Chapter 2177 - 876: Peace—Why Is It So Hard to Come By! (Part 3)

"Lieutenant Colonel, do you know why I called you?"

Alvarez shook his head.

Hassan took a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to him. The paper was filled with names in Arabic, the handwriting was messy, like it was etched with nails. Forty names. Twenty-three are already buried, seventeen are still alive. The living ones, some are in Israel, some in Syria, some in unknown places.

"This is the complete list of No. 317. Rifat personally recorded it. Whoever was imprisoned, whoever was killed, where they were buried, it's all written here. My nephew Malik brought it out of prison, hid it on him, and gave it to me when he got out."

Alvarez took the piece of paper. It was very thin, very old, folded four times, and the corners were tattered. He held that piece of paper like he was holding a tombstone.

"General, what do you want me to do?"

Hassan looked at the graves. "Take it back. Give it to Mr. Victor. Tell him, the Syrians, will not forget. The Syrians, will not forgive. The Syrians, will not give up."

He handed the empty cup back to Alvarez, turned around, squatted down, and picked up a white cloth bundle, placing it in the first grave. The bundle was heavy, his hands were shaking, but he held it steadily. After placing it, he stood up and looked at the grave.

"Abdul Karim Hassan. Imprisoned for eleven years. When he got out, died at his doorstep. His mother—my cousin's wife—waited for him for eleven years, she died too."

He picked up the shovel, shoveling a pile of dirt, scattering it over the bundle. The soil fell with a muffled thud.

Alvarez stood behind him, watching him shovel earth one scoop at a time. Twenty-three graves, twenty-three bundles, he cradled them one by one, placed them one by one, buried them one by one. By the time he finished the last one, dawn was breaking. A line of golden light emerged from behind the hills in the east, shining on the newly erected tombstones, gilding the names.

Hassan planted the shovel in the ground, stood before the last grave, and looked at the tombstone. Inscribed on it were: "Rifat Assad. Scum. Not worthy of a tombstone."

He turned around and looked at Alvarez. "Lieutenant Colonel, you should go."

Alvarez looked at him. "General, what about you?"

Hassan gazed at the tombstones. "I will stay. Watch over these trees. Watch over these stones. Watch over these people."

He leaned on his cane, step by step walking into the depths of the woods. His silhouette grew smaller in the morning light, finally disappearing among the olive trees, like a tree, also like a tombstone.

Alvarez stood at the edge of the woods, looking in the direction where the silhouette vanished. He lowered his head and looked at the paper in his hand.

Forty names. Twenty-three already buried, seventeen still alive.

The living ones, some are in Israel, some in Syria, some in unknown places.

He folded the paper and put it in his jacket pocket. Placing it the same as the white flag. Along with that blood-stained paper. Along with that piece of stone. It was heavy, weighing down his pocket, he held it with his hand.

He turned around and walked toward the jeep. Got in the car, the door closed, engine started. The car turned around, heading south. That was the direction of Haifa, the direction of Tel Aviv, the direction of the airport. That was the direction of Mexico. That was the direction home.

He drove for a while, stopped, turned back. The olive grove was still there, the tombstones were still there, the person etching the stones was still there. The trees rustled in the wind, the stones glimmered in the dawn.

He turned his head back and continued driving. The road was long, gray all the way to the horizon.

Mexico City, on the top floor of the "Feathered Serpent Temple."

Victor looked at the piece of paper. Forty names. Twenty-three already buried, seventeen still alive. The living ones, some are in Israel, some in Syria, some in unknown places. He placed the paper on the table.

Bramo stood in front of him.

"Lieutenant Alvarez brought it back from Hamah. Given by Hassan. The complete list of No. 317, personally recorded by Rifat. Whoever was imprisoned, whoever was killed, where they were buried. It's all on there."

Victor looked at the names. "What about Hassan?"

"Still on the mountain. Etching stones. He said he wants to carve one for each person. Once finished, place them under the trees. Then he will live on the mountain, watching those trees, watching those stones."

Victor was silent for a long time. "Tell Lieutenant Alvarez to stay on the Golan Heights. Keep running the coffee stand on the bridge. Brew a pot of coffee every day, place it on the table. Whoever comes, let them drink. If Syrians come, let the Syrians drink, if Israelis come, let the Israelis drink. If Mexicans come, pour himself a cup too."

Bramo nodded.

"Also," Victor said, "make a copy of that list. Keep the original. Send the copy to Bennett. Let him investigate those seventeen living ones. In Israel, in Syria, in unknown places. Find them. Tell them, their names are on the list. Their fates are remembered."

He paused. "Tell them, those buried under the olive trees, tombstones are erected, names are engraved. They can rest in peace."

Bramo turned to leave.

"Wait." Victor called him back. "Where is Rifat's body?"

"In Hamah. Buried by Hassan, under that olive grove. No tombstone."

Victor nodded.

"Tell Hassan, scum does not deserve a tombstone. But the ones the scum killed, they do. Let him engrave Rifat's name on every tombstone. Not to commemorate him, but to commemorate those he killed. Let the names of those people be etched together with the name of the scum. Let future generations know, who killed whom. Let future generations know, who owed whom."