He was sitting with his mother in the garden of their beautiful home in Berlin when he suddenly raised his eyes from his book and saw tears welling in his mother's eyes; she had let her needlework fall into her lap without heeding it, or even seeming to notice that it had fallen.
He asked her anxiously: What is the matter, Mother? Are you ill? Is something paining you? What is troubling you?
After wiping away the tears falling down her cheeks and heaving a deep sigh full of every shade of pain and bitter memory, she said, her gaze betraying a buried sorrow: My son... the time has come for me to tell you your father's story, now that you have reached your eighteenth year and I am assured of the strength of your arm and the firmness of your frame.
Hearing these words, the young man drew close and gave her his whole attention, saying with a certain eagerness and agitation: Does my father have a story? Tell it to me, I beg you.
She went on, gazing at the far horizon as though she were reading, on unknown pages, a story written across the sky that she knew by heart:
It was in 1929, when Yusuf (your father) came from Palestine to Berlin to study at its universities, where I was. We often studied our lessons together and went on outings, and we would scarcely part at night before morning found us longing more than ever to see each other. Our companionship soon turned into an overwhelming love, which we crowned that same year with marriage. I gave up my studies and went to work in a hat factory, while he studied by day and worked by night. The money we gathered was enough for us to live a contented, pleasant life, full of happiness and love. But hardly had the year 1930 come round when I gave birth to my firstborn — and that is you, Basim. How full of joy and delight we were at your coming, for you completed our happiness. We remained thus in our earthly paradise until he finished
his studies and received his degree in 1936, and we began preparing to depart for Palestine, to live there with his family. On the evening of the day on whose morrow we had resolved to leave, a letter came to him from his father saying — as he told me — that he was happy his son had finished his studies, and how he wished he could see him to congratulate him on his success; but the disturbances between the Arabs and the Jews that were beginning to spread over Palestine compelled him to tell his son to stay in Berlin — perhaps the situation would calm down, and then he could come back.
But when I heard that, I said to him in a mocking tone: Is this what patriotism means among you Easterners? Does your father ask you to stay in Berlin until perhaps the situation calms down... while Palestine is calling her sons to defend her soil, standing at the gates of a grinding war and in need of working hands? Would it not have been more fitting for him to hasten your return, so that you might take your full share of the struggle and stand with your countrymen in their ordeal? By God, were I at the farthest end of the earth and some misfortune befell Germany, I would not hesitate an instant to come to her and do what duties I owe her, however narrow the limits.
No sooner had he heard these words than his face darkened, his expression changed, and his pride flared up. Then he said: Farewell, Linda... farewell, Basim... I shall not return except victorious, or a martyr.
In the morning he was waving to us from the train window, tears glistening in his eyes, while you cried: Papa... Papa, take me with you! As for me, I gave my tears free rein once he had passed from my sight.
Bitter and hard were the days I spent in his absence. I toiled and labored day and night to earn enough to secure us a bare living. From time to time his letters reached us, carrying word of what the rebels were suffering — fear and unsettledness, scarcity of food and of war materiel. The command was in the mountains, and they passed their days in caves and grottoes. Under cover of darkness, food and ammunition would reach them. They were in constant anxiety. They were fighting two enemies at once, the English and the Jews.
O God... how I grieved for him, and how I wished I could be with him to help him. But... it was too late!...
In some of his letters he gave me the address of one of his friends, in case I wished to inquire after him if anything should happen.
After several months his news suddenly ceased. I wrote to his father's address asking about him and explained everything. Then I wrote to his friend to ask about him — but I did not wait for the answer; I went to Palestine myself, taking you with me, for I was anxious about him. When we arrived I made for his friend's address and asked about him. He said to me, tears in his eyes: He fell a martyr two weeks ago... God rest his soul, he was a hero. I fainted on hearing this
news. When I came to, the first thing I said was: Show me his