Title: Travel Tales in the Promised Land (Palestine)
Author: May, Karl Friedrich, 1842-1912
Language: English
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Translation copyright (C) 2008 by James D. Schoonover.



German Novelist Karl May's 1907/1908, Schamah [Wisdom's ForgivingLight]
          Travel Tales in the Promised Land (Palestine)
         Translator:  James D. Schoonover, MA, M.Ed., c. 2008, USA
      Schamah, Reiseerzaehlung aus dem Gelobten Lande, von Karl May
c.1907/1908)

http://karlmay.leo.org/kmg/primlit/erzaehl/reise/schamah/index.htm

    As soon as they step into my house and see my strange
collection of travel keepsakes, all visitors' eyes are drawn to the
Arabian saddle, which actually deserves credit as the inspiration and
author of this story. It has Oriental-red velvet, richly decorated
with gold embroidery. This Pasha saddle was fit for a tribal Turkish
chieftain, having comfortable stirrups and an accompanying dreadful
bit that could conquer the stubborn resistance of even the mightiest
horse.

    My magnificent saddle was a present from Mustafa [Mohammed]
Bustani, a wealthy merchant and friend who worked equally well with
Arabs and Jews. His shop is on the right hand side of the Marketplace
El Bizar, along the way to the third most sacred Islamic mosque,
Harem Esh Sheriff, where the Israelite King Solomon's Temple earlier
stood. Try to understand the nature of Judaraber, these Arabs of the
Holy Land who now live side-by-side with Jews. Little by little, they
have given up their handed down-hatred against Hebrews, for they
share the strict Old Testament views of "God's Chosen People." In
this way, Judaraber are more inclined to think like Semites and less
like those in Christendom.

    With these Muslims, it is no more of a disgrace to become a
Christian as to convert to Judaism. Anyway, this unique perspective
only concerns inner opinions; especially regarding personal matters
or simple business transactions, this peculiar outlook has hardly any
influence. So, I was Mustafa Bustanis' friend, in spite of religious
differences, just because we liked each other. When I bought things
in Jerusalem, I purchased solely from him whenever possible. I
preferred to deal with him, not only as a merchant, but much more as
a good human being. He too knew this truth, and he repaid me through
our friendship's deep affection. I felt that I possessed his complete
trust and confidence.

    I often stopped by his store, even if I had no particular
reason to buy something. For many hours, we sat beside each other,
reclining against a broad, Persian carpet-covered crate as we
endlessly drank coffee that his African servant Bem prepared for us.
We considered ourselves to be like brothers; thereto, we felt no need
to keep secrets from each other. Every now and then, there were
distinguished customers that he permitted to interrupt us. His
assistant attended to them, even though he himself could have waited
on them. Habakek was the name of Mustafa's helper, an exceptionally
good-natured fellow-a delightful combination of magician, jack-of-
all-trades, and Renaissance man who could accomplish anything that
your eyes could imagine.

    Mustafa Bustani was a big fan of fairy tales. He loved to
hear or tell every kind of fairy tale-most of all, one which involved
a belief in miracles or a situation wherein the dead and the living
played a dynamic role. Yet in no way was he superstitious in the
general sense. On the contrary, he was an educated man who spoke
Arabic, Turkish, and Persian; with Westerners, he could reasonably
communicate in French and in English.

    Concerning religious faith, he showed commendable tolerance;
however, earlier in life it was the opposite case. He had a brother
who was banished from the family, due to the fact that he had been
baptized as a Christian. Mustafa did not conceal this fact; at the
time, he had totally agreed with his exile.

    In contrast to the past, he now seemed to think otherwise
about that banishment. In truth, I learned nothing more than that his
brother had moved to East Jordan; there he had married a Christian
woman. For that reason, all of the banned brother's attempts at
reconciliation had been rejected. Thereafter, he vanished-yet, one
knows all too well that family ties can never be completely ripped
apart.

     When my friend spoke of his "harem," he was using the
Semitic culture's exclusive, figurative reference to the soul's most
private and sacred sanctum. Therein, he seemed to be inspired by more
compassionate convictions which he had not yet succeeded in shutting
out. Harem? Yes, be certain that our mutually respectful confidence
in each other had risen so high that we quite often did not avoid
speaking of his or my "harem."  Among Muslims, this open interchange
is actually forbidden. Namely, only my wife was permitted to
understand my most private sphere of thoughts, to know my "harem."

    I have no children. As for Mustafa's spiritually-reserved
harem, he confided in his wife, his eleven year old son, and in the
family's black female cook. The other household servants were not
included in this private circle of confidants. His son had the short,
yet very meaningful name of Thar, which Bavarians would interpret as
a "dashing fellow." Unlike the stereotypical, mistaken picture of
Middle Eastern children, he was not a somber, moody, overly serious,
nor slow-moving child. From the family's home which lay outside the
inner city, this delightfully mischievous boy often came to his
father's store. Whenever he met me, it seemed that he never tired of
tossing me the most unbelievable heaps of questions about all kinds
of matters concerning my homeland.  From him, I learned the latest
news about his father's harem-every broken pot and every captured
mouse. In return for his youthful openness and his high regard for
me, he expected me to report all of my secrets to him. Woe unto me if
he ever believed that I failed to trust him in this relationship.

    In the course of this friendly bond among father, son, and
myself, I was invited as a guest and had the opportunity to meet the
mother. I remember this well. I often spent entire evenings in the
home of Mustafa Bustani. When I last said good-bye, I promised to
bring along my wife on my next visit.

    Nomen et [est] omen- a name may predict one's destiny.
Within living memory of the Family Mustafa Bustanis, it had always
been a custom to have a family member by the name of Thar. This
stemmed from the family's bygone days as nomads. Presently, Mustafa's
boy was the bearer of this namesake, as well as its legacy. Night and
day, he tried as hard as he could to be a credit to his name. The
name "Thar" means vengeance, retaliation, retribution, and a blood
feud. This is the old, dreadful law which calls for the following:
"Blood for blood! An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth!"  In
ancient times, among certain primitive folk and also nowadays, some
have felt that there are reasons to retaliate. Under civilized
conditions, it's not only reprehensible and criminal-it's just
ridiculously laughable.

    Ever since Thar became aware of his name's notoriety, he
thoroughly came under the influence of his own imagination. Therein,
he always contemplated some kind of recompense-and if none existed,
he thought one up. In everything that he heard or saw, these events
had to serve as a design for payback that stemmed from some past
injury. Unfortunately, he didn't always find the heroic acclaim that
he anticipated. His destiny misunderstood him. Instead of the planned
retribution that was meant to achieve its intended, costly purpose,
there was always a dumb turn of events in the end, which placed the
boy himself in an unfavorable position. At this point, he inevitably
found himself on the receiving end of retribution; thereto, he
himself would be harmed by his own campaign. Even so, this reversal
of roles did not hold him back; he remained true to his name and to
his calling. Always and again, Thar was ready to make a fresh start.

    To these preliminary notes, I add the fact that I had
traveled from Sumatra to Egypt; I was supposed to meet my wife in
Jerusalem. I had guided her through the Land of the Pharaohs and
through the Arabian Desert; now, we found ourselves in the Promised
Land. Yesterday, we arrived in Jerusalem by way of the Jaffa Gate. We
wanted to stay a few weeks in order to take some regional side trips
that included a visit to the Dead Sea. Next, we wanted to head
towards Damascus. For travel purposes, we needed two saddles, one for
a man and one for a woman. Automatically and without question, I
contacted my friend Mustafa, for no one else could get everything
that we needed. My wife accompanied me. Given my previous accounts
concerning my spouse, Mustafa and his household seemed to know her
almost as well as they knew me.

    Even though he was a noble, Middle Eastern educated man,
Mustafa erred at times in the upbringing of his young son. By way of
comparison, his wife's disposition was exceptionally lively, loving,
and kind. Seeing both parents' character traits come together in
their child, the boy took on his mother's cheerful, joking nature and
his father's very deadpan humor; thus, Thar almost always had the
disposition to tease his dad, his mom, and the whole world.

    We went through the Jaffa Gate, towards the Marketplace El
Bizar, and there we found Mustafa. He didn't notice us right away,
because he was involved in playing a trick on a customer who wanted
to buy a new turban. In the middle of the shop, there stood a camel-
which actually was his helper, Habakek. He had positioned himself on
all fours and had adorned his disguise exactly like a camel that you
see in a parade, having head bands jingling with ornaments and
feathered plumes. The forelegs had a string of bells; draped over the
costumed camel's sides was a gaudy, glass-beaded wool netting. To the
rear, there was a kid-leather water bottle which one would need in
the desert. Nearby stood Thar, dressed only in an over-sized, common
blue shirt that sagged loosely from his elbows to his knees. The
boy's face, arms, and legs were painted palm bark-brown.

    Just as we entered the shop, the boy called out to their
African servant Bem, who was squatting near the room's coffee-corner:
"I'm the Bedouin Sheik, and I'm feeding my camel!" At that moment, he
scooped up a handful of lettuce leaves which the next door shopkeeper
had previously thrown into the street. He shoved the soiled greens
into the submissively open mouth of the make-believe camel. Habakek
loudly, deliberately, and delightedly chewed the fodder. You would
have thought that this creature was just an ordinary dromedary- a
downright authentic camel. Just by the way he behaved, one could not
tell that this was Habakek. Due to the fact that his face was so
completely painted with colorful crosses and dashes, he seemed to
disappear beneath all that makeup. For that reason, Bem questioned
Thar:
    "Why then have you painted him up?"
    Thar readily resounded:  "Don't you know? This is the hide
that I've painted. As you know, a camel has hairs on its face!"

    In addition to this scene, we took note of the richly
decorated donkey that stood in front of the neighboring store. In no
way was this animal's owner a commoner. The donkey's important master
had dismounted and stepped inside to buy something.

    For the first time, the African saw me. At the moment, he
was busy grinding coffee beans with a mortar and pestle. He was so
overwhelmingly surprised that he tossed aside the coffee and the
mortar and let out a piercing whoop of joy. Consequently, all of the
others now drew their attention to me. Mustafa Bustani was so
surprised to see me suddenly in front of him, that he stood
completely still and said nothing. So much more in tune to the
situation, Thar happily leaped in the air, let out a triumphant
cheer, pointed to my wife, and asked: "Is this she, the woman whom
you promised to bring to us?"
    "Yes, it is she," I answered.
He bowed three times before her and beckoned towards the camel:
"Please sit upon this; it's bejeweled for you!"
    All at once, the camel stood up on its hind legs and used
its hands to wipe the fur from its face: "I have no more time for
this! I need to attend to the store's business!"

     As he happily greeted my wife and me, he tossed off the
camel-costume jewelry and devoted his attention to the customer whom
Mustafa had left to his own devices. Mustafa's joy was as great as it
was genuine. He greeted me with the customary bows  and pulled me
close to his heart: "What a comfort to see you today! Give thanks to
Allah. Dearest friend, sit down with me; you know that you're always
welcome here!"

    Mustafa then bowed three times to my wife; but as he tried
to speak to her, his voice broke down, and tears burst from his eyes.
He placed both hands to his face and softly sobbed. Thar cried too,
gripping the pleat of my wife's white traveling dress. He then wiped
away his tears and rubbed off the Bedouin-brown paint from his face
and arms as he offered her the following explanation: "He weeps
today, because you're here now-yet, she can't see you."
    "Why is she unable to see me?" my wife asked, although she
intuitively guessed that he meant his mother.
    "She is dead. Didn't you know this?" he answered. We were
both startled. There simply were no adequate words; yet the boy
continued on: "She so much looked forward to seeing you, because your
Effendi [Turkish title for a noble man] whom we all love, had sung
your praises. Unlike other men who talk about their harems and always
complain about the wife, in truth, he never said a mean word about
you. He and my father consistently refrain from that. The sickness
came and closed her eyes.  I personally witnessed this. They carried
her away. Whenever he thinks about her, my father continually cries.
As for me, almost all of my days must be filled with devising a new
avenging-quest-which makes my father laugh again. However, he no
longer laughs, nor does he have the will to fight. All of this is so
wrong!"

    At the close of his words, he let his eyes wander throughout
the shop. There he focused on the customer who had taken off his
round turban-skullcap, placing it aside as he tried on a tasseled
fez. In the Middle East, such a flat-crowned hat has long been
associated with many speeches and counter arguments. His head was
completely bald, glistening a slippery-bright, as if it were waxed
and shined. It was just forty-five minutes ago that Thar had happily
worn his theatrical makeup. Across his newly-wiped face, there now
streaked a prankish thought which he put into action: "Hold on;
another avenging plot is coming to me. Please don't disrupt me;
simply look over there-where  presently I'm not!"

    He wriggled towards the store's back corner, where they kept
all kinds of gadgets, including the stove for cooking coffee. Back
there was also the African's space which he had left in order to
fetch a couple of fluffy bales of material, a piece of carpet, and a
divan for my wife. To overcome his grieving, Mustafa Bustani helped
Bem with these tasks; he was not aware that his son had told us about
his difficult mourning. When the divan was ready, we sat down.
Accustomed to our earlier times together, I took my place on the
crate with the Turkish water-pipe nearby. If we hadn't learned
earlier about the death of his wife, our conversation normally would
have begun. The words simply did not want to come forth. Blessedly,
the shop gave rise to somewhat of a stopgap. Unfortunately, Mustafa
Bustani's inventory did not include saddles, so he invited us to
return tomorrow. In the meantime, he planned to fulfill all of our
requests.

    At this point, the shopper interrupted us; he was a country
gentleman from Ain Kahrim, the birthplace of John the Baptist. He had
put on his old cap again, along with his headscarf. Then, he pointed
to the new items that he had selected, wanting to know the price of
the fez and a colorful turban-cloth. In the Middle East, such a minor
transaction normally doesn't proceed quickly. However, in order to
send the customer on his way, Mustafa gave him the price so fast that
the buyer paid his money without reservation and hastily exited.

    This disruption now had the effect of reclaiming more life
in our conversation. Among ourselves, we sensed that something on
both sides had transpired in that time-something which we had not
seen. In the process, Mustafa had seized every opportunity to bring
Thar back, all in order to praise him. We had not been speaking
softly, so the boy must have been able to hear us. Thar was crouched
down in the corner by Bem, and it seemed that they were undertaking a
change of scenes, which for now was concealed from us. In the way of
materials for transforming a setting, Mustafa's shop lacked nothing;
for almost everything imaginable was available for purchase, old as
well as new. After the boy and Bem had completed their grand scheme,
Thar slowly came striding out of the corner, proudly presenting
himself to us.

    He was now dressed as a famous hero, most likely ready to
perform some kind of vendetta gain. Half of a clay water-crock served
as his helmet, one that probably had been dug up and broken in the
process. His breastplate consisted of a tin lamp shade, the kind that
one places upright in front of the light. Onto his bare calves, he
had fastened two gigantic knight's spurs, which possibly dated back
to the medieval days of the Crusades. Into his rope-belt, he stuck
the most outrageous weapons that one can imagine: three knives, two
pairs of scissors, two corkscrews, and four candle-snuffers-all of
which were arranged around his waist. Besides these, he added a
mousetrap, a bow with quiver and arrows, and some left-over items
which he carried in his hand: a corn-cutting sickle, a saber's
sheath, and a shotgun barrel. His war paint consisted of two colors,
precisely creating the exact impression that he intended. The right
arm and the left leg were painted green; the left arm and the right
leg were blue. On both cheeks and for a moustache, this skin too was
blue. His chin had a grass-green hue. We laughed, as did Mustafa
Bustani.

    "Well then, who are you?" Mustafa asked the armed figure.
    As he rattled all of his weapons, Thar answered in a
battlefield tone: "I'm Gideon, the hero."
    "Ever and always, he only takes his heroes from the Old
Testament," his father explained. Turning to his son, he continued:
"What is Gideon planning to do?"
    "I have slain Baal's priests in order to destroy the
Midianites!"

    Newer and more intense saber rattling! Unfortunately, it was
impossible to learn anything more about his valiant purpose, because
the scene was interrupted by the man from Ain Kahrim. At this moment,
he came running back to the shop. Clearly in an urgent tizzy, this
episode seemed to raise the man's agitation to its highest level. At
first, he spoke so rapidly and indignantly that he could hardly be
understood. We could only discern the words "fez - turban - barber -
head - blue - soap - water - shame and disgrace!"

    After we persuaded him to explain everything calmly and
slowly, he did so; thus, we learned that he had been to the barber,
just as he's accustomed whenever he comes to the city. For him, it
was normal to see to the grooming of his beard and head, for this
cleanliness of the head is prescribed by the Prophet Mohammed. This
rite should only be performed by a licensed barber, not by any other
man.

    When he bared his head, all those present in the barber shop
roared with laughter; for the hair of this old-timer was no longer
white as usual. Instead, it had turned blue as the sky. As it turned
out, the blue stain came from his headgear, which he had taken off at
the barber's.  Secretly, someone had poured blue dye into the hat.
The barber had done his best to wash away the coloring, yet this had
only made matters worse. The addition of water simply dispersed the
heavens-blue pigment, which now more permanently corroded still
deeper into his scalp. As he removed his skullcap and head scarf, he
called out: "Allah have mercy! Here, look at me! Let the culprit step
forward so that I can punish him!"

    An entirely hairless skull of glistening heavens-blue hue?
Include the fact that the man was not wearing the new fez; instead,
he had again plopped the soiled cap on his head. One could hardly
resist the giggles that came with the sight of this angry man. My
wife was the first to burst out laughing. She found it impossible toy
Mustafa and I. The hearty peal of laughter had a strange effect;
instead of increasing the anger of this man from Ain Kahrim, it
seemed to subdue him, probably through his own perception of his
ridiculous appearance. Only the boy was not laughing. No train of
thought stirred across his face. He stepped up to the man, loudly and
seriously confessing: "I'm the one!"

    "You?" the astonished man asked. "How can a child dare to do
this, to insult the bare head of a Moslem!"
    "I didn't uncover it! I did it as a justified payback, all
in order for you to know that my name is Thar."
    "Thar?" responded the bewildered man.
    "Yes, Thar! Didn't you yourself say that a believer may only
allow a barber to bare his head? Yet you have uncovered it here, and
you even showed it to us! For this offense, I've punished you; I
poured blue-retaliation upon your head's uncovered hull."
    With the utmost astonishment, the blue-headed man asked us:
"Is something like this possible? According to this boy, I'm the one
who should be punished-not he! What does his father say about this?"

    Mustafa would have answered the question, as best he could,
but the boy spoke first: "If you require a father here, then fetch
your own; for you may not borrow mine! I'm Gideon, the Hero of
Manasseh. Good-bye!" In a dignified way, Thar nodded to the man, then
proudly strode out of the shop. Still clad in his make-shift suit of
armor, he climbed onto the stranger's donkey that was standing
outside. From there, he trotted away on the animal. Everyone knows
this: at a very young age, all Arabic boys regard the back of a
donkey as the best of all playgrounds. It is rare to find a boy who
lacks the courage to ride.

    Now, the man from Ain Kahrim really didn't know what he was
supposed to think. His mouth hung open. Without saying a word, he
glanced towards the spot where he last saw the boy. Speaking in
German and still laughing, my wife asked me: "Is this possible?" I
had no time to answer her. The scene had changed.

    The owner of the donkey was mostly concerned about the
distance between him and his animal. He had figured out whom the
strangely outfitted boy belonged to; from the neighboring shop, he
now walked over to us. Whether by civil means or through a complaint
to the police, he was determined to come closer to settling matters.
"Who among you is Mustafa Bustani?" he inquired.
    As my friend slid off the trunk and bowed low, he answered:
"I."
    "Do you know me?"
    "Yes. Who wouldn't know you? You are Osman Achyr, the Ferik-
Pasha of our Sovereign. May Allah bless him!"
    "Your son has stolen my donkey!"
    "He has not stolen the animal-just borrowed it. Thar will
bring it back safe again!"
     "Do I run a rent-a-donkey business? If I did, I would
expect a person to ask me first!"
    "I ask your pardon, sir!"

    By official title, this man's ranking was that of a general.
Even though he chose to wear unassuming, civilian clothes instead of
a uniform, he carried himself like a nobleman. Now that he had to
deal with yet one more infraction, he steadied his voice as he
renewed his dogged determination to assert his authority: "No, I do
not excuse him. The boy has stolen from me, and he has dishonored me.
I demand that he be punished!" The Pasha now drew closer to Mustafa
and asked: "Who are you? In your mind, what did he-?"

    When the General saw the blue-skulled man, he halted in mid-
sentence- the Pasha's eyes began to glisten and grow wider. Taking
just the right amount of time to pause, the Blue-one began to narrate
the boy's misdeeds-but he could go no further. Appealing to the stern
General and to us, the heavens-blue man now cracked up, laughing like
we had done earlier. His laughter was so contagious that we could not
help but join him. In the middle of our merriment, the boy came
riding back with a mass of children following him. The adults readily
recognized him, but they were no longer concerned about Thar's
outlandish pranks.

    The boy brought the donkey back to the same spot where it
formerly stood. In the same way he had left us, he returned to us
with the same style of majestic dignity and seriousness. This made
such an irresistible impression upon all of us, that our laughter
momentarily turned to silence. Just as suddenly, it broke loose and
doubled its intensity, as if it never wanted to end. Laughing with us
too was the Blue-one. Once he began, he laughed the longest and was
the last to stop.

    Thar also recognized the General. Right away, he positioned
himself directly in front of him, smartly stood at attention, then
sharply saluted just like he had seen soldiers whenever they met an
officer. The Pasha then asked him: "Do you know who I am."
    "Yes," he answered.
    "Then who am I?"
    "You are Benaja, the Commander-in-chief of King Solomon's
army!"
    The General laughed: "Bravo! You're still playing your role.
What are your weapons for?" The Pasha pointed to the scissors,
corkscrew, and candle-snuffers. However, the boy was not ready to
step out of character. His mouth still contained countless numbers of
stories.

     Better than any German boy's knowledge of his home city's
chronicles, Thar knew all the legends and tall tales of Jerusalem's
past. He was even consciously aware of his weapons' symbolism. He
quickly answered, taking no time to reflect: "These are the
'Scorpions' wherewith the King of Judah pinched and pulled the ears
of the people whenever they didn't want to obey him. I'm Gideon, the
hero who hails from my ancestors of Manasseh. I borrowed your
warhorse because I needed your steed to carry out my vendetta against
the Midianites, the sons of Abraham. Your mount is too fat and has no
endurance; so for this reason, I turned around and brought him back
to you. I appreciate your loaning him to me, but he is really of no
use."

    Thar repeated his salute. The Pasha laughed so hard that
tears streamed from his eyes. Without question, he seemed to be a
very congenial gentleman. Mustafa hurriedly capitalized on the
Pasha's good mood and seeming willingness to forego punishment of his
son: "For what he has done, please forgive him! He's exceptionally
bright and greatly gifted." Yet his words accomplished just the
opposite of what he had intended. In a flash, the face of the Pasha
became serious again, almost threatening: "No speech of yours can
gain the boy's pardon. Your son has doubly transgressed- against me
and against him over there." The Pasha pointed towards the man from
Ain Kahrim: "For this, he deserves punishment instead of a reward;
and by my own hand, I will personally administer his whipping. Is
there a switch nearby which suits this purpose?"

    The African Bem heard this request. From his corner of the
room, he brought out a thin, knobby walking-stick which had been used
for all kinds of educational procedures. When the boy saw this, he
began to talk- instead of prudently staying silent. The General
grabbed the cane and air-lashed it several times as he tested it to
and fro. Satisfied with the reed, the Pasha nodded his head and slyly
squinted his eyes as he looked sideways at the boy: "Of course, you
understand that your offenses will be punished?"
    Thar nodded and quickly answered: "Yes."
    "Should I then pronounce judgment by using your given name?"
    "Yes."
    "And also carry out the punishment in your name?"
    "Yes."
    "So be it. By my own hand, the boy shall receive ten blows:
five for injuries to me and five for you!" The General pointed to the
blue-headed man from Ain Kahrim.
    Disappointedly, the man asked: "Isn't that too few?"
    The Pasha snapped at him: "Be silent!"

    "Who receives this corporal punishment-you or me?" the boy
asked.
    "You!"
    In deference to the Pasha, Thar turned and said: "Surely you
see that this is neither too little nor too much. Are you serious in
your judgment of only ten lashes?" The General confirmed his
decision: "Yes. For Gideon, this is actually not a great honor to be
beaten with a cane!"

    The boy agreed: "I think so too! However, I now have this
misfortune-not merely to retaliate once, but to collect vengeance
again! So I plead with you; at least grant me permission to put aside
my hero's garb." His wish was granted, so he made his exit to the
coffee-corner. He took off his warrior-weaponry, then returned in
order to get on with the improvised administration of justice.

    "Hold him!" the Pasha commanded the father. Mustafa obeyed.
In the manner that all readers know full well, the father leaned
forward, stuck out his left knee, and placed the Guardian-of-Blood-
Feuds across his lap, thereby causing the back side of the
Transgressor to be exposed. Without saying a word and without
struggling, Thar allowed all this to happen. The Pasha positioned
himself, took a swing with the cane, and counted the strokes: "One-
two."

    He continued no further. The execution could not go forward,
because my wife had sprung from her chair, placed herself squarely
between the competitors, and appealed for mercy. The Pasha asked who
she was. She told him. For a moment, he reflected, then bowed to her
and replied that he would grant her request-but not before the count
of ten which he had dictated. Under all circumstances, he was
obligated to uphold his word; therefore, he was unable to rescind his
order. Admittedly, he could not mitigate the two strokes that he had
already given. In regard to the outstanding eight which she now
wished to administer, and rightly so, the Pasha would grant her
heart's desire.

    At this point, he handed her the cane, stepped back, and
beckoned her to proceed. Since we were all in sympathy with the
Delinquent, we were pleased that she accepted his offer. When she
turned towards the Pasha, she no longer saw him. In the meantime, he
had gone back to the shop next door. Just when the man from Ain
Kahrim prepared to lodge his objection to a lighter sentence, Mustafa
Bustani invited him to come back in one hour and pick out a present
for himself. With just a few more words here and there, the gentleman
left, for the time being.

    Meanwhile, the boy whispered so that his father would not
hear him: "He laughed- oh how he laughed! Did you see it? Oh how that
makes me happy!" His good-hearted, loving-eyes lit up. Then he kissed
my wife's hand and said: "I thank you for the 'eight' which you have
given me. They were tender and mild as pepperless home-baked cookies.
For this, I'll never forget you. As you know, I'm a hero. Whenever
you're in need, please call on me to rescue you."

    On this note, Thar once again withdrew to the coffee-corner.
With the help of African Bem, he somehow managed to change into a new
outfit. His father once more took his place upon the crate in order
to pick up the conversation where we had left off. Laughingly, he
closed the matter with words about his darling Trickster's capers:
"He was his mother's 'chosen one.' She saw everything in him! Whether
the Pasha wants to believe it or not, he really is greatly gifted." I
wanted to know how the boy had acquired his strange love for colors:
"Was it also present in his childhood?"

    Mustafa answered: "No. Understand that my Coffee Helper Bem
and my dark-skinned cook are a married couple. For some time, their
own young son has apprenticed himself to a whitewashing craftsman.
With their help, my son has developed a lively interest in the multi-
faceted kingdom of colors. It seems to me that he was born to be an
artist. At first, we of course saw only the beginnings; but they soon
became so evident that I began to think that my lovely revenue-
earning store must have been seized by alien hands. According to
Islam, the human body should not be illustrated nor copied. Yet for
Thar and his sense of artistry, he sees how life holds such majesty
and beauty- it seems to invite him to become a famous and honored
painter. Among all of my acquaintances, they believe that something
of great consequence has been planted within him. Is it not my duty
to help him become a great man?"

    He didn't speak softly, so the boy heard every word. As a
result of this, Thar came out of his corner and said to me:
"Effendi, you need to hear the whole story; my father is not fully
informing you. Namely, it's this way:  my Father says that I was
'most favored' by my Mother. In every way, she wanted to take care of
me. She knew that I had talent, so she was confident that one day I
would become a great artist. On the other hand, here is what Mother
always said: 'I'm Father's favorite. In all things, he looks after
me.  Still, he has the talents of valiant heroes, and he shall become
a great man.' When I attend school and listen to my teacher, he
constantly says that I'm the 'chosen one' of my Father, of My mother,
and of all my relatives;  they follow everything I do.  According to
my teacher, I don't have the slightest amount of talent ever to
become a great man-my prospects are surely limited to that of working
in commerce, playing chess, and hatching hoaxes. So now you know,
Effendi."

     He said this so seriously. Truly, this was an earnest
matter. Not only that, it was infinitely important. His father had no
idea about the depth of meaning which lay in this child's honest
words. However, my wife perceived the truth in what he said, because
she looked at me and knowingly nodded.

    In the meantime, the boy had changed his external
appearance-not only in the way of colors, but even in relation to
their arrangement. That which earlier had been green, now was blue,
and what was once blue became green. The right leg, the left arm, and
both cheeks were now green. His left leg, right arm, upper lip, and
twisted-moustache were blue. Seeing this, I asked myself: "What's
next?"

    He answered promptly:  "I'm Judas Maccabees, and I have a
vendetta against the Syrians. I'll let that go for the time being,
because I've heard what my Father said about me. I've told you what
he thinks about me, how my Mother once thought of me, and the
teacher's assessment of me. Now, I would also like to know your point
of view, Effendi. First of all, please tell me your opinion about all
this. Who's right? Father, Mother, or the teacher?"

    As if to ask forgiveness, he blushed and cast a pleading
glance toward his father when he answered his own question:  "I love
my Father and my Mother, but they're both mistaken. I have no
affection for my teacher, but he's right." I was unable to respond-I
could only pull the boy to my side and kiss him on his unpainted
forehead. My heart wanted to overflow, and I also saw how deeply my
wife was moved-her eyes filled with tears. It was nothing short of a
sacred moment. All the while, his father sat next to me. Mustafa
smiled at us, and yet he didn't have the slightest notion about the
depth of innocence, the pure candor, and the spell-binding magic of
the child's soul which had become so palpably open to us. "So, give
me a little time, Thar. When we see each other again, you'll be 
different than you were previously. On that date, I'll form my
opinion of you. Before I leave Jerusalem, I'll tell you what I
think."

    "Really?" he begged. "Yes, really," I answered. At that
moment, his hand gently and tenderly touched my cheekbone as he
solemnly declared: "Make no mistake; I also love you. This I know for
sure. Do you want to see something that I've created, that I've
actually painted?" I said "Yes."

     "When are you coming again?" I responded, "Tomorrow at the
same time." He quickly chimed in: "Well then, before noon. I must
begin my work and finish the pictures this afternoon!" He thought for
a couple of moments. A mischievous snicker quivered across his green
cheeks and over his blue moustache. Then he asked his father: "May I
have your permission to redecorate the garden house today?"

    "What do you want to do there?" inquired Mustafa. Thar
answered:  "Paint two pictures; tomorrow, I'll show them to Effendi."
    "Good, you may." Thar insisted: "But no one may disturb me.
Unless I so desire, no one will be allowed to come into the garden
house."
    "Not even I?" asked Mustafa. "That includes you," said
Thar.

    That's certainly interesting. I hope that you will be
successful in showing Effendi something that's really good; so, I
have nothing against your project. "The boy exclaimed: "Thanks be to
Allah! I'll begin right away!" In joyful anticipation, he turned a
somersault and shot out of the shop. After a few minutes of silence,
Mustafa Bustani asked: "Now, what do you say to him? What a good
lad! An artist, right?"

    "Wait," I answered. "First, let's see. Such judgments should
be weighed and regarded closely. I've prayed for an extension of
time. Tomorrow will be the next time I see him."

    This gave us the occasion to take our leave, so we parted
company. It was close to noon, when the hottest time of day begins
and one best spends time in the coolness of a room. When the heat was
past, we hiked towards the Mount of Olives in order to walk towards
Bethany, and then return back to Jerusalem via the sites of Bethphage
and Kafr et Tur. We took a photograph; my wife almost never travels
without a camera. Due to the fact that carrying photography gear on a
tour requires so much time and trouble, I'm always concerned that
dealing with such things can greatly interfere with my personal and
natural mobility. Yet my wife loves to bring home souvenir-photos
that make her happy when she reminisces later on. So today, she also
took a couple of pictures in Bethany; I've included one of those, 
because it shows the remnants of the city's stone wall. We climbed to
the summit of the Mount of Olives, upon which there are places where
you can see not only the mountains of East Jordan, but even a part of
the Dead Sea. As we enjoyed this rich view, we talked about our visit
with Mustafa Bustani. Contrasting his earlier, sad appearance, we 
knew that the years would actually pass quickly as he aged. The death
of his wife had very deeply gripped him, which another Muslim might
be capable of handling otherwise.

    Add to this a second, almost equally deep sorrow and inner-soul-
excitement which we were yet to discover. Up to this point, our
attention had almost exclusively been directed to the East; we now
turned to the West, to the city that lay before us. There in a
secluded area near a carob bush, we saw a man sitting with his hands
folded as if in prayer-staring motionless at the horizon. This was
some time before the shadows of evening. We were compelled to look at
him. When we came nearer, he stood up. It was our friend Mustafa
Bustani. We mentioned how we had just been talking about him.
However, he seemed to be self-conscious about our coincidental
meeting. It was as if he were feeling caught in the act of doing
something that no one was supposed to know about. His words, which
shut down after our greeting, sounded as though he felt that he had a
duty to apologize.

    He told us how this place has been his favorite spot for some
time, one which he visits daily as he looks towards the East.
Instinctively, I had to think about his missing, banished brother who
had disappeared in the East. We sat closely beside him and soon
noticed that he thought it necessary to speak in a peculiar frame of
mind which had an exceptionally soft-hearted undertone, one that gave
the impression of emotional helplessness. In our enormously scene-
gripping, surrounding locale, I didn't pry further. In his psyche, he
himself was used to doing a lot of soul-searching.

    I was right, for he very soon directed the conversation to his
previously mentioned favorite subject, to the connection of the
visible and invisible world and to the biblical claim that there are
in fact miracles. Regarding this, he confessed to us that a dream
drove him to this conclusion, a dream that had been so certain and so
clear that it seemed he was awake and not sleeping at all. This
clarity had been so great and so convincing, that he had written down
its exact date: the 15th day of the Month of Adar. Half-way
apologizing and half-way questioning, he added that he would not take
on too much by being preoccupied with his dreams. We assured him that
all of us were greatly interested in everything that concerned him,
especially in matters of his spiritual life.

    "Effendi, you know that my brother was cast out because he
had become a Christian, and that we all rejected his attempts to
reconcile, for he had even married a Christian woman. Ever since, no
one has heard from him. Later on, no one could find out where he
went. The events that followed even extended to our family's
inheritance. He had the very same rights as I had. I became the sole
heir; he was poor, poor as a beggar!"

    I tried to soften the harshness by noting customary laws
and governing families' rights. He pointed this out to me: "You are a
Christian and therefore think differently when you try to make me
feel better. For a full year, I felt no sense of unfairness about
what we had committed against him. After all, possessions and
religion are different matters, right? As a believer, am I permitted
to change the order of things whenever my wealth changes to poverty?
No!  Even for such a little thing as wanting to become a Christian
and not remain a Muslim, one can be pushed out of the family's circle
of inheritance. However, this last thought did not come from me;
rather, it came from my wife. In her heart, there lived a love and a
kind-heartedness which were not present in me. Her graciousness began
a difficult and heavy labor in me-but she succeeded. My hardness
became softer, always more tender; and when the mother of my son
passed away, she died as the victor. I promised her that I would
search for my brother and share with him everything that I own. She
thanked me, blessed me-then closed her eyes and departed.

    He covered his face with his hands and became silent for a while
as he tried to master his emotions; then, he continued: "In vain, I
searched and searched. My brother had simply disappeared. Constantly,
I thought about him and even more about my wife, whose death had
taken even more away from me. Effendi, you probably know this
already. This question came to me: 'What if my brother had already
died, and he and my wife had found each other on the other side of
this life, where they now talked and looked below?' I brooded over
such thoughts. I awoke with these ideas, and I fell asleep with
them."

    "On the 15th day of the month of Adar, I dreamed that I was on my
knees, praying in the mosque. Opened before me was the First Kiblah
of the Holy Koran. My brother appeared to me and led me forth,
wanting to help me realize what he wanted to say to me: 'I'm dead,
but I live. You have not pardoned me, but I've forgiven you. I'll
send you my forgiveness. She approaches from the East. Daily, keep a
look-out for her and restore again what you have perpetrated against
me!' His words resounded. Then, he disappeared. The Koran closed
itself, and I awoke from the dream. This vision appeared to be so
clear and so true to me, that I left my store for the entire day in
order to ponder its meaning. Almost daily ever since, I am driven to
come here as I look towards the East to see whether the dream is
being fulfilled."

    "Regularly, I sojourn for a short time in Bethany where I visit
the grave of Lazarus. Why? I don't know. For me, it's as if this is
the only place where I shall somehow meet with the messenger of my
brother. Effendi, what do you say about this dream?"
    "Listen to what you yourself are saying about your
brother. Truly, your own feelings can lead you better than any
separate perspective that I could give you."
    "So, do you think that I should continue to take my daily
walks to this place?" I replied: "Through someone or in some way,
will they forbid you to visit this site?" He answered, "No." So I
assured him, "Well then, there's no real reason for you to stop."

    Relieved, Mustafa confided in me: "I thank you. At first, it was
hard for me to tell you and your wife about these matters. Now that
I've told you, I feel that my heart has grown much lighter. So, come!
Twilight is coming, and we must go-otherwise, the darkness will
overtake us on our way back.

    He stood up, and we followed his example. He was right; the
evening sank lower, so we hurried towards home. Along the way, he
told us how he had taken care of some business for us. In Hebron, he
had located an expensive, Arabian Pasha-saddle which was for sale. He
would send a messenger to pick it up, then show the saddle to me.
Just then, I remembered: "Oh yes, I personally must go towards
Hebron. I want to show my wife the Grave of Abraham, Abraham's Well,
and the famous Oak of Mamre, where the three angels appeared to the
Patriarch."

    He happily called out: "So, if you'll permit me, I'll accompany
you. Since I have many important and pressing things to do there, it
would be best if we could travel tomorrow." I agreed: "Yes, we can do
that. Any time that suits you is OK for us." He seemed pleased:
"Really? Then tomorrow is OK? And may I bring along my son Thar? It
will be a real treat for him to accompany you and me, riding in a
beautiful carriage to see an unknown part of the world. In that
direction, he's never traveled farther than Bethlehem." We were happy
to oblige: "If it's OK with you, we have no objection to Thar coming
with us."

    "Good. So it's decided that we'll make the trip; I'll make the
arrangements for a carriage. Since you're now on your way to my home,
please stay awhile longer at my house. I want you to see the joy
which your invitation will bring to my boy." Before we reached our
destination, it became completely dark. Mustafa Bustani knocked on
the inner gate's locked door.

    Shuffling foot steps drew near; the African cook opened the door
for us. She had an oriental wind-lantern in her hand. By its light,
we saw that her entire body had been wrapped in a white sheet, which
now was so full of blue, green, red, and yellow smudges, that we
hardly recognized its original surface.

    When the master of the house saw her, he cried out: "Maschallah!
Look at you!" As she proudly answered, a most satisfied grin almost
doubled in size as it spread across her face: "This is art!"
Bewildered, Mustafa pressed further: "Art? How so?" Maschallah
replied: "We are painting the Red Sea. We began right after lunch,
and we're still not quite finished."

    "You-you're painting too?" he asked. Certain, yet not exactly
cheerful misgivings began to cross his mind. In a tone that seemed to
have greater and greater self-satisfaction, she declared: "Yes, I.
The 'Favored One' is painting only the water, the air, and the sun;
I, however, paint the land green. Thar is not yet finished." Mustafa
quizzed further: "The green land? Well then, what does he paint on?
Hopefully, only on paper." Maschallah surprised him: "Upon paper? Oh
no. That would be much too small. We're painting on the wall."

    "Upon the wall? Where then?" She answered: "In the garden
house." Mustafa cried out: "Allah, Allah! On the wall in the garden
house? That is outrageous! What will I see there? I must go there
immediately." He hurried away from the gate where he had been
standing all this time. At this moment, the cook saw my wife and me.
Her face lit up  like a search light when she recognized me.

    "Effendi!" she called out. "Already here today! The 'Chosen One'
said that you were coming tomorrow. Hurry and follow me. The 'Favored
One' said that you may see it, but his father is still forbidden to
view it. We must quickly send him away. He may not come in!" She
jogged along with her lantern as we followed more slowly. It was not
far-hardly twenty paces. The main residence lay in the middle of the
garden, and the garden house stood along the outer wall. Mustafa
Bustani had not yet caught up with us. He would not have been able to
restrain himself from entering into the room wherein we now set foot
and saw "the art." I remembered its former decor. I had often been
inside of this little house. Its construction was square, with the
doorway facing the garden. Without windows to offer a view to the
outside world, the other three sides were painted ivory-yellow-white
and decorated with gold-lettered maxims regarding cures. Due to its
seclusion, cleanliness, aesthetic stillness, and modesty, this garden
house had always impressed me as soothing. Not so on this night.

    Suddenly, the door was jerked wide open. In front of it stood
Mustafa Bustani. He had not yet entered, because his son resisted his
doing so. From the ceiling hung a light fixture whose lamp burned
with a bright flame. In the center of the room, we saw the artist.
Before noon, his form and his shirt had been in two colors-now they
appeared to be immersed in four: namely in sky-blue, poisonous green,
sparkling yellow, and in scorching red. Such intensive, screaming-
colors are upsetting to one who is highly sensitive about art. Amid
all of this, it is no wonder the boy was not in a good mood. As we
came still closer to the garden house, we heard Thar's angry voice as
he shouted to his father: "No! You promised me!" Mustafa Bustani
answered: "But as you see, Effendi is here."
    "Where?" As the father pulled me to his side and showed me to
his son, I announced myself: "Here." Thar wondered aloud: "Today
already? You were supposed to come tomorrow. Nevertheless, it's good
that you're here now. It's true that I have not yet finished, for you
see that the sharks are still missing; but in due time, I'll put them
in-this will go very quickly. Both of you, please step in and-" His
father interrupted: "And I too?"

    "I wish to be kind and also allow you to enter, because both of
the chief guests are present. I'm doing this only because you are
occasionally lenient with me." Mustafa agreed: "Unfortunately so!
Allah knows that I am."  So not exactly in a mood of harmony and not
quite used to this feeling, we got ready to enjoy the work of art. I
have to note the plain truth about these circumstances-neither before
nor afterwards did my eyes grasp the painting's depth of
understanding and the height of its elaboration. Its impact made us
feel that we were standing in front of such an enormous, astonishing,
unparalleled achievement. The absolute least I can do is to give a
brief sketch of the situation. Like a painting by Rafael Santi or a
masterpiece by Rembrandt van Rijn, it's absolutely impossible to
describe fully.

    According to oriental custom, the garden house entrance was only
open by way of the garden and thereby closed to the outside world.
When we stepped through the open door, there were three walls that
closed off the room-to the left, to the right, and straight ahead. As
mentioned earlier, the walls were once painted ivory-yellow with
gold-lettered claims concerning advice on healthy living. Now, these
no longer existed. The middle wall was masculine-blood-red, or
perhaps more of a scorching reddish hue. Both of the side walls were
painted in a shade of ultimate-manly, juicy green color. Above these
hues of red and green, everything was painted blue. High above on the
ceiling, where the light fixture cord was attached, there sat a large
yellow spot. At first, the blotch was probably round, but this form
no longer held its shape as it ran together with the blue. On the
right-hand wall, in the middle of the green, there stood a white
house; it had two doors, a window, and three chimneys. In the middle
of the green left-hand wall, a black house stood; it had three doors,
no windows at all, and two chimneys. To the left of the mid-field of
vision, where the red  butted together with the green, one focused
below on a black human heel that stretched upwards to half of the
leg's calf. Midway and at the bottom portion of the right-hand wall,
where the green jostled against the red, our eyes saw a white human
instep that was connected to half of a shin bone, which appeared to
extend out of the red.  Thar had already announced that sharks were
supposed to be added. Even if he put forth all of his effort on the
three walls, I found only a narrow place where a shark would feel at
home.

    With a kind of superior look, his eyes glided over us: "All of
you simply stand and marvel! Don't you know what it means?  Effendi,
do you know what it is?"  Since he so directly referred to me, it was
best for me to blur my judgment of the painting's merit. I was very
diplomatic, mentioning nothing objectionable as to what the picture
was supposed to be. In any case, I wanted to keep the artist's high
esteem. For this reason, I simply answered in general terms, yet with
a practicable enthusiasm for this artwork: "It is the pure Blue-
green-red-yellow Wonder!"

    He agreed with me: "Right! You never say something false. It has
cost us a lot of effort and color. Just look this way!" He pointed
down towards the floor, where half to entirely empty paint cans
stood. All sorts of paint brushes lay scattered around, and it was
impossible to count the number of clean-up rags and sponges. "We
fetched these from the white-washer," he continued. "Since the time
was too short and I would not be able to finish the work alone, the
cook had to help me. She just painted the land, which is easy. As for
the rest, I had to do this by myself; she has no talent to do more."

    His father was extremely upset.  With a great deal of effort, he
suppressed his anger and asked: "Well then, who gave you permission
to paint over these walls and the expensive inscriptions?" His son
answered, "Of course, it was you!"

    "I-?" stammered the father. Thar replied: "Yes, you yourself. I
asked you if I could paint two pictures in the garden house, and you
gave me permission to do so."
    "Somehow, was I supposed to understand that you would
paint them on the walls instead of on paper?  Son, we'll talk further
about this!"  As if he had a stick in his hand, he gestured and
added:  "By the way, I see only one picture-not two." The boy spoke
up: "I've changed my mind; there will be more than two. Here is the
first. Still others will follow. Effendi wants to see what I can do,
so I must show him as much as possible."

    "Still more pictures?  Like these?  Are you crazy?  Well then,
which ones?" Thar answered: "Tomorrow, we are painting in the harem-
the trumpets of Jericho and how the city's walls collapsed." Mustafa
sighed: "Allah have pity on us. And the day after tomorrow?"  The boy
didn't hesitate: "The day after tomorrow, we are painting the
bedrooms."

    In disbelief, Mustafa asked: "But what?"  Thar was quick to
answer: "The downfall of Sodom and Gomorrah, complete with smoke and
fire, lightening and thunder. I've already ordered the colors."
Mustafa was dumbfounded: "Already ordered?  This too?  Lightening and
thunder, smoke and fire in the bedroom? As for your art, it seems
that nothing is impossible.  I realize that I must set limits.  What
then is portrayed here? There is no train of thought in that!"

    With his use of the word "limits," the father had again set
something in motion-just like this morning when he wanted to take
Thar across his knee.  In spite of this threat, the boy had to laugh
as he answered:  "No thoughts?  In there, we find  all of the People
of Israel, King Pharaoh, and all of his Egyptian soldiers!"
Incredulous, the father inquired further: "How so? On the contrary, I
see nothing of them!"

    "That's because they're in the water!  This picture shows the
Children of Israel's passage through the Red Sea. Don't you see the
Red Sea that is right in front of you?  And over there is the blue
air; directly above your head is the yellow sun, because the time of
day is exactly noon. Here to the left, the green land, that is Egypt;
and the house, that is the Palace of the Pharaoh. And here to the
right, this green land is Palestine; the King of the Jebusites lives
in the house that stands there. In between there lies the Red Sea.
The Children of Israel were slaves in Egypt. Moses helped them break
away. He fled with them into the Red Sea. Even now, all of them are
stuck in there. With all of his armies, Pharaoh hurried after them.
Look here! The last one of them has just now disappeared. You can
still see his heel which is still above the water. On the other side
over there, the Children of Israel are just now coming out of the
water again. Already you can see the first one's toes which are half-
way out of the water. As soon as all of them are high and dry, I'll
paint in my sharks; then you'll see that Pharaoh and all of his
soldiers will be devoured-not a single one of them will remain.  More
or less, aren't those the approximate ideas?"

    He stretched himself out in front of his father and watched his
dad's face as he thought about these explanations. Behind us rang out
the reproachful voice of their African cook. She was standing next to
the door with her wind-lantern. She had heard everything: "It was my
hand that produced the entire green land of Egypt and all of
Palestine's greenery. Tomorrow, I'm painting Jericho!"  At that
moment, the good Mustafa Bustani could no longer control himself. All
of his temper burst forth. His voice thundered at them: "Tomorrow,
you will learn what you can paint. March! Come away with me into the
house!"

    His angry voice shocked the African cook. She let loose of the
lantern which shattered and extinguished-running away as fast as her
feet would carry her. Realizing the impact of his wrath, the merchant
immediately tried to take back its harsh impact. He addressed us in
an apologetic tone:  "Forgive me. Such anger is never the right
thing.  Please allow me to accompany you."

    We understood and gladly embraced him. He led us towards the
gate through which we had come. It still stood open. There, he said
this to us: "We'll keep our plans to travel early tomorrow morning.
I'll pick you up at seven, European time. I don't yet know whether
I'll bring my son along."

    My wife then asked about his son whom she had grown so fond of:
"Will you punish him very severely?" Mustafa answered with an
unusually solemn tone: "In this situation, I'll have to think about
who deserves the punishment here. With both of you here, it's as if a
light has come to me.  Since this morning, it seems as if I now have
entirely new eyes and ears. How did it happen that you, without any
kind of perceptible reason, came along the same path leading to the
heights of the Mount of Olives-the one which I daily climb-precisely
at the same time?" I gently tossed out this word: "Coincidence!"

    "You say that without personally believing it. I know all too
well that you consider the word "coincidence" to be an embarrassing
fabrication. However, for now that's unimportant. Above all else this
evening, I have to think about my son. I would like to be alone this
evening. And without feeling ashamed, I can say to both of you that I
must pray. This thought has come to me:  I have placed the soul of my
child upon the wrong path.  Allah alone knows the hidden depths of
our hearts. He wants to show me what is correct and what is false.
Please, do not concern yourselves about the boy. He won't receive
punishment which he doesn't deserve.  Good night." Extending our
hands to him, we also said "Good night."  We were eager to see how
tomorrow's affairs would develop.

                II. Towards Hebron!

    Oh what memories are connected to the name of this old and
famous city of kings and descendants of Levi! Located just twenty
miles south of Jerusalem, Hebron may be the oldest city in the
Promised Land. It existed three thousand years before the birth of
Christ. According to the traditional teachings of the Middle Ages, it
is in this vicinity where God created Adam.

    Seventeen miles southwest of Jerusalem, there's the city
of Kirjath-arba, where mythical giants once lived. Later, Hebron was
the capitol city of the Hittites, whose princes resided there. After
the Children of Israel's conquest of Canaan, the city fell to the
Family of Caleb. Later, King David spent the first seven years of his
reign here. At the city gates, David's General Joab murdered Abner,
the Commander-in-Chief of King Saul's army. Upon David's orders, it
was here that the men who assassinated Saul's son Ishbosheth were
hung. From Hebron, Absalom launched the rebellion against his father,
King David. During the Israelites' captivity in Babylon, the city
fell into the hands of the Edomites, Esau's people-which Judas
Maccabaeus drove out. The Romans destroyed the city and sold its
inhabitants into slavery. The Crusaders made Hebron their Bishop-
City. It has also become ever more holy to Muslims, because it was
the dwelling place of the Patriarchs. In the past, Abraham lived
there, and Jacob's caravan to Egypt began at Hebron. The Muslims call
Abraham the friend of merciful compassion; from this title, Hebron
received its current Arabic name, El Chalil.

    So, Hebron is highly revered-but unfortunately, the city is not
friendly toward strangers, particularly Christians. In the entire
land, Hebron's population is the most bigoted. There are
approximately nine thousand Muslims and five hundred Jews, who in
fact want to earn as much money as possible from a Christian-yet they
consider him to be inferior and even an unclean enemy whose mere
touch can make them dirty. Through  Hebron's lanes, a Christian
pedestrian gets along OK if he tries very hard to avoid looking into
the eyes of "the true believers."  Otherwise, trouble can easily
happen. At the least,  youth who follow him will not just shout out
curse words-they will also throw solid objects. The most pronounced
expression of this hostile relationship is evident in the fact that
Hebron's inns are not open to Christians-even though the city's well-
traveled roadway connects to Jerusalem. Today, it may be different;
it was in the year 1900 when I last visited Hebron.

    In light of Christians' common veneration of the patriarch
Abraham, Europeans visit this city of historical names-in spite of
its unfriendly population.  When his wife Sarah died, Abraham
purchased the double burial cave called Machpela; the Hittite Ephron
sold him this grave site. Thus in a burial chamber, she was
transformed. Some say that the following famous six are entombed
here: Abraham. Isaac, Jacob, Sarah, Rebecca, and Leah. Among the
Greek-speaking Jews, some say that the Byzantine Emperor Justinian
lies here.  Above this spot, a church was once established-which the
Muslims converted into a mosque; unfortunately, Christians are not
allowed to visit this site. Christians are only permitted to come
near the outer perimeter of this shrine. In order to go beyond that
limit, one must be a high-level, princely person-especially one that
holds a firman, a royal decree from the Ottoman Empire.  In this same
region, upon Der el Arba'in, one finds the grave of Jesse, King
David's father. A half hour from the city stands Abraham's Well,
where some claim that this is the scene where once the Oaks of Mamre
stood. [ Mamre was the Amorite chief who gave his name to the plain
where Abraham dwelt, Genesis 23: 19.] Almost every place in the
surrounding area is intertwined with some memory of the patriarchs.
So for this reason, it was also a desire of mine to visit Hebron as
often as I was in Jerusalem. So it is now. (Photo, 148 KB-Jpg. The
Apostles' fountain: on the road between Jerusalem and Bethany, which
tradition says is the place where Jesus rested with his disciples.)

    At exactly 7 o'clock the next morning, a comfortable, fully
covered four-passenger carriage arrived at our door. Therein, sat
Mustafa Bustani and Thar.  When my wife saw them, she said: "So, he's
allowed to come after all." I too was pleased about this. The boy
sprang out of the carriage. He was festively dressed: golden shoes,
white stockings, white pants, and a white Bedouin-shirt with a red
vest that had Hungarian Hussar gold-braided cords. Upon his head sat
a red fez, to which  a white, silken neck-scarf was fastened. Today,
the boy looked exceptionally distinguished. "We are here. Father bids
you to come," said Thar. His voice had an official and powerful ring
to it. In a softer and more confidential tone, he officially put
forth this question: "Yesterday evening, did you also think that I
would receive a good thrashing? No? I've thought a great deal about
it. I wish that he had whipped me." For a moment, he pondered over
this-then he repeated these words: "Yes, yes, I wanted it that way!"
    "Why?"
    "If the beating were over, my father would no longer be angry
and sad.  It would no longer be painful for me either. As long as I
have to await punishment, even as I do right now, he still has the
sad eyes-and that causes me twice the pain."  I wanted to know the
reason: "In what way is it doubled?"

    "First, I'll tell you about his eyes, then secondly about the
thrashing which is yet to come.  Due to the fact that the punishment
usually never happens, I ceaselessly and hopelessly feel this way in
advance. So today, it will perhaps be the same. Since yesterday
evening, his sad eyes have hurt me. Mostly, he doesn't say a word-not
a single thing. Early today, he personally woke me up and helped me
get dressed. When he stood so silently in my room, I could no longer
bear it; I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him, begging
him to punish me-soundly and vigorously. He just gently smiled and
shook his head. Do you think he is doing the right thing?"

    I gave him this advice: "At all times, what your father does is
the right thing. You must come to understand this." Thar questioned
me: "Even when I regard his actions as wrong?"  Here was my reply:
"Then too!  When you grow older, just as he is now, you will have an
experience that will convince you that he was right. Oh well, come
on! Your father is always so punctual-we shouldn't keep him waiting."

    "Now just a moment,"he pleaded. "I still have something to tell
you; today is Friday, a holiday. It's forbidden for me to get dirty.
For that reason, I didn't bring along any colors. Nevertheless, I am
a hero. You see, it isn't required that a hero be painted up when he
wants to conquer his enemies. There are also cases in which-" At that
point, my wife jokingly added this line: "-the victor actually has no
paint at all. Yesterday, you told us that you wanted to paint the
first storming of Palestine's City of Jericho.  Didn't you think
about that project on this special Friday?"

    The boy answered her: "Anyway, nothing could be done about
Jericho. I lack the means to capture the necessary noise.  I can
paint the trumpets and also the walls; but how am I supposed to
insert the loud racket when I can't portray that part of the picture?
It's really too bad-just a crying shame. So, now I'm ready. Let's
go."

    We broke off our conversation and went to the carriage. Just as
we were climbing in,  Lord Pasha Osman Achyr  interrupted his morning
excursion and came riding upon his fat donkey.  For a moment, he
reigned back on his steed, gave us a friendly greeting, then directed
this question to the boy:  "Well then, which hero are you today?"
With his usual presence of mind, Thar answered: "I'm Joshua the
Conqueror. I'm going into the Land of the Canaanites in order to show
them that we are not afraid of them." The Pasha played along: "Where
does this land lie?"  The boy replied: "In Gilgal." The Pascha
cautioned him: "My boy, be careful then. Without asking first about
your reason for being there, the people will cut you down." With that
parting advice, he rode off.

    Regarding what was necessary for our journey, Mustafa Bustani
assured us that he had taken care of everything. Thar leapt onto the
seat beside the coachman where he felt more free and higher than in
the deeper part of the carriage beside us. The horses then began to
pull forward. Our steep path went from the Jaffa Gate into the Hinnom
Valley, which carries the Jewish and Islamic references  to "hell."
We traveled farther to the Sultan's Pool; and from there, again
upward to the high and level Bethel. Thereon lies the Cloister of
Rabbi Elijah, from which we could admire a broad and outstanding
view. This monastery is associated with the Prophet Elijah, and
nearby is a spring where the Holy Family reportedly drew water.

    Beyond this monastery, you'll find Rachel's Crypt, the burial
site of  Patriarch Jacob's wife. At this holy site, we read these
words: "On the road to Ephratah, which is now called Bethlehem,
Rachel died and was buried.  So Jacob erected a memorial upon her
grave;  to this day, Rachel's monument is still there."  The road
divides at this place.

    To the left, it goes towards Bethlehem; straight ahead lies Hebron.
We took the latter direction.  After forty-five minutes, we came to
the Three Pools of Solomon. Long before the Christian era, these aqua
ducts were constructed in order to supply water to Jerusalem. Even
though these pools and the region's small castle hold historical and
architectural significance, they have no bearing on our story-so for
now, we'll bypass them.

    Of more interest to me is the broad Wadi a-'Arish; midway
between Jerusalem and Hebron,  a "caf," was erected, a place where
men and animals can find a place to rest themselves. Don't picture a
European-style caf,.  Instead, imagine a narrow, low-quality, jagged
stone building wherein a rather squalid fellow boils dirty water in a
filthy pot as he makes a brew which he calls "coffee"-a drink that he
sells to European passersby, all at sinfully expensive prices.

    Yet the sin does not stem from the price that he demands. Oh no,
he's too sly for that. This might result in a complaint that could
lead to cancellation of his license to sell coffee. He works this
more cleverly. For the locals, he sets the lowest possible price; but
for foreigners, he always says this: "I'll take what you give me!" In
this way, he neither dissuades nor pleads.  Since European travelers
are almost always well-to-do, having extra money to afford elevated
sentiments, the coffee-innkeeper gives them the impression that he's
needy-all with the aim that they will pay him a price which is more
like a present, or even an excessive tariff.  For a very small
oriental cup, which contained no more than two or three thimbles-
worth of coffee, he held out his hand long enough to receive more
than a German Mark-whereas five Pfennig would have been entirely
enough.  I had always been generous towards him.  However, the last
time I stopped at his place, I saw how he was laughing at me as I
rode away-so today, he shall pay dearly for that.

    When we arrived at his "caf,," we stopped and climbed out of the
carriage. He rushed outside; and with an exaggerated deep bow, he
asked about our "orders." Mustafa Bustani first ordered five cups of
coffee, then five more; for a third time, he ordered still another
five. Altogether, that came to fifteen cups. The man melted into a
downcast spirit; he knew that Mustafa Bustani was no foreigner and
that he often stopped here on his business trips to Hebron. So, he
could not treat him like a European. When we were preparing to leave
and climbing into our carriage, I took out my money pouch. The shop
owner's face completely lit up. I asked how much it cost for the
fifteen cups of coffee. "Give what you wish," he said. "I'll only pay
the price that you demand," I declared.

    This accomplished nothing. He absolutely refused to set a price.
So when I threatened to pay him nothing if he wouldn't give me a
price, he simply answered with this: "OK, I'll give them to you as a
present." This trick had always worked for him. He assumed that no
European would allow him to give away his coffee. So, I acted just as
he expected.  Appearing to be overwhelmed with his generosity, I gave
him a franc. In Palestine, the franc is the most prized silver coin.
He looked at it, then handed it back to me and said: "I'm giving the
money back to you."  After taking the coin back, I first gave him
two, then three francs.  Once again, he declined the money and
repeated these words: "I give these as presents to you." I understood
how this man operated; I knew just how far I could take this. His
greed for money grew with every increase of my offer. I gave him
four, then finally five francs. With this last sum, he closed his
hand and made a movement as if he wanted to pocket the money. At the
same time, he inquisitively looked at me.

    I put on my most good-natured face and raised my hand as if to
reach into my money bag once again.  This was too much for him; he
could not resist. In a tone of voice which made it seem that any
payment for the coffee was simply impossible, he handed me the five
francs: "I also give these to you!" Ever so slowly and in a way that
would not diminish the pleasure of this scene,  I took back the
money,  put the coins in my bag, and answered him: "So, I give in to
your kindness, and I accept your present. I thank you. Live long and
well!  May Allah bless you and your house for your noble generosity
towards all foreign guests!"

    Since we didn't want to hurry and thereby lessen the great
effect of our departure, we slowly stood up and watched the
expression on his face. Acting as if he wanted to keep us there, he
held up his outstretched arms. His mouth gaped open.  Upon his face
lay an expression of confused dismay, one which bordered on outright
shock. He was speechless, uttering neither word nor sound.  To make
up for lost time, the horses fell into a trot.  When we came to the
next curve in the road where we looked back, the man still stiffly
stood there in the same spot.  What followed was whole-hearted
laughter-even the Arabic coachman joined in the fun.

    The rest of the trip provided a lot of historical points of
interest, which at the time seemed to have no connection to the
former events. In Ain ed Dirwe, there is a beautiful hewn-stone
fountain where the 8th chapter of Acts describes how the Christian
Apostle Phillip converted and baptized the Ethiopian Queen Candace'
royal treasurer.  Farther on, we came across the ruins of Beth Zur,
the "house of rock," just southwest of Jerusalem. Chapter 15, verse
58 in the Old Testament Book of Joshua notes the importance of Beth
Zur in the time of the Hebrew hero Judas Maccabeus.  Chapter 3, verse
16 of The Book of Nehemiah also cites its history.

    A half hour later and perhaps 400 steps on the left-hand side of
the roadway, we came to the large stone structure of Abraham's
Cistern, more commonly called "Abraham's Well." At this place, we
still had a lot to keep us thoroughly busy. Regarding this famous
site, I offer one of my wife's photographs.  There in the corner, I
am sitting on the edge of the Cistern, clothed like an Arab-except
for my bare head. Forward and to the right, is the Arabic Donkey
Driver, whom I will introduce later on.

    Before reaching this place near the city, imagine long ago when
there were vineyards and gardens that even in olden times had a
reputation for their good fruits. For example, it's said that this is
where Moses' military scouts visited Hebron's Brook of Eschcol and
cut the gigantic cluster of grapes which they carried back to the
camp of the Israelites as a proof of the fruitfulness of the land
(Numbers 13: 23).  From here to the city, it takes only a half hour.

    In earlier days, whenever I traveled to Hebron, I called on my
venerable and extraordinarily agreeable old acquaintance, Jew
Eppstein. Since he comes from Germany, he speaks German exceptionally
well. Regarding the local hatred of Christians which every German
assumes to be the case, he very weakly subscribed to that prejudice.
Since I was following Mustafa Bustani's travel plans, today I was
unable to visit Eppstein. By stopping at a Jew's place, Mustafa would
have forever damaged his reputation.

    So we drove on, arriving at the address of one of his business
friends, a place that had enough room to accommodate the horses and
carriage. Was it also possible for him to accept my wife and me?
Fortunately, he was a man who was among the few broad-minded,
tolerant believers who live in Hebron. After some hesitation, we were
taken in- but separate from Mustafa and his son. For us, there was a
small, four-cornered room that had no windows. In order to have
light, we had to leave the door open, which also let in the stinky,
filthy air from the farmyard. If we were bold and daring enough, we
could sit upon the room's single piece of furniture, a straw mat.
After spending a half hour in there, someone brought us an old
pitcher of stagnant water that was not drinkable.

    When we sought answers to our questions, we could learn nothing
more than this: due to the fact that we were Christians and not
Muslims, this was the only kind of water that he was permitted to
offer us.  Besides, no one else would be permitted to drink from our
pitcher, because it would now be considered "unclean."  So, this was
the hospitality of a so-called "tolerant" Muslim.  How would we have
fared with one who was intolerant? I asked Mustafa Bustani to come to
our room.  He came and brought along Thar.  He apologized. The man
told him that we had been well taken care of-befitting our social
standing.  We informed Mustafa that we now preferred to go to Jew
Eppstein's.

    Right away, Thar was determined to accompany us. His father
didn't object.  As much as Mustafa wished, he couldn't do otherwise.
Now that he was already there, he pointed out the necessity of the
meeting and the visit; this situation placed a demand upon him, but
these matters didn't obligate his son. Thus, he was thankful that we
wanted to take Thar with us.  First of all, Mustafa suggested that he
go to the Arab who had wanted to sell the saddle. It was on account
of this saddle that he had made the journey, so it was readily
understood that this matter had been settled earlier. At this time,
my wife spoke up: "Since it is Friday, are you allowed to buy and
sell?" Mustafa answered: "In this case, yes.  We don't live here, so
we are considered passers-by and customers who can't wait."

    My wife reasoned further: "After all, we too are part of the
hospitality reserved for passers-by, courtesies for those who can not
wait.  Why are Muslims pliable when it comes to making money, yet
harshly inconsiderate whenever it comes to showing love and kind-
heartedness to those same foreigners?" Mustafa Bustani pleaded his
case: "According to Islam, hospitality belongs to those who are
virtuous, and no one is released from this obligation."  She pressed
him further: "Also when it comes to other religious faiths?"
Unequivocally, he answered her: "Yes, this is true for Christians,
Jews, and heathens."

    She pressed him for more: "If the residents of Hebron then
claim to be Muslims, yet they don't practice this commandment, how
then can they be true confessors of  the Prophet Mohammed?" Our
friend conceded: "Arguably, no one can answer this." Here, I joined
in: "On the contrary. Our Thar has already answered. Earlier today,
he spoke with the Ferik-Pasha."

    The boy had been listening to us.  When he now learned that he
had answered a question that his father believed to be unanswerable,
he felt very important: "Yes, that's correct.  I always know more
than other people!  Thus, our cook and her husband always call me
'The Chosen One.' Effendi, please tell me what I said."  I recalled
his description: "Figuratively speaking-but not without reasonable
cause-you labeled Hebron's inhabitants as Canaanites."

    "Oh yes. I always have reasons. Only on the surface are they
Muslims-on the inside, they will always be Canaanites. In the process
of refinement during Moses' time and that of Islam, they have been
passed by, and now they are at the bottom of the barrel. Effendi, now
I remember that I was the first to figure this out.  I haven't
forgotten the history of Moses' time, nor the origins of Islam.  So,
just how do we actually identify all the Palestinian people in
Canaan? They go by these names: Hittites, Jebusites, Girgashites,
Hivites, people of Arka, Amorites, Sidonians, Phenicians, those in
Zemar, Arvadians, Hamathians, and all others dwelling in Zidon. You
will probably not retain this information."  I agreed: "Here is my
notebook. Please write them for me."

    From the inner pocket of his vest, he took out a small notebook
and gave it to me. I was happy to see what it contained. What he had
recorded was quite accurate and concerned fairly serious things. I
noted the eleven names, then gave the small journal back to him.
Right away, he began to read through the list, as if he were
memorizing the words. In the meantime, his father went to the
innkeeper, expressing our thanks for the hospitality. When he
returned, we went in search of the owner of the saddle.

    The trader picked it up and showed it to us. Without announcing
the cost, he explained that he would sell it for a price that I would
judge to be fair- not excessive. The object was really magnificent,
and according to him, a bargain. Mustafa made the initial mistake of
saying that I was the buyer, not he.  Immediately, the Arab explained
that he wanted nothing to do with me, a so-called infidel. It would
be a sin to sell a Christian this saddle which a Muslim Pasha had
owned-so, we must leave without achieving our purpose.

    Mustafa Bustani was extremely outraged at this kind of
treatment. Nevertheless, we were calmly determined to put this
incident behind us. Mustafa wanted to accompany us to the Burial Site
of Abraham, yet here too we had no luck.  In every narrow and dirty
alleyway through which we traveled, people looked at us with hostile
eyes. Since we wanted to avoid running into danger and being
mistreated at the hands of these people, we simply had to turn around
at certain places and stations. On such an important occasion as
today and as a Muslim, Mustafa Bustani should have felt ashamed to be
leading two Christians to this holy site.

    Never before had I personally experienced such intolerance.
Actually, it was always the opposite case; I had been guided to the
inner sanctuary, although I never went inside.  Mustafa asked someone
about the importance of today, so now we learned that this was both a
birthday celebration and a commemoration of the expulsion of Ishmael,
the eldest son of Abraham. Sarah had insisted that her husband banish
his servant-maid Hagar and their son Ishmael to the desert. Now, we
better understood the source of our inhospitable treatment from the
bigoted saddle-merchant and from the mosque's fanatical officials.

    The commemoration of their national ancestor's exile had
absolutely doubled their existing abrasiveness.  Jews were put on
notice that they were not allowed to be seen-and the same was true
for me.  Given the fact that my wife was with me, this could  easily
have been taken as an act of defiance which would have heightened
hostilities rather than minimize them.  Thus, I had to give Mustafa
Bustani my word that I would now go straight to Eppstein's home and
eat at his house. I was to avoid the city streets, following only the
outlying paths to Jew Eppstein's house. There were still two sites
that we wanted to visit: Abraham's Oak of Mamre and the Sacred
Heights of Hebron.  As I've mentioned, the latter route is
approximately 400 hundred paces from the road to Jerusalem.  So we
set the exact time when we would stop the carriage and leave Mustafa
and Hebron behind us, thereby starting our journey to Eppstein's
place.  At the agreed upon time, we parted company. Thar was
exceptionally happy that he was allowed to go with us. Without
further words from his father, I didn't overlook the evident trust
that his father had placed in me.

    With all of his most generous hospitality, my brave and old
friend Eppstein received us into his home. What is most commonly
known as the home's "best room" was ours. It was a relatively airy
room that was located on the flat roof top.  In my wife's journal,
wherein she happily noted such details, she wrote the following
lines: "It was a very hot day. We were given a beautiful, cool, domed
room that had two broadly curved arches. Three of the walls had
windows, and the door was on the fourth. Conditions there were simply
splendid. The room's furnishings consisted of two beds. To the side
of one was a reconditioned couch with three antique pillows; next to
it was a table with four wooden chairs.  The other had a white-
ruffled canopy bed.  In the corner was a water pitcher that probably
dated to the time of Christ. The walls were tinted with a bluish
white-wash. A brass wash-service sat upon one of the chairs. I won't
say a word about the pictures on the walls. We were served excellent
Hebron wine, a bottle of which cost one franc. We dined on food that
had required a great deal of preparation, all of which certainly was
worth the effort." Considering the generous hospitality that we had
received, we didn't need to send for the food that Mustafa Bustani
had brought along.  Those items were packed away in our carriage and
would come in handy when we turned towards home.

    In the course of the meal, Eppstein told us about today's big
Children's Fitness-Festival, a birthday celebration in honor of the
boy Ishmael. The children were drawn to the city's open spaces, where
they were invited to take part in all kinds of peaceable and war-like
games; adults were lining up to help supervise them. Since so many
stories are told about the expulsion and the injustices that were
sustained, no person from another faith should even want to be a
bystander.  When Eppstein heard that we had the intention of riding
to the Oak and on to Abraham's Well, he immediately advised us to
cancel those plans. There could be trouble if a procession of
children were to pass by these holy sites.

    Filled with indignation, Thar yelled out: "Keep our distance?
Flee? That is never the case with us. As for Effendi and me, we fear
nothing.  Regarding the Mrs., she too is not afraid, because I have
told her that I'm a hero, and she can always call upon me in a time
of need. Chuckling to himself, Eppstein considered how this child
could have such self-esteem: "A hero?"  With that remark, he came
down on the wrong side of the boy. Thar rose from the table, came
towards him, and answered that question: "You laugh at me?  I will
not tolerate that. My name is Thar, and woe to you if I should ever
take revenge against you."

    Jew Eppstein kept on joking: "Well, would that be really bad for
me?"  Thar was irritated: "So, you continue to laugh at me?  Mind
what you say! In truth, I'm just eleven years old, but in all of
Jerusalem there isn't a single fourteen year old that I haven't
wrestled to the ground!" Still smiling, Eppstein pressed further: "Do
you also consider me to be such a fourteen year old?"
    "No. Well then, how old are you?"
    "Let's say sixty."
    "For all I care, it's the same to me if you're a hundred.  Now
pay attention!"

    Thar quickly slipped behind him, forcing his arms behind him.
With a jerk and a squeeze, Eppstein ended up sitting on the ground-
where previously he had stood. Naturally, this was the result of the
boy's quickness and the way he managed to take the man by surprise.
Even so, the boy had physical powers that exceeded the usual strength
of an eleven year old. With a satisfied nod to Jew Eppstein, Thar
returned to his place at the table: "At first, you laughed from
above-now you laugh from below!"
    "Tell me now, where did you develop such knack and quickness?"
    Thar answered: "From the Lions Club."
    "What is that? How and where?"

    "It's in Jerusalem. We boys have four clubs where we can
practice. The Lions Club meets in front of  the western Jaffa Gate.
At the northwestern Damascus Gate, you'll find The Elephant Club.
Just outside of Stephen's Gate, The Hippos play.  The Whales claim
The Pool of Siloah as their practice grounds. As you know, these are
strong and noble animals. With their speed and the power of their
leaps, The Lions triumph, just as I've done here.  As you already
know, The Elephans trample together. The Hippos run with their heads
linked together; in this way, the strongest roots himself to the spot
while the others collapse inward. The Whales do battle only in the
ocean. One ducks under the opposition, and with a mouth full of water
he spews it into the air, just like whales do.  Therein lies the
victory!  I'm a member of all four clubs; and to this day, no one has
beaten me. Hey, do we want to work together like Hippos?

    Thar lowered his head and prepared to ram Mr. Eppstein, but he
immediately stepped to the side and called out: "Leave me in peace. I
am not one of those beasts!  I only wanted to warn you about today's
dangers-never considering that I would be treacherously ambushed.
Should I contact a reliable rent-a-donkey business for the trip
you're planning?"  I answered: "Yes. Preferably one that does not

    Mr. Eppstein was glad to help: "There is only one, so I'll ask
him to come. It saddens me to acknowledge that today is such a Day of
Hate.  I'm sorry to say that your wife was only permitted to see the
outside of the mosque.  I have always said this, so I'll continue to
repeat it: If the faith of these people were pure and noble, then
they would not find it necessary to keep others away from their
shrines."

    He excused himself and sent for the donkey-lender.  Thar pulled
out his notebook and thoughtfully recorded this quote from Mr.
Eppstein. For him, those words seemed important enough to remember.
In a short time, the donkey-driver arrived and heard our requests. As
our photograph shows, he looked Moorish, but he seemed to be good-
natured and not a person to inconvenience us. He had no horses
whatsoever;  not even one donkey was available. On account of the
festival, all animals had been reserved ahead of time. However, there
were three mules that he could lend us.  We could honestly say that
they were only suited for pulling a cart, not for riding. One of them
had an especially stubborn temperament, but we had to be thankful
that these dear animals were still available. So we closed the deal
with this merchant and asked that he bring the mules without delay

    Whenever a Middle Easterner, and particularly a donkey-driver
promises to turn up without delay, this may mean that he will arrive
one or even two hours from then. Yet this fellow was true to his
word; in just thirty minutes, he showed up. He claimed that he would
have come even sooner if he hadn't found it necessary to clean the
animals before he delivered them to us. I don't care to describe
them, so I'll simply confess that the sight of them was no minor
fright for us.

    They consisted of skin and bones. For well over a month, they
had neither seen a washing, a scrubbing, nor a curry-comb. What was
supposed to pass for a saddle and strapping was a sheer hodge-podge
of things that didn't fit. The lady's saddle was such a boldly sad
afterthought of improvisation. In light of the donkey-driver's
freethinking and artistic invention, I paid him an extra baksheesh-an
act for which he solemnly assured me that I had his everlasting love,
loyalty, and devotion.

    Needless to say, we wanted to provide feed for the poor animals.
They fed on everything edible, including all the bread that we found
in Eppstein's house-and still they were not full. The prettiest parts
about them were their names. Mine was called "Guewerdschina," which
means "dove."  Naturally, I managed to pick the one that seemed to be
the most ornery-and it proved to be true. In both a good and bad
sense, we would have quite an experience with this one.  After we
paid the rental fee, mounted our mules, and prepared to ride away, it
became evident that Guewerdschina didn't want to go along. She would
not budge from her space.

    I now applied all of my equestrian skills.  The Donkey Driver
himself gave it his best effort, and Eppstein's servants did the
same-but all their efforts were in vain. They knew the stubborn
nature of this dumb animal, so they were sure that it would rather
die than take just two steps from its spot. What was I supposed to
do? Like the Donkey Driver, should we too just walk along beside her?
No!  Once again, I mounted the mule and ordered the Driver to lead
Guewerdschina. Of course, she followed him. Once we had left the city
behind us and we had reached open fields, I had hoped to convince her
to ride on-and I partially succeeded. Kind words and caressing didn't
help at all, and whipping the animal accomplished even less. So I
tried something with my thumb; from the side of "the dove," I pressed
hard between the first two vertebrae.  She shot forward and obeyed me
for a little while, but not for long. I was convinced that I had to
experiment from a new angle. During the entire journey, I agonized
about what I should do with this contrary beast.

    From the time we left the gardens till we reached the Oak of
Abraham, a half hour passed. It's said that The Oak of Mamre
originated during the time of the first patriarchs. This is an
exaggeration. It belongs to the genus Quercus ilex psudo-coccifera,
which has a base circumference of approximately ten meters. At the
height of four meters, this tree begins to fork and to form immense
boughs. For the most part, the tree is already beginning to die as it
branches out.

    As early as the sixteenth century, this tree was venerated;
anyway, it has a considerably different age-and it probably will not
stand much longer than it already has. It belongs to the Russians who
established a hospice here and built an observation tower; from its
height, one can see all the way to the Dead Sea. For just a small
fee, the key to this tower can be fetched inside the hospice.  I sent
Thar inside and asked him to bring me the key. After he did that
errand, he brought me a cord that he had found.

    While he was showing the rope to me, he said: "This is for your
dear Guewerdschina. I want you to use this when you ride her away
from here." I had my doubts about that: "Do you think you can make
her move from this spot?"
    "With no trouble at all."
    "Well then, do you have some kind of remedy?"
    "Yes, it works every time."
    "Why didn't you tell me this earlier?

    Sly as a fox, he winked at me and laughed; his gorgeously white
teeth glistened as he answered: "It's because I wanted to double your
delight, and the cure can only be doubly pleasing when it follows
prior turmoil.  Watch this!" He took the middle of the rope and
firmly tied a knot around the tail of  "the dove," so that both ends
of the cord hung down-then he climbed onto the saddle.  We wanted to
start out on our trip to Harem Ramet el Chalil, to the Sacred Heights
of Hebron.  My wife sat upon her mule, and I climbed onto the one
that Thar had been riding. Now, we simply had to wait and see what
the boy was going to do. The donkey driver handed him both ends of
the rope, which he calmly held in his hands. "Now, watch how quickly
this works," he said. "Make room; I'm riding on ahead."

    We moved to the side. He goaded dear Guewerdschina. She swished
her ears and waggled her tail, but she took no steps forward. He
struck her, but that did no good. He screamed at her and slapped his
feet into her sides-all to no avail. So he pulled on both ends of the
rope. With that trick, the mule's tail flipped up and onto her rump.
Thar then wrapped the cords around her belly and tied a knot, thereby
firmly stretching the ropes in a way that they could not release
backwards. Guewerdschina was visibly startled. Nothing like this had
ever happened in her lifetime. Like the wings of a windmill, she
flailed her ears. She also wanted to whisk her tail, but that
couldn't happen. At this point, she let her ears droop down as she
contemplated her troubles. To this spirited annoyance, the boy added
a rambunctious swat. This caused "the dove" to turn her head to the
right, trying to look behind her-but she saw nothing. So she turned
to her left and tried to see what was behind.  In spite of her
tremendous efforts to move her tail so that she could see it, she
couldn't.

    "Now she's unbearably worried!" laughed Thar. "She thinks her
tail is gone. She believes that some frightening thing is behind her.
Now she will run for all she's worth!"
The words were hardly out of his mouth when Guewerdschina let out a
bone marrow-jarring hee-haw. She cringed and arched her back like a
cat.  She lunged to the right and to the left-then with sudden haste,
she shot straight forward, as if she wanted to charge beyond her own
head. It required a very good rider not to fall off;  Thar
effortlessly stayed in the saddle. Laughing heartily, we followed him
as fast as we could. In light of the tragically comical, apprehensive
demeanor of mules, it really was impossible to keep a straight face.

    Our new route led us through the ruins of the village of Chirbet
en Nasara, then on towards the road to Jerusalem.  There we caught up
with the boy, noting how the mule pretty much obeyed him.  From this
path, it was just 400 paces to Abraham's Well; in the corner of the
photograph, note the large, square stone wall. No one knows why this
wall exists, nor whether it was ever expanded. Now, it is simply a
rubble.  The blocks are often five meters long, yet they are no
longer joined with mortar.  In Baalbek, I have seen hewn stones that
are over nineteen meters in length. Given the era of this wall's
origin, a five meter stone was plenty to manhandle.  Nearby is still
another cistern; it's called "The Bath of Sarah," Ishmael's mother's
well. In the nearby rugged rocks, two oil lamps have been affixed.
Not far from the crumbled wall is a large church, most likely the
basilica that Constantine the Great erected at "The Strong Terebinth
Tree of Mamre." To this day, this place is called "The Valley of
Terebinth," a place to search for acceptance and adoption.

    When we reached the four-cornered wall, we saw a poorly clothed
Arabic woman and her small daughter sitting in a corner near the
well. As soon as they saw us, they stepped back from the water. After
we dipped up some water for our animals and gave them time to drink,
my wife found a spot to take a photograph.  When the Donkey Driver
saw her camera, he immediately removed himself and his mules to a
place of safety-for he believed that only Christians and Jews were
able to withstand the power of photography. Every other creature,
whether man or beast, risked destruction.

    Peering from behind a large stone, his curiosity drove him to
see what was taking place. He saw "the eye of the monster," the lens
of the camera, which was pointed directly at me and towards the
corner.  He wanted to make sure that this "eye" did not focus on him-
but a shaft of sunlight just so happened to shine on him.  Actually,
we no longer needed him and his mules. Since our present location was
only a few hundred paces from the road where Mustafa Bustani was
supposed to wait for us, I told him that we would just walk from
here.

    When the photography was finished, I paid him.  In my business
dealings with other people, it's never been my nature nor my way to
be a stingy man who haggles over the cost of things. Extending an
open hand goes considerably further than acting like a miser. The
same is true in this land. The Donkey Driver counted the money that I
gave  him: "Effendi, that is too much." I insisted: "No, I gladly
give you this money. You have been friendly and polite, so you've
earned the baksheesh."
    "Even this tip is too much.  Perhaps I can do still more that
will justify this baksheesh. I will not leave this area until you
also depart.  I have nothing more to do, so nothing precludes me from
serving you further."

    We had thought that Thar would want to take an interest in
photography, but this was not the case. More than he realized, the
exotic Arabic woman and her young daughter held a greater
gravitational attraction than the cloud-black camera. He was looking
for a way to meet them. In the way that boys do, he first meandered
from a distance, then he came ever closer to them. Suddenly, he sat
down between the two and began to talk with uncommon familiarity-as
if he were an acquaintance from long ago, or even a relative of
theirs.

    After I had finished taking our photos, he brought the small
girl to where my wife and I were seated on the edge of the cistern.
Her mother remained sitting. The young girl had the most lovingly
sensitive, wholesomely healthy face, with peach-red cheeks and large
grey-blue velveteen eyes. Judging from her appearance, it seemed like
some deep and undisturbed charming riddle was miraculously working
inside of her. Like a fountain, her light brown hair flowed from
under her desert-red scarf. One of her sunburned, delicate hands held
a few long-stemmed Canterbury-bell flowers. She kept her other hand
in the thin pleats of her spotlessly clean dress. I distinctly recall
how her dainty, suntanned feet with miniature ivory nails partly
emerged from elegant leather sandals. In light of this
extraordinarily pleasant first impression of her, an endless sense of
compassion filled my heart for this girl who was as poor as she was
pretty. In my respect for her and her mother, I somehow felt more and
more compelled to be prepared to offer them some great and suitably
timely service. Later on, my wife told me that she too had felt this
instant bonding-at precisely the same moment.

    She turned to ask Thar: "Well then, what is her name?"
    "I don't know, but you yourself can ask her, right? In talking
with her, I learned no more than these three things: she likes me;
I'm her hero, and I'll fight for her."
    "I'm called Schamah," she said, putting an accent on the second
syllable of her name. The fidgeting hand that formerly hid in the
pleats of her dress now directed an outstretched forefinger as she
pointed: "Over there is my mother."  Her voice sounded soft and
tender, yet strikingly moving. Its tone had a hard-to-refuse ring.
With open arms, my wife hugged the girl as she asked me this
question: "What does the name Schamah mean?"  So, I briefly
explained: "It's the East Jordanian pronunciation of Samah, which
means 'forgiveness'."

    Smiling as she talked to the child, my wife hugged her
again: "Oh, innocently young and dear little soul, you've done
nothing that requires forgiving." With laughter in her voice, Schamah
offered her colorful bouquet: "I bring you bells."  She held the
Canterbury-bell flowers to my wife's ear and lightly shook them:
"Now, I'll ring them. Can you hear them?"
    "Yes, I do."
    "Isn't it so? Quite softly, faintly, gently- like the sound is
falling from heaven. When they grow up, they will be as grand as the
ones that hang in churches; then, the entire world will hear their
ringing."

    Thar joined in: "You speak of the church. Are you then a
Christian?"
    "Yes, I'm a Christian," she nodded.
    "And also your mother?"
    "She too."
    He then clapped his hands and called out: "That's beautiful!
That's wonderful! I'm glad to know that!"
    "Why?"
    "It's precisely for these reasons: I'm a hero, and I want to put
up a good fight for your rights. No one can properly perform heroic
deeds for a Muslim girl. Unattractive as a frog, she wraps herself in
fabrics and limps around with wooden slippers on her feet.  By
contrast, I can clearly see the Christian girl. That fact is
essential whenever heroes like us are inspired to risk our lives for
others.  Do you know how I will look when I fight for you?"
    "Like you are dressed today, right?"
    "No.  What I have on now is not bold enough. Do you know that
certain colors can scare an enemy? For this reason, I put on war
paint as soon as a conflict arises. One side of my face becomes blue,
and the other side is painted green-"
    "Phooey, phooey, phooey!"
    "You don't like that?" he asked, halfway astonished and
partially disappointed.
    "Not at all. I like you just the way you are-not all painted
up!"

    Thar was pleased with her answer: "Good, I'll remain who I am.
Now that I think more about what you've said, you're right, very
right. From now on, whenever I struggle with enemies, they may paint
themselves blue, yellow, and green-but not I. I'll bear that in mind.
Our four clubs must have newer and better rules. Foremost, whoever
presents himself in war paint will be judged as beatable. To please
you, I'm ready to bound away from all rules that are good for
nothing!" He then stretched his legs and flexed his muscles so
convincingly that her eyes widened in wonder as she pointed to him
and asked this question: " Yes, I already believe that you're a hero;
but what exactly could be a reason to knock someone down, just for my
sake?"
    "A cause can always be found if you look for it. Maybe it's
coming from over there.  Look!"

    He pointed in the direction of the church ruins, to people whom
we hadn't previously seen-to those who were now coming towards us.
There were ten or twelve men who were riding on donkeys.  Behind them
was a column of  forty or fifty armed boys who were carrying all
kinds of banners. This was one of those parades for children who
excitedly circled the city on this festival day. "Isn't this a
dangerous situation?" my wife asked. "We should leave quickly."

    My answer was one of caution: "Under no circumstances and in no
way should we hurry. This would merely show them that we have some
reason to be fearful, something to hide from. We'll freely give them
the water, but not right away. I hope they will give us some kind of
greeting."

    The procession had now arrived at our spot. The men stopped to
talk with our Donkey Driver, asking some questions about us. They
learned that we were Christians- be that as it may, that we were not
bad people. Schamah's mother left her seat and came nearer to us. She
feared the fanatical people of Hebron, so she begged us to pack up
and leave.  She was a Christian, a widow from the region called Al
Karak, a city in Jordan that contains a famous Crusader castle. It's
located on the other side of the Dead Sea. She and her young daughter
were on a pilgrimage to the holy cities of Bethlehem and Jerusalem.
Truly, she was a simple and poor woman. Still, I'd like to extend my
impression of her; in every way, her clothes were expressly Arabic
and chic-like those customarily worn by a Middle Eastern woman, or
even by a Bedouin. Her clothing was beautiful yet tasteful, with no
suggestion of melancholy nor fascinating glamour. She was a daughter
of sorrow, not a woman of good fortune.  My wife extended her hand to
Schamah's mother, drawing her close to her side. I advised her to put
aside any concerns; nothing was going to happen to them.

    The riders now came up to us. They stopped a few feet from us
and climbed down from their donkeys. It was clear that they didn't
intend to greet us. I couldn't tolerate that sort of contempt,
because such insolence involved behavior that I wanted to bypass and
avoid completely. Whenever you want others to know that you hold a
certain air of strength, it's always effective to put on a special
sort of image. I crafted such a first firm impression, and it seemed
to work with the leader of the group. He shifted his weight, held his
hand to his chest, slightly bowed and said: "Salam. Peace be upon
you."

    Those words sounded brusque. Just as curtly, I stood my ground
and answered: "Salam." Before I could say more, Thar spoke up: "Here
is my Effendi, the Supreme Secretary of Germany's Chancellor. From
his briefcase flows the complete control of all tax revenue. He
levies a tax on whomever he wants. He has just returned from Hebron
where he sought to buy The Oak of Abraham from the Russians, then
transport it home. Hail to Effendi!"

    After he said that, he took his new girlfriend by the hand and
went towards the boys from Hebron. Since I was still so overwhelmed
with surprise that he would meddle and make such  fantastic claims
about me, I completely forgot to caution him. Thank God, something
unforeseen did not happen. The men believed he was serious. They held
a brief discussion, then they all bowed deeply as Abdullah said this
to me: "Effendi, you are a great and powerful official.
Unfortunately, you are also a Christian. For this reason, we are not
permitted to invite you to be our guest. The children's games can
only begin when you have left this site."

    Indirectly, this was an invitation to leave only our dust
behind. Taking their donkeys with them, the men moved to a more
remote spot. A little more peaceable scene was taking place where
Thar and Schamah met together with the boys from Hebron. The boys
were very excited. Since so many of them were hollering, they shouted
something that we didn't understand. Fearlessly, Thar stood there in
front of the boys. As if protecting the girl, he put his left arm
around the girl and gestured menacingly with his right-we could not
hear what he was saying to the crowd. Schamah's mother was anxious
about the safety of her daughter. I tried to reassure her. We drew
closer to the aroused and animated group.

    When Thar saw us coming, he called out to us: "Nothing will come
of their threat. They want to drown Schamah-in the water close to
where you have been sitting. They justify themselves by saying that
she is a Christian who has defiled today's festival. I told them that
I won't allow that, so I'll fight for her.  They are now choosing the
ringleader that I'm supposed to deal with. Ah, there he is!"

    He pointed to a tall, robust boy who now stepped forward.
Following the customary way that the adults had taught him, he gave
his pre-battle speech. He struck a pose and called out to Thar, as
well as to us:  "You are a Christian-dog, and she is a Christian
girl, which is even worse than a cur. We will drown her in the
deepest part of the well, in a spot where she can not touch bottom.
We are true, absolute, and obedient believers of the Prophet. In this
celebration of Ishmael's birthday, we can not endure the sacrilege of
a Christian's feet to touch this ground. So, she must die. But you
want to fight for her, because you claim to be a hero. We are game
for this, because we too are heroes. I demand that you state your
conditions for combat!"

    When Schamah's mother heard all of this, her fear reached its
peak. I explained to her that it was probably not a case of violent
rage that would actually be carried out-rather, it would be handled
as a game.  After all, today was supposed to be the "Day of
Children's Games." She could rest assured that nothing would happen
to her daughter. So, it was not necessary to take her away from our
boy Thar.

    Thar then spoke to Schamah: "You are Queen of the Games; and
before your eyes, they are about to begin. Come and be seated!" She
sat upon a stone bench, and he took his place beside her. Next, he
took his notebook from his vest pocket, opened it, and began to
deliver his counter-reply to the ringleader: "You call me a
Christian-dog. On the contrary, I'm a Muslim from Jerusalem, and that
is far greater that your Hebron sect. Who then are you?" He began to
read the following lines: "You are all Canaanites: Hittites,
Jebusites , Girgashites, Hivites, people of Arka, Amorites,
Sidonians, Phenicians, those from Zemar, Arvadians, Hamathians, and
all others dwelling in Zidon. In the refining process of Islam, you
were found lacking and were passed over-now, you are simply sediment.
If your faith were pure and noble, then your people would not find it
so necessary to keep others away from your places of worship!"

    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 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.

    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 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."





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