“Phooey, phooey, phooey!”
“You don’t like that?” he asked, halfway astonished and partially disappointed.
“Not at all. I like you just the way you are—not all painted up!”
Thar was pleased with her answer: “Good, I’ll remain who I am. Now that I think more about what you’ve said, you’re right, very right. From now on, whenever I struggle with enemies, they may paint themselves blue, yellow, and green—but not I. I’ll bear that in mind. Our four clubs must have newer and better rules. Foremost, whoever presents himself in war paint will be judged as beatable. To please you, I’m ready to bound away from all rules that are good for nothing!” He then stretched his legs and flexed his muscles so convincingly that her eyes widened in wonder as she pointed to him and asked this question: “ Yes, I already believe that you’re a hero; but what exactly could be a reason to knock someone down, just for my sake?”
“A cause can always be found if you look for it. Maybe it’s coming from over there. Look!”
He pointed in the direction of the church ruins, to people whom we hadn’t previously seen—to those who were now coming towards us. There were ten or twelve men who were riding on donkeys. Behind them was a column of forty or fifty armed boys who were carrying all kinds of banners. This was one of those parades for children who excitedly circled the city on this festival day. “Isn’t this a dangerous situation?” my wife asked. “We should leave quickly.”
My answer was one of caution: “Under no circumstances and in no way should we hurry. This would merely show them that we have some reason to be fearful, something to hide from. We’ll freely give them the water, but not right away. I hope they will give us some kind of greeting.”
The procession had now arrived at our spot. The men stopped to talk with our Donkey Driver, asking some questions about us. They learned that we were Christians— be that as it may, that we were not bad people. Schamah’s mother left her seat and came nearer to us. She feared the fanatical people of Hebron, so she begged us to pack up and leave. She was a Christian, a widow from the region called Al Karak, a city in Jordan that contains a famous Crusader castle. It’s located on the other side of the Dead Sea. She and her young daughter were on a pilgrimage to the holy cities of Bethlehem and Jerusalem. Truly, she was a simple and poor woman. Still, I’d like to extend my impression of her; in every way, her clothes were expressly Arabic and chic—like those customarily worn by a Middle Eastern woman, or even by a Bedouin. Her clothing was beautiful yet tasteful, with no suggestion of melancholy nor fascinating glamour. She was a daughter of sorrow, not a woman of good fortune. My wife extended her hand to Schamah’s mother, drawing her close to her side. I advised her to put aside any concerns; nothing was going to happen to them.
The riders now came up to us. They stopped a few feet from us and climbed down from their donkeys. It was clear that they didn’t intend to greet us. I couldn’t tolerate that sort of contempt, because such insolence involved behavior that I wanted to bypass and avoid completely. Whenever you want others to know that you hold a certain air of strength, it’s always effective to put on a special sort of image. I crafted such a first firm impression, and it seemed to work with the leader of the group. He shifted his weight, held his hand to his chest, slightly bowed and said: “Salam. Peace be upon you.”
Those words sounded brusque. Just as curtly, I stood my ground and answered: “Salam.” Before I could say more, Thar spoke up: “Here is my Effendi, the Supreme Secretary of Germany’s Chancellor. From his briefcase flows the complete control of all tax revenue. He levies a tax on whomever he wants. He has just returned from Hebron where he sought to buy The Oak of Abraham from the Russians, then transport it home. Hail to Effendi!”