“I too want it to be so. I’m very glad about that, because I love him so—such heroes need someone to keep an eye on them. But for now, I’m tired from the long journey. May I soon go to sleep?”
Schamah’s desire to sleep now gave us a timely reason to say “Good night” as well. When we also said “Auf Wiedersehen,” truly we could eagerly look forward to seeing everyone tomorrow. One more time before nightfall, mother and daughter went to Lazarus’ Tomb as they performed a very personal duty which the Grave now seemed to give way to.
My wife, Mustafa Bustani, and I departed too, climbing the steep and familiar path to Bethpage and on towards Kafr et Tur. When we reached the height’s Bread-bush of Jonathan, we paused for awhile. Now in the grasp of the distant horizon, the sun sank, then vanished. With its last beams of light, the sun embraced the earth’s most holy city. Unless you yourself see and feel this marvelous sight that Jerusalem and The Mount of Olives offer at sunset, I can not describe its wondrous beauty. We stood there for a long time, completely absorbed in this vista.
Mustafa Bustani took a deep breath before he spoke: “Compared to this same time yesterday, it’s even more beautiful, a thousand times lovelier. You know, this kind of deep appreciation comes from inside of us. I’m a completely different man than I was yesterday—I feel and I see things in an entirely better light. There is a world of difference between yesterday and today. I know that you don’t expect me to talk for hours about events and my personal feelings. It’s “OK” with you when I feel the need to be silent. Please, go on without me. Leave me here, alone with my thoughts and alone with the brother who forgave me today—even though I once disowned him.
So my wife and I went on without him. As we reached the next bend in the road, the evening bells of the Holy City began to ring. An undulating sea of sacred music rose up to capture us—as if it wanted to take us towards heaven. When we looked behind us, we saw Mustafa Bustani on his knees—as church bells pealed, this Muslim was praying. Can I say more? No.
For those readers who can not tolerate gaps in stories, I’ll tell you that I eventually received the Pasha-saddle. Mustafa Bustani made it all possible, and I believe he did so with a great deal of personal sacrifice. Even though this showpiece may seem to be an impractical item in my home, I nevertheless love and treasure it. It reminds me of those two days in the Holy Land when Thar, Schamah, the “blood feud,” and “the forgiveness,” all combined to send me a sign from above. I shall never forget that.
[Translator’s Addendum]
To an unknown recipient of Karl May’s signed copy of his 1906 drama, Babel and the Bible, the playwright penned this poem of dedication on the play’s title page. Unfortunately, the recipient of May’s personalized, autographed copy is unknown. Possibly, this was Karl May’s final poetic work.
“Widmungsgedicht” [Poem of Dedication]
By Karl May. 22 February 1912