enough to retell. When we reached the Hebron Valley, we once again
stopped at the caf,. 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
"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.