The Collaborator of Bethlehem

“Even if he did raise a collaborator, one must have respect for the grief of a father. God knows it isn’t necessarily the father’s fault if the child is bad.”

“Of course.” Omar Yussef leaned forward. “Mahmoud, I need you to explain for me what happened during the arrest of George Saba. Khadija told me you were there when Saba was taken in. I found her description very interesting. Would you mind telling me?”

“Why? I mean, how does it interest you, ustaz?”

“Mahmoud, something terrible happened here this morning, in the very classroom where Khadija studies. I hope you’ll understand that I can’t tell you everything right now, though I will share all I know with Brigadier Khamis Zeydan. But I believe there’s a possible connection between what happened to Director Steadman and the incident with Saba.”

“Why would a collaborator be involved in the death of the UNRWA school’s director?”

“It’s not as simple as that, Mahmoud. But, look, for the sake of your daughter, please tell me about the arrest.”

Mahmoud Zubeida seemed nervous. His face was puzzled. He’s a simple man, Omar Yussef thought, and he doesn’t know if he’s going to get himself in trouble with Khamis Zeydan, or even Hus-sein Tamari, by talking to me. He’s also simple enough that anyone standing behind a desk intimidates and commands him.

“We went to Beit Jala early,” Mahmoud Zubeida said. “There were three jeeps. We blew in the front door. We couldn’t wait to knock, because our commander told us that George Saba was dangerous. He might attack us or kill himself with a cyanide capsule. The Israelis give poison to their collaborators in case they are caught, you know.”

“Who was the commander?”

“Major Awdeh.”

“Jihad Awdeh?”

“Major Jihad, yes.”

“He’s a major?”

“In Preventive Security. We were assigned to work with his detectives that morning.”

“What happened once you were inside?”

“We got the Christian against the wall.”

“Did he resist?”

“No, he was very cowardly and frightened.”

“Did he confess?”

“Immediately. He said, ‘I know what this is about.’”

“Did Major Jihad tell him the charges?”

“Yes, he told him he was accused of collaboration with the Occupation Forces in the death of Louai Abdel Rahman.”

“And George Saba confessed to that?”

“Yes.”

“Jihad Awdeh told him the charge and Saba said, ‘I know what this is about.’”

Mahmoud Zubeida paused. “No, he confessed even before the major told him the charge.”

“So he might have been confessing to something else?”

“I don’t understand.”

“He said that he knew why you came to arrest him. But he could have been wrong about the reason. Did he look surprised when Major Jihad told him the charges?”

“I don’t remember, ustaz. I’m sorry.”

“Did Major Jihad say anything else?”

“Not that I remember.”

“You took Saba out to the jeep?”

“Yes. I rode with him back to the jail.”

“Did he go quietly?”

“Yes, he was very cowardly and scared, like I said.” Mahmoud Zubeida smiled. His teeth were the color of old ivory, from chewing betel. “Major Jihad really frightened him.”

“How?”

“On the way out of the door, he did like this.” The policeman mimed the act of slitting a throat. His laugh came through his stained teeth slow and deep, like a cartoon cretin. “The Christian went quite white.”

Omar Yussef remembered the gesture George Saba had described in the cell. Jihad Awdeh had drawn his finger across his throat when George drove him and Hussein Tamari from his roof late at night. So he had repeated the gesture when Tamari sent him to arrest George for collaboration. Omar Yussef remembered how disquieting it was to talk to Jihad Awdeh at the gunmen’s headquarters two days ago. He couldn’t imagine the terror George must have felt as Awdeh gloated over the gunmen’s revenge.