Return to Jerusalem
207
A group of young toughs armed to the teeth approached
us. Moustafa let out a whoop of joy. As they came nearer I
saw that one wore the uniform of the Arab Legion, three were
Followers of Truth, two had the Green Shirt insignia. They
were led by a sheikh in a white turban, who was wrapped
heavily in a flowing gray robe that came to his ankles; wound
around his neck, as if it were arctic weather, was a heavy
woolen scarf. From his left shoulder hung a sub-machine-gun.
I knew I had seen him before. Only when he stretched out his
hand in greeting did I recognize him as the St. Patrick's Day
spellbinder I had heard in Cairo, who had swayed like a cobra
while he mesmerized the Green Shirts. He had grown a full
beard, which, with his deep-set eyes and vitriolic face, made
him look even more Mcphistophclian in daylight than at
night.
It was like old home week in Gaza as other comrades joined
the crowd. Some twenty of us trouped toward the town square,
the midan. Once there, the boys decided to spend the afternoon at the beach.