Ishmael's Oranges by Claire Hajaj Read Free Book Online Page A

started falling. Three days, with no water or power. The house reeked of sweat and fumes from the toilet, and the air was oily with smoke.
    Where were the British? The streets remained empty. Sporadic radio broadcasts said the fighting was still going on to the east and outside of Manshiyya. Villages close to Jaffa, and the outermost suburbs, had been taken. Where was the Arab Liberation Army? They felt utterly alone.
    In the afternoon, Salim’s mother asked Hassan to start bringing in their stocks of food from the garden shed. ‘We have to hide them,’ she said. ‘Who knows how long it will be like this?’
    He helped his brother heave the hessian sacks of flour inside. They looked like the bags the refugees carried, the ones the fellahin used to take fruit to the market; now they were all that stood between him and an aching belly. You’re just another stupid fellah now, you donkey.
    As evening fell, the hairs on the back of Salim’s neck rose. The sound of mortar fire returned to the north. In the gathering darkness he rushed into his parents’ room. His mother was there, filling a suitcase with trembling hands.
    â€˜What are you doing, Mama?’ he said, dry fear swelling in his throat.
    â€˜I won’t let them take our things, if they come here,’ she said, not looking up. ‘You need to get ready too. Put some clothes in a bag and bring it to me. Tell Hassan.’ Her voice was calm but her hands fluttered over her dresses and jewels.
    Salim ran from her, stumbling down the stairs in panic. His heart was pulling him like a desperate animal. Out, out ,it urged. Run! Hide! He tried to calm himself. His mother needed him to be a man.
    He walked slowly over to the family mantelpiece. It was packed with carefully arranged pictures – grandparents he had never met, and one sad, yellowed image of a young girl at her wedding. His eyes searched desperately for the one he wanted.
    There it was: a small, rectangular photograph of a wide-eyed baby propped up against a tree. The baby was looking up in placid bewilderment at some distraction behind the camera. In the background, the white Al-Ishmaeli villa rose like a ghost, flowers curling around its façade.
    It had been taken at Rafan’s tree planting ceremony, one year ago in the garden. The baby, his tree and the little shovel pushed into the earth, to mark the start of two new lives. Only Rafan’s tree had been too small to lean against. So they’d propped him up against Salim’s.
    â€˜Don’t be such a baby,’ Hassan had said, when Salim complained it wasn’t fair. ‘It’s just a picture. What does it matter to you?’ But he’d always pretended it really was him in the picture, there in his rightful place.
    He touched the trunk of his tree in the image, and courage came back to him. Pulling it down from the shelf he ran into his bedroom. He packed his schoolbag with his pyjamas, two pairs of underpants and a change of shirt, laying the picture in the middle. Then he went outside, to wait for what would come.
    On that final night, Salim kept vigil in the garden under his tree, a penknife in his pocket. His mother twice tried to bring him inside, but he refused. Finally she brought him a blanket.
    He lay huddled with his backpack against the bark. Jaffa’s lights were out, and it was the deepest night he’d ever seen. Through the dark, flickering leaves, the sky was seeded with fiery pricks of starlight. As he closed his eyes, they blurred into a brilliant river.
    In the milky air of dawn, he got to his feet. The world was wrapped in stillness, empty but for the birds and dogs. For a moment he wondered if he was still asleep – if he might yet wake up in his own bed, with the light streaming in through the window.
    Then he saw them – the dark clouds rising into the air over the port. A burning stench crept over the sleeping houses. Nearer than before he could hear