is forbidden, because a Muslim is inside, a Follower of the Prophet!” Click! He was too late; my wife had just snapped the camera’s shutter. In spite of our disobedience of his orders, we were thankful to have a good picture that illustrates this part of my narrative. Just as we were putting the camera away, we saw the “Believer of the Prophet” emerge from Lazarus’ Tomb. When he recognized us, he happily hurried out to greet us. It was our good friend Mustafa Bustani. “How fitting and how right it feels that we should meet here!” he said. “On our way home, let’s go through Kafr et Tur, just like we did yesterday.” Turning towards his son, he asked: “And you too?” When he saw Schamah, he respectfully bowed: “And who is this small, lovely child?”With ever-widening glistening eyes, Schamah stood there. Her petite face beamed with pure happiness. Jumping for joy, she stretched out her tiny arms, begging him to lift her up: “My Daddy! My Daddy!” Thrilled to see him, she clapped her hands together and cried out: “Mother told me so! My Mother said it would happen!” Having no idea that this girl was his son’s new friend, the one Thar met just yesterday, Mustafa asked: “Which mother? What did she say?”“On our way to the Grave of Lazarus, Mother told me that the Savior would resurrect you from the dead—just as He brought Lazarus back to life.”“Me?”“Yes, you Daddy!”Mustafa turned toward us: “She believes I’m her father! How strange! Who is this child?”“My name is Schamah, the ‘forgiveness,’ and you’ll find my Mother over there in the house.” Once again holding up her outstretched hands, she pleaded: “Just like you used to, carry me in your arms as we go to her.” His face lost its color. White as a corpse, he retreated a few steps backward. His voice faltered as he asked: “Schamah—the forgiveness?” He directed the next question to his son: “Was this really the small girl from yesterday?”“Yes, it is she,” he nodded.“My word, oh my word! Do you know her father’s name?”Before the boy could answer, Schamah spoke up: “Truly, you are my Father! Your name is Achmed Bustani. Don’t you know me anymore? If not, I can’t help but cry. Lift me up and take me to Mother!”It’s impossible to describe what happened next. Simultaneously, Mustafa Bustani let out a cry and fell to his knees. He stretched out his arms to Schamah and pulled her towards him. Nonstop, he kissed her cheeks as he cried out: “Schamah—Schamah—the forgiveness! Just like he told me in my dream, has it happened? These were his words:‘I will send you my forgiveness— she comes here from the East. Every day, look for her!’ I have done so, and now she has arrived!”Suddenly, Schamah withdrew from his caresses. With both arms, she pushed him away, looking him straight in the eyes as she said this to him: “It’s not true; it’s not so! I like you, but you are not my Daddy. One more time, you must go back into the Tomb in order to be fully brought back to life.”He repeated her request: “Yet one more time back inside the Grave? Yes, I clearly understand. There is still something inside of me that must die. Until then and for the time being, I am your daddy’s brother. Oh dear, dear child of my heart—from now on, you have my love, just as if I were your father.” She smiled when she answered: “If you wish, then I’ll do so. Now, carry me to my Mother!”“First, please tell me something else.”“What?”“Do you know the date when your daddy died?“Oh yes, Mother and I certainly remember that day. I can never forget that date, because she recalls it so often. He died on the fifteenth day of the Month of Adar, one day after the Jewish Holiday of Purim.”Mustafa leaped to his feet. His face took on an indescribable expression: “Did you hear what she just said? The 15thday of Adar! That’s the same day of my dream. He told me that he had died and that he would send me his Schamah, his forgiveness. Allah, Allah! How wonderful all of this has turned out. I honor you. I treasure you. I adore you.”“To Mommy, to Mommy!” pleaded the child. What she saw and heard were all too much for her to understand just now.He gathered Schamah into his arms and lifted her up: “Yes, I’ll take you to your mother. Where will we find her?”Clinging close to my side, Thar was ready to go with them: “At the home of Abd en Nom.”Still full of excitement, his father took almost hesitant steps in the direction of the house—where he soon vanished inside.Thar thoughtfully pondered aloud: “If I may not go inside and hear what is said, I’ll just have to speculate on what’s taking place. Father is right; marvelous things still happen. I myself played a big part in today’s miracle. Without my father knowing, the Donkey Driver and I came up with the plan that involved a note which would eventually lead Schamah to this place—and at this time. Effendi, you and your wife have to agree that all of this could not have turned out any better. Wait for me here! As soon as I put all of this together, I’ll ask you to hear me out.”He then left us. My wife and I went on to visit the ruins where we quietly shared our thoughts, almost as if we were in a church. We were completely alone. The site’s guardian had already gone for the day. The entrance to the Tomb lay open. Oh what thoughts seemed to come forth from that wide-open door. Daylight began to wane. Oh what a pure and clean breath of fresh air drifted down on us from the heights of the Mount of Olives. Inside of me, I heard something—or was it from somewhere outside? Was someone standing behind us? No human presence could compare to this feeling of a powerful force that embraced us as it seemed to call out: “Lazarus, come out!” Yes, nothing is so surreal as the physical association with miracles that seems to connect the dead with the living.From somewhere up above, softly sublime and aerial two-part harmony voices floated down to us—once again, the boys were singing “The Song of Bethany,” recalling how the Savior went to visit His brothers and sisters. Per Thar’s instructions, the boys had climbed behind the ruins and were now repeating the verses they had sung at the Pool of Siloam. It was the song of Christ, the one who caused the blind to see and the dead to live again. As I thought about this song, it almost seemed irreverent and profane to use common words to allude to matters of blindness and death. Such things are deeply rooted in feelings. Herein, I can’t instruct you— I can only tell my story.When the song faded away like an evening vesper from the time of Christ, Thar returned to us. He and his playmates had parted ways, and each had returned home. Once again, his father came out of the house. His sister-in-law and Schamah accompanied him. When I saw their expressions, these biblical words came to mind: “And their faces glistened brilliantly.” Thar saw it too: “What an hour, what a blessed time,” he said.“Adding in the song, who could have arranged all this?” I asked.Pointing to himself with both hands, the boy answered: “I was the one.”“Were you really the one who’s responsible? To me, it seemed as if this was some sort of greeting from your mother.”The widow joined in: “It’s also from my departed husband whose life ended, yet his spirit lives on as his dying wish now comes to fulfillment.”Mustafa Bustani turned to his son: “If all of this truly came about through your mother’s and my brother’s last requests—and not from you—surely you have done more than your share, and you deserve our thanks. Actually, Abd en Nom told us the name of the architect who orchestrated today’s joint-ventures. The compassion which your mother planted in your young soul has born fruit and brought blessings upon us. Schamah, the forgiveness, will be living with us and—““In our house?” Thar quickly asked.“Yes.”“With her mother?”“Yes.”“For how long?’“I hope it will be forever.”Upon hearing that, Thar shouted and leaped higher in the air than he ever had before: “Right away, I must hurry to tell them that they’e coming!”“Whom?”“Why, all of our household: Habakek, Bem, his wife, the coffee grinder, and our cook.”“We still have plenty of time, because my sister-in-law will spend this evening here with Abd en Nom. After all the preparations are in place to welcome them with a festival, we’ll pick them up tomorrow.” With a second joyful leap, Thar cheered: “Their reception will be wildly festive! May I invite my Lions and my Elephants?” From the look on Mustafa’s face, he didn’t approve. When my wife waved her appeal to him, he gave in: “Yes, invite them.”“The Hippos too?”“Yes.”“And the Whales?”“Yes, they can also come. They can sit in the backyard and be entertained there—but quietly. Before they leave this evening, please have them sing “The Song of Bethany.”“Halleluja! My dearest and loving father, thank you. I’ll hurry to tell them right away!”Mustafa Bustani tried to hold him back: “Why this very minute?”“Because I still have time to catch up with them. They left just a short while ago.” He pulled away, quickly shook Schamah’s little hand, and sprang to his feet.As she adoringly watched the boy, Schamah asked: “Will I be staying with him?”“Yes, you will,” her mother answered. From now on, you two will be together.”“I too want it to be so. I’m very glad about that, because I love him so—such heroes need someone to keep an eye on them. But for now, I’m tired from the long journey. May I soon go to sleep?”Schamah’s desire to sleep now gave us a timely reason to say “Good night” as well. When we also said “Auf Wiedersehen,” truly we could eagerly look forward to seeing everyone tomorrow. One more time before nightfall, mother and daughter went to Lazarus’ Tomb as they performed a very personal duty which the Grave now seemed to give way to.My wife, Mustafa Bustani, and I departed too, climbing the steep and familiar path to Bethpage and on towards Kafr et Tur. When we reached the height’s Bread-bush of Jonathan, we paused for awhile. Now in the grasp of the distant horizon, the sun sank, then vanished. With its last beams of light, the sun embraced the earth’s most holy city. Unless you yourself see and feel this marvelous sight that Jerusalem and The Mount of Olives offer at sunset, I can not describe its wondrous beauty. We stood there for a long time, completely absorbed in this vista.Mustafa Bustani took a deep breath before he spoke: “Compared to this same time yesterday, it’s even more beautiful, a thousand times lovelier. You know, this kind of deep appreciation comes from inside of us. I’m a completely different man than I was yesterday—I feel and I see things in an entirely better light. There is a world of difference between yesterday and today. I know that you don’t expect me to talk for hours about events and my personal feelings. It’s “OK” with you when I feel the need to be silent. Please, go on without me. Leave me here, alone with my thoughts and alone with the brother who forgave me today—even though I once disowned him.
He returned his notebook to its vest pocket and continued speaking: “You say that my young girl friend is worse than a dog. A true hero would not say such a thing. By contrast, I’m a hero, I’m civil, and I oppose you. I’ll fight with you, but not on your terms—all of you against only me. Instead, we’ll follow the custom we practice in Jerusalem—one on one. You will find yourselves transformed into Lions, Elephants, Hippos, and Whales. From among you, select the boldest Lion, the most powerful Elephant, the strongest Hippo, and the largest Whale. I will fight all four beasts. When I defeat all four of your fighters, I’ll receive—“
“My Canterbury-bells,” Schamah called out. Her small hand raised the flowers upward.
“Yes, your bluebell flowers,” Thar chimed in. “Palestinian Hebronites, sit down in front of her and me, and I’ll explain to you what all of this has to do with Lions, Elephants, Hippos, and Whales.
With pleasure, they immediately obeyed him. For a few moments, they scurried helter-skelter, crawling over and under each other like crazed insects. A deep silence then took over, broken only by the boy’s clarifying voice. When they all grasped the picture that he was describing, they began to cheer loudly. A thing like this had never happened before. Everyone pressed forward, wanting to be chosen as one of the beasts. In the midst of these would-be-juggernauts who strove for revenge, there sat Schamah, “Forgiveness.” Without any fear of harm, she kept a peaceful smile on her loveable face. Curiously enough, the adult men were just as excited as the boys. They all flocked around. The Hebron men joined their boys in the process of selecting and appointing. They marked out the fight-arena. Abdullah, who was the Secretary of State for the Palestinian Sheik of Balad, even took it upon himself to appoint security police as part of the rules for this fight. What more can be said about hate and disputes among religious people.
The field for fighting formed four corners: Lions to the north, Hippos to the south, Elephants to the east, and Whales were confined to the west. Schamah sat on the southern side of her throne, where she could easily keep her eyes on everything. Guewerdschina the mule served as her throne, the most protected place that remained on that site. Musicians sat in the corner: a jar-drum, a tambourine, trumpets, and a fipple flute. If Thar were wrestled to the ground, they were supposed to make the loudest possible clamor. With the victory never tipping to their side, the Hebronite musicians had no chance to play their instruments.
They had chosen their strongest athletes. The competition’s rules were very simple: the loser would be whoever was thrown to the ground in the first three beast- matches. The battle of the Whales would take place in the fountain. The winner had to dunk his opponent, then publicly spew a mouth full of water in his face. Before the matches began, the Four Heroes of Hebron were asked whether they wanted to withdraw their names from the competition. “For no amount of money!” they replied.
Secretary of State Abdullah then gave the signal for the battle of the Lions to begin. The Lion of Hebron stepped forward. He was the same tall, robust boy who first gave a speech. When he saw all eyes turn towards him, his face took on an overly confident expression.
Thar stood beside us: “Watch carefully! See how quickly this happens. The main thing is to give your enemy no time to think.” He then stepped into the ring, bowed to Schamah, and positioned himself squarely in front of his foe. No doubt he had learned this knightly behavior from hearing some legend, or from some fairy tale. Abdullah now clapped his hands three times. In the blink of an eye, it happened. When his opponent hesitated, Thar lunged. He let him come quite close, then sprang to the side as he clenched the boy from behind and completely buckled him under. Just as he had wrestled old Eppstein down to the ground, he firmly held the young Hebron Lion as he called out to the musicians: “Now you can sound your notes of triumph for him!” Of course, they were silent. The loser slowly stood up; with his head lowered, he slinked away.
Next came the Battle of the Elephants. The opponent was a cumbersome guy who seemed to have twice the strength as our boy possessed. With a smile, Thar gave a nod to us. That was a good sign. He had told us how those in the Elephant Club had to do their trampling in unison. First here, then suddenly over there, he didn’t simply take the kid down—he bounced him to the ground. When Abdullah gave the signal, Thar powerfully launched forward, swung himself upward, and simply sprang over that heap of a foe. In an instant, he put his knees upon the boy and called out to the musicians: “Loudly, loudly, now play your song of triumph for him!” All around, stillness reigned.
Only Secretary of State Abdullah angrily called out: “Oh my, two are already down. This is not acceptable. Let our Hippo come forth, and he will stomp him into the ground. The Hippo was a short, thick rascal who was not endowed with muscles, just a lot of fat. Fearlessly, he rolled his eyes; he had good courage. As the time drew nearer for the start of the match, he put his head down like a runner. Letting out a colossal hoo-ha, the Hebron Monster then lay down on the ground and stretched his legs into the air. He held his head with both hands and bellowed as if someone were planning to roast him on a grill. Thar just stood there erect; with a laugh, he teased the musicians: “You guys don’t need to play your drums nor blow your horns, because he’s making his own music.”
Now the giants of the ocean would show what they could do. The former four sides of the ring now collapsed. Everyone headed to the deep well, wherein the final judgment was supposed to take place. Thar was the first to arrive at the cistern; he stood ready to descend into the water. The Hebronites came less quickly. Slowest of them all were the Whales. The very last one to arrive was the guy that was supposed to fight with Thar. With a very embarrassed look on his face, he came to the brink of the well, then looked away as he said: “I don’t want this job anymore!” Abdullah responded: “You’ve already accepted the position, so you must go through with it!” As the boy turned and hurried away, he called out: “Not for any amount of money! I’m leaving!”
“So, we must choose someone else!” said Abdullah. From out of the throats of the remaining Whales, this chorus rang out: “You couldn’t pay me enough money! I’m going—I’m leaving—I’m out of here!” One after another, they disappeared, until there were no more to be seen—except one in the distance. Without saying “adieu,” the Lions followed those who had already left. In much the same way, the Hippos and the musicians made the same kind of exit. Most of the Elephants ambled off in single file, but some left in twos and threes. Without saying a word or grudgingly waving good-bye, the adults finally rode away.
Thar turned towards Schamah: “Now do you believe that I’m a hero?” She handed him the Canterbury-bells: “From the very beginning, I believed you. You’ve won, so here are your flowers.” He accepted the prize, then he gave the bouquet to my wife, asking her to take care of them; she could do this better than he would.
In the distance, we now saw another considerably large procession, and it looked like it was coming our way. With their sharply trained eyes, our adversaries had already seen this approaching caravan. For that reason, they hurried away. They didn’t want their disgrace to be discovered by the incoming crowd. We too no longer had a reason to stay, because the time was drawing nearer for us to move on and keep our appointment to meet Mustafa Bustani. Schamah’s mother said that she and her daughter were headed towards The Oak of Abraham; from there, they wanted to travel to the Russian Hospice and spend the night. The Arabic widow had heard that penniless pilgrims could stay there free-of-charge. Our friendly Donkey Driver declared that the mother and daughter didn’t have to walk that distance; since his return to the city would be the same route that they were traveling, they could ride with him.
When Thar heard this, he quietly asked me: “Effendi, do you have a 20 franc coin? Please, give it to me, but don’t let anyone see it.” I suspected why he wanted the money, so I said “Yes,” and secretly slipped him the coin. Schamah and her mother climbed upon one of the mules, and the driver rode upon another. Thar vaulted onto the back of Guewerdschina and said: “I’m riding with you. Once we reach the Oak, I’ll walk back. Before my father arrives, I’ll be there.”
He tugged the dove’s tail high into the air—she let out a loud hee-haw and shot down the road. My wife gave the widow our name and our address in Jerusalem and invited her to make every effort to visit us there. We would genuinely and whole-heartedly like to see her and her young daughter. She promised that she would assuredly do her best to visit us. So giving her word, she said good-bye as they rode away and tried to catch up with Thar. My wife and I then took a short walk on the surrounding area, making sure that we avoided any further encounters.
When we reached the rendezvous, Thar was already waiting for us: “They’re so very poor. They only know that I was concerned about them and that I wanted to accompany them to the Hospice.”
“Do they know your name?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“And your father’s name?”
“No. You may have heard that the Prophet tells us this: ‘Whoever gives to the poor should give everything—only not in the name of his father.’ Anyway, I’ll see them again in Jerusalem. You can count on that.”
Soon thereafter, Mustafa Bustani arrived with the carriage. He was very glad to hear that the local citizens did not harm us nor his son. He shared the fact that there had been several clashes between Muslims and Jews. In light of the fact that he personally was so angry about the rude reception from his business colleague, he had even refused to share a meal with the man. Now, he was hungry. As soon as we climbed in and were once again moving, we brought out the food that we had packed earlier. So, our on-the-go evening meal’s setting was atop four rolling wheels.
On the return home, nothing happened that would be important enough to retell. When we reached the Hebron Valley, we once again stopped at the café. This time in a much more measured manner, the innkeeper stepped out and asked for our orders. Mustafa Bustani spoke up: “Five cups of coffee!” The drinks were served and sipped. I then pulled out my money pouch: “How much for the five?”
“Exactly one half franc,” he answered.
“And the fifteen from forenoon?”
“One and a half francs.”
“So, altogether for the twenty?”
“Two francs.”
I gave him only two francs—not a fraction of a Turkish piaster more: “Here! Paid in full!” He quickly gripped the money and slipped it into his pocket. This time, he bowed deeply as he sincerely said: “Effendi, I thank you. You are fair as well as wise. May your journey home be a blessed one.”
The trip was indeed a blessed one. Mustafa was angry about the fanaticism of his fellow believers; during the entire time, he had no objection to his son’s crush on the small Christian girl. When we reached Bethlehem, he took a deep breath and said: “A lot of love and much goodness has come out of this small city, much more than any other large and famous pilgrimage places. Today, I was rightly and starkly reminded of my own zealot’s mind-set. What have you ever done to the people of Hebron? Not a thing! Still, they transgressed against you. Such unkindness and injustice! What did my own brother do to me? Nothing. Yet, I banished him, my dear brother. I was much more unloving and far more unjust than the Canaanites of Hebron. Now that evening is finally here, I can tell you that thoughts of him were with me throughout the entire afternoon.
“What was his name?” my wife asked.
“Achmed Bustani. As you heard me say, we still kept the same family name. I now have no greater wish than that he is still alive and that he will find me!”
“Would you really divide your wealth with them?”
“Of course, immediately! It’s not only because I promised my dying wife that I would do so—for me, it’s a personal necessity. Ever since that dream that I told you about, I’ve had a very strange feeling about something more that I now must be concerned about as we make our way home. When we were outside of Abraham’s Well, it seemed as if some invisible thing accompanied you when you climbed into the carriage—something that took hold of me and now doesn’t want to release me again. Perhaps it’s nothing more than realizing the wrongs that need to be righted. Yet in a strange sense, I’m not anxious; instead, it makes me feel much more at ease. There’s a feeling of contentment. It burrows itself into me—not to torment, but rather to put me at ease. Are you going to laugh at me when I tell you something which you yourselves can not comprehend?”
“To laugh would not even occur to us!” I answered. “Be confident of that!”
“I have the feeling that today I shall again dream of my brother. Isn’t that funny?”
“By no means.”
“So, you believe that this is possible?”
“Certainly.”
“Secretively, what do you think?”
“Oh no! All too often, we men make the mistake of treating completely natural things as if they were mystical. In the course of today’s events, the picture of your brother has been shoved into your mind’s consciousness. Until now, you have held all of this tightly inside of you, and it’s become even more deeply embedded. Hence, it’s no wonder, and indeed very understandable, that you would dream about him as you preoccupy yourself with your return home. Whenever we perceive something as wonderful, be certain that in spite of all our experiences, we misguidedly label the obvious things in nature as inconceivably miraculous.”
As we now rolled on towards Rachel’s Tomb and to the Prophet Elijah’s memorial, we soon arrived in Jerusalem—at precisely the moment when nightfall tenderly entered the Holy City. Whatever was intended for me to learn in Hebron, I hadn’t yet grasped it. As we would plainly see tomorrow, this here-to-fore unknown would turn out to be quite different and infinitely better. So it seems that life always takes care of things. If we are somehow denied some external, material wish, or if an unexpected grief gets in the way of the joy we were hoping for, our ignorance does not hesitate to quarrel with destiny. That which we were denied on the outside may now become an inner victory. Although this last truth may not be apparent if we oppose it like some kind of enemy, be quite certain that it still knocks on our door. Usually afterwards, we realize that we have gained life’s less-valued, quite inexpensive gifts that we so very much long for. Concerning the saddle, this was also true. I was sure about my desire for it, but my wish to own it had to rely upon earlier circumstances that were directed otherwise. Looking back on those past events, we are most often too short-sighted and impatient to grasp the meaning of these things.
The next morning, we had barely risen and sat down to drink some coffee, when we heard a knock on our door. Who stepped in? It was Thar. European style, he stretched out his hand and greeted us: “Good morning!” We gave him our thanks and approvingly saw how he was fully dressed in fresh, spotlessly pure white clothes. “You are probably surprised, right?” he said. “The colors are no longer stylish. Our lady here first spoke about heroism that is authentic and doesn’t need to be painted up. Since then, I’ve wanted to be a real hero—no artificial coloring. Secondly, you also heard how my new girlfriend Schamah yelled out ‘Phooey!’ when I wanted to paint my body with bold blue, green, red and yellow colors. What she said to me is worth more than past advice you have offered. I’ve definitely decided, that in the future, I’ll lay aside the superficial paint and only deal with things that don’t need artificial coloring. By the way, I’m only here on account of Schamah. If she and I are permitted to drink coffee, why then are your cups bigger than ours?”
He got what he wanted, so he sat down and continued to talk: “Next, I want you to know that as long as Schamah stays in Jerusalem, I’m withdrawing from all four clubs: the Lions, the Elephants, the Hippos, and the Whales. For this mission, I’ve now dressed in white in order to inform each of the clubs that I may no longer associate with beasts—at least for the time being. Schamah is so polite, and if I’m not nice too, then I’ll feel ashamed of myself. She said ‘Phooey!’ much too readily. Well then, you must be aware of the fact that she’s coming to Jerusalem today.”
“How do you know this?” I asked.
“It is part of the conspiracy.”
“So, there is a plot?”
In all seriousness, he nodded and said “Yes.”
“Who is doing the plotting?”
“I am.”
“With whom?”
“With the Donkey Driver.”
“ As of yesterday?”
“Yes. For that secret plan, I needed the twenty francs from you. Here is the
money that I borrowed. Thank you.” He took two golden ten franc coins out of his pocket and laid them on the table. However, I didn’t pick them up—instead, I said: “Before I accept the money, I have to know what it was for. Instead of loaning you the money, I gave it to you.”
In earnest, he said: “You’re mistaken! I don’t beg; I only borrow. Schamah and her mother are poor, very poor. At times, they don’t have enough to eat. Without asking anyone, I came to this conclusion. In contrast, I’m rich, and I’m her friend. Thus, without their knowing, I took care of their room and board at the Hospice. Today, the Donkey Driver is bringing them to Jerusalem—of course, on better animals than they rode yesterday. They still do not know that it was I who paid for these things. When they arrive here, they won’t go into the city. Instead, they’ll veer to the right, riding into the Valley of Hinnom, then up the Mount of Olives towards Bethany. At that point, they’ll meet my friend Abd en Nom.
“Who is Abd en Nom?”
“He is the father of both the greatest Whale in our club and the heaviest Hippo that ever was. He is a host to pilgrims. At the moment, his house is completely empty, so Schamah and her mother have more room than they really need. They’ll also have meals there. Of course, Schamah believes that all of this was because the Hospice recommended them. Abd en Nom likes me. I’ll be going with him as we make the preparations.”
“And you are paying for all of this?”
“Yes, but I ask you not to reveal this to anyone. Schamah and her mother must never know this secret.”
“Does your father know?
“No.”
“My dear boy, you know this will cost a lot of money!”
He happily laughed as he replied: “I have it.”
“From whom?”
As he answered my question, Thar quickly became serious again: “From Mother—before she died. She loaned me the money, and every month, I receive the interest. Since Father is the trustee of her estate, he gives me the money. I’m not permitted to hold onto the money. I’m required to spend it—not on myself, but for poor, old, sick people who find themselves in need. That’s the way Mother wanted it, so Father has to allow me to spend it how I wish. He may only counsel me if I use the money in a way that differs from Mother’s instructions. That has never happened, because I loved my Mother. With every piaster that I spend, I think about how she would do the same or otherwise. To be truthful, before I borrowed the money from you, I first had to think about what my Mother would say. Before I went to sleep that night, I asked myself that question. As I awoke early this morning, I knew in my heart that she is in complete agreement—and that she’s pleased about Schamah and her mother. Effendi, will you now take back the money you loaned me?”
“Yes,” I answered and slipped the coins into my pocket. In recognition of his soul’s goodness, my wife poured him a second cup of coffee. He took a sip, then spoke further: “Seriously, I want to look after her. I would like to be her guide to all of the holy sites, including Bethlehem and anywhere else she wants to visit. Do you know why I would do this?”
“Out of compassion,” my wife said.
“Yes, I too first thought of this. Yet when I reflected on my heart’s decision, just as I always do when I think of my Mother, it wasn’t a feeling of sympathy. Rather, there was something else. Right now, I’m not sure what to call it, because I’ve never felt this way before. It’s almost like a duty, and yet again, it may be more like something that I very much enjoy doing. Just as you witnessed yesterday, I would do battle with the whole world if it meant protecting Schamah and her mother. And yet, that is much, much too little; that’s a long, long way from the right thing to do. I still want to think about this some more. When I’ve found the answer, I’ll tell you. Now, may I leave you again? There’s something very necessary that I must do. Remember what I said about going to the Lions, to the Elephants, to the Hippos, to the Whales, and to Abd en Nom! Father must know nothing about all of this.”
“Does he know that you went to visit us?”
“I don’t intend to tell him. As you know, he has such an extraordinary affection for you; if he learned that I planned to come here, you would be stuck with him for the entire day. Well then, may Allah protect you; I’m going now.” He finished his cup of coffee, shook our hands, opened the door, went outside, and stood still. For a moment, he pondered, came inside again, then firmly closed the door behind him. It seemed as if he had some great secret that he wanted to entrust to us: “I simply must ask you a question. Don’t you find this ridiculous? In a man’s own country, he is called “The Chosen One.”
I tried to help him with the answer: “How did you arrive at this question?”
“In my hours of vanity, I have taken pride in this designation; but seriously, this title actually irritates me.”
“So, be angry!” said my wife. “Your irritation is more justified than any pleasure from that title.” As he meditated on that advice, he looked at her. Then he aimed his eyes on me, thoughtfully nodding: “ I put a great deal of stock into what your wife has said. Perhaps you don’t? Up to this point, she has always come up with just the right words. Now, I’m really going to do it! May Allah protect you!”
Hardly ten minutes after he left us, there was a knock on the door. Who was it? His father. He asked us to forgive him for disturbing us at such an inconvenient hour. Something had happened which he absolutely had to share with us. “Did you dream something?” I asked him.
“Yes, how did you know that?”
“No, I didn’t know for sure—I simply had a hunch.”
“You guessed correctly. Just think! In my dream, it was morning as I got out of bed and came into my living room. There sat my brother, as real as I am standing here. He smiled at me and said: ‘I have come, and I want to see if I should remain.’ In pure joy, I woke up. Now tell me, is that a phenomenon, or not?”
“A miracle? No, to me it is something more like a completely natural occurrence.”
“After our conversation yesterday, I too felt comfortable about all of this. Yet in today’s awakening, instantly after the dream, a thought came to me—almost as if this thought itself were to be the continuation of the dream. Do you know what my brother said to me in the previous dream I described to you?”
“That he would send you a sign of his forgiveness.”
“Now then, do you recall the name of the child whom you met yesterday, the girl whom my son constantly talks about?”
“Schamah, the Forgiveness!”
My wife swiftly joined in: “Yes, that’s true! That’s exactly right! It might be—“
Imitating Old Jew Eppstein, I quickly interrupted: “Pssst! Still! Pssst! Don’t try to force some kind of mystery from all this. Although ‘Schamah’ means ‘forgiveness,’ at the same time, it’s also a girl’s name.” Mustafa interjected: “But as Thar told me, the girl’s mother comes from the region of Al Karak, and that place is in East Jordan, where my brother went.” In order to divert him from this subject, I asked him: “So, did you and Thar talk about her today?”
“It was yesterday evening that we talked. Today, he was up early, but he said practically nothing. Whenever his thoughts are focused on his mother, he acts this way. It always keeps him preoccupied as he looks for some kind of gift he can give or a good deed that he can perform for someone. Off he went without having anything to eat or drink for breakfast.
“Does he know that you are here with us?”
“I don’t think so. If he knew that he could visit you as often as he wanted, he would stay beside you for the entire day. I must confess that his heart dearly loves both of you. Ever since yesterday, I’ve seen changes in him. The young girl seems to have made an impression on him, and that baffles me.”
“Surely such a riddle is not a bad one?”
“Oh no, it’s especially very pleasant and welcome. Compared to ordinary times, I too have changed. Yesterday was a festival; yet for me, it’s as if the celebration is just now happening. I feel the same joy that I felt in my boyhood—when something long-desired finally promises to come true. Isn’t that strange? Isn’t that laughable?”
“It’s not strange to me, and in no way is it absurd. Our souls are linked to an entirely different world than our bodies. This connection is so deeply intimate, that no reasonably sane man would ever doubt what we call our ‘inner voices.’ Did your dream clearly focus on your brother? Or was it merely a figure which you mistook for him?”
“Truly and clearly, it was so certain and distinct, that even in the dream I marveled at the joy I felt in seeing him appear precisely as he looked earlier. We were so extraordinarily similar that people often would mistake one for the other. We had fun with that, so he would often enhance that relationship by wearing the same clothes and by growing a beard just like mine. On the inside, we were very different. He was always tender , pliable, and prone to be at peace. By contrast, I was insensitive, unsympathetic, and always ready to play the role of lord and master. In the end, that separated us. However, today—.” Something inside him stopped. He walked to the window, gazed outside and reconciled himself to what would come: “There lies the road to Bab en Nebi Daud, and that way goes to Bab el Amud. For me, it’s the same, whichever path I take. They both lead me around the city and towards the Mount of Olives where I will wait to learn when and how the ‘forgiveness” will come to me. Today, I am in suspense, and I can’t relax. I’m going!”
He left, and I openly confess that a portion of his suspense stayed there with us. If I were to try to attach an artificial angle on his narration, one which differed from the view he had just shared with us, then I would have to rearrange the tale itself. The conclusion would be otherwise, even giving his story an extra chapter of its own. For me, it all seemed to follow a natural course of events, which was just as interesting as any literary embellishment that his son Thar would have added. So, I’ll follow the examples from our brave boy Thar and simply report the plain, unvarnished facts. As long as Schamah dwelt among us, she renounced any synthetic coloring of green nor blue, neither yellow nor red.
That morning, we visited the Graves of the Kings and a couple of other nearby sites. In the afternoon, we wanted to go to Ain Kahrim,one of my favorite places. However, we could not undertake this outing. Just as we were preparing to eat our lunch, there was a third knocking at our door. Who appeared? Schamah and her mother. We were genuinely glad to see them, and we welcomed their noontime visit. Without hesitation, we invited them to eat with us. The mother was a loving, good-natured, and noble-minded woman. She had an inner pride that stemmed from her heart’s solemn education. In spite of her humility, she spoke with a good deal of satisfaction about her Azerbeijan roots and the fact that she did not come from Syria. So, as far back as tradition stretched, her people had always been Christians. Due to her father’s beliefs, he was oppressed and died as a poor army officer in Al Karah. Her husband was also very poor, but he was blessed with all of the virtues that are necessary to merit the attention and the love of all mankind. His name was Achmed Bustani, and he died from a sickness of the heart, a yearning that never stopped gnawing at him—until death delivered him from that ceaseless longing.
Achmed Bustani! Surely, you can imagine the impact this name had on us. Just think—the brother of our friend. As soon as the widow made this disclosure, both women intuitively knew that they had been drawn to each other—both outwardly and inwardly, sensing a bond of confidentiality between them. In spite of the few short lines that I now use to report this surprise, naturally, it took several hours for us to grasp what we had just learned. During the time she talked with us, her heart’s restrained agony peered out from her moist, poignant eyes. Not wanting to increase her sadness by asking insensitive questions, it was especially hard for us to repress our normal curiosity about the details.
Quite simply, Achmed Bustani died of homesickness. At most, his love for his wife and child delayed his death, but nothing could prevent his dying. Knowing the inherent importance of very close family relationships among Semitic people, it cost him his life when he could not bear the thought of his father and his entire family banishing him and forever refusing to give him their support. Practically moments from death, he asked his wife to promise him that she and Schamah would make a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. If possible, she was to find his brother and seek reconciliation with him.
Originally, she had only wanted to hike from Abraham’s Oak to Bethlehem. Her plans changed at the Hospice, where she received a slip of paper from an anonymous benefactor in Bethany, a village on Jerusalem’s eastern slope of Olivet. The note assured them of free room and board in the Good Samaritan’s house. At the same time, he had arranged for our Donkey Driver to take them to Jerusalem. From there, someone would pick them up and accompany them—all free of charge. It pleased her to recall the kindness of this man’s heart. Likewise, she was thankful for the humanitarian aid they received in the Russian Hospice that stood near Abraham’s Oak. They never suspected the truth, that our “Hero of the Blood Feud” was the one to whom they owed their thanks.
They did not go into the accursed Valley of Hinnom where the god Moloch was once worshipped. Nor did they ride straight to the house of their anonymous benefactor. They first wanted to ask if we thought it was “OK” for two lonely, Christian pilgrims to accept this man’s invitation to stay in his home. We gave them as much information as we could and offered to accompany them to their host’s house, for we too wanted to meet this man. They gratefully accepted our offer. Just as we were ready to depart, there was a fourth knock at our door—in stepped our lad Thar.
He was completely out of breath. When he saw Schamah and her mother, he excitedly called out: “So, what the Donkey Driver told me is true! Instead of riding straight to your host’s house, you first stopped off here. But why are you staying here longer? Why didn’t you travel directly towards Bethany, following the Hinnom Valley, just like I told the Donkey Driver to do?” He was coming close to revealing his other identity. I placed my hand on his shirt collar and brought him into the adjoining room: “I believe it’s best that Schamah and her mother don’t know that you and the Donkey Driver secretly instigated this part of their visit to Jerusalem. Are you now ready to tell everything?”
He seemed startled: “Allah, Allah! You’re right—that was dumb of me! Still, put yourself in my shoes, Effendi. There I was with all of my Lions, Elephants, Hippos, and Whales, standing near the Pool of Siloam as we waited for Schamah. We were all set to provide a festive, multi-stage-parade as we escorted her to Bethany—“
“With the Hippos and Elephants?”
“Yes, of course!” he nodded. “I called them all together, because I wanted them to help me welcome my new friend with a grand reception. They all wore their best costumes. We had decorated the entire neighborhood with flowers. We even took branches and swept the streets of the parade route. Upon her arrival, we had all planned to bow at the same time. Next, Firdusi was going to recite a poem. Thereafter, it would be my turn to give a good speech in her honor. Following this, there would be more bows, along with a song that included both singing and blowing our horns. Busiri’s poem would come next. Finally, there would be a triumphant bellowing ‘Huzzah!’ At this point, our festive procession would begin to move—half of us ahead and half trailing. I would be riding between Schamah and her mother, leading both of their donkeys.”
I laughed as I exclaimed, “Yes, you planned a delightful surprise!”
“You’re right. Now, imagine how we waited for hours, yet no one came. When Schamah and her mother separated from the Donkey Driver and rode here to your door instead of taking the pre-arranged route, we agreed to modify our plan. Since this thought came to the Driver later on, it was just a few minutes ago that I realized how I might find them waiting here at your place. I hurried here to urge you to come right away—I don’t want my Lions and Whales to lose patience!”
It made me sad to know that I had to dampen his enthusiasm, but I couldn’t do otherwise—I had to follow through. I shared my reasons regarding why such a grand greeting would be impossible. Think. This would not befit a Christian pilgrim whose inner nature is humble and modest. Likewise, consider her reaction to hearing Islamic poems and the bellowing whoops of your triumphant reception.
He understood enough to see my point of view: “Good, Effendi. So, let’s omit those things, but do this instead. Do you know “The Song of Bethany,” telling how Jesus came to visit his siblings?”
“No.”
“Alright, you’ll soon hear that song. Are you now planning to take the road towards the Hinnom Valley and the Pool of Siloam?”
“Yes, my wife will likely take a photograph there.”
“Good, that works. Please travel slowly. As for me, I’ll rush on ahead of you.”
I wanted to admonish him not to do anything inappropriate, but he waved me off as he hurriedly left in a cloud of dust. We followed him; and just as I thought, my wife reminded me to bring along the camera. She wanted to take a few pictures at the Pool of Siloam and a couple of photos in Bethany.
The purpose of this story is not to describe Jerusalem and its surroundings. For that, I’ll let the path of our journey speak for itself. My wife’s photographs clearly show the location and the appearance of the Pool of Siloam. In that photo, I’m not dressed like an Arab; instead, I’m wearing European clothes and a safari hat on my head. This partially explains the picture. According toThe Book of John, Chapter 9: 7, it was here that Christ healed the man who was born blind.
When we arrived, we saw that no one else was there. I was glad about that. The solitude and stillness matched the moods that we found ourselves in. As we rode along, we limited ourselves to earnest conversations. Little Schamah acted like a lovely inner beam of sunshine that cast its light on our serious-minded subjects. The widow focused on the goal of her journey. One ceaseless, important question quaked inside of her: “Would her pilgrimage be favorably fulfilled, or not?” As for us and what we already knew, we eagerly held onto our high expectations that the moment of decision would soon come.
My wife wanted to have her picture taken with Schamah, but today the child did not trust the dark, dangling three-dimensional camera—so, she declined. I alone would have my picture taken beside the Pool. After the camera clicked and before we left the site, she took one last, close look, as if to memorize this part of our trip. Suddenly, the boys surprised us from the right and to the left, both from above and below, practically from all sides and from all heights where they had hidden themselves behind the rocks. They were singing a peculiar, two-part song in the Arabic language. It was “The Song of Bethany,” when Jesus was on his way to visit brothers and sisters, stopping along the way to heal the sick at the Pool of Siloam. Picture our inner moods and the outer backdrop of the scenery; all of this seemed to be waiting for us. Here too, we were completely amazed when we heard the profoundly deep and strangely stirring “Song of Christ.” That song left a lasting impression on us, one that almost brought us to our knees as we intently listened. Neither breath nor foot moved. The singers remained concealed in their hiding-places—they had a good stage director. From this moment on, I never doubted that our lad had been born with a natural talent for art.
From the Pool, we traveled toward Cedron, the brook that flows between Jerusalem and the Mount of Olives. We also wanted to see the so-called upper bridge at Gethsemane. On our way to Bethany, we passed by the Jewish burial grounds. Just outside the village, Thar stood all alone. He was waiting for our arrival, so he greeted us. Very softly, he asked me this question: “Have you seen them?”
“Whom?”
“The singers. They anticipated the time it would take for you to make the trip to Gethsemane, all in order to be here to sing for you once more. Come! I’ll lead you to Abd en Nom; you’ll want to see the living quarters that we’ve already reserved for Schamah. After that, we’ll go to Lazarus’ Tomb, and there you can take a photograph.
He took Schamah by the hand as they went on ahead of us. Abd en Nom’s house was located near the site of Lazarus’ Grave. The owner of the house stepped outside, bowing respectfully low as he greeted us. His two sons were there, both of whom we recognized from Thar’s description of them: “the largest Whale that we have and the strongest Hippo that ever was.” Both of them gave us an inspiring impression that they were quite friendly. The little guest house certainly appeared to be clean and cozy. It looked as if the guests would be very satisfied with their accommodations here. When we stepped inside, we saw that we had guessed correctly. Regarding the two rooms prepared for Schamah and her mother, the furnishings were so perfectly arranged that nothing more could be wished for. Besides all this, the rooms were decorated with flowers and palm branches that no doubt were part of the festive parade that Thar had planned.
Secretively, the lad gave me this explanation: “Since I had to hurry so much, everything here had to be put in place very quickly.”
“Well now, where did you find all of the heroes?”
“Right away, you’ll hear them.” With these words, he went to the door and motioned to someone outside. Immediately, there arose a triumphant whoop that was at least fifty to sixty voices strong. The pitch and tone of this cheer were so shocking and unnatural, that all of this noise could not have come from real lions, elephants, hippos, and whales. “May Allah have mercy on you!” I called out. “That’s enough. Please stop!”
When he beckoned with his hand, everything quieted down. Still, we couldn’t see where these “beasts” were hidden away. “That completes it,” he said. “Just one last time, I had to let them blare. Now they’ve had their way, so they won’t do it again. Well now, do we want to visit Lazarus’ Grave where you can take some photos?”
We all agreed to go, because the sun was already beginning to sink; if we waited any longer, we wouldn’t have enough daylight for a good picture. Thar and Schamah ran on ahead, but her mother asked to stay behind. Before it grew dark, she wanted to be sure that their rooms were ready for night time. Her request was such a natural one, that we fully understood her wish to remain at the house. So we went on without her and soon caught up with the children. We positioned the camera so that it was pointed toward the entrance of the tomb. As far as we knew, no one was inside.
From behind a door inside the cave, out stepped the official attendant, waving his arms in the air and shouting at us: “Not now! Not now! Now it is forbidden, because a Muslim is inside, a Follower of the Prophet!” Click! He was too late; my wife had just snapped the camera’s shutter. In spite of our disobedience of his orders, we were thankful to have a good picture that illustrates this part of my narrative. Just as we were putting the camera away, we saw the “Believer of the Prophet” emerge from Lazarus’ Tomb. When he recognized us, he happily hurried out to greet us. It was our good friend Mustafa Bustani. “How fitting and how right it feels that we should meet here!” he said. “On our way home, let’s go through Kafr et Tur, just like we did yesterday.” Turning towards his son, he asked: “And you too?” When he saw Schamah, he respectfully bowed: “And who is this small, lovely child?”
With ever-widening glistening eyes, Schamah stood there. Her petite face beamed with pure happiness. Jumping for joy, she stretched out her tiny arms, begging him to lift her up: “My Daddy! My Daddy!” Thrilled to see him, she clapped her hands together and cried out: “Mother told me so! My Mother said it would happen!” Having no idea that this girl was his son’s new friend, the one Thar met just yesterday, Mustafa asked: “Which mother? What did she say?”
“On our way to the Grave of Lazarus, Mother told me that the Savior would resurrect you from the dead—just as He brought Lazarus back to life.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you Daddy!”
Mustafa turned toward us: “She believes I’m her father! How strange! Who is this child?”
“My name is Schamah, the ‘forgiveness,’ and you’ll find my Mother over there in the house.” Once again holding up her outstretched hands, she pleaded: “Just like you used to, carry me in your arms as we go to her.” His face lost its color. White as a corpse, he retreated a few steps backward. His voice faltered as he asked: “Schamah—the forgiveness?” He directed the next question to his son: “Was this really the small girl from yesterday?”
“Yes, it is she,” he nodded.
“My word, oh my word! Do you know her father’s name?”
Before the boy could answer, Schamah spoke up: “Truly, you are my Father! Your name is Achmed Bustani. Don’t you know me anymore? If not, I can’t help but cry. Lift me up and take me to Mother!”
It’s impossible to describe what happened next. Simultaneously, Mustafa Bustani let out a cry and fell to his knees. He stretched out his arms to Schamah and pulled her towards him. Nonstop, he kissed her cheeks as he cried out: “Schamah—Schamah—the forgiveness! Just like he told me in my dream, has it happened? These were his words:
‘I will send you my forgiveness— she comes here from the East. Every day, look for her!’ I have done so, and now she has arrived!”
Suddenly, Schamah withdrew from his caresses. With both arms, she pushed him away, looking him straight in the eyes as she said this to him: “It’s not true; it’s not so! I like you, but you are not my Daddy. One more time, you must go back into the Tomb in order to be fully brought back to life.”
He repeated her request: “Yet one more time back inside the Grave? Yes, I clearly understand. There is still something inside of me that must die. Until then and for the time being, I am your daddy’s brother. Oh dear, dear child of my heart—from now on, you have my love, just as if I were your father.” She smiled when she answered: “If you wish, then I’ll do so. Now, carry me to my Mother!”
“First, please tell me something else.”
“What?”
“Do you know the date when your daddy died?
“Oh yes, Mother and I certainly remember that day. I can never forget that date, because she recalls it so often. He died on the fifteenth day of the Month of Adar, one day after the Jewish Holiday of Purim.”
Mustafa leaped to his feet. His face took on an indescribable expression: “Did you hear what she just said? The 15thday of Adar! That’s the same day of my dream. He told me that he had died and that he would send me his Schamah, his forgiveness. Allah, Allah! How wonderful all of this has turned out. I honor you. I treasure you. I adore you.”
“To Mommy, to Mommy!” pleaded the child. What she saw and heard were all too much for her to understand just now.
He gathered Schamah into his arms and lifted her up: “Yes, I’ll take you to your mother. Where will we find her?”
Clinging close to my side, Thar was ready to go with them: “At the home of Abd en Nom.”
Still full of excitement, his father took almost hesitant steps in the direction of the house—where he soon vanished inside.
Thar thoughtfully pondered aloud: “If I may not go inside and hear what is said, I’ll just have to speculate on what’s taking place. Father is right; marvelous things still happen. I myself played a big part in today’s miracle. Without my father knowing, the Donkey Driver and I came up with the plan that involved a note which would eventually lead Schamah to this place—and at this time. Effendi, you and your wife have to agree that all of this could not have turned out any better. Wait for me here! As soon as I put all of this together, I’ll ask you to hear me out.”
He then left us. My wife and I went on to visit the ruins where we quietly shared our thoughts, almost as if we were in a church. We were completely alone. The site’s guardian had already gone for the day. The entrance to the Tomb lay open. Oh what thoughts seemed to come forth from that wide-open door. Daylight began to wane. Oh what a pure and clean breath of fresh air drifted down on us from the heights of the Mount of Olives. Inside of me, I heard something—or was it from somewhere outside? Was someone standing behind us? No human presence could compare to this feeling of a powerful force that embraced us as it seemed to call out: “Lazarus, come out!” Yes, nothing is so surreal as the physical association with miracles that seems to connect the dead with the living.
From somewhere up above, softly sublime and aerial two-part harmony voices floated down to us—once again, the boys were singing “The Song of Bethany,” recalling how the Savior went to visit His brothers and sisters. Per Thar’s instructions, the boys had climbed behind the ruins and were now repeating the verses they had sung at the Pool of Siloam. It was the song of Christ, the one who caused the blind to see and the dead to live again. As I thought about this song, it almost seemed irreverent and profane to use common words to allude to matters of blindness and death. Such things are deeply rooted in feelings. Herein, I can’t instruct you— I can only tell my story.
When the song faded away like an evening vesper from the time of Christ, Thar returned to us. He and his playmates had parted ways, and each had returned home. Once again, his father came out of the house. His sister-in-law and Schamah accompanied him. When I saw their expressions, these biblical words came to mind: “And their faces glistened brilliantly.” Thar saw it too: “What an hour, what a blessed time,” he said.
“Adding in the song, who could have arranged all this?” I asked.
Pointing to himself with both hands, the boy answered: “I was the one.”
“Were you really the one who’s responsible? To me, it seemed as if this was some sort of greeting from your mother.”
The widow joined in: “It’s also from my departed husband whose life ended, yet his spirit lives on as his dying wish now comes to fulfillment.”
Mustafa Bustani turned to his son: “If all of this truly came about through your mother’s and my brother’s last requests—and not from you—surely you have done more than your share, and you deserve our thanks. Actually, Abd en Nom told us the name of the architect who orchestrated today’s joint-ventures. The compassion which your mother planted in your young soul has born fruit and brought blessings upon us. Schamah, the forgiveness, will be living with us and—“
“In our house?” Thar quickly asked.
“Yes.”
“With her mother?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?’
“I hope it will be forever.”
Upon hearing that, Thar shouted and leaped higher in the air than he ever had before: “Right away, I must hurry to tell them that they’e coming!”
“Whom?”
“Why, all of our household: Habakek, Bem, his wife, the coffee grinder, and our cook.”
“We still have plenty of time, because my sister-in-law will spend this evening here with Abd en Nom. After all the preparations are in place to welcome them with a festival, we’ll pick them up tomorrow.” With a second joyful leap, Thar cheered: “Their reception will be wildly festive! May I invite my Lions and my Elephants?” From the look on Mustafa’s face, he didn’t approve. When my wife waved her appeal to him, he gave in: “Yes, invite them.”
“The Hippos too?”
“Yes.”
“And the Whales?”
“Yes, they can also come. They can sit in the backyard and be entertained there—but quietly. Before they leave this evening, please have them sing “The Song of Bethany.”
“Halleluja! My dearest and loving father, thank you. I’ll hurry to tell them right away!”
Mustafa Bustani tried to hold him back: “Why this very minute?”
“Because I still have time to catch up with them. They left just a short while ago.” He pulled away, quickly shook Schamah’s little hand, and sprang to his feet.
As she adoringly watched the boy, Schamah asked: “Will I be staying with him?”
“Yes, you will,” her mother answered. From now on, you two will be together.”
“I too want it to be so. I’m very glad about that, because I love him so—such heroes need someone to keep an eye on them. But for now, I’m tired from the long journey. May I soon go to sleep?”
Schamah’s desire to sleep now gave us a timely reason to say “Good night” as well. When we also said “Auf Wiedersehen,” truly we could eagerly look forward to seeing everyone tomorrow. One more time before nightfall, mother and daughter went to Lazarus’ Tomb as they performed a very personal duty which the Grave now seemed to give way to.
My wife, Mustafa Bustani, and I departed too, climbing the steep and familiar path to Bethpage and on towards Kafr et Tur. When we reached the height’s Bread-bush of Jonathan, we paused for awhile. Now in the grasp of the distant horizon, the sun sank, then vanished. With its last beams of light, the sun embraced the earth’s most holy city. Unless you yourself see and feel this marvelous sight that Jerusalem and The Mount of Olives offer at sunset, I can not describe its wondrous beauty. We stood there for a long time, completely absorbed in this vista.
Mustafa Bustani took a deep breath before he spoke: “Compared to this same time yesterday, it’s even more beautiful, a thousand times lovelier. You know, this kind of deep appreciation comes from inside of us. I’m a completely different man than I was yesterday—I feel and I see things in an entirely better light. There is a world of difference between yesterday and today. I know that you don’t expect me to talk for hours about events and my personal feelings. It’s “OK” with you when I feel the need to be silent. Please, go on without me. Leave me here, alone with my thoughts and alone with the brother who forgave me today—even though I once disowned him.