“Out of the way of the first intifada, Sami. Those were violent times in Nablus. You can’t blame people for trying to get away.”
They reached the final set of steps. To their left, grilles of curling black metal guarded the six arched windows of the synagogue.
“The bars on that first window are new,” Omar Yussef said. “They’re the only ones that aren’t rusty.”
Sami leaned over the railing at the side of the entrance and examined the bars. “You’re right, Abu Ramiz. The window has been scorched by something, too.”
Omar Yussef glanced at the ledge. Jagged black smudges slashed the polished stone. In the yard below, a square frame of rusty metal leaned against the pink wall, its bottom edge ripped away. “The original bars.” He turned to Sami and smiled with one side of his mouth. “As the representative of the police, I think perhaps you might draw some conclusions from this.”
Sami tapped the new black grille. “The thieves got in through this window.”
Omar Yussef rubbed his chin. “Thieves who had enough explosives to blow away those bars.”
“Nablus isn’t short of explosives experts.”
“But it is short of Samaritans, and even shorter of their priceless historical documents.”
Sami lit another cigarette and took in some smoke with a sharp breath. “Let’s go and see this priest.”
Chapter 2
Along each jaundice-yellow wall inside the synagogue, ragged prayer books were wedged tight or stacked haphazardly on their sides behind the glass of their book-cases. A curtain of blue velvet embroidered with Hebrew characters in gold thread hung behind a dais at the head of the hall. The thick walls preserved the chill of night in the air. Omar Yussef shivered and pulled his French collar higher, pressing it to the slack skin of his jaw.
“It’s as cold as a cellar in here,” Sami said.
“Or a grave.” Omar Yussef caught Sami’s frown. “Don’t worry. I may not be certain that this truly is a day of pleasures, as you put it, but by the time of your wedding, I’ll be cheeriness personified.”
Sami walked down the aisle toward the blue curtain. Between the Hebrew characters, the outline of two stone tablets had been stitched into the material. “Can you read this, Abu Ramiz?” Sami asked.
“No, but the tablets are a representation of the command-ments given to the Prophet Moussa, I think. The ones that contained the Jewish law.”
“The Samaritan law.”
A man of about seventy years approached from a stairwell at the back of the room. He was tall and slender, like an evening shadow. He wore a white ankle-length cotton robe, a long vest of coarse gray wool, unfastened at the front, and a fez wrapped with a red cloth so that it resembled a turban.
“The Jewish law is very similar to ours, gentlemen,” the old man said, “but their holy texts include seven thousand mistakes. The books of the Samaritans are without error.”
“Then you are without excuses for your mistakes.” Omar Yussef smiled. “That’s a terrible fate.”
“No one is ever short of justification for their sins in this part of the world.” The man’s mild eyes appeared unfocused and bemused, like cafe habitues Omar Yussef had met in Morocco who smoked too much kif. He shook hands with Omar Yussef. “I’m Jibril Ben-Tabia, a priest of the Samaritan people. Welcome to our synagogue.”
Sami stepped forward. “Lieutenant Sami Jaffari of the National Police. This is my colleague Abu Ramiz.”
“From Bethlehem,” Omar Yussef said. He glanced at Sami. His granddaughter had been trying to make a detective of him since he had been forced to investigate accusations of murder against a favorite former pupil over a year ago. Despite his insistence that he was happy as a history teacher in the Dehaisha refugee camp, Sami seemed now to have made his change of career official.
The priest tilted his head as though wondering why an investigating officer should have been brought from Bethlehem. He kept Omar Yussef’s hand in his.
“The lieutenant asked me to join him because I have a special interest in Palestinian history,” Omar Yussef said. He raised an eyebrow at the young officer. “I understand the crime relates to one of your historical documents.”
“It did.” Ben-Tabia let go of Omar Yussef’s hand and raised his arms in a shrug. “But I must apologize, honored gentle-men, particularly to you, Abu Ramiz, for bringing you all the way from Bethlehem for nothing. The crime is solved.”
Sami dropped his cigarette and ground it out with his heel. “Solved?”
The priest glanced sharply at the cigarette butt on the floor and rolled his lower lip over the edge of his mustache. “Yes, there was a theft, but the stolen object has been returned. So, you see, your intervention is unnecessary.”
“Has the criminal been apprehended?”
“Everything has been sorted out to my satisfaction.”
“I’m here now, so my satisfaction enters into this, too, your honor,” Sami said. He held the priest’s gaze.
“Very well,” Ben-Tabia said. “Please, let’s sit. I’m not so strong these days.”
Omar Yussef and Sami sat on the front bench. The priest took a seat in the second row.
“I must apologize,” he said. “I would offer you coffee in greeting, but this synagogue is only used for the first prayers of every month and no one but me is here to prepare a drink for you today.”
Omar Yussef waved his hand. “Coffee is unnecessary. Your regular place of prayer is on top of the mountain?”
“As you surely know, Brother Abu Ramiz, the Samaritans have a long history in Palestine.” The priest’s face became grave and proud. “We have lived here in the shadow of our holy mountain, Jerizim, since the Israelites entered the land of Canaan. Our community has dwindled to little more than six hundred, but we remain, protected by Allah and our adherence to the ways of our people.”
“It’s one of the greatest traditions of Palestine,” Omar Yussef said.
The priest bowed his head. “During the violence of the eighties, we moved out of this neighborhood and created a new village on top of Jerizim, including, of course, a synagogue.” He lifted a long finger and pointed out of the window toward the ridge. “We wanted to be close to our holiest place.”
“I’m new to Nablus,” Sami said. “I’ve never been up there.”
“Welcome to our city.” Ben-Tabia lowered his head, closed his eyes and placed his palm over his heart. “The site of our ancient temple is just beyond the crest of the ridge, the smooth flat stone where Abraham prepared to sacrifice his son Isaac. It’s where Adam and Eve lived when they were expelled from Eden. It’s the home of Allah.”
“Quite an address.” Sami smiled. “I’d like to come up and see it.”
Omar Yussef thought the priest hesitated before he said, “You will be most welcome, Lieutenant.”
“What exactly was stolen from you, sir?” Omar Yussef asked. “It was an old religious document of some kind, I understand.”
“Though we moved our community to the mountain, we maintained this synagogue and we continued to keep our most precious documents here. It was one of these that was stolen.”
“From where?” Sami said.
“From a safe in the basement.”
“The safe was blown?”
“Blown? Ah, yes, with some kind of explosive. But the safe has been replaced. There’s nothing for you to examine.”
“When was the theft?”
“A week ago. Yes, or perhaps a little more.”
“You didn’t report it immediately?”
The priest fidgeted with the ends of the gray vest. “I was ordered not to do so. By the thieves. They told me that if I involved the authorities, they would destroy the scroll.”
“The scroll?” Omar Yussef twisted toward the priest.
“Our greatest treasure was stolen, Abu Ramiz,” Ben-Tabia said. He lifted the tips of his fingers to his beard, as though he might pull it out in despair at the thought of such a calamity. “I felt terrible shame that it should be during my tenure as a priest here in our synagogue that the Abisha Scroll might be lost.”