When Ibrahim handed him the tobacco-filled pipe, he wished he could break down and cry like a child. He felt tears welling in his eyes and turned his head aside to wipe them away on his sleeve. In an attempt to hide his sorrow, he raised his head to peer over the barricade, but when he turned back to face his companions their grief-stricken silence brought the tears back into his eyes. The night, presided over by a distant, cloudy moon, seemed to grieve with them; everything in the universe seemed to know his story. He longed to be able to give himself up to the luxury of sorrow, but could not. He longed to shake his friends, to throw away the armor of toughness and cry-- cry without shame. He raised his sleeve to wipe his eyes and felt the woolen shirt irritating them, reminding him of that talisman of hers he was wearing, that would protect him-- as she once said-- from every treacherous bullet.

Yes, he could remember that night.

It had been a night of stinging cold like this one, with a thin crescent moon. He had been ordered to guard the small hospital the Arab Legion had set up in a town house that consisted of four stone rooms and a small garden. The eight hospital beds were occupied by eight wounded men brought in following a battle between the Jewish Nahariya settlement and the Arab villages around Acre. Yes, it had been cold that night, and neither his Kaffiyyeh nor his heavy overcoat were enough to shield him from the biting chill, so he had taken to walking about in order to keep the blood from freezing in his veins. When he tired of this, he returned to lean against the hospital wall, near the door, gazing at the distant houses of the city which slept uneasily, fearful of sudden attack. He did not know what time it was exactly. The only remaining lights were the streetlamps on the main thoroughfares, and the night was silent save for the sound of a distant jackal.

Yes, he did not know exactly what time it was when he sensed her standing near him in her white nurse’s uniform, asking him whether he wanted a cup of tea. He had not given thought to tea, nor to anything else; nevertheless, he felt it would be nice to have a warm object to hold against his chilled fingers, and accepted her offer gratefully. When she returned with the tea, he finished it off in four gulps so as not to oblige her to wait long, and gave her back the empty cup, murmuring some word of thanks. And after she left, he thought it would have been polite if he had talked to her a little more. He turned his head, searching for her shadow behind the window. He saw no one. He decided to thank her in the morning-- but who could she be? There were two female nurses, and he had seen nothing of her except her white uniform. The second night he was determined to be less rigid when she brought him tea. He waited a long time, but she did not come. He told himself that she must be too busy with those who really needed her care to see to his tea. Why shouldn’t he, therefore, knock on the door and ask for his own tea? He hesitated, not wanting to be a nuisance. The lights went out, the city slept, leaving him and his comrades the responsibility of keeping vigil. It was about this time last night that he drank her tea. He flexed his fingers, frozen by the gun-barrel, and wished for something to bring them warmth. No sooner had he lifted his hand to his mouth to blow on his fingers than her white uniform suddenly appeared at his side and he heard her saying “I’ve brought you your tea without asking; you won’t refuse it, will you?”

He raised his eyes, looked at her, and extended his cold hand to take the cup. He decided it would be nice to speak to her before drinking. “Don’t you find the work here hard?”

With gravity he had not expected, she replied, “Do you think I’m not good enough for duties like this?”

“I … No, not at all….”

At a loss for words, he raised the cup to his lips and drank quickly, scalding his throat. He returned the cup to her without a thank-you, and when she had moved a few steps away, he called out, “Miss”- why shouldn’t he ask her name? There was no harm in that. She stopped and he approached her. “Excuse me, I wonder if I might know your name?”

She laughed before replying: “And why not? We are all comrades here. My name is Su’ad.”

“I am Ramiz. My buddies call me Sarge. Should we shake hands?” She laughed and gave him her hand, then slipped away as lightly as she had come.

Su’ad. How strange-- another Su’ad. He seemed to have luck with this name. Some days ago the Acre Women’s Committee had presented a gift of hand-knitted woolen shirts and blankets to the Arab Legion. In the pocket of each was a card bearing the name of the young woman who had knitted it, along with a word of encouragement. He still kept his. He felt for it in his pocket, pulled it out, and lit a match by which he read the words “Su’ad Wahbi,” and below the name “May this shirt be worn by a hero.”

The match went out and the words vanished. He put the card back in his pocket. Could it be her? If it were, wouldn’t that be a pleasant coincidence? He turned to the door, and found it locked.

The third night he arranged to begin his shift of guard duty earlier in order to have an opportunity to enter the hospital and ask after the wounded. The door was open, and he went in. He saw her carrying a dinner tray to one of the soldiers. He greeted her and asked if he might visit them. She replied, “Why not? I’d like you to meet Hassan so he can tell you the details of the battle. I’ve heard it myself dozens of times, but it won’t hurt to hear it once more.”

He followed her.

He stood next to her in front of Hassan’s head, and they both laughed to hear the wounded man say; “Su’ad is a strict nurse who wants me stretched out like a corpse. She won’t even let me sneak a cigarette.”

As she laughed, Ramiz noticed that her teeth were very white, and her eyes shone with an indomitable will. The mood in the room encouraged him to ask; “Still, you’d agree with me that she’s a good one?”

“Good? She’s the best of them all. She’s better than my old mother. She’s always around, giving this one something to drink, that one something to eat, answering the bells that ring in all the rooms. If ever she finds a moment to rest, you’ll find her sitting by the door with her knitting.”

“knitting?”

He remembered the shirt. His hand moved, finding the thick buttons of the overcoat that covered it. Opening the coat to show his shirt, he turned to her and said, “Do you recognize this shirt?”

“Yes. So you were the one who got it.”

“Don’t I deserve it? I still have the card. This way I will always remember my duty to perform as a hero.”

A persistent bell summoned her and she left him with Hassan, who asked him for a cigarette which he promised not to smoke until Su’ad gave him her approval.

Two weeks went by, and the wounded began to recover and leave the hospital, all except one who was transferred to another hospital. Ramiz’s guard duty there was over, and he returned to his job training recruits. He would meet new recruits and release others until darkness fell, then he would take his rifle and go for his nightly guard duty. Only when dawn lit the sky did he go home and throw himself on the iron cot in his one room house. There he found time to think about her.

An entire week went by, during which he did not see her. Where could she be? Why did he feel driven to think about her, and to treasure the shirt she had knitted? Yesterday morning he had discovered something as he got dressed. She had knitted and knitted without knowing who would wear the shirt. Maybe she had a picture in her mind’s eye of what the man who wore it ought to look like. Obviously she wished him to be tall, with broad shoulders- a man she hoped would be a hero. He turned to look at himself in the mirror on the wall and felt his muscular arms. He laughed at his own foolishness as he gazed at himself. But what harm would it do if he acted a little silly, burying his face in the shirt, for example, or kissing it?

On the eighth day he chanced upon her in the street. She was not in her nurse’s uniform. He stopped her, saying, “I almost didn’t recognize you out of uniform.”

She shook his hand and said; “The hospital has moved and I couldn’t think of anything to do today. What are you up to?”

“Training recruits during the day, and guard duty at night-- nothing much! And no tea!”

Her slivery laugh rang out. She caught him gazing at her and blushed. She started to walk away, and he rushed to speak to her before shyness overcame him. “I hope you don’t think I’m being out of line. Couldn’t I meet you somewhere?”

“Our town is too small for that.”

“But we’re comrades in arms. I train recruits, both men and women. Come to the Port Club. We can talk a little bit after I’m finished with drilling.”

They agreed to meet there at three. He was in the middle of demonstrating to a women’s squadron how to stand firm holding a heavy rifle without faltering, when he caught sight of her, he continued with his job, and did not talk to her until the exercise was completed. Then he dismissed his class and turned to greet her, offering her a chair. “Aren’t you exhausted?” she asked.

“Who isn’t? But once I realized what sort of mobilization and preparations are going on in the Jewish settlements, I wished there were sixty hours in a day. We have a tough job ahead of us.”

“Are you afraid?”

“Wary. It won’t be easy. I think the Jews have stockpiled great many weapons in their settlements. We’ve found out many things.”

“Have you gone there yourself?”

“Yes, I used to go a lot before relations became strained. Now I can’t go. I’m on their blacklist.”

He saw her observing him. Presently, her lips parted and the determined look flashed in her eyes. “You know, I’m starting to believe that you are something of a hero.”

“A hero? No way, though your card has given me the inspiration to be one.”

“Do you still have it?”

“Here it is.”

He handed it to her, and as he took it back, he pressed her hand briefly then released it. Then, to give her a chance to conceal her embarrassment, he looked out over the blue sea in front of him.

It was spring. Springtime in this part of Palestine is a sparkling sea, traversed by white sails during the day and lit by the twinkling lamps of fishing boats at night. The fragrance of the orange groves fills the air. That spring, Ramiz learned about two things-- love and war-- and the first gave meaning to the second. War was not simply an enemy to kill voraciously. Rather, it was the assertion of the life of the land he loved and the woman he loved. Palestine was not only a sea with fishing boats, and oranges shining like gold, and not just olives and olive oil filling the big oil jars. It was Su’ad’s black eyes as well. In Su’ad’s eyes he saw all of Palestine’s goodness, he saw the image of a happy home for him, and a wife who would bear him young heroes and make her love the meaning of his existence.

Each new day her image accompanied the news of battles in the morning papers. The battle of Qastal (1). The Palestinian counterattack from the Triangle of Terror (2) on enemy settlements. His and his comrades’ raids on the infiltrating Jewish armored vehicles rolling down the road from Haifa to Acre to Nahariya. The heroism of his people in Salama, in every town and village.

Then came the fall of Haifa (3).

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