Return to Jerusalem
215
"If there are more than one we do nothing," Moustafa
said, breathing hard. "If we see only one, I will go for his
throat, you strike at his heart. But make no noise. Be sure
nothing drops from your pockets. . . . Now hide in that
doorway. I will be on this side. . . ."
We slunk into the shadows, opposite each other, so that
the pursuer would have to pass between us. I pulled back as
far as I could. Although Moustafa was hardly fifteen feet
away he was invisible. I waited, breathing heavily but noiselessly through my mouth.
A figure emerged dimly from the blackness of night and
approached slowly. He veered to the right—the side where I
was crouching. He hugged the walls, apparently suspecting a
trap. I bent low, my knife blade open, ready to pounce on
him if he attacked first. The shadowy figure slipped by within
three feet of me. I saw him peering to the left and ahead of
him. He was a short man, wearing what seemed to be a
European coat and narrow trousers. He passed, and I waited
for a few minutes that seemed endless.
"Moustafa," I whispered hoarsely. "He's gone."
"Sssshhh. Maybe he also is hiding. Wait."
I straightened out, glued myself against the doorway and
now saw the outlines of Moustafa's husky frame. After several more minutes he moved out of the doorway. "Stick
close." I followed him. There was no sound now except our
soft tread. Either the pursuer had continued up the street,
or was lurking somewhere in the inky stillness. We moved
ahead gingerly, and the suspense became even more unbearable than before. But we had lost all track of the stranger. The
riddle of his identity deepened. Who? Why? Had we been
wise in hiding?
It was midnight when we broke into the town square, as
dark and deserted as the rest of Gaza. We walked cautiously
past the boarded shops of main street, and slipped into our
hotel. No one seemed to be in the narrow vestibule. The hotel itself was on the second floor, the entrance barred by an