Off for the Holy War!
159
thanks to the woman and the policeman. In the name of
Allah, I wished them a full larder. "May you never taste of
hunger to the end of your days," I said through Moustafa.
"Sutra daimeh memnoun. May your table always be full,
thank you."
The train rumbled on with a slow, rhythmic beat. The sky
was clear, and the stars were out in their full splendor. We had
eaten, and now we rested. Quiet had settled over the car,
broken only by snoring, and the endless coughing of the aged.
Someone closed the windows because it was growing cold;
moreover, the Arab prefers to sleep in a warm, air-tight room.
The odor of garlic and scallions, thus kept pure from any contamination by fresh air, reached full flower. My nostrils stung
and my eyes watered. I decided to imitate the Arabs. I stopped
resisting. "It must be kismet," I said resignedly. Resting my
head against my knapsack, my nose no more than ten inches
from the nearest bouquet of scallions, I asphyxiated myself
to sleep.
The sun was just breaking over a horizon of bleak sand
dunes when our train pulled into Rafa on the frontier separating Egypt from Palestine. In ancient days Rafa was a
Byzantine bishopric. Now it was a shambles of native homes.
It was also a rendezvous for narcotic wholesalers. Hasheesh
smugglers, after crossing Palestine, often met here. Those
smuggling the drug by motorboat made their delivery on the
coast near by. Moustafa warned me that the railway station
swarmed with British and Egyptian government agents. Passengers were usually screened, their baggage rechecked, and
passports reinspected.
"I will carry your bag as my own," Captain Zaki said. He
was now dressed in the official uniform of an Egyptian army
captain. "Keep the khaffiya on your head. Remember, speak
to no one!"
My heart pounded as I waited. But with my full-grown
mustache, deep tan, wrinkled khaki, I looked as Arab as anyone on the train. The boys had covered their Green Shirt