“Of the three men, the communist was the cleverest, the nationalist the hardest. What about the liberal? For the sake of simplicity, let’s say he was the most astute.
“My father liked the lawyer best. As a communist from a distinguished family, he often visited my father, a baker from a rich family of bakers, and they always argued about the role of property. My mother liked the lawyer, but she didn’t believe a word he said.
“My paternal grandmother couldn’t stand the lawyer, and tried to warn my father of the dangers of communism, but he soothed her, saying that the lawyer, who was among the leaders of his Party, had assured him that under communism the property of bakers wouldn’t be touched.
“When the communists were persecuted, Father was asked to hide some important documents, Party papers, and a number of red flags with the hammer and sickle on them. The lawyer disappeared. He wouldn’t hide with us, presumably for fear of my grandmother.
‘But I am always with you in spirit, fighting with you against dictatorship,’ Father read out from his friend’s letter to us all. ‘A communist is the first to set to work and to be martyred, the last to sit down and eat.’
“Tears rose to my father’s eyes at these words, and his mother had to bite her tongue to keep from making sharp remarks about communists. She knew her son, who wouldn’t hurt a fly except when he turned sentimental, and then he was unpredictable and everyone took care not to cross him.
“A week later, to his horror, my father heard the lawyer’s voice on the radio. In trying to tune into the BBC station broadcasting in Arabic from London — he always liked to listen to the news on it, to find out what was going on in Damascus — he had chanced upon the Voice of Moscow wavelength. We were sitting at supper, and my father, stunned, let his bread drop on his plate. It wasn’t words his friend was spewing out, it was revolutionary lava. He was calling — from Moscow! — for the people of Damascus to rise and rebel.
“My grandmother’s hour had come. She cursed the traitor and his roots in an Orthodox family that not only fought bitterly against our Catholic Church, but had also produced such a vile man, one who could think of nothing better to do than urge people to commit suicide while he sat safely in Russia. Grandmother emphasized the word ‘Russia’ with all the hatred of a fanatical Catholic for the Russian Orthodox Church, which to her was the incarnation of all evil. My grandmother never recognized the existence of the Soviet Union.
“Soon Moscow was exerting pressure on Damascus, and the persecution of communists began. Khalid Malis, the Secretary General of the Party, and his leadership came back from Moscow and — no doubt for tactical reasons — praised the same government for whose overthrow they had been calling a couple of days ago.
“The lawyer came back to our bakery, and tried explaining to my father, with many clever words, how his flight, his talk on the radio, and his return were to be understood.
“Father’s face was grey as ashes. ‘But I, unfortunately, can’t get out of the country with my bakery, my wife, my six children and my mother.’ From that day on Father never read another word written by a communist.”
If anyone else had told this story Farid would have been indignant, but he believed it when it came from Munir.
“My father’s friendship with the nationalist teacher,” Munir continued his story, “didn’t last long. Father admired the man’s courage and energy, but as we’re Assyrians a time soon came when he could no longer bear the rise of Arab nationalism, which was getting stronger and stronger and had the teacher too under its spell. The radio spouted nationalist stuff, nationalist slogans screamed from the walls, and great banners waved in the sky praising the Fatherland in giant letters.
“When the teacher tried convincing my father that all Syrian citizens were Arabs even if they didn’t know it or didn’t want it, he exploded. “The caliphs, a thousand years ago, had a better idea of it than you. They didn’t force the Aramaians or the Jews or the Persians to be Arabs, or the Spanish or the Kurds.”
“The man rose, looking injured, and left. After that day he bought his bread from our rivals, and my father ignored all five nationalist parties.
“His third friend, Safi Khalid, worked in a bank, as I was saying, and described himself as liberal. He often visited, and my grandmother liked him because he was so courteous. My mother, on the other hand, couldn’t stand him. ‘A chameleon,’ she would say quietly when he arrived. My father didn’t let her dislike influence him. ‘Your mother and mine have made a secret pact never to agree with each other,’ he said, winking at me.
“When Safi was persecuted for his politics he took shelter with us. We gave him food, and I was supposed to go and buy him the newspaper every day. But as my family had never before bought a daily paper the informer in our street would have noticed, so I had to go a long way to a news stand to buy the paper, and smuggle it home in a bag.
‘When I’m a minister, which I hope will be soon, I’ll never forget your sacrifices for me,’ Safi told my father one evening, and once again my grandmother was moved to tears.
“Father acted very noble. ‘There’s no need to reward me. My bakery gives me enough, but I’d be grateful if you still share my opinion on the human situation then.’
‘You can be sure I will, every day. It’s your voice that I’ll always want to hear.’
‘And how is he going to get in touch with you when you’re a minister?’ asked my mother suspiciously. The liberal knew as well as she did that our ministers are surrounded by secret service men and bodyguards, and no one can get at them for purposes either good or bad.
‘You’re right,’ he said, confirming her doubts. ‘You’d better stand outside your bakery, my friend, and when I drive past I’ll stop, embrace you in front of everyone, drink tea with you and listen to what you have to say in praise or blame of the regime.’
“My mother had to own herself defeated, and put up with her mother-in-law’s triumph.
“After the next coup, Safi was promoted straight from his hiding place with us to a ministerial post. So from now on my father placed an apprentice on watch at our door, and when the lad saw the motorized police on the third day he shouted, ‘Here he comes, here he comes!’
“That was the sign. My father and his employees dropped everything and ran out, waving to the minister, but the black limousine drove on. My mother’s triumph knew no bounds.
“Times were troubled then. The minister fell from favour after only three months, and was immediately declared an enemy of the people. ‘Why didn’t you wave?’ asked the surprised liberal when my father accused him of breaking his word. And he asked my father to wave harder if he, Safi, ever got to be minister again soon. Meanwhile he hid with us once more, and we had to feed him for three months. My father had an arch of little coloured lights put up around the display window, and a red arrow of neon lighting hanging in the middle of the street showed clearly where the bakery was. So when the once-toppled liberal was able to take his place at the magnificent ministerial desk again, my father and all his staff stood outside the door in white coats waving and waving to the minister as he drove by in his limousine. Even the little lights seemed to be winking too. But Safi appeared to have gone blind.
“When my father told this story at home my mother was furious, and swore to leave the house once and for all if that ungrateful, slimy slug was ever welcomed to it as a guest again, if only for a second. My father waved at the black limousine for twenty-two days on end. Without success. Then, an embittered man, he had the coloured lights and the neon arrow taken down. He aged by years that day.