Ishmael's Oranges by Claire Hajaj Read Free Book Online

another crash and rumble.
    With a last look at Salim, he urged his wife back into the car. Elia’s eyes held his as the engine roared into action and the Austin sped off towards the coast road.
    His mother turned to Abu Hassan. ‘We’re not going anywhere,’ she said to him. ‘Lili is right. If we go, who knows what could happen to this house? The British are still in charge here, aren’t they? Call Michael Issa!’ The Christian was hailed as one of the heroes leading the Arab Liberation Army. ‘Go to see the British. Make them do something!’ She clenched her fists in rage, Rafan wedged hiccupping under her arm, as the sky flickered and shook behind them.
    Back in their house, the long, slow Sunday morning dawned – and gradually the noise of the shelling stopped. A dull silence fell. No mosque called the morning or the noon prayers. As the heat of the day rose, so did the sound of car horns, the rumble of engines and the babble of frightened voices. Salim thought they were coming from the port. Isak Yashuv was right. The whole of Jaffa was in flight.
    Salim sat with his mother and brothers in the kitchen listening to the radio. Michael Issa was talking; he said that the shelling had killed hundreds of Arabs near the town centre and port. The Jews were advancing from the north, spilling from Tel Aviv’s steel bowels. People were fleeing ahead of them. Northern Jaffa was almost empty. He begged people to stay calm and stay in their homes. He would defend Jaffa to his last drop of blood.
    The heat of the afternoon became too much for Salim, and he went to pace around the garden. A yellow haze filled the sky. It seemed to him that the trees themselves were trembling, their leaves shuddering in the still air. Did trees feel frightened? He rubbed his hand on the bark of his tree, feeling the notches marking his growth. ‘Don’t worry,’ he whispered into the wood. ‘It will be over soon. Just keep growing, until the next harvest.’ He stood there into the uncertain afternoon, saying it again and again under his breath. Don’t be afraid. Don’t be afraid.
    After a restless night, his father put on his best suit of brown wool from Jerusalem to go to beg the British Police Commissioner for help. His stomach strained against the belt loops and sweat coloured his armpits dark. Salim stood by the door as he walked past, out of the kitchen and through the back gate. Outside, Abu Mazen’s new car was waiting, its engine whining gently like a dragonfly over a pond. Mazen was in the back, dressed in his boy scout uniform. His face was pale against the tight buttons, and when he turned Salim saw his eyes were red and swollen. But as soon as he saw Salim staring, he raised his hand into the shape of a gun, aiming at Salim through the window; Salim saw his hand jerk back as the car roared to life and made off through the silent streets.
    Abu Hassan returned that night with good news. ‘The British have given the Jews an ultimatum,’ he told them. ‘If they don’t pull back, the Angleezi will blow those rats out of their holes.’
    Salim took a deep breath and Hassan, beside him, clapped his hands and said, ‘ Al-hamdullilah ’ – thank God!
    â€˜Don’t be so sure,’ their mother replied darkly. ‘The British have made plenty of promises before. They leave in three weeks. Why would they want any more of their soldiers to die? Better to let us kill each other.’
    But this time, not even his mother’s words could quell Salim’s relief. They had been rescued from the brink. It was like when that little girl slipped into the sea from the pier last summer, while her mother screamed. Everyone had leapt to the dark water’s edge, but then a wave from nowhere had washed her right back onto solid ground.
    That night they all slept. But the next morning, fear crept back. It was nearly three days since the mortars