WARRIORS: IN THE FINAL FRAY
ESTHER
Jew had most likely been the reason they had been spared from any physical abuse, besides the initial rifle butt slammed into the back of Muhammad’s head that first night. He touched the large, tender knot at the top of his head gingerly and thanked Allah that the pain was beginning to subside. How would it all end? Uncle Assadam, who always seemed to have some word of wisdom that made everything make sense, was now silent most of the time. No doubt he wondered if he had been lured like a dumb sheep into one more Israeli trap. Shaul argued and harangued with their captors and explained the same story over and over again. Muhammad had gone basically despondent. He wondered where the power had gone that had guided him so faithfully until the moment they had been taken captive. The miraculous Voice that had guided him was now strangely silent. Its absence made him realize how much a part of himself the guidance had become, and try as he might he found no way to bring it back. The sunlight that had by now fully covered him on his place on the floor was of little comfort, but at least it reminded him that Allah was still in control if His sun was still rising and sharing its warmth with His most destitute of subjects. Now he could hear the shuffle of feet coming up the wooden stairs to their attic room and the ironically friendly tinkle of porcelain dishes. Breakfast time. It would be carried by two of their brawniest young men who would unlock the door and shove the tray onto the floor and take away the used tray if the inmates had remembered to place it there. No word would be exchanged. No time would be wasted. Muhammad saw the tray of used dishes on the little table on the far side of the room and scurried to put it by the door. Just as he slid it in place, the door was opened and
the captor chosen to deliver the food this morning recoiled that someone stood so near the door. In jerky motions he leveled his rifle muzzle at Muhammad and barked an order in Hebrew. Muhammad instinctively, having spent most of the past month in captivity, put his hands on his head and backed off slowly, expecting the door to close as soon as the tray was placed on the floor. But this morning was different. Instead, another rifle-toting young man entered, followed by an older balding man and a pretty young lady, definitely Jewish, in her early twenties, slim and curvaceous in revealing, casual clothes, one of those sexy Jewesses that Muhammad took pains not to look at, especially since he had begun his pilgrimage. He looked at the floor and wondered what was coming next. Without a word the balding man pointed to Shaul on the floor, who was now struggling to open his eyes. She stared at Shaul, all disheveled and unshaven, for a minute or more and then nodded emphatically ‘yes, yes.’ Then she spoke in English, “Yes, it’s my brother, it’s Shaul.” Shaul sat up with a jerk, stared dumbly for a moment or two, shook his head and uttered, “Esther!” He made movements to go to her and she to him, but they were stopped by the guards. The balding man, who was obviously in charge, motioned them to lower their weapons and nodded to Esther. She and Shaul embraced, softly weeping.
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It was lunch time but with a major difference from their previous lunches in the settlement. The three “prisoners” were seated before a cornucopia of culinary delights in a well-accoutered dining room at a long table with a crisp white tablecloth. The event was being hosted by Shimon, the balding man whom they had come to know was the mayor of the