The Collaborator of Bethlehem

so he went on. “I teach you to look at the evidence and then to decide what you think about a particular sultan, or about the causes of a war.”

“Yes, that’s right,” the girl said, relieved.

“So how do you know that this man was a collaborator?”

“My dad told me.”

“Who’s your father?”

“Sergeant Mahmoud Zubeida, General Intelligence, Rapid Reaction Force.”

“Did he do the investigation, from start to finish?”

The girl looked perplexed.

“No, of course, he didn’t,” Omar Yussef said. “So you’d need to talk to all those who did investigate the case before you could come to the conclusion that this man was a collaborator.

Wouldn’t you?”

“He confessed.”

“Did he confess to you? In person? You’d need to talk to him. To understand him. To talk to his friends. Most of all, you’d need to find his motive for collaborating. Did he do it for money? Maybe he already has a lot of money and has no need of more. So then why would he do it? Was there anyone else who might have done it to set him up? Maybe a business rival?”

The girl shifted from foot to foot and scratched at the spots on her cheek. Omar Yussef saw that Khadija was about to cry. He knew that he was shouting now and leaning very close to the girl across the desk, but he didn’t care. He was infuriated by the ignorance of an entire generation and saw it concentrated in this girl’s thin shoulders and blank face.

“How could I know all that?” Khadija stammered.

“Because it’s what you need to know before you condemn a human being to death.” Omar Yussef leaned as far forward as he could. “Death. Death. It’s not something light, something to giggle and boast about. This alleged collaborator is someone’s father. Imagine having your father taken away and knowing that he will be killed.” As he spoke, it occurred to Omar Yussef that the girl probably had frequent cause to imagine her father’s death at the hands of the Israelis in some stupid gun-battle. It was probably in Khadija’s nightmares each night, coruscating and terrifying. It made Omar Yussef feel, for a moment, sympathetic. He stood up straight. “Sit down, Khadija.”

Omar Yussef took out his comb and straightened the strands of hair that had fallen forward when he shouted at her. The class was silent. He returned his comb to his top pocket and sat. “When you are gone from the world, what will you leave behind?” he said. “Will you leave behind many children? So what? Is that a good thing in itself? No, it depends on what you will have taught them. Will you leave a great fortune? Then, what kind of person will inherit it? How will they spend it? Will people remember you with love? Or will they feel hate when they think of you? Start asking yourself these questions now, even though you are only eleven years old. If you do not ask these questions of yourself, someone else—maybe a bad person— will dictate the answers to you. They will show you their so-called evidence, and you will never see all the other choices available to you. If you do not take charge, someone else will gain control of your life.”

I might be talking about myself, Omar Yussef thought.

“This man, George Saba, was once my student. He was a very intelligent, good pupil. He was sensitive and funny. He was also moral. I don’t believe he would become mixed up in anything criminal or bad.”

Khadija Zubeida didn’t raise her head as she spoke sullenly. “What evidence do you have?”

Omar Yussef was pleased with the question and he nodded at the girl. “More than you, Khadija. Because you judge the case according to your feelings of hate for someone you’ve never met. I know George Saba and I love him.”

Well, that was a smart way to start the day, Omar Yussef thought. I love the Israeli collaborator; I love the worst traitor. Next time anyone’s looking for a dupe, stick me in jail and get my class to testify that I sympathized with a collaborator, which surely makes me a collaborator, too. Good job, Abu Ramiz. You need more sleep and an extra cup of coffee in the morning.

When classes ended for the morning, Wafa, the school secretary was waiting outside the room. She wore a thin, fixed smile and handed a small cup of coffee to Omar Yussef.

“God bless your hands,” Omar Yussef said. “I assume this fine treatment means that you are preparing me for bad news.” The cup rattled against the saucer. His hand shook more than usual. George, he thought, Allah help him.

“Drink your coffee, ustaz,” Wafa said, and the smile became more affectionate.

Omar Yussef stared at her, waiting.

“The director wants to see you as soon as possible in his office,” she said.

“Thank you for the coffee.” Omar Yussef drank. “It’s delicious.” He returned the empty cup to Wafa. “You see, I didn’t even curse when you mentioned our esteemed director.”

“For a change. We must thank Allah.”

Omar Yussef entered Christopher Steadman’s room and immediately the friendly warmth he had felt with Wafa changed to anger. At the side of the desk, next to the tall, fair figure of the UN director, was the government schools inspector who had forced the Freres School to terminate Omar Yussef’s contract a decade earlier. Omar Yussef knew immediately what this would be about. The bastard from the government had stopped Omar Yussef tampering with the minds of the elite at the Freres School. Now he figured he could cut off his piffling influence over even the bottom of the pile here in the refugee camp, where, after all, the corrupt scum who ran the government recruited their expendable foot soldiers. Omar Yussef was angry, too, because he understood that he was being summoned into the presence of the inspector to give Steadman more leverage in his push for his retirement. “Sit down, Abu Ramiz.” Steadman gestured to a chair in front of his desk. Omar Yussef noted that the American had picked up on the tradition of calling an acquaintance the “father of” his eldest son.