When Thar heard this, he quietly asked me: “Effendi, do you have a 20 franc coin? Please, give it to me, but don’t let anyone see it.” I suspected why he wanted the money, so I said “Yes,” and secretly slipped him the coin. Schamah and her mother climbed upon one of the mules, and the driver rode upon another. Thar vaulted onto the back of Guewerdschina and said: “I’m riding with you. Once we reach the Oak, I’ll walk back. Before my father arrives, I’ll be there.”
He tugged the dove’s tail high into the air—she let out a loud hee-haw and shot down the road. My wife gave the widow our name and our address in Jerusalem and invited her to make every effort to visit us there. We would genuinely and whole-heartedly like to see her and her young daughter. She promised that she would assuredly do her best to visit us. So giving her word, she said good-bye as they rode away and tried to catch up with Thar. My wife and I then took a short walk on the surrounding area, making sure that we avoided any further encounters.
When we reached the rendezvous, Thar was already waiting for us: “They’re so very poor. They only know that I was concerned about them and that I wanted to accompany them to the Hospice.”
“Do they know your name?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“And your father’s name?”
“No. You may have heard that the Prophet tells us this: ‘Whoever gives to the poor should give everything—only not in the name of his father.’ Anyway, I’ll see them again in Jerusalem. You can count on that.”
Soon thereafter, Mustafa Bustani arrived with the carriage. He was very glad to hear that the local citizens did not harm us nor his son. He shared the fact that there had been several clashes between Muslims and Jews. In light of the fact that he personally was so angry about the rude reception from his business colleague, he had even refused to share a meal with the man. Now, he was hungry. As soon as we climbed in and were once again moving, we brought out the food that we had packed earlier. So, our on-the-go evening meal’s setting was atop four rolling wheels.
On the return home, nothing happened that would be important enough to retell. When we reached the Hebron Valley, we once again stopped at the café. This time in a much more measured manner, the innkeeper stepped out and asked for our orders. Mustafa Bustani spoke up: “Five cups of coffee!” The drinks were served and sipped. I then pulled out my money pouch: “How much for the five?”
“Exactly one half franc,” he answered.