Return to Jerusalem
211
ask directions. Walking through a tortuous maze of blackedout alleys, stumbling over deep ruts and protruding rocks, I
felt we would never reach our destination, whatever Allah
had decreed it to be.
"Moustafa, you aren't taking me to Abdul's prayer house?"
"You
are
too
impatient,
Artour.
Wait."
Finally we came to a high wall, followed it for a block, and
then turned to find ourselves before a high wide gate topped
with iron spikes. We banged on it. We heard the shuffling of
feet, and a voice, echoing sharply in the deathly stillness,
challenged us in Arabic. Moustafa answered; one of the doors
was swung open by an Arab, and we found ourselves in a
large courtyard. At the farther end was a house with lights
shining from the first- and second-story windows.
"Is
it
all
right
to
speak
English?"
"Yes. You can also talk German if you wish."
That put me on guard. The Arab gateman now opened an
inner door and motioned us into a large room lighted by two
kerosene lamps, which cast a flickering light on a group of
men standing near a large table covered with food.
DINNER WITH NAZI HERRENVOLK
MY GAZE swept past a well-dressed Arab in flowing robes,
who was apparently the host, and fell upon seven men, six of
them in uniform. The seventh was a brown-haired non-German, apparently a Slav. His right sleeve hung empty from the
shoulder of his dark-green American officer's coat. All seven
stared at us stiffly.
"Guten Abend, Kameraden! Good evening, comrades.
Heil!" I said, giving the short-arm Nazi salute as I had done
innumerable times at Bund meetings.
A jet of steam appeared to have struck them: the faces
melted instantly and burst into smiles. The six snapped their