156
CAIRO TO DAMASCUS
last town on the Egyptian side of the Palestine border. From
there we would cross the border to Beersheba and then trust
to luck to reach Jerusalem.
We finished in silence. The boys packed their things.
"Yallah!"
Quickly and silently we slipped out, circled the tent jammed
with Followers of Truth, and in hushed single file walked past
the mud-built houses. Dawn had come in full glory. Life began to stir about us; rickety shutters flew open, squeaking on
their hinges. Women splattered the streets with the contents
of bedpans, keeping the dust down at the same time. Donkeys
and children had already littered the streets. We looked behind. A squad of Followers of Truth were lurking in our rear.
They grew in numbers as we walked quickly, close to the walls
—where in a way, it was safer, though unclean. Soon we lost
ourselves in Ismailia.
"We are now going to visit a rich Moslem and ask for
money for train tickets." Zaki said. "We want you to come
with us. Maybe he will like to have his picture taken."
We went to an expensively furnished home. Our host, a
portly Arab, eyed us all with suspicion. He wanted to know
what the lone American was doing. Perhaps I was a foreign
agent! Oh, no, Moustafa assured him. I was Exhibit A—an
American who hated the Jews so much that he had come
5,500 miles to fight them. I was also a wonderful photographer. The wealthy Arab wasn't impressed. He had been
solicited before, and was cautious with his money. Ultimately,
he proved to be a member of the Ikhwan, with no love for the
Green Shirts. He offered us fine Arab coffee. Otherwise, our
mission was a failure.
"We will have to pay for the tickets ourselves," Zaki said.
Late in the afternoon we took the train for El Qantara, the
Suez Canal terminal for trains to Palestine. It was night when
we arrived. Moustafa made us wait while he went to the
customs office to fix matters. I had explained that I could not
hope to pass with my cameras because I had not been asked