A Hand Full of Stars

The Third Year

January 11 — Today I saw the madman. They let him out of jail. He was squatting outside the Umayyad Mosque, mute as one of its stone pillars. People went by without paying him any mind, though now and then someone tossed him a coin.

I recognized him right away, even though he is greatly changed. His hair has been cut; his skin is very pale. Two round scars gleam from his temples; they look like they were burned in with two glowing metal rods. He sat entirely still. The pigeons, which enjoy special protection in the proximity of the mosque and thus fly around cooing in droves, don’t interest him at all.

I squatted down beside him and started talking to him. He looked at me with wide eyes and repeated my question, “What’s wrong with you, Uncle? What’s wrong?” He rubbed his temples with his knotty fingers and began to cry. Then he gazed into the distance and was silent.

What horrifying torture this poor man must have endured. Out of a wise man they have made a miserable bundle of flesh and bones.

January 15 — Today I had an unpleasant row with Josef. From day to day he grows more enthusiastic about the army. He plans, because he is so big and strong, to join the paratroopers and go to war. I told him a joke I’d heard from Uncle Salim, who cannot tolerate any army on earth:

A parachutist is supposed to land behind enemy lines and carry out an act of sabotage. His commanding officer explains the delicate operation and how it should be accomplished: “Since your mission is very important, we have equipped you with a double parachute. After you’ve jumped, press the green button, and the chute will open. If it doesn’t work, which seldom happens, press the red button. Then the second chute will open with one-hundred-percent certainty. When you land, you will find a motorbike leaning against a tree. Get on it and go to the rendezvous.”

The paratrooper jumps. He presses the green button several times, but the chute doesn’t open. “Okay,” he says, and pushes the red button — once, twice — but the second chute doesn’t open either. “This is not my day,” he curses. “And when I land, I bet the motorcycle will have been stolen.”

Josef didn’t find the joke about the stupid paratrooper the least bit funny. He was annoyed and said that only cowards like myself and senile Uncle Salim could tell such jokes. That hurt me a lot.

January 20 — How can one publish a newspaper without the government banning it? Lots of underground parties print their own newspapers and then pass them from hand to hand. I’ve gotten copies of two such newspapers from acquaintances. They were one big yawn. Is it worth endangering your life for such imbecilic drivel? No!

Habib has left the ruling party. I share his happiness. Mariam and I had tea at his place. Eighteen years he was in the underground and suffered every disgrace because of his party. Once it came into power, he couldn’t remain in it for even two years.

January 27 — We wanted to see another skin-flick. Mahmud arranged to get the tickets. This time I specifically wanted to seek out my math teacher and say hello to him, but he wasn’t there, or at least I didn’t see him.

Shortly before the film began, a man got up on the stage and loudly announced, “Unfortunately, we cannot show the film. The new chief of police has found out about it, and in half an hour he will send in plainclothes-men. If he catches us, he’ll have the theater closed.”

The lights went down, and suddenly a kitschy, schmaltzy film came on. The entire theater went wild, and somebody began to tear up the fine cloth of the lovely seats. Soon others started to jump up and rampage. Even Mahmud got out his pocket knife and slit the upholstery.

Amidst laughter and angry cries, the sweet dialogue of the schmaltzy film could be heard. We all laughed at the enamored hero, who had smeared a kilo of grease into his hair and was in a garden saying to his former lover, “I hover like a cloud when I see you. You and I, two flowers in the garden of love.”

Amidst unanimous howling, someone cried out, “I will deliver some fertilizer to your garden! Right away!” When the owners finally understood and turned on the lights, the auditorium was one big rubbish dump.

They deserved it!

February 13 —Habib has changed somehow. He laughs a lot more and drinks less. He translates as if possessed. I brought him an exquisite meat pie that my mother made especially for him. But he won’t talk about the paper.

Thursday — “How would you get a message or a story to a lot of people?” I asked Uncle Salim.

“I would take my whip and go to the radio station, fight my way through to the microphone, and say: ’Ladies and gentlemen, this is Salim the Coachman speaking to you. I want to tell you a story. Whoever does not wish to hear it can turn off the radio for five minutes, because I don’t want to bore any of you — from old men to infants — as our president does.’”

“And what would you do when soldiers came while you were talking?” I laughed.

“Well, then everybody listening would experience real theater on the radio.”

My dear uncle has not been outside our quarter for a long time. There are several panzer tanks outside the radio station. He wouldn’t get very far with a whip.

February 19 — Habib gave me a fine shawl to take to my mother. She was delighted with the present. It had to be very expensive, she said, because its white wool comes from abroad. She said she’ll drape it over her shoulders when she drinks her early-morning coffee on the terrace. My mother reciprocated with a small flask of orange-blossom oil she had distilled herself. Habib likes this scent very much.

February 27 — For two hours Habib made himself scarce so I could be with my Nadia in his apartment. Nadia was embarrassed about meeting Habib. We told each other our dreams. It was wonderful to be able to hold her in my arms.

I have written two poems about our secret trysts.

March 13 — Habib has gotten more translation jobs, two short crime stories and a thick novel. His publisher is enthusiastic about the good work he has turned in.

Now he seldom drinks, but he still smokes like a chimney. Last week my mother did Habib’s laundry, and Mariam helps him somewhat with his household chores. He has two left hands and stumbles over things as if he had a third leg.

Unlike Habib, Uncle Salim does his laundry himself. Nor does he ever allow anyone to tidy up his room, not even when he’s sick.

March 15 — I have the solution! Today I went back to the bazaar with my mother, and when she once again sat at one of the big merchants’ booths, having offered less than half of the asking price, I meandered through the bustling stands. I knew my mother would buy the fabric; she had been talking about it for three days and pricing it with several different dealers. I knew that she and the merchant would come to terms somewhere in the middle of their price range but that it would take some time. I was right. Half an hour later I returned; the merchant was happily wrapping up the cloth for my mother. But something else I saw at the bazaar was more important than all the cloth in the world.

Some dealers are so poor that they don’t even have their own booths. They transport their wares on carts or simply in big pieces of cloth and offer them for sale in the middle of the bazaar. The well-off merchants in the surrounding shops do not like this, but they allow it, primarily because the small dealers tend to sell third-rate goods for very little money.

“Socks thrown away! Socks given away!” a boy loudly cried.

A cluster of people immediately gathered round. On the cloth was an enormous heap of bright socks. People pushed and shoved because two pairs cost but one measly Syrian pound. I pressed forward and managed to pick out two pairs.

Once I got home, I wanted to try the socks on. They were held together with a simple clip. Instead of the transparent paper that is usually stuffed inside to help them keep their shape, the manufacturer of these third-rate socks had used ordinary shredded newspaper.

I let out a yelp of excitement, for I suddenly knew how to get a newspaper to other people quickly, distributing it without the government noticing a thing.

I hurried to Habib’s, but the little red slip of paper was hanging on his door. (We use it when one of us is inside with his girlfriend, so the other won’t come in. Nowadays I have my own key to his apartment.) I had forgotten that Mariam’s husband had gone to Beirut for two days.

I’ll tell Habib about it tomorrow.

March 16 — I told Mahmud about my idea, and he thought it was great. I wrote a rather long story on a narrow strip of paper and stuck it inside the socks. You can’t see anything from outside.

“And what if people just throw the paper away?”

“They might do that. But as soon as word about the first sock-newspaper gets out, nobody will throw away the paper without reading it first.”

Mahmud suggested we distribute the strips of paper not only in socks, but everywhere — in public toilets and in cinemas. He told me that one day in the cafe he got to know an old author who had been in prison for many long years and had written an entire book on three hundred cigarette papers. He was even able to smuggle it out and get it published.

March 18 — First Habib laughed at me. I was fit to scream, but then he grew silent and began to pace back and forth, lost in thought. I told him that Mahmud and I wanted to sell the socks — quick as lightning and each time somewhere different, in and around Damascus.

“What will you do if they catch you?” he asked with concern.

“I’II go to prison like you, Father, and hundreds of others. But I want to be a journalist, to seek the truth and make it known.”

Habib deliberated a while. He opened the door to his closet and gazed at the picture of his wife. Then I knew he would go along with it.

We continued to talk for a long time. Tomorrow I’ll find out where the socks come from, and the day after that, we’ll meet at Habib’s.

March 19 — The cheap socks are manufactured at a small factory near the river. Four pairs cost one pound when you purchase in bulk, so we’ll even make a nice profit.

Habib is writing an article about prison. I want to write about the madman of Damascus. For this madman could be any one of us, and his sparrow was his hope. What they did to him is what they plan to do to us all.

Mahmud arrived around eight. It was about time my best friends got to know each other. They had a lot of fun together, and later, on the way home, Mahmud told me that he thought Habib was very clever.

Habib wanted to call the newspaper The Spark, but Mahmud and I simply wanted to call it Sock-Newspaper; Habib agreed.

Habib asked Mahmud what he would write.

“Seven questions for every issue.”

“Is this out of some fairy tale?”

“No, seven questions, one for each day.” Mahmud gave some examples: “Have you ever seen the shabby hut of a minister? — Have you had enough to eat today? — Have you asked the president for permission to breathe? — Have you considered today how many kilos of bread a panzer tank costs?”

We didn’t go home until late into the night. I have seldom felt as much strength as today, and Habib was never so childlike.

March 22 — Our street is supposed to be widened so that tourists cars can drive down it. The residents don’t like this idea, so they protested to the city council. In vain! This has been planned for fifteen years and will be carried out.

April 2 — Today Josef got hold of a book containing a few of the forbidden erotic tales from The Thousand and One Nights. He and Mahmud and I sat down together and read the slim volume with pleasure. But the chapter about the love potions and the techniques of lovemaking was so funny, we nearly laughed ourselves to death. No mere human being can concoct the salves. It went something like this: Take the shell of an eagle egg, fry it in the oil of the sacred tree, and store it all in a marble bowl for ninety-three days; knead into it one tablespoon of gum arabic while pronouncing an impossible charm. This paste must be left to draw on the leaf of an exotic tree for thirty-three days. Once this has been accomplished, place a tiny ball, the size of a lentil, into the coffee of your beloved; it will make him or her submissive.

At worst the techniques and postures themselves will result in bone fractures and muscle cramps. We joked about the idiots who had thought this stuff up.

“If I put one of these tiny balls into my girlfriend’s coffee,” Josef said, “she’ll spit and say: ’Hey, old boy, can’t you even make decent coffee? This tastes like the water your socks have been soaking in.’” She would leave him.

“And if before long I’m running around in a cast,” Mahmud laughed, “and someone asks me, ’Have you had an accident?’ tersely I’ll reply, ’No, sex!’”

April 3 — Our articles were far too long; we had to cut them. Habib said this was the first time it was clear to him how important a single word could be. Mahmud has reformulated his questions even more wittily.

Two hundred pairs of socks wait in a carton at Habib’s. He will get hold of a small, primitive duplicating machine. One of his old friends has long been working as a taxi driver on the route between Damascus and Beirut. In Beirut you can buy such a machine cheaply and quickly.

April 16 — Today Uncle Salim dined with us, and my father urged a third glass of arrack upon him. The old man became a bit tipsy and made terrific jokes. We all laughed so loud, people passing by on the street stopped in curiosity. When one man asked what it was we were celebrating, my father said, “The wedding day of our lice.” The man laughed.

Uncle Salim asked the funniest question. “Why do many states have the eagle — an idiotic animal — on their flags?”

“They want to instill courage in us,” my father answered, chuckling. “They know we are timid, and they think: Tell the pigeon three times it is an eagle, and just wait and see; it will start to hunt mice.”

“But an eagle will even eat carrion when it has to. Igitt, igitt! It’s coming, it’s coming! Our government knows us but poorly. I’ll just have to look up the president and suggest that they paint a goat on our flags. Goats are more like us.”

“Because they bleat and moan or because they don’t eat any meat?”

“Neither. Because they get milked!” Uncle Salim laughed.

April 20 — The mimeograph machine has arrived. Habib showed us how to use stencils. The copies are in violet ink, but they’re easy to read. We folded the strips and stuffed them into the socks. Habib’s article is amazing. My piece about the madman also pleased him and Mahmud. Mahmud’s seven questions are fabulous.

April 23 — Habib took the cinemas, restaurants, and cafes (two hundred of them); Mahmud and I went to the bazaar. One of us kept watch and the other did the selling. I spread out the big cloth and began to cry “Socks,” and in half an hour they were gone. Then we hurried our separate ways back to our jobs because lunch break was over.

Habib was very relieved when we turned up at his place toward seven o’clock. He served us cakes and made excellent tea. We had our own cigarettes.

April 26 — I was against it, but Mahmud wanted to assure himself. Today he went to see Josef and told him that he had a friend who had given him a copy of the sock-newspaper. Mahmud asked Josef if he wanted to read it and pass a copy on. According to Mahmud, Josef went dead white and spoke softly, as if afraid someone might overhear. He is just about to take his final exams and then wants to go straight into the army. He has no interest in newspapers, and none whatsoever in those who write against the government. He doesn’t want to have anything to do with something like that, and when he’s a general, he himself will stage a coup.

Saturday — Four days later, during lunch break, my boss told us a customer had given him a remarkable newspaper. He praised the questions and said that all night long he had lain awake contemplating his life. He admired the courage of the underground group and wished he could support it somehow.

May 20 — For three weeks our street has looked gruesome. The houses opposite ours have lost eight meters in depth. Their façades have been cut off. Many small houses have vanished; others, owing to the severing, have become narrow and ugly. We are choking in exhaust fumes and dust. The bulldozers make a hellish noise. The workmen get started very early because they cannot work in the heat of midday; then they resume and work into the night.

We have lost many neighbors. I am sad that Josef and his mother had to move to a street far away. Only three dark rooms remain of what once was their big building; Josef’s uncle lives there because he cannot afford a better apartment. Thank God Mahmud and Nadia are still here. For centuries people have lived here, and now these small clay houses crumble to dust within days. They are no match for the bulldozers.

May 25 — Today began like a dream. I awakened at dawn, smelling jasmine right near my bed. I went out on the terrace and saw hundreds of flowers open their calyxes in the cool morning dew. Without the fourteen children who run wild during the day, our courtyard seemed much bigger.

Tuesday — Today, two weeks later, even BBC London is talking about our sock-newspaper. Extracts from my article and the whole of Habib’s were read aloud, but, strangely enough, not a single one of Mahmud’s questions was mentioned.

June 10 — How Mahmud comes up with his ideas and writes them all out so brilliantly in just a couple of pages is a mystery to me. I am extremely proud of him. Today he finished his third play; it’s even better than the first two:

A man is insulted and beaten by an officer. At the police station he gets more of the same. The testimony of an officer carries more weight than that of a poor, tattered devil. And so the man decides to get himself a uniform, and onto its shoulder he pins a couple of stars — which can be bought anywhere. He shaves and moves into a small room in another part of town. From that time on, the man embarks upon a new life.

During the day he practices his trade, and in the evening he walks around in uniform, enjoying the salutes of the soldiers. A few days later he promotes himself to the rank of general. Now the jeeps of the military police also leave him alone, and he feels even better because many plainclothes policemen greet him and smile. He even goes to restaurants, has meals, and writes bad checks, signing himself as a general. Every day he turns up on a different street. One day he happens upon a coup and gets involved, keeping a clear head amidst the confusion and giving intelligent orders. The coup founders, and he saves the existing government. The play is like a fairy tale and concludes with the question of whether our own government isn’t made up of such people.

June 26 — For the first time the official newspaper has taken a stand. A band of agents, in the pay of Israel, is making trouble in our country, seeking to weaken our unity. The government is threatening “to strike with an iron hand.”

Habib laughed and said, “First the iron will have to be imported!”

July 5 — A new language has been evolving on our street since it was widened. The old expressions, “Go play in the street,” “You can do that outside on the street,” and “You are not on the street, where you can play as you like,” are gone forever. The new street sayings are: “Look out for cars!” “Better play here in the apartment,” and “Anywhere but in the street; you could lose your skin there.”

Our mothers are having trouble adjusting. Sometimes one of them will say, irritably, “Go outside!” But then she’ll quickly correct herself and say, “I mean, settle down.”

Writing these lines has made me think of Robert. Our streets are slowly beginning to resemble those he described, but here we still don’t have as much to eat as they do in Europe.

July 10 — “Today it’s my treat. Are you in the mood to hear tall tales?”

No question about that! Of course I was in the mood, and together we set out. Uncle Salim knows half the town. Again and again he stopped to greet merchants and craftsmen. When we reached a certain coffeehouse, Uncle Salim was disappointed. The old storyteller had died, and no one had taken his place. He asked if there was anywhere else to go to hear someone tell tales. We learned there still are a few such cafes. The best-known one is near the Umayyad Mosque.

And so we strolled there. The cafe was rather full. Many tourists were waiting and drinking tea. We sat down near the high stool of the storyteller. Toward seven o’clock he arrived. He spoke quite loudly and always made lively gestures with his hands to accentuate danger or intensify battles. The tourists photographed him, and he grew louder and wilder. This pleased some members of the audience, and at the tops of their lungs they interjected their remarks. The storyteller recounted the fight between two clans, and after a while two men in the room were fighting, because each of them favored a different side. The customers sitting nearby calmed them down.

The storyteller recited in verse what the adversaries said to each other. Each praised himself to the skies and boundlessly reproached his enemy. At times it was funny. I laughed when one hero glorified not only his sword, his horse, and his own poetic talents, but even his mustache, saying, “My mustache is so strong, a falcon can perch on it.” A guest with an immense mustache glared at me angrily from a neighboring table and twirled his magnificent handlebars.

Just when the tale was most thrilling, the storyteller broke off. He asked those present to return to the coffeehouse the next day, when he would continue the saga of the hero, who was about to saw through the bars of his prison window.

Uncle Salim was visibly disappointed. “Like bread, storytellers are getting worse and worse,” he complained after a while. “He bellows and waves his hands about, but his voice does not stir the heart. A storyteller must speak softly; the softer he is, the wiser he is.”

I defended the storyteller, saying he had to bellow in order to be heard, but I didn’t convince Uncle Salim. “A bad storyteller laughs at his own joke before he has finished telling it.”

He’s right. Sometimes the man laughed out loud and said, “Here comes the funny part.” But what followed was more likely to be sad or sometimes dull.

July 11 — Uncle Salim is enthusiastic about the paper. He suspects his friend the old journalist is behind it. I have long contemplated telling him, but I will not say a word. This secret is mine alone.

July 12 — I have asked Nadia to ask her boss whether it is possible to take legal action against the editor Ahmad Malas because of the radio play. It was some time ago, but who knows?

July 14 — Nadia said her boss doesn’t believe that this play — which meanwhile has become very famous — came from the pen of a fifteen-year-old. Moreover, Malas has been the darling of every government and has become a powerful editor. “The testimony of fifty children isn’t worth a piece of crap.” (Nadia swore these were his exact words.) Malas can at any time prove that he and not Mahmud wrote and broadcast the play years ago. Is that what is commonly called justice?

July 16 — I have spoken with Habib. He knows Ahmad Malas. “All these characters live off the work of others. It would be interesting to write an article showing just how much many famous poets and musicians have stolen.” When he does this, he will also take up Mahmud’s case.

July 18 — Habib is a different person. He sings constantly and is very cheerful.

Lots of people continue to talk about the sock-newspaper, even though a month has gone by. I have the feeling many people are making copies and passing it along. They say it has turned up in Aleppo and in Homs. I have learned from Nadia that the secret service is really spinning its wheels.

During lunch break I have begun to learn how to type. My boss is griping about it a little. He fears for his typewriter. Sometimes I can’t find a letter at all; it’s as if it were hiding from my blows.

July 22 — Nadia came to Habib’s apartment for an hour today. She’ll soon be sixteen and no longer a child. In the last months she has grown quickly. We love each other very much, and we often talk about the future. Today I nearly put my foot in my mouth. When I was discussing our prospective children, I said, “. who hopefully will have no need of a sock-newspaper.” Nadia looked at me wide-eyed, and I tried to play this down by making a joke of it. “I mean,” I retorted, “the state newspaper, which stinks like sweaty socks.”

Nadia shook her head. “Your jokes are getting sillier and sillier,” she said, and buttoned up her blouse.

July 24 — Not long ago I wrote two poems. The first was about the women poets praise until they marry; once they marry, they forget their songs and torment their wives. The second was about the sea, which exerts itself, leaping up to wash away the clouds from the face of the sky because it misses the blue color.

August 1 — Habib is nearly finished with his translation. Today he got an advance and made dinner at his place for Mahmud and me. (Mariam looked in briefly.) I bragged that I could type two pages an hour. In reality all I can do is one, and that one with lots of errors.

In the bookshop, my boss let me type a few letters. Today I typed “Dear Mr. Hound” instead of “Dear Mr. Pound.” Thank God my boss checked the letter. Then he said, “If I want to put Mr. Pound off, all I have to do is tell you to write him a letter. For then he will be Dearest Hound, and the book he ordered wasn’t on swans but swines, and our Kindest wishes will become our Blindest fishes.”

August 3 — The second issue is ready! I have typed quite a lot. Habib wrote about corruption. He condoned the bribe-taking of petty officials who need the money to feed their children, but attacked the venality of the ministers who are bleeding the country.

I also wrote about the poor students who, at too young an age, have to leave school and go to work.

Again Mahmud thought up really great questions. The first one was: “Have you already read the first issue of the sock-newspaper?”

We urged all people fortunate enough to have learned to read and write to make their own newspapers. Habib came up with a lovely sentence: “Communication is the responsibility of every human being; don’t leave it to the government!”

Sunday — We have run off six hundred copies. On Friday Mahmud and I carried the socks to the marketplace; again they sold in a flash. Then we walked through the bazaar and looked at the stands. We saw a man with a dancing bear — a piteous animal, emaciated and sad, its body covered with scars. It hobbled around, and Mahmud said he was sure the bear was crying and that bears, like people, understand everything. How humiliating this dance would be if the bear really has feelings as we do.

August 6 — Today Uncle Salim told me the story of a sultan who, on an outing, came upon a picturesque village and wanted to stop and rest there. He dismounted from his horse, and the peasants threw their jackets under his feet so his shoes would not get dusty. They were delighted because he was the first ruler ever to visit their village.

A huge table was conjured forth and set up on the village square. Immediately a great feast was prepared: mutton stuffed with almonds, raisins, and rice; salad; cheese; wine. The sultan was amazed at the people’s wealth and exclaimed loudly that their harvest tax would be doubled. Then he began to eat. He ate like a bull, wheezing, belching, and gorging himself.

Suddenly the sultan felt tired. He looked all around and announced to his soldiers, “No one may leave the table before I awaken.” The soldiers drew their swords and held the men in check. The sultan snored away. Night fell. The men grew weary, but the soldiers changed watch and commanded those present to remain at the table. The sultan went on sleeping blissfully. Morning came; the men were faint with fatigue, but the sultan still dozed. At noon he finally woke up in a bad mood, with a stiff neck. He cursed the village in which a guest could not even get a soft bed; then he rode off.

Since that day the peasants no longer lay their jackets at a visitor’s feet. Instead, they are suspicious and sometimes throw stones at him to send him on his way.

August 8 — Radio Israel, Radio Jordan, and BBC London have reported on the second edition of our newspaper. Habib said that in the third issue he will settle up with all the various parties; he will show that in Syria there is no opposition among them. We also decided, beginning with that issue, to run a small literary column.

August 12 — Uncle Salim and my father have become enthusiastic followers of the newspaper. My father listens to BBC London and was very taken with the third question: “Do you happen to know how many days a week a baker works? (The answer is seven, because bakers, despite a decades-long battle, still don’t have a day off.) And how many days in his life does a big landowner work? (The answer is approximately zero.)”

August 17 — Damascus is most beautiful at dawn. Today I awakened from a dream and crept out of my room onto the terrace. The street sweepers had just finished up on our street. They shouldered their long brooms and walked home with slow strides. They looked tired. I had an idea about what street sweepers and bakers have in common, but now, in the afternoon, I can’t think what it was.

August 18 — Somehow or other the paper has changed me. I look at things more carefully, and when I see or hear something, questions more than answers rise up in me. I also love Nadia very much, and I’m certain we belong together. This gives me peace of mind.

When I read my early diary entries today, I was ashamed. I would have liked to tear them out. But I have sworn not to alter anything, so all of it will remain. There was much I would have forgotten if I had not immediately made my notes. I have also become far more diligent. Whether I’m content, sad, or indifferent, I write it down. Habib already has more than ten volumes in all.

August 20 — Last night I sat long on the terrace, looking at the stars. I wanted to write a poem about the night, but my thoughts kept straying and ended up with Nadia. If only she could lie beside me for a few moments, and in the freshness of the night we could gaze at the stars together!

A few days ago Nadia said to me, “Sometimes I wish your head lay on my pillow so we could share the same dream.”

I have no further wishes anymore.

August 21 — The third issue went off very smoothly today. It is even more readable than the first two. Mahmud’s questions and my story about the cunning inhabitants of Homs, who for centuries have affected lunacy, worked out well.

The owner of the sock factory suspiciously asked us our names and where we lived. Of course we made something up, but we have to be careful. The secret service has been getting very sharp. Habib is extraordinarily fearful for us.

August 24 — Today we had a close call. I spread out my cloth in front of a cinema in the new quarter. The cheap socks attracted passersby, and within a short time I had sold three-quarters of our wares. Mahmud kept a lookout nearby. Suddenly a well-dressed man tore open a package of socks and grabbed me by the collar. Mahmud noticed this and, like greased lightning, rammed into the man so forcefully from behind that he toppled over and hit the ground. I slipped out of his grip and ran as fast as I could. The man screamed, “Stop! Thief! Stop! Thief!” in the hope that passersby would help, but no one did.

As I scaled a wall and ran down an alley on the other side, children playing with marbles cried out in terror. A woman gazing out a window called to her neighbor, “Just look how pale the poor boy is!”

As I came to a busy street, I put on the brakes, slowing my pace. I walked into the first cafe I saw and ordered a lemonade. I had to sit for half an hour before I felt strength in my knees again. My boss was grouchy, but he’s been like that a lot lately. The bookshop is not doing so well. We have competition.

Habib was utterly appalled and proud at the same time. He said we have to find a new way, always look for new ways, and not use the same ones too long. In Aleppo, he learned through a friend, three groups also producing sock-newspapers have been caught.

August 27 — Neither the Israeli nor the Jordanian broadcasters have said a word about our third edition, even though (thanks to Habib’s courage — he stuffed the paper into over three hundred mailboxes) it was far more widely distributed. Habib said they probably were keeping silent so the disgruntled masses in other countries would not make their own sock-newspapers.

There must still be some other clever way!

August 29 — Nadia asked me why I’ve been so aggressive lately. I’m sorry I can’t tell her, but I don’t want to put her in jeopardy.

September 1 — A coup! Once again the new government, composed of old generals, has discovered that the preceding regime consisted of nothing but thieves and traitors. This isn’t even funny!

The prisons are overflowing, and Nadia’s father serves the new government as a spy. He has just removed the photo of the old president from their living room and is waiting for the new president to have his picture taken.

September 2 — Habib has a new idea. He has given a great deal of thought to which cheap, salable articles are packed in paper. Oranges are extremely well suited to our purpose; the newspaper strips could easily be hidden beneath the bright paper they are wrapped in. We’ve completely rejected textiles because it takes too long to get them to consumers. Habib has been working as a day laborer in the packing department of a pharmaceutical firm. They manufacture only a few items (headache pills and the like), but they do so by the ton. He could slip our newspaper into the packages with the tablets. The firm is near Damascus; the oranges are packed on the coast, but Habib will drive there.

September 4 — Habib forges like a pro. He magically made himself a set of identity papers with an assumed name.

I have an idea about how we can bring the paper to people everywhere. A balloon filled with a light gas could hold several strips inside; when it bursts somewhere in the sky, the strips will fall over the city. Mahmud is enthusiastic about the idea and reminded me about the experiment we made with hydrogen in school. A little zinc and hydrochloric acid will release hydrogen. Tomorrow we’re going to try it.

September 5 — Today we opened our witches’ kitchen in the attic. A soda bottle, a few pieces of zinc (from a broken gutter), and hydrochloric acid (it’s called spirit of salt in the shop and is quite cheap) were all we needed. The contents of the bottle foamed and seethed, and when we set a match to the gas, a bluish flame hissed up and scared us. The bottle tipped over, and the mixture ate into the wooden floor and smelled awful. We coughed like maniacs! But then we managed to fill a balloon with the gas, and it rose in the sky rather quickly.

How will we get it to the height at which it will burst? If we can’t, only God above will be able to read the strips of paper in the belly of the balloon. Maybe we should fasten a long string to it and light the string? We tried this with the next balloon, but the string didn’t burn. Tomorrow we will drench it in diesel oil.

September 8 — Darkness was upon the fields on the outskirts of Damascus. Mahmud stuffed thirty newspaper strips into a big balloon and filled it with gas. I dipped its thin string in diesel oil, and we let the balloon go up. When it reached a height of about ten meters in the dark sky, we lit the string. But the flames raced up too quickly, and before the balloon could rise a few meters more, there was a dreadful bang.

We ran away quickly. We took the bottle and the remains of the zinc with us. On our way we encountered people gazing skyward in confusion, talking about the explosion. Suddenly Mahmud began to laugh. He is quite a guy! In the midst of every catastrophe he finds something to laugh about. At first I was annoyed, but then I joined in his crazy laughter, and we were delighted by the agitated people who suspected they’d seen a UFO. They’ll discover the pages soon enough. Now the newspaper has a cosmic collaborator.

September 11 — I have saved one hundred and eighty-six pounds. When I have two hundred altogether, I will buy my mother a dress that costs fifty.

Things are going somewhat better in the bookstore, and my boss isn’t grumbling so often. Now he has a few titles that are hits with university students: 200 Questions Pertaining to Medicine, 300 Questions Pertaining to Chemistry, 150 Questions Pertaining to Law. Students buy these brochures as if possessed, and the profit per pamphlet is not thirty but fifty percent. And just look at our future doctors, chemists, and lawyers! They read the questions, learn the answers like parrots, and spit them out on paper. In olden times a medicine man or medicine woman was a wise person. When I read about everything that one Avicenna or a single Leonardo da Vinci knew, the university and its teachers seem pathetic.

Yesterday Habib said that Socrates had not read more books in his lifetime than a person who nowadays has taken his university entrance exam, but that with his knowledge Socrates reached even to the root of life. I don’t know anything at all about Socrates. Today I looked around in the shop. There are three books about him.

September 13 — We nearly burned up the attic experimenting with the string and diesel oil. With my face entirely black, I went into the kitchen. My mother made fun of me. All evening she called me chimney sweep, and finally my father wanted to know why. She fibbed, saying that I’d gotten dirty helping her in the kitchen.

This is something I especially love about my crazy mother. She never tells on us. Even when we’ve nearly driven her nuts, she settles things with us herself. She never says, “Just wait until your father gets home.” Sometimes she hits us, crying while she does; then we, too, keep our mouths shut when my old man returns. Mahmud’s mother always runs right to his father and gripes about one thing or another. That’s something I don’t like about her.

September 14 — “Have you told Mariam about the newspaper?” I asked Habib.

“Of course I have. I don’t want to make the same mistake twice.” He told me how he had made a secret of his political work, hiding it from his wife out of concern for her. But his seeming prudence had not saved her. He had also seen how wives had unwittingly divulged the names of their husbands’ friends, not knowing that these alleged merchants and docents, farmers and artisans, whom their husbands visited from time to time, were high-ranking functionaries. And so, by not having trusted their wives, having shared their beds only and let them cook, the men had betrayed their confidants. “Among spies I could understand this, but nowhere else!” he said.

I must talk to Nadia about this as soon as possible. I’m no spy!

September 16 — Habib packs up the orders for pharmacies in the factory storeroom. A tedious job. While doing it, he stuffs the newspaper strips into the boxes. We told him about our balloon, and he laughed until tears rolled down his cheeks.

September 18 — I haven’t been to church in ages. My father asked me why, and I said I probably didn’t go because I no longer needed pocket money. He almost choked with laughter. Uncle Salim, who had been listening with amusement to our conversation, told us a story:

“A poor man was out of work. He was very pious and always went to church; he prayed and prayed but found no work. One day he noticed that the collection box under the portrait of the Virgin Mary was full of coins and bills, but the box under the picture of Jesus was almost always empty.

“Soon after, the man had had his fill of begging. He entered the church, stood before the picture of the Virgin, and spoke to her.

“’Blessed Mary, all day long I seek work and do not find it. My children need their food and clothing and I my schnapps, but, as you see, I haven’t got a single cent. I’m not a bad person. Just look at your son’s box. Nothing. The wind whistles in it. And he’s not bad either. May I take twenty pounds? I will share it with your son, ten for me and ten for him. My children will get their food and I my schnapps. It will stand your son in good stead, too. If you don’t want me to do this, just say so, and I won’t even lay a finger on it.’

“Of course the picture made no reply, and the man did as he said. The next day he came back.

” ’O holy Virgin, I am so ashamed,’ he said, ’I cannot even look you in the eye. But what should I do? Look, things go no better for your son. Not a single piaster. Today I need forty pounds, for the rent is due. But I am like a camel; I forget nothing. I will also give forty to your son. If this is too much, just say so. I won’t touch a thing.’ Naturally the image didn’t say a word, and the man took eighty pounds from the overstuffed box, divided them, and went his way.

“The man’s situation did not improve in the following days, and he came, took, and divided. But he always asked whether the Virgin had any objection; she never did.

“The priest puzzled a long time over this sudden change in the two collection boxes. In ten years he had never seen such paltry figures for Mary and such good ones for Jesus. Suddenly his accounts no longer balanced, and to find out the reason, he hid behind the painting of Jesus and waited.

“The man came in, eyes to the ground, and said, ’O Blessed Virgin, for two weeks I have been searching for work and finding none. I told my wife and children they have your good heart to thank for all I have given them, and every day they pray for you. Before, my wife couldn’t stand you, but now you can count on her in hard times. I seem to be saying a lot today because the rent must be paid again, and I’m ashamed. But the woodworms in your son’s box are catching cold from the draft. Still, if you don’t want me to, just say so, and I’ll leave everything as it is.’

“’No, I don’t want you to!’ the priest cried out in anger.

“Infuriated, the man turned to the picture of Jesus. ’Shut your trap. I’m talking to your mother! But very well, if you don’t want me to, I won’t share with you any longer,’ he scolded, took the eighty pounds, and left.”

The most wonderful thing is how Uncle Salim manages to extract from his memory the right story for every occasion.

September 20 — A splendid day! Today I went to the circus with Nadia. The afternoon show began at three. An impoverished troupe from India is visiting the exhibition center. They don’t even have a cash register; a man just stands there collecting money. With his scant knowledge of Arabic, he has a lot of trouble doing his job, and all the spectators seem to want to haggle.

During the performance nothing went right. The dogs refused to jump through the fiery hoops and raced under them instead. The elephants had diarrhea. The tightrope walker slipped even after his fifth attempt; the rope, however, was only about two meters off the ground.

The master of ceremonies tried hard to introduce the tiger act in an interesting way. “A matter of life and death!” he cried. The tigers slinked around inside the ring, yawning incessantly, then fell asleep. The tamer roared at them like a lion, but the big cats each sleepily opened one eye and went on yawning. The children laughed heartily.

The knife-throwing number, thank God, was the one thing that went smoothly. Upset, Nadia closed her eyes and pressed my hand. I found the act abominable. The poor girl who stood there trembling was as beautiful as a rose.

The loveliest act was that of the sad clown. He told a love story without saying a word. All he had was a withered flower that he took great pains to bring back to life. The spectators howled, but Nadia and I wept.

October 1 — We have solved the problem of the string. After days filled with tears and coughing, we realized that a few drops of diesel oil were enough to make the cord burn slowly but surely.

From atop the roof of an old abandoned factory, we sent up a big balloon with fifty strips inside. The wind carried it over the inner city. Suddenly it blazed up blue in the dark sky. We waited a moment, stashed the bag with our chemical laboratory in a rusty barrel, and hurried home.

October 15 — Habib ran off another three hundred strips of the fourth issue. He gave notice at the pharmaceutical firm, and tomorrow he is going north to work as an orange packer.

By hand he added a note in French: Show this strip to an Arab and let him translate what it says for you. We would be thankful if you would then pass our newspaper on to a journalist.

Hopefully nothing will happen to him. A gutsy guy!

October 18 — How stupid we are despite all! The simplest solution was right under our noses, and we took tremendous detours, perilous detours, and inhaled soot and oil. All this was completely unnecessary. Today we came upon the idea that solved the problem. We filled a small, lightweight raffia basket with the leaflets, fastened it to the balloon, and sent it up. After a few meters, the wind blew the flyers out of the swinging basket. The lighter the load, the faster the balloon rose and dumped it. The wind distributed the papers for us. No more lightning and diesel fuel. So now it’s also a little less dangerous.

November 6 — Three weeks have gone by and Habib is still up north. Nadia and I can meet more often. Best of all is when we make love at Habib’s.

November 8 — I have been looking for the madman. I don’t know why, but yesterday I dreamed about him. He is no longer at the entrance to the Umayyad Mosque. A perfume seller, who offers little aromatic flasks on a table there, told me the madman had grown weaker day by day and one day lay there unconscious. An ambulance picked him up, and since then he has not appeared again.

November 15 — Did I ever have a terrifying nightmare tonight! Habib squatted in front of the mosque with his mouth sealed shut. He had burns on his hands. They were square and red.

November 17 — Uncle Salim wanted to pour me some tea. His trembling hands could not hold the glass. It fell tinkling to the floor and shattered. I tried to make light of it, but Uncle Salim laughed at my concern.

“My friend, you have seen some of nature’s wisdom and endeavor to excuse it.” While we drank, he explained. “Nature, my friend, nature is mute. But she shows what she wants to say. Now she is telling me: Don’t hold on tight to worldly things. You cannot take them along with you, and the more tightly you hold on to them, the faster they will slip through your fingers. That’s what Nature says; she weakens the hands of old people so they can grasp and enjoy life more intensely than ever.”

November 24 — After forty days, Habib has returned. Now he has a gray beard. The radio stations are talking about the fourth issue again. Habib hopes the oranges will soon come into good hands. He told us a lot about the sea and the fishermen.

December 23 — (Have written nothing for nearly a month!) What luck! In Marseille several people who bought oranges passed the strips on to journalists. Habib learned of this through a colleague and had a taxi driver bring a copy of the French newspaper, Le Monde, from Beirut. The Syrian government has banned this edition. They do this whenever there’s anything at all against them in a newspaper. It’s idiotic that everybody else knows things are going badly for us, while we alone are not allowed to learn about it.

This evening we all sat round the French newspaper, which displayed an illustration of the sock-newspaper beside a translation. Habib read us the introduction aloud. A more concise and exact report could not have been written. Both the socks and the balloons were mentioned; above all, they said the sock-newspaper was the only good paper in Syria.

Habib embraced me. “We have you and your pigheadedness to thank for this!” he said.

I nearly jumped for joy. The praise was too much for me, but now for the first time I can write: I AM A JOURNALIST!

P.S.: Habib said that Le Monde is read in many countries throughout the world.