The Collaborator of Bethlehem

instead of God.”

Elias Bishara dusted off the front of his robe where his kneeling had soiled it. He looked at Omar Yussef’s muddy trousers. “Did you fall, ustaz?”

The mud had dried to a dusty cake on the outside of Omar Yussef pants. Underneath, his legs were wet and cold. “It’s nothing,” he said.

“Let’s go inside, anyway. There’s no need for you to join me in scourging yourself out here.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

The two men went into the quiet, white chapel. From the small door to the Nativity Church, the Greek priest watched them, his fingers still brushing his beard. Elias Bishara took Omar Yussef’s arm and led him to the rear pew.

“Elias, I must warn you of a danger to the church,” Omar Yussef said. “There was an attack, a suicide bomb, this morning in Jerusalem.”

“Yes, I heard.”

“It was carried out by the Martyrs Brigades. The operation was organized from Bethlehem. I fear the Israelis will come tonight to capture or kill the leaders of the group. They will need to exact some kind of revenge for the deaths in their marketplace.”

“How does this involve the church?”

“Jihad Awdeh, who is a leader of the Martyrs Brigades, has become a neighbor of mine. He told someone that if the Israelis came to take him, he would flee to the church.”

Elias gasped.

“You understand, of course, that if he enters the church, it could draw the Israeli soldiers inside, too. There might be a gunfight in the church. Who knows how it would end? But it would be bad for the town, and bad for the Christians, either way. Your shrine could be damaged, even destroyed, if the gunmen enter. If they are denied sanctuary by the priests, the Muslims of the town will rise up against the Christians for abandoning the so-called resistance heroes to the Israeli army.”

Elias glanced toward the watching Greek priest, who dodged behind the stone lintel of the door, out of sight. “Abu Ramiz, I can’t believe it has come to this,” he said.

“Why do you think the Martyrs Brigades has its headquarters right around the corner? They could be out of their hideaway and inside the church in a minute. You must close the doors early tonight.”

“I can’t, Abu Ramiz. It isn’t my decision. Even if I can persuade the Latin patriarch to shut the church, the Greeks won’t allow it. They’ll be suspicious. They’ll think we’re trying to change the operating arrangements of the church. Nothing has been done differently here for hundreds of years. You’re a history teacher, so you know all about it. Remember how the French empire ended up at war against Russia a hundred and fifty years ago because the priests here argued about a new decorative plaque on the spot where Jesus was born? Even today, a Catholic priest sweeps some steps that are supposed to be cleaned by the Greek Orthodox and he gets a punch in the face. It’s hopeless even to ask about locking up early.”

“Surely they’ll understand the threat?”

“It doesn’t matter. There’s such stubbornness in this church, there are priests who’d rather see the place destroyed by Muslims and Jews than concede a point to another Christian denomination.”

“Then there’s nothing you can do?”

“Maybe there’s something.” Elias looked down the aisle toward the figure of the crucified Christ on the altar. “I’ll be here. I’ll stop them.”

“Elias, they’ll just kill you. How will you stand up to them alone?”

“Abu Ramiz, I’m not a hero, of course. I fear these gunmen. But I hope that I fear them less than I love this church. This building is the history of Christianity in the Holy Land. You always taught me that history was the essence of life, that its study gave us the key to a better future. Even if these stones were to be destroyed, the spirit of their history must be protected. This place represents a past when Muslims and Christians lived together peacefully and the chance that it could be so again, when all of this madness is over. I will be here tonight, and I will pray for the church. I will stay here even when the Martyrs Brigades come, and I will pray for them too.” Elias laid a warm hand on Omar Yussef’s leg. “Thank you for the warning, Abu Ramiz. Now I will be ready for them when they come. But you must go home and change into dry clothes, before you catch your death of a cold.”

“I’m beginning to think that would be a blessing.”

“Do you want to be an influenza martyr?” Elias Bishara laughed. “They will give you seventy-two cups of hot cider in Paradise.”

Omar Yussef laughed, too. But as he left the church, he noticed that Elias Bishara was back on his knees. The priest’s gaze was stern, fixed on the cross.

Chapter 22

Omar Yussef lay flat on his bed, waiting for Maryam to call him to the table for the iftar. The throbbing in his back that began when he bailed the floodwater from his basement had returned. The trek from the school to the church and then home had tired him, but the fear that the young priest would put himself in danger truly exhausted him. After sitting down to drink a cup of coffee, the chill crept into his lower spine and his muscles seized up, clenching him like the familiar fist of an awful, recurring nightmare. It seemed curiously appropriate to Omar Yussef that on an evening when he should have been rushing around Bethlehem, unearthing clues and persuading people of George Saba’s innocence, he instead passed a fruitless five hours prone in his bedroom. The silence of the broody, featureless sky outside his window taunted him like the blank stare of a sadist. He would lie here the remaining eighteen hours until George Saba’s execution, gaping hopelessly at the heavy clouds. Then it would rain, and he would know that George was dead.

Omar Yussef wondered if he were depressed. Perhaps he was in some state of traumatic stress. He had read