sisters. After releasing his rage, Shahak became officious as he considered the implications of what he and his men had done.
‘Get the two Kalashnikovs from the carrier,’ he barked at a soldier. The soldiers all knew where their sergeant kept two Palestinian weapons hidden. They were a legacy of a previous engagement and Sergeant Shahak had decided against handing them in, keeping them as insurance against any investigation or allegations that might be made against his troops.
‘Listen up. Tonight didn’t happen.’ Each of his soldiers looked at the dirt floor. Sergeant Shahak took one of the weapons and wiped it clean with his sweat-stained scarf. He grabbed Abdullah’s lifeless hand, made prints on the rifle and left it beside the body. He did the same with the body of Muhammad. Raya and Liana’s despair could be heard from the bedrooms as Shahak’s Corporal took the Army-issue camera from its case, the flash illuminating Abdullah and Muhammad.
‘Tonight our general was killed by Palestinian terrorists and the reports of this scum giving them shelter are true. Get the two bitches out here.’
Raya and Liana could hardly stand.
‘I’m giving you five seconds to get out of here!’ He shoved them out the back door and watched the girls stumble into the night. Shahak emptied his magazine into Raya’s back and then into Liana’s.
‘No fucking witnesses!’ he snarled at his troops. ‘And remember, it didn’t happen. Let’s go!’
Ahmed and Yusef, deep in shock, waited amongst the trees until they were sure the soldiers were gone. In a daze they stared at the carnage of what had once been their home, their family gone.
The Defense Minister, Reze Zweiman, and General Halevy fronted the cameras together.
‘Brigadier General Ehrlich was one of the nation’s finest soldiers and our deepest condolences go to his wife and sons,’ Zweiman intoned, opening the media conference to the ‘when, where, and why’ of what might have happened at Deir Azun.
One of the final questions came from Tom Schweiker from CCN.
‘The Palestinians are claiming there was a massacre at Deir Azun, General. Is the Israeli Government going to investigate these claims?’
‘I can assure all of you,’ Halevy replied, barely keeping his anger in check, ‘that the only massacre at Deir Azun was the death of an Israeli commander tasked with keeping Israelis and peace-loving citizens free from terrorism. You’ve seen the photographs. These people were armed and have been responsible for countless attacks against innocent civilians.’ Israel’s Chief of Staff closed his folder, ending the tightly controlled conference.
Tom Schweiker watched the men and their minders leave, and wondered.
Back in the Minister’s office General Halevy nodded in agreement as Reze Zweiman vented his spleen on the Palestinians. The loss of one of their commanders had serious implications for the public image of the government and Reze knew his political enemies would use it to turn up the heat.
‘Keep the fucking media away, especially that Schweiker shit from CCN. Occupy the village for as long as it takes and get rid of the scum that live there. If need be, carry out armoured manoeuvres in their olive groves.’
‘Leave it to me, Reze. By the time I’ve finished with them they’ll want to live anywhere but on the West Bank.’
On the dusty red hillside on the edge of the Sartawi olive grove Israeli soldiers looked on sullenly as the villagers buried Abdullah and Rafiqa Sartawi, their two daughters Raya and Liana and their youngest son, Muhammad. After the last of the mourners had left Ahmed and Yusef stood alone at the gravesides.
‘You should have let me try, Ahmed,’ Yusef said angrily through his tears.
‘And have you dead, too?’
‘You don’t know that.’ Yusef spat the words at his brother. ‘Even poor little Muhammad tried to protect them!’
‘What will you do now?’ Ahmed asked, realising that it was not the time to argue the point.
‘What does it matter!’ Yusef stormed away, tears streaming down his cheeks, a hatred for the Israelis and a new hatred for his brother’s cowardice blazing in his heart.
With great sadness Ahmed watched him go. He sat beside his buried family trying to make sense of it all. He would not see his brother again for many, many years, and then only fleetingly in circumstances that no one could have predicted.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Tricarico and Milano
‘ B uona fortuna, Allegra!’
Tricarico’s top piazza was crammed with well-wishers and a huge banner had been hung from the old stone balcony of Bishop Aldo Marietti’s palace. News travelled fast through the hill towns and there was not a single villager for miles around who was not aware that the Vatican had selected Allegra for this singular honour.
‘The Holy Father has approved it, personally,’ La Signora Farini, leader of the ‘Will of God Brigade’, said to anyone who could hear her over the more than slightly out of tune town band that was playing with gusto. The music reached a crescendo as Tricarico’s only car driven by the portly Bishop Marietti inched its way through the crowd. Allegra’s father had taken the front seat and Allegra, her mother and her two oldest brothers were crammed into the back of the little Flavia. Nonna wiped away a tear while Giuseppe clung to Nonna’s faded black dress, waving vigorously, his curly black hair shining in the morning sun that bathed the craggy granite of the mountains surrounding Tricarico.
It took over an hour to travel the 20 kilometres to the valley below the village. Bishop Marietti was not renowned for his driving skill and he struggled to keep the little car on the rough mountain track that led to the train station on the single rail line that served hill towns such as Tricarico and Grissano.
‘We are all very proud of you, Allegra,’ Bishop Marietti said, as they climbed onto the small deserted platform. ‘You will be a wonderful ambassador for the Church.’
‘I won’t let you down, Bishop Marietti. I promise.’
Mamma wiped at her tears as Papa beamed. The mournful whistle of the Taranto-Napoli Express could be heard in the distance as the old locomotive struggled through the mountains further down the line. The ramshackle train arrived in a cloud of steam and the driver waited patiently during the seemingly endless ritual of hugs and kisses. The whistle echoed across the valley again and the train lurched forward.
‘ Arrivederci! Scriva presto! ’
As the train rounded a bend and the little group frantically waving on the siding disappeared from view, Allegra settled back into her empty compartment with its cracked leather seats and wire luggage racks, her mind in turmoil. A short while later the train slowed for a herd of goats on the track, nibbling at the weeds and in no hurry to get off. Allegra was oblivious to the heated exchange between the driver and the gesticulating, wizened goatherd that could be heard above the noise of the engine. She reflected on how hard it had been to leave home to join the convent across the ravine. Milano seemed like the other side of the world. The train lurched and she gazed out the window at the granite foothills and beyond them to the mountains of Basilicata, rebellion and excitement competing with sadness and acceptance. Accettazione and testarda.
With so many thoughts buzzing around her head, Allegra could not settle down and she spent the twenty- four-hour trip dozing fitfully. When Trenitalia’s overnight service from Napoli via Roma arrived at Milano’s Stazione Centrale adrenaline took over. She clambered down the carriage’s absurdly high steps and looked around for a Father Giovanni Donelli, the senior postgraduate student charged by the Vatican to meet her. It was seven in the morning and as Allegra stood on the platform she was faced with what seemed like thousands of people rushing to work. She wanted to take in everything at once – the people, the fashions, the warm glow of the cafes, the smells, the noise. She knew she was ready to take on the biggest challenge of her life and she scanned the crowd eagerly.
As if on cue, a ruggedly handsome priest materialised out of the melee. He was dark-haired and at 175 centimetres, just a little taller than Allegra.
‘ Buongiorno, Signora! ’ Allegra was immediately captivated by the warmth of the brilliant smile that lit up Giovanni’s tanned face, and his blue eyes held an irreverent sparkle that was infectious.
