The Collaborator of Bethlehem

darkness, her eyes looked haunted.

“They must have come for Jihad Awdeh,” Omar Yussef said. “Go wake Ramiz and the kids. Just in case they come in here, I don’t want anyone waking up with a soldier in their bedroom. But don’t panic them.”

Maryam hurried from the room.

The soldiers set sentries on each corner of the sideroad. Omar Yussef opened the window a little. He could hear the radio crackling Hebrew from inside the nearest APC.

Soldiers came down the stairs of the apartment building. Omar Yussef thought perhaps they hadn’t found Jihad Awdeh and were leaving. Then he saw that there were only three soldiers, followed by a file of people. The residents of the building were being kicked out while the soldiers searched. The little parade headed across the street toward Omar Yussef’s house. He went to meet them at the door.

When he pulled the door back, the first of the soldiers stepped up into the light from the hall. His face was painted in blue and olive camouflage. What use is that in an apartment building? Omar Yussef thought. He wondered if the soldier would speak to him in Arabic. The Arabic speakers were always the worst. The more they learned about Arabs, the more they seemed to disdain them.

The soldier said something curt and guttural in Hebrew.

“Do you speak Arabic or English?” Omar Yussef asked in English.

The soldier answered in English. “You never learned Hebrew?”

“I was always too much of an optimist,” Omar Yussef said.

The soldier smiled a little. His teeth showed white through the camouflage make-up. He pushed past Omar Yussef and scanned the hall. Maryam and Nadia came out of the bedroom. Omar Yussef heard Ramiz behind the half-open door urging his wife to dress. Maryam’s face blanched when she saw the camouflaged soldier. Nadia’s was blank.

“Lower your gun, please,” Omar Yussef said.

The soldier let his M-16 barrel fall. “We’re conducting a search in the neighborhood. Some of the people who live in the building opposite have to stay out of the place while we search it. It’s raining, so we’re going to bring them in here.”

Omar Yussef nodded.

More than a dozen people came through the front door. Omar Yussef greeted them and asked them to come into the salon. Maryam went to make tea, but the soldier stopped her and told her to bring everyone else who was in the house to the salon and to wait with them there. As the people came in, they all bore the same bedraggled, frightened sleepiness. Some of the children whimpered.

The last to enter were Amjad and Leila. Amjad smiled and shook Omar Yussef’s hand, thanking him for letting them shelter in his house. Omar Yussef felt bad about his lust for Amjad’s wife. Amjad was a good fellow. Even so, Leila was beautiful in the jeans and sweatshirt she must have thrown on as the soldiers turfed them out of their apartment. She had brushed her hair, but it looked slept on, nonetheless, the way it would be on the pillow.

The soldier stood in the doorway, watching the crowd, which now included Ramiz and his family. Omar Yussef knew everyone in the room, except for a woman in the corner with her two children. He assumed they must be the newcomers, Jihad Awdeh’s family. He couldn’t recall the woman’s face from his visit to Jihad’s home earlier that night. He stepped carefully through the carpet of children sitting at their parents’ feet and greeted the woman.

“You are Jihad’s wife?” he whispered.

“Yes.”

The woman was young and quiet. Omar Yussef suddenly recognized the boy standing behind her. He had opened the door of his father’s apartment six hours before when Omar Yussef went in to appeal to Jihad to save George Saba.

“Ah, I met you earlier, didn’t I?” Omar Yussef said.

The boy nodded.

“What is your name?”

“Walid Jihad Brahim Awdeh.”

It struck Omar Yussef like a lightning bolt. “You are Jihad’s eldest son?”

“Yes.”

Jihad Awdeh’s eldest son was named Walid. Jihad was the “father of Walid,” Abu Walid. Could he have suspected the wrong man all along? Hussein Tamari’s eldest son was Walid. Tamari was Abu Walid. But perhaps Tamari wasn’t the Abu Walid that Louai Abdel Rahman spoke to just before he died. It could have been Jihad Awdeh. Jihad was Abu Walid, so perhaps he was also the killer, the collaborator.

George had seen Jihad picking something up from the roof of his house and putting it in his vest, when he confronted the Martyrs Brigades gunmen. It could have been cartridges spat out of the breech of Tamari’s big MAG. Louai wasn’t shot with the MAG, but there was a MAG cartridge at the scene of his murder. Could it have fallen out of Jihad’s pocket?

Omar Yussef wanted to lay out this revelation for Khamis Zeydan immediately, but there was no chance of using the phone with the soldier standing guard in the room. He would have to wait until the soldiers completed their search across the street and allowed everyone to leave the salon. He felt a moment of panic. What if the soldiers searched his house, too? They might find the gun, George’s Webley in among the socks in his closet. They would surely take him in, and they might keep him for months without trial. By that time, Jihad Awdeh would be far too powerful for him to persuade Khamis Zeydan to arrest him. Even now, he wasn’t sure that the police chief would bring him in. He must get to Khamis Zeydan tonight, while the guilt about George’s lynching remained heavy upon him.

“The soldiers won’t find your father at home, will they?” Omar Yussef said.

Jihad Awdeh’s eldest boy stared insolently at Omar Yussef. He lifted his chin, signaling that this was not a question he would ever answer. This boy would never believe that his father was anything but a hero, even if Omar