Return to Jerusalem
213
"Who is our host?"
"He is a relative of the Mufti. Many of the Mufti's cousins
and nephews are in Gaza and rule the city. In a few weeks
Gaza will become the capital of the Mufti's Palestine government. The Egyptian army will also make its headquarters
here."
"How many Germans in the Suez camps?" I asked.
"Many thousands. Perhaps 12,500 or more of the Afrika
Korps. There are also many high officers, even some generals.
Sitting at this table are a captain and two lieutenants. I was a
lieutenant with Rommel," Gerhard said. After a moment he
shook his head. "These Arabs make big talk but do not fight
like an army. They are not trained. They do not know discipline. We fought with them against the Jewish villages. We
know. That man," he said, pointing to the amputee, "is a
Yugoslav Moslem. He lost his arm in Haifa. There's another
Yugoslav recuperating at the Civilian Hospital here in Gaza.
If you want to know about the Arabs as fighters, go see him.
He has been with them longer than I have."
Our host was generous, and constantly pushed platters of
food before us. "Tafaddal. Please." The Nazis eat heartily.
They seemed happy and confident, and only one of them—
Friedrich, a short but powerfully built young man in leggings
—appeared surly. He said little, but appeared to be watching
me carefully.
Finally our host had the coffee brought in.
"Sallim idek, may God preserve your hands," I said. Later,
when I had finished the tar-black brew and put down the cup,
I added: "Kahwe daime. May you always have coffee."
My host beamed at my choice vocabulary.
It was eleven