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 to The 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 15th day 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.
So my wife and I went on without him. As we reached the next
bend in the road, the evening bells of the Holy City began to ring.
An undulating sea of sacred music rose up to capture us-as if it
wanted to take us towards heaven. When we looked behind us, we saw
Mustafa Bustani on his knees-as church bells pealed, this Muslim was
praying. Can I say more? No.
For those readers who can not tolerate gaps in stories, I'll
tell you that I eventually received the Pasha-saddle. Mustafa Bustani
made it all possible, and I believe he did so with a great deal of
personal sacrifice. Even though this showpiece may seem to be an
impractical item in my home, I nevertheless love and treasure it. It
reminds me of those two days in the Holy Land when Thar, Schamah, the
"blood feud," and "the forgiveness," all combined to send me a sign
from above. I shall never forget that.
[Translator's Addendum]
To an unknown recipient of Karl May's signed copy of his 1906
drama, Babel and the Bible, the playwright penned this poem of
dedication on the play's title page. Unfortunately, the recipient of
May's personalized, autographed copy is unknown. Possibly, this was
Karl May's final poetic work.
"Widmungsgedicht" [Poem of Dedication]
By Karl May. 22 February 1912
On that day when the Great Spirit awakened,
Where once He lay across world-dreaming waters
And thought upon the Word of the Most High;
Therein His Lord spoke this promise to Him:
"Now, I endow You with this thought: 'Earth,
Go forth and humanely guide men's lives
So that they may become righteous in the Love
Which you receive from your Father's house!'"
In the East, the Light of Lights streaked forth-
This Life-tide eternally, endlessly springing.
In amazement, the Spirit saw face-to-face
God's holy-harmonic image emerge."
From Himmelsgedanken, Gedichte von Karl May
[Karl May's Thoughts of Heaven Poems]
"Das Theater soll nicht ein Rendez-vous fuer bevorzugte Klassen,
sondern eine Volksschule im wahrsten und besten Sinne dieses Wortes
sein."
The theater should not be an elite meeting place for privileged
classes of
people; in the truest and best sense of the word, it should be the
"Peoples' School."